The Summer of Second Chances

by Maddie Please

‘Bloody hell!’ I said.

  My words echoed around the room.

  ‘What on earth’s been going on here?’ asked a voice from behind me.

  I spun round, squeaking with shock. There was a silhouette of a man in the doorway, his shoulders almost filling the space. I yelped again.

  ‘Well, if you don’t want people to walk in you shouldn’t leave all the doors open,’ he said, unapologetic.

  ‘And you shouldn’t just wander in to someone else’s house uninvited,’ I said, my voice shrill with fright. I flapped my hands at him to shoo him back down the stairs.

  He turned and went, his movements unhurried and careful in the confined space of the stairwell. I followed him downstairs and into the kitchen, trying to calm the thudding of my heart.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ he said. ‘It wasn’t like this the other day. And what’s that terrible smell?’

  ‘How would I know?’ I replied. ‘I’ve only just got here.’

  ‘Hang on,’ he said and went into the sitting room, ducking his head under the lintel. He searched around for a few minutes and then retrieved a rotting fish wrapped in newspaper from behind a radiator.

  ‘Jesus!’ I clamped my hand back over my nose and watched him take it outside into the garden.

  He reappeared, framed in the kitchen door. ‘I’ve no idea where that came from. I’m assuming it’s nothing to do with you?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. Why the hell would I do a thing like that?’

  ‘OK, calm down. All I know is it didn’t smell like this when I last called in. Nor was there a pond on the sitting-room floor. Perhaps the Websters are responsible?’

  ‘The Websters?’

  Oh yes the Websters. What had Jess said about them? I should have paid more attention.

  ‘The last tenants. Two years without a problem and then Mr Webster discovered skunk and scratch cards. They left a few days ago. Spent all his money on things other than his priorities. But I know he left his house keys behind when he left. I can’t think how he could have got back in. I’ve been here, Webster had a beaten-up old camper van. Red and white. I’m sure I would have noticed…’

  I stood watching him for a moment wondering who he reminded me of.

  ‘It needs a bit of a sort out,’ he said, his blue eyes flicking from the piles of junk mail behind the door to the chocolate handprints on the wall. At least I hoped they were chocolate.

  ‘A bit of a sort out?’ I said, incredulous. ‘Never mind the smell, it’s absolutely filthy and disgusting.’

  ‘Ah well.’ He shrugged his shoulders. They really were very broad. ‘I’m Bryn Palmer, by the way.’ He held out a hand and I shook it.

  ‘I’m Charlotte Calder. What do you mean “ah well”? Would you want to live here?’

  He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Well don’t then,’ Bryn said. He flicked another look around that conveyed his boredom with the whole conversation. ‘It’s up to you. I thought you needed a place to stay?’

  ‘You mean beggars can’t be choosers?’

  ‘Why would I say that? No one is forcing you to live here, are they?’

  I struggled with my temper. I was caught between Holly Cottage and a hard place. I had nowhere else to go, at least at the moment. I had considered my Auntie Shirley in Croydon but I couldn’t bring myself to make that call. A one-bedroom maisonette with a view of the library car park seemed the very last resort. At least here I had a bit of privacy. And a bed.

  ‘Couldn’t someone have at least checked the place to make sure it was at least habitable?’ I said.

  His dark brows drew together in a frown. I had overstepped the mark, that was obvious.

  ‘Someone? You mean me?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t have killed you,’ I muttered.

  ‘That was up to Jess and Greg to sort out, not me,’ he said, ‘you’re not my responsibility. I’m not here to sort your problems out.’

  Bloody cheek, it was as though I was being passed around from one responsible adult to another. Like some sort of delinquent child.

  ‘But you live down here in this godforsaken spot,’ I said, dismissing the beauty of the hills around me with a wave of my hand.

  He refused to be drawn in to any discussion.

  ‘If you aren’t staying I’ll have the keys back.’ He held out one hand, ready to take them.

  I stood, fists clenched, trembling with indecision for a few moments. It was this or sleep in the car. I had no idea about council accommodation for a single woman without children but I guessed I would be low down on a long list. I didn’t want to spend money on a hotel. I couldn’t go back; the locks had been changed. I had no choice.

  ‘I’ll stay. For now anyway,’ I said.

  ‘Fine.’ Bryn obviously didn’t care either way. ‘If you’re staying we should get that wet rug out. I could help you do it now, if you like?’ he said.

  I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. I needed him to help me; I’d never manage it on my own. Not that I’m scrawny or anything but I’m only five foot four, there’s only so much leverage I could get.

  ‘Thank you, that would be very kind of you.’

  He nodded and I noticed there was a bit of Matthew McConaughey about him, mixed with some other actor whose name I couldn’t remember. Plus evidence of a fair amount of time spent in the gym. It was an attractive mixture. Pity his character wasn’t so appealing.

  I spent the next half an hour helping him shift furniture and alternately pulling at the rug with all my strength and gagging at the smell. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had been helping me. By the time we managed it I must have looked a sight – red, sweating and with my hair falling all over my face. A glamorous episode in anyone’s book.

  At last Bryn got the offending article out into the front garden, leaving me exhausted and filthy, shoving furniture back into approximately the right place.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ he said.

  He was about to leave and I was really going to be on my own. I was suddenly nervous. Perhaps I could keep him talking for a few minutes longer.

  ‘I’ve brought some stuff with me but is there anywhere I can get some fresh milk or some bread?’

  Bryn gave an impatient sigh. ‘You can get milk and a few essentials at the post office shop in Bramford St Michael. Back down this hill and turn left. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Towering skyscrapers and retail parks?’ I said.

  His mouth twitched. ‘A fourteenth-century church, a pub and a bus stop on the left. You’ll see a row of thatched cottages and the shop is just beyond that. You’d better be quick; they close in half an hour. Unless they feel like closing earlier. Which they sometimes do. If they are shut you’ll have to carry on for a few miles to Stokeley. There’s a Superfine there that’s open until ten o’clock.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said in a very ungrateful tone. With any luck Bryn and I would not meet again. I didn’t quite understand why he was here in the first place if he wasn’t involved in the upkeep of Holly Cottage. But I soon found out.

  He flicked me a slow and rather blush-inducing glance. I could see the resemblance between him and Greg, at least in looks. He had that same energy combined with a strong impression of competence. He was the sort of man who would deal with life not let it deal with him.

  ‘I’ll be off then.’

  I stepped to one side to let him leave but he walked in the opposite direction, out of the kitchen door, down the small garden and through the gate at the bottom.

  ‘Hey! Where are you going?’ I called after him.

  ‘Home,’ he said.

  I followed him for a few steps and watched as he walked into the garden of the house next door. I realised for the first time that his garden was huge and absolutely crammed with spring growth.

  The contrast between that and the untidy mess in what I already considered ‘my’ garden could not ha
ve been starker. Mine boasted a shabby, overgrown lawn, weed-choked borders and the battered remains of an old bath.

  Bryn looked at me as he drew level. It was obvious he was trying hard not to laugh at me.

  ‘You live in Holly Cottage, I live in Ivy Cottage. I’m your neighbour,’ he said.

  ‘Just when I thought things couldn’t get any frigging worse! That’s all I bloody need.’

  I couldn’t help it; the words were out before I could stop myself. Bryn looked at me for a moment, his eyes were very cold and my spirits sank even lower.

  ‘Sorry, it’s been a crap sort of day,’ I muttered.

  ‘Happy to help,’ he said at last.

  I turned away and went inside, slamming my door behind me.

  CHAPTER 2

  Daffodils – uncertainty, unrequited love, deceit

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It really wasn’t.

  Nine years ago I’d finished my English Masters degree and taken a sort of late gap year working for the local paper as gofer while I wrote my ‘bestselling novel’. I had been filling in for someone one lunch hour, selling advertising space, and Ian had come into the office to place an ad for his company; Lovell Kitchens. He had amused me so much that I had agreed to go for dinner with him that evening. He’d then charmed me into meeting for a picnic the following day, then into a relationship, and after six months much to his mother’s annoyance I moved in with him.

  By the time that happened, my gap year had become two years and looked as though it was turning into a career choice. Ten years older than me, Ian had seemed handsome, sophisticated, funny and charismatic. We had wanted the same things, we enjoyed similar tastes, and he had made me laugh back then. I’d been very lucky. When my university friends started complaining about trying to save a deposit for their first house, I just walked into one.

  Ian worked hard, the years had been good to us, and we had a lovely home. Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, a fabulous hand-built kitchen with every possible gadget, and a wood-panelled study for Ian. I’d discovered a talent for interior décor and had brought new style and colour to the house, all paid for by Ian’s generous hand. Even in the middle of winter the half-acre of manicured gardens were neat and attractive, mostly thanks to the attention of our gardener. Much to Susan’s disgust we’d never married but we enjoyed our lives together. Ian was a generous host and I was a good cook. We’d had some marvellous parties when we first met.

  In the past couple of years I suppose we’d just got a bit out of practice, with Ian away so much on business. And for want of something else to do, I’d recently gone back to part-time work. Not for the money, but because I was bored. There are only so many times you can decorate a house and move the furniture round.

  We’d made lots of friends who included us in their busy circle of golf, fussy dinner parties and meaningless celebrations. Most of the men were more Ian’s age than mine, and many were involved in property development or building, but I was cultivating a group of my own too. Younger second wives and girlfriends keen to shop and have fun and go on spa breaks. Spa breaks! Wouldn’t that be nice now? And best of all, Jess had moved into our village, a sparky high-maintenance blonde with a taste for heels and spray tans and a laugh like Barbara Windsor. We’d instantly recognised a kindred spirit in each other even if I could never rival her for glamour. She was married to Greg, a meaty-looking man, and last year they had returned from several years living in Spain and bought The Grange, the biggest house for miles. Ian had nearly had kittens with his excitement.

  After I was sure that Bryn was staying indoors, I found my handbag, took my cigarettes out to the garden and lit one. Always one to conform, I knew I shouldn’t smoke in someone else’s house; not that it would have mattered under the circumstances.

  I felt giddy for a moment; perhaps it was the nicotine. I went to brush some dead leaves off one of the garden chairs near the back door and sat down. It wasn’t fair, none of this was my fault, was it? And yet here I was, on my own, miles from anywhere, looking into a future that was uncertain to say the least.

  I shook myself; self-pity had no place here, I was going to have to buck up my ideas. I couldn’t treat having a job as an antidote to boredom any longer. I couldn’t rely on Ian’s seemingly bottomless wallet or acquaintances that had bought me flowers and sent cards when it all happened but now shied away from me in case my bad fortune rubbed off on them.

  I walked down to the end of the garden through the thick, neglected grass and tried to see if there was anything apart from rubbish and weeds. A bank of nettles had taken over one of the borders. Something else that I think was honeysuckle was curling bare tendrils around a dirty and unpainted wooden lattice. It was a mess. Perhaps I could do something out here when I had a moment? Perhaps there was more under the rich red soil than was apparent. I went back into the house and picked up all the junk mail that had stacked behind the front door. Nothing to do with pizza delivery or takeaway menus, I noticed. Leaflets about hedge cutting, the local parish magazine, details of refuse collection, a flyer from the local feed merchant telling me about special offers on hen coops and wire netting. Perhaps I would have some chickens.

  I pictured myself wandering down the garden with a bowl of kitchen scraps, the hens fat and feathery clustering around my ankles. For some reason I imagined myself wearing an old-fashioned wraparound apron over a flowery frock. Oh get a bloody grip! I had moved a few miles over the county border, not into the last century! It wasn’t that long ago I was hosting dinner parties in the latest season’s fashion. I’d been famous for my huge shoe collection. I hoped Age Concern in Taunton had appreciated them.

  When I had finished decorating and styling Ian’s house for the second time, I had found a job working part time as a receptionist at the doctor’s surgery. I’d been on duty one Saturday morning when I met Greg Palmer. It was also the day I found out we were having a New Year’s Eve party.

  There were several messages to deal with on the answerphone and a trail of people came through the doors with appointments or wanting repeat prescriptions. The phone rang almost continually. At about ten thirty there was a brief lull and after having made sure Dr Hawkins was occupied with a patient, I went to make more coffee. When I came back to my desk a tall figure was standing there, muffled up in an expensive-looking tweed coat and a cashmere scarf. He fired me a broad, white smile.

  ‘Greg Palmer to see Doctor Hawkins,’ he said.

  I stabbed at a couple of computer keys. I hadn’t worked here long and I was quite capable of getting things wrong.

  ‘I don’t seem to have you on the system,’ I said at last.

  ‘No problem, princess. I saw the good doctor yesterday, he told me to pop in today to check everything was OK. Just tell him Greg Palmer is here.’ He winked and flashed me another smile, utterly confident of his success in circumventing our appointment system. It was a good thing the other receptionist, Daphne, wasn’t in my place. She would have sent him packing and enjoyed doing it too.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell the doctor you’re here. Do take a seat.’ I spoke into the intercom. When I turned back he was still there, looking at me with a speculative gaze. He held out a large, tanned hand. A heavy gold bracelet clanked out from under his coat cuff.

  ‘You’re Charlotte, aren’t you? Charlotte Calder? Ian’s partner?’

  We shook hands.

  ‘I’m Jess’s husband. We’re looking forward to coming over on New Year’s Eve,’ he said. His eyes, startlingly blue in his tanned face, didn’t waver for a second. I had the uncomfortable feeling he might be imagining me with my clothes off.

  I must have looked a bit blank for a moment. What bloody party?

  ‘New Year’s Eve?’

  New Year’s Eve was weeks away. What the hell was Ian playing at?

  Greg leaned a companionable elbow on the desk, and a blast of his aftershave punched me in the nose.

  ‘Yes, I saw Ian the other day up at the golf club and he mentioned you
were thinking of having a party. Sounds good to me, and Jess is always up for a bash. He told me you worked here. I thought I would make myself known. Just popped in for a review of my war wound.’ He held out his left hand, which was bandaged. ‘I caught myself with the electric carving knife a couple of days ago. I called Simon and he popped out to patch me up. They do say you shouldn’t mix champagne and tools, don’t they?’

  I don’t know how he managed to make this sentence sound suggestive, but he did.

  ‘How awful,’ I said, trying not to laugh. I shuffled some patient record cards into alphabetical order. ‘I bet that hurt.’

  ‘A bit of blood, just a nick on the side of my hand, that’s all.’ He winked at me again. ‘Still, it got me out of doing anything else, so not all bad. Jess is a bit of a madam in the kitchen. She likes things done her way and I’m not very biddable.’

  To my relief Dr Hawkins’ surgery door opened and his patient hobbled out after him, her ankle heavily strapped up.

  ‘Feet up for a few days, Jill,’ Dr Hawkins bellowed at her, ‘let Sidney get the meals and feed the chickens. Ah, Greg!’ The two men shook hands; smiles all round. ‘How’s the hand?’

  Dr Hawkins ushered Greg into his surgery and the door closed behind them. I dealt with Mrs Guthrie and made her a review appointment for next week. All the time I could hear loud male laughter from behind the closed door I was aware of someone fixing me with a basilisk stare from across the waiting room.

  ‘I was next,’ an old man grumbled from under his bobble hat. ‘I’ve got my leg here. I was definitely next. Who’s he to go in when I was next?’

  ‘I met your new bf Greg Palmer at the practice this morning,’ I said when I got back at lunchtime. I kicked off my shoes and dumped my handbag on the kitchen table. Ian was still in his dressing gown nursing a Friday night hangover, reading emails at the other end of the table. He raised an enquiring eyebrow like a young Roger Moore.

  ‘Bf?’

  ‘Best friend. He said you’d invited him and his wife to a party here on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Ah yes, I did.’