Never Coming Back: a tale of loss and new beginnings

by Deirdre Palmer

  NEVER COMING BACK

  Deirdre Palmer

  “A delicately explored and excellently written novel of grief, guilt

  and the importance of beginning again”

  ~ Elizabeth Buchan, Sunday Times bestselling author

  “A compassionate, tender and beautifully written account of love, loss and

  beginning again…A really lovely read.”

  ~ Louise Douglas, award-winning author of Missing You

  Copyright © 2016 by Deirdre Palmer

  Cover Design: The Cover Collection

  Editor: Christine McPherson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without

  written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Publishing except for brief quotations

  used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Red Line Edition, Crooked Cat Publishing 2016

  Discover us online:

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  Join us on facebook:

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  and something nice will happen.

  For Christopher

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to all the lovely people – family, friends and writing colleagues – who’ve supported and encouraged me consistently throughout the writing of this book.

  An especially big thank-you to Susan Hope and Maureen Stenning for their valued comments on the earlier drafts, and to my fellow ‘Write Romantics’ for answering my daft questions with their usual insight and wit, particularly Helen Phifer for sharing her inside knowledge about police procedures after an incident.

  And, last but not least, thanks to Laurence and Stephanie Patterson of Crooked Cat, and my very patient editor, Christine McPherson.

  About the Author

  Deirdre lives in Brighton, on the south coast of England. She was twice a major prize-winner in the Mail on Sunday Novel Competition, and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. Never Coming Back is her third novel.

  Find out more about Deirdre and get in touch here:

  http://deirdrepalmer.com

  https://www.facebook.com/DeirdrePalmerWriter

  https://twitter.com/DLPalmer_Writer

  http://www.crookedcatbooks.com/deirdre-palmer

  Novels by Deirdre Palmer:

  Remarkable Things

  Dirty Weekend

  Never Coming Back

  Never Coming Back

  Chapter One

  Layla Mackenzie glanced up at the image of herself, capped, gowned and scrolled, standing on the wide, stone steps of the city hall. Her gaze was focussed a little to the left of the camera’s eye. Her smile, though genuine, had been tugged from a darker place. Each time she came here, she tried to avoid looking at the photo. She was never successful.

  She hadn’t minded much at first. After all, she had given it to them in the first place, while thinking it a little strange of them to ask. Now it felt more than strange. It felt completely wrong. The photo was an imposter, stealing the place of the one that should be on this wall, in this house.

  Except that the rightful image didn’t exist. The evidence of Danni’s achievement slept in the drawer below. No photograph. Just a posthumous degree diploma inside a brown envelope with the university’s postmark.

  Melody was back from the kitchen with the topped-up teapot.

  ‘More toast, Layla? There’s jam, marmalade, honey.’ She pointed unnecessarily to the pots grouped in the centre of the round table. ‘Or perhaps you’d like another egg? The hens are popping them out like crazy, aren’t they, Reece?’

  Reece gave a curt nod without looking up, and continued dipping toast into his own egg in silence.

  ‘No, that was just right, thanks.’ Layla smiled. ‘Another drop of tea and I’m good to go.’

  Melody’s own smile dipped, then returned, though with less confidence. Her mouth had a slightly forced look about the corners. Her eyes were too bright, her posture too solicitous. Her hand quivered as she held the teapot over Layla’s mug.

  Layla sighed, a little too obviously. All she wanted now was to be on the road, away from Melody’s walled-up desperation, the veiled entreaty for her to stay a while longer.

  ‘Oh, go on. A bit of toast won’t hurt. Honestly, you girls and your figures!’ Melody stood the teapot on its mat and resumed her place at the table.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Reece said, coming to life. ‘It’s not her fault you’ve cut up half a loaf.’ He winked at Layla.

  Melody gave a little laugh. At the same time, a shadow passed across her face. Layla relented, took a triangle of toast from the silver rack and spread it with honey. Melody sat back in her chair, for the moment satisfied.

  ‘Now then,’ she said, looking pointedly at her husband and reaching across to the windowsill. ‘We have a little something for you.’

  Layla was puzzled for a moment, until a large cream envelope appeared on the table in front of her. Her birthday. She was surprised they knew when it was; she couldn’t remember telling them. She supposed it was okay if they wanted to give her a birthday card, except that Melody seemed to be making a big deal out of it.

  ‘Thanks. That’s really nice of you.’ She smiled at them both but left the envelope where it was.

  ‘We know your birthday isn’t until tomorrow, but we won’t be seeing you on the actual day and you can’t trust the post to deliver on time, even with first class…’

  ‘Mel, let her open it, for pity’s sake.’ Reece raised his eyes at Layla. ‘What is she like, eh?’

  Open it. Right. No point in saying she’d rather keep it for the actual day, then – one look at Melody’s face told her that. She wiped her fingers on her napkin and picked up the envelope. Peeling open the flap, she edged out the card. The picture showed a dancing girl with long dark hair, like Layla’s, hiding her face.

  To a dear daughter on her birthday, said the raised silver lettering.

  Her stomach fought against the food she’d eaten. This was a first. Just when she’d thought there could be no more firsts, another came crashing down. Glancing up, she caught Reece giving his wife a thunderous look before his expression settled into controlled neutrality.

  As she opened the card, a cheque fell out. A cheque for five hundred pounds. She swallowed. They shouldn’t do this. Couldn’t do this. And yet they had. She didn’t know which was worse, the wording on the card or the money. She glanced hopelessly around, longing to see the glimmer of a ribbon-tied package enclosing her favourite scent or a book – anything that spoke of almost-normal.

  Anything other than this. If only they knew…

  ‘No, please. I can’t accept this; it’s miles too much.’

  ‘Nonsense, of course it isn’t. Money goes nowhere these days. We thought you might like to put it towards a nice holiday,’ Melody said brightly, before Reece interjected.

  ‘You must do whatever you want with it, Layla. No strings.’

  Reaching for his wife’s hand, he closed his own tightly over it. Restraining, not comforting, Layla thought.

  ‘No strings. Absolutely not.’ Melody smiled, and pushed back her hair with her free hand.

  Thoughts pressed rapidly into Layla’s mind, one after another. This wasn’t fair. They were pushing the few boundaries that were left. No, not pushing them, whacking them to kingdom come with a swinging demolition ball. Outside the window, a black cr
ow was perched on the fence-post. Tilting its head, it shrieked to the wide blue sky. It echoed how she felt.

  ‘No, honestly, it’s very kind of you both, but it’s too much.’

  She stood the card up on the table in front of her, facing slightly away so that she couldn’t see the silver lettering. Then she put the cheque back inside the envelope and set it pointedly aside.

  Melody looked as if she was about to cry. Pulling away from Reece, she gathered up a corner of the white tablecloth, bunching it in her hand below the edge of the table. Reece knocked the butter knife off his plate. It fell to the floor with a clatter. He didn’t bother to retrieve it.

  Could she really do this, reject their generosity with its illuminated subtitle – we have no-one else to do this for – without causing them pain? She didn’t want to hurt them; they’d suffered enough already. Even so, she felt a tug from below, as if she had sunk that little bit deeper into quicksand.

  She picked up the envelope and smiled. ‘How about I keep it for now but I won’t cash it unless I need it for something really important?’ Something that would never happen. ‘Would that be okay?’

  A look passed between Melody and Reece as they checked in with each other. The gesture seemed automatic, hollow as an Easter egg.

  ‘Yes, of course it would,’ Melody said. ‘If that’s what you’d rather do, it’s fine with us, isn’t it, Reece?’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  ‘Well, then, thank you. Thank you both, very much.’

  Layla stood up and stooped towards Melody, brushing her cheek with a kiss that didn’t quite connect.

  It wasn’t really fine with them, of course, and sometimes she felt she was making things worse for them by coming here, not better. Would they wake up one morning and realise that? Realise they’d be better off without the constant reminder she must surely bring every time she rocked up at Foxleigh Farm, with her weekend-guest gifts and her heart full of secrets? Somehow she doubted it.

  The treads creaked under Layla’s feet as she went up the narrow staircase to the bedroom under the eaves. Although Melody called it the guest room, it was obvious that no-one else had used it since she’d been coming here.

  The room was fresh and pretty, with pale blue-grey walls and white painted furniture. A golden oak beam, like a stick of toffee, ran from side to side beneath the vaulted ceiling. A pale blue towelling robe hung on the back of the door. There were slippers in her size beside the bed, and books by her favourite authors stacked on top of an old sea chest. Behind a low, latched door was a tiny shower-room with a shelf full of expensive gels, shampoos and creams. She had used the robe and slippers occasionally and plunged into a couple of the books, but the toiletries remained with their discreet packaging intact; she preferred to use her own stuff which came in lime green plastic bottles from Superdrug. A line had to be drawn somewhere, even if it was a shaky one.

  At least they hadn’t put her in Danni’s room. The closed door at the end of the passage on the floor below had a firm look about it, as if it hadn’t been opened in a long time.

  Her rucksack packed, she sat down on the bed beneath the slope of the ceiling, gathering her thoughts. After a while, she rose and smoothed out the cover. Then, after a last check to make sure she’d left nothing behind, no clue to her occupation of this room, she took a deep breath and went downstairs.

  The Morlands stood outside the back door as Layla stepped into the ancient blue Fiesta and started up the engine. She glanced in the rear view mirror. Melody’s arms were wrapped around herself, her hands rubbing at the sleeves of her grey sweater as if she was freezing cold. Reece stood apart from her, buttoning the cuff on his denim shirt. Both raised a hand as Layla pulled the car round in a half-circle. She gave a single wave out of the window. Then, passing the pond, the orchard and the holiday lets, she drove out onto the road which would take her from East Sussex into Kent, and home.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Hang on, Layla! Don’t come in yet!’

  Several voices penetrated the closed door to the room which Mum called the ‘through’. Layla scuffed out of her shoes and sank onto the cream-carpeted stairs. She felt tired and anxious, not at all ready for this.

  Eventually, the door opened, letting out the acrid smell of burnt matches and a collective ‘ta dah!’, as if this was a big surprise. She was pleased to see her friend, Abe; he would take the heat off. Layla didn’t particularly enjoy being the centre of attention, even within her own family. She smiled across at him and a connecting smile bounced back. She felt a little better.

  Her mother gave the signal by way of a raised forefinger, and everyone sang Happy Birthday, some coming in later than others so that the last line was repeated at least three times, ending with a croak and a coughing fit from Nan.

  ‘Come and blow your candles out then, darlin’,’ April said, squeezing past the others to kiss her middle daughter on the cheek and hustle her to the table.

  Layla gazed at the square, pink-and-white cake – the size of a hockey pitch, with her name picked out in silver balls – and felt her stomach tighten.

  ‘Funny time of day for cake, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t expect the Queen would turn her nose up at a bit of cake at eleven o’clock of a Sunday morning, would she?’ April addressed her question to no-one in particular. ‘It’s not easy, getting everyone in the same place at the same time.’

  There were murmurings of assent at this.

  ‘It’s an amazing cake, Mum. I love it.’ Layla gave April a hug.

  Already, this was too much. The trials of the weekend were too fresh and raw, the emotional toll too heavy. It wasn’t Mum’s fault, though; she mustn’t take it out on her. It was nobody’s fault but her own.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. And everyone for being here.’

  She smiled round at them all.

  ‘Aw, go on,’ April said. ‘Where else would they be?’

  Jadine, her younger sister, was beside her now, her boyfriend, Alex, abandoned on the sofa. She nudged Layla in the ribs.

  ‘Get on with it, then, before we all die of starvation.’

  ‘Somebody should have got up in time for breakfast.’ April nodded towards Jadine. Crystal earrings swung, catching the light.

  ‘Let me blow the candles!’ Finn, Layla’s nephew, cavorted round the table, puffing out his cheeks and sending out a spray of chewed crisps to land on the newly vacuumed carpet. ‘It’s my birthday on Saturday!’

  ‘Then you’ll have your own cake, won’t you?’ Rowan clamped a restraining hand on her son’s shoulder. ‘Layla, for Pete’s sake.’

  One sweep of breath and all the candles – only ten, thankfully, not twenty-five – were snuffed. A round of dutiful clapping and cheering, then Mum set to with the pearl-handled cake-slice, liberated from its velvet-lined box for the occasion.

  Abe drew Layla to one side. ‘So, how was it, chez Morland?’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘That bad, uh?’

  ‘Tell you later.’

  Abe gave her shoulder a squeeze, and went across to talk to Jeff, Rowan’s partner. The chatter went on around Layla. Her rucksack was still in the hall, the Morlands’ card hidden at the bottom. She would take it to work later and feed it into the shredder in the hotel manager’s office.

  To a dear daughter. So many more words were contained in that phrase than the innocent silver letters spelled out. The more she thought about it, the more apparent it became that Melody alone had been responsible for the monumental aberration; Reece, when he’d seen the card, had seemed almost as shocked as Layla. She wondered if he had taken Melody to task over it later, then decided he probably hadn’t. His wife was his priority; he wouldn’t risk upsetting her over something that couldn’t be changed.

  Layla squatted down beside her grandmother’s chair and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Nan continued wiping a finger around her plate, dabbing up the last crumbs of cake and posting them between her lips with a sucking sound.
One of the silver balls had lodged itself between her bottom front teeth, like a misplaced tongue stud.

  ‘All right, Nan?’

  ‘Right as ninepence.’

  ‘You’ll be saying that on your deathbed.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll be saying thank the Lord I’m going somewhere I don’t have to take me shoes off every time I come in the front door.’ She lifted a foot, wiggling her stocking-clad toes.

  Abe came over and leaned on the arm of the chair.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea, Mrs Foster?’

  ‘None of your Mrs Foster business. It’s Mary. Don’t stand on ceremony. There’s enough of that around here already.’

  Abe grinned at Layla over Nan’s head. ‘A nice cup of tea then, Mary?’

  ‘Ooh, yes, please. You are a good boy. Isn’t he a good boy, Layla? Especially for a Jew.’

  ‘Nan!’

  Abe was already on his way to the kitchen, chuckling to himself. Layla followed. She closed the kitchen door and stood silently while Abe filled the kettle and flicked the switch. He turned towards her.

  ‘Must say I’ve seen you looking brighter, Sunshine.’

  ‘That’s no surprise, is it?’

  ‘I’m only looking out for you, that’s all.’ Abe raised his hands.

  ‘I know you are. Sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m used to it. You’re always like this when you’ve been with them.’

  Layla felt close to tears. ‘I’m turning into this horrible person I don’t even recognise half the time.’

  Abe sighed. ‘Come here.’ He held out his arms. Layla folded herself into them, ducking her head so she was closer to his height.

  ‘You’ll have to put a stop to it,’ Abe said, after a moment. ‘Tell them you can’t go there any more. Now, for preference.’