Best Eaten Cold Read online

wrote:

  Fabi, I forgot to chase this last night. Too much on. Can you look at it? Roop XXXXX P.S. Don't forget I'm staying at Mum and Dad's tonight. I'll have a few glasses of wine with Dad and don't want to drive. You sure you'll be OK?

  _____________________________

  On Fri, Sep 26, 2015 at 15:03 PM, Fabiola Blackwell wrote:

  I've had a look and it seems fine. Are we thinking of inviting some of my London gang to the christening? I've not heard from Jax at all. Probably still seriously pissed off with me. We'll be fine just me and Sam tonight. It'll give me a chance for some peace and quiet :-) XX

  Sent from my iPad

  _____________________________

  On Fri, Sep 26, 2015 at 18:03 PM, Rupert Blackwell wrote:

  Fabi, Seriously? Jax!! Not sure that would be such a great idea. What about those old uni friends you mentioned? I can't believe I've hardly met any of them. Let's chat tomorrow. If you need anything ring me on the home number - mobile reception's still crap at Mum and Dad's. I'll miss you both. Roop XXXX

  _____________________________

  On Sat, Sep 27, 2015 at 2:07 AM, Fabiola Blackwell wrote:

  Roop. Sam's not having a great night. Up twice already. Hope you had a nice evening. Don't be too late in the morning. You're probably right about Jax but it does feel like I'm just cutting ties and that's not really fair. It's not as though there's any real justification. Fabi X

  Sent from my iPad

  _____________________________

  On Sat, Sep 27, 2015 at 5:27 AM, Rupert Blackwell wrote:

  Fabi, Depends how you define 'no justification' I guess. That letter was full of some pretty explicit threats. I can't sleep either. Love Roop

  _____________________________

  On Sat, Sep 27, 2015 at 5:30 AM, Fabiola Blackwell wrote:

  Jax didn't mean all of that. It was a huge shock when I decided to sell the flat. The letter was only a knee-jerk reaction. XXX

  Sent from my iPad

  _____________________________

  On Sat, Sep 27, 2015 at 5:32 AM, Rupert Blackwell wrote:

  Maybe, but that wasn't how I read it. Let's not stress about this on email at five in the morning. I'll be back by ten-thirty. Try and get some sleep. Roop XXXXX

  _____________________________

  On Sat, Sep 27, 2015 at 5:34 AM, Fabiola Blackwell wrote:

  I'll try. See you in a bit. It wasn't actually so great being on my own btw. XXXXXX

  Sent from my iPad

  I found it surprisingly difficult to be on my own overnight. It's not as though Rupert was able to help much when Sam woke up anyway. He usually wanted feeding and I was the only one who was physically qualified. But it did make a difference to have my man lying there beside me to provide a bit of moral support, even when he was flat out and snoring. I wouldn't have fancied being a single mum and going through that phase alone, that was for sure.

  The whole christening saga didn't help. It was never a good idea to have important conversations by email and especially not in the middle of the night. One reason why people kept telling me not to have my phone in the bedroom, and to give myself some time away from screens and the intrusive tentacles of digital connectivity.

  Easy to say, but I was finding myself more and more reliant on emails and social media to help me to break out of my isolation bubble and I couldn't imagine being disciplined enough to cut back. I loved every moment of being with Sam but that didn't stop me feeling bored and lonely for much of the time, even when he was awake.

  The great thing about social media was that it never slept, and it didn't care whether it was three in the morning or three in the afternoon. A good reflection of my life at the time.

  I'd been pleasantly surprised by how many old friends had sent me congratulation messages after Sam was born. After university, I'd gradually come to accept that none of them wanted anything to do with me any more. I hadn't been imagining things; for years, any comments I tried to make on their Facebook posts were ignored and would usually kill the thread.

  But now, even a few of the guys from London had been in touch and seemed to be genuinely pleased for me.

  But nothing from Jax. Not a single word.

  Whether Rupert and I had discussed the christening guest list by email or face-to-face, the results would have been the same. My friends from London weren't 'suitable' and it was too early to be sure I would be able to patch up relationships with my university friends.

  The main reason why we'd avoided a proper wedding in the first place was that the church would probably have tipped over; the right-hand side would have overflowed with Rupert's family and friends and my side would have yawned empty as the grave.

  What would Jax be up to while Sam's soul was being handed over to God?

  Saturday morning, soon after midday. Probably sitting, legs crossed, on the floor of some dodgy bedsit with a few of the others, maybe Joe, Daz, Linda and Sal, smoking the first spliff of the day and preparing to save the world yet again.

  I missed that crowd. We'd been so close, so tight, for over five years and I couldn't believe we'd drifted apart so easily. It must be two years now. How had I become so good at burning bridges?

  I wasn't the only one to blame – it takes two to tango – but I knew Jax would have pinned the responsibility on me anyway. Getting together with Rupert, that was the ultimate betrayal. I'd gone over to the other side and become a part of them.

  It had all come to a head when I sold my flat. I'd bought it with money inherited from my parents and then lived there with Jax. When I moved to Oxford to be with Rupert, I let Jax stay on; I felt bad enough about our break up and couldn't face making it worse. True to form, Jax had turned out to be a lousy tenant.

  When Rupert and I were ready to buy a house together and I needed to sell the Camden flat, I knew there would be trouble. That was when Jax sent me the letter.

  Rupert was right and I was kidding myself. It was a horrible letter. Malicious, threatening, vengeful and not something to be brushed aside and forgotten. We had our new life and Sam to think about now, and it was best to leave those days behind me.

  Ghosts of Puglia

  Growing concerns about long-term privacy and the potential of personal profile damage were the main drivers behind the success of Snapchat and the various copycats which have arisen since Snapchat launched in 2011. Hackers and identity thieves have been using bespoke 'snapmail' software for many years. True snapmail (where all trace of a received email is removed at a fixed time after receipt or reading) can only be implemented on infiltrated email accounts.

  "How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World." JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015

  I woke up in soft steps. I'd been dreaming, but my dreams stayed behind and forgotten as the real world seeped in. I could feel a gentle almost-tickling touch on my face and opened my eyes. There was Rupert, sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling down at me and stroking my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

  The morning sunlight filled the room and I felt as though I'd slept forever.

  'Buon giorno, cara,' he said, holding out a glass. 'I've made you some fresh orange juice.'

  My scrambled thoughts started to congeal. 'What time is it?' I croaked.

  'A little after ten,' he said. 'You slept for almost eight hours.'

  'Bloody hell! We've got to be there at twelve. You should've woken me earlier.'

  'Calm down,' he said, with a smug smile. 'You needed your sleep. I've got everything under control. Sam's just gone down for his nap and I'll get him ready when he wakes up. You only need to worry about yourself.' He was puffed up with pride – like a little boy.

  'You sure?' I said, taking the glass from him. 'I feel like I've died and gone to heaven.'

  'Nothi
ng so exotic. You can sit on your cloud for a bit longer, but then you need to get your arse into gear. Bacon and scrambled eggs. On the table in five minutes.'

  He'd even laid the table and bought some flowers. No prizes for arranging them, but that wasn't why I married him.

  'Are you sure we've got enough time,' I said, still feeling we should be in full panic mode.

  'All under control. I'm not totally useless. I've even got Sam's outfit laid out and ready to go.' He filled a mug with freshly-brewed black coffee and handed it to me. 'As long as we're out of here by eleven-thirty, we'll be fine. It's our show after all.'

  'You're such a sweetie,' I said. 'And no-one ever said you were useless. I don't think I've felt this well rested since Sam was born.'

  'Well, you'll need to be. It'll be the first time you'll have met half my family and I'm sure they'll want to give you a proper grilling.'

  'Oh joy!' I said. 'I'll do my best, but promise you'll come and save me if I need it.'

  'You'll be fine. They'll love you. What's not to love?'

  I got up and went over to give him a hug. 'I don't know what's got into you this morning, but I like it. Now, let me grab a shower and get dressed or your clever plan will go properly pear-shaped.'

  Rupert's parents, John and Virginia, lived in a small village just north of Oxford. It was more of a hamlet than a proper village but, somewhat greedily, the village had its own beautiful Norman church and a huge vicarage.

  It was an impressive house, almost an imposition, with grey limestone blocks and sharply angled eaves brooding from three stories up. Seven bedrooms, swimming pool, tennis court and two acres of gardens.

  Naturally, John was Church Warden and, as he was quite the charmer, the old ladies who did the flowers had made a special effort for Sam's christening. The church looked beautiful and the ceremony went off without a hitch. There were about forty guests; all, as expected, were from Rupert's side of the family with the exception of our neighbours, John and Julie, and a couple of Rupert's Oxford friends.

  I did have one trick up my sleeve, however, and I smiled every time I remembered that the Carlantino family wasn't totally absent from proceedings. I'd been pretending that my family's absence wasn't a big deal, but it obviously mattered more than I was willing to accept.

  After my parents died, I put my inherited share of their belongings into storage, thinking there would be time enough to sort through them later. That never happened, but I would go to the storage unit once or twice a year and look through things. I had broken with everyone from home by then, but wasn't prepared to completely give up on my memories. I never told Jax, who would have made some snide remark about 'bourgeois sentimentalism' or 'needing to throw off the shackles of tribe and family'.

  One of the more special items which I'd inherited was a lace christening dress, delicately hand-stitched and coffee-cream with age. My grandfather, Nonno, once told me it had been in our family for six generations and, a few weeks before Sam's christening, I drove up to Bedford and dug it out of the storage unit.

  We may have been poorly represented physically but Sam played his part in keeping the family line unbroken. As I looked out behind the congregation, I saw row after row of Puglians stretching into the distance, cheerfully bright in their Sunday best, beaming smiles lighting every face and rough-fingered blessings tracing the sign of the cross into the dusty air.

  Not there in body, but welcoming him into the family nonetheless.

  'What a beautiful Christening dress, Fabiola,' said Henrietta. 'I've never seen anything quite like it. Virginia told me it was a family heirloom.' She leant close to my ear and whispered. 'She also said you fought tooth and nail to make sure that Sam wore your family's dress rather than the Blackwell monstrosity. Well done! It takes a strong woman to stand up to my daughter and win the day. I certainly gave up years ago.'

  Henrietta was my favourite Blackwell, still fit and feisty at seventy-eight and nobody's fool.

  'I'm sure it was much more civilised than that,' I replied, laughing. 'Virginia understood how important it was for me and, as I didn't have any family coming, she was happy to give in.'

  'I doubt that, my dear, but you're very gracious.' Henrietta sipped her champagne through a smile. 'Now tell me about your family, if you don't mind.'

  'Not so interesting, I'm afraid.' Thinking about my family made me feel sad and empty. 'I've lost touch with them all now. They originally come from Peschici, down in the South-East of Italy. It's a small fishing village. Apparently more touristy these days, but I've not been there since I was twelve.'

  'And your parents emigrated to Bedford. Why was that?'

  'No. It wasn't my parents who emigrated, or at least not by choice. My grandfather moved over to work in the brick factories after the war and he brought his wife and children over about five years later.'

  'How interesting,' said Henrietta. 'Did a lot of Italians come over at that time?'

  'Yes, loads of them. And they brought a lot of the southern Italian culture over as well. Everything was still very traditional back then. Do you remember the part of The Godfather where Al Pacino goes back to Sicily and falls in love with the local village beauty?'

  'Of course.'

  'Well, you'll remember they go walking together – strolling arm-in-arm along a dusty track – but, when the camera pans backwards, you see about twenty chaperones following a few paces behind. I doubt it was actually that bad for my Mum and Dad but, from the stories I've heard, it wasn't far off.'

  Henrietta laughed. 'I can just picture it. It's one of my favourite films and there's something about Al Pacino ...'

  'Yes, he's got a certain brooding smoulder, hasn't he?' I said, amused to be sharing a moment of lustful idolatry with Rupert's grandmother. 'My father looked a bit like him when he was younger. Anyway, it was all different by the time we kids came along and my parents' generation struggled to cope with the changes.'

  'Fascinating.' Henrietta appeared genuinely interested although, as she was from a background where making conversation was simply good manners, I doubt I'd have been able to tell if she wasn't. 'But a shame you've lost touch with your family. You should do something about that. Sooner rather than later. Family endures when all else fails.'

  'You're right, and it makes sense that you're saying that today. I've mostly managed to avoid thinking about them over the past few years but, since Sam was born, and especially today with everyone gathered together to celebrate his arrival, I've felt there was something missing.'

  Henrietta arched an eyebrow. 'How do you mean?'

  'Well, I want to connect him to my side of the family but, apart from the dress, I can't. I really wish my brothers and sister were here but I couldn't face inviting them and having them refuse to come.'

  These thoughts, seeds of regret, had been germinating quietly in the back of my mind for months, ever since I held Sam in my arms for the first time. He was the start of a new generation and needed to be placed into the jigsaw puzzle of family history; he needed to fit both into his past, and his future.

  My own decisions had been mine to make – although I was questioning many of them now – but I had no right to leave Sam hanging one-handed from a single family tree, even if it was from the sturdy branches of an English oak.

  Most Sunday lunches after mass, Nonno Roberto would tell us stories of home and how, as boys, he and his friends would hunt and forage in the woods and mountains which surrounded his village.

  Storms were brewing in northern Europe, but there had been a few golden years before the sun became stained with bitterness and blood, and they roamed free as young wolves through the last remaining fragments of the ancient forests. They had their own kind of oak trees – I couldn't remember what they were called – and Nonno would often say that the English oak was the connection which had made him happy to adopt England as his home.

  The British weather was terrible and he worried that the people had lost their standards and morality but, as he w
ould often tell us while sitting indoors in his nice warm cafe, 'take a woodland walk here, on a crisp sunny day in late autumn and you could be in Puglia'.

  Although it wasn't strictly legal, he'd made my father promise to scatter his ashes under a huge oak in Odell Great Wood, just outside Bedford. He loved the tree and wanted to be connected through unseen root networks to the oak forests of his youth.

  Nonno had lived long enough to bury his son and, when he'd died himself a year later, it had fallen to me to keep my father's promise. I went to the tree alone and sat in solitary silence under the massive canopy until long after dark. I've never been back.

  I looked up from my champagne glass to see Henrietta watching me carefully before reaching over and touching my hand; just a stroke of a feather but enough to send an electric shiver up and down my arm.

  'You have a sad soul, Fabiola,' she said. 'It's not too late to go back and mend those bridges, you know? To do what your heart is telling you to do.'

  'Thank you,' I said. There was nothing else to say.

  'Now, I've monopolised you long enough.' Henrietta snapped seamlessly back into her 'conversation at cocktail parties' mode. 'You should go and save your son from his grandmother. He looks like he's had quite enough.'

  As I walked over to rescue Sam from Virginia, I thought back to my comforting vision of generations of Carlantinos crowding the church and stretching out into the churchyard and beyond. There was something which jarred uncomfortably with my memories but refused to take shape, it was sand sifting in a sieve, slipping soft and silent through the mesh.