Remember Me at Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close Book 4)

by Kate Hewitt

  “Because of moving?”

  “Yes, but even before that.” The wine was still making her reckless, it seemed. “Tim—my husband—and I moved to Woodbridge in Suffolk three years ago from London, and it wasn’t awful by any means, but I don’t think I ever really felt as if I fit in.” It was the first time she’d actually said the words out loud. “Most people were from the area, and we never quite got over feeling like newcomers.”

  James nodded slowly. “So why did you move to Woodbridge in the first place?”

  “Tim’s job. He worked in marketing in London but he loved gardening and he wanted to start his own landscaping design business. He picked Woodbridge because it was affordable, near the sea, and…” She trailed off helplessly. There had to be another reason, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

  “That’s tough,” James said quietly. “I imagine starting your landscaping business would require some good local contacts that he wouldn’t have had.”

  “Yes.” Exactly. It both stung and vindicated her, that James had been able to see in a few seconds what Tim never had, or at least had never been willing to. “It was hard. The business never really got off the ground, as it happened.”

  The now-familiar guilt poured through her in a scalding rush. How could she talk about Tim this way? He’d done his best. He’d tried so hard. And he’d loved them all utterly. Of that she was certain.

  “Anyway,” she said quickly. “That’s all water under the bridge. Woodbridge.” She laughed at her own feeble joke, but her voice wavered. James touched her arm again. He had to stop doing that; every time he did it tingled.

  “I’m so sorry, Laura.”

  “No, it’s okay. We’re getting there. Honestly.” She had to reel herself back in somehow. “Anyway, I’m glad we’ve cleared all that up. So…I’ll see you at school?”

  He studied her face, looking as if he wanted to say something more, but then he simply nodded slowly. “Yes. See you at school.”

  “What was that all about?” Ava asked with gleeful, undisguised interest as Laura sat back down at the table.

  “Just a school thing,” she tried to dismiss, and reached for her wine. Not that she needed another glass.

  “It didn’t look like school stuff to me,” Ava replied. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think James Hill was into you.”

  “Pshaw,” Laura uttered, which was a sound she had never made before in her life. “Ridiculous.”

  Ava cocked an eyebrow. “He looked awfully intent there.”

  “That’s just how he is. He’s got to be ten years younger than me, anyway.”

  “So?”

  Laura shrugged, disconcerted by Ava’s complete dismissal of a rather significant age gap. “Anyway, I’m not on the lookout for someone.” She hadn’t told Ava about Tim, and now seemed as good a time as any. “My husband died only a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ava looked as if she meant it. “I was married before Jace, you know, and he died.”

  No, she hadn’t known that. Everyone got their fair share of tragedy one way or another, Laura supposed. “I’m sorry,” she said, but Ava shrugged the words aside.

  “A year is a long time, and you’re still young,” she said, which was what Chantal had insisted, as well.

  “Not that young,” Laura answered, and glugged her wine.

  *

  By the time Monday morning arrived, Laura had managed to talk herself into a more cheerful frame of mind. Despite her slight drunkenness, it was good that she’d cleared the air with James. Now they could interact as colleagues and maybe even as friends, comfortable in their joint gorgeousness, although, as she’d told Chantal in Saturday’s debriefing, he’d just been saying that to be nice.

  “Why do you put yourself down?” Chantal had demanded. “You are gorgeous.”

  “Chantal, I’m forty-one—”

  “So? Do women stop being beautiful as soon as they turn menopausal?”

  “I’m not menopausal,” Laura had yelped, alarmed.

  “Exactly,” Chantal proclaimed, which was just the kind of tangled argument she loved to make. “So enjoy it. Why shouldn’t a good-looking bloke think you’re something special?”

  “But he doesn’t, I mean, not in that way. I mean, it’s all fine and good, but really, we’re just friends.”

  “Oh-kay,” Chantal agreed in the voice of someone playing along with a deluded person. “You’re just friends.”

  But they really were, Laura reminded herself as she headed into the Year Three classroom, waving at her little trio of readers. Phoebe, Jake, and Isla had been with her every morning of the last week and they’d managed to worm their lovely little way into her heart.

  In just a week, she realised, she’d come to feel settled and welcomed at the school in a way that was a balm to her battered heart. Sue Frampton, the Year Three teacher, was chatty and fun, and the other teachers—James included—had all been welcoming and friendly. Occasional chats in the staffroom or schoolyard had been low-key and really quite nice, five minutes here or there which was, Laura suspected, about all she could take.

  Plus, to add to her good mood, this morning Maggie had gone to school with a bounce in her step, and Sam was excited for the first Minecraft Club session this afternoon. There was, Laura mused, a lot to be thankful for, and she was determined to remember that. It was time to start looking up, to start living again.

  “Now,” she told her happy trio as they all settled in their usual spot by the hall, “where are we with Kipper, Chip, and Biff today?”

  *

  The rest of the morning went smoothly enough, as Laura moved between groups in the Year Three classroom, helping and guiding where she could. It was lovely to see so many little ones, their heads bent in concentration, although some had adorable mischief in their eyes.

  At lunchtime she headed outside, admiring the carpet of snowdrops by the school gate, as children raced madly around her, enjoying their twenty minutes of outdoor freedom. Laura hugged her arms around herself as she stamped her feet in an attempt to keep warm.

  “You know you don’t have to come outside during playtime if it’s not your turn to supervise?” James remarked as he strolled up to her. “It is your break today.”

  “I like the fresh air, and what else am I going to do?” She turned to smile at him, trying not to notice how, yes, gorgeous he looked. “Do you have any other clothes?”

  James looked rather endearingly startled. “Sorry?”

  “You always wear the same thing—battered cords, button-down shirt, brogues. A kind of funky professor look.”

  He laughed as he glanced down at himself. “Nailed it. I’m afraid you’re never going to see me in leather jeans and a turtleneck.”

  Laura pretended to shudder. “Thank heaven for that.”

  “I know, right? One of my sisters is trying to get me to turn into some kind of fashion icon, but I tell her it’s not going to happen.”

  This little glimpse into his family life intrigued her. “One of your sisters? How many do you have?”

  He made a funny little grimace. “Four, and a brother, as well.” He held up a hand. “I know. I know. Six children in the family, all from the same parents. What can I say? Maybe it’s a Shropshire farmer thing.”

  “Wow.” Somehow she could see him in a big, chaotic, happy family. “Where are you in the line-up?”

  “Third, smack dab in the middle. What about you? Any siblings?”

  “A brother who moved to Australia a few years ago and is living the high life, as far as I can tell.” She rarely spoke to Sean. “My parents divorced when I was thirteen, sadly. No big happy family, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve been lucky in that way, although if you had four sisters breathing down your neck, you might not think so.”

  “Maybe not,” she agreed with a smile. She wondered if his sisters teased him, if they were nosy about his girlfriends, then told herself not to think like that.

  His gaze turned
serious, lingering on her face. “How was the rest of your weekend?” he asked, and his tone reminded her of a doctor asking how she was feeling.

  “Fine. Good, actually. You know.” She shrugged dismissively. She really didn’t like talking about these things, and thankfully James seemed to get it.

  “Great. I’m glad.” He opened his mouth to say something else, and then closed it, a frown coming over his face as his gaze focused on something over her shoulder. Laura turned around, her stomach dipping at the sight of Mrs Petch, the receptionist, striding purposefully towards them, looking more sour-faced than usual. What was wrong? Should she and James not have been chatting?

  “Mrs Neale?”

  “Yes—”

  “I’m afraid I’ve just taken a call from Burford Comprehensive. They tried to reach you on your mobile but you weren’t picking up.”

  “I don’t get a signal in school—” Already her voice sounded high with panic.

  “They’d like you to ring them back as soon as possible,” Mrs Petch said flatly. “It’s about your daughter Maggie.”

  Chapter Nine

  Laura perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair, her mind and body both numb. The head teacher of the comp, Amanda Stevens, was giving her a look that was an unsettling combination of boredom and judgement. Just another difficult child to deal with. Just another negligent parent to scold.

  “And so I’m afraid I have no choice but to suspend Maggie for a week.”

  “A week.” Laura felt as if her insides had hollowed out. She touched her tongue to her lips, her mouth as dry as a bone. “That seems…”

  “It’s standard course of action for an infraction of this nature.”

  “Yes, but…” Was it fair to play the bereavement card right now? She glanced at Maggie, who was sprawled in the chair next to her, looking out the window as if she were indifferent to the proceedings. As if her life wasn’t falling apart all around them. She’d only been at the school for a week and she was already suspended. Laura could barely get her mind around it.

  “Naturally, when we welcome Maggie back to school, we will expect her behaviour to be in line with the standards we uphold here at Burford Comprehensive.”

  “Of course,” Laura murmured as she struggled not to break down and weep. She could tell the head teacher had labelled Maggie a bad kid, a troublemaker. She’d swanned into school with too much attitude, and within a week of starting she’d been found with a bottle of vodka—vodka!—in her locker, and caught smoking cigarettes behind the bike shed. All before the eleven o’clock break. This was the girl who had last year won the Year Eight history prize, been on the netball team, and been called by the head teacher ‘an exemplary student and an encouragement to all.’

  “So unless there are any other questions…” Ms Stevens said imperiously, and Laura leaned forward.

  “No questions, but…” Laura forced herself to go on despite the head teacher’s flinty-eyed look. “It’s just we’ve been through quite a hard time recently.” She remained unimpressed as Laura stammered through her explanation. “Maggie’s father…my husband…he died very suddenly in a car accident only a year ago and we moved here to—”

  “Mum, don’t.” Maggie’s voice sounded like the crack of a whip and Laura stiffened.

  “Maggie, I’m trying to explain…”

  “Don’t. This has nothing to do with that.” She gave Ms Stevens a defiant look. “I don’t care, okay? Suspend me. Whatever.”

  Surprisingly, the head teacher’s imperious look thawed slightly. “I appreciate you have had your difficulties, Maggie, and we have a counsellor at Burford who can help you work through whatever you are struggling with at the moment. But at the same time, there is no excuse for bad behaviour or breaking rules, and so I’m afraid the suspension still stands.”

  “Fine. I told you, I don’t care.” The sneer in her daughter’s voice was belied by the tremble of her lips.

  Laura rose from her chair. “Thank you, Ms Stevens,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “Maggie’s form tutor will be in touch with work she can complete during the suspension.”

  “Right. Thank you.” She hadn’t even got her head round the fact of the suspension, never mind the practicalities. Maggie would be alone at home for a week while she was at work. Hardly ideal, yet what could she do?

  They didn’t speak as they headed back to the car, Laura’s head throbbing and her heart heavy. Next to her Maggie walked with a defiant tilt to her chin and a swagger to her hips. Her eyes sparkled with anger—or tears. Laura didn’t know which; she only knew she had, somehow and in some way, to reach her.

  As she slid into the car, she rested her hands on the steering wheel and gazed out at the hard blue sky, everything diamond-bright and glinting under the wintry sunlight.

  “Do you want to get a coffee in town?” she asked and Maggie looked at her in disbelief.

  “Seriously?”

  “I want to talk, Maggie. I want to know what’s going on in there.” She tried to smile as she nodded towards Maggie’s head, but her daughter didn’t soften in the least.

  “Oh, right.” She rolled her eyes. “Then no thanks. I’d rather just go home.”

  Laura drew a steadying breath, doing her best not to feel stung. Maggie was trying to hurt her. That much she knew, but knowing it didn’t make it hurt any less.

  “Well, I think I could use a coffee,” she said as she started the car. “We’ll stop at Huffkins.”

  Maggie shrugged, turning to look out the window, as Laura drove out of the car park and into town.

  Burford was almost impossibly quaint, with its long high street lined with terraced houses and shops, some of them five hundred years old, tumbling down to the single-lane bridge at the bottom of the street that was known as the ‘Gateway to the Cotswolds,’ although Laura had seen several villages claiming that title.

  She found a parking space across from the café and soon they were settled at a table in Huffkins, with a hot chocolate and an Americano on the way.

  “So.” Laura rested her arms on the table as she tried to give Maggie an encouraging look. “Tell me what happened.”

  Maggie, as usual, was on her phone, and she didn’t so much as look up as she shrugged her reply.

  “Maggie, please. I know you’re angry with me, and you have been, I think, for some time, but I want to help. I don’t want to be your enemy.”

  Maggie’s hair swung down in front of her face as she continued to gaze avidly at her phone. “You’re not,” she mumbled, which Laura found encouraging.

  “I’m glad to hear that. So can you tell me what happened at school today?” Another shrug. “Let’s talk about the vodka first. Who gave it to you?”

  “A guy.”

  “A friend?”

  Shrug. “Sort of.”

  Laura was doing her best not to imagine chilling scenarios of strange, nefarious guys plying her fourteen-year-old daughter with alcohol. “Why did he give it to you?”

  “So we could drink it,” Maggie said in a well-duh voice.

  Well, yes, obviously, but why? Why was her once straight-A daughter suddenly turning into this angry, reckless rebel, and at only fourteen years old?

  “Have you ever had alcohol before?” Laura asked after a moment, having no idea if that was the right question to ask. She was groping in the dark here, but she had to do something.

  “Dad used to give me a sip of his beer.” Maggie’s voice was small and Laura’s eyes pricked.

  “I know he did,” she said gently. “Guinness.” He’d been drinking the same stout since she’d met him. She had a strange sensation of homesickness at the thought; she hadn’t seen those brown bottles in the cupboard for over a year. “You miss him, Maggie. I know it’s hard.”

  “I don’t miss him.” Back to the savage retort, the quick glare before she returned to her phone.

  Why did she feel she had to be angry rather than sad? Did that somehow seem str
onger? Their drinks came and Laura sipped her coffee for a moment, doing her best to organise her thoughts.

  “What about the smoking?” she asked after a few minutes. “Had you done that before?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I’m just trying to understand what happened today. This kind of behaviour doesn’t seem like you, Maggie. I’m trying to understand where it’s coming from.”

  “Mum, most kids my age drink and smoke,” her daughter told her with hard-edged matter-of-factness. “You’re just naïve.”

  “But you didn’t. Or at least you didn’t used to.”

  “So?” Maggie hunched her shoulder. “I’m getting older.”

  But Laura didn’t think it was just a matter of age. Before Tim’s death, Maggie had been focused, smart, steady. Yes, she’d had her fair share of teenaged angst and emotional moments; there had been a number of slammed doors and sudden outbursts of anger or tears. Laura didn’t think she was romanticising the months and years before Tim’s death; in fact, sometimes she felt as if she were doing the opposite. It was so hard to remember someone accurately, once they were gone. Everything seemed to veer into sentimentality or regret, each extreme possessing its own temptations and trials.

  “You don’t seem happy, Mags,” she said at last. “That’s what I’m concerned about. The drinking, the smoking, yes, those worry me too, as they would any parent. But it’s the reason for them that concerns me the most.” She reached across the table for her daughter’s hand, but Maggie yanked it away before she could so much as brush her fingers. “I love you,” she said quietly. “I want to help you get through this—whatever this is. Would it help if I booked you in to see a grief counsellor?” Perhaps she should see one, too. She’d gone to a few sessions about six months after Tim had died, but she’d found them too draining. She could put her own emotions on ice while she dealt with her children’s…or so she’d thought.

  “I don’t need any more counselling. None of that stuff actually helps.”

  Laura was inclined to disagree, but she knew she couldn’t force her to go. “Well, think about it, at least,” she said.