by Nancy Barone
Also by Nancy Barone
No Room at the Little Cornish Inn
NEW HOPE FOR THE LITTLE CORNISH FARMHOUSE
Nancy Barone
Just when she thought she’d written all she knew about love…
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Nancy Barone, 2020
The moral right of Nancy Barone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781838938031
Cover design © Cherie Chapman
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: It’s Complicated
Chapter 2: As Good As It Gets
Chapter 3: Something’s Gotta Give
Chapter 4: Crime And Punishment
Chapter 5: It Could Happen To You
Chapter 6: Something To Talk About
Chapter 7: Hollywood Dreams
Chapter 8: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood
Chapter 9: The Devil’s Advocate
Chapter 10: Alice In Wonderland
Chapter 11: California Dreaming
Chapter 12: Glass Houses
Chapter 13: About A Boy
Chapter 14: The Bucket List
Chapter 15: My Neighbour’s Secret
Chapter 16: A New Life
Chapter 17: The Predator
Chapter 18: The Odd Couple
Chapter 19: Gossip
Chapter 20: The English Patient
Chapter 21: Friends With Benefits
Chapter 22: Irreconcilable Differences
Chapter 23: La La Land
Chapter 24: Stand By Me
Chapter 25: The Wedding Planner
Chapter 26: No Sex Please, We’re British
Chapter 27: Morning Glory
Chapter 28: The Secret Of My Success
Chapter 29: Mystery Man
Chapter 30: Gone With The Wind
Chapter 31: Miss You Already
Chapter 32: Revenge
Chapter 33: The Crying Game
Chapter 34: Nine To Five
Chapter 35: Phoenix
Chapter 36: Triangle
Chapter 37: Dazed And Confused
Chapter 38: Once Upon A Time In America
Chapter 39: My Best Friend’s Wedding
Chapter 40: Breakfast At Tiffany’s
Epilogue: Los Angeles, one year later
Ingredients
Procedure
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
To my beloved husband Nick with love. I couldn’t have done any of this imaginary-world stuff if you hadn’t been there to take care of the real world outside – and to be my creative sounding board as always.
1
It’s Complicated
Nina Conte has written three novels and lives in a rambling farmhouse on the outskirts of a Cornish seaside village with her two children and their dog Minnie.
That was my life on paper. More precisely, in my author bio.
Because in reality, my existence couldn’t be any more different than the idyllic picture my agent had painted.
Indeed, there were three novels, two children and one dog – no lie there. But the “rambling farmhouse”, Cornflower Cottage, had been (and practically still was) a ruin that my erstwhile husband Phil and I had bought three years, ago with the intention of doing it up while we roughed it on site with our children in a caravan for the summer.
That had been the plan three years ago. Chloe, who was ten at the time, and Ben, only five, were absolutely thrilled about our new Cornish adventure. And so was I. But one rainy afternoon, only two weeks into our new life, amidst plumbers and roofers and glazers, Phil walked out on us.
There had been no Goodbye, I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s me, I’ll come back for my stuff, We’ll take turns with the kids, et cetera. Nothing but an I’m not doing this anymore.
So I’d watched, completely numb with stupor, as he marched through the rotting oak front door that had been hanging on a hinge and a prayer for the last three hundred years, and strode straight off the mess that was the building site – and our lives.
In his haste to go, however, he hadn’t forgotten to empty out our joint bank account, leaving me absolutely nothing for the children, not even for a food shop, let alone the hefty renovation bills that were coming in like flyers through a stuffed mailbox.
It was a good thing I had already paid for Ben and Chloe’s first year at Northwood Academy, one of the best schools in Cornwall, and the main reason we’d moved here. But as far as everything else was concerned, we had nothing left for the next three months until my royalties came in.
And, as if Phil had cast a Macumba on us, the second he disappeared over the horizon on his motorbike, our caravan, containing our every worldly possession, including the kids’ brand-new school books, uniforms and PE kits, suddenly caught fire.
I remember half-carrying Ben and Chloe from the caravan to the front yard, which was a mud-rink from weeks of rain. My neighbours and the locals from the village were there in a moment to help put it out, and that was how I met most of them.
But they needn’t have bothered, because the minute they arrived, an almighty hell broke loose from the skies, drenching everyone to the bone while I wrapped Chloe and Ben in my Mac, the only possession we now had left in the world, apart from the roofless ruin we had hoped to call home.
Luckily Jack Marrak, the farmer from Crooked Hill Farm, my nearest neighbour on my left and up the road, put us up in his beautiful farmhouse while he and a few others from the village helped make the building watertight. In the space of a half hour, his entrance hall had been submerged with goods of every kind, from clothes to toys.
And since then, we have been an integral part of the village of Penworth Ford, a community of only seventy-five souls, with my new best friends Emma Perkins living on my right in Hyacinth Cottage and Jack as my pillars. Jack had done as much work as he could with a couple of his friends, such as stripping the floorboards in some of the rooms, repairing the windows and fixing the locks so Phil couldn’t get back in should he have chosen to. Not that there was any danger of that.
Jack had continued to work relentlessly for weeks fixing the log burner and the boiler before the winter set in, while Emma had provided the free childcare while I worked in a restaurant. All for the price of a weekly neighbour dinner. And now I reciprocated by providing dinner and babysitting as she worked.
‘Mum, I think my clothes are shrinking,’ Ben said as we tried to get his trousers over his leg brace this morning. The doctors said he would always have one leg longer than the other, but I refused to believe it. The fact that he couldn’t even walk withou
t it (for now) didn’t stop us from believing he would run like the wind one day.
And his trousers were actually not shrinking. He was simply growing faster than I could clothe him, and the school had been adamant – no wide-legged trousers (were they afraid my eight-year-old was going to introduce a bazooka into the school, for goodness’ sake?), so every morning we had this palaver.
‘One more time, darling,’ I urged him as my bloody mobile rang. I’d have left it gladly, but it was my accountant, Menacing Mike, formerly dubbed Marvellous Mike when there was money in my account.
I tapped the green circle on my screen. ‘Hi, Mike,’ I chimed like a dream-catcher warding off evil spirits, hoping that some good karma would work its charm and come back into my life. ‘What’s up?’
‘Up? Nothing’s up, Nina. But I can tell you what’s down. Your royalties. They’re dwindling.’
I felt my stomach start to burn again for the third time that morning. ‘What, so soon?’
‘It’s been three years since your last book, Nina. You need to come up with something new ASAP… or else,’ he counselled as I jammed the phone between my shoulder and cheek as Ben and I finally managed to pull his trousers on.
‘Do your tie up now, darling,’ I whispered.
‘It’s sort of knotted, Mum,’ he apologised and I looked down in dismay. Of all mornings, he’d somehow managed to tangle it so badly that it would not come undone.
Chloe, on the other hand, was already sulking at the top of the stairs preparing a tantrum of biblical proportions because she couldn’t find her favourite blue tights, the sheer ones. God, how I hated Mondays. It was like being dragged back to hell after a few minutes’ paradise called The Weekend during which you were allowed to forget your troubles. But unfortunately, it never lasted.
Sorry, Ms Conte, it’s Monday again. You can’t stay here in Paradise. No, Ms Conte, please stop bawling and do let go of the Pearly Gates and come down this way, through the burning doors, please.
This happened every seven days. Even God got a break more often than me.
‘Look in your mesh bag,’ I called up to my pre-teenager.
She yelled back, ‘Mum, where do you think I’ve been looking – the fridge?’
On days like this anything was possible. It wouldn’t be the first time anyway. I personally had a potted history of putting my reading glasses in the (hot) oven, my day-planner in the hamper and my keys in the bread bin.
‘Then wear socks for today.’ I looked down at Ben. ‘How on earth did we find ourselves in this mess, my boy?’ I asked and he looked up at me with those angel eyes and grinned.
‘Don’t blame me,’ Mike shot back, thinking I’d been talking to him. ‘I’m not the one with the heart of gold.’
Jesus, I’d almost forgotten he was there. I must stop blanking out like this. And by heart of gold, he meant a brain the size of a piece of lint and how could I have not seen that my husband had so cleverly planned his escape?
‘How bad is it really, Mike?’ I asked, although I was well aware of my options at this point:
Lose my dilapidated and heavily mortgaged home if I missed any more payments (very likely) and move under a bridge;
Take my kids out of Northwood Academy (not happening);
Ask Jack for a loan. I knew he was well off, but I wasn’t doing that. He had already done enough for me.
Ask my agent for an advance. But an advance on what: my supposed next big fat failure?
While living in London, I had dreamt about leaving my childish, undependable and irresponsible husband for years. Unable to do so because the children were still besotted with him, I instead began to write about my fantasies of a new life. A Cornish life, to be exact. And possibly a new Cornish husband. The result had been three romantic comedy novels.
But then, when Phil had unexpectedly left me instead, without a care about the kids whatsoever, writer’s block had struck with a vengeance, and the creativity had drained from me. How the heck was I expected to continue dreaming about love and Mr Darcy-ish male leads after Phil, who had once claimed to love me, had pulled such a stunt on me, breaking not only our vows, but also my heart? I simply didn’t believe in Happily Ever After anymore, so who did I think I could kid?
My agent Alice Hopkins always said I’d be fine if I wrote another book. It was easy for her to say. But it was no longer my writing that filled my children’s bellies. It was my cooking Sicilian arancini for restaurants.
Luckily for me, the orders came in steadily (I’ll give you the recipe later, promise). I prepared them after dinner, two hundred per batch, and left them in my freezing pantry because there was no space for them in the fridge. These fifty kilograms of food had become, as it were, my lifeline, so I killed myself with work twenty-four-seven to make sure I never ran out. The trouble was the restaurants only gave me thirty per cent of the earnings, when I did all the work and even delivered them to their doorstep.
‘Nina, I just told you how bad it is. Get writing again – or else.’
‘Mum! These socks are black, not blue!’ Princess Chloe hollered from the top of the stairs. ‘I’m not going anywhere in these!’
Oh God, just swipe me off the face of this earth now. ‘Check my drawer!’ I shouted back. I was glad school was almost out for the summer. Then we could actually find the time to do things as a family, rather than be this horrid and harried assembly line consisting of morning calls, roll calls for items of clothing that have gone AWOL, breakfast tantrums, missing, or rather “forgotten” homework due on the day, and having to back up a hundred yards because Chloe had forgotten her ballet slippers.
‘Is there no one you could ask for a loan?’ Mike suggested. ‘I think that’s the only solution at this point, I’m afraid.’
‘Can I get back to you about that? I have to take the kids to school.’ For as long as I could afford the fees, that was.
He sighed. ‘Right. Keep me posted, then.’
‘I will,’ I promised obediently as I rang off.
And since I didn’t personally know any loan sharks, my next best option was to hightail it to my bank on the high street and beg the manager for an extension on my existing loan.
Maybe I needed a guardian angel. Maybe in this very moment, they were looking down on me tsk-tsking and muttering, Don’t give me that one with the battered, crappy car and the stroppy daughter – she’s an overtime job.
I checked my watch – if it hadn’t stopped again I had precisely twenty minutes to unravel Ben’s tie from around his neck, solve Chloe’s fashion dilemma and drive them off to school and deliver my arancini across the county before I got to the bank to do some major on-my-knees begging, provided the old banger didn’t clonk out in the process (my car, not the manager).
After the said twenty minutes, Chloe finally came down and stuck her head in the fridge.
‘I’ve already packed your lunch, sweetheart,’ I called over my shoulder as I freed Ben’s neck and tied a proper knot.
As Chloe rummaged through the fridge despite the last piece of information I’d given her about her lunch, it gave a familiar, loud bark.
It did that when it was empty. Not that it was empty by all means. But nowadays, we lived a little more frugally, tending towards healthier choices. It worked with Ben, but Chloe was a junk food freak.
Chloe slammed the fridge door as the bark became a Kennel Concerto. ‘Oh, God, it’s not started that bullshit again, has it?’ she whined.
‘Chloe, mind your language please.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘There’s no one else here, Mum.’
‘We’re here, and I’ll not have you talk like a stevedore, thank you.’
Chloe sniffed at the fruit and vegetables and groaned. ‘There’s never anything to eat in this house,’ she declared.
Here we go again. ‘You say that every time. There’s plenty of food. There are Jack’s apples, pears, peaches and three different kinds of berries.’
‘Exactly, most of it’s from
the orchard.’
I lifted an eyebrow. ‘Everyone should be so lucky to have an orchard like us. We have almost any kind of fruit you—’
‘But I want something store-bought, like biscuits or cake.’
‘We have biscuits in the pantry.’
‘Ugh, there’s only Jaffa cakes. No thanks.’
‘And I’ve just picked some blueberries to make some jam and a pie.’
Silence. Because she actually liked my pies, there was nothing she could really say to that.
‘The last one you made was wonky, and the jam wasn’t sweet enough,’ she countered. Trust her to have the last word.
‘Mum’s pies are beautiful and her jams are excellent,’ defended Ben as he sauntered back in, his limp worse than usual as he reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘It’s your mouth that’s bitter, Chloe. In every way. So let off and leave her alone.’
He winked at me and I melted. I loved both my children, truly I did. Ben was my baby, the one who dealt with a disability, and his was the smile that got me through the bad years with Phil. And Chloe was my first and I’d always cherish the years we had on our own and the bond we’d created. The bond between mother and daughter that no one can break, even if lately she was trying her best to make me pay all over again for letting her dad walk away.
Whatever I did, it was never good enough for her, whereas her dad had only to crook his little finger and she’d go running to him. The divorce, even after three years, was still ongoing, as Phil was finding it difficult in the end to sign on the dotted line.
Chloe looked me up and down. ‘And please tell me you’re not going to drive us to school dressed like that,’ she scoffed.
Yikes. She was right. Cargo pants and crocs were not a good get-up when appearing in the society of the Northwood Academy mothers. Nor for begging for a loan.
So I ran upstairs to my bedroom under the eaves and threw my best suit on (the pseudo Jackie O dress and matching cropped jacket I wore at Aunt Elena’s funeral), literally dragged the kids into the car, grabbing the pile that was today’s post on the way, twisted my hair into a bun that I secured with a stolen IKEA pencil that disappeared in my messy black rat’s nest and threw up a silent prayer that yesterday’s engine stalling was not a sign of today’s death.