Making Your Mind Up

by Jill Mansell

  “Eww!” Shaking her head and laughing, Jojo said, “Tell me the best thing I ever did.”

  Cressida pulled a face. “Can’t think of any.”

  “That’s not true! Tell me!”

  “Oh, sweetheart. The best thing?” Abandoning the sizzling onions, Cressida enveloped Jojo in a hug. “I really couldn’t say. There are too many to count.”

  Chapter 12

  As Tyler pulled up outside Piper’s Cottage, a sludgy white splat hit the windshield of his rental car and a large bird, possibly smirking with satisfaction at having scored a direct hit, flew off over the rooftops of the houses opposite. The splat was huge and, typically, situated in the dusty fan-shaped space precisely where the car’s windshield wipers didn’t reach.

  Was this an omen?

  Lottie came to the door looking pink and out of breath.

  “Oh, hi!”

  “Haven’t interrupted anything, have I?” Tyler half smiled, although she was dressed in a sleeveless white top and jeans, so anything too salacious seemed unlikely. “If this is a bad time…”

  Lottie gave him a look and opened the door more widely, allowing him to see the Dyson behind her.

  “Chance would be a fine thing. You just caught me trying to cram six weeks’ worth of housework into thirty minutes. The kids have been writing their names in the dust on the TV.” Wiping her forehead Lottie said, “Sorry, come on in. Don’t trip over the cord. Is this about work?”

  She was gorgeous. Curvy, smart, and bursting with vitality. Watching as she bent over to pick up a can of lemon Pledge, a duster, and a bottle of spray cleaner, Tyler said, “Actually, I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Oh.” Lottie looked surprised.

  “If you’re free, of course.”

  “Well, I can ask Mario to watch the kids. That shouldn’t be a problem.” Clearly unsure as to the nature of the invitation she said, “Would this be so we can talk about work?”

  “We can talk about work if you like. We can talk about all sorts of things.” Tyler smiled. “How about if I pick you up at eight?”

  “OK. Fine.” Her eyes bright, Lottie said, “Although I’d better just check with Mario, make sure he can take them. Give me two minutes.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen to make the call. Since eavesdropping on a telephone conversation between Lottie and her ex-husband wasn’t polite, Tyler waited in the living room. His gaze fell on the gray crumpled rag she’d evidently been using in her cleaning blitz and had forgotten to pick up. Tyler took it from the window ledge and made his way out through the still-open front door.

  It was garbage collection day in the village. Everyone had their black wheelie bins—God, he loved that quaint English expression—outside their front gates. When he’d finished wiping off what the bird had so off-puttingly deposited on his windshield, Tyler dropped the cloth into Lottie’s wheelie trash can and headed back inside the cottage.

  “There you are,” said Lottie. “I thought you’d chickened out and made a quick getaway.”

  “I just went out to—” Tyler’s cell phone burst into life. “Damn, sorry.” Apologetically he pulled it from his shirt pocket.

  “No problem, Mario’s taking the kids for the evening. I’ll see you at eight o’clock.” Keen to get back to her thirty-minute cleaning frenzy, Lottie ushered him out. As he prepared to answer the business call, Tyler heard the Dyson being switched back on in the living room.

  He smiled to himself, already looking forward to the evening ahead. In the space of a few days his life had changed beyond recognition and he’d met Lottie Carlyle, who was sexy and beautiful and like no girl he’d ever met before.

  Oh yes, things were definitely looking up.

  * * *

  Tyler heard the noise even before he stepped out of the car at five to eight that evening. An unearthly wailing was coming from inside the cottage. Mildly alarmed—that couldn’t be Lottie surely?—he made his way up the front path and rang the doorbell.

  “Hi, you must be Tyler.” A tall male with an air of resignation opened the door and shook his hand. “Mario. Sorry about the racket, we’re having a bit of a crisis.”

  So this was the ex-husband. Stepping over the threshold, Tyler followed Mario into the living room, where a giant box of Legos had been upturned in the center of the floor. Lottie, looking harassed and still wearing her white top and jeans, was sitting in one of the armchairs cradling her son on her lap. Nat was sobbing as if his heart would break and, judging by the sodden state of Lottie’s top, had been doing so for some time. At the sight of Tyler he redoubled the volume of his howls and buried his face in Lottie’s neck. At the other end of the room Mario was unzipping sofa cushions and searching inside them.

  “What’s happened?” Tyler wondered if someone had died.

  From upstairs Ruby yelled down, “It’s definitely not in the laundry closet.”

  “Nat’s lost his blankie.” Struggling to brush her son’s hair out of her own eyes, Lottie winced as his howls of grief rocketed to new levels in response to her words. “Shhh, shhh now, sweetheart, it’s all right.” She rocked him patiently and rubbed his back. “We’ll find it, don’t you worry. It’s here somewhere.”

  Mystified, Tyler said, “What’s a blankie?”

  “It’s a comfort blanket. Nat’s had it since he was a baby. He can’t sleep without it.” Lottie checked her watch and grimaced. “God, sorry about this. And I haven’t even had time to get changed. Look, any minute now we’ll find his blankie and I can be ready in five minutes, that’s a promise.”

  Ruby’s voice floated down to them. “It’s definitely not in the bathroom.”

  “Hey, no problem.” Holding up his hands, Tyler sensed an opportunity to gain some much-needed points in his favor. “I’ll help you look for it. A comfort blanket, you say. Well, it doesn’t have legs, so it can’t have run off anywhere, can it?”

  “We know it’s in the house.” Lottie nodded firmly and shot Tyler a grateful smile. “Blankie always turns up in the end. Nat’s just left it in a safe place somewhere and it’s turned out to be a bit too safe.”

  Right, a comfort blanket. Picturing a pale blue cashmere blanket with satin edges, Tyler said gently but efficiently, “So, Nat, let’s start the search party, shall we? And any clues you could give us would be great. Like, where do you remember seeing it last?”

  Nat, his chest heaving, sobbed piteously, “On th-the w-w-window ledge over th-th-there,” and pointed across the room.

  Oh fuck. Oh shit. Surely not.

  Feeling sick—Jesus, he never felt sick—Tyler said, “And the…uh, blanket is what color?”

  Lottie, still attempting to soothe her distraught son, shrugged and said, “No color at all, really.”

  “It h-hasn’t got a c-c-color,” Nat wailed. “It’s my blankie.”

  Oh, seriously fuck.

  “Not in here.” Mario had finished investigating the innards of all the sofa cushions. “It’s a piece of old stretchy cotton material,” he explained to Tyler, “from a onesie Nat used to wear as a baby. About a foot square, kind of grayish and gross-looking.”

  “It’s NOT GROSS!” roared Nat. “It’s my blankie.”

  Tyler prayed his face wouldn’t give him away. He’d played poker often enough through college, but this was on another level altogether. He could feel his palms sweating and—

  “You were here this afternoon,” Lottie said suddenly. “You didn’t happen to notice if it was on the window ledge then, did you?” Her eyes were full of hope.

  It was no good, he couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t lie to her. But he couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth in front of Nat either. His mouth dry, Tyler inclined his head fractionally in the direction of the living room door, indicating that Lottie should follow him.

  Lottie left Nat curled up in a
heartbroken ball on the armchair and joined Tyler out in the hallway. “Look, I’m really sorry about this. I suppose you’re worried we’ll miss our table at the restaurant, but I just can’t—”

  “It was me. I took the blankie.” The words—words he’d somehow never imagined hearing himself say in his lifetime—spilled out in a rush.

  “What?”

  “I thought it was an old cleaning rag. You’d been cleaning this morning and it looked like you forgot to take it out with you.”

  “Where is it?” From her expression Lottie had already guessed there was no happy ending in sight.

  “I used it to clean some bird sh…some bird stuff off the car.” Tyler kept his voice low. “It was pretty messy. Your trash was out, so I threw it in there.”

  Lottie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Oh no. I don’t believe this. And now the cans have been emptied. Oh God, what are we going to do?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. It was an accident.” Struggling to explain, Tyler said, “But how was I supposed to know it wasn’t a cleaning rag?”

  “But you just took it!” With a trace of exasperation Lottie shook her head. “If you’d asked me first I could have stopped you. Or mentioned it afterward, so I could have fished it out of the trash.”

  “I meant to. I was going to, but my phone started to ring and you wanted to get on with your vacuuming. Look, I know Nat’s upset right now, but he’s seven years old. Maybe it’s time he gave up this comfort blanket business anyway. I mean, he can’t carry on indefinitely, can he? This could be just the opportunity you need to break the habit.”

  “Oh God.” Lottie sighed. “You really don’t have any experience of children, do you?”

  “But—”

  “YOU STOLE NAT’S BLANKIE!” shrieked a voice above their heads, and Tyler’s heart plummeted still further. The next moment Ruby came thundering down the staircase, an accusing finger pointed at his chest. “You stole Nat’s blankie and threw it away! Nat, it was that man, the one who told the lies!” Deftly dodging around Lottie’s outstretched arm, she shot into the living room and yelled, “He says you’re too old for a blankie anyway, you’re seven and only babies have blankies, and now it’s gone and you’re never going to see it again ever!”

  Hot on Ruby’s heels, Lottie blurted out, “Nat, he didn’t say that. And it was an accident, OK?”

  Tempting though it would have been to walk out of the front door, climb into his car, and drive off, Tyler followed Lottie into the living room. He’d thought nothing could be worse than the sound of Nat’s sobbing, but the stunned silence that now greeted him beat it hands down. The little boy, white-faced and trembling with shock, looked as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. In disbelief, he stared up at Tyler and whispered, “You threw it away?”

  Tyler nodded and exhaled slowly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “In the wheelie trash bin!” Ruby made the pronouncement with relish.

  “He didn’t mean to,” said Lottie.

  “But it didn’t fall in by accident, did it?” Her dark eyes widening, Ruby blurted out passionately, “And what’s Nat going to do now without his blankie? He’ll just die!”

  “He won’t die,” Mario said flatly as Lottie scooped Nat back into her arms and attempted to console him.

  Knowing even as he said it that it was the wrong thing to say, Tyler ventured, “Could you not make another, er, blankie? Like maybe a better one?”

  Everyone gazed at him in horrified disbelief as if he’d just suggested they all cheer themselves up with a kitten-throwing competition.

  “Maybe not.” Tyler’s hand moved to his wallet instead. “Look, could I at least give you something to make up for what happened? You could buy yourself—”

  “There’s no need to do that,” Mario cut in. “Really. We can deal with this. Come on, Nat, let go of Mum now, she needs to get ready to go out.”

  “Not with him.” Nat’s body stiffened and his voice rose. “Mummy, don’t go with that man. I want you to stay here with me. I want my blankie back!”

  Lottie was clearly torn.

  “Look, I think you should stay,” said Tyler. “We’ll have dinner another night. I wish there was something I could do to make things better, but I can’t. I’ll just leave you to it, OK?” It wouldn’t have been the happiest of evenings anyway, under the circumstances. Keen to be out of the cottage, Tyler moved toward the door. “And Nat, I really am sorry. If there’s anything at all I can do—”

  Nat sobbed, his tear-stained face buried in Lottie’s shoulder. “G-go away. Go h-home to America. And n-never come b-back.”

  Chapter 13

  “Computers are wonderful things,” said Freddie.

  “They are.” Lottie nodded in agreement.

  “But I hate using them.”

  “I know you do. That’s because you’re too lazy to learn how to use them,” Lottie reminded him. “If you’d just let me teach you—”

  “No thanks.”

  “But it’s so—”

  “Whoa, hold it right there.” Raising his hands and shaking his head, Freddie said firmly, “All my life I’ve hated technical things. Machines of any kind. I don’t know how my car works and I don’t know how airplanes stay up in the air. But that’s OK, because we have mechanics and pilots who do. Same with computers,” he went on before Lottie could interrupt him again. “If I’ve got six months to live, the very last thing I’m going to waste my time on is learning how to fish the Internet.”

  “Surf.”

  “I don’t want to learn to surf either. Or waterski. I’m not bloody James Bond.”

  “I meant—”

  “No, let me explain,” said Freddie, leaving Lottie wondering if she was ever going to be allowed to finish a sentence again. “I don’t want to learn this computer malarkey, and I’m not going to learn it, because you can do all that side of it for me. I’ll ask the questions, you can find out the answers and then you give them to me. Simple.”

  “Fine. I’ll do my best. What kind of questions?” On the night Freddie had broken the news to her that he was dying, he’d mentioned that he had a plan but had refused to elaborate. Presumably this had something to do with it.

  In reply, he drew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it.

  “I want to find these people.”

  There were five names written in Freddie’s distinctive scrawl. Lottie barely had time to glance at the first name on the list before he’d whisked it away again.

  Finally she said, “Am I allowed to ask why?”

  “Because I want to see them again.”

  “Who are they?”

  “People who were important to me. People I liked.” Freddie half smiled. “People who one way or another shaped my life. God, does that sound completely nauseating?”

  “A bit. It’s kind of like those schmaltzy soft-focus films you only ever get on daytime TV the week before Christmas.” Lottie secretly loved those kind of films.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m the one who wants to see them again,” said Freddie. “There’s no guarantee they’re going to want to see me.”

  “And do I get the backstory? Are you going to tell me why they were so important?”

  “Not yet.” Freddie looked amused. “I thought I’d wait until you found them. That way, I know you’ll be giving it your best shot.”

  Lottie pulled a face; she was incurably nosy and he knew it. “I’ll need more details though. How old they are, where they’ve lived in the past, what kind of work they did.”

  “I’ll give you as much information as I can.”

  “We still might not be able to track them down.”

  “Let’s see how it goes, shall we?”

  “If you don’t tell me who they are,” Lottie said idly, “I’ll have to guess.”

&nbs
p; Freddie grinned. “Guess away, darling girl. You still won’t get the truth until you’ve found them for me. Hey, cheer up. It might be easy.”

  Lottie said with frustration, “It might be bloody hard.”

  “Might be an idea to get cracking then. The sooner the better.” Amused, Freddie lit a cigar. “You’ll just have to hope I don’t drop dead before you’ve finished.”

  The first mystery person on the list was ridiculously easy to trace. It took less than five minutes. His name was Jeff Barrowcliffe and he owned and ran a motorcycle repair shop in Exmouth.

  “That’ll be him,” Freddie said confidently, peering over Lottie’s shoulder at the computer screen. “Jeff was always obsessed with motorbikes.”

  In order to make sure, Lottie sent an email:

  Dear Mr. Barrowcliffe,

  On behalf of a friend of mine who is trying to trace someone with your name, may I ask if your date of birth is 26 December 1940 and if, many years ago, you lived in Oxford?

  Yours, L. Carlyle

  Like magic, his reply popped into her inbox ninety seconds later:

  Yes, that’s me. Why?

  “Old Jeff, knowing how to use a computer and send emails,” Freddie marveled. “Who’d have thought it?”

  “Who’d have thought you wouldn’t?” Lottie retorted. “You big ignoramus.” She flexed her fingers like a pianist over the keys. “Want me to tell him?”

  “No. I’ll give him a ring.” Freddie had already scribbled down the repair shop’s phone number featured on the website. Walking out of the office, he added, “In private.”

  “Is he going to be pleased to hear from you?”

  Freddie waggled his phone. “That’s what I’m about to find out.”

  He was back ten minutes later, his expression infuriatingly enigmatic.

  Fixing Freddie with a get-on-with-it look, Lottie said, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Jeff Barrowcliffe. You have to tell me, remember? Are you going to meet him?”

  Freddie nodded. “I’m driving down to Exmouth this weekend.”

  “You see?” Delighted, Lottie clapped her hands. “So he was glad to hear from you! Why did you think he wouldn’t be?”