And Now You're Back

by Jill Mansell

  Sylvia was sixty. She was also fascinated by people and incorrigibly nosy. Didi thought back for a moment. ‘He wasn’t smiling.’

  ‘Maybe not for you,’ said Sylvia as they reached the ground floor. ‘But he definitely smiled at me.’

  Fifty minutes later, Didi was checking table bookings in the restaurant when some sixth sense made her look up from the computer screen just as Shay passed the open doorway and made his way across reception.

  Maybe it wasn’t a sixth sense; in all likelihood she’d subliminally recognised the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. She waited for him to turn his head and notice her, but it didn’t happen. Instead he reached the main entrance and left the hotel without looking back.

  Without pausing to think, she hurried across the hallway and pushed open the ancient wooden front door, discreetly poking her head around it so she could see which direction he’d taken. There he was, having turned right, heading towards the market square and—

  Thirty yards away, he suddenly halted and looked over his shoulder, causing Didi to leap back in alarm before he could catch her spying on him.

  ‘Oof,’ yelped Marcus, their newest and most nervous waiter, and crash went the silver tea tray he’d been about to carry upstairs. Scrabbling on the floor to collect up the silver teapot, the toast slices and the broken crockery, he said in a tremulous voice, ‘Oh no, oh God, I’m so sorry.’

  Shay Mason had been back in her life for less than an hour and already he was causing trouble.

  Poor flaming-cheeked Marcus. ‘Not your fault,’ Didi said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll help you clear it up.’

  ‘OK, you’re not going to believe this, but guess who I’ve just seen getting out of a blue Audi outside my office?’

  Didi could hear the excitement in Layla’s voice over the phone; she was practically bursting with the thrill of being able to pass on such a riveting piece of gossip.

  ‘I don’t know. Is it someone really good-looking?’

  ‘Yes,’ Layla cried. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Fit body?’

  ‘So fit.’

  ‘Small scar on left cheekbone?’

  ‘I wasn’t close enough to see a scar.’

  ‘Was he wearing a white polo shirt and faded jeans?’

  ‘Oh I hate you.’ Layla let out a groan of realisation. ‘You already know.’

  ‘I bumped into him this morning. He’s staying in the Midnight Suite.’

  ‘Are you kidding? And you didn’t even think to tell me?’

  ‘I was going to, as soon as I had a second. We’ve been crazy busy and I’ve been rushed off my feet.’

  ‘And was he . . . you know, OK with you?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Apart from one or two iffy moments.

  ‘So what’s he doing back here now? Where’s he been living and what’s he been up to all these years?’

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t ask. It was so weird seeing him again.’

  ‘Good weird or bad weird?’

  ‘No idea. Weird weird,’ said Didi.

  ‘I might see him tonight then, if he’s around. D’you think he will be?’

  ‘You keep asking me questions I can’t answer.’

  ‘Sorry! But it’s exciting, isn’t it? After all this time he’s turned up again out of the blue and . . . Oh bum, my clients are here, I’m going to have to go.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Didi. ‘I’ll see you and Rosa at eight.’

  ‘He’s still looking good, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘Who? Oh, you mean Shay.’ Didi grinned. ‘Is he? I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Why would you?’ said Layla.

  At three o’clock, Didi was in her office when she glimpsed the blue Audi pulling into the hotel car park. She watched as Shay reversed into a narrow space, getting it right first time, before emerging from the driver’s seat. Yes, of course he was still looking good. Better than good. And he could park brilliantly too. Some people just had too many talents.

  A minute later there was a light knock at the door and she rose to answer it, first tipping her head forward then back again to add extra bounce to her choppy dark bob.

  Well, it looked better that way.

  ‘Hi, the receptionist told me I’d find you in here. What are you doing this evening? Are you on duty?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Good. How about dinner?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not? Jealous fiancé?’

  ‘My fiancé isn’t jealous. And he works in London during the week.’ Didi paused, then said, ‘It’s Rosa’s birthday. We’re having a little party for her this evening in the orangery.’

  ‘Rosa. How is she?’

  ‘Doing OK, considering. I don’t know if you know Joe died?’

  ‘I heard. Three years ago, wasn’t it? She must have been devastated.’

  Didi nodded. ‘Layla too. It was awful. How did you hear about it? Has someone been keeping you up to date with what’s been happening in Elliscombe?’

  ‘No. There’s this thing called the internet . . . It’s easy enough to find out what goes on.’

  ‘You aren’t on social media.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’ There it was again, the faint smile signalling his one-upmanship, because now he knew she’d been searching for information about him.

  ‘Well, Layla spotted you earlier in the high street,’ Didi said. ‘If you’re around the hotel this evening, I’m sure they’d love to see you.’

  But he was already shaking his head. ‘Thanks, but I’ll leave it for now. Will your father be there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Would that be an issue?

  ‘Let Rosa have her birthday party in peace. I’m sure I’ll bump into her at some stage. You have fun.’

  Didi couldn’t help herself; she took a deep breath. ‘How long are you back for?’

  Shay studied her in silence for a couple of seconds and she felt a surge of adrenalin whoosh through her veins. Finally he said, ‘I don’t know, haven’t decided yet. There are things that need to be sorted out.’

  Chapter 3

  There had to be more dignified ways of concluding your fifty-fifth birthday celebrations, but sometimes the call was just too great to ignore. Having changed out of the yellow sundress she’d worn for the party into a long-sleeved black T-shirt, jeans and ballet flats, Rosa Gallagher left her cottage for the second time that evening and made her way along Barley Lane. It was midnight and pretty quiet by now, but she kept to the shadows just in case, turning left, then right, until she reached the high wall she’d become so well acquainted with over the course of the last two years.

  There on the other side of the Cotswold stone was the garden she’d known for far longer than that, and beyond it in the darkness Compton House, her old home, the place she’d loved with all her heart, almost as much as she’d loved Joe.

  Pausing on the pavement, she waited for the all-too-familiar wave of sadness to pass whilst mentally gathering herself for the climb. She knew the footholds by now, but there was always that tricky bit over to the left where it was perilously easy to lose your footing.

  OK, coast’s clear, over we go.

  Up she went, pausing at the top to double-check that all was quiet before swinging both legs over and launching herself into the garden she wasn’t permitted to enter. The trick was to land like a cat, silently and gracefully, and not break an ankle or jar her knees. So far she’d managed not to do this, but she was aware that at her age it was increasingly likely to happen. Either that or the new owners might one day surprise her by acquiring a ferocious snarling guard dog.

  Sliding with practised ease behind the garden shed and through the shrubbery, Rosa finally reached Joe’s tree and gave the trunk a hug. Yes, she knew anyone witnessing this would think she’d lost her marbles, but there was no one to see her so sod them, who cared? It wasn’t remotely like hugging Joe, but it still felt like the right thing to do. She’d scattered his ashes around the base of the trunk, an
d that night it had rained hard, which meant that they had sunk into the earth and been absorbed by the roots of the Japanese maple. In her mind, the essence of Joe was now instilled in the tree he’d planted over twenty years earlier, and being here, touching the branches and the leaves, felt like being close to him.

  She seated herself cross-legged on the dry grass and whispered, ‘Hi, darling, I’m here. How’re you doing?’

  Joe didn’t reply, of course; he never did. But she felt better just being here, could feel herself relaxing in his imagined presence, and that was good enough. Stroking the rough bark of the tree trunk, Rosa said, ‘I’m fifty-five, can you believe it? You always used to be older than me, and now I’ve overtaken you. It feels so strange.’

  In her mind she pictured Joe’s eyes crinkling at the corners as he replied, ‘So does that mean I’m your toy boy now?’ Because this was exactly the kind of thing he would have said if he were able to say it.

  ‘Oh Joe, is it ever going to get easier? Because I still miss you as much as I ever did. I miss you so much.’

  Rosa knew that a lot of people wondered why she would, considering the unholy mess he’d left her in, but there was no way in the world she could have stopped loving him even after the whole sorry story had come spilling out. She’d been lucky enough to spend over a quarter of a century with the absolute love of her life, and that was a damn sight more than most people could say. Meeting Joe Gallagher when she was twenty-one had felt like all her Christmas wishes come true. He’d been a dynamic character who embodied the meaning of the word entrepreneur, a cockney chancer unafraid to take a risk, leaping from one start-up business to the next, endlessly striving for more and often getting it. A string of serendipitous deals had followed their first weeks together and Joe had declared her his lucky charm. Two months later, she’d been stunned to discover she was pregnant, and petrified that Joe would be appalled and instantly do a bunk. But he hadn’t, he’d been over the moon and a hasty register office wedding had been arranged to appease her parents, who’d nevertheless pursed their lips and sourly predicted that the marriage wouldn’t last.

  But it had, gloriously and in thrilling, uproarious fashion. Growing up in a silent house, Rosa had always dreamed of meeting the kind of man who’d dance with her in the kitchen, and in Joe she’d found him. He worked and played hard, they danced often, all over their little flat in Bermondsey, and when she gave birth to Layla, their happiness knew no bounds.

  Life continued to be perfect, Joe’s various businesses boomed and they moved out of London in order to give Layla the kind of semi-rural upbringing Joe had always planned for his family. Compton House had been owned for decades by an ancient widower who didn’t believe in mod cons, and they’d lived in chaos for eighteen months whilst the property was repaired and renovated around them. The four-storey Georgian villa faced onto the market square, and at the back there was a long garden that Joe had restored himself, planting new trees and nurturing rare plants. Extrovert and endlessly hospitable, he threw huge parties and invited an eclectic mix of friends from London and everyone he liked the look of in Elliscombe. As newcomers, they were nouveau riche and a bit flashy, which meant some locals had been dubious at first, but it hadn’t taken long for Joe and his irresistible charm to win them over.

  It was so easy to conjure up the happy memories, here in their old garden. Rosa ran the flat of her hand over the grass beside her; as well as Joe’s ashes, it covered the graves of a dozen or so of their beloved pets, sadly lost over the years. Albie the Cairn terrier, Jennifer the nervous whippet, Beano and Biggie the cats, as well as various rabbits and guinea pigs belonging to Layla and a tame magpie called Gerald who’d met a sticky end thanks to the combined stalking skills of Beano and Biggie, and whom Layla had insisted be buried with honours because they couldn’t just put him in a bin; magpies deserved proper funerals too.

  Smiling now, Rosa recalled the burial service. Layla, aged seven at the time, had made them gather around the grave and sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ before reading aloud a poem she’d composed herself that went:

  Gerald, you were my favourite magpie

  How I loved the way you looked at me with your beady eye

  I really hope you didn’t cry

  When Beano and Biggie catched you and made you die.

  Rosa hadn’t dared to glance across at Joe, who’d been standing next to her with his hands clasped before him, his lips pressed tight together as silent tears of mirth rolled down his cheeks. Layla had finished the poem with a reverent ‘Rest in peace, Gerald. Amen.’ Then she’d turned to look at her father and said consolingly, ‘Daddy, don’t cry, he’s in heaven now.’

  Oh goodness, such memories. Rosa found herself having to squeeze her own eyes shut; she mustn’t cry either. Today had been a good day; the little party this evening at the hotel had been lovely and so many kind people had given her flowers that she’d had to borrow two extra vases from her neighbour. There’d barely been enough room for them all in the cottage.

  Click.

  The familiar sound of the lock being unfastened was followed by the metallic swish of the French doors as they were pulled open. At the bottom of the garden, twenty-odd metres away, Rosa held her breath and fought the primal urge to make a run for it. That would be the worst thing she could do. Far better to stay put and pray they weren’t coming outside because they’d already spotted her.

  She heard the staccato click of high heels on the flagstoned terrace and winced; high heels meant it was Ingrid, and Ingrid was scary. There was also the sound of her murmuring into her mobile, probably busy conducting some vital business deal with a client in Tokyo or New York whilst simultaneously—

  ‘Bleurgh,’ Rosa squeaked, kicking out wildly as something small scurried over her foot.

  ‘Hang on, I just heard a noise. Not burglars, I hope.’ Ingrid wasn’t sounding terrified, and the sound of her stilettos was growing closer. Frozen to the spot, Rosa closed her eyes and pretended to be invisible. From fifteen metres away she heard the footsteps stop and Ingrid say, ‘No, probably just a fox or something. Maybe a badger. I keep telling Benny we should install security lights, but it hasn’t happened, of course, because he doesn’t want to scare the wildlife.’

  Rosa knew the snuffly, grunty kind of sound a badger made. If she imitated one, would it encourage Ingrid to hurry back into the house? Or come closer in order to investigate and maybe take a few photos of the creature in her garden? Torn by indecision, she heard another tiny rustling noise and realised that the mouse or vole or whatever it was that had run over her foot was still in the vicinity.

  ‘OK, I’m going inside now. Call me tomorrow after eight thirty. If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m in the car. I love you. Yes, bye . . . bye . . .’

  The clicky footsteps receded, the French doors swished open and shut and the key was turned in the lock. Rosa exhaled with relief; phew, that had been close.

  ‘Right, I’d better be off. You’re going to get me into such trouble one day.’ She whispered the words to Joe as she patted the dry grass, then rose cautiously to her feet. Creeping across the lawn and through the shrubbery, she made her way back to the familiar stretch of wall shielded from the house by the trees.

  Up, up and over, then down onto the pavement on the other side without snapping an ankle. There, done.

  ‘Bye, sweetheart. Love you.’ She was aware that this sounded ridiculous, but once you got into the habit of blowing a kiss and saying it, it was kind of hard to stop. In the darkness, she headed back towards Frog Cottage on Barley Lane.

  It might not have been the best ever birthday, obviously, but overall it hadn’t been the worst either. Each year of widowhood was slightly easier to bear than the last, and she made sure to count her blessings. Yes, she’d lost Joe, their beautiful home and all their money, but she had her health and her friends, and of course her daughter. Amongst the inner loneliness there were still pockets of happiness to be found.

&nbs
p; Chapter 4

  From her bedroom window at the back of the hotel, Didi had a clear view over the patio. It was two in the morning, but she could just about make out someone sitting at one of the wooden tables and knew instinctively who it was.

  Since she couldn’t sleep either, she threw on a cotton jersey dress and made her way down there.

  Letting herself out onto the patio, she approached Shay. ‘I saw someone down here, didn’t know who it was.’

  The glint in his eye told her that he suspected otherwise, but he raised his glass and said, ‘I helped myself to a brandy. It’s OK, I left a note in the honesty box.’

  Another tiny dig.

  ‘Please don’t keep saying things like that,’ Didi murmured. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine.’

  The thing was, she might not have seen him for the last thirteen years, but before that, she’d known him so well. Plus, there’d been that barely detectable emphasis on I’m.

  ‘But someone else isn’t.’

  He dipped his head in agreement.

  ‘Is it your dad?’

  ‘Well done on those mind-reading classes.’

  ‘He’s in big trouble?’

  ‘Yes, but not in the way you mean.’ His tone was even. ‘For once.’

  ‘Is he ill?’ said Didi.

  ‘He is. And it’s not good.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m so sorry.’ Shay’s father, known to all as Red, had been a nightmare in many ways, but she’d always had a soft spot for him as a person, such was the power of his charm. He’d been the ultimate lovable rogue.

  ‘The doctors have given him one to two years.’

  She winced in sympathy. How old must he be? Late fifties? It was no age. Didi said, ‘That’s awful. And where is he now?’

  ‘Not in jail, if that’s what you mean. He’s put all that behind him now, doesn’t have the energy for it any more. He’s been living with a lady friend up in Edinburgh for the last ten months, but it sounds like that’s not going well.’

  This was par for the course. As long as Didi had known Shay’s father, he had spent time in and out of prison, and there had always been plenty of women eager for his company. When he’d moved away from Elliscombe seven years ago, he’d rented his house out to friends of friends and it had made sense to assume that since then he’d been spending his free time at the home of the current woman in his life.