Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘I see!’ the lady smiled, blushing again. ‘And you want me to disclose who the young lady is?’

  Tom widened his eyes most appealingly. ‘That would be extremely kind of you.’

  ‘Well,’ the lady said, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders as if suddenly feeling important, ‘I can tell you that I’ve had no such requests. I’ve sold a couple of bunches but they were to men.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tom said, the smile slipping from his face, and his eyes narrowing down to their normal size. ‘Nobody else?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps you could try The Bloom Room – in Kirkby Milthwaite.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said and then, just for the hell of it, beamed her a smile again, just to see her blush.

  ‘Any news?’ Flora asked as Tom got back into the car.

  ‘Well, I’ve found out that this is called a gerbera,’ he said, handing her the flower.

  Flora screwed up her nose. ‘What a horrible name.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said, ‘a horrible name for such a beautiful flower. I’m just going to call it a sunshine daisy.’

  ‘That’s much nicer,’ Flora agreed.

  After finding Kirkby Milthwaite in the road atlas, Tom pulled out and, once again, navigated round the labyrinthine lanes that laced across the Eden Valley. Flora sat twirling the sunshine daisy like a beautiful wand and Tom wondered what he was going to do with the flower. It wouldn’t last very long in the heat of the car. Should he press it like Barton’s wife had done? He could always buy another – the lady in the florist’s had said that they were popular enough, but that meant watching this one dry out and die. Ah well, he thought, it was all in the name of research.

  ‘Look!’ Flora suddenly shouted, ‘there’s a florist’s. Can I come in with you this time?’

  ‘Well,’ Tom said, pulling up alongside the kerb, ‘you could if it wasn’t closed.’ Tom sighed. Just as he’d been thinking things were going his way for a change. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Daddy!’

  Tom bit his tongue. That was mild coming from him. He was going to have to rein in his language this summer, that was for sure.

  He was just about to pull out again when a young woman stopped outside the florist’s and fished a key out of her pocket.

  Tom leant out of his car window. ‘Excuse me. Are you opening?’

  The young woman turned round. ‘Oh! No,’ she said. ‘I’m looking after it for a friend. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could help me. I’ve got a query about some gerbera.’

  The woman smiled. ‘That’s the best opening line I’ve heard for a while.’

  Tom grinned and got out of the car, nodding to Flora to stay put.

  ‘Come on in,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to help. This isn’t my shop but I am a florist.’

  Tom frowned a little as he followed her into the shop. How many florists were there in the Eden Valley?

  It was a small shop with wooden floorboards and an army of silver buckets that looked sadly empty, like gaping mouths begging to be fed. On the wall, there were a number of watercolours of local scenes.

  ‘So how come you’re looking after this place?’ Tom asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Molly’s on holiday.’

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘Molly Bailey. She’s the owner.’

  ‘How long is she away for?’

  The woman looked at him. ‘You’re not a burglar or anything, are you?’

  Tom laughed and shook his head. ‘God! Why did you ask that? I don’t look like one, do I?’

  The woman smiled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Actually, I’ve never seen anyone look less like a burglar. Far too handsome. What are you, then?’

  Tom looked back at the watercolours, stalling for time, wondering if he should answer. ‘I’m a reporter.’

  ‘Oh!’ the woman almost screamed, as if that were far worse than being a burglar.

  Tom knew that his job description often had that effect on people. Sometimes, they’d just clam up completely.

  ‘You’re not after Molly, are you? She’s not in some sort of trouble, is she?’

  ‘No, no! Nothing like that. I don’t even know if it’s her I want.’

  The woman looked puzzled. ‘Then what is it?’

  Again, Tom wasn’t sure if he should answer the question. He had no proof that this Molly person could help him with his story. ‘I’m not sure, but I may need to be able to contact her.’

  ‘I see,’ the lady said, looking pensive.

  ‘Does she have a mobile?’

  ‘Molly? You must be joking. It’s all she can do to keep her landline operational! Just a minute,’ she suddenly said. ‘There is a number here somewhere. Her brother’s. He lives nearby.’ She opened a drawer and produced a card. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘I’ll write it down for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said.

  ‘Now, what was it about gerbera?’ the woman asked, a giggle colouring her voice.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d know of anyone who’s been ordering yellow gerbera recently, would you?’

  The woman looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve sold a few,’ she said, ‘but there’s nothing unusual about that.’

  ‘Anyone out of the ordinary?’

  She shook her head. ‘Usual customers.’

  ‘So no long-term orders on them?’

  ‘No,’ she said, placing the post she’d picked up by the door onto a small filing cabinet behind the counter.

  ‘And nothing’s been ordered from here?’

  ‘Molly went away last week.’

  ‘I see. How long’s she away for?’ Tom asked. ‘If it’s all right me asking.’

  ‘It’s funny you should mention that, because she said she didn’t know. A fortnight to begin with,’ the woman said, ‘but she had a dangerous sparkle in her eyes, and when Molly gets the sparkles, well, there’s no telling really. I may be collecting her post for months.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’

  ‘Is that all?’ the woman asked, looking slightly disappointed.

  Tom nodded, noticing for the first time how pretty she was. ‘Got to go,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘Things to do, people to see.’

  ‘Good luck!’ the woman said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He was just about to leave the shop when something, other than the pretty woman behind the counter, caught his eye. In the gloom of the unlit space hung a painting. But it wasn’t a watercolour landscape like those in the rest of the shop. It was a painting of a single sunny gerbera.

  Chapter Twelve

  Molly was making the most of her new-found freedom on the North Yorkshire roads: driving round quite haphazardly; taking a right turn here, a left turn there, doubling back if there was something she’d missed, content in the realisation that the real power of money lay in freedom of choice and the ability to do exactly what you wanted.

  It was then that something quite spectacular caught her eye. Standing with an unrivalled view over Swaledale was Whitton Castle. Molly had noticed it coming up on her map and gasped at her first sighting. It might have had great chunks blown out of it during the Civil War but it was still a sight to behold. Four medieval square turrets stretched high into a periwinkle sky, and the few windows lucky enough to be glassed winked in the sunshine. It was definitely time for a break from behind the wheel.

  Molly followed the high-banked lane round the side of the castle and parked before putting Fizz on his lead. She wasn’t sure if dogs were allowed in the castle grounds but it was worth a try.

  It seemed rather quiet for a Sunday afternoon in summer, but Molly wasn’t complaining. Paying her entrance fee, she headed straight for the gardens, Fizz slipping in quite unnoticed. The gardens were picture-book beautiful with the kind of view that sold jigsaws. Gently sloping, with borders full to the brim with pinks and mauves, they were easy on the eye and delightful to the nose, with
low stone walls allowing the visitor’s gaze to escape and wander over the expanse of Swaledale.

  Spotting a stone seat in a secluded corner, Molly led the way, giving Fizz a little slack so that he could poke his head into a border stuffed with herbs.

  Sitting down, she let her shoulders slump and exhaled slowly. All her worries seemed to be in that exhale: her worry about Carolyn; her concern for Marty; her fear for the future, and the constant questions she had about Cynthia. She was beginning to realise that, even with four point two million pounds in the bank, a person still couldn’t banish worries.

  She closed her eyes, lifting her head towards the sun. Oven-warm, she felt as if she was being slowly baked, floating in a weightless, wordless world. The universe evaporated until there was nothing but the scent of herbs and the sun on her skin to tell her she was alive.

  And the faint smell of a cigar.

  Molly frowned. She opened her eyes, trying to fathom where the smoke was coming from. At first, the light of the afternoon blinded her and she shut her eyes again, screwing her face up and then looking down to the ground. She was faintly aware that somebody was approaching her and looked up in time to see a tall, well-built man striding across the lawn towards her. Molly panicked. He had a definite purpose in his stride and, seeing that there was nobody else around, there was no doubt that it was her he wanted to talk to.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, she decided to be bold.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her voice sounding far braver than she felt. What if he was a lunatic about to strangle her with a hollyhock? Or an irate farmer who didn’t appreciate Fizz in the vicinity?

  ‘Just come to say “afternoon”,’ the gentleman said, in a very gentlemanly voice.

  ‘Oh,’ Molly said, taken somewhat off-guard, particularly as her eyes rested on a rather handsome face.

  ‘Enjoying your visit?’ he asked, taking a puff on his cigar and letting the smoke stream out of his mouth to vie with the herb garden for fragrance.

  ‘Yes,’ Molly replied, still not sure that she should encourage him to make conversation with her.

  ‘Hewson,’ the man said, suddenly extending a hand. ‘Henry. Lord Henry.’

  Molly’s eyes widened. His mop of unbrushed hair and holey tank top didn’t exactly conjure up her image of what a lord looked like but, as he was smiling at her so winsomely, she decided to shake hands.

  ‘Molly,’ she said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Molly,’ he said, winking a blue eye at her before sitting down on the stone bench. Molly moved up a fraction. There really wasn’t enough room for two.

  ‘So what do you think of my castle?’ Lord Hewson asked.

  Molly had to stop herself from laughing. It was certainly a line she’d never heard before but, coming from him, it didn’t seem the least pretentious. It was rather cute really; rather like saying – is it all right? It’s not too bad, is it?

  ‘I think it’s beautiful.’

  ‘You’ve been inside?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Molly admitted. ‘I think I’m a bit late now,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

  ‘Late? Who said? If you want to look round, I can personally guarantee you all the time you want.’

  Molly stared at him for a moment. She wasn’t used to being given castles. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘On one condition.’

  Molly had guessed that there would be a catch. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, responding with a smile as she saw the twinkle in his eye. If he was flirting with her, she was jolly well going to flirt back.

  Henry Hewson stood up, dropping his cigar to the ground and stubbing it out with a thick boot before offering Molly his arm. ‘The condition is that you let me show you around.’

  When Molly had rung off, Carolyn had found it impossible to stop herself from crying. She wished Molly hadn’t chosen now to go on holiday, and that she could pop over to The Bloom Room for a cuddle and some sister-in-law-type sympathy. Molly had always understood her. Growing up with Marty as a brother had never been easy and Carolyn had always felt that she had been next in the Marty relay race when she’d married him: Molly had passed on all those niggling concerns and full-blown gripes when Carolyn had said ‘I do’. But Molly still took an active interest in Marty’s faults and the two women had bonded together in an attempt to iron them out for ever.

  Wiping her eyes and giving her nose a good blow, Carolyn got up and walked into the kitchen. She refused, point-blank, to feel sorry for herself and switched on the kettle and grabbed a mug from off the dresser. She grimaced as she remembered the fuss that had been made about buying the dresser. She’d wanted one since she was a little girl and as soon as they’d moved in to their house had started the hunt. Marty, however, had thought the idea ridiculous.

  ‘Why do you want things on show like that? Mugs belong in cupboards, which we’ve already got!’

  What he’d meant was that the cupboards were already there. You didn’t have to spend money when you already had built-in units. Carolyn had tried arguing but had been forced to save up the money by herself and scour the local papers for a second-hand one.

  She looked at it now and sighed. It was beautiful: a piece of furniture that seemed to smile at her every time she walked into the kitchen. It was the only thing in the house that was smiling at the moment, she thought ruefully.

  She was just about to pour hot water into her mug when there was a loud rap at the door. Was it Marty? Was he back to say sorry and that he loved her and that everything would be all right? It wouldn’t be the first time. It was the same thing over and over again: Carolyn would allow things to build up before finally erupting; Marty would storm out; Carolyn would have a good cry; Marty would return with a cheap bunch of flowers by way of an apology, saying it would never happen again. Until next time. Still, even though they’d been through it all time and time again, Carolyn couldn’t help praying that it was Marty at the door. But why would he be knocking? Had he forgotten his key?

  Running through the living room, she opened the front door. It was Marty all right but he hadn’t been the one to knock. By the look of him, he was practically knocked out.

  ‘Carolyn, isn’t it?’ a young man asked, holding Marty up as best as he could.

  ‘Yes,’ Carolyn nodded.

  ‘I’m Alec – a friend of Marty’s,’ he said, giving a shy half-smile. ‘Well, kind of a friend. I thought I’d better help him home. I think he’s had one too many.’

  Carolyn’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Come in!’ she said quickly and watched in horror as Marty tripped over the doorstep.

  ‘Do you want me to help him upstairs?’

  ‘I don’t need any help,’ Marty slurred.

  Carolyn nodded. ‘Yes, please,’ she said quietly, and watched as Alec dragged a reluctant Marty up the stairs. Carolyn followed, listening to the unfamiliar groans coming from her husband. As far as she’d known, he’d never been drunk in his life. It was something he just never did. It cost too much money for a start.

  ‘Do you know how much he’s had?’ Carolyn asked Alec, rather dreading the response.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t keeping track but he drank me dry,’ Alec said as Marty fell onto the bed.

  ‘You mean, you paid for him to get in this state?’

  ‘Well,’ Alec said, turning round and looking rather sheepish, ‘I didn’t think this would happen. I don’t know,’ he shrugged, ‘we had a few, and a few became a lot.’

  ‘So who drove you here?’

  ‘I called for a taxi – it’s outside. Marty’s car’s still at the pub.’

  Carolyn shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alec said again.

  ‘But you’re not drunk at all?’ Carolyn noticed.

  ‘I guess I’m used to the odd drink.’ Alec shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, obviously not used to being in a strange couple’s bedroom in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. ‘I’d better get going – the taxi’s waiting.’


  They walked back downstairs.

  ‘I’m sorry if I was a bit abrupt,’ Carolyn said as he stood in the hallway. ‘It’s just I’m not used to seeing Marty like that.’

  ‘No worries.’

  They stood, wondering how to end the conversation with the least embarrassment possible.

  ‘He didn’t say anything to you, did he?’ Carolyn asked, anxiety lacing her voice.

  ‘About what?’

  She tried to read his face, but it was a perfect blank. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Thanks for seeing him home safely.’

  When the taxi pulled away, Carolyn went back upstairs to check on Marty but he was dead to the world, lost in an alcohol-induced sleep. She wondered if he’d told Alec about their argument. Was this Alec really a friend or one of those anonymous people you tell all your woes to in a moment of madness? Either way, it was typical of Marty that he had found a way to avoid paying for his own drinks and taxi home.

  The coldness of the castle was giving Molly goosebumps after the warmth of the sunny garden.

  ‘Is Fizz OK coming in?’

  ‘Of course,’ Henry said cheerily. ‘As long as he doesn’t cock a leg against any walls. We’ve got quite enough damp as it is.’

  Molly smiled. ‘This way?’ she asked.

  ‘After you,’ he said and, rather uneasily, Molly led the way up the stone steps that spiralled out of view. Was it her imagination or was he eyeing up her expanse of bare flesh that her very short shorts revealed? If she hadn’t had Fizz’s lead in one hand, and her other on the cold stone wall, she would have glanced back.

  ‘Just keep going,’ Henry said from behind as they passed a chamber on their left. ‘We want to go all the way,’ he said.

  Molly stifled the urge to giggle and tut at the same time. She was all alone in a tumbling castle with a handsome lord who seemed more than keen to entertain her. She couldn’t help but smile. Nobody in the world knew where she was and that liberating thought made her feel rather naughty.

  The steps seemed to go on for ever and she had a feeling that she might have stumbled across the stairway to heaven, which wasn’t a bad guess as, when they reached a doorway, she realised that they’d climbed to the very top of the castle.