Don't Want To Miss A Thing

by Mansell, Jill

  ‘Oh, you babysat for Dex?’ Molly experienced a jolt of envy coupled with loss; she had taught Delphi how to do the shuffle-bottom dance, they had done it together on her own living-room carpet. Not that she could have looked after Delphi last night, but it hurt to know that she was no longer being asked to babysit. On the surface she and Dex were polite towards each other but the chilly distance remained. Thanks to her cutting comments, the easy camaraderie between them had been killed stone dead.

  ‘I didn’t have to babysit the whole night,’ said Amber. ‘He was home by one o’clock.’

  It was none of her business but she couldn’t help herself. Molly said casually, ‘And did Dex go somewhere nice?’ I’m not being nosy, just making polite conversation.

  ‘I don’t know where he went, but I’d say he definitely had a good time.’

  ‘Oh?’ What did that mean?

  ‘Put it this way. He went out smelling of that aftershave he always wears.’ Amber’s eyes glinted with mischief. ‘Came back five hours later with damp hair and smelling of lemon shower gel.’

  Right. So Dex had found someone who didn’t reject his advances. Well, that was always going to happen, wasn’t it?

  With an effort, Molly forced herself not to feel jealous. She’d had her chance and turned him down, hadn’t she? For all the right reasons.

  In the long term, it was definitely for the best.

  Leaving school that afternoon, Amber experienced that prickling being-watched feeling and saw a boy across the road observing her. When she paused, he slid down from the wall he’d been sitting on and headed her way.

  Weirdly, she guessed who he was and what he was doing here just by the look of him. Clean-cut boys tended to have clean-cut friends.

  ‘Are you Amber?’

  She stopped walking. ‘You already know I am.’

  ‘OK, yes. Well, I looked you up on Facebook.’

  Even his trainers were dazzlingly white. ‘And who are you? Another long-lost brother?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’m Shaun’s friend. Max. He asked me to come over and see you.’

  ‘Why? To have a good laugh at me?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t say that. Shaun’s worried about you. He just wants to know if you’re all right.’

  Amber gave a snort of derision. ‘Me? Oh I’m fine. Never better. My father’s spent his life lying to me, and now he’s living with his other family. Why wouldn’t I be all right?’

  ‘But it’s not Shaun’s fault, is it? And you were OK with him at first.’

  She had been, on that initial fateful day in Tetbury. She’d been distraught and Shaun – her half-brother – had been apologetic. She’d had questions, he’d had answers. But since then, Amber’s resentment had grown. If he and his mother hadn’t existed, her life would still be normal, happy, trouble-free. Instead, she hated her father and was simultaneously repulsed and outraged by the fact that he was living with Shaun and Christina.

  And, all right, also jealous.

  ‘Look, I don’t have to talk to Shaun if I don’t want to. And sending you over here isn’t going to make any difference, so don’t bother trying it again. Anyway, I have to go now.’

  ‘Fine.’ Max pushed back his silky fair hair and took out his car keys. ‘So that’s that.’ He flashed a rueful smile. ‘Mission: abject failure.’

  ‘Not my fault,’ said Amber. Did he expect her to feel sorry for him? Apologise for wasting his petrol? No chance.

  ‘Can I offer you a lift anywhere?’ He pressed the key in his hand and a sporty blue Renault parked beside them emitted a high-pitched woooop.

  One of those flashy types.

  ‘No thanks. My boyfriend’s waiting for me.’

  ‘Right. Well, nice to meet you anyway. Can I just say one thing?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Shaun’s my best mate. He’s a good person. As brothers go, you could do a lot worse.’

  ‘Thanks, but still not interested,’ said Amber. ‘Bye.’

  Doss was waiting for her, as arranged, outside the off-licence.

  ‘All right?’ He gave Amber a cider-tinged kiss on the mouth and said, ‘Got any money on you?’

  She was seventeen and the owner of the off-licence was an expert at spotting fake IDs. Amber gave Doss ten pounds of her babysitting earnings and waited on the pavement while he went inside to buy as much cheap alcohol as possible.

  Doss wasn’t his real name, of course. He’d been christened Daniel and had acquired the nickname as a result of not doing a stroke of work during his final years at school. Or since. But he was good company and really good-looking, thin and dark with Johnny Depp eyes and loads of tattoos. They’d been friends for months and on the couple of occasions he’d come to Amber’s home, her father had palpably disapproved of him. Aware of this, Doss had been delighted when he’d heard about Joe’s unravelled double life. He’d comforted her when she’d needed comforting and now they were a couple, hanging out three or four times a week. She enjoyed it when they spent a couple of hours together lying on the grass in the park, everything beginning to feel better. They drank strong cider, Doss told her Joe was a two-faced tosser and they talked about the upcoming music festivals they would attend this summer.

  ‘Got ’em.’ He emerged from the off-licence, the carrier bag clanking with cans, and took her hand in his. ‘Let’s go. We’re meeting up with Beeny and some of his mates.’

  Oh. Amber wasn’t wild about Beeny, who didn’t usually smell too fresh and could get quite tedious when he was stoned.

  ‘Don’t look like that,’ Doss chided. ‘He’s cool.’

  ‘I know.’ He had a sweet dog, that was something in his favour.

  ‘And he said he might have some stuff for us.’

  Stuff that would make them as droney and repetitive as Beeny? Urgh, no thanks; it drove Amber nuts, the way he called everyone ‘Maaaaaaan’. Changing the subject, she said, ‘What happened to that earring I bought you?’ Last week at the open-air market she’d picked out a silver hoop for him.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry. I kind of lost it.’ He slung his free arm round her shoulders as they headed for the park. ‘It, like, fell out.’

  Chapter 26

  It was her.

  Oh my God, it actually was her.

  Now that she was paying attention, Frankie could see it. The woman sitting at the corner table of the café was wearing a grey jumper, loose linen trousers and ballet flats. She was slender, unassuming, apparently in her sixties, with lots of wispy grey-blond hair falling around her face and light blue eyes hidden behind unflattering tortoiseshell spectacles.

  Almost as if she were trying to be invisible.

  And she was evidently doing a very good job of it. Frankie, behind the counter, listened as two families at adjacent tables competed with each other to be the biggest fans of Next to You. They were excitedly discussing favourite episodes, quoting lines from the show, attempting to mimic the characters.

  Blithely unaware that Hope Johnson, one of the stars of the series, was sitting less than ten feet away from them.

  To be fair, she wasn’t recognisable unless you were openly searching for a resemblance. It had been eighteen years since she’d graced the nation’s screens but the difference in her made it seem more like forty; she was like a faded shadow of her vivacious former self.

  The banter between the visiting families, one from Cardiff and the other from Newcastle, continued to flourish. Photos were taken of the memorabilia and of the pictures hanging on the walls, and each of them in turn posed outside with Young Bert, who was used to it.

  At last they left. It was almost four o’clock and Frankie began clearing the tables, aware that Hope Johnson was now surreptitiously eyeing the displayed memorabilia too.

  Should she say something?

  Or not?

  Finally she ventured, ‘Can I get you another cup of tea?’

  Hope Johnson looked round. ‘Oh . . . are you wanting to close up? Sorry . . .’
/>
  ‘No, no problem. Stay as long as you like.’

  Tentatively, Hope said, ‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

  ‘Quite sure.’ No one had heard of her for so many years; to be on the safe side, Frankie flipped the sign over on the door to say Closed. ‘It’s lovely to have you here.’

  Hope looked like a startled faun in the forest. Her slender hands trembled as she handed her cup to Frankie. ‘You know . . .?’

  ‘Who you are? Yes. Don’t worry, though,’ said Frankie. ‘I promise you I’m discreet. If you don’t want me to tell anyone, I won’t.’

  ‘Oh goodness.’ Hope exhaled slowly. ‘I can’t believe you recognised me. No one ever does.’

  ‘Well, I cheated a bit.’ Bringing her a fresh cup of tea, Frankie said, ‘One thing hasn’t changed.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what.’ The older woman remained utterly mystified.

  ‘See that photograph up on the wall over there?’ Frankie pointed to a close-up of Hope laughing with the director outside the front of the house. ‘I took it myself, on the last day of filming. You’d just finished the final scene.’

  Hope scrutinised it, peering through her spectacles. ‘Ah yes, I remember that day.’

  ‘Look again.’ Frankie guided her attention to her hands in the photo, the right one close to her face. Then she nodded at Hope’s own right hand, currently clutching the handle of her teacup.

  ‘Oh my goodness.’ Hope made the connection. ‘My ring.’

  It was a simple silver ring with bevelled edges and an unusual square tiger’s eye stone set in the centre. There was a homemade quality to it, and an oddly masculine aspect that was at odds with Hope’s narrow fingers.

  ‘I dust the photos every couple of days, that’s how I noticed. As soon as I saw your ring, I knew it was you.’

  ‘Quite the lady detective,’ Hope said with amusement.

  ‘We’ve been running the café for the last twelve years,’ said Frankie. ‘So I pretty much know these photos off by heart.’

  ‘Well. Hello. It’s lovely to see you again.’ Hope sipped her tea and surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘I do remember you now. You haven’t changed much. Unlike me.’

  Seeing as she’d mentioned it herself, Frankie said sympathetically, ‘Have you been ill?’

  Hope’s expression was rueful. ‘You know, I almost wish I had that excuse. But no, no medical reason for it. I’ve just aged badly.’

  Aaaargh, that was embarrassing. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No need to apologise. It’s fine. You know, I always suspected it would happen . . . my mother was exactly the same. And when I found myself going down the same path, I just kind of . . . gave up. Some people carry on looking marvellous all their lives. Others don’t have the genes for it.’ Hope smiled briefly. ‘On the plus side, I might be faded and wrinkly, but at least I’m still here.’

  Since there wasn’t much she could say to that, Frankie changed the subject. ‘It must feel strange to be back.’

  ‘Oh yes. I never imagined I’d see this place again.’ Hope was gazing around the room, visibly moved now by the photos. ‘Never thought I’d come back to Briarwood. I don’t suppose . . . no, doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Say it,’ Frankie prompted.

  ‘Well . . . it’s incredibly cheeky, but I wondered if I could see the rest of the house.’

  ‘Of course you can!’

  ‘Really? That’s so kind of you.’ Her thin face lighting up, Hope said earnestly, ‘Just for a couple of minutes. I know how busy you must be and I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

  ‘Please, you wouldn’t be at all. I wouldn’t have this café if it wasn’t for you. And my daughter won’t be home before midnight,’ Frankie assured her. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

  And unbelievably, it was happening. After closing up the café and showing Hope over the house, they had gravitated to the kitchen, where a chicken casserole was bubbling in the oven. When Hope had commented on how good it smelled, Frankie had said, ‘You’re welcome to stay and have some,’ not expecting for one moment that Hope would take her up on it.

  But she had, and three hours later was still here. Frankie had opened a bottle of wine and they’d sat at the kitchen table, relaxing and chatting without interruption. At first they’d talked about the café, the fans who continued to visit Briarwood, and the phenomenon that had been Next to You. Then a question from Hope about Frankie’s husband had brought that story tumbling out.

  ‘How absolutely awful for you.’ Hope shook her head in sympathy. ‘And you’re being so brave. I would never have known . . . and you were so cheerful with those other customers in the café. It just goes to show. While I was watching you I thought you didn’t have a care in the world.’

  ‘I’m just keeping myself busy.’ Frankie opened a second bottle and topped up their glasses. ‘It helps. Well, that and the drinking.’ Wryly she added, ‘But rotten things happen to all of us, sooner or later. I’m just busying my way through it.’

  ‘You’re so brave. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.’ Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Hope glanced across the table as if making the decision to trust her. ‘When it happened to me I ran away and did nothing at all. Probably the worst thing I could have done.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘A tiny village in southern Italy. Right off the beaten track, the kind of place the tourists don’t visit. I hardly spoke any Italian. Nobody there spoke English. Which was what I wanted at the time, but it meant there weren’t any distractions. All I had were my own thoughts, going round and round on an endless loop in my head.’

  ‘How long did you stay there?’ said Frankie.

  ‘I never left.’ Hope shrugged. ‘I’ve lived there ever since. Bought a little place of my own after renting a room for the first year. Took in a few stray animals, got to know the villagers, learned the language. It’s a beautiful place, up in the mountains. A good way of life.’ Ruefully she added, ‘I ran away and never came back. Until now.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ said Frankie. ‘After losing William. Such a terrible thing to happen.’

  Hope ran an index finger around the rim of her glass and said, ‘I was the mad cat lady for the first couple of years. The villagers must have wondered what kind of nutcase they’d got themselves landed with. But I sorted myself out eventually.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘Good.’

  ‘And I met my husband,’ Hope went on.

  ‘You got married? Wonderful!’

  ‘His name was Giuseppe. He was a good man, a farmer. Kind, hardworking, steady. I don’t think I loved him, but he loved me. And I liked him very much. We were company for each other. I made him happy. No children, just our animals and each other. He died two years ago.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Frankie’s heart went out to her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Life is unfair. So now you’ve been through it twice.’

  There was that look again, from Hope. She was hesitating, weighing something up in her mind, wondering whether or not to come out with it.

  ‘Look,’ Frankie said hurriedly, ‘we’ve had a few drinks. I don’t want you to say anything you might regret. The last thing you want to do is wake up tomorrow morning in a cold sweat, wishing you’d kept your mouth shut.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It would just make you feel terrible, really it would. And then I’d feel terrible too. Come on, let’s change the subject.’

  ‘God, you’re so lovely,’ Hope exclaimed. ‘Is it just me or does everyone meet you and instantly feel as if they want to tell you all their secrets?’

  ‘It does seem to happen,’ Frankie admitted. ‘I think it’s my face. I do have this kind of agony aunt reputation around here.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  Frankie grimaced. ‘Not that it works with everyone. My husband spent eighteen years keeping a pretty big secret from me. Which makes it all extra hu
miliating.’

  ‘OK, I’m just going to say it. I wasn’t in love with William Kingscott,’ said Hope. ‘I liked him as a person. We had this amazing on-screen chemistry, that’s how the rumours about us started. And he developed a crush on me, but nothing ever happened. We were just great friends. The trouble was, the more we denied there was anything romantic going on between us, the more everyone thought we were lying, covering up this amazing love affair. I was upset when he died, of course I was, but I wasn’t utterly devastated.’

  Frowning, Frankie puzzled over this. ‘But you disappeared, went to live in Italy . . . you were devastated . . . oh, OK.’ The unspoken sorrow in Hope’s eyes, combined with her own intuition, caused the clouds to clear. ‘I see, I get it now. You were devastated, but not by William’s death.’ She paused, gazed at her and said slowly, ‘It was someone else.’

  ‘You’re good.’ Hope dipped her head in wry acknowledgement. ‘Yes, that’s right. Phew, this feels a bit weird, actually. I’ve never told anyone before. Well, apart from my cats.’

  ‘And they were Italian cats,’ said Frankie, ‘so they wouldn’t have understood.’

  ‘Exactly.’ A brief smile. ‘Sometimes the language barrier has its uses.’

  ‘So who was it? One of the other actors from the show? Oh listen to me, here I go again.’ Frankie flapped her hand by way of apology. ‘Not my business, don’t tell me.’

  ‘It’s OK, I want to now. No, he wasn’t one of the actors. Nothing to do with the production,’ said Hope. ‘He was a wonderful man, the love of my life.’ Her eyes softened. ‘But there could never be any future for us. It wasn’t possible.’

  ‘Why not? Was he married?’ Frankie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh my God, was it my husband?’

  They both burst out laughing at the same time. Hope spluttered wine into her sleeve and rocked back in her chair.

  ‘Ha ha, wouldn’t that be a soap-opera twist? No, it wasn’t Joe. And he wasn’t married. There was . . . another reason we couldn’t be together. The last time I saw him was just after we’d finished filming the final episode of Next To You. I felt as if my life was over. I’d already decided to disappear when the accident happened and William was killed. So that was it; as soon as the funeral was over, I was gone.’