by Lucy Diamond
‘Alison,’ she corrected him politely as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. ‘And you must be Calum.’ Disappointment curdled inside her. Calum McRae might well turn out to be the funniest, kindest, best person in the whole world, but on first impressions, she didn’t fancy him one bit.
‘Correct-a-mundo!’ he said with a laugh, putting his elbow on the bar. ‘Now, have you been served? What can I get you? It feels like a gin-and-tonic sort of evening to me, what do you say? Like gin, do you?’
‘A gin and tonic sounds a great idea,’ Alison replied faintly. Oh well. She’d make an effort, she told herself. They would have a drink and a chat, and she’d write the whole thing off as a bad idea from now on. I tried it, it didn’t work out, she could say to Robyn next time her daughter started nagging her. In the meantime, she hoped nobody would see them here together and jump to any false conclusions. For some reason, she found herself imagining Jeanie Mortimer walking in, with that pitying look on her face. It must be hard, Alison, when you can’t find yourself a very attractive boyfriend.
‘Marvellous! Splendid!’ cried Calum, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Two gin and tonics here, please. Excuse me. I said, two gin and tonics over here!’
The barmaid, young, with dyed black hair and a raggedy little ponytail (she would suit a nice elfin crop so much better, with those hollow cheekbones, Alison couldn’t help thinking), was already serving another customer further down the bar and shot Calum something of a poisonous look. ‘Yeah, in a minute,’ she said, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
‘Young people, eh! Terrible service you get these days. Back when we were young, people took a pride in their work, didn’t they, Alice – not to mention a pride in their appearance, as well. What is the world coming to, eh? My granddaughter, Olivia – she’s sixteen and the silly girl’s only gone and got her belly button pierced. I mean, it’s disgusting, if you ask me. It’s just not right. Nobody wants to see that, I tell her, but she doesn’t listen. Have you got grandchildren yourself, Alice?’
‘It’s Alison,’ said Alison again. ‘And yes, I have. A girl and a boy.’
‘Splendid! They keep us young, don’t they? I’ve got six of the little scamps – my wife and I had three children and they’ve all cracked on with the parenting. My word, takes you back, doesn’t it, all those milestones . . . walking and talking and first teeth, and what have you. Although Olivia, the eldest – her with the pierced belly button, this is – she’s just done her – what do you call them – not O-levels these days, is it? My memory, honestly, I don’t know what my name is half the time, I—’
‘GCSEs?’ Alison proffered helpfully, then smiled as the truculent barmaid appeared in front of them. ‘Oh, hi. We’d like—’
‘We’d like two gin and tonics, please, my good lady,’ Calum said over her. ‘Ice and a slice, that would be nice. Ha! GCSEs, that’s the chap. Yes, so she’s just taken those and . . .’ He frowned, suddenly looking blank. ‘What was I talking about?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ Alison replied. ‘Quite a few things all at once.’
‘Was I? That sounds about right. My Nessie – Vanessa, my wife, God rest her soul – she used to say to me, One topic at a time, Calum. I feel like I’m talking to six different people when I have a conversation with you!’ He gave a sheepish shrug, then produced a wallet from his pocket as the barmaid dumped their drinks on the bar and muttered a price. So he was a widower, Alison registered, wondering if he had actually talked his wife to death.
‘Allow me. My treat! The first of many!’ Calum cried exuberantly to Alison, fishing in his wallet and paying for the drinks. ‘Now then. Shall we find a pew? Perch our derrières? Throw ourselves into conversational shenanigans?’
He was nervous, too, Alison realized as he blathered on and on, weaving through the pub tables until he found what he declared to be the perfect spot. And, daft as it may sound, recognizing his nerves gave her a boost of confidence in turn. After all, she was a hairdresser – she was an expert at putting people at their ease. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said gently as they sat down and the first silence of the evening threatened to announce itself. ‘Do you work?’
‘Still got the business ticking along, yes indeed,’ he replied. ‘It’s a tweed mill, been in the family for generations. Although I’ve taken a bit of time off recently, handed on some responsibility to my son, after . . .’ He broke off abruptly and licked his lips, a haunted expression flitting across his face. ‘Well, my Nessie died and I’ve . . .’ He swallowed hard.
Oh dear, thought Alison. He wasn’t about to cry, was he? She felt bad now for her rather mean thought moments earlier.
‘I’ve . . .’ He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. His eyes were suspiciously moist. ‘Excuse me. I’m not really . . .’ He was still wearing his wedding ring, she noticed. Was he even ready to start dating again? ‘I’m not really coping very well,’ he admitted eventually.
‘Oh, Calum,’ she said sympathetically, noticing how his jaw had clenched in an effort to control himself. ‘I’m sorry. It’s very hard, isn’t it, when—’
‘She was everything to me,’ he said hoarsely, gripping his handkerchief, eyes bulging as he battled valorously with emotion. ‘Everything, Alice.’
Alison patted his hand, not bothering to correct him again. ‘How long ago did it happen?’ she enquired kindly. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Two months,’ he said, and she could see him reliving the pain, poor thing. The devastation at having been left behind, alone. With colossal effort, he brought himself back to the present and cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Alice, I just feel so damned lonely. I miss her so much. And I thought maybe going out with another lady might give me a bit of a lift, but . . .’ He hung his head. ‘Well. No offence to you, darling, you’re very nice, but . . . but the thing is, you’re not her.’
‘No,’ Alison agreed. ‘I’m not.’ She remembered how raw she had felt after Rich had died; she had been like an open wound. Two months in, she’d been barely functioning, let alone attempting to go on dates with other people.
‘And maybe I just want her, still.’
‘Yes. I think you probably do.’ Alison sipped her drink, feeling a wave of what felt absurdly like relief. He wasn’t interested in her. Which was fine, because she wasn’t interested in him, either. Panic over, she thought. This date’s going nowhere. With a bit of luck, she might even be back home in time to watch the last twenty minutes of Casualty.
Meanwhile, over in Madeira, Jeanie was having a very different sort of Saturday night. She had spent the day on an excursion to Funchal, admiring the old cobbled streets as well as the Botanic Gardens and the Cathedral. She’d made some new friends on the trip – Patsy and Kate, who were both divorced Lancastrians and ‘on the market’, as Patsy put it, waggling an eyebrow. Now the three of them had met for pre-dinner cocktails at the hotel, all clad in their finery. It was a beautiful evening, as ever – the air warm and perfumed from the yellow angel’s trumpet flowers nearby, and Jeanie was wearing the new dangly earrings she’d bought herself in Funchal, as well her bright-pink dress. She was tanned, and feeling in good shape from all the swimming she’d been doing, and had just about stopped being startled whenever she caught a glimpse of her own reflection. The hotel stylist had given her a choppy, flicky new do, with some bright silvery highlights, which seemed to lift her whole face.
Maybe it was a combination of all these things that made Jeanie wave flirtatiously to Luis, the handsome waiter, when he walked by them that evening. ‘Come and join us. Have a drink on us!’ she called out.
‘Ooh, she likes the young ones,’ Patsy teased to Kate.
‘Wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating biscuits,’ Kate replied approvingly. ‘Hello, darling, what’s your name?’ she called out as Luis approached their table.
He made a mock bow before them. ‘Ladies, I am at your service,’ he said, his dark eyes twinkling as his gaze turned from one woman to the n
ext. He really was gorgeous, Jeanie thought, smiling goofily back at him. He really, really was.
‘Luis, these are my friends, Patsy and Kate,’ she said. ‘And we would love to have your company this evening. Can we buy you a drink?’
‘Truly, I am honoured,’ he said, in that sexy broken English of his. Then he looked sorrowful. ‘But I am on duty. No drinks for me, I’m afraid. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Not yet?’ Patsy repeated, arching an eyebrow. ‘I think that means he might be up for one later, girls. What time do you clock off, love?’
‘Not until eleven,’ he said, looking at his watch and letting out a sigh – ahh! – that there was still so much of the evening left before then. He leaned forward to collect their empty glasses and Jeanie caught a whiff of his aftershave, pungent and spicy and manly. Gosh, he smelled good, she thought.
‘Can I get you ladies anything else?’ he asked, their glasses all gathered in.
‘Well, not right now, but maybe later,’ Jeanie heard herself say daringly. Showing off to impress her new friends, her sister Barbara would comment, no doubt in tones of disdain. She leaned forward, trying to give him her best sultry look. ‘Maybe I’ll see you back here at eleven.’
He smiled and she saw a dimple flash in his cheek. She was only having a bit of fun, obviously, only kidding around, because he was far too young for her, and a million times too good-looking to boot. But then he raised an eyebrow in a suggestive sort of way. ‘Eleven o’clock it is,’ he agreed.
They all watched his bum as he walked away, then the three women collapsed in giggles. ‘Jeanie, you little devil,’ Patsy gurgled. ‘And there was me, thinking you were a nice well-brought-up sort of girl, too!’
‘Are you really going to meet him?’ Kate asked. ‘Are you, Jeanie? Look at her, Pats, she’s totally going to. And good for you, kid! Good for you! Why not have a bit of fun on your holiday, eh?’
‘What happens on holiday stays on holiday,’ Patsy said, tapping her nose and winking. ‘Am I right, or am I right?’
Jeanie had never been unfaithful in her life and was already starting to feel a bit uncertain about the whole idea. She’d only meant to have a drink with the man, but these two were carrying on as if she was about to throw caution to the winds and . . . well, throw her clothes to the winds as well. ‘It’s just a drink,’ she cried indignantly, which only made them laugh even more.
‘Yeah, we know. Course it is. A “drink”,’ said Kate meaningfully, making inverted commas with her fingers. ‘We all love a good old “drink” now and then, don’t we?’
‘Ooh, yes. A long, slow “drink” with a sexy young man, you can’t beat it,’ sniggered Patsy.
‘Honestly,’ Jeanie spluttered. ‘You two! Come on, let’s go and have dinner. See if we can find a couple of nice chaps for you, while we’re at it.’
Nothing’s going to happen, she told herself as they wandered towards the restaurant, still laughing. Of course nothing would happen. It was ridiculous to even think so. She was a wife and mother – she was a grandma, for heaven’s sake!
But even as these words were going through her head, she was aware of a new, light-hearted girlishness that ran in parallel with them. A wild sort of naughtiness, which had bubbled up, seemingly out of nowhere. She was miles from home, on a beautiful island; it was a warm summer’s evening and there was just this sense of opportunity floating on the breeze, there for the taking. If she wanted it. What happens on holiday stays on holiday, Patsy had said. And if anything did happen . . . well, nobody needed to know, did they?
‘Hello, yes, my name is Harry Mortimer. I believe my wife, Jeanie Mortimer, has been staying with you for the last two weeks. That’s right. I’m just ringing to see . . . Well, to see if she’s checked out today, basically. In case she’d like a lift back from the airport later on.’
It was Sunday morning and Harry had come over to Paula’s house, where he was telephoning the hotel in Madeira. Too agitated to sit down, he was pacing around her kitchen, frowning as he listened to the response, a forgotten cup of coffee cooling on the table.
‘She didn’t come down to breakfast this morning? Does that mean she’s already left?’ He gazed over hopefully at Paula with the air of a man who could practically smell the return of normal life once more. Paula knew that her dad – having just spent a week with Dave, then a week with John – was itching to get back to his usual routine, with Jeanie there by his side. He was a creature of habit, he liked to have everything in its rightful place. Including his wife.
‘Ahh. She hasn’t checked out.’ His face fell. ‘What time would she have had to . . . ? Ten o’clock.’ They both glanced at the clock on the wall, which said quite plainly that it was quarter to eleven. Paula sighed, knowing that there was no time difference between the two places, and felt her hopes slide away like an outgoing tide. It was now a whole fortnight since her mother had jetted off in an almighty huff and they still had heard barely a word from her. If she hadn’t checked out yet, then the chances of her being on the return flight today did not look promising.
‘Rightio,’ said Harry heavily. ‘I see. Thank you. If you could just tell her that Harry called again, then. Yes, she knows the number. Goodbye.’
‘Oh, Dad,’ said Paula, feeling helpless as he hung up. ‘I don’t know what to say. Maybe she’s just overslept or . . .’
‘Nope,’ he said. You could see the hurt in his eyes, the disappointment crashing through him as he gave a despondent sigh and sank into a chair. ‘The man said she hasn’t even booked a return flight. You know how stubborn your mother is. She could sit this one out for weeks yet, mark my words.’
Paula had a horrible feeling he was right, but did her best to reassure him. ‘She’ll come back,’ she said weakly. ‘She has to! Being stubborn is one thing, but there comes a point when she has to face up to real life and get on that plane home.’ She hoped so anyway. Her mum’s wall of silence was beginning to feel like the Cold War. What was going on in her head?
‘I don’t know what she thinks she’s proving, other than that she knows how to prolong a sulk,’ Harry went on. ‘And for what? I said sorry, it’s not as if I can change the past and make Frankie disappear.’ He gazed glumly out of the window. ‘Not that I’ve heard from her again, either, before you ask. What a mess, honestly. What a sorry mess.’
Oscar, Paula’s dachshund, seemed to detect the unhappiness in Harry’s voice and trotted over to him to offer some supportive hand-licking. Paula watched her dad make a fuss of him, knowing how much he missed having a dog of his own. He and Jeanie had always had springer spaniels – bouncy, exuberant and loving – but when their last one, Charlie, had died just after Christmas, they’d taken the hard decision not to have another dog, what with Harry’s bad back and Jeanie’s bouts of sciatica, and the pair of them being that bit more tired in general these days.
Paula sat down beside him, trying to put herself in her mum’s shoes, doing her best to imagine how she must be feeling by now, out in her self-imposed Madeiran exile. If this had been Paula and Matt, how would she have liked things to be resolved? With a big, romantic face-saving gesture at the very least, she realized. ‘I think you’re going to have to go out there, you know, Dad,’ she said after a moment. ‘Try and put this right together, face-to-face. Mum’s upset, she’s angry – and you know what she’s like, she’s proud, too. Perhaps too proud to come home without knowing what she’s flying back to.’ She patted his arm, feeling sorry for him. ‘Shall I fetch the laptop so that we can have a look at flights out? See when you might be able to go?’
He nodded, looking resigned. ‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. ‘If it means she’ll come home, then yes. Let’s give it a whirl. In the meantime . . .’ He scratched his head and pulled a rueful face. ‘I reckon John and Robyn have had their fill of me by now. Don’t suppose you could put your old man up for a few nights, could you?’
Chapter Seventeen
It was two o’clock on Monday afternoon, the lunchtime rush
was over and Bunny had nipped out to get some fresh air, in the hope that it would clear her head. Since the disaster that had been her Gloucestershire SlimmerYou talk, she had felt as if her composure was crumbling on a daily basis. Vivid memories of the man shouting at her would surface without warning when she was trying to serve a customer, leaving her distracted and forgetful, muddling up people’s orders or accidentally overcharging them. ‘Everything all right?’ her boss Jasmine had asked, overhearing one customer complaining that she’d been given the wrong food, and then another that she’d been given the wrong change. Bunny had blushed scarlet and apologized in a fluster, but knew she’d have to pull her socks up if she wanted to avoid her manager’s bad books.
Outside now, she marched past a tempting-looking bakery, deliberately not looking at the flaky sausage rolls in the window, or the traybakes and cream cakes. Since losing all the weight, she had developed a strategy towards food like that: she visualized a massive block of lard, and then imagined the sausage roll or cake or brownie tasting of the lard. It worked well enough to keep her walking on, most of the time, and today she headed resolutely instead towards Museum Gardens, clutching the takeaway salad that staff were allowed to have free for their lunch.
Museum Gardens was her favourite spot to take a break, with its riverside setting, medieval abbey ruins and flower-filled borders. Today, though, her phone started ringing before she had arrived there, and she stopped to answer it in the street. The caller was Margaret from SlimmerYou, according to the screen, and Bunny steeled herself in readiness. After Gloucestershire, she had vowed she wouldn’t take on any more promotional work, but Margaret would wheedle and beg, she knew. Bunny would have to be firm this time, stick to her guns. ‘Margaret, hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’