by Jill Mansell
‘I’m fine.’ Hallie nodded and managed a half-smile, then glanced down at the phone in her left hand. ‘Just heard a bit of sad news. Suze died.’
Suze. The name rang a bell. Luke hesitated and said, ‘New York Suze?’
‘That’s the one.’ Hallie nodded and showed him the photo on her phone, of a beaming twenty-something girl with a shock of white-blond curls, jokingly cradling an oxygen tank like a proud mother showing off her newborn baby.
‘Her brother just emailed me. She died this morning. Didn’t manage to get her transplant after all.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Luke could only imagine how this must make a fellow CF sufferer feel. Suze, who had blogged about her life in New York, was a friend Hallie had known for years yet never met. The internet had brought together so many people around the world who shared the same diagnosis. Together they sympathised with, supported and encouraged each other through bad times and good.
‘Poor Suze.’ Hallie rubbed at the condensation on the side of her glass of wine. ‘She never gave up hope. We used to talk about getting together one day. Either I’d fly to New York or Suze would come over here. She really wanted to meet Prince Harry.’ A pause, followed by a gulp of wine. ‘And d’you know what? She was so funny and bright, he would have loved her. Poor Harry, really; he’ll never get the chance to meet her now.’
What was there to say? Luke didn’t even try. For a short while they sat together in silence while everyone else laughed and chattered around them. Then Hallie put her phone down on the table and adjusted the oxygen tubing behind her ears. ‘Anyway, make the most of every day, that’s what I’m going to do. Make more of an effort, stop worrying about what could go wrong, just go ahead and do more things, have a couple of adventures. Before it’s too late.’
‘What kind of adventures?’ said Bea. ‘You mean like hang-gliding?’
‘Not that. Just . . . I don’t know, getting out more. Less staying at home.’ Searching for inspiration, Hallie’s gaze swept the busy tables surrounding them. ‘I could go to London, be a tourist, see all the sights Suze wanted to see. I could visit the theatre . . . sit in the best seats at Les Miserables . . . fly in a helicopter down the Thames . . .’
‘Oh God, that would be so cool.’ Bea sat up eagerly. ‘I’d do that with you!’
One of the American tourists, in a fit of enthusiasm, had bought a copy of the local paper and was flicking through it with his wife. ‘Honey, what’s the name of that village where Will Shakespeare hung out?’
‘Stratford-upon-the-Avon. Thelma went there last year, she said it was pretty cute. We’ll go visit tomorrow, George, then do Bath on Friday.’
‘And there’s some kind of horse show at the weekend . . . look at this.’ George pointed to the next page. ‘Where’s Denleigh? We could check that out.’
‘Oh George, we can’t! Saturday’s Scotland, Sunday’s Ireland, remember? We need to stick to the schedule, honey. Otherwise it’ll get to Monday and we’ll have missed something out.’
Luke saw the spark of interest in Hallie’s eyes. Denleigh, only twenty miles from Carranford, was a small village that each year played host to the Denleigh International Horse Trials, a two-day cross-country event attracting competitors and visitors from all over the world. Between one and two hundred thousand people attended the event over the course of the weekend, their cars clogging the narrow lanes for miles around as they made their way to Denleigh Park. As well as the competition itself, there was a huge shopping village on the site, stalls selling everything from luxury cars to riding boots, not to mention dozens of food stands, giant TV screens and a funfair. It was a hugely popular day out.
‘I’ve never been to Denleigh,’ said Hallie.
‘Never?’ Luke was surprised. ‘I went two years ago. It was great.’
‘I’ve always wanted to go, but either I’ve not been well enough or the weather’s been too awful.’
‘It gets like Glastonbury in the rain.’ Bea pulled a face. ‘Everyone slipping and sliding around in the mud.’ Brightening, she said, ‘But the weather forecast’s good for this weekend. We should definitely do it!’
‘I’d like to, if it isn’t going to be pouring with rain.’ Hallie looked doubtful. ‘You’d still have to push me around, though. It wouldn’t be much fun for you.’
‘I’d offer to come along and help out,’ said Luke, ‘but Jennifer’s off to a wedding in Dorset and I’m on call all weekend.’
‘Hey, no problem, we’ll manage. I have muscles.’ Bea flexed her biceps with pride. ‘I can handle the chair. If she gives me any trouble, I’ll tip her out of it into the lake. Ooh . . . I’ve just realised something!’
Hallie was looking dubious. ‘What? You’re starting to put me off now.’
But Bea was pointing triumphantly to the photograph of Suze on Hallie’s upturned phone. ‘Who goes to the Denleigh Horse Trials?’
‘Well, quite a lot of people,’ said Luke.
‘The royals! The princes! Think about it . . . we might bump into Harry!’
Luke watched the smile edged with sadness on Hallie’s face and his heart went out to her; it wasn’t the first time she’d lost one of her friends to the disease that was ravaging her own body.
‘OK, the odds probably aren’t that great,’ Bea amended, conceding the unspoken point. ‘But you never know.’
Hallie’s fragile smile grew in strength. ‘You’re right. This is true.’ She raised her glass in a silent toast. ‘For Suze’s sake, I think we should definitely give it a go.’
* * *
‘There you are,’ Margot exclaimed when Flo let herself into the garden apartment. ‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, held up in the office discussing care plans with the manager. What is it you need me to do?’
‘Nothing urgent. Just wondered how you’re fixed on Saturday. Are you working?’
Flo shook her head and pushed up her sleeves, ready to get on with tidying Margot’s kitchen. ‘Not on Saturday. Why?’
‘Fancy doing an old lady a big favour?’ Margot’s eyes were bright.
‘If I can. What does it involve?’
‘Well, it’s actually a favour for my nephew, Patrick. He’s the one with the gift shop in Thornbury, remember?’
‘I do remember.’ Flo had met Patrick, briefly, a couple of times while he’d been here visiting his aunt. In his late thirties, he was affable, cheery and actually quite attractive in an uncombed, slightly out-of-condition kind of way. His sense of style relied heavily on his love of old checked shirts and corduroy trousers.
‘Well, he has a stall at Denleigh Horse Trials this weekend. It costs a fortune to book, but you can make a killing . . . Anyway, the girl who was going to be running it with him can’t do it any more. Fell off a table last night and broke her foot. Patrick hasn’t been able to find anyone else to step in, so I wondered if you might be up for it. If you’ve made other plans, it’s fine, we’ll just keep searching.’
Flo considered the offer. Zander was working this Saturday and she hadn’t made any other arrangements. ‘I could do it,’ she told Margot. ‘Except I don’t know how I’d get there.’
‘Oh, no problem. Patrick can pick you up and drop you home afterwards. He lives in Failand so it’s practically on his way. And he’ll pay you eighty pounds.’
‘In that case,’ Flo said promptly, ‘deal.’
‘Excellent. Reaching for her phone, Margot pressed a couple of buttons and waited for her nephew to pick up. ‘Darling? Panic over, Flo said yes. I know, I’m brilliant.’ Smiling, she added, ‘I’ll pass you over now so you can make the necessary arrangements.’
When Flo ended the call a couple of minutes later, it was all sorted. A suitably grateful Patrick would be picking her up at six thirty on Saturday morning and dropping her home again twelve or so hours later. It would be a long and busy day, but hopefully an enjoyable one.
‘Can’t wait,’ said Flo. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘You’ll have
fun,’ Margot assured her. ‘Patrick’s good company; the customers love him. Just one word of warning, though.’
‘What?’
Amused, Margot pointed a manicured finger at Flo’s head. ‘He’ll make you wear a hat.’
Chapter 28
For the first time in years, the weather had stayed fine and Denleigh wasn’t awash with mud and rain. Having been directed to the disabled parking area, Bea jumped out of her car and unloaded the wheelchair.
‘Thanks for coming with me.’ Hallie organised the oxygen bottle, smoothed a couple of kinks out of the plastic tubing and settled herself in. ‘Don’t panic, you won’t have to push me up any hills.’
‘No worries,’ said Bea. ‘If I get tired, we’ll swap places. I’ll sit in the chair and you can push.’
It was only nine thirty. In order to avoid the queues of traffic, their strategy had been to arrive and leave early. Of course, thousands of other people had had the same idea; rows of cars were already parked in the surrounding fields, and a steady stream of people and their dogs were making their way in through the main gates.
‘Haven’t spotted Prince Harry yet,’ said Hallie.
Bea pointed to the airstrip over to their right, flanked by orange windsocks and stretching between two more fields lined with helicopters and light aircraft. ‘He’ll be flying in, I bet.’
The cross-country event wasn’t due to start until midday. Horsey types were walking the course, striding along purposefully in sludge-coloured country outfits. Inside the showground, the air was rich with cooking smells from various food concessions, sausages and chargrilled steaks vying with Indian and Mexican peppers, spices and garlic. The lake, a glassy pool of silver blue with a complicated set-up of double and triple jumps leading into and out of it, was already surrounded by eventing enthusiasts planning to install themselves there and watch a full day’s action from the water’s edge.
As for the shopping village . . . well, it was a huge, eclectic sprawl of stalls, some standing on their own, others clustered in tents the size of wedding marquees. From hot tubs to angora socks, from fine diamond jewellery to nylon dog leads, there was something for everyone, and you never knew what you were going to come across next. For the next hour, Hallie and Bea marvelled at stalls selling diamanté-encrusted shoes, luxury summer houses, home-made fudge, life-size wire sculptures of horses, and jars of mustard.
‘Eww, mustard.’ Shaking her head in revulsion, Hallie’s eye was caught by a bright stall opposite. ‘Let’s have a look at that one over there.’
This was better; oh yes, this was her kind of place. The front of the stall was hung with bunting and multicoloured tissue pompoms. Inside, there were art prints, stained-glass lamps, strings of pearl-encrusted fairy lights, velvet gloves, silk scarves, items of bold statement jewellery and a wide selection of hats. The man running the stall was wearing a dashing black fedora with a red ribbon tied around it and was wrapping a pair of candlesticks in silver paper, placing them in a fuchsia-pink cardboard carrier with emerald rope handles.
‘It breaks my heart to sell these. I can’t believe I’ll never see them again.’ He handed the bag over to the customer. ‘Goodbye, my darlings, you’re going to live with a new family now.’
Once the woman had gone, his assistant, who was wearing a purple trilby, reached under the table and with a triumphant ‘Ta-daaah!’ pulled out two more identical candlesticks.
‘Ahh, it’s a miracle!’ The man applauded her. ‘Like the loaves and fishes. Hello, ladies, have you come to make off with more family heirlooms and break my heart too?’
Hallie said to the girl in the purple trilby, ‘Is he always like this?’
‘Well, it’s my first time working with him, but I’m pretty sure the answer’s yes.’
‘I really like your hat.’
The girl looked amused. ‘Another one of his ideas.’
‘Why?’
The man chimed in. ‘Because we sell hats. If customers see one they like, they don’t want to be the only person wearing one. Feel free to try any of them on, by the way. So long as you don’t have nits.’
But Hallie’s attention had been caught by the silk scarves tied to the branches of a silver tree on the central table inside the tent. ‘Oh, look at these, they’re just gorgeous.’ Wheeling herself over, she lightly touched one of the scarves, feeling the slippery material slide between her fingers. This one had splashes of lime green, fuchsia, deep purple and gold exploding like fireworks over an inky blue background. It reminded her of midnight on New Year’s Eve, when she and Luke had watched the celebration in Carranford together from her bedroom window.
‘That one’s my favourite,’ said the girl.
‘Mine too.’ Hallie found the tiny price tag and turned it over, fingers mentally crossed in the hope that it might by some miracle say £6.50.
Well, you could always dream.
It didn’t say £6.50, of course. The scarf cost eighty-five pounds. Which was a crazy amount, even if it was stunningly beautiful.
‘Those colours would really suit you.’ Joining her, Bea also checked the price tag and pulled a face. ‘Ouch.’
‘I know.’ The girl in the purple trilby was sympathetic. ‘They’re hand-painted by a designer in Cornwall, so no two scarves are the same.’
‘I could let you have it for seventy,’ said the man, ‘if it helps.’
It was still far too much. Regretfully, Hallie let go of the scarf and turned her attention to the jewellery on the table. The man’s phone had begun to ring and he pulled it out of his pocket.
‘Margot! Are you calling to find out if I’ve sacked her yet? No, no, Flo’s doing fine, she’s just wrestling with a shoplifter at the moment. Flo, put the poor man down, you don’t know your own strength!’
‘What about this necklace? D’you like it?’ Lifting up a long multicoloured string of beads, Bea said encouragingly, ‘It’s only eighteen pounds.’
Hallie shrugged, because the necklace was pretty but it didn’t begin to compare with the scarf.
‘Look, you can use it as a lasso.’ Twirling it around in the air, Bea said, ‘If you spot Prince Harry, you can use it to bring him down. He won’t stand a chance.’
Hallie grinned. ‘Then I could tie him up with my oxygen tubing.’
‘Is he here today?’ Flo was interested. ‘How exciting!’
‘Not sure, but we’re going to keep a lookout. It’d be so brilliant to see him, even if it’s just from a distance.’ Hallie wheeled herself backwards, away from the table. ‘Right, let me have a think about the necklace. We might be back later.’
They both knew this was polite customer-speak for I have no intention of coming back, but this is my way of escaping.
‘No problem,’ said Flo, who had wild auburn ringlets and a friendly face. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day. And good luck with tracking Harry down. If I hear on the news that he’s been lassoed and kidnapped, we’ll know who it was.’
‘But don’t tell anyone, OK?’ Hallie waved as she and Bea left the stall. ‘Bye!’
By two o’clock, Flo had sold four of the hand-painted silk scarves. It was silly; she knew the girl in the wheelchair wouldn’t be back, but she was still hoping no one else would come along and buy her scarf.
The stalls were busier now, thousands of shoppers coming and going, and the tills had been ringing non-stop. Patrick was great at his job, making people smile, winning customers over and relaxing them into opening their wallets. He was entertaining company, charming in a laid-back, unthreatening way and endearingly self-deprecating too. During their van journey this morning, Flo had learned all about his life; divorced three years ago, he and his ex-wife, Dawn, had managed to remain on such good terms that he was invited over to dinner every week or so, regularly played golf with her new husband and had even given her away at the wedding.
‘Ah, she’s a lovely woman. Just because our marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.’
�
�That’s really nice.’ Flo was moved by his words. And it must surely be an easier way to live, infinitely preferable to Lena’s constant sniping, jealousy and challenging behaviour.
She’d continued to think about this as the day progressed. A text arrived from Zander telling her that Lena had evidently had a furious row with the window cleaner, flatly refusing to pay him because he’d woken her up at midday squeegeeing the outside of her bedroom window.
Basically this was a situation that was never going to change. Lena was Lena, and being the way she was meant Flo’s own relationship with Zander was guaranteed never to be easy.
Imagine how much simpler and less fraught life would be if she were romantically involved with someone like Patrick instead. Watching him now, interacting easily with a horsey mother and daughter debating which limited-edition print to buy, Flo pictured her and Patrick together, having jolly dinner parties with his ex-wife, having Margot come to stay with them at weekends so they could enjoy each other’s company. No stress, no anxiety, no wondering when the next argument might be about to erupt.
Patrick was so nice, the kind of man who was always in a cheery mood. OK, so he wasn’t as handsome as Zander, he probably didn’t have a six-pack and he had one of those snub-nosed, friendly faces rather than scimitar cheekbones and thickly fringed Hollywood-blue eyes. But he was a genuinely lovely person . . .
Sometimes wheelchairs had their advantages. One of the kindly event organisers, spotting Hallie and Bea searching without success for a decent position from which to view the jumps at the lake, unfastened a rope and ushered them through to an adjacent cordoned-off area.
‘Result,’ Hallie murmured, eyeing the untrampled grass and elegant white chairs and tables.
‘Oh wow.’ Bending down behind her, Bea whispered, ‘We’re in the VIP enclosure. With the posh people. This could be our big chance . . .’
There was a white marquee, comfortable seating, men wearing linen jackets and red trousers. There were also leggy blonde girls, waiters serving champagne, and an assortment of dogs noisily slurping water from silver bowls lined up at the side of the marquee.
