Back in the sunshine, it took a while for the giggles to subside.
“This reminds me of being a kid,” said Layla, no trace of grumpiness on her face now.
“Me, too. Remember how we used to dare each other to go further and further in?”
“I do,” Layla replied happily. “I always won, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, right,” said Hannah, chucking a handful of sand at her.
“Guys, guys,” interrupted Penny, able to speak now her laughter had subsided. “What was that noise in there? It was deafening.”
“Well,” said Hannah, winking at Layla, “you know Loch Ness has its very own monster? So do we. It’s a cave monster, and that’s his lair.”
“Whatever.” Penny grinned good-naturedly. “Anyway, enough of monsters, caves, and freezing cold water. You mentioned something about a cream tea?”
“I did indeed,” said Hannah. “Off to Boscastle we go. They do the best cream tea in the world there!”
“With lots of that gorgeous clotted cream?” Penny’s eyes were as wide as saucers as she rose to her feet.
“And lashings of strawberry jam,” Layla added, licking her lips.
The trip to Boscastle went well, Penny’s newfound love for quaint Cornish villages infectious. After eating their fill, all three declared themselves stuffed to the gills. When Hannah suggested an early evening drink in the Trecastle Inn, however, they didn’t disagree.
Singing along to Katy Perry’s “Firework” at the top of their voices on the return journey, they parked outside The Outlook and walked back to the village, Penny gushing about stunning sea views all the way.
Just outside the pub, Hannah spotted Joe’s Land Rover further along the road.
“Is that Joe’s car?” asked Penny.
“Yeah. Why?” Layla replied before Hannah had a chance to.
“Does that mean he’s at his workshop?”
“Erm, yeah, he must be,” Hannah quickly interjected.
“I might pop in and say hello. Join you girls later,” Penny said breezily.
“But he’ll be busy, I’m sure,” Hannah insisted. “He’s got a truck load of work on at the moment.”
“I won’t be long. I said I’d pop in, so I should really. It’s only polite.” And with that she was gone.
Uh-oh, back to square one, thought Hannah, glancing at Layla, who looked decidedly pissed off again.
“Drink?” she suggested tentatively.
“A bloody big one,” said Layla, stomping over to the pub and disappearing inside.
Chapter Thirteen
FLICKING IDLY THOUGH HER POST, Layla’s heart leapt as she noticed an envelope with the logo for Izabel magazine on its left hand corner. She stopped short and stared at it for a few moments before tearing it open, trembling fingers making a simple task hard.
Dear Miss Lewis,
Thank you for sending us your short story “Gull Rock” for inclusion in our magazine.
We have read it, loved it, and would be delighted to include it. We pay £150 per story and have therefore enclosed a cheque for £150.
We would also like to see more of your short stories. We publish a wide range of titles, of which Izabel is the latest, and your writing style is eminently suitable for several of them. Current women’s issues and romance are our preferred topics, but we are open to persuasion.
Please email anything else you think would be suitable to me at the address below.
Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Rachel Aitkins
Editor
Izabel Magazine
“Oh, God,” she kept saying to herself as she read the letter over and over again. “Rachel Aitkins, the editor of Izabel magazine, loved my story. Not only that, she wants more of them.”
As that thought sank in, oh, no replaced oh, God. She didn’t have any more of them! Something she’d have to remedy, and fast.
Whispering a silent thank-you to Lenny Dryden, the man she credited for reminding her to write again, she bounded out of the kitchen and up the stairs, the letter clutched firmly in her hand.
“Penny, Penny!” she screamed, bursting into her room.
“Ugh? What’s the matter? Is the house on fire or something?”
“Better than that,” cried Layla. “Izabel wants to publish my short story.”
“Good for her, but tell me about it later. I’m actually asleep right now.”
With that, Penny pulled her pillow over her head and turned back on her side. Her enthusiasm still intact, Layla raced back downstairs, grabbed her jacket from the hook beside the front door and flew out into the sunshine. She noticed Joseph’s Land Rover wasn’t parked out front. He and Penny had eventually joined them at the pub last night, coming in about an hour behind them. What had taken them so long, she didn’t know. Layla and Hannah had been behind the bar by then, helping the occasional barman, Tom, with his shift, the good weather ensuring a steady flow of customers. She’d been glad about having to help, as Hannah had started asking questions about the argument she’d had with Penny, and it was getting increasingly awkward trying to deflect them.
Penny had wandered up to her and cheerily asked for a bottle of merlot and two glasses—one for her, one for Joseph. Sincerely hoping it was corked, Layla handed the wine over to her, watching disgruntledly as Penny sashayed away. The drinking had gone on long after-hours with Jim’s band, 96 Tears, giving an impromptu performance to a very appreciative crowd. They were good too, really good, relaxed but with a bit of an edge to them. No wonder they’d bagged a spot in the Brighton Fringe Festival. She was only surprised they weren’t more successful.
“They will be,” Hannah had said. “They will be.”
Layla really admired arty people, musicians like Jim, artists like Hannah, even craftsmen like Joseph, whose work was so skilled, so precise. She had always wanted to be arty, and now she was. Well, she had a way with words, she supposed. That must count for something.
She really must get some more stories written and soon, send them to Rachel Aitkins and other publishers, too. Maybe even enter another competition, see if she could win again. After several short stories, she might attempt a novel. Right now anything felt possible.
Breathing in great gulps of salty sea air and clutching her letter to her chest, she arrived at Jim and Hannah’s flat and knocked on the door. There was no reply. Disappointed, she made her way to the pub instead. She knew Hannah was working today; maybe Hannah had put in an early appearance in order to clear the debris from last night. If that was so, she’d get stuck in too—after first sharing her news, of course.
She hurried along the high street and came to the pub where all hope at finding Hannah deserted her. The pub looked suspiciously empty, and a few bangs on the door proved it. Impatient now, she wondered whether she should pop into May’s. Hilda behind the counter was always game for a chat; perhaps Layla could regale her with her stellar achievement.
Layla was just starting to cross the road, when she spied Joseph’s Land Rover. Hmm, she thought, I wonder…
Deciding to take a chance, she stepped back onto the pavement and made her way there instead.
Nestled between New Age Encounters and Cornish Dreams stood a tiny two-story building with whitewashed walls, a sloping slate roof, and a slightly dilapidated waist-high slate wall surrounding it. Obviously someone’s home in a former life, it had since been converted into Joseph’s workshop. She remembered him telling her it had lain empty for ages before he rescued it, knocking through the two rooms downstairs to create a spacious workspace and using upstairs primarily for storage.
Walking up the short pathway, weeds poking through the paving here and there, she arrived at the front door. Painted British Racing Green, it looked for a moment almost forbidding. Beside it, fixed to the wall, was a shiny metal sign embellished with the words: Joseph Scott, Carpenter and Cabinet Maker. She took another big gulp of air, pushed the door open, and went inside. She realized this
was the first time she had set foot in his workshop and was surprised; after all, she passed it almost every day. The fact that Penny had been here already irked her somewhat, but she let it go. She didn’t want to spoil her mood.
As she expected, the interior was packed with tools, some hung neatly on the wall, others strewn across a huge workbench that dominated the center of the room. There were rows and rows of books too, plenty of titles with the words Antique and Restoration in almost all of them. A wonderful smell of freshly-sawn wood filled the air, mixed in with rich undertones of linseed oil. And in the midst of it all stood Joseph, leaning over a piece of wood, saw in hand. Thoroughly engrossed in what he was doing, he neither saw nor heard Layla enter.
Time stopped momentarily as she drank him in, his white linen shirt only half tucked in, his black jeans a regular fit, and his work boots scuffed. He looked so intent, so content, like an artist at work, the master of his universe, able to create from beautiful materials something even more beautiful. Feeling a bit guilty she was staring, as though she were some kind of Peeping Tom, she coughed slightly to announce her presence.
Immediately, he looked up. “Layla, what are you doing here?”
“I was just passing,” she lied. “Thought I’d pop in and see you.”
She was relieved to note he looked really quite pleased to see her. Placing his saw on the bench, he walked toward her, his smile widening as he approached. They hadn’t spoken since Hannah and Jim’s party, not even last night at the pub. Penny had either commandeered him or he had peeled away to spend time with Jim and Mick instead.
“This is some place you’ve got here,” said Layla, “and it’s packed to the rafters.”
“Yep, but everything’s needed,” he replied amicably. “I know it looks like chaos, but it’s organized chaos, believe me.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, lost for a moment in his smile.
Recalling just why she had “popped” in as she had put it, she waved the letter from Rachel in front of her and said almost shyly, “I’ve had some good news.”
“Really?” said Joseph. “Let’s hear it.”
“I sent a short story off to a magazine a little while ago. I never expected to hear back, not really. But I have, and they’re going to publish it. They even paid me for it. Not only that, they want more from me.”
“Fantastic,” he enthused, coming closer.
After a moment’s hesitation, he hugged her. Although it was a brief hug, almost perfunctory in nature, Layla had time enough to register how nice it was to be back in his arms.
Upon release, she said, “I know. I’m in shock. I can’t believe it.”
“I can. I’m proud of you.”
Basking in his kind words, she realized how much she missed him. How much she wanted “the old Joseph” back in her life.
“I suppose I’d better get going,” she said almost regretfully. “Let you get on with your work.”
“I suppose,” he replied, a hint of regret in his voice too, she was certain. “Thanks for coming to tell me, though. I’m really touched that you did.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said in a happy rush. “Penny’s still asleep and Hannah’s not in, so it was a toss-up between you or Hilda.”
She had meant it as a joke, but giving voice to the words, they didn’t seem funny at all. Cringing, she looked up at him. His face, so friendly, so welcoming just seconds before, now looked anything but.
“Right, well, thanks for that. I’m glad I’m good for something. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get on.”
“Joseph…” she beseeched, but it was too late. He had turned away, clearly not interested in any further exchange.
Again she stared at him, feeling an urge to grab him, to spin him round to face her, to tell him that she hadn’t meant what she had said, that she was just trying to be funny. She would admit that, okay, he hadn’t been the first person she thought about telling, but she was pleased it had turned out that way. Really pleased. It made the whole thing seem more special somehow. But she couldn’t say a word. Her throat had closed tight.
Feeling increasingly hard done by, she stood for a few seconds more before turning abruptly on her heel and leaving, only just resisting the temptation to slam the door behind her.
On the street again, she squinted in the bright daylight, moving her Wayfarers, currently perched on top of her head, to their rightful position. Fed up, she thought, To hell with you, before retracing her footsteps home.
She knew her words had been tactless, hurtful even, but he hadn’t given her a chance to redeem herself. It’s like one strike and you’re out with him, she thought bitterly. She had been fooling herself they could be friends. They couldn’t. They’d crossed a line; there was no going back.
Despite the warmth of the beautiful spring day, she felt bleak inside. As bleak as she had felt during her first evening here, more so even. She passed a field of daffodils to her left and forced herself to slow down, to admire their cheerful beauty, but even they failed to lift her spirits. Damn him, she thought, continuing her journey.
If she had expected life to be less complicated in the sticks, she couldn’t have been more wrong. It was getting more complicated by the minute. Why couldn’t he see I was joking?
It was almost as though he were a different person since they had slept together. As though he were continually angry with her, not on the surface, but underneath, ready to fire up at the slightest excuse. She had been different too, she knew that, but she was trying not to be. And why was he angry, anyway? Most men would be delighted they’d had a one night stand or brief encounter or whatever you wanted to call it. But he hadn’t called it that, had he? He had called it love, making love.
If only that night hadn’t happened, she thought, losing count of how many times she had wished that. For a moment there, back in his workshop, it had been like it used to be between them: easygoing and relaxed. If only it could be that way again. If she had hurt him with her careless words, she was sorry, but was it her fault he took her so seriously? Would she always have to mind her P’s and Q’s around him? Well, she wouldn’t. She had neither the inclination nor the energy to do so. She needed to forget him and focus entirely on Izabel magazine, keep them champing at the bit for more. She would email Rachel when she got in, thank her for the check and for publishing “Gull Rock,” and tell her another story would be winging its way to her soon.
Once again excitement surged within her, and Joseph was consigned determinedly and ferociously to the furthest corner of her mind.
“I’m sorry I’ve got to work whilst you’re down here. I feel so mean.”
“Don’t worry,” insisted Penny. “You need to whip up another story and fast. I understand that. Just keep the evening free, that’s all.”
Promising she would, Layla said, “So what’s on the agenda for today?”
“I spoke to Joe this morning, and he said he could knock off around lunchtime, so we’re going to see some sacred waterfall or something. St. Nectan’s Glen, I think he called it. It’s stunning, apparently.”
Indeed it was. Layla had been there several times as a kid with Hannah and their respective mothers. She had talked about revisiting it with Joseph too, but they’d never got round to it and probably wouldn’t now. Not that he cared, obviously, having arranged to go with Penny.
“Oh, right.” Layla was unable to stop an edge from creeping into her voice. “I thought Hannah said he was busy with work.”
“He probably is.” Penny laughed. “But unlike Richard, he’s not all-consumed by it.”
“Good. Lucky you. Have a nice time.”
“We will,” continued Penny cheerily. “You could join us, you know. Strictly speaking, you’re not working to a deadline.”
“I am, actually,” replied Layla stonily. “Rachel’s expecting more from me, and soon. They paid me over a hundred pounds for that story. I could do with a few more checks like that, I can tell you. There isn’t a moment to was
te.”
“Okay, okay.” Penny held her hands up in mock surrender and backed away. “Good luck. I’ll see you back here around five, okay?”
“Yep,” said Layla, turning back to her laptop. “See you at five.”
A story was starting to take shape in her head. “The Castle Ruins” it was called, and it had a parallel time dimension to it. Typing out a few notes, she decided the heroine would be a troubled soul called Katherine, a tourist mysteriously drawn to Trecastle’s ancient headland, whereupon she found herself tuning into her past life, reaching out to a love she lost long ago but who was still waiting for her in the mists of time.
As she was tapping away, Layla couldn’t help wonder if Alex was still waiting for her in the mists of time, and if he was, what the hell he was still doing there. He had told Penny he would track her down, but there was no sign of him yet. More than likely it was all talk. He wouldn’t come looking for her, she was sure of it.
Coming to an abrupt halt, she thought, Bugger.
It was no good. She couldn’t concentrate. It should be her showing Penny St. Nectan’s Glen, not Joseph. Why had she insisted on writing, anyway? As Penny said, she wasn’t beholden to a deadline. There was no need to panic. Too late now, though. Penny had skipped off into the sunlight with Joseph and seemed more than happy to be doing so.
After another hour of staring into space, she realized she was fighting a losing battle. As far as “The Castle Ruins” was concerned, she had lost momentum. She decided to go for a walk instead, taking her pen and paper with her in case the muse struck whilst she was out. She decided to take a picnic too and packed a small wicker basket she’d purchased from the Saturday morning market in Camelford with a cheese sandwich, a packet of crisps, and a bottle of sparkling mineral water, locally sourced, of course.
It was still relatively early in the holiday season, and there were few people on the beach. A mum, dad, and their two children—a toddler boy and slightly older girl—played on the fringes of the surf, whilst a much older couple, in their late sixties perhaps, strolled contentedly arm in arm into the distance. The older couple, particularly, held her attention. She wondered if they’d been together since they were young, and if they had, she envied them, able to weather life’s storms together and remain strong.
The Runaway Year Page 11
