Remember Me at Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close Book 4)

by Kate Hewitt

  Laura shook her head.

  “She’s at her boyfriend Owen’s mostly,” Lindy admitted on a laugh. “I think they’ll probably get engaged soon. Willoughby Close seems to have a little matchmaking magic in it—everyone who has lived here has paired up!” She gave Laura an encouraging smile. “Perhaps it will be your turn one day.”

  “I don’t think so,” Laura said rather firmly. She wasn’t ready to think that way yet. She certainly hadn’t, not even once, in the last year, not remotely.

  Still she was heartened by the conversation with Lindy, and she thought it was probably best to quit while she was ahead, and she was still feeling good about everything.

  “I should go,” she told Lindy. “I have to pick up Sam in a bit, and…well…” She laughed self-consciously as Lindy gave her a knowing look.

  “You’ve done your daily quota of socialising? You sound like Roger.” Laura raised her eyebrows and Lindy explained with a laugh, “Roger is something of an introvert. Actually, you’re nothing like him, but I get you, don’t worry.” She patted Laura’s hand. “Thanks for coming in for a cuppa. I’m really glad you did.”

  “Thank you,” Laura told her, meaning it, and then she headed back to number three. She’d barely made it through the door before a text pinged on her phone.

  How was it?

  She’d told Chantal about Lindy’s invitation, and her friend knew exactly how nervous Laura would be and reluctant she would have been feeling.

  It was actually really good, she texted, and was rewarded with a lot of random emojis—a boot, a fish, and a clown face. It had been their little joke for a while now—a competition as to who could find the weirdest emoji to punctuate a text.

  Smiling to herself, Laura was just about to slip her phone into her pocket when it started to ring. Surprised, she glanced at the number and saw it was one she didn’t recognise. Her stomach hollowed out.

  The last time an unrecognised number had called her mobile…

  Is this the wife of Timothy Neale?

  Laura closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to remember that conversation, the sober voice of the police officer, the words that had filtered through her consciousness without really penetrating. Accident…critical condition…come now.

  She opened her eyes when she realised the phone had stopped ringing. A shuddery breath escaped her. Okay, that had been an overreaction. The call had most likely been from a telemarketer looking to sell her double glazing or life insurance.

  Then, the ping of another text. Hello, this is Sam’s teacher, James Hill. Sorry for the impromptu text—the school’s phone system is down. Would you mind coming in to school today a few minutes early so we could have a little chat?

  Laura found herself back up on the panicky ledge she’d been talking herself down from. A chat? Why did Sam’s teacher need to have a chat with her on the second day of school? The terror of a major disaster morphed into the fear of a minor one, which felt much more real. What was happening with Sam? Was he being bulled again? What had gone wrong?

  Already Laura’s heart was fluttering like a wild thing and she heard herself taking shallow breaths.

  “Calm down,” she said out loud. “It might be nothing.” And even if it was something, it most likely wasn’t something big, or at least that big. She could handle it. She had to handle it, because there was only her and this was what life was about—the ups and downs, bumps and jolts of normal existence. Life wasn’t smooth sailing, even if sometimes it was an empty stretch of straight road with a single tree…

  No. Don’t.

  Another breath, and then it started to even out. Her heart rate settled down and Laura went to the sink to wash her hands, tidy her hair. It was already ten to three, so if she wanted to get to school in time for this little chat, she’d better leave now.

  Perry lumbered up hopefully, blinking doleful eyes at her, as if he already knew.

  “Sorry, Per,” she said as she scratched his head. “Next time.”

  She normally took him for the school run, but not when she was having little chats.

  The sky had turned grey again, dusk already starting to close in, a frigid dampness to the air as Laura started walking briskly down the lane to the road. What could Mr Hill want? Was Sam in trouble? Had there been some sort of mishap? Her fear was he was being bullied; it had happened at his last school, and while it had been fairly low-grade, whispered asides and muttered name-calling, it had still hurt. She wanted Sam to have a fresh start here, but what if fresh starts weren’t always possible?

  Calm down. Breathe. It was going to be okay. She would make sure of it.

  Laura turned up the high street, her arms swinging at her sides, past the little tea shop, now empty of customers, and a pet shop—no, actually a pet bakery—then a vintage clothing shop, and then one that sold wooden toys. One day, maybe even one day soon, she’d pleasantly poke her way through them all. One evening she’d take Maggie and Sam to the pub, The Three Pennies, for fish and chips.

  One day, but not today.

  The school came into view, its crenellated roof and golden stone making it look like a happy, welcoming place, where laughter rang out and children played freely and parents didn’t have to be called in for little chats.

  Okay. Stop. It didn’t have to be anything bad. Maybe, just maybe it wasn’t.

  “Can I help?” The tone of the woman at the front desk was a little pointed; Laura wondered if she was well versed in helicopter parents. She found herself smiling in apology, as if she’d done something wrong.

  “Hello, I’m Laura Neale. My son Sam just started Year Six, and Mr Hill asked me to come to school a few minutes before pickup for a chat.” Little or not.

  “Oh, I see.” The woman’s expression thawed as her tone became friendlier. “Let me just go find him. I’m afraid our communications system is down, but it will be repaired as soon as possible.” This said as if she’d already had to deal with a litany of complaints. Laura smiled her understanding.

  She crossed her arms and tried not to tap her foot as she waited for Mr Hill to appear. Her chest felt tight and her throat was closing and nothing had even happened yet. Goodness, but she was prone to panicking. Calm down, Laura.

  Did anyone calm down when told to, even if you were just speaking to yourself?

  “Mrs Neale.”

  Laura turned, her heart racing, a prickly, panicky feeling sweeping over her skin—and then her mouth dropped open as she stared at James Hill.

  Ava had told her he was a cool guy, but somehow the sight of him was still unexpected. Somehow, ridiculously, it had the power to make her blush, a surprising heat coursing through her body. Because James Hill was almost certainly the most insanely gorgeous man she’d ever seen.

  Chapter Four

  James stuck his hand out for Sam’s mum to shake while she stared at him rather gormlessly, her mouth slack, her eyes wide. She didn’t speak; in fact, she looked as if she’d been Tasered. He held his hand out, his smile in place while he waited for the penny to drop, and finally, thankfully, it did.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. She took his hand and James tried not to flinch because hers was like ice. “I’m Laura.”

  “James.” He turned to the sour-faced receptionist who was watching them with an undeserved suspicion. “Thank you, Mrs Petch.” To be fair, the receptionist had a lot of demanding parents to deal with, parents with more money than sense or sensitivity. This morning he’d overheard a mother shrilly insisting the school only serve organic food, and if they couldn’t serve it to everyone, then at least they should to her son, because he had a ‘sensitive stomach.’

  James turned back to Laura Neale. “Shall we go into the staffroom for a moment? The Year Sixes are just finishing off some maths before home time, so I can leave them for a few minutes without it going completely pear-shaped, I think.” He smiled, but she didn’t return it, her dark eyes scanning his face as if looking for clues.

  “All right,” she murmured as sh
e followed him into the staffroom off the school hall. The size of a broom cupboard with a sofa, a mini fridge and a kettle packed into it, it was not the most welcoming of places, but like many primary schools that had outgrown their original Victorian building, Wychwood Primary was short on space.

  “Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice—”

  “Is Sam all right?” She spoke abruptly, almost aggressively, her navy eyes sparking in her pale, almost bloodless face. Her fingers were trembling before she laced them tightly together.

  James studied her for a moment, wondering why she was so worried. Coming from London, he was used to both ends of the parenting spectrum—the ones who were indifferent to the point of neglect, and the ones who breathed fury or fear down his neck, sure their little darlings could never put a foot wrong. But he’d never seen a parent look quite so keyed up as Laura Neale, every nerve seeming to twang through her body so she was practically vibrating with tension.

  “Sam is fine,” James said, smiling in an attempt to put her at her ease. “Sorry, I should have made that clear in my text. If I’d been able to ring you, I would have explained what this is about.”

  “What is this about?” Her voice was high and thin, her hands gripping each other so tightly her knuckles were bone-white. James was worried she might explode—or collapse.

  “Are you all right, Mrs Neale?” he asked gently, and to his surprise the tightness loosened from her face as her expression seemed to fold in on itself and she bit her lip, tears turning her eyes luminous as she shook her head.

  “Oh…” Her voice veered into a wobble as she slumped onto the sofa and drove her hands through her hair. “Sorry. Sorry.” She drew a shuddery breath. “You must think I’m mad. I might be mad, actually. It’s perfectly possible at this point.”

  “No, of course I don’t…” But something was clearly wrong, and he had no idea what it was. He felt out of his depth, after just a few minutes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’d be so worried. Sam is doing fine.” He was a quiet boy, brainy but with a wit, and James knew he would have to be careful not to favour him in class. He reminded him, he’d realised with bemusement, of himself at the same age.

  “It’s just…” She looked up, her face still pale, her hair falling out of its ponytail in dishevelled tendrils about her face, her expression now resolute. “Sam lost his father—my husband—a year ago. A car accident. I probably should have said before he started, but sometimes it feels like…well, like a sort of handicap, I suppose. It hangs over you so no one can think about anything else and I didn’t want that for him in a new school… Anyway.” She gave a little shake of her head. “When I received the call from an unfamiliar number, and then something needed to be discussed about Sam…well, I knew it wasn’t anything like that, of course, I haven’t entirely lost the plot quite yet, but I suppose I just hit the panic button. As I tend to do. And now I’m babbling.” She let out a little laugh and shook her head for a third time, her eyes now glinting with both humour and tears. “Sorry. You really will think I’m mad.”

  “No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” James said quickly. He was appalled by his own thoughtlessness, even though he knew he could have never guessed the full story. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I should have explained what I wanted to talk about in my text. I just assumed…” That she hadn’t experienced a hugely traumatic event. He felt like an idiot, even though he knew it wasn’t really his fault. It just was. Sometimes life was hard. Sometimes it felt impossible.

  “It’s okay.” She offered him a wavery smile as she brushed aside his apologies with one slender hand and then slowly stood up. Even standing with her chin tilted and her shoulders squared she was a slight thing, a wisp of a woman, possessing both fragility and a certain steeliness James admired. Her hair was dark, almost black, pulled back from a heart-shaped face in a loose ponytail, a few inky wisps framing it. Large, hazel eyes fringed with thick lashes gazed at him steadily as her bow-shaped mouth curved faintly. “So anyway, what is this about?”

  James realised he’d been staring. She was, he had to admit, quite lovely. Beautiful, in an ethereal sort of way, reminding him of hand-spun glass or perhaps kintsugi, the Japanese pottery made more beautiful through its lacquered cracks. She seemed breakable, yet strong. Not that he should be thinking along any of those lines about a pupil’s mother, and a widow to boot. “Well, ah, it’s about starting a club for playing Minecraft, actually. It was Sam’s idea, and I thought it was brilliant.”

  “Minecraft.” She laughed softly. “I should have known. I think he’s obsessed with that game.”

  “As far as obsessions go, it’s not a bad one for an eleven-year-boy to have,” James reassured her with a smile. He was determined to get this conversation—and his own thoughts—back on track. Easy and light, strictly professional. The way he always was with the parents of his pupils. “Some schools have started to use Minecraft in their curriculums to help teach science and foreign languages as well as critical thinking skills. It’s proved to be quite helpful.”

  “What a relief, considering how much he plays it.” She gave him a wry smile that had him smiling back, perhaps more than he should have. She tucked the stray wisps behind her ears and then, smile gone, gave him a direct look. “So what does this club entail exactly?”

  “Well, as it was Sam’s idea, I wanted him to take as much ownership of it as possible. There would need to be a teacher present at the meetings, which I’m happy to be, but if he wanted to work up a permission letter that we could give out to pupils?” He raised his eyebrows in enquiry. “I’ll have to have a look at it first, of course.”

  “Of course. I’m sure he’ll find this all brilliant.”

  “He’s a good kid.”

  Her lips trembled before she pressed them together. “I certainly think so, but…it hasn’t been easy.”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t,” James said quietly, which had to be a massive understatement, but what could he say? He saw the stark lines of pain on her face, indelible scars formed by grief. “I really am very sorry for your loss.” It felt like so many words, but he meant them.

  She nodded, and he had the sense that she didn’t want to have this conversation, that she was tired of talking about it. She’d indicated as much when she’d said why she hadn’t mentioned it before, and he supposed he could understand that. No one wanted to be defined by tragedy, whatever it was. No one wanted to be considered only as a negative inversion, the lack of or the loss.

  They stared at each other for a moment, Laura clearly struggling to find something more to say and James, he had to admit, enjoying just looking at her. She really was a lovely woman, with a delicacy to her features and yet a strength to her bones. She reminded him, a bit whimsically, of an otter, with her dark eyes and sleek figure, a playfulness hiding beneath her serious expression. She was also, he reminded himself, a widow as well as the mother of a pupil. Clearly off limits, of course, and yet…

  Laura let out a huff of laughter. “You really must have thought I was absolutely bonkers, coming in here in such an almighty tizz. Although I suppose you get your fair share of crazy parents.”

  “I do.”

  Her mouth quirked in a smile and she brushed a hand over her hair. “I’m sure you’ve got some war stories to tell. I used to be a teacher, a long time ago.”

  “Did you? Primary or secondary?”

  “Secondary. History. But I haven’t done any since I had children—just a bit of teaching assistance in our local primary, before we moved here. Still, I remember the parents who marched in demanding this or that. Thinking they were the most important person in the school.” She shook her head, smiling, and James smiled back. Yes, there were a few of those at Wychwood Primary, just like there had been in London. “Anyway. I’ll talk to Sam about the club. And thank you for encouraging him. Besides, you know, the situation with his dad, he was also bullied a bit at his last school.” She grimaced. “Something else I didn’t want to
mention at the start. I don’t think Sam would want me to, but perhaps it’s better if you know.”

  “The more information I have about any child in my class the better, but I do take your point.” James paused, cocking his head. “I was bullied as a child, so I can sympathise.”

  “You!” She looked at him in such disbelief that James couldn’t keep from laughing a little.

  “Why so surprised?”

  “Well…because…I mean…” Rosy colour swept across her cheeks as she stammered her reply. “I just wouldn’t have thought it.”

  “You’d be surprised at some of the children who report being bullied. It’s not all the so-called nerds with glasses, or whatever the unfortunate stereotype might be. Although, to be fair, that pretty much was me, minus the specs.” He thought back to his fairly miserable early school days—a nerdy kid who loved chess and logic puzzles, preferred reading to football, and had a stammer to boot. It had taken him until Sixth Form to find his feet and spread his wings. Sam would, too.

  “Kids are wonderful,” he told Laura, “but they can also be cruel. They see differences and they sense weaknesses, and unfortunately they know how to make the most of both.”

  “Yes, I certainly saw that when I was a teacher. It seems wrong somehow. You expect kids to be good, pure even, and yet they can be even more cruel than adults.” She sighed. “Not that the kids at the last school were cruel. They just made a few remarks. It wasn’t that big a deal, but on top of everything else… Life is hard enough, you know?”

  “Yes, it certainly can be.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. She’d certainly had her fair share of hard lately. Perhaps there would be some good, or at least some easy, on the horizon for her, now that she’d moved to the village. He wouldn’t mind some for himself, either. Life hadn’t been nearly as hard for him as it obviously had for Laura Neale, but he’d moved to Wychwood-on-Lea in September for a change. Not that he’d be so insensitive as to say something about that now. He could hardly compare a break-up to a bereavement.