Thinking of bed brought on a longing for it.
“Okay, guys,” she said, suppressing a yawn as she rose from the table. “It’s way past midnight. I’m off. I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Minutes later, she returned to the kitchen.
“I give up. I can’t work out that sofa bed. Can someone help me please?”
Jim and Hannah were washing up, and Layla was drying.
Hannah stopped what she was doing and started to dry her hands on a tea towel.
“No, it’s all right, Han, I’ll do it,” said Joseph. “Come on, Pen.”
Penny stiffened slightly and wondered if Joseph noticed. In a crowd, she could keep her feelings toward him under wraps; alone together, how transparent would she be?
“Thanks,” she replied, stepping aside to let him pass and then following him reluctantly.
As he started removing cushions from the sofa, Penny stood by, staring at him, wondering if he really was going to let not just Layla down but all of them. He seemed like such a nice guy; she liked him a lot. Correction, had liked him a lot. It would hit them all hard if her suspicions proved correct.
Too late she realized Joseph was staring right back at her.
“What is it, Pen? Something on your mind?”
Was that a challenge or just an innocent question?
“Penny?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just…I don’t know. I’m glad it went well today with Layla and Tara. That’s a relief, isn’t it?”
Fishing, that’s what she’d do, fish for clues instead.
To her surprise, Joseph sat down on the pull-out bed, but not before glancing at the door. Why? she wondered. To check that they were alone? That no one in particular was hovering outside—that no one being Layla?
He looked up at Penny next, his face slightly shadowed. “I don’t know what happened yet. Layla’s going to tell me later. But, yes, she seems happy enough with how the day went. I’m glad too.”
“Strange situation for you, though, isn’t it? Caught between two women.”
Joseph looked a bit bemused by her comment. Bemused or annoyed? “I’m not caught between anyone.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
So quickly his guard had gone up. He was not going to say any more on the subject, she knew. Not unless she forced him to by revealing what she knew. Was this the time and place to do it? No. If they started arguing, the others would be here in a flash, demanding to know what was going on, and then it would be game over—for Joseph, for Layla, for her. She had to choose her moment more carefully than this.
Forcing brightness into her voice, she picked up the bedding that lay folded by the side of the sofa. “Come on. Let’s finish sorting this out.”
Joseph rose to his feet and helped her tuck the base sheet in.
“Strange, though, isn’t it?” she commented as she worked.
“What is?”
“Tara being sick today.”
Immediately, Joseph stopped what he was doing. “What did you say?”
Bugger! Too late she realized she shouldn’t have said anything. Tara for some reason hadn’t wanted him to know. But surely there was no harm in it?
Standing up straight, she repeated, “Tara, she was sick today. Layla was with her at the time. A migraine or something she had.”
“You serious?”
“Er, yes.” Why would she make something like that up?
“Oh, no. I’ve got to phone her.”
She couldn’t believe it. He looked ill all of a sudden too, his normal golden hue drained completely. He started patting at his pockets, trying to locate his mobile.
Edging round the bed, she drew closer to him, laying a hand on his arm. Why was he so panicked by Tara throwing up? Migraines could have that effect.
“Where the hell is my phone?” he muttered under his breath.
Quickly, she tried to reason with him. “Joseph, listen to me. It’s late. It’s nearly one in the morning. She’s probably fast asleep by now. Especially if she was feeling unwell earlier. You can’t phone her now; you’ll wake her. Leave it until tomorrow.”
Her words seemed to filter through.
Running an agitated hand through his hair, he replied, “You’re right; it is too late. I’ll do that. I’ll check on her tomorrow. I wonder why Layla didn’t mention it earlier.”
She’d have to come clean now; she didn’t want Layla getting into trouble. Wincing slightly, she confessed, “Actually, Tara asked Layla not to tell you—you or her parents. I shouldn’t have mentioned it either. I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“Tara told Layla not to tell me?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Abruptly his head came up and his eyes met hers—blue against blue—both ice-cold shades, no warmth at all now.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything, Penny.”
Oh, she was desperate now to call his bluff, to throw his traitorousness back at him. Her jaw was actually working to form words when Layla suddenly appeared.
“Haven’t you two finished yet?” she said, flashing them both a big smile.
“Yeah, we’ve finished,” Joseph said, still locked in a staring competition with her.
Would he tell Layla that he knew Tara had been sick? Somehow, she didn’t think so. After what seemed like an eternity but in reality was mere seconds, he turned away and, taking Layla by the hand, left the room.
Penny sank down onto the bed, relieved to be shot of him. She had put her foot in it. Obviously Tara had wanted what had happened earlier kept quiet for a reason. But what reason? It was no big deal. And why such a strong reaction from Joseph? Switching off the lamp beside the sofa bed, she crawled under the covers and got herself comfy. Within seconds, she was sat upright again. Morning sickness? A bloody stupid name, considering it could strike at any time of day or night. Was that what was wrong with Tara? She herself had been sick a few times during pregnancy, but only during the first trimester; it had passed soon after that, thankfully. Despite her obvious slimness, could Tara be pregnant? Some girls took a while to show. If Tara was pregnant, who was the father? Not Joseph, surely? She hadn’t been in Trecastle and, prior to that Florence, long enough…had she? In just a few seconds, her brain zoomed from zero to sixty. She knew, exhausted or not, there’d be no sleep for her tonight.
Chapter Nineteen
LAYLA’S HEAD FELT HEAVY when she woke the next morning. She shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine, or the fourth, or the fifth for that matter. As soon as she had hit the pillow last night, she’d been unconscious, but it had been a good night, the best she’d had in ages. Joseph had been on top form too, cooking up a storm for everyone. There was always a price to pay, though, for having fun, and it looked like she’d be paying it for a few hours to come.
Sunlight glinted through the curtains. And that was another thing. The weather they were having, it was beautiful, like the height of summer, all blue skies and warm temperatures. She hadn’t checked on her mobile, but she was sure the weather in Florence wasn’t as nice as it was here at the moment. Stretching out, she thought how lucky she was. Tara or no Tara, she was glad to be home, back with friends that felt more like family than family ever did. Although she hadn’t been close to her mother while growing up, they had made amends the last time Layla was in Trecastle. During her “runaway year,” Angelica had paid her a surprise visit, drawn back, as she herself had been, by the memories of the special times they had shared here while Layla was growing up, always staying in the same place, a cottage just outside of Trecastle that used to belong to a friend of a friend. She didn’t know which friend; her mother had had an extraordinary number of them—although to be fair, Layla would call many of them acquaintances rather than friends. They surrounded Angelica every hour of the day, increasing the wedge that bereavement had already driven between them. But none of those so-calle
d friends ever accompanied them to Trecastle. Holidays here were strictly their time, only to be spent with Hannah and her mother, Connie, but not every day. Some days, she remembered, they had hugged all to themselves.
When her mother had visited, the atmosphere between them had been awkward at first. But then they had talked, mother and daughter, really talked for the first time in so many years, perhaps the first time ever. Angelica had explained as best she could why she had pulled away from Layla after Greg had died, why she had immersed herself in friends, acquaintances, hangers-on instead. She had used them all to keep busy, to stop herself from having time to think, to keep afloat. Without them, she had explained to Layla, she would have sunk into a grief so deep she’d have been no use to anyone, least of all her daughter. It was hard to lose the love of your life, and in such a nonsensical way—in a car crash, the perpetrator of which had walked away without so much as a scratch on him. It was hard to lose your father too, Layla had wanted to respond, but she’d refrained. Instead she had done her utmost to see it from her mother’s point of view, to understand, and, ultimately, to let it all go.
Angelica also lived in Italy, in Milan, with her partner Georgio, a merchant banker. Layla and Joseph had driven up to see them twice, and they had traveled south to return the visit. Angelica would never be the mother Layla had wanted so desperately throughout her childhood, someone homey like Tara’s mother; there was no way she’d ever wear an apron or bake cakes. But she was grateful to have her in her life again. Trecastle had done that for them. It had bridged the gap.
Yawning, she stretched again, much wider this time. When her legs touched nothing but thin air, she frowned.
“Joseph? Where are you?” She hadn’t heard him get up.
Turning swiftly, she saw his side of the bed was indeed empty. Sitting upright, her eyes searched the room—it was definitely devoid of his presence. She focused on the clock: 8:49, it read in big red numbers. Ooh, too early. No wonder she felt rough. She lay back down again, intending to get another hour’s sleep at least. Closing her eyes, she tried to drift back off. But where had he gone so early? They were on holiday. He should be enjoying his lie-ins, taking advantage of them, of her too, if she were honest. The question rolled around in her head and seemed to bounce off the walls of her mind, the question mark that accompanied it becoming larger and larger, in the end too large to ignore. She started sniffing the air for smells of bacon—maybe he’d gone to whip up a big breakfast. Although whether breakfast at this hour would be appreciated by the other flatmates, she didn’t know. Not that she should worry further on that score. There was no smell of bacon, so that theory was shot.
It took another twenty minutes before she gave up. Sleep was not on the cards for her again this morning. There was no point in lolling around any longer; she’d get up and go see where Joseph was.
Pulling on a dressing gown that Hannah had lent her, she quietly opened the door to her bedroom and sneaked into the hall. Soft snoring was coming from the direction of the living room; Penny was still flat out. From Hannah and Jim’s bedroom, there was silence, so she continued sneaking into the kitchen. Empty. No coffee mug by the side of the sink or a plate with crumbs on it to indicate that Joseph had even been in the kitchen that morning. Maybe he’d popped to May’s for supplies. She opened the fridge door. It was stuffed full of bread, butter, milk, and bacon. By the side, in a wired hen basket, were eggs aplenty—all purchased from a local farm up the road, as free range as it got. They didn’t need supplies.
Layla searched for some pain killers, her head pounding. Swallowing down two pills with an entire pint of water, she decided she’d go out and look for Joseph instead. Maybe he couldn’t sleep and had gone for a walk. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have too much trouble finding him; they had promised themselves they’d spend today together. It was already Friday, and they hadn’t yet done so. She was looking forward to it, especially as it was such a beautiful morning. Stooping slightly, she peered out of the window. There didn’t appear to be a cloud in the sky.
Hurrying back into her bedroom, she pulled on her jeans, a T-shirt, and her black ankle-length boots. She brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face, grimacing at the dark shadows under her eyes, more evidence of the heavy night before. After securing her hair in a ponytail, she grabbed her set of front door keys and headed into the sunshine, hoping the fresh Atlantic air might chase away her headache more effectively than the pills had done. The Defender was usually parked on the street behind Hannah’s flat. She could walk round to see if it was gone, or she could continue down the high street. Deciding on the latter, she pressed forward. He was bound to be in the village.
As it was early, the high street hadn’t fully come alive. Layla relished the silence; it was like having the entire village to herself, surreal somehow. As she reached May’s, she saw someone leaning against the wall. It was Hilda, who worked full-time there. In her mid-fifties, she was short and round with obviously dyed reddish hair.
“Hello, love,” she said, spying Layla. “Just popped outside for a cheeky fag.”
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” Layla replied by way of greeting.
“Yes. I hope the weather continues for the Easter holidays. It’s good for trade.”
“I hope so.” Layla smiled at her. “Erm, you haven’t seen Joseph, have you?”
“Joseph? No, love. Mislaid him, have you?”
Layla laughed. “Something like that. He might be down at the beach. I’ll head that way.”
Hilda winked at her. “Good luck. I wouldn’t go losing a fine young man like that if I were you.”
I’m trying not to.
She was surprised such a negative thought had entered her head, especially when she had started to feel better about the situation she had found herself in. Ignoring it, she concentrated on the road ahead instead, squinting up in the sunshine at the silhouette of the castle as she drew nearer. Even when the sun was shining, it was dark and brooding, as though obsessing about all it had seen and experienced over the centuries, not wanting to share what it knew with anyone. Like someone else I know. Again, the thought had formed before she could stop it.
The beach was empty too, save for a lone man and his dog at the far end of the shore. She swung her head left and right, squinted again, but no, there was no Joseph to be found. As lovely as it was, the tide receding, the sands glistening, it felt lonely somehow. She’d make her way back; perhaps he was home now.
Outside Cake and Crumb was a signboard. Gail, who owned the café, must have just put it out; Layla certainly hadn’t noticed it before. The sign was for Lavazza coffee, the thought of which made Layla’s mouth water. She’d love a cup. She glanced at her watch; it was coming up to eleven, still early. The others might still be in bed, and the wanderer was probably still wandering. She had time to treat herself.
A buzzer rang as she pushed open the door.
“Hello, love,” Gail said from behind the counter, a beaming smile on her face. “I thought I saw you walk past the other day. How are you? Back for good?”
Nipping round the corner to give Gail a hug, Layla explained she was only here on a flying visit; they had the weekend to go, and then it was home on Monday.
“Florence,” sighed Gail wistfully. “I went there in my twenties with a boyfriend. Wonderful weekend we had, sheer bliss. Now what can I get you?”
Gail insisted Layla sit down; she’d bring her cappuccino and blueberry muffin over to her. A young man was sitting at the table she would have chosen, in the café window, so she sat at the table next to him, wishing she’d brought her mobile phone with her so she could text Joseph. That was a daft thing to do, leaving it behind at the flat. She could have solved the mystery of his disappearance a lot quicker if she’d had her phone with her. Sighing, she blamed her hangover for the omission.
She was idly brushing imaginary crumbs off the white linen tablecloth when the man at the window table started speaking. It took a few moments to rea
lize it was her he was addressing, the only other occupant besides Gail in the café.
“Sorry to interrupt you—and this is not a chat-up line, I promise. Are you from around here?”
He was a good-looking man, about the same age as her, she guessed. And he had an accent—Australian.
“Erm, well, yes and no. I lived here for a while, but right now I’m only visiting.”
“Ah.” He looked downcast all of a sudden. “It’s a long-shot anyway.”
“What is?” Layla asked, her curiosity piqued.
“Oh, it’s nothing, I’m being silly. I…I’m sorry to bother you.”
Gail arrived at the side of her table with coffee and cake in hand. “Can I get you anything else?” she said to the young man rather pointedly, her eyebrows arched.
“No thanks, I’m fine.” As Gail walked away, he called out over his shoulder, “Great coffee, by the way.”
Layla smiled at the exchange, taking a frothy sip, then wiping her top lip with a napkin in case she’d given herself a milk moustache.
“So, what about you?” she asked. “Are you on holiday in the UK?”
“Holiday? No, I’m on a mission.”
“A mission?” She hadn’t expected that. What was he? Some sort of James Bond-type character? Although not suavely dressed—he looked rather rumpled, in fact, in dark blue jeans and a navy T-shirt—there was something a little Sean Connery-like about him. His chest was broad and firm, his arms well-defined, and his eyes, well, she’d bet they could twinkle, although they weren’t twinkling now.
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