by Gill Paul
He apparently claimed all of this with complete insistence, but it doesn’t exactly ring true. Nobody seems to be buying it apart from Kevin and Annemarie Doyle. Still, what he says to his wife is his business, and what she chooses to believe is hers. The truth – several versions of it – will all come out in the legal wash.
Poor Billy, it turns out, was a man of many layers – not least of which was a history of obsessive behaviour with past partners that had resulted in several restraining orders. His relationship with Kevin – whether it was a long-term affair, as he claims, or a drugged-up mishap, as Kevin claims – pushed him over the edge.
He’d managed to convince himself that if the family was out of the picture, then they could be together. It was crazy – there was no way that was ever going to happen. But Billy wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.
He’d enticed Coco away with Cupid, and gagged and tied her in the back of his van. He’d swiped some Diazepam from his mother, and used them to keep her quiet in there for the rest of the day. The CCTV footage I’d seen had shown him coming back with Cupid – and I’d even seen the van, not knowing she was inside it.
The police had claimed the recording, and if I’d just watched a little longer – about 4 a.m. – you see him come out, in full drag, and carry what looks like a very large gym bag into the club. That’s why he’d been so dirty the next day – he’d been walling poor Coco up in the cellar, shoving Cupid in there to keep her quiet.
I’d been down there looking, and spotted nothing. It was only a chance photo taken by the landlord of the Napoleon that had tipped me off, along with Tish’s phone call. Who knows what would have happened otherwise? Billy seemed to have no idea, no plan – other than somehow using Coco to get his man.
The girl herself was scared, traumatised, and desperate for her mum – but she would survive.
All things considered, it had been quite an eventful Valentine’s Day – though not in the way my parents might have hoped.
‘Right, what about this one?’ says Tish, shoving the magazine onto my lap and poking one of the glossy pages with an even glossier nail.
I look down in confusion, and see a hideously blingy handbag with a tiny dog’s head peeking out of it.
‘What about it?’ I say. ‘The bag is revolting, and the dog looks like Rowan Atkinson with appendicitis.’
She grins at me, and pulls her phone out of her bag.
‘You’re right. He does. I’m going to call up some Chihuahua breeders right now. I’m getting a puppy, and I’ll call him Mr Bean.’
‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘Just don’t call me if he goes missing.’
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About the Author
Debbie Johnson is a former journalist who lives and works in Merseyside. After a lifetime of reading crime, romance and fantasy, she now writes all three.
Ella Harper
Snow on Valentine’s Day
The Bittersweet One
Copyright
Avon
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © Ella Harper 2015
Ella Harper asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008136260
Version: 2015–01–23
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Snow on Valentine’s Day
Keep Reading
About the Author
Snow on Valentine’s Day
‘Roses!’ squeals Tina. ‘Look, Clara! Look what my boyfriend sent me!’
I look up from my computer and give the flowers my full attention. ‘Lovely,’ I say. I wasn’t lying; they are indeed lovely. They are what my mother might call the ‘queens of roses’. Deep red with velvety petals unfurling lushly against dark green foliage and a froth of ribbon and cellophane. The kind a non-receiver might wax cynical about, but for the girl who is clutching an armful of them, there might not be a better present in the world on Valentine’s Day.
Well. I must correct myself there. I know of one present I would rather have, but it’s a little late for that.
‘No, but really … look at them!’ Tina thrusts the flowers right under my nose until I am forced to inhale their gorgeous fragrance. ‘Two. Dozen. Red. Roses. Not one dozen – two. Imagine how much they cost!’
‘Well, quite,’ I agree. ‘An arm and a leg. And far better than a teddy bear.’
‘Oh I wanted a teddy as well,’ Tina pouted. ‘I’m a bit gutted, if I’m honest. Not to worry. I bought him one instead!’ Putting the enormous arrangement of roses down, she tugged the shoulder of her top down to reveal a bright red silky strap.
‘Very cheeky,’ I smile, my eyes flitting back to my computer screen.
‘Aah, I suppose you don’t really do Valentine’s Day anymore, do you?’ Tina says sympathetically.
My fingers pause on my keyboard as I consider this. I suppose by normal standards, I probably don’t do Valentine’s Day. I no longer buy cards with slushy messages and a hint of sarcasm. I don’t book dinner in an expensive restaurant two months in advance to ensure a romantic, private table in the corner. And I certainly don’t prance around in Ann Summers’ best satin for one day in chilly February. But in my own way, I do ‘do’ Valentine’s Day. I have a date in Piccadilly Circus later on, as a matter of fact. I just don’t choose to talk about it. I’m not sure anyone would actually understand and, to be fair, it probably is slightly bonkers. But it’s a tradition. Of sorts.
The rest of the day in the office passes uneventfully enough. Shrieks of delight as more flowers, champagne and the odd teddy bear arrive at various times. Tina is properly beaming by 4 p.m., bless her; and rather uncharacteristically, her joy almost reduces me to tears. The day is even getting to jaded old me.
I watch women clutching their romantic prizes self-consciously like great big love badges as they dash off to the toilets to do their hair and make-up before leaving early for whatever they have scheduled for the evening. I’m not bitter about that; I’m sure I used to do the same. Well. I’m not convinced anyone ever witnessed me leaving the office with a cuddly toy tucked in my handbag, but I certainly used to rush through my work as quickly as possible on this day. And I definitely used to throw in a pit-stop in the Ladies’ pre-finish time to tart myself up.
I start packing up my things. Valentine’s Day. In most cases, wonderful for the attached. And in some cases, tragic for the single. A timely and sweet reminder to those who are part of a couple that love is something worth celebrating. A poignant and sometimes heartbreaking reminder to those who are single that love is a bit beautiful and sought after and what most of us really want.
I read once that in some parts of Europe, Saint Valentine’s keys are given to lovers as a romantic symbol. An invitation to unlock the giver’s heart. I always thought that was quite
splendid. What could be more achingly romantic than unlocking someone’s heart, or more to the point, having one’s heart unlocked?
Oh dear. A tear splashes down onto my keyboard. That will never do. I fervently hope it doesn’t cause a short circuit situation. It’s bad enough that the ‘t’ key has been missing for a month. I pull myself together. It’s just one day. Or more accurately, one day when all of the feelings I deal with every other day come more sharply into focus.
The clock on the wall clicks onto 5.30 p.m. and there is a final flurry of activity as the remaining women gather up their teddy bears, their gorgeous flowers and their beribboned bottles of champagne, and skip off to meet their beaus, happy to be part of the Valentine’s gang. Never more grateful than on this one day to be part of a couple, however (in some cases), dysfunctional behind closed doors.
Only one girl holds back, the newest girl in the office. A girl whose boyfriend dumped her just a week earlier. A week before Valentine’s Day. Harsh, that, in my opinion. Inconsiderate, for sure. Tight-fisted, perhaps? Either way, we’ve all told her repeatedly that he’s a heartless tool who doesn’t deserve her and that she could do far, far better than an idiot who opted out before the padded cards and cuddly toy moment. None of us really know if the new girl can do better or not; we barely know her, but one has to say something, right? Anything to make someone who is going through a tough time not feel like utter pants.
‘Bye, Sarah,’ I say as I scoop up my bag and coat.
‘Where are you off to?’ she asks bleakly. Her eyes are almost as red as the straps on Tara’s silky teddy. ‘Somewhere nice?’
‘Not really,’ I say in a brisk tone. I probably could be truthful. I wasn’t off to somewhere ‘nice’, as such. I was off to somewhere I couldn’t stay away from, not on this day, at any rate. But I think Sarah has enough to deal with without me dumping my emotional woes on her.
‘He’s a heartless tool,’ I remind Sarah gently as I leave the office.
‘I know he is,’ she says, bursting into tears. ‘I just wanted a bloody teddy bear.’
I nod sympathetically. Those bloody teddy bears. They have a hell of a lot to answer for.
I make my way from my office to Piccadilly Circus. It’s not far; I work ten minutes or so from Leicester Square, which means it’s hard for me to avoid it the rest of the time. There have been days where I have literally walked around it causing me to be most inefficient with my time, just to make sure I don’t accidentally happen upon it. I am aware that this is a ridiculous state of affairs. It is the very reason I tend to keep it to myself. Who would understand a deliberate avoidance of a London monument just around the corner from my work for three hundred and sixty four days of the year?
Piccadilly Circus is rammed. And I mean, completely. People are jostling for pavement space, weaving in and out of each other crossly, the occasional elbow jab coming into play. I pause for a second by a restaurant decked out with bright red balloons and, with a deep breath, I take in my surroundings.
I always think Piccadilly Circus epitomises London. The Circus – in this context meaning ‘circle’ – is a major traffic junction, with cars, black cabs, and red buses whizzing around it at high speed. Bordered by notable buildings and theatres and within, lit up by various illuminated signs, all advertising their wares, but these days as much as part of the environs as they are functional. And the underground entrances, so quaintly, so terribly British, as much a symbol of London as the Métro is to Paris, and a gigantic irritant to all of us who use the Tube regularly.
And there it is. I move to stand in front of it. Eros. Also known as the Shaftesbury Monument.
I find a tiny spot on the steps between a gaggle of people and squeeze my backside into it, my mind flipping over the facts and figures. The fountain is made of bronze, but the statue is made of aluminium. The sculptor – the name escapes me – wanted to use the fountain for fish and crustaceans and it was erected to commemorate the works of Lord Shaftesbury. Apparently, the statue is actually of the Greek god Anteros (God of requited love), but is regularly mistaken for Eros (Anteros’ brother). Who knew? Personally, I prefer to think of the statue as Eros, God of sexual desire and attraction. That was why Craig had first insisted we meet there, anyway.
‘Er … do you mind if I sit next to you?’
I look up. A man is asking if he can park himself next to me. A tall, dark, handsome man, I note irrelevantly. I frown at him. I always prefer to do this alone if possible. I mean, I’m never actually ‘alone’ as such, is there such a thing in Piccadilly Circus?, but at the same time, I generally don’t chat to other people. Not in a rude sense; it’s just that I see grief as a rather solitary pastime.
‘Er, no,’ I say. ‘Feel free to sit wherever you like.’
Damn politeness. At times, it’s incredibly inconvenient to have good manners. I have a close friend, Kate, who is able to tell anyone, including children, to bugger off, if she’s not in the mood for company. And she’s not even civil about it. I admire her but do not possess her talent for carefree insolence.
‘Thanks.’ Tall, dark and handsome sits down next to me.
I steal another quick glance at the person sharing my step space. He looks tired. A bit emotional, perhaps. I shrug. I am here with my own thoughts; not to make new friends.
‘I’m Danny, by the way.’
I sigh. I really don’t need this. ‘Clara,’ I offer unenthusiastically.
‘Clara?’ Danny links his fingers and stares straight ahead. ‘I like that name, actually. That lovely girl in Doctor Who is called Clara, isn’t she? The Doc’s assistant. You look a bit like her too. Dark hair, dark eyes and all that.’
I scoff. I look nothing like the lovely girl in Doctor Who. I wish. On edge, I wonder if Danny is just one of those guys who searches out lonely-looking girls on Valentine’s Day with the intention of flattering them and taking advantage of their vulnerability. You hear of such people, don’t you? Calculating guys who swoop in on unsuspecting women, just at the right moment to pull the rug out from under them.
‘I love that programme,’ Danny says, interrupting my reverie. ‘Doctor Who, I mean. Never miss it. Especially not the Christmas episode.’
Now I’m wrong-footed. He’s still banging on about Doctor Who. And I bloody love Doctor Who. I mean; I really love it. I’m not sure how to respond to his flattering but inaccurate comments. But it’s OK. Danny, whoever he is, seems to be in the mood for chatting without needing much in response. Albeit in a rather sad manner.
‘So. What are you doing here?’ Danny asks, moving slightly as a woman with a big behind and very tight leggings decides to sandwich him between us. ‘Crikey. Sorry. I don’t mean to sit on your lap. But anyway. Here, your reason? I bet it’s not as sad and weird as what I have going on.’
I raise my eyebrows at him. I’ve been told this makes my glance ‘withering’. I reckon a bit of withering is required right now. And he’s wrong about the sad and weird angle. I can out-sad and weird anyone. On Valentine’s Day I am the queen of sad and weird, and I am confident – one hundred per cent confident – that no one can beat me.
‘Good look,’ Danny says, putting his sorrowful face to one side to look impressed briefly. ‘Withering. That would fell lesser men, but I’m made of sterner stuff.’ He lets out a small laugh. ‘I’m not actually. Not today, anyway.’
‘Why not today?’
Damn my nosiness. The last thing I want to do is spend this precious evening delving into the secrets of a stranger. I have enough to deal with. But he noticed and commented on the withering glance. And he likes Doctor Who. And I am not moving from this spot for the foreseeable future. So I might as well talk.
Danny sighs. ‘Because today, February 14th, is a day I think about someone. Someone I used to meet here every Valentine’s Day.’
I’m flummoxed. What’s going on here? ‘But … I used to meet someone here every Valentine’s Day too.’
Danny meets my eyes. He has nice eyes. G
reen. The green of ferns. My auntie has cushions that colour.
‘No way.’ Now Danny looks wrong-footed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I’m serious.’
‘Well. Maybe not that odd if you think about it.’ Danny cocks his head at the statue behind us. ‘I mean, that is Eros, after all.’
‘Actually, it’s not supposed to be. Apparently it’s—’
‘Anteros, brother of Eros,’ Danny finishes. He looks shocked, as if we have had a ‘jinx’ moment. ‘How random. Who knew Eros even had a brother?’
‘Well, me. And you, it appears.’
I am beginning to feel slightly weirded out. Tall, dark, handsome (my type, for the record) likes Doctor Who, knows about Anteros, used to meet someone by the statue every Valentine’s Day. If my friend Kate was here, she would be swearing her head off and excitedly going on about the cosmos and the universe and colliding stars right at this second. I, however, do not believe in such nonsense. Not after everything I’ve been through. I’m a casualty of circumstance, unfortunately. Even an eternal romantic becomes a bit jaded in my shoes.
‘So. Who did you used to meet here?’ Danny asks.
I let out a jerky breath. ‘My husband. I used to meet my husband here. Every Valentine’s Day. And then we used to go off and do something really cool. Not the run-of-the-mill stuff people do on this day, but almost like … anti-Valentine’s-Day-type stuff. The London Dungeons. Dinner in a really busy sushi bar where romance has no chance against the horrendous music and relentless chatter. That kind of thing.’
Danny smiles. ‘That sounds ace. I love that.’
I can’t help smiling back. Just at the memories.
‘Yes. Good times. He’s dead now, though,’ I add. Not to be dramatic, you understand. Just because I feel that Danny needs to catch up now that we have the pleasantries out of the way. He doesn’t react quite how I expect.
