MY LIES, YOUR LIES
Susan Lewis

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Susan Lewis 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Lyn Randle / Trevillion Images (flowers), Shutterstock.com (insects)

Susan Lewis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008286873

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008286859

Version: 2020-06-18

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Acknowledgments

Read on for a sneak peek at Susan’s next book Forgive Me

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Susan Lewis

About the Publisher

‘I’m leaving,’ he said.

She kept her head down as though working on the pages in front of her. She’d heard the ‘you’ even though he hadn’t said it. I’m leaving you.

He continued to stand in the doorway, making her wonder if he really meant what he’d said, but she knew that he did.

He’d told her about the affair two weeks ago. She hadn’t suspected it, although she probably should have. She’d lost her temper, had even hit him, had told him she didn’t care if he was sorry, and that he had to get out.

He hadn’t gone then, but he was going now.

She didn’t want to look at him; it would hurt too much. She didn’t know what to do to repair this.

‘Do you have nothing to say?’ he asked.

‘Is there anything that would make a difference?’ she countered, her head still down.

He sighed and she pictured his expression, exasperation, worry, guilt. It was the guilt she couldn’t stand to see, because it would confirm that he cared. If he didn’t care his eyes would be cold, and she’d never seen his eyes cold. She knew he didn’t want to hurt her, had never set out to, but with the way things were between them …

The affair had been going on for five weeks.

That was all the time it had taken for him to decide he wanted out of their marriage so he could go to live with her best friend.

No longer a best friend.

‘Holly wants to come with me,’ he said quietly.

A brutal knife in the back, this one almost worse than the other. He was going to take their teenage daughter with him.

Could she allow that? Did she have a choice?

Holly made her own decisions these days and some were to spite her mother, or challenge her, or simply to annoy her.

Did either of them know that her heart had already been broken before they’d taken the pieces and broken them all over again?

Holly would pretend not to care, but she wasn’t as unfeeling towards her mother as she tried to make out.

He would care, but she’d never told him how it was with her, what she’d done to blot out the pain, so that was that.

‘Please say something,’ he urged, ‘even if it’s only goodbye.’ He apparently thought about that because then he added, ‘You probably don’t want to be that polite about it.’

Even now, in the midst of this nightmare, he could make her smile. She didn’t let him see, but he’d know it anyway. That was how well they knew each other, they could sense things, know things without having to see or hear them.

Finally she turned around and because she loved him so much the hurt cleaved through her. He was tall and rugged with a slow, winning smile and sleepy dark eyes that were as kind as his soul. When they were younger she used to call him Harry because he reminded her of Harry Connick Jr. ‘Just a shame I can’t sing like him,’ he’d say. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t loved him, when she hadn’t felt complete because of him, when most of her thoughts hadn’t found their way back to him. They’d been young when they’d met, but they’d considered themselves mature, as all teenagers did and do, especially those at uni. They’d become parents in their twenties and it had brought them closer together. They’d supported each other’s careers, understanding one’s ambitions were no more important than the other’s, they’d hit more highs and lows than she could recall and had always been there for one another.

Now it was all going to change.

‘Have you packed?’ she asked, and immediately regretted it when she saw him flinch. She didn’t want to hurt him really. Why would you want to hurt someone you loved?

‘Everything’s in the car,’ he replied.

‘Holly too?’ Why would he take her daughter? Why did Holly want to go? What did it say about her? As a mother, as a person?

‘She’s almost ready,’ he said.

She had to swallow a choking build-up of emotion before she could say, ‘It’s hard for me to imagine being happy without you, but obviously it’s not hard for you.’

His eyes darkened and they entered a rare moment when she didn’t know what he was thinking, although they were becoming more frequent now.

He was leaving her today and she wasn’t trying to stop him. She could sense his confusion over that, along with the guilt – of course guilt, he’d been sleeping with another woman. And yes, he was hurting, because all their years together had meant something to him too and he’d probably expected her to fight harder to keep him.

He could have accused her of driving him to this, but he never had because that wasn’t his style. He didn’t blame others for his actions whatever the provocation. He was a decent man, not a coward who hid behind excuses. In some ways that was a failing, for often he claimed responsibility when there was no need to.

Superhero-dad, protective-husband, respected boss.

‘You’re not angry any more,’ he stated, and she heard his surprise and pique.

She was angry all right, so angry she could turn violent simply to think of him with another woman – especially that one – like she had when she’d first found out. A lot had been smashed that day and she didn’t doubt that more would go the same way during the darkest moments ahead.

She was going to hate sleeping in their bed alone, not hearing his key in the door at the end of the day, pouring only one glass of wine, not having him to talk to or watch TV with. For as long as she could remember they’d been the closest couple amongst their friends, no one had expected this to happen, theirs was the marriage that would go on to the end.

It would have if it weren’t for the affair …

It would have if he’d been there for her when her world had spun out of control, when she’d lost the sense of who she was, and asked herself what point there was to anything any more.

Maybe he would have been if she’d told him, but she hadn’t, because she couldn’t, and wouldn’t.

Some things were just too hard.

And so he was leaving.

CHAPTER ONE

1968

The really cool thing about teasing Sir – (Mr Michaels the music teacher) – is the way it makes him blush. It starts under his collar and creeps out like mischief, slowly, cautiously, as though checking to see who’s looking before suddenly revealing itself with rosy abandon over his neck and cheeks. It makes him seem younger, closer to our age in a way, but not so close to give him the air of a teenager, or someone lacking in worldly sophistication. He definitely isn’t, for he seems to know everything and isn’t easily shocked, only easily thrown or discomfited by a roomful of fifteen-year-old girls intent on claiming his attention.

He’s not tall exactly, but few of us girls can look him directly in the eye – I don’t think he’d allow it even if we could. We’re too challenging, too full of ourselves and determined to score points over one another at his expense. I can tell he understands that and he never assists. I’m not one of the girls who dares to throw myself at him – no one does really, at least not in an actual physical sense. However, some are brazen enough to try and treat him to glimpses of their stocking tops or to ask if he thinks they should wear lipstick when kissing a boy.

‘Sir, do you believe in free love?’

There’s a big, exciting world out there, beyond the walls of our boarding school, where people are drawing power from flowers and ‘finding themselves’ as though they’ve been lost, and we just know that in his free time Sir is one of them. There’s more to him than his beige corduroy suit and deep brown eyes that try not to twinkle (and rarely succeed) – and his love of music.

‘Sir, did anyone ever tell you that you look like Andy Fairweather-Low?’

‘Who?’ he asks and we almost riot, before realizing he’s teasing us back.

We’re all mad about Amen Corner’s lead singer, so for most of the girls this is the biggest compliment we can give Sir, but in my opinion he looks more like George Harrison. Or he did before George let his hair and beard grow long. Sir’s face is always shaved, but it has a similar sculpted look to George’s and in my opinion he has the same air of secrecy about him.

What are his secrets?

How we all want to know.

Actually, Sir is much more thrilling than a pop star, mostly because he’s here and so accessible, possible even, and because he’s willing to treat pop music as if it’s as important as any other kind. Our lessons are called music appreciation, so I guess that makes sense, although I can’t imagine our previous teacher, Mr Maugham, even considering the hit parade to be part of his lessons. Much less can I imagine him picking up a guitar, or any other instrument, to play ‘Hey Jude’ while we writhe around in time to the slow-motion beat and shake our hair loose as if we’re at a wild party, or even a ritual coming of age.

With Sir we get into deep discussions about the lyrics of pop songs and why we think one instrument has been used over another. Sometimes he breaks it all down on the piano and gets us to sing phrases that sound silly out of context and we end up laughing so hard that someone knocks on the next-door wall to tell us to pipe down.

Sir’s classes are the last period on Wednesdays for our year, and no one ever misses them, not even on the weeks it’s all about classical pieces by long-dead composers. Sir has a way of talking about music that holds us all rapt, as if we’re small children caught in the melodies of a lullaby. He even manages to bring obscure, centuries-old symphonies to life by playing snatches on the piano while telling stories about how, where and why the score was composed. He tells us about first performances in exotic-sounding places, conjuring images of the crowds and the acclaim, or sometimes the horror and the shame. He delights us with the tale of Mozart composing the overture for Don Giovanni on the morning of the opera’s premiere while he had a terrible hangover.

‘Have you ever had a hangover, Sir?’ Mandy Gibbons asks him cheekily.

Sir gives her a look that’s both playful and mock scary and everyone laughs.

I remember us being electrified by the tale of John Rutter fancying John Tavener’s girlfriend when they were at school together, and we wanted to know how things had worked out.

‘Did they fight?’ someone asks.

‘Which one did she prefer?’

‘What was her name?’

‘I’ve never even heard of them.’

‘Have you ever fancied someone’s girlfriend, Sir?’

He never answers those sorts of questions; he just carries on as if they haven’t been asked. I guess he thinks we’re all pretty childish and stupid, and of course we are, but we’re old enough to have sexually charged crushes that’s for sure. I wonder if they’re even more intense at fifteen, given their newness and ripe hormonal appassionatos and attaccas. They could easily run out of control with lots of girls and considering the times we’re living in – I’ve already mentioned free love and most of us are dying to be a part of it. I’m sure we would be if we weren’t locked up in this school during the week. We are on the periphery of an explosion of newness – a revolution some are calling it, an emancipation say others – and though we don’t really understand it we still vibrate with the excitement of it.

I will readily confess to the frissons of lust I feel going into Sir’s class minus my bra sometimes. He doesn’t know, obviously, no one does, but later, as everyone around me in the dorm is falling asleep I imagine how it might have been if he had known. It makes me breathless and hot and excited to go even further the next time, although I never do.

I’m still a virgin. I haven’t even kissed a boy properly, much less let one put his hand up my skirt or inside my bra. Tricia Hill, whose bed is next to mine, claims she did things with her cousin’s friend during a weekend home visit, and Mandy Gibbons, who’s the most rebellious of our group, came back after one weekend swearing she’d gone all the way with her new boyfriend. Her eyes were glittering so brightly and her cheeks were so flushed that it was easy to believe she really had allowed that first barrier of resistance to be breached. And by someone who was virtually a stranger! How courageous and erotic that made it seem.

‘Did it hurt?’ we all want to know.

She shrugs as if she’s a grown-up now, and we are mere tadpoles in the pond of life. ‘Only a bit,’ she admits, ‘and not for long.’

‘Did you like it?’

With a dreamy sort of smile she says, ‘It was wonderful.’ (Personally, I reckoned it had hurt, but she didn’t want to tell us. She might even have been lying, and I think she was because we’d all read parts of Lady Chatterley’s Lover by then, and I’m sure it inspired her fantasy.)

‘Did you take all your clothes off, or just some of them?’ Tricia asks.

‘Did you feel embarrassed?’

‘What happened after?’

‘What if you get pregnant?’

‘Are you going to do it again?’

We have so many questions, and we’re so stimulated by the things she tells us that it isn’t long before Sir’s name is mentioned. It always is at some point, whatever the conversation, because it’s as though everything we discuss is a prelude to get to him.

We’d all long since agreed that he’d probably had sex hundreds of times so he would be an expert at it. When we talk about this we pause, eyes closed, to imagine ourselves with him, and then we dissolve into riotous giggles when someone makes noises as though it’s really happening.

We aren’t the only ones who fancy him. Some of our younger female teachers do too, you can see it in the way they break into smiles when they spot him coming their way, or are always willing to join in any project suggested by him. Some even openly flirt with him, like Mrs Blake, the PE teacher, who sometimes joins our special Wednesday classes to show us how to dance like the Go-Jos or Pan’s People. She’s really good with the moves, whether she’s dancing to something slow like ‘Honey’ or wild like ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’. No one can take their eyes off her, except me, because I’m watching Sir and the way he looks at her makes me certain he’s had sex with her. I’m furious about it. She’s married and has no right to him. I will her to fall over or break wind or do something to make herself ridiculous or disgusting in his eyes. The only thing that allows me to forgive her is her praise of my dancing. She says I’m one of the best in the class, a natural, and if I carry on this way I’ll end up on Top of the Pops.

‘Don’t you agree, Mr Michaels?’ she asks him, and without quite looking at me he smiles and says something like, ‘absolutely,’ or ‘she certainly has talent.’ Of course I love it when he agrees, but it upsets me that he doesn’t really seem to be paying attention.

‘It’s because he’s not seriously into the same sort of pop music as us and Mrs Blake,’ my friend Joy says when I complain to her, and I think she’s right.

As far as pop goes, Sir is mainly into Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd, the headbanging stuff that makes a lot of the girls shudder and groan. I don’t mind it, but I especially enjoy it when he puts it on the turntable and laughs when everyone boos and cries ‘Off, off, off.’ We all love it when he laughs. It’s as infectious as measles, and no one wants a cure.

One day he plays us ‘The Gaelic Blessing’ and asks us to write down the images it evokes for us. I think it’s a strange choice, but he’s like that, always throwing something different at us, and collecting up our reactions as if they’re musical notes he’s going to use for a symphony he’s composing.

When the piece has finished he asks Prunella Jones to read out what she’s written, but every time she tries she bursts out laughing.

‘It’ll be something rude,’ someone calls out.

He moves on to Tricia Hill who gets booed when she says it made her see churches and choirs and hymnbooks.

‘Stating the obvious,’ Mandy Gibbons informs her loftily, and rolls her eyes as if Trish is an idiot.

Trish throws her exercise book and pen up in the air. ‘So let’s hear yours, if you’re so brilliant,’ she challenges.

Mandy’s eyes sparkle and we all know something outrageous is coming, but before she can read out a single word, Sir says,

‘What about you? What did you see?’

Startled and thrilled that he’s asked me, and embarrassed and desperate to impress even though I know what kind of reaction I’ll get from the others, I tuck my long blonde hair behind my ears (I always wear it down for Sir’s class) and begin. ‘I saw myself floating over a meadow like a bird,’ I read out loud. ‘I was a weightless ballerina looking down at the flowers in the grass and up to the sun and out across the sea to where angels were beckoning to me to join them.’

A couple of girls actually clapped, but more gagged and Sir says, ‘Very good.’

He’s not looking at me and I wonder if he means it.

I feel upset, rejected even, but then I comfort myself by thinking of a time when he was looking at me. It was when I was playing hockey in the top field and during a pause in the game I happened to glance back across the pitch towards the main school building. I’m not sure if I actually felt him watching me, and that was what made me turn around, you know how that happens sometimes, or if it was just coincidence that he was standing at the music room window and caught my eye as I glanced his way. He didn’t look away and as I stared back at him I stopped feeling the chill air on my bare thighs and panting breath in my lungs.

I think that was when his lessons first became the true light at the centre of my week and I, like a moth, circled it constantly, so drawn to him that each Wednesday afternoon was like being burned with the intensity of my own feelings.

Today, as we file into his class, there is a buzzing anticipation infecting us all for it’s one of our pop days, as we call them, and several of us have brought in the new records we bought while at home over the weekend.

The night before, in the dorm, we’d taken bets on what he would or wouldn’t like.

‘A shilling says he’ll love “People Got to Be Free” by The Rascals, or “Stone Soul Picnic” by Fifth Dimension.’

‘Sixpence says he’ll hate “Mony Mony” or “Sunshine of Your Love” by Cream.’

They’re all wrong about ‘Sunshine of Your Love’, apart from me, because I knew from the minute I first heard it on my parent’s record player that he’d love it. My parents are groovy people. At weekends when their friends come over wearing bright-coloured kaftans and fake roses in their hair they drape themselves around the place like exotic furniture to chill out, smoke weed and drink gimlets or whisky sours. They talk about Vietnam or cricket or how to change the world. During the week, my mother is a senior civil servant writing speeches for ministers and my father is a lawyer specializing in tax and finance. They morph into hippies at the weekends and immerse themselves in the same sort of bands that Sir likes, which is how I knew he’d dig ‘Sunshine of Your Love’.

There really is no other teacher in the school like him. He feels more like a friend than someone who’s supposed to instruct and discipline us. I’ve never heard him tell anyone off, not even when some of the cheekier girls ask him for a kiss as a reward for saying something to impress him. He just arches an eyebrow in a comical way, almost as though he hasn’t heard, but the colour that rises over his neck gives him away. It’s why we do it, to see the little tell-tale spread of embarrassment that, according to most, proves that he really does want to kiss them.

I have no idea when class starts that day that I will remember it forever. It’s not my choice of record that changes the background music of schoolgirl crushes and improbable dreams, it’s Mandy Gibbons’s. She’s brought ‘Young Girl’ by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. It was released a couple of weeks ago, but this is the first chance we’ve had to play it with Sir, and every one of us secretly thinks the song is about her and him. We can hardly wait for Mandy to slide it from its paper cover and put it on the turntable. She’s allowed to do the honours while Sir peels off his corduroy jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair.

Mandy sets the needle carefully on the revolving disc, stands back with taut anticipation and as those two magical words – Young Girl – fly into the room with all their tragedy and passion Sir lowers his head. We’re all watching him, waiting for the blush, certain it will come and it does. What I don’t expect is the way his eyes find their way to mine. I can feel my heart pounding as the song tells me to get out of his mind, that his love for me is out of line, I’m too young and he needs to run. I feel the heat of the moment, intense and fateful, while in possession of all the charms of a woman.

Did the others notice? They’re dancing, eyes fixed on him, but not on me. I don’t dance, I just watch him turning away, his movements seeming to happen in a strange slow motion.

When the song finishes everyone’s waiting to hear what he has to say about a man trying to resist his love for a much younger girl.

He doesn’t say anything. He simply applauds, and his eyes are laughing as if admitting that he’s got the joke, but he’s not going to be baited, and now it’s time for someone else to share a record choice.

Tricia Hill steps forward with a Turtles EP she’s borrowed from her older sister. I don’t take much notice of it, I’m too distracted by the way Sir looked at me, during ‘Young Girl’. I can’t seem to shake myself free of it. He’s moved on, he’s talking about The Turtles, and making everyone laugh when he tries to play one of the tracks on the piano and gets it wrong. He does that sometimes, and we know the mistakes are on purpose. It’s his way of trying to change the mood if things have become too chaotic or flirtatious or intense.

It usually works and it does today. He can play us as smoothly as he strums his guitar or as skilfully as he masters the flute. We are innocent, uncomplicated notes on an elementary score; his humour and charm provide the sophistication we believe to be ours. We think ourselves clever and irresistible, but I sense that for him we’re merely girls with crazy hormones and dangerous dreams. He talks and sings and laughs, holding us all in his thrall. He doesn’t look at me again, not even when I ask if he can talk to us some more about the Moody Blues album Days of Future Passed. I know he’s fascinated by some of Justin Hayward’s work, the bringing together of orchestral compositions and modern rock, and I can sound reasonably intelligent about it, because my parents are big fans too. They discuss it a lot and I take it all in.

Sir is happy to change the subject, but he still doesn’t look my way so I sit feeling crushed and confused and even slightly angry. I’d felt us connect over Gary Puckett’s song, and I know he felt it too, but now he’s pretending it didn’t happen.

I was too young then to realize what his studied lack of attention meant, but I did find out. I can feel myself smiling now as I recall those times. The early memories are the most beautiful, the most thrilling; the sweet percussive notes of a love song before the rest of the orchestra is brought in to provide the darkness and tumult of the drama to come.

CHAPTER TWO

Joely was on a train heading away from London still not sure what to expect when she arrived at her final destination. She was trying not to think about it too much, although creating scenarios for what lay in store was infinitely better – and probably healthier – than tormenting herself with what she’d left behind. Better still, at least for the moment, might be to create a little fantasy around the attractive bloke sitting opposite her.

It was a good try, but it took next to no time for her mind to circle back to Callum, her husband, who’d left her two weeks ago.

He’d actually left her.

She’d never imagined he would, had always believed in their marriage so completely that she still couldn’t make herself accept it had happened.

She wasn’t sure he’d accepted it either.

‘So what’s this assignment you won’t tell anyone about?’ he’d asked when he’d called by the house only yesterday, using his key to come in as if he still lived there. His deep brown eyes had shown only amusement, a gentle tease; an invitation to trust him to keep the secret if she was willing to share. If he’d felt anything deeper she hadn’t been able to detect it, but in spite of everything she was sure that he did. Why else was he finding it so hard to stay away?

She knew he was put out that she’d declined to share the details of her new assignment. Nowhere near as put out as she was that he was now living with another woman. It was all wrong, and she couldn’t believe that he didn’t think so too. Even if he did, it remained a reality. He’d actually given up the beloved home they’d created in the Artesian Village of Notting Hill to go and live in Hammersmith with Martha. Clearly this meant that he now preferred Martha’s company, Martha’s body, Martha’s love, Martha’s everything in fact. She’d become so important, so vital to him that he’d put aside twenty years of marriage as though for him it had amounted to little more than a book that had been enjoyable but had come to an early and unsatisfactory conclusion.

Was that really how he saw it?

Needless to say Martha was no longer a friend. Callum, however, remained the big love of her life and she had absolutely no idea how to remove him from that space. She was crushed by the weight of pain and grief that had accompanied her every move and thought since he’d told her he was leaving. It even hurt to breathe. He wouldn’t know that, because she had no intention of letting him see how afraid she was of trying to move forward without him. She had her pride and a few shreds of dignity left – and now she had a new assignment.

‘I don’t understand,’ he’d said, ‘why it has to be so hush-hush. Is it dangerous?’

Joely had walked to the table – the one they’d had specially made to fit their kitchen, had sat around with their families at Christmas and for birthdays; it was their daughter’s homework desk and often where Callum had spread out his own work if Joely was using their shared study. She picked up the mug he’d filled with coffee when he’d come in and rinsed it.

She turned to face him. He was still sitting at the table looking faintly baffled and far too present, too in charge, too much as if he’d never gone away. His hands were bunched loosely in front of him, large, masculine, not beautiful or straight, just his hands – the ones she’d gripped during Holly’s birth, that had folded her to him on their wedding day, that had aroused her in so many different ways, had stroked and comforted her through the wrenching grief of her father’s death. There they were now looking as though they had nothing to do, that they might even be contemplating a way back to her, but really they were momentarily resting or waiting before returning to Martha.

She could see them on Martha’s skin, brushing lightly over her hair, touching her face …

How could imagining something hurt so much? It was like taking a flame to her insides and holding it there. Wasn’t reality painful enough without using her own mind to make it worse?

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. She hoped her moss green eyes showed only impatience and perhaps a hint of distraction. I’m busy, I really don’t have time for this. Her shoulder-length sandy hair was a mess, twisted awkwardly into a knot at the back of her head, and she knew her face was strained because she could feel it. He wasn’t seeing her at her best, but it hardly mattered any more.

‘Holly mentioned your assignment,’ he explained, ‘and I thought … Well, I wondered why you’re not telling her what it’s about.’

She said, ‘The client has requested confidentiality, which I’m respecting. As the producer of highly sensitive documentaries, I’m sure you understand that. Now, can I remind you that you have a new life? You left this one, remember? So please see yourself out and the next time you come you’ll find I’ve changed the locks.’

He looked startled, and hurt. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ he protested. ‘I thought we could be friends.’

Were all men so naïve, delusional, stupid?

She turned abruptly away and switched off the coffee machine.

‘Are you going back to reporting?’ he asked. ‘Is that what this new assignment is about? Are you going undercover or something?’

She almost wanted to laugh. He knew very well that her reporting days were over, that she was well established in her new career as a ghostwriter so this was a transparent attempt to provoke an answer.

More minutes ticked by until, with her back still turned, she said, ‘I’m leaving tomorrow and as yet I’m not entirely sure how long I’ll be gone. I’ll be on my mobile in case of emergencies, but I know Holly will be fine with you.’ She didn’t add, and Martha – that would have been too hard. And if Holly wasn’t fine with them, she’d go to her grandma, Joely’s mother, where she had her own room, an inter-generational best friend and even easier access to school.

As Callum got to his feet she could see his reflection in the window and knew he was casting around for a way to make this right. He’d never liked loose ends, he was used to being able to fix things, including those he’d broken himself. People found it easy to forgive him: colleagues, family, friends, no one ever had a problem believing that he hadn’t meant to hurt them, because he wasn’t someone who deliberately hurt anyone. Even when he’d set out on an affair with his wife’s best friend he wouldn’t have been doing it to cause pain to Joely. That wouldn’t have been his intention at all. In fact he probably hadn’t as much as thought about her until after the crime had been committed. That was the way those things usually went, wasn’t it? Satisfy the insatiable urge now, deal with the consequences later.

Yes, that was definitely the way it went.

‘Joely,’ he said softly.

‘For God’s sake, Callum,’ she cried angrily, and grabbing her phone she answered an incoming call when she probably shouldn’t have.

‘Yes, this is Joely. I’m fine. How are you?’ It was the publisher who’d given her the new assignment. As he spoke she was so aware of Callum watching her and listening that she missed most of what was being said.

When she was finally able to ring off, she put the phone down and turned around. Callum was holding his coat but making no move to put it on.

‘Was that about your new project?’ he asked.

‘Yes, if you must know.’

He nodded, waited and finally accepting she was going to say no more, he attempted a smile. ‘I hope it goes well,’ he said, and after more moments of awkwardness he left.

Now here she was on a train staring out of the window watching fields and hedgerows passing by in a frantic blur, and feeling thankful that it wasn’t possible to read someone’s thoughts, or see inside their hearts. She wouldn’t want anyone around her to know why she was so glad to be escaping London, while feeling utterly desperate to return.

The train plunged into a tunnel, turning the windows into mirrors and she gazed at her ghostly reflection seeing some of what others saw, she supposed. A normal, non-threatening woman the wrong side of forty with soft honeyed curls and a smattering of freckles over a delicate nose.

Callum used to say she was beautiful. ‘When I put my arms around you,’ he’d say, ‘I feel as though I’m capturing the impossible, because no one can capture the ethereal or the magical, and yet here you are.’

He could be very romantic, if a little corny, could Callum.

She wondered how he described her now, apart from as his ex. He might say he’d opened his arms and she’d simply flown away, the way ethereal things did. No, he wouldn’t be so whimsical or poetical about her these days. In fact, he probably didn’t talk about her at all if he could help it; it wasn’t a subject he and Martha would be comfortable with.

What did it feel like when he put his arms around Martha? Could he actually get them all the way round? You’re being a bitch, Joely. Martha wasn’t fat, exactly, she was strong-boned with masterful shoulders and sturdy legs. Her attraction would be of a more earthy nature, so did he feel as though he was embracing a tree, perhaps? Or a small truck?

Slagging her off isn’t going to change anything. He chose her; you didn’t try to stop him, so now you have to live with it. Just like you have to live with everything else.

They emerged from the tunnel and she watched the world outside rushing by, rushing, rushing into the past. There it went, like her life, her marriage, her dreams. There one minute, gone the next.

‘Excuse me, can I get you something from the buffet?’

Joely started. The handsome man opposite was looking at her, clearly expecting an answer.

‘Uh, um, no, I’m fine thanks,’ she stammered.

He smiled and wound his way through to the next car, tall, athletic in black jeans and matching t-shirt that looked as though it had swirled out of a glossy magazine with him in it. She wondered why she hadn’t asked for a coffee when she was dying for one. Now she wouldn’t be able to have one at all.

What she could have though was a few minutes imagining her return to London with the handsome stranger as her main squeeze (she could hear Holly cringing, ‘no one says that any more, you muppet!’) glowing with happiness, as radiant as a new bride fresh from an exotic and erotic honeymoon, and totally over all the shabby misery the ex-husband and ex-best friend had inflicted, because she had a much better life now.

Yes, that was a fantasy she could happily run with to distract herself from her own guilt, the part she’d played in the breakdown of her marriage because it had never been put into words.

Or she could try to use up the time testing out various scenarios that might crop up over the next few weeks in order to prepare herself for all eventualities. She wasn’t nervous about her new assignment exactly; in fact she was quite excited by it, and grateful that it had come her way at this time when she’d so badly needed the distraction. Regrettably, her heartache was coming too, there was no leaving it in a cupboard at home, or burying it in a time capsule to be dug up by strangers a century after her death.

Before leaving this morning, in a fit of despair and utter stupidity, she’d composed a text to Callum: I’ve told Holly she can get me on my mobile if she needs to. If you happen to come to your senses while I’m gone please know it’s already too late. You’re stuck with Martha and her moustache.

She hadn’t actually sent the last two sentences, but it had given her a momentary satisfaction to see them there until she’d realized how pathetic they made her look. Although Martha really would have a moustache if she hadn’t shelled out for several sessions of electrolysis some years ago.

And she was definitely fat.

What are you talking about, Martha, you’re absolutely not fat. You’re curvaceous and sexy and totally scrumptious, which is what all men love – and honestly they don’t look at ankles.

What a wonderful best friend she’d been, always ready to stretch the truth to make Martha feel good about herself.

Callum had texted back: Are you going to tell me where you’re going? Are you all right?

She hadn’t replied to that, mainly because she wanted him to feel intrigued and worried and guilty and altogether sick of himself for breaking up their home and their family and taking their daughter with him.

‘I think it’s best if I go,’ Holly had sighed when Joely had gone into her room the day they’d left to ask her to stay. She’d seemed unfocused, earbuds in, suitcase half full, decisions in progress.

‘But why? This is your home. I’m your mother.’

Holly turned to regard her own lovely face in the mirror, innocent, almond shaped eyes, exquisitely wide sculpted mouth, silky blonde hair drawn over one shoulder. So much beauty and sophistication in one so young, except Joely wasn’t fooled. No matter how grown-up and worldly she looked, or liked to believe herself to be, at heart Holly was still a child.

‘Is that who you are?’ Holly asked, still gazing at her own reflection, not at her mother’s.

‘Holly, please …’

‘It’s best I’m with Dad.’

Joely wondered what she’d done to alienate her daughter, what had happened to the closeness they used to take for granted, the easy laughter, shared clothes and long-into-the-night confidences. These days she was almost impossible to get close to.

‘What can I do to make things right between us?’ Joely asked, unable to let her go like this.

‘You’re asking me? Why don’t you ask yourself?’ She could be so sharp at times. An over-privileged, over-beautiful teen who hadn’t yet learned how easy it was to hurt people. Maybe because she was hurting too.

‘Holly, that’s enough with the attitude,’ Callum interrupted, appearing in the doorway.

Throwing out her hands, Holly cried, ‘You’re treating me like I’m the one to blame around here, but it’s her. It’s like we’ve all stopped existing, we don’t matter any more!’

‘I said enough. Your mother loves you and she’s going to miss you, so try to be nice before we leave.’

Holly’s frown darkened as she muttered, ‘From you, that’s great, but whatever.’

Later, when Holly was outside in the car waiting to go, Joely used pride to suppress her tears as she looked at Callum, still not quite believing he would go through with this. They belonged together; surely he felt that as deeply as she did. They’d shared so much, had digital albums full of it, and what about all the dreams they had yet to see through? He was going to find out pretty soon that he was making a mistake. Martha wouldn’t rub his back when it ached the way Joely did. She’d balk at cutting his toenails, and hate the way he hawked and coughed like a stuck volcano in the mornings. She already didn’t share his love of France and fine wines – Martha liked Spain and beer. What sort of woman preferred beer? Not Callum’s sort, that was for sure.

Maybe she’d never known him.

‘Come on, Dad,’ Holly shouted from the car.

Finding his brown eyes waiting for hers to reach them Joely turned away. Too many rows had already bounced around the walls of their beautiful home, she didn’t want to be left with the echoes of yet another as he walked away.

He was now living at Martha’s Edwardian end-of-terrace in Ravenscourt Park, Hammersmith, where, over the years, Joely and Martha had spent hours, days, weeks, trying to work out why Martha had so much bad luck with men. Joely had always been there for her, turning up at a time of crisis with boxes of Kleenex, an overnight bag and a loyal friend’s shoulder. She brought wine and beer and vodka and all the support and advice she could muster.

She’d always known that Martha would die for someone like Callum. That was how Martha used to put it, that she’d die to have a man as successful and sensitive, as sensual and masculine as her best friend’s husband.

Now she’d taken not only him but Joely’s daughter as well. She’d given Holly the entire loft conversion as her own private space where Holly could hold sleepovers and take drugs. (To be fair, she hadn’t actually offered the option of drugs, nor had Holly ever shown any interest, but it could come and how was Martha going to cope with that?)

More to the point, how was she going to cope without a best friend to pour her heart out to, to bring booze and love and even laughter to a nightmare that couldn’t be borne alone?

The first call she’d received after the car had pulled away had been from Callum to check she was all right. He couldn’t have got much further than the end of the road. Then Holly had rung to say sorry for being so mean, probably because Callum had told her to, but at least she’d sounded as though she meant it. Minutes later Martha had rung, but Joely hadn’t picked up.

She’d stopped taking calls until the next morning when her mother had finally got hold of her.

She’d been standing in the kitchen staring at empty porridge bowls like a tragic, dumbstruck Goldilocks.

‘I had a text from Holly,’ her mother said gently, ‘so I know it’s happened. Are you OK? No, obviously you’re not. What did he have to say before he left?’

‘Nothing really.’

‘Do you want me to come over? I can stay for a few days, longer if you like.’

Tears had stung Joely’s eyes. Her mother was her real best friend and always had been, so why had she wasted her time with Martha? ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘We’ll only end up going round and round in circles and we’ve already done enough of that …’

‘But I don’t like to think of you on your own.’

‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’ She probably wouldn’t, since right at that moment she felt like topping herself, but her mother was a busy woman. Marianne Jenson might have retired from her job as the most glamorous and popular head teacher the local primary had known, but she was now a top part-time sales exec for an upmarket estate agent specializing in high-end properties, and with the way things were going in that world she was having to work extra hard.

Sighing, her mother had said, ‘I know it feels awful right now, but to be honest I really don’t think it’s over. He’ll come to his senses, I’m sure of it.’

How loyal and lovely of her to say that. It was the kind of thing you said as a parent who was also hurting, because how could you not hurt when your child was suffering?

‘And if he doesn’t?’ Joely asked crisply, unable to be kind. Was everyone destined to hurt their mothers? First Holly had hurt her and now here she was doing the same …

‘It’ll take time, but you’ll get over it,’ her mother said.

Such a platitude. It was outrageously insensitive and not what she’d have expected from her mother. ‘You mean the way you got over Dad?’ she shot back, and instantly regretted it, because her mother really hadn’t deserved that. ‘Sorry,’ she said, before her mother could respond.

‘Your father died; that was quite different.’

Yes, it had been different. No rejection there, just an awful, wrenching grief that he’d been taken from them too soon, and an emptiness where he’d been that never went away, sometimes seemed even bigger, and then so big … No one had told her that losing her father would be so destabilizing that it would change her in ways she didn’t even begin to understand, make her do things she could never excuse.

What she wouldn’t give now, sitting here on this train, to be on her way to her father, to know that he was probably already waiting at the station, an hour in advance, not wanting to miss her. He’d cry, ‘Ha! Ha!’ when he saw her and envelop her in an embrace that would shut out all the bad things and make her feel loved and safe and able to cope with anything as long as he was there.

Feeling the burn of self-pity in her eyes she blinked quickly to check her mobile as it rang. Seeing who it was, she felt the tug of a smile pulling her out of the gloom and clicked to answer right away.

‘Hey you. Mum tells me you’ve already set off for your secret assignation.’

Joely had to laugh. Her brother Jamie was as special to her as their father had been to them all. ‘You’re making it sound romantic,’ she chided.

‘You mean it isn’t?’

‘Nothing like. How are you?’

Affecting a southern Irish accent, he said, ‘We’re all great over here. Clare and kids send their love and we all want to know when you’re coming to see us.’

She’d always loved going to visit her brother in Dublin, Callum had too. ‘I’ll be there as soon as this job is over,’ she promised. ‘I feel in need of a you-fix.’

‘Same here. How are things with Callum, as of today?’

Steeling herself, she said, ‘We’re kind of speaking, but he’s definitely with her.’

Jamie sighed. ‘I can’t help thinking there’s something I’m missing in all this, because it’s not making any sense to me. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to have a chat with him?’

Joely’s eyes closed. He’d made the same offer several times now, and while in some ways she’d love her brother to be able to fix things, she knew it wasn’t fair to drag him into it. ‘You’re just like Dad,’ she told him, aware of the catch in her heart, ‘which is probably why we’re all so mad about you.’

‘Well, you know I’m always here for you, and don’t forget to stay in touch while you’re on this clandestine mission. Clare and I are dying to find out who you’re going to be working for. Mum says you haven’t even told her.’

That wasn’t strictly true, for she’d realized it would worry her mother terribly if she had no idea at all of where her daughter would be for the next few weeks so she’d divulged as much as she could. Clearly her mother was keeping her confidence, unless Jamie was trying a double bluff. It didn’t matter, she was more than happy for him to know what she’d told her mother.

After ending the call with more promises that they’d see one another soon she checked the text that had arrived while they were speaking. Though she wasn’t expecting it to be Callum or Holly, she couldn’t help the disappointment when she saw it was neither. However, it did manage to lift her spirits a little.

Hi, just checking your train’s on time and you’re still able to stay over tonight. Happy to take you wherever you need to go in the morning. Excited to see you and dying to hear more about the new job. Who’s the client? Axx

CHAPTER THREE

Now here was someone Joely would never have any trouble calling a friend. Standing at the station entrance searching the crowd as travellers streamed by, and looking every bit as gorgeous as Joely remembered her, was Andee Lawrence. Never mind that they hadn’t clapped eyes on each other for the best part of ten years, or that being opposite ends of the country meant they hadn’t been there for one another during many of the most critical times in their lives, the point was they’d never lost touch and Joely couldn’t imagine they ever would.

Smiling as though there wasn’t even the trace of an ache in her heart, she dropped her bags and walked straight into Andee’s embrace. God it was good to see her, better even than she’d expected.

‘You look amazing,’ they said in unison, and laughed and tried again, ‘It’s so good to see you.’

Reminded of how they’d often said the same things at the same time, they hugged again, delighting in the enjoyment of years melting away to free up the many memories along with the easy rapport that had brought them together in the first place.

‘I can’t tell you how happy I was when you said you were coming,’ Andee told her, grabbing the larger of Joely’s two bags. She was taller than Joely by a good two inches and everything about her was as effortless and captivating as it was calming. ‘You should be bottled and sold,’ Joely used to tell her back in the day when Andee had been a detective constable with the Met and Joely was making a name for herself as a crime reporter on a respectable paper. Police and print media didn’t usually work well together, and nor had Joely and Andee at the beginning, but it was during a harrowing search for a missing toddler that they’d found their instincts chiming in a way that not only led them into confiding in each other, but had resulted in the arrest of the abductor. Afterwards, they’d become friends, often meeting for drinks at the end of hard days, and frequently passing one another information to help solve a case for Andee and provide an exclusive for Joely.

‘The car’s out the back,’ Andee told her, pointing the way, ‘so not far. Are you OK? Did the journey seem endless?’

With an arched eyebrow, Joely said, ‘I managed to entertain myself and luckily they have lock-down on trains now, so no chance of hurling myself out of the window.’

Andee slanted her a look.

Joely slanted one back. ‘Joking,’ she assured her, and was abruptly almost blown off her feet by a savage gust as she stepped out of the station.

‘So do I get to meet Graeme while I’m here?’ she shouted through the hair plastered to her mouth, referring to Andee’s live-in partner.

‘Later,’ Andee shouted back, catching her scarf as it tried transforming itself into a noose. ‘He’s looking forward to meeting you, having heard so much about you.’

Grimacing, Joely decided not to ask for any detail on that in case it covered her personal chaos, and after hefting her small bag into the boot of Andee’s car she practically hurled herself into the safety and calm of the passenger seat. ‘Nice weather you’re having,’ she commented as Andee got in next to her.

Andee laughed and started the engine. ‘We ordered it in specially,’ she replied, ‘it was either that or a marching band.’

Loving how similar their humour was, Joely fastened her seat belt and settled into the luxurious leather surroundings as Andee drove them out of the car park.

‘I can’t believe this is your first time in Kesterly,’ Andee declared, ‘I know I’ve invited you …’

‘And I’ve always intended to come,’ Joely broke in hastily, ‘but you know what life’s like, it gets in the way and before you know it we’re in our forties, our marriages have broken up and our children have left home. Or have yours done the boomerang thing?’

Andee slowed to a stop at a traffic light and waved to someone she knew. ‘Luke’s in Africa saving endangered species,’ she answered, referring to her son, ‘and Alayna’s landed a job with the Royal Court in London, although it’s getting off to a tricky start. Can you believe they’re twenty-four and twenty-two already?’

Marvelling at how fast time had flown them through the years, Joely said, ‘That’s what you get for having them so young.’ She recalled the teenagers she used to know, great kids, easy-going, uncomplicated, loving towards their mother – or certainly they had been then. ‘It’s good to hear they’re doing so well,’ she said, meaning it. She hadn’t forgotten how hard it had been for them, Andee too, when their father had taken off to go and pursue the call of a midlife crisis. It was the abandonment that had persuaded Andee to leave London and join Kesterly CID so her parents, and Martin’s, who all lived locally, could help out with the children.

‘So no longer a detective?’ she commented, turning to watch a homeless woman trying to keep hold of her junk-filled pram.

Andee inched the car forward and let out a groan as the lights returned to red before they could get through. ‘I’m not sure I was ever really cut out for it,’ she admitted, frankly, ‘and then one day I ran into a child murder too many. It affected me badly, they always did, but it got worse with each one, so in the end I decided for the sake of my sanity, and my family, I needed to change my life.’

Having no trouble understanding that, Joely regarded her fondly as she said, ‘So do you miss it?’

‘Not as much as I expected to, although in some ways you might think I’d never given it up, because I keep getting involved in cases, locally, that the police don’t have the resources for.’ She smiled and grimaced. ‘My children think I should set up as a private investigator, but I don’t see myself doing that. I’m quite happy working as an interior designer, which is mostly what I do now, and using my contacts to help those who can’t help themselves when they need it.’

Joely smiled. ‘You always were a thoroughly good person,’ she told her.

Andee laughed. ‘Glad to know the illusion is working. Now tell me about you and—’

‘Hang on, I haven’t finished. I want to know what happened when Martin got over himself and came back. You told me in an email a while ago that you’d married him, but you’re not with him now so I guess he flunked his second chance?’

Andee’s smile was wry. ‘I’m not sure I’d put it like that. He really wanted to make it work, and I guess I did too, but I’m afraid marrying him turned out to be a mistake. I’d already met Graeme by then and although I ended it between us when Martin asked me to give things another go for the children’s sake, the feelings for Graeme didn’t go away. So we came to a point when I had to tell Martin I was sorry, that I’d always love him just not in the way he wanted me to.’

Flinching, Joely imagined Callum saying the same to her. He hadn’t in so many words, but from the way he was behaving he might as well have. ‘So how did he take it?’ she asked. ‘I can’t help remembering how gorgeous he was … A shit, obviously, for doing what he did, but I’m guessing he wasn’t used to being dumped. I bet it hit him hard.’

Andee didn’t deny it.

Unable to resist feeling sorry for him, Joely said, ‘It sounds like you’re still in touch.’

‘We are. In fact, we’re quite good friends, and he and Graeme often work together. You know Graeme’s into property development, and Martin’s taken over his father’s construction business. Actually,’ she said brightening as they finally cleared the lights to head out onto the Promenade, ‘he met someone lovely about six months ago and I think it could be serious.’

Joely gave a groan. ‘Why doesn’t that cheer me up?’ she grumbled. ‘I should be happy for him, for everyone who’s happy, but I find it only gets on my nerves.’

Andee cast her a glance and they both laughed.

Sighing, Joely gazed out at the bare trees lining the boulevard and the dismal spread of the sea beyond. ‘God it’s horrible, isn’t it?’ she murmured, quickly adding, ‘I mean being dumped, not this lovely seaside town that clearly has so much going for it.’

Andee’s eyes shone with humour. ‘You’re not seeing it at its best,’ she responded, ‘but I doubt it would ever be top of anyone’s list for a romantic getaway or dream vacation.’

‘But you like it here?’

Andee nodded. ‘I’m used to it; Graeme’s here, so’s my mother – my father died, did I tell you that?’

‘You did and I sent a card, but I don’t expect you to remember. It was a difficult time for you all.’

‘Actually, I do remember, and you’re right about how hard it was. And now you’re going through it. How are you coping?’

Joely swallowed. ‘I could lie and say fine, but I still miss him all the time. It’s hard to believe more than a year has gone by since Dad went; sometimes it only feels like days. I kind of lost the plot for a while, I got angry and confused and frightened … I did things …’ She stopped, took a breath and pressed on. ‘It was like I was back to being a child. I even seemed to forget how hard it was for Mum and Jamie.’

‘I think we all become a bit insular when we lose someone we love. How are your mum and Jamie now?’

‘They don’t seem too bad, considering how devastated they were at the time. I know Mum hides it a lot, but it hasn’t stopped her from getting back out there. She plays tennis three times a week, runs most mornings, regularly comes to the gym and yoga with me. She also has a job selling houses and a social life that puts mine to shame. No men. She says she’s not interested in meeting anyone else, but I guess we’ll see.’

‘If she’s still as gorgeous as I remember, I can’t imagine she’ll be on her own for long.’

Joely smiled. ‘She takes good care of herself, it’s true, and she still looks at least fifteen years younger than she is. How about your mum? How’s she these days?’

Andee sighed. ‘Not too bad. She’s had a few health issues lately, but she’s in Majorca with Martin’s mother at the moment, otherwise I know she’d love to see you.’

Joely looked around at the wider and clearly wealthier streets they were passing through. ‘I’m guessing this is Kesterly’s answer to Holland Park or Knightsbridge,’ she commented drily.

Andee laughed. ‘It has a long way to go before it can boast that sort of status,’ she replied. ‘It’s called the Garden District, and along here,’ she added taking another left turn, ‘is where you’re going to be staying.’

Joely gazed admiringly – and sadly – at the elegant Regency houses they were passing, tall and white with smartly painted front doors and grandiose eaves. They weren’t so dissimilar to her own house, the one she and Callum had bought and renovated during the years before Holly was born – and ever since. They were always doing something to it. She wondered about the people living here, behind those benign and beautiful facades, and hoped that none of them was feeling as wretched at the core as she was.

‘Here we are,’ Andee declared, pulling into a resident’s bay outside the final house. It was double-fronted, with a black front door between tall sash windows and a private garage to the left that separated it from the elaborate entrance to the Botanical Gardens.

Inside, the house turned out to be every bit as welcoming and tastefully decorated as Joely had expected, given Andee’s new career, and she couldn’t help but feel a little prideful when she discovered that she’d chosen the same wallpaper for her kitchen in Notting Hill as Andee had for hers here in Kesterly. The only difference was the colour – hers being teal green, Andee’s a silvery blue.

‘This is a beautiful room,’ she declared, looking across the large centre island to three sets of double doors in the back wall that opened out to a small courtyard garden. ‘Did you knock it through like this to include a sitting room, or was it already done when you moved in?’

‘We did it last year,’ Andee replied, signalling for Joely to take off her coat. ‘We spend so much time in the kitchen that we decided to make it more comfortable. Now, if you go and sit by the fire – it looks like it’s still going – I’ll make some tea, or would you rather see your room first and freshen up a bit?’

‘What I’d really love,’ Joely confessed, sinking into a sumptuous raw silk sofa beside the hearth, ‘is a great big glass of wine.’ She pulled a face. ‘Is it too early?’

Andee’s eyes sparkled. ‘Red or white?’

‘Whatever’s open.’

After hanging the coats in a hall cupboard, Andee took a bottle of French Merlot from a well-stocked rack, uncorked it and filled two glasses.

‘Heaven,’ Joely declared, taking a first sip and feeling the wine’s warmth and flavours running through her like liquid comfort. She looked up and finding Andee watching her a surge of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. ‘God it’s good to see you,’ she said, ‘I think I feel better already.’

Andee smiled. ‘It’s good to see you too.’ Putting her glass on the coffee table, she threw more logs onto the fire and folded her long legs under her as she settled into the opposite sofa. ‘So where do you want to start?’ she asked gently.

Joely’s eyes widened, feigning surprise, but then they wandered to the flames as she shook her head. ‘Not with them,’ she replied, trying not to see Callum and Martha in her mind’s eye. ‘I told you the worst of it on the phone, and going over it won’t change anything. I’m so glad to be away for a while. Except it travels with you, that sort of thing, doesn’t it? I guess it’s just good to know that he won’t be dropping in whenever he feels like it.’

‘Does he do that a lot?’

‘Less now – and goddamn him, I’m starting to miss it.’ She sighed and took another sip of wine. ‘He came yesterday, actually. I told him I’m going to change the locks and I think I should.’

Andee sat quietly watching her, and Joely felt her cheeks start to glow in the warmth of the fire. She couldn’t put into words how much she missed Callum, how wrong this break-up felt, but she was sure being left never felt right for the person it had happened to. And it would serve no purpose to talk about it, other than to keep him there in her mind, and what was the good of that?

In the end, clearly picking up on Joely’s thoughts, Andee steered them away from the subject, and said, ‘You asked if I miss being a detective. Now it’s my turn to ask if you miss being a journalist?’

Joely’s eyebrows arched as she looked down at her wine. Everything always came back to Callum, for he’d been a journalist too. Still was, in fact, although he was the co-owner these days of a highly regarded independent production company. However, he’d been a reporter once, on a paper, like her. ‘Not really,’ she replied, mentally shaking herself. ‘The job changed and not in good ways. Everything happens online now, almost no human interaction, and the paper’s new owner is much more interested in snappy celebrity chitchat or scandal than in-depth investigative reports.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I’m not into soaps, I’m afraid, and as for delving about in social media looking for stories … It wasn’t what I wanted to do.’

‘So you became a ghostwriter and you already have quite a few successes under your belt. Sportsmen, a celebrity cook, a national treasure, and now this intriguing new project.’

Enjoying the prompt, Joely stretched out her legs and let her head sink against the side wing of the sofa. It was so cosy here, felt so like home that she already wished she was staying longer. ‘And now you’re going to ask me who it is,’ she smiled.

Andee waited, her eyes filled with teasing expectation.

Joely said, ‘Please tell me you’ve heard of F.M. Donahoe.’

Andee looked impressed. ‘The writer? I have to admit I haven’t read much of his work, but there was a TV adaptation of one, wasn’t there? I remember finding that, dare I say easier than the book?’

Joely had to laugh. ‘I agree, the books are definitely cultist – and actually he’s a she, but don’t worry I wasn’t sure myself until her publisher called to sound me out about the job.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘Turns out her name is Freda, she’s a very private person and she lives just outside of Lynton and Lynmouth, so not a million miles from here. It’s actually one of the reasons I took the job, knowing it would give me the chance to see you, but I have to confess I’m curious to find out why Ms Donahoe wants a ghostwriter, given that she’s never used one before. It could be what she’s really after is some help with research. We’ll see.’

‘So is it another novel? A biography, maybe?’

‘Her publisher, Sully – Sullivan Thorpe – says she wants to write a memoir focusing on a certain period of her life. I don’t know any more than that at the moment, although it seems her aim is to right a wrong, set the record straight, reveal the truth about something that happened when she was younger. She’s invited me to stay at the house, which, to quote Sully, is amazing – better not give him a job as an estate agent – and I’ll have the use of a car, which is why I came by train.’

‘So how long will you be there?’

‘About a month, Sully thinks, maybe longer depending on how many hours my client wants to work in a day. I’m not sure how old she is, Sully isn’t certain either, but somewhere in her sixties, possibly seventy. There’s surprisingly little about her personal life online. I had to dig pretty deep for an entry that gives her full name and confirms she’s female.’

‘Any idea why she’s so reclusive?’

‘Sully thinks it’s probably all tied up in the tragedies she’s experienced in her life – nothing about that online either, or not that I’ve found so far. However, he says I’m not to worry about her being morbid or frail or deaf or bitter or any kind of weird. He says she’s very sociable when she wants to be, quite eccentric, and she always gives the impression of enjoying having company when he goes there, so he sees no reason why it would be any different for me.’

‘Does she live alone?’

‘Yes, but she has a housekeeper who goes in most days and a handyman who keeps an eye on things and drives her if she wants to go anywhere. She offered to send him to the station to pick me up, but I said I’d find my own way there.’

Andee sat forward to top up their glasses.

‘Do you know Lynton and Lynmouth?’ Joely asked, swallowing a yawn. ‘Aren’t they twinned in some way?’

‘They’re on the coastal edge of the moor,’ Andee replied, ‘Lynton, which is more of a town, is at the top of the cliff, and Lynmouth, which has the harbour and beach, is at the bottom. There’s a funicular – a kind of Victorian railway carriage – that runs up and down the rock face to connect them. My kids used to think it was better than a fairground ride when they were small.’

Joely smiled. ‘Sounds quaint. Actually, from what I’ve read about it, the whole place sounds lovely, although I wish I was going at a different time of year. I imagine deep winter can get quite savage thrashing itself out between the sea and the moor.’

‘I won’t deny it,’ Andee replied. ‘But don’t worry, if there’s a storm, or the funicular isn’t running for some reason, there’s a road that connects the two. It’s steep and winding, and you can even walk it, but personally I’d only do it going down.’

‘And if it snows I guess the whole place gets cut off?’

‘Almost certainly, but they’re used to it and they keep up with the forecasts to make sure they have what they need.’

Joely pulled an awkward face. ‘Are you sure about driving me over? I think it’s quite a bit further than I realized, I mean across the whole of Exmoor – which is pretty wild from all I’ve read.’

Amused, Andee said, ‘There are roads these days with white lines down the middle and helpful signposts to tell you where you’re going. And truly, I don’t mind. It’ll give us more time to chat. Now, unless I’m mistaken, that sounds like Graeme coming in.’

As they got to their feet the hall door opened and a tall, distinguished-looking man with silvery, dark hair and a close-shaved beard broke into a welcoming smile as he came through. ‘You must be Joely,’ he declared, coming to take Joely’s hands in his. ‘I’ve been hearing so much about you I feel I already know you.’

Not a bit surprised that Andee’s partner was so attractive and charming, Joely treated him to a playful scowl. ‘Whatever my friend here has told you,’ she said, ‘it’s probably all true, so if you’d like me to leave now …’

Laughing, he pressed a kiss to Andee’s forehead and pointing to the wine said, ‘Is there enough for me, or shall I open another?’

Going to fetch a glass while he took off his coat, Andee passed it to Joely to fill and reached for a second bottle. ‘I thought I’d cook dinner,’ she told him as she picked up the corkscrew, ‘it’ll save us going out in this weather.’

‘Great idea,’ he agreed, circling around her to go and wash his hands at the sink. ‘Are we still vegetarian, or have we gone vegan now?’

Andee said to Joely, ‘We’re cutting back on meat, so I hope you’re OK with aubergine and sweet potato curry.’

‘Sounds scrummy,’ Joely responded, meaning it. She and Callum had given up meat altogether last spring, but she expected he was back on it now, with Martha being a carnivore.

She wondered if Holly had taken it up again too, and felt suddenly so sad that it was a moment before she realized Graeme was toasting her. She smiled and tapped her glass to his. ‘Thanks for letting me stay,’ she said. ‘You have a lovely home.’

‘Mostly thanks to Andee,’ he assured her, and gestured for her to sit down again as he took Andee’s spot opposite. ‘So the mystery assignment …’

‘It’s F.M. Donahoe,’ Andee told him, filling small plates with quails eggs and stuffed cherry tomatoes for them to snack on. ‘And in case you didn’t already know, she’s a woman.’

Graeme looked surprised. ‘I’d always assumed it was a man,’ he admitted. ‘Have you read the books?’

‘I’ve been working through the “Moths” as they’re known, these past few weeks,’ Joely replied.

Graeme frowned. ‘Moths?’

‘It’s what the literary world calls her best-known novels, because they focus on nonentities who lived, loved, worked, schemed around the great luminaries of history. Moths to candles. They’re pretty heavy going, but once you’re into them the drama and unusual slants on well-known stories can be quite gripping.’

Graeme nodded thoughtfully. ‘Have you met her yet?’

Joely shook her head. ‘To be honest, I’m slightly nervous about it, though don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s because I’ve never met a recluse before.’

Irony shone in his eyes and she laughed.

‘OK, I get that’s the point with recluses.’

‘She wants Joely’s help to pull together a memoir,’ Andee said, carrying a loaded tray to the table, ‘and we’re guessing that it might throw light on the tragedies plural,’ she glanced to Joely for confirmation and, receiving it, continued, ‘she’s experienced in her life. Whatever, she’s planning to right some sort of wrong, presumably by telling the real story of something that happened?’ Again Joely nodded, enjoying having her task outlined with more clarity than she’d managed herself so far. ‘And maybe,’ Andee said, ‘we can assume it’ll be sensational in some way, or what would be the point of it?’

As intrigued by that as if she’d not already thought of it herself, Joely said, ‘So will it involve someone famous? Or retell an event that everyone believes happened one way, but in fact there was some awful government cover-up to make it look like something else?’

Graeme said, ‘There was a disastrous flood in 1952 that devastated Lynmouth and killed over thirty people.’

Andee regarded him curiously.

He shrugged. ‘I’m only saying, if there’s going to be a retelling of a big event, could that be it?’ Realizing he was losing his audience he said, ‘OK, maybe there was a major extra-terrestrial incident that’s been passed off as some kind of special forces activity?’

Andee said, ‘And F.M. Donahoe knows about it because …?’

‘Well how do I know? I’ve never met the woman and I know absolutely nothing about her life or her tragedies. I thought we were searching for ideas.’

Laughing, Joely said, ‘I think it’s safe to assume that her own experiences and what she knows, or at least believes, to be true will be paramount to the memoir. And as we know, tragedies have a way of reshaping our lives, so writing a memoir can often be about revisiting past traumas to try and exorcise them.’

Andee looked faintly alarmed.

‘Bad choice of word,’ Joely smiled, ‘but you know what I mean. Although I have to say, Graeme, I like your theory of UFOs if only because it’s not something I’d thought of myself. Is there a lot of that sort of activity around the moor?’

‘Depends who you talk to,’ he replied drolly.

Joely’s smile faded as her phone buzzed with a text. She knew it wouldn’t be from Callum – and if it was she needed to tell him to stop contacting her.

It turned out to be … she froze in furious astonishment. It was Martha the meat-eater wanting to know if she could share any details of her mystery assignment yet.

As if she’d share them with bloody Martha.

‘Is everything all right?’ Andee asked curiously.

Joely put away her phone. ‘The minor-role actress, aka my ex-best friend, seems to think she still has the part,’ she replied smoothly. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Graeme, ‘nothing worse than a bitter female. Now, enough about me and my next job, let’s talk about you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Have I already told you that I call my parents the weekend hippies? It always makes them laugh; I think it’s a label they’re quite proud of. They’re very easy-going and probably over-indulgent where I’m concerned, but they work hard during the week at jobs that call for a lot of discipline, so they make it a rule for us all to let our hair down at weekends. I’m not allowed to be at most of their parties, it’s all too grown-up for me, they say, but I’m usually in the house so I know what’s going on. They smoke a lot of weed and trip out on acid, and everyone seems happy and in love so they take off their clothes and have orgies.

They are surprised and thrilled when I tell them I want to learn the piano. I haven’t shown any interest in it before, but that doesn’t matter; all that does is the satisfaction of knowing I’m happy at school and focused on doing well even in subjects I’ve shown little aptitude for in the past. They are keen for me to explore every avenue that’s open to me, and aren’t at all judgemental or disappointed when things don’t turn out so well. We know already that I’m never going to be an athlete, or a scientist, I probably won’t make much of a pianist either, but they consider it a wonderful skill to have even if I’m not going to be the next Clara Schumann. Everyone agrees with that – it was discussed amongst their guests during the weekend I broached the subject – and before I returned to school on the Sunday evening many piano recitals were played on the new stereomaster that Daddy bought for Mummy’s birthday. It looks like a small sideboard and has taken the place of Grandma’s old writing desk in the niche to one side of the marble fireplace.

The question of who is to teach me was never in doubt. My parents have met Sir on visits to the school and were as charmed by him as they are by anyone who has kind things to say about their daughter. (I don’t think Sir ever utters a bad word about anyone, it’s not in his nature, but his praise for me is fulsome enough for my parents to feel certain he’ll do a magnificent job of bringing out any hidden talent I might have.)

‘Have you got a crush on him?’ Mummy asked when she came into my room to help me pack for the return to school. She’s lovely and willowy, eyes deep, dark pools of dreaminess, wide lips always slanting towards a smile. ‘I know I would have if I were you,’ she confides with a laugh that seems to float on her perfumed breath.

I tell her I might have if he weren’t so old and she laughs again. ‘He can’t even be thirty yet,’ she gently scolds. I don’t tell her he’s twenty-five because I see no reason to. She comes to clasp my face between her delicate hands and gazes into my eyes. Her own aren’t fully focused, which tells me she’s stoned, but I’m used to her being that way and usually love her even more when she is. ‘Do you think we should invite him to one of our weekend parties?’ she whispers mischievously. ‘Would you like that?’

Knowing I’d rather keep him to myself than share him with my parents’ promiscuous friends, I say, ‘The taxi should be here any minute.’

She laughs and hugs me close. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, my darling, probably more beautiful than you know, but you will, soon and when you do you’ll begin to understand how powerful you are. Don’t squander that power, use it wisely and you’ll make all your dreams come true.’

During the journey back to school I sit staring at the passing countryside, thinking over her words, and trying to understand what they really mean. Was there something tucked away in between them that I’m not clever enough to catch? We’ve had plenty of chats about intimate things, in fact, thanks to their parties, I know quite a lot about sex without ever having experienced it. I’ve even been invited to join in on occasion, but Daddy is having none of that.

‘This is for the grown-ups,’ he tells me, sending me back to bed, ‘and you’re not there yet, my angel.’

‘Your first time,’ Mummy sometimes says when we’re lying together on her bed chilling out to Cream or Hendrix or The Doors, ‘has to be special and with someone who matters to you and cares about the way he takes your most precious gift.’

‘Did Daddy take yours?’ I ask.

She smiles and stretches like a cat. ‘Yes, my darling, he did and we both treasure that truth, that memory almost as much as we treasure you.’

There’s so much to think about on my return journey, much of which I don’t really understand even though I think I do.

Now here I am in the music room with Sir having my first private lesson. School has finished for the day so everyone else is either in the dorms or at their own after-hours activity leaving this wing of the main block quite quiet. Sir is sitting beside me at the piano showing me how to find middle C and explaining its importance. His voice is soft and low, and I wonder if he knows the real reason I’ve asked for these lessons.

I listen closely to what he’s telling me, catching the words in a web of understanding that is uncomplicated and complex at the same time. I ask questions such as ‘Is middle C always played with the right thumb,’ and ‘Why does the scale begin with C and not A?’

He smiles at that and says, ‘I’ve never tried to find out the reasoning behind the keyboard being set up the way it is, but I can tell you it was invented by an Italian, Bartolomeo Cristofori in the sixteen hundreds.’

‘Bartolomeo Cristofori,’ I echo in a whispery attempt at an accent, and as my eyes go to his a smile remains on his lips even though he blushes and looks away.

I’m not sure why he blushes, but I think I do too.

He puts a sheet of music on the stand in front of me and points out middle C so that I can see how it appears between the five lines. I look at his hand, his long fingers and short, clean nails. I follow it as he reaches across me to begin playing a scale, his hand cupping as though, he explains, he is holding a ball. I can feel his chest close to my arm, his breath on my hair. My heart is beating hard, and I wonder if he can hear it over the notes he’s playing. On E he tucks his thumb under his fingers to reach F, and on the way he back he crosses his middle finger over his thumb at the same place to end smoothly back on C. It’s simple and almost tuneless, and yet this is the foundation, the start of everything he is going to teach me.

He encourages me to play the scale myself, and a hint of humour comes into his voice as he tells me to relax my thumb. I press the keys awkwardly at first, but then experience a childlike pleasure as I travel steadily through the eight notes and back again.

I hope he’s pleased by my dexterity. As I look at him to check the door opens and Mrs Green, the new English teacher comes in. She asks if she can have a word with him out in the corridor, so he tells me to practise the scale again until he comes back.

I’m not worried that there might be something going on between them because Mrs Green is at least as old as my grandma and has a hairy wart on her chin. And she’s married, although that probably wouldn’t count for anything if she were young and attractive.

I think about asking Sir if he’s married, but I know I won’t. Mandy Gibbons is sure he has a girlfriend, but I think she’s making it up, because how would she know?

I play the C major scale again, slowly at first, bringing flexibility into my fingers and thumb, then I go faster and faster making my fingers fly over the keys like a practised musician. When I stop abruptly the notes take a moment to fade into silence, which isn’t silence at all, because many sounds are drifting in through the open windows. A netball game in the distance, a car driving away, girls laughing, footsteps, a radio playing ‘Hurdy Gurdy Man’. I can smell the grass, fresh and sweet, and feel the penetrating gaze of classical composers watching me from the walls of the room. Mozart appearing pleased with himself; Beethoven looking slightly mad; Vivaldi a bit female; Debussy handsome and not unlike Sir.

I wonder what’s taking so long, but then the door opens and he comes back apologizing and making a joke that I don’t really understand, but I laugh because he does.

He returns to the chair that’s next to my stool and I play the scale again, quickly and fluidly as though I’ve known it all along.

‘You’re a natural,’ he tells me and we laugh again.

I want to touch him, and at the same time I’m terrified that he might touch me. If he does I shall start to shake and the sensations throbbing like bass notes at the join of my thighs will explode.

‘Will you play?’ I ask him.

He looks surprised.

‘I don’t mean scales, I mean something by one of them.’ I wave towards the long-dead men in the posters.

‘But how are you going to learn if I do the playing?’ he asks lightly.

I can’t tell him that I want to watch his hands moving over the keys, his body swaying and his eyes closing as the music transports him to a place of pleasure. I don’t even know how to put it into words, but it’s what I want.

When I look at him he seems confused, but there’s more. I catch the slight tremble of his lower lip as he traps it between his teeth. A kind of energy flows between us like music, gentle chords and scales that only we can feel or hear. I think he’s reading my mind, I can sense the thoughts going to him reaching him like a song.

He knows why I’ve asked for this private tuition. We both do.

His eyes drop to my mouth and I think he’s going to kiss me.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he asks quietly.

I know he could mean the lessons, but he doesn’t.

My voice catches like a quaver on a whisper as I say, ‘Yes.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Exmoor was proving every bit as bleak and dramatic as Joely had expected, flowing and stretching its uncompromising landscape to each horizon with the sea crashing onto the cliffs to one side and stark acres of bracken and gorse giving way to cultivated fields and feeding livestock the other. The road they were travelling was a long, winding ribbon of grey threading through mile after mile of steep inclines, twisting bends, dense forests and seeming for a while to have no end.

Andee slowed as they passed a handful of red deer grazing a nearby bank, every one of them appearing oblivious to the moving vehicle only feet away. Joely relished being this close to wildlife, taking in the stags’ antlers curling imperiously from slender handsome heads, and the females’ sleek bodies, smooth and lush and lithe.

Minutes later they stopped for an Exmoor pony to amble across the road to join the rest of the herd, and around the next bend there were sheep with horns curling out of their heads like fancy hairdos.

They passed signs to places with quaintly intriguing names such as Dunkery Beacon, and Lorna Doone Farm Shop. They glimpsed old villages, drove through fast-gushing fords and all the time Joely drank in the austerity of the wintry landscape as chill as the empty sky, as forlorn as the abandoned picnic tables and lookout spots.

‘It’s eerie,’ she decided, ‘but beautiful and compelling and kind of otherworldly.’ She considered this a moment and added, ‘I don’t have to ask if it’s haunted, I can already feel it.’

Andee smiled.

Joely turned to her. ‘What am I going to do if Freda Donahoe’s place is full of friends from the other side? Who might not actually be friends?’

Andee had to laugh.

‘You might think it’s funny,’ Joely retorted, ‘but me and ghosts, we’re in the same place as me and Martha the man-stealer. I don’t want them anywhere near me, and any attempt to speak to me … Well, it won’t end well, I can tell you that.’

Andee laughed again. ‘Given your occupation, I’d have thought you’d have an affinity with them.’

Joely threw her a look. ‘Ha, ha,’ she responded, smiling in spite of herself.

‘Well, if Dimmett House does turn out to be haunted,’ Andee said, steering around a sweeping bend that ended with a breathtaking view of the Bristol channel, ‘and I’m sure it won’t, you can always say you want to stay in a hotel. There are several places in both Lynton and Lynmouth.’

‘Which might be haunted too,’ Joely mumbled, absorbing the magnificent vista ahead where bold cascades of sunlight were streaming through dark, dense cloud into the sea. ‘It must be wonderful here in summer,’ she stated, although this was pretty spectacular too.

‘It is,’ Andee assured her, ‘and if you’re still around by then, who knows, it might be because you’ve met your very own John Ridd.’

Joely wrinkled her nose. ‘Who? Oh, you mean from Lorna Doone. I’m not sure I can remember the story, and I missed the TV series. Does it have a happy end?’

‘Eventually.’

Joely’s heart tightened as the flippant talk of romance pulled her back to the very place she was trying to escape. Cal had texted this morning to have another go at being friendly in much the way Martha had last night, Don’t forget to let us know about your assignment, and wherever you are, take care of yourself. She had no idea whether the ‘us’ referred to him and Martha, or him and Holly, perhaps it was all three. What she did know was that it had cut deeply into the sadness she was feeling, and ludicrously, she’d felt she really didn’t want to take care of herself at all.

Childish and attention-seeking, she’d scolded herself, and knowing she could do better she’d composed a message back to them both saying, Leave Me Alone.

And she’d sent it!

It had felt good at the time, but it didn’t feel all that great now.

What felt better was the message she’d received from Holly shortly after midnight saying, Good luck tomorrow.

She’d stared at the words for a long time, pretending to herself that Callum hadn’t talked their daughter into sending them.

She wondered if it might be easier if he was being mean to her, or carrying on as if she’d stopped existing.

‘Distraction,’ she announced, as they began the descent from the moor. ‘That’s another very good reason for taking this job. I can throw myself into work for the next few weeks and by the time I look up again who knows where we might be?’

A few minutes later as both Lynton and Lynmouth came into view, seeming almost too much too soon, Joely said, ‘OK, you need to slow down, because this is seriously lovely.’

With a smile Andee did as she was told, giving them as long as she could for their northerly approach from the moor to take in the small sprawl of a town at the top of the cliff, and the seaside village at the bottom. For the moment Joely was fixed on Lynmouth where the tide was lapping over two rocky beaches that fanned out like skate wings from the river at their centre making its way through to the sea. There was a small scoop of a harbour, with grey stone sea walls surrounding it, a Rhenish tower and a handful of single mast boats moored in the mud. A long, thatched terrace of white cottages, a pub, a café and shops slanted up an incline alongside the harbour, and the rest of the shore village curved around the seafront like a protective arm.

After crossing the West Lyn river, Andee steered the car to the left to begin a steep and winding drive up over the cliff, home to hotels, B&Bs and guest houses, to the high perched town of Lynton. Joely felt herself smiling as they meandered along the main street taking in the olde worlde charm and narrow streets that tumbled away to one side as if pulled in by the moor, while on the other more hotels and guest houses towered over the village and sea below.

‘We’re going to need further directions soon,’ Andee said as they drove out the other side of town where green fields jostled for space in the rough and undulating moorland.

Calling up Sully’s email on her phone, Joely looked around again as the satnav instructed them to keep going straight and her eyes grew round as they entered what could only be the Valley of Rocks. ‘Wow,’ she murmured as they moved slowly through a lunar-like landscape where vast tors of jagged stone patched with grass and lichen soared skywards on one side, and dry, bristled slopes of flinty terrain rose majestically on the other.

‘The largest rock there,’ Andee said, pointing to the right, ‘is known as Castle Rock, and the one over there, to the left, is Devil’s Cheese Rock. Legend has it, if you walk around it a certain number of times, probably under a full moon, Satan will appear.’

Deciding she probably wouldn’t be giving that a whirl any time soon, Joely returned to Sully’s directions. ‘OK, we need to follow the road all the way through the Valley of Rocks to … Oh my God, are they goats? Yes, they’re goats. They’re so sweet.’

‘They live here,’ Andee told her, steering around a handful of the small, feral beasts that had broken off from the main gang.

After taking in more of the scenery, Joely continued with the directions. ‘OK, there’s a small track at the end of the valley that eventually leads to a spiritual retreat. We’re to take that, but about twenty metres in we’ll see another track to the left that we should follow all the way along the ridge to the next vale.’

Soon after passing the spiritual retreat in its haven of natural beauty they began a gentle descent from the next hilltop into an enclave of clifftop moor where black-faced sheep were grazing the sloping fields on one side and immense tors clustered like giants to block the sea on the other. Between the opposing swells of nature was a sprawling green meadow rich with tall grass and that appeared at the furthest point to dip down to a cove.

As they drove slowly on they finally realized that down to their right, tucked securely against the protective wall of rocks was a house where it seemed no house should be.

‘Wow,’ Joely murmured again, taking in the pale-coloured limestone exterior with three storeys of tall shuttered windows facing out over the meadow, and a bold, square tower at the far end with a grey slate conical roof. In spring the entire facade would be covered in wisteria, now there was only the climbing ramble of naked branches not at all ready to flower. On the ground level of the tower was a patio with large stone pillars holding up another grey slate roof, and all along the front of the property were clusters of rich green foliage belonging to rhododendrons and camellias.

‘OK, this is awesome,’ Joely stated as the road curved around allowing them a fuller front view of the house.

‘It certainly is,’ Andee responded, and pressing gently on the accelerator she made a 180 degree turn into the drive that ran parallel to the meadow’s edge. They came to a stop in a large space next to the house where an old red Jeep was parked in front of a row of garages.

As Joely looked at the black front door at the side of the house she felt a flutter of nervous anticipation come to life inside her. ‘How far are we from town?’ she asked, as Andee began turning the car around to face back down the drive.

‘Not much more than a mile,’ Andee replied, stopping when they, like all the windows at the front of the house, were gazing out towards the dramatic rise and fall of the cliffs that stretched out along the coast beyond the meadow. The sea was enchantingly visible thanks to a large V in the rugged landscape, while the tors protecting the house from fierce southwesterly winds hugged up closely behind it and into the far side of the tower.

‘So it’s walkable,’ Joely stated. ‘That’s good.’ She was looking now at the random arrangement of garden beds framed by small rocks and filled with succulents, heather, faded hydrangeas, daffs, snowdrops, hellebores and even palm trees.

‘You have to wonder what it’s like inside,’ Andee commented. ‘If it’s as well tended as the exterior.’

Joely turned to her. ‘I wish I could invite you in …’

‘It’s OK, I understand that she doesn’t want visitors.’

Joely glanced over to the front door again surprised that no one had come out to meet them. Or maybe her host was waiting for the uninvited guest to leave before welcoming the one she was expecting. ‘I’ll take photos if I can,’ she said, ‘and maybe when I’ve got to know her I’ll be able to invite you for tea.’

Andee smiled. ‘Do you want me to help you carry your things to the door?’

‘It’s OK, I can manage,’ Joely assured her, mindful of a meeting Andee had to get back for.

After taking her bags from the boot she hugged Andee warmly and walked back to the driver’s side with her. ‘Thanks for bringing me,’ she smiled, ‘and for all the moral support.’

‘It’s always yours,’ Andee assured her. ‘Stay in touch, won’t you?’

‘Are you kidding? Of course. If you’re free, let’s make a tentative arrangement to have lunch next Saturday. We can call or email to confirm when I’ve got a clearer picture of what my schedule’s going to be.’

‘It’s a deal!’ Hugging her again, Andee slid into the car and started back down the drive.

As Joely watched her turn at the end to start along the track towards the Valley of Rocks she gave her a wave and only then realized it might have been a good idea to establish that someone was actually at home before she’d let Andee go.

To her astonishment there wasn’t.

She could hardly believe it, but the white envelope in plastic wrapping that she found attached to the panel of the doorbell with her name handwritten on the front, told her it was true.

My dear Joely,

Please forgive me for not being here to greet you, but I’ve been called away unexpectedly and I was unable to get hold of you on the phone. I expect you were crossing the moor where there’s little if any mobile reception.

Don’t worry, I shall be back tomorrow –

Tomorrow!

– and I’ve left a key under the pot to your right so you can let yourself in. Please make yourself at home. You’ll find more helpful instructions in the kitchen, which is at the far end of the house on the ground floor of the tower. You simply follow the corridor from the entrance hall all the way through to the last door which is facing you. There is plenty to eat courtesy of my housekeeper Brenda Bambridge, who you’ll meet in due course.

I am very much looking forward to working with you.

Freda M. Donahoe

Not at all sure how she felt about this, apart from distinctly weird, Joely glanced at her mobile, saw no service in the top corner, and having to fight down a surge of annoyance at being cut off in a strange place she accepted there was little else she could do right now but retrieve the key.

It was the smell of the place that greeted her first, kind of musty with drifts of wax and wood smoke and something sweet and flowery. She looked around the spacious entry hall with its wide ornate wooden staircase rising from the centre up to a half-landing where it divided and disappeared from view. The floor was laid with an intricate mosaic of earth-coloured tiles, and the cream-coloured paint on the walls was flaking in places and darker in others where smaller paintings had taken the place of larger ones. The magnificent windows that occupied the front wall were like masterpieces in their own right with such stunning views in their frames.

She glanced at the double doors in front of her, wondering what might be on the other side, but felt uncomfortable about snooping (in case she ran into someone or was even being watched). So she followed instructions and walked the long corridor at the back of the house through to the kitchen. It was high-ceilinged and bright thanks to a set of large French doors that led out to the vine-covered patio. The floor was laid with pale flagstones, the many cupboards and units were in honey-coloured oak, there was a long refectory table at the centre of the room, and an enormous Inglenook fireplace built into the far wall with an armchair either side of it. There were other doors, presumably leading into a pantry, a utility room and maybe one of them led to the base of the tor outside. Above the one she’d entered through was a quaint row of four brass servants’ bells and since they were labelled den, front door, music room, library and bed, she suspected they might work, and was already praying hard that none of them rang while she was here alone.

Maybe she’d go to a hotel and come back in the morning?

Easier said than done with no reception on her phone.

It’s not that the place is spooky, she told her mother in her head, because it isn’t, but like any empty house it has the potential to be and given how remote it is I’d really rather not be here alone.

Silencing her misgivings – or at least storing them until she got to speak to her mother – she picked up a neatly written page from the table containing further instructions.

Dear Joely,

If you’re reading this then you’re in, so please let me welcome you to Dimmett House and I apologize again for not being here to greet you in person. Brenda has prepared the blue bedroom for you, which you’ll find at the top of the main staircase, first door you come to. There is a bathroom en suite and the French windows open onto a balcony that’s over the front porch (probably for warmer days).

The library and my writing room are in the tower, I will introduce you to them on my return.

For many years I have been vegetarian so Brenda has prepared a jackfruit, mushroom and cheese bake which we hope you will enjoy. There is enough for six, so we’ll probably be eating it until Friday. Ha ha! You will find plenty of fresh veg to accompany it and Brenda has whisked up a delicious tiramisu for dessert, one of her specialities.

I hope you’ll be warm enough, but do light the fire if you’d like to. You’ll see a generous supply of logs beside the hearth, with lots of kindling and old newspapers in the cupboard to the right. On the chair closest to the logs I have left a large envelope containing a couple of chapters that I have compiled in readiness for your arrival. I thought it might help to start our discussions. I will explain more about my plans for the memoir when I get back.

Lastly, and I know this will be important, I have put the WiFi code at the bottom of this sheet. Unfortunately, it’s more miss than hit out here, but if you don’t get a connection right away please be patient because one will come along.

I hope to be back before eleven tomorrow.

Yours truly

Freda M. Donahoe

Joely looked up from the note and took in her surroundings again. Through the French windows she spotted a rabbit bounding through the long grass and a wooden bench turned towards the sea. It looked bitterly cold out there and dismal in the sleeting rain that had begun to fall. Any thoughts of trudging back to town for the night were fading fast, for if the wind picked up, and she could see from the slant of the trees that it was already starting to, it would slice the skin off her bones before she got to the Valley of Rocks, and no way did she want to walk through there in the dark.

Spotting an electric kettle beside the Aga with an array of brightly coloured mugs hanging from the base of the cabinet above she decided to make herself a cup of tea.

While she waited for the water to boil she entered the WiFi code into her phone and within seconds she was receiving texts. Five came through straight away: the first two from Sully explaining that Mrs Donahoe wasn’t going to be at home to meet her. The third was from her mother wishing her luck and telling her to call as soon as she could. The fourth was from Callum claiming to understand how badly he was handling things, but could she please be in touch. The fifth warmed her. It was from Holly saying I know you think Dad told me to send the text last night and you’re right, he did. Joke! I did it myself because I feel bad about leaving you, but I had my reasons. If you think that’s a bit cryptic you should try living with you. Oh you do, I forgot Anyway if you think I’m missing you you’re wrong but I reckon I will if you stay away long enough. H xxx

The clumsy attempt to ease the tension between them, while warning her not to make too much of it, caused Joely to feel a deep longing for her daughter and the closeness they used to share. It was without doubt the nicest message she’d received from her since Callum had gone, and while she wondered what had really prompted it she knew better than to ask. The wiser course would be to wait a few hours before texting back to say something like Have I been away long enough yet? It would make Holly smile in spite of herself, and if Joely could achieve that then there was a good chance they’d start to find their way out of this thorny patch they were trying to get through.

After making some tea she sat down at the table to call her mother.

‘Hi, darling, how are you? Where are you?’

‘I’m at the house,’ Joely replied. ‘Mrs Donahoe – I presume she’s a Mrs, I forgot to ask – has been called away and won’t be back until tomorrow.’

‘Really? So who was there to let you in?’

‘She left a key. I’m here alone.’

The connection failed so Joely moved about the kitchen and eventually her mother was back again. ‘Sorry, I lost you,’ she said. ‘Did you get that I’m here alone?’

‘Yes, and I said I’m not sure what to make of it. It seems an odd way to greet someone. Are you all right?’

‘I think so. There are lots of instructions on how to make myself at home, food in the fridge, a log fire to light. It’s a fabulous place, actually, or what I’ve seen of it is.’

When her mother didn’t respond she realized she’d been talking to herself for a while.

‘Are there neighbours?’ her mother suddenly asked.

‘Not unless you count the wildlife. Actually, there’s a deer in the meadow outside even as we speak, but the town, which is very small, is about a mile away.’

‘Has she kept her promise about a car?’

‘There’s a Jeep outside, but she hasn’t mentioned it in her note so I wouldn’t want to use it, even if I knew where the keys were, which I don’t. Anyway, tell me, how things are with you?’

Sighing, her mother said, ‘Busy, but not in a good way.’ She disappeared again and came back saying, ‘… so there’s no way I’ll meet my target this month.’

Joely said, ‘I don’t know why you put yourself through the stress of it when you don’t actually need to work. Dad left you pretty well off …’

‘I’d drive myself crazy if I didn’t have something to do and you know it. Did you remember to send my love to Andee, by the way?’

‘Of course, and she sends hers. Have you been in touch with Holly?’

‘Yes, she texted me this morning to ask if she could come and stay for a while.’

Joely’s heart missed a beat. ‘So things aren’t going so well in her loft?’ she said hopefully.

‘I don’t know if it’s that. Apparently Callum and Martha are going away for a couple of days and she doesn’t want to be there alone.’

Joely had to swallow as she struggled with the concept of her husband and ex-best friend on a romantic break together. For a moment she felt oddly panicked by it, as though she had to stop them, but how on earth she was supposed to do that she had no idea.

‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ her mother said ruefully.

Though Joely wished she hadn’t, she said, ‘It’s OK, I’d probably have found out anyway.’ She wouldn’t ask where they were going, there was no point doing that to herself, because if it turned out to be somewhere she and Callum had been together, or had always wanted to go she didn’t think she could bear it.

‘… are you going to do until your client gets back?’

Joely started to answer but a strange sound suddenly clanged out of nowhere and she froze in shock.

‘Joely? What is it?’

Joely turned to the servants’ bells. There was a light above one and as it rang again she stepped back as though it might spring from its base to attack her.

Realizing it was the front door, she said, ‘Someone’s here. Stay on the line while I go to find out who it is?’

‘It’s probably the postman,’ her mother assured her.

Spurred by the likelihood, Joely went back along the corridor to the front door where her bags were still parked where she’d left them. ‘Who’s there?’ she called out, putting an ear to one of the panels.

‘Florist,’ came the reply. ‘I have a delivery for Mrs J. Foster.’

Blinking in astonishment, Joely whispered to her mother, ‘Did you hear that?’

‘I did. You’ll have to open the door.’

Joely did as she was told and found herself confronted by a spotty youth brandishing a fulsome bunch of bright yellow daffodils.

‘No signature,’ he told her, and thrusting them into her hand he sprinted back to where he’d left his van.

‘Who on earth is sending me flowers?’ she said, unable to stop herself thinking of Callum. Obviously they wouldn’t be from him, he didn’t even know where she was, and anyway, why would he?

‘Is there a card?’ her mother asked.

Finding one Joely tugged it free, opened it and read aloud, ‘“Daffodils symbolize new beginnings, creativity and inspiration. Freda Donahoe,”’

‘Gosh, how thoughtful,’ her mother commented.

‘Mm,’ Joely responded, thinking the same, along with something else she couldn’t quite define. ‘I should go and put them in water. I’ll call again later if you’re not going out.’

‘I should be home by six. Speak to you then.’

An hour later Joely was curled up in one of the armchairs, snug and warm in front of a real fire and pleasantly full after a helping of Brenda’s delicious jackfruit bake. She’d have followed it with a spoonful of tiramisu if a rogue memory of sharing the dessert with Callum on holiday in Sicily hadn’t shunted her appetite into the deadening plains of her heartbreak.

She understood, she really did, why some people were driven to drink when trapped in all this pain, how the hurt and anguish of it all could send them out of their minds, because sometimes she could feel it happening to her. It had happened when her father died, although that had probably been worse for she really had lost her mind for a while.

She closed her eyes, knowing that the best way through it was to try not to think about it, consuming though it was, and since one of the main reasons for taking this job was to refocus her mind, she turned to the pages Freda Donahoe had left for her.

By the look of them, they’d been composed on an old-fashioned typewriter that possibly wasn’t even electric. Joely found this quaint and even admirable, though she was relieved she’d brought her laptop for she couldn’t imagine trying to create a single sentence of her own without the luxury of delete, cut and paste.

If Callum and Martha were words just think what she could do to them; certainly she wouldn’t pair them with ‘and’ in the middle. More likely she’d put them on separate pages, probably even in separate books, or she could simply dump Martha in the trash.

Sighing, she turned to the first page of Freda Donahoe’s memoir and started to read.

Half an hour later she went back to the beginning and read through both chapters again, this time asking herself what kind of input Mrs Donahoe might be hoping for from her.

‘There’s not much of it yet,’ she told Andee when she called to find out how Joely was settling in, ‘but what there is paints a pretty clear picture of a teenage girl on a mission to seduce her music teacher.’

‘And the girl is her?’

‘I think we can take that as read.’

‘Is the teacher male or female?’

‘Very definitely male. It’s possible he’s encouraging her to come on to him, that actually he’s the real manipulator of the piece, but at fifteen she’s not mature enough to understand that. It’ll be interesting to see where it goes.’

‘Or ends? I’m thinking of the tragedies you mentioned.’

Joely nodded thoughtfully, ‘An affair with an underage pupil would be a crime, consensual or not, and might indeed impact the rest of the girl’s life. Anyway, I don’t actually know yet if it does develop into an affair. It’s left with some pretty powerful chemistry doing its best, or worst, during a private piano lesson, but so far no physical contact.’

There was a smile in Andee’s voice as she said, ‘Have you googled the music teacher yet?’

‘No, but I will when I get a decent connection – although it’s possible she’s using a pseudonym.’ She started as a gust of wind suddenly rattled the French doors and howled eerily around the tower. ‘Are you having a storm over your side of the moor?’ she asked, staring out at the turbulent shadows of twilight and hoping she didn’t spot anything she’d rather not.

‘We are,’ Andee confirmed, ‘but it’s forecast to blow itself through by morning. Have you explored much of the house yet?’

‘Actually, no. It’s so cosy in this kitchen that I haven’t wanted to move, but I suppose I ought to go and check out the blue bedroom where she’s put me before it gets dark. I hope she doesn’t get power cuts here, that would freak me right out.’

‘Maybe you should try to find some candles or a torch in case you need them,’ Andee advised.

‘Good idea. I’ll do it now, but I swear, if she keeps them in the basement they’ll be staying there.’

Still smiling at Andee’s laugh as she rang off, Joely unravelled herself from the chair and keeping the warm fleece around her shoulders she began rummaging about for a form of emergency light in case she needed it. Fortunately she came across a torch that worked in a table drawer, and spotting an old photograph beside it she took it out and held it up to the light. It was of a small girl, probably no more than three or four, sandwiched between two boys, one not much older than her, perhaps six or seven, the other closer to eleven or twelve. She guessed from their similar shocks of blonde hair and round faces that they were related, probably brothers and sister, though there was nothing written on the back to identify them or the date of when it was taken.

Freda’s children when they were young? They might even be grandchildren.

Reflecting on how sorry she was that she and Callum hadn’t been able to have more children she put the photograph back in its place and closed the drawer. Time, she decided, to make her first foray up the stairs before it was completely dark outside.

CHAPTER SIX

When Joely woke in the morning it took her a while to remember where she was. She peered around the shadowy room taking in elegant antique furniture, a washstand in one corner with polished brass taps and a flowered porcelain bowl; a wooden armchair, her bags on the carpeted floor half unpacked and partly strewn over an indigo rug. All the time her mind was reconnecting with the blue bedroom, Freda Donahoe, a memoir, here alone …

Pushing back the sumptuous duvet with its royal blue cover and hand-crocheted throw, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and since they didn’t quite reach the floor she stumbled as she reached for her phone on the nightstand.

No service.

Sighing, she glanced at the heavy azure curtains where chinks of daylight were brightening the edges. She listened for the sounds of a storm but heard only gulls and a distant sibilance that could be the wash of the waves.

Padding over to the window she pulled one of the curtains aside and because it had been too dark when she’d drawn them last night to get a real sense of the view, she blinked in surprise. It was truly enthralling, all the way down over the grassy meadow to the glimmer of a small sandy beach tucked into the heart of a cove. From there the cliffs, shadowed and brooding, undulated along the coast like fortified barriers to the vast expanse of sea, swelling with life and glistening benignly in the soft morning sunlight.

How could she not think of Callum when confronted with such a romantic view? She wanted him to be here with her, to drink it in, to wrap up warm and walk the coast path with her, climb the rocks and try to remember poems they knew about the sea. Callum, bizarrely, could recite whole verses of the Ancient Mariner and she just knew he’d make her listen to them all until he’d finished, all the time hotly denying it when she accused him of going wrong.

‘Tell me your favourite love poem,’ he’d challenged her once, a long time ago, while they were travelling back from a concert in Oxford.

She’d said, ‘When I’m sad and lonely, and I feel all hope is gone, I walk along our street and think of you with nothing on.’

How he’d laughed, and she wasn’t sure he’d ever believed that she hadn’t made it up. But it was a real rhyme, slightly doctored, that she’d once found in a velvet-covered volume of little-known verse.

Stepping back from the window she let the curtain fall closed and returned to the bed to check her phone again.

Still no signal, so no messages of any kind from anyone; but it was already nine thirty and Freda Donahoe was due back by eleven. She needed to be showered, dressed and ready to meet her with something intelligent to say about the chapters she’d read.

How weird it was going to seem, welcoming her host back to her own home.

When she’d finished in the blue-and-white-tiled en suite bathroom and had pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt she ran swiftly down the stairs and straight to the corridor. Halfway along she registered the sound of voices coming from the kitchen and felt momentarily unsure of herself not wanting to barge in on anyone. However, it was probably the housekeeper and her husband, and they must surely know she was here, so they were hardly going to be surprised to see her.

As she pushed open the kitchen door with a gentle half-knock she was immediately assailed by the mouth-watering smell of hot toast and fresh coffee.

‘Ah, Joely, here you are. Good morning, good morning. Come along in.’

The woman who’d spoken so welcomingly was tall and willowy with mannishly cut silver hair and exquisite feminine features. It was hard to tell her age when the years had clearly been kind, but she was certainly over sixty. Her eyes were almond-shaped and blue, surrounded by small webs of faint lines that deepened when she smiled. Her mouth was large and shapely, also troubled by lines but it retained some of the sensuousness it must have exuded when she was young. ‘I hope we didn’t wake you,’ she said, coming to usher Joely further into the kitchen. ‘I’m Freda, as you’ve probably already guessed, and this is Brenda.’

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Joely responded to them both, her eyes widening slightly as the very large Brenda gave her a bawdy sort of wink. She was almost as broad as she was tall, with plump, veiny cheeks and curly grey hair that looked as lively as her chocolate brown eyes.

‘It’s lovely to meet you too,’ Brenda declared, as though this very moment had long been on her bucket list. ‘We’re ever so happy to have you here at Dimmett House. I hope you slept well and I see you had some of my jackfruit bake last night. Not a veggie myself, but Mrs D tells me it’s scrumptious.’

Enjoying the cosy-looking woman’s West Country burr, Joely said, ‘You’re lucky there’s any left it’s so good, but I thought I ought to share.’

Clearly appreciating her sense of humour, Brenda chuckled her way back to the Aga where she appeared to be concocting another culinary delight.

‘Do sit down,’ Freda urged, waving Joely to a place opposite her own at the table. ‘Would you like toast or crumpets? There’s plenty of both, or I’m sure Brenda can rustle up …’

‘Toast will be fine,’ Joely assured her, not wanting to put anyone to any trouble.

‘There’s wholemeal or white,’ Brenda piped up, passing over a small breadbasket full to the brim and covered by a checked napkin. ‘The jam’s homemade by yours truly – strawberry or crab apple jelly – and the butter’s fresh from Pete Miller’s farm. There’s not a lot of fruit in season, but help yourself to what’s there in the bowl. It’s all from round here, apples, pears and some lovely juicy oranges grown in Ann Granger’s magic greenhouse. That’s what we call it, because that woman can grow anything in there, probably even drugs. Coffee or tea?’

Laughing, Joely said, ‘Coffee, thank you,’ and feeling Freda Donahoe watching her as though curious to see how she was responding to Brenda’s touch of local colour, she smiled at the woman and helped herself to a half slice of wholemeal followed by a knob of butter and spoonful of crab apple jelly.

Freda said, ‘As you can see I’m back earlier than expected, and I’m sorry again that I wasn’t here to greet you. I’m glad the flowers arrived as ordered. Well done for finding a vase, and you managed to choose exactly the right one.’

Joely glanced at the daffs she’d more or less plonked in a white pitcher that she’d found in one of the cupboards. They were now on a low windowsill, beside the French doors, moved from the table where she’d left them, presumably to clear a space for breakfast.

‘Did you remember to trim the stems?’ Freda asked, eyes lowered as she spread butter over a crumpet.

Thankful that she had, Joely smiled. ‘My mother is always very strict about that. And I popped some sugar and cider vinegar into the water to make them last longer.’

Freda was clearly impressed. ‘Another little trick of your mother’s?’ she asked with a crispness that was somewhere between interest and irritation.

‘Well, I … Not hers, exactly. I—’

‘Oh, everyone knows about that,’ Brenda chirruped as she plonked a large jug of orange juice on the table. ‘Have you taken your pills yet this morning, Mrs D? Shall I fetch them for you?’

‘Thank you,’ Freda replied gratefully. To Joely she said, ‘Hypertension, I’m afraid. It runs in the family, although my husband suffered from it too, and from quite a young age. Do try the orange juice and tell me if it isn’t the best you’ve ever had.’

Obediently Joely filled a glass and after taking a generous sip she was more than ready to agree. It wasn’t only sweet and cool there was a hint of tartness to it that whipped up her taste buds with a longing for more. ‘The very best,’ she confirmed, after draining the glass.

Freda gestured for her to take a refill and said, ‘Now will you have some more toast? Half a slice doesn’t seem very much.’

‘Thank you,’ Joely replied, and helping herself to another half from the basket she set it down on her plate and bit into the first one to experience yet another heavenly assault on her taste buds. ‘This jelly is delicious,’ she told Brenda, dabbing crumbs from the corner of her mouth. ‘Is it your own recipe?’

Brenda beamed as she passed Freda a large pill organizer with a different colour for each day of the week. ‘My grandmother’s,’ she confided. ‘We’ve got a secret ingredient that stays in the family, but it makes all the difference.’

‘We’re very lucky to have some,’ Freda declared. ‘Brenda’s jelly sells out before she’s even made it, so I feel very fortunate that she keeps a jar or two back for me.’

‘Course I do,’ Brenda smiled fondly. ‘Can’t have you going without, can we? Now make sure you get it right, taking these pills can be a complicated business.’

Freda’s expression was droll as she obediently popped the medication and washed it all down with a mouthful of juice. ‘Do either of your parents suffer with the same affliction?’ she asked Joely. ‘It’s very common amongst us older people.’

Surprised by the question, Joely said, ‘I’m pretty sure my mother’s blood pressure is OK, and my father’s no longer with us.’

Freda immediately looked sad. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘Was it recent?’

‘About eighteen months ago, but we still miss him.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do. It’s never easy when a loved one passes. Do you have brothers or sisters?’

‘A brother, Jamie. He lives in Dublin with his wife and two children, so we don’t get to see him as often as we’d like.’

‘Dublin?’ She sat with the word or notion of it for some time, before suddenly continuing. ‘That’s a shame, although I’m sure it’s a perfectly nice place. Is he older or younger than you?’

‘Older.’

Freda nodded and fell silent again as though this was information that needed deeper consideration, or perhaps her mind had moved to other things. Whatever, she seemed not to hear when Brenda said,

‘Mrs D is always interested in people’s families, aren’t you, dear?’

When Freda didn’t respond Brenda put a finger to her lips as if to say they wouldn’t go any further with the subject for now. ‘All right, so I’ve got a lovely leek and potato soup going here for your lunch,’ she announced, turning back to the bubbling pot on the Aga. ‘There’s plenty of crusty bread in the box and a nice chunk of local cheddar if you want it. Mrs D isn’t vegan, but she’s very strict about where the dairy products come from. We don’t look much further than North Devon for supplies and always from farms we know treats their livestock well.’

‘You haven’t asked Joely if she’d prefer to have meat,’ Freda pointed out. ‘If you do,’ she said to Joely, ‘I have no objection, but …’

‘No, really, I’m vegetarian,’ Joely assured her. ‘I care about animals too, and the planet.’

Freda smiled. ‘Of course, the planet,’ she echoed and seemed to sink into the timeliness of the reminder. Then suddenly banging her hands on the table, she said, ‘I think we’re going to get along well. I told Brenda we would. Didn’t I say that, Brenda?’

‘It’s exactly what you said,’ Brenda confirmed. ‘Mrs D and Edward carried out a careful search before settling on you,’ she informed Joely. ‘They had to be sure it was the right person or it wasn’t going to work.’

Joely said, ‘Edward?’

‘My nephew,’ Freda explained. ‘He did most of the liaising with my publisher, and when they presented me with a shortlist I had a feeling right away about you. Naturally, I had to read some of your work first, and I’m delighted to say I was most impressed, particularly by the fiction you’ve helped to produce. It wasn’t possible to tell how much of the books were ghosted – my guess is quite a lot – and if I’m right about that it means your talent for capturing your client’s style is exceptional. Not once did I feel a stranger’s presence creeping into the prose, something that always makes me shudder, nor were there excessive amounts of sentiment in the autobiographies. In fact, in my opinion, they were far better served by the kind of subtlety and restraint that I’m certain was your careful hand, because the official authors I’m thinking of are not known for those qualities.’ Her smile was roguish and infectious. ‘So my dear,’ she continued, ‘I say that you have precisely the right sort of skill to undertake a memoir such as mine.’

Pleased by the praise, and even faintly embarrassed, Joely said, ‘I’m glad you think so, and I’m looking forward to starting—’

‘But you’ve already started,’ Freda interrupted in confusion. ‘I take it you read what I left for you yesterday?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Joely assured her, not wanting to think of how this might now go if she hadn’t, ‘and I was left wondering why you need me when you’re writing it so well …’

‘It’s only the beginning. There’s a long way to go, and beginnings are always easy. You are to be my objectivity. I want you to tell me what you thought of those first pages, but not in the way you’ve just tried, using flattery and self-modesty, and not now. I’m tired after my early start this morning so I’m going to lie down for a while.’

Joely watched her get up from the table and hold her coffee mug out for Brenda to refill. In a softer tone she said,

‘I have some documents I’d like you to look through and sign if you’re willing. You’re probably familiar with NDAs – non-disclosure agreements?’

Though Joely certainly knew what they were this was the first time she’d been asked to sign one. ‘I’ll be happy to,’ she replied, thinking of what she’d already discussed with Andee and though it wasn’t much at least Andee was someone she could trust to keep things to herself.

‘The forms are there,’ Freda said, nodding towards a buff file at the end of the table. ‘When you’re done, give them to Brenda and she’ll send them off to the lawyer.’ She checked the time. ‘Let’s say we meet back here at one-thirty for some soup before we get started. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

After she’d disappeared through a door in the corner Joely looked over at Brenda who was once again busying herself at the Aga as if nothing unusual had happened – and in truth Joely couldn’t say that it had. What was more unusual, now she came to think of it, was the fact that she hadn’t been asked to sign an NDA before. It would make sense if the client was anxious to stop her going to the press before he or she was ready to reveal all they had to tell.

Maybe they’d instinctively trusted her, and with good reason, for it had never occurred to her to try to make money out of selling someone’s secrets.

‘Can I get you more coffee?’ Brenda asked, coming to clear Freda’s side of the table. ‘It’s still hot.’

‘Thanks.’ Joely smiled and held out her mug.

Taking it, Brenda clutched it in both hands and stood gazing at Joely as if she were some sort of prodigal returned. Then she said, ‘Mrs D can be a bit different sometimes, changeable like, and she gets lost somewhere inside her own head, you know, the way writers do, but take it from me she’s a wonderful woman. I’ve worked for her over twenty years and I wouldn’t ever want to work for anyone else. My Bill feels the same. That’s my other half. He takes care of the maintenance and garden around here and drives her if she wants to go anywhere.’

Mindful that Freda hadn’t mentioned where she’d been until this morning, Joely said, ‘Did he drive her yesterday?’

‘Oh yes, and waited overnight to bring her back.’

‘So where did they go?’

Brenda tapped the side of her nose, ‘Oh now, that’s not for me to say. Anything she wants you to know she’ll tell you herself. That’s the way it is, and I respect that.’ She raised the mug. ‘I’ll get that coffee.’

Not sure whether she’d been scolded or warned or simply brought up to speed, Joely reached for the file, but before starting to read she said, ‘Can I ask one thing? Mrs D mentioned her husband—’

‘Oh, he’s gone,’ Brenda sighed sadly. ‘We lost him about three years back. Terrible it was, and him still so young, relatively speaking. It’s when she stopped going out, not that she was a gadabout before that … Well, like I said, whatever she wants you to know she’ll tell you herself, and,’ she added with a twinkle, ‘I daresay you’ll end up knowing a lot more than me once this memoir’s done. That’s provided she tells you everything – and how would we know if she doesn’t?’

‘I guess,’ Andee said, when Joely called her from the thatch-roofed pub on the harbour front to tell her about the NDA, ‘the question is, do we want to know?’

Puzzled, Joely said, ‘Don’t we?’

‘Only teasing,’ Andee laughed. ‘Of course we do, and I’m more intrigued than ever now you can’t talk about it. I take it you signed.’

‘I didn’t see any harm in it, so yes.’ Thanking the barman as he put a small glass of local ale in front of her, she said, ‘I can’t help wondering where she went yesterday.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘No, but why not just say?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, apart from to remind you that you’re dealing with an obsessively private person. Can you hang on a moment?’

As she waited Joely sipped the ale and smiled her appreciation at the barman who’d offered her a glass on the house as a welcome to Lynmouth. Whether he did this for every newcomer she had no idea, although she doubted it, considering what a popular tourist destination this was. So it probably meant that word had got out, presumably through Brenda, that Mrs Donahoe had a rare guest who should be treated well.

She’d walked into town, wrapped up in a padded coat, scarf and hat, enjoying the brittle, bright winter sunshine and how much less eerie the Valley of Rocks felt when under a blue sky. Still otherworldly, that was for sure, the kind of place where cults would come for midnight rituals and poets for divine inspiration. The towering rocks were like monarchs gazing Canute-like out to sea, and the valley itself, sheltered from the elements, was a dry, stony bowl in the landscape that had the feel of an amphitheatre, or, as she’d thought yesterday a place on the moon. The only sounds came from the low burble of hikers as they passed through, the cry of cormorants and clatter of goats’ hooves as they scrambled over scree and slate and dilapidated walls.

Going through the clifftop town she’d passed the new and old cemeteries, a school and the Convent of Poor Clares that appeared deserted, so where were they now? There was an abundance of teashops and coffee bars, Victorian town houses doubling as hotels and B & Bs, a candle-maker, an art gallery, a beautiful old church, and a filigree archway leading to the famous funicular. Riding down over the cliff face in the quaint green carriage had been utterly joyful, not unnerving at all in spite of the twenty-nine-degree angle and a teenage wit telling his friends they were going to crash.

‘Hi, sorry about that,’ Andee said, coming back on the line. ‘So where are you now?’

‘At the Rising Sun, next to the harbour,’ Joely replied, drinking more of the Exmoor ale and thinking she could get to like it as much as the pub with its low white ceilings, criss-crossed with black beams, undulating stone walls and notice for ferret racing at Brendon Town Hall. ‘Did you know you can see Wales from here? Well, yes, of course you did, and the Rhenish tower on the harbour wall used to be where they stored water for indoor baths. That was before it got itself a lightbulb and became a beacon.’

‘Are you reading from a guidebook?’ Andee asked drily.

‘How did you guess, but it’s fascinating stuff, or I think so anyway.’

‘Great, now tell me more about Freda Donahoe. Are you going to get along with her?’

Pulling a face, Joely said, ‘I hope so, but I don’t think she’s going to be easy. Still, show me a client who is, and I’ll show you someone who doesn’t care about the end result. She was married, by the way. Her husband died about three years ago, I think unexpectedly, but the housekeeper was sparing with details.’

‘So one of the tragedies?’

‘Quite possibly, because apparently that was when she became a recluse, but the parts of the memoir I’ve read date back to the late Sixties. Still, it’s only the beginning so the end could have happened three years ago.’

‘A long way to go. Listen, I’m afraid I’ll need to ring off in a minute, but are we still on for meeting up at the weekend? I don’t mind driving over there again, but I’ll wait to hear from you about your schedule.’

Talk of the weekend inevitably turned Joely’s thoughts to Callum and the couple of days away he was planning with Martha. It made her feel so lonely all of a sudden, so cut off from their life together, from the joy they used to gain from shared experiences, and now here she was, all on her own in a new place she knew he’d love.

Andee said gently, ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ Joely replied brightly.

‘Any news from London?’

Joely’s heart twisted and sank. ‘None so far today. I’ll text Holly and my mother before I go back to the house; the others will just have to find a way to live without me.’

Sounding sympathetic, Andee said, ‘I know this isn’t much comfort, but they seem to be having a hard time living with themselves after what they’ve done.’

‘And I’m supposed to feel sorry for them?’ Joely countered.

‘Not at all, but try not to make things worse for yourself by creating scenarios in your head that are probably a long way from the truth.’

Knowing how caught up she was in that very form of self-torment Joely felt her tension begin to unravel. ‘Thanks for that,’ she said, ‘and now I should probably let you go.’

After ringing off she sat quietly finishing up her ale, enjoying the peace and quiet of a near-empty bar, the only sounds coming from the clank and rattle of a delivery going on somewhere outside and the noisy birds around the shore. Then she picked up the sough of the waves and hum of voices outside; the salty scent in the air wafted in as someone opened the door and mingled with the yeasty smell of beer. Although she couldn’t seem to stop fixating on Callum and how sad she felt that he wasn’t here, she was also aware of how relieved she was to be so far away from him and Martha-the-manta-ray with lovely horn-shaped fins and twenty-foot width.

Stop being childish, Joely. Focus on this assignment instead, because after this morning’s brief meeting it’s clearly going to be far from dull.

She looked down as her phone buzzed with a text.

I know you’re not going to answer this, but I wanted to let you know that Holly’s gone to stay with your mother. I think she misses you, as do I.

The last three words hit Joely hard. Why had he added them? What was the point when he didn’t mean them, probably hadn’t even thought about them, merely done what he always did as though nothing between them had changed? Damn you, Callum, she seethed inwardly. Damn you for making me think there might still be hope when you’re about to go away with Martha. What the hell is wrong with you?

She tensed as another text arrived. If it was from him, she was going to ring and tell him to stop messaging, that she didn’t want to hear from him and anything important about Holly she could hear from Holly herself or her mother.

Are you somewhere in the house, or have you popped out? FMD.

Not sure whether she was relieved or angry that it wasn’t him she checked the time and noting that it was still more than an hour before she and Freda had agreed to meet in the kitchen, she sent a reply. On my way back. Walking, so should be there by one thirty.

She wasn’t expecting a response to that so was surprised when one came saying, You should have taken the car.

Since it wasn’t possible to tell whether this was a rebuke or simply a kindly reminder that it was at her disposal, Joely swallowed the rest of her drink, zipped up her coat and after thanking the bartender she started back to Dimmett House.

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