Broken Hearts at Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

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  Prologue

  November

  ‘I can’t do this.’

  Merry opened her mouth to say she’d told him not to eat so much bread before their meals came, but the words died when she saw the look on his face. He didn’t mean the spaghetti carbonara he was pushing around his plate; this was something bigger. Something serious.

  ‘Alex?’ she said warily, when his gaze remained resolutely fixed on the congealing food. ‘What’s wrong? What can’t you do?’

  He glanced up then, pale blue eyes resting on her before flitting away around the restaurant like a startled hare. ‘This,’ he said abruptly, after several long seconds of quiet. ‘Us.’

  A flood of hot prickly panic washed over Merry. ‘Us?’ she repeated, and the word stuck in her suddenly dry throat. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You and me. Our relationship.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I just can’t pretend anymore.’

  And now the heat gave way to icy coldness, like an arctic wind had blown in from nowhere. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, as numbness stole over her. ‘What can’t you pretend?’

  There was a long silence during which Alex didn’t look at Merry. ‘That I still love you,’ he said finally.

  The air gushed from Merry’s lungs as though she’d been punched. Surely she must have misheard – this was Alex, after all; her boyfriend of more than half her life, who worshipped her and called her a goddess and promised he’d always be at her side – her soulmate. Of course he loved her, Merry decided with an incredulous shake of her head, as much as she loved him. She sucked in a ragged breath, only dimly aware of the wheezing croak that accompanied it, and tried to gather her scrambled thoughts together enough to formulate a reply.

  ‘I’ve been bottling it up,’ Alex went on, in an oddly detached tone. ‘But I just can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.’

  It was the flatness with which he uttered the last sentence that broke her. As though he’d smashed her favourite mug instead of her heart. Her eyes swam. ‘You’re sorry?’

  The words were louder than she intended, and thick with emotion. His eyebrows furrowed in alarm as he looked at her. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, as the woman at the neighbouring table fired a covert look their way. ‘For God’s sake, Merry, you must have known this was coming. Don’t make a scene.’

  Her jaw dropped a little as she stared at him, his features shimmering through the tears that were threatening to cascade down her cheeks at any moment. Don’t cry – had he really just said that? When he’d taken all her hopes and dreams for the future and casually crushed them as though they were nothing?

  Blinking, she swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that had formed in her throat. ‘How am I supposed to have known?’ she managed in a hoarse half-whisper. ‘We’ve been together since we were sixteen years old. You said you wanted to marry me.’

  He flapped a hand. ‘Maybe that’s the problem. Fifteen years is a long time – we’re not the same people we were back then.’

  ‘Of course we’re not,’ Merry said, with a fresh wave of bewildered hurt. ‘We’ve grown up – evolved into adults.’ She took another ragged breath. ‘Adults who fit together perfectly.’

  Alex let out a long sigh. ‘We used to. But lately – well, you have to admit it hasn’t been easy. Especially not since . . .’

  He trailed off but Merry didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence to know what he meant: the writer’s block that had sucked the colour from every aspect of her life. At first, she’d put it down to the bone-weary exhaustion that had been creeping up on her for months, born from the never-ending whirlwind of meetings and lunches and launch parties that came with the territory when you were a Sunday Times bestselling novelist. But she’d always been able to escape into her writing and find solace in the worlds she created for others; even when the real world was too much, her characters never let her down. Until the day she’d opened up her laptop and the words hadn’t come.

  She’d tried not to panic – told herself it was a temporary thing. Her writer friends were supportive, if unsurprised.

  ‘Bloody hell, Mer, you’ve delivered two books a year for the last five years,’ Jess had said when Merry had confided in her. ‘Cut yourself some slack – take some time off. Your deadline isn’t for months.’

  Except that the deadline came and went, and still Merry was paralysed by the inability to write. Her publisher was understanding, but it gnawed away at her self-confidence and stopped her sleeping. Even the thought of sitting down at her laptop flooded her with anxiety; the blank screen made her feel sick. And, inevitably, it had affected her relationship with Alex. She hadn’t realized just how much until now.

  ‘You said you understood,’ she said across the table. ‘You said you’d do whatever it took to help.’

  ‘I tried,’ Alex protested, sounding injured. ‘I listened when you wanted to talk, suggested you see a counsellor, and hardly dared to breathe while you were locked away in your office trying to write. It’s been seven months of treading on eggshells, Merry, and I’m not sure what else you expected me to do short of writing the bloody book for you.’

  His resentment was unmissable and Merry thought she knew why. Alex had been so proud of her high-flying career, had always basked in the light of her success and boasted about her awards and sales figures. There wasn’t much to boast about when there were days that even getting out of bed was too much for her.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to give up,’ she said quietly. ‘The Alex I love would never do that.’

  He sat back, dropping his fork onto the plate with a clatter that rang with ominous finality. ‘Like I said, we’ve both changed.’

  There was a barely concealed snort from the woman at the neighbouring table. Alex cleared his throat. ‘I think it’s best if I move out. A clean break all round.’

  The thought of living alone in the Chiswick flat they’d always shared caused yet another jolt of unreality to wash over Merry. ‘But where will you go? This is madness, Alex – can’t we try to work things out? I – I love you.’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s the thing – I don’t believe you do, not like you used to, anyway. And maybe that’s part of the reason you can’t write about love anymore. You’ve forgotten what it feels like.’

  The words were like a blade slicing into her heart. ‘Don’t tell me what I feel. I know what love is. If anyone has forgotten it’s you.’

  ‘I’ve found a flat-share in Greenwich,’ he said. ‘Signed the paperwork a few days ago.’

  It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision, Merry realized with dull comprehension. He’d been planning this for a while, weeks or even months, and had chosen this specific restaurant to deliver the final blow because it was new to them both and held no special memories. At least he hadn’t done it in the living room at home, where she’d be forced to relive it over and over again; at least he’d thought about that. Or perhaps he’d cynically calculated that she’d be more likely to hold it together in public – less likely to break down. She honestly didn’t know; the Alex sitting across from her suddenly felt like a stranger. There was only one thing she did know: there was nothing she could say or do to change his mind. He was leaving her. ‘When will you go?’ she managed, fighting to preserve what little dignity she had
left.

  Alex puffed out his cheeks. ‘Now.’

  ‘Now?’ she echoed, gaping at him. ‘But you haven’t got any clothes.’

  ‘I’ll buy more,’ he said, with a careless shrug that caused a fresh trickle of pain to run through her. ‘It’s better this way, believe me.’

  Looking up, he caught the waiter’s eye and made the familiar little ‘Can we get the bill?’ gesture Merry had always found faintly ridiculous, although she’d never told him so. Moments later, the waiter stood at their table, his eyes carefully averted from Merry’s stricken expression. She watched in frozen silence as Alex paid and pushed back his chair. ‘Will you be okay getting home?’

  The roaring in her ears made it hard to focus on what he was saying. Taking a long deep breath, Merry tapped one finger against her wrist, counting the beats and forcing the flood of anxiety down. ‘Yes,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  He hesitated, as though there was something more he wanted to say, then nodded once. ‘Text me when you’re there. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  She watched him until he was through the door and gone, fighting every instinct to stand up and call his name. Around her, the other diners continued with their meals in blissful ignorance; Merry expected at least some of them to be goggling at her with avid fascination but the truth was that hardly anyone seemed to have noticed. She fixed her gaze on the white tablecloth and battled for control of her thudding heart and racing thoughts. She took a swig of wine, hardly tasting it as she swallowed. Alex would come back, she comforted herself, once the reality of sharing a flat with a stranger sunk in. They’d never spent more than a few weeks apart – he’d realize he still loved her and he’d be back, begging for her forgiveness. Merry dug her fingernails into her palms and let out a shaky breath. He had to.

  The woman at the adjoining table leaned across, sympathy etched across her face. ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business and I can see it hurts like hell right now, but one day you’re going to be glad you didn’t marry him.’

  At that Merry’s brittle self-control shattered, and she burst into howling sobs.

  WANTED – WRITER IN RESIDENCE!

  1st February – 31st August

  The Orkney Literary Society is pleased to announce a six-month residency opportunity.

  Open to published authors from the UK, we are offering full accommodation in a traditional Scottish croft, transport and a stipend of £5000. In return, we expect the chosen author to promote reading for pleasure in and around the Orkney Islands, working with our thriving library and bookshops to deliver a series of public events throughout the year. The author must also produce at least one new artistic product during the residency, featuring Orkney and the neighbouring islands.

  This residency would suit a writer who seeks time and solitude to work in a beautiful and magical place.

  For further details on the application process, please email:

  Niall.Gunn@Orkneylib.gov.uk

  Closing date for applications: 30th November

  Chapter One

  Three months later

  ‘First time on a wee plane?’

  Merry opened her eyes to peer at the elderly woman in the seat next to her, then closed them again quickly as another burst of turbulence sent her stomach lurching. She didn’t trust herself to speak and instead managed a curt nod.

  ‘Och, it’s not normally like this,’ the woman said, and Merry heard the rustle of cellophane. ‘Can I interest you in a bullseye at all? Take your mind off things, mebbe?’

  It was going to take a lot more than a boiled sweet to distract her from the horrible certainty that they were all going to die, Merry thought, but the woman was trying to be kind so she opened her eyes and did her best to smile. ‘Thank you.’

  She unwrapped the sweet and popped it into her mouth. At least she’d have minty fresh breath when she died, she told herself as the plane wobbled and bucked again. Her fingers gripped the armrests and she offered up a prayer to any god who was listening; of all the writing retreats in all the world, she had to choose the one that started with a death-defying flight.

  ‘So, if you’ve not been on one of these wee planes before, this is very likely your first trip to Orkney,’ her neighbour observed, with an openly appraising look. ‘Are you on your holidays?’

  ‘No, I’m visiting for work,’ Merry replied, surreptitiously crossing her fingers. The advert for the writing residency had promised solitude and magic; was it too much to hope that they would somehow cure her writer’s block, and that time might heal her still raw heart?

  The woman eyed her thoughtfully for several long seconds, clearly taking in her neatly styled dark hair and perfect make-up, then her face lit up. ‘I know who you are! You’re the new Writer in Residence, staying at the old Dougal croft.’

  There was no point in denying it, Merry reasoned, although how her neighbour had deduced her identity was a mystery. ‘I am,’ she replied. ‘Who’s Dougal?’

  ‘He was the shepherd who used to own the croft. Wrote poems too, mostly about the sea, and when he died, he left everything to the Literary Society.’

  Merry absorbed the news, picturing a cottage overlooking the ocean. It was nice that her home for the next six months had a writing connection. Perhaps that would help her too. ‘Did he ever have anything published?’ she asked.

  Her neighbour snorted. ‘Och, no. They were terrible poems – far too obsessed with describing the sea as a woman, all soft rounded curves and deep, mysterious crevices.’ She looked sideways at Merry. ‘He didn’t have much luck with the ladies, if you know what I mean – I think it was the beard. A bit too sheepy.’

  ‘Oh,’ Merry said, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Well, I can see how that might not help.’

  The woman thrust out a hand. ‘I’m Bridget McGinty. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Merry Wilde.’

  Bridget squinted thoughtfully. ‘Is that your writing name? I’m not sure I’ve read anything by a Mary Wilde.’

  Merry hid a wry smile; if she had a pound for every time someone had cheerfully admitted they’d never heard of her she’d be a lot richer than she was now. ‘Almost – I use my full name, which is Merina.’

  ‘Merina Wilde,’ Bridget said, rolling the name around before shaking her head. ‘No, I’ve definitely never heard of you.’

  ‘Well,’ Merry said, summoning up her usual good grace. ‘You have now.’

  ‘Aye,’ Bridget replied, rustling another bullseye wrapper. ‘And I’ll be hearing your name a lot more over the next six months, if Niall Gunn has anything to do with it.’

  That was a name Merry certainly knew. Niall was the librarian at Orkney Library and he’d been her main point of contact for both her application for the residency and all the admin that had followed. He was due to meet her at the airport when she landed. If she landed . . .

  As if on cue, the plane lurched again and the contents of Merry’s stomach swooped. She pressed her lips together tightly, praying she wasn’t going to throw up all over Bridget’s sensible shoes – that wouldn’t do much to preserve her glamorous author reputation, although she suspected Bridget had already seen through that. As if reading her mind, the older woman patted her hand and smiled. ‘Not long now, dearie. And just think, you can write it all into a book – it’s all copy, isn’t that what they say?’

  It was all Merry could do to nod – and wonder if she’d made a calamitous mistake in running away to Orkney.

  *

  Bridget had clearly decided that her new acquaintance needed looking after, because she waited while Merry collected her suitcase from the tiny luggage carousel and escorted her through to Arrivals with the proud air of someone doing their official duty.

  ‘There’s Niall,’ she said, and pointed to a tall, dark-haired man waiting in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, holding a sign that read Merina Wilde, albeit upside down.

  He spotted them a second later; his eyes locked onto Merry and he smil
ed, causing her to slow a fraction as the impact hit her. She didn’t really know what she’d expected him to look like, but she hadn’t anticipated he’d be so . . . well, so Clark Kent. The mental image she’d built up while reading his meticulously detailed and grammatically perfect emails had been of someone older and grey-haired, who took the time to sharpen their pencils to precise points and brewed their tea for 23.3 seconds precisely, not of an undercover superhero with a million-watt smile.

  ‘Would you look at that sign,’ Bridget tutted, casting an apologetic glance Merry’s way. ‘He’s a good lad, but a wee bit away with the fairies at times. Comes from reading all them books, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Probably,’ Merry said dryly.

  She used the time it took them to cross the Arrivals hall to study Niall Gunn more closely. He wore a dark grey suit with a crisp white shirt and polished black shoes, all of which she found distinctly un-librarianish. The black-rimmed glasses were entirely on brand, however, and as she came to a halt in front of him, she saw they framed sea-blue eyes lined with thick dark lashes that most women she knew would kill for. She wouldn’t mind betting that there were one or two library users who came not to borrow books, but to gaze at the librarian instead.

  ‘Hello, Merina,’ he said, with another flash of a smile. ‘Welcome to Orkney.’

  Merry opened her mouth to reply but Bridget beat her to it, clearing her throat in the most meaningful way and staring pointedly at the sign Niall held. His smile faltered a little and he looked down. A hot red stain crept up his neck as he realized his mistake and he turned the cardboard up the right way. ‘Sorry.’

  He looked so mortified that Merry couldn’t help feeling it rub off on her; an answering blush warmed her own cheeks and she hastened to put him at ease. ‘Don’t worry. I speak Australian.’

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she started to cringe – Bridget was giving her the oddest look. But Niall’s mouth twitched and he broke into a wide grin that made Merry’s embarrassment subside. They stood smiling at each other for a few seconds, then Bridget cleared her throat again. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Lovely to meet you, Mary, dear. I look forward to finding out all about your books.’