by Jill Mansell
He caught up with her twenty seconds later, his hand reaching for her arm to stop her in her tracks.
‘OK, I need to explain.’ He looked … agonised. There was no other word for it.
‘You don’t have to. It’s not rocket science. I’m guessing you have a girlfriend or a fiancée.’ He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but she said it anyway. ‘Or a wife.’
‘I do.’ Sam nodded.
‘Girlfriend?’
He exhaled and said evenly, ‘Wife.’
Oh. Right. ‘And you just forgot to mention her before. Not that there’s any reason why you should,’ Clemency amended. What had they done, after all, other than sit next to each other and pass the time of day during what would otherwise have been a dull flight?
Except they both knew it had been more, so much more than that.
‘I didn’t forget.’ Sam hesitated, as if searching for the right words. ‘I … put it to the back of my mind.’
Like thousands of other married men the world over. And women too. It wasn’t as if he’d committed some heinous crime. If anything, Clemency envied his wife for having married a man with scruples and enough of a conscience to stay on the straight and narrow.
Lucky old her.
‘Oh well, it was nice to meet you anyway.’ Crushing disappointment was one thing, but she couldn’t be cross. She added on impulse, ‘Did you look at my business card?’
‘No.’ He shook his head and it was clear that he was telling the truth. ‘No I didn’t.’
Good. ‘OK, this is going to sound weird, but can I have it back?’ She felt herself flush. ‘It’s just that I’m … um, running a bit low.’
The real reason was so she wouldn’t have to spend the next few weeks wondering if he might, against all the odds, be in touch. It would be so much easier to simply remove the possibility that that could happen.
‘Sorry, I don’t have it. It’s in the bin next to the newspaper stand in Arrivals. If you want, I could go back and get it for you …’
Of course he’d thrown her card away; why would he even want to keep it? His wife might come across it and wonder what he’d been up to. God, just for a few seconds, she’d forgotten he had a wife.
‘No, it’s fine, doesn’t matter.’ Clemency looked at him, taking in every detail of his face for the last time. With a brief smile, because she really was leaving now, she said, ‘I’m not that desperate.’
‘I wish things could have been different.’ Sam put his hand out to clasp hers, before stopping himself as if she were radioactive.
Wishing she’d just kept the nice sweater now, Clemency said wryly, ‘But they aren’t.’
Chapter 3
Three years later
Really, was there anything better than arriving back at the office at the end of a long day and discovering an empty parking space waiting for you right outside?
Well, there probably wouldn’t be anything better, but right now Clemency couldn’t really say, because she’d just missed out on the prize parking space. Having beaten her by mere seconds, Ronan had expertly reversed into it and was now grinning at her as he climbed out of his Audi.
‘Too slow, Clem. You snooze, you lose.’
As if she had time for a snooze. Clemency shook her head sorrowfully at him and said, ‘If you were a real gentleman, you’d let me take that space.’
‘And if I offered it to you, you’d call me a sexist pig. Like the time you had a flat tyre and I offered to change the wheel for you, remember?’
‘That was because you assumed I couldn’t do it myself.’
‘I did assume that, and I was wrong. You’re an excellent wheel-changer.’ Ronan’s smile broadened as he jangled his keys. ‘But I’m still not moving.’
‘In that case,’ said Clemency, ‘the ice creams are on you.’
She drove on up the steep winding hill to the crowded car park, squeezed her own car into a tight space between a purple camper van and a dusty black Volvo, then made her way on foot back down the hill to the office.
The Barton and Byrne estate agency had been set up by Gavin Barton over twenty years previously. Seven years ago he’d headhunted Ronan Byrne and taken him on as his whizz-kid sales negotiator, and three years ago they’d become business partners. Gavin was now in his late fifties and keen to reduce his golf handicap. Ronan, now thirty-one, was the energetic one who loved to sell properties and was prepared to put in the hours necessary to keep the company on track.
Two years ago, they’d waved goodbye to a junior sales negotiator who’d soon discovered the job wasn’t for him, and had been preparing to advertise for a replacement when Clemency had happened to come home to St Carys for a long weekend to see her mother.
‘Did you know Gavin and Ronan are looking to take someone on?’ Lizzie, her mum, had mentioned it in passing on her first evening back.
‘Hey, there’s a job going at Gav’s,’ said Baz, Clemency’s stepfather, when he joined them for dinner a couple of hours later. ‘I reckon you’d be good at that.’
‘But I’ve got a job,’ Clemency reminded him. ‘In Northampton. And I like selling cars.’
‘You like selling,’ Baz pointed out. ‘Houses are exactly the same as cars. They just don’t have wheels.’
The next afternoon she bumped into Ronan Byrne in the Mermaid Inn. When she’d finished giving him a hug – mmm, muscles – he said, ‘Have you heard we’re looking for someone to replace Hugo?’
‘I have heard that,’ said Clemency. ‘And before you ask me, I’m happy where I am.’
‘Well that’s good, because I wasn’t going to ask you.’ His eyes glittered with amusement. ‘I don’t think you’d be up to the job anyway.’
Clemency bridled. ‘I can do anything I put my mind to. If I can sell a car, I can sell a house. I sold a Lamborghini last week.’
‘No offence.’ Ronan’s tone was dismissive. ‘But selling property is harder than it looks.’
A week later, Gavin called to tell her she had the job. Overjoyed, Clemency said, ‘That’s fantastic! I didn’t think you’d take me on, what with Ronan saying I wasn’t up to it. Are you sure he’s going to be OK about working with me?’
And Gavin, chuckling into the phone, had replied, ‘Darling girl, it was Ronan’s idea in the first place. I said you probably wouldn’t be interested and he told me to leave it with him.’
A little playful goading was all it had taken. She’d fallen for it, been outwitted by a pro. Not that Clemency had been too bothered; when she’d first been offered the position in Northampton by a friend of her mother’s, she’d been flattered and delighted to accept, but after four years, the lure of Cornwall had been proving increasingly hard to resist. As the only saleswoman on the staff of a huge showroom selling high-end cars, she’d loved the job, but had been growing weary of the endless talk about sport, fantasy football teams, more sport and World of Warcraft. Furthermore, what with being between boyfriends at the time, there’d been nothing to keep her in Northampton, and working as an estate agent would be an interesting new challenge.
This was how, along with so many other people who’d grown up living beside the sea, Clemency had found herself realising she wanted to return to St Carys in Cornwall, one of the loveliest holiday destinations in the south-west. And it had turned out to be the best decision she could have made. Her mother and Baz had tried to persuade her to move back into her old bedroom at Polrennick House, but she’d chosen instead to take out a lease on a tiny one-bed flat above a newsagent’s. Too small to rent out to holidaymakers, it was also noisy in the early mornings because Meryl, who ran the shop downstairs, liked to clatter around and sing at the top of her voice as she sorted the newspapers and readied the place for the day. But the flat was quirky and cosy, and if you leant right out of the sitting room window, you could just about catch a glimpse of the sea.
‘It’s OK, here she is now,’ Ronan announced as Clemency pushed open the door to the estate agency. ‘Panic over.’
; He was addressing his mother, Josephine, who rolled her eyes. ‘I wasn’t panicking, I just didn’t want you to eat all the buns before Clem turned up. Hello, my lovely girl, how are you?’ Josephine gave Clemency a warm hug. ‘Because we both know what he’s like, don’t we? I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s eaten five already.’
‘You need to guard them with your life. Can you hear that noise?’ Clemency patted her rumbling stomach. ‘That’s because I’m so hungry. I swear I could smell them as I was coming down the hill. Josephine, what would we do without you? You’re an angel. Thank you so much.’
When she’d first come to work here, Clemency had thought the best thing about Ronan Byrne was his utter lack of interest in both football and World of Warcraft. It had taken only a couple of weeks to discover that the very best thing about him was actually his mother. Well, his mother and her habit of turning up with baskets of home-cooked food. Born in Barbados, Josephine had come to the UK as a teenager and now ran a small but popular Caribbean restaurant in Newquay. She was both a wonderful cook and a doting mother to her only child. Her belief that he would fade away if she didn’t regularly bring essential supplies was shamelessly fostered by Ronan, who adored his mother’s food and also knew how much she loved to feed him. Today it was Josephine’s famous jerk chicken buns served with spicy lime mayonnaise.
Clemency took a mouthful and feigned a swoon, because the light-as-air bun with its filling of chicken and BBQ jerk sauce was just sublime. She spooned mayo over the rest of the bun and shook her head. ‘Best ever.’
Josephine beamed with pride and patted her arm. ‘You always say that.’
‘Because it’s always true.’
‘Has he been behaving himself?’ Josephine indicated her son with a tilt of her head.
‘Always,’ said Ronan, before Clemency could reply.
Still addressing Clemency, Josephine said, ‘And has he met anyone yet?’
‘Mum, I promise you. When it happens, you’ll be the first to know.’
Poor Josephine, she was longing for Ronan to settle down. ‘You need to try harder,’ she said now. ‘Find a nice girl, put a ring on her finger, have beautiful babies … Don’t laugh at me, Ronan, I’m serious.’ Her Barbadian accent grew more pronounced as she made her plea. ‘You’re a good-looking boy, you’ve got the personality, you could have any girl you want!’
‘I know.’ Ronan grinned. ‘Isn’t it great?’
‘But you’re not so young any more,’ Josephine pointed out. ‘You’re thirty-one. What if you start to lose your looks? Leave it too long and you could seriously regret it, I’m telling you. Like your uncle Maurice … Once he turned thirty, he lost it all! His hair dropped out, he grew extra chins and none of the pretty girls would look at him twice any more. You don’t want to end up like Uncle Maurice, do you?’
Ronan said, ‘Now I’m so depressed, I need to eat another bun.’
Josephine smiled and shook her head at Clemency. ‘Tell him he needs to listen to his mother. OK, I must head back. I’ll see you both soon. And just remember.’ She tapped her son’s chest with an admonishing finger. ‘I have seventeen nieces and nephews. It wouldn’t kill you to give me a grandson.’
She kissed them both goodbye and left the office in a swirl of fuchsia pink. Moments later they heard the toot of her car horn and a squeal of tyres as she drove off.
‘Listen to her,’ said Ronan. ‘She’s going to get another speeding ticket, and this time she’s not going to be able to charm her way out of it.’
Clemency ate another bun. ‘I love your mum.’
‘She’s not bad,’ said Ronan. ‘I chose well.’
‘Although technically, she chose you.’
Ronan gave Clemency his smouldering, knock-’em-dead look. ‘Ah, but only because I wanted her to.’
They worked companionably together at their separate desks, finishing up the paperwork for the day. At 5.30, they closed the office and made their way down to Paddy’s Café. This had long been a part of their routine; unless there were viewings or other unavoidable appointments, they called into the café for a drink and an ice cream before heading off to their respective homes. Run by brother-and-sister team Paddy and Dee, it was situated on the quayside, with a cordoned-off seating area at the front affording uninterrupted views of the beach, the boats and the turquoise sea glittering beyond the harbour walls.
Paddy’s Café did huge amounts of business during the day, but this was their quieter time, when holidaymakers started to leave the beaches and think about their evening meal. Bagging themselves one of the coveted tables in pole position outside, Clemency waved at Marina, who was busy with one of the artworks she sold from her own corner of the seating area.
‘OK,’ said Ronan, taking out his wallet. ‘My shout. What are you having?’
‘Raspberry pavlova ice cream and a cappuccino,’ said Clemency. ‘Please.’
He went up to the counter to be served by Dee. Clemency sat back to watch as Marina, over at her easel, deftly fitted a family of four into the painting of the stretch of beach beyond the harbour walls. The family were sitting together in front of her, smiling and sunburnt. Marina, who completed the various beach scenes in her own time, was able to add in the characters in just a few minutes, meaning that even small children didn’t have time to get wriggly and bored. She used a mixture of watercolour pencils and artist’s felt-tip pens, so there was hardly any drying time involved. In less than quarter of an hour, a family could commission and receive a finished piece of art featuring characters that were recognisably them, wearing their own clothes.
The family, Clemency could hear, were down here on holiday from Leeds. They were chattering away to Marina about their joy at having discovered St Carys, asking her if she’d always lived in Cornwall.
Marina shook her head. ‘No, I grew up in Oxford, but we always used to come down here on holiday when I was little. I loved it so much. Then a few years ago my husband decided it was time for a divorce. It seemed like a good idea to move away, and I decided the place I’d most like to live was St Carys.’ She smiled at the family. ‘It was absolutely the best decision I could have made. I’ve never been happier.’
‘So your husband did you a favour,’ said the woman with a laugh. ‘Getting that divorce turned out to be a good thing.’
‘Oh absolutely.’ Marina nodded in agreement.
‘You’d better watch out.’ The woman gave her husband a playful nudge. ‘This is giving me ideas.’
Spotting Clemency watching them, Marina winked at her and carried on working. She’d made light of the situation as always; the full story of her divorce was actually far from amusing and pretty traumatic. But that wasn’t what strangers wanted to hear while they were having their portraits painted. They were here on holiday, which meant that fun and escapism was the order of the day.
Clemency’s phone burst into life. When the name flashed up on the screen, she was tempted to let it go to voicemail.
Except Belle would know she’d done it on purpose.
OK, let’s be nice to each other, like proper grown-ups.
‘Hi, Belle! How are you?’
‘Good, thanks. Now, how are you fixed for tomorrow?’
‘Er … I’m working tomorrow. Why?’
‘I know you’re working. I’m asking how you’d be fixed for showing us around a few decent properties. We’re talking the luxury end of the market, high spec, sea views, something pretty special.’
‘Us?’ Clemency’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is this for you?’
‘For my boyfriend. He’s interested in buying a holiday home and we’re flying down tomorrow morning. If you’re busy, it’s fine, I can call Rossiter’s instead. I just thought, you know, it’d be nice to give you the chance to make a good sale. If you’ve got anything suitable, that is!’
‘I’m sure we can rustle up a few possibilities.’ You see? This is why it’s so hard to treat Belle like a normal grown-up. ‘Whereabouts is he wanting to buy?’
/> ‘Anywhere in Cornwall. I tell you what, why don’t you email me the—’
‘I’ll email the details of everything that seems like a good fit, and you can let me know which ones he’d like to see. How long will you be down here for? Just tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow and Saturday morning, flying back in the afternoon. He wants to find something and get it sorted in one go. That’s the kind of person he is,’ Belle explained, the pride evident in her voice. ‘Doesn’t like to hang around. Once he makes up his mind, that’s it.’
‘I get it. He’s decisive,’ said Clemency. ‘That’s fine, decisive is good. I like that in a client.’
So long as it was one of her properties they were buying.
‘Wait until you see him.’ Unable to help herself, Belle said, ‘Seriously, you’re going to be so jealous.’
Clemency doubted it. Belle had always had a tendency to go out with noisy, brash public-school types who loved to brag about how wealthy their families were. But to be diplomatic she said, ‘Anyone looking to spend plenty of money on a property sounds great to me.’
‘OK, send me whatever you have and I’ll be in touch. Actually, I’ll be seeing what Rossiter’s has to offer too. May as well.’
‘Silly not to,’ Clemency replied, because dissing rival estate agencies was something you never did, no matter how tempting it might be. ‘OK, let me get on to that now.’
‘How’s Ronan? Will he be around?’ Belle’s tone was elaborately casual.
‘Not sure. Possibly. He’s right here.’ Clemency grinned, because Ronan had returned to the table. ‘Do you want to say hello?’
‘No, it’s fine. We might see him tomorrow. Right, I must dash … loads to do … Bye-ee!’
And that was it, the phone had already gone dead. Belle always loved to be the first to end a call; it seemed to give her a feeling of one-upmanship.
Chapter 4
‘Wild guess,’ said Ronan. ‘That was Belle.’
‘She’s coming down tomorrow. Flying down tomorrow,’ Clemency amended, to let him know that they should both be suitably impressed. ‘With her fabulous new boyfriend. I expect she wants to make you jealous.’
