Don't Want To Miss A Thing

by Mansell, Jill

Molly looked at him and didn’t answer. He knew what she was thinking: In the normal way.

  ‘Look at me, look at my life.’ How could he make her understand? ‘I know nothing about babies. Before Delphi was born I’d never even held one. I work stupid hours, sometimes all night long. When I’m not at work, I’m . . . out. There isn’t room for a baby. Plus, even if there was, I’m the last person in the world you’d want looking after another human being. It’d be a disaster. I can’t even keep track of my car keys.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  She shook her head. ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘Of course I do. You can’t believe how anyone could be so selfish. That’s it, isn’t it? What a bastard, all he’s thinking about is himself. But I’m just being honest, it’s not something I can do. This isn’t the kind of person I am.’ He rubbed his eyes, which were prickling now with the effort of keeping them open; last night’s sleeplessness and the combination of drinks was catching up with him now.

  ‘Do you love her?’ said Molly.

  ‘Delphi? Of course I love her, but that’s beside the point. I’m selfish, don’t you see? She deserves better than to be stuck with someone like me. God, I’ve had to buy three new phones since Christmas – if I tried to take her anywhere I’d end up leaving her in the back of a cab.’

  ‘You say that now.’ Molly’s voice softened. ‘But she’s a human being. It’s different. You only lose car keys and phones because they aren’t the most important things in the world. You don’t love them with all your heart. Everyone panics when they first discover they’re about to become a parent. It’s completely normal to be terrified at the thought of being responsible for an actual baby. But that’s the whole point of loving them unconditionally – it means you’ll do everything it takes to keep them safe.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘It’s human nature. Look, if you don’t want to bring up this baby, fine. If you do want to but you’re just scared you aren’t able to do it . . . well, I wouldn’t worry about that. Because there’s no reason at all why you can’t.’

  Wow, where had that little speech come from? And should she even be having this much faith in someone she barely knew? What if he took her at her word and did accidentally leave the baby on the back seat of a taxi?

  Then again, was Dexter even listening to her anyway? He was currently peering into his glass and frowning.

  ‘This is empty. Can I have some more?’

  So much for the impassioned pep-talk.

  ‘No problem. I’m just going to make myself a coffee. Wait there,’ said Molly, getting up. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

  In the kitchen, she put the kettle on and waited for it to come to the boil. She didn’t bother making any coffee. After a few minutes she returned to the living room. Yes, he’d fallen asleep.

  What a situation to find yourself in. You couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Having cleared away the glasses, Molly stood and watched him for a while. His breathing was deep and even. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and with his head tilted back against the cushions, the curve of his visible cheekbone gleamed in the dim light. His dark hair had dried now. He looked beautiful but troubled, which he undoubtedly was.

  He was also a virtual stranger, but this didn’t worry her at all. She had a lock on her door and he wasn’t likely to make off with her telly. It was safe to leave him here for tonight.

  Molly spread his jacket over the radiator. Because there was only room for the one, she took her own Barbour upstairs, put it in the airing cupboard to dry out and brought the emergency duvet back down.

  Dexter didn’t move when she placed it over him. He’d be out for the count now, for the rest of the night.

  Well, what a Monday evening this had been. Leaving two paracetamols next to a pint glass of water on the coffee table, Molly headed up to bed. After rum and sherry and burnt paint-stripper liqueur he was going to need them when he woke up.

  When she came down the next morning he was gone. So were the paracetamols. The duvet, an oversized 10-tog version of Cinderella’s glass slipper, had been left in a crumpled heap on the otherwise empty sofa. No note, no other sign that he’d been here.

  Molly opened the front door and shivered as icy rain splattered her face. Urgh, February. And her Barbour was still upstairs. She ran barefoot down the path, saw that the lurid yellow Porsche was no longer parked outside Gin Cottage and raced inside again. Did this mean he’d gone out to buy food? Or that he was on his way up to London? In which case, she might never find out what he chose to do about Delphi.

  Poor Dex, what a terrible situation to be in. Surely between them there was some way they could help him? Wiping the rain off her nose, Molly silently prayed he’d come back.

  Chapter 10

  It had never been part of Frankie Taylor’s life plan to open and run a café. When she and Joe had moved to Briarwood almost twenty years ago, nothing could have been further from her mind and no one had ever heard of a sitcom called Next to You.

  When they’d first viewed Ormond House, the previous occupiers had moved out several months earlier and the property had been rented out and used in the interim by a small independent TV production company as the location for a new show. With no money to spare and zero experience in the industry, operations were carried out on a shoestring and with no expectations of success. All was chaos for a while as six thirty-minute episodes were shot in and around the house in record time, then everyone left as suddenly as they’d arrived and village life returned to normal as if they’d never been there.

  Frankie and Joe had bought the house and thought no more of it, until fourteen months later when the series finally aired on TV. Next to You featured a middle-aged Catholic priest, the lovely widowed lady next door, her batty-but-glamorous mother and a billy goat called Bert. It had touches of surrealism, gentle quirky humour in spades and the kind of can’t-be-manufactured charisma between the lead characters that instantly captivated the nation. Against all the odds, everyone who watched the show fell under its magical spell; it was the ultimate will-they, wont-they, but-they-CAN’T scenario. Another series was immediately commissioned and this time Frankie and Joe, along with new arrival Amber, were moved out of the house for the duration of filming and put up in the nearby Colworth Manor Hotel. Which had been no hardship at all.

  When it was shown on TV, the second series eclipsed the first. Next to You became a phenomenon, it was funnier than ever and the unacknowledged attraction between the two lead characters, Mags and Charles, tugged at the heartstrings like never before. Rumours began to circulate that the pair might be romantically involved in real life, but this was denied by the two actors themselves. Despite both being single and available, William Kingscott and Hope Johnson weren’t publicity seekers and preferred to keep their private lives private.

  But it was what everyone thought.

  Then, less than a week before the final episode was due to be aired and at the height of the excitement surrounding the record-breaking second series, William Kingscott was hit by an out-of-control articulated lorry.

  He was killed outright.

  The country plunged into a state of shock; in the space of two years William had made the leap from unknown actor to national treasure. The last episode was shown on the evening of his funeral and viewing figures broke all records. The accident may have happened hundreds of miles away in Edinburgh but, in Briarwood, Frankie and Joe found their home turned into a shrine as weeping fans congregated and left flowers in front of the house.

  The creator of the series announced that there would be no replacement for William’s character and no further episodes of Next to You. The show was over; Mags and Charles were no more. Hope Johnson never did speak publicly about her relationship with her co-star; she retired from acting and public view, becoming a recluse instead.

  And the visitors to Briarwood stopped sobbing and leaving
flowers, but their fascination with Ormond House remained. Over the years, Next to You became an acknowledged classic and embedded itself into the national consciousness. As cable channels multiplied, it continued to be shown, its popularity spreading worldwide. Visitors to England made pilgrimages to the village, took endless photographs of each other in front of the famous house and rang the doorbell to ask if they could come and look around inside.

  They were always so sweet and polite, and Frankie was so soft-hearted she found it hard to refuse their requests. But it was a time-consuming business. Plus, in the show’s second series, Mags had turned part of her home into a café as a money-making exercise; the visitors always wanted to know where the café was and were invariably disappointed to discover it didn’t exist.

  Frankie finally gave in and opened the café herself. It wasn’t cashing in, it was fulfilling a need. By this time Amber was five and had started school, so it gave her something to do and meant she now actively welcomed the tourists rather than putting on a brave face and wishing they’d leave her alone.

  And now, twelve years on, the visitors continued to come and here she was, still running the café. The décor was kept as it had been on TV and one wall was covered with photographs and memorabilia from the show. Opening hours were a nicely manageable eleven till four, sometimes later during the summer months if a coach party turned up. On the TV show, the sign outside said Mag’s Café. Hers said Frankie’s Café. It kept her busy. She enjoyed the chatter and the company, particularly with Joe working away as much as he did; as regional sales manager for a clothing firm he covered the whole of the south of England and spent a lot of time on the road.

  ‘That bloody animal.’ Coming into the café to say his goodbyes, Joe shook his head in mock despair. ‘Just tried to eat my shirtsleeve.’

  He had a long-running love-hate relationship with Young Bert, the family goat who spent his days tethered to a long rope in the garden and adored having his photo taken with tourists. When he wasn’t trying to shred their clothes.

  ‘That’s because he loves you and doesn’t want you to leave.’ Frankie came out from behind the counter, smoothed down a wayward bit of brown hair at the crown of his head and gave him a hug. ‘If I thought it would help, I’d do it too.’

  ‘And that’d be a shame, seeing as you’re the one who chose this shirt. Anyway,’ Joe kissed her on the mouth. ‘Won’t be long. Back tomorrow evening. Behave yourself while I’m away.’

  ‘You too.’ It was a standing joke between them. Frankie told everyone the only reason they were still married was because Joe spent two or three nights a week away from home. Absence makes the heart grow fonder . . .

  ‘Ew, kissing.’ The café wasn’t open yet but Molly had let herself in anyway. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you you’re too old for all that smushy stuff?’

  ‘You’re right. It’s disgusting. Shame on us.’ Grinning, Joe kissed Frankie again. ‘And all this canoodling means I’m going to be late. Better get going. See you tomorrow night.’ One last hug and he was off. ‘Bye, Moll, you two have fun without me.’

  ‘Too right we will,’ said Molly. ‘There’s male strippers at the Swan tonight.’

  When Joe had left, Frankie said, ‘Is there?’

  ‘Sadly not. Unless hairy Phil has too much cider and gets his kit off.’ They both paused and grimaced at this horrible thought. ‘Anyway,’ Molly was evidently keen to change the subject, ‘I met my mystery neighbour again last night.’

  ‘The one who bought Gin Cottage?’ Ooh, this was interesting; Frankie hadn’t seen him yet. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, he ended up staying the night. Not like that,’ Molly added as Frankie’s mouth fell open. ‘Actually, it’s really sad. His sister’s just died and her baby’s only eight months old. There isn’t anyone else to look after her and Dex is the guardian but he says he can’t do it. The thing is, he’s in shock at the moment. I thought maybe you could have a chat with him about it.’

  ‘How awful. Of course I will, if he wants to talk to me.’ Just as running a café had never been one of Frankie’s master plans, neither had becoming Briarwood’s unofficial agony aunt. But somehow it had just happened; without ever meaning to, she’d become the kind of person other people felt the need to confide in. They told her their problems and she helped them find solutions. She was good at listening and apparently had a sympathetic face.

  ‘He’s not there at the moment,’ said Molly. ‘He fell asleep on my sofa last night. When I came down this morning he was gone. He’s either driven to the supermarket to pick up food or disappeared back to London. But if he’s still here, I’ll tell him to come over and . . . aahh . . . aahh . . . aah-choo!’ In the run-up to the sneeze Molly just had time to rummage in the pockets of her Barbour and whisk out a Kleenex. Something small and metallic flew out with it, skittering across the kitchen table. Frankie picked up the tiny charm and examined it.

  ‘That’s really pretty. Mind you don’t lose it.’

  ‘What is it? Let me see?’ Molly frowned and held out her hand.

  ‘It’s a frog on a spade.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before! It’s not mine!’

  ‘Well, it definitely just came out of your pocket,’ said Frankie.

  ‘How weird. I don’t know how it could have got there. Mystery.’

  ‘Has someone else worn your coat?’

  ‘No.’ Molly studied the charm closely. ‘And look, he’s so cute. All I can think is that someone found it on the ground somewhere and thought it was mine. I’ll ask around. Except they wouldn’t have just put it in my pocket, would they? Not without saying something.’

  ‘You could mention it to Lois in the pub, see if anyone’s lost it.’ Frankie checked her watch. ‘Oh crikey, look at the time, I’d better get a move on.’

  ‘Me too. I’ve still got last night’s work to catch up with.’ Heading for the door, Molly said, ‘If Dexter wants to talk to you, I’ll give you a call.’

  But by the evening there was still no sign of the garish yellow Porsche; Molly’s next-door neighbour had evidently returned to London to sort out his problems himself. And when they asked around the village, no one knew anything about the little gold frog on the spade either; there were no clues as to where it had come from.

  Chapter 11

  Laura’s house in Islington – the terraced house they’d both grown up in – might still be filled with her belongings but it felt indescribably empty. Dex felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare from which it was impossible to wake up. Each time the realisation hit him again, he just wanted to say, ‘OK, enough now, please make it stop.’

  It seemed unbelievable to try and take in the fact that it never would.

  He made his way on autopilot through the familiar rooms. It was the social worker who had suggested he came here and collected up anything he thought Delphi would like to have with her while she was in the care of the foster family. Not that he had any idea what she might want or need. So far he’d thrown assorted baby clothes and soft toys into a holdall without knowing if she liked them or not. There was one small squishy yellow duckling that made plaintive quacking noises when you jiggled it – he’d seen her playing with that one over Christmas – but otherwise all he could do was guess.

  Which was shameful. Poor Delphi, as if it wasn’t tragic enough that she’d lost her mother, all she was left with now was some useless uncle who didn’t even know which were her favourite toys.

  Also, was she missing Laura? Of course she must be. But had she sensed that something this terrible had happened? According to the social worker, Delphi was fairly quiet and at times appeared to be bewilderedly searching for a face that wasn’t there. There’d been a couple of bouts of crying but otherwise she seemed happy enough; surrounded by care and affection as she was, she seemed to be coping well with her new foster family. Dex didn’t know how this made him feel; should he be reassured by her ability to adapt? He couldn’t bear to think she might be feeling – in he
r helpless baby way – as bereft as he was.

  Dex paused in the nursery to look out of the window. There was Laura’s car parked outside, the red Escort she’d been so proud of, even though it was years old. Another fresh wave of grief hit him as he realised he would have to deal with sorting out all her belongings. Oh God, Laura, I don’t want to do this, it’s time for you to come back and take charge again . . .

  The doorbell shrilled downstairs, jangling his nerves still further and making him think – just for a wild moment – that maybe this was Laura, ringing the bell because she’d forgotten her key.

  Dex hurried down the staircase with the holdall and pulled open the front door.

  ‘Oh hello, dear, haven’t seen you for a long time!’ It was Phyllis, who had lived in the house next door for the last fifty years. Her white hair was like dandelion fluff around her wizened face. ‘Is Laura here, dear? Only I asked her to buy me some second-class stamps the other day, but she hasn’t brought them round yet and I need to pay my electricity bill.’

  He couldn’t tell her on the doorstep. Dex found himself having to invite Phyllis into the house and make her a cup of tea before finally breaking the awful news. It was almost unbearable, being the one to make an eighty-year-old woman cry.

  ‘Oh my word, oh no, I can’t bear it. Such a lovely, lovely girl.’ Phyllis’s gnarled fingers trembled as she pulled a hanky out of the sleeve of her cardigan and wiped her faded eyes. ‘And Delphi, that poor little angel. Whatever’s going to happen to her now?’

  ‘You OK?’ Henry, in his habitually crumpled grey suit, was looking concerned.

  ‘What do you think?’ It was midday and Dexter wasn’t dressed. He hadn’t been asleep when the buzzer had gone but he’d still been in bed. Now, having dragged on a pair of jeans, he rubbed his hands over his bare chest and wearily indicated the kitchen. ‘Help yourself if you want anything. What’s up?’

  They’d worked together for years and over that time had become friends of the odd-couple kind. At the age of thirty-seven, Henry Baron was a classic case of not judging a book by its cover. At six foot five and muscled to the hilt, he attracted attention wherever he went, chiefly from women enthralled by his resemblance to the actor Idris Elba, particularly if Idris Elba happened to be playing the part of a renegade boxer who had never been to school and had battled his way through life with his fists.