The Runaway Ex

by Shani Struthers

  “I won’t.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Despite what you think, they’ll want to know.”

  “I’ll tell them soon,” Tara promised. “Perhaps not straightaway, as soon as I’ve clapped eyes on them, but once I’m…I’m settled. In a day or two.”

  “Of course.”

  Reaching for the door handle, she stopped. “Thanks for bringing me home, Joseph.”

  His smile was so gentle. “The pleasure’s mine.”

  “I really don’t know if I could have done it without you.”

  He held her gaze. “You know where I am—”

  “—If I need you,” she finished for him. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Phone me tonight. Let me know how it went. And maybe tomorrow night, or soon after, come to Trecastle. Get to know Layla a bit more, and Hannah. Have some fun.”

  Fun? She didn’t think she’d ever have fun again.

  “Yeah, that would be nice,” she said, her feet once again touching home ground.

  Chapter Nine

  “HEY, YOU BACK IN TRECASTLE YET?”

  “Oh, hi, Penny. Yeah, we’re at Hannah’s, actually. Well, I am. Joseph has driven Tara back to her parents’ house at Port Levine.”

  Penny frowned. Was that a slight catch in Layla’s voice?

  “How is Hannah? And Jim of course?” At the mention of Jim, she became all swoony. Ever since Jim had played that song for Hannah in the Trecastle Inn, the one he wrote especially for her, the one he surprised her with so spectacularly, the one he had sung with so much feeling in his voice, she’d had a bit of a crush on him. It was just such a romantic thing to do. If she had been Hannah, she would have jumped on Jim there and then, in front of the crowds, smothered him in kisses, dragged him back home, swung from the chandeliers with him, and generally lost herself in the throes of passion. Yeah, right, chance would be a fine thing.

  Returning hastily to the subject of Joseph, Penny asked, “Has he been gone long?”

  “Long enough,” was Layla’s terse reply.

  Layla then told her about the flight over, the atmosphere you could cut with a knife, the strangeness of being back in Trecastle under such mysterious circumstances, how it took the shine off their holiday—which was a shame, because nothing should take the shine off Trecastle for Layla. It was too special a place for her. Penny felt for her, wished she could be with her, but she was chained to the house, to the baby, to her life in Brighton. At least that’s what it felt like—chained. Gone were the days she only had herself to worry about. Now she was part of a family, a grown-up. It was a feeling that didn’t quite fit right but should. At nearly thirty-two, she was certainly grown up, so why did she feel like a teenager inside? Still.

  Then again, would she be able to help Layla make sense of the situation she was in? It didn’t make sense to her either. They would need the full story for that.

  Brightening, she said, “Richard’s coming home early this evening. We’re going out to Donatello’s for a family meal, our first in a public place. I think it’s called ‘making an effort.’ On his part, I mean.”

  Penny quickly filled her in on what had been happening in her life over the last few days—a breakdown, basically.

  “Oh, Penny, I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope today goes well. I miss our drunken nights at Donatello’s. You know, the house wine followed by copious amounts of Limoncello. That stuff, it’s as lethal as Grappa. Is Alejandro still working there?”

  “Last time I checked. Shall I say hi to him from you?”

  “Yes, please, and tell him there’s not a risotto marinara in the whole of Florence that can match his. It truly is the best.”

  “I will, Layla,” Penny promised, laughing. Wistfully she added, “I can’t believe you’re in the UK and we’re not going to see each other.”

  “You know I’d come and see you if I could, especially now I know how down you’ve been feeling, but there’s even more of a reason to stay local now.”

  “To keep an eye on things, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I totally understand, but let’s speak every day. We can try to keep each other sane. Oh, here’s Richard now. I can hear him at the door. Speak tomorrow.”

  “Sure, speak tomorrow. Bye, hun.”

  Penny glanced at herself in the mirror. It was still not the reflection she’d like to see, but makeup had at least toned down the black rings around her eyes. Her hair was newly washed, and she’d spent five minutes curling it. She would have spent ten, but Scarlett had kicked up a fuss, and she’d had to pick her up and walk around the house with her instead. Still, she had an array of curls at least, even if they were a bit haphazard.

  As for Scarlett, she was in a red velvet dress, red tights, satin red shoes, and a red hairband. Unfortunately, she had grabbed furiously at the headband and pulled it round her neck. Terrified it might strangle her, Penny had removed it—biting down on her disappointment that Richard wouldn’t enjoy his baby’s outfit in its entirety. After all, if she couldn’t look good, she damn well wanted the baby to.

  If she thought Richard might be impressed with the way she had dressed Scarlett, however, she was wrong.

  “Blimey,” he said, somewhat taken aback. “She looks like Mrs. Christmas.”

  Penny bit down hard to stifle the retort that wanted desperately to tear from her lips. Mrs. Christmas indeed! How dare he? Choosing clothes for the baby was something she enjoyed. It reminded her of dressing her Barbie as a child. She had loved to do that too, had spent hours mixing and matching outfits for her: shopping attire, beach wear, cute pajamas with matching fluffy slippers, and—her favorite—glitzy evening dresses of which her mother had bought her almost obscene amounts. “Anything to keep Penny quiet,” she had heard her mum say once to the next-door neighbor. Not that she’d been a difficult child, not at all. It was just her mother was a bit like her, lacking in any obvious maternal instinct, which wasn’t great when you had a child to consider. Although Penny was determined to do better than her mother, she had a sneaking feeling she might do even worse.

  The evening ahead, though, was going to be a success. Plastering a smile on her face, she said sweetly to Richard, “Shall we go?”

  Richard looked slightly disgruntled. “Haven’t I got time for a beer first?” he asked. “I’ve only just stepped through the door.”

  “Tough,” Penny replied, this time through gritted teeth. She and Scarlett had been ready since lunchtime; they were not going to wait a minute longer.

  It was good to be out as a threesome. Penny felt bolstered by it, more confident. Quickly, she put the Qashqai into gear and headed into the Brighton town center, heavy traffic unfortunately causing a ten-minute journey to take twenty. Not the flying start she had envisaged.

  After she had squeezed into a space in one of the multi-story car parks, Richard climbed out of the passenger seat and made his way round to the boot of the car. Retrieving Scarlett’s Bugaboo, he expertly assembled it in seconds, much to Penny’s complete and utter annoyance. It never clicked so easily into place for her. He then took the baby out of the car seat and walked off with her still in his arms.

  Oh, great, I’ll just push an empty pram, shall I? she thought waspishly.

  Donatello’s was heaving—modest prices and great food an effective marketing match. They managed to bag a table after waiting just a few minutes in the bar area, Penny eyeing a cocktail the girl next to her was drinking, thinking how long it had been since she’d downed one. Margaritas used to be her favorite, served with a sea salt rim. Valentino’s, a cocktail bar in New Road, next door to Brighton’s famous Theatre Royal, served a mean margarita. She and Layla, who was more of a creamy cocktail type of girl, had had some riotous nights in there as well.

  Richard perused the menu whilst Penny secured Scarlett in the high chair Alejandro had fetched for her. Scarlett went in without protest, so preoccupied by the hubbub around her, she’d forgotten to scream. While the baby was quiet, P
enny delved into the baby bag, a big multi-colored padded affair—gone were the days of heading out with just a tiny handbag—and retrieved a jar of baby food.

  Richard immediately looked up. “Don’t give her that.” He looked distinctly disapproving. “She’s got a couple of teeth now; she can chew something.”

  Chew on this, Penny wanted to respond while shaking her fist at him. Reminding herself that this was supposed to be a pleasant outing, she replied instead, “The baby doesn’t like chunks. She just spits them out. She gets on better with this stuff.”

  “That stuff’s rubbish. If you must give her mush, mush it yourself.”

  She was about to tell him to mush off when he started speaking again.

  “Besides which, I’ve been reading about this new approach. It’s called ‘baby-led weaning.’ You give them exactly what you’re having, no exceptions—steak, pork chops, broccoli, carrots, the lot. You just cut the food up into bite-sized pieces for them, and they pick and choose what they want.”

  Baby-led what? Penny was incredulous. When had he looked this up? At work, when he was supposed to be oh-so-busy on his oh-so-VIP cases?

  “And what if a piece of steak gets stuck in her throat? What if she gags?”

  Richard seemed almost pleased she had asked him this question. “Ah, you don’t want to worry about gagging. Apparently, that’s a perfectly normal response to dealing with large bits of food. Keep an eye on them, for sure, offer water if needed, but generally, babies have the wherewithal to sort it out for themselves.”

  “And you want to try this baby-led nonsense now? In a packed restaurant?”

  “What harm can it do? I’ll get the spaghetti bolognaise, and she can have some of mine.”

  “But she’ll make a mess,” Penny declared. That red velvet dress was from Boden. It had cost a bomb, and she didn’t want it ruined.

  “She won’t.” Richard was adamant. Leaning forward to tickle Scarlett under the chin, he continued, “Will you, my tweedle-pop?”

  Tweedle-pop? Had he completely lost the plot?

  If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have protested further. Instead, she took a sip of lemonade and told Richard to do what he wanted, hating the smug look on his face. The way he looked dapper in his Gresham Blake suit, the way having a baby hadn’t ruined his physique. He still looked the same—good. Better than good. He was the one who was glowing.

  When the food came, Richard, true to his word, popped some of his spaghetti and sauce on a plate and placed it in front of the baby. Penny had opted for Layla’s favorite, risotto marinara, not least because she wouldn’t have to share hers with Scarlett if she did.

  “Richard, not so much,” Penny warned. “Start with just a little bit. I’ve told you, the baby isn’t used to solids.”

  “Her name is Scarlett,” Richard replied.

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “So, how come you never say it?” Richard sounded pissed off. “It’s…it’s weird.”

  “Weird?” Penny couldn’t believe it. “You’re the one who’s weird, Richard.”

  Unable to look at him any longer, Penny stabbed viciously at a prawn with her fork instead. It was delicious, but she recognized this only subconsciously. She was too tired to care about food, either. Last night had been another horrendous wake-fest. Instead, she chewed on it mechanically, just going through the motions, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the people hurrying by.

  It was a while before she realized Richard was in a state of panic.

  “For God’s sake, Penny, stop daydreaming and help me.”

  Help him? Why?

  Looking at where Richard was staring, Penny’s mouth dropped open. Scarlett was flinging spaghetti and sauce everywhere. It was all over the floor, over Richard, over the female half of the couple sitting at the table next to them, and on Scarlett’s expensive red dress.

  “Oh, no,” she began, just as the aforementioned lady, unfortunately clad in something expensive-looking too, stood with a look of thunder on her face.

  “Bloody hell,” said the woman, not caring at all she was swearing in front of a minor. “Can’t you keep that baby of yours under control? My top is ruined.”

  “I’m…I’m…” Penny was all set to apologize—the cream blouse the lady had on did indeed look as though she was going to have a hard time removing those stains. Just then, Scarlett started screaming. Obviously the spaghetti-hurling game had worn thin. Instead, she began a new game, rocking her highchair back and forth, her feet catching at the table, their purchase lending her strength, hurling her all the way back into the woman’s legs—who caught her just before she crashed to the ground.

  Galvanized into action, Penny grabbed the highchair from her and tried to disentangle Scarlett from it, her hands working furiously at the clips that had her trapped. Just as she managed to bust her out, Scarlett vomited. Huge amounts of lumpy red sickness with spaghetti strands in it spilled all over the floor, splattering everywhere, but worse still, all over the woman’s shoes. Pray God they weren’t designer—Kurt Geiger or something—but Penny had a sneaking suspicion they were.

  It was like she had been caught in some sort of living nightmare. Surely this couldn’t be happening? All around her, she heard groans of disgust. Quickly, she looked to Richard for support, but he was just sitting there, his body rigid, the same aghast look on his face as was evident on the faces of the other diners.

  “That does it,” said the woman, her fury almost tangible. “I knew we shouldn’t have come here. It’s too down-at-heel for us, and the clientele prove it. Come on, Derek, we’re going. They can pay our bill.”

  As Derek and the spaghetti-and-vomit-splashed woman pushed indignantly past her, Penny heard her say, “Incompetence, that’s what it is. Sheer bloody incompetence.”

  The old Penny would have retaliated immediately. She would have turned on the woman in a flash, told her to go and take a running jump off the end of Brighton Pier, preferably in a raging storm so there’d be no chance she’d surface again. The new Penny, however, just ran out onto the streets, babe still in her arms, desperate to escape the dozens of faces that seemed to swim before her, all of them silently agreeing with what the woman had said. She was a bloody incompetent mother.

  Blinded by tears, she rushed headlong into Brighton’s Lanes, a warren of tiny cobbled streets lined mainly with antique and jewelry shops. Only vaguely was she aware of Scarlett struggling in her arms, of people staring in horror as she rushed past them, wondering who the heck this kidnapper was in their midst and whether or not to tackle her, to bring her down, to extract the protesting bundle from her. She only barely realized too that someone had hold of her arm, was spinning her round and shouting her name out, over and over again, trying to get through to her.

  “Richard,” she said at last.

  “Of course it’s me,” he said, as furious as the woman had been. “Thanks, Penny. Thanks a lot. Leave me to deal with the aftermath, why don’t you? God knows how much the bill was. I just slammed down a whole wodge of cash and legged it too.”

  “Leave you…?” It had been his bloody idea to feed the baby solid foods. She had tried to tell him not to do so on this occasion, to wait until they were at home, when it would be much easier to gauge her reaction, to deal, as he put it, with the aftermath. She had tried to tell him, but as usual, he hadn’t listened. Richard Hughes would never win any awards for listening, that’s for sure.

  “Honestly,” Richard was still babbling on. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you at the moment. Really, I don’t. It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something.”

  And in truth, Penny didn’t know what was wrong with her either. Still, his observation of that fact did nothing to temper her mood. Quite the opposite. She handed Scarlett over to him and, without further ado, continued to run.

  Chapter Ten

  “ANOTHER CUP OF TEA, LAYLA? Or shall we crack open the wine?”

  There was a twinkle in Hannah’s e
ye as she posed the question. Wine, of course, Layla thought. After the day she’d just had, she could do with a bucketful of the stuff.

  Jim had popped down to May’s, the mini mart, to get some provisions for tonight. Earlier, both he and Hannah had shown Layla to the spare room, a room he usually kept his music equipment in: guitars, an old drum kit, scores and scores of notebooks, all filled with songs he’d written over the years. It had all been cleared out, put in a friend’s garage apparently, in honor of their overseas visitors. Now, a double bed, chest of drawers, and a Lloyd Loom chair graced the room—home for the next week. On the walls, Hannah had hung a couple of her pictures, one depicting The Lizard on Cornwall’s south peninsula and the other Bedruthan Steps, back in the north. The huge canvases brightened the room considerably.

  “Thanks for making room for us,” she called to Hannah as her friend set about grabbing two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of red from the wine rack.

  “Not a problem. It was brilliant to have the excuse to do it. You know what Jim’s like. I’ve asked him a hundred times to clear out his stuff, that we could use the extra space so we can have guests to stay, but it takes a rocket with him sometimes.”

  Layla smiled as Hannah poured them a glass each.

  “And how’s it going with Jim? Good?”

  “Oh, yeah.” An almost beatific smile lit up Hannah’s face. “Really good. We just…I don’t know…We click. We always have done. It just took me a while to realize it.”

  Layla knew what she was referring to. “And us staying here—Joseph staying here—it’s all right?”

  “Of course it is.” Hannah seemed resolute. “It’s great to have you here, to have you both here. So, come on, give me the lowdown on Tara. I want to know every last detail. I have to say, though, she’s quite striking, isn’t she?” As though she had put her foot in it, Hannah quickly added, “Although nowhere near as pretty as you.”

  Layla rolled her eyes. She didn’t care who was the prettiest. It was how a person made you feel that counted. Looks faded; feelings tended to stick around.