The Summer of Second Chances

by Maddie Please

  And my word they were dull. First came Phil from Ian’s Accounts department, festive in beige cardigan and cords and just as tedious as I remembered. His equally colourless young wife, Emma, stood wiping her spotless shoes on the doormat for several minutes while Phil plucked at my sleeve, wanting to regale me with the uneventful story of their journey and the excitement of a burst water main at the bottom of our lane, which was causing a mini flood. Ian picked up on my agonised eye rolling signals and scooped them up and away into the drawing room while I dealt with the steady stream of arrivals.

  Next Karen and her husband, Bruce (resplendent in a Santa-strewn Christmas jumper) arrived, trying to conclude a heated squabble about whether it was going to snow and what constituted a white Christmas. They are enormous fun and nothing suits this couple more than a good argument.

  Trudy from Ian’s HR department brought her grubby-looking fiancé, Ken, and both stood nursing drinks and casting glowering glances at Ian. There was no sign of someone called Julian from the IT department, so perhaps he was elsewhere attending to some techno-crisis. No sign of Steve from the granite place either. Perhaps he was busy with the naughty little brunette? I caught Ian’s eye and he blew me a kiss. I grinned, and then realised that Trudy from HR was watching me, distinctly stony faced.

  I remember Sophie, a local friend of mine, having a lively conversation with Karen and Jess about the ongoing political scandal concerning a cabinet minister and a pole dancer. I went to join them for a few minutes but then I saw Ian waggling his eyebrows at me across the room and he jerked his head imperceptibly towards Greg Palmer, so I moved on.

  Greg was standing by the fireplace talking to Karen’s husband, Bruce, his wine glass lodged between our Christmas cards, and his face lit up when I hove into view.

  ‘’Ello ’ello ’ello! A tasty treat!’ he said, taking a vol-au-vent and looking down the front of my dress. ‘That’s what we all need.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Greg. How’s the hand?’

  ‘Doctor Hawkins did a good job. No ill effects at all. Funnily enough I saw him in the pub the other day. He asked after you.’

  ‘Really?’ That was nice to hear. ‘Give him my regards when you see him again. I hope he had a good Christmas, he told me he usually hates it.’

  ‘I will. He seemed quite cheerful actually. For once he stopped to talk.’

  ‘He’s been like that since his wife died. His three daughters descend with their children as soon as the schools break up every term and boss him about until it’s time to go back home. It can’t be much fun for him.’

  Across the room I caught another meaningful glance from Ian.

  I don’t know what he was expecting me to do. I returned his stare for a second and Ian pulled an agonised face. He was obviously expecting something of me.

  ‘And how are you enjoying living in The Grange?’ I said.

  ‘Fine, fine. Of course it’s needed a lot of work, looks like the last people to live there redecorated back in the 1940s. There were a lot of bare floorboards, old rugs that sort of thing. And no en suites at all!’

  He raised his eyebrows at me to emphasise the depths of the squalor.

  ‘I’ve always hated en suites actually,’ I said, my second bucket of wine making me bold, ‘why would you want a toilet in the corner of your bedroom?’

  Greg laughed. ‘Good point, but Jess insists on it so we’re having two put in. You must come over one evening and have a look around. See what we’ve done. You too, Bruce.’

  ‘I’ll tell Karen. She loves a good nose around other people’s houses,’ Bruce said and then he wandered off to talk to someone else.

  ‘Count me in,’ I said. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Your husband has some interesting ideas,’ Greg said, rescuing his drink from the mantelpiece and taking a large gulp of his wine. ‘Thinks there might be some prospects in the village. The Old Forge is up for sale for a start.’

  ‘That’s been empty for quite a while,’ I said, trying to sound wise and knowledgeable, ‘rising damp and the roof needs replacing.’

  Greg put his glass down and reached for another canapé, holding my hand steady on the platter as he did so in a quite unnecessary way. I think he was just one of those men who can’t help themselves. He steered me round a little, darting cautious glances over my shoulder. Then I realised what he was up to.

  ‘God this is good. If you stand there Jess can’t see me eating this stuff,’ he said, ‘she’s trying to get me off carbs. New Year, new stick to beat me with.’

  We chatted for a few minutes while Greg availed himself of my tasty treats at high speed.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely-looking garden. I saw some of it the other day when I called in,’ he said, brushing pastry crumbs off his tie.

  ‘You called in?’ This was news to me. I wondered why Ian hadn’t mentioned it.

  ‘Ian invited me up for coffee. I think you were at the hairdresser. Who does your garden?’ he continued.

  ‘We have a gardener who spruces things up once or twice a month. It’s something I’d like to get into though.’

  ‘Really? Well done you. I like a lady with lots of hidden talents. My brother is a gardener. He has a place near Exeter, his plot was quite spectacular, the last time I saw it anyway. His house is a bit of a shambles, but the garden? It was divine.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers to show his admiration.

  ‘Marvellous.’

  For all his brashness I was beginning to like him.

  ‘Ah well.’ I looked at my now empty platter, Greg had been shovelling in mushroom vol-au-vents with surprising speed during the course of our conversation. ‘I’d better go and get some more food and mingle otherwise I’ll be in trouble!’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble,’ Greg said predictably, wiping his mouth.

  I went out to the kitchen and Ian followed me.

  ‘What did he say?’ he hissed.

  I put my platter down and went out of the kitchen door to have a crafty cigarette. I seemed to be the only one smoking. And to be honest I quite liked that. It was one of the few things that made me different, daring.

  ‘Oh just general chitchat. Said you had some interesting ideas.’ I lit up and took a deep drag. The nicotine hit my blood stream in a delicious fizz. God, I loved smoking. I was supposed to be quitting in the New Year as usual. Time to make the most of it while I had the chance.

  ‘Really? What else?’

  ‘He talked about gardening. He said he had been here. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, it slipped my mind I suppose. That Jess looks like she goes to the gym pretty regularly, doesn’t she?’ He slapped my bottom playfully. ‘You might consider going with her a bit more often. You could do with toning up.’

  ‘You’re bloody rude sometimes, you know.’

  ‘Only joking, gorgeous. Did he say anything else about me? About us working together?’

  ‘Do you want me to pass him a note for you at playtime?’ I took a last drag and stubbed out my cigarette on the wall. The night was very cold, almost as though it might snow. I went back into the kitchen, refilled my wine glass and passed the bottle to Ian.

  He topped up his glass and emptied it in one go. He should probably slow down on the drinking. He was already slurring his words.

  ‘I need shomeone like him, don’t you undershtand. I need a bit of a what d’you call it, cash injection.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to ask him to bung us a few quid!’ I said.

  ‘I din’t mean that. Did he mention The Old Forge?’

  I turned and reloaded my platter. ‘Yes, he said it was for sale and I said it had been empty for a while because it had rising damp.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the roof needed replacing.’

  Ian made an exasperated noise. ‘I didn’t mean that. What else?’

  ‘He went on about en suites for a bit. I said I didn’t like them.’

  Ian was aghast an
d rocked against the table. ‘For God’s sake, whose shide are you on? You din’t?’

  ‘He just laughed and said Jess liked them so they were going to put in two.’

  Ian went over to the freezer and pulled out the bottle of vodka he kept in there for emergencies. He poured himself a slug and knocked it back. I made a mental note to dig out the aspirin for later.

  He put the bottle back under the frozen peas and turned round.

  ‘Does he need a new kitchen?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does he need a new kitchen at The Grange?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ask him yourself.’

  Ian refilled his wine glass. ‘I can’t. You ask him.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Ian caught hold of my arm and a couple of cocktail sausages rolled off my platter onto the floor. I went to pick them up.

  ‘You don’t undershtand, Lottie…’

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ It was Sophie, tottering in the doorway, an empty wine glass in her hand.

  ‘Fab party, Lottie; Greg Palmer is a scream, isn’t he? Who is that Trudy person? She is well weird. God I’m pissed.’

  Ian looked at me, slightly wild-eyed. It was only later that I realised why.

  ‘Lottie—’

  I thrust the platter into his hands.

  ‘Take those and mingle, Ian, I’ll be out in a minute.’

  Ian weaved off and I saw Trudy following him across the room with a determined eye on him and the sausages.

  Sophie hugged me, more for support than anything, and reached past me for an open wine bottle.

  ‘How are you, hon? Is this white or red? Oh well, who cares?’

  She sloshed some of Ian’s finest Barolo into her glass and took a sip.

  ‘Fine, I wish I could take these shoes off, my feet are killing me.’ I looked down at my new stilettos. Two hundred quid and I could hardly walk in them.

  ‘Oh just take them off, no one will notice. They’re all too busy looking down Jess’s cleavage anyway. She’s nice though, isn’t she? You’ve gotta like her. She’s been telling me about some nail artist she knew in Spain, could do flags of all nationalities.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘True as I’m standing here.’ She swayed a little and hiccupped. ‘God, I’d better eat something or I’m going to pass out before we get to midnight.’

  Sophie grabbed the sausages I had rescued from the floor and chewed.

  ‘What time is it anyway?’

  I looked up at the kitchen clock, amazed that at last it told the right time.

  ‘Eleven thirty; Ian better get the champagne ready,’ I said.

  I began to load up my tray with some prohibitively overpriced mini cheesecakes and filled chocolate shells and then went out to circulate again. Someone had turned the music up; the conversation was noticeably louder as a result. I noticed Ken deep in conversation with Bruce. As I passed them I earwigged.

  ‘…yes, but do you see, in the end the carburettor gets completely clogged and then you have to think about a re-bore. A mate of mine…’

  Ah, I had forgotten Bruce was a petrol-head, it seemed he had found a kindred spirit. I moved on.

  Karen was standing by the fireplace reading our Christmas cards. She turned and relieved me of two chocolate cups. Then she looked around the room for a few moments.

  ‘I can’t see her now but tell me again, who is the strange, dumpy woman who keeps following Ian about?’

  ‘Trudy Stroud from HR,’ I said, looking around for her.

  ‘Yes, I remember. She has all the social skills of a wombat. Not that I know many wombats. I tried to talk to her and she looked at me as though I was mad. Totally ignored me. These chocolate things are really good, did you make them?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. As if. They’re from that new deli in the Summergate.’

  ‘Scrummy! I keep meaning to go there, and then the electricity bill comes in.’

  I looked around for Ian but he was nowhere to be seen. I worried for a moment he might have cornered Greg and be designing him a new Windermere kitchen on the back of a paper napkin. After a few minutes I saw Greg across the room talking to Sophie, who was laughing like a hyena and hanging on to his arm, and Emma who was doing neither of those things. Instead she was standing with a glass of something rather orange in her hand and ‘responsible, designated driver’ emanating from her like a miasma.

  Greg looked up and caught my eye. ‘Nearly midnight, Cinders,’ he said, tapping his large and very impressive gold watch. ‘I put a couple of bottles in the fridge.’

  I handed my platter to Karen. ‘I’d better find Ian. Perhaps he’s gone to the loo?’

  I went out into the hall, feeling quite merry and more than a little unsteady on my feet. It was nice to be a part of a celebration for once, not just watch other people enjoy themselves. I was glad Ian had thought of this party, it was going well and the house had never looked better. I’d chucked out last year’s gold and green decorations and bought a load of new ones in peacock shades accented with silver. Everyone had admired them. We weren’t the type of couple to collect decorations with sentimental connections and we didn’t have children so there were no woollen robins or loo-roll angels.

  I kicked off my shoes and wandered about in my stockinged feet, my toes throbbing, still looking for Ian. I wanted to be there to kiss him as midnight chimed, give him a hug, admit I’d been wrong about the wisdom of this party. He wasn’t in the downstairs cloakroom, or the kitchen. I even looked in the utility room although it wasn’t a place Ian knew much about.

  Someone had switched the television on in the sitting room, and I could hear a female celebrity hyperventilating about the New Year and shouting how everyone should be in London tonight and if they weren’t then they were either stupid or dead. It sounded as though she was either already plastered or on something prohibited. Karen was asking where her glass was. Bruce was telling her to look in the hall. Jess was laughing; that rapid-fire, honking laugh that almost shook the windows. The volume of noise was increasing as people began to be more excited. If he wasn’t careful, Ian and his champagne would be too late.

  And then everything went spectacularly wrong.

  CHAPTER 7

  Foxglove – insincerity, deceit

  The following day I was well over my hangover, Bonnie’s red car had gone from Bryn’s driveway and I felt much better and more confident about things.

  I decided that from now on I was going to be relentlessly optimistic and cheerful. I read a magazine interview once with an admittedly not very successful actress who believed that positive thoughts make all sorts of good things happen. Almost as though money and starring roles and Fortnum and Mason hampers could be attracted magnetically towards you. Like a personal Hadron Collider for treats. Shortly after that I remember her being declared bankrupt, but it was worth a try.

  I had a quick shower and admired the cobweb-free bathroom. I had at last scrubbed the final bits of graffiti off the mirror and only the very faintest of greasy marks still remained if I looked at it from a particular angle. Something I decided I wouldn’t do. After all, I was looking at everything in a positive light from now on.

  I had breakfast and washed up in such a chirpy frame of mind that I might have expected bluebirds to fly in through the kitchen window to put the plates away. Then I spent a couple of careful hours glossing the woodwork in the hall.

  While I did so I enjoyed pleasant daydreams involving cruise ships, trips on the Orient Express and airplane flights where I was instantly upgraded to first class by a smiling flight attendant with a bottle of champagne in her hands. Never having done any of these things, it all took a lot of imagining. Particularly when it came to the smiling flight attendant.

  By the time I finished painting, I realised that somewhere in the background of all these daydreams there was a man. Extremely tall and very broad shouldered. Sometimes he was casual in jeans and a dazzling white T-shirt. Occasionally he leaned ag
ainst the ship’s rail in evening dress while the dark sea slipped away behind him into a glorious sunset. On the airline flight he wore a polo shirt and chinos and occasionally reached over to hold my hand and kiss my immaculately manicured fingertips. With a guilty start I realised it was a man who looked a lot like Bryn. It certainly wasn’t Ian.

  I put the pictures and hallstand back in their places and cleared up. I really needed to get out of the house. I was dreaming up an unhealthy obsession with a virtual stranger. I knew nothing about him other than he liked gardening, might be a footballer and had a girlfriend who was younger and a million times more attractive than I could ever be. I went to find my handbag and car keys and drove away from Holly Cottage and into Stokeley. If I could only find a café where I could sit amongst other people.

  I drove around looking for a parking space. Or more accurately two parking spaces together so I had a sporting chance of fitting my car in without any embarrassment. It was Monday so it didn’t take long. I was lucky and parked without incident or an audience near the market square.

  I found a café nearby where perhaps for the first time in the year there were a few tables set outside. The sunlight was dappling through the trees, the tables had blue checked cloths and a few ladies, muffled up in padded coats and warm scarves, were drinking coffee out of large china cups and chatting. There were a couple of cheeky sparrows hopping about between the tables pecking at crumbs. A tortoiseshell cat was impersonating a loaf of bread on a windowsill. The whole scene was decidedly French.

  As I got out and looked around, my new mobile began rattling into life. One text after another pinged into the inbox. I hadn’t realised how far off the mobile network I had been or how long it had been since I had been in contact with anyone. The boy in the mobile phone shop had managed to keep my old phone number and there were over forty texts. There were several missed calls and about ten text messages each from Sophie and Karen. Most of the others were from my sister, Jenny. This was not and could never be, A Good Thing.