The Summer of Second Chances

by Maddie Please

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  He put out a hand and touched my forearm, rubbing gently as one might soothe a miserable child.

  ‘Oh, you know.’ I tried to seem offhand. If he was too nice to me I might cry again and I was determined not to.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I even tried a laugh, but it didn’t come out right. More of a hiccup. ‘My sister’s gone back to Houston and I don’t know what I’m going to do when Jess sells this house. I’m sick and tired of decorating and cleaning and being on my own. I don’t know what’s round the corner. I don’t even know if the bin men will take these.’ I aimed a kick at the black bin liners. ‘They got very arsey about the amount of rubbish I left out a couple of weeks ago. They left a warning notice on my wheelie bin…’

  My voice was now so high pitched that only dogs and bats could probably understand me. I had to stop. I was going to cry. Even the bin men were against me. It was the final straw. I could feel an unstoppable tsunami of misery behind my eyes.

  He took the bags of rubbish and slung them in the back of his pickup truck. Then, without speaking, he came over to me and hugged me.

  I can’t tell you how good it felt. He was tall and broad and warm and he smelled of new-mown grass and wood smoke. I sobbed for a bit against his chest, my tears soaking into his sweater.

  I think a lot of men under these circumstances would have tried to get me to stop. Asked me what the matter was. Tried to reason with me. Bryn didn’t say anything. He just held me and waited for me to calm down. All the worry and sadness, the hurt and the insecurity and the fear came out. Ian’s months of betrayal. The shame of my many failures. The feebleness of my grasp on the future.

  Even with all that to deal with, I couldn’t cry forever. I had to stop at some point. I made all sorts of snuffling, gulping, incredibly unattractive noises, and fished in my pocket for a tissue. Bryn handed me a blue, spotted man handkerchief and I mopped myself up. I kept my head down. Some people can cry and look tragic and attractive. I’m not one of those people. I go the full gamut of piggy eyes, red nose, snot; you get the picture.

  Bryn leaned back and looked down at me.

  ‘Better?’ he said.

  I made a few more hiccupping, gulping noises and blew my nose as a trumpeting finale.

  I held out his handkerchief. ‘I’ll wash this,’ I said.

  He laughed. I could hear it rumbling up in his chest as he hugged me again and I relaxed into his arms. At that moment it felt the best place in the world to be. Solid and comfortable. Like I fitted into a shape made just for me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  ‘What for, you daft thing?’ He rested his chin on the top of my head.

  ‘All this.’

  ‘Stop it. You don’t have to say sorry to me.’

  I leaned my forehead on his broad chest and wondered if there was any possibility that I could just stay where I was for the rest of time.

  Bryn released me and took my hand. He pulled me towards his house. ‘Come on, you’re cold. How about that drink I promised you?’

  ‘That was months ago. You don’t have to. I must look a sight.’

  ‘Come on. You look fine. I want to. I’ll cook you dinner too. I think you need a bit of TLC.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ I said, mistress of the understatement.

  CHAPTER 14

  Azaleas – passion

  His house was exactly what I expected. I caught a better glimpse of the sitting room, comfortable sofas grouped around a low wooden table, and the walls painted dark red. Bryn led me through into the pale cream kitchen that was filled with chunky wooden units; solid and smooth with the patina of old age juxtaposed with the new granite worktops I remembered from my first visit. A mismatched selection of crockery interspersed with balls of twine, a glass jar of small change, some secateurs and a few battered cookery books filled the fitted dresser that stretched the length of one wall. There was a mug and plate in the Belfast sink, otherwise the place was immaculate. It was certainly tidier than my kitchen.

  ‘Sit down.’ He pushed me onto a chair and passed me a box of man-sized tissues. ‘Hang on to those, just in case you’re not quite done.’

  I gave a weak laugh. ‘I think I’m OK.’

  ‘Good. Now then, first things first.’

  He pulled out a dusty bottle of red wine from the rack and opened it.

  ‘Red wine’s very good for you. Full of iron to give you strength,’ he said.

  He poured me a generous glassful and I sipped it; it was exactly what I needed. Nothing fancy with medal-shaped stickers on the bottle, just a decent red wine. I sat and enjoyed the feeling as it worked its way down to my cold, empty stomach.

  ‘OK?’ He threw me a concerned look.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m just going to put a match to the fire in the sitting room. Stay here, I won’t be a minute.’

  I watched him through the hallway as he crouched down in front of the inglenook fireplace and lit the fire. I heard the kindling crackling and then the smell of applewood logs burning. It made me feel safe and happy for the first time in months. I nipped into the downstairs cloakroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I looked a fright. My hair was all over the place and my nose was all blotchy. I did what I could to sort myself out before he came back into the kitchen, brushing the dust off his hands.

  ‘Right then, what shall I cook? Any requests?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t mind. I’m really not fussy. I’ll eat absolutely anything. As long as it’s not tofu. Or pineapple. And I’m allergic to shellfish. Not proper allergic but I come out in a rash. Ooh and I don’t much like tuna. Or rare meat. Or duck. Or blackcurrants.’

  ‘But apart from that you’ll eat anything?’ he laughed.

  ‘Sorry. I’m being a pain.’

  He came over, hunkered down in front of me and took hold of my cold hands in his. He bent his head and kissed them. I felt his stubble graze my fingers; his hands were warm and slightly roughened. It felt very, very sexy.

  ‘You’re not being a pain.’ He looked up at me again and I caught my breath. I had forgotten how beautiful his blue eyes were. ‘And do me a favour, stop saying sorry, OK?’

  ‘Sorry, I mean – oh hell.’

  We both laughed and he stood up and went to open a door, revealing an old-fashioned pantry stocked with canned food and dried goods. On a slate shelf was a ham on a china stand. He brought it out and put it on the kitchen table.

  ‘Ham, egg and chips?’ he said.

  My mouth watered. ‘Oh, yes please. I haven’t had that for years.’

  ‘Never fails. One of my favourites. Mustard, brown sauce or ketchup?’

  ‘Mustard.’

  ‘Excellent, me too.’

  I sipped my wine while he got cutlery and crockery out of drawers and cupboards, his movements efficient and graceful for such a large man. Bryn slid a tray of oven chips into the Aga, sliced the ham with a razor-sharp knife, and then cooked eggs in a bubbling pan of butter.

  ‘Not really into all this cholesterol stuff, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I tend to eat what tastes good.’

  ‘Well you look great on it,’ I said, and then I blushed, hoping it hadn’t sounded as though I was flirting. Although I probably was.

  We sat and chatted for a while, consuming more of the wine. Then Bryn passed me a plate of food and slid a pot of English mustard after it. While I helped myself to a fair-sized dollop, he sliced some hunks of crusty bread, leaving them on the breadboard in front of me with a slab of butter in a glass dish.

  ‘I’ll never eat all this,’ I said.

  ‘I bet you do,’ he said, sitting down opposite me, ‘you don’t look like you’ve had a square meal in weeks.’

  Did I finish it? Of course I did. I even took a slice of the bread, which was heavenly, and made a chip buttie.

  ‘Enjoy that?’ he said, pushing his chair back from the table as we finished.

 
‘Bliss,’ I replied.

  Bryn came round and collected my plate and stacked it in the sink with his.

  ‘Come on, bring your wine,’ he said, ‘the fire will be just right by now.’

  We went into the sitting room and I sat in one of the huge, comfortable sofas, watching as he added a few more logs to the fire in the inglenook fireplace. Then he closed the curtains against the dark evening outside.

  I looked around, noticing the smallest portable TV in the Western world half hidden behind a pile of gardening magazines on a floor to ceiling bookcase; not an Emmerdale fan, then. There was an old red leather armchair pulled up next to the fireplace where I guessed he normally sat. Nothing was particularly new or smart, but everything seemed to fit well together. The room was furnished with things chosen for their comfort and quality rather than for style.

  Something was niggling at me but it took me a few minutes to realise what it was. There were absolutely no feminine touches anywhere. No flowery tea towels in the kitchen or ornaments or brass bowls of potpourri in this room. There was no evidence Bonnie lived here. No casually draped throws over the sofa, no invitations to friends’ weddings above the fireplace. I was desperate to ask but didn’t want to do anything that would make him glance at the clock on the mantelpiece with a guilty start or check his mobile phone for texts. Although if he did that I would have wanted to know what network he was on, because I never had any service.

  The fire flickered and crackled as the new logs caught the flame. Bryn lit a couple of huge candles on the mantelpiece and then came and sat beside me. He topped up my wine glass.

  ‘Warm enough?’ he said.

  ‘Perfectly,’ I kicked off my shoes and curled my feet underneath me. ‘I’ll have to be careful I don’t fall asleep.’

  ‘Feel free,’ he said, sipping his wine and leaning back on the cushions.

  We sat in a comfortable silence for a while, then we made small talk about nothing in particular. It was lovely. It was almost familiar.

  We finished the wine and he went to find another bottle. I closed my eyes, content for the first time in ages. Outside I could hear the rain beating against the window. I felt as though we were in a safe, warm nest. Just the two of us. The world and all its problems were locked out.

  He came back in and topped up our wine glasses. I watched his hand on the bottle, his fingers curled around the neck of it, his nails short and square. He had taken his sweater off and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. I could see the muscles in his forearm, the small freckles on his wrist, and the golden glint of the hairs light against his tan. I had to say something or I would be lost.

  I said the first thing to come into my head. Stupid. Ridiculous.

  ‘How was Lady Trehorlicks?’

  Bryn sat down again, slightly closer to me and stretched one arm out along the back of the sofa.

  ‘She’s a character.’

  ‘Is she young and pretty? Did she have a spotty raincoat? Or a Labrador?’

  Bryn looked rather confused for a moment.

  ‘Um, no, none of the above. She must be in her eighties, but she’s the sort who will go on forever. Feisty, you know. The kind of woman who built the Empire. She’s delightful. And she didn’t have a Labrador but she did have a Border terrier called Nigel. And she’s tiny, no more than five feet tall. Wiry.’

  ‘She’s probably never had your ham egg and chips,’ I said.

  ‘If she did it would be served on a silver chafing dish in the dining room.’

  I giggled. It wasn’t that funny. I sipped my wine. I was suddenly nervous.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’ve got you to myself at last. It’s taken some doing, Lottie.’

  I looked up at him. The firelight was flickering on his face, candlelight casting shadows across the room. His eyes searched mine with an expression I couldn’t read. He looked at my mouth. I’ve read enough magazine articles to recognise that sign. He wanted to kiss me. And oh God I wanted to let him.

  I sipped my drink and with a massive effort looked away. I felt as though I was on the threshold of something. It was no use. I was going to stand and watch myself fall.

  I thought I heard a car outside and I stiffened.

  ‘Won’t Bonnie be back soon?’ I said.

  Why? Why did I have to bring her name up at this particular moment? Did I have a death wish?

  Bryn gave a short laugh. ‘I think you might have the wrong idea about Bonnie. We were close once but we broke up a long time ago,’ he said, ‘it was all quite amicable but she kept coming back to collect stuff, to see me. We agreed we would be friends. I was like a sort of security blanket, I think. She took one thing at a time to spin the process out for as long as possible. I knew she was hoping we might get back together but it was never on the cards. Not as far as I’m concerned.’

  I was confused. ‘But I thought she was living here? She was going to organise a party for you.’

  Bryn shook his head. ‘I put a stop to the party as soon as I found out about it. I hate that sort of thing.’

  ‘I thought you would.’

  He smiled. ‘Did you?’

  He took my wine glass from me and put it on the table with his. Then he turned back and touched my face with one finger, making me shiver.

  ‘I’m sorry for Bonnie. She’s had her problems and I’m fond of her. I feel a bit responsible for her, I guess.’ He pushed my hair off my face and looked into my eyes. His arm along the back of the sofa slipped around my shoulders. ‘But then I saw you. Covered in paint. And I thought, who is this crazy, beautiful, accident-prone woman? Why am I thinking about her all the time? Why does she make my day every time I see her?’

  ‘And there was me thinking you just wanted to get me drunk and have your wicked way with me,’ I said.

  Never one to miss the opportunity to say something stupid, me.

  He leaned forward and kissed me. His mouth was warm and gentle on mine.

  ‘It wouldn’t be wicked,’ he said. ‘I think it would be wonderful.’

  CHAPTER 15

  French marigold – sorrow, deceit

  I woke up the following morning without the faintest idea of where I was. There was an unfamiliar little clock softly ticking by the side of the bed, pale crewelwork curtains at the window. I was expecting to be in my spare room, still faintly scented with my sister’s Chanel perfume and crowded with black bin bags of my clutter. Instead I could see a marble-topped washstand underneath the window, a deep armchair upholstered in dark red tapestry fabric and – oh yes – my knickers on the window seat.

  Hell’s bells, what had I done? Where was I? I stretched out a cautious hand and touched someone in the bed beside me.

  Then the events of the previous evening came back to me and, just for a moment, I relaxed. I felt a huge grin stretch across my face. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing.

  I’d been a virgin when I met Ian and our rather predictable sex life was all I knew. I had nothing much to compare it to. The cinematic moans of couples in ecstasy were a mystery to me. Pop songs filled with lust and desire fulfilled went over my head. I had never understood how an act so mundane could inspire such interest. It was something couples did while one of them planned the week’s menus, wasn’t it?

  No, it bloody wasn’t.

  Now, at 6.34 a.m. on September 14, I knew what all the fuss was about.

  I listened to Bryn’s steady breathing beside me and I remembered.

  He had kissed me more thoroughly than I had ever been kissed in my life. He had kissed my mouth, my breasts, my eyelids, my ears. His breath had warmed my neck and made me quiver. His hands had been tender then firm then gentle again. He had moved over me and round me and inside me, stroking and touching until I thought I would faint. My heart was hammering so hard I wondered if I was having a seizure.

  He whispered to me against my hair, my back, my throat. Words of longing and lust and his need for me. He had waited so long for me. He wanted me. He desired me. He
watched me as he made love to me, as I felt myself melt into him. He cried out my name and held me against his heart.

  What can I say? The earth moved. In fact, it probably shifted several degrees to the right. There may have been some structural damage in Collumpton. I was mad, I was sane, I was saved, I was lost. I had sobbed. Now I knew. And not once had I thought about what to have for lunch on Wednesday.

  I began to think more lucidly. What did I do now? I hadn’t woken up in bed with another person since…when? Well, since the morning of December 31 to be precise. I’d hardly ever in my life woken up in bed naked with another naked person. In the past, pyjamas featured quite heavily in my bedtime preparations and they were always a birthday and Christmas gift from Susan. Perhaps she wanted to make sure I was nocturnally decent? Well sod that for a game of soldiers. Those days were gone.

  I curled and stretched out in the huge bed, enjoying the feel of the cool sheet under my back, remembering how Bryn had held me as I trembled.

  Bryn.

  I turned and saw he was watching me. Instinctively I pulled the duvet up under my chin.

  He raised himself up on one elbow and smiled down at me.

  ‘Good morning, Lottie. And how are you?’

  Suddenly I was no longer the wanton, sex-starved woman of last night. I was me again; shy, thirty-four, agonised, waiting to say the wrong thing.

  ‘Fine,’ I said in a small voice.

  He kissed me and ran a warm hand down my flank, making me quiver.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee.’

  He kissed me again, pushed back the duvet and got out of bed. There was a blue cotton dressing gown hanging on the back of the bedroom door and he went to put it on. But not before I had taken a good look at his long legs, the sweep of his smooth strong back, his broad shoulders, his neat bum. Crumbs. I felt like a jumble sale of assembled parts in comparison.

  In comparison. That was a horrible thought. What must he have thought of me? How did my rather ordinary body compare with the sleek, toned, exfoliated physique Bonnie would have presented to him in this same bed? How did her titian curls look first thing in the morning? How far did she wrap her long legs around him? Further than I could, I expected. Did she know Bryn had particularly sensitive shoulders? Had he groaned with pleasure as he had when I touched him? Had she run her tongue across his instep as I had?