The Barn on Half Moon Hill (7 page)

‘And things got all mixed up in your head. Then throw some hormones into the mix.' Jacques wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face into her dark-brown hair that smelled of
her lovely perfume. This news was the best Half-Christmas present he could have wished for.

‘I haven't told anyone I did the test. It wasn't right anyone knew before you did.'

‘So let's go and announce it to the world,' said Jacques, standing up. ‘Baby Glace is due on . . . when
is
the due date?'

‘You really won't believe me if I tell you.'

Jacques made a quick mental calculation and then guessed it was Christmas Day – the date when Jonathan died. No wonder it had messed with Eve's head.

Of course, there was another way of looking at this.

‘I think all the powers that be are trying to stamp out any bad memories you have of Christmas, don't you?' he said.

Eve considered his suggestion. And then she thought back to the night when the candle flame she had kept lit for Jonathan suddenly went out. As if Jonathan himself had extinguished it so she
could let him go – and live her life.

‘Oh, Jacques, I hadn't thought of it that way. Do you think that could be true?'

Jacques put his arm around her. ‘I wouldn't rule it out as a possibility. Come on, let's go and tell our family and friends the good news.'

‘What do you think about having a business partner?' asked Franco, suddenly coming to a stop, mid-twirl.

‘What?'

‘What if I paid for the renovations to this old barn and we became joint owners of the school. The Williams-Mezzaluna School of Dance. I'd let you have top billing.'

‘Great idea,' said Cariad, attempting to pull out of Franco's arms. ‘I'd better ring you a taxi. They can take you straight to the loony bin.'

But he wouldn't let her go. ‘I'm serious. You know I love dance. My name would work as a draw, wouldn't it? Would that pay off my debt to you?'

‘That's the most expensive fish and chips you'd ever buy then,' Cariad said, laughing.

Franco still didn't release her. ‘I don't just mean the debt for the meal, I mean for the support and for all those smiles you've given me over the years. I've
never been able to call Harry Bell-ender anything but. And the stamps and the paper . . .'

‘You're not in my debt. I wrote because I wanted to!' Cariad interrupted him.

‘I really think I owe you big time.'

‘And I really think you've gone nuts.'

‘Maybe I have, but it's the best idea I've had in years. Something that benefits young people, stars in the making, hands across the pond. And the publicity opportunities it
would bring would be amazing. I think we could make this work between us.'

‘You could come over and give a few lessons yourself.'

‘I fully intend to.'

Cariad's mouth gaped open. ‘I was joking.'

‘I'm not. How many dance schools are there in the area? Did you do any research?'

Cariad huffed. ‘Of course I did. There are a couple a few miles away, but this was always the most famous of them all. Mavis Wickersley was a local legend. She still had a waiting list for
her classes when she was eighty-two. She died on the job, demonstrating an arabesque. I wanna go the same. Although not for a few years, mind.'

‘Then do we have an agreement?' Franco at last let her go and held out his hand to shake on the deal.

‘You should have a good hard think on the plane home.' Cariad eyed his hand suspiciously, as if it might suddenly grow teeth and bite her.

‘I promise I will. So now, do you at least agree to be my potential business partner?' He wiggled his fingers to alert her to their waiting status.

Cariad reached forward and curled her fingers around his. ‘Okay then,' she said, humouring him.

‘Good girl.' Franco grinned. ‘I won't let you down. Not again.'

‘Better order a taxi now,' said Cariad, noticing the time on her watch. She didn't want this day to end, but then she wasn't sure she could take any more excitement. She
wouldn't sleep for weeks as it was with the amount of adrenaline that was pumping around her system.

When Cariad took out her phone, she noticed that there were five missed calls from her uncle. She rang him back and assured him that she was fine and was just about to ring for a taxi, but Effin
insisted on coming for her. He would make sure she was home and then drop Franco off at the gates of Winterworld. Effin was very protective of his older brother's daughter, who he thought of
as dearly as he did his own children.

‘He worries,' Cariad explained to Franco as she ended the call. ‘He's a lovely fellow is my uncle. Just like Da was, only he goes more purple. He'd do the building
work for me for the school, I know he would. He's brilliant.' Cariad imagined the long wall completely mirrored, dancers resting their powder-pink ballet shoes on the barre in front of
it. The image was accompanied by the smell of Olwen Rees's dance school in Dolgellau and the sound of mad Blod Griffiths playing the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy' on a piano
that hadn't been tuned since it was originally constructed. Such happy days.

While they waited for Effin to arrive, Cariad and Franco sat on the bench and looked at the lovely valley below them and both of them sighed simultaneously.

‘Why is it called Half Moon Hill?' asked Franco.

‘Haven't a clue,' said Cariad. ‘I'll find out and send the answer in a letter to you.'

‘I never wrote to you, Cariad, because I can't write.' Franco's confession came out in a rushed spurt.

‘What?'

‘Dyslexia,' he said, eyes cast down. ‘Only worse. I can read better than I can write, but . . . I'm just crap at forming letters of the alphabet. I tried to write to you
so many times: a note, a postcard, the message you asked for on a photo; but they all looked such a mess . . . I was ashamed.'

‘
Duw Duw
.'
My God
. Cariad shook her head slowly. So that's why she had never heard from him. She could read in his eyes that he wasn't lying to excuse
himself. ‘It's not something you should be ashamed of, Franco,' she said, her voice gentle, but firm too.

‘The publicity guys have always buried it. It doesn't go with my less-than-perfect image.' He laughed, but it was a very hollow sound.

‘Idiots.' Cariad huffed. ‘You could have flown a flag for it. Who better?'

‘Do you think?' Franco was looking at her as if he truly valued her opinion.

‘Course I do. You can still learn lines and things, can't you? It hasn't stopped you acting and living the dream, has it?'

‘No, it hasn't.'

‘There you go then.'

Franco chuckled. ‘Why don't I have you in my publicity department?'

‘You only had to ask,' replied Cariad.

‘I have an army of people who write letters on my behalf to fans, but I didn't want that for you. Your letters were always special. Everyone was under strict instructions to watch
out for the letter with the red dragon on it. Your letters were the only thing I ever enjoyed trying to read. Everything else was always such a chore.'

‘Aw, that's sad.' Cariad sighed, reached over and gave Franco a companionable nudge with her shoulder, and was pleasantly surprised when his hand reached over for hers and held
onto it firmly. ‘Think of how many other people must be in the same boat, struggling on, trying to get by without anyone knowing because they think they're lesser people, when
they're not at all.'

‘So you think I should publicly admit it?'

‘Yes, I blummin' well do,' replied Cariad. ‘You'll get a couple of knobheads who might make comments because you've shown a chink in your armour, but there
will be a hell of a lot more people who'll love you for admitting it and showing them it's nothing to be ashamed of. They have all sorts of support available for people with dyslexia
now.'

‘Do they?'

‘Yes. And if you've liked reading my letters, then you might start enjoying reading other things.'

‘Don't stop writing to me.'

‘Only if you promise to get some help.'

‘I promise,' said Franco, saluting her. ‘Give me your phone, Cariad. I'm going to type in my cell number. I might not be able to write letters to you, but I can talk to
you. We're going to need to be in touch. And you can send me the Sedgewick's selfie.' He recorded his number on Cariad's phone. She saved it under a codename: HALFMOON, the
English translation of the Italian
mezzaluna
.

‘I can't believe I have Franco Mezzaluna's number on my mobile.' Cariad fizzed. ‘And no, you don't need to say it. Of course I'll keep it
private.'

‘I know that. Is that your uncle?' Franco pointed to the top of a white van just visible over the hedges which were lining the road.

‘That's him,' said Cariad, standing up. Her dream day was coming to an end. Soon it would be back to reality and all that entailed: selling ice cream, being skint and living
with the bitch girls. Then again, maybe they wouldn't be as catty from now on.

Effin's van tore down the drive as if he was about to rescue his niece from the jaws of death and was doing it against the clock.

‘He looks fierce,' replied Franco, feeling Effin's eyes glaring at him through the windscreen.

‘He's a lamb.' Cariad laughed. ‘So long as you don't hurt any of his family.'

Effin stuck his head out of the open window. ‘All right, Cariad, my lovely?'

‘Oh, I'm better than all right, Uncle Effin. This is the film star Franco Mezzaluna. Franco, this is my uncle Effin.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' replied Franco, approaching the van window and holding out his hand. Effin took it very slowly and gripped it hard, squeezing down on Franco's
fingers.

‘Dangos barch i'm nith, Ianci, neu wnai fwydo dy folycs i ddafad sglyfaethus
,' said Effin in cheerful-sounding but deadly Welsh.

‘What did he say?' Franco asked Cariad, as he released his crushed digits.

Show respect to my niece, Yankee, or I'll feed your bollocks to a rapacious sheep.

‘Oh, just that he hopes we've had a nice day.' Cariad smiled innocently, then addressed her uncle directly to both answer his concern and to save Franco's life:
‘And I have had a lovely day, Uncle Effin. Franco's been the perfect gentleman.'

They climbed into the van and Franco's eyes remained fixed on the old barn on Half Moon Hill for as long as the journey away from it allowed. He might have made a mad impulsive promise to
Cariad to be her business partner, but it felt absolutely the right thing to do. Especially because he was not the sort of person who made mad impulsive promises.

When they got back to the house they found that photographers had tracked down Franco's mystery woman's address and there was a pool of people sitting outside
waiting for her return. Becky and Lacey were giving interviews, to two people holding out microphones. Their boyfriends were standing behind them, taking in the strangeness of it all.

‘Oh look, she's here. Cariad, Cariad,' trilled Becky, waving enthusiastically at the girl she had told everyone was her best friend. Her jaw dropped as she spotted Franco
beside her in the van. ‘Oh, my God,
he
's here as well.'

Everyone's attention zipped to Franco, who had got out of the van and was gallantly assisting Cariad down the step.

‘Hi, Cariad. Hi, Franco.' Becky and Lacey had pushed through the photographers and were standing in front of them, boyfriends in tow.

‘Can we have a photo with Franco and all the friends?' asked someone holding up a camera.

‘Oh yes,' said Becky, clapping her hands like a small child who had just found a golden ticket in a Wonka bar.

‘I don't see any of Cariad's friends here,' replied Franco, craning his neck to look over the small crowd. ‘But if there is a Josh here –' his eyes
turned onto the man standing behind Becky ‘– then you can tell him that if he touches my girl's ass again, he will have me to deal with.'

Josh's head sank into his shoulders with embarrassment as all eyes turned to him.

‘Franco, can you tell us where you and Miss Williams have been?'

‘Certainly. I have been to Sedgewick's fish-and-chip restaurant on Half Moon Hill. The best eating place in town.'

‘Franco, would you care to enlighten your fans . . .?'

‘Franco, how did you meet . . .?'

Questions were being fired at them from all sides but as Franco pulled Cariad squarely in front of him, everything outside of their little circle faded into insignificant nothing.

‘Cariad Williams, I have had one of the best afternoons of my life. Next time I come here – and I will – I want to swim in that blue lake in Winterworld with you. Then
we'll dry off and go to our special place.'

‘Franco, where's the special place?' Another question from a different reporter, but the couple didn't hear him.

‘Sounds brilliant.' Cariad felt herself blushing as Franco was staring at her as intently as he stared at all his drop-dead-gorgeous leading women in films, just before he snogged
their faces off.

Then Cariad felt Franco Mezzaluna's lips fall onto hers. It wasn't a snog, it was something light and beautiful and infinitely more tender than a screen kiss. It tasted of affection
and mischief with a lingering hint of Sedgewick's curry sauce.

‘I'll be in touch, my beautiful pen-friend,' he said. As his hands slid from her, their private bubble popped and Cariad was suddenly aware of cameras clicking and flashing,
questions were coming from everywhere, Becky was screaming at Josh, Effin was blasting his horn and shouting at Franco to hurry up and get in the bloody van. Seconds later, Cariad's uncle and
his famous passenger had screeched off in the direction of Winterworld, leaving her to give the waiting reporters a courteous, if brief, interview, to satisfy their newspaper editors. Then Cariad
Williams walked into the house, though she felt as if she had floated in, feet inches above the ground.