I scooped up my slipper and went back to sit with it on the stairs. The wood was hard under my backside as I changed out of my shoes.
The inside of one slipper was contorted enough that it scratched my foot as I tried to put it on. “Dave! You’ve been chewing again! You bad dog.” Again, I really needed to work on my boss voice. I pushed my foot into the slipper—
A cold wet residue spread itself across my toes. Gross. “They’re the third pair since April, Dave! What are you—a fetishist?” He whimpered at that.
I reached into my bag hanging next to me for a tissue to wipe Dave’s essence away. The last thing I’d put in there was Charlie’s mail. I left the tissue and pulled the pamphlet free of my bag for another look at that which had captured Charlie’s imagination. The perfect couple, toasting their quirky getaway under a twilit sky. How could we have known how fragile it all was? The infinity of the world around us, the promise of our youth, the protection of our love. All gone in seconds, leaving nothing to believe in.
chapter 7
“Mrs. Jefferson!” came the boom of a voice I hadn’t heard for a while. “How are you doin’, darlin’?”
The forest air was crisp and fresh, and exactly the pick-me-up I’d needed. I hadn’t spent an afternoon in the forest for so long, and it had been a stretch of many more months since I’d last bumped into any of Charlie’s crew. Dave ran ahead to the base of the tree from where Big Frank Stanley’s familiar tone was emanating, and wagged himself silly until Big Frank shuffled down.
“Agh, get away, mad dog!” Frank jovially cried as I staggered through the mulch towards them. Frank was the biggest man I’d ever met, but still Dave looked like a monster as he charged playfully towards him.
“Dave! Leave him alone.... He’s only little.” I grinned as Frank pushed Dave aside to come greet me.
Frank grabbed hold of me in a bear hug. “Hello, darlin’,” he rumbled, his beard bristling uncomfortably against my face. He smelled like Charlie after a long day. Of chainsaw fuel, and pine needles.
“Hey, Frank. How have you been?” I asked, fighting the urge to smooth the itch he’d left on my cheek. He had the look of a Viking about him, but if I thought Charlie’s broad shoulders were well suited to working the forest, Frank made Charlie look as though he shouldn’t be far from his mother. I hadn’t missed being eaten out of house and home by him on footy nights, but seeing him now I realised that I had indeed missed him.
“Same old same old.” He smiled through a covering of reddish whiskers thick enough to hide his lips. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Nowhere.” I shrugged. “Just been busy with work and things.”
“I know that feeling. I’m just trying to get a few extra quid in over a weekend.”
“I hadn’t expected to see anyone up here on a Saturday,” I said as we strolled through the trees.
“It’s all go up here at the moment.” A seriousness settled in his features. “There’s a few of the lads out today. Deckard and Jimmy are here somewhere, marking off the boundaries for the suits. You know about the slade, over on the west side?”
“I heard they were talking about it. But then it all went quiet. We don’t hear much over our way without anyone to keep us in the loop.” I shrugged.
“Three years fighting and now they’re still selling them out from under us.”
The campaigners had put up a good fight, but we knew there would be a domino effect once the sell-offs had started. Before long, none of these forests would be open to the public anymore. Worse still, they would be developed.
“I’m sorry, Frank.” I really was. Sick with sorry, in fact. For all of Charlie’s efforts here to come to nothing, it was beyond crushing. Here was the closest thing Charlie had to a legacy.
He’d invested so much time trying to think of new and tangible ways of keeping the forests an integral part of the local community. Then, one night, over beer and nostalgia, Charlie had his eureka moment. He’d been telling Martha and Rob about his awful school days, where he’d been expelled from one high school and forgotten by his next. He’d been aggressive, and disruptive—everything you didn’t want from a teenage boy. Everything Charlie wasn’t.
But it had all been a diversion. A mechanism for survival. Because no one had ever diagnosed Charlie’s dyslexia.
Martha cried when Charlie told her the things he’d do to avoid being called upon for answers in class. He made light of it, but I knew how it had affected him, how he worried that our children would suffer the same way. School for him had been a demoralizing experience, and a lonely one, too, but even we were stunned when Rob told us the proportion of offenders he’d represented with learning difficulties such as Charlie’s. Individuals who had all started off with expulsions for behaviour just like his, children crippled by shame. It had taken Charlie a long time to finally accept that he wasn’t simply stupid.
Rob had raised the topic of forest schools that night. We’d never heard of them, not even through Charlie’s work. The more Rob had explained what it was he understood forest schools to be, the more Charlie had hung on his every word. He’d thought that a forest school was the answer, to the sustainability of the forest and to the local children who could benefit from all that they offered.
“They’re not talking about it now,” said Big Frank, grabbing for a stick Dave was thrusting at his hand. “The slade’s gone. Sold. It’s all fenced off now by the new owners. They’ll be moving into the woodland next.”
I looked around me into the eeriness of the forest. It was so beautiful here, I couldn’t bear it if we lost the woods, too. Frank kicked at a few fallen pine cones as we walked, sending them spinning from the rich damp earth.
“I’d better let you get on, Frank,” I said, reaching up to give him a hug goodbye. “Say hi to Annie for me?”
“I will. Watch for that mad dog of yours.”
Another bristled cheek and Big Frank turned back towards where Dave had first found him.
Dave went back on his leash as we neared the more populated walks. The path led us through the woods, past the forest park where families were picnicking and chasing each other around on bikes, before taking us out onto the slade at the foot of the forest. All along the perimeter, iron stakes held aloft red and white tape, flickering uselessly in the breeze. Although it had quite obviously been demarked as somewhere we couldn’t go anymore, it was hard to accept that so much space was suddenly off limits.
The pocket of my jacket flashed to life with the phone ringing inside it. It was Jesse’s face on the screen.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“All right, Hol, sorry to spoil your day off.”
“No, you’re fine. Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. It’s just, I’ve got a lady on the shop phone asking if we can make two hundred cupcakes for Monday.”
“Monday? This Monday coming?” I asked. It was unusual for anyone to have a function on a Monday, and be this late for ordering.
“Yeah, I didn’t want to say yes without checking it with you first.”
“Thanks, Jess. Did she say what they’re for?” Dave was trying to pull me into the slade. He’d never been bothered before—now he wasn’t allowed, he wanted in. I heard Jess running my query through the other phone.
“No, no function.”
“Delivery or collection?” I asked.
“Collection.” I couldn’t help but be suspicious. You tended to get a feel for quantities and days, that kind of thing. This sounded like a wind-up.
“Okay,” I said, “but they need to pay it all up front, today. Otherwise we can’t start it when we get in on Monday. And no cheques, Jess.”
“You got it. Catch you later,” he said.
“’Bye.”
Jess clicked the phone off. It
was unlikely I’d be making those cupcakes on Monday; I could near enough feel it.
Dave and I were back in the old Land Rover Mrs Hedley let me use to cart him around in, and well on our way home when my mobile started ringing again. Jesse, Martha and my folks all had the same ringtone, so whoever this was I didn’t know them, I didn’t think. I ignored it and carried on for home. The sky had already started falling into that rich cerulean blue by the time I’d dropped the key round to Mrs Hedley. I needed an excuse to get out of movie night at Martha’s.
As soon as I’d let us into the cottage, Dave went straight for his spot on the floor at the back of the kitchen. I crashed, too, on the window seat halfway between Dave’s bed and the bottle of wine I’d left on the breakfast bar, and lay back there looking up at the rows of books on the shelves above me. I held my phone above my face and flipped through the menu to text Martha. I know, I’m a coward, but it’s markedly easier to say anything when you don’t have to use your voice to do it.
The call I’d missed was from a number I didn’t recognise. They hadn’t left a voicemail.
Martha returned my text within seconds, checking that I was feeling okay and not having the meltdown my mother was always warning everyone to be ready for. Martha was surprisingly fine, though. I should imagine it was nice for them to have a Saturday night to themselves for a change without me as the third wheel. I didn’t fancy Rob’s chances for getting out of the grapefruit breakfast tomorrow, though.
My arm started to ache from mid-air texting, so I rolled onto my side. Martha had made a long mid-grey cushion to run along the cream timber seat, and had insisted on at least six scatter cushions in soft lime and grey to finish off “the look.” Never mind how it looked, it was pretty damn comfortable here. Comfy enough to just slope off into a sleep. I pulled a cushion under my head. Across the kitchen, through the chunky legs of the table, I could see Dave’s hulking frame already snoozing in his bed. He had an easy life. Reluctantly, I pushed myself up.
A glass of red and a soak in the tub were the only things that were going to get me on my feet.
Dave was already too far gone to come sit in the bathroom with me. I poured a glass of wine, grabbed one of the deli pots out of the fridge and headed up on my own. I polished off the feta chunks while I changed out of my jeans and T-shirt, and wished I’d bought more as I sank my tired body into the hot silk of the water. There were few things more pleasurable than sliding into a deep bubble bath. Well, there were a few things, though I could vaguely remember what those things felt like. Vaguely. I resolved to start making more time for baths and showering less.
The change in temperature rippled me with gratifying goosebumps. I lay back and closed my eyes, enjoying the drip, drip, drip of the tap into the otherwise still water at my feet. The stiffness in my shoulder from Dave’s yanking gradually began to release. Through barely open eyes, I lifted a foot to the trickle of cold water, plugging the tap with my toe, and was more than shocked at how long I must have left it since last defuzzing my legs.
Bloody hell, Holly. You won’t need to wear trousers through the winter if that grows much more!
I spotted my razor on the tray in the shower. “Oh, sod it, I’ll do it tomorrow,” I said, before settling cold shoulders back into the warmth beneath the waterline.
I relaxed again, the noises of the water swilling around me died away to nothing. Downstairs, I could hear Dave sucking in a deep, sleepy breath through his nose, then the dull buzzing of my mobile phone vibrating on the bed.
I thought Martha had given up too easily.
Just ignore it.
But then she’ll worry.
Go answer the phone.
“Damn it, Martha!”
The towel I grabbed had spent just long enough to warm through on the radiator. I pulled myself free of the water’s reluctant release and wrapped myself in the towel, then treaded wet feet over the rug on the landing and into my room at the back of the house. This was the only room in the house with carpet, thanks to my sister, and I was glad for it as I padded across the floor to the heavy four-poster. The phone stopped buzzing before I reached it, of course. I dumped myself on the soft give of the simple ivory quilt Martha had said was to die for, and looked at the screen. The same unfamiliar mobile number sat at the top of the list of missed calls. Martha’s and Jesse’s names took all remaining spots.
I started towelling the ends of my dripping hair and pondered who had pulled me from the tub before I’d had a chance to wash it through. Maybe it was Annie, Big Frank’s wife. She’d tried her best to get me to go and spend some time with them; it was probably her off the back of our catch-up today.
Still no voicemail, though. I wasn’t calling her back now. I’d do it tomorrow sometime, right after I finally called Mum. Crap. I was going to get an earful.
I was thinking of my mother’s impending annoyance, mobile phone still nestled in the palm of my hand, when it rang back to life. Annie’s attempts at being friendly had always been persistent, and I hated myself for holding it against her. I just didn’t want the therapy she thought she could offer me. My thumb hovered over the reject button but it seemed a little harsh—ungrateful, too, probably. And I had enjoyed seeing Frank today. Maybe I was starting to mellow. Just answer it.
“Hello?” I said, waiting for Annie’s buoyant voice.
“Hello?” came a man’s answer.
“Frank?”
“No. Not Frank. Is this the correct number for Miss Jefferson?”
I didn’t know why I’d thought Frank. Only it definitely wasn’t Jess or Rob, which left me searching through a very limited list of male names.
“Who is this?” I asked, checking the time on the dresser clock. It was a bit late for mobile phone companies, or telemarketers. There was something familiar, though—
“It’s Ciaran. Argyll.”
The faintest involuntary gasp of breath kicked off a sudden thumping in the side of my neck and the wash of a tingling sensation over my cheeks. My body was already starting to react to some sort of stressful situation my brain didn’t understand yet.
“Or...occasionally I go by Bond. James Bond.”
I knew it. As soon as the name started to trip off his wistfully Scottish tongue, I knew what was coming. For some reason, I felt like I’d been caught out by him again.
Think of something to say....
“And on occasion, Handsome S—”
“Ah, Mr Argyll...what can I do for you?” I asked, searching for what the hell the answer could be. Thump, thump, continued the percussion in my neck. I tried to breathe quietly and evenly, to not allow the unsteadiness to give me away.
“I’m sorry to call you out of hours, Miss Jefferson—” I could hear the smile still there in his voice “—but I’m afraid I have a few queries about my order.”
In the dresser mirror I could see the look of absolute confusion all over my daft pink face, but at least at the mention of work some part of my brain found a foothold and started to climb its way up to the light.
“How did you get this number?” I asked, allowing myself the first stirs of what could be annoyance, hoping that they might chase off whatever else was stirring back there.
“Nothing’s sacred these days, Miss Jefferson. I find a little research saves time. I hope you don’t mind?” It was one of those statements that had few answers which wouldn’t leave you open to one implication or another. I wasn’t sure exactly what a little research involved, or whether I liked being the subject of it, but whatever he wanted, it must be important to call out of shop hours, and to research me enough to do so.
“Is there a problem, Mr Argyll?” I asked, the annoyance warming up nicely. “Because if there is, Jesse will be able to deal with that for you first thing on Monday.”
“Jesse?” he asked. “And will Jesse be taking care of my ord
er throughout?”
“That’s right. So if you have anything to discuss regarding your cake, he’ll be able to help you out with that. On Monday. During shop hours.”
The other end of the line went quiet for a few seconds.
“I was just wondering, and I’m sorry to keep you, but you are the boss and so I think I should really run this past you.” His voice was relaxed, and carried with enough softness that his referring to my snippiness in the shop didn’t bug me. “There are going to be a lot of people at the event we’ve hired you for. We don’t really want them all wandering over and helping themselves to your masterpiece. It could get messy.” Jess’s masterpiece. “I was just wondering to what extent your business’s services could be utilised?”
“I’m sorry, Mr Argyll. I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“I was just thinking that it might be an idea to employ you to oversee the cutting and serving of the cake. After seeing the detail of your work, I don’t think the staff are going to know what to do with it.”
“I’m sorry. Are you asking if we can babysit the cake for you?”
He laughed then, an effortless press of breath against the phone. “I suppose I am. Of course, you’d also get to spend the evening at the Gold Rooms. I think you’d enjoy it.”
Across in the mirror, the redness had definitely started to leave my cheeks, but I looked even more confused now. Why would I want to stay there? Why would he think I would?
“Ah, we don’t offer that kind of service, Mr Argyll.”
“Call me Ciaran.”
The faintest prickle rode over my neck. I reached up to rub it away.
It was hard to decide if that gentle edge to his voice had come from a childhood left behind, or his father’s intonation influencing his own through the years.
Since You've Been Gone Page 6
