by Jill Mansell
Turning around, shaking her head helplessly, Estelle showed him her sopping wet front. “Just making a mess of this, like I’ve made a mess of everything else today.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s only water. Can’t stand the sight of blood.” Will’s eyes crinkled reassuringly at her behind his glasses, and he was holding something wrapped in a plastic bag that looked as if it might be a large bone for Norris. “Go change into something dry,” he went on gently. “And don’t be silly, you haven’t messed up anything else. That was a fantastic lunch.”
Upstairs, Estelle stripped off her shirt and, as an act of rebellion, changed into a pale pink sweatshirt—the one that, according to Oliver, made her look like a giant marshmallow. And not in a good way. Screw Oliver, Estelle told herself resentfully, thinking she really should run a comb through her hair and deciding she couldn’t be bothered. He wasn’t even here, and she liked this sweatshirt. At least Will, with his nonexistent fashion sense, wasn’t likely to criticize it.
He was leaving too, heading back up to London this afternoon with the first few hours of recorded videotape under his belt. As she made her way downstairs, Estelle realized how sorry she’d be to see Will go; he was such a genuinely nice, easygoing character, which certainly made a change from Oliver’s air of preoccupation and picky, often pedantic, manner.
“Oh!” Estelle stopped short in the kitchen, overwhelmed by the sight of the roasting tin, now scrubbed sparkling clean, propped up on the drainer. “Oh, Will, you didn’t have to do that!”
“Hey, it’s only a roasting tin. It’s not as if I built a conservatory.” Waving aside her protestations, he reached for the bag on top of the fridge. “Anyway, this is for you. A little thank-you present for making me so welcome. It’s not much, but…” As he handed it over, Estelle saw that his flapping shirt cuffs were now damp where he’d neglected to roll up his sleeves before setting to with the Brillo pad. Taking the bag and opening it, she saw that it didn’t contain a ham bone for Norris but an assortment of bath products. Tears sprang into her eyes as she saw that Will had bought her a bottle of lavender oil, several cellophane-wrapped bars of fruit-scented soaps, a tube of geranium foaming shower gel, and a loofah.
He either thought she stank to high heaven and was keen to remedy the situation fast, or he was the sweetest, most thoughtful man she’d ever met.
“Oh, Will, this is just…”
“Are they OK? I’m rubbish at buying presents, but the girl in the shop said they’d be fine.” Eagerly he went on, “And I’m sorry I didn’t wrap them properly, but I’m hopeless at wrapping stuff up too—oh God, don’t cry; please don’t cry.” Will moved toward her, attempting to grab the bag back. “What’s the matter? Did I buy the wrong things? I know you’re probably used to more expensive brands, but the people in the shop were just so friendly… I can’t believe I’ve upset you like this…”
“You haven’t. I promise.” Shaking her head vigorously, Estelle managed a watery smile. “Will, I love my presents. It’s not them, and it’s not you. I just…well, I’m not having a very good d-day, that’s all, and people being unexpectedly nice to me always makes me cry. And yes, OK, maybe I am used to expensive brands”—the gloriously gift-wrapped baskets that Oliver ordered over the Internet every Christmas from Jo Malone sprang to mind—“but these mean so much more. You chose everything yourself and that’s wonderful.” Wiping her eyes, she hiccuped. “Especially the loofah. Nobody’s ever given me a loofah before.”
Will looked relieved. “Really? You’re not just being polite? To be honest, I’m not absolutely sure what a loofah does, but… Hey, you’re still crying. It’s not just the present, is it? Come on, tell me what’s wrong.”
Feeling utterly drained, Estelle allowed him to steer her onto a kitchen chair. Will took a glass down from the wall cabinet and filled it to the brim from the half-empty bottle of Beaujolais left from lunch.
“It’s nothing. I’m just being silly.” Nevertheless her hand sneaked out and clutched the glass.
“You aren’t being silly.” He paused. “And I’m not stupid. I do have eyes in my head, you know.”
The room-temperature wine slipped comfortingly down Estelle’s throat, warming her stomach and soothing her frazzled nerve endings, but she didn’t dare speak. To cover the awkward silence, she took another hefty gulp instead.
“It’s OK,” Will said eventually. “I can guess what’s bothering you. You’re loyal to Oliver and I’m a TV journalist. But I promise you, I’m not the blabbing kind. I don’t do hatchet jobs; that isn’t my style. If I did,” he went on with a brief smile, “I’d soon run out of subjects. Nobody would let me film them. So, you see, it’s not even in my interests to dig the dirt. You can talk to me as a friend and I swear I’d never use anything you told me. But I do think you shouldn’t bottle things up. And, as I said, I do already have a pretty good idea.”
Estelle found a hanky in her pocket and blew her nose. Of course he had a pretty good idea. He was a documentary maker, for heaven’s sake. Trained to observe everything and never miss a trick. Then again, he was right about it not being in his interests to dig the dirt. Having now had a chance to see videos of his previous programs, she knew that Will’s style was affectionate and quirky, never underhanded or mean.
“The thing is, I know how lucky I am.” Hearing her voice wobble, Estelle took another gulp of wine to steady it. “Living here in this beautiful house with a swimming pool, a nice car, no money worries—hell, that’s what everyone dreams of, isn’t it? It’s why people buy lottery tickets. And I’m healthy. I’m not dying from some horrible, incurable disease. What reason do I have to moan and feel sorry for myself? But sometimes I just… Oh God, I don’t know. Most women would give their right arms to have my advantages…”
“But you’re not happy,” Will said gently. “And you feel guilty because you think you should be. Estelle, millions of people buy lottery tickets thinking that hitting the jackpot will solve all their problems, but only the ones who’ve actually done it discover the truth. If you aren’t happy in yourself, no amount of money will change that. It isn’t going to solve fundamental problems in, say, a marriage.”
Estelle swallowed hard. It was so obvious he already knew. What was the point of even trying to deny it?
“Oliver’s not a bad man.” Her voice was low. “He doesn’t drink, or beat me up, or flaunt mistresses under my nose. But sometimes he’s…hard to handle. He has his career, he gets picky sometimes, and he can be a bit abrupt.”
“Autocratic, even,” Will suggested mildly.
“OK, yes, autocratic. But we’ve been together for twenty-seven years. Since I was eighteen. For heaven’s sake, you’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“He’s always been the same?”
“Well, no. I mean, Oliver was always the one in charge, but that was just his character. Over the last year or so, though, it’s gotten worse. I’ve started to feel completely unimportant. I don’t know why I’m here anymore. I just feel…pointless.” Feeling her eyes fill with tears again, Estelle took a shuddery breath. “Fat and pointless, that’s me. And I’ve been trying so hard to pretend nothing’s wrong, but having Kate back here doesn’t help. I know she doesn’t mean to, but she’s treating me just like Oliver does. I feel like one of those plate spinners, rushing from plate to plate, desperately trying to keep everything up in the air… All I want is for us to be a normal happy family, but it’s just not w-working and I don’t know what else I can possibly d-do…” Her voice breaking, Estelle covered her face with her hands and wailed, “Because no matter how hard I try, nothing I do do ever seems to be good enough!”
“Hey, hey, don’t blame yourself.” Will’s voice was wonderfully soothing. Whereas Oliver, if he were here now, would have barked, “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t cry,” Will simply passed her a handful of paper towels and allowed her to get on with it. “You mustn’t blame yo
urself, you know. I’m sure Oliver doesn’t mean to upset you. And Kate’s…well, she’s having a hard time adjusting, that’s all. She’s going through a prickly stage.”
Bloody prickly, thought Estelle. And in all honesty, when something had lasted for fifteen years, did it still count as a stage? She could barely remember a time when she hadn’t felt intimidated by her daughter.
“But what am I supposed to do?” Blowing her nose on a paper towel, she watched resignedly as Will refilled her glass.
“Ah, well now, that is up to you. Do you want to stay with Oliver or leave him?”
Estelle’s bottom lip trembled. “Stay, of course. I still love him. I want us to be happy again. I just don’t know how to make it happen. I’m not even sure there’s anything I can do. Sometimes, as far as Oliver’s concerned, I just feel invisible.”
“I can’t advise you,” said Will, which was a massive letdown. She’d secretly been hoping he might have the most brilliant plan. “But if it’s any consolation”—he leaned back on his chair and fixed Estelle with a smile that told her he was on her side—“you don’t deserve to be treated like that. If I were lucky enough to be married to someone like you, I’d be over the moon. Then again”—he looked almost comically disconsolate—“who’d ever want to be saddled with a case as hopeless as me? My last girlfriend was always complaining that I looked as if I’d gotten dressed in the dark. She once found a moldy sausage roll in my bathroom cabinet. And when we went to her uncle Bill’s wedding, I called the bride Megan, which was the name of Uncle Bill’s first wife.”
Despite everything, Estelle found herself snorting with laughter.
“That’s terrible. And Megan, the first wife, was…?”
“Dead.” Will heaved a sigh of resignation and nodded. “I’m just a walking disaster. No wonder my girlfriend dumped me.”
“Just because of that?” Estelle felt absurdly indignant on his behalf. “But anyone can make a mistake!”
“You’re forgetting the sausage roll. Actually, she compiled this whole list of reasons why she deserved better than me. Read them out to me like a school register.” Will pulled a face. “It took ages. So you see, it’s no wonder I’m still single. But that’s enough about me. Are you feeling any better yet?”
He’d made her laugh, with his self-deprecating humor and gentle encouragement. God knew he was the polar opposite of Oliver, who was hardly what you’d call encouraging and who’d never been self-deprecating in his life. Smiling back at Will, Estelle nodded and discovered there was a lot to be said for getting things off your chest. She’d never confided her feelings of inadequacy before, not to a living soul. Pretending that everything was fine had always been her way of muddling through.
“Much better. You won’t say anything about this to Oliver, will you?”
“I told you, you can trust me. I won’t breathe a word,” Will said comfortably. As he fiddled with the damp cuff of his shirt, the button pinged off and he watched it roll across the floor. When it disappeared under the freezer he shrugged, unconcerned. “You could always give it a go yourself, though. Sit him down and tell him how you feel.”
This really did make Estelle smile. “We’ll see.” There was more chance of her swimming the Channel with bricks strapped to her feet. “Thanks anyway. I can’t believe I’ve told you all this.”
“Ah, well, that’s me. I have a listening face.” Will tilted his head at the sound of the front door being pushed open. “And here’s Kate back now. I suppose I should be making a move.”
Estelle wished he didn’t have to go. As Norris noisily emptied his water bowl, Will lugged his battered weekend bag out to the car and said his good-byes. Feeling as if she’d lost her only ally, Estelle waved as the dusty Volkswagen bumped off down the drive. Back in the kitchen beadily eyeing first her mother, then the almost-empty bottle of wine, Kate asked, “What’s been going on?”
“Nothing. Will helped me with the dishes. He’s a nice man, don’t you think?” Quite daringly for her, Estelle said, “So thoughtful.”
Kate’s gaze narrowed as she surveyed her mother’s pink-rimmed eyes.
“Have you been crying?”
For a moment Estelle hesitated, wondering how Kate would react if she blurted out the truth, just as she’d done with Will. But no, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Of course not.” She smiled brightly at her daughter. “I just rubbed my eyes earlier when there was dish liquid on my hands. Silly me.”
“Then again, who could blame you?” Picking up the fruit-scented soaps, sniffing them and pulling a face, Kate said, “If someone gave me this lot as a thank-you present, I’d cry too.”
Chapter 19
In the Peach Tree, Juliet was writing out price labels and Maddy was on the floor unpacking a fresh consignment of plum chutney when the door clanged open and Jake erupted into the shop.
“Sorry,” said Maddy. “No winos, no undesirables. We’re a classy establishment. We are—”
“Do me a favor, just go sit in my workshop. When a blond in a red MG asks where I am, tell her I’m out delivering a casket. Move,” said Jake, grabbing hold of Maddy like a rag doll and hauling her to her feet.
Ooch, pins and needles…
“Say please.”
“Please.”
“And you’ll do dinner tonight,” prompted Maddy, whose turn it was to cook.
“OK, fine, just go.”
Laughing, Maddy sauntered out and across the hot, dusty road. As Jake hovered at the back of the shop, Juliet peered through the window.
“Who is it this time?”
“Her name’s Emma. Luckily I was inside the workshop when she drove past, so she didn’t spot me. God knows what she’s doing here now. I thought she was in court today.”
Juliet’s dark eyes widened. “What did she do?”
“She’s a stalker.” Grinning, Jake said, “Actually, a lawyer.”
“She’s pulling up now,” Juliet reported as the scarlet MG, having completed its U-turn, slowed to a halt outside Jake’s workshop. “Honestly, Jake, you are hopeless. If you don’t want to see her, why don’t you just tell the poor girl? Put her out of her misery.”
“I have told her! She won’t take no for an answer! We only went out a couple of times. I didn’t even sleep with her,” Jake protested.
“Really?”
“I didn’t! And I told her it was over last week, really nicely.”
“Let me guess,” said Juliet. “‘You’re a great girl, Emma. It’s not you; it’s me.’ All the usual nonsense.”
“Well, yes.” Jake looked hurt. “What’s wrong with that? I can hardly say, ‘It’s not me; it’s you,’ can I? Anyway, I gave it my best shot, thought I’d done a good job. But she won’t accept it. She keeps phoning me. It’s really awkward, and she drove past the cottage last night.”
“Maddy’s talking to her now,” Juliet announced. “She’s pointing over here… Hell, Emma’s heading this way. She’s taking a knife out of her handbag.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Of course I’m not serious. Ha, had you going, though. Serves you right for being so irresistible.” Clearly amused, Juliet moved away from the window. “It’s OK. Emma’s climbing back into her car. She’s driving off now. You’re safe. And who said you could have that?” She eyed the apricot Danish Jake had filched from the glass cabinet.
“Stress makes me hungry. God, why does life have to be so complicated?” grumbled Jake.
“That’s what happens when you’re a professional love rat. Go around breaking girls’ hearts, and you’ll get grief,” Juliet said cheerfully. “That’s just the way it goes. Maybe it’s time you thought about meeting someone nice and settling down.”
Had she and Maddy been discussing him behind his back?
“Pot, kettle.” Swallowing a mouthful of Danish, Ja
ke gave her a pointed look. “Anyway, speaking of girls getting their hearts broken, what’s Maddy playing at? Has she told you who she’s seeing?” He made it sound as if he knew but was wondering if Juliet had been let in on the secret.
“No,” Juliet lied, perfectly well aware that Jake didn’t know and would certainly hit the roof if he did. “Just that he’s married. Here she comes now,” she added. “And don’t nag her about it, OK? Because nagging won’t help.”
Jake had already guessed that Juliet would be on Maddy’s side. Tiff’s father had been a married man. Beyond that, no details were known. He and Juliet may have been friends for years, but Juliet had remained resolutely silent on the subject. Privately, Jake wondered how anyone, married or otherwise, could have dumped Juliet.
“All sorted.” Maddy, looking pleased with herself, reentered the shop and sat back down cross-legged on the floor in front of her jars of plum chutney.
“Well? What happened?” asked Jake.
“I told her you’d been battling with your sexuality.”
Jake choked on his Danish pastry. “Excuse me?”
“But that you’d reached a decision at last, and from now on you were only going to go out with people with hairy chests.”
“You’re joking.” Juliet’s eyes sparkled. “And she actually believed you?”
“I’m not joking at all,” said Maddy, “and no, of course she didn’t believe me, but it did the trick. She said, ‘Jake doesn’t want to see me anymore, does he?’ and I said, ‘Sorry, no, he doesn’t.’ So she did that wobbly-lip thing and said, ‘I thought we had something special together,’ and I said, ‘Trust me, he’s not worth it; he’s not special at all.’”
“Thanks,” said Jake.
“You’re welcome. So after that Emma said, ‘Tell him I won’t phone him again, I promise, but he’s got my number if he changes his mind.’ Then she climbed back into her car and drove off, still trying not to cry. So there you go,” Maddy concluded cheerfully. “I’ve done your dirty work for you. I think we’ll have lasagna tonight.”
