“Oh, that’s a shame. I miss dear Connie and our chats. Anyway, I’ll let you go. You must be busy. Writing all those stories of yours.”
And before she could say, It’s okay Mum, I can take a break. Stay on the line, talk to me. Give me more than five minutes of your time every now and then, Angelica had rung off.
Replacing the phone, Layla stood for a while staring at Gull Rock from her kitchen window, a feeling of utter deflation in her stomach, a common side effect of any communication with her mother. She wished they were close; she could really do with a “mum” right now, someone who would listen to her, tell her honestly the mistakes she was making, guide her in the right direction. But Angelica had never been that type of mum, never guided her in any direction. Layla’d been largely left to guide herself.
Still, she had to concede, Angelica had made a good life for herself, living in Milan with Giorgio, holding her own amongst the rich and glamorous in Italian society. She might not be ideal mum material, but she was never dull. She was as bright and shiny as that diamond bracelet Alex had tried to give her—not once but twice—full of sparkle and vitality. In a way, Layla was proud of her. She was the sort of person you could write a book about. Ironically, she thought with a sigh.
Thinking of writing, she realized she hadn’t produced one single word today. She was working on another short story, this one set in Brighton. A story about two boys in high school: one the bully, one the victim, both refusing to recognize the true nature of their feelings for each other. It felt good, writing about her hometown, and she wanted to finish it, but as hard as she tried, she was getting nowhere fast. She just wasn’t in the mood.
She eyed a stack of magazines on the far end of the kitchen table, grabbing a couple of them as well as a big bar of milk chocolate from the cupboard. Throwing herself on the living room sofa, she decided to relax instead. She had the night off tonight, the first in a week, and she was going to enjoy every single minute of it. Engrossed in an article about London’s fash pack, she was only vaguely aware that the sky was turning blacker and blacker, as the rain fell harder and harder.
Eventually her eyes grew tired of reading, so Layla decided to have a bath before calling it a night, the plan being to wake up bright and early the next morning, finish off the short story she was supposed to finish today, and get some housework done.
En route to the bathroom, she peered out the window. The weather hadn’t cheered up at all. In fact, the air felt decidedly heavy as though a storm was getting ready to roll in off the Atlantic. She hoped not. She hated storms, had done since childhood. Wondering if she should check the weather forecast on the Internet, she decided against it, opting for blissful ignorance.
Layla ran herself a bath and poured a glass of wine, intending to plug her iPod in her ears whilst she soaked at leisure. That should be sufficient to drown out the thunder if it did hit. Lowering herself into the water, she realized how clammy she was. She couldn’t deny it; she was nervous. Hopefully, the wine would have a relaxing effect, though. She didn’t know why she hated thunderstorms so much, she just did. It was inbuilt. Her father had been such a comfort during bad weather, enfolding her in his big strong arms, making her feel safe again. After he’d gone, she would go to her mother for reassurance whenever there was a storm, but Angelica would always laugh, albeit good naturedly, telling her not to be silly and to go back to bed. Now, as well as scaring her, thunderstorms made her feel sad and lonely, and she hated them.
After an hour or so of listening to pounding rock tunes and heartfelt ballads, courtesy of Pink, she climbed out of the bath and into bed, the iPod still plugged firmly in her ears.
So far, so good, she thought. The atmosphere was still heavy, but all was silent apart from the wind, which was picking up apace. She tuned into Kate Bush’s classic album, Hounds of Love, next, her high pitched voice the perfect foil to the elements—and amazingly fell asleep. Her last thought before oblivion took her was how doing nothing all day was just so damn tiring.
It was only a couple of hours later that the first low rumble began. Layla woke immediately, as though some part of her had been on red alert all along. She sat upright. Oh, God, she repeated over and over again, all rational thought quickly dissolving. She felt clammy once more, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. She wiped roughly at them with the back of her hand.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to lie there as the storm took hold, she climbed out of bed and into a pair of yoga pants she used purely for lazing around the house. She pulled a warm jumper on over her mussed-up hair and went downstairs, thinking a second glass of wine might help.
Upon entering the kitchen, another loud crash cavorted across the sky, and this time it felt considerably closer, not quite overhead but almost.
“Get a grip” replaced “Oh, God” as she jumped in fright. Lightning briefly lit up the room, transforming it in that spilt second from the cozy, warm room she loved so much into something from a Hammer horror film.
Although she was desperate to turn on the main light, she recalled reading somewhere that electricity attracted lightning, so she turned on the strip lights under the kitchen cupboards instead, making the room look even more eerie. For extra safety, she unplugged her computer and the television and prayed that the storm would pass quickly. As she approached the kettle, another flash of lightning lit up the night sky, and as it did so, she felt her legs buckle beneath her. The wind was violent too, howling its rage around her. She sank down onto a chair and started to shake uncontrollably. There was no way she could endure this alone.
Alex, perhaps she should phone him? It wasn’t too late, just before midnight, but what use would he be? He was hundreds of miles away. He couldn’t help her. She could phone Hannah, but it wasn’t fair. She’d probably just finished her shift at the pub and wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed beside Jim, and sleep. Which left Joseph.
She had noticed his Land Rover parked next to her Mazda just before she’d gone to bed. She had developed an annoying habit of checking whether it was in situ every night. Hopefully that meant he was at home, unless he had gone to Clare’s on his trail bike. The thought of venturing outside to knock on his door was anathema to her; she would have to phone him. Surely he wouldn’t mind? He knew what it was like to be phobic about something. He’d understand.
As more thunder kicked off, she hesitated no more, jumping quickly to find the phone and dial his number. It was an agonizing few seconds before he answered.
“Joseph? Joseph, is that you?”
“Er, yeah,” said a sleepy voice. “Layla? What’s the matter?”
“Are you busy?” she asked feverishly.
“I was sleeping, if that counts,” he replied bemused.
“Please, please, come over,” she begged before letting out a piercing scream as the lightning flared again.
“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “Yeah, okay, give me a couple of minutes.”
Not long after, she heard him knock. Another burst of thunder erupted, directly overhead this time. She threw open the door, pulled him inside, and hurled herself against him.
“Oh, thank God! Thank God, you’re here,” she sobbed.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, confusion and alarm vying for control of his voice.
“Just hold me,” was all she could say.
Grateful that he obliged without further question, she focused on the soft rhythm of his heart, willing it to drown out the noise of the thunder, her own erratic heartbeat slowing as he gently stroked her hair. It was some time later before she was brave enough to take a step back.
“Has something happened?” he asked, his whole manner touchingly gentle.
“The storm…the storm happened,” she replied pitifully, head down.
His furrowed brows relaxed. “The storm? You don’t like storms?”
“Like them? I loathe them! You weren’t sleeping through this, surely?”
“Actually, I was,” he said. �
��I can sleep through pretty much anything.” Looking away from her and toward the window, he continued, “It looks as though the worst is over. Will you be okay on your own now?”
“No!” she shouted in horror. Forcing herself to calm down, she quickly added, “I don’t think I will, actually. Please stay. Just for a while…please.”
A look of worry swept briefly across his face, and his eyes darted toward the door. She could understand why he felt awkward being here, but right now her need for company was surely greater than his desire to escape. The thunder might be retreating, but she still felt shaky.
“Joseph?” she pleaded, looking deep into the blue of his eyes.
Softening his obvious reluctance with a smile, he conceded. Almost giddy with relief, she flicked the main light on as he pulled up a chair and sat down. He was right: the storm was subsiding, and for a second, she couldn’t believe she was feeling disappointed—she had no excuse to jump back into his arms now.
“Do you fancy a drink?” she asked. “A proper drink, I mean?”
“What, now?” he replied, glancing at his watch.
“I need one,” she said, shrugging her shoulders at him. “My nerves are shot.”
“Go on, then. Just the one, though.”
Layla went to the fridge and pulled out the previously opened bottle of chardonnay. She filled two glasses to the brim and sank down on the chair closest to him.
“Have you always been afraid of storms?” he asked.
“Ever since I can remember.” She was glad his face was full of genuine concern. “Don’t they bother you, even a little bit?”
He laughed, and as he lifted his glass to his mouth, she noticed endearing little crinkles appearing either side of it. “No, not storms. But spiders, well, as you know, they’re another matter. And believe it or not, I don’t like the sea much, either.”
“What?” she asked in surprise. “Living in a place like Trecastle? The sea’s the main attraction.”
“I know, and I can swim, after a fashion. Jim insisted on teaching me as soon as I moved down. Said it was important I learn. But I don’t like water, never have done. I was impossible as a child. Just stood in the shallow end, refusing to move. I’m a landlubber, I suppose.”
The mention of Jim brought Hannah to mind. She wanted to say something about how awkward it had been at the barbecue, but what? She’d only give the game away that she knew they’d once been a couple. Quickly she resolved to stick to neutral subjects; that way no misunderstandings could take place.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re not a champion surfer; they’re two a penny round here. You’re brilliant at what you do. I’ve seen the stuff you’ve made. With a name like yours, you were obviously born to the profession.”
“Yeah, following in the footsteps of the great man himself.” He laughed.
“Have you always wanted to be a carpenter?” she asked.
“Ever since I can remember,” he replied. “My grandfather was a carpenter. My dad and I spent ages in his workshop when I was a kid, both of us soaking up whatever we could. Furniture restoration was his big love, my grandfather, that is. He spent time working in Italy when he was younger. Florence, in fact, in a workshop there. Had the best time of his life.”
Whilst he was lost in the past, she had time to study his face, the depth of his eyes, the natural golden hue of his skin, the clear lines of his jaw. All complemented by that blond mop of hair, not bright blond like a child’s, but dark blond, very much a man’s color.
He ran his hand through his hair as he continued. “When I was older and studying carpentry, he got me a placement in that workshop in Florence. Just for six months, but he was right: it was sublime. It opened up a whole new world to me. Thanks to him, restoration is my big love too. Taking antique furniture and breathing new life into it.”
“You make it sound so romantic.” She sighed, visions of him in a Tuscan setting dancing in her mind.
“It was actually bloody hard work,” he pointed out but good-naturedly so. “But you don’t mind when you love what you’re doing. The work I do here, it’s not as interesting, but it’s plentiful. Thankfully I’ve got Jim to help me at times.”
Back to Jim again and via Jim, Hannah.
“Jim is lovely, isn’t he? He and Hannah seem very happy together.” It was naughty, she knew, going back on her decision not to talk about them, but ignoring their existence would look weird.
“Yeah, they are. He’s a good bloke. None better, in my view.”
But not in Hannah’s, she thought. It was clear from the look on his face, however, that this was not a subject he was prepared to elaborate on. Hannah was right; Joseph was a very private man. She considered asking about Clare, but decided against it. Clare was the last person she wanted to think about right now. They had drained their glasses.
“May as well finish the bottle,” she said, returning to the fridge.
“May as well,” he agreed, not protesting that “just the one” was turning into two.
Soon their glasses were empty again.
Digging around in the cupboard rather than the fridge, she retrieved a bottle of whisky. She set it down before him with what she hoped was a tantalizing smile.
“Is that really such a good idea?” he asked, but he was smiling too. Clearly, the wine had had a relaxing effect on him as well as her. Grabbing a couple of tumblers next, she didn’t pour hefty measures, but they couldn’t be described as small either. He didn’t complain, though. They sipped more slowly this time, Layla savoring the atmosphere as well as the fiery liquid. It was how it used to be, before that fateful night. He talked more about his time in Italy. She told him about the short story she’d had published in the anthology and the poem which had recently been published online, laughingly reassuring him he was the first to know about the latter this time and, technically, she supposed, it was true. She may have mentioned it to Alex, but she’d wager it had fallen on deaf ears. Joseph laughed too in reply, a sign, she hoped, he had forgiven her for her previous tactlessness.
More whisky was poured and a second hour passed, although it felt like mere minutes to Layla. He must have felt that too because when he glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, the color drained from his face and he jumped to his feet in horror.
“Christ, look at the time. I didn’t realize. I’ve got to get back.”
“Really?” she asked lazily, feeling warm and fuzzy inside. “Do you have to?”
“Yes,” he said, clearly panicked.
Although she rose leisurely from the table, she had to hurry her pace to catch him at the front door. As he turned to her, she said, “Thank you, thank you so much for coming. I can’t actually thank you enough.”
He was about to reply, but she didn’t give him a chance. The same feeling that had possessed her on the night they ended up in bed together possessed her now as she reached up to kiss him. She could feel his hesitance at first, his hands holding her elbows as though he intended to push her away. But then slowly he relaxed into her, his arms creeping round her back to hold her close once again as their kiss deepened. In the distance, she thought she could hear violins. Soon, she was losing all sense of the world around her, melting into him, reveling in the heat of the moment, when suddenly he stopped and stood back.
“What is it?” she asked, a little surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“This,” he said. “This is wrong. I’ve got a girlfriend, remember?”
She felt her face flame with embarrassment. Clare, of course. She had been determined to forget all about her and had succeeded. She had forgotten about Alex, too, completely.
“Is it serious between you?” she quizzed again.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that standing here kissing your next-door neighbor when you’re involved with someone else isn’t right.”
“No, no, of course not,” she said, marveling at how different his attitude was to Alex’s. “I’m sorry.”
“No need t
o be. No harm done.”
Instead of holding her with his arms, he held her with his gaze. “Talking of serious, how are things between you and Alex? I know he was down a while ago, but I haven’t seen him since.”
So Hannah hadn’t said anything to him. Or did he just want to hear it from the horse’s mouth?
Chewing her lip, she replied, “Pretty serious, I suppose. He’s asked me to marry him.”
He looked shocked. “Marry him?” he breathed. “And are you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t said yes.”
“But you haven’t said no?”
“No,” she said, lowering her head. “I haven’t said no.”
“Either way, you’re going back with him?”
“I don’t see I’ve got much choice,” she burst out. “What am I going to do otherwise? I’ll be homeless soon, and a bar job isn’t going to cut it as far as bills and rent are concerned.”
“You’ve always got a choice,” he replied, his eyes searing her. “And that’s no reason to marry someone, so they can put a roof over your head. Do you love him?”
“Yes…no. I’m not sure,” she said, realizing for the first time it was true.
“You can’t marry someone you don’t love.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t love him. I said I wasn’t sure.”
“Well, think about it, and if you realize you don’t, let me know. Meanwhile, don’t forget the choices you do have.”
What choices? What did he mean? She was desperate for him to elaborate, to spell it out, but she couldn’t push him because of Clare.
Feeling a curious mixture of elation and confusion at his words, she said, “Thanks, Joseph, for coming over. For everything.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled, a hint of playfulness in his eyes, if she wasn’t mistaken. “And you know where I am if you need me. Don’t be a stranger anymore.”
“I promise.” She smiled back. “See you soon.”
“You will,” he replied, and it seemed more of a statement than anything else.
As she closed the door behind him, tiredness won over both confusion and elation. Her legs felt like they’d been filled with concrete mix, but nonetheless they obediently carried her upstairs where she crawled under the duvet. She was amazed, considering her lips were still tingling from his kiss, that sleep could encroach so quickly.
The Runaway Year Page 18