Escape to Honeysuckle Hall

by Rebecca Raisin

  He pulls his lips to one side. ‘Must be. How did the goodbyes go?’

  ‘Oh fine. They tugged at the heart a little, not going to lie. I wonder if they’ll all feel so wretched or if I’ll become immune to them. I hope I don’t. But this, being the first one, feels extra special.’

  He nods. ‘They were a great group of people. I made you a little gift to commemorate the very first camp. I’ve also got a copy for each of the campers.’

  ‘Oh, Leo, that’s so lovely of you.’ He hands me the box and I open it.

  I blink and blink and blink but it’s no use. ‘Sod it.’ The tears run in rivulets down my face. I’m probably a red-eyed puffy mess by now anyway. ‘I didn’t even notice that you took this …’ It’s a picture of the campers, Esterlita and I – taken last night as we all jumped and whooped for Anomaly who stands centre stage, microphone stand held aloft, back bent, belting out the song. Esterlita’s face shines with pure joy.

  ‘How did you time it so well?’

  ‘By taking a lot of them!’

  ‘They’re going to love this. This really sums up the group so well.’ On Lulu’s face is a maternal pride. Jo grins as if she always knew Anomaly had it in him. Jock is wiping away a tear. And Esterlita is mid hip thrust. Of course. Thomas and Teani are holding hands and jumping into the air, like they’re about to jump into their new life together.

  ‘You keep giving me all these gifts and yet I’ve given you none.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re here. That’s gift enough for me.’

  ‘I figured you didn’t date because of your past history as a spy.’

  ‘I’m going to make allowances for you.’

  ‘I’m so lucky. May I ask why?’ I grin.

  ‘You didn’t baulk when I told you about my face transplant, even though I’m left with this ugly mug.’

  ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And, I like a girl who can eat pizza and snort-laugh at the same time.’

  ‘That’s a real skill you know.’

  ‘I know. I’m in awe.’

  Oh my God, note to self: stop drinking wine before going on dates. ‘Well, I don’t mind the fact you’re a spy; in fact, it could come in quite handy. Plus, I like your face. Even if it’s not your original face. It’s a still a very lovely face as far as faces go.’

  ‘Shucks.’

  ‘No, no, I’m just being honest.’

  ‘I like your face too.’

  ‘I’m thrilled.’

  ‘So you should be. I very rarely break these solemn spy oaths not to get too close to anyone.’

  ‘And if the bad guys come after me?’

  ‘They won’t,’ he says.

  ‘But if they do?’

  ‘We’ll run.’

  ‘I’m not much of a runner,’ I grimace.

  ‘Then we’ll hide.’

  ‘Deal. But I’m presuming at the moment the coast is clear and we can just live as normal?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘In that case,’ I say, ‘would you like to go on a date with me?’

  ‘I’d love nothing more.’

  ‘Same.’ And in the spirit of transformation, of throwing caution to the wind, and living for the moment, I leap into his arms and kiss him hard on the mouth. He tastes like fresh starts and new possibilities. He holds me tight and makes me feel like I’m home. I’m finally where I belong and that’s right here at Honeysuckle Hall, in the comfort of his embrace.

  As we break apart, Esterlita’s voice booms out from wherever she’s been hiding. If anyone could make it as a bloody spy, she could! ‘He collects stamps, you know!’

  I take a step back. So Esterlita finally unearthed something about Leo! ‘You do?’

  He shrugs. ‘I find it satisfying, wondering about where they’ve been. Crossing oceans, flying over exotic countries. What important document or postcard they transported to another place in another time. One tiny piece of paper has been responsible for so many great things. Blows my mind.’

  Mine too! ‘I knew you were a nerd, deep, deep down.’

  ‘A massive nerd.’

  ‘I collect stamps too.’

  ‘What are the chances?’ He grins, knowing full well I collect stamps, as my collection is displayed for everyone to admire.

  ‘Slim to none!’ Esterlita bellows. ‘You two must be the lamest people on the planet!’

  Then it dawns on me. ‘You sent me George’s letter! How did you know I found Elizabeth’s?’

  ‘I walked into the shop that day, but you were lost in a daydream. I found George’s letter a few weeks earlier and I’d been searching for hers when I came upon you that day.’

  ‘So they never got together?’ My heart sinks, thinking of the lovers over half a century ago.

  He grins. ‘Who says?’

  ‘Well it doesn’t sound like …’

  ‘When you have a few days off maybe we can go on a road trip? There’s this little apple orchard run by an elderly couple called Elizabeth and George.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’

  It seems like a sign, like fate. If they can make it, we surely can. It feels as though the hall has a magic about it, helping couples find each other despite the obstacles in their path. Helping people find what they most need in life, whether that’s love, friendship or acceptance.

  ‘I can’t believe you collect stamps?!’ Wait until I tell Maya! We laugh and I slip into his arms again. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’

  ‘Are we talking stamp collections …?’ he asks.

  ‘Let’s see how the date goes, eh? And then I’ll tell you.’

  With that, he kisses me once more and makes me forget all about love stories from another time as he breathes life into me, and our real-life love story starts in earnest. I’ve got a feeling I won’t need the paddles again, not for a long, long time. Until I feel a peck at my ankle and let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead.

  ‘Mother clucker!’ I spring into Leo’s arms.

  ‘I really love this chicken,’ he says, grinning.

  Gripped by Escape to Honeysuckle Hall? Don’t miss Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop, another unputdownable novel from Rebecca Raisin. Available now!

  Click here if you’re in the US

  Click here if you’re in the UK

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop …

  Chapter 1

  ‘You’re just not spontaneous enough, Rosie …’

  I’ve misheard, surely. Fatigue sends my brain to mush at the best of times but after twenty hours on my feet, words sound fuzzy, and I struggle to untangle what he’s getting at.

  It’s just gone 2 a.m. on Saturday 2nd February and that means I’m officially 32 years old. By my schedule I should be in the land of nod, but I’d stayed late at work to spontaneously bake a salted caramel tart to share with Callum, hoping he’d actually remember my birthday this year.

  He’s never been a details man – we’re opposites in that respect – so I try not to take it to heart, but part of me hopes this is all a prelude to a fabulous birthday surprise and not the brewing of a row.

  ‘Sorry, Callum, what did you say?’ I try to keep my voice light and swig a little too heartily on the cheap red wine I found in the back of the cupboard after Callum told me we needed to have a chat. Surreptitiously, I glance to the table beside me hoping to see a prettily wrapped box but find it bare, bar a stack of cookbooks. Really, I don’t need gifts, do I? Love can be shown in other ways, perhaps he’ll make me a delicious breakfast when we wake up …

  My eyes slip closed. With midnight long gone, my feet ache, and I’m weary right down to my bones. Bed is calling to me in the most seductive way; come hither and sleep, Rosie, it says. Even the thought of a slice of luscious ooey-gooey birthday tart can’t keep me awake and compos mentis. But I know I must
focus, he’s trying to tell me something …

  ‘Are you asleep?’ The whine in his voice startles me awake. ‘Rosie, please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be,’ he says, as if I’m being deliberately obtuse.

  Make what harder – what have I missed? I shake my head, hoping the fog will clear. ‘How am I not spontaneous? What do you even mean by that?’ Perhaps he’s nervous because he’s about to brandish two airline tickets to the Bahamas. Happy Birthday, Rosie, time to pack your bags!

  He lets out a long, weary sigh like I’m dense and it strikes me as strange that he’s speaking in riddles at this time of the morning when I have to be at the fishmonger in precisely five hours.

  ‘Look …’ He runs a hand through his thinning red hair. ‘I think we both know it’s over, don’t we?’

  ‘Over?’ My mouth falls open. Just exactly how long did my power nap last for? ‘What … us?’ My incredulity thickens the air. This does not sound anything like a birthday celebration, not even close.

  ‘Yes, us,’ he confirms, averting his eyes.

  ‘Over because I’m not—’ I make air quotes with my fingers ‘—spontaneous enough?’ Has he polished off the cooking sherry?

  My husband still won’t look at me.

  ‘You’re too staid. You plan your days with military precision from when you wake to when you sleep, and everything in between has a time limit attached to it. There’s no room for fun or frivolity, or God forbid having sex on a day you haven’t scheduled it.’

  So I’m a planner? It’s essential in my line of work as a sous-chef in esteemed Michelin-starred London restaurant Époque, and he should know that, having the exact same position in another restaurant (one with no Michelin stars, sadly). If I didn’t schedule our time together we’d never see each other! And I wouldn’t get the multitude of things done that need doing every single hour of every day. High pressure is an understatement.

  ‘I … I …’ I don’t know how to respond.

  ‘See?’ He stares me down as if I’m a recalcitrant child. ‘You don’t even care! I’d get more affection from a pot plant! You can be a bit of a cold fish, Rosie.’

  His accusation makes me reel, as if I’ve been slapped. ‘That’s harsh, Callum, honestly, what a thing to say!’ Truth be told I’m not one for big shows of affection. If you want my love, you’ll get it when I serve you a plate of something I’ve laboured over. That’s how I express myself, when I cook.

  It dawns on me, thick and fast. ‘There’s someone else.’

  He has the grace to blush.

  A feeling of utter despair descends while my stomach churns. How could he?

  ‘Well?’ I urge him again. Since he’s dropping truth bombs left, right and centre, he can at least admit his part in this … this break-up. Hurt crushes my heart. I hope I’m asleep and having a nightmare.

  ‘Well, yes, there is, but it’s not exactly a surprise, surely? We’re like ships that pass in the night. If only you were more—’

  ‘Don’t you dare say spontaneous.’

  ‘—if only you were less staid.’ He manages a grin. A grin. Do I even know this man who thinks stomping over my heart is perfectly acceptable?

  He continues reluctantly, his face reddening as if he’s embarrassed. ‘It’s just … you’re so predictable, Rosie. I can see into your future, our future because it’s planned to the last microsecond! You’ll always be a sous-chef, and you’ll always schedule your days from sun up to sun down. You’ll keep everyone at arm’s length. Even when I leave, you’ll continue on the exact same trajectory.’ He shakes his head as though he’s disappointed in me but his voice softens. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I really am, but I can see it playing out – you’ll stay resolutely single and grow the most cost-effective herb garden this side of the Thames. I hope you don’t, though. I truly hope you find someone who sets your world on fire. But it’s not me, Rosie.’

  What in the world? Not only is he dumping me, he’s planning my spinsterhood too? Jinxing me to a lonely life where my only companion is my tarragon plant? Well, not on my watch! I might be sleep-deprived but I’m nobody’s fool. The love I have for him pulses, but I remember the other woman and it firms my resolve.

  He sighs and gives me a pitying smile. ‘I hate to say it, Rosie. But you’re turning into your dad. Not wanting to leave the …’

  ‘Get out,’ I say. He is a monster.

  ‘What?’

  Cold fish, eh? ‘OUT!’ I muster the loudest voice I can.

  ‘But I thought we’d sort who gets what first?’

  ‘Out and I mean it, Callum.’ I will not give him the satisfaction of walking all over me just because he thinks he can.

  ‘Fine, but I’m keeping this apartment. You can—’

  ‘NOW!’ The roar startles even me. You want to see me warm up? ‘LEAVE!’

  He jumps from the couch and dashes to the hallway, where I see a small bag he’s left in readiness, knowing the outcome of our ‘quick chat’ long before I did. With one last guilty look over his shoulder, he leaves with a bang of the door. He’s gone just like that.

  As though I’m someone so easy to walk away from.

  Laying down on the sofa, I clutch a cushion to my chest and wait for the pain to subside. How has it all gone so wrong? There’s someone else in his life? When did he find time to romance anyone?

  Sure, I don’t go out much, other than for work purposes, but that’s because there’s no bloody time to go out! I’m not like my dad, am I? No, Callum is using that as ammunition, knowing how sensitive I am to such a comparison.

  The sting of his words burns and doubt creeps in. Am I not spontaneous enough? Am I far too predictable?

  Admittedly I’d been feeling hemmed in, ennui creeping into everything, even my menu. Each day bleeding into the next with no discernible change except the plat de jour. Sure, my professional life is on track but lately even my enthusiasm for that has waned. I’ve had enough of tweezing micro herbs to last a lifetime. Of plating minuscule food at macro prices. Of the constant bickering in the kitchen. The noise, the bluster, the backstabbing. Of never seeing blue skies or the sun setting. Of not being able to sit beside my husband on the couch at a reasonable hour and keep my eyes open at the same time.

  Is this my fault? Am I a cold fish? I like routine and order so I know where I fit in the world. Everything is controlled and organised. There’s no clutter, mess, or fuss, or any chance I’ll lose control of any facet of my life. That need to keep life contained is a relic of my childhood. Is my marriage now a casualty of that?

  But he’d promised he’d love me for better or worse.

  Am I supposed to hope he comes to his senses or to beg him to come back?

  Sighing, I place a hand on my heart, trying to ease the ache. I could never trust him again. I’m a stickler for rules, always have been, and cheating, well … I can’t forgive that.

  But bloody hell, our lives had been all mapped out. Our first child was scheduled for conception in 2021. The second in 2023. And he’s just blithely walking away from his children like that! Didn’t he understand I would have given up my career for our future family? The career I’d worked so hard for! And I would have done it gladly, too.

  Now this?

  The gossip will spread like wildfire around the foodie world. My name embroiled in a scandal not of my choosing. It’s taken me fifteen years to get to where I am in my career, and that’s meant sacrificing a few things along the way, like a social life, and free time, real friendships. But that was all part of the bigger picture, the tapestry of our lives.

  It hurts behind my eyes just thinking about it all.

  And I mean to cry and wail and torment myself about the ‘other woman’, or force myself up off the couch and throw my lovingly baked birthday tart at the wall, or eat it all in one go as tears stream down my face – something dramatic and movie-esque – but I don’t. Instead, I fall into a deep sleep, only waking when my alarm shrills at stupid o’clock the next day, and with
it comes the overwhelming knowledge that I must leave London. At 32, this could be my rebirth, couldn’t it?

  Not spontaneous enough? Cold fish? Spinster? Like my dad?

  I’ll show you.

  Chapter 2

  At Billingsgate Market the briny smell of seafood hardly registers. I dash to the fishmonger, rattle off my order, too distracted to make the usual small talk. John, the guy with the freshest seafood this side of Cornwall, notices my jittery state.

  ‘What’s up, Rosie? There’s something different about you today.’ He gives me a once-over as if trying to pinpoint the change.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, mind scuttling. ‘I haven’t had any tea.’ My other great love. Making hand-blended teas for various moods. Wake-me-ups. Wind-me-downs. And everything in between. If I ever leave my job, I have a backup plan at least … tea merchant!

  John cocks his head. ‘You don’t look like you need it though, Rosie. You look alive.’ He shrugs. ‘And utterly different from this fella.’ He points to a dead flounder whose glassy eye stares up at me as John lets out his trademark haw, while I flinch slightly at being compared to deceased marine life. He bags my order, promising to courier it on ice to Époque immediately.

  Do I look alive?

  As I make my way to the butcher to confirm my weekly order, it occurs to me. Shouldn’t I be puffy-faced, red-eyed, fuzzy-headed from tossing and turning all night? Instead, I feel this sort of frenetic energy because I realise that I’m about to do something very out of character, bold and brave, and completely unexpected – what that entails, I’m still not quite sure, but the desire is there and I’m about to implement a huge change. Shriek.

  I’m steadfast Rosie, I don’t do change.

  I’m going to prove to the world that I’m not staid. Not stuck in a rut. I’m going to surprise even Callum, by doing the opposite of what he expects because I know if I don’t move on fast, I never will.

  Being predictable has its disadvantages, and it’s time I shook things up a bit. Jumped, as it were, into a new reality.

  What that is though exactly, remains to be seen …