Too Close to Home

by Susan Lewis

  This was also true, for when he’d returned to the car and found no sign of her, he’d spent twenty or more minutes walking up and down the dunes searching for her and Waffle—half afraid, he’d insisted, that the tide had swept them away. “And have I asked you why you didn’t answer your phone?” he grumbled, opening his inbox.

  Jenna blinked in surprise. “I guess that would be because it didn’t ring,” she replied.

  “Then you need to get it checked, because I definitely tried calling. Is this correct? Did we really receive three more submissions while I was out?”

  “Two poems by the same person,” she confirmed, “and a pornographic short story about dragons and maidens that I’ve already trashed.” At the beginning they’d found most of the lewd submissions—and there were plenty of them—either hilarious, sickening, or downright mind-boggling; these days they rarely got past the first page before binning them. “Martha rang while you were out,” she told him.

  His head came up. “Really? How come she didn’t call my mobile?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe because it was on silent? Anyway, she said she’s sorry she had to cancel today, but she should be free tomorrow morning around ten.”

  He frowned, keeping his eyes on her even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Was that all?” he prompted.

  “Were you expecting more?”

  “I guess I was hoping she might have had more news on the upload problem. She didn’t mention it?”

  “Correct, she didn’t.”

  Scowling, he returned to the task at hand, not speaking again (other than on the phone, volubly and at some length, to one of his golfing buddies) for at least half an hour. Then he said, “Remind me what Bena’s full name is again.”

  “Verbena Forse. Why?”

  “I’m doing the About Us page. Do we have a photo of her?”

  “She’ll have one, or we can take one when she comes in tomorrow.”

  “We’ll need a short bio as well. I’ve got yours. Great shot of you, by the way. Do you think we should include Martha?”

  Jenna frowned. “Would she want to be included? I mean, she’s an adviser, not an actual member of the team.”

  He shrugged. “I guess you’re right, but we wouldn’t have got this far without her and her team.”

  Since this was true and had been acknowledged so many times it needed no further airing at this point, Jenna sat back in her chair and stretched and yawned. “Fancy a cup of tea?” she offered.

  He nodded but didn’t look up. “Tell you what, I’ll make it,” he suddenly declared, noticing the time. “Your mother should be here any minute with whatever she’s tortured in the oven today.”

  Jenna had to laugh. In spite of loving to bake for when the children came in from school, her mother’s choice of gluten-free, low-fat, no-sugar recipes rarely won her efforts many fans. “Actually, she’s on one of her socials with the Women’s Institute today,” she informed him, “so we probably won’t see her until teatime.”

  “Your mother’s on a day trip?” He smiled, getting to his feet. “Blessings. I can hardly wait to find out what she brings us all back. What was it the last time? A miniature china watering can for me, a clockwork ballerina for Paige, a pack of doggy-doo bags for the twins…I’ve forgotten what she brought you and Josh.”

  “A tea towel for me and a CD of Land of My Fathers for Josh, but it’s the thought that counts.”

  With an ironic tilt of his eyebrows, he took himself back through the garden to the kitchen, where she could see him filling the kettle while clicking on his phone to answer.

  She loved watching him like this, a romantically shadowed image through all the rain-spattered glass, knowing he could be seen, and sometimes putting on a bit of a show to entertain her. It was so pleasing to see how relaxed and happy he was in Wales, at least most of the time, clearly delighting in the many new friends he’d made, clubs he’d joined, new sports he was learning. Sailing, surfing, fishing, and even flying had made it onto his agenda lately, though he’d yet to have his first pilot’s lesson. It was doing him so much good here that she didn’t even want to think about how he’d handle it if their business didn’t succeed.

  So she wouldn’t think about it, because it wasn’t going to happen. OK, it was probably going to take a while longer to get off the ground than he was expecting, but new ventures often did, and it wasn’t as though they were looking to make a fortune from it. All they needed was enough to get by, so they could carry on living this idyllic life with the children while helping to bring some very real artistic talent to a marketplace.

  Reaching for the Sunday papers, she reminded herself that this was what really mattered to her about Celticulture, that they were using it to win recognition for those who truly deserved it. And many did, that was for sure. Perhaps not always in a big way, but even those who probably weren’t going to soar to the dizzying heights of stardom were excited about having their work professionally represented and published in electronic format. She could sense it every time she spoke to them on the phone—she even felt it coming through in their emails, along with impatience to get going—and loved every one of them for it. In her wildest dreams she sometimes even dared to envisage their exclusive list being recognized as a fertile source for major new talent—though she accepted that they were probably going to need a goodly amount of Welsh fairy dust to make that happen.

  Feeling her heart sinking at how much of that very dust her own creative efforts needed, she opened the Culture section of the Sunday Times to the latest charts and almost immediately wished she hadn’t bothered. Sitting there, right at the top of the hardback fiction list, was a name she knew well.

  Natalie West.

  She’d met this renowned author only once, at a publishing party in London where their joint editor had introduced them.

  “Oh, so you’re Jenna Moore,” Natalie had drawled, looking down at Jenna from her imposing height. “I haven’t read your book, but I hear it’s been selling.”

  “Yes, I believe so.” Jenna had smiled, not sure whether this towering (literally) author was being insulting or not.

  “Mm, you can never tell what’ll work,” Natalie murmured, her busy eyes hunting the room for more interesting guests. “Poetry Emotion. Not a title I’d have chosen myself, but then I’d never have wanted to reduce Byron and Shelley to the indignity of popular fiction.”

  Shocked by the rudeness, as well as the unjustified attack on her work, Jenna had simply stared at her, at a loss for words.

  “You have children, don’t you?” Natalie asked.

  “Yes, four,” Jenna automatically replied.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re a wonderful mother.” And with that she’d swept off into the crowd.

  “Wow. Is she like that with everyone?” Jenna had whispered to her editor as they watched her go.

  “Only those she sees as competition,” the editor had replied, “or more talented than her, so try to take it as a compliment.”

  Jenna might have managed that, and might even have put it out of her mind altogether, had Natalie West not decided a few months later to review Jenna Moore’s second book for one of the national papers—and totally decimated it. OK, Jenna had to admit it wasn’t her best work. She was sure that if she’d had longer to produce it she’d have made a better job of it, but even so, she truly didn’t believe it had deserved the kind of derision Natalie had poured all over it.

  It had just seemed spiteful and unnecessary, especially since no one, apparently, had even invited her to submit a review.

  It could easily be said that Natalie West was responsible for Jenna’s writer’s block, though Jenna had no wish to give the woman such power over her. In fact, she’d rather not think about her at all, especially when West’s style of writing, in her opinion, contained very little charm or nuance and her characters were almost entirely unsympathetic or stereotypical. And, again in Jenna’s opinion, it was nothing short of a travesty that someone with such a
stunted talent should be enjoying the kind of success that she did.

  Dumping the Culture section in the bin, she purposefully cleared her mind of the bitterness and looked up to find out if Jack was on his way with the tea yet. He was still on the phone, pacing up and down the sitting room, waving an arm as he spoke, clearly engrossed in his call. She wouldn’t bother telling him about Natalie West’s latest success when he came back. He’d only become angry on her behalf, which could easily turn into a row between them, and what was the point of that when she was OK with it, really? Her life had moved on, or it was here, anyway, with him and the children—and her mother—and since they were happy, healthy, and totally in the right place for them, that was all that mattered.

  —

  “Honestly, I reckon Owen should just come out and tell everyone,” Paige was saying as she and Charlotte waited for the school bus to pull away from their drop-off point. “It’s not like he’d lose any friends. We’d all be there for him.”

  “Course we would, but you can’t blame him for not wanting people to know. You weren’t there when Darren Brown came out the year before last, but Owen was, so he saw what happened. Darren got tormented rotten, and not only by the Durmites, though they were definitely part of it. The other boys were really mean, pushing him around, calling him disgusting names, stealing his stuff…They managed to get him thrown off the rugby and football teams, and you know how Owen loves his sport. It was so bad for poor Darren that he ended up leaving the school.”

  Having heard about Darren Brown, Paige had to concede that maybe Owen was right to keep his secret, even though she was certain most people knew, or at least suspected. She guessed as long as he was in denial they could be too, and what business was it of hers to try to change things? None, was the answer; she just wished people weren’t so prejudiced and narrow-minded, and that he could live his life the way he deserved.

  Spotting Waffle bounding along the lane toward her, she broke into a smile. “Here he is, the best boy in all the world,” she laughed, ruffling him savagely as he reached her. Since he came most days to meet her from the bus, she wasn’t surprised to see him, only pleased.

  Making a fuss of him too, Charlotte said, “By the way, how’s your knee now? Still hurting?”

  Checking the graze, which started to sting as soon as it was mentioned, Paige said, “It’s fine.” It had happened during netball when Bethany Gates had tripped her, sending her crashing to the ground. Since Bethany had sworn it was an accident and the coach hadn’t actually been watching at that moment, the game had simply continued.

  “You should have said it was Bethany,” Charlotte stated belligerently. “She did it on purpose. I saw her stick out her foot, and Kelly Durham punched a fist in the air when you went down, like she’d bloody scored or something. If you ask me, they planned it.”

  Though Paige suspected the same, she couldn’t prove it, and even if she could, she was hardly going to start whining to the coach when she’d only end up paying for it later, so she simply shrugged it off. “I’ll just have to keep an eye out for her next time,” she said, waving to a neighbor as she drove out of the lane and turned down toward Port Eynon. “Are you coming over later? We can work on the penicillin history project together.”

  Charlotte grimaced. “It’s my granddad’s birthday,” she reminded her, “so we’re going there tonight. When does it have to be in by?”

  “Not till next Tuesday, so plenty of time. I’ll hold off until we can do it together, and do some more on my video tonight.”

  “It’s going to be brilliant,” Charlotte told her. She gave Paige a playful nudge. “Fancy Mr. Thomas saying you have a natural talent for making films. He never gives anyone a compliment normally. I reckon he desires you.”

  “Oh, puh-lease.” Paige gagged. “He’s totally gross and his breath stinks.”

  “Just a bit. How does his wife stand it? Anyway, my video, of course, is total shite.”

  “That’s not what he said. You just don’t have enough material, but you can always use some of mine if you need it.”

  “I might take you up on that.” Charlotte was checking a text. “My mum wants to know where I am, so I guess I’d better go. I’ll FaceTime you later if I get a chance. Good luck with the…Oh my God, oh my God,” she suddenly cried. “I almost forgot. Did you get the text from Cullum?”

  “You mean about going surfing at the weekend?”

  “Yeah, that one. When I saw him last period I asked who else was going and it only turns out that Oliver and Liam might be there too. So we have to go.”

  Paige’s insides were in free fall. Oliver was going to be there. And Liam, whom Charlotte was totally crazy about. “Definitely,” she agreed. “I already said I would anyway.”

  Grinning, Charlotte hefted her heavy bag over her shoulder to start in the opposite direction. “You’re in love,” she teased. “You’re going to kiss him, shag him, marry him, and have his babies.”

  “You mean that’s what you’re going to do with Liam,” Paige called after her, her smile so wide it almost hurt.

  “Bring it on!” Charlotte laughed. “I’m ready for it whenever he is.”

  “I’ll tell him that.”

  “And I’ll tell Oliver. He’ll be like, ‘Oh my God, Paige Moore wants to do it with me? Let’s get a room.’ ”

  Though Paige was still laughing and buzzing with excitement as she started toward home, no way was she going to allow herself to believe anything would ever happen between her and Oliver Pryce. It just wouldn’t, not in a million trillion years. She was too young for him, and he already had a girlfriend, and even if he didn’t he wouldn’t look twice at her. But if he did…He definitely wouldn’t, but if he did…If he saw her again and remembered her from rugby…It might turn out that he’d been thinking about her too, wondering who she was, how he could get to know her. It would be, like, totally amazing, actually out-of-this-entire-world amazing and awesome and utterly brilliant, if they actually started going out. Oh God! She could hardly even think of it. Everyone would be like, No way is she with him, but it would be true. She, Paige Moore, would be Oliver Pryce’s girlfriend. Kelly Durham and her gang wouldn’t dare to have a go at her then. They’d back off big-time once they realized she was moving in a different league than they were, going out with someone who was at college and had a car. Or more likely they’d want to be her friend, crawling round her, sucking up like little pigs, but she wouldn’t even bother looking at them, never mind letting them into her crowd. They could just drop dead and go and find someone else to have a go at, because no way in the world would Oliver allow them to carry on messing with her.

  “Come on, Waffs,” she cried, feeling suddenly elated as she broke into a run along the lane. “It’s freezing out here, and I’m starving.”

  In no time at all she was passing Butler’s Farm and the half-finished new build next to it, crossing the patch of grass they called a green, where random white stones marked the border and sheep were often found grazing, and skirting the three grand Victorian houses that had been knocked into one to form an upmarket B&B. Next to them was a shabby old bungalow belonging to a couple from Llanelli who hardly ever set foot in it, and next to that was a long quaint stone house with wide arched windows, two tall chimneys, and a massive oak in the front garden. This belonged to her grandma, who didn’t appear to be at home, since her car wasn’t there and no lights were on. However, after running up the lane past more cottages and houses tucked in behind wild bramble hedges or shiny black gates, she spotted her grandma’s car on their forecourt, so it was no surprise when she let herself and Waffle into the kitchen to find Kay busying herself with the ironing. Weirdly, ironing was one of Grandma’s favorite things to do.

  “Hi, darling,” her mother said, interrupting a phone call as she looked up from the tea she was making.

  “Hey,” Paige responded, dumping her bag and grabbing a biscuit for Waffle. “Hey, Grandma, kiss kiss.”

  Kay gave o
ne of her awkward smiles. “Kiss kiss to you too,” she replied, sweeping the iron along the back of one of Jack’s shirts. “Good day at school?”

  “Same old.”

  Kay frowned. “Same old what?”

  “It was OK,” Paige assured her, slotting a slice of bread into the toaster before shrugging off her coat. “How about you?”

  “My day was very good, thank you,” Kay replied seriously. “I went with the WI to visit one of the cockle-processing plants in Pennclawdd. There are two, and strictly speaking they’re in Crofty, but the cockles come from the Burry estuary, which Pennclawdd sits on the edge of, and the families that own the plants all come from the village too. They’ve been harvesting cockles there for hundreds of years—”

  “Yes, Grandma, we’ve been there with the school. So did you bring any home?”

  “Of course, and a recipe for laver bread, which is actually seaweed. We tried some while we were there and it’s delicious.”

  “Are you going to make it, or will Mum?” Paige asked warily.

  “Oh, I expect I shall. Your mum’s always so busy, but she’s going to make us a seafood pasta this evening using some of the cockles I brought.”

  Though Paige didn’t much care for cockles, she wouldn’t hurt her grandmother’s feelings by admitting it, so she simply said, “Cool. Can I have a cup of that tea, Mum?”

  “Please?” Kay prompted.

  “Please. Where’s Dad?” she asked her mother as Jenna got off the phone.

  “He went to give Barry the builder a hand with something,” Jenna told her, “and knowing them they’ll stop at the pub on the way back. Good day? What happened to your knee?”

  “Oh, I fell over in netball. By the way, Mr. Thomas was totally blown away by the footage me and Dad shot for my ICT project. He reckons I’m going to have a really good film when it’s edited together. He might even show it to the Welsh Tourist Board if it turns out to be as good as he thinks.”

  Jenna’s eyebrows rose. “That’s fantastic,” she declared, coming to hug her. “Next thing we know you’ll be turning one of Celticulture’s books into a movie.”