A Summer of Secrets (21 page)

They’d just completed two rounds of raucous applause – competing with Charlie as to who could scream “Bravo” the loudest – and were vacating their seats – Joe carrying his son – when Gina’s phone signalled a text.

‘Oh, God,’ she puffed. ‘It’s Nat. She’s in a bit of a state.’

Joe was having such a great day he really couldn’t have cared less about Nat’s state. Still, he didn’t want to appear unfeeling. ‘What’s up?’

Gina shook her head. ‘This new guy has just dumped her,’ she informed him, fingers dancing over the keypad as she frantically texted back.

‘Well, from the bit I’ve heard, she’s better off without him,’ Joe retorted. ‘Now, who’s for a banana split?’

‘Me!’ yelled Charlie.

Gina came to an abrupt standstill. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but do you mind if we skip the ice cream? I really should go round and see Nat.’

‘But we want ice cream,’ hollered Charlie.

Joe managed to refrain from hollering the same. But only just. He was too occupied suppressing the surge of anger that had swept over him. ‘Look, I’m sure she’ll be fine. Why don’t you give her a call from the ice-cream parlour?’

Gina shook her head. ‘You don’t know her. She slips into these really dark moods. Like, really, really dark. The only way to handle it is to cheer her up before she gets that far.’

Joe resisted rolling his eyes. ‘Well, what about the other girls? Can’t they help?’

‘I’m texting them now to ask.’

On the walk to the ice-cream parlour, Gina’s mobile beeped incessantly. And with each beep, Joe’s irritation level inched a shade higher.

‘God, I’m really sorry,’ she puffed, coming to a sudden halt in the street after the arrival of the latest message, ‘but we have to get back. All the other girls are doing something tonight, which only leaves me to cheer up Nat.’

‘But you’re doing something tonight,’ Joe pointed out levelly. ‘Spending time with me and Charlie.’

Gina grimaced. ‘I know and I feel terrible. But I can’t just leave her, Joe. I really can’t. You have no idea how depressed she gets.’

You have no idea how depressed
I
get, Joe wanted to shriek. ‘Well, at least let’s have our ice cream,’ he insisted. ‘Then, to save time, I’ll jump out at your house and catch the bus home.’

She pulled another rueful expression. ‘Sorry, but do you mind if we just go now?’

Yes, I bloody do, Joe almost barked. But he didn’t have the chance, because Gina had whisked around and was already striding back to the car.

Charlie, on the other hand, made his feelings perfectly clear. ‘Ice cream. Ice cream,’ he wailed.

All the way to the car.

And all the way to Karen’s house.

‘You sure you don’t mind jumping out at Mum’s and catching the bus?’ Gina asked, when they were only a mile from Karen’s house.

Joe shrugged. It would’ve been too late if he had minded. But he really couldn’t bring himself to look at Gina. Putting her mates before him and Charlie, thoroughly upsetting the child in the process, was not, in his book, a good move.

Once at Karen’s, things took a further turn for the worse.

‘I’m sorry, Gina, but you can’t expect me to drop everything just because your plans have changed,’ Karen chided her daughter. ‘I thought you were spending the evening with Joe, so I’ve made arrangements to go out. It’s not often I get the chance, given I’m usually babysitting. And I’ll be staying at Helen’s tonight, so I’m sorry, but you’ll have to sort yourself out.’

And with that, she exited the house.

Leaving a still-howling Charlie, a furious Joe and a dithering Gina.

‘Shit,’ Gina huffed. ‘What am I going to do now? There’s nobody to look after Charlie. Unless …’ She turned beseeching eyes to him.

Joe didn’t know why he’d agreed to babysit while Gina went round to sort out Nat. Although, actually, he hadn’t agreed. He’d merely stood there, unable to voice a word, while she’d spouted a load of dribble about how grateful she was and how grateful Nat would be, before hurtling upstairs to “get ready”.

‘Right,’ she puffed, appearing in the living room a few minutes later. ‘I’d better be going. The taxi will be here any minute.’

Joe – with a still-bawling Charlie in his arms – gawped at her. Gone was the cute outfit of earlier, replaced with a tight pink dress so short that, if she’d sat down, would’ve been round her midriff; a pair of sparkly silver shoes so high it was a wonder she could stand in them, let alone walk; and more make-up than Joe had seen on a counter at Boots.

‘Do I look okay?’ she asked, executing a doddery twirl.

No. You look ridiculous, he wanted to reply. But, yet again, he bit his tongue. ‘I thought you said you were going round to her house for a chat and a bottle of wine,’ he ventured instead.

‘Well, I was. Originally.’ She strutted over to the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair, now hanging loose about her shoulders. ‘But then Nat decided she’d feel better if she was out. In amongst it all, you know.’

Joe didn’t know. So long was it since he’d hit the town on a Saturday night and been “in amongst it all” that the thought made him nauseous.

‘Anyway, thanks for this.’ Turning from the mirror, she planted a kiss on his cheek, and another on Charlie’s head. ‘You’re brilliant.’

And with that, she shot out the door.

Leaving Charlie bawling even more loudly.

And Joe feeling decidedly less than brilliant.

By the time Charlie fell asleep, Joe was completely exhausted. The poor child had been inconsolable, sobbing his heart out, crying for his mum. Joe had been on the verge of bursting into tears several times himself, but thankfully had managed to hold it together – for Charlie’s sake. His anger at Gina, though, could not be contained. He’d tried calling her every ten minutes, so Charlie could hear her voice and she could reassure him, but each time the phone clicked to voicemail, and his messages remained unreturned.

With the little boy now sleeping soundly, Joe realised he was starving. He tried calling Gina again to see if she had any idea when she might be back. Yet again, the phone switched to answerphone. In the absence of any better ideas, he wandered into the kitchen where he discovered some bread, ham and a can of lager. He made himself a sandwich and took it through to the lounge to eat in front of the TV. He lasted all of fifteen minutes before he, too, fell fast asleep.

At the sound of a door closing, Joe awoke with a start.

The clock on the mantelpiece told him it was 4.47 am.

He hadn’t closed the curtains before he’d fallen asleep and daylight streamed into the room.

He was about to lever himself out of the chair to investigate the noise when Gina staggered in, sparkly silver shoes swinging from her fingertips.

‘Shhhhh,’ she giggled. Then, in one seamless move, fell to her knees.

Joe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Maybe an ickle lickle bit,’ she replied.

Before puking all over Charlie’s new toy Gruffalo.

Chapter Sixteen

Wandering from room to room in Buttersley Manor, Portia could scarcely contain her excitement. Over dinner at Annie and Jake’s house yesterday evening, the three of them had come up with a whole host of inspired ideas to save the house. And it had all been sparked by one comment from Annie’s daughter, Sophie.

In the kitchen, Portia had been mixing the salad dressing, Annie whipping up a meringue, and Sophie colouring-in, when in wandered Jake, bearing a pile of letters.

‘Goodness,’ he’d puffed. ‘I can’t believe how many people want to write a book these days. My publisher is forwarding me at least twenty letters a week from fans requesting tips on how to write the next best-seller.’

Without lifting her head from her colouring book, Sophie began to giggle. ‘I can give them some tips, if you like. My teacher says I have very good sentence compunction.’

‘Sentence
construction
,’ corrected Annie. ‘And you do. The story you wrote about the princess who lived in a shed was lovely, sweetheart.’

‘I know.’ Sophie reached for yet another crayon. ‘But the next one I write will be better. I like writing even more than colouring-in.’

Portia set down her spoon. ‘Oh, my God, Sophie. You’ve just given me a brilliant idea. Lots of people like writing, as demonstrated by the number of letters Jake receives. And lots of people already writing want to improve. So how about using Buttersley Manor as one of those writing retreat places? People could come and stay for a week, or two, or even three, and learn how to write.’

Jake slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘God. What a fantastic idea. I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it. That house is a writer’s dream. It oozes atmosphere. And I should know. Didn’t I rattle off one of my own books there a couple of years ago?’

‘You did,’ confirmed Annie, her cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘And you could help. Be one of the course tutors. Judging by the amount of fan mail you receive, it would be a huge pull having a well-established, successful novelist like you on the team.’

Jake laughed. ‘I’d love to get involved. I’ve actually been thinking about doing something different. Too many hours cooped up with the computer isn’t healthy. It’d be great to be out in the real world again, connecting with people.’

‘So you really think it would work?’ Portia asked.

‘I think you’ll be inundated,’ Annie confirmed. ‘And why stop there? You could offer courses all year long. I could run a baking workshop – that’s really trendy at the moment. And then there’s photography –’

‘And local history,’ chipped in Jake. ‘There’s at least a week’s worth of day trips within an hour’s drive of here. Hire in an expert and they’ll be in their element.’

And so the list rolled on – painting holidays, music, dancing. In fact, the more Portia thought about it, the more possibilities occurred to her. And, unlike weddings, these activities could run over the entire year, thereby squeezing out every last drop of the manor’s potential. And then Annie made another brilliant suggestion.

‘I don’t know how you’d feel about it,’ she began tentatively. ‘But Crumbs has outgrown its current premises. I’ve been thinking about looking for somewhere bigger for ages. Somewhere I could add on a tea room. But possibilities are obviously limited in the village, which is where I want to stay.’

Portia’s heart began beating a tad faster as she suspected what Annie was about to say.

‘The old stables at the manor would be perfect. And we could branch out. Sell preserves made with fruit from the orchard, locally made crafts. That kind of thing. Which would mean a constant trade running alongside the visiting groups.’

Portia’s mouth stretched into a huge grin. ‘It sounds amazing.’

And it really did. Not to mention lucrative. A quick browse of the internet told her people were willing to fork out a small fortune to indulge their hobbies.

Feeling more positive than she had in what seemed like years, she wandered into the kitchen to make herself a celebratory cup of tea. But in the kitchen she discovered there wasn’t much to celebrate, as a flick of the kettle switch signalled a distinct lack of electricity. Well, it’d been fine yesterday, so surely it couldn’t be anything too drastic. Probably just a popped fuse. She’d go and check before calling out an electrician.

Whoever had installed the fuse box at Buttersley Manor, goodness only knew how many eons ago, had obviously been a few sparks short of a kilowatt, Portia soon discovered. Placed high in a cupboard in the vast hall, the only way it could be reached was via an extendable ladder. Unfortunately, the only one she could find looked like it might have been used by the few-sparks-short-of-a-kilowatt installer, all those decades ago. Still, she couldn’t be bothered calling out a professional. Buzzing with new ideas, she wanted to sit down and draft a new business plan. One which couldn’t fail to impress the banks. One which would result in them clambering over one another to offer her the money to renovate the manor. One which would solve all her financial problems and lift the burdensome weight from her weary shoulders.

And the sooner she climbed this ladder, sorted out the fuse, and had electricity again, the sooner she could start writing.

***

Driving to Buttersley Manor, Bach’s Sonata No. 3 blasting from the Porsche’s powerful speakers, Jed experienced something of an alien emotion: nervousness. Jed didn’t do nervous. In fact, he didn’t normally partake in any superfluous and, frankly, useless sentiments. Pragmatic being his middle name, he simply got on with things, with the minimum of fuss. Today, though, he felt decidedly odd, his apprehension tempered with a large splash of excitement. And as no-nonsense as he claimed to be, even he knew this unfamiliar cocktail had less to do with hearing Portia’s latest opinion on selling him the house, and more to do with merely seeing her again. Despite his attempts to ingratiate himself with her, though – the champagne, the changing of the tyre – he still had no idea what kind of reception to expect when he arrived at the manor under the auspices of collecting his jacket. But of all the scenarios that had flittered though his mind on the journey there – including one of her answering the door wearing nothing but a towel, which had inevitably ignited a stream of other images, so hot, he’d had to pull the car over and gulp down a few slugs of water – one thing he certainly hadn’t expected was to discover the object of his fantasies unconscious in the hall, having evidently toppled off a rickety old ladder. Thank God he’d had the foresight – and some might say the audacity – to peep inside the house. Instinctively, though, he’d known something wasn’t right. And Jed trusted his instincts one hundred per cent.

He also trusted the emergency services. But despite the efficient way in which they’d dealt with the accident, he’d insisted on accompanying Portia to hospital.

‘No broken bones, but she has suffered a severe knock to the head,’ the doctor informed him. ‘We’ll keep her in for observation. You can stay with her for a while if you like. She should wake up soon and it’d be nice for her to see a friendly face when she does.’

Jed suspected the adjective Portia might use to describe his face would have nothing to do with friendly, and everything to do with cocky. But, as he gazed down at her beautiful, sleeping one, he decided he didn’t care.