by Kate Field
‘I want this to stop,’ she said, stalling for time. ‘I’ve got the message loud and clear. You hate me…’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t hate you. It was all a long time ago. I don’t feel anything for you.’
She heard his words, but his eyes said something different.
‘So stop all the sniping, and the little digs. Not for me,’ she said quickly, as his mouth began to open. ‘Do it for your friends. Our friends. If we run into each other again before you go back…’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve moved back to England.’ Cold blue eyes held hers. ‘Why are you looking so shocked about that? It was always the plan. Four or five years out there to earn the big money, and then back here to settle down. Nothing’s changed.’
Except, as they looked at each other, they both knew that it had. Everything had changed. He was meant to be settling down with Helen. Instead…
‘And Tasha?’ She couldn’t stop the question.
‘Tasha has moved with me.’ He smiled at her, though it wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘After six months together, she was willing to travel across the world to be with me. That’s my definition of love.’
And there was Helen’s perfect opening to tell him. Tell him what her definition of love was. Explain that sometimes love could mean choosing not to travel across the world with someone, but to let go. And she opened her mouth, but there was a second’s hesitation before she could bring herself to take the plunge, and he walked away.
CHAPTER 5
Who would have thought so much could go wrong in the space of a week, Helen reflected the next day, as she made sandwiches for lunch, while keeping an eye on Megan, who was playing in the sand pit which half filled the minuscule garden at the back of the house. Eight days ago she’d been paddling along quite placidly in the shallows at home and at work. Now it felt as if she’d been caught up in a riptide, and dragged out to sea with little idea of where she was heading.
The only consolation was that worrying about one problem gave her some temporary respite from the other. After the encounter with Daniel yesterday, today she was determined to focus on work. Monday was supposed to be her day off, but with a deadline looming for completing a crazy patchwork throw, ordered as a wedding present, she was having to use every spare minute she had. Luckily Megan could be occupied for decent spells sorting buttons and beads, and pretending to help.
The doorbell rang, and after checking Megan was settled, Helen went to answer it. Daniel was standing on the doorstep, looking sober, serious, and as handsome as ever. He held an envelope, which he was tapping against his leg.
‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped, clutching the door handle.
‘I could ask you the same. Not quite the life you’re accustomed to, is it? I would have put money on you not knowing that terraced houses exist.’
‘It was convenient,’ she said, with a shrug. She wasn’t going to justify where she lived to him. How dare he come and sneer? She’d moved into this tiny mews house on a modern estate before Megan was born, when it was all she could afford to rent. It was close to a good nursery and a well-rated school, and that had been more important than underfloor heating and ensuite bathrooms. She glanced over her shoulder, anxious about leaving Megan outside – and more anxious that she might wander inside. ‘Who told you where I was? And what do you want?’
‘I came to give you this.’ He held out the envelope. ‘Craig gave me your address.’
‘What is it?’
‘What I owe you.’ He waved the envelope at her. Curiosity getting the better of her, she took it and opened it. There was a cheque inside, payable to her, for fifteen thousand pounds. Helen stared at the paper in her hand, trying to make sense of it.
‘What’s this for?’
‘It’s your share of the proceeds of the house. When it was sold, all the money went into my account. I’d have given it to you before, if I’d known where you were. Or if you were still alive.’
Helen risked another look behind her. The front door opened straight into the living room; from there, there was a direct line of sight through the kitchen and into the garden.
‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘Of course not!’ Helen thrust the cheque back at him. ‘I don’t want this. You don’t owe me anything.’
‘Take it. You’ll need it if you’re looking for new shop premises.’
Helen hardly knew whether he was patronising her or if, at last, a glimmer of the Daniel she loved had broken through. The cheque was still in her hand, held out to him, but she saw that his attention had changed. He was gazing past her shoulder, into the room beyond. Helen turned. Megan was standing in the kitchen doorway. It was a cold day; she was muffled up in a coat and scarf, a hat covering most of her hair; but Helen was so familiar with every stitch of her face, that the truth seemed blindingly obvious. Was he seeing it? Her eyes travelled back from daughter to father.
‘Babysitting again?’
‘I…’ She stopped. Could he not see the truth? She couldn’t say it. She really couldn’t say it, not with Megan right behind them. Not when she could imagine the depth of his hatred when she did.
‘Mummy, can I have my lunch now?’
Objectively, it was fascinating to see the play of emotion flow across Daniel’s face. It started with a frown of confusion, then his eyes widened as comprehension took shape. Finally he looked straight at Helen and, for a moment, there was no hatred, no coldness, only the most profound pain. Then it was gone, replaced by a blank expression which was almost worse. He walked away, and got back into his car.
Helen closed the front door, strode over to Megan, and scooped her up into a desperate hug. Hands trembling, she took off the hat, unwrapped the scarf and unzipped her coat, until a mini-Daniel emerged from under the layers. Helen kissed the top of Megan’s hair, hair the exact colour and texture of his.
‘Pop upstairs and wash your hands, then you can have your lunch,’ she said, trying to still the wobble in her voice. ‘And use the soap!’
Megan had reached the top of the stairs when there was a savage banging on the front door. Helen opened it again.
‘Who was he?’ Daniel demanded. ‘Do I know him? How long was it going on for?’
‘What? Who are you talking about?’
Daniel pushed past her into the living room. It was a mess: scraps of richly coloured fabric and luscious embroidery silks were scattered round the chair in the corner where she did her sewing. But she suspected he hadn’t even noticed the state of the room. He was gazing round, seeing nothing.
‘Are you still with him?’ There was a noise upstairs as Megan came out of the bathroom. Daniel’s head whipped round. ‘Is he here now?’
‘There’s no one here except me and Megan. There’s never been anyone else.’
‘Megan?’ Daniel’s voice had gone quiet. ‘You had an affair, had another man’s child, and called it Megan? How could you?’
It had been their name. When they’d speculated about the future – their future after Hong Kong – they had imagined their children, Megan and Archie. But surely, surely not. Surely he didn’t think that she’d cheated on him, had a child, and used their name? Did he honestly think so little of her that he believed she could do that?
‘I didn’t have an affair,’ she said, desperate now that he should know the truth, and unable to get the words out fast enough. ‘Megan’s…’
On cue, Megan skipped down the stairs.
‘Mummy, I can’t hang the towel up.’ She stopped when she saw Daniel, and hovered on the bottom stair, looking up at him with curious blue eyes. Identical blue eyes stared back at her. Helen wasn’t sure if Daniel was still breathing. And it was no wonder he was so transfixed. She had always known that Megan looked like him, but seeing them together for the first time was incredible. He must have felt like one of his childhood photographs had com
e to life in front of him.
There was a horrible silence. Daniel looked from Megan to Helen, his eyes glazed with utter incomprehension.
‘Is…’
‘Yes,’ she interrupted quickly, not wanting him to say it in front of Megan. ‘Yes, she is.’
He stared at Helen, eyes drilling into hers, as they had done on so many other, happier occasions, as if he wanted to know every part of her.
‘What was it, Nell? What did I do to you to deserve this?’
She couldn’t help herself. She reached out and touched his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles.
‘Dan…’
He jerked away and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER 6
Three days passed, and Helen heard nothing from Daniel. She tensed every time the door of St Andrew’s opened, and every time she heard a car drive past her house – which, living on a busy estate, was quite often. But there was no contact from him. These three days of silence were worse than all the years of guilt and worry that had gone before.
‘Are you okay?’ Fiona asked, as Helen ran into St Andrew’s on Friday morning, ten minutes after opening time. ‘I was just asking the others whether we should call you.’ She peered at Helen. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you do look tired.’
‘So much for the artfully applied make-up,’ Helen said, laughing.
‘You’ve done a good job,’ Fiona replied, putting her hand on Helen’s arm. ‘But I can tell a disguise when I see one. You can’t kid a kidder.’
Helen took her hand and squeezed it. She knew that Fiona had had to conceal more than the marks of insomnia in the past.
‘I haven’t been sleeping well,’ she said, sliding back the glass door to open up the front of her shop. Each shop had been built using glass partitions, so that none of the features of the building were covered up. Helen’s was one of the larger units, and the whole of the front panel could be pushed to the side.
‘I’m not surprised.’ Fiona sighed. ‘It’s preying on my mind too. The time until Christmas is going to fly by.’
‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do?’ Helen asked, dragging her thoughts back to St Andrew’s and the problems she faced at work. Not that she’d forgotten; but the situation with Daniel had stolen all her focus this week.
‘No, I don’t see what I can do. I can’t afford a shop in town and, anyway, I don’t want to be on my own. We’re like a little family here, aren’t we? I wouldn’t last five minutes by myself. You’re probably the only one who could survive outside St Andrew’s.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Helen said, but she had a horrible suspicion it might be. Fiona, Malcolm and Ron didn’t have the drive needed to set up anywhere else, and even Saskia was showing surprisingly little motivation to plan her future. Helen resigned herself to another night spent looking at rentable property, and whether there was any prospect of them staying together. The responsibility for all of them had fallen on her by default. She had walked past an empty retail unit in the shopping centre the other day, which had seemed the right size, but she had recoiled against moving from St Andrew’s to somewhere so soulless. There had to be a solution. She just needed to find it.
***
Friday lunchtimes were always busy, and Helen was happily helping choose some buttons for a knitted cardigan when she noticed a man loitering round the display of crazy patchwork pieces. She did have a few regular male customers, but they were normally of a certain age, and carrying oilcloth tote bags. This man was on quite the opposite end of the scale: tall, early thirties, with shaggy tawny brown hair, and not a bag in sight.
Helen kept an eye on him while she completed the button sale. He was picking up virtually every item and inspecting it before moving on to the next one. What on earth was he doing? He didn’t look like a thief: he was definitely more suited to the romantic lead than a starring role on Crimewatch; but he didn’t look like a crafter either. Checking that no one else needed her help, she wandered over to the crazy patchwork display.
‘Hello,’ she said, displaying her best customer friendly smile. ‘Can I help? Are you looking for anything in particular?’
He looked up with a smile that started off polite and slowly grew as he regarded Helen.
‘This is fantastic work,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
‘I should hope not. I designed it all.’
‘So you’re Helen?’
She nodded. Her name was all over the display and on every price tag, so it hadn’t taken much deduction to work that out. Why then was he looking so surprised? Surprised and pleased: but that made no sense.
‘Sorry,’ he said, twisting a teddy bear round in his hand. ‘I didn’t expect…’ He smiled as Helen rescued the bear and put it back on the table. ‘Do you do all this yourself?’
‘Yes. A friend helps out in the shop sometimes, but I do all the sewing myself.’
‘You’re very talented.’
‘Thanks. I know. But it’s always good to hear someone else say so.’
He laughed, and loose curls quivered around his face.
‘Is it all done by hand?’
‘All the decorative stitches, but with the stitches that hold the pieces together, see here…’ She pointed to a cushion, and he nodded. ‘It depends on what the item is. That teddy bear you were torturing was done mainly on the sewing machine. It’s part of the Christmas range, when I try to make some small, quick items to keep the shop filled up.’ She stopped, and smiled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to rattle on. Push my button and I can go on for hours.’
‘Is that so?’ Sherry brown eyes held her gaze. ‘I’ll have to remember that.’
Was he flirting? The eye contact and the cheeky grin all suggested he was. That was a first. She’d never had a customer flirt with her before – thank God, considering most of them were ladies, and the others – well, they probably didn’t even know what flirting was. But was he a customer? He hadn’t shown much sign of buying anything yet. In fact, he was showing more interest in her than in her work.
‘If you’re interested in a Christmas gift,’ she went on, determined to ignore his continuing grin, and get back to the safe subject of business, ‘I’ve got some more things that I haven’t had chance to set out yet.’ She bent down, and rummaged in her bag before pulling out a rectangular piece of crazy patchwork, created from scraps of fabric in various shades of pink, sewn together with a glittering metallic thread. Tiny embroidered flowers were scattered amongst the patches.
‘If you’re looking for a present for the special woman in your life,’ she said, holding it out to him, ‘what about this Kindle sleeve? I can do it in different sizes, to fit a phone, or iPad or laptop. Or,’ she added hurriedly, realising she was making a big assumption, ‘I have some in shades of blue if it’s a special man you’re buying for.’
‘There’s no one special. But if there was, I’d definitely be going for the pink.’ He smiled, and Helen put down the Kindle sleeve. ‘Will you be busy in the run-up to Christmas?’
‘I hope so.’ More than he could know. She needed to be busy, needed every penny she could earn, especially as life after Christmas was looking so uncertain.
‘Is that when you get most of your sales?’
‘It certainly increases then. But I have a loyal band of followers who come all year round.’
‘Do you ever put on demonstrations, show how it’s done?’
‘I’d love to! And to have a sewing circle, and classes, and seasonal workshops, but there’s simply no room here.’ She stopped, smiling. ‘I did warn you about that button.’ Helen looked round, checking what the other customers were up to, if she had any left. How had she become so distracted by this man? A coachload of visitors could have arrived without her noticing. ‘I’d better go and serve some customers. Thanks for looking.’
She turned away, but he spoke again.
‘Hold on, I am a customer.’
�
�I knew you wouldn’t resist the Kindle sleeve. It was the sparkly flowers, wasn’t it?’
He laughed. ‘Actually, I’d prefer this.’
He picked up a scarf from the counter in front of him. It was one of the simpler pieces, made from scraps of woollen fabric in beautiful shades of brown and heathery green, joined together by a plain herringbone stitch and without any extra embellishments. It was one of Helen’s favourite items, and she had never understood why it hadn’t sold in almost twelve months. He wrapped it round his neck, and smiled. ‘What do you think?’
She thought that if she put a picture of him wearing it in the shop, she’d sell hundreds of them. The colours in the scarf drew out an extraordinary warmth in his eyes: a warmth which was undoubtedly radiating towards her. She felt it like a flush along her skin.
‘It’s a perfect choice,’ Helen said, smiling back. ‘It could have been made for you. You can’t possibly not buy it. The till is right over here…’
Laughing, he followed her, paid for the scarf and left. Saskia hurried over as soon as the doors of St Andrew’s closed behind him.
‘Who was that?’ she demanded.
‘Who?’ Though there could hardly be any doubt who she meant.
‘That hot man, of course. You’re never going to tell me he sews.’
‘Not that I know of. Although,’ Helen added, pulling her eyes away from the doors at last and turning to Saskia, ‘what if he does? Sewing is the new knitting. Lots of cool and stylish people sew now.’ She only hoped Saskia wouldn’t ask her to name one.
‘If you say so.’ Saskia was clearly unconvinced. ‘What was all the flirting about?’
‘Did you think he was flirting?’ So she hadn’t imagined it! And though Helen wasn’t interested in finding a man – wasn’t interested in any man after Daniel – it was the first time since having Megan, since her appearance had changed, that she had noticed a man pay her attention. The kickstart it gave her confidence was worth a thousand times more than the profit on the scarf.
