The Unexpected Consequences of Love (2 page)

The family left the hotel forty minutes later. From his upstairs window, Josh watched them run across the parking lot in the pelting rain and pile into a blue van. At least they didn't seem too mentally scarred by their ordeal.

Downstairs, he found the photographer energetically tidying the drawing room, restoring it to its normal state. Griff, meanwhile—
how
typical—
had exhausted himself and was dozing peacefully on the rug in front of the fireplace.

Unaware that she was being observed, the girl gathered up the mud-streaked, paw-printed muslin sheets and bundled them into a metal case. Next, she unhooked the backdrop from its stand, efficiently rolled it up, and slid it inside a long cardboard cylinder. Her hair was all shades of blond and cut into a choppy style that swung around her shoulders as she worked. The fact that her clothes choice this morning had been a black top and gray jeans meant that Griff's muddy prints didn't show. Her sleeves were pushed up and a collection of silver bracelets jangled on her left wrist. Her top half was natural and her bottom curvy, both attributes Josh approved of, particularly after the years he'd spent in LA, where most of the girls maintained the kind of improbable Barbie-style figures that made it hard for them to stay upright.

“Nearly done… Oh, it's you.” Turning, she glimpsed him in the doorway and straightened up. Nodding at Griff, she said, “Have you come to get him? He's shattered now. I've just finished the shoot.”

“I know, I saw the family driving off. And I
am
sorry. Dot did warn me about the door-opening thing,” Josh admitted. “I just forgot about it. Can I blame it on the jet lag?”

She gave him a look. “Only if you're a complete wuss. You've had a whole week to get over it.”

Her eyes were bright and sparkling, silver-gray with very white whites. Her well-defined eyebrows were dark but tipped with gold and there was a smudge of mud on her left temple.

It wasn't an expression he'd ever thought of using before, but it occurred to him that she had joie de vivre.

“True.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “All my own fault. So how did it go in the end?”

“Come over here and I'll show you.” Leading the way across the room, she picked up her camera and began scrolling through the shots, starting with the half dozen or so pre-Griff originals, then on through the second stage of the shoot.

“These are great.” Josh nodded at them, genuinely impressed. “So it ended up not being such a disaster after all.”

“Thanks to me being a complete genius,” she agreed happily.

He liked her attitude. “What's your name?”

“Sophie.”

“Hi, Sophie. I'm Josh.”

“I know. Haven't you noticed everyone whispering about you since you've been back?”

“Not really. Well, maybe a bit. You don't take much notice after a while.” He paused. “Do you have a business card?”

She took one from an envelope in the side pocket of her black canvas camera case and handed it over.

Sophie
Wells
Photography. Portraits, Weddings, Commercial
was written in silver on a black background, along with her contact details. Josh noticed that as well as the bracelets on her left wrist there was a key attached to a plain silver bangle. He reached out and touched it briefly. “What's this for?”

“It's the key to my secret Swiss bank account.”

“Amazing. I didn't know Swiss banks used Yale locks.”

A dimple appeared in her left cheek. “I started wearing it after I locked myself out of my flat three times in one week.”

“Look,” said Josh. “I still feel terrible about the photos.”

“No need. I told Emma I'd do them for free.”

“But that means you're losing out. Which is even worse.”

Sophie shook her head. “They all like what we ended up doing instead. Emma's still happy to pay.”

“But their clothes…”

“They live on a farm. She says the mud'll come out in a boil wash.”

“But when I came back here with Griff, she was in tears.”

“I know, but you weren't actually to blame for that. Relax,” Sophie said cheerfully. “It's your lucky day. You're off the hook.”

Women, he'd never understand them. Still, it was a positive result. Somewhat distracted by her eyelashes—were they also gold-tipped beneath the mascara?—Josh said, “Fine then. So long as you're sure. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“You can try.”

He was charmed by her easy smile, playful humor, and feisty can-do attitude. Okay, and her body was pretty amazing too. “Are you single at the moment? Or seeing someone?”

If she were, he would have to say with good-natured regret, “Well, that's a real shame,” and leave it at that.

“Me? Oh no, I'm not seeing anyone.” Sophie shook her head. “Completely and utterly single, that's me.”

Excellent. Enjoying her honesty, Josh said, “So would you like to come out for dinner with me one evening?”

“It would have to be an evening.” Sophie nodded gravely. “Otherwise it wouldn't be dinner; it'd be breakfast or lunch.”

“Definitely evening,” he agreed. “We could do it tonight if you like.”
This
is
going
so
well
.

“Oh, I can't.”

“Yes, bit short notice. Friday, then? Or Saturday? You choose, whenever suits you best.”

But even as he was saying it, Sophie was shaking her head. “Sorry, no… I mean, thanks for asking, but I can't meet you for dinner.”

“Right.” Taken aback, Josh said, “Not at all?”

“No.”

“Okay. That's fine.” It wasn't remotely fine. What was going on? Did she have a small baby at home, or an elderly relative who couldn't be left unattended? “Am I allowed to ask why?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh dear, are you offended?”

“Of course not,” lied Josh.

Sophie gave him a who-are-you-kidding look. “I think you are. Don't be. I'm just pretty busy right now.”

“So maybe in a couple weeks?” He couldn't quite believe he was still asking.

“Look, thanks again, but no thanks. I just don't really want to go out to dinner with…anyone.”

Aaaand
another knock-back.

“No problem.” Josh wished he'd never started it.

“Sorry.”

He managed a rueful smile. “Hey, all I need is a few months for my ego to recover. I'll be fine.”

“It's not you.” Sophie's mouth was twitching. “It's me.”

Okay, now she was making fun of him.

“Well,
obviously
,” said Josh.

***

At the exact moment her grandson was being rejected by Sophie, Dot Strachan was fending off a clumsy advance at the other end of the hotel.

Oh dear, it never got any easier. She didn't want to hurt the poor man's feelings, but
really
.

“So how about it, hmm? Sound like an offer you can't refuse? The golf club puts on a jolly good bash, you know!” Edgar Morley's mustache bristled with enthusiasm at the prospect. “And it's a 1950s theme night. Our era! Everyone dresses up for the occasion. Last year they hired an Elvis look-alike to make the evening go with a swing!”

Was Old Spice aftershave still sold in the shops, or had Edgar bought up crate loads of the stuff years ago and been working his way through it ever since?

Also, the idea of him jiving away in drainpipe trousers was enough to put anyone off their canapés.

But Edgar was lonely. Dot knew this because he'd told her so, many,
many
times. He had been widowed just over a year ago and was desperate to find himself another wife. Yearning for companionship and for someone to look after him because he had no clue how to cook for himself, he'd taken to homing in on any female of a vaguely appropriate age in general, and Dot in particular.

It was sad, and Dot did sympathize, but he was just going to have to badger someone else to accompany him to the 1950s night at the golf club.

“Next Saturday, did you say? Oh, Edgar, I'm afraid I have something else booked for that evening.”

“Really? Oh no, that's too bad.” With the air of one suspecting that he was being fobbed off, he said, “Where are you going?”

“To a party. With Lawrence.” This time it was even true.

The reply sent Edgar's untrimmed eyebrows shooting up. “Your ex-husband?
Pfft
.” With an air of disapproval he added, “To be honest, I'm surprised you have anything to do with him. After the way he treated you.”

“Yes, well. It's a party being held by mutual friends. We can either go along separately, ignore each other all night, and make things awkward for everyone…” Dot paused. “Or we can behave like adults and turn up together.”

More huffing and puffing from a disappointed Edgar. “Well, he doesn't deserve it; that's all I can say.”

“I know.” Right, time to get back to work. Making a point of checking her watch and looking busy, Dot said cheerily, “The good thing is, Lawrence knows it too.”

It was Saturday morning and Tula Kaye was feeling guilty. But not
that
guilty. Otherwise she wouldn't be here, driving down the M5 from Birmingham to St. Carys.

Oh, but how could she resist? For the last three weeks she'd been working crazy hours at the pub; didn't everyone deserve a break? There had to be more to life than slogging from home to work and back again, through the driving rain and grubby streets of Aston. When the miserable weather had abruptly given way yesterday to dazzling sun and temperatures whizzing up into the seventies, everyone's mood had lifted, but somehow it just hadn't been enough. During the afternoon, in the gap between lunchtime and evening shifts, Tula had found herself poring over her computer, checking out the live webcam overlooking Mariscombe beach.

The weather forecast, promising unbroken sunshine for the coming weekend, was what had clinched the deal. The first glorious heat wave of the summer. Picking up her phone, she'd sent a text to Sophie.

Hi, how busy are you this weekend?

She'd forced herself not to get her hopes up. Of course, there was nothing to stop her from paying a visit to St. Carys even if Sophie was working, but it wouldn't be the same.

Tinggggg
went her phone, signaling the reply:

Couple hours on Sunday morning, otherwise free. And it's sunny! Coming down???

She shouldn't.

But she was going to.

Yes
, she typed back,
if that's okay with you?

Sophie's reply read:
Definitely. Hooray! We'll have big fun! xx

And that had been that; the decision was made. Tula had joyfully dug out some summery clothes, packed a small case, and gone back to Bailey's Bar to work the evening shift.

Like a true master criminal, she'd also deftly lobbed in a couple throwaway comments that would come in handy in due course. Okay, what she was doing was bad, but she'd never done it before. Wasn't everyone allowed to pull a sickie just the once? Honestly, some people did it every couple weeks and didn't even let it trouble their conscience.

So she'd worked really hard all evening, jokily mentioning in passing that her flatmate was cooking a prawn curry and there'd better still be some left when she got home, because she was starving. And at midnight, as they were all leaving the bar, she'd wondered aloud about getting some fries from the take-out place before deciding not to because she was so looking forward to
the
delicious
prawn
curry
that was waiting for her at home.

See? All in the detail.

***

The trick had been to set off at five in the morning in order to avoid the traffic, which on gorgeous days like this could be a nightmare. After two hundred and fifteen miles and almost four hours of driving, Tula reached St. Carys at last. Her spirits soared at the sight before her, no longer viewed through glass on a computer screen but in real life with her own eyes. Oh yes, this was
so
worth pulling a sickie for. Look at the sea, glittering like a turquoise sari, the vivid blueness melting at the horizon into the sky. The shriek of the gulls swooping overhead and the fresh smell of ozone filled her senses…She could practically taste the salt on her tongue. And the heat of the sun somehow just magically felt better on her skin down here in Cornwall than it did in Birmingham.

Tula drove down the winding road into the town, left her car in the parking lot, and popped into the bakery on the seafront to pick up a Cornish pasty and four warm apple doughnuts.

Opening the front door and flinging her arms out in welcome, Sophie said, “Yay, you're here! Fantastic! You're also revolting.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not even nine o'clock and you've started already.”

“Can't help it.” Tula was unrepentant; buying and eating a proper Cornish pasty on arrival was all part of the experience, her way of celebrating the fact that she was here. Holding the second bag out as a peace offering she said, “I bought doughnuts too.”

“Ooh. Apple?” They were Sophie's favorite.

“No, cat food and mustard.”

“Perfect.”

***

By lunchtime the beach was filling up and Tula was developing some color on her front. Reddish color rather than brown, sadly, but it was a start, and if she gave herself a good old coating of fake tan, it would all blend together into a rosy-golden glow.

“So what happened with that guy you went out with the other week?” Sophie rolled onto her side and peered at her over the top of her sunglasses.

“Which one?” Tula spoke without enthusiasm.

“Tom, was that his name? You were all excited.”

“Right. Well, turns out I was the only one who was. We went to the cinema.” She grimaced at the memory. “And he fell asleep.”

“Oh no.”

“Then afterward we went to get something to eat and I was being all entertaining and vivacious, and he only went and dozed off again. Excuse me, it's not funny.” Tula aimed a swipe because Sophie was battling to contain her laughter. “I swear to God, I was being brilliant company. He just didn't appreciate me.”

“Maybe he was working nights?”

“That would have been an excellent excuse, wouldn't it? Except he wasn't. He just said sorry, he didn't know why he was so tired, so I said jokingly it was probably because I was so boring.”

“And…?”

“And he just shrugged and yawned. Like a complete arse. Seriously, such a letdown.” Tula exhaled in frustration. “If anyone was boring, it was him.”

“What a pain. Oh well, his loss. How about Danny from work?”

“Danny's great. I love him. We went for a curry the other night.”

“You did? Well, that's good.” Sophie nodded encouragingly.

“Good in one way, not so much in the other,” said Tula. “He told me he was gay.”

“Oh.”

“After I tried to kiss him.”

“Whoops.”

“So then I had to pretend I'd known all along and it had only been a jokey kiss. And he pretended to go along with it, but really we both knew it hadn't been a jokey one. So yet again I ended up making a massive prat of myself.” Tula heaved a dramatic sigh. “But honestly, how are you supposed to tell? There should be a way. He doesn't act camp or sound camp; there are no
clues…
He's just lovely-looking, always so cheerful and friendly, and really easy company; you can chat to him about anything… Oh damn…” Her voice trailed off as the words sank in. “Listen to me, how could I have been so stupid? Of course he's gay.”

“So he's a good friend.” Sophie's tone was consoling. “That's not so bad, is it? Those last longer than boyfriends anyway.”

“Certainly longer than
my
boyfriends.” Tula knew she was her own worst enemy, but she couldn't help herself; when she found someone she liked, she just got overenthusiastic, like a toddler being offered the latest must-have toy. And it inevitably scared off the man in question. Aloud she said, “How about you? Anyone interesting?”

“No.” Sophie shook her head, as Tula had known she would.

“Are you going to be like this forever?”

“Who knows?”

“Don't you get lonely?”

“No, I really don't.”

And the thing was, she knew Sophie genuinely meant it. She'd simply banished the idea of boyfriends from her life and didn't appear to miss them at all.

Tula envied her that ability—though not, obviously, the reason behind it.

It had to be good, though, to be so unneedy. If only she could be a fraction as determined and focused on her own career. Not that you could call her job a career.

Still, it might only be bar work, but it paid the bills. Speaking of which…

“Ready for an ice cream?” Scrambling upright, Tula dusted sand from her legs and pulled her shorts and T-shirt on over her bikini.

“You don't have to get dressed,” said Sophie. “They sell them over at the beach café.”

“I know, but I love that shop we went to last year, the one up on the esplanade. Remember the blackberry ice cream?”

Sophie nodded. “You're right. They're the best. I'll have one of those too. Better get tubs rather than cones, or they'll be melted by the time you get back.”

God, there were a lot of steps. Tula finally reached the top and paused for breath; this was her punishment for telling a lie. But Sophie would be shocked and disappointed if she knew about the sickie—she had such a work ethic, it would never occur to her to play hooky.

Plus, Tula knew if she tried to call her boss from the beach, there was the chance of him overhearing seasidey vacation-type background noises and waves crashing on the sand.

To the left was the beginning of the esplanade, crowded with people. To the right was a narrow path leading up to the grounds of a hotel.

Okay, the sound of screaming kids would be a giveaway too. Turning right, Tula took the quieter option and admired the hotel's grounds as she wandered through them. Nice place. And here was a secluded bench, set back in a honeysuckle-strewn archway. Perching on the wooden seat, she took out her phone. A text would be way easier but such a cop-out; only a complete
amateur
would think of texting in sick. Patrick was suspicious enough as it was.

No, it had to be done properly, voice-to-voice.

Well, croak-to-voice.

She pressed Call and heard the phone start to ring two hundred miles away in Birmingham.

Now, how would Kate Winslet do this?

“Bailey's Bar.” Patrick's manner was as brusque as his personality.

“Oh… Patrick, is that you?” Tula adopted an agonized whisper, as if she were incredibly brave but doubled over in agony and unable to crawl out of bed.

“Tula, what's up?” His voice became even more brusque, if that was possible.

From the back of the hotel, a tall male figure had emerged and was making his way across the lawn in her direction. Not deliberately in her direction, thank God; he was just heading for the path that led down to the beach. Half turning away so as not to make eye contact, Tula whispered, “I'm so sorry, Patrick. I really don't think I'm going to be able to—”

“What? Speak up, girl. I can't hear you.”

That's because I'm being ill, you idiot
.

“I'm not going to be able to work tonight.” She raised her voice but kept it in death's-door mode. “I think it's food poisoning from the prawn curry I had last night… Oh, Patrick, I thought I was going to die; I've never felt so terrible in my life…” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man passing by and swiveled around still further.

“So where are you?” Patrick demanded. “In the hospital?”

Honestly, would he only be happy if she was in the intensive care unit on life support? “No,” she croaked, clutching her stomach in order to sound more convincingly ill. “I've just been throwing up all night and all morning. Pretty much nonstop. I mean, if I feel better in the next few hours I'll come in for my shift. You know I hate to let you down, but the way I'm feeling at the moment, I can't see it happ—”

“So you're not going to be in,” he interrupted curtly. “Well, that's just great. What about tomorrow night?”

Miserable bastard. Such compassion. “I expect so… If it's just a twenty-four-hour thing, I should be better by then…”

“Well, make sure you are,” Patrick snapped. “And you'd better not be messing me around.”

Honestly, what a cheek. Irritated, Tula croaked, “I'm
sick
, Patrick. Don't try and make out I'm not. Have I ever let you down before?”

Since there was no answer to that,
because
she
hadn't
, he snorted and hung up.

Tula watched the man from the hotel as he headed down the steps in the direction of the beach. Broad shoulders, dark hair, rather nice view from the back. She wondered briefly whether the front matched up.

Anyway, blackberry ice creams. Relieved to have the dreaded phone call out of the way, she slid her phone into the pocket of her shorts. Then, spirits lifted, she set off in the direction of the esplanade.