After Curtis had gone indoors, Ronan sat on in the garden as the wind patted at the trees with giant invisible paws and the sky turned as dark as his mood.
He took stock. His career had gone from being on hold to being in trouble. He’d just agreed to his ex-wife living with him. By her presence – and by Darren’s absence – Selina was a siren trying to lure Ronan back onto the rocks of a relationship he’d been glad to see the end of but Curtis so obviously wanted back.
Ronan felt like a bastard.
His feelings were all for another woman, a woman who’d distanced herself by hundreds of miles physically and much more than that emotionally. Leah’s smile, her walk, her sunny personality, had all vanished back to the life she’d put on hold for the holidays. A life that didn’t include Ronan Shea.
Chapter Twenty-four
England in October
Leah had been back in the UK for nearly six weeks and had already spent a month in her new job. The leaves on the trees outside the window of her new product development kitchen had turned golden and were drifting down to eddy across the staff car park in the autumn breeze.
At her bench she perched on a tall stool, setting up a trials table from a Chocs-a-million template on her computer. Commensurate with her status, she wore chef whites and a bandana along with her hairnet. Through the glass she could see technicians in the lab coats, caps and protective glasses that she, ‘the creative’, was excused.
Her workspace boasted both gas and induction hobs let into the stainless-steel work surfaces, three fan ovens, two microwaves and two fridges.
She was working on a new range, boxed chocolates to be branded ‘Chocs-a-million Airs’. The accent on lightness, the range would be aimed at those tempted by a hint that this luxury chocolate product would be healthier or less fattening than others. Biscuit bases baked in Oven A, ready to be topped with puffs of lemon meringue and swirled with the all-important chocolate tomorrow for a product trial.
Her working day would be over when the timer light went out and Leah’s attention was already straying to the evening ahead: Natasha had texted to invite herself for supper and Scott had done the same.
She tabbed along to Name of trial and typed in Chocs-a-million Airs – Lemon Meringue – then paused, trying to think airy. Nibble? Light? Both done to death. She made it Lemon Meringue Fresh. Marketing would probably change it anyway. That seemed to be their job. Her job, her shiny new job was proving to be quite different to her old position in a small chocolatier. At Chocs-a-million she was finding herself just one cog in a big machine; a vital cog, as she’d been assured when headhunted, but still only able to move when the other cogs moved.
Before, she’d been less constrained and the workplace had had a warmer, inclusive feel. As if they were all one big family.
A vision swam into her mind of ‘family’ – the gîte kitchen in Kirchhoffen: Natasha trying out mug cake recipes, Curtis licking the bowl, Ronan trying not to laugh at Jordan’s phallic chocolate decorations.
Her Chocs-a-million co-workers were friendly, too, she reminded herself, and the salary was great. Revelling in moving to the next level professionally, and loving her high-spec product development kitchen, she found it rewarding to be involved in not just new product concepts but entire ranges.
It wasn’t the fault of Chocs-a-million that she wasn’t feeling settled; the memories of the holiday were fading more slowly than her suntan and the joy she’d expected at returning to her own living space was slow to make its presence felt.
Maybe it was because Natasha had sent her an iMovie slideshow of the holiday and Leah couldn’t stop looking through it at Ronan’s dark eyes smiling at the camera. Maybe it was because Leah still nursed anxieties about Michele’s family and was so preoccupied with each of them trying to find their way through the maze of after-break-up reality that she sometimes didn’t sleep well.
Michele, worryingly, had had plenty of reasons to rue wobbling off the straight and narrow. She’d returned to school to a couple of uncomfortable interviews with her head teacher about her far from ideal circumstances. Many of her students knew Bailey from his coaching at the community centre so salacious gossip was a concern, and the chair of governors, though she kept assuring Michele that she wished her well with her pregnancy, was anxious that her conduct was going to reflect badly on the school. Fuelling these concerns, in the aftermath of rejection Bailey had begun, in Michele’s words, ‘acting like a kid’, vocal about his impending fatherhood but quieter on the subject of financial responsibility.
Jordan and Natasha were slow to forgive their mum for breaking up the family and exposing them to the wagging tongues, and showed few signs of preparing to welcome their sibling.
Jordan still lived with his dad in silent rejection of his mum’s situation though Alister, in a normal plaster now, was hopping gamely around, still on sick pay until he was off his crutches in a few weeks.
Natasha had remained with Michele so far, but Leah had become accustomed to her frequent Can I come round yours? texts. Full of compassion because Natasha hadn’t asked to be caught up in her parents’ problems, Leah answered No prob! whenever possible. Michele was accepting of this facet of the adjustment period. If not entirely happy at home at least Natasha was safe with Leah, for which benefit Leah was prepared to compromise her customary degree of solitude – especially with Scott hovering to support her through any lingering regrets about Ronan. Scott was a good friend.
Being brutally confronted with Baby Three’s young father seemed to have flicked a switch in Alister. When Leah had gently asked if there might ever be a prospect of reconciliation he’d actually raised his voice to her. ‘Michele’s having her toyboy’s child!’ Whether it was resignation, humiliation or a loss of respect for Michele, he now appeared content to spend his sick leave chafing to return to school and instigating divorce proceedings.
The timer flashed and Leah slipped her hands into silicone gloves to slide out the oven trays in a hot sugar-smelling cloud. The tiny biscuit bases slipped easily onto a cooling rack: round, square, diamond, oval and rectangle, some plain, others cocoa. She’d already experimented with the topping so tomorrow she’d whip up a fresh batch of meringue and coat with a range of Chocs-a-million chocolate, label each batch and enter the details in the trial table ready for the initial product evaluation meeting where the chocolates would be nibbled, sniffed, rolled about between fingers, photographed, scrutinised and discussed before detailed evaluation forms were completed. No doubt someone would point out that she hadn’t trialled a triangle.
Ingredients would be scrutinised, too – cost, availability and sourcing, and the ever-present consideration of nut allergy.
A lab assistant would collate everyone’s feedback for discussion. Leah would study it, tweak the recipe, include a triangle, and the cycle would begin again, moving on presently to the sensory evaluation suite, where tasters in cubicles would provide more focused feedback.
Having shoved the day’s trays and utensils into the dishwasher she closed her kitchen and zipped along a glass corridor to the female changing area, waving her pass at the appropriate aperture to open the door.
So it wasn’t her new role, she told herself, changing into street clothes and dumping her whites in a laundry hopper. It wasn’t her home life. Her car was running well and she had a weekend watching touring cars with Scott to look forward to.
She just felt … She paused to check her phone.
She just felt pissed off because once she’d recovered from her long drive from Kirchhoffen, unable to stop thinking about him, she’d texted Ronan to apologise for leaving without saying goodbye.
Sucking in her cheeks and scratching her head over the correct blend of friendliness and disarming sincerity, she’d said she regretted things hadn’t worked out and appreciated Selina had put him in an untenable position. It had been an olive branch, an acknowledgement that Leah might have been inflexible-verging-on-unreasonable.
And Ronan h
ad replied …
… with silence.
A month of silence. She slapped her locker door shut.
The evenings were getting cooler and she put the Porsche’s heater on as she drove home from the industrial park on the edge of Peterborough.
A week ago Leah had given Natasha a key to her house, uneasy at finding her niece waiting like a delivery on the step outside, so today Natasha was already indoors, TV blaring, a glass of orange juice making rings on the table. ‘Hey,’ called Natasha, curled in a corner of the cream leather sofa, long legs encased in thick black tights, having established her coolness by being sent home from school on the first day for bare legs.
‘OK?’ Leah paused to drop a kiss on her niece’s hair, which was only now beginning to regain a natural gloss. ‘Scott’s coming, so I’ll get the chicken and pasta on.’ She pulled off her jacket and made for the kitchen.
‘Random.’ Natasha’s gaze didn’t move from her phone screen.
Leah decided not to argue that Scott scrounging a meal wasn’t random, it was commonplace. Her mind was more on starting up the coffee maker and preparing chicken thighs to be sandwiched between the plates of the contact grill.
Doorbell. Knock-tat-tat. Scott’s usual signature tune.
Natasha yelled. ‘I’ll go!’ Leah added a drop of olive oil to the water for the pasta and listened in to the usual banter that followed the sound of the opened door. ‘What you want, Scottie dog?’
‘Good company. Have to wait till the child goes home.’ The door closing, Scott’s voice approaching.
‘Company was good till you showed up.’
Then a dog-like snarl and a squeal of laughter.
Scott appeared in the kitchen, grin at the ready. He brought with him a smell of outdoors and a bottle of gin. They’d lately discovered the charms of gin produced by a small local distillery. A brief hug, then he raided the fridge for Fevertree tonic and the freezer for the ice cubes Leah froze around slices of lime. ‘Coffee? Fantastic. I’ll set the table. Work’s been shit. Here.’ He passed her a gin with not much tonic, topped up her coffee, then returned to the sitting room. ‘What’re we watching, Natasha? The Thundermans? Cool.’ A grunt of satisfaction as he fell into the reclining chair he considered his own.
Leah took out fresh pasta. ‘What was that about setting the table?’
A sigh. Then, murmured, ‘You do it, Nat, eh?’
‘How much?’
‘Two quid.’
‘Pay up first.’ A pause, then the chink of change followed by the clinking and clunking of cutlery being grabbed from the drawer and clashed onto the small glass table by the windows.
Chopping sage and coriander, Leah wondered idly whether she should object to Scott bribing Natasha. She settled on the positive: at least Natasha was learning the value of money by working for it.
Once the meal was ready, Scott, revived, refreshed the gins and even poured Natasha fresh juice without trying to get his two quid back in exchange.
Scott and Leah shared news about their workdays. Natasha, having established Leah hadn’t brought sample Lemon Meringue Fresh chocolates home, changed the subject. ‘You didn’t ask what was random.’
Leah tasted the sauce. Just the right balance of mushroom, cream and mustard. She liked the hint of tarragon, too. ‘What was random?’
‘Curtis text to ask whether we’re speaking.’
Leah’s heart bumped so hard that it shook her voice. ‘And are you?’
Natasha went pink and busied herself with picking out the crispiest chicken. ‘He was a bit sucky when his mum turned up but I’ve text back.’
Though the reminder of Selina in Curtis’s and Ronan’s lives shivered through her, Leah managed, ‘Good. How’s Curtis doing?’ Get him to ask his dad why he hasn’t answered my message.
‘Got in trouble at school for his piercings and had to take them out. Says it hurts every time he puts them back.’
‘His mum and dad still back together?’ Scott interjected, chasing peas and pasta through his sauce.
‘Curtis says it’s cool to be living like a family again, so think so.’ Natasha looked at Leah under her lashes. ‘How far did you say it is from Bettsbrough to where they live?’
Leah took a hefty swig of the gin and tonic, averting her gaze from Scott’s so he couldn’t read fresh misery in her eyes. ‘Couple of hours.’
‘Oh,’ Natasha sighed. ‘With Mum being pregnant and Dad being broken, they won’t take me.’ She tried her aunt with a winning smile.
Leah’s breath fluttered as she let herself toy with the idea that if she offered to take Natasha to see Curtis she, Leah, would have a reason to see Ronan. ‘Maybe you could Facetime him?’ With a pang, she watched Natasha’s face fall.
Ronan’s first action after being declared fit to return to work by his orthopaedic surgeon was to ring his Aviation Medical Examiner with the good news.
‘Glad to hear,’ the doctor responded breezily. ‘Feeling generally fit?’
‘Never better,’ Ronan fibbed, deciding that feeling jumpy could be forgiven when your ex-wife came to stay and your boss turned inexplicably hostile. Add to that a frustrating end to a nearly love affair with a woman who seemed to have gripped him equally by the heart and the –
The AME interrupted his thoughts. ‘Grand. Email me the surgeon’s report. If it’s satisfactory I’ll send you your “fit letter” on the basis of information received and you can notify your employer.’
‘Can’t wait to.’ He’d do it immediately. In person.
It felt odd to drive to the airport after a three-month absence. The familiar buildings and hangars housing flying schools and London shuttles glinted in the autumn sunshine; London landmarks rose up in the mid-distance. Aircraft, private and business, fixed-wing and rotary, lined up on aprons outside hangars like some fantastic toy collection.
Ronan didn’t park outside Buzz Sightseer. Instead, he chose to stroll the last hundred yards and enter the hangar via the personnel door. Two of the aircraft, company call signs Buzzair One and Buzzair Three, stood in the hangar in gleaming livery of silver with green and purple flashes. Presumably Buzzair Four was out. Buzzair Two would be in the hands of the insurance company.
He paused to breathe in the Avtur and the peaceful atmosphere of the hangar. Liam, the ground engineer, had his wheeled tool chest alongside Buzzair Three. The client lounge at the side of the hangar was unoccupied but Ronan glimpsed people moving beyond the next window: Cindy’s fair head, a rotund body that would belong to Janine. Then a lean male frame that passed purposefully by the window, heading out of the office.
Moving swiftly, crossing his fingers that Liam wouldn’t see him and give him away by calling out, Ronan crossed the concrete and reached the offices at exactly the moment the door opened.
‘Whoa!’ Henry skittered back a step.
Ronan assumed a genial expression. ‘Hi, honey, I’m home. Surgeon says I’m fit to return to work. AME’s sending me my “fit letter”.’
‘I’m on my way to a meeting–’
‘Great.’ Ronan stood back to let Henry pass. ‘I’ll just talk to Cindy about my return to work on Monday and get Janine to arrange my base and align check.’
‘Hang on.’ Henry looked taken aback. His chest, under the Buzz Sightseer logo on his neat black sweater, rose and fell.
Ronan lifted a brow. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting to your meeting?’
Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘We’d better sort this out.’
Ronan followed him across the tiny foyer but paused at the door to the main area. ‘Cindy and Janine! How’s life treating you?’
‘Ronan!’ they called, sounding surprised but pleased to see him.
Waiting with exaggerated patience for Ronan to follow him through the door to his private office, Henry made a performance of tidying paperwork and minimising windows on his computer.
Ronan waited calmly. At least outwardly.
Henry finally shuffled aside enough paper to make r
oom for his elbows on his desk. ‘I have to admit I was expecting you to have resigned by now, after our telephone conversation.’
‘But all you did was talk bullshit, Henry. You’re going to have to do better than that.’ Ronan watched his boss carefully and, to his satisfaction, a couple of beads of sweat popped on Henry’s brow. Ronan kept his voice even but firm despite the anger spiralling inside him. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence. Tell me what’s going on.’
A clock on the wall ticked.
Henry looked down and fidgeted with his computer mouse.
Ronan watched him.
Henry sighed. ‘OK. Here are the hard facts. I no longer have enough business for four aircraft. If I run three, I can use the insurance money from Buzzair Two to pay off one of my loans, reducing my outgoings and my exposure.’
Ronan processed the information. ‘Fair enough. What I’m still missing is why it’s me you want to see gone. I’m the only pilot that’s directly employed. The rest you call on according to bookings and pilot hour limits.’
Henry rolled the mouse in precise little circles. Finally, he sighed and caved in. ‘You’re also the most expensive, with the national insurance contributions, pension and everything.’
A chill crept over Ronan. ‘So you thought you’d try and “encourage” me to resign so you can get away without paying redundancy money? After all my support, Henry?’
Henry fidgeted and sighed some more. Then he switched on a pleased expression, as if in the grip of a wonderful idea. ‘How about you go self-employed? Then I can use you, especially in summer, when we take on additional VIP travel to Ascot, the British Grand Prix and Cowes week.’
Ronan had to fight not to bang his fist on the table. ‘A zero-hours contract is no good to me.’
‘It’s all I’m in a position to offer.’ Henry cheeks were mottled red now.
Ronan watched him dispassionately. ‘As you’ve relied on me for many a business decision I’ll do you a favour and point out that you’re trying to contravene employment law. Law. I’ll get ACAS and the legal people at the British Airline Pilots’ Association on the case.’
Just for the Holidays Page 26