by Rosie Green
I’ve no wish at all to change it . . .
*****
I haven’t been out on a single date since Ollie and I broke up over a year ago.
The fact is, I loved Ollie and I really thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. It was one of those slow-burn relationships, where we started off as good friends but it grew into something even more special. I could trust Ollie with my life and I think he felt the same, which was why he proposed to me one night on holiday in Ibiza and I said yes.
But after Dad, I was a mess.
In those first few weeks after he and Janice went missing, I existed in a horrible twilight world of staying in and obsessively checking my texts and emails and watching the news for any reports the police might not have relayed to me. The only people I wanted to talk to were Mum and Isla, because they both knew exactly what I was going through.
I had very little time for Ollie.
When he phoned, it felt like an intrusion. I felt he didn’t understand what we were going through. Nothing he said could help me.
I feel terrible now, knowing how self-centred I was at that time, but it was as if terror and grief had turned me into a different person. I was solely focused on getting through the days and I became obsessed with having my phone near me at all times. I remember screaming at Ollie that I couldn’t find it and it was his fault because I’d put it down when I was talking to him.
In the end, Ollie couldn’t cope with me, and looking back, I don’t blame him. I suppose everyone reacts differently in a crisis. And my reaction at first was extreme – mainly, I think, because Dad and I had always been so close and shared such a precious bond.
I’d always been a happy, even-tempered sort of person, but I think I scared Ollie with my sudden unpredictable moods. Feeling as if he couldn’t reach me, no matter how hard he tried, he started confiding in Polly, a girl he worked with. The funny thing is, I know Polly and I can tell they’ll be good together. I don’t feel any animosity towards either of them. It wasn’t working between us, and that was all down to me. I loved Ollie enough to want him to find someone who was good enough for him. And I think he’s found that in Polly.
After what I put him through, I had no cause to feel bitter. And to my surprise, when he finally broke it off with me, I felt nothing but relief.
Ollie was the gentlest, kindest man in the world. If he couldn’t cope with me, then no man could.
I was much better off on my own . . .
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Late the following afternoon, I deliver the first batch of ornaments to The Treasure Box, and the next afternoon, when I nip out to the village store for milk, I notice that the Christmas tree in now in the gift shop window, and it’s already sporting the results of my hard work.
It’s after four, already growing dark, and I stand for a moment, taking in the effect of the beautiful tree. Fairy lights entwined around the branches amplify the beauty of the coloured glass, making the baubles gleam and wink with festive promise. And my throat feels choked, thinking how happy Dad would be to see the tree looking so wonderful again because of what he taught me.
‘Once December arrives, they’ll be flying off the shelves,’ Jonathan predicted the following weekend, when I delivered a fresh batch. ‘We’ve already sold five boxes and countless singles.’ (For a small extra charge, I hand-painted a name or initial on the bauble.)
He frowned. ‘It’s a lot of work for you, though, Jess. Are you sure you can cope?’
On your own.
The unspoken words hung in the air between us.
But I brushed them away with a bright smile. ‘Yes, of course I can. You know I adore the work. And I . . . well, I suppose I feel closer to Dad in that studio than anywhere else, so it’s a win-win.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
I was. I planned to get ahead as much as possible so that as the Christmas shopping momentum gathered pace, I’d be more able to cope with the demand.
Over the past week, I’d established a routine that seemed to work well. I’d spend the daylight hours in the studio and then in the evenings, after a bite to eat, I’d settle down at the kitchen table to do my editing work.
I was loving being back in the studio. Creating the perfect bauble gave me such a sense of pleasure and satisfaction that it was worth getting all hot and sweaty beside that kiln. My current editing work was nearly finished, and after that, I’d be able to concentrate solely on the glass-blowing, as my work for The Bookbinder Inn wasn’t required until February.
Every now and then, the thought of Isla and Mum popped into my head. I needed to find time to see them both. But Isla, at any rate, seemed to be as busy as I was. Both times I phoned her at the hotel, she was waiting for an important call. The first time, she was expecting Jamie to ring with news of their hoped-for purchase of new premises. And the second time, I caught her in the middle of trying to sort out a staffing problem at their present shop. I told her to ring me when she had a moment because we really needed to arrange to see Mum again, and she promised she would.
I managed to take a break on the Saturday to catch up with my friend, Amy, who was back home from London for a flying visit. She came around to mine and we drank wine and ate chilli and basically didn’t stop talking and laughing all night. She’d recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend so much of the chat was about the highs and lows of her dating adventures (mostly lows). I made the mistake of mentioning Seb and she immediately started grilling me about him, convinced there must be something going on.
‘There’s something about a workman in paint-spattered overalls, don’t you think?’ she called as I was opening another bottle of wine in the kitchen. ‘Does your Seb wear them well?’
I laughed. ‘He’s not my Seb, but oh yes, they fit like a dream.’ (I’d had the best part of a bottle to myself by this time.)
So then we started discussing which uniforms we found the sexiest, and we must have been quite drunk because when I told her about Mum and her penchant for Dad in a Santa Claus outfit, we both exploded into giggles and didn’t stop laughing for ages.
It felt good to laugh and let my hair down for once and I realised I wanted to do more of it. Perhaps it was time to start getting out more . . .
On the Monday, after Amy has gone back to London, I phone Mum and persuade her to meet me for coffee at The Tulip Café in Hazelcroft.
When we’re settled with our coffees, I ask her if she’s okay and she says she’s been sleeping badly, so I grab my chance and suggest, as casually as possible, that maybe she should get an appointment at the medical centre to talk about it.
‘Why would I need a doctor? I’m not ill.’ She looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘I’d be wasting the GP’s precious time. You know they only have seven minutes to talk to patients these days.’ She shakes her head. ‘Ridiculous. Shall we have another coffee?’ Frowning, she glances at her watch. ‘Actually, I haven’t got time. Sorry, darling, must dash. I was in the middle of a painting when you called.’
She scrapes back her chair and I start to get up as well, but she puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Stay and finish your coffee. I need to get my painting finished.’ She beams at me, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m feeling inspired!’
She hurries away, leaving me feeling worried and frustrated. No doubt she’s painting yet another portrait of Dad . . .
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s the last Thursday in October, and I spend the morning finishing the editing work on the history book.
As soon as I’ve emailed it over to the editor, I have some lunch and head over to the studio, relishing the thought of getting into the creative zone. It will be the perfect way to relax my brain after concentrating so hard on all that rather dry history.
I arrive soon after three and park behind Seb’s van.
A quick glance up at the house reveals a window open upstairs. Seb must be working in Mum’s old painting studio, so hopefully, if he’s up there, I can nip in and put my
milk in the fridge without having to make awkward conversation.
As I get out of the car, music drifts down from the open window. It’s a song by Kings of Leon and I nod approvingly.
Nice.
I slide the key in the lock and slip inside, closing the door quietly so as not to advertise that I’m here. Unfortunately, I’m wearing my old trainers which do tend to squeak sometimes, but hopefully, if I can keep them under control . . .
Tip-toeing to the kitchen, I notice Seb’s left a light on in the downstairs loo and I reach to snap it off, slipping slightly on a random doormat. Then I get the shock of my life.
Seb is in there, stripped to the waist, sluicing handfuls of water on his face at the basin. I freeze in fascinated shock, watching him splashing everything in sight with his vigorous manly ablutions.
Grabbing a towel, he catches sight of me and we exchange a startled look.
‘Sorry.’ He rubs his face and hair. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘No . . . I mean, it’s my fault. I thought you were upstairs.’
‘I’m going out,’ he says, looking a tad sheepish. ‘Just having a wash. Hope you don’t mind. I was going to nip home but I ended up not having enough time.’ He shrugs his big shoulders.
‘No, no, it’s fine. You could have used the shower upstairs. It’s one of those automatic ones, so you don’t need the water to be hot. But . . . well, you knew that anyway.’
I trail off, knowing I’m babbling.
My brain is instructing my feet to walk away immediately and stop embarrassing myself. But another bit of me – a rather more intimate part, it has to be said – seems to have the upper hand, because the feet in question are glued to the floor.
‘This is fine, thanks. I’ll have a shower at home, later.’
I nod, transfixed by the subtle movements of his musculature as he towels his upper body. His dark hair gleams with moisture, and that includes the fine hairs that arrow down his chest and disappear into the waistband of his well-fitted jeans. His naked upper body is magnificent. Good arms. Broad shoulders. Taut stomach.
His blue eyes catch on to mine, pinning me even more firmly to the spot. We stare silently at each other and an intensity flares in his eyes, making my heart leap.
Abruptly, he turns back to the mirror, rubbing briskly at his wet hair then ditching the towel and running his hands roughly through it again and again.
He turns with a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry, could you . . . ?’
My eyes are riveted to the damp dark strands of hair flopping over his forehead. I have an urge to step forward, reach up and push them back. Not that I could, since movement of any kind appears to be temporarily out of the question.
I’m suddenly aware he’s saying something, pointing behind me. Glancing round, I see the clean shirt hanging on the kitchen door handle.
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ Rallying, I snatch it up and practically throw the garment at him in my sudden eagerness to get away. ‘I’ll just put my milk and stuff in the fridge and I’ll be out of your hair,’ I call from the kitchen.
‘No rush,’ he shouts. ‘Want a coffee now? I’ll make one if you want to get straight down to work.’
‘Er, no, it’s all right. But thanks.’ I frown to myself. Since when did Mr Grumpy start offering refreshments? Perhaps being semi-naked makes him feel more relaxed. I cast a quick glance through to the hallway. At least he’s wearing the shirt now, which is the same brilliant blue as his eyes. We almost collide in the kitchen doorway and have to step awkwardly around each other.
I catch a whiff of something spicy and deeply masculine that makes my body long to linger. My head, however, has other ideas.
Seb Morgan spells danger. It’s time I left the building . . .
‘Don’t you ever go out?’ The blunt nature of his question stops me in my tracks.
I flick him a suspicious glance. ‘Of course I do. I’m just . . . very busy right now.’
He nods slowly as if he’s weighing up the veracity of my reply.
‘I’ve got three thousand bobbles to make – I mean, baubles, and three hundred not three thousand.’ I laugh nervously. ‘That really would be a push. But anyway, I haven’t got time to do – erm - social thingies as well.’ We’re standing in the doorway, just inches apart, and his nearness seems to be having a very weird effect. I can’t seem to talk properly. ‘This time of the year is always busiest when I’m blowing.’
His mouth shifts up at one corner.
‘Glass-blowing, I mean.’ I’m growing hotter by the minute, mainly because those steely blue eyes of his are like lasers, piercing right past all the waffle to the sad truth.
Seb’s right. I hardly ever go out. But how does he know that, damn him.
He shrugs. ‘All work and no play . . .’
‘You’re saying I’m dull?’
‘No.’ His face says the opposite.
‘It’s better than all play and no work, isn’t it? And anyway, what am I supposed to do? I have commitments. Jonathan needs my baubles.’
‘Jonathan?’ He leans back against the wall and folds his arms.
‘He owns The Treasure Box in the high street?’
‘Hm. So Jonathan needs your baubles, does he?’
There’s a wry twist to his mouth that brings another flood of colour to my cheeks. I suppose it did sound a bit weird.
‘Yes, he does.’ My chin rises. ‘Actually, he prizes my baubles very highly.’
Seb coughs. It sounds suspiciously like a smothered snort but when I shoot him a glance, his face is perfectly straight.
‘I’ve heard you display them in the window for all to see,’ he remarks.
‘Where did you hear that?’ I ask tartly. ‘On the village grapevine, I suppose.’
‘Oh, so it’s true.’
‘So what’s true?’
‘That news gets around fast in a village.’
I laugh harshly. ‘Oh, you’d better believe it.’
Which is how I know that at least half the population of Lower Luckworth would love to be standing where I’m standing right now!
My heart is racing uncomfortably. ‘Anyway, I can’t stand here talking to you all afternoon. Much as I’d love to.’ There’s a truckload of sarcasm in my tone. ‘I have work to do.’
‘So you said.’
‘Try to resist knocking every wall down,’ I mutter, as I whisk out of the kitchen.
‘I’ll do my best. Watch that doormat. It’s a bit slipp - ’
Even as he says it, my foot is sliding out from under me. In a panic, I make a grab for the staircase spindles and miss. But a second later, strong arms are grasping hold of me and I find myself falling against him, my hands splayed against his chest.
He grins down at me. ‘I told you to be careful of the mat. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.’
‘And pigs might fly.’ I push myself away from him and straighten my top, trying to get control of my breathing. With a defiant sniff, I turn and walk purposefully out of the house – quite a feat considering my legs have turned to jelly.
The frigid air cools my burning cheeks as I hurry across the grass to the studio.
At least I got my point across about being too busy to go out. I’d hate Seb to think I’m a boring loner with no social life whatsoever . . .
*****
I’m back the following morning, feeling full of resolve. With my current editing job out of the way, my plan is to spend the whole weekend in the studio, building up the stocks of pink and white baubles and my favourite cobalt blue, both of which are proving popular this year.
I’m also going to try combining the two colours, using the tweezers to manipulate the molten glass into stripes of pink and blue. My head is so full of plans, I don’t realise until I’m outside the studio that the key isn’t in my bag.
Damn! Now I’ll have to waste precious time returning home to get them.
Walking back to the car, I check my bag again, feeling puzzled. The studio key is
always in the little inside zip pocket in my bag. I hope I haven’t lost it.
At that moment, Seb draws up, parking with a crunch behind my car. He gets out and comes over as I’m scrabbling through my bag for the fifty-seventh time.
‘Forgotten the key to the studio,’ I mutter.
‘You left it in the kitchen.’
‘Did I?’ I look up, surprised.
‘It was next to the dirty coffee cups you must have brought in last night.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I look at him, having a bit of a deja vue moment about the day before, catching him stripped to the waist. I can picture exactly what lies beneath today’s old grey T-shirt with its paint spatters. I swallow hard. ‘Right, well, I’ll just go and get it. The key.’
I’m hurrying away, when he calls my name. When I turn, he’s hefting a crate out of the boot. ‘Get the kettle on, will you, Jess? I need a warm up. My extremities are so numb I can hardly feel them.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Heating’s off in the flat. And the beauty of living alone is that there’s no-one there to let the engineer in.’
‘Ah, right. Okay. I’ll put the kettle on if you make the coffee,’ I say, pondering the interesting news that he lives alone. That confirms my suspicion that he’s not married or co-habiting, then.
He grins. ‘Deal.’
I walk into the house, thinking it’s as well he can’t read my mind. A way of warming up his frozen extremities just invaded my head in glorious technicolour, bringing a flush of heat to my entire body on this icy morning . . .
For some reason, this makes me want to giggle.
At least I now know that my recent total lack of interest in men isn’t actually terminal. I’m perfectly normal, after all. Thank you for that, Seb!
I’m feeling quite cheerful as I walk into the hall – until I see the pile of rubbish by the door, on top of which is the old globe that holds so many memories. It’s lying at an awkward angle, beside a box full of discarded door handles, and an old Hallowe’en mask that Dad used to scare us with when we were kids.
I stare at the globe. I should have rescued it sooner. Taking it carefully from the pile, I carry it out to the car.
