As much as her roots called her, she wouldn’t have swapped the two if she’d had a choice. She would have stayed, put down new roots, got married on the beach, bought a house in the ’burbs, had kids, dozens of them. She imagined her children speaking with an Ozzie twang—it would have given her such a kick to hear.
She noticed Lucas looking expectantly at her, clearly wanting her to elaborate. He seemed mystified by this sad girl sitting in front of him. For her part, she longed to confide in him, to tell him why she was going home. She had confided in no one, not yet. Would a total stranger be ideal? She could offload, and then she could leave, never see him again. But as tempted as she was, something deep inside told her to hold back. What she had to tell him would only bring him down, and she didn’t want that. She wanted him to remain as he was, happy and carefree. As all people had the right to be, every day of their lives.
“I used to work in a café too,” she said at last. “Right on the beach. In fact, that’s what it was called: ‘Right on the Beach.’”
“In Australia?”
Tara nodded.
“Where in Australia?”
“Lyons Bay. Two and a half hours from Sydney. It was stunning, that beach. I’ve never seen sands so white, like tiny grains of caster sugar. We ran a café, open for breakfast and lunch, but often, in the summer months, we’d continue well into the evening, ramp the music up, get the barbecue going, that sort of thing. People would hang around. We’d crack open the beer. Just hang out, just be.”
“We?” Lucas raised an eyebrow.
He didn’t miss a trick.
“Yes, we,” Tara conceded. “But like I said, there is no we now; it’s just me.”
“Is that why you’re upset?”
“I’m not upset. I’m tired.”
Lucas seemed to consider this. Leaning forward, he said, “How long are you here for?”
“In Florence?”
“In Florence.”
“Only a few more days. I haven’t been to the Uffizi Gallery yet. That’s going to take at least two days to get around, I think.”
Lucas nodded again, as though agreeing with her estimation. “Look, if you want a tour guide, if you want…I don’t know…someone just to hang with, let me know. I’d be happy to do both.”
The kindness of strangers, it threatened to make her cry again. But regarding talking, she’d made up her mind. He was not the one.
She reached into her bag and located her purse. Delving into it, she brought out ten Euros.
“Does that cover my bill?”
“Yes. I’ll get you change.”
“No,” she insisted. “No change.”
As she rose to go, he looked disappointed.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it on several levels.
“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied, understanding her perfectly.
She scurried away, clutching her brown leather tote to her chest.
Dusk had not been held back after all. But the streets, busy earlier, were even busier now: men and women in sharp suits rushing home from work, students, not the scruffy kind so often found in Britain but elegant, in designer wear, hurrying to meet friends, perhaps. In amongst the crowds, she had never felt so alone.
Trying to move farther forward, she found she couldn’t. It was as if the air around her had solidified. She stood where she was, in another of Florence’s piazzas, a different one than the one she’d had coffee in a few minutes earlier, she was sure. The café she had sat in was gone and so was Lucas, with his kind, smiling eyes, urging her to share. She so wanted to share. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed a shoulder to cry on, but whose? There was no one. Once tethered so tightly to the world and all that was in it, she was now cast adrift, floating out to sea, toward a boiling center which threatened to suck her into it, to engulf her forever in darkness.
How the hell was she going to face her parents? How would they react to her news? Perhaps it was better not to tell them—to just cut and run. Run farther than she already had. Rush toward that boiling center.
Her mother’s face appeared before her. A little tired round the edges but enlivened with love for her and her younger sister, Leondra—Leo for short. Her father’s face too, pride evident in his eyes whenever he beheld his two girls. She didn’t want to wipe those looks away. She wanted them to remain forever. Not be…she struggled to find the right word…contaminated.
The tears she had tried to stem earlier in the café could be caged no more. They fell, and she let them, powerless to stop their flow. Some part of her, the Tara that was hitching a lift in the back seat of her mind, an impartial observer looking on, honed in to what was happening around her. People were staring at the young woman crying so openly in the piazza, worried frowns upon their faces. She was not so anonymous now, not just another girl walking home or meeting a lover.
Her parents would be so surprised to see her. Apart from a visit three years ago, she hadn’t been home since. Why she had left it so long, she couldn’t fathom. Even the visit she had made back then had been brief, spending less than a week in Cornwall, the rest in London, revisiting old friends, whooping it up with them instead. She should have spent more time at home; she should have made more of an effort to see them. She should have realized how precious they were.
“You’ve got wings. Now fly.” It was one of her father’s favorite sayings. And she had flown, as far away as it was possible to get.
And now she had to fly back. Now she wanted them more than anything else in the world—well, almost anything. But would they be able to cope with her return?
Dropping her bag, she clutched at her stomach as though pain were slicing her in two. The Tara inside saw concerned looks turn into alarm, but like the Tara on the outside, she ignored them too. She couldn’t return home. She wouldn’t! She’d head deeper into Europe instead; she’d disappear. People did that all the time, but she’d never understood why before. She did now—some problems were hard to face.
Quite a crowd had gathered now. People whispering to each other, wondering what to do about the lone woman gone to pieces in a city where no one should be sad—whether to approach her, whether she was mad, perhaps.
If only she could fade away, evaporate. She tried to, hunching over, becoming smaller just as a hand reached out and touched her gently. Another kind stranger.
“Tara?” he said—a gentle voice but one with wonder in it too.
It took a few moments to register that this “stranger” knew her name.
“Tara,” he said again, more insistent now.
She straightened up, expecting to see Lucas, the dark-haired waiter, again, to witness the same concern on his face he had shown earlier.
What she saw, however, took her breath away. At first she refused to believe it; she couldn’t believe it. There was no way, absolutely no way.
“Tara,” he said a third time, and then she had no doubt.
He had barely changed in all the time they had been apart. Beautiful still, his hair a bit lighter, his eyes the shade of cornflower she remembered. A face she had loved to distraction in another lifetime. A face she had let go when adventure had called.
As her hands lowered, the crowd started to disperse, the relief that someone had taken it upon themselves to care for her, that they didn’t have to, palpable.
“Joseph?”
He smiled at her then, a smile as soft as the memories she had of him.
It was. It was Joseph Scott standing before her, like a gift from the gods.
Chapter Three
THE PHONE. Where was the bloody phone?
“Hi, Penny. Did you lose the phone again?”
Penny couldn’t help but laugh. “Hi, Layla! Yep, I lost the phone—again. Damn those cordless inventions.”
“Is it okay to talk? Is Scarlett asleep?”
“She’s cat-napping. There’s a difference, a big one, unfortunately.”
Immediately Layla was sympathetic. “Is she still not
settling?”
“Put it this way… I reckon world peace will be settled before she is.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” Layla sounded truly impressed. “Looking after a baby, I mean. It must make you feel, I don’t know, so grown up.”
“It makes me feel like an extra in The Walking Dead. And not a live extra either.”
Layla giggled.
Penny raised an eyebrow. What was so funny? She was serious.
“Penny, we’re coming to England,” Layla continued. “Next week. I’ve just booked tickets.”
“To Brighton?” Penny could hardly believe her ears.
“Erm, no. Cornwall, actually.”
“Oh, of course. It’s Hannah’s turn.”
Penny couldn’t help it; she was disappointed. But it was Hannah’s turn. Layla had come to Brighton when Scarlett was born, had stayed two weeks in fact, relishing being back in her hometown. But Trecastle was where her other best friend lived.
“But I was thinking you could come down and visit? You and Scarlett? Just for two or three days. It would be so great to see you. For us all to be together again.”
“I’m not sure, Layla. It’s a long drive—and on zero sleep, a dangerous one.”
“Perhaps Richard could drive?”
“Richard?” Penny almost spat the word. “Willingly take time off from work, you mean? Do you seriously not know the man by now?”
“Oh, Pen, I’m sorry. I feel awful coming to the UK and not visiting.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. I miss you, that’s all.”
“I miss you too. I love it here, but…”
“But what?” Penny prompted when Layla faltered.
“It’s not the same. It’s great.” Layla rushed to reassure her. “It’s just not the same.”
“No, it’s warmer for a start. The weather right now, it sucks.” Never one to harp on about the vagaries of the British weather system, Penny changed the subject. “And how come you’re talking to me, not ravaging that man of yours?”
“Believe me, I would be if he were home, but he’s not. He’s gone AWOL.”
“Richard’s late too,” Penny said with a sigh. “Despite promising he wouldn’t be.”
“Men…” Layla began.
“Can’t live with ’em, can live without them,” Penny completed their one-time mantra. It seemed a lifetime ago since they were two single girls about town.
“I’ll phone him soon. I just don’t want to appear too eager.”
“Eager for what?”
“We’ve got scenes to practice.”
For a moment, Penny was nonplussed. “Oh, you mean for that book of yours?”
“The saucy ones, yeah.”
Penny pretended shock. “Layla, you’re not writing porno, are you?”
“I wasn’t, but I could be persuaded.”
“You two, you’re incorrigible.”
Layla was gigging again, like a schoolgirl who’d just noticed the head boy finally noticing her. Before Penny could comment further, a familiar sound started up.
“Listen, can you hear that?” She held the phone up.
“Er…I think the entire neighborhood can hear that, Penny.”
“Yep, the kraken awakes. Look, I’d better go and see to her. Speak soon, though. Call me as soon as you get here.”
“I will, Pen. I promise.”
“And I hope they don’t keep you waiting too long.”
“They?”
“Joseph and his tool bag.”
Relishing the sound of Layla’s laughter, Penny prepared to deal with its antithesis. She tackled the stairs two at a time and entered Scarlett’s bedroom. In the crib, a less-than-angelic creature writhed, her tiny face screwed up and an alarming shade of puce, fists punching the air like some pro boxer in the making. What was her problem? She’d been fed, she’d been bathed, and she had the freshest of nappies on. There was nothing to cry about. Nothing. For the umpteenth time, Penny wondered where this child of hers got her fierce personality from and for the umpteenth time decided not to pursue that particular avenue of thought. If she’d asked Richard that question, she knew damn well what his answer would be—her. Instead, she picked the baby up and started to rock her gently.
“It’s okay. Don’t cry. Everything’s okay.”
Her attempt at soothing fell woefully short.
Leaving the bedroom, the ranting, raging bundle still hard at it, Penny went downstairs and into the kitchen. Perhaps another bottle of milk might do the trick. Scarlett couldn’t get enough of the white stuff; she had as much of a penchant for it as Penny had for gin—or rather, used to have for gin. The days of consuming alcohol with anything approaching wanton abandon were over. Nowadays, one glass, no matter how diluted it was with tonic, and it was game over. Just another way in which her life had changed, changed so much she barely recognized herself on the rare occasions she was brave enough to look in the mirror. Instead of the funky blond chick with a zest for life, she saw an utter wreck: dishwater hair in need of highlights, black bags under her eyes you could fit a week’s worth of shopping into, and skin the color of Richard’s socks—the white ones that had been washed too often with the coloreds and had turned a murky shade of gray. If she stepped farther back from the mirror to view her entire body, it got worse. Chubby instead of curvaceous, she found that none of the clothes she used to wear fit her now. She’d had to invest in a whole new wardrobe. A bonus, you might think? Not when kaftans hadn’t made a fashion comeback.
She freed one hand to grab a chocolate digestive and rammed it into her mouth. It was gone before she’d even had a chance to taste it. Next, she filled a bottle with some pre-made formula and gave it several seconds in the microwave. Testing it for temperature first, she then plugged it into Scarlett’s ever-complaining mouth.
Oh, glory be! Silence at last.
Well, silence punctuated with greedy guzzling, but it was a definite improvement.
Standing in the kitchen, the baby in her arms but feeling somehow lonelier than ever, Penny missed how fun life used to be when Layla was living in Brighton. But she was glad one of them was having fun still. She didn’t know a happier couple than Layla and Joseph, but not sickeningly happy, deservedly so. There’d been a time—just over a year ago—when she thought her friend might miss the boat completely regarding the gorgeous Mr. Scott, might return to her ex instead, the dastardly Alex Kline, and set sail with him into a slimy sunset. But thankfully she’d realized—in the nick of time—that what lay beneath his flash veneer was anything but glittering. And now she was writing about it—her “runaway year” in Trecastle—the place where she had “woken up,” found the man of her dreams, and laid the nightmare to rest.
Briefly Penny glanced at the clock; it was edging its way past seven. If Joseph was late, Richard was too. She cursed those meetings of his, his demanding clients, and Richard, too, for trying to appease them. A solicitor in an up-and-coming law company, his workaholic ways had come between them before—sans-baby days.
Not as worried as Layla about appearing eager, Penny went in search of the phone. Where was it? Despite recently speaking on it, she was damned if she could find it. That was sleep deprivation for you. It corroded the mind. To add insult to injury, Scarlett expunged the teat from her mouth and started screaming again.
Oh great, here we go. Richard, where are you?
“There, there.” Penny started bouncing from one foot to the other. “What is it? Wind?”
Why she bothered asking, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if Scarlett could reply, although the thought that she might temporarily cut through the fog in Penny’s brain.
“Yes, Mum, I’ve got wind—chronic, bend-you-over-double, gut-wrenching wind.”
She even managed a smile as she pictured the cheeky response.
And it wasn’t true Scarlett couldn’t talk. At seven months old, she could say “dada”—despite the fact that Penny had spent hours and hours teaching her “mama.” But n
o, “dada” had been her first word. Richard had been delighted.
“My perfect girl,” he’d cooed, holding her close. Penny had watched his awe-struck reaction, feeling like she’d been kicked in the teeth.
Penny knew something was wrong with the way she was feeling. She wasn’t joyous enough. The few mothers she had met at prenatal classes seemed to be joyous, feverishly so, which is exactly why she had stopped seeing them. She had nothing in common with them at all—zero, nada—certainly not their willingness to ride each and every wave of pain during childbirth and their determination that “breast was best.” Scarlett drank so much milk, if Penny had gone along with that theory, she’d be constantly on tap—nothing would get done. Looking around her, she realized nothing got done anyway. The kitchen was a mess, bowls, plates and cutlery from the day before still waited to be crammed into the dishwasher, and the floor tiles—they were white once, weren’t they?
The phone rang. Not lost at all, it was on the table, right in front of her.
“How’s my tiny angel?” Richard enquired.
“I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”
Richard ignored her sarcasm. “Before you start shouting, I’m leaving the office now. I’ll be home in ten.”
Shouting? Why was he so sure she’d start shouting?
“You’d better be,” she replied, feeling very much like shouting—if only so she could be heard over Scarlett’s incessant bawling.
“Poor thing, she sounds upset. Is it wind again?”
He was as obsessed with wind as she was.
“You should take her for a stroll,” he continued, “up and down the road. The night air might calm her.”
It might, but she didn’t want to go for a “stroll.” She wanted to stay at home, as she had done all day, and hide. What if one of the neighbors was out strolling too? She’d been so smug when pregnant; would they notice she wasn’t so smug now? Motherhood was far from the easy ride she’d thought it would be. A funds manager for Charity Now!, she’d been delighted at the prospect of a year’s sabbatical. Maternity leave? Eternity leave more like. She’d never missed work so much.
The Runaway Ex Page 2