My shoulders slump and I breathe again.
‘And even if there is the odd snake or rat, the fire will no doubt ward them off,’ he adds.
I shoot him a highly sceptical look. ‘It’s a lovely fire.’
‘Made the manly way, without matches.’ He twists his lips in a wry grin.
‘Really? Did you forget matches?’
‘I just grabbed the tent and a few things nearby and left.’ A dark shadow crosses his face. ‘Sometimes you just need to get away.’
I nod, studying his profile as he stares away into the trees, looking lost in some private torment.
I clear my throat and he snaps back to the present. ‘Which is why I’m experimenting with a different sort of tea today.’ He shrugs at my bemused expression. ‘I forgot to bring teabags.’
‘Ah. So what …?’
‘Ants,’ he says with a perfectly serious expression. ‘You’ve got to be prepared to eat all manner of things when you’re out in the wild.’
I stare at him in horror, then I realise his mouth is snaking up slightly at the corner. I shake my head. ‘Good try.’
‘You’re right, of course. No insects were harmed in the making of this beverage. It’s nettle tea.’ He reaches for the solitary tin cup, pours in some steaming liquid from the pan and offers it to me.
I take the cup and peer doubtfully into its murky depths. ‘It’s meant to be good for you, isn’t it? Nettle tea.’
‘I believe so. Never tried it myself.’
I laugh. ‘Oh, charming, so I’m your guinea pig!’
He shrugs. ‘Well, if you’re not brave enough …’
My hackles automatically rise. I take a determined sip and almost burn my tongue off, although I try not to let it show. The ‘tea’ has a strong, earthy flavour, like spinach. I make an involuntary revolted face and Jake laughs loudly. It’s a lovely rich sound, echoing through the trees, and it seems to reverberate deliciously through my whole body.
‘Not as good as English breakfast, then?’ he asks.
I shake my head, mesmerised by the way his smile transforms his face.
Dark shadows underscore his eyes and the hint of weariness is still there, but this is the first time I’ve seen Jake’s face relax into a genuine and full-on smile.
I’m burning with curiosity to know what’s eating away at him. What has happened to make him want to escape civilisation in such a rush and take refuge in the woods? What sadness is he running from?
‘How did you make the fire without matches?’ I ask. ‘Did you call Bear Grylls?’
‘Just some useless information I’ve retained from somewhere.’ He shrugs. ‘I used the friction method with a couple of sticks.’
I nod. ‘So … are you escaping from life? No, hang on, you’re here to get first-hand experience of survival in the wild for your next book!’ I say, hoping he doesn’t think I’m fishing. Which of course I am.
He shakes his head. ‘The book I’m writing just now is set in Manhattan. Not much need for survival techniques there.’
‘When will it be published?’
‘Not till next summer.’
‘But your next book’s coming out soon?’
He nods. ‘October.’
‘Ooh, exciting!’
We lapse into silence, staring into the fire. He’s lost in thought again, somewhere distant that etches pain on his face. I’m just starting to wonder if he’s even remembered I’m still here, when he turns.
‘You were right with your first guess,’ he says.
I frown. ‘Escaping from life?’
He nods. ‘I suppose I’m in mourning.’ He frowns, thinking about this. ‘Funny, I never thought of it like that. I just knew I needed to get away from everything.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Was it … someone close?’
He gives a jagged sigh. ‘Yes.’ I can tell by the tension in his jaw that he’s having to force himself to hold it together. ‘Laura. She was … well, she was very special.’
The way he says the name, Laura, drawing out the syllables, squeezes my heart.
‘She was an actor. An incredibly talented stage actor, in fact. Well known for her Shakespearean work. But she … she died.’
‘That’s awful,’ I whisper. ‘How?’
Jake is staring into the fire, his face suddenly gaunt and grey. ‘She drove too fast round a bend and ploughed into a tree.’ There’s a tense silence as I absorb the shock of this. Then, wearily, he adds, ‘I blame myself.’
I gulp. ‘Why? Were you there?’
He doesn’t answer for a moment and I begin to wonder if he’s even heard my question. Then he turns, as if he’s just registered my question.
‘No, Laura was alone in the car. But we’d just had a row and she drove off at speed in a bit of a state.’ He shrugs. ‘I keep thinking that if we hadn’t had words, she might still be here.’
I frown, trying to understand. ‘But you can’t blame yourself just because you had an argument.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘What … what did you argue about?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing, really. That’s the sad thing. A well-known journalist wrote some really scathing things about my latest book in his newspaper column and, as a result, it totally bombed. I’d just had the abysmal sales figures through so I was in a foul mood, and Laura started saying that I shouldn’t just blame the bad review for the slump in sales. She said if I’d made more of an effort with the publicity side of being an author and worked at growing my fan base, maybe it would be a different story. She was right, of course, but I was in no mood to hear the truth.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve always hated the whole thing of having to be active on social media and give interviews. Laura used to keep my website up-to-date, mainly because she was so much better than me at that sort of thing.’
‘You still shouldn’t blame yourself for … what happened to Laura.’
‘Maybe not. But I just can’t stand the fact that the last time I saw her we argued.’ He gives a heavy sigh. ‘Sorry. I’m not great company at the moment. That’s why I came here. I bloody deserve myself.’ He spits these last words out angrily.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I whisper, feeling his pain. It’s clear he loved Laura very much. How awful to be left with such great regrets …
He forces a smile. ‘Thanks. Yeah, it hasn’t been the best of years. And if the next book doesn’t sell more than a handful of copies, I can kiss my writing career goodbye.’
‘Surely not.’ I gaze at him in horror. ‘Your next book will be a success, I’m certain of it.’ But the words sound hollow and rather naive.
‘I like your confidence. But when your book has been trashed by a well-respected reviewer, absolutely nothing is certain.’ He glowers into the flames. ‘I’d love to get my hands on that journalist. I doubt he’d even read the bloody book!’
We’re both silent for a while.
Then he turns with a wry smile. ‘Sorry. I suppose it’s the grief talking. As you can tell, journalists aren’t exactly my favourite people in the world. I’d lock them all up and throw away the key … if it were up to me.’
I swallow. ‘No, of course. I mean, yes, I don’t blame you … for – erm – thinking that.’
He frowns. ‘What is it you do, anyway?’
‘What do I do?’ Confused, I stare at him.
‘For a living? You said you write in your spare time, which suggests you’ve got another job?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Feeling a flush creeping into my cheeks, I swallow hard. ‘I’m – well, it’s funny you should ask.’
I’m a journalist.
I’m one of those bloody pariahs that you hate so much.
‘Well, it’s not funny at all, actually, because the fact is, I’m – erm …’
Oh God, I can’t tell him I’m a journalist! Not after the conversation we’ve just had about his book bombing!
I take a deep breath. ‘Actually I’m – um – I’m a financial analyst!’
‘Rea
lly?’ He looks surprised, as if this was the very last thing he was expecting to come out of my mouth.
He’s not the only one …
My whole body is hot with shame.
What the hell made me say that?
As Jake gets up to throw the rest of the nettle tea away, I surreptitiously pull out the neck of my T-shirt and blow a waft of cooling air down it.
‘So what do you analyse?’ he asks, sitting back down and looking fascinated.
My stomach drops. ‘Oh – erm – this and that, you know. The Footsie? The stock market? The Dow James? That sort of thing.’
He grins. ‘You mean the Dow Jones? Or is that some sort of private joke among you analysts?’
My face must now be the colour of cooked beetroot.
‘Haha! Yes! We analysts never stop larking around. Honestly, it’s just one big laugh-fest where I work.’ I shake my head fondly. ‘The Dow James. Hilarious!’
‘I always imagine it to be quite labour-intensive, the work of a financial analyst,’ he says. ‘The guys I know never even seem to have the time to take holidays.’
I nod with confidence, thinking of Toby. ‘That’s very true. We almost didn’t make it here.’ I give a casual shrug. ‘Big meetings with investors, high-level negotiations … sort of thing.’
He nods sagely and I congratulate myself. I almost sound as if I know what I’m talking about!
‘Toby must be very patient,’ says Jake.
‘Yes, I suppose he is, considering the workload his boss expects him to undertake.’
Jake looks surprised. ‘Toby’s an analyst as well?’
I stare at him. I’m such a rubbish liar, it totally slipped my mind we were supposed to be talking about me.
‘Oh. Yes.’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘Toby’s an analyst. He’s a much better one than me. That’s – er – that’s how we met, in fact.’
‘Working for the same company?’
I nod, frantically searching my brain for a speedy exit before I do a Houdini and tie myself in complete knots.
Jake’s mouth curls up at the corner. ‘You’re not a financial analyst, are you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m not.’
His brow furrows a little. ‘So why …?’
I shrug, feeling really stupid for telling such a big fat lie. I feel like a naughty child.
‘I write for a trade publication. I didn’t want you to think I was one of those journalists you hate.’
‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘What’s it called, this trade publication?’
I cringe like I do when anyone asks this question. ‘What would you like it to be called?’
He laughs. ‘That bad?’
I nod. ‘Plunge Happy Monthly.’
‘Oh! That sounds … fantastic.’ He’s trying hard not to smile.
‘Go on. You can laugh. I’m used to it.’
His lips twitch. ‘Never. And, for the record, I could never hate you.’
His eyes meet mine and linger there, and a funny little shiver runs all the way up my spine. What’s happening to me?
Then I remember his grief over Laura and the moment passes.
I search for a safe topic. ‘I’ve just finished writing the first draft of a book!’
‘That’s great.’ Jake looks impressed.
‘It’s taken me five years, though, and there were times I thought I’d never finish it.’
He nods. ‘That often happens with the first one. What’s the book about?’
Flushing, I give him a brief summary of the plot.
‘Sounds good. What pushed you to finish it in the end?’
I swallow hard. ‘Well, I … I lost my mum earlier this year. She always believed in me. I suppose I’m doing it for her.’
His face is full of compassion. ‘I feel for you. I’ve gone through a similar thing. Losing someone is the pits.’
I nod sadly. And then for some reason I start telling him about how she was actually my adoptive mum, and that part of the reason for being down here this week was to find out more about my actual birth mother.
‘Something stopped me knocking on the door of Maple Tree House,’ I add sadly, after describing how Clemmy took me there in the car. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’ I shrug. ‘I’m thinking it might be best to just remember the loveliest mum I could ever possibly have had. And leave it at that.’
He nods slowly. ‘Maybe. I suppose you never know what you’re going to find.’
I sigh. ‘That’s the thing.’
‘You might want to try again.’
I swallow hard. ‘Can’t today. Toby’s away with the car.’
He looks puzzled. ‘All day?’
I nod with a sheepish smile. ‘He’s working from the Guildford office. Toby finds the countryside … challenging.’
‘Ah.’ Jake nods thoughtfully.
I shrug. ‘But never mind. It’s given me a chance to talk books with you!’
It seems so natural talking to Jake, even though part of me can’t quite believe I’m telling all this to a relative stranger. Jake is easy to talk to, though. Maybe it’s because we have a love of writing in common.
He listens attentively as I talk about Mum and how I found the handbag after she died. And the envelope with the scribbled address on it.
It feels so good to talk about it; to describe Mum’s best qualities to someone who seems genuinely interested, knowing that he’s seeing the person who meant the whole world to me through my eyes …
‘Does the heroine in your story find her lost sister in the end?’ Jake asks, when we get back onto the subject of writing.
‘Hattie? Yes, she does. Her sister, Jenny, has been living in a squat, too ashamed to go home but secretly longing for her family to come looking for her.’
He nods thoughtfully. ‘I suppose Hattie could have given up on finding her sister when it seemed impossible. No one would have blamed her.’
‘True, but that wouldn’t be a great story, would it? I wanted to write about a feisty, resourceful heroine who’s scared of what she’ll find but is nonetheless determined to do whatever it takes to uncover the truth about her beloved sister.’
‘I’d like to read it,’ says Jake.
‘Really?’ I shake my head, feeling pleased but shy all at once. ‘You don’t mean that.’
He frowns. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, you’re a successful writer. You must have loads of aspiring Stephen Kings asking you to give them your opinion of their work.’
He grins. ‘One or two, I suppose. But seriously, you’ve sold me the story with your description of your battling heroine and the high stakes she’s faced with. I’m intrigued.’
I can’t help the delighted smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
A real writer wants to read what I’ve written!
It’s quite a terrifying thought, to be honest, but maybe it’s time I left the safety of my writing cave and started putting the results of my efforts out there.
There’s always going to be the risk of rejection. Even J.K. Rowling must have at one stage felt she’d never make it as a writer. I heard that her first manuscript was turned down by no less than twelve different publishers before Bloomsbury spotted something they liked … And what was it Stephen King said in the book? When he started writing, the nail on his wall eventually couldn’t support the weight of rejection slips impaled upon it. So he replaced the nail with a spike and carried on writing …
‘So will you?’ Jake is smiling. ‘Let me read your book?’
Shyly, I nod.
‘You clearly know what makes a great story. The kind that draws in the reader and has them rooting for the main character right from the start. But one thing does puzzle me.’
‘What’s that?’ I stare at him, my heart sinking.
Oh God, here we go!
Jake has detected a flaw in my writing even before he’s read a single word!
‘No, it’s just that you’ve given your heroine, Hattie, an epic
journey with a hugely satisfying ending. And yet in your own life, you’re thinking of giving up on your search at the first hurdle.’ He shrugs and his unspoken question hangs in the air between us.
A quiver of nausea snakes through me. He’s right, of course.
He looks genuinely interested in my answer but he’s taken the wind out of my sails. My mouth opens but I’m at a loss as to how to answer him.
‘You can tell me to shut up if you like,’ he murmurs softly, seeing my expression. ‘I know you’re more than capable of doing that.’ He twists his lips in gentle amusement. ‘It’s just that you seem to me to be every bit as feisty and resourceful as Hattie. Don’t you deserve the same chance you’ve given her to find what you’re looking for?’
‘But Hattie’s just a character in a book,’ I blurt out. ‘It’s pure make-believe. A fantasy. In real life, there’s absolutely no guarantee of a happy ending.’
‘True.’ He shrugs. ‘But you never know …’
I stare at him, tears pricking at my eyelids.
You never know …
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
That disgusting nettle tea must have held some kind of devilish magic potion. Because how else can I explain the fact that after deciding I was going to stop the search for my real mum even before it started – and instead, just feel thankful for the wonderful one I already had – I’m now in Jake’s passenger seat, my stomach in knots, watching the scenery in a daze on a return visit to Maple Tree House?
‘Okay?’ murmurs Jake.
I turn and smile at him. ‘No.’
He chuckles. ‘I think that’s to be expected.’
‘I think I might be sick.’
‘Deep breaths.’
I do what he suggests and, actually, I do feel calmer.
But then we turn into the cul-de-sac and Maple Tree House comes into view, and my heart starts banging so loudly, it feels as if it’s about to break out of my chest altogether in a desperate bid for freedom.
Only Jake’s calm and reassuring presence is keeping me from flipping the door lock and hurling myself from this moving vehicle!
We draw up outside Maple Tree House and Jake turns off the engine. Then we sit in silence for a while, looking over at the house with its perfectly manicured garden and the spotlessly clean, white Mini Clubman parked on the driveway.
Summer under the Stars Page 11
