The Secrets of Sunshine Page 8

  After they’d been on the road for an hour, Mitchell felt himself dozing off in the back. Poppy and Liza chatted away in the front.

  ‘I’ve got a brilliant idea for my school project.’ Poppy wriggled excitedly in her seat. ‘I could do a PowerPoint about the padlocks on the bridges.’

  ‘That sounds really great,’ Liza said.

  Tuning into their conversation, Mitchell rubbed his eyes and leaned forward to speak through the gap between the front seats. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be a historical project?’

  ‘The locks are part of the city’s recent history,’ Liza remarked.

  Mitchell ignored her and addressed Poppy. ‘Why don’t you research the city bridges like I suggested?’

  She sucked in a breath. ‘Because they’re old. Mum would say that’s not creative.’

  Liza smiled to herself.

  Mitchell sat back again. Anita had loved being creative. She used to keep plastic crates of wool, sequins, old buttons and string stacked in the attic. He thought of her now, with a lap full of glittery stuff, smiling up at him and telling him it would all come in handy one day. He smiled rather sadly at the memory.

  ‘I could ask people for their stories,’ Poppy said to both him and Liza.

  ‘You can’t approach strangers,’ Mitchell argued. ‘They shouldn’t be hanging padlocks on the bridges in the first place.’

  Poppy scowled. ‘It’s a good idea.’

  ‘Can’t you think of something else?’

  ‘No. And it’s my project, not yours.’

  Mitchell found it hard trying not to take charge of things, a throwback to years of working in management, and the level of organization required by being a single-parent family. ‘Well, I suppose I could help you,’ he said after a while.

  Poppy’s lips thawed into a smile. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Mitchell looked out of the window, then pulled Poppy’s bag towards him. After unzipping it, he took out the batch of letters and selected one to read. The first one was in a slim manila envelope.

  Dear Sir,

  Your request for stories has inspired my letter. It helps me immensely to finally set my words free. Despite being in my thirties with a good career and own house, I still wake at night full of dread from my bad memories, about leaving the country of my birth.

  It was there I participated in an arranged marriage to a stranger. I told my mother repeatedly and respectfully that my heart belonged to someone else. However, my father insisted the honour of our family would lie in tatters if I did not acquiesce, and so I obliged his demands.

  I only have fleeting memories of my wedding day. I gave my body to my husband but my heart couldn’t follow. Eventually, I had to choose between losing my family, or my own sanity, and I fled.

  I am now with the person who loved and waited for me. Love is an organic thing between us, never forced and always understanding. We fastened a padlock to the bridge as a symbol of our strength and togetherness. I am pregnant and if I should have a daughter, I shall raise her to be proud and the queen of her own desires and thoughts. I believe families should listen to and cherish each other. Now it is time to create my own, and to no longer look back.

  I thank you sincerely for taking the time to read my letter.

  Bless you,

  Aisha

  Mitchell wiped away an unexpected tear from the corner of his eye at how one page could contain such love and loss. He fumbled for another letter to chase away his emotions. It had been sent by a teacher from another local primary school.

  Dear Mr Fisher,

  We wondered if you might be available to officially open our school fete in September? There’ll be face painting, a coconut shy, stalls run by local businesses, and all proceeds will go towards repairing the school roof…

  The thought of being regarded as some kind of celebrity made Mitchell shiver. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, even if it did help the school. He folded the letter back into its envelope.

  The next one had an artsy card inside. It featured a small line drawing of the new white bridge, and his nostrils flared when he saw it. He recognized the drawing style and knew who it was from before he opened it up.

  Mitchell!

  Salutations. I heard through the grapevine you leaped from the old red bridge to help someone. That’s so incredibly selfless of you and I hope you’re doing well.

  Look, it’s been on my mind since you left Foster and Hardman that you and I didn’t part on the best terms. My creative vision has always been both my gift and Achilles heel. Though, I do think the centenary bridge is looking totally wondrous, don’t you? The opening ceremony should be sublime.

  No hard feelings, huh?

  Jas

  A ball of anger grew and burned inside him. Mitchell had to hold his breath until it subsided as a hiss through his teeth, so Poppy and Liza didn’t notice. Jas hadn’t even mentioned Anita, only thought of herself, as usual.

  He crumpled her card in his fist, pushed it into his pocket and stuffed the remaining letters he hadn’t read back into Poppy’s bag.

  Then he folded his arms, stared out of the window and allowed himself to think of Jasmine Trencher, and her contribution to him losing Anita.

  10

  Office

  Three years ago

  Increasingly, as weekends approached, Mitchell felt like he was a parched man crawling towards an oasis in the desert, desperate for water. Seeing his family was the only way to quench his thirst, a brief reprieve from the intense pressure of his job.

  Staying in his city apartment was losing its attraction. He’d been here for a year and was fed up with his weekday life of loneliness. The eighty-mile distance from home felt like an ocean.

  Although Anita tried to support his long hours, he knew deep down she was growing disillusioned with their splintered family life. As his workload on the centenary bridge project intensified, his letters home dwindled. He was sluggish and tired, and didn’t want to bore Anita with details about pedestrians, traffic flow, safety and maintenance issues he had to address.

  His once-healthy eating habits slid into a rota of cereal and takeaway pizza. He no longer had the zesty morning feeling of excitement he got from rushing around to help Poppy to pack her schoolbag and walking her to school. His mates gave up asking him to play football, after he missed out on too many matches. All he saw were the insides of his apartment and office.

  Disappointed that he wrote home less often, Anita’s letters to him fizzled out, too.

  One day, when Mitchell was home for the weekend, he and Anita stood drying dishes in the kitchen. ‘I have to work away next weekend,’ he said miserably.

  ‘Again?’ Anita placed a glass down heavily on the draining board.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I have to entertain some overseas suppliers.’

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t just move into that bloody apartment permanently,’ she snapped.

  They stared at each other, both taken aback by her words. Mitchell picked up a plate to dry and Anita put it back in the cupboard. The air was sharp with tension as they carried on the task in silence.

  ‘You’re right. It’s too much,’ Mitchell said when they’d finished. He placed his hand on her back. ‘I took the job to help our family, but it’s no good if I don’t see you.’

  ‘I know you try your best.’ Anita softened. ‘But things aren’t working, Mitchell. You’re stressed and I am, too, trying to work full-time and look after Pops. She’s growing up so quickly, and you’re missing out.’

  Since he was last home, she’d lost two teeth, and was a centimetre taller on the height chart in the kitchen. ‘I’ll do something about it,’ he said firmly. ‘I promise you. I just need to find the right time to speak to Don.’

  Two weeks later, as Anita’s birthday approached, Mitchell still hadn’t spoken to his boss about his workload. Don Hardman was difficult to pin down, flitting between the office, entertaining clients in posh restaurants, and his holiday home in Mar
bella.

  One night, Mitchell woke in the apartment in the early hours of the morning. He’d had a nightmare about a bridge collapsing down on his family. He had managed to dash to safety, but in the dream, Anita and Poppy were buried under the rubble. He dug at it frantically, debris caking under his nails and bloodying his skin, but he couldn’t reach them.

  The screech of twisting metal and falling stone had sounded so real in his head that Mitchell’s pyjamas clung to his body in a fearful sweat. He staggered out of bed and into the bathroom where he gulped a glass of water. After entering Poppy’s empty bedroom, he clambered up onto her mattress, opened her window and thrust his head outside.

  His brain was muggy, as if stuffed with cotton wool, and a pain pierced his chest that he hoped wasn’t serious. His own father had died of a heart attack, aged just forty-five. He didn’t want to go the same way.

  As Mitchell’s pulse eventually slowed, and he shivered in his perspiration-soaked top, he knew he had to do something.

  Enough was enough.

  The next day at work, Mitchell tried to speak to Don again, but he was out of the office. So, Mitchell took matters into his own hands. He decided to take Anita’s birthday off work, that coming Friday, whether Don liked it or not.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Anita asked when Mitchell phoned and invited her out for lunch.

  He heard the warning tone in her voice. There had been a few occasions he’d said he’d be home for the weekend, but then had to work. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘We need some time together and I want to treat you. I’ll call into the office on Friday morning to pick up my emails, then drive straight home. Shall I book a table for two at Mazzo’s, for twelve thirty?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to try there,’ Anita said cautiously. ‘The tiramisu is supposed to be amazing.’

  ‘We can spend all afternoon at the restaurant, then pick up Poppy together from school. The three of us will spend the entire weekend together.’

  ‘And you’re sure you can take the time off?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said resolutely. ‘I know things have been difficult for us all, but things will change. I need to put you and Poppy first.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, a fresh lilt to her voice. ‘I’ll wear my new green dress. I’m looking forward to it already.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Mitchell felt almost as giddy as when they’d first dated. But he would always remember Anita’s last words to him, before they said goodbye.

  ‘Please don’t let me down, Mitchell.’

  ‘Of course, I won’t,’ he said.

  And, at the time, he really meant it.

  Jasmine Trencher joined Foster and Hardman seemingly intent on stirring things up at the firm. She was all platinum hair, piercings and scarlet lipstick and the grand daughter of an esteemed architect, Norman Trencher. She tottered around in studded boots and schmoozed Don. She announced she had a new vision for the centenary bridge that was the antithesis of Mitchell’s existing design.

  His plan was to construct it from local steel and quarried stone. It would be solid and steeped in history, a representation of Upchester and its heritage, whereas, Jasmine’s vision was a modernist creation, all shiny white struts and dramatic angles. To Mitchell, it was a kind of fantasy design.

  On Friday morning, Don arrived with a large roll of paper under his arm. He was a small, nervous man with a tiny head and jutting ears. ‘Jasmine has some very interesting ideas,’ he said. ‘They’re refreshingly ambitious.’

  Mitchell closed his laptop. He’d made good progress with his emails and was ready to leave. He’d booked the full day off as a holiday, his first time off in months, and he was desperate to see Anita for her birthday lunch. ‘I know and that’s great. The company needs fresh perspectives.’

  Don nodded his head too many times. ‘She’s, um, taken an interest in the new centenary bridge, and has a few fascinating observations to share.’

  ‘My door is always open. I’m happy to chat.’ Mitchell zipped his laptop into its bag. He turned in his chair to pick up his jacket.

  ‘Good, because I have her ideas here…’

  A metallic taste appeared in Mitchell’s mouth. Jasmine was encroaching on his project without asking him. She had bypassed him and gone directly to Don. He glanced at his watch.

  Don unrolled the paper and spread it out on Mitchell’s drawing bench. It wasn’t a computer-generated design, but a hand-drawn one, not particularly detailed. It was stylish, though, all swoops of ink pen and watercolor washes, the kind of design that might accompany a travel feature in Vogue.

  ‘It’s a nice piece of work,’ Mitchell said. ‘I’ll take a proper look at it on Monday.’

  Don clicked his tongue. ‘There are rumours that Norman Trencher is going to be awarded a knighthood soon.’

  Mitchell frowned, not understanding. He slipped an arm into his jacket. ‘Um, am I missing something here?’

  ‘Foster and Hardman, as a whole, need to decide if we stay committed to the existing design for the bridge, or if we look at more modern ideas, too.’

  Mitchell worked his jaw. ‘My initial concept has been approved by the council’s centenary committee,’ he said tensely. ‘I’ve been working on it for months.’

  Don’s Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. ‘It’s not had the final sign-off, so there’s still time for, um, tweaks. I’m calling an urgent meeting, today at one thirty. Everyone is expected to be there.’

  Mitchell’s blood cooled in his veins. ‘This afternoon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t make it,’ Mitchell protested. He couldn’t let Anita down and he cursed himself for coming into the office at all, when he should have driven straight home. ‘I’m finishing work now. I tried to see you, to book the time off…’

  Don let go of the paper and it curled back into its roll with a snap. ‘You’ll have to cancel.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I need to—’

  ‘Jas has cancelled going to her best friend’s wedding, and no one else here has a problem with attending. In fact, it’s obligatory.’ Don fixed him with a steely glare. ‘See you in the boardroom at one thirty, Mitchell. And keep your weekend free, too.’

  Mitchell paced in circles around his office. He thumped his desk with both hands and resisted tearing Jasmine’s design to shreds. When he stumbled over his wastepaper basket, he booted it across the room.

  He knew he didn’t have a choice.

  His mouth was bone-dry as he called Anita’s mobile. He got through to her voicemail, urgently wanting to speak to her in person. He tried a further four times and knew she must have seen his missed calls.

  She called him back thirty minutes later.

  ‘This had better not be about our lunch today, Mitchell,’ she said, her voice flat and cool.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he blurted. ‘Don has called an urgent meeting and I have to be there, everyone does. This new architect, Jasmine, is questioning the design of the new bridge, and she holds a lot of sway. I have got to be there, to put my case forward.’

  His explanation was met with a ghostly silence.

  ‘You could keep the reservation at Mazzo’s and go with a friend,’ Mitchell tried. ‘I’ll take time off next week instead.’

  Again, there was nothing.

  ‘Anita, please,’ he pleaded. ‘This is out of my control. I’m so sorry.’

  When she eventually spoke, her voice was so small and hurt he could hardly hear it. ‘I know, but you’ve not even wished me happy birthday…’

  Mitchell’s entire body sagged. He’d bought her a pair of beautiful platinum earrings that were already wrapped in his jacket pocket. He’d taken the time to write a long note in her card, to tell her how much she meant to him.

  ‘Will you be home this evening?’ she said before he could apologize again.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He screwed his eyes shut. ‘I can’t promise, but I’ll try. I have your present here and…’
<
br />   She interrupted with the deepest sigh, like a wave crashing against rocks. The quiet that fell between them felt deafening. ‘I’ll write to you,’ she said, and hung up.

  Mitchell stared at his mobile. ‘Happy birthday, Anita,’ he whispered. He tried to call her back, but she wouldn’t pick up.

  When Mitchell exited the four-hour-long meeting, he felt like he’d been crushed underfoot by a buffalo stampede.

  Jasmine had systematically pulled apart his ideas and design. She’d questioned the research he’d done, discussions he’d had and decisions he’d made. Mitchell fought for his own vision of the bridge, the one the entire team had previously agreed on. His words were fired up by the anger and passion he felt at letting Anita down.

  Don attempted to appear as if he was considering both cases impartially. But Mitchell could see, in the glances between him and Jasmine, that he’d already decided to back her. Her grandfather’s influence was too important to Foster and Hardman for Don not to take her ideas seriously.

  After taking a vote, the decision of the team had been unanimous. Jasmine was going to work up her design for the bridge further and present it to the centenary committee as a priority. Her design fit the new council vision of Upchester being seen as a modern city, rather than one living on past glories.

  The team would all reconvene the next day to work on an urgent plan of action.

  Mitchell could barely muster the will to walk back to his office. His colleagues averted their eyes and flocked to congratulate Jasmine on her design. She wore a smug smile.

  Mitchell closed his office door and banged his back angrily against it. The clock on his wall showed six o’clock. After letting Anita down, and the blow he’d had to his ego, he just wanted to hold her and beg for forgiveness.

  He traced a finger around the edge of her present in his pocket.

  I could still make it home, he thought. I want to be with my family.

  If the traffic wasn’t too heavy, he might get there before eight thirty. He could say happy birthday to Anita and kiss Poppy before she went to sleep. If he set off at six the next morning, he could make it back to work for Saturday’s meeting.