Welcome Me to Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close Book 2)

by Kate Hewitt

  Emily blinked, taking in all the names, all the socialising. “That does sound lovely,” she said with the same sense of inevitable duty and dread that she’d accepted the dinner invitation. Since Alice hadn’t set a date for the “girly evening”—shudder—she could certainly back out later.

  “Okay.” Alice looked around the empty cottage, the movers already stacking boxes by the French windows. “I suppose I’ll go, then, if you’re sure you don’t need me…”

  “I’m fine, honestly.” Emily softened her words with a smile. “Thank you, though, for offering, and also for the tiffin. It really does look delicious.” She took the kettle out of the box, gave it a rinse, and then started to fill it.

  “Shall we say seven for supper? Is that too late?”

  “Not at all.” It gave her a few hours to unpack and sort, at least.

  Finally, with a flutter of her fingers, Alice was gone, and Emily breathed a sigh of relief. She knew Alice meant well, of course she did, but it had been exhausting navigating so many invitations. Quickly she made the movers their tea, and then started shifting boxes.

  There really weren’t too many—she’d always been one for economy, preferring the clean lines of an empty room than the chaotic disorder of a full one. Half of the boxes were her mother’s things, all loaded into the second bedroom for when—or, really, if—her mother ever showed up. Emily never knew when it would be, or for how long.

  With a sigh she started emptying a box of books—business manuals and no-nonsense self-help guides that she considered suitable for show in the sitting room; her secret pleasure—sweeping, romantic epics—would go upstairs in her bedroom.

  “Ta, love.” One of the movers came downstairs brandishing an empty mug. “We’re all done here.”

  “Thank you very much.” Emily saw them out, with the requisite tip, before she resumed unpacking. It felt strange to put her familiar things in this new place. She’d been in her flat in Earl’s Court since her first pay cheque at Ellis Investments. Admittedly it had only been a let, and she hadn’t been particularly attached to the small, boxy flat with its tiny kitchen and even tinier bathroom, but it had been familiar and it had been hers, and right now Emily couldn’t keep from feeling a pang of sorrow at its loss.

  “Stop it,” she told herself out loud, in the firm voice of a primary school teacher. “There is absolutely no reason to feel sorry for yourself. You’re extremely fortunate, you know.”

  And she did know. She had a job that was secure and made her financially stable; she had a lovely cottage to call her home; she had a mother who loved her in her own chaotic way, and she was healthy and young and… Her blessings petered out and she blew out an impatient breath. She had this lovely cottage, she continued determinedly, and she was healthy…

  She’d already listed those ones. Emily pulled a piece of packing tape off a box and it came away with a satisfyingly loud rip. She was done counting her blessings, as well as feeling sorry for herself, simply because she’d moved to a new place she wasn’t at all sure about. She had work to do.

  Two hours later the unpacking was mostly done. Her streamlined grey sofa looked a bit out of place in the cosy sitting room, and her angular white dishes seemed rather austere in the glass-fronted cupboards, but Emily didn’t mind. She wasn’t a patchwork throw or colourful pottery type of person, after all, and she didn’t think she ever would be.

  Upstairs she’d stacked her mother’s boxes in the second bedroom, undecided whether she should unpack them or not. Her mother might be irritated if she did, hurt if she didn’t. It was impossible ever to know what reaction she might provoke, or what mood she might find her mum in when she finally did turn up.

  Which reminded her, she needed to ring Naomi and let her know her new details.

  “Hello?” The musical voice sang out dreamily after the fifth ring, when Emily had been poised to leave a voicemail.

  “Fiona? It’s Emily David. Naomi’s daughter?”

  “Emily…” The woman’s spacey voice made Emily grit her teeth. Her mother’s latest best friend was a hippy in her sixties who somehow made a living selling hand-dipped candles in Camden Market. She also smoked a lot of cannabis.

  “Could I talk to my mother, please?”

  “I’m afraid she’s not here, darling.”

  Annoyance as well as a tiny pinprick of alarm shivered along Emily’s spine as she registered Fiona’s insouciant, indifferent tone. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No. She’s a grown woman, after all. I’m not her keeper, and neither are you.” Fiona was still speaking in that away-with-the-fairies voice that made Emily grit her teeth.

  “That’s true, but you know she has medication she needs to take regularly, so—”

  “Oh, medication.” Now Fiona sounded scoffing. “Conspiracies by big pharma, you mean.”

  “Fiona, please—”

  “Naomi is much, much better without all those pills,” Fiona said firmly. “She’s been so much freer, so much happier. You can’t have any idea the burdens she’d been under, which have just been lifted—”

  Emily’s fingers tightened on her phone. “Are you saying she hasn’t been taking her medication?” Her voice unspooled like a thread of wire.

  “You don’t need to worry about her,” Fiona declared, all airiness gone, and then she hung up. Emily closed her eyes.

  Fiona was just the latest in a long line of her mother’s friends—men and women of all stripes and dispositions, drifters and grifters and other lost souls. Naomi picked them up like strays, or perhaps it was the other way around, and they were the ones picking her up. Emily didn’t know the ins and outs of each one—there had been far too many—but she knew enough to feel nervous, if her mother had gone off her medication again, even for a day. The last time, three years ago, had been disastrous. Emily did not want to go through something like that again.

  And hopefully she wouldn’t have to. Fiona had sounded as if she’d had her head in the clouds, or at least in a cloud of cannabis smoke. Emily doubted she knew whether Naomi was taking her medication or not, and when she’d spoken to her mum before she’d left for Wychwood, she’d seemed fine. Fine. But where was she now?

  Emily hesitated, wondering if she should call her father to let him know what was going on, but she didn’t think she could bear his defeatist attitude right now, his weary resignation bordering on total indifference.

  Your mother’s made her choices, Em. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to let her go.

  He would say that, because his motto had been to let people go, including Emily herself. And yet she knew that wasn’t entirely fair; her father had tried. Sort of.

  With a sigh Emily decided to leave it for now. She’d call Fiona again after this dreaded supper, and again in the morning if necessary. Not for the first time she wished her mother possessed a mobile, but as with many things, Naomi didn’t hold with them.

  With only twenty minutes until she was meant to be up at the manor, Emily hurried to change out of her now-dusty clothes. A quick shower just to feel properly clean, and then she pulled on a silk blouse and tailored trousers; she didn’t do casual. She pulled her chestnut-brown hair into a neat ponytail, and slicked on some eyeliner and lipstick, because she always liked to look professional. Polished. A glance at her reflection made her nod in satisfaction; she was ready.

  As Emily stepped outside the cottage, the last of the afternoon’s light was trickling from the sky like golden syrup, puddling on the lane that wound its way up to Willoughby Manor, and touching the bright heads of the daffodils with gold.

  It was all so very lovely, Emily thought with something close to reluctance. Who wouldn’t want to live in such a beautiful place? Who wouldn’t enjoy wandering through the narrow paths she could see twisting through the wood, or along the gently rolling meadows that bordered the Lea River?

  Of course, she knew the answer to that question. She wouldn’t. And just like with the convertible Henry had thought she’d
enjoy tootling about in, Emily almost wished she could be the sort of person who could happily frolic through a meadow, or wander in a wood. Who could welcome the new neighbours of Willoughby Close with friendly enthusiasm instead of a caution bordering on dread. Who could live life to the full instead of cagily dipping a toe in here or there.

  Unfortunately, she knew she wasn’t that kind of person. And she didn’t think she ever could be. It hadn’t actually bothered her that much until now; it hadn’t bothered her at all. Yet suddenly, when she was faced with the stark differences, she felt her own lack in a way she hadn’t let herself before.

  Well, she thought, squaring her shoulders as she headed up the sweeping drive to the manor, she was who she was and she didn’t intend on changing. Willoughby Close would just have to get used to her.

  Chapter Two

  “Come in, come in!”

  Henry was even more effusive than Alice had been earlier, seizing Emily by the elbows as he planted a most uncharacteristic smacking kiss on her cheek. Where on earth was all this bonhomie coming from? And when would it stop?

  Instead of his usual three-piece pinstripe suit, Henry was wearing a pair of battered cords and a jumper that had actual holes in the elbows. Emily did not know what to make of him. She’d never seen her boss like this. He was usually like her—without a hair out of place, any smile one of briskness rather than bonhomie, moving and speaking quickly, wanting to get things done.

  Yet now, as he led her down the hallway, still holding her by the arm, he seemed full of relaxed geniality in a way that made Emily feel rather alarmed. She didn’t know what to do with this man as her boss, how to be with him.

  “I can’t tell you,” he said as he led her through the ubiquitous green baize door to the servants’ quarters of the manor house, “how free I feel, now that I’ve left Ellis Investments and London behind. I feel as if I’ve shed a skin. I’m like a new man!” He grinned at her, surprising her yet again.

  Yes, she’d noticed that Henry had relaxed somewhat since marrying Alice. A stiff, stern man, he’d most certainly softened a bit since falling in love. But he’d still been Henry: somewhat terse, often taciturn, with comforting protocols in place, and always wearing a suit.

  When Emily had started working at Ellis Investments, he hadn’t called her by her first name for over a year. She’d liked that.

  This Henry, who kissed her cheek and was practically gambolling down the hall, was a new and unwelcome species. It was as if in leaving Ellis Investments, he’d shed the last of his own self, and she didn’t know what to make of the man who remained.

  “You certainly seem so,” Emily remarked cautiously as she followed him towards the kitchen of Willoughby Manor. So far what she’d seen of the place had seemed elegantly dreary—dark wood-panelled walls, lots of muddy oil paintings and blank-faced statuary. She knew Henry and Alice were transforming the place into a retreat and holiday centre for foster kids as part of their charitable foundation, but it hadn’t seemed particularly inviting so far.

  Then Henry pushed open the door to the kitchen.

  “Oh…” The single syllable escaped her in a sigh of surprise as she gazed around the wide, rectangular room. Latticed windows climbing with ivy let in the last of the evening’s light, and the wide stone sills beneath were crammed with colourful hand-painted flowerpots that held a variety of houseplants. A large rectangular table took up the centre of the room, set for three, along with a jug of pink tulips.

  An enormous Welsh dresser ran the length of one wall, filled with an odd assortment of china and crockery. The pride of the room had to be the huge bright red Aga that rumbled away cheerfully; Alice was standing by it, her face flushed and happy. A grey cat, looking as soft as cashmere, lay curled up on an armchair in the corner of the room, its purr competing with the rumble of the Aga.

  The room was chaotic, messy, with far too many things in it, and normally the disorder would make Emily’s toes curl as she struggled not to start straightening everything into neat and pleasingly parallel lines.

  Yet for some reason, right then the sight of all that lovable mess caused a painful ache of longing to pulse through Emily that she couldn’t understand. The Aga…the cat…the tulips…it was all so unbearably homely, a cross between Downton Abbey and Little House on the Prairie. She didn’t think she could stand it, and she wasn’t even sure why. She’d never encountered such a room, or such a feeling, before.

  “It’s a lovely room, isn’t it?” Henry said, taking in her single “oh” at face value. “Alice did it all. She’s transforming this lonely old house room by room, aren’t you, my love? Turning it into a proper home.”

  Henry kissed Alice on the cheek, and Emily forced a smile. Her heart felt as if it were tipping over, and she needed to right it again. Quickly.

  “Oh, Henry, really.” Alice laughed as she batted him away. “I didn’t do much. Glass of wine, Emily?” She nodded to a bottle of red breathing on top of the Aga, just another element of the cosily domestic scene.

  “Yes, thank you.” She didn’t normally drink much at all, but she felt she could use the fortification tonight, which looked to be an interminably awkward evening of Henry and Alice’s well-meaning benevolence and her decided third wheeling, not to mention the jumbled-up feeling she had inside that she didn’t understand and definitely didn’t like.

  “So are you all settled in number one?” Henry asked as he poured her a glass of wine. “I hope it suits?”

  “It’s lovely.” What else could she say? Besides, it was. There wasn’t a single thing wrong with it.

  “And I hope you’ll get used to life in Wychwood-on-Lea. I know it’s a far cry from London, but people really are friendly. You won’t be short of a social life.”

  “That’s what I was saying,” Alice chimed in. “I’ve already texted Harriet to arrange a drinks night out…perhaps next weekend? Then you’ll be able to meet everyone in one go.”

  Emily nearly shuddered at the thought. “That’s lovely, but don’t put yourself to any trouble—” she said, only to have Alice shake her head quite firmly.

  “Not at all! I’m happy to do it. It’s always fun to get out and have a drink and a laugh.”

  Emily wouldn’t actually know. She smiled in reply and took a sip of wine, savouring its velvety warmth.

  “As I recall, you weren’t much of one for night life, were you?” Henry asked as he poured glasses for him and Alice. “Most evenings you were working late.”

  “I had a demanding position,” Emily returned a little stiffly. She had no idea if her position here would be as demanding, but she hoped it would. She didn’t know what she’d do with herself, without a job to suck up all her emotion and energy.

  “Well, I can’t wait to unleash your incredible organisational skills on Willoughby Holidays. That’s what we’re calling the charity—did I tell you?”

  “I think you said something…”

  “Wait until you see the office space.” Henry’s eye glinted with humour that Emily didn’t understand. What about the office space…? “Anyway,” he continued, “the first thing we want to do is to plan a fundraiser here, showcasing local businesses, for June. A really fun, friendly, but splashy affair. Do you think you can manage it?” The question seemed rhetorical, but startled, Emily nearly spluttered her wine.

  “June?” It was already the tail end of March. “That’s only two months away.”

  “End of June,” Henry said comfortably. “So more like three. I’m sure you can manage it, Emily. You’re the most capable person I know.”

  But she wasn’t a PR person. At Ellis Investments she’d managed Henry’s diary, typed his letters, answered his phone, and taken dictation. Skills she’d come to master and take pride in. And yes, she’d arranged flowers to be sent to certain clients, and had booked a bi-annual golf weekend for others, and made sure the meeting room was always stocked with bottled water, pens, and paper, and she’d done that all very well indeed, but organising an enti
re fundraiser? The prospect filled her with alarm but also excitement. This job might turn out to be even more demanding than her old one, and that surely could only be a good thing.

  “And of course you won’t have to do it on your own,” Henry added cheerfully. “Alice wants to help. She’s been involved in the charity from the start, and she’s got loads of good ideas.”

  Alice met Emily’s gaze with a shy smile; Emily had a feeling she looked fairly horrified. “Oh, good,” she managed, and then quickly took a sip of wine to hide her expression. The thought of working together on such a big project in close quarters made her skin prickle. Henry had always been content to leave her to her own devices, and she far preferred working alone. But maybe Alice would offer her ideas and then toddle off. Surely she had other things to keep her busy.

  “I think it’s ready,” Alice announced, and she withdrew a bubbling shepherd’s pie, the mashed potato crust perfectly golden, out of the Aga.

  Soon all three of them were seated on one end of the big table, and Henry was doling out the pie while Alice passed around the salad. Outside the shadows were lengthening, the sky deepening to a dark violet. It felt homely and welcoming and yet Emily still felt uneasy. She really didn’t do stuff like this, and she still felt weirdly mixed up inside.

  “It’s so quiet,” she said after a moment, and Alice laughed.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? When I first moved here, I was a bit spooked. You could hear the windowpanes rattle and the pipes creak…”

  “Alice lived at Willoughby Manor with my great-aunt,” Henry explained, “until she died.” He and Alice exchanged looks that managed to be both loved up and sorrowful.

  “She was quite a character,” Alice murmured. “A truly lovely lady.”

  Emily murmured something back. She’d known Alice had lived with Lady Stokeley—at least she thought she had. Alice had been her carer, which was how Henry had met her. A fairy-tale romance, by all accounts, just as Alice herself had said.