Книга - Since You’ve Been Gone

Since You've Been Gone
Anouska Knight


Anouska Knight; winner of ITV Lorraine's Racy Reads brings a brand-new, fresh and funny voice to British women’s fiction with an inspirational personal story.She’s loved and lost – will she ever learn to open her heart again? In one tragic moment, Holly Jefferson’s life as she knows it changes for ever. Now, to the external world, everything’s ‘fine’: she’s renovating her cottage, running her own business, Cake – and generally just getting on with it.What she feels inside is a different story: lost, alone, unsure of the future – and certain she’ll never love again. When she meets handsome Ciaran Argyll, son of a self-made millionaire businessman, she thinks their worlds couldn’t be more different. He’s rich, confident and gets by on his looks; she’s just trying to get by.However, there’s more to Ciaran than the superficial world that surrounds him, and he too is wrestling with his own ghosts. Will Holly find the missing ingredient that allows her to put her grief behind her – and embrace an unknown and unexpected tomorrow?












Since You’ve Been Gone

Anouska Knight







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


For my boys, who I love more than snow




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


Thanks always to Jimmy Kay, for giving me the freedom to try new shoes and for dusting me off when I stumble.

To Radley Bo and Lochleberry Wolf, for stoically surviving weeks of pizza and computer games while mummy learned to type with more than two fingers—we’ll be back to vegetables and homework soon boys, hold on!

To Tarien, for your calm, and Mena, for your crazy.

I love you.

Thanks immensely to all of my family—Clans Knight, Howell and Charles—who have been quick to encourage and slow to criticise.

To my rambunctious friends—you know who you are—for laughing with me, at me and for me; I’m told you can choose ‘em … thank you for choosing me.

To my editor, The Don, for your insight and guidance, and for cracking a very scary whip with a gentle hand. Thanks a mill; you’ve been incredible.

To the inimitable Jackie Collins and the super-sassy Victoria (The) Fox—along with the powers that be at Harlequin (UK) Ltd, Mills & Boon and ITV—for opening this door to us. Thank you all so much.

And to all of those who I should know to thank and shamefully haven’t—I’m a rookie! I’m sorry! Thank you!

Finally, to Gertie and Egg Man and your unequivocal faith in me. Thank you. I love you.









CHAPTER 1


It was supposed to be a day off. He’d promised me he wouldn’t be gone long. He just needed to check that the lads were behaving themselves, staying safe; he didn’t want to be writing up any more incidents of severed anythings for a while, and that meant keeping on top of them. I’d promised to make his favourite, lemon and basil linguine, and he’d promised to be home on time, before it had chance to spoil.

I looked down at the cool clagging mess of pasta I’d been pushing around the plate in front of me and tried not to feel abandoned. I automatically set my knife and fork neatly on top, handles parallel in the four o’clock position as was appropriate for a meal finished, and wondered again why the hell I bothered.

Table manners were one of those ironies, superfluous to those who for the most part ate with company who really didn’t care whether elbows were on the table or not.

My mother Pattie had drilled them into us when we were kids, and would be less than impressed to see her little girl roughing it out over the breakfast bar instead of using any one of the twelve redundant dining chairs. Catching wind of how often I ate over the sink would be enough to trigger her mouth to twitch.

The tic of disapproval—I’d seen that a few times.

We all knew that my mother had endured a life of discomfiture, not quite able to keep up with her friends on my father’s average income. She loved him, we knew that too—how could she not?—but my mother hadn’t resisted overcompensating by raising Martha and me as though we were enrolled in some sort of finishing school, prepping us for the best chances of bagging ourselves a lawyer or doctor—anyone, in fact, with means. She thought little girls should be ladylike, grow up to find husbands who could provide them with a good standard of living, therefore guaranteeing their happy ever after.

But I know all about those.

With my sister Martha, Mum’s strategy had largely stuck, although Martha had been deft enough to find a lawyer with a big heart. But when I’d first seen Charlie, loading logs onto his boss’s truck, sun-kissed forearms flexing from underneath his forest-issue jacket, and absolutely no concept of how attractive he was, I knew right then who my table manners were for.

Mum had warned me that Charlie was rough around the edges; unrefined, she’d said, with too much charm for his own good. That twenty-five was too young to get married—to a forester at least—and that it would all end in tears.

She’d been right. Charlie had a lot to be sorry for these days.

I watched as flecks of basil cemented themselves to the plate in front of me.

I needed to call my parents.

I hadn’t spoken to them for nearly three weeks and I was supposed to keep them updated on the size of Martha’s ankles. Being twenty-seven didn’t afford me much respite from my mother’s rightness, but thankfully the three hour flight between the UK and their retirement home on Menorca did.

The stool wobbled from under me as I slid from it and rounded the breakfast bar, plonking my things into the left of two adjacent Belfast sinks. We’d gone for his and hers, Mr Jefferson and I. Largely because I couldn’t stand it when Charlie barged into the kitchen with an armful of muddy veg, and partly—quietly—because there was an element of charm having two sinks sat side by side in front of the best view in the house. Those are the kinds of uncharacteristic decisions you make when you’re love drunk. That blissful time before the tears arrived.

I looked for more washing up on the worktops while water thrashed into the sink over the handful of items I’d deposited there. It was six forty-five.

Where is he? I wondered, squirting a generous dose of washing liquid into the steaming bowl. I’d called dinner already.

There was still no sign of him outside as I plunged my hands into the hot suds. The skin between my fingers was starting to get a little sore. I could invest in a pair of Marigolds but my hands were washed so many times at the cake shop it seemed pointless to bother with gloves at home.

Martha said I’m the only person she knows who actively opts to use the sink over the dishwasher. Martha’s the only person I know who actively opts to teeter precariously on heels at eight months pregnant, indifferent to the fact her ankles are now as wide as her knees. She’s tried to convince me of the benefits of heels—elongation of the leg, posture, femininity in general—just as I’ve tried explaining to her that unless we’re having guests for dinner it would take me a week to fill the dishwasher. Besides, this view across the valley is more than worthy of the occasional chapped hand.

When we’d first bought our half of the farmhouse from Mrs Hedley next door, we widened this window for just that reason. A stunning view through the side face of the cottage, out across the gentle fall of our lawns to the blue-black waters of the reservoir.

You can see every colour nature has to offer through that window, helped no end by Charlie’s weakness for planting the foreground with every bulb, shrub and tree he could get away with. When we’d started renovating the cottage he’d concentrated on planting the grounds, so that while the two of us battled it out over room colours, the gardens would all the while be growing.

Eventually, I had to start hiding his wallet during the garden centre’s opening hours. It lives in my dresser now with other important, useless things.

I realised now, I’d nagged him too much.

I snatched my hand free as scalding water I hadn’t anticipated stung at the back of it, then resumed my surveillance through the glass. The lawns needed cutting. Long grass growing tall against legs of rusting garden furniture.

Where is he? I asked myself again.

I had a straight view down onto half of the reservoir, the rest obscured by the small copse of trees and bushes Charlie had lopped the tops from after our last big row. Chainsaws were an unusual way to relieve tension, but it had worked for him and the trees were already nearly back to the same height. If I had to bet on it, I’d say my wayward company was over there somewhere.

He couldn’t be far but he’d obviously found something far more interesting than my chicken and pasta. Maybe he was sore at me; I’d shouted at him this morning. It was the second time he’d left me to eat alone this week, but I wasn’t going to let my meal go cold while I stood on the doorstep hollering like a fishwife. If he wanted to eat his later, fine, but if he kept this up he’d be eating out of tins.

I’d been less than three minutes at the sink and the dishes were done. Martha would never be convinced, but we’d always been different. The picture sat on the sink windowsill testified to that.

My hair had been longer when the photo was taken, but the panic attacks had been easier to manage once I’d hacked off my loose straggly curls. Long hair was an avoidable hindrance when struggling for breath in bed at night.

Further down the kitchen the air was warmer where the earlier light had streamed into the room; Charlie had created a sun-trap here between the two cream bookcases he’d built perpendicular to the window seat. This was where he chose to eat breakfast every morning, with the sun on his back and the dog somewhere near his feet.

Charlie’s mum had said that the one hundred and eighty degree views from the kitchen across all of the gardens would come in very handy when her grandchildren started to arrive. Particularly if they were anywhere near as naughty as their father. Naughty children weren’t the problem here.

The side doors clicked open and I stepped out into the garden. ‘Dave? Dave? Last call, big guy.’ A handful of birds skittered from the tops of the trees Charlie had attacked. He was coming. I could see him now, galumphing his way up the hill.

He was one ugly creature. A blundering spectacle of pale brown fur as he ran up the embankment towards me, his whole face flying in every direction as the black of his dewlap momentarily defied gravity.

He reached my feet and lolloped back onto his haunches, tail thumping against the ground.

‘Hi, Dave.’ Dave huffed a response. ‘You’re late for dinner.’ I scowled.

He didn’t seem repentant as I followed him into the house.

I kicked my boots off in the hall to the sounds of him inhaling the chicken I’d left for him, making it halfway up the stairs before the phone rang below me.

I knew it would be Martha, calling to check which roast she should make for us Sunday. I didn’t want to stay for lunch, but so far I hadn’t worked out what my excuse was going to be.

The phone rang on, pricking my conscience. It might not be lunch. It could be the baby. My hand made a play for the handset when the answerphone cut in.

‘Hi, you’ve reached the Jeffersons’ money pit. We can’t get to phone right now—I’ll be hanging from a stepladder somewhere, and Holly will be out begging our friends to come help us. Leave a message.’

‘Hol? It’s me. I was just wondering if you’d like lamb on Sunday? Or chicken? I think we have chicken too. If you prefer? Why aren’t you home yet? Call me when you get home. OK, love you. Bye.’

Dave joined me at the foot of the stairs. ‘Now you want to keep me company? Stand me up for dinner but happy to watch me take a shower?’ Dave didn’t answer.

The bare timber treads were hard underfoot as I made my way back upstairs, but there were benefits of having no carpets or wallpaper yet, like not having to worry when sixteen stones of mastiff shadowed you around the house.

Dave made himself comfortable on the bathroom tiles while I hopped under the steaming jets of the shower. Clouds of icing sugar dust had left their usual residue all over me. Sugar seemed to cling to skin as it did to teeth.

Bugger.

I’d forgotten to buy a new toothbrush today. Mine had become steadily more and more feathered next to its neighbour over at the sink, which I’d told my sister was a spare. I could buy one before work in the morning, or I could bring mine back from Martha’s after the weekend. If I remembered, I’d been so tired lately. I’d be sleepwalking again by November.

Dave was snoozing peacefully when I stepped from the steam. The air was cool on my damp shoulders when I crossed the landing to my bedroom. I quickly dried off and wriggled into my favourite baseball tee and slouchies. It was too early to go to bed yet, just looking at it reminded me of the trouble I was having in that department, if trouble was the right word for it. It came in waves, I’d realised, and while I could do without the tiredness I was desperate to enjoy another visit from him tonight. I didn’t want to jinx anything so I’d stick with the formula that had seemed to work lately and slip into bed around ten.

Killing time had become a compulsion. Minutes, weeks … now years. I could find something to do for a couple of hours, the meagre pile of ironing that had been sat on my dresser would do. I fished out a few hangers from the wardrobe and began squeezing more clothes in there. A second wardrobe was one of the things we’d never gotten around to. I straightened up the garments I’d disrupted and scanned the perfect uniformity of Charlie’s side of the hanging rail. How did dust even get into wardrobes? Was it some sort of domestic phenomenon? I pulled a few items out for closer inspection. Charlie’s summer jacket, Charlie’s winter coat, Charlie’s shirt, Charlie’s shirt, Charlie’s shirt. I blew the unloved items in my arms free of their dustings, trying not to let the resentment bubble up in me so close to bedtime. But it was always there, lurking just under the surface, waiting for its chance of escape.

Yes, Charlie Jefferson. You have a lot to be sorry for.









CHAPTER 2


I didn’t want it to stop.

It was perfect. The perfect choreography of his need pulsing with my own, grinding in against my hungering body. I’d missed this, I’d missed this so much. Somewhere in the distance, I knew we were against the clock, but it was a warning I pushed away. We were here now and that’s all that mattered.

He’d come.

Everything I had, every thirsty nerve ending desperate for his touch, I could feel him with, taste him with, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more, more of this delicious euphoria. Goosebumps raged over me every time his breath chilled the thin film of sweat on my skin, the sweet earthy scent of him swelling around me with every delectable thrust, the saltiness of his neck inviting me to taste him again—I wanted to drink it all down, to gorge myself with everything of him I was being allowed.

Charlie found his rhythm and locked in on me. I let him. The slick covering of sweat we had each bestowed upon the other the only relief in what would otherwise be a crushing frenzy of need. I didn’t care. I wanted it to reign over me like an insatiable creature, to devour me, to gorge itself on us both and force us harder into one another until the lines between our writhing bodies were no more.

I used the hard press of the wall behind me to defy him, to remain unyielding to all that strength as he forced himself into me, again and again. I managed to pull my head away from him, away from all that reward my senses so wanted, so that I could better see the face that had changed my world.

I couldn’t hold myself away for long. My hands were already reaching up to slide desperate fingers through the short ruffle of his hair, to grab what I could and take hold of all that dark splendour before pulling his head far enough away to reveal those arresting blue eyes.

He was so beautiful, a perfect combination of light and dark, in all things. From his character to his features he was the best of both extremes. His pale eyes were staggering against the near-black chestnut of his hair and depending on his mood could hold all the warmth of a Bahamian lagoon or the foreboding of a frozen lake.

He looked back to me now, those eyes the colour of ice water as they burned voraciously at me. He made my breath catch in my throat as though it wasn’t supposed to be there—not looking at me but into me, to the promise of the gratification I would give him. I knew from those eyes that only dark thoughts were governing Charlie now, and it excited me.

The first wave of warmth began to build in me, deep and low. It chased all threads of cohesiveness away and I broke eye contact, searching the air around him for any sign of the next moment my pleasure would find me out again. He responded to the shift in my breathlessness as though he could smell the change creeping its way through me.

Another roll, building and building below … warm between my legs spreading outwards through that part of me and up through my core, towards my breasts, to my neck where Charlie’s hands chased it. It was coming to claim me. The thought of it overpowering me, sweeping me away on a torrent of pleasure was enough to send me spiralling into its grasp. I struggled to keep rhythm with him now. The choreography was gone as we neared the final act that would see us both explode into our sweet trembling crescendo. I wanted to share it with him, for him to see in my eyes what he did to me, but Charlie was in his own fight, his broad shoulders tense around me as he thundered fiercely through me harder and faster and—

I lost my hold on his hair and felt my body being yanked away from him, away into my ocean of pleasure. I wanted to drown in all that sensation, again and again and again, but not without him. He has to come too! Desperately I raked my fingers along the centre of his back, down the tanned musculature he’d unintentionally honed through years of working in the forest, and finally, I succumbed to all that he’d offered me.

The last thing, the only thing, I heard besides the frantic labouring of our lungs, was my name on his lips.

Holly …

Cold realisation.

Morning is the cruellest time of the day. Between the hours of five and eight a.m., grief and remembrance live.

Cruelty’s not confined to those hours, if only that were the case I could just engineer my sleep pattern to skip the daily ordeal, but the truth is any part of the day can be as crushing when you wake on the battle line between dreams and reality, only to find you’re always standing on the wrong side.

I clamped my eyes shut before they tried to find the clock on the dresser, burying myself back beneath my duvet to savour the last echoes of my dream. Sleep, Holly … get him back. But even thinking pulled him away.

Charlie had died two days after his twenty-seventh birthday. It had been twenty-two months since I’d last felt his touch, and five minutes since I’d last heard his voice.









CHAPTER 3


The cake sitting downstairs was not the sort of thing an eighty-year-old lady should be looking at. I needed it out of the house and in the van, before Mrs Hedley, our neighbour, could poke her head out of her front door.

It took minutes to throw my clothes on and run a brush through my hair before loosely pinning it back in a scruffy bun. I liked scruffy buns, I liked anything that began with scruffy. Easier, quicker, done. Dave watched me as I applied a touch of powder in the mirror of the dresser, disguising the signs under my eyes of my recent sleepless nights. I’d savoured last night, every precious second I’d had with Charlie, but I still looked washed out.

I slipped on a pair of navy ballerina pumps, shut Dave up in the kitchen, grabbed my things and the cake and crept out over the gravelled path. I shouldn’t really be wearing jeans to deliver to a stately home, but they were indigo and it had gotten dark as I’d changed. If I was lucky I’d just be in and out and my clothing would remain irrelevant. I was also delivering outside of shop hours and at nearly eight o’clock on a Friday night, they were lucky I wasn’t in pyjamas.

The darkness of the yard made avoiding Mrs Hedley a little easier, and getting the cake safely into the back of the van a little more perilous. Peril was the name of the game when it came to delivering cakes and a van as old as my dad didn’t help that.

I’d just clicked my belt into place when Mrs Hedley opened her door and waved to me across the yard.

As soon as I wound down the driver’s window, I instantly regretted it. You could roll the thing down all right, it was getting it to slide back up again that was the trick.

‘I’m just popping out, Mrs Hedley, I’ll only be an hour or so. Don’t worry when you see the lights coming back up the track,’ I called. As if. We were secluded here but Mrs Hedley was the scariest thing in these parts.

She started waving so I started driving, steadily over the dirt track towards the main road, fighting all the way with the jammed handle.

It had never worked. We’d had Charlie’s truck to use between us, but I needed something for deliveries. I had my eye on a nice clean little utility van, but Charlie said I needed something to help my business stand out from the crowd. Those innocent blue eyes of his had made easy work of convincing me that a Morris Minor was the best van for me. It was a cartoon of a vehicle, in deep burgundy with CAKE! emblazoned on both sides in bold gold lettering. I must have been mental. Cakes needed suspension. This van did not have suspension.

After five minutes of crawling my way steadily over the stones and divots of the track, I finally made it onto the smooth of the road. It was a straight run to Hawkeswood Manor Hall, about half an hour’s drive from the cottage, less if I didn’t detour around the forest. Which I would. I didn’t use that road any more, not since flowers had appeared tied to the trees.

Once out on the road, I relaxed, as the ride became a much easier one. Smoother, but definitely not much faster. Charlie had said that not managing more than fifty before the engine started screaming in protest was all part of the van’s charm. Charm had a lot to answer for around these parts. The van was just one more in a long line of Charlie’s daft ideas, like adopting a dog who ate more than we did, and driving into work on his day off when he should have been eating breakfast with his wife.

A car approached from the other direction, giving me a chance to check the cake when their lights fell across the van. There were no streetlights here as the forest began to thicken out along the roadside.

All good so far, Hawkeswood was about another fifteen minutes away.

At the week’s start, Jesse and I had just begun the Monday morning ritual of divvying up jobs for the days ahead when the first customer of the week, a Mrs Ludlow-Burns, had walked into Cake.

‘Testicles,’ she’d said tartly from the other side of the counter, ‘on a plate. If you’re up to the job?’ Her cool grey eyes had deviated then, first inspecting the displays around her, then giving all of Jesse’s six-foot-something of male glory a considered once-over. Wide and athletic, he towered over the woman, but despite the pearls and tweed she was by far the more intimidating of the two. Outside, a chauffeur had stood waiting dutifully beside a Bentley, which shone more violently than the sun. ‘And I’d like for them to be large,’ she’d added, holding up two gloved hands to make her point.

‘Human?’ I’d asked. It was all I could think to say.

She’d gone on to produce a pristine shoebox, Dior set in gold against the crisp white of the lid, inside a pair of brand new black patent leather peeptoe heels, as shiny and new as the Bentley.

Jesse’s sister was as shoe-crazy as mine, and knowing what the shoes had probably cost, he’d made the mistake of complimenting the customer on them.

‘They’re not mine,’ she’d snapped at him. ‘I’ve never worn an open-toe heel. Open-toes are for sluts.’

A cake in the shape of a delicate male region wasn’t the weirdest request we’d had in Cake, but customers weren’t usually so … aggressive.

We were instructed to put one of the shoes, specifically the heel, right through the thick of a testicle. She said she wanted the cake to look painful. Like marriage.

She’d been a particular woman, used to things a certain way no doubt. Even the delivery had its own set instruction—the cake had to be at Hawkeswood Hall, eight-thirty sharp, where a Mr Fergal Argyll was to sign for it personally. Not a member of the house staff, but Mr Argyll himself. I’d had the distinct impression Mr Argyll wasn’t a very popular man; this cake didn’t exactly look celebratory.

I felt into the top of my bag for the delivery sheet. No signature from Fergal Argyll would mean I forfeit the remaining half of the money, a condition Jess had told me I shouldn’t have let her bully me into. I’d reminded him that with the summer wedding season drawing to a close we could do with more cash in the till.

‘Don’t worry, Fergal will like you,’ she’d said, looking us both over. ‘But I wouldn’t send your friend here, they’ll eat him alive.’

I looked at Jess and wondered what she had meant by that. From the cornrows peeping out from under his beanie to his size twelve hi-tops, he didn’t look like someone who couldn’t take care of himself. But then he’d certainly look out of place at Hawkeswood, we both would.

‘Madam … your shoes!’ I’d called after her as she’d strode out through the door.

‘Keep them.’ She’d smiled coldly. ‘The slut will have to source her footwear elsewhere from now on.’

The van growled as I tried to shift from third to fourth again. It stuck sometimes, and you had to double-pump the clutch. There was no place for heeled shoes in my life. I’d gotten married in wellies, the one day of the year, Martha had vehemently told me, I was traditionally obliged to make an effort with my footwear. So I did, and bought myself a brand new pair of Hunters to match Charlie’s. Mum’s lip had twitched at least twice over their appearance in the wedding photos.

Between the glow of burning lanterns Hawkeswood Manor Hall was regally announced with a sweeping gated entrance off the main road. It wasn’t usually all lit up like this, there must be some kind of function on tonight. Figured. Where there’s a cake there was usually a function to go with it. I took the bend slowly so as not to jostle the delicate consignment in the back. I’d modelled the Dior shoe, a near enough perfect likeness for the real deals left behind in the shop. Jesse had made the main body of the cake, seeing as he had more physiological understanding of that area.

The van began to judder violently and I felt a flush of momentary panic. As if this van needed cattle grids to negotiate.

Finally, smoothly, the approach led me through opposing stone pillars and into Hawkeswood’s courtyard. The intricate detailing of the gothic priory before me was stunning set in the warm glow of numerous uplighters nestled in grassed borders. There was something special about Hawkeswood, something more than just its beauty. It wasn’t the grandest place I’d seen, although it was certainly grand, but it differed to other stately homes I’d visited. It was lived in, and there was something about a home that a venue simply couldn’t emulate. Life maybe. Not just in its Sunday best.

I parked at the end of a row of cars, and pulled my phone from my bag. I had a little while yet, it was only a quarter past, so I sat wrestling the window back into place.

There was movement underneath the archway of the main entrance vestibule, where a young guy appeared leaning casually against the wall beside him. He looked over at me sat in the front of the van, and it was enough to make me leave the window until he looked away again. I went back to watching the time on my phone until a shock of red drew my eye back to him.

The woman looked as though she’d just stepped from a movie screen, a Nordic goddess dripping in elegance and a blood red evening gown Martha would die for. She was stunning. No one would be looking at my clothes with women like her here; I could easily have gone with the PJs.

Her almost white-blonde hair was tied back from her neck in a bun too, but it was far from scruffy. It was perfect, she was perfect. So striking, in fact, I was finding it hard not to look at her. If the man thought so too, he was playing it very cool. The blonde lit herself a cigarette and leant in towards him. I watched as he repositioned himself. A lovers’ tiff maybe? Ah well, we all had those, even the beautiful people it seemed. Hopefully they would move back inside before I had to haul the cake in past them both.

Eight-twenty. I’d just sit here quietly then, minding my own business for a few more minutes.

Eight-twenty-three and they were still there, her still drawn to him, him still reluctant.

An absurdly loud and rigorous ringing cut through the hush in the courtyard. It made me jump out of my skin and the dream couple both snapped their heads around to stare at the source of the racket, blaring from my open window. ‘Damn it, Martha,’ I hissed, frantically trying to hit the right button, any button, to shut the noise off.

‘Hello?’

‘Hol, where are you? I’ve been ringing,’ she said, relief in her voice.

‘I’m working, Martha, where’s the fire?’ I glanced over at the couple under the archway. The goddess threw her cigarette and stalked back inside, the boyfriend was still looking on.

‘No fire, I was just worried when you weren’t at home.’

‘I’m not always at home, Martha, I do have other things to fill my days you know.’ We both knew that was a skinny truth. ‘Look, I’ll call you when I’m home. I’ll be about an hour. Don’t freak out until at least ten p.m., OK?’

‘OK,’ she said, and already I felt guilty.

‘OK, love you.’

‘Love you, bye.’

The call ended and, thankfully, the boyfriend had gone.

The doors into the lobby were left open, revealing a grand welcome to the Manor with timber panelling to the walls and a huge staircase climbing at least two floors above me. An attractive brunette somewhere around fifty approached me with a smile. Her smart white blouse and black pencil skirt suggested she was staff of some sort.

‘Hello, may I help you?’ she said.

‘Hi, yes. I have a delivery for Mr Argyll.’

The cake was too tall to use the box lid, and her smile faltered when she caught sight of the cake.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘And which Mr Argyll is expecting this?’

‘I was asked to deliver it at eight-thirty sharp to a Mr Fergal Argyll.’ I smiled.

The lady nodded. That made sense to her.

‘Well, Mr Argyll’s in the games room, just through the double doors at the end of this corridor if you’d like to go through. Let me take your bag for you, dear, you have enough to carry.’

I wasn’t sure why I’d brought the bag in with me. It was unlikely anyone here would want to break into the van for it.

‘Thank you. I just need to get the delivery sheet for Mr Argyll,’ I said, rummaging through my bag.

‘Well I can sign that for you,’ she offered.

‘Oh, that’s OK. Mr Argyll needs to sign for it in person.’

The hallway was long, giving me more time to fathom how I was going to open the heavy double doors when I reached them. A nervous looking gentleman in a dull suit stepped through one of the doors, hurriedly stepping into the hallway.

‘Could you hold the door, please?’ I asked, before he could scurry off. The gentleman obliged, allowing me and my armful of cake to slip through unobstructed into the hubbub of the voices on the other side.

‘Good luck,’ he declared in an educated voice as the door closed between us.

Inside, I found myself standing in a room every bit as impressive as any I’d been in, bedecked with richly illustrated tapestries and wallpapers hanging against the warm tones of even more antique panelling. At the far end of the room a huge stone fireplace took up most of the wall there, others occupied by row upon row of books. It was a library-cum-games room, and smelled as it looked: cosy, old and vibrant. Charlie would have gone nuts for a room like this.

None of the twenty or thirty men, most in formal dress, slowed from their card games as I fumbled the cake onto the nearest surface. Laughter throbbed around me, along with cigar smoke and general merrymaking. This was very definitely a boys’ club, not a place for girls.

Which one is Fergal Argyll? I wondered, scanning the room for a face to match the name, or maybe the cake. Over at the fireplace, the colour of danger caught my attention again. The only other woman in the room, the goddess’ presence put me at ease instantly. I looked at her across the smoke and laughter and smiled that smile of sisterhood women have for one another. She lifted her chin and looked away, and like that I was on my own. I watched as she waltzed past her admirers to the loudest gentleman in the room.

He was raucously shouting at his fellow card players, rising to his feet when the goddess-cum-ice maiden approached his table.

‘Watch out, boys, here’s ma lucky charm,’ he declared in a gentle Scottish accent. His hand rested where her gown dipped at the small of her back. He was handsome, in his jacket and kilt, and suited the vibrancy of his surroundings. I’d put him somewhere around the fifty mark, although something about him seemed both younger and older.

The ice maiden accommodated him with a smile and then looked over at me, her gaze leading his.

‘What do we have here?’ he asked ‘Another gift from the dragon, perhaps?’

It was him. It had to be. ‘Mr Argyll?’ I said.

‘At your service, sweetheart. What can I do for ye?’ His short neatly cropped greying beard gave him the look of a laird, whilst darker hair falling forward over serious eyes were more the edge of a backstreet boxer.

‘I have a delivery for you, could you sign here, please?’

Argyll approached the table and peered down at his cake. The boom of his laughter made me jump for the second time tonight.

‘I take it this is te celebrate ma divorce papers?’ he asked, a look of contentment in his dark eyes. ‘I have te hand it te her,’ he ruptured, ‘she’s got a streak all right that woman. Have a look at this boys,’ he growled heartily, grabbing the cake from its box and spinning it around to show his company. ‘She always told me I got by not on the size of ma brain, gentlemen, but on the size of ma balls!’

He turned from his audience of dinner jackets and rested serious eyes heavily on me. He was a handsome man, if not flamboyant, and smelled of a heady mix of cigar smoke and brandy.

‘You, miss, have got the size of me about right.’ He grinned, looking to the pair of testicles in his hands.

‘Glad you like them, Mr Argyll. Would you mind signing for them?’

He put the cake back down on the table next to us and I held my pen out for him. His eyes still hadn’t left mine.

‘Ye don’t look convinced, darlin’. Here … Let me prove it to ye.’ I watched him cock his head, smiling, before my brain could register what was coming next. The ice maiden disappeared from view as Argyll’s kilt rose high into the air between us. His beard wasn’t the only thing greying. My eyes darted upwards, focusing on his huge hands. He had worker’s hands, years of hard graft ingrained in the set of his knuckles, like Charlie’s and my dad’s.

It was time for me to leave.

I left the delivery sheet alongside the cake and calmly turned for the way out. I didn’t need Mrs Ludlow-Ballbreaker’s money that badly. Jesse would have to lump it.

The ice maiden’s boyfriend stood watching, his eyes following as I crossed the room towards him. I hadn’t felt enough embarrassment to blush until I saw him watching me closely. It was no wonder Fergal Argyll was so sure of himself—judging by his son, he must have had a youth full of women clamouring for his attention.

A Scottish accent followed me out through the doors, slipping from the mouthful of cake Argyll was chomping on. ‘No wonder the ladies love me, boys. I never knew I tasted so good!’ It was safe to smile here, I was nearly out.

Charlie would have laughed his ass off. He gravitated towards men like Argyll, Jack-the-lads with big personalities.

The entrance lobby was deserted when I made it there. I should have just left my bag in the van. I peeked around the staircase listening for signs of life. Nothing. Behind me, I heard the doors to the games room open and close again. I didn’t look, not even when heavy certain steps grew slowly closer.

Daintier taps of a woman’s feet came at me from the opposite side.

‘Did you find him?’ she asked. You had to love house staff, they were just so efficient.

‘Hi again, yes, thanks. Could I get my bag, please?’

‘Ah, of course. Just a minute, dear.’ And the friendly lady disappeared again.

Argyll junior had moved casually along the hallway and settled himself against one of the decorative pillars near the foot of the staircase. He was sharply dressed in a well-cut dark grey suit, his ice-white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He was sharp all right, but less formally so than his father, and every bit as certain it seemed.

I tried not to fidget as I waited for my bag’s return.

‘Working late?’ He was being polite. I hadn’t expected it.

‘Yes.’ I smiled, knowing that it didn’t quite reach my eyes. I let them fall away to the intricate tile work of the floor.

‘I’m sorry if Fergal embarrassed you,’ he said in a smooth and certain voice holding only a fraction of his father’s Celtic lilt. I smiled again. I used to feel more awkward about uncomfortable silences, but I’d survived a lot of them and I didn’t feel the need to fill them the way others did.

‘He gets carried away with cake.’ His eyes narrowed with the quip.

‘He didn’t mean any harm,’ I offered, looking off to the doors the lady had disappeared through.

‘You’re right, he doesn’t,’ he said, pulling my eyes back to him again. His hair was a little longer on top than his father’s, but fell forward slightly in nearly the same place.

Out here, without the clouds of cigar smoke, there was nothing to compete with the scent of the rich wooden panelling, the preparation of savoury foods somewhere off in the house and, over that, the subtle sweetness of the more polite Argyll’s cologne. It wasn’t like the bottle I slipped under Charlie’s pillow every Christmas Eve, not quite so familiar. This had a sweeter edge to it, the difference between flowers and berries.

‘Nice cake, by the way,’ he said, trying again for polite exchange. ‘I haven’t seen one like that before.’ He smiled then, it was a good smile, but his didn’t reach the eyes either.

‘Ciaran, your father’s ready,’ the ice maiden purred, sashaying along the corridor to us. I hadn’t heard the doors that time. This close I could see she’d made her blue eyes colder with smoky makeup.

‘Here you go dear.’ The friendly lady smiled, approaching us again.

‘Thank you … Goodnight.’ I smiled, taking my bag from her.

‘Goodnight,’ Ciaran Argyll called as I reached the cool of the evening air outside.

I looked back over my shoulder to the perfect couple and gave him an acknowledging smile.

Moving into him, to mark her territory, the ice maiden gave me nothing.









CHAPTER 4


I couldn’t feel the bite of the freezing waters around me, only the urgency to swim further out into them. He was here, I knew that, waiting for me to find him. To bring him home.

Behind me on the jetty, the life ring hung idly against the timber post. Why hadn’t I brought it with me? A sensation of unease deep in my chest tried to dig a foothold.

‘Come on, Hol! Catch up, it’s warmer here!’ Charlie laughed, water sloshing against his face. The unease disappeared.

‘I’m coming! Hang on!’ I laughed, trying not to splutter. It wasn’t easy swimming and laughing at the same time, but Charlie managed.

Over the sounds of water, slipping in and out of my ears, another voice found its way to me.

‘Holly! Holly, come back!’ Martha and Dave were on the jetty. She’d thrown the ring into the reservoir but it bobbed around without validation. I threw my hands above myself and waved at her.

‘It’s OK, Martha! We’re just swimming! Look, I found him! I found Charlie!’ I turned back to see if Charlie had waited for me, but he was twice the distance away now. Still laughing.

‘Charlie! Wait!’ I called, the unease digging down again.

‘Holly!’ Martha called worriedly. Can’t she see? I’m with Charlie.

‘Charlie? Charlie?’ The unease became heavier, like lead in my chest. ‘I can’t see you. I can’t see you, Charlie!’

‘Holly?’ Martha called, but I was swimming away from her.

‘Come on, Hol,’ Charlie called, ‘catch me up!’ I’d found him but he was further away again.

‘Wait for me, Charlie, you’re too fast!’ I called, but still he swam. Why won’t he give me a chance?

Martha’s voice grew nearer.

‘Holly? Holly?’

Swim harder, Holly. You can get there.

‘Holly? Holly honey, wake up.’

Martha was gently rocking me, concern etched into her face. My heart was still thudding, not realising the trickery yet.

‘I’m awake,’ I whispered. Please go now. I could still get to him, he was still there, still within reach. I wasn’t ready to give him up yet, not ready to accept the day.

‘Are you OK, honey?’

Already I could feel him slipping. Now I’d never get him back.

I’d expected more dreams, it was coming up to that time. But not those ones. Not like the dreams that had plagued me last year.

That was when I’d stopped drinking with the girls. So that I wasn’t spending my weekends waking up after midday not only with a hangover but fewer hours to pull myself together again. It’s hard enough nursing an aching heart, an aching head helps nothing.

Don’t cry. You’ll upset Martha. Be grateful.

‘Hol? Were you having a nightmare?’ I didn’t think she would go, stationed eternally on the jetty.

In place of my self-imposed ban on girly nights, Martha instigated a non-negotiable scaled down version. For the two years since the accident, Saturday nights had been dedicated to the emotional well-being of her kid sister. She didn’t realise that staying here every week, eating with her and Rob, sleeping in their guest room—it didn’t take the edge off my loneliness as she hoped it would, it defined it.

‘Hey. No, I’m good.’ I sent her the lie with a smile. It worked and she sent one back. I preferred Martha with her dishevelled morning look. Before she perfected her makeup for the day and set her hair flawlessly in place, she was the most beautiful girl I knew I’d see all day. But it was pointless telling her. I’d heard Dad try when Mum was out of earshot. Gilding a lily, he’d called it.

Really, she didn’t need to gild anything. Martha had inherited all the good stuff, which was probably for the best as it would have been wasted on me. She had a respectable inch on my five-foot-six, that was without the heels, her eyes were more decisive as to the shade of hazel they wanted to be and she was bestowed our mother’s rich blonde waves. I, on the other hand, had taken after our lovely dad—less polished and less blonde, with that not-quite-brown, not-quite-blonde colouring that could have been either had I ever decided which way to go with it.

But despite our differences, and the things I kept hidden from her, there was no question that we were tight.

Martha was a good sister, the best even. But this staying over every Saturday night was really about her emotional well-being more than it was mine. She needed to feel that she was doing some good, and I loved her enough to go each week as a spectator in her blossoming family life. It was the least I could do for her, she lost Charlie too.

‘Rob’s making breakfast,’ she chirped. ‘He’s breaking the big guns out. Full English?’ I wasn’t a breakfast person, but Martha was hell-bent on taking care of me for the entirety of the time she was allocated each week. She was weeks away from giving birth to their first child and, happy as I was for them, I couldn’t help but think of my impending niece or nephew as a welcome distraction. Maybe then I could have breakfast-less Sunday mornings in my own home again.

Downstairs at the breakfast table Rob had spared no efforts in his quest to fatten me up. He was just shovelling the last of the scrambled egg onto an already mountainous pile when I bypassed him for the coffee pot.

‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said, busying himself with the next bubbling saucepan. ‘Beans or tomatoes? Or both? I’m having both.’

‘You are not, you’ve got enough on your plate already,’ Martha warned him.

Rob leaned in to me and whispered, ‘She’s got that right.’ I stifled a smile while Martha scowled at him. ‘What? I’m a growing boy, I need my energy,’ he protested.

‘Rob, we aren’t going to fit in the bed if you carry on.’

Rob looked at his beautifully rotund wife and then threw me a collusive look.

‘Sorry, my love. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have half a grapefruit next Sunday morning instead. Hol will hold me to it, right, Hol?’

‘You got it.’ I grinned into my mug. Martha made good coffee. ‘Anyone else have a headache this morning?’ I asked, sitting down to survey the man-sized portion waiting for me. It smelled good, actually.

‘Only from Rob’s snoring. You two were the only ones drinking last night.’

‘Was that you snoring, Rob?’ I asked, biting into a triangle of toast. ‘I thought someone was firing up a Harley outside.’

Martha smiled over the top of her Sunday Journal.

‘Do you want some ibuprofen?’ she asked, already setting the paper down. It was pointless stopping her, she’d only fuss until I’d swallowed a few painkillers. ‘Didn’t you sleep too well last night?’

‘No, I slept fine.’ Memories of my dream made me wonder what Martha might have heard through the night while Rob snored on. Change the subject. ‘It’s been a grueller in the shop this week. I’m probably just a bit highly strung. You know what it’s like, as soon as you stop, it all piles on top of you.’ One of the reasons I kept myself busy.

‘Yes, Martha was flapping when she couldn’t get hold of you Friday night. How come you were working so late?’ Rob said as he chewed his way through a sausage. It was difficult to look at Rob without smiling. He reminded me in some ways of Dave, a little obedient maybe, but loyal to the core and utterly dependable. They were the gentle giants in my life, but whilst Martha’s tolerance flexed for her husband, it didn’t stretch to Dave. I guess Rob slobbered less. Just.

‘I had to deliver to a gentlemen’s evening, over at Hawkeswood.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Rob mumbled, a forkful of hash browns meeting its doom.

‘I use the term gentlemen loosely. Dave has better manners.’

‘Hawkeswood’s the property tycoon’s place now isn’t it, Martha?’

Martha settled back behind paper. ‘Hmm?’

‘Hawkeswood. Didn’t you do something there years ago with Parry & Fitch?’

Martha loved to talk about her work. It was a shame Parry & Fitch Interiors had to scale back, but the UK property market had taken a big hit over the last few years and most people we knew had been affected in one way or another.

‘Did you, Marth? What did you do there? I only got as far as the games room and that was impressive.’

Martha had taken voluntary redundancy, slipping into her new life as a domestic goddess with ease. But all that extra time meant she’d stepped up her attempts at finishing the decorating at my place.

‘The games room was original while we were there. Did you see the Orangery at the back of the main house? The views over the countryside are a-ma-zing. Who are the current owners?’ she asked.

‘The property tycoon, like I said. What’s his name, Martha? Andrews or—’

‘Argyll,’ I helped, trying to reduce the stack of mushrooms.

‘That’s him, Argyll. He’s been in some scrapes the last few years. I work with a chap who used to be with Scargill’s. They represent his company … that’s them, Argyll Inc. He keeps Scargill’s in a steady stream of work.’ Rob shook his head and carried on his assault on the food.

Why did that not surprise me? ‘Is Fergal Argyll the head of the company?’ I asked, reaching for more coffee.

‘That’s him. Fergal Argyll. He’s the big dog. Worked the whole empire up from scratch and then nearly lost the lot. Do you remember, Martha?’

‘He seems to be doing OK now,’ I said. ‘What does he do exactly?’ I asked, struggling to understand how a man like Fergal Argyll would have built anything but a dodgy reputation.

Rob finally took a breather between mouthfuls. ‘They’re a property company. I’m not sure, but I think he started out in construction. Small scale, extensions, that sort of thing, and then I think he got lucky and bought a bit of land while the prices were good. If I remember correctly, these days Argyll Inc. shoot for large scale property investment, developments, that sort of thing. But as with most of the construction industry, they’ve had their pain over the last few years. Didn’t he marry into the aristocracy for good measure, Martha?’

Martha lifted her nose from the paper, and gave Rob a considered look.

‘The hunky playboy!’ Martha yelped. ‘You mean this guy?’ she said, shuffling through her paper. Martha split the paper open revealing a small thumbnail of the young Argyll and the ice maiden.

‘Yeah, that’s his son,’ I said, examining the picture. He was a handsome man, but there was a melancholy about him, and melancholy knew its own reflection. On the page opposite, computer-generated images of starter homes, soon to be built on recently sold forest land, made my stomach flip over.

‘Hel-lo Ciaran Argyll. He’s utterly gorgeous, Hol, don’t you think? A womaniser, but gorgeous. I can’t believe that they live around here!’

Charlie had worked tirelessly to protect the forests from sale.

‘Keep your knickers on, my love. I think your hormones are playing up.’

Martha swatted Rob with her paper.

‘Rob? I can’t eat any more. Please may I be excused?’ I asked wryly.

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘You’re washing up.’

‘Er, you’re washing up, Rob. You made the mess, you ate it, you’re cleaning it. Hol and I are going to talk colour swatches.’ Martha lifted a handful of binders onto the table in front of her. Inwardly, I groaned. ‘So I was thinking, and feel free to say no, but—’

‘No.’

‘You don’t know what I’m going to say yet,’ she countered.

‘I do … you’re going to say, Holly, it’s nearly October, and then it will be Christmas and before you know it, your lounge and hall and wherever will have been left whitewashed for nearly three years, and—’ The look on Martha’s face was enough to stop me mid-flow. Damn it, why can’t you just leave this alone?

Six months after the accident, she’d talked me into letting her finish the bedroom for me. She’d made a beautiful job of it, all soft greys and dusky blues against the deep stain of our antique furniture. She’d made my bedroom look as though it belonged to a boutique hotel. The problem was, Charlie had never been in that boutique hotel with me, and so I couldn’t picture him in it. It wasn’t our bedroom any more, it was just mine. I couldn’t tell Martha that was the reason for fobbing off her offers to decorate the rest of the house for me when she was so desperate to. It would have devastated her that I felt that way about the room she’d already finished for me.

‘Look, Martha. I’d love you to come help me, but I’m absolutely rushed off my feet in the shop and—’

‘Well that’s what I was going to say!’ A smile filling her eyes again. ‘Rob has some time off before the baby’s due, but I’ve already sorted everything out. I’ve decorated the nursery, put the crib together, packed my hospital bag, written my birth plan, A and B actually. I’ve even vetted both of the nurseries we’re thinking of using.’

‘You’re thinking of nurseries?’ I said. ‘Already? When will the baby start nursery?’

‘When they’re three.’

‘Months? Are you going back to work?’

‘No, years. Well, I want to be prepared, Hol.’

I knew it. I’d always known it. My sister was a domestic android. ‘So, Rob can come and do some DIY-ing for you.’ I looked at Rob, who looked about as enthused as I was.

Lie, lie, lie.

‘You know what, Marth, I would really love that. But I kinda have a more pressing problem, if you guys wouldn’t mind helping me out?’ I knew how to reel Martha in. I had a childhood’s worth of practice under my belt. ‘The shop’s due an inspection some time in the new year, and it could really do with some TLC.’ Rob’s face dropped, he thought we were a team. ‘Nothing drastic, just a few maintenance issues, maybe a little painting. It’s just too big a job on my own. If you could spend a few days in the shop, Rob, I’d appreciate it.’

Martha didn’t look convinced, but then Martha’s sole wish was to do what she could for me and I was at least offering her an inch in place of her mile.

‘Um, OK. But what about the house? I have some ideas I think you’ll like, Hol.’

The guilt twisted in my stomach.

‘Well let’s see them then! If Rob moves his ass quickly enough, we might get started on the back bedroom before junior arrives.’ I could keep Rob busy at the shop for as long as I needed to. All I had to do was keep Martha sweet until the baby was born, then she wouldn’t have the energy, or the inclination, to pimp my house any more. That was my grand plan.

Martha, instantly gripped with excitement that I was showing interest in her ideas, left the kitchen for yet more magazines. Rob fixed beady knowing eyes on me.

‘Don’t worry, big guy. You can eat cake all day and we’ll just splash a little paint on your face before we send you home.’









CHAPTER 5


Things were only going to get quieter until Christmas fever kicked in.

It was Monday, I was tired, and thanks to Dave’s eating habits, I was late.

Jesse, reliable wingman that he was, had opened up and made a start on the freshly baked cupcakes and cookies we offered alongside the bespoke services. It wasn’t big money but it was consistent, and when the brides thinned out the lowly cupcake paid Jesse’s wages and kept us going. We didn’t open to the public until ten each day, largely because few people wanted to munch on cupcakes much before noon but it also gave us a good three hours to get the fresh bakes out and on display, ready for the lunchtime rush.

There were only a handful of people milling around on the cobbled high street when I parked up and walked the hundred yards or so to Cake. I didn’t like to park directly outside unless I needed to load up, preferring for passers-by to see the fantastical cakes Jesse and I had on display in the two huge windows. This morning, someone had already parked there anyway.

Hunterstone was a nice town. Too expensive to buy a house in, unless you were like Martha and Rob, but nestled halfway between the big city and the national park, everything you could want was in reach. The castle pulled in a reasonable flow of tourists and the clean leafy Georgian streets housed a nice selection of eateries, galleries and shops to keep the tourists there a little longer.

We’d put a lot of effort into fixing the shop up, but the architecture of the building had helped make us the perfect place for a visit by beautiful brides between champagne dress fittings and floral consultations. Charlie had painstakingly finished painting cream all the fiddly nooks and crannies of the typically Georgian decorative façade after I’d gotten fed up with it. He’d also added the topiary outside, making our little shopfront every bit as tempting as the cakes inside. A swinging vintage sign was the only thing to throw off the symmetry of the frontage, declaring in burgundy and gold the nature of our business. Cake.

I skipped up the two stone steps to the doors and pushed my way in with a jingle overhead. It was already nearly eleven and Jesse would be about ready for a refuel. He ate more than Rob and never gained an ounce.

‘Hey! I’ve got bagels and posh coffee,’ I called from the showroom as I threw a few new bridal magazines next to the sofa. I reached the counter and could already hear the drone of the mixers in the bakery out back. He wouldn’t have heard me probably.

I took Jesse’s breakfast through to where he was busily piping several trays of cupcakes in pale lilac buttercream, before finishing each one off with a sugar-frosted violet.

‘They look great,’ I called, wiggling the warm paper bag in my hand. Jess left the island worktop and moved over to shut the mixer off.

‘Hey, Hol, how’s Dave?’ Jesse took the bag from me as I set the coffees down and hung my things in the far corner.

‘He’s OK; he has a bad tooth. I’ve left him moping in the garden. Mrs Hedley will throw him treats over the fence all day no doubt.’ I wondered if that was part of the problem. She’d been the same with Charlie, making him second lunches when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Jesse came over and started digging into the bagels as I slipped an apron over my head and started the first of a hundred hand-washes. I dried off and went to grab a bagel for myself but he pulled the bag away.

‘You can’t, you have a customer,’ he said, grinning at me.

‘What customer? No one’s booked in are they?’ I said, scanning the counters for the cake diary. We did the occasional wedding consultation in the mornings but they were nearly always booked in for weekends when the mother of the bride was in town and the fiancé had no excuses not to attend.

‘They are now, he’s been here since I flipped the sign over.’

‘Oh no, Jess, have I forgotten an appointment?’ I said, with the first prickles of panic.

‘No. He hasn’t got an appointment,’ Jess said, still grinning.

‘Why are you being weird?’ I asked him, trying not to laugh at his ridiculous expression. ‘Where is he then?’

I followed Jess as he walked from the bakery through the short corridor and out into the area behind the shop counter.

‘He’s over there, waiting for you to show up to work,’ Jesse said, looking out front.

I looked out through one of the windows over to the café across the street, glancing at the bistro tables outside for anyone I recognised. There were a couple of women in coats and shades enjoying the morning, but other than that no one. I was still watching when two business types, a man and woman, left the café together, followed by another sharply dressed guy in suit and shades. As he turned to check the road before crossing, I recognised the strong line of his jaw, passed down from one generation to the next.

‘How was your weekend, Holly?’ Jesse asked as it dawned on me who was heading this way.

I watched Ciaran Argyll draw closer as I tried to figure out what he was doing here.

‘There must have been a problem with the cake,’ I thought aloud, readying myself for what might be. ‘I bet the old bugger wants to make a complaint because I didn’t compliment him on his wedding tackle.’

‘Wedding tackle? What did you get up to this weekend, Hol?’

‘Nothing,’ I answered, still pondering.

The door set the bell tingling and Ciaran Argyll walked assuredly into my shop. Jesse stopped munching on his bagel.

‘Morning. Again,’ Argyll said, nodding at Jess standing over me. I got a gentle nod. ‘Hello.’

‘All right, mate, enjoy your wait with the golden girls?’ Jesse asked.

‘Actually, the coffee was surprisingly good,’ Mr Argyll said, taking his sunglasses off. He didn’t look so melancholy today; his smile was more relaxed than I’d remembered it. ‘But you were right, they did take care of me.’ He laughed, flashing a glimpse of perfect white teeth. I’d bet he was used to being taken care of.

‘Ah, they love a gent over there don’t they, Hol? Hol stopped buying lunch from the café when she realised the old girls give better service to the fellas than the women. It’s sexist isn’t it, Hol?’ It sounded silly when I heard it that way, but yes, I was boycotting the place.

I flashed a full smile of my own at Jess.

‘I’ll just go and finish my brekkie then. See you, mate …’ he said, leaving for the back, ‘nice Vanquish.’

Argyll turned to check the car sat outside the shop and nodded to himself.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Argyll?’ I asked, noting his cologne again. His hand dipped into the inside pocket of his jacket as he approached the counter between us.

‘You left in a hurry Friday, understandably. You forgot this. I thought we at least owed you the courtesy of returning it,’ he said softly, pulling open a folded sheet of paper and handing it to me. I recognised the information immediately.

Two times ten-inch vanilla testicles gored with stiletto, deliver to Fergal Argyll, Hawkeswood Manor Friday 20th September 8.30 p.m. EXACTLY.

‘Can I sign it for you? My father was a touch worse for wear over the weekend or I’d have asked him.’

He’d brought the delivery note all this way?

‘No, that’s OK. It’s not important really,’ I said, realising too late that the delivery note had travelled some thirty miles back to the shop with this man. ‘But thank you for returning it.’

His eyes were an intense brown, narrowing slightly as he tilted his head to watch me. He was a very attractive man, too good looking all for just one person. My attention was snagged by the light flooding into the shop catching on the edges of his choppy hair, sending brown to blond in places. There was a hint of neatly cropped stubble I hadn’t noticed on Friday.

I couldn’t explain it, but I felt the beginnings of warmth creeping over my neck. Was I so out of practice interacting with the opposite sex that I blushed like a naive schoolgirl around them? How excruciatingly embarrassing.

‘Are you sure?’ he pressed, those eyes that didn’t belong with the tones in his hair still watching me closely. ‘My stepmother can be quite the pedant when it comes to paperwork. And my father’s anatomy.’

Oh dear, we were back onto Fergal’s testicles. Yep. Definitely had a pink neck.

‘Um, not really, she didn’t hang around long,’ I said, trying to get off the subject of the vivacious Mr Argyll senior and any conversation that might lead me onto it.

‘I believe Elsa offered you an additional sum for proof of delivery to Fergal in person?’

‘She did. But it wasn’t compulsory,’ I answered

‘Then you’re out of pocket?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing again. ‘Let me take care of that, it’s not your fault my father was misbehaving. You shouldn’t get into any trouble for it.’ He pulled a chequebook from the same inner pocket, laying it alongside his sunglasses on the counter.

‘Would five hundred cover it?’ he asked, clicking the cap of his pen. ‘I understand you were offered double the cost of the cake if you procured the signature? The cake was two-thirty, right? Consider the difference by way of an apology. Fergal can get … excited, sometimes,’ he said as his pen scratched against the chequebook.

‘How do you kn—?’

‘Toby’s an old friend of mine. He helped me find you. Do you know there’s no address on your delivery sheet?’ he said, pausing to look at me again.

‘The delivery sheets are just for our records …’ I shrugged. ‘Toby?’

‘Elsa’s driver. He paid you for the cake. So shall we say five hundred then?’ Ciaran asked, waiting to scribble a final figure. These people, it was obscene how they threw their money around.

‘Really, there’s no need. It was all paid for.’

He looked up at me from where he’d leaned in towards the oak surface Charlie had waxed five times before achieving the shade I liked. His left hand was flat against the wood as he stood poised over his chequebook. He didn’t have worker’s hands like his father. They looked softer than mine, with impeccably clean fingernails. No wedding band either, but then I didn’t wear mine. The icing was always getting stuck underneath it so I wore it instead on a chain around my neck, alongside Charlie’s.

‘That’s very gracious of you,’ he said, ‘but don’t you think you should run it past your boss first? Money’s money after all.’ I knew I was younger than the average for setting up on my own, but it always irked me when someone thought I was the run-around girl. OK, so I was still doing a lot of running around, just not for anyone else. I’d done those jobs all through college, and university. I may not have been sat on an empire, but I’d still earned my place on my own hillock.

‘Is your boss around?’ he pressed.

Martha had filled me in on what had been written of the Argylls. Of Ciaran’s fast living while his father footed the bill.

‘Yes,’ I returned. ‘And that’s very gracious of you, but don’t you think you should run it past your boss first?’

Something in his face changed and I sensed that I’d hit a nerve. The chequebook slipped back into his pocket. For him, the son of a rich pest, it must have been like re-holstering his weapon.

The smile was back again but I’d already seen the genuine version. This one was for show.

‘So this is your business?’ he asked, moving over to the glass display shelves nearest the counter.

‘Sure is,’ I answered, knowing that I’d offended him.

I watched him as he looked over our array of summer designs. ‘And these are all real?’ he asked, perambulating around the perimeter of the room.

‘They’re dummies,’ I said, watching him move as though wandering an art gallery. ‘We call them dummy cakes. They have a polystyrene core, and then we ice and decorate them for the displays.’

‘So then they’re just for show?’ he said, stopping and looking back to me.

‘Just for show,’ I said.

He continued on his way over to the first window and crouched to look through the streets of the gingerbread village there.

‘Did you make this?’ he asked, not taking his attention from the miniature street scene. The intricately piped clock tower, and railway complete with train carriages and station house was the one thing that drew the interest of every boy, young and old, dragged in here by their mums, daughters and wives. Ciaran Argyll seemed no exception.

‘Jesse and I, it’s kind of a two man job. One sticks, while the other holds in place.’

He stood then, hovering by the door, as though unsure if he were leaving or not. ‘You’re very talented.’ He had one hand on the brass handle. He eyes were strikingly dark, even from here.

‘Thank you,’ I said, the warmth building again. I wished that I hadn’t offended him. ‘And thanks for the sheet, I appreciate you bringing it back.’ I smiled as he pulled the door open. The bells jingled again.

‘Bye,’ he said softly.

‘Bye,’ I said, turning for the bakery.

Stepping out through the back I heard the bells ring out again before the door clicked shut behind him. Jesse was hovering next to another batch of ninety-six cupcakes, which were waiting to be frosted. ‘If you’ve finished playing with Handsome, you’ve got some catching up to do,’ he teased.

‘I was not playing with anybody.’ I pouted.

‘But you don’t deny that he’s one handsome sucka.’

‘Did you just say handsome sucka? Is that the lingo these days, Jess?’

‘Call it what you like, did you see the man’s motor?’

‘No, Jess, I didn’t see his car. What is it with you and shiny things? You’re like a magpie,’ I teased, loading up another nozzled bag with buttercream.

‘There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the finer things in life, Hol, and that dude has got some fine things. His suit was sharp too, nice cut.’ I had noticed the suit. ‘So … who is he?’

‘Are these ginger or treacle,’ I asked, squeezing the lemon frosting to the end of the bag before twisting the top securely.

‘Ginger and whisky. Well? Who’s James Bond?’

I started to pipe a tangy lemony swirl onto a sticky ginger cupcake.

‘Last Monday, the cake with the heel … well that was cake man’s son.’

‘Yeah? Well, he seemed a bit more chilled than the old girl was.’

‘I don’t think it was him the cake depicted, Jess. His dad wasn’t so calm.’

‘So what, was she James Bond’s mum?’

‘Stepmum. She wasn’t there when I met his dad,’ I said, piping the next row of cakes.

‘And what was Dad like? Loaded I bet. Women like that don’t marry outside their class.’

I stopped swirling and tried to think of the word I’d use to describe Fergal Argyll, a man very clearly in a class completely of his own.

‘He was … lively. But harmless enough, I think,’ I said.

‘So what was junior doing here? Was there a problem with his old man’s ‘taters?’

I felt a smile appear as I remembered how close I’d come to seeing the real thing. Yikes.

‘I’m not sure really, I think he came to smooth over any rucks.’

‘What kind of rucks?’

‘The kind people with money are used to making go away with a chequebook.’ I finished the last row of gingers and set what was left in the piping bag down on the worktop. ‘I’m running out of room, I’m going start getting these under the counters.’

‘I keep telling you, we need two more stainless workbenches, at least.’

‘After the oven, Jess, new oven takes priority over workbenches.’

‘So when are we getting the new oven?’ he called after me.

‘Soon! When we can afford to order it!’

I picked up the tray of cupcakes I’d just finished and carried them towards the shop. Before I reached the last doorway out of the bakery I called back to Jess.

‘You are right though, Jess … he is one hell of a handsome sucka.’ I was only playing, but it was nice to remind Jesse that even I could appreciate the finer looking things in life. Just because I wasn’t hungry didn’t mean I’d forgotten how good food tasted.

Manoeuvring wide trays of cupcakes through the narrow doorway into the shop could be tricky, but that wasn’t the reason I nearly dropped the entire batch.

‘I forgot my sunglasses,’ Ciaran Argyll said, standing there watching me. The flush was back with a vengeance, raging up my neck and instantly taking up residence in my cheeks.

Why is he standing here? The door didn’t go!

‘Er …’ I stammered, realising to my horror that I hadn’t actually seen him leave. Panic started rising as I ran through the conversation he might have just heard. The harder I tried, the less I could think of anything to say, so I settled for trying to cover my shell-shock with something resembling a smile. I thought I’d already experienced the embarrassment of blushing in Ciaran Argyll’s presence, but this was an excruciating new level.

He carefully avoided looking at me; I was sure he was fighting a smile. ‘Actually, I have an event coming up. I was wondering what your thoughts might be on providing a cake?’ Please don’t let him have heard, please don’t let him have heard!

‘Umm, yes. We can do that.’ I swallowed. ‘When for?’ I asked, trying to salvage some sort of composure.

‘October twenty-sixth,’ he said. ‘It’s a Saturday.’

As I slid the tray of cupcakes under the adjacent serving counter I could feel the beginnings of perspiration over the back of my neck. I didn’t sweat. Clammy hands said I did.

The diary I’d been looking for was sat by the phone, on the side next to the till. In its place, for a change. I flicked through to the following month, hoping to find a week too full to take on another Argyll job.

‘I know it’s short notice,’ he said, also looking at the open diary as I checked over the bookings we had for that week. They were more than thin on the ground. Friday the twenty-fifth had been encircled in bright green biro though, Martha’s due date! scrawled inside. Other than that, it would mostly be a week of passing trade. He surveyed the days, largely blank on the page and watched me carefully.

‘Sure. What were you looking for?’ I asked, admitting defeat.

‘Well, the event is themed, so would that be a good place to start?’ he asked, cocking his head slightly again. He cut a relaxed figure, but I wasn’t there yet. I could still feel the burn in my cheeks.

‘Sure, what’s the theme?’ I asked, concentrating on my pen and the sketch pad I’d reached for.

‘Hollywood heroes and villains,’ he replied with the beginnings of a playful grin. Well, of course it was. ‘It’s a friend’s thirtieth, so the cake should be fun, unique. Delicious.’

I held off looking at him, as that seemed to trigger the blush response.

‘Hollywood heroes and villains? As in Jaws and Brody?’ I stole a look then, the smile had widened.

‘If you like. Maybe mix it up though, I don’t think there will be many there dressed as great white sharks.’ He checked the watch on his wrist. ‘Look, I have to get to work, I’m not sure how these things are arranged?’

Thank goodness for that, he’d be out of here in minutes. He hadn’t heard us larking around, it was all good. I just needed to wind things up.

‘Well, you’ve given me a theme to run with, I just need an idea of flavours, how many people you’d like the cake to feed. An idea of budget, if you have one. Then we can sketch something up for you and take it from there.’ Jesse was so going to be handling this order.

‘OK,’ he said, tapping the arm of his sunglasses to his lip. ‘Make it to feed three hundred, budget … whatever you think is fine. Don’t worry with the sketch, I know I’m in safe hands.’ He smiled and it softened the seriousness of his eyes, just as his father’s face had been affected the same way.

‘OK. And will you need it delivered?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ he said. ‘I’ll get someone to call you with the details, payment et cetera. Or I can pay you now?’

‘No, no, I need to price it all up for you first. So … I just need flavours.’

He tapped his lip a few more times before locking richly brown eyes firmly back on mine.

‘The ginger and whisky sounded perfect.’









CHAPTER 6


A heavy haze of mist had been hanging over the reservoir when I left for work the following morning, but I knew that freezing though it was in a tin van spluttering against the sharp air, such mornings deceitfully heralded what would inevitably turn out to be a glorious day. It was only six-thirty, plenty of time for things to warm up and justify the aqua ballerina pumps now proving pitifully inadequate against the temperature in the footwell.

This was one of the summer’s dying breaths, there wouldn’t be many more of them, a last and valiant stand against the unstoppable autumn, advancing once more to mark another year without Charlie.

But today at least, things would get sunnier and sunny days were good for business. The golden girls in the café across the street would be enjoying a surge in al-fresco diners, who’d all gaze over longingly at the goodies they knew we had waiting for them once they’d finished lunch. Grandmothers would pop in for iced cookies to take back to the kids, career girls would take advantage of their last chances to justify nibbling on something seasonally pretty and the odd eager male co-worker would follow them in.

The pick ‘n’ mix girls, Jess called them. Because they always got a couple of boxes of cupcakes between them, so they could all try a taste of everything.

Thanks to the wonders of dreamless sleep, I felt refreshed as I made my way into Hunterstone. It wasn’t until I saw the shop that I found myself thinking of him again.

It was still cold as I opened up and let myself in. I collected a few scraps of mail then headed straight through for the kettle. Charlie couldn’t abide junk mail, and had the irritating habit of giving out the shop address instead of home, he said because the businesses here had bigger recycling bins out back and I guess he had a point.

I flicked through the mail in my hand as the kettle bubbled to life: something from the electricity provider, two fliers for a local takeaway, and ah—a thank you card. That’s nice. I slipped the card from its envelope and walked back over to the far end of the bakery where a battered plum sofa sat within the brick alcove. This was where we power-napped on those crazy days at the height of the busy season. I plonked down onto the sofa and read the note inside the card.

Dear Holly and Jesse,

Thanks so much for our brilliant cake! It was absolutely stunning, everything we were hoping for. Even Ben’s mum couldn’t find a fault. (Which is saying something.)

We’ll definitely be coming back for our first anniversary cake, and our tenth and our golden! Hopefully a christening cake too!

Can’t chat, I’m posting this on the way to the airport.

Thailand here we come!

Thanks again, you’ve been fab.

Very best wishes

Mr and Mrs Benjamin Day xx

I pinned the card with the others and looked at the last piece of post in my hand. It was an unusual pamphlet shaped like a teepee with an invitation to Glamp it up in Wales. On the reverse, a string of bunting joyfully held aloft an address panel marked for the attention of Charlie Jefferson. Charlie had fancied us as the glamping types, suggesting we give it a whirl for our first anniversary. We never made it.

Tea, ovens on, recycling bin, work.

Within twenty minutes the bakery was in full swing, filled with the happy beat of whatever was playing out on the radio and the wafts of warm vanilla and chocolate. I had four batches in before restocking my mug and switching the laptop on.

We’d chosen the right name for the shop—we were easy to find online and the email was simple enough. That also meant a reliable pile of virtual bumf from suppliers. I clicked my way down the screen. Delete. Delete. Delete. Penny Richardson Re. Argyll Hollywood cake.

I clicked over the email feeling a trill of awkwardness. And something else.

Miss Jefferson

We require you to provide a birthday cake for an upcoming event.

Mr Argyll has said that you’ve already discussed flavours with him, recommending the whisky & ginger option.

Minimum of 300 portions, delivery between 8 and 8.30 p.m. Saturday October 26th. Venue details attached. Forward details of costs and payment will be arranged.

Penny Richardson

PA to CEO, Argyll Inc.

Great. Another evening delivery. And at that time most likely in full eyeshot of already present guests. I hated that, people watching, waiting for something terrible to go wrong so they could upload the blooper.

I opened the attachment. The Gold Rooms were not somewhere I’d ever been.

I’d overheard mention of the city’s most exclusive venue when customers had chatted of beautiful people in the gossip mags out front, where some celebrity had been snapped necking with the wrong supermodel, but gatherings at the highly sought after lounge were not usually toasted with cake, not when Moët and Glenlivet flowed so freely. And, let’s face it, at three thousand pounds a booth I was not visiting a place like the Gold Rooms without a cake to get me in. Jesse was going to pee his pants when he knew. Groan.

I closed the document, leaving the whole thing for him to sort out when he got in. Other than the delivery it was his baby now, nothing more to do with me.

By the time he got to the shop, the bakes were out on display, I’d replaced the depleted shelves in the bakery with cake cards and drums and had taken delivery of the new, larger tubs of colourants we’d been waiting on.

All I had to do now was figure out where the fifteen tubs of edible paste colours were going to live. Nowhere up high, that was for sure. I’d knocked one of the old smaller tubs over once without realising. The viscosity of the pastes meant they didn’t spill immediately, rather leaching out at a slow but steady pace. By the next morning, the bakery looked like a crime scene, with blood red goo dripping everywhere. I swear I half expected some psycho to spring from behind the storeroom when I first saw all the mess. That was years ago, and the stain on the worktop was just as angry now as it ever was.

‘The king has returned.’ Jesse shouted from out front, barging in through the front door.

‘I hope you have food!’ I yelled back.

‘I got you an almond croissant, but it is from the golden girls if you wanna pass?’

I took the bag from Jesse’s hand and inhaled the delights of freshly baked pastries. ‘Damn, they do make good croissants.’

Jess smiled, watching me take the treat as he knew I would. ‘How are you feeling this morning? After your rocky start to the week?’

I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started ribbing me again about yesterday.

‘Shut up, Jess, and get to work. Speaking of which, you have a job. Email from a Penny Richardson.’

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘A headache in the making. And it’s all yours, homeboy.’

Jess dropped the backpack from his shoulders and slipped out of his hoody before pinnying up and going for the bunker corner.

He sat down with the laptop and started clicking through the screens. I busied myself clearing space for the new supplies. Wait for it …

‘The mutha-funkin’ Gold Rooms!’

I was grinning as Jess read every detail of the digital flyer, knowing he’d go back over it a few more times to drink in every last bit of it. This cake was going to be obscene.

‘Like I said, headache.’

‘Headache! You’re kidding me? Wait till I tell the lads that I’ve been in the Gold Rooms! Ah, man! They’re gonna be bummed. I said he was a flash sucka … d’you know, I think he might actually be James Bond.’

Technically, that wasn’t what Jess had called him, but I wasn’t about to point it out. Those words were never going to leave my mouth again.

‘Yeah, well … we’re only delivering, Jess. I’m sorry I know it’s an ask on a Saturday night but I can’t do it alone.’

‘Hol, we’re going to The Gold Rooms! I don’t care what night of the week it is, once we’re in, we’re in, girl!’

I shot Jess a look.

‘Hol, come on. You’re not gonna make me leave as soon as the cake’s in, are you? That would be like taking a kid to Disneyland, letting him catch sight of Mickey then taking him home again.’

‘Jess, we’re not crashing this party. We don’t know these people, we’re not invited. And to be honest, it’s not exactly my scene. People with more money than sense, all dressed up in designer gear talking about Daddy’s yacht,’ I said, batting at Jesse’s intentions hanging heavy in the air.

‘Speak for yourself, it’s totally my scene! I scrub up well, and I love yachts!’ Jess was trying his best to will a change in me he knew he had no chance of.

‘Don’t look at me like that. If we were invited, it would be different. But I am no way crashing,’ I said. ‘We don’t even know whose party it is!’ There. Not my fault. My hands were tied.

‘All right. But I’ve gotta tell you, Hol, don’t be surprised if I slink off to get changed in the little boys’ room, because if I see anyone famous in there, with or without you, I am crashing the joint.’

‘Knock yourself out, Cinders. But the pumpkin and I will be leaving by eight-thirty-five, with or without you. I guarantee it.’

The rest of the day was as busy as I’d anticipated, and although Jess was unusually quiet I couldn’t be sure if it was because he was sulking with me or mentally planning his outfit. Both probably. When things died down in the afternoon, I left him sketching out a rough design for the Argyll cake. I had to hand it to Jesse, when it came to creativity, there was nothing his hands couldn’t do.

I’d managed to steal a few sneaky peeks over his shoulder, knowing that whatever he came up with was going to rock. Jesse was probably right. It would be his scene, everywhere was his scene. Effortlessly good looking and funny as hell, there was little for anyone to dislike about him. Both he, and the cake, would be able to hold their own at the party. Sure he was going to be contending with some beautiful people, but Jess could make beautiful, right out of nothing, and that was a talent that couldn’t be bought.

Before the end of play, Jess had finished sketching up the cake and had emailed the quote over to them. I’d made sure he’d signed it off so that they had a new name to chase. Martha had called, warning me Mum had been on the phone, we’d picked up a couple of last minute telephone orders giving us a nice even pace until the weekend and, with no weddings booked in for Saturday or Sunday, one of us was going to get a whole weekend off.

‘Hey, Hol, there’s nothing in for the next two Saturdays, you knew that right?’ I knew he wouldn’t be sore at me for long.

‘Uhuh, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘I was thinking you take this Saturday off, I’ll take next? If that’s cool?’

‘I’m easy, Jess, whatever fits in with your plans. Going anywhere nice?’

‘Dunno yet. My mate’s taking his girl on a road trip. If she can talk her friend into it, I wouldn’t mind a spot in the back with her.’ He flashed me a full set of pearly whites and wiggled his eyebrows until I burst out laughing.

‘A road trip? Is there anywhere you won’t go for a bit of skirt, Mr Ray?’ Jesse was eternally in love, but with a different girl every week. I could see what every last one of them saw in him. I loved him too. He’d played big brother when I needed it more than I’d known, and was like a kid brother to me for the rest of the time. I had a lot to thank him for. For things I didn’t know how to say.

‘Probably.’ He shrugged, all big brown-eyed innocence. ‘But I haven’t found it on the map yet.’

By the time I’d done my eight hour stint, I was ready to call it a day, and left Jess to lock up at closing time. It had been a steady day, and with all the people coming and going, I’d hardly thought about teepees until the drive home.

It was still warm when I rattled down the track towards the cottage and, as I parked up, Dave walked out into the yard to greet me.

‘Hey, fella,’ I called creaking the van door closed with my bum. I reached into my shopping bag as I walked towards Dave, fishing for a little of the meat I’d bought from the deli on the way.

I slid the key into the lock and pushed on the peeling crimson paintwork. Dave followed me in, nearly knocking my legs out from under me, excited for the other contents of the grocery bag in my arms. Inside the hall, the answer machine was flashing red. I hit the button and went through into the kitchen.

You have three new messages. I started picking through the groceries while wrestling my bag and cardigan from my shoulders.

First new message, received today at eight-sixteen a.m.: ‘Holly love, phone Mum, would you? She’s getting a bit tetchy that you haven’t called for a little while. I’ve told her you’re busy but well … just give her a call, love. It would be nice to hear what you’ve been up to. Bye, love.’

‘Holly love, it’s Dad again. Just don’t tell your mother I called, you know it’s just, she’d like to think you’ve just called her up. All right, love, bye for now.’ Received at eight-nineteen a.m.

Seeing all the little pots on the counter made my stomach growl.

‘Holly, I know you are busy, but really? Is one call a week unreasonable? Martha’s telling me everything’s fine, and the scan was OK, but I’m not sure, Holly, I think that maybe she just doesn’t want us to worry. I’m stuck over here and I don’t know what’s happening! Anyway, I hope you’re taking care of yourself. Martha says you’ve lost a little weight? Call me. Bye.

Received at twelve-fifty-two p.m.

‘Well, that’s kinda what happens when you move to another country, Ma,’ I said, picking at a pot of olives. I had not lost weight. Martha had just temporarily outgrown me.

I stuffed a few more salty morsels into my mouth and threw my things over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. I needed to work out a better warning system with Dad.

I deleted the messages and thought about calling them as I scanned the hall for the slipper I couldn’t see. Maybe after dinner. Off the hallway I could see into the drab front room, and my other felt slipper waiting for recovery.

It was always cold in this room. We hadn’t lit the fire in here since the first few weeks of Chinese takeaways and grand plans and I’d since turned off the radiators to conserve energy. Until we’d knocked through the kitchen, this had been the largest open space in the whole house, and we’d used it as a dumping ground for all the furniture we were gradually rehousing around the rest of the place. It was a bit like an elephants’ graveyard in here now, picture frames long unhung and lamps long unlit. There was still plenty of furniture in here too, including the beat-up old chesterfield Mrs Hedley had insisted we have.

While I was being indecisive about what was going to be my favourite room in the house, Charlie had commandeered the smaller snug just off through the rear doors, officially declaring it as his man cave. He had everything he needed in there, he’d said, sofa bed for when I was mean to him, and flat screen for when the boys came over on footy nights. It was just a cave now.

I scooped up my slipper and went back to sit with it on the stairs. The wood was hard under my backside as I changed out of my shoes.

The inside of one slipper was contorted enough that it scratched my foot as I tried to put it on. ‘Dave! You’ve been chewing again! You bad dog.’ Again, I really needed to work on my boss voice. I pushed my foot into the slipper—

A cold wet residue spread itself across my toes. Gross.

‘They’re the third pair since April, Dave! What are you—a fetishist?’ He whimpered at that.

I reached into my bag hanging next to me for a tissue to wipe Dave’s essence away. The last thing I’d put in there was Charlie’s mail. I left the tissue and pulled the pamphlet free of my bag for another look at that which had captured Charlie’s imagination. The perfect couple, toasting their quirky getaway under a twilit sky. How could we have known how fragile it all was? The infinity of the world around us, the promise of our youth, the protection of our love. All gone in seconds, leaving nothing to believe in.









CHAPTER 7


‘Mrs Jefferson!’ came the boom of a voice I hadn’t heard for a while. ‘How are you doin’, darlin’?’

The forest air was crisp and fresh, and exactly the pick-me-up I’d needed. I hadn’t spent an afternoon in the forest for so long, it had been a stretch of many more months since I’d last bumped into any of Charlie’s crew. Dave ran ahead to the base of the tree from where Big Frank Stanley’s familiar tone was emanating, and wagged himself silly until Big Frank shuffled down.

‘Agh, get away mad dog!’ Frank jovially cried as I staggered through the mulch towards them. Frank was the biggest man I’d ever met, but still Dave looked like a monster as he charged playfully towards him.

‘Dave! Leave him alone … he’s only little.’ I grinned as Frank pushed Dave aside to come greet me.

Frank grabbed hold of me in a bear hug. ‘Hello, darlin’,’ he rumbled, his beard bristling uncomfortably against my face. He smelled like Charlie after a long day. Of chainsaw fuel, and pine needles.

‘Hey, Frank. How have you been?’ I asked, fighting the urge to smooth the itch he’d left on my cheek. He had the look of a Viking about him, but if I thought Charlie’s broad shoulders were well suited to working the forest, Frank made Charlie look as though he shouldn’t be far from his mother. I hadn’t missed being eaten out of house and home by him on footy nights, but seeing him now I realised that I had indeed missed him.

‘Same old same old.’ He smiled through a covering of reddish whiskers thick enough to hide his lips. ‘Where have you been hiding?’

‘Nowhere—’ I shrugged ‘—just been busy with work and things.’

‘I know that feeling. I’m just trying to get a few extra quid in over a weekend.’

‘I hadn’t expected to see anyone up here on a Saturday,’ I said as we strolled through the trees.

‘It’s all go up here at the moment.’ A seriousness settled in his features. ‘There’s a few of the lads out today. Deckard and Jimmy are here somewhere, marking off the boundaries for the suits. You know about the slade, over on the west side?’

‘I heard they were talking about it. But then it all went quiet. We don’t hear much over our way without anyone to keep us in the loop.’ I shrugged.

‘Three years fighting and now they’re still selling them out from under us.’

The campaigners had put up a good fight, but we knew there would be a domino effect once the sell-offs had started. Before long, none of these forests would be open to the public any more, worse still they would be developed.

‘I’m sorry, Frank.’ I really was. Sick with sorry, in fact. For all of Charlie’s efforts here to come to nothing, it was beyond crushing. Here was the closest thing Charlie had to a legacy.

He’d invested so much time trying to think of new and tangible ways of keeping the forests an integral part of the local community. Then, one night, over beer and nostalgia, Charlie had his eureka moment. He’d been telling Martha and Rob about his awful school days where he’d been expelled from one high school, and forgotten by his next. He’d been aggressive, and disruptive—everything you didn’t want from a teenage boy. Everything Charlie wasn’t.

But it had all been a diversion. A mechanism for survival. Because no one had ever diagnosed Charlie’s dyslexia.

Martha cried when Charlie told her the things he’d do to avoid being called upon for answers in class. He made light of it, but I knew how it had affected him, how he worried that our children would suffer the same way. School for him had been a demoralising experience, and a lonely one too, but even we were stunned when Rob told us the proportion of offenders he’d represented with learning difficulties such as Charlie’s. Individuals who had all started off with expulsions for behaviour just like his, children crippled by shame. It had taken Charlie a long time to finally accept that he wasn’t simply stupid.

Rob had raised the topic of forest schools that night. We’d never heard of them, not even through Charlie’s work. The more Rob had explained what it was he understood forest schools to be the more Charlie had hung on his every word. He’d thought that a forest school was the answer, to the sustainability of the forest and to the local children who could benefit from all that they offered.

‘They’re not talking about it now,’ said Big Frank, grabbing for a stick Dave was thrusting at his hand. ‘The slade’s gone. Sold. It’s all fenced off now by the new owners. They’ll be moving into the woodland next.’

I looked around me into the eeriness of the forest. It was so beautiful here, I couldn’t bear it if we lost the woods too. Frank kicked at a few fallen pinecones as we walked, sending them spinning from the rich damp earth.

‘I’d better let you get on, Frank,’ I said, reaching up to give him a hug goodbye. ‘Say hi to Annie for me?’

‘I will. Watch for that mad dog of yours.’

Another bristled cheek and Big Frank turned back towards where Dave had first found him.

Dave went back on his leash as we neared the more populated walks. The path led us through the woods, past the forest park where families were picnicking and chasing each other around on bikes, before taking us out onto the slade at the foot of the forest. All along the perimeter, iron stakes held aloft red and white tape, flickering uselessly in the breeze. Although it had quite obviously been demarked as somewhere we couldn’t go any more, it was hard to accept that so much space was suddenly off limits.

The pocket of my jacket flashed to life with the phone ringing inside it. It was Jesse’s face on the screen.

‘Hey. What’s up?’

‘All right, Hol, sorry to spoil your day off,’

‘No, you’re fine. Is everything OK?’ I asked.

‘Yeah yeah, everything’s fine. It’s just, I’ve got a lady on the shop phone asking if we can make two hundred cupcakes for Monday.’

‘Monday? This Monday coming?’ I asked. It was unusual for anyone to have a function on a Monday, and be this late for ordering.

‘Yeah, I didn’t want to say yes without checking it with you first.’

‘Thanks, Jess. Did she say what they’re for?’ Dave was trying to pull me into the slade. He’d never been bothered before, now he wasn’t allowed he wanted in. I heard Jess running my query through the other phone.

‘No, no function.’

‘Delivery or collection?’ I asked.

‘Collection.’ I couldn’t help but be suspicious. You tended to get a feel for quantities and days, that kind of thing. This sounded like a wind up.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘but they need to pay it all up front, today. Otherwise we can’t start it when we get in on Monday. And no cheques, Jess.’

‘You got it. Catch you later,’ he said

‘Bye.’

Jess clicked the phone off. It was unlikely I’d be making those cupcakes on Monday, I could near enough feel it.

Dave and I were back in the old Land Rover Mrs Hedley let me use to cart him around in, and well on our way home when my mobile started ringing again. Jesse, Martha and my folks all had the same ringtone, whoever this was I didn’t know them, I didn’t think. I ignored it and carried on for home. The sky had already started falling into that rich cerulean blue by the time I’d dropped the key round to Mrs Hedley. I needed an excuse to get out of movie night at Martha’s.

As soon as I’d let us into the cottage, Dave went straight for his spot on the floor at the back of the kitchen. I crashed too, on the window seat halfway between Dave’s bed and the bottle of wine I’d left on the breakfast bar, and lay back there looking up at the rows of books on the shelves above me. I held my phone above my face and flipped through the menu to text Martha. I know, I’m a coward, but it’s markedly easier to say anything when you don’t have to use your voice to do it.

The call I’d missed was from a number I didn’t recognise. They hadn’t left a voicemail.

Martha returned my text within seconds, checking that I was feeling OK and not having the meltdown my mother was always warning everyone to be ready for. Martha was surprisingly fine though. I should imagine it was nice for them to have a Saturday night to themselves for a change without me playing gooseberry. I didn’t fancy Rob’s chances for getting out of the grapefruit breakfast tomorrow though.

My arm started to ache from mid-air texting, so I rolled onto my side. Martha had made a long mid-grey cushion to run along the cream timber seat, and had insisted on at least six scatter cushions in soft lime and grey to finish off ‘the look’. Never mind how it looked, it was pretty damn comfortable here. Comfy enough to just slope off into a sleep. I pulled a cushion under my head. Across the kitchen, through the chunky legs of the table, I could see Dave’s hulking frame already snoozing in his bed. He had an easy life. Reluctantly, I pushed myself up.

A glass of red, and a soak in the tub were the only things that were going to get me on my feet.

Dave was already too far gone to come sit in the bathroom with me. I poured a glass of wine, grabbed one of the deli pots out of the fridge and headed up on my own. I polished off the feta chunks while I changed out of my jeans and tee shirt, and wished I’d bought more as I sunk my tired body into the hot silk of the water. There were few things more pleasurable than sliding into a deep bubble bath. Well, there were a few things, though I could vaguely remember what those things felt like. Vaguely. I resolved to start making more time for baths and showering less.

The change in temperature rippled me with gratifying goosebumps. I lay back and closed my eyes, enjoying the drip, drip, drip of the tap into the otherwise still water at my feet. The stiffness in my shoulder from Dave’s yanking gradually began to release. Through barely open eyes, I lifted a foot to the trickle of cold water, plugging the tap with my toe, and was more than shocked at how long I must have left it since last de-fuzzing my legs.

Bloody hell, Holly. You won’t need to wear trousers through the winter if that grows much more!

I spotted my razor on the tray in the shower. ‘Oh sod it, I’ll do it tomorrow,’ I said, before settling cold shoulders back into the warmth beneath the water line.

I relaxed again, the noises of the water swilling around me died away to nothing. Downstairs, I could hear Dave sucking in a deep, sleepy breath through his nose, then the dull buzzing of my mobile phone vibrating on the bed.

I thought Martha had given up too easily.

Just ignore it.

But then she’ll worry.

Go answer the phone.

‘Damn it, Martha!’

The towel I grabbed had spent just long enough to warm through on the radiator. I pulled myself free of the water’s reluctant release and wrapped myself in the towel, then trod wet feet over the rug on the landing and into my room at the back of the house. This was the only room in the house with carpet, thanks to my sister, and I was glad for it as I padded across the floor to the heavy four-poster. The phone stopped buzzing before I reached it, of course. I dumped myself on the soft give of the simple ivory quilt Martha had said was to die for, and looked at the screen. The same unfamiliar mobile number sat at the top of the list of missed calls. Martha and Jesse’s names took all remaining spots.

I started towelling the ends of my dripping hair and pondered who had pulled me from the tub before I’d had a chance to wash it through. Maybe it was Annie, Big Frank’s wife. She’d tried her best to get me to go and spend some time with them; it was probably her off the back of our catch-up today.

Still no voicemail though. I wasn’t calling her back now, I’d do it tomorrow some time, right after I finally called Mum. Crap. I was going to get an earful.

I was thinking of my mother’s impending annoyance, mobile phone still nestled in the palm of my hand, when it buzzed back to life. Annie’s attempts at being friendly had always been persistent, and I hated myself for holding it against her. I just didn’t want the therapy she thought she could offer me. My thumb hovered over the reject button but it seemed a little harsh, ungrateful too, probably. And I had enjoyed seeing Frank today. Maybe I was starting to mellow. Just answer it.

‘Hello?’ I said, waiting for Annie’s buoyant voice.

‘Hello?’ came his answer.

‘Frank?’

‘No. Not Frank. Is this the correct number for Miss Jefferson?’

I didn’t know why I’d thought Frank. Only it definitely wasn’t Jess or Rob, which left me searching through a very limited list of male names.

‘Who is this?’ I asked, checking the time on the dresser clock. It was a bit late for mobile phone companies, or offers of PPI reclamation. There was something familiar though—

‘It’s Ciaran. Argyll.’

The faintest involuntary gasp of breath kicked off a sudden thumping in the side of my neck and the wash of a tingling sensation over my cheeks. My body was already starting to react to some sort of stressful situation my brain didn’t understand yet.

‘Or … occasionally I go by Bond. James Bond.’

I knew it, as soon as the name started to trip off his wistfully Scottish tongue, I knew what was coming. For some reason, I felt like I’d been caught out by him again.

Think of something to say …

‘And on occasion, Handsome S—’

‘Ah, Mr Argyll … what can I do for you?’ I asked, searching for what the hell the answer could be. Thump, thump, continued the percussion in my neck. I tried to breathe quietly and evenly, to not allow the unsteadiness to give me away.

‘I’m sorry to call you out of hours, Miss Jefferson—’ I could hear the smile still there in his voice ‘—but I’m afraid I have a few queries about my order.’

In the dresser mirror I could see the look of absolute confusion all over my daft pink face, but at least at the mention of work some part of my brain found a foothold and started to climb its way up to the light.

‘How did you get this number?’ I asked, allowing myself the first stirs of what could be annoyance, hoping that they might chase off whatever else was stirring back there.

‘Nothing’s sacred these days, Miss Jefferson. I find a little research saves time. I hope you don’t mind?’ It was one of those statements that had few answers which wouldn’t leave you open to one implication or another. I wasn’t sure exactly what a little research involved, or whether I liked being the subject of it, but whatever he wanted it must be important to call out of shop hours, and to research me enough to do so.

‘Is there a problem, Mr Argyll?’ I asked, the annoyance warming up nicely. ‘Because if there is, Jesse will be able to deal with that for you first thing on Monday.’

‘Jesse?’ he asked. ‘And will Jesse be taking care of my order throughout?’

‘That’s right. So if you have anything to discuss regarding your cake, he’ll be able to help you out with that. On Monday. During shop hours.’

The other end of the line went quiet for a few seconds.

‘I was just wondering, and I’m sorry to keep you, but you are the boss and so I think I should really run this past you.’ His voice was relaxed, and carried with enough softness that his referring to my snippiness in the shop didn’t bug me. ‘There are going to be a lot of people at the event we’ve hired you for. We don’t really want them all wandering over and helping themselves to your masterpiece, it could get messy.’ Jess’s masterpiece. ‘I was just wondering to what extent your business’s services could be utilised?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Argyll, I’m not sure I understand the question.’

‘I was just thinking that it might be an idea to employ you to oversee the cutting and serving of the cake. After seeing the detail of your work, I don’t think the staff are going to know what to do with it.’

‘I’m sorry, are you asking if we can babysit the cake for you?’

He laughed then, an effortless press of breath against the phone. ‘I suppose I am. Of course, you’d also get to spend the evening at the Gold Rooms. I think you’d enjoy it.’

Across in the mirror, the redness had definitely started to leave my cheeks, but I looked even more confused now. Why would I want to stay there? Why would he think I would?

‘Ah, we don’t offer that kind of service, Mr Argyll.’

‘Call me Ciaran.’

The faintest prickle rode over my neck. I reached up to rub it away.

It was hard to decide if that gentle edge to his voice had come from a childhood left behind, or his father’s intonation influencing his own through the years.

‘We don’t cake-sit, Ciaran. The venue’s banqueting team will be able to accommodate you.’

‘You’re right. They should do for what they charge. Have you ever been there?’ Were we chit-chatting?

‘No,’ I answered, more than bemused. ‘But Jesse’s told me all about it,’ I said in a voice that must have shown my disinterest.

I felt a large droplet of cold water fall from my hair onto my thigh.

‘Then he’s told you how exclusive the venue is?’ What was he getting at?

‘He mentioned it.’

‘That it’s notoriously difficult to get into?’ This was getting weirder. The place was seriously swanky, I got it.

I was about to disappoint him. ‘As Jess explained it to me, it’s not difficult to get in there. You just have to pay your way in.’

‘At an eye-watering price,’ he added.

‘I heard that too.’

‘And you wouldn’t take the chance to enjoy an evening there? Without having to pay your way in?’

‘The cost of entry isn’t what puts me off, Mr Argyll. Well, it would, but places like that just …’ I remembered to choose my words carefully. I might be sat on my bed, for some bizarre reason talking about frivolous haunts, but I was still talking to a customer.

‘Not your thing?’ he offered. Exactly.

‘Nope. Not really,’ I said, wondering how to round this chat off before I did offend him.

‘And is it Jesse’s thing?’

I gave a small laugh myself then, his question had surprised me. ‘Anything with gold, music or overindulgence is Jesse’s thing.’

‘Then the Gold Rooms must score highly on places he’d like to visit?’

Jesse had already made it perfectly clear how much he’d like to visit. It would be mean to head off a chance for him.

‘You’re welcome to ask him if he wants to cake-sit. But your best chance of catching him will be on Monday … when we’re open.’

The line went quiet again for a few moments. Maybe I’d gone in too hard. ‘Sorry, I’ve kept you. I’ll deal with Jesse then from now on?’

‘Jesse’s your man.’

‘Thank you for your help, Miss Jefferson. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’ He clicked the phone off before I had chance to say bye.









CHAPTER 8


Jesse was grinning like the cat who had the cream. I ignored him; this hadn’t been my idea. And he looked like Liberace in that tux.

Above us, great swathes of twinkling fabric pitched away like the insides of a circus tent, and gathered at the point an enormous chandelier, fashioned in sweeping strands of golden chain mail, hung regally over us all. It was dizzying looking up at all that glitz, but down here there was even more going on.

Jesse had my hand, and was pulling me deeper into the bodies, dancing furiously around us. I didn’t want to dance but Jess wasn’t listening. I wobbled on my shoes as he pulled me further into the heaving mass. At least if I fell here, I’d be swallowed up by a pit of legs and shaking booty.

These were beautiful people all right. The men all looking every bit as tweezed and polished as the women, the women all dressed like each other in gold evening gowns, sparkling cocktail dresses and—was she dressed as an ancient Greek?—the odd historical fashion, apparently.

Some five or more bodies into the crowd behind Jesse, a large chap was throwing crazy shapes to the music pulsing around us. The people immediately next to him had all moved back to give the big guy some space. Smart move, somebody was really enjoying themselves. Suddenly I didn’t feel so self-conscious about falling off the heels I was stupidly wearing, or drawing attention to my limited knowledge of dance.

I wasn’t really dancing anyway, more swaying with the motion of the sea of people around me. Jess hadn’t noticed my lacklustre efforts, demanding that I get more into the party spirit, so I was good for now. Besides, I was busy people-watching. It was hard not to stare at the big guy through the other dancers, he was way too interesting not to. I’d only caught him from behind, arms flailing wildly to the music and head of perfectly coiffed deep red hair swaying and bobbing to the beat reverberating through my feet.

As is so often the case when you’re rubber-necking though, Twinkletoes started to turn that hairdo this way. Big Frank? What the hell is Frank doing in the Gold Rooms? And what has he done to his hair! Frank was lost in the music, and turned back before I could catch his attention.

‘Jess?’ I shouted. I caught his eye for a second. ‘Is that Frank over there? You remember he worked with Charlie?’

Jess frowned like he couldn’t understand me. I looked for a way through the crowd to get closer to the person I was sure was Frank. The crowd wasn’t budging though, we were packed in. I turned to look out across the rest of the partygoers in various shades of golds and creams.





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