The Runaway Ex

by Shani Struthers

  “Penny,” Richard prompted. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” That monotonous tone was back.

  “Put Scarlett on, would you? Tell her it’s Daddy.”

  Sighing, Penny did as she was told, her only consolation that Scarlett looked as unimpressed as she did with Richard’s inane ramblings.

  Listening in for twenty seconds, she could bear no more.

  “Richard, I think me and Scarlett will go out after all.”

  “Oh good, good.” Richard sounded delighted. “She needs regular doses of fresh air. It might help her to sleep better, you know.”

  Not this baby. Not even alternative medicine had helped, and Penny should know. She’d exhausted many of them: cranial osteopathy, homeopathy, and acupuncture. None had offered the miracle results they so earnestly promised.

  “Ten minutes, you said?”

  “Well, give or take a minute.”

  “Look.” Exasperation lifted Penny’s voice slightly. “I’m not going to shoot you if you happen to be eleven minutes instead of ten.”

  “Are you sure?”

  No, she wasn’t.

  “Enjoy your walk,” Richard said at last. “Tell Scarlett I love her.”

  And me? Do you love me too?

  That remained a mystery as Richard rang off.

  Slamming down the phone, she tried to stop her fury at Richard’s failure to impart any loving sentiment to her—again—from overwhelming her. Depressed and in charge of a baby was bad enough, but depressed and furious? Making her way to the pram that was stowed neatly in the second of their two living rooms, Penny stopped abruptly. Depressed? Was that what was wrong with her? Surely not! She had never been depressed in her life. But something rang true about her self-diagnosis. Certainly this was not the way she remembered herself. Had she been okay in the hospital? She remembered smiling a lot despite the stifling heat of the ward—heaters full-blast even in August—but perhaps that had been the heady aftereffects of all the drugs she’d insisted on having. She also remembered just staring at the tiny bundle beside her, marveling at every one of her fingers and toes, unable to believe she and Richard had created something so beautiful, so…so perfect. Fast-forward to today, and the only thing she couldn’t believe was how much her ears ached from the aforementioned perfect bundle’s wailing and whining.

  Doing her utmost to wrestle a resistant Scarlett into her pink all-in-one romper suit, fleece-lined to combat the chilly weather, she felt even more depressed that she could be depressed. No, she couldn’t be, not her, Penny Hughes, party girl of the year, an accolade she had awarded herself several years running. Depression was such a taboo subject—something that happened to other people. If Layla were here—if only Layla were here, someone who understood her, who never judged her, who was always on her side, an ally—she’d laugh too at such a suggestion.

  Giving up on the romper suit—Scarlett was clearly not going to comply—Penny stuffed the baby into the pram, layering blankets over her instead, which, of course, she immediately proceeded to kick off. Breathless from the effort of going several rounds with the tiny tyrant, she felt hot, angry tears burst from her eyes too.

  You know what, babe? It was her last coherent thought before she, like Scarlett, tumbled toward a glorious meltdown. Two can play at that game!

  Chapter Four

  “JOSEPH AND HIS TOOL BAG.” Layla loved it. Penny could always make her laugh. How she missed her. It was such a shame the distance was so great between Brighton and Cornwall. A week didn’t allow for a visit to both destinations, not without spending two of those days on the road, anyway. And she and Joseph wanted to celebrate with Hannah and Jim, their respective best friends, the launch of new album for Jim’s band, 96 Tears, an album that was garnering quite a bit of attention in the music world. They were on their way, those two, Jim with his music and Hannah with her art. Recently a London gallery had contacted her, showing an interest in exhibiting her paintings. She was busting out, going nationwide!

  Layla was looking forward to Trecastle too—the rugged coastline, the wildness of the ocean, miles and miles of golden beaches, and Gull Rock. Her Gull Rock, a granite monolith set about a mile out to sea and the backdrop to so many poignant memories. Florence was beautiful, people the world over beat a path to it, but it was that tiny village on the North Atlantic Cornish coast that held her heart captive.

  Putting her mobile on charge, she padded over to the fridge, retrieved a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and poured herself a large one. Joseph was probably doing the same but with bottles of Peroni in a bar with Paolo, an after-work jolly. He’d be home soon.

  Savoring for a moment the coldness of the wine, she checked cupboards next, wondering what to make for dinner. Aglio e olio—spaghetti with fresh herbs and garlic. She had all the ingredients for that. She’d accompany it with a green salad, scattered liberally with black olives from the Tuscan hills that surrounded them. For music, she put on Rhianna, her hips swaying as the singer’s rich voice filled the air.

  She was on the fourth song and her second glass of wine when she noticed an entire hour had passed since talking to Penny; it was ten past eight. Where the hell was her errant boyfriend? Checking her phone, she saw that there were no alerts at all.

  What should she do? The dish she had chosen would take only minutes to cook. The work was in the prep; there was no point in putting pasta on to boil before he arrived home. She’d phone him. She didn’t want to nag—he was entitled to a drink with friends—but she was hungry, and not just in the culinary sense.

  Joseph’s number went straight to answer phone—twice. It wasn’t like him not to pick up. Paolo was next on the hit list; hopefully, she’d have more success with him. She didn’t. Annoyance began to gnaw away at her. Annoyance laced with something else—fear?

  The music was beginning to grate.

  “Sorry, Rhianna, no offense,” said Layla, pressing the off button.

  The silence that ensued was almost worse. It felt ominous somehow, false. Shaking her head to dismiss such thoughts, Layla started pacing instead. There were several others at the workshop—Marco, Vincenzo, and Pietro—but she didn’t have their numbers to phone them. She suddenly felt alone, a stranger in a strange city. What if something had happened to Joseph—something bad?

  Usually thankful for her writer’s imagination—short stories had proven a useful source of income in the past—Layla now cursed it. Once the idea of something bad happening to Joseph had crept into her mind, it took hold.

  Accidents happened; they happened all the time. Big accidents, small accidents, and those of catastrophic, life-changing proportions. Perhaps one had happened tonight. At the workshop, they had saws—miter saws, reciprocating saws, chain saws, every type of saw you could think of. It would be so easy for an accident to happen. All it would take was a slip of concentration, a momentary lapse. She’d kept him up late last night too, too late in hindsight. He’d be tired today, not firing on all cylinders.

  Images poured into her head—blood-spattered images, most of them, like scenes from a horror film. Paolo could be with Joseph right now in an emergency room somewhere, unable to leave his side, willing him to hold on, to fight for his life.

  She needed to get to the hospital now, or at least a hospital. Pray God that the city didn’t have half a dozen to choose from. And that she could find a taxi to flag down…And that she had money in her purse to pay the taxi man…And…and stop!

  It’s only eight thirty. There is no need to panic!

  No, it wasn’t late, but considering he should have been home three hours ago, it was late enough. She forced herself to stand still, to control the panic that had kicked annoyance well and truly out of the ring. His phone had probably run out of battery. That was feasible, far more so than him lying bloodied on a gurney somewhere, a vision she wished would stop presenting itself to her with such force.

  She needed more wine. As she reached for the bottle, memories of someone else she had tried t
o phone but got zero response from surfaced—Alex, her boyfriend before Joseph. The reason she couldn’t get through to him was because he had left her, traded her in for a younger model with no warning whatsoever. If there had been any warning signs, she hadn’t seen them, not with Alex. On the contrary, she’d thought he was preparing to ask her to marry him. What a fool she had been back then, simple and naïve. She’d never allow herself to be fooled in that way again. Never.

  On the landing outside her door, she heard movement. Her hand round the bottle’s neck, she paused. Yes, there was definite movement. The bottle and her thoughts forgotten, she sprinted to the door and almost yanked it off its hinges.

  “Joseph,” she breathed upon sight of him. “Thank goodness you’re all right! Joseph?” She peered closer. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

  If he’d been in a bar for the last three hours, she’d expect him to look merry, but that wasn’t the first description that came to mind. Or sheepish for not phoning home. He didn’t look that either. His skin, normally the color of West Country honey, was ashen; his eyes were dull instead of glowing. Shell-shocked is what he looked. As if he’d seen a ghost. The reason he was late, she sensed, might shock her too.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I…Look, Layla, can you let me in?”

  “In? Oh, yes, of course.” Hurriedly, Layla stepped aside. Once he was over the threshold, she closed the door behind him.

  “Joe…” she tried again.

  “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  “Is it Paolo?” she asked, crossing over to the kitchen table, an image of him on the gurney instead of Joseph vivid in her mind as she did so.

  He sat down opposite her. “No. Everything’s fine with Paolo.”

  “And you’re not hurt at all?”

  “I’m not hurt, no.”

  “And your job, you’ve still got one?”

  He looked confused. “I’ve still got my job, Layla. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Thank goodness!”

  Her shoulders, so tense before, slumped in relief. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t be that much of a crisis. No one was hurt. He still had his job; she had hers. Their perfect life—the bubble they lived in—could continue. And it really was perfect; she had never known life to be so good, so fulfilling. Then her thoughts darkened. Joseph and Paolo might be okay, but what if someone wasn’t? A member of Paolo’s family, perhaps? That would be dreadful. Joseph and Paolo had become close many years ago when Joseph had spent six months in Florence, learning the art of restoration. They’d never lost touch, so when an opportunity came up to return to the workshop on a full-time basis, he had jumped at it, taking Layla with him. During the time they had been here, she had grown close to Paolo and his kin also. Often they would eat with him, his wife, Luisa, and their five children, all of them enjoying big, noisy mealtimes together at his rambling farmhouse on the edge of the city. She loved watching Joseph play with the kids. He got right down to their level, laughing and joking with them as though he were a kid himself. And the little ones loved him for it. If she and Joseph were lucky enough to have children one day, he’d make a great dad. But right now, it was Paolo and Luisa’s children she was concerned with. Tentatively, she asked if they were okay.

  “They’re okay, Paulo’s okay, and Luisa’s okay. It’s got nothing to do with them or my job. It’s…it’s to do with Tara.”

  Tara who? Layla thought for a moment. The friends they had made in Florence had typical Italian names—Gabriella, Kristina, Isabella. Tara sounded English, or perhaps it was Irish in origin. She couldn’t remember a Tara. And then she did.

  “Do you mean the Tara you used to know?”

  “Yes. The Tara I used to know.”

  “The Tara you used to go out with?”

  “A long time ago, yes.”

  “The one you lived with in London?”

  “The very same.”

  “Tara, the reason why you left London?”

  “Well, one of the reasons.” Joseph had clearly had enough of her quick-fire questioning. “Look, Layla, I think we’ve established which Tara I’m talking about.”

  “Your ex-girlfriend Tara?”

  “My ex-girlfriend Tara,” he confirmed.

  “Well, what about her? She’s in Australia, isn’t she?”

  “No, she’s not. She’s here, in Florence. I bumped into her today.”

  Tara was not in Australia? She was here, in Florence? And Joseph had bumped into her? She’d been right. He had seen a ghost—a ghost from the past.

  “That’s why I’m late home,” he continued. “We had some catching up to do.”

  A catch-up that had put the fear of God into her. And still might do, if the look on his face was anything to go by. He looked more serious than she had ever seen him. What was Tara doing here? What was the catch-up about? And why hadn’t he taken time out to phone home, to let her know where he was? What had Tara had to say that was so scintillating he couldn’t bear to tear himself away, not even for a minute?

  “Why didn’t you phone me? I was worried.” Worried? That was the understatement of the year.

  “I didn’t expect to be so long. I lost track of time.”

  “Didn’t you hear your phone ring? I called you.”

  “I’d switched it off,” he confessed.

  Switched it off? It was equivalent to shutting her out. Now that she knew he was safe, she could feel the first stirrings of anger. But with Herculean effort, she strove to keep her voice normal, enthusiastic even.

  “Wow! So, Tara’s in Florence. That’s a coincidence.”

  There was no fooling him.

  “But that’s all it is, a coincidence.”

  “And how is she? What’s her news? Is she on holiday here?”

  “A holiday of sorts,” Joseph replied, ignoring her first two questions.

  “A holiday of sorts?” she repeated. What was that supposed to mean? “Is it a working holiday, perhaps?”

  Joseph shook his head.

  “Is she with friends or family?”

  “She’s on her own.”

  “Sightseeing?”

  “Sightseeing,” he confirmed but dully so.

  Christ! Why was he making this so difficult? He was the one who had said they needed to talk.

  “Joseph,” she demanded, all brightness gone, “what is she doing here?”

  “I’ve just told you.”

  “Actually,” she said, “you really haven’t.”

  When no more words were immediately forthcoming, no more explanations, she couldn’t suppress her anger any longer. Tara aside, he’d been insensitive, bloody insensitive. If he hadn’t come home at the time he did, she’d be out there now, paying some poor driver a small fortune to trawl her from hospital to hospital. He’d not only been insensitive, he’d been disrespectful. He’d been…and the thought was formed before she could stop it, Alex-like. Grabbing the edge of the table with both hands, she pushed back her chair, the screeching sound of wooden legs against ceramic tiles making Joseph wince as she stood abruptly.

  “You should have phoned.”

  Joseph rose rapidly to his feet too. “It wasn’t that simple,” he declared.

  “Why? Did you have brain freeze or something?”

  “No, of course not.”

  The need to pace again was also overwhelming.

  “You switched your phone off. I can’t believe it.” She was talking to herself as much as to him. “You meet your ex, and you switch your damn phone off, for hours.”

  “Layla.” His hand reached out to grab her. “It’s not like that.”

  “What is it like, then?”

  “I’ll tell you. Just bloody stand still, will you, and stop firing questions at me. This is difficult enough as it is!”

  His raised voice shocked her. Rarely did the man shout. Mostly they spent their time together laughing and loving. That’s what she’d envisaged them doing more of tonight, not arguing like this, the
walls of the bubble they lived in quivering perilously. Quickly he filled the ensuing silence.

  “We went to a café to talk, and the reason we went to a café, that we talked for as long as we did, is because she had a lot to say. She’s not in a good way, Layla. She’s distraught. When I found her, she was crying, standing in the middle of the Piazza Santa Croce and crying. It took some coaxing, but I managed to get out of her what was wrong, which is why I didn’t call. I didn’t want to interrupt her, in case she clammed up again. I’m sorry for that. I should have found the time, but that is my only crime here. Don’t try and lay others at my door.”

  “What other crimes? What do you mean?”

  “You know full well what I mean. That meeting Tara was engineered.”

  Engineered? As much as she was surprised at what a coincidence their meeting was, she hadn’t actually gone as far as to think it was engineered. Not until he had just said so. Before her mind could run with that idea, he was speaking again.

  “Layla, you should know I wouldn’t do such a thing. I’m not Alex.”

  His insight startled her. He was right. He wasn’t Alex. She shouldn’t be comparing the two. Pushing thoughts of her ex far away, she asked why Tara had been crying.

  “She’s in trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “I can’t say.” Now he did look sheepish.

  “Of course you can. We tell each other everything.”

  “No, Layla, I can’t.”

  The resolve in his voice was a new shock.

  “Why?” she asked simply.

  “Because it’s not my secret to tell.”

  A secret? She was stunned.

  “But you know what it is?”

  “I do,” he admitted, “but only by default.”

  “Because you happened to be there?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Joseph…”

  “What?” He seemed to ask the question with baited breath.

  “That sounds bloody engineered to me.”

  The hand he had on her, she threw off.

  “Layla…”

  “I…Just wait. I don’t want you to touch me. I need to make sense of this. You come home over three hours late, not having bothered to phone or text, and you tell me you’ve bumped into your ex—and not just any ex, but a significant ex. That she just happens to be in Florence, in the same city as you, and that she has a secret, a secret that’s upset her, and you too by the looks of it, a secret that you have no intention of sharing with me.” Trying to breathe instead of snort, she added, “And wasn’t it you who said this morning that people need to talk to each other more so misunderstandings wouldn’t occur?”