The Liberation of Alice Love(16)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Maybe, maybe…early days yet.” He tapped one finger to his lips and winked.

She smiled. “I’m just going into the village to stock up. Did you want anything?”

“Hmm…” He paused. “Maybe some twine, and peppermint creams?”

Alice raised her eyebrows.

“The Montgolfiers were big believers in peppermint creams.” Her father nodded. “Look out for the good sort, would you? They should have some at Bishops.”

“Peppermints and twine, coming up.”

***

Alice decided to walk the half-mile into the village, and set out along the winding country lane with one of Jasmine’s tie-dyed cloth bags over her shoulder and a long list in her pocket. She was relieved the revolutionary period was over; for months, she’d been half expecting a call from Jasmine to say he’d accidentally shot himself in the leg with one of those antique muskets. Not that hot-air balloons were much better. God knew what damage he could do if he took it on himself to actually build one…

Her father had always been an eccentric. The question “And what do your parents do?” would bring a different answer every year. He wasn’t an academic, or a writer, or anything so easily defined. No—Alice considered him more of an enthusiast. From eighteenth-century botanists to alchemy in the ancient Ottoman Empire, he would become gripped with a new passion, immersing himself completely in the subject for months, sometimes years. Once mastered, he would give a series of lectures, or write a book, or even—in one case—oversee the planting of a thirty-acre garden in the style of renegade gardener William Robinson. Then a new topic would catch his eye, and he would be off again.

She had to be grateful for his commitment to his subjects, Alice supposed; otherwise, she would never have been born. Because her father didn’t simply research the topic, no, he seemed to take on the lifestyle and characteristics of his subjects as well. Hence her mother (a glamorous American breezing through London) was wooed by the dashing man quoting Byron and Keats as if he were one of the Romantic poets himself and not just knee-deep in old texts. By the time he tired of poetry and switched his allegiance to exploring sewage systems of the early industrial age, Natasha Scott already had a ring on her finger, a child on the way, and a ramshackle cottage to call home.

Faced with such a bait and switch of her dramatic, romance-filled dreams, Alice often wondered how her mother even lasted the eleven fractured years she did before abandoning them both to the leaking pipes, overgrown garden, and distinct lack of local cocktail bars. If she was truly honest about it, her mother’s leaving was something of a relief. By then, Alice had witnessed enough dress rehearsals to know—and fear—that the more permanent version was on its way, so when her mother finally packed up every designer dress and expensive, unworn shoe and disappeared for good, Alice told herself it was better this way. At least there was no more of Natasha dragging her to London for days on end or disappearing for summers at somebody’s house in Cannes, or Morocco, leaving Alice, uncertain, to await her return.

***

Alice bought a loaf of bread, still warm from the bakery, and sat on the war memorial bench, tearing chunks off to share with the sparrows that nested nearby. The village had changed little in the past ten years: home to three pubs, an organic farm collective, and a revolving parade of antiques, children’s clothes, and crystal jewelry boutiques. She must have sat in this exact spot a hundred times as a girl, waiting for her father to finish browsing old curios in the antiques shop, and later, as a bored teenager trapped by the sporadic bus timetable and lack of any actual place to go.

And here she was again, with all her worldly possessions stored in the back of the garage as if she’d never left. Alice watched the birds fluttering at her feet and thought bleakly of how quickly everything had changed. Homeless, broke—in a single week, her life had been turned upside down, and she was still reeling, trying to understand how it could have happened. Was there something she should have done differently?

Her phone lit up, and Alice reached for it, glad of the distraction from her own self-doubt.

“How are you holding up?” The phone suddenly went silent, and there was a muffled rustling noise. “Sorry,” Ella said breathlessly. “I’ve been stuffing these envelopes all day. Two hundred gift packs have to be ready by the launch.”

“No interns around?” Alice relaxed, just a little.

“I wish,” Ella laughed. “Apparently you can’t make them work weekends if you’re not even paying them.”

“Wimps.”

“So, are you OK?” Ella sounded concerned. “Any news yet from the bank? I can’t believe they’re being so incompetent.”

Alice sighed. “Nope, nothing yet. The account the money went to is protected with all kinds of anonymity. But they’re pulling CCTV tapes, seeing if they can match anyone to the cash withdrawals. I should know soon.”

“Aw, sweetie.” Ella was sympathetic. “So what are you going to do? You know I’d have you stay here, but I leave for Rome tomorrow for the launch and my landlord’s been threatening to repaint.”

“No, it’s fine,” Alice assured her. “I’m taking a couple of days off work, to get things sorted down here, and then Cassie’s back from filming. I’ll stay with her.” She let out a long breath. “And then, who knows? Maybe the bank will get its act together.”

“I’m sure it will. But you’re holding up?” Ella checked. “Surely they can’t find you liable for any of this.”

“No,” Alice agreed, moving her feet out of the way as a woman walked past with a stroller and two resistant toddlers. “At least not the bank: this is their mistake. Thirty two thousand pounds worth of mistake.”

Ella sucked in her breath. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, what would you do with that kind of cash?”

“Buy a flat?” Alice said drily.

Ella laughed. “Ever the sensible one.”

“So, Rome…” Alice stretched, her back still aching from moving all those boxes. “That should be fun.”

“Sure.” Ella’s tone was wry. “Four days in an industrial exhibition center, trying to convince people that the pseudoscience crap in our face cream is better than everyone else’s.” She sighed. “No, it should be OK. At least I’ll get to drool over the sexy CEO again. I swear, Alice, he belongs on the cover of a romance novel.”