‘Dunno, pet. I just go round doing this.’
Violet peered through the glass in the door. Sure enough, except for the built-in rails and the central counter, there was nothing but bare walls, floor and ceiling.
Chapter 103
Bel took the next day off work and drove up to the moors. She had owed it to herself to try to mend her marriage but she knew, when Richard refused to go into the cake shop, that she might as well try to knit smoke. There was no fun in him, no little boy who occasionally made a giggly appearance. He was all grownup – inside and out. They never laughed in or out of bed, he never giggled, he never bashed her with a cushion or had tickling fights. All those revelations came to her in a rush when he said that he didn’t want to go in for cake; it just took her brain a little time to work that out.
She had loved Richard, but she had loved the idea of marriage and of belonging to someone and living with them more. But she knew now that she couldn’t be truly happy with a man who would never know the joy of the odd Pot Noodle or giggle about a Bronte-based menu.
Bel wanted to take a last trip up here and remember the mad few days she had spent with a doctor/author who fought with her over a tin opener and showed her what she was missing. Then she would go back and begin single life again. It was better to have no man than the wrong man.
Richard had tried to call many times but even he knew it had to be over. He didn’t want Shaden, although Shaden was gearing herself up to be evil in the divorce settlement. Faye had made it quite plain that she would have a relationship with her sister but never with her niece. Even the Bosomworth sisters’ relationship was on a different footing now, with Faye no longer the underdog.
Bel drove up the lane that would take her to the cottages. It was no longer quiet and deserted up there; she found vans and a cement mixer churning and stacks of bricks and towers of wooden planks. Bronte Cottages were no longer owned by the Candy family.
They looked so different already. Charlotte’s door had been sealed up and she could see through the window that the walls between her and Emily had been taken down. The noise of hammering was coming from inside Anne at the end.
‘Hi,’ said Bel, approaching a stodgy little man with a hard hat and an air of authority. ‘My dad used to own this and I just wonder if I could take a last look at the inside. For old time’s sake, please?’
‘I’ll find you the owner, love,’ he said in a West Country accent. ‘He’s round the back somewhere.’
Bel waited by the car, watching a man bring the old sink out of Anne and dump it in a huge skip.
‘Hi, can I help you? I’m the owner,’ said a voice at her side. A big, gruff, deep Yorkshire voice. The one that he had used to demand back the tin opener.
‘You?’ said Bel with amazed delight. ‘You’re the new owner?’
‘Yep,’ said Dan Regent. ‘That’s me. And this is my writer’s retreat.’
She saw him glance down at her fingers. Then he lifted the left hand and examined it.
‘Didn’t work out, then?’ he said, tapping the third finger.
‘It was never going to work out. He didn’t like cake,’ said Bel, her face beaming as if there was a midday sun trapped behind her teeth. ‘You and Cathy?’
‘It was never going to work out. She didn’t like chocolate,’ said Dan. ‘Or tinned soup. Come in, I’ve got something to show you.’
He pulled her into Emily and foraged in a pile of papers, eventually retrieving an envelope.
‘You’ve saved me a stamp,’ he said, urging her to open it.
Puzzled, Bel pulled out the folded sheet of paper inside. It was a typeset dedication page.
To the crazy tin-opening bride who set me back on the road – and to whom I wish all the happiness in the world.
Bel swallowed down a huge lump of rising emotion. Maybe there was a reason why it had been so hard to shift Dr Dan from her heart since she left him: because it was his rightful place and he was staying put.
‘Wow,’ she said, trying to keep the nervously thrilled vibrato out of her voice. ‘I’ve never been mentioned in a book before.’
‘Care for some Branwell coffee and a Villette Jaffa Cake?’ asked Dan.
‘How about a Rochester soup?’ asked Bel, hardly able to see him now for the water in her eyes.
‘I think I can do better than that, Miss Eyre. How about a Rochester snog?’ he said, picking her up, whirling her round and kissing her until she was breathless.
Epilogue
Nine months later
‘You don’t half scrub up well,’ said Max, grinning at Bel, who was wearing her mother’s wedding dress. At least the dress that her lovely stepmother had chosen so many years ago from a little shop in Berlin. A dress that fitted her so beautifully it was as if it had been made for her.
‘Ta, that’s good of you,’ tutted Bel, pretending to be insulted.
Violet adjusted the simple lace veil on Bel’s hair. ‘You aren’t going to bugger off at the reception again, are you?’ she said. ‘I’d like one of us to have a wedding where it all goes perfectly.’
‘Trust me, I won’t be leaving this one,’ Bel said, and she sighed because thinking of becoming Mrs Regent left her weak with delight. She wouldn’t have admitted this to the others, but she had actually been practising writing ‘Mrs Belinda Regent’ for nearly eight months now. Two months before Dan proposed to her. He left the ring looped on the tin opener on the first night they spent in the fully renovated cottage.
‘You next,’ said Bel, nudging Violet.
‘We’re happy as we are,’ laughed Violet. It had taken Pav nearly three months after the fire to heal. Then he announced that he was leaving the cottage because he was well enough and he didn’t want Violet to think he was taking advantage of her kindness. He packed his bags and said he would see her soon, but she didn’t believe him.
Then she walked into the newly white-painted Carousel the next morning to find him there, painting the first horse again – a dappled-grey and gold one.
‘How could you think I would leave you, Violet?’ he said, running to her when she burst into tears. And when the icecream parlour finally opened, three months later, he moved back into Postbox Cottage. And this time, he wasn’t in the spare bedroom.
‘Actually, you’re wrong,’ said Max. ‘I’m next. I didn’t want to steal your thunder, but seeing as we’re on the subject, Luke asked me to marry him last night and I said yes. I’ve been dying to tell you all morning.’
‘Oh Max, I’m so happy for you.’ Bel ran to hug her but Max held her off. ‘Give up – you’ll spoil your make-up. Don’t you dare start blubbing. Oh all right, then.’ She chuckled and let Bel give her a big squashy hug and then felt Violet’s arms close round them both.
There was a car beep outside.
‘Sounds like we’re off,’ said Violet, adjusting the flower in her hair. It was lavender blue, the same colour as her and Max’s dresses, the same colour as her eyes that Pav loved so much.
Bel picked up her skirt and walked outside to where Trevor was having a nervous fag.
‘So this time you’re going to run off to Gretna Green, are you, Max?’ asked Violet, as the chauffeur opened the door for them and they climbed inside. They were all travelling together today.
‘You are joking,’ said Max. ‘Do you think I’m going to marry a bloke called Appleby and not have the full shebang? I tell you, this wedding will make the last one look like an Amish funeral. I’ve had the practice run and know what works and what doesn’t work – i.e. that it might be a good idea to have a groom next time. I’ll throttle back on the tan but up the bling factor.’
‘Up the bling? How on earth could you up the bling factor?’
‘I know –’ Max raised a delighted finger in the air – ‘I’LL HAVE A VAJAZZLE.’ Then she remembered that Bel’s dad was in the car. ‘Oops, sorry, Trevor.’
‘Oh don’t you worry, love,’ said Trevor, turning round from the front passenger seat. ‘I know what you girls and yo
ur handbags are like.’
Bel, Max and Violet all collapsed forward into giggles.
‘I’m thinking gypsy caravan, I’m thinking Rapunzel wig, I’m thinking a thirty-foot train on my dress. Princess Diana’s was only twenty-five foot, you know,’ Max went on.
‘Oh God, here we go again,’ sighed Bel.
‘I’m thinking a cake you can actually walk inside . . .’
‘Max. Does Luke know about all this?’
‘Of course. He said I should “go for it”. Because he’s just wonderful like that. As daft as me. I’m thinking pink horses . . .’
Trevor turned round again and winked at his daughter. And Bel linked her arms into those of her two lovely friends, who turned to her together and grinned as a quote from her schooldays flashed through her head. Strangely enough, it was a Charlotte Bronte one.
There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.
Bel couldn’t have put it better herself.
Acknowledgements
Well, Billy Idol might have said that nothing was a sure thing in the world – but I’m pretty sure of these marvellous folks to whom I owe a load of thanks.
My absolutely fabulous publishing gang: Suzanne Baboneau, Maxine Hitchcock, Nigel Stoneman, Libby Yevtushenko, Clare Hey, S-J, Georgie, Ali, Alice and everyone at Simon & Schuster. I couldn’t wish for a more supportive and friendlier bunch fighting my corner in the marketplace.
My wonderful agent – and my friend – Lizzy Kremer and the David Higham Agency gang.
Herr Mike Bowkett at Reedmoor Distribution for his help with German wedding dress shops . . . ho ho.
My lovely lovely author friends who are a constant support both professionally and personally – especially Tara Hyland, Sue Welfare, Kate Hardy, Carole Matthews, Jill Mansell, Victoria Howard, Jane Costello, Katie Fforde, Louise Douglas and Sue Diamond.
The gorgeous Mel and Dawn at Hothouse – www.hot-h.co.uk – for supplying me with their silky super St. Moritz tanning products for research purposes. And with bubble bath to get it off with.
Yummy Yorkshire – www.yummyyorkshire.co.uk – where I have to go lots to sample their amazingly wicked ice creams so my writing is credible (!).
My private army of financial wizards – Alex Bianchi at www.alexbianchi.co.uk, John Philbin at www.john-philbin.com and the divine Phil Lofthouse at Stead Robinson – the man whom I can’t live without – my accountant, because he knows I’m total pants with numbers.
And lastly but by no means least – Traz, Kath, Cath, Tracey, Rae, Judy and Chris and all my smashing old faithful Barnsley mates. And my beloved family – who give me so much material, I can’t write it down fast enough.
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