A Summer of Secrets (15 page)

‘So,’ she began, when they were sitting in the living room – Joe in a squishy armchair, Gina on the sofa. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to since … since I last saw you.’

Joe leaned back in the chair, running a finger around the rim of his glass of Cava. Where to begin? Not with his “additional services”, that was for sure. Keep it brief, he decided. Spare her the gory details. ‘Not much to tell,’ he shrugged. ‘I finished working on the building sites and started up my own window-cleaning business. That’s about it, really.’

Gina raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘I’m sure that isn’t it at all, Joe Massam. There must be more.’

Joe felt heat rise in his cheeks. ‘Like what?’

‘Women?’

He shook his head. ‘There’s never been anyone else.’

Gina narrowed her eyes. ‘Not even fleetingly?’

‘Not even fleetingly.’

‘And what about all those bored Buttersley housewives? Don’t tell me they aren’t constantly propositioning you.’

The mouthful of wine Joe had just imbibed caught in his throat. ‘They’re not,’ he spluttered. Then, determined to change the subject: ‘What about you? Anyone special in your life?’

She shook her head. ‘No one. Things didn’t turn out well with me and Gregg so I decided to give men a wide berth for a while. Concentrate on having fun, being young. While I still am.’

‘Where are you working?’

‘In a hairdresser’s in Harrogate. Just general dogsbody stuff, but the pay’s okay and the girls are a good laugh. I’m thinking about signing up to do my proper training next year. Hair and beauty.’

Hair and beauty?
What had happened to all those high-flying ambitions she’d held in the past? ‘Right,’ he replied. ‘So no business degree, then?’

She wrinkled her nose, set down her glass on the side-table, and began removing the bands from her pigtails. ‘Nah. I don’t think it’s really me. I like being in the salon, mixing with the people.’ She shook out her hair, which now fell in waves.

‘Your hair looks great.’ Joe blurted out the words before he’d had time to engage his brain.

Gina’s mouth broke into a dazzling smile. ‘Thanks. Yours looks pretty good, too.’

***

“Mortified” most aptly summed up Jenny’s feelings following her date at Aubergine with Len. Not only had she been like a fish out of water in such pretentious surroundings, but the glamorous – very thin – Ria’s appearance had served only to highlight her own miserable inadequacies. Add her itchy dress to the mix and the evening had been an unmitigated disaster.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Len said, as they parted ways outside the restaurant.

The classic get-out line. Not that Jenny blamed him. What on earth would someone like him - someone, she’d discovered that same evening, who’d travelled the world - see in an uncultured, unworldly, overweight lump like her, who’d only ventured outside Yorkshire a handful of times?

Even a couple of days on, she’d still failed to come up with any answer to the aforementioned question, which was precisely why her flabber was completely gasted at the school gates earlier that afternoon.

She’d been supervising the despatching of the children when Len appeared, looking as suave as ever. Jenny cringed. One of the kids had knocked a glass of blackcurrant juice over the table at lunchtime. It had spilled all over Jenny’s pink skirt – the ensuing purple stain resembling an impressive bruise.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Fine. Never better,’ she replied, in as breezy a tone as she could muster. She couldn’t imagine why he was here. If they’d actually reached the “proper couple” stage, she would’ve assumed it was to dump her. ‘Oh. And thank you for dinner the other evening,’ she added. ‘It was … lovely.’

Len smiled. ‘Yes. The food there is exquisite, isn’t it?’

‘To die for,’ lied Jenny. Feeling twice the size of any of the other model-like diners, and three times the size of the glamorous Ria, she’d suspected her ordering anything other than a calorie-free glass of water in the restaurant would have resulted in a flurry of raised eyebrows, pointed fingers and disapproving tuts. Consequently, she’d ended up with a warm vegetable salad – a choice Len’s reassuring nod had told her he approved of, despite it costing more than a small African island and not being anywhere near as tasty as the fish-finger sandwich she’d wolfed down within fifteen minutes of arriving home.

‘I wondered if you’d like to go out again?’ Len said.

Jenny’s jaw dropped. The man had to think her a clumsy, weak-bladdered lepper. Why on earth would he want to go out with her again?

‘I thought we could go for a walk or something. You could show me some of the historic sights round and about.’

Hmm. Well, that sounded rather pleasant – a relaxing activity a country bumpkin like her would be comfortable with. Not that it was Len’s fault she’d felt so out of place in that poncey restaurant. It had, she reminded herself, been extremely generous of him to invite her to dinner in the first place.

‘Okay,’ she replied with a smile. ‘That sounds lovely.’

‘Tomorrow evening? I could meet you on the high street at, say, six o’clock?’

‘Perfect. See you then.’

Fortunately, the following evening at six o’clock was glorious. Jenny put on her new, navy-blue linen trousers and white blouse, and merely informed her mother, after the usual whinging, that she was “going out”.

‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t like it,’ Phyllis raged.

‘You might not like it, but I do,’ Jenny replied, before whisking out of the door.

She was enjoying her new-found rebellious streak so much that she couldn’t believe she’d kowtowed to Phyllis for so long. Never in her entire life had she felt so liberated, so energised, so … alive.

Given the lovely evening, she decided to walk into the village to meet Len. Arriving a little earlier than the arranged time, she waited on a bench outside the florists’.

‘Evening, Jenny.’

It was Annie O’Donnell from Crumbs, out for a run. Jenny returned the greeting with a cheery wave as Annie jogged past.

‘Hello, Miss Rutter.’

This time it was little Jocelyn from school, out with her dad on her scooter.

Jenny exchanged a few pleasantries with them before they scuttled off.

This, she reminded herself, was precisely why she adored living in Buttersley. Her family life might have been lacking over the years, but she’d always felt part of the village. Like she belonged. She really couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, nor would she ever want to.

‘Hi.’ This time it was Len. ‘Not late, am I?’

Jenny couldn’t imagine Len ever having being late for anything in his entire life. Unlike the time she’d turned up at the dentist for a scale and polish the week after her appointment. ‘No,’ she confirmed, glancing at her watch. ‘It’s not even six yet. I was a bit early. I decided to walk down.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Glad to hear you’re in the mood for walking. Shall we go?’

‘We shall,’ she agreed, jumping to her feet.

‘So, is there anything in particular you’d like to see?’ Jenny asked as they strolled along the high street. The village never looked prettier than at this time of year, window boxes crammed with blooms, trees overflowing with leaves, the air redolent with the scent of honeysuckle, dianthus and gardenia.

‘Actually, there is,’ replied Len. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a look at Buttersley Manor. Do you know the place?’

‘Oh, yes. When Lord and Lady Pinkington-Smythe lived there we used to take the children round from the school. In its heyday the place was fabulous, packed with antiques and the like. But of course it’s all changed now.’

‘Really? And why’s that?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Very sad really. Lady P-S died suddenly of a brain haemorrhage a few years ago and her husband never got over it. Within no time he became a shadow of his former self, was admitted to a nursing home and died a matter of weeks ago.’

‘Really? And what happened to the house when he went into the nursing home?’

‘Well, nothing actually. It just sat there. Empty. I suppose it’s now down to their two children – Portia and Jasper – to decide what to do with it. Jasper’s a real playboy type; a bit flighty. Not the sort you could rely on for anything really. But Portia … well, she carved out a very successful career for herself as a journalist. She’s been all over the world reporting on wars and the like. But she’s back in the village now, apparently.’

‘Is she? And do you know what her intentions are regarding the manor?’

‘Sorry,’ confessed Jenny. ‘I have no idea.’

Chapter Eleven

Bethany stood in the kitchen in a green, snakeskin T-shirt and matching leggings. On top of her curls nestled a nozzle-shaped hat.

‘So?’ ventured Rich. ‘What do you think?’

He held his breath as Alison’s green eyes grew wider. And wider. Oh, God. He’d thought Candi’s idea for the school’s “something from the garden” theme was inspired. But it didn’t look like Alison felt the same.

All of a sudden, though, she clapped her hands together, causing Rich’s feet to vacate the ground for a couple of seconds.

‘Ha! A hose,’ she exclaimed. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’

Relief pulsed through him.

‘I knew you’d like it,’ giggled Bethany, twirling round. ‘And please can I wear these trousers to Sophie’s birthday party?’

Alison grimaced. ‘Hmm. I’m not sure about that. Maybe we’ll just keep them for dressing up. But we should congratulate Daddy on doing such a good job.’ She turned to Rich. ‘I am, Mr Stevens,
extremely
impressed.’

Rich puffed out his chest as his wife slid her arms around his waist. But guilt elbowed aside his pride. All credit should go to Candi, not him. And he’d kept his new-found daughter a secret for far too long now.

‘You’ve earned yourself some serious brownie points,’ Alison murmured, brushing her lips against his. ‘Keep it up and you might be on a promise tonight.’

A promise, eh? Well, that was perfect on two fronts. Firstly – the obvious one. And secondly, it meant she was in an amenable mood. If he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to break his news, this would be it. No more sneaking about. He would tell her tonight. Definitely.

‘I’ll hold you to that, Mrs S,’ he muttered, kissing her back as both his resolve – and something else – strengthened.

‘Ugh’ groaned Bethany. ‘No kissing, please. It’s, like, totally gross.’

‘Jed Carr,’ said the man, extending a hand to Rich. ‘Thanks for coming out at such short notice.’

‘That’s all right,’ replied Rich. ‘Thank you for asking me to come out. And to such a gorgeous cottage. Now, you mentioned something about this tub being a present for your mother.’

The man grinned broadly. ‘That’s right. She lives here but she’s away for the next week. I didn’t have a clue what to get her for her birthday, but when I drove past your showroom the other day, a bolt of inspiration hit me. She suffers from arthritis, you see, and I thought a hot tub might help with the pain.’

‘Definitely,’ replied Rich. ‘Now where would you like it to go?’

Rich’s meeting with Jed Carr went well. The guy was obviously minted, but very down to earth. Rich had taken to him immediately. And the fact that he’d insisted on buying the most expensive model had added to his appeal. Consequently, by the time Rich made his way back to the Bubbles showroom later that afternoon, he was feeling extremely upbeat. Not only had his day been productive, but he had his promise to look forward to, and would feel a deal less stressed once he’d told Alison about Candi. He smiled to himself as he breezed into the office.

And came to an abrupt stop.

The smile slid from his face as a vice clamped itself around his heart.

Sitting behind the desk, Alison did not appear in the best of moods. Opposite her sat a woman with badly bleached hair and orange lipstick. She looked familiar. But … No – it couldn’t be –

‘Hello, darling,’ said Alison, in a tone which made the Arctic appear tropical. ‘You remember Bernice, don’t you?’

If Rich had been shell-shocked by Candi’s appearance, that reaction paled into insignificance compared to the one Bernice’s ignited.

‘Bernice tells me you go back a long way,’ Alison continued, rising to her feet and walking round to the front of the desk. ‘And that you have something in common.’

Shit. Bernice had obviously told her about Candi. Just when he’d determined to do the very same thing tonight.

‘A daughter,’ she continued, coming to a halt directly in front of him and folding her arms over her chest.

The only other time Rich could recall his wife looking quite so livid was when he’d attempted to remove a mark from a new beige carpet – using bleach.

Only vaguely aware of what he was doing, he took a step backward.

Alison pursed her lips and lifted an eyebrow, evidently waiting for a verbal response.

But what should he say? What had Bernice said? Did Bernice know he’d met up with Candi recently? Should he fess up and tell all? Or play the “I know nothing” card? After all, only a few days ago he
had
known nothing.

He slanted a glance at Bernice. She looked dreadful, thick brown foundation making her peroxide hair – with an inch of dark root – appear more yellow than blonde. Her tight, purple, halter-neck top showcased several rolls of fat about her midriff, and the accompanying short black skirt revealed orange-streaked legs which clashed with her orange lips.

Those same orange lips now stretched into a smug smile, revealing discoloured teeth that came with decades of smoking.

‘Our daughter’s called Candi,’ she announced with relish. ‘And I think you’ll find Rich knows all about her.’

Damn. Rich’s already roiling stomach began to churn. He glared at Bernice, before turning his gaze back to Alison, who lifted her brow a shade higher.

‘I, er, was going to tell you about her. Tonight,’ he blustered.

‘How very convenient. And now Bernice has saved you the trouble.’

Hasn’t she just. Rich’s initial shock began to be replaced by anger. He turned again to Bernice, his eyes narrowing. What did she want? Apart, obviously, from the satisfaction of imparting news of his daughter to his wife and very possibly ruining his entire life.