So much for her notions of a romantic impromptu dinner, a dinner which would miraculously smooth out the boulder-sized lumps in their relationship. All she’d done was make a dire situation ten times worse. It seemed her marriage was going down the pan faster than Layla could tell Hazel to stick her job where the sun don’t shine. And right now, it didn’t seem there was a damn thing she could do to stop it.
Chapter Three
HANNAH’S EYES WIDENED as she read Layla’s text. Quickly she texted back:
I’m so sorry to hear that. What u going to do? ~H
Layla was equally as swift.
Don’t know. Go into hiding when the rents due, I suppose.
Do a moonlight flit. I doubt work will pay me the money they owe me.
Not after I walked out without notice. ~L
U know where I am if u want me.
If I can do anything to help I will. ~H
I know, Hannah, thanks. I’ll be fine though, I’m sure.
Hope all is well with you in sunny Cornwall. ~L
Sunny Cornwall? If only. This part of the world hadn’t been sunny for what seemed like an age. Rather, the rain and wind reigned supreme and, with them, rapidly dipping temperatures. The mere thought of the weather they’d been suffering lately made Hannah shiver, despite being warm and toasty indoors. She would have to venture out in a while, though, to work her shift at the pub she ran in the village high street. She didn’t want to, not least because she’d be surprised if any of the locals bothered to put in an appearance (it was so filthy out there) but mainly because she wanted to stay at home and paint.
“Hey, babe, what’s happening?” Jim came up behind her as she sat at her easel, putting his arms round her waist and snuggling into the nape of her neck.
“I’m just about to attack this picture again,” she replied happily as he nuzzled away. “It’s missing something. I can’t quite figure out what, though.”
“It looks great to me. And so do you. Sure you don’t want to attack me instead?”
“No,” she laughed, batting away his hand. “You’ve had your quota for today.”
“Spoilsport,” he murmured, but good-naturedly so. Flinging himself on the sofa next to her, he picked up his guitar and began to strum.
Hannah continued to stare at her picture, full of swirling grays and blues, her trademark colors. After a few moments, she spoke again.
“I’ve just heard from Layla. That boyfriend of hers has dumped her, you know the one I was telling you about, her boss or something, or ex-boss, I should say. She’s walked out of her job, too. I feel so sorry for her.”
“Layla from Brighton? Ah, that’s a shame. What’s she gonna do?”
“No idea. She doesn’t know yet. It’s only just happened.”
“Invite her down; a change of scene might do her good. Be nice to see her again,” replied Jim, plucking at the strings and starting to sing softly to himself.
What a lovely idea, thought Hannah. It would be nice to see her again. It had been so long. What was it now? Well over a year since they’d last hooked up, more like eighteen months. Just after she’d started going out with Jim, in fact. They had crashed at Layla’s flat whilst Jim and his band, 96 Tears, had played in the Brighton Fringe Festival. May, it had been. Prior to that, they hadn’t seen each other in years, not since their early twenties. Thanks to Facebook, she had managed to trace Layla again. The need for a place to stay during the festival had been the spur she’d needed to get back in touch.
Despite not having seen each other for so long, not even talking on the phone, there had been no awkwardness when they’d come face-to-face once more. For the first few moments, they had simply stood and stared at each other, drinking each other in. She remembered thinking how little time had changed Layla: same old warmth in those green eyes of hers, same big grin. Then they had hugged—hugged, laughed, and cried, all at the same time.
Instead of a few days, Hannah and Jim had stayed a week. Layla had taken obvious delight in showing them all her favorite haunts: pubs, clubs, cafés, and restaurants—Brighton was chockablock with them. Now they were in touch several times a week by phone, text, or via Facebook.
Layla kept saying she wanted to come back to Trecastle, to revisit old haunts, but she hadn’t made it yet. Maybe, as Jim suggested, now would be a good time, especially after the boyfriend bust-up. Escape for a while.
“I’ll call her later and ask,” resolved Hannah, “when I’m at the pub. At least talking to Layla will stop me jabbering away to myself; it’s going to be dead in there tonight.”
“Hey, I’ll come and see you,” said Jim, a twinkle in his eye.
“I know you will,” Hannah replied, grinning back at him.
Such a small show of support, but it meant a lot. He was so loyal, showing how much he loved her in so many ways. And she loved him too, of course. She was lucky to have him. Quite why he put up with her, though, she didn’t know, all things considered. But he did.
“Better get ready, I suppose,” said Hannah with a sigh.
As much as she enjoyed working at the pub, she’d rather just paint for a living. The walls of their flat were a showcase for her artwork: modern interpretations of seascapes mainly and usually a riot of color. Jim was always telling her she was a genius. She scoffed at him, but actually her work was beginning to sell well, all up and down the Cornish coast. Not selling for thousands, of course, not even hundreds, but bringing in a bit extra. They rented the flat they were living in, just off the high street, but wanted to buy eventually. Perhaps in Trecastle, perhaps elsewhere. Maybe “elsewhere” would be kinder in the long run, and not just to herself. Jim had regular gigs and picked up local work in between, mainly from Joseph, his best friend, so they were doing okay. At this rate, fingers crossed, they’d have enough for a deposit by the end of the year.
Grabbing her coat, Hannah checked herself in the mirror. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a scruffy ponytail, and she had not a scrap of makeup on to brighten her features. Who cared? Like she’d said to Jim earlier, it would be dead in the pub tonight; no one to look at her. Jim preferred the natural look anyway. He told her all the time she was beautiful. It had taken a while to believe it again, though.
“See you later,” she said, leaning over him and planting a kiss on his cheek.
“You will,” he replied, and as ever, the love in those gorgeous eyes of his, green like the ocean on a stormy day, took her breath away.
“Hey, Lenny, you’re brave, aren’t you, coming out in this?” called Hannah as local botanist, Lenny Dryden, came through the door.
“Ah, this is fine Cornish weather, this is. I’ll miss it when I’m gone.”
Frowning at his words, Hannah watched as Lenny approached the bar, weaving his way round empty chairs and tables.
“Miss it, Lenny? Why? You going somewhere?”
“To Scotland, as soon as I can. I’ve been commissioned to study and paint the flora and fauna of the Hebrides. I’ve been to the islands before, in the dead of winter, and I can assure you, a couple of weeks up there and you’d never complain about the rain down here again. It’s brutal.”
Pulling a pint of Tribute for him, Hannah said, “Wow, I’m sure it is! What are you going to do about your place, then? Sell up?”
“No,” replied Lenny as though the thought appalled him. “I’m only going for a year. I need a home to come back to. Ideally, I’d like a house sitter. Someone to look after the place until I return. They’d pay the bills but no rent. It’s a pretty good deal. Trouble is, no one’s biting.”
“Really? I’m surprised. Your cottage is lovely.”
And indeed it was, right next door to Joe. I should move in there myself, she thought and then stopped. Amazed and disappointed in equal measures that she could think such a thing. Still…
Taking the five-pound note he handed her, she was counting out his change when the idea hit her. Layla. Why not?
Swinging back round, Hannah said,
“When do you need to get going?”
“As soon as possible, really. Everything’s ready and waiting. I’ll be staying in an old crofter’s cottage on the Isle of Harris first, but I’ll be moving around. There’s a lot of work to do. I really need to get cracking.”
“I might be able to help you,” Hannah replied tentatively. “A very good friend of mine—my best friend, in fact—might be looking for somewhere to stay. Layla Lewis, she’s called. She’s lovely. I could ask her.”
“Thanks, Hannah. Any friend of yours would be more than welcome.”
“No worries. I’ll do it right away, whilst we’re quiet. Let you know.”
And with that, Hannah took herself into the confines of the pub kitchen and dialed Layla’s mobile.
“Come to Trecastle? To live? Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious,” said Hannah, disregarding the sound of sheer horror in Layla’s voice. “It sounds to me as if you’ve got yourself into a sticky situation, and as far as I can see, this is as good a way as any out of it.”
“But I live here, in Brighton. I always have done.”
“You’re no stranger to Trecastle, though. You know it well. For a long time it was almost like your second home. You used to say it was.”
“Yeah, when I was a kid,” Layla scoffed.
“It hasn’t changed much, believe me. A place like this never does. But think about it. You can work as many shifts as you want at the pub, and you’ve got a decent place to live for next to nothing.”
“But I’ve never worked in a pub.”
“Oh, Layla.” Hannah couldn’t help laughing. “There’s nothing to it. It’s easy. I know it isn’t what you’re used to, but is that such a bad thing? Look, you haven’t got a job, you’re worried about paying the rent, and you don’t want to see Alex ever again. Move down here, and it’s all fixed. And remember,” she reiterated, “it’s only for a year. An extended holiday, really.”
“An extended holiday? Hmm,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, but Hannah knew she had swung it, that Layla was giving it serious consideration. Finally, after a bit more nudging, Layla agreed she would give it a go, that Hannah was right, she had nothing to lose. By the end of the phone call, both girls were squealing with delight.
Lenny had been delighted too, especially when Hannah told him that Layla could be down by the weekend if he wanted her to. He had finished his pint and hurried off, insisting he needed to “spruce up the place a bit for the young lady” and start packing. Hannah had been in Lenny’s cottage once or twice. He wasn’t an overly neat man, but he didn’t exactly qualify for a stint on How Clean is Your House? Either. After a quick whip round with a duster, Layla would love it, she was sure.
Polishing the top of the bar for the umpteenth time, Hannah started to reminisce about how she and Layla had met as children. Layla had come down on holiday with her mother, Angelica, and stayed in a cottage just outside the village. They had spent a lot of time on the beach, as did everyone for miles around when the sun decided to shine. Theirs was no ordinary beach; it was a gorgeous swathe of golden sand, framed by granite cliffs upon which stood the crumbling walls of an ancient castle. There were caves to explore too, hidden in the cliffs. Children and adults alike would venture deep into them, discovering a dark world that belonged predominantly to birds and sea creatures.
It was at the beach that they had met, both of them taking part in a sandcastle competition, their earnest attempts failing to bag either of them a prize. Hannah remembered feeling quite disappointed. She’d put a lot of hard work into sculpting those turrets, scouring the beach for colorful shells to use as windows. Sensing her disappointment, Layla had leaned over, pointed to the winning castle and said, “I thought yours was much better than his. It’s prettier.” The kind words and a warm smile had made her feel instantly better. Hannah had asked the little girl her name, kick-starting what was to become an enduring friendship.
Hannah had introduced Layla and her mother to her own mum, and the two women had also clicked. Hannah’s mum, Connie, had invited them to supper at her house in the village that very same evening. Whilst they sat downstairs, discussing life over a glass of wine, the two girls had raced upstairs to Hannah’s bedroom and chatted some more. Hannah couldn’t believe it; she had never met anyone she got on so well with, not like this, not straightaway, not even Molly Cardew, her best friend at school.
At the end of their holiday, Angelica and Layla had promised to come down for a fortnight again the following year, which they did, as well as every year after that until Layla was seventeen. The two families spent nearly every day of those two weeks together. Hannah didn’t have a father either—he had left the family when she was a toddler—so it was just the four of them, laughing and letting their hair down. If there had been a boyfriend in either of their mothers’ lives at the time (and there would certainly have been in Angelica’s case), no invite was ever issued. This was their time, the four of them—an unwritten but strictly-adhered-to rule. Hannah knew Layla didn’t feel that close to her mum, certainly not as close as she had been to her dad once upon a time, but the pair of them always seemed to get on okay during their time in Trecastle.
Between holidays, the girls would write to each other regularly until their early twenties when, for one reason or another, they’d drifted apart. It had been brilliant to be in touch again, and now Layla was coming to live here. Hannah could hardly believe it. This was something they’d dreamed of so often as children, living on each other’s doorstep, and finally that dream was coming true. It felt a little surreal.
It was also just a teeny bit ironic she would be living next door to Joseph. Hannah wondered how the pair of them would get on. Both of them were single. What was to stop them from really getting on? But no, surely not. Layla had just split from her man. Getting involved with another one was probably the last thing on her mind.
Uncomfortable at where her thoughts were leading, she was relieved when the pub door burst open for only the second time that night. In walked Jim, just at the right moment. A knack he had.
As he walked toward her, she admired the fluid way he moved, his tall, broad-shouldered frame toned from surfing. Holding his body always felt good, his arms a cocoon of warmth and safety. She loved his hair too, almost as long as hers and slightly darker than her honeyed tones, although it lightened to an exact match in summer. He looked as though he didn’t have a care in the world. And lived like it too.
“Pint?” she asked as he reached the bar, her eyes lowered in a purposefully coy manner.
“And a kiss from the barmaid,” he replied with a wink.
Chapter Four
“I THINK YOU’RE MAD. You know that, don’t you?” Penny snipped.
“I should do,” replied Layla irritably. “You’ve told me about a thousand times already this morning.”
“All I’m saying is that this isn’t the answer. Running away never is. If it was, don’t you think I’d have done a bunk by now?”
Ignoring the jibe, Layla looked up from packing. “How’s it going…with Richard, I mean? Still in separate bedrooms?”
“We most certainly are,” replied Penny, becoming as irritable as Layla at the mention of his name. “I won’t have him anywhere near me since that Diane Tyrrell episode. It’ll be separate houses next, I’m telling you.”
Layla sighed and went back to packing. That was the trouble with Richard and Penny: hot heads the pair of them, stubborn as mules. Once upon a time, Layla had admired the passion between them. It was so intense you could practically feel the air sizzle. She’d even felt a bit jealous, if she was honest. That instant chemistry had never happened to her, although she’d read about it often enough in the romantic books she devoured. Sadly, the sizzle had fizzled, and the divide between them was so enormous now, tumbleweed could blow through it.
Poor Penny, poor Richard. If only they could find their way back to how it used to be. Come to some sort of compromise: Richard worki
ng just a few hours less every week and Penny reining in that flirtatious nature of hers. Layla knew that more often than not Penny wasn’t even aware she was flirting; she simply considered herself friendly. Her “friendliness,” however, often landed them in hot water, with Layla having to smuggle a bewildered Penny out of a nightclub or pub because someone she’d been “chatting” to had gotten the wrong impression. With Dylan though, she had crossed the line. But why go and tell Richard about it? Why hadn’t she just filed it away under “Things never to do again” and saved herself a whole lot of trouble? Coming clean had only added to their problems.
“That’s it. I’m done,” she said, looking at the pitiful pile in front of her.
“Is that it? Is that all you’re taking?” asked Penny in amazement.
“There’s only so much I can fit into that old heap of mine. It’s a sports car, remember, not a mini bus. The cottage has everything I need anyway, Hannah’s assured me.”
“But what about all the stuff you’ve bought? You’ve practically furnished this flat.”
“Which is why my lovely landlord is letting me off paying the rest of the rent. We’ve traded—my furniture for the money I owe him.”
Eyeing the bits and pieces she’d picked up over the last couple of years, none of it shabby but none of it too impressive either, she continued, “It’s a good deal as far as I’m concerned. He gets to charge the next punter more for a fully furnished flat, and I get my deposit back in full. At least I won’t be landing in Trecastle completely destitute.”
“Don’t go!” Penny burst out suddenly. “Please. It’s a stupid idea. There’s nothing for you in Trecastle. It’s the middle of nowhere.”
“It’s the edge of nowhere, actually,” Layla countered. “Go a few steps further, and you’ll fall into the sea.”
The Runaway Year Page 3
