by Wendy Holden
Neil inhaled again. ‘Nah, mate,’ he said, holding his breath. ‘That’s not the point. Tasha got dumped at the altar. She was telling me about it yesterday.’
‘Really?’ Dylan squinted at the distant figure, surprised. He vaguely knew who Tasha was: a cheerful, pretty blonde. She didn’t seem the type to get dumped, at the altar or anywhere else.
‘The bloke she was marrying, he sent her a text on the morning. She was actually sitting in the register office. Told her he’d met someone else and couldn’t marry her.’ Neil shook his head, narrowed his eyes and sucked in another lungful of marijuana smoke.
‘Poor thing,’ said Dylan, although secretly he felt anyone considering marriage had to have a screw loose. Beatrice had hinted at it more than once. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Yeah, mate. And she’s not the only one.’ Neil shook his salt-roughened blond locks. ‘Tash found out that she wasn’t the first. He’d done it before.’
Dylan propped himself up on an elbow, frowning. ‘What, you mean failed to show for his own wedding? He’d done it to someone else before her? Why?’
Neil blew out another plume of smoke. ‘Some kind of revenge complex, Tasha thinks. She reckons he’s probably in London now, doing it all over again to some poor unsuspecting woman who thinks he loves her.’
Dylan shook his head. Love was a dangerous thing. He thought ruefully of Beatrice again. And of Nell. While she seemed like a missed opportunity, perhaps he’d had a lucky escape. She might have been crazy too. Certainly, she had been furious with him. She had obviously felt he had tricked her.
He remembered suddenly that he needed to go back to Bosun’s Whistle and re-send the email. He returned to his car and drove back through the golden evening light and winding lanes. He regretted smoking so much now. His eyes were heavy and he felt sleepy and detached, as if someone else was driving and his own reflexes and instincts were slightly behind theirs.
But he also felt more mellow and relaxed than he ever had in his life. The fact that Bosun’s Whistle would be empty when he got there was a blissful prospect.
He still could not entirely believe Beatrice had taken him at his word. Ever since his return from London his ear, even as he wrote, had been permanently cocked for the sound of a taxi grinding up the path followed by the slam of a car door and the sound of high heels on farm track. He had been braced, in addition, for some violent, punishing act that might happen at any time. Beatrice was terrifyingly vengeful.
But nothing had happened at all. It seemed that she really wasn’t coming back. Perhaps she had returned to France. It was both strange and wonderful that she had left him so completely alone; no phone calls, no emails, nothing. And now he was free.
As he approached the track leading to his field, Dylan saw that the sun had, after all, decided to set in a blaze of glory. The sky over his cottage was a fierce orange, swirling with red and rolling with black. It looked incredible, especially to his semi-hallucinating vision. As if it were on fire, almost.
As he got closer Dylan slowly realised that it was not the sky over his cottage that looked on fire. The cottage itself actually was on fire.
The cottage containing the laptop on which his novel was stored. Of which there were no other copies, anywhere.
He slammed his foot on the brake, wrenched open the door and hurled himself out. The vehicle, un-handbraked, rolled serenely on, bumping over the grass down the slight incline to the cliff’s edge. Dylan didn’t even see it go over. He was racing towards Bosun’s Whistle.
Seconds later he was bursting through the open door – had he really left it open? – into the choking, burning hell that had been his sitting room. There was no air; he seemed to be breathing fire; a wall of heat was melting his face and his burning hair smelt bitter in his nostrils.
The noise was unbelievable; he had not known that fire roared and screamed as it consumed and destroyed. Then he realised the screaming was himself, with the fire alarm in shrill counterpoint. But who was going to hear that? The cottage was at the edge of the cliff.
Dylan thrashed about, squinting blindly through boiling tears and stinging eyes. He could see Beatrice’s surf boots, plastic cloven hoofs curling and melting in the yellow-hot centre of the blaze. By the time he realised his desk had been burned, and with it his papers and his novel, Dylan was on fire himself.
CHAPTER 8
Months had gone by since the Paddington Incident. Spring had passed into summer. Even dusty Gardiner Road had put forth its share of green on the privet hedges and the shady London planes whose trunks rose from the middle of the pavements. The Carrington & Co. board advertising the upstairs flat continued in full bloom too. No one seemed in any hurry to buy it.
Nell had not logged on to Elite Connections again. Neither, it seemed, had OutdoorsGuy. He had not messaged her, which was some relief at least. The circumstances of their meeting had permitted her only the briefest glance, but she had seen enough to know he was a non-starter.
As for Fake OutdoorsGuy, the one who, for perverse reasons of his own had pretended to be her date, Nell remained furious with him. He had made a fool of her; she had told him all sorts of things – things that embarrassment fanned in her imagination to seem far more intimate than they actually were. She knew that she should simply put him out of her mind, but couldn’t. He had lodged there, damn him.
Never, ever again would she trust a man she met on the internet. Still less one pretending to be. The only comfort was that she need never see Fake OutdoorsGuy – or OutdoorsGuy – again.
It was Tuesday afternoon and Nell was out shopping. The market in Chapel Street was grinding to a halt. She smiled a no-thanks at the stallholder who offered her an entire box of avocados for a fiver. ‘What would I do with them? I live on my own.’
The stallholder grinned. ‘On yer own? Cracker like you? Blimey, what’s wrong with blokes today?’
How long have you got? Nell thought. A cold prick on her cheek alerted her to the fact that it had started to rain; another prick came, and another. Curses erupted from the stall holders’ vans; the pace of packing up quickened. Exposed beneath the unexpected and rapidly falling water, Nell’s pace quickened too. Yet the rain fell harder and harder; soon it was a deluge. Nell abandoned her idea of going home; she would get soaked even trying. Instead she paused under the eaves of a building on the corner. Carrington & Co., estate agents.
She looked into its window, searching for the card advertising Choon’s flat. She was surprised to see it now had a red triangle over the corner: ‘SOLD Subject To Contract’.
A ray of optimism pierced her gloomy mood. Soon – perhaps very soon – she would have a new upstairs neighbour. Perhaps someone interesting that she could be friends with; perhaps even a single, eligible, nice man. Nell stopped that thought in its tracks. She was not looking for a man, single, eligible, nice or otherwise. Did they even exist?
As the rain still poured down, Nell gazed at Carrington’s display of pricey stucco villas and elegant, light-filled flats. It would be wonderful to live somewhere like that: airy, fashionable, lovely. But these were places far above anything she could afford. She smiled as she read the descriptions. They were full of exaggerations, euphemisms and jargon; a branch of the art she practised herself.
Quite suddenly she caught the eye of the young man behind the desk. He was looking directly at her. Nell stopped grinning at the copywriting and felt herself flush red. She looked behind her, hoping the rain would have stopped and she could go. But no, it was coming down even harder, hurling itself at the pavement, spraying everywhere. Glancing back into the shop, Nell saw to her relief that the young man had left his desk.
Then came a rattling sound and the door right next to where she was standing opened. There he was, his smiling, handsome face mere inches from her own. His teeth were very white, Nell noticed, trying to contain her jang
ling nerves.
‘Come in,’ he invited. ‘You look wet. Let me make you a coffee.’
‘No thank you,’ Nell said, politely but firmly. Why was her heart hammering?
‘I make good coffee.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
He was looking at the rain behind her, curtains of water through which it was difficult to see the street. ‘You won’t be if you stay out here. Come on. I try and do a good turn every day and I haven’t done one today. So you’d be doing me a favour.’
Nell found herself following him in. He showed her to some modish brown cubed seating arranged before a small Gaggia machine.
‘Cappuccino?’ He flashed her that irresistible smile again. He was about her age; boyishly handsome with wide eyes and neat ears, his cropped dark hair with just the right degree of tousle. He looked like someone from one of her catalogues.
‘Do you really do a good turn every day?’ Nell asked. ‘What did you do yesterday?’
She had asked partly from curiosity and partly to catch him out. But he seemed unfazed by the query. He looked over from frothing the boiled milk. ‘Yesterday? Yesterday I sold a flat that had been on the market for, well.’ He paused and grinned. ‘Some time, you could say.’
Nell was immediately interested. ‘It wouldn’t be in Gardiner Road, would it? 19b? I live in 19a.’
He looked surprised. ‘Yes, actually.’
The rain, she saw, was easing. She rose to her feet. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I have to go.’
‘Don’t you want to know who’s bought the place upstairs from you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Nell acknowledged.
‘Well, before I tell you, you have to agree to another good turn.’
‘What?’
‘Let me take you out tonight for dinner.’
She stared. How brazen could you get? ‘Fast mover, aren’t you?’
He grinned, quite unabashed. ‘Beautiful women like you don’t just walk off the street every day.’
What a line, Nell thought. Yet she was flattered, despite herself. Not that she intended him to see. She didn’t intend anything.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Well, if not tonight, how about Friday?’
‘Er . . .’ Nell had not expected this level of persistence.
‘Want to know about the person upstairs or not?’ he asked, seizing on her hesitation.
She gave in then, and he shot her a triumphant grin. ‘I’m Joey, by the way.’
CHAPTER 9
Joey had originally suggested La Cuillère Grasse, a hugely expensive local double-Michelin-starred French restaurant that occupied the site of a former greasy spoon. But Nell, alarmed at such a pricey prospect, particularly as she intended to pay her share, held out for somewhere less showy.
The compromise was the Modest Sausage, a modish bistro near the theatre. It had rows of very small tables very close together, like an exam hall. At the appointed hour, Nell walked towards it, as slowly and reluctantly as if she were actually sitting a test.
In the intervening few days, she had been on the point many times of cancelling the arrangement. She no longer cared who her upstairs neighbour was, what difference did it make? She would find out sooner or later. Nor did she want to meet Joey. What was she doing? She had no interest in him; in men full stop.
On the other hand, he was obviously the determined type and would make it hard to cancel. So it was probably best to go along with it. She had nothing else to do, anyway. She’d stay as little time as possible, then go home.
Joey was there when she arrived at the Modest Sausage, waving at her from across a sea of people in black. Hipster theatregoers, bearded young men mostly, talking earnestly to women with red lipstick and ebony fringes.
Nell sat down, noting the two glasses of champagne on the table. He wasn’t mean, she had to give him that.
‘Cheers,’ Joey said, raising his.
Nell took a sip, determined to pace herself. She was here only to get this over with. Although he was attractive, she had to admit. More so than she remembered. She liked his neat features and cropped hair, and the shirt that he was wearing, patterned with small flowers. Peeping from its cuff was what looked like a very expensive watch.
‘So tell me,’ she said, taking the retro-typed menu proffered by the waitress. ‘Who’s my new neighbour?’
Joey grinned and tapped his straight nose. ‘First things first. I want to know all about you. Forgive me if this seems a bit forward, but are you single?’
Nell felt a mixture of offended at his cheek and embarrassed as the memory of the Apples and Pears swept over her. Joey was watching her closely. ‘Did I say the wrong thing?’
Nell shook her head.
‘OK, well let me tell you about me. I’m new round here. I used to be in South London but, well . . .’ He hesitated.
‘Didn’t you like South London?’ Nell was glad of this new conversational direction. The capital’s geography was a safe enough subject.
He rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘Things kind of didn’t work out. Romance-wise, I mean.’
Oh no. They were back on romance again. She didn’t want to hear about his love problems. She wanted to escape, to push back her chair and flee. She should go now, Nell thought, before the waitress came.
The waitress came.
Nell ordered the first things she set eyes on.
‘You’re sure?’ the waitress said. ‘Mussels to start with and then mussels as a main course?’
‘I like mussels,’ Nell said firmly.
‘So it didn’t work out in South London,’ Joey resumed as the waitress left.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nell said shortly. She considered making a joke – North Londoners like her were traditionally rude about their neighbours over the river. But she didn’t want to encourage him.
‘It’s OK. Plenty of people get dumped when they think they’ve found their partner for life, I guess.’ He flicked her a nervous look from beneath his brows. ‘I don’t normally talk about it, to be honest. But . . .’
‘You don’t have to tell me any more,’ Nell said quickly.
He gave her a rueful smile that was very different from the previous blazingly confident ones. ‘I don’t mind. You seem like you understand. Maybe you’ve been unlucky in love as well.’
Nell determinedly ignored this prompt.
‘I sort of felt you had,’ Joey continued. ‘There’s something in your eyes. I noticed it when I first saw you.’
Was it that obvious? Her mussels now arrived in a heap of dark blue shells and Nell seized on them as an excuse not to reply.
‘Do you mind if I tell you all this?’ he asked apologetically. ‘It’s just, well, a relief. It really helps.’
While she hadn’t intended to play therapist to an unknown estate agent, Nell could not see what other option she had. She reminded herself that she didn’t have to see him again, after this. And his story, whatever it was, was hardly likely to compare to her online dating disaster.
About this she was wrong, however.
‘Left you at the altar?’ she was echoing, some ten minutes later, as a heap of forgotten mussels cooled on the table before her.
Joey’s story was so dramatically awful that it was impossible not to sympathise. After a whirlwind courtship, his girlfriend, Tasha, had failed to show at the register office. Later he had received a text from Italy, where she had gone with another man.
Joey looked at her over the candlelight. They had long since finished the champagne and nearly seen off a bottle of Soave. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
The combination of alcohol and sympathy had lowered what remained of her guard. Nell told him the whole story of the Paddington disaster.
They compared romantic misadventur
es for the rest of the meal. By the time they parted they had both ruefully admitted that neither of them were suitable mates for anyone else.
‘So,’ Joey said, suddenly drawing her close as they stood on Upper Street, ‘that makes us perfect for each other.’
Nell drew back. She had not seen this coming. ‘I don’t think so.’
She had expected him to accept this and retreat, abashed, but Joey stood his ground. ‘You’re amazing, Nell,’ he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. ‘After everything that’s happened, you deserve some happiness.’
His voice was low and cracked slightly, as if with emotion. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She was aware of his strong shoulders, the curve of his thighs in his jeans. He pulled her to him and kissed her thoroughly and slowly. She felt lust now cloud a judgement already clouded by wine. ‘What’s the point of waiting?’ Joey said when she made a last, feeble effort to send him home.
He was so confident, so sure, and she was so very ready to be swept off her feet. They kissed all the way back to his house in the taxi. Not long afterwards, in Joey’s enormous bed, Nell found pure physical release from the sense of failure that had plagued her for so long.
The next morning, when she awoke to see sunlight falling on the polished wooden floor, it seemed to Nell that she had arrived in one of her own catalogues. His rumpled white bed with its enormous pillows only added to this effect, as did Joey, who now appeared at the bedroom door holding a tray complete with teapot and toast rack. ‘Breakfast, milady.’
Nell sat up, shyly pulling the duvet over her naked breasts. ‘Don’t do that,’ Joey said softly, putting the tray down and slipping back into bed beside her. Breakfast was never eaten.
Little was eaten that first weekend together. They spent most of it in bed, surfacing occasionally to make a cup of tea or open yet another bottle of champagne. Joey had a special fridge just for that, Nell discovered.
His circumstances were far more glamorous than she had expected. His flat, the spacious top floor of a beautiful Georgian house, was a dream of gracious living. It had lofty corniced ceilings, tall sash windows with the original shutters and polished pieces of antique furniture made of thin and delicate wood. He owned it, which must mean that he was fantastically successful at his job. Nell still hadn’t found out who was moving into the flat above hers, but she no longer wanted to know. The thought of going back to the poky apartment in the drab road weighed on her. By contrast, Joey’s big, light front windows overlooked an elegant street and those at the rear a long green lawn whose every blade seemed to shine.
