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The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy
Maddie Please


‘The Summer of Second Chances is the perfect feelgood summer read.’ Chrissie Manby, author of What I Did On My HolidaysLottie is about to discover that even when you think you’ve lost everything, hope and romance can be just around the corner . . .It takes time to build your life. To get into a long-term (OK, a bit boring) relationship. To find a job (you don’t completely hate). Lottie might not be thrilled with the life she’s put together, but it’s the one she’s got.So when, in the course of one terrible evening, it all comes crashing down around her, Lottie has a choice: give herself over to grief at being broke, single and completely lacking in prospects.Or, brick by brick, build herself a new life. And this time, with a little help from new friends, a crumbling cottage in Devon and a handsome stranger, maybe she can make it the one she always wanted.THE SUMMER OF SECOND CHANCES is an irresistibly funny read about never giving up, whatever the world throws at you. Perfect for fans of Jenny Colgan, Jane Costello and Christie Barlow.









The Summer of Second Chances

MADDIE PLEASE







A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)







Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by AVON 2017

Copyright © Maddie Please 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover illustration © Head Design

Maddie Please asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008257293

Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008257125

Version: 2018-03-15


For my husband Brian, who never doubted me.

With all my love.

Thank you.


Table of Contents

Cover (#ud9bb7552-23d8-513c-8610-fe758dfdd185)

Title Page (#u071b7603-970a-59dd-835e-600934cf01fc)

Copyright (#u91774590-4c18-582d-98e1-eb29ab55ac92)

Dedication (#u20307ad2-7cf7-5710-b318-0cc10537770b)

Prologue (#u56046ee5-66d0-5b64-b10b-2cf30e5545e6)

Chapter 1: Snowdrops – a friend in adversity, consolation, hope (#u417617eb-42b0-53ee-8b1d-476b26494037)



Chapter 2: Daffodils – uncertainty, unrequited love, deceit (#u97014fc3-88d1-5209-adb7-278948748da5)



Chapter 3: Aquilegia – resolution, determination, anxiety (#uef120c70-3251-53b7-8ecc-d0ccd842596d)



Chapter 4: Rhododendron – deceit, danger (#u314457fa-e3a9-5ff4-844e-0d0393398388)



Chapter 5: Primrose – modest worth and silent admiration (#ua5fa7ec3-62f0-51ce-b18b-f9692e6499a2)



Chapter 6: Hyacinth – jealousy (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 7: Foxglove – insincerity, deceit (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 8: Purple iris – faith, hope, inspiration, friendship (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 9: Daisies – loyalty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 10: Wallflowers – courage in adversity (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 11: Cherry blossom – kindness (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 12: Honeysuckle – devotion, fidelity (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 13: Forget-me-not – remember me, friendship (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 14: Azaleas – passion (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 15: French marigold – sorrow, deceit (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 16: Geranium – determination (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 17: Anemone – have you forsaken me? (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 18: Yellow carnations – disappointment, rejection (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 19: Morning glory – love in vain (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 20: Lily-of-the-valley – returning happiness (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 21: Gladiolus – courage and strength (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 22: Purple lilac – first emotion of love (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 23: Chrysanthemum – cheerfulness and truth (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 24: Holly and ivy – domestic bliss and faithfulness (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgement (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE (#u284eb7fa-c6eb-557b-89dc-b5dcb2dc774a)


It was quite incredible really, when I considered what a long time things took to do as a rule. Meeting Ian and moving in, supporting him as he built up his business, entertaining people who drove me nearly mad with boredom, getting contracts, the crazy nit-picking of flaky homeowners. These things took months, sometimes years. To lose it all took no time at all.

I lost my partner, my home, a lot of my friends and my peace of mind – not necessarily in that order – and yet, only a few days had passed.

We had shared the usual formulaic Christmas with Susan picking at her food as though I was trying to poison her. And then Ian had started on about the bloody New Year’s Eve party we were having.

He’d rolled his eyes at his mother who was sitting opposite me.

‘I had to persuade her, you know, Mum. Lottie hates New Year’s Eve,’ he said. Quietly, as though I was simple and couldn’t hear him.

‘I don’t!’ I said. ‘That’s so not true.’

I would have said it more emphatically with words like bollocks or crap attached, but Susan has been known to leave the room when I swear so I didn’t. It was Christmas after all.

‘She says it’s just one more day,’ Ian continued. He sent me a mischievous grin to show he was teasing me. I pulled a face at him and tried to kick him under the table.

Susan put down her knife and fork and peered over her glasses at me.

‘You’re very young, Charlotte. Perhaps you think there will always be one more day.’

Oh God, I knew what was coming.

Susan sighed and shook her head.

Yes, here it was.

‘I would give anything to have one more hour with Trevor. One more day.’ She bit her lip, shook her head and struggled on bravely. ‘If I had known he would be taken from me so soon.’

And after the party, wallop! One bloody shock after another, everything getting worse and worse until I came to dread waking up each day because I knew something else horrible was bound to happen.

And then the day came when I packed my clothes, my jewellery box, my grandmother’s clock and as many of my belongings as I could fit into my car – the only thing I now owned – and handed back the keys to the house to an anxious solicitor who looked like Rodney Trotter’s younger brother doing work experience. I could almost imagine Susan’s glee as she closed one claw-like hand over them with an evil cackle. I’d always known she had never really liked me, but now she could make her feelings more than clear. She blamed me for what happened, and this was the perfect revenge.




CHAPTER 1 (#u284eb7fa-c6eb-557b-89dc-b5dcb2dc774a)

Snowdrops – a friend in adversity, consolation, hope (#u284eb7fa-c6eb-557b-89dc-b5dcb2dc774a)


I reached Holly Cottage – my sanctuary – just before the late January sunshine faded into the grey-green hills of Devon. I had lost just about everything familiar to me; my partner, most of my friends, my job, the home I had loved. I pulled into the gravelled drive, turned off the car engine and opened the window. The silence was deafening. I took my seatbelt off and listened for a while; I realised it was the first peace I had encountered for a very long time. Hardly anyone knew where I was, that was the marvellous thing. And that was the way I wanted to keep it.

The road, if you could call it that, meandered up past the house and then tapered off as though it had lost interest into an unmetalled track with grass growing down the middle. Holly Cottage looked as though it had been dumped on the grass verge on the brow of the hill with views over the rolling countryside. It was like a child’s drawing of a house; stone walls, a slate roof, three upstairs windows and two downstairs, either side of a black front door. I had only travelled about forty miles, perhaps it was just my state of mind, but as I got out of my car, the air seemed livelier, different. I took a deep lungful of freedom and felt a bit shaky.

This was it, then, all pretence was gone. For the last few years I had lived in happy ignorance in Ian’s five-bedroom house surrounded by a half-acre of garden. I’d been anticipating a summer holiday in the Dordogne in a customer’s gîte. I hadn’t even known, much less cared, who my electricity supplier was. In hindsight, I had been beyond naïve; I’d thought nothing would ever change. Now I was going to live in a borrowed two-bedroom cottage with nothing much to recommend it but the view. How the hell did this happen?

But of course, if I was honest, I knew exactly how I’d ended up here. I’d trusted Ian, trusted him completely. And then everything had come crashing down. If it hadn’t been for the kindness of Jess I don’t know what on earth I would have done. I parked in front of the black door and remembered the conversation that had changed my life.

Jess had pouted for a moment, running a hand through her blonde hair.

‘Of course, Holly Cottage!’

‘Oh, I don’t think…’ Greg said, his brow furrowed in thought.

‘Please, don’t, I’m not a charity case just yet, you’ve been so great these last few days. A lot of my friends…’

I didn’t finish the sentence. I stood up and wandered around their conservatory, clearing my throat, pretending to look at their garden. Really I was trying to control my easy tears. A lot of my so-called friends had silently disappeared from the scene, as though Ian’s sudden death and my destitution might be infectious. To be honest, I didn’t want to talk to anyone any more, I couldn’t bear explaining everything over and over again. So I had got used to ignoring my mobile. I didn’t log on to my laptop to look at my emails.

Jess turned in her chair, the wicker creaking.

‘Lottie, you’d be doing us a favour, honestly you would.’

Her enthusiasm grew the more she considered it.

‘It’s only a little place. I bought it just before I married Greg. I used to work in a club in London. Greg calls them my wild years but they weren’t really. I lived on Uncle Ben’s Rice in a ghastly place in Peckham. I saved all my tips for two years. Very generous some of them were.’ Jess widened her blue eyes at me. ‘Oh nothing dodgy, so don’t worry.’

I looked at Jess with astonishment and new respect. She might look like a complete airhead but obviously she wasn’t. I was the nitwit here, with no financial sense at all, no career, finding myself at thirty-four broke and without prospects.

‘It’s all furnished; you wouldn’t need to take anything. Just your clothes and your bits and pieces. We could help you with that, couldn’t we, Gregsy? The van, you know.’

Her husband grunted and shifted in his chair, evidently not thrilled with the way things were turning out. Jess didn’t seem to notice; either that or she was ignoring him.

‘It has been rented out for three years but the tenants have just gone, owing money of course.’ She gulped as she realised the tactlessness of her words. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to say it like that. I’m not sure if I want to rent it out again or sell it. But either way it needs an upgrade. It’s right out in the country, the other side of Exeter, but less than an hour away. It’s a bit out of the way but really pretty. Ideal for you, in fact.’

I didn’t look at her. I tried to gather my thoughts.

‘How much would it be?’

Greg opened his mouth to speak but Jess interrupted him.

‘Nothing. All you need to do is give it a clean up, do the clever stuff you do with curtains and wallpaper and have a good flick around with a paintbrush. You’re ever so good with the interior décor sort of thing. Much better than me, that’s for sure. I know I need to spend a bit of money on the place. You’d be doing me a huge favour.’

‘Oh, Jess!’

‘No really, you would, wouldn’t she, Greg?’

Greg made some non-committal noises and looked back at his phone. I could tell he wasn’t very happy about this.

‘That’s settled then,’ she said, pleased.

‘It’s not settled at all,’ I said. ‘I can’t just use your house for nothing. I can’t accept, it’s too much.’

‘It’s not too much. You really would be helping me out. We’ve been friends for ages, and you were so lovely to us when we moved here. I know you can do this sort of thing in your sleep. Picking out colours and stuff. You could do it for a living, you know.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ I said, trying to look modest.

I’d spent such a long time doing Ian’s house, picking fabrics, sourcing furniture, choosing colours, and I’d loved every minute.

‘Yes, you could, like that programme on TV where people have to upgrade rooms and paint crappy old furniture to make it look nice again. You could do that. We both said you should apply, remember?’

‘Yes, I know—’

‘Then stop arguing with me. Look, it can’t be rented out as it is.’ For the first time she looked serious. ‘Greg’s brother lives down there. We don’t have an awful lot of contact with him but he does have a key in case of emergencies and he sent me an email last week. About the Websters. They did a moonlight flit and left the cottage in a bit of a state. I was going to pay someone to get it cleaned up and put some of Greg’s men in there to decorate it but if you do it, it’s a win-win situation, isn’t it? This is just so “meant to be”.’

Jess gave me an artless smile, one that I bet never failed to succeed. I gave her a hug.

‘Well – thank you, Jess.’

I felt quite tearful and we stood and looked at each other for a moment, both of us a bit emotional.

Greg glanced up from his iPhone. He looked less jovial than usual.

‘I’ll tell Bryn to expect you any time this week, shall I?’ Jess continued. ‘And if he’s not in I’ll leave a message on his answerphone. He always picks those up.’

I began to panic. I was being either helped or pushed, I wasn’t sure which.

‘Who’s Bryn?’

‘My little brother, God help me,’ Greg muttered. ‘I’ve got to go and check my emails.’

‘Don’t be like that, Gregsy,’ Jess said, twirling her blonde hair between slender fingers. She watched as Greg went off to his office and turned back to me. ‘They fell out a few years ago but Bryn’s really nice once you get to know him. Just big, tall and a bit scary. Like a bear. But I know he’s not half as bad as he seems.’

This was far from reassuring.

‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all…’ I said.

Jess patted my hand. ‘Course it is. Think about it. It’s an adventure. A change of scenery. A bit of excitement. Just what you need.’

‘Don’t tell anyone where I am,’ I blurted out. ‘I don’t want anyone to know.’

My head was aching. So was my heart. I had loved the house I had shared with Ian so much. I had been proud, but we all know pride comes before a fall. And what a fall.

I had decorated and planned every room in the years I had lived there. I had chosen things. The colour of the walls, the flooring, the towels, the lighting. Everything was perfect. Or it had been. It wasn’t now, was it? And it wasn’t mine either.

I stood outside Holly Cottage, lost in thought. Just about everything I had taken for granted had gone wrong. Now I had to take this chance and focus on the future because I certainly couldn’t change the past.

I got out, locking the car behind me although, to be honest, it didn’t feel as though there was a living soul for miles. I wandered around to the back of the house, my heels catching between the broken paving slabs. I wondered if the ‘huge and bear-like’ Bryn was around to watch the homeless idiot arriving. Might he be lurking in the shadows under the trees down the lane? For some reason I pictured him standing, shoulders hunched like Lurch from The Addams Family, knuckles dragging on the ground. Fortunately there was no sign of him. But he had left the back door key under an upturned bucket in the porch as Jess had assured me he would. The key stuck for a heart-stopping few moments and then turned in the lock with an unwilling squeak. I let myself in to the hall.

The stale scent of wet dog, mingled with something even more unpleasant, hit me. The smell of damp carpet, neglect and, unmistakably, fish.

I left the door open and made my way into the sitting room, one hand over my nose. The room was flagstoned with a large rug over the top, which was soaking. Someone had flung a plastic bucket plus water into the middle and my shoes squelched as I took a hesitant step into the room. They had also enhanced the décor by chucking around a few shovelfuls of ash from the fire. The walls were pale and marked with squares of grime where pictures had been removed. Underneath one windowsill the paper had been pulled off altogether and someone had drawn stars in pink and purple felt tip pen on the wall.

The smell was stronger here, pungent and eye watering. Trying not to gag, I pushed back the curtains and opened both the sash windows. The crispness of the evening air was welcome. I hurried back outside for a moment to refresh my lungs and then went upstairs to explore further, finding a small bathroom and two bedrooms.

There was evidence in the expensive wallpaper and the sisal carpet that this place had once been very pretty, but now it was neglected and extremely dirty. There were stains on the floor and muddy fingerprints around the china light switches, and someone had been free with wax crayons on the walls of the landing.

In the corner of the bathroom was a huge web, the spider still busy in the middle with a struggling bluebottle. I shuddered. On the mirror, in coral lipstick, was scrawled Bitch. It neatly crossed over the reflection of my cold, pale, frightened face.

Jess had wanted me to clean and decorate, that was the deal, but it was obvious this place wasn’t just in need of a flick round with the antiseptic wipes and a lick of paint; it needed pressure washing. The stink from downstairs was curling up the stairs so I opened all the windows and re-buttoned my coat.

In the larger of the two bedrooms was a mahogany wardrobe that had once been highly polished and beautiful, but was now scratched, covered with globs of Blu-Tack and propped up with a brick at one corner where one of the feet had been lost. There was a sink in the corner filled with scummy water and dead flies.

‘Bloody hell!’ I said.

My words echoed around the room.

‘What on earth’s been going on here?’ asked a voice from behind me.

I spun round, squeaking with shock. There was a silhouette of a man in the doorway, his shoulders almost filling the space. I yelped again.

‘Well, if you don’t want people to walk in you shouldn’t leave all the doors open,’ he said, unapologetic.

‘And you shouldn’t just wander in to someone else’s house uninvited,’ I said, my voice shrill with fright. I flapped my hands at him to shoo him back down the stairs.

He turned and went, his movements unhurried and careful in the confined space of the stairwell. I followed him downstairs and into the kitchen, trying to calm the thudding of my heart.

‘What’s happened here?’ he said. ‘It wasn’t like this the other day. And what’s that terrible smell?’

‘How would I know?’ I replied. ‘I’ve only just got here.’

‘Hang on,’ he said and went into the sitting room, ducking his head under the lintel. He searched around for a few minutes and then retrieved a rotting fish wrapped in newspaper from behind a radiator.

‘Jesus!’ I clamped my hand back over my nose and watched him take it outside into the garden.

He reappeared, framed in the kitchen door. ‘I’ve no idea where that came from. I’m assuming it’s nothing to do with you?’

‘Of course it isn’t. Why the hell would I do a thing like that?’

‘OK, calm down. All I know is it didn’t smell like this when I last called in. Nor was there a pond on the sitting-room floor. Perhaps the Websters are responsible?’

‘The Websters?’

Oh yes the Websters. What had Jess said about them? I should have paid more attention.

‘The last tenants. Two years without a problem and then Mr Webster discovered skunk and scratch cards. They left a few days ago. Spent all his money on things other than his priorities. But I know he left his house keys behind when he left. I can’t think how he could have got back in. I’ve been here, Webster had a beaten-up old camper van. Red and white. I’m sure I would have noticed…’

I stood watching him for a moment wondering who he reminded me of.

‘It needs a bit of a sort out,’ he said, his blue eyes flicking from the piles of junk mail behind the door to the chocolate handprints on the wall. At least I hoped they were chocolate.

‘A bit of a sort out?’ I said, incredulous. ‘Never mind the smell, it’s absolutely filthy and disgusting.’

‘Ah well.’ He shrugged his shoulders. They really were very broad. ‘I’m Bryn Palmer, by the way.’ He held out a hand and I shook it.

‘I’m Charlotte Calder. What do you mean “ah well”? Would you want to live here?’

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. ‘Nope.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘Well don’t then,’ Bryn said. He flicked another look around that conveyed his boredom with the whole conversation. ‘It’s up to you. I thought you needed a place to stay?’

‘You mean beggars can’t be choosers?’

‘Why would I say that? No one is forcing you to live here, are they?’

I struggled with my temper. I was caught between Holly Cottage and a hard place. I had nowhere else to go, at least at the moment. I had considered my Auntie Shirley in Croydon but I couldn’t bring myself to make that call. A one-bedroom maisonette with a view of the library car park seemed the very last resort. At least here I had a bit of privacy. And a bed.

‘Couldn’t someone have at least checked the place to make sure it was at least habitable?’ I said.

His dark brows drew together in a frown. I had overstepped the mark, that was obvious.

‘Someone? You mean me?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t have killed you,’ I muttered.

‘That was up to Jess and Greg to sort out, not me,’ he said, ‘you’re not my responsibility. I’m not here to sort your problems out.’

Bloody cheek, it was as though I was being passed around from one responsible adult to another. Like some sort of delinquent child.

‘But you live down here in this godforsaken spot,’ I said, dismissing the beauty of the hills around me with a wave of my hand.

He refused to be drawn in to any discussion.

‘If you aren’t staying I’ll have the keys back.’ He held out one hand, ready to take them.

I stood, fists clenched, trembling with indecision for a few moments. It was this or sleep in the car. I had no idea about council accommodation for a single woman without children but I guessed I would be low down on a long list. I didn’t want to spend money on a hotel. I couldn’t go back; the locks had been changed. I had no choice.

‘I’ll stay. For now anyway,’ I said.

‘Fine.’ Bryn obviously didn’t care either way. ‘If you’re staying we should get that wet rug out. I could help you do it now, if you like?’ he said.

I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. I needed him to help me; I’d never manage it on my own. Not that I’m scrawny or anything but I’m only five foot four, there’s only so much leverage I could get.

‘Thank you, that would be very kind of you.’

He nodded and I noticed there was a bit of Matthew McConaughey about him, mixed with some other actor whose name I couldn’t remember. Plus evidence of a fair amount of time spent in the gym. It was an attractive mixture. Pity his character wasn’t so appealing.

I spent the next half an hour helping him shift furniture and alternately pulling at the rug with all my strength and gagging at the smell. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had been helping me. By the time we managed it I must have looked a sight – red, sweating and with my hair falling all over my face. A glamorous episode in anyone’s book.

At last Bryn got the offending article out into the front garden, leaving me exhausted and filthy, shoving furniture back into approximately the right place.

‘Well, I must be off,’ he said.

He was about to leave and I was really going to be on my own. I was suddenly nervous. Perhaps I could keep him talking for a few minutes longer.

‘I’ve brought some stuff with me but is there anywhere I can get some fresh milk or some bread?’

Bryn gave an impatient sigh. ‘You can get milk and a few essentials at the post office shop in Bramford St Michael. Back down this hill and turn left. You can’t miss it.’

‘Towering skyscrapers and retail parks?’ I said.

His mouth twitched. ‘A fourteenth-century church, a pub and a bus stop on the left. You’ll see a row of thatched cottages and the shop is just beyond that. You’d better be quick; they close in half an hour. Unless they feel like closing earlier. Which they sometimes do. If they are shut you’ll have to carry on for a few miles to Stokeley. There’s a Superfine there that’s open until ten o’clock.’

‘Thanks,’ I said in a very ungrateful tone. With any luck Bryn and I would not meet again. I didn’t quite understand why he was here in the first place if he wasn’t involved in the upkeep of Holly Cottage. But I soon found out.

He flicked me a slow and rather blush-inducing glance. I could see the resemblance between him and Greg, at least in looks. He had that same energy combined with a strong impression of competence. He was the sort of man who would deal with life not let it deal with him.

‘I’ll be off then.’

I stepped to one side to let him leave but he walked in the opposite direction, out of the kitchen door, down the small garden and through the gate at the bottom.

‘Hey! Where are you going?’ I called after him.

‘Home,’ he said.

I followed him for a few steps and watched as he walked into the garden of the house next door. I realised for the first time that his garden was huge and absolutely crammed with spring growth.

The contrast between that and the untidy mess in what I already considered ‘my’ garden could not have been starker. Mine boasted a shabby, overgrown lawn, weed-choked borders and the battered remains of an old bath.

Bryn looked at me as he drew level. It was obvious he was trying hard not to laugh at me.

‘You live in Holly Cottage, I live in Ivy Cottage. I’m your neighbour,’ he said.

‘Just when I thought things couldn’t get any frigging worse! That’s all I bloody need.’

I couldn’t help it; the words were out before I could stop myself. Bryn looked at me for a moment, his eyes were very cold and my spirits sank even lower.

‘Sorry, it’s been a crap sort of day,’ I muttered.

‘Happy to help,’ he said at last.

I turned away and went inside, slamming my door behind me.




CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_da64149c-5952-5c8b-a4e9-be41fbc9088e)

Daffodils – uncertainty, unrequited love, deceit (#ulink_da64149c-5952-5c8b-a4e9-be41fbc9088e)


It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It really wasn’t.

Nine years ago I’d finished my English Masters degree and taken a sort of late gap year working for the local paper as gofer while I wrote my ‘bestselling novel’. I had been filling in for someone one lunch hour, selling advertising space, and Ian had come into the office to place an ad for his company; Lovell Kitchens. He had amused me so much that I had agreed to go for dinner with him that evening. He’d then charmed me into meeting for a picnic the following day, then into a relationship, and after six months much to his mother’s annoyance I moved in with him.

By the time that happened, my gap year had become two years and looked as though it was turning into a career choice. Ten years older than me, Ian had seemed handsome, sophisticated, funny and charismatic. We had wanted the same things, we enjoyed similar tastes, and he had made me laugh back then. I’d been very lucky. When my university friends started complaining about trying to save a deposit for their first house, I just walked into one.

Ian worked hard, the years had been good to us, and we had a lovely home. Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, a fabulous hand-built kitchen with every possible gadget, and a wood-panelled study for Ian. I’d discovered a talent for interior décor and had brought new style and colour to the house, all paid for by Ian’s generous hand. Even in the middle of winter the half-acre of manicured gardens were neat and attractive, mostly thanks to the attention of our gardener. Much to Susan’s disgust we’d never married but we enjoyed our lives together. Ian was a generous host and I was a good cook. We’d had some marvellous parties when we first met.

In the past couple of years I suppose we’d just got a bit out of practice, with Ian away so much on business. And for want of something else to do, I’d recently gone back to part-time work. Not for the money, but because I was bored. There are only so many times you can decorate a house and move the furniture round.

We’d made lots of friends who included us in their busy circle of golf, fussy dinner parties and meaningless celebrations. Most of the men were more Ian’s age than mine, and many were involved in property development or building, but I was cultivating a group of my own too. Younger second wives and girlfriends keen to shop and have fun and go on spa breaks. Spa breaks! Wouldn’t that be nice now? And best of all, Jess had moved into our village, a sparky high-maintenance blonde with a taste for heels and spray tans and a laugh like Barbara Windsor. We’d instantly recognised a kindred spirit in each other even if I could never rival her for glamour. She was married to Greg, a meaty-looking man, and last year they had returned from several years living in Spain and bought The Grange, the biggest house for miles. Ian had nearly had kittens with his excitement.

After I was sure that Bryn was staying indoors, I found my handbag, took my cigarettes out to the garden and lit one. Always one to conform, I knew I shouldn’t smoke in someone else’s house; not that it would have mattered under the circumstances.

I felt giddy for a moment; perhaps it was the nicotine. I went to brush some dead leaves off one of the garden chairs near the back door and sat down. It wasn’t fair, none of this was my fault, was it? And yet here I was, on my own, miles from anywhere, looking into a future that was uncertain to say the least.

I shook myself; self-pity had no place here, I was going to have to buck up my ideas. I couldn’t treat having a job as an antidote to boredom any longer. I couldn’t rely on Ian’s seemingly bottomless wallet or acquaintances that had bought me flowers and sent cards when it all happened but now shied away from me in case my bad fortune rubbed off on them.

I walked down to the end of the garden through the thick, neglected grass and tried to see if there was anything apart from rubbish and weeds. A bank of nettles had taken over one of the borders. Something else that I think was honeysuckle was curling bare tendrils around a dirty and unpainted wooden lattice. It was a mess. Perhaps I could do something out here when I had a moment? Perhaps there was more under the rich red soil than was apparent. I went back into the house and picked up all the junk mail that had stacked behind the front door. Nothing to do with pizza delivery or takeaway menus, I noticed. Leaflets about hedge cutting, the local parish magazine, details of refuse collection, a flyer from the local feed merchant telling me about special offers on hen coops and wire netting. Perhaps I would have some chickens.

I pictured myself wandering down the garden with a bowl of kitchen scraps, the hens fat and feathery clustering around my ankles. For some reason I imagined myself wearing an old-fashioned wraparound apron over a flowery frock. Oh get a bloody grip! I had moved a few miles over the county border, not into the last century! It wasn’t that long ago I was hosting dinner parties in the latest season’s fashion. I’d been famous for my huge shoe collection. I hoped Age Concern in Taunton had appreciated them.

When I had finished decorating and styling Ian’s house for the second time, I had found a job working part time as a receptionist at the doctor’s surgery. I’d been on duty one Saturday morning when I met Greg Palmer. It was also the day I found out we were having a New Year’s Eve party.

There were several messages to deal with on the answerphone and a trail of people came through the doors with appointments or wanting repeat prescriptions. The phone rang almost continually. At about ten thirty there was a brief lull and after having made sure Dr Hawkins was occupied with a patient, I went to make more coffee. When I came back to my desk a tall figure was standing there, muffled up in an expensive-looking tweed coat and a cashmere scarf. He fired me a broad, white smile.

‘Greg Palmer to see Doctor Hawkins,’ he said.

I stabbed at a couple of computer keys. I hadn’t worked here long and I was quite capable of getting things wrong.

‘I don’t seem to have you on the system,’ I said at last.

‘No problem, princess. I saw the good doctor yesterday, he told me to pop in today to check everything was OK. Just tell him Greg Palmer is here.’ He winked and flashed me another smile, utterly confident of his success in circumventing our appointment system. It was a good thing the other receptionist, Daphne, wasn’t in my place. She would have sent him packing and enjoyed doing it too.

‘OK, I’ll tell the doctor you’re here. Do take a seat.’ I spoke into the intercom. When I turned back he was still there, looking at me with a speculative gaze. He held out a large, tanned hand. A heavy gold bracelet clanked out from under his coat cuff.

‘You’re Charlotte, aren’t you? Charlotte Calder? Ian’s partner?’

We shook hands.

‘I’m Jess’s husband. We’re looking forward to coming over on New Year’s Eve,’ he said. His eyes, startlingly blue in his tanned face, didn’t waver for a second. I had the uncomfortable feeling he might be imagining me with my clothes off.

I must have looked a bit blank for a moment. What bloody party?

‘New Year’s Eve?’

New Year’s Eve was weeks away. What the hell was Ian playing at?

Greg leaned a companionable elbow on the desk, and a blast of his aftershave punched me in the nose.

‘Yes, I saw Ian the other day up at the golf club and he mentioned you were thinking of having a party. Sounds good to me, and Jess is always up for a bash. He told me you worked here. I thought I would make myself known. Just popped in for a review of my war wound.’ He held out his left hand, which was bandaged. ‘I caught myself with the electric carving knife a couple of days ago. I called Simon and he popped out to patch me up. They do say you shouldn’t mix champagne and tools, don’t they?’

I don’t know how he managed to make this sentence sound suggestive, but he did.

‘How awful,’ I said, trying not to laugh. I shuffled some patient record cards into alphabetical order. ‘I bet that hurt.’

‘A bit of blood, just a nick on the side of my hand, that’s all.’ He winked at me again. ‘Still, it got me out of doing anything else, so not all bad. Jess is a bit of a madam in the kitchen. She likes things done her way and I’m not very biddable.’

To my relief Dr Hawkins’ surgery door opened and his patient hobbled out after him, her ankle heavily strapped up.

‘Feet up for a few days, Jill,’ Dr Hawkins bellowed at her, ‘let Sidney get the meals and feed the chickens. Ah, Greg!’ The two men shook hands; smiles all round. ‘How’s the hand?’

Dr Hawkins ushered Greg into his surgery and the door closed behind them. I dealt with Mrs Guthrie and made her a review appointment for next week. All the time I could hear loud male laughter from behind the closed door I was aware of someone fixing me with a basilisk stare from across the waiting room.

‘I was next,’ an old man grumbled from under his bobble hat. ‘I’ve got my leg here. I was definitely next. Who’s he to go in when I was next?’

‘I met your new bf Greg Palmer at the practice this morning,’ I said when I got back at lunchtime. I kicked off my shoes and dumped my handbag on the kitchen table. Ian was still in his dressing gown nursing a Friday night hangover, reading emails at the other end of the table. He raised an enquiring eyebrow like a young Roger Moore.

‘Bf?’

‘Best friend. He said you’d invited him and his wife to a party here on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Ah yes, I did.’

‘What bloody party? Don’t you think you should invite me first?’ I said.

‘Sorry, darling, I forgot to tell you, but strike while the iron’s hot, eh? We were at the golf club and got talking. He sounded very pleased indeed. Friendly, wanted to bring some champagne. That’s the sort of party guest I like.’

Ian held out an arm, I went to kiss him and then put the milk into the fridge.

‘Well, Jess is nice. We’ve had lunch quite a few times—’

‘You didn’t tell me!’

‘You didn’t ask. You’ve been so wrapped up in work recently. She’s fun. A bit loud, very friendly, lots of flashy jewellery, but Greg’s a bit of a sleaze ball, isn’t he?’

Ian’s head came up, indignant. ‘He’s not! Why would you say that?’

‘Too much aftershave, gold man bracelet.’

‘No, he’s not, Lottie. He could be very important to us right at this minute if only you realised it. He’s just bought one of those huge hybrids. A Mitsubishi something. I pretended I wanted to know about mpg. I went and looked it up in What Car.’ He gave me a look filled with meaning. ‘He must be loaded. He’s sold his business in Spain for a fair old sum by the sounds of it and he’s looking to invest in property development over here. We could do very well out of him. If he wanted us to shove in a couple of the new Windermere kitchens I was telling you about it would be a godsend. He’s blue-sky thinking.’

‘Huh?’

This was not the sort of thing Ian usually said.

‘He’s thinking outside the box.’

And nor was that. It seemed Greg was having quite an influence already.

Ian opened another email and began to read it.

‘What box?’ I said, wondering if he knew.

Ian didn’t answer for a moment. He stabbed at the keys of his laptop and frowned.

‘Look, I’ll explain another time. I need to fire off a few emails this morning. There’s been a bit of a hiccup.’

‘Oh, not work?’

‘Isn’t it always?’ Ian pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be in the study.’

I looked at the clock, which incorrectly said twenty-seven minutes past eight. I couldn’t reach it and I’d been waiting for Ian to get it down and change the battery for weeks.

‘Give me half an hour and I’ll sort out some lunch,’ I said.

I looked over at him. He looked rather pale and a thin film of sweat gleamed on his upper lip.

‘Are you OK, darling?’

‘Yes, yes fine.’

He didn’t look fine.

‘What’s the matter?’

He hesitated in the doorway, tapping his phone against his thigh.

‘Nothing, nothing. Bloody hell, you do go on sometimes.’

Well, that wasn’t fair.

He went off towards his study and I heard him close the door behind him.

I made some vegetable soup and heated up some pitta bread to go with the hummus in the fridge – always Ian’s favourite lunch. I heard him go off upstairs after a few minutes and then heard the rumble of the pump as he turned on the water in the wet room. I went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Usually he sang in the shower, snatches of ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ if he was feeling particularly cheerful. Today there was silence.

I went back to stirring the soup and flicked another, pointless look at the clock. Perhaps I should get the stepladder out and change the battery myself?

Ian came down after a few minutes, dressed in chinos and a dazzlingly white polo shirt. He wasn’t going into work then. His hair was wet and rumpled from the shower, showing up the thinning bald spot he was usually so careful to disguise. His face was grim. He went to stand at the sink, looking out across the frosty garden.

I bit back the obvious question; what was the matter? I knew it would provoke an outburst of some sort. It must be something to do with his company. I knew business had been bad over the last few months with the economic downturn. These days, not many people seemed to want the hand-built kitchens Ian’s firm provided.

‘Lunch is ready, darling, come and sit down. We were busy in the practice this morning. Nothing too interesting but…’

Ian turned on his heel and stamped past me. ‘Oh for God’s sake. I don’t want any fucking lunch, I’m going out.’

He grabbed his coat from the hallstand and slung it on, one arm struggling down a sleeve.

I followed him into the hallway. ‘Honestly, who rattled the bars of your cage?’

Ian patted his pockets for his car keys and didn’t answer.

‘Why not have something to eat first? It wouldn’t take a minute,’ I said.

‘I’ve got things to do.’

I put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, I can tell something’s wrong. What’s the matter, darling? Can I help?’

He shook me off. ‘No, you fucking can’t help.’

‘Ian! There must be—’

‘Just shut up, Lottie,’ he yelled.

‘Don’t be so bloody rude!’

‘Leave me alone. This isn’t anything you can help with; you’ve done enough already. Spending like it’s going out of fashion. Holidays. New car. Shoes. God knows how many handbags. Grow up! What did you think would happen?’

‘What?’ I staggered back in astonishment. This was not like Ian at all.

‘And it’s me that has to sort it all out, isn’t it? You just carry on blithely, arranging expensive parties, frittering away.’

‘Hang on a minute. You’re the one who wants this party, not me!’

He threw me a furious look and slammed the front door behind him so the air between us shuddered.

‘And I’ve only got seven handbags!’ I shouted after him. ‘And one of those is a fake!’

I went into the living room and watched him through the window as he unlocked his car, dropped his keys on the drive, picked them up and threw his briefcase into the passenger seat before driving off in a spray of gravel. He turned left out of the drive – he definitely wasn’t going to work. I stood watching the road, wondering if he would come back but he didn’t.

I went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table, leafing through a pile of catalogues. I’d seen a lovely pair of suede boots in one of them, perhaps if Ian was starting to complain about my spending I’d better not buy them. I sat leafing through some others until I realised an hour had passed and Ian still wasn’t back. I went back to look out of the window, worrying, biting my nails, wondering what had happened. What had I done to provoke this sort of reaction? Everything had been all right until…until he got that email. Some business problem. Of course. I’m a lot of things and one of them is nosey.

I went into his study, my bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the new carpet he had insisted he needed, in case he was going to take business contacts in there for a drink or something. The room was stuffy and dark, the curtains nearly closed. I drew them back and let the sunlight in. Dust motes spun in the warm air. I opened a window, letting in the cold afternoon to freshen up the atmosphere.

On his desk were piles of paperwork. Estimates, delivery notes, all fastened together with big bulldog clips. His massive iMac computer was turned off and there was a yellow Post-it note stuck on the side; Bentham Tuesday 11.30. It meant nothing to me. The printer stood silent in the corner. The bin was filled with shredded paper.

Feeling rather uncomfortable, I sidled up to the wire in-tray and casually leafed through the contents. Notes from customers, queries about delivery dates, a few photographs of a kitchen Ian’s firm had recently installed. I opened a couple of the drawers but there was nothing other than a bundle of red Lovell Kitchens pens, paperclips in a china dish, a ball of elastic bands.

I thought about looking through the filing cabinet and went to open the top drawer, but it was locked and there was no key. I wondered why and I began to feel the first shivers of unease. He was hiding something from me; I knew he was. But why? He always told me everything. Confided in me when he was worried about something, came home to share his successes with me first.

The front door banged and I gave a guilty start. Ian was back. I went out into the hallway to see him shrugging off his coat.

‘What are you doing in my study?’ he said. ‘You know I don’t like anyone interfering with my stuff. Poking about.’

I bit down my temper. ‘I’m not poking about.’ I wished I had thought to bring a duster and some polish with me as cover. ‘I do live here, you know. I was just tidying up. I opened the window, it was hot and stuffy in there.’

He went into the study and looked around as though he might have been burgled. He took the Post-it note from the computer screen, screwed it up and threw it into the wastebasket. Then he closed the window and turned to me.

‘Lunch?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

He hurried off to the kitchen and I’m afraid I stuck my tongue out at his retreating back. We sat down at the kitchen table and I passed him a pottery bowl filled with soup.

‘Nice,’ he said after a few mouthfuls. He reached for some pitta bread and dunked it into the hummus.

‘Are you OK?’ I said.

Ian looked up, surprised, ‘Of course,’ he said.

He carried on eating, his spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl, setting my teeth on edge. I winced.

‘So have you thought any more about the food for the party?’ he said.

‘No, not really, I rather thought you had gone off the whole thing.’

‘Not at all, I’m looking forward to it,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘You do have some funny ideas.’

I was confused. An hour ago he had stormed out, berating me for my profligacy, now he was behaving as though nothing had happened.

‘I saw Steve when I was out; you know, bald Steve from the granite place. I bumped into him on the industrial estate. I’ve asked him to our party. I think he might come, although he did mention something about having visitors. You knew he and his wife had split up, didn’t you? I think the young brunette he was with might have something to do with it. Very naughty-looking little thing.’ Ian chuckled.

I couldn’t let it drop. ‘So why did you go off like the hounds of hell were after you an hour ago?’

‘Oh nothing at all, just a misunderstanding,’ Ian said, scooping up the hummus with a sweep of the last pitta, ‘all sorted out now.’

I got up to put some more in the toaster. ‘You’re sure?’

Ian sighed and smiled up at me. He put an arm around my waist and pulled me in against him. ‘You’re such a worrier, Lottie. Everything is fine. So, any plans for this afternoon?’

‘No, not really; I suppose I should get the ironing done,’ I said without any enthusiasm.

‘Well I know what I’m going to do, I’m going to put a new battery in that darned clock.’ He finished his soup and dropped the spoon into the bowl with a clatter. ‘I’ve been meaning to do it. Didn’t you realise it’s been stuck at eight thirty for weeks?’

‘Yes, of course I did. I asked you to sort it out ages ago. I can’t reach it.’

‘I don’t remember that. Anyway, there’s a tall man here now, little lady, I’ll fix it.’

I stood up and began to clear the table while he whistled ‘Edelweiss’ and rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a new battery.

Everything seemed fine again. His mood swings were becoming very hard to predict. In the following weeks, of course, it would become all too obvious what the matter was.




CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_95e763bc-f619-5fb4-911e-2e79e01978aa)

Aquilegia – resolution, determination, anxiety (#ulink_95e763bc-f619-5fb4-911e-2e79e01978aa)


My brief foray into Bramford St Michael’s village shop that afternoon had sadly not uncovered a little known haven of locally produced delights, but a dingy place with half empty shelves and a freezer that needed defrosting. I liberated three packets of savoury curried rice, a sliced loaf reduced to 25p, some cheese slices, long-life milk, and an exhausted-looking Cornish pasty. Presiding over it all was an elderly woman with wild, white hair who watched me warily as though I was going to pull out a shotgun. She counted out my change with slow fingers and grave suspicion in her face.

‘I’m so pleased you’re still open,’ I said rather gushingly, wondering if I could loosen her up a bit with my devastating charm, ‘isn’t this a lovely village. So pretty.’

‘…and one makes five and five is ten,’ she said, not to be swayed from her task.

‘Well, I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure,’ I said with another bright smile.

‘Yes, mebbe we will,’ she said in a tone that suggested she’d heard that before.

The village straggled along the river valley, beginning with some modern-looking houses where a few children were leaping about on a trampoline in the garden, and then some older cob cottages, their thatch green with moss. There was a pub, The Agricultural Arms, still with a string of fairy lights outside, left over from Christmas. Beyond that was the church; everything but the tower hidden behind some dense rhododendron bushes.

I drove back up the hill to Holly Cottage feeling even more isolated. Below me the streetlights in the village began to come on and I sat in the car for a few minutes and watched lights appearing in the cottages below me. I went indoors, shivering a bit with the cold and the unfamiliar solitude.

I suddenly remembered that awful night. Ian nursing a large whiskey under the pool of light cast by the standard lamp in our sitting room. He had looked up at me with mournful eyes.

‘What?’

Oh God. That was the moment. If only he had said something else.

If he had apologised or cried or begged me to forgive him, things might have been different. If he had come up with some pathetic excuse, told me he had been a fool. If he had taken me in his arms and told me that he loved me. That he would never again hurt me.

I had waited for a moment, willing him to say something else, something kind. The seconds ticked past and he didn’t say anything. The little instant was gone. My temper flared again.

‘What. Is that all you can say? What?’

‘Well what am I supposed to say? With everyone looking at me as though…as though…’

‘As though you’re a lying, deceitful bastard? Well should that be a surprise to you? Perhaps it’s because you are a lying deceitful bastard!’

‘Oh don’t start, Lottie,’ he’d said wearily. ‘I’m not in the mood just at the moment.’

‘Well nor am I, funnily enough!’

‘Look, we’re not even married, are we? I asked you to marry me years ago and you didn’t want to.’

‘And you knew perfectly well why that was! And what the hell has that got to do with it? Just because we’re not married? What about our commitment to each other? What about bloody fucking common decency?’

I went into the dingy little kitchen of Holly Cottage and flicked on the kettle. There was no point going over it again and again. It wouldn’t change things. I had to move on now, look to the future, do the job Jess had given me; repay her friendship in the best way I could.

I hoovered up the pasty straight from the wrapper, reasoning it would decrease the washing up and also the possibility of contamination in the mould- and grime-ridden kitchen. Wandering around, licking the slick of grease from my teeth, I investigated the cupboards, relieved to see that although they were dirty they were good quality and could soon be revived by some attention from me and a soapy cloth.

In the cupboard under the stairs I found a vacuum cleaner, its collection bag strained to bursting point. There was also a fairly comprehensive collection of cleaning materials, something that the previous tenants had not thought worth taking. Or using, let’s be frank. I pulled out several bottles of cleaning spray, some crisp dusters and cloths, and a new mop and bucket and felt a rather peculiar thrill of excitement. Perhaps I was losing the plot. I arranged these treasures on the kitchen table (blue Formica, in a retro, cute way, not a this-table-is-really-old way). Tomorrow I would stop being so negative. I would get a good night’s sleep and make a start on revamping Holly Cottage.

That first night I sat in front of the fire in my warmest coat, gloves and Ugg boots, watching the flames lick around the logs. There was no TV and mine hadn’t arrived yet, but that wasn’t much of a loss as far as I was concerned. Ian had indulged in the most expensive satellite-viewing package and for years nearly ninety pounds had gone out of our account every month and still most nights his parrot-cry had been ‘there’s nothing on worth watching!’ This was a statement with which I couldn’t argue.

There was only so much sport, Top Gear and Man v Food I could bear to watch. When Ian discovered re-runs of The Professionals, I abandoned hope and went back to my fledgling writing career. My concentration span didn’t seem up to a full-length novel any more so I’d turned to writing short stories. I’d been reasonably successful too, won a couple of competitions, and although my total earnings were barely into three figures, it was something I enjoyed.

We had also spent hundreds of pounds every month on the gym I occasionally used although I was more likely to be found in the bistro with a white wine spritzer than on the treadmill with a bottle of water. Then there was Ian’s membership of the Golf and Country Club where he had a pewter tankard behind the bar and the steward would greet him with, ‘Usual, is it, Mr Lovell?’ every time we went there. Ian loved that.

It had been a mild winter so far but after a few hours with all the windows open the house was freezing, hence the coat and gloves. The room still held its faintly fishy smell courtesy of Mr Webster’s leaving present, but at least with the fire going it was bearable. I sighed, and then, rather approving of the sound, sighed a few more times.

I suppose I might have stayed there all evening sighing and feeling sorry for myself except I was still hungry. I got up and shuffled to the kitchen, my Ugg boots finding the going decidedly sticky underfoot.

I heated up some soup and ate a packet of crisps (leek and potato and cheese and onion respectively, so three of my five a day) and then I went upstairs, fumbling with the light switches, trying to work out which one worked which bulb, wishing I had thought earlier to make up the bed. There were two bedrooms, one with a big window at the front and the other with windows at the front and back of the house. I chose the bigger bedroom for no other reason than I preferred the wallpaper. It was pale blue and cream, tiny flowers with flecks of gold at the centre. I had brought some sheets and a duvet with me. Some of my possessions were stashed in my car, the rest were going to arrive when Greg had a spare hour to drive them over in his van. I hadn’t really wanted to bring too much of my stuff into the house until I had cleaned it. That had been one of my better decisions.

I made up the bed, stripped off my clothes and got in. It was freezing. Where were my pyjamas? In the boot of the car? Oh no, I remembered they were in the roof box. That was one of my bad decisions. I got back out, put my socks, knickers and a T-shirt on and tried to think about being warm.

I suddenly remembered with pinpoint clarity lying on a beach in Greece three summers ago, my hot skin almost at one with the hot sand under my towel. We had decided on a last-minute week away. Ian had been sitting in the shade at a table under a vine-laden pergola. Tapping furiously at his laptop, muttering about work and cursing the economy. Perhaps he had been doing it even then, feeding our money into the ether in a never-ending stream.

I opened my eyes and the memory faded. I was just aware how absolute the silence was; how dense the darkness. Ian would have hated it.

‘Can you see me?’ I shouted up into the dark ceiling. ‘You wouldn’t have liked this, would you? The dark and the cold and the bloody quiet, what do you think, Ian? Is it funny? Does this serve me right for refusing four times to marry you? Would it have made any difference if I’d said yes, Ian? Well I suppose I wouldn’t be homeless, would I? By the way, your poor mother is devastated. Didn’t think about her either, did you?’

The irony of my situation took a few seconds to sink into my tired brain.

‘You stupid bloody bastard.’

I wasn’t sure if I meant Ian or myself.

The following morning, contrary to the popular saying, things didn’t look better they just looked grimier. The winter sun shone feebly through the filthy windows, highlighting the dirt. I constructed a hideous sandwich with some of the 25p loaf and the cheese slices and made a mug of tea. I opened the kitchen door and peered outside, hoping my new neighbour was not around to torment me. There was no sign of him.

Outside, the day was brightening up. A bright sapphire sky over a soft folding landscape of hills and hedges. The only sounds were birdsong and the breeze rattling through the bare branches of a silver birch tree at the end of the garden. I stood in the doorway and sipped my tea wondering why Ian and I had never thought to move to the countryside. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. But then Ian had been determinedly town bred and I was a sheep, following him and his plans without thought.

I ate my sandwich, marvelling for a moment at its complete lack of flavour or texture. It was quite a relief to finish it, but I treated it much as an astronaut might approach a freeze-dried meal, as a way of consuming calories to sustain me through the morning. And then I went down the garden and had a cigarette, wondering whether I should give them up now that I needed to be a lot more careful with money.

I rolled up my sleeves, scrubbed the scum off the draining board and ran a sinkful of hot water laced with a generous slosh of disinfectant. I then spent an industrious hour emptying and washing the kitchen cupboards before organising my equipment and crockery into them. There didn’t seem to be much room. The trouble was I was used to a vast space in which to cook, with a six-burner stove, a double oven and a large American fridge-freezer. Here there was a fairly straightforward collection of units and appliances around a small table and four chairs. This would also serve as my dining room. I was going to be seriously short of space and there was still Greg’s van full of my other stuff to fit in at some point.

I thought back with tears prickling my eyes to the huge extending oak table and ten leather chairs that had filled the dining room at home and then reminded myself that wasn’t my home any longer and it never had been. I had given the table to the women’s refuge; they needed it and I certainly didn’t. I was being pretty pathetic. This would do just as well if it were clean. I carried on scrubbing. To my surprise I discovered it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself when you are concentrating on unidentifiable grime. There was a strange pleasure to be had from finding what colour the worktops really were.

After a while the kitchen began to look a great deal better and I rewarded myself with a cup of instant coffee.

I had scrubbed the four kitchen chairs and put them outside the back door to dry so I took my coffee upstairs while I had a good look around. Jess had said it needed cleaning and it certainly did, but it needed more than that. It needed some TLC. And also, courtesy of someone’s careless cigarette habit and chewing gum disposal, new carpets. The bedroom I regarded as mine for the time being was potentially lovely with a whitewashed ceiling, old roof beams diving down into the floor in a way that suggested the cottage was far older than I had originally thought. There were painted built-in cupboards and two leaded windows that framed a fabulous view down the valley. I opened the window, making several woodlice homeless in the process. In the distance I could see the river sparkling in the sunshine, and the wind was cold but somehow exciting, as though it was bringing me a fresh start and new energy. Under the trees snowdrops were beginning their optimistic journey, bringing hope for the spring and the first potential of another new year.

Completely unexpectedly I began to cry. Why was I here? Why had Ian rushed off that night? I was frightened without him, that was the truth. I was used to him being there, used to his energy, his drive, the sheer noise of him. His crazy enthusiasm, his irritated muttering about customers as he worked his way through his correspondence.

When he was at home he usually had some paperwork to check or emails to read at his end of the kitchen table. Sometimes he would read me snippets from women who couldn’t decide what they wanted.

Should I have worktops made of black granite or white Corian? Shaker-style doors or high gloss? Cream or Faded Cashmere?

Tell me what you think, Mr Lovell? Which do you think would suit me best?

‘It’s your money,’ he would shout at the screen, exasperated, ‘it’s your fucking kitchen, it’s not that difficult, just make your bloody mind up!’

And then he would look up and catch my eye and grin.

I wiped away my tears and sipped my coffee. The other bedroom was wallpapered in a leafy William Morris print and looked out over the lane. The vandalised wardrobe was probably Victorian mahogany and too large for the room, but, inside, it was fitted out with named compartments, each with a little engraved brass plate. Gloves, socks, ties, collars, braces. Just gorgeous. The wood was glossy and patinated with age. Why would someone stick pictures all over it with lumps of Blu-Tack? Who knew.

In the bathroom I had cleared away the worst of the debris, sprayed limescale cleaner over the scummy shower screen and the toilet and left it to work. The floor was dirty and covered in dried mud but the little leaded window opened onto the garden and there was the promise of a rose that had climbed around it, ready to blossom later in the year.

I went back down the claustrophobic stairwell, my feet careful on the narrow treads. Ian would have hated this more than anything. He couldn’t bear enclosed spaces, low ceilings, dark rooms.

I wondered if I had the energy to finish emptying my car. I was hungry again and I knew there was a box of food in there somewhere, it was just a pity I hadn’t thought to put it somewhere accessible.

Sod it! I suddenly remembered a box of fish fingers going in, which would undoubtedly have defrosted by now. I pulled off my rubber gloves and found the car keys.

Outside it was warmer than it had been for days. The sun was brilliant, the sky cloudless. Of course that meant that the inside of the car was getting warm too. I pulled a couple of bags and boxes out from the back seat of the car and dumped them on the drive, hoping to find the box of provisions. I didn’t realise until that moment how disorganised I could be. It also struck me for the first time that a box of spoiled food was a complete waste of money.

‘Need a hand?’ said a familiar voice.

I turned to see Bryn, standing in his front garden. I think he might have been weeding. Possibly he was planting something or he could have been putting down rat poison. I think he was wearing a pair of ripped and filthy jeans but I know for a fact he didn’t have a shirt on. And I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I stood open mouthed for several seconds, a slow blush developing. I could feel it spreading from the backs of my knees right to the top of my head it was that bad. I must have been puce. It was quite possible that my hair was blushing too.

I babbled something unintelligible and Bryn walked towards me, stepping carefully over his newly planted borders. I’d heard about six-packs but I’d never been that close to one in my life. He pulled on a black T-shirt that he had draped over the front gate. I felt a pang of disappointment but realised it was probably just as well. He was wearing serious-looking CAT boots, something I have always had a weakness for, so that didn’t help. They were quite large too, which made me think of various rather rude comments.

‘I said, do you need a hand?’ he said.

‘Um,’ I turned away and looked in the car, ‘yes please, if you don’t mind. There’s a lot of heavy stuff here.’

I grabbed the first thing I saw; a small overnight bag that a six-year-old child could have safely wheeled to the door and he took it and stood waiting for me to find him something else.

I kept my gaze steadfastly fixed in the boot. Don’t look at him. Keep calm. Don’t look at him.

I spotted the cardboard box that I had filled with food from the freezer and then forgotten about.

‘I could take that in, if you like?’ Bryn said, his voice unnervingly close behind me.

The embarrassment of having to admit my ineptitude was too much.

‘No, no, that’s OK. I’ll manage,’ I said, wishing he would go away.

I tugged at a few over-stuffed black bin liners and managed to spill a pair of my (joke Christmas present from Karen) days-of-the-week knickers onto the driveway. The pair with Magic Monday stared up at us. And of course it was actually Monday.

‘I hope you haven’t got Thursday on,’ Bryn said, straight-faced, ‘that would never do.’

I gave a weak laugh and stuffed them into my pocket, then reapplied myself to the cardboard box of frozen food. As I dragged it from the car the bottom, soggy with thawed ice, dropped out and my stash of fish fingers and potato waffles (secret vice for when Ian was away) scattered all over the ground.

‘Mmm, delicious,’ he said.

‘Oh God,’ I groaned.

To his credit Bryn didn’t laugh, he reached across and lifted out a plastic crate of tinned food instead and took that into the house. I followed with some carrier bags filled with my last crop of vegetables from my garden.

‘Wow, it looks incredible in here,’ Bryn said as he put the crate down on the table. ‘You’ve done a great job. You’ll have the place ship-shape in no time. Very nice.’

‘Gorgeous,’ I said, looking at the muscles in his arms. ‘I mean, this cottage could be gorgeous. Actually it’s been rather enjoyable. Cleaning the kitchen. I didn’t think I’d ever say that but – well, I’m rather pleased with it so far.’

‘You’re working wonders,’ he said and I felt a disproportionate sense of pride. I had worked wonders, and I’d done it on my own too, at no cost.

I felt a bit silly and fluttery and quite lightheaded, but that might have been because I hadn’t really eaten anything since the grim breakfast sandwich.

He turned round and I quickly began to put things away.

‘Thanks,’ I said, lining up the tins of tomatoes with some precision so I didn’t just stand and gawp at him.

‘Any time.’

‘I would offer you a cold beer or something but…’

‘But you don’t want to? It’s fine,’ he grinned.

‘No, it’s not that at all, I haven’t got any,’ I said, flustered.

‘I have, if you fancy a quick one?’ he said.

I could almost hear the brain cells responsible for double entendres jiggling about like a crèche of unruly toddlers.

‘I’ve got an awful lot to do,’ I said.

‘Maybe later?’

I began to line up herbs and spice jars and made a lot of umm noises. Then I unpacked various different sorts of oils. Olive, vegetable, sesame, walnut…there were quite a few. Plus five different types of vinegar. What did I need that lot for? Did I think I was going to be on Masterchef?

‘Keen cook, are you?’ Bryn said, picking up the champagne vinegar and reading the label.

I took it from him and put it into the cupboard. ‘Oh, you know…’

‘You could have me for dinner one day.’

The brain cell toddlers jostled about a bit more.

‘I mean, you could invite me over.’

Ah. ‘Perhaps when I’m settled.’

‘I love fish fingers,’ he said. He had a wicked grin and very white teeth against his tan.

I opened the fridge door and put a few things inside. The freezer was empty apart from some novelty ice cubes. I hesitated, my head on one side trying to make out exactly what they were. When I realised they were ice boobs I shut the freezer door very quickly, I didn’t want him to see them and think they were anything to do with me.

Quick think of something else. Something dull.

Mobile phone contracts. Changing electricity suppliers. Mulching.

‘You can’t refreeze fish fingers,’ Bryn said, ‘you’ll be ill.’

I turned round. ‘I wasn’t going to.’ My tone was that of a stroppy fifteen year old.

Bryn went out and brought in a couple more boxes that he dumped under the table. From memory they were filled with casserole dishes and some Waterford crystal wine glasses. From the tinkling sound as Bryn put the box down there was now one fewer.

‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ he said, ‘sorry about that.’

He opened the top of the box and delved about for a second. Suddenly he snatched his hand out with a gasp and stood hanging on to his arm as blood seeped out between his fingers.

‘Sod it, that was a bit of a mistake,’ he yelped.

He sat down rather heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and closed his eyes. I watched fascinated as the colour drained from his face.

‘Not very good with blood,’ he said after a moment, ‘especially my own.’

I galloped up the stairs to find the first aid kit that I had, mercifully, unpacked earlier in the day and put into the bathroom cabinet.

When I got back he was bent over, head almost touching his knees, still clutching his arm and obviously feeling a bit wobbly.

‘So stupid,’ he said, ‘sorry.’

I hesitated for a moment, looking at the curls that nestled into the nape of his neck and fighting the overwhelming impulse to wind them around my fingers. To cover up my hesitation I went into brisk and efficient mode and dabbed at him with wet kitchen roll and antiseptic wipes. Once I got rid of the gore we both realised it was just a long scratch from a piece of broken glass, easily solved with a large plaster. Gradually the colour returned to his face and he gave an embarrassed grin.

‘Sorry about that. You must think I’m a right idiot.’

‘No, not at all, I’m sorry you hurt yourself. It was my fault, not packing things properly.’

He pressed the plaster down hard onto his arm and looked up at me.

‘Like I said, I’ve got some beer in the fridge next door and some cold roast beef. Do you fancy a roll?’ he said.

Why did everything seem to be laced with innuendo this morning? It was like living in a Carry On film.

‘No, thank you. Now if you are feeling better I must get on,’ I said, trying to sound brisk and busy. I found the cloth and re-wiped the draining board. Then, as he was still looking at the contents of my cupboards, I began polishing the kettle. Something I am not known for.

He must have realised that I wanted him to go.

‘Well if you change your mind, you know where I am. I’ll go this way, if that’s OK?’

Bryn went out of the kitchen door and loped across the garden in his CAT boots. I ran the cold tap and splashed some water on my face. What the hell was the matter with me? I had no business feeling like this. I was behaving like a silly teenager. Just because a man was good-looking and had muscles and an amazing smile and lived next door. Of course it meant nothing. Well it should.




CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_98b8e24b-3314-5bbf-b6e5-053ff58dbc8e)

Rhododendron – deceit, danger (#ulink_98b8e24b-3314-5bbf-b6e5-053ff58dbc8e)


Over the next few weeks I scoured Holly Cottage from top to bottom. There wasn’t an inch of grubby paintwork that I didn’t clean, not a single scuffmark that I didn’t try to remove. The bathroom in particular took several cans of elbow grease. It looked as though one of the previous tenants had enjoyed more than a few adventures with unusual hair-dye shades. Behind the roll top bath were splashes of blue, green and magenta. Impossible to remove but if I was going to redecorate I needed to make some sort of effort. And it kept me busy, that was the most important thing.

I didn’t want to think too hard or too deeply about anything. I didn’t want to compare my new home with my old one. I didn’t want to think about what I was used to and what I now had. Above all, I didn’t want to think about the future.

One morning I realised it was nearly three weeks since I had seen Bryn. I wondered where he had gone. Even when I went out into the garden and made a half-hearted attempt at cutting the grass he didn’t appear. The mower I found in the shed wasn’t up to the task any more than I was. I found that very disappointing, as our gardener had been a wizened old man who produced sleek lines in the turf with apparently no effort at all. I’m no expert in these matters but I think the blades on the mower were bent or something. Perhaps it was the wrong sort of grass? At its best the machine spat clumps of moss over my feet and occasionally lumps of earth. I found an old strimmer in the garage and fiddled about with it, trying to untangle the ‘tangle-free’ line feed. It wasn’t much use at strimming but it was great for flicking gravel painfully against my ankles, so I gave up. Looking at my progress I could safely assume the ground staff at Wimbledon weren’t going to come calling any time soon. But somehow the beauty of the countryside was getting a hold on me. I had been feeling I was never going to get myself back on an even keel but the garden kept sending out buds and shoots of greenery like a powdering of hope over the bare branches.

I was used to designing the inside of a house. I had made colours and fabrics work even when Ian had pulled that face and voiced his doubts. Now I began to wonder if gardens could work the same way. Perhaps if that hedge was removed, if those trees were cut back?

Crocuses were beginning to sparkle in the grass at the end of the garden; white and golden yellow and purple – heralds of a new spring that only a few weeks ago I didn’t think I had the courage to bear.

I kept darting looks at Ivy Cottage, half hoping Bryn would come out, see how incompetent I was and take over, but the kitchen curtains remained shut; the top half of the stable door closed. Perhaps he was away? Maybe he was ill?

I carried on messing about at the end of the garden for the rest of the afternoon. There was a fair amount of debris to remove from the neglected borders. Apart from the bath there was a collection of foil takeaway trays, a rusted child’s bike, the remains of several very large nylon dog bones (that explained the damp dog smell) and a broken basketball hoop buried in the nettles at the end of the patch. There was also a rotting wooden construction, not so much a compost bin as an additional rubbish dump. I toiled away for a couple of days while the weather was good, and then realised I had only succeeded in moving the debris from the garden where it had been well hidden, to my driveway where it wasn’t. Perhaps I needed a skip? I couldn’t afford a skip.

I didn’t know what to do with all the stuff I had accumulated. Should I put it into the car and take it somewhere? If so, when and where? Bryn would know. And with all those muscles and also the use of his useful pickup truck, he would make short work of it. Perhaps I could take him up on that offer of a beer too. I hadn’t really spoken to anyone for nearly a week, apart from the boy in the mobile phone shop who had sorted out a new contract for me, and a friendly cashier called Maureen in Superfine who always seemed to be there in the afternoons. I’d tried going to the village shop in a sort of ingratiating desire to support local industry but they seemed to open and close when they felt like it.

I decided to give up for the day; I needed bread as I seemed to be living on sandwiches and my endless tea and coffee consumption meant I was always in danger of running out of milk.

As I drove into Superfine’s car park I wondered why I wasn’t cooking any more. I loved cooking; I even enjoyed watching other people cooking on television programmes yet now I was living on tins of soup and cheese toasties. Perhaps I should make more of an effort? Maybe then I would ask Bryn over for a meal by way of a thank you. He would like that. I didn’t suppose he had much company either. He seemed to live on his own. I wondered if his arm had healed up OK? Probably; after all it was three weeks ago and I hadn’t seen any ambulances pulling up outside.

‘Back again, my duck?’ Maureen said as she scanned my shopping, weighing my fruit and vegetables and frowning at the scale.

By then I knew all about Kyle, her son in the Navy, and Himself’s (her husband’s) bad back, and more than I wanted to know about her ‘various veins’.

‘I’m always running out of milk,’ I said.

Her face brightened. ‘Got a cat, have you?’

‘Well no—’

‘My cat gets through pints of the stuff, although Himself says it’s not good for ’em. I says to him, well if you’m so clever you tell Fluffy, ’cos I’m not.’

She scanned a packet of chocolate cookies and looked at them admiringly.

‘They looks nice. I couldn’t have them though. I’m supposed to be losing weight and if I had them in the cupboard I wouldn’t get no peace until I’d eaten ’em all. That’s fourteen pounds twenty. Having a busy day, are you?’

I handed over a twenty-pound note. ‘Well I’ve not lived here long. I’m doing some decorating. For a friend.’

Maureen rolled her eyes. ‘You can come and do mine when you’re finished! I’ve been waiting for Himself to paint the front room for years but it’s still not done. The paint will be solid in the tin by the time he gets the lid off. And there’s your change, me duck.’

I hesitated. There was no one behind me waiting to be served.

‘Are there any jobs going here, do you know? It’s just…well you know.’

Maureen sucked her cheeks in. ‘No, I don’t think so. You’d have to ask at the so-called Help Desk. Not that they will be much help if they can avoid it. Too busy gossiping and complaining and messing about with rotas. But you could ask.’

‘Thanks.’

I wandered past the Help Desk where two women in purple suits were busy tapping in barcodes and sighing as they tried to organise a refund for a harassed-looking woman with two toddlers who were rolling on the floor kicking each other. Perhaps another day.

Three days later I noticed the stable door into the kitchen was open again and my heart gave a little leap. Bryn was back from wherever he had disappeared to.

I went upstairs to change into a clean T-shirt, slick on some red lip-gloss and run a comb through my hair. After fiddling about for a few moments I tied my hair back and wiped off the lip-gloss. Then I changed into another shirt and faffed about wondering how many buttons to do up or undo. Then I added some blusher and a smudge of grey eye shadow. And a pink lip-gloss.

I took a look at myself in the bathroom mirror and rolled my eyes. For heaven’s sake, my brown hair needed cutting, my blue eyes under the badly smeared eye shadow looked tired. More than that, I looked like a right clown. What on earth was I playing at? I just needed the man next door to come and help me move a bath, it didn’t matter what colour my mouth was.

On my way to Bryn’s front door I noticed a car parked around the side of his house. A red, soft top sports something and I wondered how he would fit his long legs into that. I went and knocked on the door.

After a moment I heard someone moving about inside. I hesitated, my hand raised, wondering if I should knock again and then the door opened. Not Bryn at all but a glorious redhead in tight jeans and a baggy boyfriend jumper that was in danger of slipping off her tanned shoulder.

‘Hi,’ she said.

She looked down at me from atop her long legs and gave a dazzling smile that spoke of several thousand pounds and many hours at the orthodontist.

‘I’m Bonnie, you must be the caterer.’

Bonnie? She certainly was. But caterer? As if. And who was she? Sister? Girlfriend? Wife?

‘Bonnie?’ I said.

She laughed and tossed her because-I’m-worth-it hair about.

‘Short for Bonita. Which is a ghastly name isn’t it? Do come in,’ she said.

Mesmerised, I followed her pert bottom down the hallway and into the kitchen. I had assumed this house was a mirror image of mine but it was bigger. There was a conservatory tacked onto the side and some sort of extension or office in the garden beyond, half hidden by some bushes. I suppose I should have told Bonnie I wasn’t the caterer but at this stage I was far too busy being nosey.

I caught a glimpse of a sitting room painted in dark red with floor to ceiling bookcases, a beautiful grandfather clock in the hall and then she took me into the kitchen. It was rather old fashioned with a huge built-in dresser and under the window a Belfast sink with a red gingham curtain underneath it.

‘So it’s going to be a surprise party,’ Bonnie said, leaning back against a newish and familiar-looking granite worktop (probably Sahara Sparkle), ‘for about twenty. OK?’

‘Well I’m not actually…’

She flicked her hair back. ‘Maybe twenty-five.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Do you like vegetarians?’

‘I couldn’t eat a whole one,’ I said.

Bonnie frowned rather attractively. ‘Sorry?’

‘Look I think there has been some misunderstanding.’

She blinked a couple of times and looked at me, waiting for me to explain.

‘I was hoping to see Bryn. Is he around?’

‘Well no, not until tonight, who are you then?’ Her tone was suddenly rather frosty.

‘I’m Charlotte – Lottie from next door.’ I pointed in the direction of my cottage.

And who are you? And why are you throwing a surprise party?

She suddenly looked very annoyed. It was as though someone had flicked a switch. ‘You’re not the caterer? Not from Delicioso?’

‘No.’

Bonnie gave an extravagant sigh and rolled her large, hazel eyes.

‘Next door? Oh I see. Jeez. Why didn’t you say? I didn’t realise…I knew…oh never mind. She was supposed to be here half an hour ago.’

Bonnie did what anyone would have done when they found themselves in this situation and checked her phone.

‘Hmm I’ve missed a call. Bloody crap reception here.’

She listened to a message and sighed.

‘Not coming?’

‘No.’ Her pretty mouth tightened in annoyance. ‘Are you sure you’re not a caterer?’

‘Positive.’

She gnawed at a manicured thumbnail. ‘It’s Bryn’s birthday soon; I thought I’d throw him a surprise party.’

‘Does he like surprise parties?’

I’d bet a month’s non-existent salary he didn’t.

‘No, he hates them, but I think they’re fun.’ Bonnie waved her phone again. ‘They can’t get here until after the weekend, and that’s no good.’

I thought hard about what I could say to get her to tell me what her relationship was to Bryn but I couldn’t think of anything that didn’t make me sound like a stalker.

‘You don’t know anyone I could ring do you?’

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, I’ve haven’t lived here long.’

Bonnie pouted. ‘Delicioso were my last hope. It’s frigging impossible round here; it’s like the bloody dark ages. I keep telling him to move.’

‘Have you tried the Internet?’

Bonnie shot me a withering look. ‘Or extra-super-slow-narrow-band as we prefer to call it? You must be joking.’

‘Well you could try ringing around.’ I made a move to the door. ‘I just called to see if Bryn’s arm was OK. He had a nasty cut…’ I hesitated as I saw her eyes glaze over.

‘I’ve no idea, he has a silly thing with blood, I never take much notice. It just encourages him.’

‘Ah, well it was some time ago. OK. I just…well perhaps I’ll catch up with Bryn later.’

‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you. He doesn’t like visitors. As a rule. He’s a very private person. We both are.’

I had the feeling she was delivering some subliminal message but I didn’t quite get it.

Bonnie picked up a battered copy of the Yellow Pages with the tips of her fingers and looked at the cover as though it was written in Swahili.

‘Not after all the trouble with Mrs Webster next door,’ she continued, her voice casually silky. She fired me a sharp look filled with meaning and I shrugged.

‘Mrs Webster had a…thing for Bryn, I’m afraid. She seemed to think there was something between them. Obviously not, but a lot of women…well let’s just say she was punching way above her not inconsiderable weight.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you understand.’

Open brackets he’s mine so keep your paws off close brackets.

There didn’t seem much to say after that so I made my way back to Holly Cottage, noticing again with a twinge of envy how beautifully kept Ivy Cottage’s gardens were in comparison to my own.

There were drifts of new colour along the borders as the first of the spring flowers began to bloom; I could glimpse regimented rows of bamboo canes and a trellis laden with burgeoning something. I wished for a moment that I could sneak in and take a proper look. Perhaps if Bonnie hadn’t been there I might have risked it.

I went to the end of the garden and leaned over the fence and was startled when my mobile rang. It was Jess. I had received some texts and a couple of emails but this was the first phone call I’d had for a while.

‘At last! How’s it going, Lottie? Are you OK?’ She sounded just as scatty as ever. I could almost imagine her twirling her hair around her fingers and looking in the mirror for non-existent wrinkles as she spoke to me.

‘I’ve been trying to ring you for days. The signal down there is pants.’

‘Yes, fine, I’ve just been cleaning. I was wondering what to do with the junk in the garden?’

‘Greg will take it away. He’s on his way over in the van. That’s why I’m ringing. He’ll drop off your stuff and load up.’

Her voice sounded odd, as though she was putting on mascara as she was talking.

‘I don’t even know where the tip is. And there’s a stinking wet carpet…’

‘Oh, Lottie! Stop panicking. Greg will sort it out. He’s got that paint for you too. The chalky stuff you wanted. Mouse’s Bum and Coco something. Greg says they are grey and beige and I’m round the bend; thirty pounds for a tin when he can get big tubs of trade white for a fiver. His idea of cutting-edge design is woodchip and magnolia. I told him to beak out of it. I know you’re going to make the place look fab. I hope you’re still up for it?’

‘Yes, of course I am. Bring it on. I’m having a great time. ’

‘Greg might measure up for the new carpets when he gets there. He knows a bloke who will do him a deal. For God’s sake don’t let him buy brown, he doesn’t think there’s any other colour. What did you have in your old hallway? With the stripy wallpaper? Do you remember?’

‘Can’t remember, it was called Pumice, I think.’

I thought back. But all I could remember was that New Year’s Eve party.

Greg and Jess Palmer had been the last to arrive that night, bringing with them their own style and dress code. Their arrival almost caused Ian to trample on his other guests, he was so eager to get to them. Greg stood out in a smooth and expensive-looking dark suit and Jess looked like a high-end stripper in red sequins and studded stilettos. Ian wasn’t actually drooling but it was a pretty close thing.

‘I love this house,’ she purred as she slipped off her (at least I think it was fake) fur, revealing gleaming bronzed shoulders and most of her bosom. ‘Greg and I viewed a place just up the road when we was looking to move here. We always hoped this one would come on the market, if I’m honest. How long did you say you’d lived here?’

‘Nearly eight years, although Ian has been here about ten,’ I said.

We were becoming good friends by this point and now Ian had managed to get his hooks into Greg I had the feeling we might progress from just seeing the Palmers occasionally in the paper shop, the gym and the golf club to seeing a lot of them over the next few months as Ian and Greg blue-sky-thought together as to how best to invest Greg’s money.

‘I love this,’ she said, running a tiny hand over my striped grey wallpaper, ‘and the lighting too. And I really love the colour of that carpet. It’s really classy, ain’t it, Gregsy?’

‘I have a thing about lighting,’ I said. ‘I hate seeing the light bulbs.’

‘You got a great eye for design. You could give me some tips once the en suites are finished. Greg wants to put seagull wallpaper in one and ducks in the other. No, don’t laugh, he’s perfectly serious. Even I can see that’s naff. I only ever do white and cream with lots of gold accents. It doesn’t look the same over here though. Not like it did in Spain. More duller. Must be the lack of sunshine,’ Jess said.

‘Well, the Met Office says we are in for a BBQ summer,’ I said.

‘Really?’ Jess looked hopeful. Her blue eyes gazed at me, lash extensions fluttering.

‘They’re usually wrong so don’t get your hopes up just yet.’ I held out a platter of vol-au-vents and Jess reeled away as though I was offering her strychnine.

‘Oh dear, no thanks, I mustn’t. I get a bit funny about carbs after seven o’clock,’ she said, patting her non-existent tummy. She fished about on the plate for a celery baton and nibbled it, shoulders hunched. Her expression of robust enjoyment was one I usually reserved for cake but I suppose we can’t all be the same.

‘So when are you planning to rent out Holly Cottage again?’ I said.

Jess spoke through stretched lips this time, as though she was putting on lipstick. ‘Oh I don’t know. I’m still not sure what I want to do. I did think of selling it. Anyway. See how we go. A couple of months, maybe?’

‘You mustn’t let me get in the way of that,’ I said.

‘Lottie, I’m just grateful you’ve taken this off my hands. It’s no good asking Greg’s men to do it, they would just slap up some lining paper, paint it with whatever was left over from another job, shove in some off cuts of carpet and it would look rubbish in no time and I’d be back to square one. Look, I’d better go. I’ve got heaps to do here. Greg should be arriving with you soon anyway and – um – Bryn’s not about, is he?’

‘No, I haven’t seen him for a while. I don’t know where he is. There’s someone called Bonnie here though.’

‘Bonnie? Why the…Oh, of course, I remember – Bryn’s gone to Chelsea. Just as well.’

I frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Oh nothing. Look, I’ll shoot off now, there’s someone at the door. And whatever you do, don’t give Greg any cake!’

Jess ended the call, leaving me more than a bit confused. Bryn and Greg were brothers, weren’t they? So why should it be good that Bryn wasn’t there? And he’d gone to Chelsea? What was he doing in Chelsea? He didn’t look like a footballer. Did he?

Twenty minutes later I heard the unfamiliar sound of a vehicle driving up the lane and stopping. I peered through the sitting-room window, holding my breath. The view down towards the village was glorious; especially now the local farmer had cut back the hedges. I could see all the way to the church and the sunlight was glinting off the gold-painted weather vane on the top. But even after all this time I still felt the same plunge of dread when the phone rang or people came to the house unexpectedly. Today there was nothing to worry about; it was just Greg in his white van. I sighed with relief and went to open the front door.

‘Princess!’ he called. ‘How’s it goin’?’ He was quite casually dressed in head to toe Ralph Lauren. Well, casual for him anyway.

‘Great.’ I went out onto the drive and watched as he unlocked the back of the vehicle. Inside I could see a load of decorating stuff. Paintbrushes, huge tubs of paint, and folded-up dustsheets. Beyond that there were some familiar-looking boxes and bags containing the rest of my clothes and other things I had managed to salvage before the house was sold.

I felt an unexpected pang of irritation. Whatever was in those bags I had managed without perfectly well. Perhaps I was having a change of heart? Maybe it was the shock? I was beginning to enjoy having less clutter. That would make a change after decades of hoarding and wanting stuff. Perhaps now I would learn to embrace clear worktops, sweeping expanses of bare white walls with just one artistic twig in a glass frame. In years to come I would ask people to take off their shoes before they walked on my white carpets and I would talk knowledgeably about the liberation of minimalism.

On the other hand I could see my television and numerous wooden cases saved from Ian’s extensive wine collection and my spirits rose several notches. Now that was the best thing I had seen for ages. Well, apart from Bryn with his shirt off but I suppose that shouldn’t really count.

Greg came to envelop me in a friendly hug. He smelled of expensive aftershave and cigarettes and I tried to think how long it had been since a man had actually touched me with affection. It must have been months. I also tried to remember when I had smoked my last cigarette. At nearly ten quid a packet I definitely couldn’t afford them. Perhaps giving up would be the one good thing to come out of this mess.

‘All OK?’ he said.

‘Yes, fine, really.’

Greg jerked his chin at Ivy Cottage. ‘He’s not in then?’

‘Bryn? No, he’s been away for a few—’

‘Good, good. Well I’ll get this lot unloaded and then we’ll have a cuppa, eh? Stick the kettle on, there’s a good girl.’

‘Can’t I help you?’ I hovered around him, hands flapping. For one thing I feared for his crisp blue and white striped shirt.

‘Nah, piece of cake, won’t take me a sec. Jess says you’ve got some junk for me to take.’

‘Stuff I’ve pulled out from the garden; an old bike, some rotten wood and of course there’s a wet carpet. It stinks.’

‘Nice one.’ Greg turned back to the van and clambered inside.

‘Why don’t you want to see Bryn?’ I blurted out.

I don’t think Greg heard me because he didn’t answer. He jumped down and walked towards me holding a bundle of canvas dustsheets.

‘I’ll put all this in the garage, shall I? Talking about pieces of cake, I don’t suppose you’ve got any? Cake? Or I wouldn’t mind a biscuit if there was one going. Her Majesty’s got me on low carbs. I told you she would. I’d kill for a chocolate digestive.’

‘Jess said I wasn’t to give you any cake.’

‘Miserable cow. But she didn’t actually say biscuits?’

‘No, but—’

‘Well, there you are then. Just leave them out and I’ll nick a couple when you’re not looking.’

I laughed and went to put the kettle on.

I didn’t have room for everything in the house so Greg put all my stuff away in the garage, even the expensive clothes zipped into their dry-cleaning bags. I couldn’t face looking at them. A silk, beaded evening dress, an Armani suit, a Vivienne Westwood jacket, linen trousers and cashmere cardigans. None of it seemed to have a place in my newly small and unimportant life. I couldn’t imagine myself wearing white trousers or silk negligées ever again. Greg gave me a few funny looks and then hung the clothes from a metal tool rack.

‘Up to you, you could always flog ’em on eBay,’ he said.

‘Perhaps I will,’ I said.

Or I could take them to a charity shop.

I imagined myself sneaking into Stokeley or Okehampton very early one morning, dropping the bags off in a doorway under a sign saying ‘No donations to be left here’. Would the helpers be pleased to get such garments or exasperated? I had no idea. What if someone saw me and made me take them back? I shuddered at the thought.

I pulled out a tray, made a pot of tea and found two packets of biscuits. Bourbons and Custard Creams. Greg fell on them with an expression I could only describe as ecstasy.

He crammed in a Bourbon biscuit and munched. ‘So, how are you managing for money? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Ian and I were planning to go to France this summer, I had money for that in my account and I have some savings; I’ve been living on them up to now. But…’ I tailed off. Perhaps it wasn’t the most tactful thing to do, to complain about having no money when they were letting me stay here for nothing.

Greg looked thoughtful. ‘Oh well. Perhaps you could…no forget it.’

‘What?’

‘Nah.’

‘Go on.’

‘Get a job?’

‘I’ve already been into the local supermarket to ask about a job. There’s a doctor’s surgery in the next village too. I’ve left a message with them.’

‘That’s the way. Nil cardamom and all that.’

Perhaps I needed to try a bit harder.

Greg finished his tea and helped me take down the curtain hanging across the front door. Then he applied himself to moving the paint and the rollers in from the van.

I took up the thread of the conversation while we had coffee an hour or so later. Greg offered me a cigarette and I pounced on it with a cry of joy. He lit it for me and I took a deep drag, spluttering slightly. My head reeled with the nicotine rush. It didn’t seem quite as great as I remembered.

‘Anyway, I still have my jewellery. I can always sell some of that if the going gets tough.’

Greg blew across the surface of his drink and narrowed his eyes.

‘You’d only get scrap value. It’s never as much as you think. Unless of course Ian was in the habit of buying you Fabergé eggs? Or vintage Rolex watches?’

I pulled a face. ‘Hardly.’

I looked down at my emerald ring; I’d called it a commitment ring, not wanting to go as far as engagement ring despite the fact that Ian had proposed. It was a pretty thing and I clenched my fingers protectively over it. Surely I hadn’t come to that just yet? I had some pearls and a diamond pendant, bought to celebrate our first and fifth Christmases together respectively. I had various expensive things; even a bracelet in a turquoise Tiffany box, souvenir of our Christmas trip to New York. Was it only a few months ago? It felt like a lifetime.

God it had been marvellous. He’d really gone over the top. A hotel suite with fruit and flowers and an incredible view over Central Park. Ian had proposed yet again – it was like a running joke between us, he would ask me to marry him and I would come up with some damn fool excuse to make us both laugh. Let’s wait and see what happens with the Trump administration, I said. This time Ian tried to persuade me with the bracelet from Tiffany. I could remember his face so clearly as he gave it to me. Happy, proud, pleased with my delight. What the hell had he been doing? Stringing me along like that while all the time…

I remember having cocktails in the Waldorf Astoria. Margarita for me; Long Island iced tea for Ian. I closed my eyes. I could remember it all so well, the scent of money and perfume on a damp November day. I wonder now where the cash to pay for that had come from. A gambling win or just money siphoned off from the business?

I have been trying to get hold of Mr Ian Lovell for weeks. I wonder if you can help? I know he has been abroad on business recently; New York, wasn’t it?

Now I was on my own, living in rural Devon with my life in bits.

I felt giddy for a moment; perhaps it was the nicotine. I shook myself; Tiffany bracelets didn’t keep the cold out or the rain off.

I opened my eyes to see Greg watching me.

‘I’d better be off soon. Are you OK?’ he said. He took another Bourbon biscuit.

‘I’m OK.’

‘Cheer up, no one’s going to prison, remember?’ And he winked at me.

No one’s going to prison. Greg and Jess had come to see me a couple of days after Ian had died, bringing me a cake and a casserole I couldn’t eat. They found me crying over a bundle of letters and final demands I had found in Ian’s study filed erroneously under ‘Expenses’.

‘I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but Ian was a right sod to leave you with this to deal with. It’s a right dog’s breakfast. What the hell was he doing? This is serious, you need professional help,’ Greg had said, ‘this isn’t just a couple of quick phone calls. Is the house in both your names? This building society letter is only addressed to Ian.’

I sat slumped over the table and thought for a moment, trying to remember. Never had I felt more stupid.

‘No, it isn’t. He already lived here when we met. He said it was better to keep it in his name, I don’t know why. Something to do with tax?’

‘That’s baloney, and if anything it makes it worse.’

‘Greg! Stop it!’ Jess said.

‘Well it’s true. I can’t dress it up. If these debts are real, and the house isn’t in your joint names, then the creditors will come after it.’

‘Come after me?’ I had a vision of more large men on the doorstep.

‘Come after the house. What’s it worth? Seven fifty? Eight?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘They’ll expect to sell it to recover their money then. There must be some equity in it.’

‘I had a phone call from the bank yesterday, talking about a mortgage. I didn’t think Ian had a mortgage. It was paid off. I thought it was paid off. Ian told me it was. He’d had some money when his grandfather died and then the business took off. He said everything was great.’

‘Not according to this.’ Greg waved a letter at me. ‘Ian must have re-mortgaged to release some equity. It’s not illegal.’

‘But he should have told Lottie!’ Jess said, indignant on my behalf. ‘I mean if I found out you were keeping stuff like this from me, I’d have your bloody nuts in a mangle.’

Greg winced. ‘Yes, I bet you would. By the looks of things he’s in…sorry I mean he was in one hell of a mess. I would guess he did the worst thing possible, and that’s ignored the problem. I mean, we all hate HMRC but there are a lot of small local traders after their money here. I know this one.’ Greg waved a second letter at me. ‘He’s a good bloke, a plumber. He did our en suites, works like old stink. This sort of bad debt could take him under.’

I pressed my hands to my mouth.

‘I want to do what’s right, even if it’s too late.’

Greg paused and looked at me for a few moments before he cleared his throat and continued. ‘Are there any more letters like this?’

‘I don’t know. Probably.’

‘You need to find out. You’ve got to know exactly who you are dealing with and how much.’

‘What then?’

He shuffled the letters into some sort of order.

‘Like I always say; when you’re going through Hell, keep going.’

Greg had then taken me to see a friend of his who was a financial advisor. The reassuringly named John Strong who had looked at me from under his beetle brows and tapped a pencil against his chin.

‘The best tactics with financial issues are absolute clarity and prompt communication, particularly with the Inland Revenue, two things Mr Lovell didn’t employ.’

Well that was true. I’d already spent an hour with Simon Bentham at the Nationality Bank and been told much the same thing.

‘Do you believe he had other reserves?’

‘You mean hidden bank accounts? I don’t know,’ I said, slumping back in my chair.

I found the courage to voice my greatest fear.

‘Am I going to go to prison?’

He smiled at me. ‘No, Miss Calder, put that from your mind. It’s obvious to me from the paperwork I have seen you were not a party to any sort of deception. If you were, then you were a pretty incompetent fraudster. Your signatures on the paperwork for the payday loans are poor forgeries. Possibly deliberately.’

‘Would Ian…’

Again, the thoughtful tapping of his pencil on his chin before he answered me.

‘Quite possibly. Elements of this look fraudulent not just desperate bungling. Money siphoned off from the business and not declared. There is the unmistakable whiff of cash payments in several projects. I’m afraid he didn’t cover his tracks very well. And of course HMRC are the very last people you want to tangle with.’

‘No, he wasn’t very clever, was he?’ I whispered.

The mystery of where hundreds of thousands of pounds had gone was only solved when a local bookmaker and the owner of a casino had added their bills to the growing heap on John Strong’s desk.

Apart from some large holes in the company accounts that he had tried to cover up, Ian had been a compulsive and untalented gambler. He had fallen into the classic trap of trying to cover his losses with the ever-elusive big win. Sometimes he had won. The new carpet in his study was probably linked to a bet on the Brazilian Grand Prix. The last holiday we had in New York came after an unexpectedly successful night out in a casino. But ultimately, he had lost.

At this point I moved from the classic early stage of ‘confused grief’ and moved on to ‘anger’. How could Ian have done this? How could I not have realised? Why didn’t he tell me? Could I have helped him? All those times when he had been quiet and distracted, I had assumed he was fretting over some kitchen plinths or concealed lighting. I hadn’t known Big Kev O’Callaghan from the Galaxy Casino was after him.




CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_9d269fa8-2839-5ad3-a415-83e69efc3c89)

Primrose – modest worth and silent admiration (#ulink_9d269fa8-2839-5ad3-a415-83e69efc3c89)


I’d always enjoyed painting and decorating, even the tedious bits like sanding down and glossing the woodwork. Ian hadn’t and so it was something I had mostly done alone. I began work on Holly Cottage that afternoon. I cleared the hallway, switched on Radio Devon so I could learn about the traffic jams I wasn’t caught in, and found some old clothes and trainers to wear. It was a lovely day so I opened all the windows too. The air was fresh and clear bringing with it the faint scent of newly mown grass. I began to feel quite peaceful and in control of things for once. Decorating was just as therapeutic as I remembered; the steady rhythm of the roller covering the old paint with new. I’d opened one of Greg’s huge tubs of trade white to use as an undercoat. If I was going to do this, I would do it properly, as though it was my own home.

I think the previous paintwork had once been one of those ‘hints-of’ shades that only look interesting on the colour charts but always look the same once they are applied to a wall. Smoothing out the little bumps and blemishes, leaving a white, blank surface that no grubby fingers had touched, I began to have quite philosophical thoughts about this being a metaphor for life.

I would obliterate my rather dull past and begin anew. This was going to be a turning point. I would learn from my mistakes and move forward. I would never trust any man again. If I had been a character in EastEnders




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