Page 102 of Under Your Spell

Somehow, Theo managed to get the pictures of us taken down from most places. It’s the internet, so nothing ever really dies, but all the big news sites pulled them. Whatever Sam said never materializes either, and I have no idea how he did that, but I suspect it involved a lot of money changing hands.

As Theo predicted, the world lost interest in me the instant photos of him and Cyn hit the news cycle. I told myself I wasn’t going to look, but of course I did, and when I saw him, his arm slung around her slim shoulders while she beamed up at him, her hand in the back pocket of his jeans, I screamed into my pillow for a solid ten minutes.

They looked great together. Perfect. And even though Theo had told me in no uncertain terms that it was simply a setup, it was too easy to imagine it was real. What made it worse was that I thought in other circumstances I could like Cynthie. There was something about her face, the dry voice I remembered hearing on the phone, that had me thinking we could be friends. Unfortunately, part of me wanted to run her over because she’d put her hand on Theo’s ass, and that didn’t seem like a great basis for friendship.

The news I’ve had about Theo has been through three sources, and I have clung to these fragments like an industrious squirrel gathering nuts for winter. The first is a phone call from Lisa the day after we get back from the wedding.

‘Clemmie, I’m so sorry.’ I can hear the sadness in her voice. ‘I can’t believe he left. I can’t believe any of this happened.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I say, and my own voice sounds calm, empty. I’m cried out. ‘I’m only sorry it had to happen when it did. Your wedding was so special, and you and Rob really deserved the perfect day.’ And then, after a pause, ‘Have you spoken to Theo?’ It seems I do have some moisture left inside me, because tears gather in my eyes when I say his name.

‘He’s gutted, Clemmie,’ Lisa says instantly. ‘I’ve never heard him sound like that before. I—’ She hesitates, and then she adds, softly, ‘Please don’t give up on him.’

‘I think he’s the one who gave up on me,’ I reply sadly. And after that there’s not much more to say.

The second piece of news I get is four days later and it comes, unexpectedly, in the form of an email from David.

Clementine,

Mr Eliott is requesting something called a ‘Singing Hen’ and I can find no information about what this may be apart from several disturbing YouTube videos. Might you be able to clarify?

David

Dear David,

I think you may mean a Singing Hinny, which is a traditional griddle cake from Northumberland. Sort of a flat scone with raisins. My Granny Mac used to make them. I’ll attach the link for the recipe here.

Clemmie

P.S. How is he?

Clementine,

This recipe contains large quantities of butter and lard so I am confused as to when Mr Eliott would have had the opportunity to sample them, given his strict nutritional plan.

David

P.S. I would never discuss the personal life of my employer, nor is it my place to pass judgement on his emotional state. That being said, the man is currently demanding bizarre baked goods, refusing to leave his house, and has developed a worrying obsession with a rather maudlin teenage vampire drama. I will leave you to draw your own conclusions.

In a strange way, it is reassuring to know that Theo is as unhappy as I am, that he’s obviously thinking of me. It makes me feel less like I imagined everything that happened between us.

I wonder if David will find someone to make him Singing Hinnies and if Theo will eat them remembering how I cooked them in Granny Mac’s kitchen just to feel closer to her when the sweet smell filled the air. Or the way he burned his mouth because he was too impatient not to cram one straight in his mouth when I lifted it off the griddle and then blamed me for making it too hot when I laughed at him. Thinking about it makes my chest hurt.

The other person who talks to me about Theo is Serena. Two weeks after this conversation with David, she tells me Theo has been locked in the recording studio throwing himself into his work. The record label are delighted. My sister’s feelings are, understandably, mixed. On the one hand she’s delivered the undeliverable album, and on the other her sister’s heart is broken. It says a lot about how much she loves me that she feels any qualms about this because she models herself quite earnestly on a frozen-hearted Disney villain and her bosses basically want to throw her a street party.

I decide to follow Theo’s example, and I’ve been working too. I’ve finished a draft of my children’s book (yes, I have reached the point where I can call it a book now) and I sort of love the way it came out. I email it to Serena and Lil, who message me a stream of consciousness as they are reading.

Serena: I always knew somebody would write a book about me one day.

Lil: OMG! I’m already obsessed. The grandma is Granny Mac right? I love how grumpy she is.

Lil: Just snort-laughed at the bit where Maree sets the shed on fire. So Serena.

Serena: That fire was very small and an accident and nothing has ever actually been proven. For any further comment I can refer you to my attorney.

Serena: This is everything. Angry girls are the best.

Lil: Nooooo. I just got to the mermaid. I forgot about the peanut butter sandwiches. This is making my heart hurt.