A Winter's Wish
Alice Ross
A perfect, feel-good festive read about love, life and family.Tis the season to be jolly…isn’t it?Amelia is at breaking point. She’s just lost her job and Doug, the love of her life, still hasn’t broken up with his girlfriend. Surely a trip to the quiet countryside is just what she needs?Phil is about to leave beautiful Buttersley for the other side of the world! The sunny shores of Australia will mean a new life with his girlfriend, but something is holding him back…Ella has never felt this way before – Jake O’Donnell is the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen. And the more time she spends babysitting his kids, the more her feelings grow!Stan should be happy. He loves his wife and their adorable baby girl more than anything! So why, when everything’s finally going right, are they arguing more than ever?One thing’s for sure, even when Buttersley’s first snowflakes begin to fall, it’s never too cold for love to blossom…Perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley, Cathy Bramley and Claire Sandy.Praise for A Winter’s Wish:‘A great, comfy read- curl up in the armchair with a lovely cuppa and lose yourself with everyone in Buttersley.’ – Bookworms and Shutterbugs‘Heartwarming and touching.’ – Sweet is Always in Style‘Unpredictable and joyous!’ – Lilac Diaries‘A lovely seasonal feel-good book…a joy to read.’ – Lisa Houston (NetGalley reviewer)‘A great read at any time of the year, but especially leading up to Christmas!’ – Gemma Gray (NetGalley reviewer)
Tis the season to be jolly…isn’t it?
Amelia is at breaking point. She’s just lost her job and Doug, the love of her life, still hasn’t broken up with his girlfriend. Surely a trip to the quiet countryside is just what she needs!
Phil is about to leave beautiful Buttersley for the other side of the world! The sunny shores of Australia will mean a new life with his girlfriend, but something is holding him back…
Ella has never felt this way before – Jake O’Donnell is the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen. And the more time she spends babysitting his kids, the more her feelings grow!
Stan should be happy. He loves his wife and their adorable baby girl more than anything! So why, when everything’s finally going right, are they arguing more than ever?
One thing’s for sure, even when Buttersley’s first snowflakes begin to fall, it’s never too cold for love to blossom…
Perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley, Cathy Bramley and Claire Sandy.
Available from Alice Ross (#ulink_bae85285-6efe-5cd6-b635-b1f72b5ae429)
Countryside Dreams
An Autumn Affair
A Summer of Secrets
A Winter’s Wish
Forty Things to do Before You’re Forty
A Winter’s Wish
Alice Ross
Copyright (#ua672a93f-5135-54df-bab5-89f30cf77eb3)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © Alice Ross 2016
Alice Ross asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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.
E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474058155
Version date: 2018-07-23
ALICE ROSS
escaped her dreary job in the financial services industry a few years ago and has never looked back. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy romps destined to amuse readers slightly more than the pension brochures of her previous life. Now back in her home town of Durham, when not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog in wellies two sizes too big (don’t ask!) or standing on her head in a yoga pose. Alice loves to hear from readers, and you can follow her on Twitter at @AliceRoss22 or on facebook.com/alice.ross.108 (http://www.facebook.com/alice.ross.108).
A huge thank you, as always, to my fabulous editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all her input, guidance and hard work on this book. It is very much appreciated.
A special thanks to the HQ Digital design team for all three covers in the Countryside Dreams series – I absolutely love them.
And finally, a humongous thank you to Kaisha and Eva for their invaluable help with all my (many) child-related questions. ‘Wowatoes’ – who knew!
For the gorgeous girls in Galashiels
Thank you for all your encouragement with the book – and the laundry!
Contents
Cover (#u0fe998f2-f550-552a-a18a-356b86690ae5)
Blurb (#u17e3465b-8136-5e45-971b-997b3f21cf4e)
Book List (#ulink_0987a193-91af-5908-9ad1-4586be17ff45)
Title Page (#u76fa569e-acc6-57f6-9e41-7383abc1d11b)
Copyright
Author Bio (#u9843f8f2-29f6-567a-8b96-56279eab40a2)
Acknowledgement (#ub35dcc1d-927f-5d05-b9b7-30f75afe3f1b)
Dedication (#u7c597ac9-02ab-565c-a0f4-b29e0c0b2ef4)
Prologue (#u31e6d004-a770-5bde-a749-6fb6a9098412)
Chapter One (#ulink_3b4628e8-ba11-5978-9d4c-dabb1470f7ab)
Chapter Two (#ulink_a5b379cc-99ba-51dd-9b5d-612bde2635de)
Chapter Three (#ulink_fc8cf19e-e2b2-5664-8e4a-d317d9725da4)
Chapter Four (#ulink_ac11995f-e2cb-583a-808c-0fa91c1b67e0)
Chapter Five (#ulink_165d0dec-e815-5d0d-bedc-29dcc0522e42)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
A few days earlier
‘Guess who’s coming to stay,’ announced Annie O’Donnell in the kitchen of The Cedars.
Seven-year-old Sophie began jumping up and down. ‘Who? Who?’
‘Aunty Amelia.’
Sophie ceased jumping and yanked the zip of her tiger onesie all the way up to her hairline.
Husband Jake’s cheese and pickle sandwich came to a halt midway to his mouth.
Two-year-old Thomas dunked Mr Potato Head into his full pot of yoghurt.
And Pip the dog rolled over and played dead.
The response was much as Annie had expected.
Chapter One (#ulink_3debd30b-8bf7-5f1f-9565-ecd2fe149e66)
In her walk-in wardrobe, clutching the handle of her empty suitcase, a surge of panic swept over Amelia Richards.
What on earth had inspired her to accept her sister’s invitation to Yorkshire? Yorkshire for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t even recall the name of the out-in-the-sticks village where Annie lived. Buttersworth, or Butterton, or something resembling a low-fat spread. More to the point, what did people wear there? She very much doubted the residents of Butters-whatever-it-was-called would be tottering about in Ted Baker pencil skirts, fitted jackets and six-inch Manolos. Her usual weekday attire.
Not, she hastily reminded herself, that she would have need of such attire again. Not for a while at least. Because it wasn’t just sartorial problems triggering this fit of panic. Her job situation – or, rather, lack of job situation – was adding to her fragile state.
‘I’m so sorry, Amelia, but with the new restructure, we’re going to have to let you go.’
Have to let you go. For the last three days, ever since they’d floated across the managing director’s walnut desk, those words had rebounded around the confines of Amelia’s head like a snooker ball refusing to find a pocket.
‘And I know there’s never a good time for these things, but I hate to have to break the news just before Christmas,’ he’d added.
Amelia couldn’t have cared less about the timing. She was too busy beating herself black and blue. With the benefit of hindsight, she should have seen this coming; should have known that, in the cut-and-thrust world of finance, no one was safe; that even the enviable benefits package lavished on her by the UK’s largest insurer didn’t include job security – especially after the company had been gobbled up by a massive American corporation.
And gobbled it they had. But Amelia had seemingly not been to the usurper’s taste. She’d been spat out. Discarded. Abandoned. Her pride subjected to a monumental battering. She should have got out before being pushed, taken the initiative, followed her instincts. But she hadn’t. She’d sat back and let them screw her up and toss her aside like a used sandwich wrapper. Never, in all her twenty-nine years, had she felt more stupid.
Admittedly, though, stupid was one thing Amelia was not. Desperate to do well, she’d worked her socks off at school, her efforts being rewarded by an impressive stream of qualifications and accolades: Head Girl, Head of the Debating Society, President of the Chess Club – and, ultimately, a scholarship to Cambridge, where she added a double first in Mathematics to her collection.
Before she’d even left university, Providential Assurance had dangled a ridiculously juicy carrot before her. They’d spotted her potential, nurtured her career, supported her through the maze of actuarial exams, promoted her with astonishing regularity right up to head of department. Next step would be board member.
Except now it wouldn’t. At least not with Providential.
Of course Amelia knew once she put herself back on the job market, she would likely be bombarded with offers. But she couldn’t face it. Not yet.
She felt winded, like she’d been run over by a tank. Confidence crushed. Self-esteem shattered. Ego bruised. And she was tired. So very very tired.
She needed a break.
From London.
From Doug.
And for all she could afford to jet off to any of the world’s exotic, exclusive locations, she didn’t want to. The mere thought of facing a bustling noisy airport brought on a mild panic attack. Instead, a yearning for quite the opposite had overtaken her: one for all things familiar. England in winter might not be everyone’s ideal, but Amelia, in her present confused state, could think of nowhere more perfect. Frosty mornings, roaring log fires, steaming mugs of hot chocolate, long evenings curled up with a good book, and hearty country walks wrapped up in six layers of clothes was exactly what she needed.
She’d considered booking a little cottage where she could indulge in all of the above, but for all she couldn’t face swarms of people, neither could she face being alone. As pitiful as it sounded, she needed to be around people she knew – to feel cosseted and cared for. Not that she expected her sister, Annie, to cosset and care for her. Why would she when the two of them had never been close? Yet, for some reason, when she’d received the crushing redundancy news, Annie had been the first person, after Doug, that Amelia had wanted to speak to – had felt an overwhelming desire to speak to. And as soon as Annie had answered the phone, she’d known why. Her calming manner, sensible words and pragmatic advice had momentarily lifted Amelia’s spirits. And when Annie had invited her up to Yorkshire, she’d found herself accepting without a moment’s hesitation.
Of course, in hindsight, she realised Annie had probably only asked her out of politeness – probably hadn’t thought for a second that she’d say yes. But despite these misgivings, Amelia couldn’t think of a better place to escape to, to lick her wounds and regroup. And so, despite her sartorial deliberations, she’d made up her mind. She was going to Yorkshire.
*
‘Hi. I’m home.’
‘Hi. We’re upstairs. In the bathroom.’
Stan Suffolk heaved a weary sigh, before dumping his laptop case and jacket onto the sofa, and making his way up the creaky old staircase of Pear Tree Cottage.
In the bathroom, he found his wife, Bea, kneeling at the roll-top bath, propping up their nine-month-old daughter, Maddy, whose chubby form was surrounded by sweet-smelling bubbles.
‘Doesn’t she look adorable?’ sighed Bea, without so much as glancing at Stan. ‘She’s been brilliant today. I’m sure she even tried to say “mumma”. Some babies do talk as early as nine months, you know. I’ve been reading about it.’
‘Wow. That’s great,’ said Stan, sinking down onto the closed loo seat. And it was great. Every tiny thing their firstborn achieved was wonderful and Bea had every right to make a fuss about it. ‘So you’ve had a good day then?’
‘Amazing. We had a lovely time at playgroup. We sang Santa songs and made some Christmas cards with glitter. I took loads of pictures. Maddy looked so cute in her new Rudolph tights, didn’t you, munchkin.’ She swiped a bubble onto the child’s tiny nose. Maddy giggled, causing Stan to almost smile, before a yawn cut in first.
‘They’re all on Facebook.’
‘What are?’ Stan rubbed a hand over his face.
Bea turned to look at him and tutted. ‘The photos of Maddy in her new tights.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Aren’t you going to say hello to her?’
Stan stifled another yawn. ‘Of course. But I’ve only been in the house thirty seconds.’
Another disparaging glare followed. ‘You can take over here while I sort out her supper. One of the girls from playgroup recommended Popeye Pasta with Savoy Spinach.’
Stan opened his mouth to enquire if Savoy Spinach was a class above Travelodge Spinach. But just as quickly he closed it again. Bea had that air of briskness about her that told him she wouldn’t find his quip the least bit amusing. At the mention of food, though, his stomach emitted a loud groan. He was starving. He’d driven all the way to Sheffield for a stupid twenty-minute meeting, then been stuck in traffic on the M1 for two hours on his way back to Leeds. His subsequent late arrival back at the office hadn’t gone down well with his boss, who’d been chomping at the bit to offload yet another heap of mind-numbingly dull spreadsheet requirements onto him.
Not that anyone appeared remotely interested in his day.
‘Here.’
He started as Bea tossed a towel in his direction. It had a penguin’s head attached to it.
‘She can have another five minutes in the water. She likes you to bob her pirate ship up and down. Oh. And make sure you dry her properly before you put her pyjamas on.’
Stan said nothing as he slipped off his watch, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and crouched down at the side of the bath to take over the propping up of his daughter.
‘Look now, darling, Daddy’s going to play pirates with you. Isn’t that lovely,’ cooed Bea, before whisking out of the room.
Maddy evidently thought otherwise. Her huge blue eyes grew wide. Her bottom lip quivered. And before Stan could utter any reassuring platitudes, she let out a blood-curdling scream.
As if by magic, Bea reappeared. ‘What have you done to her?’
Stan gawped. ‘Nothing. I just … Well, nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘You must’ve done something. She doesn’t bawl like that for no reason.’
‘I didn’t. She just – Well, I don’t know. I don’t think she likes me very much.’
Bea tutted – which, Stan had noticed, had become an increasingly frequent occurrence these days. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she chided, plucking the baby out of the water and swathing her in the towel, the penguin head perfectly perched atop Maddy’s damp blonde curls. ‘Of course she likes you. You’re her father, for heaven’s sake. The problem is that you don’t spend nearly enough time with her.’
Stan’s patience, already stretched to the limit by his crap day, began to twang dangerously. ‘And just when am I supposed to do that?’ he demanded, raising his voice above the wails of the baby. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m at work all bloody day.’
Bea narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare swear in front of Maddy. And don’t raise your voice. You’ll upset her.’
The way the child was hollering, Stan couldn’t imagine her being more upset if Thomas the Tank Engine had run over Iggle Piggle. Not that he deemed it helpful to point that out.
‘I’ll have to settle her down,’ Bea huffed, strutting out of the room, baby and all. ‘It’s probably best if you stay out of the way.’
No change there then, Stan almost added. Since Maddy’s birth, he’d spent a great deal of time “out of the way”. He’d been relegated to the sidelines. Shown the red card. Sent off. His newly assigned role in the house, apart from the obvious one of provider, seemed purely to annoy the female contingent.
As the door to Maddy’s bedroom slammed shut, he sank down onto the bathroom floor, raked his hands through his thinning hair, and wondered how it had all gone so horribly wrong.
*
Goodness, mused Amelia, driving along Buttersley’s main street lined with quaint, tastefully adorned little shops, and trees twinkling with fairy lights in the dusky afternoon. She certainly hadn’t been expecting anything this pretty. Not that she’d been expecting anything really. Until the last few days, she’d never given a moment’s consideration to where her sister lived. She and Annie had never been close. With their parents emigrating to Goa the year Amelia started Cambridge, family get-togethers hadn’t featured much in their lives.
Then, of course, there was the age difference. Barrelling into the world almost a decade after her sister, Amelia always suspected she’d been a mistake rather than the “lovely surprise” her mother insisted. Nevertheless, the gap had resulted in the girls’ lives rarely colliding. Even in times of crisis – like when Annie had her first child and was subsequently dumped by her partner – Amelia played no part in the ensuing drama, far too focused on her university studies to permit any outside interference. It had been Annie’s best friend, Portia Pinkington-Smythe, who’d rescued her from that drama, offering Annie the job of caretaker at Buttersley Manor – her ancestral family pile. It was there Annie had met and subsequently married the celebrated author, Jake O’Donnell, and given birth to her second child two years ago. Amelia hadn’t made the wedding. She’d been on secondment in Providential’s Hong Kong office.
Indeed, the only time Amelia had made any date with Annie and her little family was when they trooped down to London, when Jake had an appointment with his agent, or a book launch. Amelia would meet them for lunch, although admittedly her mind was generally more on her pending afternoon schedule than forging familial bonds.
To be honest, she had no idea why she’d experienced the need to call Annie with the redundancy news. She certainly wasn’t in the habit of exchanging confidences with her sister. Or with anyone, for that matter. Over the years, she’d mastered the art of becoming emotionally self-sufficient – out of necessity, she acknowledged, rather than choice. But who was to blame for that? Nobody but herself, that was who.
Thankfully, before she could become even more maudlin, she spotted a sign pinned to the side of a huge oak tree, proudly bearing the name of The Cedars. Without further deliberation, she swung her Mercedes Coupe off the main road and up the narrow drive towards the house. And what a house, she concluded a minute later as she parked on the semi-circular sweep of gravel in front of the white two-storey Georgian villa. It looked utterly adorable; like it hadn’t changed at all in two hundred years; like Ms Austen herself could swan around the corner at any moment. But it wasn’t Ms Austen who sailed out of the bottle-green front door with an enormous holly wreath pinned to it. It was Amelia’s sister, Annie, looking effortlessly pretty in faded jeans, a white Arran jumper, and beige Ugg boots.
Amelia, in a grey tailored trouser suit and high heels, immediately wished she’d worn something more casual. But that thought was swiftly nudged aside by the warm, welcoming smile on her sister’s face. Such a warm, welcoming smile that a rush of unaccustomed affection surged through Amelia. Desperate to cling on to what was left of her equilibrium, she sucked in a deep breath, tucked the sides of her honey-blonde bob behind her ears, forced the corners of her lips upwards, and prepared to greet her sibling.
‘Hi,’ Annie gushed, as Amelia scrambled out of the car. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve arrived safely. And before it’s too dark. How was the drive?’
Before Amelia could reply, Annie enveloped her in an embrace. Amelia didn’t normally engage in shows of physical affection. She found it easier to keep people at arm’s length – to maintain a respectable distance between herself and her fellow man. But, with her sister’s arms around her, breathing in her subtle scent of roses and fresh bread, something tugged at her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.
Thankfully Annie didn’t seem to notice as, all at once, she released her hold and bent down to the car.
‘Get out of there now, Pip!’
Amelia whipped round to find a scruffy white Jack Russell with a pair of plastic reindeer antlers on its head sitting smugly on the cream leather driver’s seat.
‘I’m so sorry,’ apologised Annie, swiping up the dog and slamming shut the car door. ‘This is Pip. He doesn’t like to miss anything. Anyway, come on in and have something to eat. We’ll bring your stuff in later.’
Amelia gave a weak smile of consent, not daring to speak in case it brought forth the threatening tears. Instead, she followed her sister into the house and found herself in a huge, perfectly square entrance hall, dominated by an enormous Christmas tree dripping with all manner of decorations. Original green patterned tiles covered the floor, while the dazzling white walls were dotted with black-and-white family photographs.
‘Everyone’s in the kitchen,’ said Annie, marching off down a corridor leading off from the hall. ‘The children can’t wait to see you.’
Observing the children’s smiling faces in the pictures, Amelia doubted that very much. She never knew what to do or say around children. Their unpredictability set her on edge.
‘Look who’s here,’ Annie announced, when they eventually reached the vast kitchen. An obvious recent addition to the house, its back wall consisted entirely of folding doors leading onto the garden. Opposite, against the natural stone of the wall, rested a collection of sleek aubergine units, bookshelves, a refrigerated wine rack, and, bang in the centre, a fuchsia-pink Aga. The place was modern, stylish and homely and smelled exactly like Annie: of bread and roses, with the addition of spicy parsnip soup.
Running down the centre of the room was a long plank table littered with crayons, paints, paper, glitter and jigsaw pieces. At one end sat Jake, Annie’s husband, with his laptop. He jumped to his feet and strode over to Amelia the moment she entered.
‘Hi,’ he gushed, enveloping her in another hug. ‘How are you? So sorry to hear about the job. It must’ve been a huge shock.’
‘You could say that,’ mumbled Amelia, the urge to howl increasing by the second.
‘Still, on the plus side, it gives you a chance to spend some time with us,’ he continued. ‘The kids have been dying to see you. Are you going to say hello to Aunty Amelia, guys?’
Kneeling on the bench at the table, seven-year-old Sophie, the double of her mother, her mass of golden hair squashed into two fat pigtails and a Rapunzel-like hat on her head, gazed at Amelia with huge green eyes.
‘Hello,’ she said.
Amelia managed a watery smile back.
‘And what about you, Thomas,’ chivvied Jake. ‘You remember Aunty Amelia, don’t you?’
Kneeling alongside his sister, two-year-old Thomas, in a Spiderman outfit topped off with a policeman’s helmet, ran an appraising gaze over his aunt. ‘No,’ he replied flatly.
Jake snorted with laughter. ‘Sorry, Amelia. You’ve caught him on a bad day. We ran out of yogurt popsicles earlier which, I’m sure you can appreciate, is almost a national disaster.’
Despite having no idea what a yogurt popsicle was, and being devoid of the energy to ask, Amelia opted for another weak smile.
‘Anyway, never mind our wayward offspring,’ cut in Annie, setting the antler-bearing dog down on the floor, and marching over to a pan on the Aga. ‘You must be starving. Parsnip soup okay for you?’
‘Accompanied by my homemade bread,’ chipped in Jake. ‘Thomas and I made it especially for Aunty Amelia, didn’t we, mate?’
Without bothering to raise his head from his elf jigsaw, Thomas nodded gravely.
‘I sometimes help mummy make cakes,’ announced Sophie, without looking up from her colouring-in book.
Amelia gulped. What should she say to that? She’d never made a cake in her life. ‘Well, that’s, um, nice,’ she heard herself murmuring, as she slipped onto the bench opposite her niece.
Sophie cast her an unimpressed glance, before returning to her colouring book.
Thankfully, the moment was broken by Annie.
‘I thought you’d just want to chill this afternoon,’ she said, pushing a spoon and a bowl of steaming-hot soup in front of Amelia. ‘You must be exhausted after the drive. But I’ve arranged a babysitter for tonight. I thought us three grown-ups could go to the pub for a meal. If that’s okay with you.’
Amelia’s already low spirits took a further dip southwards. The last thing she needed was to sit in a noisy pub, surrounded by people, making polite conversation. But to say so would be rude and unsociable. And she didn’t know her sister well enough to be either of those.
‘Lovely,’ she consequently uttered. She hoped the addition of, ‘But I don’t want to be any trouble,’ might permit her a reprieve.
It didn’t.
‘Oh, believe me,’ chuckled Jake, resuming his seat at the table, ‘we don’t find it any trouble going to the pub. Annie practically lives there.’
Annie placed her hands on her slender hips. ‘Er, excuse me, Mr O’Donnell. I’ve been all of half a dozen times this year. Although, now that we have our super-reliable, gorgeous babysitter, I might well increase my visits.’
‘Our babysitter is called Ella and she lets me stay up until nine o’clock, but I’m not allowed to tell anyone,’ Sophie piped up, gazing solemnly at Amelia.
‘Not a soul? Ever?’ pressed Jake.
Sophie shook her head, causing her pigtails to swing from side to side. ‘Nobody. Ever.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_2511e30f-fc6e-50cf-bfef-917796e8d311)
‘You look nice, dear.’
Ella Hargreaves bit back a satisfied smile as she wandered into the kitchen of Stanway House, where her mum sat at the table with a mug of tea and a copy of the local newspaper. ‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘But it’s only an old pair of jeans and a tatty T-shirt.’
From behind her reading glasses, Mona Hargreaves arched a dubious brow. ‘There’s nothing old or tatty from where I’m sitting. And I hope you’re putting a cardigan on. You’ll catch your death in that top.’
Ella gave a dismissive toss of her long chestnut locks. ‘I’m babysitting, Mum. Which means I’ll be indoors all evening.’
Mona narrowed her eyes. ‘Just watch what you’re doing, that’s all.’
Ella planted a kiss on the older woman’s plump cheek. ‘You worry too much,’ she said, before uttering something about being back about eleven, and making a hasty retreat. Honestly, as much as she loved her mum, it did unsettle her sometimes just how perspicacious the woman could be: like she had x-ray vision that drilled right through to Ella’s mind. Because, as glib as Ella’s reply had been to the “looking nice” comment, she’d actually invested a great deal of effort preparing for this evening.
In addition to the hour banishing every one of her natural, much-hated curls with straighteners, she’d spent an age applying her make-up, including the new glittery green eyeliner and peachy lip gloss she’d bought earlier in the week. By far her most successful purchase during her shopping trip to Harrogate, though, had been the pink push-up bra, which gave her cleavage a boost she previously would only have thought possible with a surgeon’s knife and some silicone implants. Showcasing her newly boosted assets in a low-cut lilac T-shirt, and her long slender legs in faded jeans with the requisite rip at the knee, Ella looped a woollen scarf around her neck and tugged on her khaki parka in the hall, before making her way to The Cedars, excitement swirling about her stomach.
Having left school after her A-levels in the summer, Ella had decided to “take a year out”.
‘Only a year, mind,’ her mum insisted. ‘If you haven’t sorted yourself out by next August, you can enrol in a business studies course. There are always lots of jobs in offices.’
Plenty of jobs in offices there might be, but Ella didn’t want any of them. The thought of pushing bits of paper around for the rest of her life made her nauseous. But she honestly had no idea what she wanted to do. Unlike her siblings. Harry was out in Papua New harr doing something with anteaters for his PhD; Honor and Mark were both studying medicine; Robert was ploughing his way through to becoming a barrister; and Olly had just started his architect’s course. Add to this the fact that her father was a physics professor at Leeds University and her mother a biomedical scientist, and Ella could not have felt like a bigger underachiever if she’d had the words tattooed in neon across her forehead.
While her siblings sailed through life attracting top grades with a magnetic-like force, thriving on the pressure of tests and exams, Ella had been a jittering bag of nerves at every one of her A-level sittings, scraping a measly B and two C’s – embarrassingly not enough for her to be offered a place on the journalism course she’d been considering. The look of disappointment on her parents’ faces when she’d informed them of said results would stay with her for a very long time.
And so Ella had more or less resigned herself to being a failure. And, by taking a year out, knew she was merely postponing the inevitable. At some point she’d have to bite the bullet and enter the world of proper work – earn enough money to support herself. But doing what? So tired was she of contemplating that question that she’d neatly bundled it up and lodged it in an “only to be visited when absolutely necessary” crevice of her mind. As naff as it sounded, she’d convinced herself that this year was all about “finding herself”. Or, at the very least, stumbling across something she derived a soupçon of satisfaction from.
‘You can’t sit around doing nothing for a year, though,’ her mum proclaimed, the moment Ella’s exams had finished. ‘You’ll have to find a job.’
So she had. She’d headed straight up to Buttersley Manor to enquire about work, and the following day began waitressing in Annie O’Donnell’s tearoom. Ella loved working there. The entire manor house, owned by Annie’s best friend, Portia, had recently been rescued from its dilapidated state, and beautifully refurbished and restored. It now offered a range of immensely popular courses throughout the year, including photography, cookery, dancing, and writing. Those visitors, combined with locals and day-trippers, all swarming to the Stables Tearoom for freshly squeezed orange juice, frothy hot chocolate, and Annie’s mouth-watering cakes, conspired to make the place a hive of activity every day of the week.
Ella enjoyed the buzz, the banter, the generous tips and last, but certainly not least, the fascinating mix of individuals. People came from all over the country to attend the courses – interesting people who seemed to know stuff about everything: politics, books, music. People who’d travelled widely and had fascinating tales to relate.
Not that Ella ever joined in any of these conversations. For one thing, she was never invited to, only mustering snippets as she set down lattes or scones, or cleared a nearby table. But mainly because she couldn’t join in. Her knowledge of politics stretched only as far as the name of the prime minister; the only serious books she’d ever read were those forced on her by her teachers; and she didn’t think any of the manor’s well-heeled visitors would be remotely interested in the latest One Direction album. As for being widely travelled, the furthest she’d ever ventured was to London on a school trip. Yet another disadvantage of coming from a large family, she concluded. With six kids for her parents to lug around, not to mention the expense, holidays to Disneyland or Spain had been experienced vicariously through mates at school.
Nonetheless, Ella enjoyed collecting these oddments of conversation – these insights into other people’s lives. Not, she was aware, that this little sideline would sit well on any proper job application form. But as she didn’t have any proper job application forms to complete at the moment, she wouldn’t waste time worrying about her future tonight. Indeed, she couldn’t have worried about it even if she’d wanted to. Because she was far, far too excited. And even now – five months on – still ever so slightly chuffed with herself for exploiting this opportunity when it first arose …
One day, when she’d been working at the tearoom for a few weeks, Ella had been taking a bag of rubbish to the bins outside when she’d overheard Annie on her mobile.
‘Oh no. What a pain … No. Honestly. It’s fine. Don’t you worry … Let me know when you get back … Okay. Bye.’
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, just as Ella appeared round the corner. ‘Oops. Sorry, Ella. That wasn’t aimed at you. I’ve just had a call from Miranda, my partner in the party-planning side of the business. She’s been to Portugal for the week and was due to fly back this afternoon in time to supervise a big birthday party. But now her flight’s delayed, which means I’ll have to do it. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but Jake’s in Glasgow at a book-signing and I don’t have anybody to look after the kids.’
Ella’s stomach leapt. ‘I can look after them if you like,’ she gushed, hoping she didn’t sound overly keen.
Annie’s emerald-green eyes grew wide. ‘Oh. I didn’t mean … That is, you don’t have to—’
‘It’s no problem. Honestly,’ blustered Ella, battling the urge to jump up and down. ‘I’m not doing anything else tonight and it’ll be fun. Your kids are lovely.’
Annie’s pretty features twisted into a dubious expression. ‘Hmm. Hold on to that thought for as long as it lasts. Are you really sure you don’t mind?’
Mind? Does a pig mind muck? Ella almost replied. ‘Of course not,’ she said instead. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
‘Seven o’clock okay?’
‘Perfect,’ said Ella. In oh so many ways.
That had been her first time babysitting for Annie. And her services had been called upon many times since. But tonight was one of those special nights.
By the time Ella reached The Cedars, her heart was pounding so much she was convinced the effect must be evident in her push-up bra.
She rang the brass doorbell. Annie answered it.
‘Wow,’ she exclaimed, the moment Ella stepped inside and shrugged off her parka. ‘You look stunning. You meeting up with your mates later?’
‘Er, yes,’ lied Ella.
‘Come on in,’ breezed Annie, whisking around and marching across the tiled hall. ‘Thomas has been in the foulest mood all day and fell asleep half an hour ago, so you’ll be pleased to know you have one less to deal with. I’ve told Sophie she can stay up until half past eight. And there’s plenty for you to eat. There’s chocolate cake in the fridge, and cheese—’
‘And don’t forget my homemade bread,’ came a deep male voice from behind.
Ella whipped round to find Jake striding down the corridor behind her, looking even sexier than usual in black jeans and a slim-fitting grey jumper, which showed off his toned torso to perfection.
Ella’s heart skipped a beat, her shaking legs almost caved, and her throat went dry. ‘Hi, Jake,’ she managed to croak.
*
‘I’ve ordered a brochure for St Hild’s Girls School,’ Bea announced over their Chinese takeaway.
Maddy had been fractious all day, mercifully wearing herself out by six o’clock. With her soundly asleep, Stan had suggested the takeaway as a treat for him and Bea. And, for what seemed like the first time in eons, Bea had actually deemed his suggestion a good one, even going so far as to open a bottle of his favourite Riesling to accompany the food.
A tiny part of Stan dared to hope they might enjoy a relaxing baby-free evening, along the lines of how they used to spend Sunday evenings in Life Before Maddy, or LBM, as he secretly termed it. He should’ve known better.
‘Schools,’ he spluttered, almost choking on his wine. ‘But she’s only nine months old.’
‘Precisely,’ confirmed Bea, stabbing an anaemic-looking prawn with her fork. ‘Some people reserve a place before their child’s even born. If we’re not quick, her year will be full.’
Stan ripped a sheet of kitchen tissue from the roll on the table and dabbed at his mouth. One of his colleagues whose daughter went to St Hild’s was constantly pleading poverty due to the astronomical fees. And his wife was a GP! How on earth Bea thought they could afford such an extravagance when she’d packed her job in, he was more than intrigued to know.
‘How much are the fees?’ he asked innocently, opting for the tread-lightly approach rather than the confrontational. The latter would undoubtedly lead to yet another row, which, after spending all day assembling Maddy’s new wardrobe, he didn’t have the energy for. Nor did he want to waste the thirty quid he’d spent on the takeaway, which would inevitably end up in the bin if Bea kicked off again.
He watched as her slender arm stretched across the pine table and plucked a prawn cracker from the packet, her emerald engagement ring glinting in the overhanging kitchen light.
‘Well, it’s not the cheapest,’ she conceded. ‘But it’s a fantastic school. Think what a great start it would be for her, Stan. You only have to look at all the successful people who’ve been there to see how having the name behind you helps you get on. And imagine all the influential contacts she could make.’
Stan scooped up a forkful of Chow Mein, carefully considering his reply. He didn’t believe in all that public school crap – the nepotism, the elitism. He’d gone to the local comp and worked his butt off to get where he was. There was no substitute for hard graft in his book.
‘I’ve heard great things about Buttersley Primary,’ he ventured. ‘A couple of guys from work send their kids there, and they’re always saying what a great little school it is.’
Bea’s gaze dropped back to her plate. Stan could almost see her brain working out how best to respond. God, it was like a game of chess: each player attempting to second-guess their opponent’s reaction, before daring to make a move. It wasn’t that long ago they used to be so relaxed in one another’s company, tell each other about their day, bitch about work colleagues, giggle at the pathetic office politics surrounding them. Now they were like two adversaries – strangers with completely opposite goals.
‘I’m sure it’s a lovely school,’ she eventually batted back. ‘It’s just … not what I want for my daughter.’
Stan flinched. ‘Er, I think you mean our daughter. And it would be lovely for her to go to the local school. She’d have her little mates around her. Have them over for tea. All that sort of stuff. If she goes to St Hild’s we’ll never be out of the car ferrying her backwards and forwards, and—’
Bea set down her knife and fork with a great sense of purpose. ‘Well, if you’d rather not put yourself out for the sake of our daughter’s future, then I’ll do all the ferrying.’
Stan sighed inwardly. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he’d realised he shouldn’t have added that bit about the ferrying. But the fact that St Hild’s would mean a forty-mile round trip every day wasn’t the main reason he didn’t want Maddy to go there. He honestly did think it would be lovely for her to feel part of Buttersley. And it wasn’t as if the village school was full of glue-sniffing, drug-snorting reprobates. Perfectly nice children went there, from respectable families. Surely that would suffice until Maddy was eleven at least. But before he could bolster his case, Bea had rocketed off on a super-charged tangent.
‘And what about horse riding? Or tennis?’
Stan shook his head in an attempt to clear it. ‘What are you talking about now?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Our daughter, of course. I think it’s important we decide what extra-curricular activities we’d like her to be involved in.’
Stan set down his fork and scratched his head. ‘But she can’t even walk yet. How on earth do you expect her to hold a tennis racket?’
Bea gave an exasperated tut. ‘Honestly. Sometimes I think you’re not remotely interested in Maddy’s future.’
Stan gawped. ‘Of course I am. But don’t you think it’s a bit early to be talking about all that stuff? You’ll be booking the church for her wedding next.’
In one swift move, Bea scraped back her chair and thrust to her feet. ‘Now you’re being facetious. And the way I’ve been feeling lately, that’s the last thing I’ll be doing,’ she huffed, before strutting out of the room.
Stan pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, surveying the remains of the barely touched meal. Thirty quid down the drain. Precisely the direction in which his marriage appeared to be heading.
He knocked back the remains of his wine, and poured another glass before starting to clear away the detritus. He heard Bea stomping up the stairs, a couple of loud sniffs informing him she was crying. He could follow her up and apologise – although what he’d be apologising for, he had no idea. But he couldn’t face another showdown. It didn’t matter what he said lately, it was wrong. The whole thing was wearing him down, sapping his energy, making him miserable. And miserable was the one thing he never, in a million years, would’ve thought Bea would ever make him …
Stan had met Bea in Thailand. She’d been on a gap year after university, exploring the Orient with three girlfriends. Stan had been there on a fortnight’s holiday with the lads. He’d bypassed uni, failing to see the point of three years messing about, only to emerge with the same meaningless bit of paper as thousands of other kids, plus a mountain of debt. He’d known exactly what he wanted to do – be an accountant – and so he’d gone for it. Following impressive A-level results, he’d accepted a position as an accounts clerk at a small, local company.
He’d used the opportunity as a springboard, taking advantage of the excellent training package. He worked hard and studied hard, sailing through the mountain of exams with flying colours. In fact, so focused had he been on his career, that girls hadn’t really featured in his life. Oh, he went out with the lads at the weekend and had the occasional – very occasional – one-night stand. And he and the lads went on holiday every summer – a booze-ridden couple of weeks in Marbella, Magaluf or Marmaris, or anywhere else beginning with M with cheap booze and plenty of totty. But, other than that, he didn’t really have much to do with the opposite sex. A couple of his mates were going out with girls they’d paired up with at school, already, at the tender age of twenty-two, talking about mortgages and babies. Stan hadn’t been interested in any of that. Until he met Bea.
It had been on the beach, under the heat of the midday Thai sun. Stan and one of his mates had been messing about with a Frisbee, which accidentally hurtled straight into Bea’s neck as she came out of the sea.
‘Ow,’ she yelled, holding the Frisbee in one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. ‘That bloody hurt.’
Stan opened his mouth to apologise, but no words came out. He’d been completely bowled over by the vision before him – the lean, toned body with skin the colour of golden honey; the scraps of red bikini, concealing bits he couldn’t even bring himself to think about; the cascade of dripping wet raven hair; the flashing huge green eyes—
‘Watch what you’re doing,’ she huffed, flinging the Frisbee back at him. And off she’d strutted up the beach. Leaving a speechless Stan gawping after her.
‘Phwoar, mate. You missed a chance there,’ sniggered his mate. ‘She’s drop-dead gorgeous.’
She was drop-dead gorgeous but Stan had the distinct feeling she was also way out of his league. ‘Seemed a bit of a snotty cow to me,’ he replied.
‘I’d be snotty as well if someone had almost sliced my head off,’ his mate went on. ‘You should go after her. Buy her a drink.’
‘Nah,’ said Stan. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to the others and crack open a couple of cans. I’m parched.’
And that, he’d thought, had been the end of it. Until, two nights later, they were in the local nightclub.
He first spotted her as she made her way to the bar. Wearing a tiny pair of white shorts and a pink camisole. With her jet-black hair in two long plaits, she’d looked about twelve. But, remembering the luscious body in the bikini, was obviously a fully grown woman. Stan pretended he hadn’t seen her, until his mate piped up, ‘Hey, isn’t that Frisbee girl over there? The one from the beach?’
Stan cast a cursory look in the direction of the bar. ‘Dunno. I can’t remember what she looked like.’
‘Well, I can. That’s definitely her. And she’s clocked you. She’s looking right over here.’
Stan’s heart skipped a beat as he turned his head once again and met her emerald-green gaze. But the brief moment was broken as a crowd of rowdy German guys barged to the bar.
Stan did his best not to think about her after that. Larking about with the lads, he knocked back more than his fair share of lager and was on his way back from the loo when he spotted Frisbee girl hemmed in a corner, one of the rowdy Germans leering over her. As inebriated as he was, Stan could tell it was not a place she wanted to be.
Without even thinking of the consequences, he weaved his way over to them.
‘You ready to go?’ he asked her, hoping he sounded more assertive than he felt.
Her eyes grew large. ‘Er, yes. Yes, I am,’ she replied with a shaky smile.
‘She vill be leaving with me,’ the German informed him.
‘I don’t think so, mate,’ retorted Stan, wondering how he hadn’t noticed the guy was a good foot taller than him and twice as broad, before he’d had this sudden attack of gallantness. The German sucked in a breath and straightened his back, adding several more inches to his already impressive form.
‘Maybe we should ask her who she wants to leave with,’ Stan piped up, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking half as much as his legs.
They both turned to the girl. Looking completely terrified, she grabbed hold of Stan’s hand.
‘I’d like to go now, please,’ she said.
Stan gave her a reassuring wink and, before the German could grow even taller, they scuttled out of the nightclub.
‘Thanks,’ she said, once outside. ‘I couldn’t get rid of him.’
Stan shrugged as he tried desperately not to notice the shape of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her top. ‘It was the least I could do after almost slicing your head off the other day.’
She laughed. ‘You’re right. That hurt. But you’ve redeemed yourself tonight.’
Stan smiled, breathing in the light, flowery scent of her perfume. ‘I don’t think we should go back in,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go for a drink or something?’
She screwed up her nose. ‘Not really. I’m a bit knackered. I’d rather go back to the hotel.’
‘I’ll walk you.’
She smiled her thanks. ‘I’m Bea, by the way. Short for Beatrice.’
‘Stan,’ said Stan. ‘Short for Robert.’
That feeble joke which, to his delight, she’d found highly amusing, combined with his heroic antics, evidently wiped the previously Frisbee-marked slate clean. They were inseparable for the remainder of Stan’s holiday. But, as much as he was having the time of his life, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was temporary. Just a holiday romance. And when he returned home, he wouldn’t hear another word from her.
Yet, despite Bea continuing her travels for the next few months, and him being back behind his accountancy desk, via the wonders of modern technology they did maintain contact. And when they both ended up working in London less than a year later – Stan for an international accountancy company; Bea for an advertising agency – their relationship went from strength to strength, resulting in them eventually buying a flat together. They worked hard and played hard, building a great network of friends and a fantastic social life. But all that seemed a million light years away now – in LBM.
As Stan slammed shut the dishwasher door and pressed the ‘On’ button, he realised he wanted that life back. Every single bit of it. But it had gone. For ever.
That thought making him even more depressed, he grabbed his jacket and headed to the pub.
Chapter Three (#ulink_f5a2d149-5694-5a19-ab2e-1bc5a80a70a6)
From behind the bar of the Duck Inn, Phil McNally folded his arms over his chest and observed the hustle and bustle of a Sunday night in Buttersley. There was nothing unusual in this activity. There hadn’t been many Sunday nights during his seven-year ownership of the pub that Phil hadn’t folded his arms over his chest and observed the village’s residents relaxing in the plush surroundings. And all the regulars were there tonight: Joe, the window cleaner with his girlfriend, Candi; Jenny Rutter, who now ran guided tours up at the manor house, and her man, Peter; Derek Carter, the vicar, who never said no to so much as a wine gum; and Mrs Gates from the grocery store, wearing a wig that looked like it might have been one of Marie Antoinette’s cast-offs. Added to the colourful mix of local characters were those who had travelled from the surrounding area specially to savour all the Duck had to offer – the comfortable interior, the beautifully decorated conservatory, the carefully selected range of culinary delights.
Phil had been brought up in the trade. His parents had run a variety of pubs over the years, from those on council estates, where only the most audacious ventured out after dark, to eventually buying their own small hotel on the outskirts of Harrogate. Phil had learned everything he could from them, helping out as soon as he was old enough. And along with all the requisite business skills, they’d also instilled in him the ethic that hard work pays off: an adage to which they were testament. They’d worked hard and saved hard – saved enough, in fact, to help Phil buy the Duck.
‘That should cover the deposit,’ his dad had said, shoving a cheque into Phil’s hand.
‘I can’t take that,’ he’d gasped, wide-eyed at the number of noughts.
‘Oh yes you can. That pub’s too good an opportunity to miss.’
Phil had bit his lip. The Duck was a good opportunity. An excellent opportunity. One that rarely came up. At twenty-five he’d been biding his time, waiting for the perfect place to come on the market, working and living with his parents, saving every penny. But even so, he didn’t have enough to cover the deposit.
‘I’ll pay you back when it takes off,’ he’d vowed.
And he had. The pub’s balance sheet had been healthy enough before he’d taken over. The only pub in the village, in an idyllic setting on the duck-ponded green, guaranteed its local trade. But, after carrying out meticulous research, Phil spotted a couple of new trends in the market: affluent young families were moving to the area bringing with them lots of disposable cash and regular epicurean visitors. And, culinary tastes were becoming much more discerning.
So he set out to exploit both these developments, adding a fabulous new conservatory to the back of the building, and offering a tempting selection of grub to suit all tastes – from the traditional to the exotic. Instilling a sense of pride in his staff, he’d built up a good, loyal team, most of whom had been with him for years. And his marketing outlay – huge initially – was now non-existent. Word of mouth, always the best recommendation, proved much more effective.
Saturdays being far too hectic to even draw breath, Phil allowed himself such moments of reflection every Sunday evening. And normally, amidst all the genial conviviality – not to mention the constant hum of the till – he experienced a warm glow of satisfaction.
This evening, though, he just felt sick. Sick to his very core. Like he could throw up at any moment.
‘Evening, Phil.’
His navel-gazing was cut short by Jake O’Donnell, who fitted Phil’s well-heeled client profile perfectly. Jake had moved to the village a couple of years ago when he’d married Annie. Phil liked Jake. He was a good, down-to-earth bloke, who wrote a lot of books by all accounts. Not that Phil had read any of them. His reading matter stretched only as far as Top Gear and Private Eye.
Plastering a smile onto his face, Phil pulled himself together and returned the pleasantry. ‘Hi, Jake. We don’t normally see you on a Sunday night. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Jake grimaced. ‘Annie’s ever-so-slightly-scary sister. She’s staying with us for a while.’
He indicated a table to the right where Annie and another attractive young woman sat perusing the menu. They both had the same honey-blonde hair, but there any discernible similarity ended. Annie was the quintessential girl next door, with her freckled face and messy ponytail. Her sister, with her sleek bob and magenta lipstick, looked like she had a poker somewhere uncomfortable.
‘Why so scary?’ he asked.
‘She’s an actuary. Scary by default. Smiling is prohibited in the world of risk assessment. Plus, Amelia used to run the whole department. Which makes her—’
‘Uber-scary,’ they snorted in unison.
‘How long is she staying?’
Jake shrugged. ‘No idea. She’s been made redundant, which has hit her pretty badly. If I was her, I’d have been delighted to get out – and with a big fat cheque. But her pride’s taken a battering. Annie felt really sorry for her and invited her up never expecting her to accept. But, to our amazement, she did. Quite what she’s going to do with herself, I have no idea. In fact, Annie and I are on complete tenterhooks wondering how it’s going to go, and the poor kids seem completely terrified of her. But that’s enough about us. How are things with you? Not long to the big move now. Everything sorted?’
As Phil turned to add a dash of gin to a glass, a surge of bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down before whisking back round. ‘Er, just about. A few loose ends to tie up, then I’ll be off.’
‘You’ll be a big miss. This place won’t be the same without you.’
And I won’t be the same without this place, Phil almost added. But he didn’t. It would sound pathetic. After all, how many people would love the chance to experience a new life in Brisbane? Would kill to have the Great Barrier Reef on their doorstep? Endless sunshine, golden beaches, and barbecues where you didn’t have to huddle in the garage because the heavens had opened?
Millions of people, he’d wager. It was just a shame he wasn’t one of them.
When Rachel had first mentioned emigrating, Phil had thought it nothing but a pipe dream. Didn’t everyone at some point fantasise about packing it all in and jetting off on an exotic adventure? But he should’ve known better. Rachel was a doer not a dreamer, and when she set her mind to something, that was it. After five years together, no one knew that better than Phil. He’d even featured on her list of goals at one stage. Years later, she admitted that the first time she’d seen him, whilst in the pub with a group of nursing friends, she’d decided she had to have him. Completely unbeknown to Phil, subtle enquiries as to his marital status had been made, followed by a dramatic increase in her visits to the pub, despite her residing in Harrogate at the time. One particular Saturday night, just after Phil had waved off the last customer and locked up, he’d been stacking glasses in the dishwasher when there’d been a rattle on the door.
‘I’m really sorry but I think I’ve left my sheepskin gloves here,’ Rachel purred, gazing up at him through dark, lowered, impossibly long lashes.
Phil furrowed his forehead. ‘Sheepskin gloves? But it’s the middle of July.’
Her bright red lips stretched into a mischievous smile. And that, of course, had been it. Lashes, lips, lustrous dark curls and a killer bod barely covered in a tiny mini-skirt and plunging top meant he hadn’t stood a chance. He’d taken her upstairs to his flat. Three hours and two bottles of Prosecco later, she’d been in his bed. And rarely out of it for the next few months.
Not that Phil made a habit of bedding all the attractive women who flirted with him. If he did, he’d rarely be out of bed. He could never quite fathom what it was about him that women found so attractive. He was of average height, average build – although regular runs ensured he kept in shape – and his features, although pleasant, were anything but startling.
‘It’s that twinkle in those cornflower-blue eyes,’ Rachel insisted, after observing Lydia Pemberton, one of the village’s randy middle-aged women, flirting with him. ‘And your gorgeous hair.’
Phil had to admit that if he’d been forced to name his best feature, he would’ve said his hair. Not that he spent much time on it. He couldn’t be bothered with all that gel, and mousse, and spiking and highlighting palaver. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. His shaggy mane of blond curls fell defiantly into the “surfer dude” category – a completely fortuitous coincidence, which appeared to sit well with the opposite sex.
‘I should make you shave it off before I leave for Oz tomorrow,’ Rachel said, running her hands through it as they’d lain in bed during their last evening together.
Phil’s stomach lurched. He wasn’t particularly vain, but well … his curls were part of him.
‘I’m only joking,’ she said, obviously sensing his distress. Then, she’d sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. And the tears had begun. ‘It’s just that I’m scared you’ll forget about me, or find someone else while I’m away.’
Phil balked inwardly. He really didn’t do the whole tears thing. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he replied dismissively. ‘Of course I won’t.’
Rachel wrenched a tissue from the box on the bedside table. ‘I really wanted us to start our new life together. But now this job has come up, I’d be stupid to turn it down.’
‘It’s a brilliant job. You had to take it,’ he assured her. And it was. A fantastic job. After going straight into nursing from school, Rachel had gone on to train as a midwife. And Brisbane’s biggest hospital had offered her her dream job – as manager of the unit.
She heaved a quivering sigh. ‘I know. But it just means things are happening much quicker than I’d planned. It could be months before you’re able to sort everything out here and join me.’
‘I’ll tie everything up as soon as I can.’
As promptly as they’d started, the tears stopped. ‘So you’ll sell the pub to the brewery?’
Phil’s heart stuttered. That hadn’t been what he’d meant at all. He’d had countless offers for the pub over the years but he wanted to sell it to someone like him. Someone who cared. Not some massive faceless corporation who’d rip out all the character to bring it in line with their “corporate branding”.
‘You know it makes sense,’ Rachel continued, the tearful scene obviously having finished as she began trailing kisses down his bare chest. ‘They’re offering you much more than anyone else would. And just think what we could do with all that dosh.’
Phil sighed. Of course she was right. The ridiculous sum the brewery had tossed on the table would enable them to buy a house outright in Brisbane, and still leave a decent sum for him to set up some kind of business. That was one stipulation he definitely was sticking to. Other than his parents, he’d never worked for anyone else. Nor did he intend to.
‘Okay,’ he huffed, as Rachel’s kissing stopped just short of his groin. ‘I’ll sell to the brewery.’
‘Good move, baby,’ she cooed, her head disappearing under the duvet. At which point Phil forgot all about pubs and breweries, and anything that did not involve Rachel’s luscious lips.
But that moment, as delectable as it had been, had been fleeting. As soon as the reality of what he’d promised had sunk in, Phil’s innards had been on a constant churning cycle. The rate of which had increased significantly following Rachel’s announcement last night.
‘I’ve found just the thing for you,’ her voice gushed across the ten thousand dividing miles. ‘A little pizza shop in the centre of town. They do wraps and everything.’
Phil couldn’t have cared less if they sold deep-fried caviar on silver platters. He could picture it now: a gleaming white soulless space with red posters dotted about the walls advertising “a tempting range of toppings”. It was hardly likely to be at the heart of Brisbane society, unlike the Duck – the backbone of Buttersley.
‘I’ll send you the link and all the pictures I’ve taken,’ she enthused.
‘Great,’ muttered Phil, unable to inject so much as a smidgeon of enthusiasm into his tone. Rachel appeared not to notice.
‘I’m on nights for the next week, babe, so I’ll call when I can.’
‘No problem,’ said Phil on a sigh of relief. Thank God he had a bit of a reprieve. With her constantly in touch, he felt like he’d lost track of his own opinions.
At least he had a bit of breathing space now.
But space to do what, he had absolutely no idea.
Chapter Four (#ulink_2abf0d10-6e38-5eae-9470-9874a1b812fe)
The first thing Amelia noticed when she awoke was her fuzzy head. The second was a strange sense of bewilderment. She couldn’t recall another Monday morning when she’d had nothing to do. In fact, she’d be hard pushed to think of any morning when she’d had nothing to do. Even on holiday she had a schedule: a swim before breakfast, a jog along the beach, a session in the gym. But this morning she had neither the energy nor the motivation to even slide out of bed. Perhaps she should just give into the urge and burrow under the duvet—
‘Thomas! Come out of there!’
Amelia jack-knifed up as her bedroom door flew open and in bowled a miniature Darth Vader brandishing a flashing lightsaber. Pip, red tinsel around his collar, followed, leaping onto Amelia’s bed with a great sense of purpose.
‘Gosh, I’m so sorry,’ apologised Annie, scuttling in after them. She scooped up her son with one hand and dragged the dog off the bed with the other. ‘I’ve told them to be quiet and stay away from your room but—’
‘It’s all right. I was just about to get up,’ lied Amelia.
‘You honestly don’t have to,’ said Annie. ‘You should have a lie-in. I would if I could. I really shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine last night.’
‘Me neither.’ Amelia didn’t normally drink so much. In fact, she rarely drank at all. A couple of glasses of champagne at work functions was as much as she ever risked. You couldn’t run an actuarial department without a razor-sharp mind. But she wasn’t running an actuarial department now, was she? She wasn’t doing anything. For the first time in her life she was completely without purpose.
‘So, any plans?’ Jake had asked her in the pub.
Amelia had toyed with a chunk of aubergine on her pasta salad as tears, once again, stung her eyes. ‘Er, no. Not at the moment,’ she’d managed to reply.
‘That’s not like you,’ Annie had pointed out. ‘You always have a plan – always striving towards your next career goal.’
I don’t have a next career goal, Amelia had wanted to wail. Thankfully, though, the attention had shifted to Mr Russell – the owner of the newsagent’s, who’d scuttled over to tell them he’d be closing the shop for a few days over the holidays as he was going to visit his family down south. As soon as he’d tottered off Amelia, unable to face more interrogation about her own sorry situation, had steered the conversation onto the much less emotive subject of Annie’s new tearoom.
‘Breakfast’s ready if you’re coming down,’ Annie informed her, whisking the interlopers out of the room and closing the door behind her.
Well, given she was now fully awake, Amelia concluded she might as well get up. Dragging herself out of bed, she padded over to the en suite and examined her reflection in the mirror. God! She looked terrible: skin the colour of putty, dark shadows beneath her bloodshot eyes, and not an ounce of her normally high-voltage energy. With a heavy sigh, she turned on the shower and whipped up a bottle of shampoo.
Half an hour later, showered and dressed in black designer jeans and a grey cashmere jumper, she wandered down to the kitchen. Sophie sat at the table in a blue gingham dress and navy cardigan, her hair in two fat bunches, spreading what looked like an entire jar of strawberry jam onto a tiny piece of toast. Cereal boxes and soggy cereal remnants, as well as a smattering of crockery – some clean, some used – a rack of wholemeal toast, and a half-full cafetière covered the table.
‘Hello,’ said Amelia.
Abandoning her toast-smearing for a moment, Sophie lifted her head and gazed at her aunt with huge green eyes. ‘Hello.’
Amelia immediately felt awkward – on the back foot. For heaven’s sake, she chided herself, she regularly presented to groups of highly educated, intelligent people. How on earth could a seven-year-old make her feel so self-conscious?
Resisting the urge to turn on her heel and shoot back upstairs and under the duvet, she pulled out the bench opposite her niece and plopped down onto it. She cleared her throat.
‘So. Are you, er, going to school today?’
Her earnest gaze still fixed on Amelia’s face, Sophie nodded.
‘Do you like school?’
Sophie nodded.
‘Do you have lots of friends there?’
Sophie nodded.
‘Right. Well, um, that’s nice.’ At a loss as to what else to say, Amelia reached for a slice of toast.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Sophie piped up.
Amelia’s toast slipped from her fingers, landing on a couple of Coco Pops, which had seen better days.
Before she could reply, Annie waltzed into the room, Darth Vader scuttling behind her.
‘Got to dash, I’m afraid,’ she said, whipping most of the detritus from the table. ‘It’s completely manic up at the manor at the moment. Portia’s rather gorgeous, and very generous, boyfriend, Jed, surprised her with a two-week holiday in the Caribbean, so while she’s sunning herself on a beach, the rest of us are running around like the proverbial blue-bottomed flies.’ She began bundling up the children in coats and scarves, then swiped up their accompanying baggage and headed for the front door.
‘If you want to take Pip for a walk, his lead and stuff is in the utility room,’ she called through from the hall. ‘Jake will be back at lunchtime. He’s up at the manor preparing for his next writing course. Come up later if you like. I can show you round the house, in all its newly refurbished glory. And you can sample our coffee and cake. I’ll leave a key on the table here for you.’
And with that, off they went.
No sooner had the door closed, than an eerie silence settled over the house, which suddenly seemed far too big. Unnerved by the dramatic change in atmosphere, Amelia spotted a radio on the kitchen bench. She wandered over and flicked it on. Stone Cold Sober by Paloma Faith floated out. With her back against the bench, gazing out into the frost-covered garden, she contemplated Sophie’s question.
Did she have a boyfriend?
Of course, for most people, the question would elicit a simple Yes or No. But not for Amelia. Her love life fell unreservedly into the “It’s Complicated” category. And yet again, there was no one to blame for that but herself …
‘Anyone sitting here?’ a gangly youth with dark floppy hair had asked on her first day at Cambridge. All the freshers had been summoned to a meeting on “Keeping Safe” in one of the lecture theatres.
Amelia had shaken her head, far too taken aback by how devastatingly good-looking he was to add any words to the gesture.
He plumped down on the bench alongside her. ‘I hate all this induction stuff, don’t you? Can’t wait to get it all over with and get down to some serious drinking. You coming to the meet ’n’ greet thing at the pub after this?’
Amelia hadn’t intended going to the meet ’n’ greet thing. She’d been planning on scrutinising her reading list for what must have been the twenty-seventh time, making doubly sure she’d crammed in as much as she could before lectures started. But, gazing into those sparkling hazel eyes as he awaited her response, she found herself nodding.
‘Great,’ he said, delicious lips stretching into a grin. ‘I’m Doug, by the way.’
‘Amelia,’ croaked Amelia, simultaneously wondering how her throat was suddenly lined with sand, if she’d managed to get her name right, and why all previous thoughts of reading lists, colleges and induction lectures had suddenly left the building, replaced with an overwhelming urge to kiss that delectable mouth.
For the next hour, while the speaker droned on about keeping away from the river if “one had partaken of alcohol”, and how bikes should be “secured at all times”, Amelia was aware of nothing more than Doug’s firm body squashed up against hers. She’d never had any interest in the opposite sex before – had been far too focused on achieving the grades for Cambridge to even think about having a boyfriend. But that hour sitting beside Doug proved an epiphany. Now she understood perfectly what all the girls at school had been clucking about. Because, for the first time in her life, something was happening to her that she couldn’t control. Something exciting that made her stomach flutter.
Having dreamt up dozens of ridiculously romantic scenarios around the pub meet ’n’ greet, when she really should have been listening to the dangers of leaving your laptop unattended, the reality of the occasion unfortunately came nowhere near her naïve and unrealistic expectations. Firstly, because she’d never been out drinking before: crowded pubs and copious amounts of alcohol were an entirely new – and extremely overwhelming – experience for her. And secondly, because the moment Doug fought his way over to her, another figure appeared at her side.
‘Hi. I’m Imogen Forster-Brown,’ said the tall willowy girl, shaking back a sheath of platinum-blonde hair. She ran a cursory glance over Amelia before turning cool blue eyes to Doug. ‘My friends call me Immy.’
Ten seconds in the girl’s presence was long enough for Amelia to know that she would never be calling her “Immy”. But for all Imogen continued her hair-flicking, gazing at Doug all the while with huge blue eyes, his hazel ones, much to Amelia’s astonished delight, seemed far more interested in her. He’d asked her out in the second week and Amelia had been so happy she’d thought her heart might burst. Over the ensuing months, they spent every spare moment together, and every day Amelia toppled further and further in love. Thanks to Doug, her first year at Cambridge became the best of her young life. Until she received her end-of-year exam results.
‘I’m afraid you’re really going to have to pull your socks up if you want to stay here,’ her tutor had warned.
Amelia had fled that excruciating meeting and headed straight to her room, where she’d spent the next thirty minutes throwing up. Of course she’d known she hadn’t been working as hard as she could – realised she was spending time she should’ve been studying with Doug. But, erroneously it seemed, she’d thought she might, for once, be able to balance the two – have some semblance of a normal life rather than dedicating every minute of the day to her work. Obviously she’d been wrong.
Doug, needless to say, had sailed through his exams, even achieving the highest grades in his year for his Economics studies. He was one of those enviable souls to whom academic prowess came easily. Unlike Amelia who had to slog for every one of her achievements. And slog she had – all the way through school to achieve this place at Cambridge. Just imagining the ignominy of being kicked off her course – of feeling a complete and utter failure – was enough to make her tremble from head to toe.
And so, two days before they packed up for the summer break, she made a momentous decision. For the sake of her entire future, she had to finish with Doug. She hadn’t come this far, she’d reasoned, to have it all snatched away from her. And there wasn’t only her to think about. Her parents would be devastated, along with the committee who’d painstakingly selected her for the prestigious scholarship. Indeed, even if it wasn’t a condition of the award, Amelia would feel obliged to pay back the generous contribution.
When she’d informed him of her decision, Doug had been gutted, pleading with her to change her mind but, despite falling apart inside, Amelia had stuck to her guns. And to avoid any temptation of jumping on a train and going to see him over the summer, she’d headed straight out to Goa where she’d spent the entire break with her parents. It had been the worst four months of her life, the ache in her chest and the hollow, sick sensation in her stomach increasing daily.
Dragging herself back to Cambridge that autumn had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. The moment she’d spotted Doug as he walked around the quad, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. Her entire body flooded with longing for him. She couldn’t believe how much she’d missed him, how much she ached to be in his arms again, how much she yearned to tell him she loved him. Because she did. Passionately. Absolutely. One hundred and ten per cent. Okay, so they’d have to restrict the time they spent together, and she wouldn’t come out with the first-class honours she’d always dreamed of, but so what? She’d settle for second or third class if it meant keeping Doug in her life.
She began to run after him, desperate to tell him all of this, when another figure appeared alongside him – one with a sheath of platinum-blonde hair. Imogen. Amelia came to a sudden halt as she watched them wind their arms around each other and exchange a passionate kiss. The hideous sensation that had suffused her, she could only describe as having a javelin pierce her heart.
And, once she’d firmly established that Doug and Imogen were indeed a couple, that feeling stayed with her for the next two years. Employing every strategy she could not to bump into them, she moved out of college and into a flat, a bus ride away from the university, avoided anything of a social nature, and launched herself into her studies. At the end of that torturous time, her resultant double first, which she once would willingly have offered her right arm for, seemed pointless, but it had at least made her parents proud and the scholarship committee congratulate themselves on selecting such a model student.
From Cambridge, she’d gone straight to Providential where, yet again, she’d thrown herself into her work. She’d had to. There’d been so much to take in that at times she’d thought her head might detonate. But, terrified of receiving another “you’ll have to pull your socks up” lecture, petrified of being found wanting and exposed as a fraud, she’d had to give it her all. Plus, completely absorbing herself in Statistical Methods meant less time to think about Doug, and absolutely no time to so much as contemplate another relationship, despite receiving numerous offers. Her heart had been well and truly shattered. And although the situation had been entirely of her own making, there was no way she would ever risk putting herself through that torture again.
So Amelia dedicated her entire life to her career – a concept most men, thankfully, appeared to find a turn-off, and most women found intimidating. Over time, she grew to accept that state of affairs – became resigned to being alone. And that was the way she’d imagined things would continue, until ten months ago.
‘I’m delighted to say that we have, at last, appointed a new marketing director,’ the MD announced at a staff meeting. ‘His name is Doug Carver. You might know him actually, Amelia, he was at Cambridge the same time as you.’
Amelia’s jaw dropped. Her head began to swim. She had the strange sensation of looking down on herself, like she was present in body but not in mind. It was several seconds later before she realised the entire room was staring at her.
‘Oh, er, yes. Yes,’ she’d stammered. ‘I, er, do know him.’
She refrained from adding just how well. Over the years she’d resisted the constant urge to google him, to follow his career. But, on a particularly wet, miserable day in February a couple of years ago, she’d given in. Huddled up with her laptop, her heart pounding so hard she’d thought it might bring on a coronary, she’d typed his name into the search engine. And up he popped, working for a multinational retailer in their New York office. A photograph accompanied his profile. The moment she saw it, her stomach had flipped. He looked older, of course, and his hair, no longer floppy, was short and trendy. But he was still Doug. Her Doug. Or at least that had been her thought for a few seconds. Until she googled Imogen who, she discovered, was a freelance journalist, also working in New York. A series of pictures of the pair of them attending high-profile celebrity events had also been magnanimously provided. After that, Amelia hadn’t looked again. But now here he was – Providential’s new marketing director. How the hell was she going to handle that?
Not very easily, it transpired.
‘And of course you already know Amelia,’ the MD said, when Amelia entered the meeting room ten minutes after everyone else on Doug’s first day at Providential. She hadn’t intended being late but the nerves, which had steadily ballooned as the dreaded day approached, had got the better of her that morning. And despite – or perhaps because of – swallowing half a bottle of herbal calming pills, she’d thrown up in the work loos.
‘How are you, Amelia?’ Doug asked, rising to his feet and striding over to shake her hand.
Amelia had thought she might keel over as she’d placed her hand in his. Thankfully she’d managed to hold it together.
‘We’ve had to make a slight adjustment to Doug’s induction programme,’ the MD informed her, sparing her the need to cobble together something resembling a response. ‘He’ll be spending the next two days with you, Amelia. Sorry for the short notice, but you won’t have to make any adjustments to your diary. The idea is that he sees exactly how we operate here.’
Amelia didn’t have a clue how she was going to operate from now on. Just seeing Doug, hearing his voice, breathing in his scent, which still seemed so familiar despite all the intervening years, dredged up all the feelings she’d long since resigned to that faraway place known as the past.
‘Can you believe this?’ he asked, the following day when they were alone in her office. He grinned at her across the desk, hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘You look great. How’ve you been?’
‘Oh, fine, you know,’ she replied, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking half as much as her legs. ‘You?’
‘Good. Really good. I spent a couple of years in New York and then moved to Sydney. But it’s great being back home. Great seeing you.’
At his obvious enthusiasm at their unexpected reunion, Amelia’s emotions executed a swift turnaround and, for the first time since being informed of his appointment, she found herself smiling. ‘It’s a bit weird though, isn’t it?’ she said hesitantly.
Doug laughed. ‘Weird but brilliant.’
The two days he spent with her were, much to Amelia’s amazement, a complete and utter pleasure. She’d forgotten just how easily he could make her laugh, how relaxed she felt in his presence. Rather than the exhausting charade of trying to be someone else, with Doug she could just be herself. And every time he looked at her with those twinkling hazel eyes, yet another part of the igloo she’d assiduously constructed around her heart melted away.
She hadn’t asked about Imogen and Doug hadn’t mentioned her. But finding out that he’d moved from New York to Sydney, she clung to a scrap of hope that perhaps they’d split up.
They hadn’t. But by the time Amelia found out, it was too late. Three weeks into Doug’s appointment had come the Providential Annual Conference. An event to which she usually dedicated every bit of her attention. With Doug there, though, not one speaker, however impressive and well researched their presentation, had held her interest for more than three minutes.
‘Let’s skip the talk this evening and go for a drink,’ he suggested, nudging her in the ribs like a naughty schoolboy.
Amelia had rolled her eyes. ‘You might be a big-shot director, Mr Carver, but you really haven’t changed a bit,’ she joked.
‘Would you want me to?’
Amelia had gazed into those sparkling hazel eyes and shaken her head. ‘No. I wouldn’t.’
Just to confirm what she’d already long since suspected, those few seconds had been enough for her to know that she was still hopelessly in love with this man. Every one of her feelings for him had returned – with several years of interest added. She loved Doug Carver – and she always would.
The drink had inevitably led to a meal, and then a kiss. A kiss that – outside the Italian restaurant in which they’d spent two of the best hours of Amelia’s life, giggling like a couple of schoolkids and spooning each other creamy desserts – had sent her head reeling. They’d ended up in her bed at the hotel, where several more best hours of her life had followed.
‘There’s something I really should tell you,’ Doug had said, gazing down at her afterwards.
With a lurch of her stomach, Amelia had known instinctively what it was.
‘It’s Imogen. We’re still together.’
‘Don’t you think you should have told me that before you got into my bed?’ she asked, blinking back the tears that had sprung to her eyes.
Doug grimaced. ‘I know. I meant to. It’s just that – well – I didn’t plan any of this. Seeing you again has brought back all those feelings I used to have – still have – for you. I loved you, Amelia. To distraction. And you’ll never know how much you hurt me when you dumped me.’
At that, the tears had begun to flow. ‘You know why I finished it. I couldn’t risk being thrown out of Cambridge. My parents – the scholarship – everything would have been ruined.’
‘I was ruined. I was in bits.’
‘You didn’t look like you were in bits. When I saw you and Imogen snogging in the quad the first week back.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I felt like I’d lost an arm that summer. So when she rang me up and invited me down to her place, I went. One thing just led to another.’
‘And have been continuing to lead to another for the last ten years. Things must be pretty good if you’ve lasted that long.’
‘Actually, they’re not. Up until now we’ve rarely lived in the same country. I guess it’s been easier just to let things drift than make any decisions. And it wouldn’t be easy to break off anything with Imogen. You know what she’s like.’
Amelia did know what she was like. Imogen’s mother, Imogen had informed her – and everyone else in the pub during the meet ’n’ greet at Cambridge – had been a famous model in the 1980s and had married a minor aristocrat. Brought up at some lavish mansion and sent to the best school in the country where she’d mingled with the offspring of the rich and famous, Imogen wasn’t particularly bright – in fact, Amelia suspected she’d only got into Cambridge because of her family connections. She’d scraped through with a third-class degree in English which, again, Amelia suspected was more down to nepotism – and possibly one or two large cheque towards the refurbishment of the college library – than intellect or ability. But none of that would matter to Imogen. She was used to getting whatever she wanted. And she’d obviously wanted Doug from that very first evening.
‘But surely, if things aren’t that great, you’d be better off splitting up. Even she must see that.’
He shrugged. ‘I think she probably has a different take on it to me. And from my side, I’ve never really felt the need before. There’s never been anyone else and it’s worked out okay, I suppose, meeting up with her every few weeks. But now you’re back in my life and I—’
Amelia’s heart stuttered. ‘What?’
He gazed at her for several seconds during which time any lingering fragments of ice in that area of her anatomy dissolved into a pool of water. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.’
‘Me too,’ she’d whispered, savouring that heavenly sensation of floating on air.
But all that had been ten months ago, during which time Amelia had clattered down to earth with an almighty bump. She loved Doug with a passion, but she didn’t want to be “the other woman”. She wanted him all to herself: to have a normal life with him, doing normal things, like wandering round the supermarket, spending lazy Sunday mornings in bed, going for a stroll in the park.
But he was doing all those things with Imogen, living with her in an apartment in Kensington. Up until now, Amelia hadn’t liked to put too much pressure on him. After all, it was early days in their rekindled relationship. They needed to get to know one another again – find out if the special bond that had once tethered them together could be retied. And, for all she felt sick every time he mentioned “Immy”, ten years with someone was an incredibly long time. Plus, Amelia wanted to be sure of her own feelings, confident they could have a future together, before he did anything drastic. But, last month, having spent every spare moment they could together, she became impatient.
‘Where do you think this is going?’ she asked one evening, after they’d tumbled into bed together.
‘I know where I want it to go. I want to be with you. I’ve never stopped loving you.’
Rather than swooning in his arms like she would normally have done at such a proclamation, Amelia had sat up and looked him directly in the eye. ‘So does this mean you’re going to tell Imogen about us?’
He’d nodded. ‘I am. In the next couple of weeks. I promise.’
And she’d believed him.
Until something happened to postpone his “announcement” …
A cackle of laughter on the radio jolted her back to the present. Blinking back yet another round of tears, she sucked in a fortifying breath before beginning to clear away the remainder of the breakfast dishes, suddenly aware that her every move was being monitored by a pair of dark canine eyes from a basket in the corner.
‘Well,’ she announced, ‘in the absence of any better ideas, Mr Pip, I think we should go for a walk, don’t you?’
Chapter Five (#ulink_af2fc829-ec20-58c6-a49e-ed8ce9aebcc9)
Snuggled under her duvet on Monday morning, Ella gazed at the freshly printed photograph and heaved a satisfied sigh. She trawled through the internet every day just in case any new pictures had been added. Last night’s discovery was particularly delicious. A head-and-shoulder shot, against a dazzling white wall. She’d add it to her secret scrapbook later, but for now she just wanted to savour it. To drool over the divine bone structure, the jet-black hair, the smouldering dark eyes. Eyes that reduced her insides to mush every time he looked at her.
Ella couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she’d fallen in love with Jake O’Donnell, but she suspected it might well have been the first time she’d ever seen him. It had been in the newsagent’s a couple of years ago, not long after he’d arrived in Buttersley. She’d heard rumblings of a famous author moving to the village of course, but hadn’t been particularly interested given her indifference to all things bookish. She much preferred the celebrity magazines she’d wandered into the shop specifically to purchase. She’d been browsing the meagre selection offered by old Mr Russell, the owner, when in marched a tall man with jet-black hair, a wide, stubbled jaw, razor-sharp cheekbones and just about the broadest shoulders Ella had ever seen. So devastatingly gorgeous was he, that he’d literally taken her breath away. Glued to the spot, she’d gawped as he’d whipped up a couple of packets of mints and a copy of The Guardian, exchanged a few cheery words with Mr Russell at the till, then whisked out. It was several seconds later before she’d managed to pull herself together.
‘Well, now,’ old Mr Russell had said, peering at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles as, in something of a trance, she’d shuffled over to the counter and began rummaging in her bag for her purse, ‘what do you think of Buttersley having its very own celebrity?’
Ella had furrowed her brow, her head still reeling from that glorious vision.
‘That was Jake O’Donnell, the famous writer,’ he added, with obvious triumph at being able to impart this succulent piece of information. ‘A very welcome addition to the village, I think.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Ella agreed. But probably for quite different reasons.
Unfortunately, as she still attended school in Harrogate during the week, her sightings of Jake had been few and far between over the next couple of years. But every time she did catch a glimpse of him – even if he just drove past – her heart would skip a beat and her pulse would soar. And that’s as far as she’d ever imagined her adulation would stretch – admiring her hero from afar. Until she started working at the tearoom …
Back in July, she’d been in the courtyard struggling to collapse one of the parasols on the wooden picnic tables. Hunkered underneath it on the table, she couldn’t budge the pin but there was no way on the planet she was going to ask for help from the one other member of the waiting staff. Growing up with four brothers, Ella hated asking boys for anything: a) because they never let you forget it, and b) because she deemed herself as capable as any male.
Crouched on the table, she was attempting to devise a new pin-budging strategy, when, to her astonishment, a familiar jeep pulled up next to her and out popped Jake O’Donnell. It had been a couple of months since Ella’s last sighting of him. He’d been on the opposite side of the high street to her. In a sharp navy suit he’d looked like he’d stepped straight off a Parisian catwalk. Now, in faded jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, hair all dishevelled, jaw sporting at least three days’ worth of stubble, he looked completely different – but equally as delectable. So much so, that Ella’s breath caught in her throat, her heart rate rocketed and her bent legs turned to cotton wool. As he’d marched over to her, she’d clung on to the parasol as if her life depended on it.
‘Got a problem there?’ he asked, grinning.
Somewhat star-struck at being so close to the object of her long-held desire, anything remotely resembling vocal communication deserted Ella. In the absence of any alternatives, she’d nodded.
‘Is it the pin?’ he asked, sticking his head under the shade and narrowing his eyes at the offending item. He was now so close Ella could smell his minty breath. Terrified she might keel over, she tightened her grip on the pole.
‘We have the same problem with ours at home,’ Jake ploughed on, evidently oblivious to the effect his presence was having on his number one fan. ‘You’d think they’d have come up with a better design by now, wouldn’t you? If you come down, I’ll have a look if you like.’
He withdrew his head and held out a hand to her. Ella gaped at it for a few seconds before realising, with an acute stab of embarrassment, that it would be weird to stare at it for a second longer.
‘Um, thanks,’ she mumbled. Placing her hand in his, a dart of something she’d never before experienced zipped down her spine. Her hand remained in his as she clambered down from the table, ending up just inches away from him.
‘I don’t think we’ve met before,’ he said, dark eyes boring into hers. ‘I’m Jake. Annie’s husband.’
‘Ella,’ she muttered, unable to tear her gaze from his. ‘Ella Hargreaves.’
‘Hi, Jake,’ said Dan, the waiter, sauntering through the tearoom door and shattering the most divine moment of Ella’s life. ‘I was just coming out to see if Ella needed any help. Are you looking for Annie?’
Jake nodded as he released his hold of Ella’s hand. ‘I am. I’ve tried calling here but the line is constantly engaged. And her mobile’s totally dead.’
‘We’ve had a stream of suppliers ringing in,’ informed Dan, who Ella could, at that moment, quite happily have strangled. ‘And Annie dropped her mobile in the cake mix earlier. She did mention something about going to Miranda’s to drop off some balloons for a party they were organising, though.’
‘Ah. Right. That explains that then,’ said Jake, shaking his head in mock despair. ‘Well, sorry to bother you. Lovely to meet you, Ella. I’ll no doubt see you again.’
God, I hope so, Ella resisted replying.
‘I’m really sorry about Jake barging in like that yesterday,’ Annie had apologised the next morning. ‘He’s on a deadline with his latest book so he’s a bit hyper.’
‘It was no problem,’ Ella had replied. Because it really hadn’t been. Admiring Jake O’Donnell from afar had been one thing, but meeting him face-to-face, in all his dishevelled, unshaven glory; being so close to him she could smell his breath; having him wrap his hand around hers, had stirred something in her she hadn’t known existed. Something fluttery and exciting. Something that made her tingle from head to toe.
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