by Graham West
A rather austere looking woman in heavy-rimmed spectacles interrupted. “In the same style?”
“Of course!” Blakely retorted. “We have to keep the character of the current property. You won’t be able to tell where the old place ends and the new one begins.”
He saw his father nodding and scribbling something down. “It’s about kids getting away from their games consoles. And you never know, they might even start talking to each other!”
That was met with a ripple of laughter, and a couple of people even applauded, but he wasn’t finished.
“The old village hall will form part of the main reception and car park. Those staying in the cabins will park up and their cases will be delivered by porters using electric buggies. There will be a driveway leading to the hotel and we’ll build another car park on the farmland we’ve purchased.”
His father had called him later that day. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said. “I would have done everything differently—I would have stuck a hundred cabins in that wood—cabins with their own car parking space.” He paused. “But I would have been wrong. If I had a young family, I’d rather spend a weekend in one of your parks than one of mine. Well done, kiddo!”
The park was Blakely’s baby. Maybe it was the child in him, the call of the wild, the sound of rain drumming on the canvas, the camp fires. It still stirred something within, and he wanted to get it right. The plots were marked out and waiting for concrete foundations. The cabins would be assembled on-site and he was looking for a company to fit them out. It had to be wood, of course—all wood. Classy but rustic. One of the tenders was from a shop fitting firm by the name of Huxley and Sons. The name didn’t mean anything but a call had come through a couple of weeks later.
Gordon Huxley had apologised for contacting him on his personal number but explained that his son’s future wife was none other than Jennifer Adams. Blakely hadn’t been in touch with Jenny or her father for over twelve months—he’d been consumed with the park twenty-four hours a day—but Huxley had his attention.
“I know what you did for the family,” he said. “Jenny is like a daughter to me. If it hadn’t been for you, she might not be here now.”
Blakely smiled to himself. “So, is that worth another ten percent off your price, then?” he joked.
Huxley laughed. “Nope, but it means you’ll get a top-class job and my boys won’t leave the site until you’re happy and I’ve shaken your hand.” He paused. “I’m not a bullshitter, Mr. Blakely. You give me that job and I promise I won’t let you down.”
Chapter Seven
It should have been a good day, Jenny thought as she sipped a glass of iced soda water and wandered into the garden. But all this—the cottage, the car, the fancy furniture—maybe it was too much. Her father made all the right noises and said all the right things, but she saw it in his eyes. He couldn’t provide for her, not the way Gordon provided for Jake. Maybe it was just stupid male pride, but Jenny understood.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Cassie and Max ran to greet Jake as he pulled onto the drive. “Hey, you guys,” he laughed. “Calm down. Let the worker see the food. I’m friggin’ starving!”
Jenny smiled to herself. She may not have any kids yet but this felt like family life, and Jake always managed to make her feel like everything was going to turn out just fine. He appeared at the back door, squinting against the sunlight. “Hi, babe! Good day?”
“Yep,” she replied. “Dad and Josie came round. We walked over to that thatched pub.”
“Nice. So, what did they say about our posh new furniture?”
Jenny bristled at the question but she wasn’t sure why. “Not much.”
Jake frowned. “What? They didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Jake shook his head. “My dad paid a shitload of money for that, babe.”
“I know, and I’m sure they loved it, but it’s just furniture, Jake. Not everyone goes crazy over a bit of Rattan!” Jenny winced inwardly. Jesus! Why do I have to say stuff like that? Why?
Jake pulled up a chair next to her. He studied her with a look of bemusement. “Okay, what’s up? Tell me.”
“Nothing’s up. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. I’m good.”
Jake exhaled, shaking his head. “Look, Jen…” He lowered his tone, something that usually indicated he was angry or frustrated. “If we’re going to make a go of this and stay together—really stay together—we need to get something straight, cos I’m really not into this shit!”
Jenny’s stomach knotted. She hated conflict. “I’m not giving you shit!” she replied. Jake looked at her but she avoided eye contact.
“But you are! Okay, I know it’s a woman thing. You tell us you’re okay when you’re not, you tell us you don’t want something when you do, and you tell us you aren’t something when you are. And when we take you at your word, there’s hell to pay! If this is going to work then just say what you mean and mean what you say! It’s simple. If you want a mind reader then go and marry Derren fucking Brown!”
“He’s not a mind reader, he’s an illusionist,” Jenny muttered angrily.
Jake groaned. “Jeez, babe, stop being so pedantic. You know what I mean!”
Jenny wasn’t done. “Okay,” she began, leaning forward in her chair. “I know it’s a man thing. You’re with your mates down at the gym and you’re watching the women in leotards sweating their tits off while you discuss which ones you’d like to shag—you know—the way blokes do? Well, you promise me that while we are living together under the same roof you won’t talk about women like they’re silicone sex dolls and that you’ll keep your dick in your trousers, and I’ll promise to say what I mean! Do we have a deal?”
Jake stared at her open-mouthed. She leaned forward and playfully pinched his nose.
“I think the word you’re looking for is touché.” Jenny stood, all set to exit the scene in triumph. Wow! Where did that come from? Sometimes it was better to shoot from the hip. She was good at it. But in the silence that followed, she heard Jake whisper her name.
“Jenny?”
She turned, one hand on the cottage door. Jake stared at her, his eyes filled with a tenderness she’d never seen before. “All this,” he said, glancing around him, “all this—it’s not important. All that matters are you and me. If my father pulled out—took everything away—as long as I still have you, that’s all I want. It’s all I need.” A tear formed and trickled down his cheek. “I’m not the cocky git you think I am. I love you, babe. I love you so much it hurts, and I’m scared in case I lose you. I’m scared in case you ever stop loving me.”
Jenny shook her head. She had never seen her man look so vulnerable. “If your father pulled out, if we lost everything,” she choked back tears, “I’d still marry you. I’d marry you tomorrow!”
***
“I felt sorry for Jenny today,” Josie said suddenly, pointing the remote at the TV screen.
Rob eased back in his chair, assuming the position he adopted when he wanted a nap. “Sorry? Why?”
“It’s as if she felt guilty—you know, about the whole Gordon thing.”
“It’s not her fault. If anything, it’s his. Gordon’s.”
Josie flicked the channel again. Another house programme. Maybe it wasn’t the time to watch couples drooling over pricey country properties. “You need to get past this thing, Rob. Let it go. I saw how Jenny looked at you today.”
“I get it,” Rob said. “But honestly, the guy won’t even let me pay for the disco at this fucking wedding. He’s got about two hundred guests and God knows how much the meal is costing!”
“He’s doing it because he can, not to rub your nose in it. Maybe you two need a chat—get things sorted like adults rather than strutting around like two schoolboys comparing willies!”
Rob laughed. “He’d probably win that, too. No doubt he’s had it surgically enlarged!”
; Josie smiled, shaking her head. “I think you’re being hard on the guy, to be honest.”
“Maybe I am, but he just winds me up. Everything has to be the biggest and the best. Seriously, Jo, if one of his cronies had Michael Buble singing at his kid’s wedding, he’d go and dig up Elvis!”
Josie grimaced. “Ewww. Imagine!”
The phone rang and Rob picked it up. “Shit! I don’t believe it!” he said, glancing at the name flashing across the screen.
Josie turned. “What? Who is it?”
“Only the man himself. Flash Gordon.”
He tapped the phone. “Hi, Robert Adams speaking.”
“Hi, Rob. How are you, pal?”
Cut to the chase, arsehole. “I’m good, thanks. You?”
“I’m okay too.” A pause followed. “Listen, there’s something I should have told you—”
Rob tensed. “No problem, Gordon. What is it?”
“I’ve been in touch with Dennis Blakely—about fitting out the log cabins at Mosswood. It’s just that I happened to mention that you and Jenny are family—or will be soon. I thought that might swing it for me, but I should have asked you first. It was a bit cheeky. Sorry, pal!”
I’m not your pal! “No problem. Good luck,” he said, ending the conversation and slipping the phone back into his pocket.
“What did he want?” Josie asked.
“He’s used us to swing a contract,” Rob replied curtly.
“What?”
“He’s after fitting out the cabins at Mosswood. He called Blakely and told him we’re family. Hoped that might give him some leverage.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? You’ve kind of done something for him? If he gets the work, it will be because of you.”
Rob nodded. Jo was right but he wanted to get mad. He wanted to feel used. He really wanted to hate Huxley, but the bastard just wouldn’t give him a good enough reason.
Chapter Eight
Sebastian sat watching a couple as they wandered through the rows of headstones, studying each epitaph with an appropriate reverence. This was a place he could come to reflect while sitting on a bench dedicated to the memory of his wife. It needed a bit of TLC—a lick of paint, or was it varnish? He couldn’t remember, these days. It had been over two years since he met Robert Adams there. They had sat in that very spot. Robert must have thought he was an old crank at the time, although it had all worked out in the end.
But it was moments like this that the old man believed his sixth sense was more of a curse than a blessing. The sun had shone in a cloudless sky for the past three days, yet he was unable to shake the feeling of despair. It was something he couldn’t explain to someone who didn’t possess the so called gift. It wasn’t depression in the sense that people understood it, nor was it oppression. He couldn’t just wander into the medical centre and ask for a couple of happy pills. It was different. Like living under a black cloud, hovering, threatening. A storm was brewing, yet it wasn’t his storm. It was close but he just didn’t know exactly how close. How would anyone explain that to a doctor?
He rose and, taking his time, walked back through the sea of graves, stopping briefly to say goodbye to his wife and reading the inscription for the thousandth time. He had a decision to make. Was it left or right? If he turned right, it would lead him to the gates. The Farmers Arms, where he had parked his ten year old Ford, was just a five-minute walk. If he turned left, it would take him past the grave of Elizabeth and Hanna Adams. That was the way he normally went, but today he was stalling.
Sebastian Tint had never been a man to walk away from anything. He turned slowly, took a deep breath, and headed left. His legs were like lead, and his heart began beating a little faster. “Silly old man!” he muttered, wondering if whistling a few bars of Mozart might help.
“Shoes could do with a bit of a clean,” he continued, realising he’d not looked up for a good hundred metres. “Must do that when I get home.” He decided it was time to take a cursory peek. Sebastian peered into the distance, spotting the Adams’ grave, baffled by the tension rising within as he approached. Then he saw it. At first the old man thought it was just his eyes, a trick of the light.
His pace slowed but his eyes began to focus. It was writing. Some kind of graffiti. He stumbled forward, his legs growing heavier with each step. Fear gripped his heart as he fought for each breath—and then he was there, staring at the single word, scrawled across the gravestone in red: WHORE!
Sebastian took another step forward, reaching out and drawing his finger through the word. It was still wet, but it wasn’t paint. There was something in the texture and smell that chilled him. The word had been written in blood.
***
Jenny glanced down at her scrambled egg on wholemeal toast and grinned. “We are so middle-aged!” she said, giggling. “So uncool!”
Jake took a sip of fresh orange. “We’re just looking after our temples, babe,” he replied, trying to look serious. “But I get where you’re coming from. Most of my mates don’t roll out of bed till early afternoon on a Sunday, if they actually get to bed at all!”
The Hayloft farm shop had a café built onto the end of a barn. The couple had happened upon the place by accident a few days after they’d moved in to the cottage and discovered the place did a pretty mean breakfast at a good price. They set out on the two-mile walk every weekend, stopping for something to eat before stocking up with fruit and vegetables from the shop. They would be home before most people were considering putting on the bacon.
Jake glanced around the pristine wooden interior, taking in its large windows overlooking the duck pond. Several pheasants strutted around, fighting with the ducks for crumbs at the café entrance. The next youngest couple in the place, he guessed, was the bald guy in the corner with his pink-haired wife, but even they were probably pushing forty.
“I like this life, though,” he whispered. “It feels right. It feels right just being with you.”
It was the second time in two days that Jake had made Jenny want to cry. She looked away, staring at her plate for a few seconds. “That thing you said,” she said quietly, anxious that no one in the café overheard. “Do you really love me so much it hurts?”
Jake nodded.
“And you really worry—I mean, really worry—that I’ll…you know…stop loving you?”
Again, he nodded, and Jenny saw his eyes filling.
“But why? Why would you think that? I mean, you seem so confident. So, kind of, you know—”
“Full of myself?” Jake cut in with a gentle smile.
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but yes!”
“Because I strut around topless, showing off my six-pack? Like I told you, I’m really not the cocky git people think I am,” he took another sip of fresh orange. “When I was a kid—around twelve—I saw this bloke on the telly. One of those teatime soaps. Well, he kept walking around topless. He’d strip at the drop of a hat, and I looked at myself in the mirror. I was a bit on the tubby side then. Not fat, but I didn’t look anything like that guy. So I told my mum I wanted to look like the lad in that soap. She laughed, but Dad overheard and took me aside. He told me that it was good to have an aim in life and I could achieve big things with small changes.”
Jenny grinned. “So I have your dad to thank for my hunk of a boyfriend as well? Shit! I’m never going to be able to repay that guy!”
Jake laughed. “Dad never pushed it. I mean, when he suggested that I had fewer fries and more vegetables, he must have seen the look of horror on my face. He just held up his hands and told me it was my choice.”
Jenny swallowed the last bite of toast. “So what did you do?”
“I started taking apples to school. I cut out the crisps and chocolate bars.”
“And it helped?”
Jake nodded. “Yeah, I felt tons better. So then I started eating more veg. Kinda hard, at first, but I was a kid on a mission. I started doing cross country running at school and got really g
ood at it. By the time I was thirteen I was on the team. The weight just dropped and then I found out about sit-ups and press-ups. Every night after school I’d go up to my bedroom, stick on some music and do my own little work out. By the time I was fourteen I’d started to look a little bit more like the bloke in the soap, so I guess I just started doing what he did. I was just proud of what I’d achieved.”
“That’s cool,” Jenny said measuredly, “but it’s as if you think that’s all you’ve got—a good body. That’s not why I love you, Jake.” She reached out and took his hand. “It’s supposed to be us women that worry about looking good. We know it’s wrong but it’s kind of ingrained. It’s not a man thing.”
Jake laughed. “That’s a bit sexist, isn’t it?”
Jenny grinned. “You know what I mean.”
“I think when Mum and Dad split up it scared me. They seemed solid. I just didn’t see it coming.”
Jenny knew the Huxleys had split but hadn’t snooped for the details. Maybe now was as good a time as any. “What actually happened?”
Jake stared past her, as if he were watching it all on a big screen in the middle distance. “I guess Dad was a bit like me. He never felt good enough, so he put all his energies into making money. Maybe he thought he could keep Mum happy that way. Mum loved him, I think, but Dad was insecure.”
“And that’s what caused the split?” Jenny asked with a shrug.
“I guess it was, in a way. Mum and Dad didn’t really drink that much, so when they cut loose it generally ended in them both being carried home. But it was at a family wedding—I must have been about fourteen. Mum was pretty giddy and was dancing with a friend from work. That was okay, but then the DJ put on a smoochy song and invited all the lovers onto the floor.”
Jenny saw Jake’s expression change. There was pain in his eyes.
