Suddenly he smiled a smile that wiped away the melancholy from his face—almost. “I’m looking for someone. A girl.” As if realizing how strange that might sound, he rushed on. “Not just any girl, a girl I used to know, not so long ago, in Australia. My girlfriend.” Still tripping over his words, he continued. “She’s not Australian; she’s British. She comes from here. Well, not here, but just up the road, a place called Port Levine. I’ve been to her house just this morning, but there’s no reply. It’s her I’m looking for.”
Layla almost fell off her chair. Tara! He’s looking for Tara!
She immediately composed herself. “Look, do you mind if I join you?” she asked, picking up her coffee cup and plate and starting to rise.
“Not at all,” he replied, clearly pleased he hadn’t scared her off with his ramblings. Motioning to the chair opposite, he urged her to take a seat.
She introduced herself as she sat.
“And my name’s Aiden. Aiden Taylor, from Lyons Bay, down under, as you may or may not have guessed.”
Layla confessed she had. “Lyons Bay?” she queried. “Close to Sydney?”
“How did you know that?” He looked taken aback that she did. “Have you visited?”
“No, no,” she quickly corrected him. “Just a lucky guess, I suppose.”
“Very lucky,” he replied, smiling at her. “It certainly is close to Sydney. About a two-hour drive, I’d say.”
“Oh, right. Well, glad to meet you, Aiden.” Layla held out her hand. Or was she? She didn’t know yet.
“Do you…erm…have a picture of the girl you’re looking for?”
“Yes, yes, I do, in my wallet.” One hand retrieving it from his back pocket, he opened it to reveal a head and shoulder shot. It was Tara Mills, the one and only.
“You haven’t seen her by any chance, hereabouts?”
Layla hesitated. How the hell was she going to answer that question? Of course she’d seen her; she’d been bloody plagued by her in recent days. Should she tell him the truth? That, yes, she knew her, his girlfriend.
“Layla?” Aiden prompted. Obviously, she had been cogitating too long.
“No, I haven’t, sorry.”
There was no way she could tell him, not without talking to Joseph first. Did he know about Aiden, the significant other Tara had denied? And he must be significant, coming all the way over from Australia to search for her. That was impressive. Yet another man prepared to move heaven and earth for this girl. She stared at her blueberry muffin before pushing it away, her appetite gone completely.
“If she’s your girlfriend, surely you would know where she’s gone,” Layla tested.
Aiden hung his head. He certainly looked devastated. She almost covered his hand in hers—a universal gesture of sympathy—but hung back. There might be a good reason why Tara had left him. Underneath his pleasant exterior and seemingly gentle manner might lurk a monster of magnificent proportions.
“No, I don’t. And I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. I came home from work one day, and Tara—that’s her name, by the way, Tara Mills—she was just gone. We worked as well as lived together, actually. I own a beach café in Lyons Bay, but she had the day off, said she was going into Sydney to do some shopping. I had no reason not to believe her; she hadn’t lied to me before. But when I got back, most of her clothes were gone from the apartment we share, and on our bed was a letter.”
“A letter?”
“Yeah, one of those Dear John ones.” He sighed at the memory. “In a nutshell, it said ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us. Please don’t try and find me; it won’t do you any good. Live life to the full.’ That was it; it explained nothing.”
Aiden’s eyes glistened at the memory. He looked like he was in shock—still.
“When did this happen?”
“Just over four weeks ago.”
Four weeks! Tara had left Australia a month ago? Layla had assumed it was a lot less than that. Where had she been all that time? In Florence? Had Joseph known? It was no use asking Aiden; he seemed as much in the dark as she was. Instead, she listened as he continued speaking, trying to make sense of the situation too.
“I was angry at first, bloody angry. She’d given no indication anything was wrong between us. Quite the contrary.” He stopped for a moment. “And then…I don’t know. It was like I was crippled with grief or something. For days I couldn’t get out of bed. I mean, she’d agreed to marry me, for God’s sake.”
“Marry you?”
“Yes.” There was so much anguish in that one word.
“And now?” Layla asked gently. “How do you feel now?”
“Now, I want answers. I need to know what I did wrong. I…I don’t think I can rest until I do know.” With a bit more fire in his voice, he added, “I think I have a right to know, actually. This was the girl I was going to spend the rest of my life with. The girl I still want to spend the rest of my life with. Why couldn’t she just talk to me?”
Why indeed?
“Do you think she left because of someone?” she couldn’t resist asking.
His head shot up in surprise. “Another man, you mean? No, Tara’s not like that.”
She admired his faith but couldn’t help thinking him naïve too. “And you think she’s come to England?”
“I’m not sure, not yet.” His voice was soft again. “But I know her parents’ address; she talked about this place all the time. I figure they must know where she is, and that maybe, just maybe, I can persuade them to tell me. Or at least give me a number I can contact her on. Her mobile, the number I do have, it’s obsolete now.”
Surprise, surprise.
“You’ve been to Port Levine already?”
“Yes, I landed in the early hours of this morning, hired a car, and drove straight there. I knocked on the door, but there was no reply. I went to the pub to enquire, but that was closed. So was the village store. I…I needed some coffee to keep me awake, so I drove until I found this village, grateful to see signs of life here, at least. But I’ll be going back there in a while to try again.”
Layla looked closely at him, his stubble, his eyes, how red-rimmed they were, the rings that lay just beneath them. “So, you haven’t slept?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t slept since she left me, not really.”
Adopting a practical tone, she continued, “You need to sleep. You look exhausted. Why don’t you book into a B&B? There’s plenty here. Just for a few hours. The last thing you want to do is turn up on Tara’s parents’ doorstep looking wild eyed.” Thinking further, she enquired, “I gather they’re not expecting you?”
“No.” He lifted one hand to feel at his chin as though to make sure the stubble she’d just hinted at was actually there. “If they knew I was coming, they might refuse to see me. Turning up unannounced, though, I might just stand a chance. Also, if Tara is here, if she has come home—and I can’t for the life of me think where else she’s gone—then I don’t want her forewarned. If she is, she might run again.” His voice broke at the prospect.
He wasn’t a monster; she was sure of it. What he was, was in pain.
Aiden yawned and then smiled sheepishly, a sweet smile. “You’re idea of a kip, it’s a good one. To be honest, I can’t even see straight, let alone think straight.” Looking around, he said, “So, there are plenty of places I could rest my head?”
“Plenty. Gail, the lady who owns this café, runs a B&B too. Upstairs she has two or three en-suite rooms. I’ll go and ask her if there are any free. Wait up.”
Gail did indeed have a room for him. Although Layla had sensed she had seemed a bit suspicious of Aiden earlier, to the owner of Cake and Crumb, business was business. Layla imparted this information to him when she returned to their table.
“Ah, that’s great. Thanks, Layla, thanks so much.” Rubbing at his eyes, he added, “And for not denouncing me as a madman. Believe me, I know I sound dodgy.”
To someone else, perhaps, th
ought Layla, but not to me.
“Look, can I take your number? If I do happen to catch sight of your girlfriend, I can let you know.”
Aiden looked pleased and relieved. “I’d be grateful if you did.”
From Gail, she procured a scrap of paper and a pen. Returning to the table, she scribbled down his contact details. “I hope it all works out for you, Aiden. Really I do.”
And she did. He seemed like a nice guy. He didn’t deserve this. To be fair, no one did. After saying good-bye, Layla hurried back to the flat. If she had been keen to see Joseph this morning, she was even more so now. This continuing secret of Tara’s, it was beginning to wear thin—perilously so. Like Aiden, she too wanted answers. She had been right not to trust Tara, and she was going to make that crystal clear to Joseph. After all, if she had lied about Aiden, what else had she lied about?
Chapter Twenty
TARA HURRIED TO THE GARDEN GATE. Joseph would be here any minute now, and she didn’t want her parents to see him. If they did, they would start asking questions, and she couldn’t cope with that right now. She hadn’t let on that Layla was his girlfriend, either, when she had come to visit yesterday. Instead she had said she was a friend she’d met in London who happened to be visiting family in Trecastle too. Her mother was suspicious, though; she was sure of it. She would want the full set of facts regarding why her daughter had come home, and she would want them soon.
“Why don’t you come to Port Isaac with us this morning? We’re meeting friends for coffee,” Lily had asked her, after first checking she was better from the day before. She was—the blinding headache had eased—but in its place was an ache, dull right now but who knew when it would flare up again? All too soon, she’d bet.
After making her excuses, she had quickly gotten dressed. Joseph had texted her. He knew she had been sick yesterday—Layla must have told him, even though Tara had asked her not to—and he wanted to meet her. And she wanted to meet him. It would be nice to talk with someone, to be with someone from whom she had no secrets.
There he was, in his Defender, coming closer. Waiting outside for him reminded her of how she used to wait for him in another place, another time. In London, when she was younger, when they were younger, when they had their whole lives ahead of them. She had shared a flat with two other girls in Shepherd’s Bush, a ground-floor Victorian flat with a chronic case of damp. She remembered mold actually growing on one wall of her bedroom, regularly wiped away but taking root again—and again, and again. The landlord had just shrugged his shoulders when she’d complained, telling her she could find another place to stay if she wanted, that there were plenty who’d move in there like a shot, mold or not.
It used to get her down. London life had gotten her down. It was too fast, too frenetic, and—she had to search for the right word—soulless. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere, their heads down, eyes on the pavement before them, walking hurriedly along roads, down escalators, in subways. Then walking back again the same way after the working day was over.
She guessed she was just a country girl at heart, and she was actually considering returning to Cornwall or maybe pushing on to Wales or Scotland. Their wide-open spaces, their wildness would suit her too, she was sure of it. And then she had met Joseph. She would wait outside for him excitedly before their dates. The reason? She loved to capture the sight of him roaring up on his motorbike—he looked bloody sexy in black leathers. When she had explained to him why she waited outside, he had laughed, creases appearing like dimples in his cheeks, his blue eyes dancing. Having borrowed a helmet from him, she would ride pillion, her arms and legs wrapped tight around him, her visor open as they sped through busy streets, all the while thinking London wasn’t so bad after all.
Shortly after that, she had moved in with him. He had a flat in Hammersmith, small but decent, with no mold whatsoever. A Londoner born and bred, the city didn’t scare Joseph; he was a part of it, confident in the crowds—a confidence that had rubbed off on her. Suddenly, London was full of soul, a glitzy and exciting metropolis. He showed her sweet pubs hidden down side streets where only residents drank, gorgeous restaurants full of atmosphere owned by real people, not big commercial chains, and markets where haggling for a bargain was a Sunday morning ritual. They went to gigs, since both of them loved music—rock, folk, indie, or a mixture of all three. Art shows, museums, exhibitions, London had it all. And in between, she’d take him back to Port Levine to sample life of another kind, a life that was a revelation to him also.
And now she was waiting for him again, unable to stop herself smiling as he drew closer. She noticed he was smiling too.
“Hey,” he said, jumping out of the car once he had brought it to a standstill. “Impatient as ever, I see.”
“To see you? Always,” she joked back.
Standing in front of her, concern replaced his smile. “How are you?”
“Honestly, I’m better. It’s another beautiful day; let’s get some fresh air.”
“Where do you want to go?”
Tara looked around her. “How long have you got?”
“As long as you want.”
“Really? Layla doesn’t mind?”
His face clouded, but only briefly. “No, she’s fine. I’ll text her later and explain. She was asleep when I left. She will be for ages, if I know her. Bit of a heavy night last night.”
Motioning to the car, he continued. “Your chariot awaits, my lady. Where to first?”
Tara didn’t need to think. “Rocky Valley. I haven’t been there in years.”
“Rocky Valley it is.”
As she climbed into the front passenger seat, the darkening of his features earlier bothered her. Hopefully, Layla would be okay with them spending the morning together. She didn’t want to cause trouble between them. She had caused enough. But the morning, that’s all she needed him for. After that, she could let him go.
Rocky Valley. Tara used to think the name sounded like it belonged to an American high school, Rocky Valley High. She’d even written a few short stories about this fictional high school as a teen, strictly to amuse herself, not for the benefit of others—writing was not her forte. The real Rocky Valley was not a high school, however. It was one of the most mystical places in Cornwall and so named because of a cleft that ran between two cliffs, hollowed out over the centuries by the relentless Trevillet River, which ran from the hills behind to the sea below. And that river would never stop running, she wagered. Halfway to the ocean could be found the ruins of Trewethett Mill, opposite which, carved into a slab of granite, were two labyrinth petroglyphs, shrouded in mystery and intrigue. Experts couldn’t decide if they dated back to the Early Bronze Age or were considerably more modern than that.
Tara followed the path of the labyrinth with her finger, as she had done so many times in the past. She knew what she believed—these were the real thing. In the trees above her, people had tied ribbons, a colorful assortment, some brand new, others weather-rotten, and to each was attached a wish. Above the carvings, people had etched their names or the names of loved ones deep into the rock. Since a local man had discovered the labyrinths in nineteen forty-eight, this had been a place of pilgrimage. For Tara, it had always been a place of peace.
Joseph crouched beside her too.
“I wonder if our names are still carved here,” he said, running his hand over the wall above the labyrinth.
“I doubt it. It was such a long time ago we did that. Countless people have carved over our names since then, replaced us.”
“We replaced us.”
“Yes, I suppose we did.”
Across from the mill was a rickety bridge, running from one side of the river to the other. Tara stood and walked over to it, positioning herself dead center on the wooden slats so she could stare down the valley, toward the ocean. She couldn’t see the sea from this distance, but she could certainly hear it, waves crashing against rocks as though they had some perpetual ax to grind. Althoug
h many people beat a path here, locals as much as tourists, Rocky Valley remained determinedly unspoiled. In a place like this, the land held dominion, not the people.
“Let’s take a picture,” she called across to Joseph.
“Of us? There’s no one around to take it.”
“We don’t need anyone to take it,” Tara insisted. “Here, stand next to me.”
Grabbing onto his arm, she pulled him into her, lifted the camera up high, and focused on their faces.
“Smile,” she instructed before clicking the button on her phone. “And another. Make a face this time.”
Joseph duly complied.
Recalling them back on screen, they both laughed at the one they’d pulled a face in.
“Handsome couple, aren’t we?” Joseph remarked.
“We were,” Tara contested. “Once.”
Focusing on the valley below, he asked if she wanted to walk farther.
“No.” Tara shook her head. “Let’s go to St. Nectan’s Glen.”
Sacred places seemed to be calling her today, and in this part of the world, there were many to choose from. But of them all, St. Nectan’s Glen was perhaps the most impressive. Reached via a wooded valley, steep in places and slippery too, the effort required to reach it was amply rewarded. On private land, you had to pay the couple who owned it a nominal sum for the privilege of viewing it, but Tara didn’t mind. They were the guardians of this special place; she’d pay for its upkeep anytime. Passing through a white gate, she held on to Joseph as they climbed down to the valley floor once more. She looked around, pleased to note they had this to themselves too. The pilgrims were either busy elsewhere or enjoying a day off.
Walking over to the waterfall, she stood before it. Water cascaded from on high into a keeve—a big, round basin—and then down again, journeying onward. There was a ledge to one side of the basin, and years ago, people could jump from there into the keeve, which was deep enough to swim in. It was something she wished she’d done, swam in that frothing, steaming cauldron. She had always intended to, but the day had either been too cold, or she’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes. There was always some excuse. And now it was too late, but not just for her, for everyone. Health and Safety had put paid to such shenanigans a while ago.
The Runaway Ex Page 17
