One Day, Someday

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ONE DAY, SOMEDAY

  Lynne Barrett-Lee

  Lynne Barrett-Lee was born in London and became a full time writer shortly after moving to Cardiff in 1994. She is the author of seven novels, including the Melissa Nathan shortlisted Barefoot In The Dark. She has also produced two titles for the UK Quick Reads Campaign (one ghosted for Fiona Phillips), which provides easy to read books for adult emergent readers..

  Lynne is also a prolific non-fiction ghostwriter, with a number of bestselling titles to her name, including Giant George; Life with the World’s Biggest Dog, and the recent Sunday Times bestseller, The Baby Laundry For Unmarried Mothers. She also co-writes a major series of memoirs for one of the UKs leading publishers, which are written pseudonymously.

  For more information about Lynne Barrett-Lee, and her forthcoming titles, visit her website www.lynnebarratt-lee.com

  Also by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  JULIA GETS A LIFE

  VIRTUAL STRANGERS

  1st Kindle Edition

  First in published 2003, this edition published 2012

  Copyright © Lynne Barrett-Lee 2002

  The right of Lynne Barrett-Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  The extract from The Poems by Dylan Thomas, published by J. M. Dent, is reproduced by kind permission of David Higham Associates Ltd, 5-8 Lower John Street, Golden Square, London W1F 9HA.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Condition of Sale This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar

  eBook by EBooks by Design

  www.ebooksbydesign.co.uk

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  ‘Hello. I’m writing a novel right now, and I wondered if you wouldn’t mind …’ Faced with the daunting reality of having 100,000 words of novel to write (and a deadline), quite the nicest diversion I know is to ring complete strangers and badger them for bits of information instead. That they offer their help so willingly and cheerfully is a source of constant joy. I am so pleased, therefore, to be able to thank Inspector Trevor Taylor, of the South Wales Police Motorway Department, Angie Coombs, from Cardiff University, Melissa Robertson at Changing Rooms, and the staff at Paramount Cars, Cardiff. Go on. Give us an XJR. Pleeease …

  I’d also like to thank the artist, Kevin Sinnott, for creating the glorious Running Away With the Hairdresser (which hangs in the National Museum of Wales, in Cardiff, and is well worth a look if you’re passing), my beloved husband, who inspires me daily, my children, who have graciously refrained from destroying my hard drive, my friend, Nigel Walker, for letting me take his name in vain … and, as ever, my incomparable friends and my fantastic family. And last but not least, thanks to my oldest friends, Debbie and Steve Scott; the girl I shared my first everything with, and the man who can make boilers sexy.

  FOR TOM AND EDNA

  I drive through the street, and I care not a damn;

  The people they stare, and they ask why I am:

  And if I should chance to run over a cad,

  I can pay for the damage if ever so bad.

  Arthur Hugh Clough, Dipsychus (1865) sc.5

  It’s amazing what you can do with an E in A-level art,

  a twisted imagination and a chainsaw.

  Damien Hirst

  1

  Tuesday 24 April

  It’s only a bloody car.

  Only that. Only four wheels, a chassis, an engine, a gearstick, some seats, a few knobs, a bumper and boot. Only, in short, an inanimate object, that would waste not a second on grieving and tears. Which was all well and good, and quite a reasonable assertion to have, well, asserted at you, I suppose, given the grand plan, the rich tapestry of life’s priorities and so on. But this wasn’t a nugget of pocket philosophy. This statement wasn’t meant as an encouraging noise. It was more along the lines of an exasperated roar.

  More an IT’S ONLY A BLOODY CAR! type of thing. You know?

  And thus it occurred: this pivotal moment, this end and beginning. Or so I now see.

  It was also the end of that particular conversation. I may - I forget now - have suffixed it slightly; with a well-rounded ‘Stuff you!’ or ‘But my car, you bastard!’. But then again, surely not. This was my boss, after all. More likely I would have said something more prissy, like ‘Oh, really? It may be only a car to you,’ etc., before dissolving, which was what I actually did, into a flurry of impotent fury and tears.

  The morning had started well enough. As had the week. The offices of JDL (Cardiff) Ltd, where I had recently started in temporary employment, were situated above a dancewear and lingerie shop in St Mary Street. They were bright, stylish offices, full of plant-life and chrome, and with a carpet that announced its attention to detail by means of a monogrammed three-colour border that followed minutely each turn of the walls. Dead grand. Dead posh. Dead everything, basically, that your average urban comprehensive-school staff room was not.

  I had opened the post, fielded two irate callers, replenished the Cona and tidied my desk. Iona, who did pretty much everything in the office apart from the translating and donkey-work, which was my department, slipped her head in and smiled. ‘Is Joe due back any time soon, do you know?’

  I nodded. ‘He said half eleven,’ I replied. ‘But you know what the M4 is like weekday mornings. I doubt if he’ll make it back much before one.’

  ‘Well, if he calls, could you let him know I need a word? I’ve had the accountant on the phone about the Luxotel contract.’ Iona rolled her eyes in benevolent stoicism and retreated to the back office.

  It couldn’t have been much after that - about ten thirty - when he did call. And thus the conversation began.

  ‘Lu?’

  ‘Is that you, Joe?’ The line was appalling. I switched ears, and so missed the next thing he was saying, catching up with ‘- and a bloody hulking great artic, and, Christ!’

  My boss wasn’t noted for quiet, measured talking so I scaled down accordingly and took him to be merely in some sort of jam.

  ‘Are you going to be late, then?’ I asked, sucking my pencil.

  ‘Late! LATE! What the hell are you on about? Lu, I’m lucky to be here at all!’

  I mentally backtracked, was still none the wiser, then finally woke up. ‘What do you mean? Is there some sort of problem?’

  ‘Problem? Lu, I’m at the hospital in Swindon. I have broken my left arm, I have a cheek full of stitches, a query cracked rib and I’m probably in shock.’

  ‘In shock? Good God!’

  ‘Well, that’s not actually been diagnosed as such. But, believe me, this is no Band-Aid job, I can assure you.’

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ I squeaked, as the full implication of what he was saying dawned. ‘You’ve had an
accident! Oh, God! Are you all right? I mean apart from the broken arm and the rib and the stitches and everything. Oh, God! Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m not all right!’ he barked. ‘I’m in bloody Swindon! I have to wait here and make a statement for the police, and I’ve got that meeting with the bank at two thirty. There’s no way I’m going to make it now, is there? Plus I can’t drive, of course, so I’ve got to get a cab to Swindon station and get a train back to Cardiff, and then hike back up to the office, and—’

  He was in shock, I decided. He was ranting.

  ‘Joe!’ I interrupted sternly. ‘Can’t they put you in an ambulance?’

  His voice dropped an octave. ‘Get real, Lu.’

  ‘But you’re hurt! That’s outrageous! Look, let me speak to someone there. I’m sure I could—’

  ‘Lu, I don’t need an ambulance. But there’s a thought. Perhaps it would be better if you - let me think - yes. What you need to do is ring Budget or Avis or whoever and see if they’ve got anything available now, then get yourself down there and drive here and get me. It’ll only take an hour - so that’s two for the round trip - and then I won’t have to faff around with the train. Yes, that’s the best plan. Do that and then call me back on my mobile. OK?’

  And that was the end of the first bit of the conversation. I put down the phone, reached for the phone book, then got on to Wheels To Go to organize the car. That done, I went next door to see Iona and to tell her what had happened. To tell her, at least, what little I knew.

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in Swindon.’ I detailed the injuries.

  She gasped. Just a little. She had worked there for aeons, apparently. Even then I deduced a touch of drama-fatigue. But she did look concerned. ‘Oh, the poor lamb! How on earth did it happen?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I have to ring him back. I’ll go and do that now. Do you think I should ring the hospital? He sounded pretty agitated.’

  She shook her head. Agitated, it seemed, was quite normal. ‘Best you just get there, I think, lovely. Dear me. What a start to the day! And what about his Jag? Is it badly damaged, d’you know? If I know Joe, he’ll be fretting more about that car of his than—’

  And then she stopped speaking and her mouth opened wider. Not much, just enough so her fillings winked up at me. Just enough to confirm she’d remembered as well.

  ‘Oh, my Lord! It was your car he drove there in, wasn’t it? Oh, cariad, your new one.’

  My car. Exactly. Poor lamb indeed.

  By the time I got back through to Joe, he was sounding for all the world like he’d just stopped off at McArthur Glen for a spot of shopping. ‘All sorted?’ he trilled. ‘You on your way or what?’ ‘I’m on my way,’ I confirmed, just a tiny bit tetchily. ‘But are you sure you’re OK? Don’t they want you to stay in for observation or anything?’

  I could hear the sound of a siren in the distance.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he reassured me. ‘They’re interviewing the guy in the tanker at the moment, then it’s me. I’ll be clear by the time you get here, don’t worry.’

  ‘But aren’t you in pain?’ I persisted.

  It was like pulling hairs from a nipple. But not before knowing Joe was OK could I consider the fate of my precious car. It wouldn’t be seemly.

  ‘Not a twinge.’ Something rattled. ‘Cocodamol,’ he read. ‘Though doubtless I’ll pay for it later, of course.’

  ‘But what happened? A tanker? You got hit by a tanker?’

  He chortled.

  ‘Christ, no. Not me, I’d be toast! No, the tanker had a blow-out, which meant he lost control and went into the back of the juggernaut, and the pair of them slewed all over the shop, and I just happened to be in the way, and made a bit of a cock-up of trying to get out of the way, and then I hit the Mondeo, and then the central reservation, and then the Mondeo again, and then rocketed off sideways - thank God there was nothing in the inside lane - took out an emergency phone and ended up on my side half-way up the embankment.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘ “Oh dear” is right.’

  ‘And is - and are the others all OK?’

  ‘The tanker driver’s fine, the guy in the artic has concussion and a broken ankle, I think, and the woman in the Mondeo - hrrrmph - is OK …’

  ‘Hrrrmph?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Which meant what, precisely? I took a deep breath. ‘And my car?’

  My beautiful, much loved, precious little car.

  He sighed, with some feeling. ‘Hmm,’ he said finally. ‘Not good, I’m afraid.’

  Which was some way distant from his later bald assertion, both in content and in tone. He was at this time, admittedly, completely contrite. So much so that as I drove fearfully down the strip of valley-of-death style horror-movie Devil’s-Gulch speedway that the entire road network of Britain seemed suddenly to have become, it was with a reasonable quantity of compassionate concern, and only the tiniest smidgen of woe. My car was bashed up, but my boss was OK. My car could be mended, and I had to keep things in some sort of perspective: a human being, after all, was in pain. (He wasn’t, I know, but then I was also reasonably intelligent and had myself been victim of that treacherous just-post-the-dentist euphoria; the one you enjoy while your mouth is still numb, that makes you go around saying, ‘Wow, it’s OK!’) And, yes, it was the car my father had left me, and yes, I felt bereaved, and yes, I did love it and, yes, I was cross. But it was just a car and it wasn’t his fault.

  I had no way of knowing that for sure, of course. I had been acquainted with Joe Delaney for barely a month, and didn’t really know the first thing about him. Only that he ran a successful business, and that he was divorced with one daughter - a pretty nine-year-old, called Angharad, whose picture was on his desk - and that he worked hard, played hard, and was hard to get on with. Unless you knew how to handle him. Or so Iona had said.

  ‘Joe Delaney? Difficult? Oh, rubbish! He’s a doll!’ My sister, Del, had assured me before I met him. She knew him quite well. ‘He’s a sweetie and a dish,’ she said. ‘He has these green eyes, you know? Not emerald but, oh, I don’t know, luminous - like greengages. Greengages, sectioned, and back-lit by spotlight. And his hair is sort of Rhett Butler meets Pierce Brosnan. And he’s got the loveliest smile. He’s a bit of a darling all round, in fact - though the ex-wife’s a bitch, of course. Anyway, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.’

  But, then, she would say that. My sister, much married and without economic factors to consider, was apt to wax rather lyrical where men were concerned. I was rather more discerning. Anyhow, none of her twaddle was in the least relevant to his status as the person with whom I had secured paid employment.

  Though I had to concede she’d been right about the eyes.

  But his being in possession of particularly arresting optical equipment was insufficient to quell my increasing annoyance that not only had I been rudely prised from my desk, but also that my car had been prised from me. When I pulled up at Swindon hospital just after one, Joe was sitting on a wall by the ambulance entrance, chatting up a nurse. He had a Marlboro Light in one hand and his mobile in the other. He’d wedged it against his thumb, in the crook of the plaster.

  ‘Jesus, not a Micra!’ he whined, as I climbed out. He launched the cigarette into a distant mahonia and smilingly watched the nurse shimmy back in.

  ‘It was all they had left,’ I said. ‘Do you need help getting in?’

  ‘I’ll cope,’ he grunted, though he clearly could not. His jacket sloughed off as he dipped his tall frame to sit down and I hurried to spare it an oily encounter with the Tarmac. Joe’s face was pale and drawn and bisected on the left side by a livid red weal that extended almost from temple to chin. A rank of tiny blue stitches had pulled it to attention, but it still oozed and dragged, and looked painful.

  ‘That looks nasty,’ I sympathized, as I closed the passenger door behind him. ‘Shouldn’t it be covered? Is it deep?’

&
nbsp; ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he replied, with equanimity. ‘Go on, then - get in. Get going. I’ve got a meeting to get to, remember?’

  I drew a mental line through the appointment I’d anticipated with a coffee and loo stop, reasoning that we could do it en route at the services instead. But was soon disabused of such frivolous notions.

  ‘Doesn’t this crate go any faster?’ Joe growled, as I coaxed it back on to the motorway.

  I told him sniffily I had no intention of being the cause of any more road-traffic accidents today, and that there was no meeting on earth worth risking a life for. All a bit dreary and earnest, I know, but it seemed the right thing to be saying at the time. And I wasn’t wrong.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, flapping the plaster-free arm. The tone of his voice and the absence of a rejoinder reminded me that as yet we hadn’t broached the subject of my car. We drove for some minutes in silence, while the radio burbled.

  At length, I ventured, ‘So, what did the police say?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not a lot. They never do, do they?’

  I hadn’t the faintest idea, so I said so. ‘And what did you mean about the woman in the Mondeo? That “no comment” bit. What was all that about?’

  ‘Oh, just that she’s a tight-arsed crone with a problem,’ he said mildly. ‘Seemed to think I had something to do with it. Which is bollocks, of course.’

  ‘Is it? So why’d she think so?’

  ‘Because she obviously hates me. Probably a dyke.’

  I ignored him for long enough to make my disapproval clear, then said, ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I overtook her. Well, was overtaking her. What I actually did was hit her, of course.’

  ‘When the tanker hit the juggernaut.’