She paused, frowning, the shampoo bottle tilted in her hand. ‘No, go on. What were you going to say?’
Morgan pulled a towel from the rail. ‘I love you. That’s all.’
She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. ‘Me too.’
The cubicle door closed with a quiet click.
***
Climbing the external wooden staircase of the boathouse, Morgan noticed a piece of paper flapping on the door of the loft. Unpinning it, he unlocked the door and went inside, reading as he went. It was a note from Connor asking if he would take out Lady Tabitha at two o’clock.
The boats didn’t run during the winter months, but the beginning of March brought the annual arts festival to Maybridge and the influx of visitors made it the ideal time for the season to begin. Early April, and already business was starting to pick up, despite the chill in the air.
It had been Morgan’s idea to help out. Neither Connor nor Ted expected it of him, but he wouldn’t have felt comfortable using the loft and not giving anything in return. Besides, he enjoyed taking the helm of the little cruise boats and gliding along the river with a mixed bag of expectant tourists on board. It reminded him of an idyllic summer he’d spent with relatives in Devon after ‘A’ levels, when he’d divided his time between surfing with his cousins and helping to operate the ferry across the river. Connor had been working there at the time; that was how they’d met.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Connor appeared. Standing at over six feet, Connor had to duck his head to avoid collision with the door frame.
‘Not interrupting, am I?’ He glanced at the laptop, saw it was still closed. ‘Not, then. All right for this after?’
‘Yeah, no worries.’
Glancing down, Morgan saw that Connor had a paintbrush in his hand and his elderly combats were splashed with bright blue. Connor held up the brush.
‘I could give you a bit of this as well, if you like. Got a couple of rowing boats in the shed wanting a makeover.’
Morgan laughed. ‘I think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same.’
Connor looked serious for a moment, lowering his eyes and running a hand through the black wavy hair that fell almost to shoulder-length.
‘Grandad had another dizzy turn yesterday so I took the painting off him. I had to hide the tin. He’s such a stubborn old fool.’
‘I’ve noticed. Seriously, though, I could do a bit of painting if it would help.’
‘No, you’re all right. Just Tabitha, if you wouldn’t mind. There’s a party of ten booked, for a kid’s birthday. It’s a one-way trip. They’ll be getting out at the zoo.’
Bookings in advance for the cruise boats weren’t usually necessary, but sometimes people booked if they wanted to be sure of seats at a certain time. The little zoo, which contained mainly domestic animals, a children’s play area, and an animal-themed restaurant which hosted birthday parties, was the last stopping point on the forty-minute trips. Before that, the river wound its way past a row of Elizabethan cottages mentioned in the guidebooks, the sloping gardens of a Georgian manor house, and a Victorian rope factory now housing an art gallery and a warren of artisans’ workshops.
There was a fine view of the cathedral from the river, much painted by local artists. Other than that it was mostly trees, water meadows and wildlife. The gasps and little shrieks when the punters spotted a family of ducklings or the velvety back of a water-vole made Morgan smile.
At half past one, he set off for the jetty. Nipping aboard Lady Tabitha to check that all was in order, he collected an empty Coke can and a couple of chocolate wrappers from beneath the seats, slung on the canvas bag in which the tickets were collected, and stepped off the boat to wait.
Before long, a sizeable group appeared round the side of the kiosk, obviously the party Connor mentioned. Heading the group was a shortish, middle-aged woman in a black trouser suit, her bright blonde hair neatly pinned up. She held aloft a blue balloon with ears and a bear’s face, across which it said ‘Birthday Boy!’.
There were three young lads among the group, one of whom was presumably the boy in question. The kids jostled one another as they went, yelling at the tops of their voices. Morgan hoped they’d quieten down a bit when they were on the boat; there were two old women with identical Brillo-pad hair waiting by the rope now, as well as a family with three stoical children, and an earnest-looking couple in matching anoraks and serious walking shoes. The couple exchanged dubious glances with the women as the jetty began to fill up with the rest of the birthday party.
‘Finn, and you others, for Pete’s sake keep away from the water! We don’t want no accidents, not today.’
The woman who had spoken was a younger version of the one with the balloon. She wore skin-tight jeans, and heels destined to vanish down the cracks between the planks the moment she set foot on board. Beside her slouched a resigned-looking bloke with a buzz-cut and a nose-stud, followed by a fresh-faced skinny guy holding hands with another petite blonde wearing denim shorts over black tights and a pink filmy blouse with a black bra underneath.
‘I thought we’d be closed in. It’s gonna be freezing.’ She gave Lady Tabitha a scathing look, shaking her head. ‘Nightmare.’
‘I’ll keep you warm, babe.’ The skinny guy gathered her up in a bear-hug and moved in for a quick snog.
‘I wanna sit up front with the driver!’ yelled one of the boys.
‘You’ll sit where you’re put, Finn,’ the older woman said, in a firm but kind voice.
‘It’s my birthday and I’m eight, and I can sit where I want.’
The boy scowled, unhooked the rope that guarded the gangplank and began swinging it round in circles, making his two mates squeal with excitement as they tried to wrestle the rope from him.
Morgan reached for it and returned it to the hook.
‘It’s all right.’ He smiled at the woman in the heels who appeared to be Finn’s mother. ‘Over-excited, I expect.’
‘Over-excited? I’ll give him over-excited in a minute.’
She looked Morgan up and down appreciatively, as if she’d only just noticed him, then smiled provocatively, tossing back her long blonde hair and flashing china-blue eyes at him. Buzz-Cut immediately stepped up to stand close to her.
Morgan smiled back, then cleared his throat. ‘Right then. Everyone aboard.’
He turned to the older woman who was holding out a bunch of tickets. ‘Is this all of you?’
‘Yes. No. Hang on.’ She scanned the jetty as the others pushed past her, and past the women, the couple, and the other family, to bag seats in the covered part of the boat. ‘Where are they? Where’s Layla?’
‘She’s taken Nan to the loo, Mum,’ the girl in shorts shouted back. ‘Here they come.’
Morgan waited, looking round to check that the kids were under control, then stooped down to retrieve a ticket that had missed the bag and gone under the steps. When he stood up, he found himself facing a small, elderly woman with a determined expression and, linked to her by a supportive arm, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Chapter Five
Layla pulled the tray of rosemary sauté potatoes towards her and spooned portions onto three plates of lamb cutlets and creamed spinach. Finishing them with a whirl of redcurrant sauce, she wiped the rims of the plates clean and lifted them onto the service counter.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Big Barry, the head chef, checking the plates over before giving a satisfied little nod. Layla allowed herself to breathe. That should be the last, thank God. The clamour of the kitchen had simmered down to a tired buzz.
Glancing round to check that Barry wasn’t watching, Layla slipped out of the kitchen and along the passage to the airless box that passed for the staff room. She opened her locker and felt in her coat pocket for the note. Crumpled from so much handling, the small square of paper felt as insubstantial and meaningless as a bus ticket. She smoothed it out and read its brief content for the hundredth time. Would you give me a call s
ome time? it said, then gave a mobile number and his name, Morgan Hampshire.
Nothing had been said, not a word exchanged apart from his half-whispered ‘Bye then’ as she and the rest of her family had piled off the boat at the zoo.
He might have been saying goodbye to everyone. He might have. But he wasn’t. He was speaking to her alone, as if they knew one another already, which she almost felt they did. Then, as he’d helped her unnecessarily up the steps and onto the jetty, he had pressed the note into her hand with an awkward smile in answer to her questioning look.
Was it some kind of game he played, a joke? Did he keep a supply of similar notes and hand them out to any passable female to see what would happen, like sending a message to sea in a bottle? If so, he knew exactly what he could do with it.
That had been her first thought; she’d soon dismissed it. He didn’t seem the type to get off on that kind of behaviour. Her rapid summing up told her he was too quiet, too unassuming. And the note itself, with its polite question was, Layla felt, an indicator that this wasn’t something he did all the time, and possibly never had before.
She’d been drawn to him – it was useless trying to deny it. He was tall – five-ten? – and slim but with a solid strength about him. Mid-brown hair, shortish at the back and sides, longer on top. Blue-grey eyes, kind of almond-shaped. Ridiculously long, curled lashes, for a bloke. Not that she had looked directly, not for more than a second, anyway; she’d long ago trained herself out of that.
She wasn’t going to call him, no question about it. No good could come of it; she had proved that. Several times she’d taken the note out with the intention of throwing it away. Each time, something stopped her. There was an unusual twist, an ambiguity about the whole thing that intrigued her, and no matter how hard she tried not to think about it – about him – her mind kept switching pointlessly back.
‘What’ve you got there?’ Abe asked, coming up behind her.
Layla drew in breath. ‘D’you have to creep about?’
‘Not creeping anywhere, my little fruit-bat. Wondered where you’d got to, that’s all. Big Barry’s wondering, too.’
Bang on cue, the head chef’s voice thundered down the corridor. ‘Lay-laa!’
‘Make him wait,’ Abe said. ‘Give.’
He held out his hand. Obediently Layla dropped the note into it and watched with a sinking feeling as Abe’s face lit up.
‘Morgan Hampshire. Is that a human being or an investment bank?’
‘Very funny.’
Layla reached for the note. Abe waved it in the air so that she couldn’t catch hold of it.
‘Who is he, and why don’t I know about him?’
‘Because there’s nothing to know.’
Abe was waiting, his patient expression in place, the one that said he would wait all night if he had to so she might as well tell him now. And so she did, what little there was to tell, minus the bit about her instant attraction to Morgan. She also said she had no intention of doing anything about it.
She went to turn away. Abe put a hand on her arm. ‘There’s a whole world full of blokes out there. You can’t avoid them all. You can’t cut that part of your life away permanently, pretend it doesn’t exist.’
‘We have to get back,’ Layla said, shaking him off.
Reaching into the locker, she pretended to straighten the sleeve of her coat to avoid looking at Abe. He touched her arm and held out the note. She took it wordlessly, stuffed it into her coat pocket and locked the metal door.
She would have been content to let the silence linger as they left the staff room and headed back to the kitchen, but Abe, never one to waste a good chatting opportunity, moved onto familiar territory.
‘Are you off to the Morland Mansion on Saturday?’
‘It’s not a mansion, it’s a farmhouse. And no, I’m not.’
‘Not? Blimey, that’s a first. Do they know?’
‘Yes, I rang Melody this morning and told her I was working.’
‘No text, eh? I’m seriously impressed.’
‘I owed her that, at least. I hated lying to her, though.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Okay, actually. She was cool about it.’ Layla frowned, as if her own answer surprised her.
‘There you are, then. That wasn’t so hard, was it?’
Layla shrugged and walked on ahead, into the kitchen. Abe didn’t need to know about the three missed calls from Melody that had come through on her mobile.
***
Easter had come and gone, and Haverstone was rapidly coming to life with the start of the holiday season. The shops in the small town centre had shifted the basic necessities aside in favour of local scenic prints, Haverstone pottery and boxes of fudge. The bed-and-breakfasts were starting to turn a profit, and chilly campers occupied the caravans up on the clifftop site.
What you saw with Haverstone was precisely what you got – a relentlessly efficient holiday machine with hotels, pubs and cafés at every hundred paces, themed playgrounds for the kids, a swimming pool, crazy golf, and deckchairs on the prom for the less energetically inclined.
The beach, Morgan always thought, must turn out to be something of a disappointment to some when they discovered that the fawn-gold stretch of what appeared to be sand in the distant tourist brochure shots was, in fact, entirely shingle. Not that it stopped them packing onto it in all weathers.
Morgan strode down the main street that led towards the seafront, deliberately averting his gaze from the stretch of sea that was visible between the buildings. It was only ten past nine and the air felt pleasantly astringent against his skin. At this time on a Friday, he’d usually be well into his writing, but this morning he was on an errand. Over his arm, in an awkward bundle, hung Kate’s green duffle coat which she’d asked him to take to a certain dry cleaner’s before the half-price end-of-season offer ran out.
The purposeful way she’d cut the voucher out of the paper with the nail scissors had struck a discordant note, reminding him of his status as second-fiddle breadwinner. The feeling was entirely down to his own stupid pride, of course. Kate would never knowingly make him feel that way, any more than he would have done when he’d supported her throughout her psychotherapy course.
They were living in a glorified bedsit in south London at the time – their first home together. Having given up his own postgraduate course because he’d lost sight of its purpose, he had taken a job as a warehouseman. It had suited him very well – it built up his muscles without having to set foot inside a gym and left his mind free to indulge in dreams of literary stardom.
He thought happily about his novel as he stood in the dry cleaner’s and waited while the woman assistant spread Kate’s coat out on the counter and examined it with a concentrated frown, as if she was searching for forensic evidence. Poodle Chafferty had apparently had enough of languishing on the page while Morgan laboured over the plot and had begun to steam ahead with the action of his own accord. Naturally, the guy would need a little direction – he couldn’t be allowed to have things all his own way – but there was a promising feel about it. He began to write the next chapter in his head. He was looking forward to getting home and banging out the first rough draft, then tomorrow at the boathouse he would knock it into shape.
His escape to Maybridge this week had become a done deal when Kate had announced her intention to visit her parents in Milton Keynes. ‘Going home’ was how she always referred to it, as if the flat was a temporary stopover. It annoyed him slightly. He’d never taken her up on it; he would only be subjected to a long-winded rationalisation that he’d be expected to understand at once. That was the thing about Kate. Everything she did had a reason. Sometimes his life seemed purposeless in comparison.
‘That your mobile?’ The assistant nodded towards Morgan as she passed over the ticket for the coat. Smiling his thanks, he pulled the phone absently from his pocket as he left the shop, his mind half on his plot and half on Kate. He answered wi
thout looking at the screen.
‘Yep?’
‘Is that…Morgan?’ a female voice said. ‘It’s… I’m Layla. From the boat?’
He almost dropped the phone. Fumbling with it like an inept juggler, he stepped back into the shop doorway and briefly closed his eyes.
‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘You did mean me to ring? That’s what the note said, right?’
She sounded almost accusing. He felt wrong-footed. Had he meant it? Yes, of course he had. But that was then, when the sight of her had pitched him headlong into a morass of giddy excitement that he’d been struggling to climb out of ever since. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t screwed up the note and dropped it into the nearest litter bin.
He thought about Kate, deliberately pulling an image of her towards him, but she slipped away, vanishing into the brickwork like an apparition.
‘Yes, that’s what it said.’ An uncontrollable ape-like grin spread across his face. ‘It’s just that I didn’t expect… You took me by surprise.’
‘Look, I’m at work. I haven’t got long. What was it you wanted?’
Morgan opened his mouth and closed it again. A woman pushed past him in the doorway, tutting as she entered the shop. He stepped out into the street, pressing the phone to his ear against the roar of a motorbike.
‘Traffic. Sorry,’ he said, playing for time.
He could hardly change his mind now, tell her he’d made a mistake, could he? Now it seemed he was about to make an even bigger one. Dodging into a quieter side street, he stood with his back against the darkened window of a closed antique shop.
‘I’d thought perhaps we could meet up. Bad idea, though, probably.’ He attempted a laugh. ‘Spur of the moment thing.’
Spur of the moment? That was a lie. He’d had the forty-minute river trip during which he’d thought of nothing but her, while he’d sneaked as many backward glances at her beautiful face as he dared, and tried to decide what to do about it.
Doing nothing had never been an option. The whole thing had ‘danger’ written all over it, as well as utter craziness. Yet, here she was – or her voice was, at any rate. And it didn’t feel dangerous or crazy. It felt like a miracle.
Never Coming Back: a tale of loss and new beginnings Page 5
