Me, You and Tiramisu. Charlotte Butterfield

were behind her. She had spent her whole life assuming that tomorrow would be better than today. That this time next year what she was striving for in this moment would be fulfilled and the ambitious prophecies that kept her awake at night would materialise. That one day she would eat dinner from a street cart in Seoul and see the Northern Lights. She would watch Tosca in the Sydney Opera House and hop on a tram on San Francisco’s California Street. Yet, as she attended the funerals of her parents, her siblings, her husband, she began to reach the startlingly bleak conclusion that she’d had her time. For someone like Helen, whose eyes still danced, this was a horrible realisation.

      Jayne was tuned into every nuance of her grandmother’s interaction with Will, silently willing her to love him. She knew this was unnecessary; the mutual adoration society had been launched the minute they met.

      Helen had actually remembered meeting him back when he was fifteen. Jayne and Rachel had brought him up to visit her and Tom and camp in their back garden one warm July evening. Will had been given a tent by one of his dad’s friends and even if the three teens had put their pitiful money together they couldn’t stretch to paying the exorbitant peak-season ground rent at one of the hundreds of campsites littering Torbay’s coastline, so they pitched it in Helen and Tom’s garden. Helen had even bought them a small disposable barbecue for them to cook some sausages and marshmallows on, while looking endearingly at her granddaughters’ newfound maturity. Nothing says ‘I’m a grown-up’ more than turning raw food into edible food over a naked flame. Jayne had completely forgotten about this memory until Helen brought it up.

      ‘It was so funny, your grandpa kept watch on and off during the night from an upstairs window and was incensed when he saw you, Will, crawling out of the tent and spending a penny on his petunias.’

      Will’s hand shot to his mouth, blushing redder than Jayne had ever seen him, as he stammered, ‘I can only offer my heartfelt apologies, Mrs Brady, Helen, what can I say? I was fifteen, stupid and had a very weak bladder.’

      ‘Oh, no need to apologise, it’s made me smile quite a number of times since, thinking about it. Now look, as much as I love having you here, it’s nearly tea time and you need to push off if you’re going to be in London before dark.’ Helen had this thing about getting to places ‘before dark’. It might have been the Blitz mentality of nightfall being quite literal. She added quietly, ‘Now, have you seen your mother lately?’

      ‘No. And we’re not going to now, either.’ Rachel replied before Jayne could interject with a more diplomatic response.

      ‘I think you should stop in. She’s a little … different recently.’

      ‘Different how?’ Jayne asked at the exact-same moment Rachel said, ‘Whatever.’

      ‘Just pop in for ten minutes. It’s on your way back to the motorway anyway. For an old lady?’ They all gave her hugs, and she squeezed Will’s hand, ‘Marvellous to meet you, you seem every bit as fine as Jayne said. Now look after my girls, they’re rather special.’

      ‘I know, and I will. Lovely to meet you Mrs.… Helen.’

      Ten minutes later the Ford Focus they’d borrowed from Will’s friends Duncan and Erica for the day was swerving along the coast again, its windows down, with them all laughing about Helen’s fabulous eccentricities when Rachel shrieked, ‘Hell no! We’re not going to Crystal’s, Jayne. I said I’d only come if we just went to Gran’s; I’m not going to Crystal’s. Stop the car. Will, stop the goddamn car!’

      They swerved into a bus stop and Rachel started clawing at the handle, desperately trying to open the child-locked door. Jayne swivelled around in her seat and said, in what she hoped was a soothing tone, ‘Rachel, she’s our mother, just say hi and then we’ll go. Seriously, two minutes tops. In and out. We’re almost there, anyway. We can’t come all this way and not even have a cup of tea with her.’

      ‘Well, I’m not coming in,’ Rachel replied sullenly, crossing her arms and pouting, ‘I’m staying in the car.’

      As they pulled up onto the driveway, a stunned silence filled the car as they each took in the beautiful freshly cut lawn, completely devoid of overgrown yellowing weeds and thistles. Planted borders lay where previously only discarded fag butts had been and gently cascading flowers in hanging baskets framed the newly painted front door. They parked behind a shiny silver Mercedes with a disabled badge in its window. ‘Has she moved, do you think?’ Will asked finally.

      ‘She must have done. I’ll just go and see.’ As Jayne got out of the car, she reasoned that it wouldn’t be entirely out of character for Crystal to have legged it without telling anyone. When they were five she dropped them off at Helen’s for the night with their teddy bears and Strawberry Shortcake pyjamas and picked them up four months later with a tan and a smattering of Spanish by way of explanation as to her whereabouts for a whole season.

      Jayne walked up the driveway and surreptitiously peered in through the kitchen window as she passed it. It had been less than a year since she’d last popped in for a quick coffee with her mother, on her last visit to Helen, and nothing had changed then, but this time everything seemed different. Gone were the crusty dishes that perpetually lived in the sink, and a pristine white Shaker-style kitchen had replaced their grubby cream-and-brown one. A recycling bucket lay next to the front door; in it were empty Granola boxes and plastic smoothie bottles, evidence of a different class of consumer to the cheap wine-swigging previous owner. She rang the bell and turned back to the car, where Will and Rachel were leaning forward in their seats staring and shook her head and shrugged, as if to say, ‘your guess is as good as mine’.

      The door was opened by an elderly man, probably in his early eighties, slightly stooped but otherwise sprightly, ‘Hello, hello! How can I help you, young lady?’

      ‘I’m really sorry to bother you, but my mother used to live here, until recently, and I just wondered if you knew where she went, or if you have a forwarding address for her?’

      ‘Oh my, are you Jayne or Rachel?’ he boomed cheerfully.

      ‘Um, Jayne?’

      ‘Your mother is going to be delighted to see you back in one piece!’ He went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up, ‘Come down, Jayne is here!’ Turning back to where Jayne stood uncertain and more than a little stunned, he enthusiastically beckoned, ushering her into the living room. ‘Come in, come in.’

      She had no idea what was going on, who this man was, or why this house sort of looked like her old one, but after a 60 Minute Makeover. Behind the reproduction Victorian fireplace was a wall covered in a beautiful cornflower-blue-and-cream wallpaper, the type that depicts French scenes – she could never remember the name of it, toile something she thought, Rachel would know – depicting historic country life, delicate sketches of peasants shovelling hay into carts and flocks of geese about to take flight. When she and Rachel lived there with Crystal a broken three-bar electric fire was surrounded by a nasty 1970s brickwork fireplace, Jayne couldn’t even remember what colour the lounge walls were, a sort of nicotine shade, she imagined.

      ‘When did you land?’ he asked affably.

      ‘Um … land?’

      ‘Yes! Is this a short trip back to the UK, or are you back for longer? I don’t suppose you can say too much about it, eh?’ He tapped the side of his nose, ‘Mum’s the word, sorry, no more questions, I don’t want you to have to kill me!’ he chuckled.

      ‘Darling! How wonderful to see you! I can’t believe it!’ Crystal swept into the living room, but, much like the surroundings, she’d been the recipient of a drastic transformation. Her bleached platinum hair had been replaced by a sleek dark-blonde feathery cut, her make-up was still substantial but looked like it had at least been put on with a selection of task-appropriate brushes rather than a garden trowel. She was wearing some sort of emerald silk kaftan that shimmered slightly as the light caught it and made a faint rustle as she walked. As she enveloped Jayne in a big hug, possibly her very first from her, she was shrouded in a cloud of Issey Miyake. What the hell? On Jayne’s last visit a year ago she’d