by Rosie Green
‘Oh, yes? And how long will that take?’
His eyes are like chips of ice. Clearly stopping work is not something he relishes. Well, that’s tough!
‘I’ll . . . have a chat with Isla tomorrow and we’ll decide how we’re going to proceed. If we proceed.’ I swallow. ‘Who are you, anyway?’
His mouth quirks up at one corner. ‘Seb Morgan.’ He pushes himself lazily away from the vehicle and holds out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Jess Rigby.’
My face reddens at his sarcastic tone but it would be childish not to shake hands. His big hand encloses mine. It feels roughened by his labours, and an odd little shiver runs through me.
‘I turned down another job to get this done by Christmas.’ He shrugs his broad shoulders. ‘I’m not waiting around forever. So you’d better tell your sister to phone me as soon as you’ve made up your mind.’
My chin rises at his brusque tone. ‘I will,’ I tell him tartly.
And if it’s up to me, Seb Morgan, you definitely won’t be back!
He grunts, heading back round to the driver’s side. ‘Make sure you do.’
He slams the door and starts the engine. Then he revs it far louder than necessary and ploughs off down the lane in a hail of grit.
I watch him go, feeling stunned. The unexpected confrontation has drained all the strength from me. Of course, Isla hasn’t exactly helped. I can’t believe she just went ahead and instructed an obnoxious oaf called Seb Morgan to do the work - without even bothering to discuss it with me first!
CHAPTER FOUR
‘What the hell, Isla? In case you’d forgotten, Moondance Cottage belongs to me as well.’
Dad transferred the house into our names about five years ago, so both my sister and I have an equal share in the cottage.
‘Wha’?’ Isla’s voice is thick with sleep and croaky from her alcohol binge the day before. ‘Jess, is that you?’
I’ve obviously woken her up, but I don’t care. I’ve exercised great restraint, leaving it until the following lunchtime to tackle her about the house, and now I just want answers. ‘For God’s sake, Isla. How could you hire that thug of a man to wreck our house without even bothering to ask what I think about it?’
She groans at the other end of the phone and I hear a crash of crockery and a thud, followed by a muttered expletive. ‘Look, you know what I’m like. I decide something needs to be done and I go out and do it.’ Her voice sounds gritty, like sandpaper. I can almost feel her hang-over headache, but my anger is over-riding everything else.
‘But without talking to me first? You must have known how upset I’d be and yet you decided to just go right ahead. Honestly, Isla, you’re unbelievable.’
‘Look, Jess, it’s the right thing to do. You know it is. No-one even lives in the bloody cottage any longer, so what’s the point of holding onto it when we could sell it?’
‘It’s not as if you need the money.’
‘No, but you do.’
I swallow. She’s right, of course. Things have been a struggle over the past few years, earning enough to pay the bills. I let things slide, work-wise. Staying in, brooding, knowing I should be out there looking for work but feeling too down about Dad to make any effort.
‘Okay. So in fact, you’re doing all this for me.’ My tone is full of scepticism.
She sighs. ‘Well, not entirely. But I do think it’s high time you moved on, Jess. You need to stop wallowing in the past and start living again. When was the last time you went out on a date?’
‘What’s that got to do with selling the house?’ I demand crossly.
‘Don’t avoid the issue. You know I’m right. You need to move on like I did.’
Her words needle me because deep down, I know she’s probably right, but that doesn’t mean I have to admit it. ‘Just because you’re newly engaged with a wedding to look forward to and your business is booming so much you can afford to drive a brand new Jag . . . that doesn’t make your life any better than mine!’
I’m expecting her to laugh and say sarcastically, Doesn’t it?
But for once, she doesn’t banter back.
Her silence is weird. It’s not like Isla to be lost for words.
‘Isla?’
‘Still here.’
Her voice sounds rougher than ever.
‘Is the hang-over really bad?’
‘What?’
‘You must have a banging head today.’
‘Oh . . . well, yes. A really bad headache.’
‘And I’m making it worse?’
‘You are a bit.’
Her voice has lost that bolshy edge. ‘Look, can we talk about the house later? On our way to Mum’s?’
‘Are you going to tell her, Isla? That you’re planning to sell Moondance Cottage?’
‘Yes. Why not? It’s years since she moved out. She’s not going to be that bothered about it, is she?’
I swallow. That’s a good question. To be truthful, I’ve no idea what goes on in Mum’s head these days. One moment, she seems perfectly fine. Then the next she’s talking about Dad in the present tense, as if he’s still here, making my insides turn over with worry for her. I mentioned it to Martin, her partner, fairly recently, but he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. I reasoned that Mum probably doesn’t talk about Dad to Martin. It’s either that or Martin doesn’t want to think that there could possibly be something wrong with Mum.
‘I think she’ll be really upset at the thought of the family home going up for sale,’ I tell Isla. ‘It represents a happy time in her life. They spent all their years together in that house. Her and Dad.’
‘Yes, and then they split up and she went off with Martin and Janice got her hooks into Dad.’
‘Why don’t you like Janice? I mean, why didn’t you like her.’
She sighs. ‘Look, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.’
‘I was always really glad they found each other,’ I say sadly. ‘Janice made Dad happy.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, so you admit she made him happy, then?’
She does one of her abrupt changes of subject. ‘So can I tell Seb it’s all right for him to carry on with the house?’
‘Yes . . . I suppose so.’
‘Oh, God, you’re not weeping, are you?’
‘No.’ I blink away the tears. ‘But oh, Isla, what about Dad?’
There’s a tiny pause.
‘What about him?’ she asks, her voice sounding far away.
‘Well, he . . . what if he’s found?’ A heaviness is dragging at my heart. ‘Imagine if he came back and we told him we’d sold the place. He’d be devastated.’
There’s a pause.
Then Isla sighs. ‘Jess, for God’s sake. You know that’s not going to happen.’ Her voice is gentler, probably because she’s terrified I am indeed going to start blubbing down the phone to her. Isla can’t handle tears. She hardly ever cries herself.
‘You don’t know that, Isla.’
She clears her throat. ‘Yes, I do! And it’s high time you started realising that Dad is never coming back.’
A lump rises in my throat. It amazes me how Isla can be so matter-of-fact about it all.
‘Jess, I know it’s hard,’ she says. ‘You and Dad were so close. Which is not to say that I don’t miss him like crazy as well.’ Her voice cracks a little. ‘I just try not to think about it, that’s all.’
I swallow painfully.
Isla is determined to block out her feelings, convinced Dad is never coming back, while I hover constantly, back and forth, between facing the harsh truth and giving in to spells of desperate hope. And Mum’s strategy seems to be to pretend nothing’s happened and Dad’s still around.
‘Anyway, Seb seems like a decent bloke,’ Isla says cheerily, changing tack again. ‘I don’t know why you’re calling him a thug.’
I picture his stern face doubtfully. ‘How did you find him?’
‘Mrs Bevan,’ she says, mentio
ning our next-door neighbour. ‘I still had her number and she’s obviously still got a key to Moondance Cottage in case of emergencies. Seb’s done some work for her, so she recommended him and let him into the house to assess what needed doing.’
‘I can’t believe you hired him without actually meeting him.’
‘Well, I was hardly going to fly back from Paris specially for a meeting with my builder! And anyway, I trust Mrs Bevan.’
‘But you were coming back to England anyway. You could have waited until you got here to discuss it with him. Or hey, shocking thought, you could have asked me to organise it!’
She ignores this last jibe. ‘Yes, well . . . I didn’t want to wait.’
‘But what’s the rush? It’s been empty for eighteen months. Another week or so wouldn’t have made a difference.’
Isla heaves an impatient sigh. ‘Oh, just leave it, Jess, will you? It needs to be done so we’re doing it. Full stop. There’s no need to go analysing every bloody little detail, is there? God’s sake!’
‘Okay, okay. Keep your wig on. By the way, you still haven’t told me why you’re back here. Is it to announce your engagement? Or to over-see the work Seb’s doing?’
‘Both,’ she says shortly. ‘And to see you and Mum obviously.’
‘Right.’ I pause. ‘He’s . . . knocked the wall down.’
‘The wall between the kitchen and the dining room?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll seem odd, seeing it like that,’ she says, sounding almost regretful.
‘Yes, it will. I haven’t looked yet. I don’t really want to.’
She draws in a sharp breath. ‘Still, a kitchen-diner is what people want these days, so it’s definitely the way to go. If we make these improvements, we ought to get a premium price for the house. Seb said he could probably turn the whole project around in six weeks, which is great because we can get it on the market before Christmas.’
‘Isn’t Christmas a bit of a dead time for house-hunters?’
She groans. ‘Stop being so negative, Jess. We just need one buyer who loves the place. Then we can cash in.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Whatever. Look, I’ll pick you up later,’ I tell her briskly. ‘When I phoned Mum to let her know you were here, she mentioned that Martin’s babysitting at Lisa’s again tonight, so we’ll have the house to ourselves to chat.’
‘Okay. Good. Does Martin do that often?’
‘Babysit his grandkids? Yes, he seems to be over at his daughter’s house quite a bit.’
‘Doesn’t Mum go with him?’
‘I think she likes having the house to herself when he’s gone.’
‘I bet she was over the moon when you told her I’m back from France.’
I swallow. A little white lie is definitely in order here. What Mum actually said was: ‘Oh, that’s nice. I like France. Your dad and I have always wanted to buy a little place in the Dordogne. One of those holiday gites, you know? So romantic.’
‘Jess? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Sorry, Isla. Lost you for a second. Awful signal. Yes, Mum was so excited to hear you’re back. She can’t wait to see you.’
‘Right, well, it’ll be lovely to see her, too. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Yes, we do. Starting with the proposal.’
‘The what?’
‘Jamie. Proposing to you?’ I laugh. ‘Are you so hung-over, you’ve forgotten? We’ll want all the tiny details.’
She grunts. ‘Look, I’d better go.’
‘Come over here and I’ll make you some lunch. And you can tell me all about Jamie going down on one knee.’
‘Er, no, thanks. I think I’m about to be sick.’ And she ends the call.
*****
I should be working today – and I am trying. But thoughts of Moondance Cottage and what’s going on inside it keep creeping into my mind.
It probably doesn’t help that the historical book I’m currently editing is as dry as a slice of burnt toast. As a freelance, I can’t afford to pick and choose my jobs. I have to take whatever’s offered, and most of it isn’t even particularly interesting, far less stimulating. But I’m really grateful for the work. It pays the bills. I had to borrow some money from Mum last year, just to tide me over, but now that I’m back in the groove, work-wise, I’m trying to pay her back. I’m so glad I got the commission from The Bookbinder Inn.
In the end, after reading the same paragraph ten times over, I switch off my laptop and grab my coat. It’s just after one and I’m thinking even hard-working builders on a tight schedule surely have to take a lunch break. I’ll drive past the lane and if Seb Morgan’s van isn’t there, I’ll go into the cottage and inspect the damage.
I turn into the lane, slouched slightly in my seat, but to my irritation, his van is there. Parking on the other side of the lane, a few yards past the house, I switch off the engine with a sigh. Now what? I suppose I’ll have to return much later if I want to avoid coming up against our friendly local builder again!
I’m about to go when I glance over the road.
Oops! The Grumpmeister himself is emerging from the cottage. He’s wearing his black puffa jacket, so he must be going somewhere. Perfect.
Not wanting to be spotted, I slide right down in my seat until my bottom is almost in the footwell, congratulating myself on my good timing. I just need to wait until I hear him drive off, then I’ll nip inside the house for a quick look around. My heart is in my mouth imagining what sort of a state he’s left the place in, but I know I won’t rest until I’ve seen it.
A sharp rap on the window makes my heart almost vault out of my chest.
Glancing up from my semi-flat-out position, I freeze at the sight of Demolition Man himself staring down at me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Feeling like a schoolgirl who’s been caught spying on her latest crush, I grab a packet of mints and ease myself into a sitting position. Winding down the window, I hold up the sweets with a cheerful smile. ‘Got them. Would you like one?’
He gives me a look, clearly not fooled at all. But he does take a mint. I notice his nails. Clean and neatly manicured. He has good hands. They’re large and slightly weather-beaten. Practical hands . . .
Suddenly, without warning, a disturbingly raunchy image slides into my head – Seb Morgan, doing things with those big, sexy hands that are far more exciting than hammering in nails and fixing skirtings.
‘You don’t need to spy on me, you know. You can come in any time you like,’ he rumbles, with a hint of a smile.
‘I wasn’t spying on you! I dropped my mints,’ I protest, horribly aware that my hot face tells a different story.
The twist of his mouth says, Yeah, right.
I shrug. ‘Well, okay, I didn’t want to disturb you. But seeing as you’re obviously going out, I’ll take a look now.’
He nods, opening the car door and ushering me out with a flourish. There’s not much room by the hedge and I have to squeeze past him. His hands brush my waist. I flinch then dart away.
‘Thank you,’ I call back, as I hurry across the road, suddenly desperate to escape that intensely blue gaze. Those eyes of his could stop bloody traffic!
‘Don’t you lock your car, then?’ he calls, and when I turn, he’s standing beside it, arms folded.
Bugger! I never forget to lock it. It’s bloody Sod’s Law that my slip-up should occur while he’s standing there, watching me. I whip out my keys, flash him a big fake smile and press the remote to lock it. Then I turn and hurry through the gate to the front door.
Despite the chill of the late October day, a little bead of sweat trickles down my back.
Why does that man make me so jumpy?
Now, please let this key work first time. I do not want the embarrassment of him having to come to my aid . . .
Thankfully, it slides in no problem, and I step over the threshold.
And all other thoughts vanish from my mind.
Oh, my God.
Our lovely house.
Isla told me she’d arranged to have most of our stuff packed up and transported to a storage facility. But it’s still a shock, seeing the place bare and almost completely emptied of our personal possessions. It seems smaller now that the furniture has been taken away and the pictures removed from the hooks.
I walk along the hallway, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. An old sheet with paint stains on it covers the parquet flooring alongside the staircase. The stair carpet has already been ripped up and there’s a thick layer of dust everywhere. From being a warm and welcoming home, the cottage now has the dank feel of a place that’s been unoccupied for a long time. A place with all the vibrant life sucked out of it.
Breathing in the sour smell of dust and chemicals, I walk into the kitchen. I knew the wall would be gone, but still a gasp escapes at the sight.
I try to picture how it was before – the old pine kitchen units along the now vanished wall, the cork noticeboard pinned higgledy-piggledy with photos of happy times; and beyond where the wall stood, the smart, pale wood dining table and chairs, delivered all the way from a company in Ireland. Mum was so proud of her dining room; she’d go mad if Isla or I stood a hot cup on the table even for a second without using a coaster.
As well as our daily meals, our dining room was the hub of so many special occasions.
It hosted big Sunday roast days with grandparents invited, and special birthday parties when Isla and I were little. I remember in the run up to Easter, Mum would line up our chocolate eggs along the dresser, and Isla and I would wait with excited anticipation for Easter Sunday. And then there were the Christmas celebrations. Standing here, it’s the happy Christmases I remember most of all. Isla and I high with excitement in our best dresses after a morning of opening presents. Gran arriving in her fake fur coat - which she only wore on special occasions and which smelled a bit odd - and getting tiddly after just one of Dad’s large sherries. Grandad sneaking out for a smoke, standing on the back door step, and winking at me that it was our little secret because Gran didn’t approve. Later, with everyone gathered around the table, Dad would bring in the gleaming, bronze turkey to a round of applause, and afterwards, it was Mum’s turn. She’d proudly present her homemade Christmas pudding, the lights would be turned off, and Dad would pour brandy over it and strike a match, making the pudding flame. The pudding was always Grandad’s favourite part of Christmas Day.
