The usual series of beeps. Followed by seven messages, all from reporters, all great fans of Ben, all feeling delighted that he was happy, all wanting to pay her large sums of cash to get the inside story. All of them completely unaware of the devastation they were doling out with their breezy comments and fake bonhomie.
Shell-shocked, she left the phone off the hook. There’d be more calls, she knew, and she was in no state to deal with them.
She sat back down, booting up the old laptop, biting her lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of fresh blood. Molluscs, poo and broomsticks! How had this happened? The day before she was due to meet with Social Services, of all days?
She waited for the page to load – the coverage of the village show on the local paper’s website. Looked on in complete disbelief as she appeared across the screen in technicolour glory: pictures that had been taken of the tug of war, Ben heave-ho-ing with all his might, the crowd cheering him on, bare-chested and magnificent. One of them together afterwards, her stroking his stomach and looking at him as if he was an ice-cream sundae she was about to lick. One of them kissing, laughing, smiling. Very obviously together and not in a “just friends” kind of way.
The quality wasn’t brilliant – in fact they looked as if they’d been uploaded from a mobile phone – but it didn’t need to be. If pictures paint a thousand words, there was a whole graphic novel there in front of her. Her name, details about her family, where she lived and a cloying description of the “tragedy” that had taken her parents from her. No wonder those other reporters had found her so easily – the damn story gave out pretty much everything apart from sat-nav directions to the farm.
The terrible irony, she thought, as she closed the screen down, was that it was all a lie. Bad Boy Ben hadn’t found love at all; he hadn’t found his happy ending. He wasn’t shacked up in a rural love nest with a “the brave English rose who’d won his heart”. He wasn’t even here any more, and, she suspected, never would be. On the very day it had all seemed to come crashing down around them, the world decided they made the perfect couple. Hah!
The list of great things about the day just kept getting longer. Anniversary of parental death. Humiliation in front of the love of her life. Said love of her life fleeing from the scene of the crime. Kids in meltdown. And now, exposed to the general public as being some kind of jailbird’s harlot hours before she had to convince Margaret Dooley, her case worker, that she was a caring and responsible adult, who was perfectly capable of acting as guardian to her siblings.
Really, she thought, her head collapsing forward into her hands, could this day get any worse at all?
The minute she thought it, she wanted to take it back. Because she knew that no matter how crappy things might seem, they really can always get that little bit worse.
Right on cue, almost as though she’d provoked the universe into giving her one last poke in the ribs, there was a knock at the door.
Chapter 14
Minutes ago she’d have been hoping it was Ben. Now she feared it would be another reporter – one with a bit more gumption. If it was, she had no idea how she’d react: floods of tears or chasing them off with a pitchfork. It could go either way.
Giving in to a cowardy-custard moment, she ignored it for a minute, simply hoping it would go away – although the chances of someone accidentally knocking on the wrong door when you live six miles from the next building were extremely low.
The hammering continued and she swore, properly, before dragging her cowardy-custard feet in the direction of the door. Which wasn’t even bloody locked anyway.
She opened it, expecting flash bulbs to start popping – boy, she’d look great, with her swollen eyes and snot-covered t-shirt. Instead, Mr Jensen was standing on the doorstep. Definitely not a reporter, unless he had a secret life he hadn’t been telling anybody about. The “paparazzi pensioner”.
“Mr Jensen!” she said, pulling the door wider. “Come in…is everything okay?”
She knew from the look on his wizened face that, no, everything wasn’t okay – and realised that it must be Patrick. This time last year, pretty much all of her woes had sprung from her baby brother. Worrying about him, nagging him, borderline hating him on occasion. And she’d have been prepared for this, prepared for the inevitable trouble that followed Patrick around like a love-struck stalker.
This year, she’d slipped. Become complacent. Lulled into a false sense of security by his ever-increasing maturity, and distracted by her own pathetic love life. That’s what happened when you dropped your guard: life snuck in and booted you in the face.
“It’s Patrick, love,” said Mr Jensen, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “He’s all right, don’t be panicking or anything. But he’s in the hospital.”
“What? Why? What happened?” she said, completely disregarding the “don’t panic” part of the sentence.
“Well, he got into a fight, see, and he’s a bit battered up. Nothing that time won’t fix, but you should probably go and see him. I’ll stay here with the kids, Pippa. Take as long as you like.”
She nodded, gulping down her fear, feeling it replaced with disappointment and bitterness. Patrick. She should have known it wouldn’t last. He’d been making a mess of his life for a long time now, and she was getting tired of cleaning it up – especially now, when she really needed to take a dustpan and brush to her own. It was this day. This bloody day. It was always too much for him – and this time it felt like too much for her as well.
Mr Jensen seemed to sense her reaction, or perhaps it was exactly the one he’d expected. She could now add “predictable” to her ever-growing list of character flaws.
“It wasn’t his fault,” he said, “not really. He’ll tell you all about it, but don’t be too hard on the lad – he’s not all bad.”
No, thought Pippa. Not all bad. Hardly a glowing recommendation was it? She scurried around looking for her bag and car keys, and did a final check on the twins and Scotty. Despite the high-octane turmoil of earlier on, all three of them were sleeping peacefully. Lily seemed to have located the missing ear muffs and was wearing them in bed.
She thanked Mr Jensen again, told him to leave the phone off the hook just in case, and ran out to the Land Rover. The oil light had gone off. Probably meant the whole thing was about to break down and need replacing with money she didn’t have. She said a quick prayer to the God of Old Engines that it would, at the very least, get her to the hospital and set off.
The drive took almost an hour, even at night. One of the many joys of living in a rural community was having to travel miles to the nearest hospital. In fact, it was the same one her parents had been taken to the night they died. She shut that thought out of her mind: the last thing she needed now was to start remembering that. Remembering the way they’d looked when she confirmed it was them; sheets drawn sensitively over their bodies to hide the damage caused by both the crash and the work the medical staff had done to try and save them. If only they had. Her own life would be so very different now. She might never have met Ben and she certainly wouldn’t be doing a midnight mercy mission to console her deadbeat brother.
Recognising the thought as selfish in the extreme, she adjusted her face as she walked into the side room where Patrick was being treated. She needed to pretend to be concerned, even if what she really wanted to do was smack him in the face with a wet kipper.
One look at him there, lying in the hospital’s puke-green sheets, was enough to make her feel the concern for real. He was a big lad, but hospital beds have a way of making everyone look small, vulnerable. Of emphasising how ridiculously fragile we all are.
He looked up at her with two magnificent black eyes and tried to smile. His efforts were hampered by the fact that his lip was split and stitched and his nose taped up across the bony bridge that had undoubtedly been broken. He was wearing one of those gowns that shows off your bare bottom, and she could see dressings poking out of the side. His hands were scraped and scabb
ed and he winced when he tried to sit up.
Pippa pulled up a chair next to him, reaching out to hold one battered hand in two of hers.
“Oh dear,” she said, “you won’t be getting that Calvin Klein modelling job this week, will you?”
“Dunno,” he replied, “this might be just the look they’re going for. Farmboy chic. I’m a bit more worried I might never play the violin again…”
She smiled, looked for a place to kiss him, and realised there wasn’t one. He seemed to be bruised from head to toe, the poor love. She felt a wave of guilt mainline into her like a bad drug: from the minute Mr Jensen knocked on the door, she’d done nothing but feel sorry for herself. Worry about how this affected her. Think about how much Patrick inconvenienced her. But now, seeing him lying here like this, in such pain and still trying to crack jokes, she felt terrible.
“What happened, Patrick?” she asked, not letting go of his hand, even though he was clearly seeing it as a public display of affection too far. “And stop wiggling – if I want to hold your hand, I will.”
He stuck his tongue out at her. At least that wasn’t bruised.
“It was Robbie and that cousin of his, Darren. They took pictures of you and Ben at the village show and sold them to the local paper. For fifty bloody quid. I mean, the fact they did it was bad enough, sis, but fifty quid? Jesus! They could at least have shown a bit more ambition. So when I found out, I was…well, a bit peed off, you might say. One thing led to another and here I am. Black and blue and two broken ribs. I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper – I know you have a lot on your plate at the moment, being superwoman and all. Don’t be angry with me, Pip.”
There was a tremble in that last plea that broke her heart. Eighteen years old, but still a baby.
“I’ll be angry with you when you’re better,” she said, “all right? It’d be no fun picking on you in this state. But now I just want you to concentrate on getting out of here. You’re a big strong lummox. It’ll take more than a beating to knock any sense into you. And…well, thank you. For defending my honour and all that.”
She realised that her eyes were filling up with her apparently never-ending supply of tears, and wasn’t quite sure why. It had been a day of too much everything.
“You all right, Pip?” said Patrick, struggling to sit up with his injuries. “Why are you crying? You never cry! Is it because of the reporters? Or Social Services? Or Mum and Dad?”
“Ha! I seem to do nothing but cry at the moment,” she replied, wiping the silly tears away – it really was pathetic. He was the one lying there in pain, not her. “It’s like I’ve stored it all up just for today…and to answer your question, all of the above and more. It’s…Ben. I don’t think he’ll be coming back, Patrick.”
“Why?” he asked, frowning so hard his scabs collided.
“Well. That’s complicated. But mainly because I said I…because I told him that…I told him that I…”
“Bloody hell. Did you drop the L-Bomb on him, sis? Is that what it is?”
Against all the odds, Pippa laughed – he’d always had a great way with words, her Patrick.
“Yep. I dropped the L-Bomb. And he did a runner to escape the blast. And that’s that! So now I’m going to forget all about him, put my Superwoman costume back on and concentrate on sorting you lot out instead. I mean, look what happens to you the minute I turn my back!”
“Sounds good. But Pip…”
“Yes?”
“The man’s a prat. He doesn’t deserve you. Neither do I. ‘Nuff said.”
Ben turned over in his bed for what felt like the millionth time that night. He stared at the numbers on the digital clock, glaring out at him from the bedside table. It was still only 2.34am. Precisely three minutes later than the last time he looked.
He gave up, threw off the sheets and went in search of coffee. Caffeine was always the perfect cure for insomnia, he thought.
He padded barefoot into the kitchen and set the water to boil. He glanced around, realised the whole place was layered with dust, with a pinch of neglect thrown in. He hadn’t been back here for so long he’d forgotten how little he actually liked it.
The flat was another remnant from his old life. He’d bought it because it was in the right area, the right part of town. Because it fitted in with everything he thought he was and everything he thought he aspired to be. A bit like Johanna – and only slightly more expensive.
Now the chrome fittings and stylish furniture just annoyed him. It was all so…sterile. Everything worked perfectly – everything looked good. None of the tiles was cracked, there were no squeaky floorboards. But none of it felt right. In fact, nothing felt right – and he wasn’t so much of an idiot that he didn’t know why.
He’d only been away from Harte Farm for half a day and already he was missing it. Missing the chaos and the clutter of the kids. The comedy noises of the animals. The clean air, the roads that stretched for miles down to the sea. And mainly, of course, he was missing her. His Pippa.
When she’d told him she loved him, with him hovering half in, half out of his car, he’d been so shocked he couldn’t even respond. Even now, he had no idea how he should have responded – but looking like a brain-damaged guppy probably wasn’t high up on the list of options.
He could, of course, have got back out of the car and been a man about it. Had the conversation that needed to be had. Delayed his meeting and sorted out his priorities. He could also have followed her back over the car park, caught up with her and apologised. He could even have done what he now realised – after several hours of Congestion Charge hell, stale coffee and his own company – he really should have done a long time ago: taken her in his arms and told her he loved her too.
Because he did, of course he did. How could he not love her? She was perfectly lovable in every single way. It had just taken her bravery to push the issue out into the open. Big Bad Ben, shown up as the coward he was by a girl who should be barely out of university.
He could be there right now, with her. Feeling the silk of her hair in his hands. Feeling her slender curves move beneath him. Hearing her moan in pleasure, and then afterwards holding her in his arms and telling her he loved her. Over and over again, to make up for the fact that it had taken him so long to admit it to himself.
Instead, he’d been a great big idiot. Caught unawares and displaying the usual artless male reaction to a crying woman, he’d run away. There was really no other way to put it. He’d run away like the tool he was.
He’d been trying to call her all night, but her phone had been constantly engaged. To start with, he hoped she’d call him – then he realised she didn’t have his landline. He’d gone ex-directory to avoid reporters as soon as he’d got out of jail, and had never given her the number. He’d tried her mobile and texted, but never heard back. And after checking his every two minutes, as well as charging it up just in case, he’d had to accept that he wasn’t going to hear back from her.
And you know what? It was nothing more than he deserved.
He drained the last dregs of the almost undrinkable coffee and made a decision. He’d go to his meeting in the morning – he really did need to sort the book stuff out – and then he’d drive all the way back down to Cornwall. If he was going to tell Pippa that he loved her, if he was going to take that huge leap of faith that he’d been convinced he’d never take again, then he’d do it in person. He might even make an appointment with an estate agent first, look at putting this place on the market. Whatever happened with Pippa, he wanted out.
Okay, he thought, rubbing his sleep-starved eyes, that’s a plan. Sort out career. Sell flat. Drive for five hours. Persuade Pippa to marry me.
Easy.
Chapter 15
“I’ve had some very pleasing reports from the school about Scotty, Lily and Daisy,” said Margaret Dooley, adjusting her glasses and looking up at Pippa across her desk.
She’d always reminded Pippa of an owl. An
owl that had the capacity to take her children away and place them in foster homes. That kind of owl.
She was actually a nice lady, and had been the one who’d decided to give Pippa a shot at the whole mothering lark in the first place – so big bonus points there. But still, having to present herself four times a year and go through the endless checks and interviews, the constant testing, left little room for kind thoughts. Pippa knew it was right – knew that the welfare of the kids had to come first – but it still stung. And today, of all days, it stung like a whole army of wasps. With hangovers.
Sadly, no matter how nice she was, Margaret Dooley would always be The Enemy. It wasn’t fair, but it was how she felt.
Pippa so didn’t want to be there, in that stuffy, overcrowded little office, knowing that everything she said and everything she did was being weighed and valued. That she needed to look neat and tidy, respond calmly and appear completely in control of not only her own destiny, but that of three small children as well. In short, she had to act like a grown-up, even if she felt like a blubbering baby herself.
That was difficult enough at the best of times, but as she’d only managed about three hours’ sleep, had a brother in hospital, was being pursued by every journalist in Britain and also had – oh yes – a completely shattered heart to deal with, this was even more testing than usual.
“That’s great,” said Pippa, smiling so hard she thought her face might break. “They’re all doing really well at home too.”
“Wonderful,” said Mrs Dooley, flipping through a few more sheets of paper. The file was huge, brown manila, stuffed with sheets and paperclipped documents, photocopies and pictures. Years’ worth of assessments just like this one. It was probably all on computer somewhere or other, floating around in cyber space, but seeing it there on the desk – big enough to sink the Titanic – always made Pippa feel depressed.
Pippa's Cornish Dream Page 13