One long hot summer. Secrets never stay buried for long…

Portia is determined to restore Buttersley Manor, her family’s crumbling ancestral home, to its former glory. Yet she has a feeling that there are a few forgotten skeletons in the dust-covered cupboards.

Jenny has put her life on hold for far too long. It’s time to finally start living and to dig up those hopes and dreams she’s kept hidden all these years – but is she brave enough?

Rich is happily married with a beautiful wife and lovely daughter. In fact, his world is perfect until a very unexpected consequence of his past walks through the door…

Joe would like nothing more than to travel back in time to when he and Gina were happy. But is it too late to rescue what they once had?

One thing’s for sure, nothing’s ever quite what it seems when it comes to life in the country!

A perfect, feel-good summer read about love, life and family.

Available by Alice Ross:

Countryside Dreams

An Autumn Affair

A Summer of Secrets

Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty

A Summer of Secrets

Alice Ross

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Alice Ross 2016

Alice Ross asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474047463

Version date: 2018-07-23

ALICE ROSS escaped her dreary job in the financial services industry a few years ago and has never looked back. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy romps destined to amuse readers slightly more than the pension brochures of her previous life. Now back in her home town of Durham, when not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog in wellies two sizes too big (don’t ask!) or standing on her head in a yoga pose. Alice loves to hear from readers, and you can follow her on Twitter at @AliceRoss22 or on facebook.com/alice.ross.108.

Thank you to my wonderful family for being just … well … wonderful.

And to my fab editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all her encouragement, support, expertise and – most importantly – patience.

It is a pleasure and a privilege to work with you and the Carina team.

To Cody

For being the best dog in the world.

And for never failing to make me smile.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘And that, I’m afraid, is it.’

Across the wide, mahogany desk, Portia Pinkington-Smythe stared at Dillon Harwood, the balding, kindly faced man who, for the last five decades, had had the dubious pleasure of serving as the Pinkington-Smythes’ family solicitor. Yet, despite this well-forged connection, and an impressive IQ of one hundred and thirty, Portia still failed to compute the information he had just imparted.

‘You mean … my father died leaving a pitiful sum in the bank and a whole heap of debt?’ she eventually asked.

Dillon nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, Portia. I had no idea things were this bad. I wish your father had told me. If I’d known sooner, perhaps I could have helped somehow.’

Portia gave a weak smile of gratitude. Her father’s recent death had been traumatic enough, but to now discover the shabby state of the family finances had proved another devastating blow.

‘But at least you have Buttersley Manor,’ Dillon continued, squeezing a large dollop of optimism into his tone. ‘And there are endless possibilities there.’

Portia grimaced. ‘There are. But I doubt any of them would be viable in the building’s current state. It was bad enough before Dad went into the nursing home eighteen months ago and I haven’t seen it since.’

‘Perhaps you could take out a loan for the work.’

She shook her head. ‘I doubt I’d be a good risk. It’ll take thousands to put the house right, and I’d need a guaranteed income to pay it back. And now that I don’t have a job …’

She trailed off, tears scorching the backs of her eyes. All these dramatic changes to her circumstances over the past few weeks suddenly seemed too much to bear. Not only had she lost her remaining parent – the man upon whom she had doted – but she’d also walked away from her career as a successful war correspondent. And now, to top it all, she’d discovered the Pinkington-Smythe coffers were in a monumental mess.

Portia had never been money-orientated. Indeed, she rarely gave the subject much consideration. Likely because she’d never had to. With a more than adequate salary, on the rare occasion a little extra had been required, her father had always eagerly obliged. Leading her – and everyone else – to assume the family finances enjoyed robust health; that they were hale and hearty. Following this afternoon’s conversation with Dillon, however, just how wrong that assumption had been had become glaringly obvious.

‘Of course you could always sell the manor,’ the solicitor suggested diffidently.

Portia furrowed her brow. Sell the manor. The mere words made her already knotted stomach churn.

‘And if you do decide to go down that route, I can recommend reputable estate agents and the like.’

Bile rose in Portia’s throat. She swallowed it down. She didn’t want to think about reputable estate agents and the like. She didn’t want to think about anything. The mental exertion required to deal with recent events had left her brain feeling like it had been pulverised by a herd of stampeding buffalo. Blinking back the still-threatening tears, an impromptu wave of exhaustion washed over her.

‘You okay?’ a concerned Dillon asked. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Or something stronger?’

Portia shook her head. The manoeuvre caused the wide green and white stripes on the wallpaper behind the desk to jump out at her, leaving her with the terrifying sensation of being surrounded by bars.

‘I, er, think I’d better go,’ she announced, thrusting to her feet.

The solicitor’s expression remained dubious. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like me to call you a taxi? Or –?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied, hurtling out of the office before the man had time to finish his sentence.

***

‘And you know, if ever you’re passing, you can always pop in and join me.’

Rich Stevens congratulated himself on not rolling his eyes. If he’d had a penny for every time he’d heard that invitation over the six years he’d been in the hot-tub business, he’d have been rolling in lovely moolah by now. Not that he’d ever taken anyone up on it. And if he had been looking for a little extra-marital titillation, it certainly wouldn’t have been in the very rotund form of Mrs Blake-Jones, whose folds of flesh, sagging over the top of the luminous pink sarong tied around her waist, had put Rich right off his dinner. But he couldn’t allow the woman to see the slightest hint of his revulsion. That wouldn’t do at all. No – flirting with the customers, Rich had long since discovered, was all part and parcel of the hot-tub business. So, still battling the eye-rolling urge, he arranged his features into a well-practised surprised/grateful expression.

‘I might just take you up on that,’ he rejoined, causing Mrs Blake-Jones’s chubby cheeks to flush crimson under her streaks of greasy pink blusher.

‘My husband’s away at a conference next week,’ she tittered, her flush deepening as she ran a finger, tipped with glittery purple nail varnish, along the curve of her ample bosom, which strained against the confines of her turquoise bikini top.

Rich’s heart sank. Usually the invitation was an open one. Much easier to brush off than specific timescales. Still, he was a professional. And thinking on his feet had always been one of his strong points.

‘Is he now? Well, in that case, we’ll have to see what we can arrange, won’t we?’ At the cheeky wink he added, Mrs Blake-Jones broke into a fit of maniacal giggling.

‘I’ll call you,’ she cooed, twizzling a brassy strand of hair around her podgy finger and shooting him what she evidently thought was a seductive look, but which put Rich in mind of the pink spacehopper his sister had lugged around with her when she was five.

‘You do that,’ he replied, in as fervent a tone as he could muster. The woman’s giggling reaching fever pitch, her porcine face now a worrying puce, Rich whipped up his laptop case and, resisting the urge to leg it as fast as he could to his car parked at the front of the enormous Georgian pile, opted for a steady trot instead. As he turned the corner and spotted the shiny black BMW X5, sporting this year’s registration, and every gadget known to Jeremy Clarkson – his pace increased to a jog. No sooner had he slid into the cream-leather interior than he pressed the central locking system, started up the motor and shot down the gravelled drive.

At a safe distance from his admirer, Rich pulled into a lay-by, switched off the engine and leaned back in his seat.

God. With his hammering heart and sweaty palms, he’d felt like a caged animal in there. Completely ridiculous, given he’d been in similar situations dozens of times before. Usually these little scenarios amused him. Today, though, it all seemed a bit … well … sad.

The woman had been gagging for it. And Rich had led her on. Which couldn’t possibly be right. But what else was he supposed to do? It wasn’t his fault if clients practically threw themselves at him.

While not in the Poldark league of masculine supremacy, at thirty-nine Rich considered himself in reasonable shape. And he paid meticulous attention to his appearance, his suits costing more than the average family’s annual fortnight in Benidorm. His dark-blond hair was fashionably short and tousled, and his eyes – by far his best feature – were a startling shade of cobalt-blue, framed by exceptionally long, dark lashes. They were eyes that, with one meaningful glance, had a profound weakening effect on the knees of any red-blooded female, or so his wife Alison maintained. And were, apparently, what had first attracted her to him fifteen years ago. An occurrence for which Rich would be eternally grateful.

Rich had met Alison at a trade fair. He’d been in the decidedly unsexy business of guttering supplies at the time. Alison had been manning the stand opposite, flogging mobile air-conditioning units. Her curvy, petite form squeezed into a short, black skirt and matching jacket, a mass of platinum-blonde curls clipped up on her head, she’d put Rich in mind of a wicked combination of Charlize Theron with a splash of Marilyn Monroe. And every time she bent over to retrieve an information pack from the low table behind her, Rich’s temperature climbed a couple of degrees higher. He’d been mesmerised by her. As, apparently, had the other males in attendance. From the way they flocked around her, it was obvious their interests lay in more than her additional dehumidifying function. Neither Rich’s product nor his cleavage having quite the same effect, he’d observed the proceedings with interest. Not only was this girl sex-on-legs, he concluded over the course of the day, but she also appeared to be bloody good at her job. As he made a great pretence, at overly regular intervals, of reorganising the leaflets at the front of his stand, he could hear her impressively spouting forth about wattage capacity and thermostats. And all in a sexy, throaty voice that made his skin tingle.

It wasn’t until they were packing up that he had an opportunity to speak to her.

‘Busy day?’ he asked, kicking himself at how lame that sounded when he’d had hours to concoct something more original.

Fortunately, she appeared unfazed by his lack of ingenuity.

‘Manic,’ she exclaimed, flopping down into a chair. The manoeuvre caused her skirt to ride up. Rich tried not to gawp at the smooth expanse of thigh now on show. ‘There were supposed to be two of us on today,’ she explained. ‘But my colleague, Sheila, called in sick at the last minute. Just got back from holiday in Egypt. Dicky tummy.’

‘Shame,’ muttered Rich, contorting his features into what he hoped was a sympathetic expression, while wondering – not for the first time that day – if the black nylon covering her legs came in the form of tights or stockings.

‘It is,’ the girl continued, tucking a wayward blonde curl behind her ear in a way that made Rich’s heart stutter. ‘We normally make a proper break of it when we’re away at these things. Use the hotel spa, have a nice meal, that kind of thing. Now I’ll be ordering room service and crashing out in front of Coronation Street.’

Rich didn’t reply. He couldn’t. A battle raged in his head: one side desperately trying not to think about stockings, the other attempting to digest the information she’d just hurled at him. Because, if his digesting was correct, it meant she would be staying over tonight. In a hotel. All by herself. And as he would be staying over, too … in a hotel … all by himself … wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity to ask her to dinner? He opened his mouth to do just that, but no words came out. Completely pathetic. He’d never had a problem asking women out before. In fact, although never usually one to blow his own trumpet, his success rate in that area would probably be classed as impressive. Particularly at trade fairs, where a large proportion of the contingent were happy to exchange more than business cards with their counterparts. Something about this girl, though, put her way above all that. And it wasn’t just her killer bod.

‘Anyway …’ She hauled herself to her feet and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. Rich suddenly felt slightly giddy. ‘I’m so shattered, I think all I’m good for is crashing in front of the telly tonight.’

Rich cleared his throat. ‘Right,’ he muttered, feeling like a medicine ball had landed in the centre of his chest, knocking the wind, and his ability to form a sentence, completely out of him. What a plonker. He’d just passed up the perfect opportunity to spend some quality time with this goddess, to find out more about her – assuming, of course, she’d accepted his dinner invitation. Still, he deftly reasoned, there was always tomorrow. He’d be more prepared then; have his thoughts ordered; his usual sparkling, witty repartee polished.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she said, gazing at him with the greenest eyes Rich had ever seen.

‘Wh … what?’ he stammered.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she repeated, a slight smile touching – what he considered – her very kissable lips.

‘Oh. Right. Yes. Tomorrow,’ he managed to mumble. Before turning around and colliding with a pile of air-con units: the self-evaporating type with three fan speeds, he absurdly noticed.

Rich didn’t sleep a wink that night. He couldn’t settle. Images of that pert bum and what lay beneath that tight black jacket skipping through his mind like an Irish dancer on acid. And the thought of her curled up in bed wearing God knows what, possibly in the same hotel, possibly in the next room, drove him to distraction.

By the time morning came around, he felt like he’d completed three marathons – in a spaceman’s suit. Despite the dark smudges under his eyes he made every effort to appear the consummate professional, spending an age arranging his hair so it looked naturally dishevelled, and using half a bottle of mouthwash, just in case there’d been any trace of garlic in the bangers and mash he’d consumed the previous evening. Today, he resolved, he would not act like a gawky, adolescent school kid. Today he would be perfectly in control. Play it cool, but not so cool she didn’t get the message.

He sucked in a deep, reassuring breath before entering the exhibition hall. Then, affecting his best nonchalant swagger, made his way over to his stand. Spotting the figure at the opposite stand, though – a podgy male figure in a cheap, pinstripe suit, with a jowly, sweaty face – Rich’s swagger dissolved into more of a stumble

‘Morning,’ the chap called over. ‘I’m Eric. I’m manning the stall today.’

Rich’s head began to spin. ‘Um, where’s the, er, girl who was here yesterday?’

‘Had to dash home,’ Eric informed him, tipping a box of branded pens into a wicker basket. ‘Something about a burst pipe. I’ve only been with the company three weeks but there was no one else available at such short notice. Hope I do okay.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Rich mumbled, an urgent need to sit down suddenly overtaking him. God, what a prat he’d been, passing up that platinum-plated, diamond-encrusted opportunity to ask her out yesterday. What on earth had he been thinking about – other than stockings? He hadn’t been himself, obviously. A few minutes in her dazzling presence and he’d completely lost his head. Still, there was no point crying over spilled milk, he reasoned, as a willowy redhead sashayed past. It wasn’t, after all, as if Ms Theron/Monroe was the only good-looking female on the planet. But as much as he tried to steer his thoughts down that route, or indeed any route which did not include gorgeous, petite blondes, Rich couldn’t shift the image of that delectable form, those startling green eyes, and that tumble of blonde hair from his mind. Three weeks on, the fantasising continued. So much so that, after hours staring at her company’s website, he plucked up the courage to call, under the guise of a prospective customer enquiring about their next sales event.

‘Glasgow,’ a nasally male voice informed him. ‘Then I’m afraid that’s it for the year. The next event isn’t until spring.’

Rich’s heart sank. Glasgow was at least a six-hour drive away. But there was no way he could wait until spring. He’d be a physical wreck by then if he carried on at this rate. So, with all the resolve of a starving lion out to catch his prey, he booked three days’ holiday from work, packed a bag, filled the car with diesel and headed up the road. It had been the middle of November, the slate-grey sky sending forth intermittent flurries of snow. The radio informed him that several roads north of the border had been closed. But Rich ploughed on regardless. Even persistent negative thoughts – that she might not be manning the stand; that he didn’t even know her name; that she could be married with three kids; and that she probably hadn’t given him a second thought since their one and only meeting – didn’t deter him.

By the time he arrived at his destination, he’d been both mentally and physically exhausted. But the moment their eyes met, and her beautiful face lit up, he forgot all about the harrowing journey; all about the mental anguish. It had, he knew instantly, all been worth it.

‘Hi,’ she said, those incredible green eyes twinkling. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I checked the attendees, but your company wasn’t listed.’

‘I’m not here on business,’ Rich informed her.

‘Oh?’ A slight flush touched her smooth, creamy cheeks.

‘I came to see you.’

At which point her extremely kissable mouth broke into a wide smile and Rich’s insides turned to semolina.

They became a couple immediately after that and, even now, fifteen years on, Rich still considered his wife the sexiest female on the planet. And a terrific businesswoman. They’d started Bubbles from scratch and, within the first year, had blasted to smithereens all of his meticulously considered financial predictions. Add to the mix his adorable six-year-old daughter, Bethany – a smaller version of Alison – and life was good. Or at least it had been.

Until two days ago.

When a nineteen-year-old girl appeared in the showroom.

With news Rich could never have predicted.

Chapter Two

‘This tea’s cold’.

Jenny Rutter opened her mouth to point out to her mother that the tea wouldn’t have been cold had she drank it within the first ten minutes of Jenny setting down the cup alongside her. But she promptly clamped her lips shut again. Arguing with Phyllis Rutter, she had long since concluded, was a pointless exercise. At eighty-eight, the woman was still as sharp – and as cutting – as a bacon-slicer; could surpass any politician in the oratory field; and was so set in her ways she made a block of concrete seem pliable. But by far Phyllis’s most distinguishing trait was that, whatever the subject matter – and however well or badly informed she was thereof – she always, always, had to have the last word.

So, rather than stating the obvious, Jenny sucked in a calming breath and, on the exhalation, calmly asked, ‘Would you like me to make you another cup?’

Phyllis gave a derisive sniff. ‘Don’t put so much milk in it,’ she sniped, without taking her eyes off the evening TV quiz show Jenny had heard so many times, she could recite the presenter’s banter off-pat.

Jenny picked up the lukewarm drink and wandered into the kitchen, heading straight for the biscuit barrel. Removing the lid, she picked out a chocolate-coated digestive and, as she munched it, tried not to dwell on the fact that, unless something drastic happened to change the status quo of her life, she could be listening to exactly the same banal banter, from exactly the same TV presenter, at exactly the same time of day, for years to come. She had, rather depressingly, been attempting not to dwell on the same fact for the last thirty years.

Jenny had made a relatively late appearance in her parents’ lives. Married for almost twenty years, any reproductive hopes the Rutters might once have harboured had long since evaporated by the time their daughter bowled into the world. To describe her arrival as something of a shock, therefore, was akin to describing Niagara Falls as a steady drip.

And it was a shock from which they seemingly never recovered. Landed with this small being, they appeared dumbfounded as to her origin, and even more dumbfounded as to her purpose. Her intrusion into their well-ordered lives was immediately lodged in the Resentment category; something Jenny had become aware of when she was scarcely out of nappies.

Of course, Jenny was also aware that much worse parenting tales existed: hers didn’t mistreat, neglect or abuse her. They catered for all her physical needs, and even showed an interest in her education. But the two things Jenny craved above all remained sadly missing: love and affection. Never, in her entire childhood, could she recall either of her parents giving her so much as a goodnight peck on the cheek. Even when she’d been in hospital with appendicitis when she was nine, there’d been no reassuring hugs, no meaningful embraces, no heartfelt kisses; nothing more than an awkward patting of her hand.

It was a state of affairs Jenny had come to accept. But never one with which she became comfortable. As she grew older, she consoled herself with the fact that it wouldn’t be for ever, and, to make sure, she meticulously planned her escape. University. That would be her way out. She set her heart on Edinburgh. A romantic, fun city where she imagined her young life really beginning. To ensure the fulfilment of her plan, she worked her socks off at school, desperate to achieve the requisite exam results. The day she received a letter offering her a place to study history had been the happiest of her life.

But, three months before her start date, a tragic event occurred which completely destroyed every one of Jenny’s dreams and, for all she didn’t know it at the time, her entire life plan. While eating his lunch at the desk in the office where he’d worked as an accountant for thirty years, her father collapsed and died of a heart attack. Along with the remainder of his ham and chutney sandwich, on the desk lay an A4 sheet of lined paper, headed up ‘Jenny’s University Costs’, below which nestled a neat column of figures in the distinctive green ink of Cyril Rutter’s fountain pen.

When informed of this fact, and being furnished with the aforementioned list, Phyllis Rutter’s attitude to her daughter – lukewarm at the best of times – slid into glacial territory.

‘Of course we all know what killed him,’ became the woman’s long-standing mantra, predictably followed by a meaningful glower in Jenny’s direction.

Although never close to her father, Jenny had nonetheless been distraught at his death, her reaction not helped by Phyllis’s snide accusations. And as much as Jenny tried to convince herself that it couldn’t possibly have been the university costs that had caused his death – her parents weren’t badly off, and she fully intended contributing financially herself – she couldn’t shake off the heavy cloak of guilt that Phyllis had so callously dumped over her young shoulders.

‘Of course you realise there’s no way you can go to university now,’ Phyllis announced completely out of the blue one evening. Jenny could still recall the moment as if it were yesterday. It was a Thursday and she’d been whipping up omelettes for tea. They’d had omelettes for tea every Thursday since.

‘But why ever not?’ she asked. ‘If it’s about money, you won’t have to contribute a penny. I’ve already got my grant, and I’ll get a part-time job. Waiting on tables, or working in a shop or a –’

‘It’s not about money. It’s about me. You’ll have to stay and look after me.’

Jenny stared at her mother, nonplussed. What was she talking about? The woman wasn’t old. She enjoyed good health and was more than capable of looking after herself. She was about to voice all of this reasoned argument when Phyllis’s next comment drew the strings of Jenny’s cloak of guilt tight around her neck and tied them in an undoable knot.

‘It’s your fault your father’s dead, so the least you can do is carry out his dying wish and stay here with me.’

The ringing of the doorbell jolted Jenny back to the present. She waited for the unfailing response from the living room. It came immediately.

‘There’s someone at the door. You’d better answer it.’

Jenny didn’t bother to reply. Her mother tacked the same unhelpful comment on to every ringing of the doorbell.

Momentarily deserting her tea-making duties, she wandered along the hall and pulled open the front door to find Joe, the window cleaner, on the step, come to collect payment for services rendered earlier that day.

‘Evening, Miss Rutter. How are you?’ he asked, with a smile that instantly lifted Jenny’s spirits.

‘Very well, thank you, Joe,’ she lied, forcing the corners of her own lips upwards. Jenny liked Joe. He had what she termed “a sunny personality”, and he did a brilliant job cleaning the windows. She’d never had to so much as rub a sill down since he’d taken over the round a year or so ago. ‘How’re things with you?’ she asked, reaching for her purse on the hall table. ‘Keeping busy?’

‘Snowed under,’ replied the young man, accepting the ten-pound note Jenny handed him. ‘The round’s going from strength to strength.’

‘That’s because you do such a good job,’ Jenny replied. ‘No wonder your services are so in demand.’

A strange sound came from Joe’s throat, which he quickly turned into a cough. ‘Er, thanks,’ he muttered, a flush spreading over his cheeks. ‘Well, I’d best be off. You take care and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.’

Jenny’s smile widened as she stood in the open doorway, watching Joe lope down the lane. She’d heard a bit of tittle-tattle around the village about his window-cleaning exploits – or should that be sexploits – and she couldn’t say she was surprised. He was a good-looking, likeable lad. He should be making the most of his youth; enjoying himself. Savouring every minute of his life because, as Jenny could vouch with authority, it passed you by in the blink of an eye. That depressing thought whirring about her head, she closed the door and headed back into the kitchen to the biscuit barrel.

***

‘You cannot be serious.’ Echoing the words of an ageing tennis player, Jasper Pinkington-Smythe’s plummy voice raged across the North Atlantic at his sister. ‘I thought Dad was minted.’

Portia sighed wearily. Despite his advancing years, her brother still acted like a sulky, spoilt adolescent. And although he hadn’t actually said it, his actions had made it blatantly obvious that he viewed their father’s death as nothing more than a minor inconvenience, which had rudely interrupted his long sojourn at a friend’s villa in Cuba. Appearing fleetingly for the funeral, he’d stayed two nights, then flitted off again, leaving Portia to tie up all the loose ends. Of which, she had since discovered, there were many threadbare ones.

‘None of us thought money was an issue,’ she explained. ‘But we never gave any consideration to where it came from. A combination of poor investment decisions, low interest rates and excessive spending means lots has been going out, and nothing’s been coming in.’

‘Bloody hell,’ seethed Jasper. ‘Well, what am I supposed to do now, with no allowance?’

The question ignited a dart of red-hot fury in Portia’s gut. ‘For God’s sake, Jasper, you’re forty years old. You’ve milked Dad your entire life. And I hate to say it, but you have to take some responsibility for this state of affairs. Isn’t it about time you got off your backside and went out and found a job? Did something useful for a change? Like normal people.’

‘But I’m not normal,’ he whinged. ‘And I can’t do anything. Who’s going to give me a job? No, there’s nothing else for it. We’ll have to sell Buttersley Manor.’

Portia’s fury intensified. ‘Over my dead body! There is no way we’re selling the manor,’ she spat. Before jabbing the end call button.

Shaking with rage, tears rolling down her cheeks, she wandered out onto the balcony of her Canary Wharf apartment. Despite it being June, the afternoon was dull, the grey sky heavy with the threat of rain. Dressed in only a T-shirt and cotton skirt, her long legs bare, she shivered as she sucked in the cool air.

Of course she really shouldn’t have called Jasper until she’d felt stronger. She’d known exactly how he’d react to the news of their unexpected penury; had predicted his response with startling accuracy: Me. Me. Me. Typical Jasper. Throughout his entire life her brother had never considered anyone but himself. Shunning adult responsibilities, he was like a child, completely ill-equipped to deal with real life. God, if he’d witnessed the things she had during her career –

Portia flicked a mental switch, efficiently summoning an impenetrable barrier which abruptly shut down that avenue of thought. She had enough to deal with in the present, never mind reliving events of the past.

She’d given the dire financial situation a great deal of consideration since her meeting with Dillon, concluding that it wasn’t just the pitiful state of their inheritance that was so depressing, but the fact that centuries of Pinkington-Smythe history were now at an end. Everything her ancestors had fought and worked for over the last few hundred years, everything they’d striven to preserve, now amounted to nothing more than a house – and a fairly decrepit one at that. Selling it would be tantamount to zipping up a body bag.

She wandered back inside, flopped down on the Italian leather sofa, and surveyed her surroundings. She’d owned the flat for five years but, due to her hectic work schedule, had never spent more than a couple of weeks at a time in it. It was bright, trendy, equipped with every desirable gadget, and in a good location – exactly what every young, fun-loving city-dweller desired.

But, Portia suddenly realised, it was no longer what she desired. Nor did she want dirty, crowded streets, or neighbours she didn’t even recognise, never mind talked to.

She wanted peace and quiet, fresh air, and her best friend, Annie O’Donnell.

And the one place she could have all of that was … Buttersley.

***

Sitting on the bed, fresh from the shower, with only a towel around his waist, Rich stared at the number on his mobile phone. He’d saved it under “Chlorine Supplier”. Because somehow “The daughter I didn’t know I had” didn’t seem quite right. Nor did simply inputting her name. Candi. What sort of name was that? Certainly not one Rich would have chosen. But given he hadn’t even known of her existence until a couple of days ago, he wasn’t exactly in a position to criticise.

Alison had been out visiting potential clients when Candi turned up. Rich had been in the showroom arranging a display of chlorine tablets. So engrossed in his task had he been, that he hadn’t heard her come in.

‘Morning,’ she said shyly.

A startled Rich dropped the box he’d been holding.

‘Here. Let me help.’ She bent down and retrieved it.

‘Thanks.’ Rich accepted it from her. ‘Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you with anything?’

The girl diverted her gaze to her scruffy trainers and cleared her throat. ‘I’m, er, looking for Richard Stevens.’

Rich’s mouth broke into a wide smile. ‘Well, congratulations. You’ve found him.’

Rather than the revelation proving pleasant, the girl’s already sallow cheeks paled further, and behind her spectacles her blue eyes widened.

As Rich waited for her to say something, he appraised her appearance. She wasn’t an attractive girl. Plain would more aptly describe her. Lank, mousy hair curtained her face, round John Lennon-type specs rested on her narrow nose, and her boyish frame was clad in a shapeless pink sweatshirt and ill-fitting jeans. With not a scrap of make-up evident, she looked about twelve. What on earth could she want with him? His brow lifted a tad higher.

‘I, um, think you know my mum. Bernice Wilson?’ she said at length, raising her eyes to him.

Rich screwed up his nose. Bernice Wilson? The name rang a distant bell. But quite where from, he couldn’t recall. ‘Has she bought a tub from us in the past?’ he asked.

The girl snorted with ironic laughter. ‘No. Nothing like that. You knew her when she was younger. A lot younger. In Leeds.’

Rich caught his bottom lip between his teeth as his brain-racking continued. Nope. Still no recollection.

‘You went out with her for a while.’

Ah! The penny dropped. With considerable force. Bernice Wilson. A feisty, party-loving brunette with a penchant for vodka. Oh, yes, he remembered her now.

‘Right. Er, how is she?’ he asked, now even more baffled.

The girl didn’t reply at first, her gaze returning to the floor. ‘I’m, um, not sure if you knew, but … but at the time you broke up, she was … pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ Rich’s jaw dropped. ‘But she never … I mean I didn’t really see her after we split … We only went out for a few months then we …’

‘It was nineteen years ago. I’ve just had my nineteenth birthday.’

For a brief second time stopped. Rich’s heart stuttered, his throat went dry and his vision blurred. Surely she couldn’t mean …

‘Are … are you trying to tell me that you’re my … my …?’

The girl nodded. ‘Your daughter. Candi.’

Neither of them spoke after that. Not for a good three minutes. Which seemed more like three hours to Rich. His brain flicked to overdrive. Bernice Wilson. Mother of his child. Bloody hell. Talk about a bolt from the blue. Suffused by a barrage of memories, he recalled that he hadn’t even liked Bernice much. She’d been spoilt. Stroppy. Far too fond of getting off her head on booze – or worse.

‘I can tell you’re a bit … shocked,’ Candi eventually muttered. ‘Maybe I should go now. Let the news sink in.’

Unable to speak, Rich merely nodded.

‘Here.’ She tugged a scrap of paper from her jeans pocket and handed it to him. ‘This is my number. If you’d like to talk some more, please give me a call.’

Then she left.

And Rich stood beside the unfinished pyramid of chlorine tablets for the next twenty minutes.

Somehow – although he would never know quite how – he managed to pull himself together, acting with some semblance of normality when he arrived home. But what the hell was he supposed to do now?

He could, of course, tell Alison. In fact, he didn’t know why he already hadn’t. During the time they’d been together, he’d never had any secrets from his wife. But he didn’t feel ready to share this one. Not until he’d come to terms with it himself. Which, he suspected, might take quite some time.

‘Dad, hurry up. Tea’s ready.’

As Bethany’s voice hollered up the stairs, Rich leapt off the bed.

‘Be there in a second,’ he called back, tugging on a pair of shorts. He’d try not to think about the Candi situation for the rest of the evening. He’d try to relax; spend an enjoyable couple of hours with his family. Family. Oh, God. The stark realisation that it could well now include another member made him want to throw up.

Pulling a T-shirt over his head, he ran his fingers through his damp hair and ran down the stairs. As he crossed the hall the doorbell rang.

It was Joe, the window cleaner.

‘Don’t tell me we owe you more money, Joe,’ joked Rich from the open doorway.

‘‘Fraid so, Mr Stevens. Ten pounds, please,’

Rich fished about in his shorts pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. ‘Round going well, is it?’

‘Better than could be expected.’

‘Pleased to hear it. A hard-working young lad like you deserves to do well.’

‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘Well, I’d best be off. See you in a couple of weeks.’

As Joe sauntered down the path, Rich remained in the open doorway. There was a lad who didn’t have a care in the world, he mused. No worrying about sales figures, no humongous mortgage, and no unexpected daughters popping out of the woodwork.

For a brief moment, Rich experienced an unaccustomed pang of envy.

Chapter Three

‘Oo, Joe, you’ve missed a bit.’

Joe Massam ran his hand a shade further up the silky-smooth thigh. ‘Oh, really. And which bit would that be, then? Here?’

The blonde giggled. ‘Not quite.’

‘How about here?’

‘Mmmm. Close, but not close enough.’

‘Here, then?’ His hand slipped expertly between her thighs and the blonde began moaning with pleasure.

Joe smiled. Missed a bit, indeed! He prided himself on never missing any bits – during his window cleaning, or his “additional services”. Indeed, over the eighteen months he’d been window cleaning and providing his “additional services”, his reputation for never missing a bit had spiralled. And demand for his “additional services” had consequently flourished.

Not that, when Joe had initially taken over the round, he’d ever intended providing anything other than a quick rub down with his shammy. He’d been fortunate to be offered the round in the first place. Before that he’d been labouring on building sites and DJ-ing a few evenings a week. But then, when Gina left and his whole world had fallen apart, so, too, had Joe. Drink – or, more specifically, whisky – had become his new best friend, efficiently obliterating every ounce of self-pity, and every miserable, depressing thought from his head. He didn’t bother turning up for his evening gigs, and on the rare days he’d managed to drag himself to the building site, he’d been as much use as an umbrella in a tsunami. Which didn’t go unnoticed by the management. When his negligence had almost caused a colleague to lose an arm, it proved the wake-up call he needed. Without waiting for the inevitable – and justifiable – disciplinary action, he handed in his notice and left immediately. He had no idea what he was going to do, but he knew he had to get his act together. Stop drinking. Put his house in order. Then, after a month of dossing about, unable to face signing on, his meagre savings dwindling at a rate of knots, his mate, Jacko, tossed him a lifeline.

‘My uncle’s been diagnosed with angina. Can’t carry on with his window cleaning business and is looking for someone to take it over.’

Joe hadn’t needed long to consider the proposition. He’d never cleaned a window in his life, didn’t know a shammy from a sherbert dip, and was as fond of heights as he was of extracting his own nasal hair. But how hard could it be? And after coping with the stress of the last few months, surely he could cope with climbing a ladder. Plus, the idea of being his own boss, of being responsible for no one but himself, really appealed.

So he’d accepted the proposition.

‘You won’t regret it,’ Jacko assured him. ‘There’s loads of potential there. You could even think about expanding the business. Odd jobs, that kind of thing.’

Joe was pretty certain the kind of “odd jobs” to which Jacko referred hadn’t included those he’d eventually branched out into. But none of that had been intentional. It had just kind of … happened.

Having met Jacko’s uncle a couple of times to discuss the formalities, Joe had to admit that the contrast between him and the business’s previous owner could not have been greater. The thirty-year age difference aside, Joe, with his pleasant, easy-going demeanour, rugby-player physique, dark wavy hair, even darker sparkling eyes, and square jaw covered in a permanent shadow, was a complete contrast to the older man’s brusque manner, balding head and bulging beer belly.

‘Bit of a snobby lot on the round, mind,’ his predecessor warned.

Joe found them quite the opposite. From day one, the rich, bored housewives of Buttersley had pirouetted around him like a herd of excited gazelles.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Joe?’; ‘Can I get you something to eat?’; ‘Can I change your water?’ became standard patter.

And rather than Jacko’s uncle’s cursory wipe of the windows with a dirty cloth, Joe took pride in his work. He considered it a privilege to be allowed anywhere near such spectacular houses. And it didn’t take him long to discover that many of the female occupants were equally as attractive. These women had time and money on their hands – lots and lots of time. And heaps and heaps of money. Both of which they invested in their appearance. Fanatically regular gym visits resulted in firm, toned bodies; hours in the beauty parlour in silky-smooth skin; high-earning husbands and children’s nannies equated to lots of time on their manicured hands; and private swimming pools resulted in impressive summer tans.

It was on one of these tan-cultivating days that the idea of Joe providing “additional services” had first been planted …

Felicity Charrington fitted the profile of Buttersley’s yummy mummies perfectly. A thirty-five-year-old vision of pampered and preened loveliness, with a mane of honey-blonde hair, legs up to her neck and a pair of non-surgically-enhanced boobs that would drive any red-blooded male to distraction.

When Joe arrived at her palatial home just after lunch to clean the ridiculous number of windows therein, Felicity and half a dozen girlfriends had been frolicking by the pool at the bottom of the garden.

Joe tried not to look. For one thing it wouldn’t be very professional, and for another, women like that would never be interested in him. But, he soon discovered, women like that were more than interested in him. With the sweltering combination of the unrelenting sun and the back-breaking work, he’d tugged off his T-shirt, revealing a toned, brown torso. Working out at the gym had helped him keep off the booze, and had soon developed into an addiction. The results, Felicity Charrington’s guests discovered, were impressive.

‘Hey, gorgeous. Why don’t you come down and join us?’ one of them called to him.

Show us your shammy,’ preceded another bout of female cackling.

Joe pretended not to hear. Drunken women had always turned him off, but he didn’t want to offend. The Charrington house was a good earner. Plus, if you upset one client in a place as tightly knit as Buttersley, word would be around the village faster than he could wring out his wash-leather. So he quietly carried on with his work until, an hour or so later, two taxis bowled up at the door and whisked the gaggle away.

All except Felicity.

‘Why don’t you come in and have a drink, Joe?’ she called out the kitchen window. ‘You haven’t stopped since you got here. You must be parched.’

Joe was parched. And shattered. And he could do with a break from the sun.

‘Don’t want you drunk in charge of a ladder,’ she continued. ‘There’s some lemonade here. With lots of ice.’

‘Thanks. I will, if you don’t mind,’ he called back.

Once in the kitchen – the biggest Joe had seen in his entire life – he found Felicity as sober as a judge. ‘Sorry about the girls,’ she apologised, shaking her head. ‘They’re a bit … excitable at times.’

‘That’s all right,’ he chuckled. ‘They were just having a bit of fun.’

Felicity plopped down on a breakfast stool and crossed one long, tanned leg over the other. ‘And what do you do for fun, Joe?’

Joe almost choked on his lemonade. What the hell did she mean by that? And why was she looking at him like that? All doe-eyed and pouty-lipped.

‘Um, the usual, you know,’ he blustered. ‘Going to the pub, the gym. Nothing special. What about you?’ he asked, desperate to deflect the attention.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t have much fun these days. My husband’s away so often I’ve forgotten what he looks like. My daughter skips from one extra-curricular activity to another. And I rattle around this huge house all by myself.’

Of all the houses one could rattle around, Joe thought this would top the list. But somehow he didn’t think that was what she wanted to hear.

‘I’m sure there are a million things you could be doing,’ he proffered instead. ‘How about charity work? Or a new hobby?’

A despondent sigh ensued. ‘Tried both but haven’t found anything that really … satisfies me. You know what I mean?’

By the heavy emphasis placed on “satisfies”, Joe began to suspect exactly what she meant.

‘There must be … something,’ he muttered, suddenly feeling awkward.

‘Oh, I’m sure there is.’ Felicity smiled coyly. ‘‘And if you’re ever interested in helping me find it, you know where I live.’

Joe stared at her blankly. Surely she wasn’t … But by the way she gazed at him again … Shit. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead he gulped down the remainder of his lemonade and made a hasty retreat, his head reeling.

There’d been no sign of Felicity when he finished his work, so he left one of his printed cards on the kitchen bench, saying he’d be back later in the week to collect payment.

His heart had been hammering so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest when, two days later, he called for his money. He’d given the matter a great deal of thought since the proposition, and had arrived at the following conclusion: they were two lonely, consenting adults who found one another attractive. What, then, was the harm in them having a bit of fun together?

Of course, he might have got the whole thing wrong. Might be reading far too much into it. Maybe she hadn’t been propositioning him at all. But the minute she’d opened the door, wearing nothing but a short, ivory-silk robe, he knew he’d been right.

‘I’ve been wondering when you’d call,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come in?’

Joe nodded.

He became a regular visitor to the Charrington house after that. At least once a week. Felicity was right. Her husband was never around.

‘Of course, you know this is just a bit of fun,’ she pointed out on every one of Joe’s visits.

And Joe did know. He’d been in love once and look how that had turned out. No, fun was the order of the day for him from now on. And he and Felicity enjoyed lots of it. Then one day, after a particularly sweaty bedroom session, she’d come out with a surprise comment.

‘I’ve been telling a couple of my girlfriends about you. If you’re interested, you could add them to your “rounds”.’

Joe burst out laughing. ‘You don’t mean …’

Felicity nodded. ‘Oh, but I do. They’re drop-dead gorgeous. And they’d make it worth your while.’

Joe had only needed a minute to consider the proposal. ‘Why not?’ he chuckled. After all, a bit more of what he and Felicity got up to could only make life even more interesting.

So he did. Then, as word spread, more and more “clients” were added to his round. They now totalled twelve. Some he saw more regularly than others. But all were, he ensured, completely satisfied with his services. Because, just as Joe took pride in his window cleaning, so, too, did he in this new branch of “work”. He’d always thought if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. So he even expanded his knowledge in the more “specialist” areas some of his clients preferred, with lots of reading, and the odd DVD. But he never asked them for money. That would have made the whole thing sordid somehow. The contents of the envelopes that discreetly appeared in his pockets were all donated to his favourite charity – which was precisely how he looked on his “additional services” – as a charity. These women craved love and attention. Something they obviously didn’t receive from their husbands. Joe made them feel special. Wanted. Desirable. But his actions weren’t entirely selfless. Given the event that had brought about the end of his world, his shenanigans permitted him the taste of something very sweet and satisfying: revenge.

***

‘Oh, my God. Portia!’ In her tiny cake shop, Crumbs, Annie O’Donnell whipped off her oven gloves and dashed round the other side of the counter to embrace her best friend. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

Portia laughed. Something, she realised, she hadn’t done in a long time. But the image of Annie’s concerned, pretty face, with a smear of flour on her cheek, and her lopsided blonde ponytail, instantly lifted her spirits.

‘I didn’t know myself until yesterday.’

Annie released her friend, took a step back and placed her hands on her slender hips. ‘You look even more exhausted than you did at the funeral. You okay?’

Portia shrugged. ‘Struggling on, I suppose. How are you all doing?’

Annie shook her head dismissively. ‘Oh, we’re fine. But we haven’t had to deal with what you have the last few weeks. And it sounds like Jasper’s been completely useless.’

Portia sighed. ‘No surprise there. I couldn’t believe it when he announced he was flying back to Cuba a couple of days after the funeral.’

Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, now you’re in Buttersley, Jake and I can help. I’ll give him a call. Let him know you’re here and tell him to make up the spare room. And of course it goes without saying that you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

Portia smiled. She’d been in Buttersley less than an hour and already felt better. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I thought I’d stay at the gatehouse cottage. You’ve far too much on at your place, what with the children, and Jake writing, and everything. I’d only be in the way.’

Annie balked. ‘How can you even think that? We’d love to have you.’

Portia reached out and took her friend’s hand. ‘It’s lovely of you to offer but I need a bit of space. Some time to clear my head, what with everything that’s happened lately.’

Annie narrowed her eyes. ‘You sure?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Well, okay, then. But you’ll have to check the place is habitable first. It’s an age since I’ve had a chance to pop my head in. If nothing else, it’ll need a damned good clean. I can come over and help once I’ve closed up here. And then you can come to us for dinner. At least let us feed you.’

Portia laughed. ‘Only if it’s not putting you to any trouble.’

Annie gave an exasperated tut. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re never any trouble.’

Furnished with a bag of Annie’s chocolate and hazelnut cookies, Portia popped into the grocery store a little way along the street, where she purchased some basic provisions, as well as a couple of pairs of rubber gloves and various bottles of cleaning products.

Annie was right. The gatehouse cottage hadn’t been lived in for a couple of years. Not since Annie, who’d previously lived there, married her writer husband, Jake, and moved to a much bigger abode. Portia only hoped a good clean was all it needed. She really should’ve called Annie yesterday and asked her to check if the place was habitable. But if the verdict had come back that it wasn’t, she still would’ve come. Her desire to escape London had verged on the urgent. And her desire to see Annie’s friendly face equally so. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at how much time she’d spent moaning to Annie on the phone of late. But there wasn’t another soul on the planet she felt anywhere near as close to. Yes, she had lots of acquaintances, lots of people she could call up at a moment’s notice if she fancied going out for a drink or to a club. But try and talk to them about anything other than who’d bought the latest handbag, or which restaurant was flavour of the month, and they’d gaze at you blankly. She and Annie, on the other hand, had history; knew each other better than most siblings. They’d attended boarding school together, becoming inseparable almost immediately. And despite the physical distances that had stretched between them since then, their special bond never weakened. Something for which Portia – at no time more than the present – would be eternally grateful.

So absorbed was she in her musings that, laden down with bags, she didn’t notice another body entering the shop just as she was leaving it, until she barged into him.

‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry.’ She tilted up her head, her gaze fusing with a dark, piercing one, from a tanned, handsome face.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, his mouth stretching into a disarming grin.

Portia smiled fleetingly, waiting for him to move so she could sidle past.

He didn’t.

‘Looks like you’re going to be busy,’ he remarked, a nod of his head indicating the bags bursting with cleaning products.

‘Er, yes,’ she muttered, aware of her pulse beating at twice the speed it had before this encounter. ‘I’d, er, better get a move on.’

‘Of course.’ He stepped aside. ‘Would you like a hand with your –?’

‘No. Thanks. I’m fine,’ she blurted out, stumbling on the step in her haste to escape.

In the safety of her car, Portia pressed the central locking device and attempted to calm down. Her heart was now racing so fast she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it had brought on a coronary. Of course she wasn’t, she reasoned, used to random people speaking to her. That didn’t happen in London – and certainly not in the many war-torn countries she’d frequented. Well, not unless the person concerned verged on the deranged. Somehow, though, she didn’t think the young man in the shop verged on the deranged. He’d merely been pleasant, passing the time of day.

The issue wasn’t his mental state. It was hers. Her nerves evidently so fragmented she couldn’t cope with a simple exchange of pleasantries. Which proved what she had suspected: that she had some serious recuperation to do.

She only hoped Buttersley was the place to do it.

Chapter Four

Wow. In the shop doorway, Joe turned and watched the gorgeous brunette who’d bowled into him scuttle down the street and jump into a very smart silver Audi. He hadn’t seen her around the village before. He certainly would’ve remembered if he had. That dazzling combination of glossy dark hair, razor-sharp cheekbones and never-ending legs meant she wasn’t a woman you’d instantly forget. Even in combats and T-shirt, she looked like she’d walked straight off the page of some high-class fashion magazine. In fact, so bowled over was he – metaphorically and, almost, literally – that his reason for coming to the shop had completely slipped his mind.

Oh, yes.

His lunch.

And he’d better make it a substantial one. Today’s post-prandial client – Penelope Fleeting – was his most demanding.

Choosing a delicious-looking roast beef sandwich, oozing with horseradish mayo, and packed with crispy lettuce and fresh tomatoes, Joe then swiped up a bottle of orange juice and a couple of bananas before making his way to the till, manned, as usual, by the shop owner, Mrs Gates. A great fan of wigs, the old lady’s current creation, in a pronounced shade of lilac, looked to Joe like it might have been lurking in the bottom of her wardrobe since 1963. She was, however, always extremely pleasant, her round, chubby face rarely without a smile.

‘You mixing with the aristocracy there, Joe?’ she chuckled.

Joe screwed up his nose, not having the faintest idea what she was talking about.

‘Portia Pinkington-Smythe,’ she explained. ‘Nearly knocked you over, from what I saw.’

‘Portia Pinkington-Smythe,’ he repeated. ‘Whose family own the manor?’

‘The very same. Although “family” actually just means Portia and her brother now. They’re the only two left since their poor father passed away recently.’

‘The old guy who used to live in the house?’

‘Ah ha. Been in a nursing home ever since he left Buttersley. Lost his marbles. A real shame given what a fine gent he used to be. Proper lord of the manor type. Anyway, how’re things with you? Busy afternoon ahead?’

A slight flush touched Joe’s cheeks. ‘You, er, could say that.’

Having paid for his purchases, Joe sauntered down to the bottom of the street and turned right, following the path to the riverbank. He sat on a bench there, overlooking the water. The clouds which had dominated the sky earlier had been replaced by a dazzling blue sky. Joe held up his face to the sun, his mind awhirl with the incident in the shop. So that was Portia Pinkington-Smythe, was it? Well, he wouldn’t mind becoming better acquainted with her. He wondered if Felicity knew her. If so, he might be able to wangle some kind of introduction. Or ask Felicity to make Portia aware of his “services”. He’d definitely find a gap in his schedule for a woman like that.

Removing his sandwich from its paper bag, a sudden thought struck him. God! Was that how he viewed women these days? As mere objects to add to his round? Just what sort of arrogant, sexist pig had he become? Up until his split with Gina, he’d never thought of women like that. And he’d never thought of Gina as anything other than a goddess – one he’d worshipped, adored and showered with love.

He shoved the sandwich back in the wrapper. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.

In more ways than one.

His phone beeped with a text from Penelope:

Ready when you are x

Joe had never been less ready for anything in his entire life.

Penelope Fleeting was one of Joe’s favourite clients. Her womanly figure included a magnificent pair of breasts and a firm butt that came with clocking up years in the saddle. Heavily involved with the local church, these sexy assets were generally hidden under unflattering knee-length skirts and high-buttoned blouses, her mane of red hair pinned up in a sensible French pleat. Joe had witnessed her many times in the street collecting for various charities. He found her prim and proper exterior a turn-on, being fully conversant with exactly what lay beneath those clothes, and exactly how to entertain her in the bedroom. Something successful barrister Mr Fleeting – a weedy, balding individual, sporting specs that made Hans Moleman’s look trendy – evidently came nowhere near to achieving.

Usually up for a bit of role-play – Penelope’s guilty pleasure - it was with a heavy heart and weary body that Joe made his way up the Fleetings’ drive that afternoon. Ladder on shoulder, bucket in hand, he headed directly to the back of the large, mock-Tudor residence.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Penelope’s usual cut-glass accent had been replaced by a west-country burr as she lounged against the open French doors. Her lustrous titian hair hanging loose, she put Joe in mind of one of those pre-Raphaelite beauties. The image further enhanced by her sexy maid’s outfit: short, frilly skirt not quite reaching the top of her black stockings; voluptuous breasts spilling out of her white blouse.

Despite his dark mood, Joe’s groin stirred.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she continued. ‘But I was doing the dusting and I’ve gone and broken a vase. A very expensive vase, sir. Mistress’s favourite.’

Right. So that was it, was it? Master of the house punishes incompetent servant. Well, Joe supposed he might be able to rise to the occasion. After all, she was obviously well up for it, and it wasn’t her fault he’d had a sudden attack of conscience.

‘Well, now. I’m afraid that just won’t do,’ he said, setting down his ladder and bucket against the wall and placing both hands on his hips. ‘Didn’t I warn you last week that there would be serious repercussions if you broke anything else?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, obviously doing her utmost not to giggle.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to punish you,’ continued Joe, ardour rising as Penelope wiggled her hips and ran her tongue over her pouting lips. ‘And the best place to do that is the bedroom.’

‘Oh, please don’t spank me, sir,’ she pleaded coyly, velvety cheeks flushed with excitement.

‘I’m sorry, madam, but there is nothing else for it. Now enough of this prattling. Get up those stairs. Now.’

At which point a tittering Penelope shot off at an Olympic pace. With Joe not far behind.

A short while later, the “maid” having stoically received her “punishment”, Joe knuckled down to the main business of the day, as Penelope wriggled and moaned beneath him.

Suddenly he stopped.

He heard a sound. Downstairs.

The sound of a door opening and closing.

Followed by a male voice. ‘Pen? You there?’

Joe leapt up as quickly as if he’d been electrified.

‘Shit,’ exclaimed Penelope, her plummy accent making a dramatic return. ‘It’s my bloody husband.’

***

‘And make sure you get red crysanths. Not yellow ones. Can’t abide anything yellow.’

‘Really? You’ve never said,’ muttered Jenny under her breath, as she tugged on her linen jacket in the hall. In truth, her mother recited the same spiel every Wednesday afternoon as Jenny prepared for her shopping trip to the village.

‘What did you say?’

‘Only that I won’t be long, Mother.’

Stepping out of the front door, Jenny closed it behind her and heaved a sigh of relief. Indeed, every time she stepped out of the front door she heaved a sigh of relief. Because any interlude away from Phyllis was a relief.

The thatched cottage, in which Jenny had lived every one of her forty-nine years, and in which Phyllis had spent her entire married, and widowed, life, huddled at the end of a secluded lane. Compared with the village’s more desirable residences, “cosy abode” would most aptly describe it.

Taking the twelve steps necessary to reach the end of the garden path, Jenny clambered into her car – a battered old Fiat Panda she’d had for as long as she could remember – and headed down to the village. She did a big shop once a month at the huge hypermarket on the retail estate outside Harrogate. But in-between, she preferred to use the village shops which, between them, supplied just about everything.

Normally Jenny looked forward to her Wednesday afternoon jaunt, but today she really wasn’t in the mood. She felt unsettled, restless, and – dare she say it? – unsatisfied with her life. Not like her at all. She’d long since accepted her lot and got on with it. Of course she knew that still living with her mother at her age wasn’t ideal. But, on the positive side, she loved Buttersley. The strong sense of community there made her feel safe, secure, wanted. And she also loved her job. It wasn’t teaching history, which had been her dream of old, but, robbed of her university education, she had, she believed, achieved the next best thing: working part-time as a teaching assistant in the local primary school.

And it was at school that morning that this seed of discontentment had first taken root. As Bethany Stevens proudly wrote the date on the whiteboard, it occurred to Jenny that, in exactly six months’ time, she would have completed her fiftieth year on the planet. The terrifying thought sent ripples of fear ricocheting around her body, followed by a desperate urge for a custard-cream – or six. Escaping to the staff room as soon as she could, she’d been stuffing one of the aforementioned biscuits into her mouth when she’d overheard a colleague recounting how her husband had whisked her away to Rome for a surprise birthday trip. Envy not being a state in which Jenny generally loitered, the more she heard, the more envious she became. Frantically jamming biscuits into her mouth, her longing for such an Italian experience soared by the second. Heavens. What she wouldn’t give to experience such a dreamy city, oozing with incredible history, fabulous restaurants and baking sunshine. Of course, the chances of anyone surprising her with a romantic break there were as likely as her mother enrolling in a hip-hop class, but there was nothing to stop her going on her own to celebrate her landmark birthday. Nothing, apart from the obvious: Phyllis Rutter’s reaction to her daughter jetting off for a few days – fiftieth birthday or not – would be so cataclysmic it might well make the evening news. And the aftershocks would reverberate far longer than those of any exploding volcano. All of which resulted in Jenny feeling not only restless, but also a tad resentful.

Reaching the high street, she parked and headed straight for the newsagent’s. Although scornful of her mother’s rigid routines, Jenny had long since slithered into a Wednesday afternoon one of her own, including purchasing a weekly woman’s magazine and packet of liquorice allsorts for her mother; and a history magazine and packet of pear drops for herself. Today, though, an unaccustomed surge of recklessness swirling about her, she swapped the pear drops for chocolate eclairs, and tempered the cold, hard facts of the history magazine with a frivolous celebrity rag. Not most people’s idea of life on the edge, these unforeseen changes nevertheless threw old Mr Russell, the owner of the establishment, into a state of bewilderment the moment she placed them on the counter.

‘Chocolate eclairs,’ he declared, in a tone which Jenny doubted would have sounded any more amazed had she plonked a bucket of tadpoles in front of him. ‘And a different magazine. Not your usual reading matter, is it?’ He peered accusingly at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

‘It isn’t, Mr Russell.’ Jenny’s rebelliousness galvanised. ‘But I fancy a change today.’

The old man’s thick grey eyebrows shot up his forehead. ‘A change?’

Jenny nodded resolutely.

‘Hmph,’ he harrumphed. ‘Well, I suppose everyone’s entitled to one of those once in a while.’

‘Once in thirty years, actually,’ Jenny pointed out, before receiving her change, picking up the bag containing her purchases and waltzing out of the shop doing her utmost not to giggle.

Jenny rarely giggled. Nor had she ever waltzed anywhere before. She found the combination invigorating, and resolved, as she walked towards Annie O’Donnell’s cake shop, to do both again – very soon.

‘Hello, Jenny. I’ve put a ginger cake aside for you,’ said Annie the moment Jenny stepped into Crumbs. ‘And I’ve just baked a batch of chocolate and coconut cookies. I know your mum likes them fresh from the oven.’

Jenny nodded. Annie was absolutely right. Everyone in the village, in fact, knew of Phyllis’s preferences, but today Jenny really didn’t feel like pandering to them. ‘That’s really kind of you, Annie, but would you mind very much if I swapped the ginger for one of those delicious-looking madeira cakes and, rather than the chocolate and coconut cookies, took four lemon limoncello cupcakes?’

Annie’s emerald-green eyes grew wide. ‘Oh. Of course not. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. But you always –’

‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’ Jenny flashed the younger woman a smile. ‘I just fancy a change.’

Annie nodded understandingly. ‘Well, we all deserve one of those once in a while,’ she chuckled, shovelling the cupcakes onto a paper tray. ‘And they do say it’s as good as a rest.’

‘Don’t they just,’ agreed Jenny. Not that she would know anything about that. Other than visiting relatives with her parents when she was younger, she’d never had a holiday.

The delicious-smelling confectionery paid for and snugly tucked in her basket, Jenny headed to the florist next.

‘Afternoon, Jenny. Got some lovely red crysanths in,’ said George Carey, the ageing florist. ‘Put the best bunch aside for you first thing this morning. I’ll just pop to the back and get them for you.’

Jenny smiled her thanks.

As the old man scuttled off, she gazed longingly about the shop. Shiny buckets crammed with a vibrant rainbow of blooms lined the wall: orange roses, purple alstromeria, blue matsumoto asters and hot-pink miniature gerberas. Why on earth, she wondered, would anyone choose chrysanthemums over these other gorgeous flowers? And why red? They looked so … dated. Even the yellow ones were an improvement, resembling little orbs of sunshine on stalks.

‘There you go,’ declared George, reappearing with the crysanths.

As Jenny looked from the red bunch in his wizened hand to the yellow ones in the bucket, she wondered if she might just dare …

‘If I die of a coronary this evening, it’ll be your fault,’ wailed Phyllis, as Jenny crudely jabbed the red crysanths into the crystal vase on the lace-covered dining table. She’d bottled out of buying the yellow ones, deciding, after much deliberation, that the switch from cookies to cupcakes would be enough to contend with for one evening.

How right she’d been.

‘Self, self, self, that’s all you think about,’ Phyllis raged. ‘It was selfishness that killed your father. And it’ll be the same selfishness that finishes me off.’

This rant having been regurgitated with depressing regularity over the last thirty years, Jenny’s usual response of biting her tongue and saying nothing seemed particularly cowardly today. And today she was in no mood for cowardice.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,’ she batted back. ‘All I’ve done is buy cakes instead of cookies. I thought, rather idiotically it would appear, that you might fancy a change.’

‘A change?’ barked Phyllis. ‘You know fine well I can’t abide change. Lemon limoncello cupcakes, I ask you. What are they supposed to be when they’re at home?’

‘Why don’t you try them and see.’

‘Because I don’t want to, that’s why. There was nothing wrong with those cookies.’

Jenny shook her head in exasperation. ‘If you recall, it took me a year to persuade you to try the cookies, you not wanting anything other than Battenburg at the time.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Battenburg.’

Jenny sighed, her patience waning. ‘There isn’t. But it doesn’t mean there aren’t equally nice things out there. But if you’re not prepared to try anything new, you’ll never know. Now …’ she continued, shoving the vase into the middle of the table. ‘It’s the History Society meeting tonight, so I’m going to get ready.’ And with another waltzing manoeuvre, she made to leave the room.

‘History Society, indeed,’ muttered Phyllis, naturally having the last word. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’

Jenny had to admit – although obviously not to her mother – that she sometimes didn’t know why she bothered with the History Society, either – apart from the fact that it allowed her an evening out once a month. In fact, to call the gathering a “society” was erring towards the ambitious. The group consisted of Derek Carter, the vicar; Judith Minter, the librarian; Mona Hargreaves, a plump mother of six; Edward Fowler, a retired headmaster; and Eleanor Fowler, Edward’s wife and a retired midwife.

The meeting venue was the church hall. All other members walking there, Jenny was surprised to find a car outside – a brand-new, shiny, powder-blue Jaguar she didn’t recognise. She parked behind it then scurried inside, trying not to wince at the particularly strong stench of sweaty plimsolls that flooded her nostrils the moment she stepped over the threshold.

The group was already seated around the two folding tables they always pushed together, Edward presiding in his role as president, everyone else in their usual places. Except that Jenny’s usual place was already occupied – by a handsome man in, she estimated, his mid-fifties, wearing a gleaming white shirt, yellow silk tie, and what looked like a very expensive navy-blue wool suit.

‘Jenny, this is Len Ratner,’ announced Edward. ‘He’s just moved into the neighbouring village and would like to join the Society.’

After all Jenny’s wrong-footing of others that afternoon, the shoe now lodged well and truly on the other foot. ‘Oh,’ she muttered, aware the entire group, including the handsome new marecruit, were gazing at her expectantly. ‘Well, er, welcome, Mr Ratner.’

The man’s mouth stretched into a wide smile, causing a warm flush to steal over Jenny’s cheeks. ‘Len, please,’ he said.

Jenny pulled her cream – slightly bobbly – cardigan a shade tighter around the area her waist had once occupied, wishing she’d worn something smarter than it and the black trousers she’d purchased in the M&S sale two years ago, which she could still just about squeeze into. ‘It’s, um, always nice to have new members,’ she blustered, having no idea how she could possibly know that, given that Judith, their last new member, had joined fifteen years ago when she’d reduced her hours at the library.

‘Jenny works at the village school and is our resident Buttersley expert,’ Edward gushed. ‘Knows everyone in the village. And everything about it.’

Jenny shuffled her feet, clad in sensible grey-suede loafers. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that –’

‘Anything you want to know about Buttersley, just ask Jenny,’ cut in Mona.

The newcomer fixed Jenny with a disconcerting gaze. ‘I might just do that,’ he replied, as Jenny’s face flushed the same colour as the crysanths she’d bought earlier.

Chapter Five

Rich couldn’t wait to escape the house that morning. Alison had worked herself into a lather about Bethany’s costume for yet another of the school’s – far-too-frequent, in Rich’s opinion – dressing-up days. “Something from the garden” this time. Did Rich have any ideas?

No, he bloody didn’t. At least not, apparently, any decent ones. His suggestions of a worm, cabbage or shed had been instantly rejected by the household’s female contingent.

‘I suppose I’ll have to think of something, as usual,’ Alison huffed.

Rich didn’t know why she huffed. Alison’s abundant creative streak never ceased to amaze him. When all the other kids turned up as Robin Hood or Harry Potter for World Book Day, Alison dressed Bethany as an encyclopaedia – complete with pull-out reference section. And when they failed to find any decent modern art to brighten the walls of their new Buttersley home, Alison, despite never having previously brandished a paintbrush, effortlessly produced an impressive set of abstracts.

In fact, Rich couldn’t think of anything Alison didn’t excel at. Despite his pride in his wife, though, her unfailing competence sometimes made him feel more than a little inadequate. Perhaps that was why, he pondered, as he drove his BMW along the country lanes to work, he hadn’t yet mentioned Candi to her. To do so would be admitting he’d cocked up. Literally! Got a transient teenage girlfriend he hadn’t even liked that much up the duff. And his wavering confidence was not helped by Bernice’s evidently low opinion of him. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him about the pregnancy; hadn’t wanted him to play any part in their child’s life, preferring to bring up Candi alone than accept any support he might have offered.

Of course, Rich knew that any passive observer would immediately categorise him as the archetypal wide boy: a ducker-and-diver; a stereotypical salesman. Precisely the image he set out to portray many years ago. And it had worked. Whatever product he’d been tasked with, he’d never once failed to exceed his targets; never once witnessed his name anything other than top of the leader board; never settled for anything other than first prize in incentive competitions. But Rich’s true personality lay a million miles from the cocky salesman. Contrary to the confident persona that greeted the world every day, Rich never felt good enough, always imagining he should be doing something better with his life, something with more credibility, more class. Something that would make his parents proud …

With only thirteen months between Rich and his older sister, Hilary, the two of them had been close as children. Apart from the rare, inescapable sibling spat over something ridiculously trivial, on the whole they played well together, shared without demur, and formed an impenetrable wall of solidarity when faced with unsavoury issues like eating vegetables or having their hair washed. One day, during the school summer holidays, their mother whisked them along to a ‘Musical Taster Day’ at the local theatre. Five-year-old Rich put up a fierce fight, making his preference for a morning at the swimming pool crystal-clear. But once at the theatre, he’d loved it. It seemed like every instrument ever invented had been available for the children to trial. And Rich trialled them all – bonging the bongos, blasting the bassoon and hammering the harp. Hilary, meanwhile, made an immediate beeline for the piano. And there she remained for the entire three hours, various members of staff hovering about her, their mother’s face growing increasingly pink.

‘Oh, Harry, you’ll never guess what’s happened,’ their by now scarlet parent had gushed to their father the moment they arrived home. ‘Hilary apparently has “a very strong aptitude” for the piano. That’s what they said, Harry, “a very strong aptitude”.’

Their bemused father stroked his beard. ‘Hmm. So what does that mean, exactly?’

Their mother tutted. ‘It means, Harry, that we have to buy a piano. Forthwith.’

“Forthwith”, in this instance, meant the following week. The toys in the tiny room that had constituted the children’s playroom were boxed up and shipped off to the charity shop, a second-hand, upright piano wedged into the freed-up space.

Next came the piano teacher – the formidable Miss Rundfahrt– or Bumfart, as Rich called her. A scary German lady with a helmet of slick black hair that looked as if it had been painted onto her bulbous head.

Shortly after these new arrivals, all invitations to parties, or other fun and “normal” children’s activities, began to be rejected. Rich ceased to ask why, the standard response being: ‘Hilary has to practise.’

Indeed, it seemed to Rich that all Hilary did was practice – for hour upon hour – preparing for yet another exam, or yet another recital. He scarcely saw his sister any more and, not surprisingly, their once-strong bond began to weaken.

When Hilary sailed through her final exam with a double distinction aged just thirteen, the ante upped still further, the entire dining room being cleared to make room for a grand piano. Mealtimes, the only time they’d sat down together, were reduced to trays on laps in the lounge.

Needless to say, their mother’s pride, ebullient from that fateful Musical Taster Day, had surged with every exam certificate and every glowing review. And their father, whose sole purpose in life had been to appease his wife, meekly followed suit.

As in-depth discussions of music colleges and conservatoires began to dominate every conversation, Rich found himself increasingly estranged from his family.

‘Do you mind if I stay at Si’s tonight?’ he asked one day.

His mother didn’t bother to lift her head from the pile of music she’d been sifting. ‘Whatever you like, darling,’ came the reply, leaving Rich in little doubt that, had he asked if he could have a one-way ticket to Bangkok to join the Ladyboys, the response would have been much the same.

Hilary had subsequently accepted a music scholarship at Oxford – an auspicious start to her glittering career as one of the country’s most prestigious pianists.

Rich, meanwhile, demonstrated none of his sister’s musical prowess. Indeed, demonstrated no prowess of any kind. Until his first Saturday job helping a mate’s uncle with his hardware market stall. The art of persuasion, he soon discovered, was his forte. But no matter how many sales leagues he topped, no matter how many bonuses he received, no matter how many weekends to Barcelona he won, his achievements always seemed tacky compared to those of his sister.

Still, he had – or at least he’d thought he had – moved on; deftly buried these feelings of underachievement under a ton of earth. Until something ignited a fuse that blasted them back to the surface.

Something like Candi’s appearance.

Hitting him with all the impact of an army tank, it had detonated his fragile confidence. Not only because of Bernice’s insulting lack of faith in him, but because he didn’t have a bloody clue how to handle it.

A cornucopia of questions whizzing about his head, he’d concluded – as he lay awake at 3.37 am that morning – that the only way to obtain any answers was to talk to Candi. Precisely why he’d decided to call her. Today. In fact, he should do it right now. Before a bazillion reasons not to trounced his resolution.

Veering the jeep onto the grass verge, he activated the handbrake and fished out his mobile. Normally, when calling from the car, he instigated the snazzy, hands-free system. For this call, though, it didn’t seem appropriate. The notion of Candi’s voice ricocheting around his personal space made him quake. It seemed far too … invasive – as if the sound might somehow seep into the cream-leather seats or velour mats, leaving an indelible stain. In fact, come to think of it, he’d rather not speak to her in the car at all. Opening the door, he slid out and took a few steps along the verge, his finger hovering over “Chlorine Supplier”. All at once, though, a surfeit of nerves whacked into him. He had no idea what to say. Maybe he should firm up his strategy first. Give it more thought. Not blurt out something he might –

At a chorus of mooing from the neighbouring field, Rich dropped the phone. Blimey. He was a wreck. And the group of cows staring accusingly at him did nothing to help his nerves. Maybe he’d be better off in the car, after all.

Resuming his place inside, Rich turned his back to his bovine audience and his attention to the phone. If he didn’t make this call in the next thirty seconds, he probably never would. He sucked in a deep breath. And on the exhale, pressed the call button.

Rich arranged to meet Candi that afternoon.

The conversation to set up the meeting had been, understandably, somewhat stilted. The moment she answered the phone, his mind had flashed blank. As if that one solitary word, ‘Hello’, confirmed her existence; made him realise that, in some ludicrously head-in-sand way, he’d been hoping her appearance had been nothing more than an apparition; that she didn’t really exist at all.

She was already at the venue she’d suggested – a quaint café in Harrogate – when Rich arrived. Sitting at a small table tucked away at the back, she had what looked like a strawberry milkshake in front of her. The café was busy, seemingly overtaken by a busload of pensioners. Due to the bustle of activity, she didn’t see him at first, allowing him another few seconds to appraise her. Her lank, mousy hair was scraped back in a high ponytail, and her yellow hoodie sapped her face of all colour.

Did she bear any resemblance at all to him? He didn’t think so. Or maybe her –

All at once, she turned and caught his eye. Her mouth stretched into a nervous smile.

Rich’s stomach flipped. He attempted a smile of his own, but by the strange look a passing waitress shot him, suspected he looked like he might be in dire need of the loo.

Candi’s smile widened as he approached the table. ‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ Rich slipped into the chair opposite. ‘How, er, are you?’

She grimaced. ‘A bit nervous, to be honest. You?’

‘Ever so slightly terrified.’

She nodded. ‘Well, I guess it isn’t every day you discover you have a kid you didn’t know about.’

Rich gave a snort of ironic laughter. ‘No, thank God.’ Then, realising how bad that sounded, immediately added, ‘Not that it wasn’t … I mean, it isn’t … I mean, you aren’t …’

This time her smile was sympathetic. ‘It’s okay. I can imagine it came as a bit of a shock.’

The arrival of the waitress at that point spared Rich having to explain that there was no “bit” about it. He ordered a café latte and sat back in his chair. ‘Well …’ he began. Well, what? He had no idea what to say next.

‘Awkward?’ she suggested with a shy smile.

Rich noticed how it lit up her face, making her appear, if not exactly pretty, then certainly a deal more animated.

‘It took me ages to pluck up the courage to contact you,’ she admitted, her gaze shifting to her drink as she fiddled with the two straws ensconced therein. ‘I didn’t know the best way to do it. If I should send you a letter, or phone, or … Anyway, after much deliberation, I decided it was probably best just to bite the bullet and do it in person.’

Rich nodded. ‘You were right. I think if you had sent me a letter, I probably would’ve thought it was a wind-up.’

‘I’m really glad you called me,’ she confessed, her gaze still on the straws. ‘I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.’

Rich gawped as, for the first time, it occurred to him that he hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to how she must be feeling about all this. He needed to find out more.

‘So how long have you known I was your …?’ What? Dad? Father? Donator of sperm?

‘Just after my A-levels last year,’ she replied, sparing him the trouble of further indecision. ‘We moved house so Mum had to empty all the drawers in the bureau she normally keeps locked. I knew my birth certificate was in there so I managed to have a rummage. Of course, I’d asked her loads of times before, but she just fobbed me off.’

Great, fumed Rich. Not only had Bernice ousted him from playing any part in their daughter’s life, but she’d withheld his very existence. Indignation surged through him. For all he wasn’t over the moon about the discovery, surely he had the right to know he’d fathered a child? Wasn’t there some law about that? Because if there wasn’t, there damned well should be.

‘Does your mum know you’ve contacted me?’ he asked, attempting to banish any hint of venom from his tone.

Behind her spectacles, Candi’s eyes grew wide. ‘God, no. She’d go ballistic.’

Rich caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Recalling many of the tantrums Bernice had thrown in the short time he’d known her, he could well imagine that being the case. ‘How, er, is she?’ he heard himself asking. Crap! Where had that come from? He couldn’t give a toss about Bernice’s state of health.

Candi shrugged. ‘She’s okay, I suppose. Has her moments. She can be a bit …’ – she resumed her straw fiddling – ‘… a bit difficult at times.’

Hmm. Rich suspected there may be a deal more to that than she let on, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to explore that particular avenue just yet.

‘Did you go out with her for long?’

His heart plummeted. Shit. Of course she’d want to know about his relationship with her mother. He should’ve seen that coming. But he’d been so wrapped up in how all this affected him, it hadn’t once occurred to him the kid must have a gazillion questions of her own. Although none he could probably satisfactorily answer. He suspected her conception had resulted from a clumsy, drunken fumble behind Beverley Fitzgerald’s garage after a house party. As tactless as he could sometimes be, though, even he didn’t think she’d want to hear that. Well, at least if Bernice hadn’t said anything about him, he could inject a dash of poetic licence.

‘We went out for a couple of months,’ he replied. ‘We were young. I don’t think either of us really saw any future in it.’

‘What was Mum like back then?’

The waitress appeared at the table with Rich’s coffee. He smiled his thanks, grateful for the few seconds extra thinking time the intervention allowed him. Bernice had been a selfish cow. In fact, if his memory served him correctly, the reason they’d split was because she’d been absolutely plastered but wanted to go on to an all-night rave. Rich had put his foot down, which hadn’t evidently been the response she’d desired.

‘She was, um, a bit of a party girl,’ he said at length.

Candi bit her lip.

‘Do you like parties?’ he asked, wincing at how naff that sounded. Anything to veer the conversation away from him and Bernice, though.

Candi shook her head. ‘Not really. I don’t drink. It makes me throw up.’

Huh. That was weird. Rich was similarly affected after only a couple of glasses of wine. ‘So what do you do with yourself?’ he continued. ‘I presume you’ve left school now.’

She nodded. ‘Last summer.’

‘And are you planning on going to uni?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘No. It’s never appealed, to be honest. I don’t know what I want to do really. I guess you could say I’m having a year out to assess my options. I’m earning a bit of money working in a clothes shop at the moment. But, as corny as it sounds, I feel like I need to find out who I am and what I really want before I trot down some route just for the sake of it.’

Wow. A wise head on young shoulders. Rich liked that. What he wasn’t so enamoured with, though, was the distinct air of sadness that hung about her.

‘So, what about you?’ she enquired. ‘Apart from owning the hot-tub business, I don’t know a thing about you.’

Oh, God. He really didn’t want to talk about himself. He’d keep it brief. ‘Not much to tell, really. I’m married to Alison and have a six-year-old daughter …’ – Bollocks. Should he have said “another daughter”? – ‘Bethany.’

‘What’re they like?’

Despite his reticence, Rich smiled. ‘Bethany is hilarious. Six going on sixteen. And Alison is beautiful and clever, as well as being a superb businesswoman. We started Bubbles together a few years ago.’

‘And it’s going well?’

‘Very well. Much better than we’d ever imagined.’ A sudden unpleasant thought struck him. Was he being particularly dense here? Had she contacted him because she wanted money or –?

‘Sorry,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘I only asked out of interest. Please don’t think I want anything. Money, I mean, or anything like that. Because I don’t. I just wanted to meet you. To find out a bit about you. But if you’d rather not –’

Rich reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘I would,’ he said.

***

‘I can’t believe it,’ admitted Annie, clearing away the remains of the vegetable lasagne her husband, Jake, had made for dinner. ‘I mean, I thought –’

Portia nodded as she sliced off a sliver of Stilton from the hunk on the board in front of her. ‘That there’d be loads of money left?’

Annie grimaced. ‘Not that it’s any of my business. But I merely assumed –’

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