It Started with a Secret: The feel-good novel of the year, from the bestselling author of MAYBE THIS TIME

by Jill Mansell

  Maybe, though, knowing what he knew now, it was a good job she had.

  ‘Hello.’ The gentle voice came from a few metres away, startling him. ‘Are you OK?’

  Seth’s eyes snapped open. A woman was approaching with care, moving slowly forward with one arm half outstretched.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Look, all the lights have gone off. It’s late. Shall we head back now?’

  Head back? The woman was wearing jeans and a thin cotton hoodie. Why was she treating him like a dog who might be about to bolt?

  ‘Please, come with me. We can have a chat if you like. Or just walk, if you’d prefer. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t know . . .’

  Belatedly Seth realised that she thought he’d come to the suspension bridge at midnight in order to throw himself off it. As he opened his mouth to explain, he recalled the statistic he’d read on the internet, that twenty-six per cent of patients who’d developed the illness made serious efforts to commit suicide. At that moment a lone car came towards them across the bridge, its headlamps illuminating the face of his would-be rescuer and the genuine concern in her eyes.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m fine.’ He shook his head and forced a smile to allay her fears. ‘Really. I just came up to admire the view.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The middle-aged woman looked relieved.

  ‘Absolutely.’ This time Seth nodded. Ending his own life might be something he chose to do at some stage in the future, but not now. Not yet. ‘I’m going home now. Thanks, though,’ he added, turning in the direction of his flat and giving her one last nod of gratitude over his shoulder. ‘It was good of you to check.’

  The time had come to move on. By a stroke of luck, moving on was what Dawn was good at. Emotionally, rather than physically, although she could do either at a push. But St Carys had captured her heart and she was keen to stay here, working for Berry and Dexter and hopefully advancing her career, because Malcolm Berry had already dropped several heavy hints about his retirement next year.

  There was no future for her with Seth, she knew that now. It had been obvious from the moment she’d spoken to him last week on the beach. She’d asked him about whether he was already sleeping with Lainey and he’d said no, he wasn’t, nothing like that had happened between them. And she’d believed him, because when she’d gone on to ask if he wanted to sleep with Lainey, he hadn’t replied but had given her the kind of look that unequivocally said yes.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ she’d told him, because it was always better to be magnanimous than resentful and a sore loser.

  ‘Thanks.’ He’d nodded, then added, ‘You’ll find someone amazing.’

  Dawn smiled at the memory, proud of the way she’d been able to reply cheerfully and with dignity, ‘Oh I know I will.’

  And it was true, because once she made up her mind to do something, she made sure it happened. Plus, last week’s FaceTime conversation with Aunt Yvonne now meant she had to get a move on.

  Yvonne had moved to New Zealand a decade ago, but they still maintained contact, exchanging emails and speaking to each other several times a year. Calling to wish her aunt a happy seventieth birthday, Dawn had ended up telling her about the end of her oh-so-promising relationship with Seth.

  ‘Oh angel, that’s a shame. But listen, I thought you were a diehard career girl like me. I had no idea you were keen on the idea of popping out sprogs.’

  Yvonne was a high-flying accountant who’d never married or entertained the possibility of children.

  ‘I am a career girl.’ Dawn looked down at her flat stomach. ‘And I never did want kids. But now I’ve realised I do. And it’s no big deal, I can have both.’

  ‘Oh boy! Well I’m glad that ticking clock thing never reared its ugly head with me. I mean, good luck to you, my angel, but you’re going to have to get a move on. How old are you now? Thirty-six?’

  For a high-flying accountant, her aunt had a terrible memory for figures.

  ‘Thirty-seven,’ said Dawn. Nearly thirty-eight.

  ‘Then you need to get an extra-speedy wiggle on. Your mum went crashing into the menopause at thirty-six and was all done and dusted by thirty-eight. Are you still having periods, angel?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Well maybe you should get yourself checked out, because who knows how many eggs you have left? Get them frozen or something. Or better still, find someone who’s already got kids of their own, then you won’t have to go through any of that nasty messy business. I mean, have you seen those TV shows about giving birth? Jeez, I’m telling you, it’s like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre!’

  Dawn loved her aunt dearly, but empathy and understanding weren’t her forte. She hadn’t known about the early menopause either; her mum had died suddenly fifteen years ago of a heart attack, and discussions about fertility had never arisen.

  Now, though, the issue clearly did need to be addressed, so Dawn had done what she always did when important decisions had to be made, and had written a list of pros and cons.

  She’d suggested it to Seth out of sheer desperation but really didn’t want to freeze her eggs and she didn’t want to marry someone with kids either. Nor, ideally, would she choose to outsource the task to a surrogate.

  She wanted her own baby, she wanted to carry it herself and she needed it as soon as possible.

  The one thing she didn’t need was a long-term partner; a sperm donor would do just fine. But not an anonymous one off the internet; she knew it would have to be someone she’d at least met in person, seen with her own eyes and had a conversation with.

  In fact, a bit more than a conversation.

  This was the decision she’d made a week ago, and tonight’s unwitting applicant for the position was due any minute now. The last three hadn’t made the grade; Dawn reminded herself she wasn’t so desperate she didn’t still have standards.

  Waiting at a table outside the wine bar where they’d arranged to meet up, she redid her lipstick. If number four didn’t fit the bill, she still had a few more lined up before the meeting with the fertility expert at the private clinic in Exeter. Oh yes, every base was covered.

  ‘Hi, Dawn? Wow, my evening’s looking up. You’re beautiful!’

  Turning to assess him, she took in the blonde hair, thickly lashed blue eyes, ready smile and excellent teeth. Tick, tick, tick.

  ‘Niall. Good to meet you.’ He had a guitar with him for some reason. But musicality was a definite plus, and she already knew he was artistic too. So far, so very good.

  ‘If this is what happens when you download a dating app, I’m all for it. My first match, and I think I’ve just hit the jackpot.’ He gestured at her in admiration before greeting her properly with a brief kiss on each cheek. ‘I should have done this years ago, except then I wouldn’t have been matched up with you!’

  It was a corny line, but somehow she didn’t mind. He was forty-six years old and had a nice voice, neat ears and beautifully shaped hands. When they’d spoken on the phone to arrange this evening’s meet-up, she’d suggested he come to St Carys so they could have dinner at Montgomery’s, but Niall had said he’d had a disappointing meal there and wasn’t keen on going back, so why didn’t they try this new place he’d heard great things about in Padstow instead?

  Which meant he had a discerning palate too. Another big tick.

  ‘I can’t get over how amazing you look,’ he told her once they’d ordered their drinks. ‘Sorry, I don’t usually do this, but . . .’

  He was picking up his guitar, looking as if he were about to play it. Alarmed, Dawn blurted out, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You’re so beautiful, you make me want to sing you a little something I wrote.’

  ‘Oh please don’t. I can’t stand it when people sing at me. If you start playing that thing, I’m out of here.’ Dawn shook her head. ‘I mean it.’

  Niall stopped and looked at her as if he couldn’t believe what she was saying. Shit, was he mortally offended? Had she
just blown her chances with him? Physically, he was miles better than the last three.

  Then he broke into a huge smile and put the guitar down. ‘I like a woman who knows her own mind.’

  Giant tick. ‘I definitely know my own mind.’

  ‘There’s a lot to be said for honesty.’ His eyes were sparkling. ‘Can I be honest too? Until you said that, you were a nine out of ten for me. But now you’ve gone up to a nine point five.’

  Phew.

  ‘I’d put you at an eight,’ said Dawn, ‘but that allows room for improvement and it’s a higher mark than I usually give.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re fantastic.’

  ‘I know. Aren’t you lucky?’

  And when it was time for them to leave the wine bar to head over to the restaurant, it seemed completely natural for him to hold her hand in his. It felt right.

  ‘One thing I have to get out of the way,’ Dawn told him. ‘I looked at the website for this restaurant and it’s a pretty fancy place.’

  ‘Only the best for you.’ His hip bumped gently against hers as they crossed the road that curved round the harbour. ‘I already know you’re worth it.’

  ‘I am.’ She nodded. ‘But I’m not comfortable letting you foot the bill. I want to be the one who pays for this meal. Can you understand why I need to do that?’

  Niall paused. ‘You mean you don’t want to feel beholden, as if you owe me something? Is that it?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She nodded, grateful that he seemed surprised rather than offended.

  ‘Well this is a first.’ There was that beautiful tender smile again. ‘I can’t pretend it won’t feel a bit weird.’ He studied her face, then touched her cheek, and she quivered at the sensation of his warm breath against her mouth. ‘But I suppose if I want to keep you happy, I’m just going to have to give in and go along with it.’

  Good manners, honesty, charm, looks . . . who could ask for more? Well hopefully he’d be good in bed too. With a surge of triumph, Dawn returned his smile. ‘I insist.’

  If she was going to get what she wanted from him, it would be worth every penny. Oh yes.

  Chapter 40

  ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t know whether to mention this to you, but I think I should.’

  ‘What is it?’ Majella couldn’t imagine what Arthur from the newsagent’s might be doing on her doorstep looking so serious; he was normally a cheerful soul. ‘Oh no, did I forget to pay last month’s paper bill?’

  ‘No, love, nothing to do with you. It’s your girl, India. I caught her taking a packet of chewing gum from the shop, and it wasn’t an accident. I saw her put it in her pocket.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know. I made her put it back, and of course I’m not going to do anything about it, but I thought you ought to know. Sometimes this kind of thing needs to be nipped in the bud, d’you know what I mean? Before it gets out of hand.’

  ‘Arthur, I’m so sorry.’ Majella’s heart was thudding. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Just ten minutes ago. Don’t get upset, it’s not your fault.’ Arthur was a kind man.

  ‘Thanks for telling me,’ said Majella.

  She wasn’t upset; she was furious.

  Having hurriedly left the house, she spotted her daughter twenty minutes later, dawdling along the esplanade. Each time India paused to browse in a shop window, Majella’s breath caught in her throat. If India entered the shop, should she race in after her to ensure no pilfering occurred? But she couldn’t handcuff herself to her daughter twenty-four seven. Why was India doing it, though? It made no sense at all.

  After discreetly following her for a few minutes more, still wondering what on earth could be going on, Majella saw her turn away from the shops and head for the steps that led down to the beach. She watched from a distance, taking in the droop of her daughter’s shoulders and her air of . . . what, defeat? Unhappiness? More to the point, was it unhappiness at having been caught and told off by Arthur, or as a result of something else?

  On the dry silvery sand, India sat down and pulled a plastic bottle of Coke from her bag. She took a couple of big swigs, then gazed out to sea. From the top of the steps, it occurred to Majella that her daughter would normally take out her phone within seconds and be glued to it, but this didn’t happen. She was thinking too hard about something to want the distraction of a phone.

  It also occurred to her to wonder if there was rum in that bottle of Coke.

  As she approached, India turned. ‘You’d make a terrible secret agent. I saw you ages ago, lurking outside the flower shop.’

  ‘What’s going on, India?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Arthur came to see me.’

  ‘Of course he did. I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident, I just wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Arthur’s run that shop for the last thirty years. He’s had enough practice to be able to tell the difference.’

  ‘Better call the police, then. Chuck me in a cell and throw away the key. After all, it was an entire packet of chewing gum costing sixty-five whole pence.’

  Majella’s fury had abated; the tone might be defiant but there was genuine pain in her daughter’s eyes and she was trembling. ‘Oh sweetheart, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ India hugged her knees, shaking her head and continuing to gaze out to sea.

  ‘You’ve known Arthur your whole life. How could you steal from him? He’s the loveliest man.’

  Tears brimmed in India’s eyes.

  ‘I’m thirsty.’ Majella nudged the plastic bottle of Coke. ‘Can I have a swig?’ She unscrewed the lid and sniffed the contents.

  ‘I’m not a secret drinker, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Majella took a swallow anyway. It was just Coke. ‘Whatever the problem is, you can tell me. We can sort it out.’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘Are you on drugs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Boyfriend trouble? Problems at school? You haven’t been yourself lately. Is it the exams you’re worried about?’ Majella was running out of options. ‘Are you being bullied?’

  ‘None of those. It’s nothing.’ A tear overflowed and ran down India’s cheek as she said it. ‘I’m fine.’

  Majella felt her own throat tighten with emotion. ‘Does Violet know what’s going on?’

  India briefly closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘Well if you won’t tell me, will you at least talk to her about it?’

  Another shake. ‘No. Mum, please, don’t ask me again. I’ll be OK.’

  A text pinged up on Seth’s phone on Thursday afternoon as he was heading back to Bristol following a long meeting in Bath. Pulling over, he saw that it was from Majella: Just took a call from someone in the office – says she’s a friend of your mum’s and needs to speak to you. I said you’d call her back. Her name’s Shelley and here’s her number . . .

  He braced himself and rang the number Majella had sent him.

  ‘Seth? Darling, I swear to God your mother’s driving me to distraction. I’ve been calling and leaving messages since yesterday and again I’m not getting any reply. Does she just hate me, is that it?’

  ‘She’s gone to a spa retreat,’ Seth explained. ‘Some detox place in the Cotswolds where they confiscate your phone on arrival. She’s booked herself in for the next ten days, if there isn’t a mass breakout before then. It’s all yoga and meditation and drinking liquidised grass, apparently, so that could happen.’

  ‘She’s mad!’ Shelley gave a shriek of laughter. ‘Why would anyone want to do that to themselves? Anyway, so what d’you think I should do, because I wanted to tell her that Matteo died and if she felt like sending flowers to the funeral I’ve got the address. His sister messaged me yesterday morning to let me know, but it’s not going to be a big flashy ceremony, so Christina wouldn’t want to fly over for it anyway. Family only, his sister said.’

 
Seth digested the news, so casually imparted, in silence. So that was it, then. The man who was probably his father was now dead. Because in all honesty, with his dark hair and dark eyes, the odds were that he was indeed Matteo’s son.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Are you still there, darling?’

  ‘Yes, still here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Thanks for telling me. Look, if you text me the details, I’ll get in touch with the spa and find a way to let Mum know.’

  Lainey was busy washing the cars on the driveway when she became aware that she was being watched. Across the road, a thin woman of maybe forty was hovering, peering in through the gates.

  Seeing that she’d been noticed, the woman made her approach. ‘Hello, I’m looking for someone and I think this could be where they live . . .’

  ‘He’s asleep at the moment,’ said Lainey, because Richard had been out for a long lunch with an old director friend and was now snoring gently on his favourite sunlounger in the back garden with his hat tilted over his face.

  ‘It’s not a he,’ said the woman. ‘I’m looking for someone called Majella.’

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ Not another member of the fan club, then. ‘Yes, this is the right house, but I’m afraid she’s out with a client at the moment. You can leave a message with me if you like, and I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  The woman said, ‘Actually, you might be able to help. Do you work for Majella?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lainey was trying to guess what this could be about. She hoped it wasn’t something to do with India, about whom Majella was increasingly concerned. Please don’t let it be more shoplifting.