A Summer of Secrets (12 page)

The girl giggled. ‘Sorry. I’m bombarding you with questions, aren’t I?’

Joe nodded. ‘You are. But I’m the one who should be apologising. My head’s really not working today. If you asked me my name, I’d be struggling to answer.’

‘So I guess if I then went on to ask if you’d like low-rise or medium-rise, it could well tip you over the edge.’

Joe snorted with laughter. ‘That just about sums up where I’m at today.’

The girl beamed at him, her smile lighting up her otherwise plain face. ‘Look, between me and you,’ she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘our half-price sale starts in a couple of weeks so, if you can hang on until then, it would be well worth your while.’

‘In that case,’ he said, winking at her. ‘I will wait. Thanks for the tip.’

Exhausted from his ignominious shopping attempt, Joe decided to go for a pint before heading home. Walking purposefully towards the pub, he did a double-take as a woman stepped out of the tea room he was passing.

‘Joe!’ she exclaimed.

Joe came to an abrupt standstill. Damn. Of all the people he really couldn’t cope with seeing today, Gina’s mum, Karen, was right up there.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

Miserable, confused, hurting like hell, Joe wanted to say. But he didn’t. ‘Um, okay, thanks. How are you?’ he uttered instead.

Karen smiled warmly. ‘Fine, thanks. We’re just doing some shopping.’

A ton of panic toppled over Joe. What did she mean
we? We
as in her and –?

‘Hello, Joe.’

Shit. His instinct had been right. Not that that proved any help in dealing with the situation. The second Gina appeared alongside her mother, Joe thought he might pass out. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. Especially not today of all days. It was too weird. Too surreal. Too … everything he couldn’t handle.

‘You’re looking well,’ continued Karen. ‘What are you doing with yourself these days?’

Joe couldn’t reply. If his head had been all over the place earlier, it now not only circled several continents, but had detoured into orbit. Of course, Gina standing so close he could smell her perfume didn’t help. It wasn’t the familiar light floral fragrance she’d worn when she’d been with him, but something musky, earthy. Something, no doubt, expensive. Devoid of both the requisite mental and physical strength, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

‘I take it you’re still living around here,’ Karen pressed, obviously doing her utmost to diffuse the awkward situation and elicit a response.

‘Er, yes,’ he muttered. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Still working on the building sites?’

‘No. I … I’ve got my own business.’

‘Wow,’ Gina chipped in. ‘Well done you. Doing what?’

Even the sound of her voice caused something to tug around the area of Joe’s heart. As much as he willed it not to, his gaze strayed to her face. The face that had captivated him the first time he’d seen it; the face he’d kissed a million times; the face he’d fallen hopelessly in love with. It wasn’t the same face, of course. Not only was it two years older, but it sported a lot more make-up than she used to wear. Including glossy red lipstick. And her hair was shorter. Where previously it had hung down her back, now it brushed the tops of her shoulders in a long bob. The new look suited her. She looked gorgeous, sophisticated. And so familiar, his entire body flooded with a rush of emotion.

Her red lips curved upward into a diffident smile, and she lifted a perfectly groomed eyebrow as if to remind him that he hadn’t yet answered her question.

He shook his head slightly in an attempt to order his thoughts. What had she asked again? Oh, yes. About his business.

‘Window cleaning,’ he eventually replied. ‘I have my own round. Buttersley mainly.’

Karen chuckled. ‘Well, I bet you brighten up the day for all the rich, bored housewives there.’

Unable to tear his gaze away from Gina’s, Joe felt his cheeks redden. ‘And, er, how are you?’ he asked her. Although apart from a strong desire to steer the conversation away from him and Buttersley’s bored housewives, he had no idea why he’d asked that. He dreaded the answer the moment the words left his lips. What was she going to say?
Oh, we just moved into a mansion down the road and Charlie has his own wing
. Or,
we just flew in from our villa in Barbados yesterday
. Or,
Charlie’s new Danish au pair is fantastic.

But she didn’t say anything of the kind. ‘Okay, I suppose,’ she replied flatly. ‘We’re living with Mum now.’

Joe’s jaw dropped to the floor as a new surge of questions assaulted his brain. Living with Karen? That was one scenario he hadn’t imagined. ‘But what about you and … you and …?’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the tosser’s name.

Gina shrugged. ‘Me and Gregg? It didn’t work out. We split up a year ago.’

Joe’s head now reeled. Bloody hell. He’d been torturing himself with images of them living in the lap of luxury; swanning off here, there and everywhere; being spoilt rotten; wanting for nothing. When, for the past twelve months, they’d been shacked up with Karen.

‘Oh,’ came his pitiful reply.

‘Just one of those things, you know.’

Joe nodded. Then, sucking in a deep breath, on the exhale blurted out the question he’d been holding back for what seemed like an eternity:

‘How’s Charlie?’ God, even saying the child’s name made him want to weep.

Gina’s shiny red mouth stretched into a wide smile. ‘He’s brilliant. All grown up now. A proper little boy.’

Joe’s eyes welled with tears.

‘He’s the double of you,’ Karen added. ‘Isn’t he, Gina?’

‘The double,’ Gina confirmed. ‘Right down to the dimple on his chin.’

Joe turned away, brushing a rogue tear from his cheek.

‘Would you ….?’

He whipped his head back round to her.

‘Would you … like to see him?’

Giving up the battle, the tears now began streaming down Joe’s cheeks. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would love to.’

***

Following her date with Len – and the invitation to a second – Jenny’s fledgling confidence had soared. She had also made a momentous decision: in less than six months’ time she would be fifty. The best years of her life lost in pandering to her selfish mother. Well, she had decided enough was enough. Now was the time to put herself first; to make some serious changes. Just because the first flush of youth lagged behind her didn’t mean she couldn’t still make improvements to her life. And she was about to start today. With her wardrobe.

‘What are you doing?’ Phyllis demanded, as Jenny lugged two sacks of clothes down the stairs.

‘Having a clear out. I’m taking all this stuff to the charity shop.’

Phyllis’s bird-like eyes grew round. ‘Charity begins at home, my girl. And just what are you intending to wear when you’ve thrown out all your clothes?’

‘I’m going to buy some new ones.’

‘
New ones?
’ Phyllis couldn’t have looked more shocked had Jenny announced she was about to skydive naked into the village duck pond. ‘But we don’t have new things in this house.’

So long was it since Jenny had last been clothes shopping that she’d forgotten the experience could be more pain than pleasure. Today it verged on the torturous. Despite the plethora of trousers, jackets, skirts and dresses on display, everything seemed too short, too tight, too fussy, or just too downright unsuitable for a woman in her fiftieth year. And, on the rare occasion she did root out something she liked enough to try on, the lights in the fitting rooms were so unflattering that she left empty-handed and a good deal more depressed than when she’d entered the establishment.

After trailing around for what seemed like eons, she eventually settled on a sleeveless fuchsia dress with a mandarin collar, a knee-length lilac corduroy skirt embroidered with butterflies, a white blouse, and a pair of navy-blue linen trousers. The next dilemma would be which outfit to wear for dinner with Len the following evening. But she was so exhausted, that decision would have to wait until later.

‘Where’s yours?’ Phyllis snapped, as Jenny set down a plate in front of her mother, on which lay a neatly folded cheese omelette, garnished with a couple of thinly sliced plum tomatoes.

‘I’m not having one.’

At the dining table, knife and fork poised for action, Phyllis stared aghast. ‘But it’s Thursday. We always have omelettes on Thursday.’

‘Well, this Thursday, I am refraining. This Thursday I am going out for dinner.’

Phyllis’s fork tumbled to the floor. ‘Out. For. Dinner? Who with?’

‘A friend.’

A knife followed the fork. ‘Friend? Friend? What kind of friend?’

‘The kind …,’ Jenny retorted matter-of-factly, ‘… that one goes out for dinner with.’

Len had suggested Aubergine for dinner – Harrogate’s Michelin-starred restaurant – where a bowl of soup cost nearly as much as a family of four’s weekly shop. It was the kind of place one visited on special occasions like anniversaries or birthdays. Needless to say, Jenny hadn’t been before. And the moment she stepped through the door, she wasn’t sure she’d want to come again. The minimalist, shiny-chrome interior was completely intimidating and, despite her rather smart new fuchsia dress, she immediately felt out of place. She scratched her neck. Then her shoulder. Surely the place didn’t have fleas.

‘Can I help you, madam?’

Jenny almost leapt out of her skin at the deep male voice behind her. She whipped round to find a tall man with a pale complexion and slicked-back black hair hovering over her. She assumed he must be the
maître d’
– somehow related to the Addams Family. He gazed down at her with piercing blue eyes, making Jenny feel like she’d been caught doing something very, very wrong.

‘I’m, um, meeting someone here,’ she informed him, desperately trying to ignore the itch on her abdomen.

‘Name?’ he demanded brusquely.

Jenny couldn’t bear the itch any longer. Holding her bag in front of the affected area, she gave in to a scratch with her free hand. ‘Er, Ratner. Len Ratner.’ She followed this information with a shaky smile. It was not returned.

‘Ah, yes. Mr Ratner,’ the man conceded, his tone and expression completely neutral. ‘He’s already here. Follow me, please.’

Clutching her bag, Jenny scuttled behind him as he strode purposefully through the dining area. She couldn’t help but notice the other diners as she did so. They all looked as sophisticated as the restaurant: gym-honed bodies, glossy, highlighted hair, perfect tans, exquisite clothes. Like they were part of a film set, rigorously selected to fit the background. Little wonder, then, she’d never been here before. She hadn’t felt so self-conscious since she’d wandered into the gents’ toilets in Asda two years ago.

The
maître d’
came to a halt in front of a table at the rear of the room.

So, too, did Jenny. Several seconds after him, barrelling directly into his back.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she muttered, as he swivelled his head round and flashed her an icy look of disdain.

‘Enjoy your meal, madam,’ he sniffed, in a tone which implied he hoped she choked on it – although not, obviously, in his restaurant. And with that, he turned around and stalked off. Leaving Jenny standing at the table.

A table for two.

From which two people had observed the unfortunate scene: Len. And a rather gorgeous, reed-slim woman, about Jenny’s age, with lustrous auburn hair swept up in a loose chignon. In her flowing orange chiffon blouse and pattered harem trousers, she looked effortlessly stylish; Bohemian. On Jenny, the same outfit would’ve implied she’d got ready in the dark, with the remnants of a jumble sale.

‘Jenny,’ exclaimed Len. ‘Lovely to see you. You find the place okay?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ she muttered, aware of another itch developing on her neck. She mustered every ounce of resolve not to give in and scratch it.

‘This is Ria,’ said Len, indicating his companion. ‘She’s here with some friends but just popped over for a chat. We go back a long way.’

The woman tilted up her face to Jenny, revealing glowing tanned skin and perfectly applied make-up. ‘Hi,’ she drawled. ‘Nice to meet you.’

She raised a hand to her hair and tucked a lustrous strand behind her ear. The gesture caused the legion of colourful bangles on her wrist to jingle. ‘Well, I really must be going,’ she cooed, turning her attention back to Len. ‘Have a lovely dinner, darling. I can highly recommend the hake with obsiblue prawns. Completely delicious.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Len, beaming at her.

Jenny blinked twice. What on earth were obsiblue prawns?

Despite vocalising her intention to move, Ria remained in her seat.
Jenny’s
seat. Leaving Jenny to hover awkwardly.

‘Do keep me informed of progress, darling,’ she purred to Len. ‘I have no doubt the end result will be totally fabulous.’

‘With you involved, it certainly will be,’ Len replied. ‘Ria’s an artist,’ he explained to Jenny. ‘Amongst other things.’

Ria gave a tinkling laugh. ‘And what do you do?’ she asked, turning perfectly made-up violet eyes to Jenny. Did people really have eyes that colour? Jenny wondered. Surely not. It must be contact lenses.

‘Jenny works in a school,’ chipped in Len, Jenny obviously being so preoccupied with Ria’s eyes that she’d completely omitted to answer the question.

Ria twizzled a lock of her glorious hair around her finger as she continued to regard Jenny. ‘Oh. A teacher. How quaint.’

‘Er, teaching assistant, actually,’ Jenny corrected her, scratching her abdomen.

Ria arched an eyebrow. ‘Oh. Well. Very worthwhile work, I’m sure. Anyway,’ she swivelled back round to Len. ‘I hope to see you soon, sweetie.’

‘You will,’ he confirmed.

Then, with a flurry of air-kissing, and more jangling of bracelets, she disappeared on a waft of exotic perfume.

That inauspicious start to the evening set the tone for Jenny. A discreet survey of the restaurant revealed that none of her fellow diners were scratching, which led her to conclude that it wasn’t fleas that were causing her itch, but her new fuchsia dress. How had she failed to notice the hideous fabric in the shop? She’d escaped to the loo more times than was probably acceptable to have a good scratch, leaving Len no doubt wondering about the state of her bladder. She considered telling him about her predicament but somehow didn’t think he’d find it funny. She certainly couldn’t imagine him making such a duff purchase. Or a duff anything. The more she saw of Len Ratner, the more in control of everything he appeared. And, unlike Jenny, he fitted perfectly into a Michelin-starred restaurant. She could scarcely understand the menu, crammed as it was with all kinds of pretentious things she hadn’t even heard of. And then, of course, there was the wine.