by Alice Ross
*
James had never known relief like it. When the doctor declared Alex’s lump benign, he could’ve kissed the man. But he hadn’t. He’d kissed Alex instead. And had barely stopped kissing her since.
‘What do you want to do to celebrate?’ he asked, as they climbed back into the jeep.
She giggled. ‘Why don’t we go back to your place and I’ll show you.’
He affected his most serious expression. ‘Miss Corr! Are you propositioning me?’
‘I certainly am, Mr Pinkerton.’
*
Matt had devised a fool-proof plan to see Olga again. He’d made such a lucrative demand on her agency that they couldn’t possibly refuse: he wanted Olga – and no one else – to work twelve hours a day for him.
He’d blocked his ears at the ridiculous weekly sum tossed back at him. There was no way he could pay it, but he’d worry about that later.
Olga arrived at the apartment two hours after his call. Matt’s heart was in his mouth as he opened the door to her. She looked tired and pale but above all pissed off.
‘What’s this about?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t possibly need me twelve hours a day.’
‘Please come in. I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘I am.’
She marched past him into the living room, where she perched on the edge of one of the sofas.
‘I take it that was your girlfriend the other day,’ she said, as Matt eased himself onto the opposite settee.
‘She was my girlfriend but-’
‘She’s very beautiful,’
‘She is. But she’s not-’
‘You didn’t mention her before.’
‘That’s because-’
‘Oh, and there was something I forgot to mention to you, too.’
His heart sank. Whatever it was, he knew instinctively he wouldn’t like it.
‘Maria and I are moving back to Poland. I’ve been offered a job at Warsaw University.’
His jaw dropped open. ‘But you can’t. I mean … what about your work here? Maria’s school? Your studies?’
‘There’s no problem finishing work here. Housekeepers are easily replaceable.’ She shot him such a meaningful look that his innards twisted. ‘I’ve already found an excellent school for Maria. And I can finish my masters by correspondence.’
Matt’s chest tightened. What was going on? This wasn’t how he’d planned the conversation at all. ‘Wh-when are you-?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’ he swallowed down the bile in his throat.
She shrugged. ‘Why hang around when there’s no reason for me to be here.’
Their eyes locked. A surge of protectiveness suffused him as he noticed a tear streaking down her face.
‘Come here,’ he said gently.
‘Why?’
‘Well, I would come over there but it takes me five minutes to heave myself off this bloody sofa.’
She managed a watery smile. ‘Give me one good reason why I should come over there.’
‘Oh, I can think of more than one,’ he chuckled, relief seeping through him. ‘The first is that Francesca and I are no longer together and haven’t been for some time. The second is that I’m completely in love with you. And the third is that I can’t afford the ridiculous hourly rate the agency is charging me, so will you please hurry up and come over here so I can kiss you.’
*
James awoke with a sore throat and a thumping headache.
‘Do you think it’s all the sex?’ he asked, as Alex took his temperature.
‘Hmm. Very possibly.’
‘Do you think we should stop?’
‘Not sure I can.’
‘Me neither. So what do you recommend?’
She giggled. ‘I think I might know just the thing.’
Five minutes later she returned - with a pile of banana sandwiches covered in chocolate sprinkles.
EPILOGUE
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Anya von Hutterhausen smoothed her pink dress over her incredibly flat stomach and adjusted her hat. She looked good. Motherhood suited her. After giving birth to daughter Tatjana three months ago, all her bits had snapped back into place, her skin glowed, and her hair now reached her shoulders. She gazed at the baby asleep in the car seat and experienced an overpowering rush of love. From the moment the child had entered the world, everything about her had fascinated Anya, from her tiny fingers and toes, to her enquiring blue eyes and dark curls. She was perfect in every way and Anya couldn’t wait to show her off today. Nor could she wait to stand in the church knowing that, the next time she’d be there, in two months’ time, would be for her wedding to Jakov.
She’d scarcely been able to believe his reaction when she’d plucked up the courage to tell him about the pregnancy. He’d been completely elated. As had his family. With three career-minded daughters, his parents had given up hope of grandchildren. Consequently, the whole family had greeted Tatjana – and Anya – with open arms.
She picked up the car seat and strode to the door. Jakov would meet them at the church when he finished work. In an incredible twist of fate, he was the new owner of Jacksons Gyms. His parents had loaned him the money which he paid back as the business thrived. And Anya would help manage it on a part-time basis as soon as she was ready. She hadn’t returned to work at the veterinary practice. James had bought her out. Despite her embarrassing antics, he’d been extremely gracious, offering her an excellent price. They’d made amends, which was why she’d been delighted to receive his invitation.
Securing the car seat in the back of her Audi, Anya cringed as she recalled her previous behaviour. How could she ever have considered using her precious daughter – and James - in such a mercenary fashion? Thank God her plan hadn’t worked. She had, though, ruined James’ brother’s wedding by sending those incriminating photographs. She shouldn’t have done it. It had been mean and spiteful. And all for her own selfish ends. If she met Matt today, she wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye.
*
‘Well? What do you think?
‘Wow,’ said Matt, as Maria twirled around in her silver dress and sparkly shoes. ‘You look fantastic. And your mum doesn’t look too bad either.’
Stunning in grey silk, Olga picked up a stray T-shirt from the bed and threw it at her husband. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
He walked over and planted a kiss on her lips. ‘You both look absolutely gorgeous, Mrs Pinkerton, and I love you very much.’
Matt and his new wife and step-daughter had flown over from Warsaw especially for the occasion. He loved his new life in Poland. After confessing his jobless situation and his money troubles to Olga, they’d worked out a plan of action. The first thing he’d done was sell the apartment, freeing himself of its extortionate running costs. The rest of the debt he’d consolidated into one loan, which was steadily reducing each month.
Olga had tracked down her first husband and, three months ago, her divorce had come through. Matt had married her immediately. It had been a small affair but the best day of his life.
Job-wise he’d never been happier. He was working in the marketing department at Warsaw Zoo – much to Maria’s delight. The money was peanuts compared to his previous salary, but he didn’t care. He no longer had the urge to spend five-hundred quid on a night out, or buy a load of designer clobber. He didn’t need all that pretentious crap to make him happy. He already had everything he wanted.
*
In Little Crumpton’s village church, Marjorie Pinkerton dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘Oh, isn’t it marvellous, James and Alex getting married today and expecting a baby in six months’ time. Didn’t I say how perfect she was for him the first time we met her in the beer garden, Bernard?’
‘You did, Marjorie.’
‘And look at Matt with Olga and Maria over there. They’re so happy. Thank goodness he didn’t marry that Francesca one.
Do you know, I read in the paper the other day that she’s now with some ageing rock star. Anything for fame that one. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that she ran off with that dreadful footballer before the wedding.’
Behind the Pinkertons, Anya von Hutterhausen couldn’t believe her ears. So it hadn’t been her incriminating photographs that had caused Francesca to break off the wedding after all. Although Anya wasn’t much of a believer, she looked to the altar and thanked God.
*
James Pinkerton turned and watched his bride walk up the aisle. Gazing at her beautiful face glowing with happiness, he pinched himself. Still he couldn’t believe that in a few minutes Alex Corr would be his wife. And in a few months their son, Charlie Oliver Pinkerton, would enter the world. It had been Alex who’d suggested the name Oliver. After Olivia. Because, she’d reasoned, had it not been for Olivia’s untimely death, then she would never have met James. Olivia’s parents had been thrilled when he and Alex had visited them in Poole to tell them their news and invite them to the wedding – an invitation they’d gratefully accepted. Having their blessing and their presence today, meant a great deal to him. In fact, the only person missing from his nearest and dearest was Great Aunt Milly.
James had been amazed to receive the letter from her solicitor yesterday. It had informed him that, as a result of his forthcoming nuptials and Alex reaching the first trimester of pregnancy, the inheritance, in the form of the share portfolio was now his. He’d forgotten all about it. Due to the recent stock market crash the shares were now worthless but he’d halved them with his brother nonetheless. Who knew? They might be worth a fortune in the future. And, despite the condition in the will that the inheritance should not be shared, he really didn’t think Great Aunt Milly would mind. Because, as a radiant Alex reached the altar - at exactly the same time as a strong smell of violets - he now understood exactly why she’d added the caveat about marriage and children. And it had nothing at all to do with money.
If you enjoyed The Trouble with Great Aunt Milly then turn the page for exclusive extracts from The Little Cottage on Lovelace Lane and The Big House on Lovelace Lane, two of the irresistible books in the Lovelace Lane series by Alice Ross!
The Little Cottage On Lovelace Lane
(Lovelace Lane Book 1)
Of all the times and places to have intimate relations, Lily Matlock had to confess that a tiny caravan on a building site at the beginning of March probably wasn’t one of them. But today, she’d decided, was going to be so exciting, it deserved to start with a bang – in the nicest possible sense of the word.
Under three duvets and her gran’s old crocheted blanket – which she’d flung on top in the hope of adding another few much-needed degrees to the fold-down bed – she slid a woolly-socked foot up Luke’s muscular calf. Given his attire of thermal leggings, knee-length footie socks, and a pair of jog pants, she applied slightly more pressure than if they’d been barefoot and naked, and somewhere there weren’t icicles clinging to the insides of the windows.
‘Whatyerdoing?’ Luke mumbled into the pillow.
‘Just saying good morning,’ Lily replied, affecting a husky timbre, and hoping the way her breath misted the sub-zero air added to the intended sultry effect.
Whether it did or didn’t, Luke appeared not to notice. ‘Whattimeisit?’
Briefly abandoning her seductress routine, Lily turned over and reached out a gloved hand to pick up the clock on the floor at the side of the bed. ‘Half past seven.’
‘Shit!’ Luke jerked upright, banging his head on the overhead cupboard. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting the lads for rugby training at eight.’
At this announcement, Lily jerked upright and banged her head on the overhead cupboard. During the five months the caravan had been their home, banging their heads on the overhead cupboard had long since established itself as part of their morning routine.
‘But you can’t,’ she gasped. ‘We have plans for today.’
Through his beanie hat, which he’d been wearing to bed since October, Luke rubbed the ever-present lump on his head as he gazed at her nonplussed. ‘Plans? What plans?’
Lily gawped. He couldn’t have forgotten. Surely. Today was momentous. Massive. Humongous. The day she’d fantasised about for months. The day she’d been looking forward to even more than the time her parents had promised to take her to the penguin parade at the zoo – even though she’d been twenty-three at the time. ‘We’re choosing the kitchen.’
Luke scrunched up his perfect nose, regarding her in the same way she imagined he would if she’d announced she’d discovered a verruca the size of Asia on her left foot. ‘Oh. I forgot.’
‘Evidently.’ Lily pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to adopt the moral high ground. No easy task given her upper-body attire of polo-neck sweater, Plymouth University hoodie, and yellow body-warmer. Luke, she’d noticed, appeared to be doing a lot of “forgetting” lately. Exclusively of house-related things. Much to Lily’s – and their Polish builder Borys’s – increasing frustration.
‘I not being funny, Leely,’ huffed Borys, scratching his head of thick blond hair, when Lily returned home from work the other day. ‘But if Luke doesn’t order new toilet from eenternet like he promise, how I suppose to fit new toilet? I think Luke fed up with house now,’ he’d added. An observation which had fuelled Lily’s already niggling suspicion.
Not that Lily could really blame Luke. Well actually, she could. And, indeed, she had. But she could at least empathise with him. Even she, with her bountiful enthusiasm and unerring vision for their still-in-the-throes-of-renovation cottage, was, if she was honest, a tad frustrated with caravan living. Three months, Borys the Builder had initially promised, before the cottage would be in a basic, but habitable, condition. But, unlike on the telly, where a wreck of a building is transformed into a sparkling state-of-the-art palace with pristinely-ironed duvet covers, built-in fish tanks, and his-and-her bars of soap within sixty minutes, the renovation of Hollyhocks, due to a plethora of “unforeseen problems” was taking significantly longer.
Still savouring the relative warmth of the bed, Lily observed Luke as, having scrambled over her and the tower of duvets, he began rummaging through the numerous piles of clothes strewn about the caravan’s tiny interior. Having evidently found what he was looking for, he rived off his layers of night-time attire, replacing them with a creased and not-too-clean-looking mismatched rugby kit. This activity was accompanied by a string of expletives about the Baltic temperature and - what had long since become his mantra - how he could “never bloody find anything”. A few minutes later, preceded by a grudging, ‘I’ll be back by lunchtime’, he disappeared with a slam of the tinny door.
At the icy blast of air which followed his departure, Lily hunkered deeper under the bedclothes, heaving a despairing sigh as she surveyed the detritus he’d left behind. Not, she realised, as her eyes swept over the piles of clothes, the mountain of dishes, the heaps of shoes and boots, and the cereal packets crammed into the most imaginative spaces, that she could blame him for the entire state of the place. The caravan’s compact interior had been designed with weekends away in mind, not months of everyday living. The reality of being cramped up in such a confined, impractical space had fallen dramatically short of the giddy romantic images she’d conjured up the first time she and Luke had set eyes on the cottage.
It had been back in late summer. Out for a sunny Sunday afternoon drive in the stunning Northumberland countryside, searching for a village pub one of Lily’s work colleagues had recommended, Luke had driven past the sign on the dry stone wall at the entrance to Lovelace Lane.
‘Stop!’ Lily had squealed.
Slamming on the brakes, jerking the car to an immediate halt, Luke had turned to look at her, panic etched on his handsome chiselled face. ‘What? What is it?’
Lily had pressed a hand to her chest. ‘The name of that street. Lovelace Lane. Isn’t it gorgeous?’
&
nbsp; Luke had shaken his head in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell, Lils! I thought you were having a heart attack or something.’
So breathless with excitement had Lily been, she wasn’t entirely convinced she wasn’t having a heart attack. ‘Come on. Let’s take a look.’
‘At what?’
‘Lovelace Lane, of course. I’ve never heard a prettier name. Imagine how fabulous it would be if someone asked where you lived and you said, “Actually, I live on Lovelace Lane”.’
Luke, evidently immune to the enthusiasm swirling about his girlfriend of three years, re-started the car. ‘Actually,’ he’d said, adopting the same supercilious tone he did whenever Lily lost her mobile phone – which, admittedly, was a frequent occurrence - ‘I don’t think anyone could give a toss where you live. Now, if we don’t find this pub soon, it’ll be closing time.’
He’d shoved the gear stick into first, but before he could pull away, Lily had opened the car door and bounced out. ‘Come on. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’
Luke had flashed her an incredulous look, but, nonetheless, had switched off the engine and slid out of the car, amidst much muttering and chuntering, from which Lily had discerned only the words “bloody” and “mental”. She hadn’t picked him up on them. A far greater need than entering into a petty squabble had overtaken her: a weird, all-consuming need to explore Lovelace Lane; to sneak a glimpse into the lives of the folk who lived there; to discover if the place lived up to its gloriously romantic name.
It did.
‘Oh. My. God,’ she’d gushed a few minutes later, standing, transfixed, at the entrance to the street. The left-hand side was completely open to fields, while a row of detached houses lined the right. And what houses! Lily’s jaw almost brushed the pavement as she all but floated down the lane, soaking up the exquisiteness of the twenty or so beautiful abodes. Names such as Mulberry Lodge, Yew Tree House and The Granary added to the picture-perfect image. ‘It’s utterly gorgeous,’ she exclaimed. ‘And-’ spotting a ‘For Sale’ board, her heart stuttered for a few seconds, before jump-starting at a quicker-than-was-probably-healthy pace. Grabbing Luke’s hand, she’d yanked him over to the property - a tiny cottage nestling at the bottom of the lane. It lacked the Victorian splendour of its imposing neighbours. In fact, it lacked quite a few things, most glaringly a non-sagging roof, half a chimney pot, and decent window frames. Not that any of those minor details dampened Lily’s sky-high spirits. ‘-an adorable cottage, Luke. And it’s for sale.’
