Lawrie sat down at the table and pulled the first file towards her, groaning inwardly at the thick stack of insurance documents inside. Deciphering the indecipherable, crafting the impenetrable—those were the tools of her trade and she was excellent at it—but today her eyes were skidding over each dense sentence, unable to make sense of them. She was trying to focus all her attention on the words dancing on the page in front of her but she was all too aware of Jonas’s every move—the rustle as he shifted posture, the tap of his long, capable fingers on the keyboard.
Despite herself she let her eyes wander over to him, watching him work. She tried to pull her gaze away from his hands but she was paralysed, intent, as his fingers caressed the keyboard, pressing decisively on each key.
He had always been so very good with his hands.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No,’ she lied, hoping he hadn’t turned round, hadn’t seen her blush.
Please, she prayed silently, she hadn’t just moaned out loud, had she? For goodness’ sake she was a grown woman—not a teenager at the mercy of her hormones. At least she’d thought she was.
It was coming home. She had been away too long and this sudden return at a time of stress had released some sort of sensory memory, turning her back into the weak-kneed teenager crushing so deeply on her boss that every nerve had been finely tuned to his every word and movement. It was science, that was all.
Science, but still rather uncomfortable.
‘I’m thirsty,’ she announced. ‘I’ll just go and get some water.’
His satirical gaze uncomfortably upon her, she slid out of the door, heading for the kitchens beneath, relieved to be released from his proximity. If she didn’t get a handle on her hormones soon then she was in for a very uncomfortable few weeks.
Walking down the stairs, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, automatically checking it for messages. Just the simple act of holding it created a much-needed sense of purpose, of control.
Nothing. Not from her old colleagues, not from her friends in London, not from Hugo. It was as if they had closed the gap her absence had created so seamlessly that nobody knew she had gone. Or if they did they simply didn’t care. Yesterday had been her thirtieth birthday. She was supposed to have been having dinner with twenty of their closest friends. Other professional couples. How had Hugo explained her absence?
Or had he taken his secretary instead? His lover. After all, they had been his friends first.
This was the year she had been going to get around to finally organising their wedding.
This was the year they’d been going to discuss children. Not have them yet, obviously, but start timetabling them in.
They were supposed to have been spending the rest of their lives together, and yet Hugo had let her go without a word, without a gesture. Just as Jonas had all those years ago. Just as her mother had.
She just wasn’t worth holding on to.
Lawrie leant against the wall, grateful for the chill of the tiles on her suddenly hot face. Don’t cry, she told herself, willing away the pressure behind her eyelids. Never cry. You don’t need them—you don’t need anybody.
*
A large glass of iced water and some fresh air helped Lawrie recover some of her equilibrium and she returned to the office feeling a great deal better. Turning her back determinedly on Jonas, she called on all her professional resources and buried herself in the insurance folder, finding a strange calm in returning to the legalese so recently denied her. Pulling a notebook close, she began to scribble notes, looking at expiry dates, costs, and jotting down anything that needed immediate attention, losing herself in the work.
‘Lawrie...? Lawrie?’ Jonas was standing behind her, an amused glint in the blue eyes. ‘Fascinating, are they?’ He gestured at the folders.
‘A little,’ she agreed, pulling herself out of the work reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry—do you need me?’
‘I’m heading off to Coombe End. Do you still want me to show you around?’
Did she? What she really wanted was more time alone—more time to get lost in the work and let the real world carry on without her.
But it would be a lot easier tomorrow if she knew what to expect.
‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ She pushed her chair back and began to pile the folders and her closely covered sheets of paper together. ‘I’ll just...’ She gestured at the files spread all over the table and began to pull them together, bracing herself ready to scoop them up.
‘Here—let me.’
Jonas leant over and picked up the large pile, his arm brushing hers and sending a tingle from her wrist shooting through her body straight down to her toes. She leapt back.
‘If you’re ready?’
‘Absolutely, I’ll just get my bag—give me two minutes.’
‘I’ll meet you at the car; it’s just out front.’
‘Okay.’
The door closed behind him and Lawrie sank back into her seat with a sigh. She had to pull herself together. Stop acting like the gauche schoolgirl she’d outgrown years ago.
*
Jonas pulled his car round to the front of the restaurant, idling the engine as he waited for Lawrie. Their first day working together was going well. He’d had a productive two hours’ work just then, not thinking about and not even noticing the exposed nape of her neck, her long, bare legs, not at all aware of every rustle, every slight movement.
Well, maybe just a little aware. But they were just physical things. And Cornwall in summer was full of attractive women—beautiful women, even.
And yet during the last two hours the room he had designed, the room that had evoked light and space, had felt small, claustrophobic, airless. How could someone as slight as Lawrie take up so much space?
Jonas looked over at the Boat House impatiently, just as Lawrie emerged through the front door, a carefully blank, slightly snooty look on her face—the expression that had used to mean she was unsure of the situation. Did it still mean that? He used to be able to read her every shifting emotion, no matter how she tried to hide them.
Then one day he simply couldn’t read her at all.
She stopped at the gate, peering down the road, puzzled.
What was she looking for? He half raised one hand to wave at her, then quickly lowered it, leaning on the horn instead, with a little more emphasis than needed. He allowed himself a fleeting moment of amusement as she jumped at the noise and then, obviously flustered, crossed the harbour road, walking slowly towards the car.
He leant across to open the passenger door, sitting back as she slid in, looking straight ahead, trying not to watch her legs slide down over the seat, her round, firm bottom wriggling down over the padded leather, the sudden definition as the seatbelt tightened against her chest.
‘Nice,’ she said appreciatively, putting a hand out to stroke the walnut dashboard as Jonas pulled the low, sleek car away from the kerb. ‘I have to say I hadn’t pegged you as a sports car man. I was looking for the camper van.’
‘Oh, this is just a runabout. I still have the camper. There’s no way I could get a board in here.’
He laughed as she grimaced.
‘You and your boards,’ she said. ‘If they’re that important you should have gone for a sensible people carrier rather than this midlife crisis on wheels.’
‘Midlife crisis?’ he mock-huffed. There was no way he was going to admit the secret pride he took in the car.
Jonas didn’t care too much what people said, what people thought of him, but he allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction every time he passed one of his parents’ cronies and saw them clock the car and the driver and, for one grudging moment, admit to themselves that that no-good boy had done well.
‘At least this has a real engine in it. I’ve seen that dainty little convertible you call a car. Do you actually put flowers in that holder?’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘You have to admit it’s convenient for parking. But I can s
ee why you like this—she goes like a dream,’ she said as he turned the corner onto the main road and the car began purring up the steep climb. ‘And at least she isn’t red, so not a total cliché! I’m glad that you kept the camper, though. I was always fond of the old girl. What?’ she asked as he slid her a sly smile.
‘I’m glad you’ve finally acknowledged that she’s a she—you’ll call her by her name next,’ he teased.
‘I will never call a twenty-year-old rusty van by such a ridiculous name—by any name. A car is not a person,’ she said with a haughty flick of her ponytail.
But Jonas could hear the laughter in her voice as he deftly swung the car round the corner and along the narrow lanes that led to the hotel, just two coves away.
‘Go on—say it,’ he coaxed her.
It had been a long time since he had seen Lawrie laugh. Judging by the wounded, defensive look in her eyes it was a long time since she had laughed.
‘I’ll help. Bar... Barb...’
‘No!’ But she was definitely trying not to laugh, and there was a dimple at the corner of her lush, full mouth. ‘What about this one? What have you named her?’
‘Nice escape, Ms Bennett. But I will get you to say her name before you leave.’
‘We’ll see.’
The words were dismissive but she still sounded amused. Jonas sneaked a glance at his passenger and saw her face was more relaxed, her posture less rigid.
‘So go on—surprise me. What’s she called?’
‘Ah,’ he said lightly. ‘This baby doesn’t have a name. It’d be disloyal to the camper.’
This time she did laugh—slightly croaky, as if she were unused to making the sound, but as deep and rich, as infectious as Jonas remembered.
‘We wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of a rusting old van, would we?’
‘I assure her every day that I only bought this to spare her tired old axles, but I’m not sure she believes me.’
‘Nobody likes being replaced by a younger model.’
There was a dark undercurrent to her tone and he glanced at her sharply, but her face was as impassive as ever, the laughter gone as if it had never been, replaced by that cool mask she always put on.
It had been her coolness that had first attracted him—the innocent look on her face as she said the most outrageous things a stark contrast to the noisy beach bums he’d been surrounded by. It had been the unexpected moments when she’d opened up that had made him fall head over heels in love with her—the moments when her mask had dropped and she’d lit up with laughter, with indignation, with passion.
Dangerous memories. His hands tightened on the wheel as he navigated the narrow bends, the hedgerows high beside them as if they were driving through a dark, tree-lined tunnel.
‘I’m glad you’re driving. I’m not sure I’d find my way by road,’ Lawrie said conversationally, as if she were discussing the weather.
As beautifully mannered as ever, Jonas thought.
‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Coombe End. I can’t imagine it without your parents there—how are they?’
There were a million and one responses he could give to that. Jonas settled for the most polite. ‘Retired.’
Lawrie made an incredulous noise. ‘Retired? Seriously? I didn’t think the word was even in their vocabulary.’
‘It wasn’t. It took a heart attack to make them even talk about it, and a second one to make them do it.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What are they doing now?’
Jonas’s mouth twisted wryly. Making sure he knew just how much they regretted it. Just how much it hurt to see their profligate son undo all their hard work. Not that any of that was Lawrie’s business. Not any more.
‘Living in a respectable villa, in a respectable village in Dorset, and taking an inordinate amount of cruises—which they mostly complain about, of course. Still, every retiree needs a hobby.’
Lawrie looked at him, concern in the deep grey eyes. Of course she knew more about his relationship with his parents than anyone else. He wasn’t used to that—to people seeing behind his flippant tone. He made damn sure that nobody did.
‘I can’t imagine it—your parents, of all people, taking it easy on cruise liners. How long since you bought them out?’
‘Coming up to four years.’ Jonas kept his answer short, terse.
‘Are they still involved?’
‘Now that, Lawrie dear, would mean them communicating with me.’ All this talk of his parents—his least favourite subject. It was time to turn the tables. ‘Talking about difficult relations,’ Jonas said, ‘how is your mother? Still in Spain?’
Lawrie twisted in her seat and stared at him. ‘How did you know she was in Spain?’
Jonas grinned to himself, allowing his fingers to beat out a tune on the leather of the steering wheel. Nice deflection, Jones. ‘I met her when she was over from Spain, introducing her new husband...John, isn’t it? He seemed like a nice bloke. Didn’t she come to London? She said she wanted to see you.’
Lawrie’s mouth had thinned; the relaxed posture was gone. Any straighter and he could use her back as a ruler.
‘I was busy.’
Jonas shrugged. ‘I think this one might be different. She seemed settled, happy.’
Lawrie was radiating disapproval. ‘Maybe five is her lucky number.’
‘People make mistakes. Your mother certainly did. But she’s so proud of you.’
‘She has no right to be proud of me—she doesn’t know me. And if she was so keen to see me she should have come back for Gran’s funeral.’
‘Didn’t she?’
He should have been at the funeral too. He’d said his own private goodbye to Gran on the day, alone at the cottage. But he should have gone.
‘She was on a retreat.’ It was Lawrie’s turn to be terse.
Maybe it had been too successful a deflection. Jonas searched for a response but couldn’t find one. Lawrie had every right to be angry, but at least her mother wanted to make amends.
His parents wouldn’t have known what they were expected to make amends for—as far as they were concerned any problems in their relationship were all down to him.
He was their eternal disappointment.
There was an awkward silence for a few long minutes, with Jonas concentrating on the narrow road, pulling over several times as tractors lumbered past, and Lawrie staring out of the window.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m glad she’s happy—that five husbands and goodness knows how many boyfriends later she’s settled. But it’s thirty years too late for me.’
‘I know.’
And he did. He knew it all. He knew how bitter Lawrie was about her mother’s desertion, how angry. He knew how vulnerable years of moving around, adapting to new homes, new schools, new stepfathers had made her.
He knew how difficult it was for her to trust, to rely on anyone. It was something he couldn’t ever allow himself to forget.
When it all got too much Lawrie Bennett ran away. Like mother, like daughter. Not caring who or what she left behind.
This time he was not getting to get left in her destructive wake.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘WHAT HAVE YOU done with the helipad? And didn’t the ninth hole start over there? I’m not sure your father ever recovered from that lesson. Or your mother...although I did offer to pay for the window.’
Lawrie would have bet everything she owned that a country house hotel catering for the rich was not Jonas’s style. But now she was here it was hard to pinpoint the changes she instinctively knew he must have made. Coombe End looked the same—a tranquil Queen Anne manor house set in stunning acres of managed woodland at the back, green meadows at the front, running into the vivid blue blur of sea on the horizon—and yet something was different. Something other than the change in owner and the apparent loss of a golf course and helipad.
Maybe it was the car park? There were a few high-end cars dotted
here and there, but they were joined by plenty of others: people carriers, old bangers, small town cars and a whole fleet worth of camper vans, their bright paintwork shining brightly in the sun. Last time she had been here the car park had been filled with BMWs and Mercedes and other, less obviously identifiable makes—discreet and expensive, just like the hotel.
Lawrie hadn’t seen many camper vans in London, and the sight of their cheery squat box shape, their rounded curves and white tops, filled her with a sudden inexplicable sense of happiness. Which was absurd. Camper vans were for man-boys who refused to grow up. Ridiculous, gas-guzzling, unreliable eyesores.
So why did they make her feel as if she was home?
As Jonas led Lawrie along the white gravelled path that clung to the side of the graceful old building her sense of discombobulation increased. The formal gardens were in full flower, displaying all their early summer gaudy glory—giant beds filled with gigantic hydrangea bushes, full flowered and opulent—but the gardens as a whole were a lot less manicured, the grass on the front lawns longer than she remembered, with wildflowers daring to peek out amongst the velvety green blades of grass.
And what was that? The rose garden was gone, replaced by a herb garden with small winding paths and six wooden beehives.
‘You’ve replaced your mother’s pride and joy?’ she said, only half in mock horror.
‘Doesn’t it all look terribly untidy?’ Jonas said, his voice prim and faintly scandalised, a perfect parody of his mother.
Lawrie shook her head, too busy looking around to answer him, as they walked up the sandstone steps that led to the large double doors.
The old heavy oak doors were still there, but stripped, varnished—somehow more inviting. The discreet brass plaque had gone. Instead a driftwood sign set onto the wall was engraved with ‘Boat House Hotel’.
‘Come on,’ Jonas said, nudging her forward. ‘I’ll show you around.’
He stood aside and ushered her through the open door. With one last, lingering look at the sun-drenched lawn Lawrie went through into the hotel.
She hadn’t spent much time here before. Jonas had left home the day he turned sixteen—by mutual agreement, he had claimed—and had slept above the bar or in the camper van before they were married. He’d converted the room over the bar into a cosy studio apartment once they were. It had always felt like a royal summons on the few occasions when they were invited over for dinner—the even fewer occasions she had persuaded Jonas to accept.
The Return of Mrs. Jones Page 5