Don't Want To Miss A Thing (8 page)

They were always so sweet and polite, and Frankie was so soft-hearted she found it hard to refuse their requests. But it was a time-consuming business. Plus, in the show’s second series, Mags had turned part of her home into a café as a money-making exercise; the visitors always wanted to know where the café was and were invariably disappointed to discover it didn’t exist.

Frankie finally gave in and opened the café herself. It wasn’t cashing in, it was fulfilling a need. By this time Amber was five and had started school, so it gave her something to do and meant she now actively welcomed the tourists rather than putting on a brave face and wishing they’d leave her alone.

And now, twelve years on, the visitors continued to come and here she was, still running the café. The décor was kept as it had been on TV and one wall was covered with photographs and memorabilia from the show. Opening hours were a nicely manageable eleven till four, sometimes later during the summer months if a coach party turned up. On the TV show, the sign outside
said Mag’s Café. Hers said Frankie’s Café. It kept her busy. She enjoyed the chatter and the company, particularly with Joe working away as much as he did; as regional sales manager for a clothing firm he covered the whole of the south of England and spent a lot of time on the road.

‘That bloody animal.’ Coming into the café to say his goodbyes, Joe shook his head in mock despair. ‘Just tried to eat my shirtsleeve.’

He had a long-running love-hate relationship with Young Bert, the family goat who spent his days tethered to a long rope in the garden and adored having his photo taken with tourists. When he wasn’t trying to shred their clothes.

‘That’s because he loves you and doesn’t want you to leave.’ Frankie came out from behind the counter, smoothed down a wayward bit of brown hair at the crown of his head and gave him a hug. ‘If I thought it would help, I’d do it too.’

‘And that’d be a shame, seeing as you’re the one who chose this shirt. Anyway,’ Joe kissed her on the mouth. ‘Won’t be long. Back tomorrow evening. Behave yourself while I’m away.’

‘You too.’ It was a standing joke between them. Frankie told everyone the only reason they were still married was because Joe spent two or three nights a week away from home.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
. . .

‘Ew,
kissing
.’ The café wasn’t open yet but Molly had let herself in anyway. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you you’re too old for all that smushy stuff?’

‘You’re right. It’s disgusting. Shame on us.’ Grinning, Joe kissed Frankie again. ‘And all this canoodling means I’m going to be late. Better get going. See you tomorrow night.’ One last hug and he was off. ‘Bye, Moll, you two have fun without me.’

‘Too right we will,’ said Molly. ‘There’s male strippers at the Swan tonight.’

When Joe had left, Frankie said, ‘Is there?’

‘Sadly not. Unless hairy Phil has too much cider and gets his kit off.’ They both paused and grimaced at this horrible thought. ‘Anyway,’ Molly was evidently keen to change the subject, ‘I met my mystery neighbour again last night.’

‘The one who bought Gin Cottage?’ Ooh, this was interesting; Frankie hadn’t seen him yet. ‘What happened?’

‘Well, he ended up staying the night. Not like
that
,’ Molly added as Frankie’s mouth fell open. ‘Actually, it’s really sad. His sister’s just died and her baby’s only eight months old. There isn’t anyone else to look after her and Dex is the guardian but he says he can’t do it. The thing is, he’s in shock at the moment. I thought maybe you could have a chat with him about it.’

‘How awful. Of course I will, if he wants to talk to me.’ Just as running a café had never been one of Frankie’s master plans, neither had becoming Briarwood’s unofficial agony aunt. But somehow it had just happened; without ever meaning to, she’d become the kind of person other people felt the need to confide in. They told her their problems and she helped them find solutions. She was good at listening and apparently had a sympathetic face.

‘He’s not there at the moment,’ said Molly. ‘He fell asleep on my sofa last night. When I came down this morning he was gone. He’s either driven to the supermarket to pick up food or disappeared back to London. But if he’s still here, I’ll tell him to come over and . . . aahh . . . aahh . . .
aah-choo
!’ In the run-up to the sneeze Molly just had time to rummage in the pockets of her Barbour and whisk out a Kleenex. Something small and metallic flew out with it, skittering across the kitchen table. Frankie picked up the tiny charm and examined it.

‘That’s really pretty. Mind you don’t lose it.’

‘What is it? Let me see?’ Molly frowned and held out her hand.

‘It’s a frog on a spade.’

‘I’ve never seen it before! It’s not mine!’

‘Well, it definitely just came out of your pocket,’ said Frankie.

‘How weird. I don’t know how it could have got there. Mystery.’

‘Has someone else worn your coat?’

‘No.’ Molly studied the charm closely. ‘And look, he’s so cute. All I can think is that someone found it on the ground somewhere and thought it was mine. I’ll ask around. Except they wouldn’t have just put it in my pocket, would they? Not without saying something.’

‘You could mention it to Lois in the pub, see if anyone’s lost it.’ Frankie checked her watch. ‘Oh crikey, look at the time, I’d better get a move on.’

‘Me too. I’ve still got last night’s work to catch up with.’ Heading for the door, Molly said, ‘If Dexter wants to talk to you, I’ll give you a call.’

But by the evening there was still no sign of the garish yellow Porsche; Molly’s next-door neighbour had evidently returned to London to sort out his problems himself. And when they asked around the village, no one knew anything about the little gold frog on the spade either; there were no clues as to where it had come from.

Chapter 11

Laura’s house in Islington – the terraced house they’d both grown up in – might still be filled with her belongings but it felt indescribably empty. Dex felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare from which it was impossible to wake up. Each time the realisation hit him again, he just wanted to say, ‘OK, enough now, please make it stop.’

It seemed unbelievable to try and take in the fact that it never would.

He made his way on autopilot through the familiar rooms. It was the social worker who had suggested he came here and collected up anything he thought Delphi would like to have with her while she was in the care of the foster family. Not that he had any idea what she might want or need. So far he’d thrown assorted baby clothes and soft toys into a holdall without knowing if she liked them or not. There was one small squishy yellow duckling that made plaintive quacking noises when you jiggled it – he’d seen her playing with that one over Christmas – but otherwise all he could do was guess.

Which was shameful. Poor Delphi, as if it wasn’t tragic enough that she’d lost her mother, all she was left with now was some
useless uncle who didn’t even know which were her favourite toys.

Also, was she missing Laura? Of course she must be. But had she sensed that something this terrible had happened? According to the social worker, Delphi was fairly quiet and at times appeared to be bewilderedly searching for a face that wasn’t there. There’d been a couple of bouts of crying but otherwise she seemed happy enough; surrounded by care and affection as she was, she seemed to be coping well with her new foster family. Dex didn’t know how this made him feel; should he be reassured by her ability to adapt? He couldn’t bear to think she might be feeling – in her helpless baby way – as bereft as he was.

Dex paused in the nursery to look out of the window. There was Laura’s car parked outside, the red Escort she’d been so proud of, even though it was years old. Another fresh wave of grief hit him as he realised he would have to deal with sorting out all her belongings.
Oh God, Laura, I don’t want to do this, it’s time for you to come back and take charge again
. . .

The doorbell shrilled downstairs, jangling his nerves still further and making him think – just for a wild moment – that maybe this was Laura, ringing the bell because she’d forgotten her key.

Dex hurried down the staircase with the holdall and pulled open the front door.

‘Oh hello, dear, haven’t seen you for a
long
time!’ It was Phyllis, who had lived in the house next door for the last fifty years. Her white hair was like dandelion fluff around her wizened face. ‘Is Laura here, dear? Only I asked her to buy me some second-class stamps the other day, but she hasn’t brought them round yet and I need to pay my electricity bill.’

He couldn’t tell her on the doorstep. Dex found himself having to invite Phyllis into the house and make her a cup of tea before
finally breaking the awful news. It was almost unbearable, being the one to make an eighty-year-old woman cry.

‘Oh my word, oh no, I can’t bear it. Such a lovely, lovely girl.’ Phyllis’s gnarled fingers trembled as she pulled a hanky out of the sleeve of her cardigan and wiped her faded eyes. ‘And Delphi, that poor little angel. Whatever’s going to happen to her now?’

‘You OK?’ Henry, in his habitually crumpled grey suit, was looking concerned.

‘What do you think?’ It was midday and Dexter wasn’t dressed. He hadn’t been asleep when the buzzer had gone but he’d still been in bed. Now, having dragged on a pair of jeans, he rubbed his hands over his bare chest and wearily indicated the kitchen. ‘Help yourself if you want anything. What’s up?’

They’d worked together for years and over that time had become friends of the odd-couple kind. At the age of thirty-seven, Henry Baron was a classic case of not judging a book by its cover. At six foot five and muscled to the hilt, he attracted attention wherever he went, chiefly from women enthralled by his resemblance to the actor Idris Elba, particularly if Idris Elba happened to be playing the part of a renegade boxer who had never been to school and had battled his way through life with his fists.

In fact, and it had taken Dexter some time to discover this, Henry had been bullied at his tough inner-London school for being highly intelligent and refusing to fight. He’d eventually graduated from university with a first in Maths, was terrified of predatory women and had battled to overcome a stammer all his life.

As a rule, he made a good job of it.

But, unlike the rest of the team at work, Henry was quiet, domesticated, conscientious and . . . well, kind. He was a gentle
giant, a good bloke. Which, right now, was the very last thing Dex needed.

Dammit, he didn’t want anyone else making him cry.

‘You haven’t been into work,’ Henry was saying now. ‘And your phone’s been switched off. We were worried about you.’

Of course they were. ‘Don’t worry.’ Dex shrugged. ‘I’m still alive.’

‘How did it go yesterday? Sorry,’ said Henry with a grimace. ‘Dumb question.’

Dexter exhaled slowly. The funeral had been every bit as horrific as expected. But it was over now. He and Laura’s friends had said their final goodbyes to her and afterwards there had been a certain sense of closure. For the rest of them, if not for him.

‘It was awful. Everyone was crying, saying what a tragedy it was for Delphi. Then they asked me what was going to happen to her and I said I hadn’t decided yet but she was being looked after by a foster family. And they all told me it was the best place for her, she’d be fine, there were loads of families out there who’d love to adopt Delphi and give her a wonderful life, because obviously I couldn’t do that myself.’ Dex paused and massaged his aching temples. ‘So then it started to get me mad and I asked them why I
obviously
couldn’t do it, and they came out with all these reasons . . .
excuses
. . . and it was everything I’d been telling myself for the last week, plus it made sense, but there’s one thing I can’t stop thinking about.’ He was on a roll now, all the thoughts that had been churning around in his brain tumbling out. ‘She chose me, Henry. Laura chose
me
to be Delphi’s guardian. If I don’t do it, I’ll be letting her down. So I said this to her friends after the funeral and you should have seen the looks on their faces. When I said maybe I could take Delphi on, they were just
humouring me. It was like I was a kid announcing that I was going to play football for England when I grow up.’

‘So basically they’re right,’ said Henry, ‘and you know they’re right. But you don’t like hearing other people say it.’

And now Henry was joining in, taking their side. For fuck’s sake. Dex said, ‘If I want to do this thing, I can.’

‘Hey, don’t get mad with me. I’m just being honest.’ Henry raised his hands. ‘You wouldn’t be able to cope.’

‘I could if I had to.’

‘It just isn’t you.’

‘So you’re basically telling me I’m too selfish and shallow.’

‘I’m not,’ Henry said mildly. ‘But as someone with a psychology A level, I can tell you that what you’re actually doing there is describing the way you view yourself.’

‘Henry, fuck off.’
It was exactly how he’d described himself last week when he’d been talking to that girl down in Briarwood
.

‘I’m trying to help,’ said Henry. ‘The thing is, you don’t have to feel guilty and beat yourself up about it. Some people are cut out for this sort of thing, and some aren’t.’

‘And I’m not.’

‘Exactly. Apart from anything else, you work sixty hours a week.’

‘I’d get a nanny.’

‘You’d need two nannies. One for when you’re working, one for when you’re out on the town.’

‘Fine, I’ll do that.’

‘And then you’d start sleeping with one of the nannies and the other one would get jealous. Then after a huge fight they’d both walk out and you’d have to turn up at work with Delphi strapped to your chest in one of those sling things . . .’

‘They sent you over here to find out when I’d be back,’ Dexter interrupted. ‘Didn’t they?’

Henry nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘They don’t give a stuff about me, do they?’

‘Well, they
do
. . .’

‘Because they need me there to put deals together, schmooze the clients, work like fuck and make shedloads of money for them.’