by Kathy Jay
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HarperImpulse
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Kathy Jay 2018
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Kathy Jay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008122782
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008122751
Version:2017-12-19
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Also by Kathy Jay
About the Author
About the Publisher
For Elisabeth
Prologue
Cornwall, September
How is it possible to miss this place before I’ve left?
Layla Rivers pushed open the door to the fish and chip shop, a one-time fisherman’s cottage, quaint, bygone and painted pastel blue, in the pretty harbour of Porthkara. Behind her, a collection of boats bobbed at anchor, fenders tied to their hulls. The pier reached out into the calm glassy sea and the lighthouse stretched up to the sky, a vigilant seagull perched on top keeping a lookout for stray chips dropped by butterfingers. A bell jingled as she stepped inside to the welcome of a familiar face behind the counter.
‘Hey, Layla. All set for your trip?’
‘Yep, I’m good to go. I’ll miss Porthkara.’
‘Six months will fly by. You’ll have a wonderful time, you lucky thing. What can I get you?’
‘A portion of chips please.’
‘Coming up.’ Rosie, an old school friend, beamed and tipped a batch of freshly chipped potatoes into the sizzling fryer. A blast of familiar cooking smells filled the small shop as she took a kitchen cloth and emerged from behind the wall of brightly-lit glass and stainless steel to wipe the steamed-up window. ‘Joe not with you?’
Layla tensed. Rosie was married to the man of her dreams, a gorgeous rugged trawler-man. They had two children already. And hopes for a third.
‘We had planned to watch the sun go down together. A perfect beginning to our trip around the world.’
Her friend frowned. ‘So where is he?’
‘He cried off with excuses about sinking a pint of real ale with the lads.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s at the pub.’
While she waited for the chips to cook she walked over to the window and gazed out across the harbour to the lighthouse and, close by it, the centuries-old seafarers’ chapel built in a hollow at the base of a cliff. ‘You have a great view of Saint Elisabeth’s.’
‘That’s one of the best things about working here. It’s the perfect vantage point for wedding watchers.’
Layla laughed. ‘There’s been a spate this summer.’
‘I get to see it all. The dresses, the guests, the glitches!’
‘Glitches?’
‘Nothing too serious. You heard about the usher who tripped over a bollard on the pier and fell into the sea?’
‘Yep.’ Layla giggled. ‘Poor guy! I gather somebody saved the day and found him a change of clothes.’
‘Someone also videoed the shenanigans. It went viral. The chip shop was in the background.’
‘Free publicity.’
Returning to her post Rosie checked the fryer and wiped the counter with her cloth. ‘A couple of weeks back, there was the cutest pageboy. His mum got him an ice cream and a flipping seagull only went and dive-bombed him! He spilt ice cream all down his little outfit. She brought him in to mop up the mess and I got all the goss. The bride was pregnant! Nobody was supposed to know, but everybody did. And the bride’s parents were getting a divorce right after the wedding. It was the elephant in the room.’
‘Crikey.’
‘No one was allowed to mention it because the bride was so touchy. Heaven knows why, pregnancy hormones maybe.’
‘Or she was afraid talking about it might spoil the day?’
Rosie pulled an awkward face like she was sorry she’d brought it up. ‘You know what that feels like, right?’
‘I guess.’
‘How long have you and Joe been together?’
‘Twelve years.’
‘So when will it be your turn to walk down the aisle? When you get back from your travels? Or will we be hearing that you’ve rocked a romantic wedding for two somewhere fabulous, like Bali or Barbados?’
Layla bristled. The conversation had taken a very unwelcome turn.
‘Nothing’s been discussed. We’ve not made plans or anything.’
The door jingled and a couple more customers barged in loudly, cutting the interrogation dead, to Layla’s relief. Weddings weren’t Joe’s favorite subject. He liked things the way they were. By the time the newcomers had made up their minds on what to have and Rosie had taken their orders, Layla’s chips were ready. She shoveled out a generous portion, balanced a teeny pot of ketchup on top, and neatly wrapped them in paper. Layla paid quickly and escaped without further questioning.
‘Have fun,’ Rosie shouted over the jingle of the doorbell. ‘Post loads of photos on your timeline, I want to know everything.’
Outside, in the long shadow of the lighthouse, Layla paused for a few seconds to take it all in; the general store, the church, the chippy. The police station had been moved and the old building sold. The new owner had transformed it into an Italian-style ice cream parlour with a cheerful striped awning. Other old buildings had been repurposed too, housing a small gallery showcasing local artists, a gift shop, and a place selling an array of vintage, with a ship in a bottle, an antiq
uated teapot and a starburst clock in the window. On the end of the terraced row a former cottage with a ‘sold’ sign outside was reported to be opening soon, reinvented as an old-fashioned sweet shop doing homemade Cornish fudge in every flavour imaginable from traditional to chocolate orange, marshmallow and banoffee. Rumours abounded about a secret recipe and a luxury specialty fudge made with locally-sourced clotted cream and laced with ‘ye olde smugglers’ rum’. She’d have to wait until spring to try some.
Having well and truly memorized Porthkara harbour, Layla headed to the beach. At the top of the stone steps she kicked off her flip-flops and inhaled the salty air. She loved everything about the Cornish fishing village she’d grown up in, especially its own brand of ozone. She stared out to sea watching the gentle even breakers roll in, feeling the wind on her face, the sand powder-soft beneath the soles of her feet. Overhead the gulls soared, glided and swooped. A blazing circle of red, the sun cast a beautiful light all around and turned the white clouds pink.
For a second Layla’s heart wobbled and she wondered why she’d agreed to go travelling with Joe. She loved him here at home; but could she rely on him when it was just the two of them on the other side of the world?
Warmth seeped into her hands. She sat down, unwrapped the hot, golden chips and waited for them to cool enough to eat. Cross-legged she balanced her food in her lap and opened the ketchup, trying not to get sand on her fingers and replaying the conversation from the chippy in her head.
She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath of sea air in an effort to shake off her apprehension. She’d spent all afternoon finalizing her packing, obsessively putting things in her rucksack, taking them out again, and then putting them back in. Mentally she went through her checklist, knowing she’d double and triple ticked off everything on the to-do list.
‘Layla!’
Just as she dipped the first chip in ketchup and popped it into her mouth a deep voice she recognized startled her.
She turned her head in the direction of her name. ‘Dad!’
‘Hello, stranger.’
She’d been avoiding him. Things had been difficult before her parents had divorced, but since the split had been finalized a new awkwardness had settled in. ‘I had a feeling I’d find you here. I just wanted to wish you and Joe well.’ He looked up and down the beach, and cleared his throat, failing to disguise his surprise at finding her alone. ‘Say bon voyage and safe travels and all that for me. First stop Paris, eh?’
He’d touched a nerve. She’d been expecting Paris to be the first stop on the itinerary. It had been part of the original plan except Joe had contrived to veto it in favor of places he’d rather see.
‘We’re skipping Europe, flying to Australia first. I thought I told you.’
He shook his head. ‘Shame.’
‘I know. I’d have liked to visit art galleries and stroll along the Seine.’ She felt a bit peculiar. When Joe’s plan to travel had been suggested she’d made no secret of the fact that she’d love a romantic proposal in Paris and a bohemian beach wedding just for two on an island. With palm trees. Joe had other ideas.
‘Amazing sky.’ Her dad sat down beside her, stole a chip and dunked it in ketchup. ‘A sky so stunning has to be a good omen.’
‘What was it Granny Rivers used to say?’ She offered him the chips.
‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’
She shivered. ‘That’s it. Night. Delight. Morning. Warning.’
He nodded. ‘I love Porthkara. Haven’t ever wanted to leave.’ Falling into a pattern of sharing the chips they looked at the sea, not each other. ‘I regret not fulfilling your grandmother’s ambitions – for her, not for me. The things she wanted weren’t the same things I wanted.’ Layla didn’t really know what to say. Her dad filled the silence. ‘Things are better between me and your mum since the divorce. It can’t be easy for you – what with all of us living in the village and me getting together with Jasmine. At the end of the day I want you to know that I’m happy with my lot in life, and, well, I hope you – and your mum – will be too.’
It was hard to forgive him for the years of hurt that her mother had tolerated, for the damage it had done.
‘I’m fine. Mum’s fine.’ The night before she set off for the airport was a funny time for a father-daughter heart to heart. They hadn’t spoken about his relationship with the owner of the Porthkara gift shop before. Rumour had it they’d fallen in love during the shop’s refit. Ralph Rivers was a whizz with all things building related.
‘I know Joe has itchy feet, and you two have to see a bit of the world. It’s natural. But I’d hate you to think I’m pushing you away.’
Did everything always have to be about him? ‘Dad, I don’t think that.’
‘Your mum and I would be gutted if you stayed away for good.’
‘I know that.’
‘I don’t know how we’ll manage without you.’
Her chest tightened. Sometimes her love for Porthkara felt like a stranglehold. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a couple heading for the Lobster Pot Restaurant with its whitewashed walls and blue-painted window frames. She swallowed a chip, biting back her feelings. She and Joe had worked their last shift there at lunch time. All things considered, pitching in and waitressing at the beachside restaurant, away from her parents and their troubles, and loved by Joe’s family, had always been a welcome escape from playing a perpetual game of piggy-in-the-middle.
Her dream to set up a small business painting murals – the thing she liked most and did least – had been on hold while she saved for the trip. When Joe had come up with his travel plan her ambitions had been pushed aside. She’d have to save up again and resurrect them at some point.
‘The season’s winding down. We’ll be back by the time things get busy again in the spring.’
‘You’ll be missed.’
‘I’ll miss … home too.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘you’. After all, they managed to live in the same village and barely ever run into each other. He was respected in the community. He’d do anything to help anybody, fix things that needed mending. He was a great surfer, played guitar in a folk band on Saturday nights at the pub. She’d never spoken her mind, and it seemed like a terrible time to try to explain how she felt but she had a sense that it was now or never. The sadness, disappointment and resentment she’d been keeping in for much too long fulminated. ‘You’re a great dad, but you weren’t a good husband, and the thing you don’t get is that that was the part that hurt me the most.’ Her words spilled out in a jumble and her dad looked confused and sad. She felt bad, immediately wishing she hadn’t said anything.
‘I didn’t realize.’
She looked at her feet and dug her toes into the sand. With all the courage she could muster she said, ‘It’s difficult when one of you is moving forward and the other is staying still.’
‘Don’t I know it?’
The last blink of sun disappeared into the darkening horizon. Perhaps he didn’t understand, or chose not to, but one way or another he had failed to acknowledge the impact that all his years of unfaithfulness to her mother had had on her. He had a frustrating ability to sympathize with friends, neighbours, strangers, all the while blind to her take on things so much closer to home.
They polished off the chips in complicated silence and stood up together to go. Instead of challenging his self-pitying response to her comment she back-pedalled. ‘Look, it’s okay. Forget I said anything.’
‘Give you a lift home?’
‘No thanks. I’ll walk, take the cliff path.’ She smiled tightly and hugged her arms across her chest. ‘Brr. It’s chilly now the sun’s gone.’ He moved a fraction towards her, his internal choreography programmed to hug his daughter, but she flinched, stepped back from him and bent to pick up her flip-flops. ‘Bye Dad. See you in March.’
‘You take care, love. And send me postcards.’
A nervous laugh escaped. ‘Check my social media
, you’ll catch up with me there.’
Half an hour later, back home at the cottage she shared with Joe, Layla took the cup of tea she’d made into the sitting room and sat with her legs curled up on the sofa, still uneasy after the tense moment at the beach. Strings of words rattled in her head. Her dad didn’t want to drive her away? Weirdly that’s exactly what he’d done. She craved space, freedom, time out. Hopefully some distance would give her a fresh perspective, soften her attitude.
It hadn’t occurred to her that something might happen while they were away, or that they might stay away longer, or not come back at all. She pushed the thought away, turned up the volume on the music in her earbuds, feeling sorry she hadn’t hugged her dad and sad that no matter how many miles away she went the real distance was right here in the gulf between them.
As she put her mug to her lips the door opened and Joe lolloped in the worse for wear.
‘Crikey! How many pints have you had?’
‘Three or four. Or five or six. I lost count. And shots. They all bought me vodka shots.’
‘You didn’t have to drink them.’
‘Rude not to,’ he slurred, staggering into the kitchen.
Only Joe could come back this drunk on such an important night. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears to the sound of him throwing up into the washing up bowl. She was too disappointed to be angry. He’d have a hangover and be as cranky as hell for the next day and a half. He lay down in a sorry heap on the sofa. Resigning herself to the task in hand, and making a mental note to bin it in the morning, she went into the kitchen, rinsed the gross plastic bowl, took it into the living room and put it down next to the sofa in case it was needed again.
