If You Love Me, I'm Yours

by Lizzie Chantree

  Copyright © 2018 by Lizzie Chantree

  Cover Image: Adobe Stock © kengmerry

  Design: soqoqo

  Editor: Alice Cullerne-Bown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Crooked Love Cats Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018

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  With love to Martin.

  I’m yours.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to all of my wonderful readers for buying my books, telling your friends, taking time to post reviews and for sharing them on social media. Your support is what keeps me writing.

  A big thank you to my publisher Crooked Cat, my amazing editor Alice Cullerne-Bown and to my Crooked Angels for making me smile every day.

  This book is about an eccentric family, and I do have one of those! Each and every one of them is incredible and I feel very proud to call them my own. If I began to write every name, the list would go on forever, but they know who they are, and how much they mean to me. Thank you all for being the people that you are. To my mum and dad… I love you. Thank you for your years of encouragement and for being such inspirational parents.

  About the Author

  Award-winning inventor and author, Lizzie Chantree, started her own business at the age of 18 and became one of Fair Play London and The Patent Office’s British Female Inventors of the Year in 2000. She discovered her love of writing fiction when her children were little and now runs networking hours on social media, where creative businesses, writers, photographers and designers can offer advice and support to each other. She lives with her family on the coast in Essex. Visit her website at www.lizziechantree.com or follow her on Twitter www.twitter.com/Lizzie_Chantree

  Also from author Lizzie Chantree

  NINJA SCHOOL MUM

  Obsessive-compulsive school mum, Skye, is a lonely elite spy, who is running from her past whilst trying to protect the future of her child. She tries hard to fit in with the other parents at her son’s new school, but the only person who accepts her unconventional way of life is new mother Thea.

  Thea is feeling harassed by her sister and bored with her life, but she suspects that there is something strange about the new school mum, Skye. Thea has secrets of her own and, although the two become unlikely friends, she hesitates to tell Skye about the father of her own child.

  Zack’s new business is growing faster than he could have dreamed but, suddenly, he finds himself the owner of a crumbling estate on the edge of a pretty village, and a single parent to a very demanding child. Can he make a go of things and give his daughter the life she deserves?

  When three lives collide, it appears that only one of them is who they seem to be, and you never know who the person next to you in the school playground really is.

  If You Love Me, I’m Yours

  Chapter One

  Maud closed her eyes and prepared to jump off the emotional cliff she was teetering on the edge of. She shuffled forward until she felt sick with nerves, took a deep calming breath and waited.

  ‘Oh, Maud...’ her mother sighed. ‘Not again.’

  Maud cringed at the familiarity of those words, and in her mind, she stepped off into the void and plunged into the icy darkness without a whimper. In reality, she was still in her lounge, but being around her mother made her feel like an abject failure and the words she uttered sliced through Maud and filled her with doom. Her mum pushed her to the edge of reason on a regular basis. She wished that for once her mother could try harder to be nice. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to be grateful for the anniversary gift she had been given and to offer a smile, even a fake one, for the sake of her child? It was the same every year and Maud was finally ready to surrender and stop trying so hard to make them understand her and compliment one of her paintings. It was never going to happen, she realised with a heavy heart.

  Maud didn’t mind being boring, not really. She had a sensible job, sensible clothes, a sensible love life… if you counted two overbearing exes and a one night stand who had thanked her, rolled over and was snoring before she even realised he had started! She was ok with not fulfilling her dreams or being outrageous and carefree, she just wanted her parents to pay her a compliment, just once, after years of disapproval and disappointment.

  Maud knew that as far as her mum was concerned, she was the most amazing parent who encouraged her daughter to have a responsible career until she settled down and found a ‘suitable’ husband. Granted, Maud was a very good, well-liked and adept teacher’s assistant in the local primary school, but every time she pushed against the boundaries set by her parents for their perfect daughter… ‘Oh, Maud!’

  It was ridiculous, she was twenty-four, thought Maud. She wished she had a big glass of wine to slug back, but her mother would disapprove of that too, suggest in horror that she was a ‘wino,’ and hand her the number for AA, which she would have readily available in the little brown Filofax she carried everywhere in her patent handbag. The woman was a menace.

  ‘You don’t like the painting, then?’ she asked. Her mother tilted her head to one side without a word, her lip between her teeth as she concentrated and her brow furrowing as she looked at the artwork in confusion. It wasn’t the reaction Maud had hoped for. She had spent hours delicately drawing the lines of the little landscape painting of her parents’ house and she felt salty tears scratch her eyes. She refused to let them spill out in front of her mother, though, and bit her own lip until she tasted blood. The painting wasn’t Maud’s preferred style, spidery black lines depicting beautiful animals, filled in with splashes of vibrant colourwork to bring them to life. She had hoped that by toning down her eclectic style and drawing such a personal space as her parents’ home, her mother would finally see the little girl who desperately wanted to paint.

  Her father coughed into his hand and looked at his daughter. ‘Well…’ Maud’s heart almost stopped beating in her chest as she waited to hear his response to her work. She turned towards him with unshed tears in eyes shining with hope. He had seen this look so many times and she knew that he hated to disappoint her, but her mum would make his life a living hell if he encouraged her. Her mum saw anything creative as frivolous and a waste of time, and generally her dad agreed with her. He said quietly to her sometimes that he appreciated that Maud enjoyed painting, but her art wasn’t exactly going to set the world ablaze with awe at her talents, now was it? The words had cut into her heart and she’d cringed in pain. She knew he felt that it certainly wasn’t appropriate for a serious young lady who wanted to teach children and catch a husband. The thought of her attracting a layabout artist and spending her days smoking spliffs must horrify him, as he often left articles about wild artists who were living outrageous lives around the house when she visited. He must have gone out to buy the magazines especially, as her mother would never leave anything out on the table otherwise, she was such a neat freak. Maud sometimes wondered how many hours he must spend sifting through the shelves at the newsagents, as how many articles about wild and out of control artists could there be? Maybe he stored them in the garage in a cardboard box? She had never actually picked one up, as that would fuel their obsession. Perhaps he just recycled the same article? She’d ha
ve to pay more attention next time.

  He moved to the edge of his seat to scrutinise the little work of art and scratched his head in obvious confusion. She hoped he could see it was quite pretty and that Maud had obviously spent much of her free time on it. She could imagine the thoughts in his head, like where would they put such a colourful picture on their mostly beige walls? He looked across at her and must have noticed the unshed tears in her eyes. ‘I wish with all my heart that I could see what you do, but art is a complete mystery to me,’ he sighed. ‘I’m not one for artsy stuff. We have racks of your paintings in the spare room from when you were younger. I’ve put up shelves in there,’ he paused and she could almost hear him add to hide them away, ‘but we do appreciate the effort you put in and are grateful for this year’s anniversary present, darling.’

  Maud was sure he couldn’t help but notice that she was almost hopping from foot to foot in agitation and her eyes were bright with questions. He looked pained, as if his guts had just turned over. She knew her mum would hide this little painting in the spare room as soon as possible after she had stepped through the front door at home, but hopefully he could see how much it meant to Maud. He gritted his teeth and her heart melted as his shoulders straightened and he stood a bit taller. She could see that he’d decided that for once he was going to stand his ground. ‘It’s pretty, love.’ Maud let out the breath she’d been holding and rushed over to squeeze the life out of her dad in her excitement, until he was laughing and gasping for air.

  ‘But…’ interrupted Rosemary, getting up. Maud wondered if she had told her dad not to react when Maud gave them another painting and finally to talk her out of this most unsuitable habit. ‘For goodness sake, Maud! You’re a teacher with lots of other ways to fill your days. Why are you mucking about with paints when you should be trying to find a husband?’ Maud’s smile dropped from her face and her dad looked upset. She could feel the gloom returning.

  ‘It’s pretty,’ he repeated firmly, making Rosemary sit back down in confusion at his forceful tone. ‘We can put it by the window in the kitchen so that we can look at it every day.’

  Rosemary’s face went white with shock and she looked like she might faint at the thought of that monstrosity in her pristine cream kitchen, but one glance at her husband silenced her protest. She lifted her face and saw Maud’s slightly unkempt hair and wild eyes and her face softened slightly.

  ‘I don’t know why it means so much to you for us to have some of your pictures, but maybe we can find a corner for this one if it’s that important. I’m not a monster. I don’t know where you get this painting thing from, Maud,’ she added, getting up and running her hands down Maud’s soft blond hair to straighten out the kinks.

  Maud dressed impeccably in neutral tones and her hair didn’t usually have a strand out of place, as she tamed the unruly curls at the ends with hot hair straighteners every day. Even her bungalow, with its stark white walls and modern but functional furniture, was always immaculately clean, even if it was a strange choice of home for such a young woman. Maud’s mum didn’t really have anything to complain about, as Maud did everything in her power to please her parents, other than this one small thing. For some reason her mum had a deep rooted fear that Maud needed to be kept under control in case she started running around naked or dying her hair pink, orange and blue again, like she had as a child.

  Rosemary often recalled the memory to Maud. She blamed her own older sister, Maud’s aunt – whom she too often referred to as ‘the annoying one’ – for starting this mess by buying her then five-year-old niece a set of colourful finger paints. For the next few years it had been chaos. Rosemary said her stomach often turned over at the recollection. The beautifully clean walls of their three-bedroom terraced home were spattered with every colour of the rainbow, as Maud decided that they should be ‘smiley colours.’ Her clothes, which her mum spent hours laundering and ironing, began to be covered with pen and ink blobs and smears, which were the faces of their pedigree, non-shedding cat and his rather less salubrious neighbourhood friends. Every surface Maud could find followed suit.

  Her mum had initially thought that it was a phase that Maud would grow out of, and yelled at her sister for being so bloody inconsiderate. She got haughty distain in return, and it explained why they still couldn’t stand being in the same room together. As Maud grew up, she learnt not to paint on the surfaces of her home lest she invoke the wrath of her parents, but she began doing odd jobs for extra pocket money and bought paper, pens and an art folder to hide under her bed. Within weeks it had been full to bursting and her mum had wrung her hands in despair at the clutter and nearly kicked the poor cat as she constantly tripped over tubes of paint, which had escaped from the desk drawer. Admittedly, Maud’s room was mostly tidy, but her homework desk overflowed with art supplies and the smell of fresh paint now made her mum feel faint.

  Over the years, Maud had realised that her art was a frivolity and she had gradually dwindled to painting only occasionally, until she had stopped altogether. Now she had her own private space, the ‘phase’ had begun again, and her mum was distraught. At least the mess was at Maud’s own house and she didn’t have much time to paint now she had a full-time job.

  ‘You do seem to be happy here,’ Rosemary sighed, looking around at Maud’s home and mentioning that the kitchen cupboards needed rubbing down and repainting. She watched Maud as she leaned forward and hugged her dad again, dodging away from her mum’s hands, as Rosemary tried to brush a speck of dust from her soft blue jumper and then tugged at the hem of her skirt to straighten it.

  ‘Thanks, dad,’ Maud beamed at him, generously turning and enveloping her mother in the hug too, making her blush furiously and shoosh her away.

  Chapter Two

  Dot straightened one of the five pigtails on top of her head and made sure they were sticking out at the right angle. She moved the chunky jewellery she was wearing to the correct spot on one side of her neck and patted down her checked skirt and sparkly blue tights.

  She glanced around to assure herself that everything was in place and the paintings were lit properly. The drinks were all set out along the temporary bar, which was actually her receptionist’s desk; glasses sparkled and surfaces shone with the elbow grease that had gone into making this evening perfect. Tonight was a big deal for her and the largest art show she had personally organised. Working as creative director for her parents and big brother was lively and interesting, but her soul cried out to be part of the inner circle of artists, rather than on the outside echelons as their manager. She knew she was brilliant at her job, but her family was a dynasty of talented artists and she was the oddity, the black sheep with colourful hair.

  Dot adored painting, but unfortunately she was completely atrocious at it. It was hopeless. She didn’t just stink at painting; she was abysmal; a word she’d heard whispered about her work by a visiting uncle en route to his latest exhibition. The look of pity on her parents’ faces when they scrutinised her painterly offerings, and the confusion in her brother’s eyes when he tried to find a meaning in the splotches and swirls, were enough to make her hang her head in shame. As a consolation, and to make her feel involved when she was old enough, they had kindly offered her the chance to manage their work, as she had the advantage of understanding them all so well. She had taken on the role after much persuasion and a little emotional blackmail over their hurt feelings and she was determined to make everyone see she was one of them.

  She dressed accordingly for someone who was part of the art community, with zany and outrageous clothes, and worked determinedly to ensure her family’s art was seen all over the world and reached markets and customers they had never considered before. They had been suitably astounded as, satisfyingly, she was surprisingly good at her job. She handled their work with flair and was a real asset to them, but as a failed artist and family member, Dotty still felt that she had something to prove, however much they told her she was irreplaceable.


  Anyone could sell art this good, surely? thought Dot.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a light above her brother’s second piece of work flicker and die. All of his creativity was dark and stormy and the public went mad over his brooding good looks and grumpy demeanour. She loved him dearly… but what the hell was all that about?

  She could see the appeal of his art; it was sublime, but her brother was not the best advertisement for relationships. Women flocked to his feet, but he could barely remember their names and left her fielding calls from the moment she arrived at the gallery each morning. The fact that he only gave them his work number should have alerted them to his intentions, but they all thought he was worth mooning by the phone for. Yuck. It was almost enough to put her off dating for life… almost.

  Chapter Three

  Maud reverently stroked the embossed surface of the invitation she was holding to a private gallery viewing later that evening. She’d visited many galleries over the years, but none so glamorous or exciting as this one. The Ridgemoors were world famous artists, and attaining a ticket to the preview show was like getting back stage passes to an Ed Sheeran concert and being allowed to snog his face off afterwards.

  Maud’s best friend Daisy had forced her to go alone tonight, which wasn’t very kind of her. Maud had claimed one of the prizes in an art competition, which she hadn’t even known she’d entered, as her friend was a common thief and had stolen one of her little paintings and entered it without Maud’s knowledge.