Lost for Words Read online

  Table Of Contents

  Other Books by Andrea Bramhall

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About Andrea Bramhall

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

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  about new and upcoming releases.

  www.ylva-publishing.com

  Other Books by Andrea Bramhall

  Rock and a Hard Place

  Just My Luck

  Norfolk Coast Investigation Story

  Collide-O-Scope

  Under Parr

  The Last First Time

  Dedication

  For Grandad

  Harold Bramhall

  3.10.1929–27.2.2018

  There were so many times you left us all lost for words, Grandad.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the team at Ylva—Astrid, Daniela, Michelle. Your help, encouragement, and support through all my writing endeavours is truly appreciated.

  My lovely beta readers, Louise and Wendy, your help made this book much better and funnier than it would have been otherwise.

  To all my family—without you, there would be little inspiration for all the funny moments in this book. Faye, I particularly owe the potpourri moment to you.

  And lastly, to all of you who have taken the time to pick this book up and read it. Thank you for your support. Enjoy!

  Chapter 1

  “I have a confession to make.”

  Sasha Adams sighed inwardly, straightened her back, and spun to face her best friend. Bobbi Johnson’s confessions ranged from eating the last chocolate biscuit when Sasha was PMSing to… Well, just about anything was possible.

  “All right. Will we need bail money?”

  “Erm…not this time.”

  “Spade to bury the body?”

  Bobbi’s dark-skinned face cracked into a wide smile, her coal-dark eyes twinkling with amusement. “Possibly. When you kill me.” The relaxed afro curls in her short Mohawk flopped a little as she shuffled from side to side, and Sasha could see a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.

  Sasha rolled her hand to hurry Bobbi along. It had been a long day at work, her feet were killing her, and all she wanted was to get home. The Serenity Spa was a luxurious, opulent place to work, but Sasha wanted nothing more than to kick off her shoes, put up her feet, and finish up the new project she was working on.

  Bobbi sucked in a big breath and started, “I may or may not have accidentally—remember that part, it was totally accidental—but I may have introduced your mother to a new form of baking. Possibly.”

  Sasha frowned. “You’ve been baking with my mother?”

  “Accidentally.”

  “How does one ‘accidentally’ bake? And with my mother? And what do you mean ‘a new form’?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Sasha blinked, then pointed to the corridor. “My last massage’s done. You?”

  Bobbi nodded.

  “Then I guess you can tell me all about this long story while you give me a lift home.”

  She seemed to consider this a moment, then nodded. “You probably can’t kill me while I’m behind the wheel. At least not without killing yourself too. Sounds like a plan.”

  They collected their things from the deserted staff room before they climbed into Bobbi’s old red Astra. Well, red except for the blue door on the passenger side she got from a scrapyard after an incident with a skip and a vicious badger. But that was another long story.

  Sasha waited until they’d pulled out of the car park, glad she didn’t have to wait for the bus this evening as the drizzle covered the windscreen. She turned in her seat to watch Bobbi’s face. The orange-tinted light of Manchester city after dark was more than enough to see her friend clearly.

  “I’m ready for your confession, my child,” she said, doing her best impression of a priest.

  Bobbi snickered but began, “So, erm, you know the other night when you had a killer headache and went to bed early?”

  “Which night? You have tea with us nearly every night, and I’ve had a couple of migraines recently.”

  “Two nights ago, we were having tea with your mum. Migraine from hell hit you.”

  “Okay, the scene is set.”

  “So your mum was having some of her pains, you know? The ones from her prosthetic.”

  Sasha nodded provisionally, wondering in another part of her brain if her mum had caused herself some new blisters on her stump. You’d think that nearly five years after a bone-cancer scare, with a leg amputation to show for it, Fleur would have learnt to let people take care of her more. It wasn’t as if the myriad of phantom pains she suffered weren’t consistent reminders to take it easy. “Get to the confession, Bobbi.”

  “Well, she was taking her medicine.”

  Sasha lifted her eyebrows. “Which medicine?”

  “The one the doctor prescribed.”

  “The doctor’s prescribed her with a range of ‘medicines’, honey. Which one are we talking about here?”

  “She was smoking a joint.”

  “I hope you went in the conservatory with her. She’s stinking the house out with all the pot she’s smoking now.”

  “You’ve noticed, huh?”

  “Noticed?”

  “How much she’s smoking lately?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s hard to miss when I walk out of the house smelling like a pothead all the time,” Sasha commented. “Why?”

  “Just wondered if it meant she was getting more pain than usual. That’s all.”

  “She hasn’t mentioned it particularly. I think she’s just enjoying her official hippie status. She thinks she’s back at Woodstock or something.”

  “Woodstock?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Your mum went to Woodstock? The Woodstock?”

  “So she tells me.”

  “Seriously?”

  Sasha shrugged.

  “How did I not know this? Tell me all about it. Now.”

  “No, you’re still telling me about my mother and you baking.”

  Bobbi cast her a glance, then turned back to the road. “Fine, but later you’re telling me about your supercool mother and Woodstock.”

  Sasha rolled her hand again.

  “Well, she was coughing every time she tried to take a drag. So I asked her why she didn’t stop smoking the stuff. She said she couldn’t if she wanted to get any sleep that night, and I might have possibly mentioned, in passing, very, very briefly, that she could always take it a different way. One that wouldn’t be so hard on her lungs all the time.”

  “You taught m
y mother how to make space cakes.” It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be.

  “It was an accident.”

  “That’s not an accident, Bobbi. An accident is where you trip, fall off the kerb, and sprain your ankle. Or where you drop a glass when you’re washing up because your hands are wet and soapy. Those things are accidents. Taking my mum into the kitchen, showing her how to make hash cakes, and no doubt helping her polish off some of those hash cakes, that’s not an accident. See the difference?”

  Bobbi nodded like a chastised child and mumbled an apology under her breath.

  Sasha chuckled at the look of contrition.

  “You gonna kill me now?”

  “Nah.”

  Bobbi looked at her hopefully. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I won’t teach her anything else—”

  “Honey, I hate to burst your little bubble here, but I’m pretty sure my mother has made hash cakes before. I’m very sure she’s eaten them before. And if she hadn’t been stoned already, your little ‘accidental’ divulgence would not have been anything new to her at all.”

  Bobbi eyed her sceptically from the corner of her eye. “I don’t know. She seemed—”

  “Woodstock,” Sasha replied in a sing-song voice and tried to supress a grin when Bobbi nodded and wrinkled her nose.

  “There are pictures of me as a five-year-old at Glastonbury with her in 1978.”

  Bobbi nodded again.

  “There’s not an awful lot left to teach her, hon.”

  “Fair point,” Bobbi conceded. “I’ll ask her for lessons in the leading-folk-astray category of life.”

  “Now you’re learning, young grasshopper.” They drove in silence for a few minutes until they tuned right into Sasha’s road.

  “Sasha?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your mum’s awesome.”

  Sasha rested her head back against the headrest, a grin spreading across her lips.

  “You know that, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do.”

  Bobbi parked up outside the house Sasha shared with her mum. One of many on a street filled with long lines of Victorian houses, each one joined to the next. Each one made of red brick that had long since faded to dirty. Paint colours were the only real distinction from one house or street to the next; graffiti acted like the territory lines for gangs of youths, and the paint on each front door was chipped and scarred.

  Sasha liked to think theirs was fairing a little better than average. And the planters in the front yard were neat and weeded. The stone topper on the wall was painted too, and the bins were upright and not covered in graffiti. The window at the front had a net curtain stretched across it. A black cat sat on the windowsill staring out at them, green eyes watching them with bored disdain.

  “Sasha?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did she really go to Woodstock?”

  Sasha pointed to the door. “Come on. We’ll have some tea and you can ask her for the details yourself.”

  “Cool.” Bobbi tugged her keys out of the ignition.

  “But if she tries to tell you that I’m the secret love child of Jimi Hendrix…she’s talking out of her arse.”

  Bobbi tutted. “Even I’d know that.”

  Sasha slid the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and glanced at her hand. Yup, her milky-white skin would definitely give that one away.

  “You can’t even play the guitar.”

  Sasha strode into the kitchen and popped an arm around her mother’s shoulders, kissing her on the cheek as Fleur stirred a pan on the stove.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Fleur said, not taking her eyes off the pan. “How was work today?”

  “Same old, same old. Massages, manicures, facials, aching feet.” Serenity Spa might be a luxury spa, but it was still a spa. She pointed to the pan. “Is there enough for one extra?”

  Fleur smiled. “Of course. Hey, Bobbi.”

  “Hey, Mrs A.” Bobbi stepped up and kissed Fleur’s other cheek. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How was your day, Mum?” Sasha dropped heavily into a chair and toed off her shoes. She groaned with pleasure as she wiggled her toes in contentment.

  “Same old, same old,” Fleur said, reiterating Sasha’s well-used phrase. “Wine, girls?”

  Sasha shook her head. “I think I’ll just have a cuppa.” She stood to put the kettle on to boil. “Bobbi?”

  “Please.”

  “Mum?”

  Fleur lifted the crystal necklace from her neck, pointed to two, seemingly random, spots on the counter, and hung the chain over it. Sasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Fleur closed hers, connected to her “higher spirit”, then swayed back and forth for a moment before opening her eyes and giving a little nod.

  “Yes, but I’ll do it,” Fleur said. “You’ve both been working all day.”

  “It’s fine, Mum. I’m already up.” Sasha filled the kettle and flipped the switch, eyeing her mother critically. “You okay? You look tired.”

  “You’ll look tired too when you get to my age.” Fleur tossed her shoulder-length grey hair over her shoulder with an exaggerated flounce. “In fact, there were several years where I don’t recall sleeping at all. Must be catching up with me now. Now pass me the plates.”

  Sasha did as she asked, then finished making the tea while Fleur doled out generous helpings of pasta for Bobbi and Sasha, and a smaller one for herself.

  “You’re not eating much,” Sasha commented, pointing to her mother’s plate, then examining her fork with mock wariness. “Poison?”

  Fleur tittered. “Too slow. Besides, what would I do with your bodies?”

  They all laughed.

  “Oo, that reminds me,” Bobbi said, looking at Sasha. “IKEA tomorrow? I need a new mattress; the spring stuck in my back for the past six months actually broke free of the fabric last night.” She pointed to her eye for effect. “I nearly lost this. You’re off tomorrow, right?”

  “No, I’m working half-day in the morning.”

  “I can pick you up when you finish. Go straight over to the shop then.”

  Sasha shrugged. “Sure. My last client is at twelve, so I should be out just after one.”

  “I’ll be in the car park.”

  “Bobbi?” Fleur said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why did my mentioning hiding your bodies remind you of IKEA?”

  Bobbi shrugged. “Innovative storage solutions?”

  Sasha and Fleur looked at each other. What exactly do you say to that?

  Fleur cleared her throat after a few minutes of silence. “So, Bobbi, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “Me?” Bobbi squeaked.

  “Yes, you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I’m a boring old lady who needs to live vicariously through you youngsters.”

  Sasha almost spit out the mouthful of tea she’d just taken at her mother’s bold-faced lie. “Mum, you have more going on in your life than we do. Yoga, Pilates, bowling.” She pointed to the crystal hanging from a chain around her neck. “Wasn’t it your meditation group meeting today?”

  Fleur waved her fork in the air. “Life-Changes Dedication class, yes.”

  Sasha did roll her eyes this time. Bobbi bit her lip.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Sasha. Just because you don’t have any faith doesn’t mean you get to scoff at those who do believe in something greater than themselves.”

  “I wasn’t scoffing.” Much.

  Fleur gave her The Look. The look only a mother can give her child. No matter how old you got, The Look would always make you break out into a case of guilt—even if you hadn’t done anything wrong. The Look would always make you give up your wi
ldest deeds and deepest secrets. The Look should be outlawed under the Geneva Convention. The Look should be a war crime.

  Sasha cleared her throat and said quietly, “Sorry. How was your class?”

  “It went very well, thank you.” Fleur turned rather prim and proper, looking down her nose a little at Sasha. Sasha and Bobbi turned back to their plates, but Sasha pushed the food around for a few moments before taking a bite. “The spirits are pointing me in a very definite direction for one of my little projects.”

  “Oh.” Sasha swallowed. “Which project is that?”

  “Project Comp,” she said with a wink at Bobbi.

  Bobbi’s eyes widened and she stared down at her plate, shovelling more pasta into her mouth.

  Sasha frowned. “And what’s Project Comp all about, then?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Oo, a secret mission.” Sasha grinned. “Will you tell me if I guess correctly?”

  Fleur hooted, and Bobbi blanched. “Since there is no way in hell you’ll ever guess this, I can agree to those terms.”

  Sasha narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think I can guess your secret?”

  “Not a chance, sweetheart.”

  “Hm…Comp?”

  “Yes, Project Comp.”

  “Comp as in competition?”

  “That was obvious, darling.” Fleur lifted one eyebrow. “You’ll never get beyond there.”

  “You’ve entered a baking competition and plan to wow the ladies of the WI with your new hash cakes?”

  Fleur tipped her head back and chortled. “No, but what a wonderful idea. It’s been some time since those old biddies let their hair down a bit.”

  Sasha looked around for inspiration. Nip, the black cat with stunning green eyes and an attitude from hell, sauntered through the kitchen doorway, hopped up on to Fleur’s lap, and proceeded to pull a pasta shell off Fleur’s plate, then batted it across the table until it was out of reach.

  “You’ve entered Nip into a prettiest-pussy competition?” she guessed with a snigger.

  Bobbi spat her tea across the table, earning her a disgusted look from both Fleur and Nip.

  Fleur tutted. “It’s no wonder neither of you have had sex in years.” She chucked the cat under the chin, and Sasha avoided eye contact with Bobbi. Poor Bobbi thought she hid her feelings well. Sasha didn’t agree, but for the sake of their friendship she ignored the longing looks. She couldn’t help that she wasn’t attracted to Bobbi like that. She was a friend, almost a sister with how close they were. There could never be anything else between them, despite what Bobbi so obviously wanted.