Thinking of You (3 page)

“Um, possibly,” Ginny conceded with reluctance. “Why? Don't you?”

“Of course I do. She's gorgeous. But I kind of realize nothing's ever going to come of it. I know I'm not her type.” Wistfully, Davy said, “I had hoped to win her over with my deadpan wit, kind of like Paul Merton, y'know? Trouble is, every time I see Lucy my wit goes out of the window. I turn into a gormless dork instead.”

Bless him. Ginny was touched by his frankness. “Give yourself time,” she said soothingly. “Everyone gets a bit tongue-tied at first.”

“To be honest, she's out of my league anyway. You won't mention any of this, will you? Can it be just between us?” asked Davy. “I've made enough of a fool of myself as it is.”

“I won't breathe a word.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Shall I tell you something in return? I wasn't that taken with Rupert.”

Davy's upper lip curled with derision. “Rupert's a prat and a dickhead. Sorry, but he is. He looks down his nose at everyone. Carry straight on over this roundabout.”

“And you're still living at home, did somebody mention?” Lucky parents, thought Ginny as she followed the sign to Henbury.

“With my mother. Dad took off years ago. Mum didn't want me to move out,” said Davy, “so I only applied to Bristol. Just as well I got a place really; otherwise I'd have been stuck.”

Lucky, lucky mother. She'd asked her son not to move out so he hadn't. So simple, thought Ginny. Now why didn't I think of that?

“She might change her mind. Maybe Rupert will move out and you could take his place.” Ginny was only joking but wouldn't it be great if that happened?

“Except Rupert's hardly likely to move out,” said Davy, “seeing as it's his flat.”

“Is it?” She hadn't realized that. “I thought they were all tenants.”

Davy shook his head. “Rupert's father bought the place for him to live in while he's here at university.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense, I suppose. If you can afford it.”

“From what I hear, Rupert's father can afford anything he wants.”

“So the others are just there to help with the mortgage and keep Rupert company.”

“Turn right here. And they just happen to be taking the same course.” Davy's tone was dry. “He'll probably have them writing his essays for him before long. Now take the next left. That's it, and ours is the one there with the blue door. That's brilliant. Thanks so much; maybe we'll see each other again sometime.” Twisting round in the passenger seat, he said, “Bye, Bellamy. Give me five.”

He waited until Bellamy had raised a paw, then solemnly shook it.

“Good luck,” said Ginny. “And you never know, things might work out better than you expect.”

Davy climbed out of the car. “You mean tongue-tied good guy gets the girl in the end? Maybe if this was a Richard Curtis film I'd stand a chance.” With a good-natured shrug, he added, “But I can't see it happening in real life. Oh well, at least it's character-forming. Everyone needs to have their heart broken some time.”

Ginny watched him head into the house, the kind of modest, everyday, three-bed end terrace that Rupert would undoubtedly sneer at. Never mind other people having their hearts broken; hers was a bit cracked right now.

“Time to go home, boy.” Patting Bellamy's rough head, Ginny said, “All the way back to Portsilver. So much for our weekend with Jem, eh? Sorry about that.”

Bellamy licked her hand as if to let her know that he didn't mind and had already forgiven her. Ginny gazed lovingly at him. “Oh, sweetheart, thank goodness I've got you to keep me company. Whatever would I do without you?”

***

Bellamy died three weeks later. The cancer that had spread so rapidly throughout his body proved to be untreatable. He was unable to walk, unable to eat, clearly in pain. The vet assured Ginny that putting Bellamy to sleep, letting him go peacefully, was the kindest thing she could do.

So she did it and felt more grief and anguish than she'd ever known before. Bellamy had been with them ever since Gavin had moved out. Someone had suggested getting a dog to cheer them up and that was it, a fortnight later Bellamy had arrived in their lives, so much better company than Gavin that Ginny wished she'd thought of it years ago. Gavin was unfaithful, a gifted liar, and emotionally untrustworthy in every way. Bellamy wasn't; he was gentle, affectionate, and utterly dependable. He never fibbed to her about where he'd been. His needs were simple and his adoration unconditional.

“You love that dog more than you ever loved me,” Gavin had grumbled.

And when Ginny had replied, “Wouldn't anyone?” she had meant it.

 

And now Bellamy was gone. Ginny still couldn't take it in, found it impossible to believe she'd never see his dear whiskery face again. This morning they had buried him in the back garden beneath the cherry tree. Jem had caught the train down last night and together they had sobbed their way through the emotional ceremony.

But Jem had lectures and tutorials back in Bristol that she couldn't afford to miss. Staying down in Portsilver wasn't an option. Red-eyed and blotchy, she had reluctantly caught the lunchtime train back to Bristol.

Ginny was pretty blotchy herself, not helped by having managed to jab herself in the eye with a mascara wand while she was doing her makeup. She felt bruised, emotionally drained, and wrung out but at the same time far too jittery to sit alone in an empty house gazing out at Bellamy's grave. Being miserable was alien to her character—she had always been the naturally cheerful type.

Set on distraction, Ginny drove down into the center of Portsilver and parked the car. At least in November it was physically possible to park your car in Portsilver. Right, now what little thing could she treat herself to? A gorgeous new lipstick perhaps? A sequined scarf? Ooh, or how about a new squeaky toy for—

No, Bellamy's dead. Don't think about it, don't think about it.

Don't look at any other dogs as you walk down the street.

And
don't cry
.

In a few weeks it would be Christmas, so how about making a start on some present buying instead?

Miraculously, Ginny began to feel better. Picking out stocking fillers for Jem, she chose a pale pink tooled leather belt and a notebook whose cover was inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In another shop she found a pair of blue-and-green tartan tights, acrylic hair bobbles that flashed on and off when you tapped them, and a ballpoint pen with lilac marabou feathers exploding from the top.

This was something she had always enjoyed, buying silly bits and pieces. Having paid for everything in her basket, Ginny left and made her way on down the street. A painting in the window of one of the shops further along caught her eye and she moved toward it. No, maybe not; up close it wasn't so great after all.

The next moment, glancing across the road, Ginny saw a woman she knew only as Vera and her heart began to thud in a panicky way. They weren't close friends but had got to know each other while taking their dogs for walks along Portsilver's main beach. Vera owned an elegant Afghan hound called Marcus who was at this moment sitting patiently while his owner retied her headscarf. She was the chatty type. If Vera spotted her, she would be bound to ask where Bellamy was.

Unable to face her today, Ginny ducked into the sanctuary of the shop. Inside, tables were decoratively strewn with china
objets d'art
, hand-crafted wooden animals, funky colored glass candelabra, and all manner of quirky gifts.

Quirky expensive gifts, Ginny discovered, picking up a small pewter-colored peacock with a jeweled tail and turning it over in the palm of her hand. The price on the label gave her a bit of a shock—blimey, you'd want real jewels for thirty-eight pounds. Then again, it wasn't her kind of thing but Jem might like it. Oh now, look at those cushions over there; she'd definitely love those.

Except Jem wasn't going to get the chance to love them because a surreptitious turning over of the price tags revealed the cushions to be seventy-five pounds each. Yeesh, this was a lovely shop but maybe not the place to come for cheap and cheerful stocking fillers.

Lurking by the table nearest the door, Ginny peered out to see if Vera was still there. Not that she disliked Vera; it wasn't that at all; she just knew that having to tell another dog lover that Bellamy was dead would be more than she could handle just now. And breaking down in public was the last thing she needed.

No, thankfully, the coast appeared to be clear. Glancing around the shop to double-check that there was nothing else she wanted to look at and might be able to afford—shouldn't think so for one second—Ginny became aware that she was the object of someone's attention. A black-haired man with piercing dark eyes, wearing jeans and a battered brown leather jacket with the collar turned up, was watching her. For a second their eyes locked and Ginny saw something unreadable in his gaze. Heavens, he was good-looking, almost smolderingly intense.

And then it was over. He turned away with an infinitesimal shrug that indicated he'd lost interest. Brought back to earth with a thump, Ginny gave herself a mental telling off. As if someone who looked like a film star was likely to be bowled over by the sight of her, today of all days, with her puffy, post-funeral eyes and tangled hair.

Dream on, as Jem would say with typical teenage frankness. And quite right too. Oh well, at least she hadn't made an idiot of herself and tried smiling and batting her eyelashes at him in a come-hither fashion. Relieved on that score, Ginny turned away as the door was opened by another customer coming into the shop. She ducked past them and left, still keen not to bump into Vera, and began heading swiftly in the direction of the car park. That was enough for one day; time to go home now and—

“I saw you.”

Like a big salmon, Ginny's heart almost leaped out of her body. A hand was on her arm and although she hadn't heard him speak before, she knew at once who it was.

Who else could a voice like that belong to?

Whirling round to face him, she felt color flood her cheeks. Crikey, up close he was even more staggeringly attractive. And clearly intelligent too, capable of seeing beyond her own currently less-than-alluring external appearance. Like those scouts from model agencies who could spot a pale lanky girl in the street and instinctively tell that she would scrub up well.

“I saw you,” he repeated.

He even smelled fantastic. Whatever that aftershave was, it was her favorite. Breathlessly, Ginny whispered, “I saw you too.”

His gaze didn't falter. His hand was still on her arm. “Shall we go?”

Go? Oh, good grief, was this really happening? It was like one of those arty black-and-white French films where two people meet and say very little to each other but do rather a lot.

“Go where?” Steady on now, he's still a complete stranger; you can't actually go back to his place, tear off his clothes, and leap into bed with a man you've only just—

“Back to the shop.”

Ginny's imagination skidded to a halt in midfantasy. (He had a four-poster bed with cream silk drapes that stirred in the breeze drifting in through the open window—because in her fantasy it was a balmy afternoon in August.)

“Back to the shop?” Perhaps he owned it. Or lived above it. Oh God, he was reaching for her hand; this was
so
romantic
. If only she could stop herself idiotically parroting everything he said.

“Come on, do yourself a favor and give up. You might be good,” he drawled, “but you're not that good.”

What was
that
supposed to mean? Puzzled, Ginny watched him take hold of her hand, then turn it face up and, one by one, unfurl her fingers.

Her blood ran cold. The next second she let out a shriek of horror followed by an involuntary high-pitched giggle. “Oh my God, I didn't even realize! How embarrassing! I can't believe I just walked out with it in my hand. Thank goodness you noticed! I'll take it straight back and explain…”

Ginny's voice trailed away as she realized that she was attempting to retrieve her hand and this man wasn't letting it go. Nor was he smiling at her absentmindedness, her careless but innocent mistake.

In fact he was gripping her wrist quite tightly, making sure she couldn't escape.

“Now look,” said Ginny, flustered. “I didn't do it on purpose!”

“I despise shoplifters. I hope they prosecute you,” the man said evenly.

“But I'm not a shoplifter! I've never stolen anything in my
life
. Oh God, I can't believe you even think that!” Hideously aware that people in the street were starting to take notice, some even slowing down to listen avidly to the exchange, Ginny turned and walked rapidly back to the shop still clutching the jeweled peacock and fighting back tears of shame. Because like a hammer blow it had struck her that while she had been mentally drooling over a man she ridiculously imagined might fancy her, she had completely forgotten about Bellamy.

That's how breathtakingly shallow and selfish she was.

Pushing open the door to the shop, she saw that there were a dozen or so customers wandering around, plus the woman who worked there. Hot on her heels—evidently ready to rugby-tackle her to the ground if she tried to escape—the man ushered her inside and up to the counter. Ginny pushed the jeweled peacock into the woman's hands and gabbled, mortified, “I'm so sorry; it was a complete accident. I didn't realize I was still holding it when I left.”

“Sounds quite convincing, doesn't she?” The man raised an eyebrow. “But I was watching her. I saw the way she was acting before she made her getaway.”

Was this like being innocent of murder but finding yourself on death row?

“Please don't say that.” The tears were back, pricking her eyelids. Gulping for breath and aware that she was now truly the center of attention, Ginny clutched the edge of the counter. “I'm an honest person. I've never broken the law; I just wasn't
concentrating
.”

“Obviously not,” the man interjected. “Otherwise you wouldn't have got caught.”

“Oh, will you SHUT UP? I didn't mean to take it! As soon as I'd realized it was in my hand, I would have brought it back,” Ginny shouted. “It was an
accident
.” Gazing in desperation at the saleswoman, she pleaded, “You believe me, don't you? You don't think I was actually planning to steal it?”

The woman looked startled. “Well, I…”

“See that sign?” The man pointed to a sign next to the till announcing that shoplifters would be prosecuted. “It's there for a reason.”

Ginny began to feel light-headed. “But I'm not a shoplifter.”

Gesturing toward the phone on the counter, the man said to the saleswoman, “Go on, call the police.”

“It was a mistake,” sobbed Ginny. “My dog died yesterday. I only b-buried him this morning.” As she said it, her knees buckled beneath her. The tears flowed freely down her face as the saleswoman hastily dragged a chair out from behind the counter. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… everything's just getting too much for me.” Sinking onto the chair, Ginny buried her face in her hands and shook her head.

“She's in a bit of a state,” the saleswoman murmured anxiously.

“That's because she's been caught red-handed. Now she's trying every trick in the book to get out of it.”

“Ah, but what if her dog's really died? It's awful when that happens. And she's looking a bit pale. Are you feeling all right, love?”

Ginny shook her head, nausea swirling through her body like ectoplasm. “Actually, I'm feeling a bit sick.”

A large blue bowl with pink and gold daisies hand-painted on the inside was thrust into her hands. The attached price ticket announced that it was £280. Breathing deeply, terrified that she might actually be sick into it, Ginny felt beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

“She looks terrible.”

“That's because she's guilty.”

“Hello, love, can you hear me? You shouldn't be on your own. Is there anyone we can call?

Pointedly, the man said, “Like the police?”

It was no good, even being thrown into a police cell and chained to a wall would be better than being gawped at by everyone here in the shop. Shaking her head, Ginny muttered, “No, no one you can call. My daughter's not here anymore. She's gone. Just get it over and done with and call the police. Go ahead, arrest me. I don't care anymore.”

There was a long silence. It seemed that everyone was holding their breath.

Finally, the saleswoman said, “I can't do it to her. Poor thing, how could I have her arrested?”

“Don't look at me. It's your shop.” The man sounded exasperated.

“Actually, it's not. The owner's gone to Penzance for the day and I'm just covering. But we've got this back.” The clink of the jeweled peacock's feet against the glass-topped counter reached Ginny's ears. “So why don't we leave it at that?”

The man, clearly disappointed, breathed a sigh of resignation and said brusquely, “Fine. I was just trying to help.”

The door clanged shut behind him. Ginny fumbled for a tissue and wiped her nose. Patting her on the arm, the saleswoman said kindly, “It's all right, love. Let's just forget it ever happened, shall we?”

“It was an accident,” snuffled Ginny.

“I'm sure it was. You've had a rotten time. Are you OK to leave now? You need to take it easy, look after yourself.”

“I'll be all right.” Embarrassed and grateful, Ginny rose to her feet and prayed the Terminator wouldn't be waiting outside. “Thanks.”