‘Sorry?’
‘Mitch. I told you he wants to meet you. I hope that’s OK.’
Alice puts down her glass, rubs a hand across her mouth. She wants to scream that it’s not OK– that Faith hadn’t made it clear that Mitch would be joining them this evening. But her friend looks so excited. This is important to her. And Faith has been such a support to Alice, the least she can do is take a long deep breath and meet the man of her dreams.
Faith met Mitch Fisher at a Whitby war weekend battle re-enactment. She sets up stalls on Sundays at festivals and events, selling her homemade jewellery and floral headdresses. He approached her wanting to buy one of her necklaces for his mother’s birthday.
‘I so want you to meet him,’ she says now, screwing up her face, hunching her shoulders. ‘If I’m totally honest, he’s a bit overwhelmed that your dad was—’
‘What? Oh God, Faith, you never said that was the reason.’ Alice rubs her neck, takes another gulp of her wine. She doesn’t want attention being drawn to who her father was. He would have hated it too. She thought Faith knew that.
‘I never told him who you were, Alice, truly I didn’t.’ Faith puts down her pint. ‘He saw you comment on my Facebook status, recognised you from the papers. He’s a huge fan of your dad’s work. He’s read all of his books. I wouldn’t have …’ Her eyes are wide, glazed.
Alice knows Faith feels bad. She touches her arm. ‘Don’t worry. Seriously. It’s fine.’ But it’s far from it. The music, chatter, laughter – all sounds too loud, closing in on her. She wishes she hadn’t come.
‘Hey, Faith.’ The voice booms from across the bar. Alice turns to see Mitch heading towards them, and folds her arms like a barrier. She knows it’s him from seeing photos on Faith’s Instagram and Facebook accounts. From reading his arrogant, sexist remarks – the latest being that men are put on this planet to dominate – she already knows she doesn’t like him.
His dark hair, shot through with strands of grey, is tied back in a stubby ponytail. He’s closer to fifty than he looks in his social media photos; he’s wide-shouldered – over six foot. His lime-green rain jacket is zipped to the neck, his jeans faded, his leather boots battered.
Faith jumps to her feet as he approaches, rises on tiptoe to kiss his dry lips. She grips his arm as though he might escape, and spins round to face Alice. ‘Mitch, Alice; Alice, Mitch.’
His brown eyes meet Alice’s, as he shuffles out of his damp jacket, revealing a hooded sweatshirt, and he hangs the jacket over the back of the chair. He reaches out his hand, and Alice unlocks her arms, takes his hand. His palm feels clammy, his fingers yellowing, and as she leans forward a slight waft of smoke reaches her nostrils. ‘Good to meet you,’ he says.
‘You too.’ Alice feels uneasy, is desperate to make an excuse and run.
He remains standing, eyes still on Alice. Shoves his hands in his jean pockets. ‘I was gutted when I heard your father died.’
‘Me too.’ She sounds flippant, an attempt to keep her emotions in check.
‘I’ve always been a fan. He was a great author.’
‘He was.’ Her voice cracks, and Faith takes her hand, squeezes, looks at her, wrinkling her brow.
‘Though not everyone thought so, did they?’ Mitch continues. ‘Guess you can’t please everyone.’
‘No, Dad accepted that. Everyone has a right to an opinion.’
‘True. I wonder what he would have made of The Winslow Touch.’
‘The what?’
He’s fidgety, his eyes suddenly everywhere, flicking around the crowded bar. ‘Dane and Savannah Winslow – influencers – they’re big on social media. Review everything from restaurants to small shops, films and books. If they like you, great; if they don’t – duck.’ He drops down on his haunches, pretending to duck under the table, and laughs. ‘I could have punched my laptop screen when I heard them say it was a good thing your father was dead.’
‘Mitch, maybe you should get a drink,’ Faith says.
‘Yeah, right, sure.’ He straightens up. ‘Anyone in need of a top-up?’ He points at their glasses with one hand, and takes his wallet from his pocket with the other. ‘Whoa, did you see that moth?’ He laughs at his attempt at a joke.
Alice looks at her almost full glass. ‘I’m OK.’
‘I’ll have another pint,’ Faith says. ‘Good to keep them lined up.’
‘Not very feminine, babe.’ He screws up his nose, which is a little too big for his face. ‘Crisps? Nuts? Pork scratchings?’
They shake their heads.
He makes his way towards the bar, pushing through the throng.
‘Well? What do you think?’ Faith beams. ‘I mean, ignoring what he said about the Winslows. I’m so sorry about that, Alice. He’s only angry because he loved your dad’s writing so much.’
It was tactless. The man’s a moron. ‘He seems OK. It’s a little too early to tell.’
‘OK?’ Faith’s mouth drops open. ‘Oh, Alice, I really want you to like him. Is it because he’s older than me?’
‘No, of course not, I’m not ageist. Just give me a chance to get to know the guy. I’m sure we’ll hit it off.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’ She grabs Alice’s arm and laughs. ‘But he is gorgeous, isn’t he?’
‘I guess so. In a man-bear kind of way.’ Alice smiles. ‘But it’s what’s inside that counts anyway, Faith. I know you always think you can change these guys but—’
‘Mitch is different. He doesn’t need changing. He’s got his own business, and it’s doing really well.’ She’s rambling, her eyes locking Alice in a stare. She’s making a plea for Alice to say, ‘You’ve snagged a good one this time, Faith. Good on ya!’ But Alice won’t. She can’t say what she doesn’t feel – it’s not in her nature. She pulls from her friend’s stare, and looks around the crowded bar. Mitch has got in a three-deep queue; he’s going to be a while.
It’s as her eyes move across the bar, she spots him: Leon.
‘Oh God.’ She lowers her head, and slides down in her seat, as though this movement will make her invisible.
‘What?’ Faith looks about her. ‘Alice, what’s up, lovely?’
‘It’s Leon.’
‘Your ex? Where?’ She’s flicking her eyes in all the wrong places.
‘Just behind Mitch,’ Alice whispers, ‘over there. He’s …’ The person Leon’s with is behind a group of noisy men, and Alice can only see her long, slim arms, ringed fingers placed on Leon’s hands. ‘He’s with someone.’
‘Oh yes, I see him.’ Faith looks at Alice. ‘Are you OK? I know you said—’
‘I’m fine.’ She forces a smile. ‘Honestly.’ Alice hasn’t seen or heard much from Leon since the funeral. Just a few message exchanges that fizzled and died on the screen. But she still has feelings for him, and at the sight of him with another woman her heart decides to dance to a tune of … What is this feeling? Envy?
Within moments, Alice has necked back her wine, and is on her feet. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry, Faith. I’m going to have to meet Mitch another time. Do you mind? I’ve got a rotten headache. Sorry.’
She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just grabs her coat, and dashes towards the exit, keeping her eyes to the floor. She’ll make it up to Faith another time.
It’s raining when she reaches the pavement, breathless, the pub door slamming closed behind her. She hasn’t got her car, had planned to have a couple of wines. Faith had said she would drive her home to the cottage – though she noticed her friend was about to have her second pint, so maybe she would have ended up walking anyway.
Alice sold her apartment after her father died, deciding to move to the cottage permanently. She’s rarely regretted that decision, Butterfly Cottage giving her comfort, but now she wishes she still lived in the centre of Whitby. A twenty-minute walk doesn’t look tempting in the rain.
Rain trickles down her collar, as she shelters under the pub’s eaves. She shivers and pulls her phone from her bag. The screen is blank
– the battery flat. Calling a taxi is out of the question. Still, maybe the walk – even in the rain – will do her good; clear her head of thoughts of Leon, and whoever he’s with. She rummages in her seemingly bottomless rucksack for her umbrella, shoots it up, and, head down, sets out for home.
Leon
Leon looks down at Tegan’s clammy, shaky hand resting on his, and tries to absorb the shock of what she’s just told him. There’s a side to this woman that lurks under the surface that he hadn’t seen until tonight. He needs to do something about her revelation.
‘Hi there.’ He turns to see a woman in dungarees he vaguely recognises. ‘Faith,’ the woman goes on with a bright smile, pressing her fingers against her chest. ‘You’re Leon, right?’
‘Yes.’ Still he can’t place where he knows her from, wishes she would move away from the table so he can carry on his conversation. Tegan removes her hands from his. Fidgets as she stares at him with worried, drunken eyes. She’s had too much wine. It’s why she’s offloaded. And now she’s volatile.
He shakes his head at Faith, trying not to show the irritation he feels. ‘Sorry—’
‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland.’
‘Ah. OK. Yes.’ He waves a hand in acknowledgement, presses it to his forehead.
‘I’m Alice’s friend.’
‘Yes. Of course you are, yes, sorry.’ He went into the shop in May, hoping to talk to Alice. Suggest a drink or meal. But Faith told him she wasn’t working and the weak moment that pulled him in to see her passed. We’re not right for each other. She’ll never want children.
Faith looks towards the door, and nods. ‘You just missed Alice. She had a bit of a headache. Left to walk home.’
‘Really?’ His gaze moves to the door, and back to Faith.
A tall man appears by her side, a double brandy in one hand, half a lager in the other. He hands Faith the lager.
‘I asked for a pint,’ she says, looking up at him.
‘If I wanted to date a bloke, I would turn gay,’ he says. ‘Plus you’re driving, babe.’
Faith rolls her eyes. ‘Well it was nice to see you again, Leon,’ she says.
The couple head away, and Leon turns back to the table. Shit. Tegan’s gone. He scans the bar, rises to his feet – searching – but there’s no sign of her anywhere.
Alice
Alice has been walking for fifteen minutes when the rain stops. She collapses her umbrella, keeping hold of it in a tight grip as she turns into Sparrow Lane. Just another five minutes and she’ll be home.
Within moments, the twisting darkness of the lane swallows her. She can’t even use her phone to light the way.
Heavy, fast footsteps approach from behind, splashing in puddles, and a beam of light stretches across the tarmac. She picks up speed, heart pounding as she dashes along the uneven surface, glancing back just once to see a man almost upon her.
‘Evening,’ he says as he passes – a runner – a torch band around his head. He’s at the end of the road and disappears from view before her heart returns to an even beat.
She’s never liked Sparrow Lane at night, with its overhanging trees and solid darkness, hated walking down here in her teens. And since her father was found dead against the old oak tree with its gnarled branches, she’s liked it even less.
She hurries on, wet leaves squelching under her feet. Two-thirds in, a car pulls into the lane behind her. She glances back, squints, dazzled by its headlights on full beam. She picks up speed, something about the slow pace of the car making her uneasy, making her grip her umbrella like a weapon. The car continues, keeping its distance, the hum of its engine menacing. It pulls into a lay-by, headlights highlighting the reds, yellows and greens of autumn, the scattered shiny conkers – some free, some gripped in their spiky shells.
Alice squints once more, before turning the corner onto Bury Road. Detached bungalows, windows ablaze with light, reassure her as she runs along the pavement, ears tuning in to the sound of a car turning out of Sparrow Lane, moving towards her.
Should she stop?
Confront the driver?
Knock on one the bungalow’s doors?
Within moments the car pulls up beside her. The window buzzes down. Her heart thuds like crazy.
‘Alice.’ A familiar voice. ‘I thought it was you.’
Chapter 7
Late October 2019
Alice
‘Leon!’ Alice’s heart gallops, the rapid beat pulsing against her fingers as she grips her chest. ‘You scared the crap out of me.’
Leon leans across the passenger seat, blue eyes glinting as he looks up at her. ‘It’s good to see you too, Alice.’
‘Seriously, Leon, what the hell were you doing back there? You freaked me out.’
‘Back where? I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure it was you, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So that makes it OK?’
‘Makes what OK?’ He shakes his head. ‘Faith mentioned you left the pub to walk home, and—’
‘And … what? You followed me like some creepy stalker?’ She wasn’t sure why she was so upset. But he’d scared her. He pulled into the lay-by, watched her from a distance. Why had he done that?
He looks bewildered. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Back there.’ She points towards Sparrow Lane. ‘You dazzled me with your headlights.’
‘Nope! I didn’t see you in Sparrow Lane. Only caught sight of you when I turned the corner.’
She looks back to where she ran from. ‘Someone was there … watching me.’ Or had someone simply pulled into the lay-by to check their phone or something? Was she acting paranoid? Being unfair on Leon?
‘Well it wasn’t me.’ He looks behind him. ‘Do you want me to check it out? See if someone’s there?’
‘We could both go, maybe.’
‘OK.’ He stretches across the seat further, flings open the car door. She climbs in, closes the door behind her, and clicks the seatbelt. She feels safe beside him, despite her outburst. How could she have thought he would lie to her? Watch her? Leon’s one of the good guys.
Without a word, he spins the car around in the road. Turns right into Sparrow Lane.
‘Whoever it was pulled in there.’ She points towards the empty lay-by. ‘Did you see anyone when you drove up here?’
He shakes his head, and shrugs. ‘Not that I noticed.’
‘They may have turned out their lights.’
‘Why?’
He was right. She was being ridiculous.
He sighs deeply. ‘This is where it happened, isn’t it? Where they found your dad?’
She looks down at her hands, wanting him to take her in his arms, tell her everything is OK. ‘I didn’t imagine the car, Leon. If that’s what you’re saying.’
‘Of course you didn’t. But this place holds awful memories for you.’ He turns the car round in the narrow lane. ‘I’ll take you home, shall I?’
*
‘Thanks,’ she says, as Leon pulls onto the drive outside Butterfly Cottage. ‘So, why were you in Sparrow Lane?’ she asks, looking at him.
‘I told you. Faith said you’d just left the pub, and I got to thinking about you – us.’
‘Faith,’ she says, smiling at her friend’s clear attempt at matchmaking.
Leon looks at the steering wheel, then at her. ‘I wanted to see you, Alice. Talk to you. There are things you need to know.’
‘Like, who you were with earlier?’
‘You saw that?’ He moves from her gaze.
‘Sorry, it’s none of my business. You have every right—’
‘It was Tegan.’
‘Tegan Matthews?’
He nods and shrugs. ‘A while back, she said she was interested in my book—’
‘Ah, I see. That makes sense. That’s good though, isn’t it?’
‘I guess. We’re friends, nothing more.’
‘You don’t owe me an explanation, Leon. You have every right t
o be seeing someone.’ She turns, climbs out of the car. She hasn’t seen Tegan since her father’s funeral. A couple of emails flew into her inbox in the weeks following that awful day, but that was it – so much for having her back.
She bends, looks back into the car. ‘Good luck with your book,’ she says. She needs to get away from him, slams the door, heads towards the house.
‘Wait up, Alice.’ He’s out of the car too. Within moments, he’s pulling her to him; she doesn’t resist. His lips brush against hers. She loves this man. She always has. And tonight she’s going to allow herself to be loved.
‘I’ve missed you, Alice,’ he says.
*
The next morning Leon lies beside her, face wedged in the pillow, his tanned muscular back rising and falling as he sleeps. One arm dangles over the edge of the bed; the other stretches above his head, as though swimming through his dreams.
She throws back the patchwork quilt and pulls herself upright. This was her bedroom growing up, and she loves every square inch of it.
She swings her legs round, slips her feet into her slippers and pads towards the window. Behind the curtains a charcoal-grey sky threatens over Whitby Abbey, the early morning mist surrounding the black tombstones.
Her breath catches at the sight of the Gothic ruins overlooking the sea that inspired Bram Stoker to write Dracula.
Leon stirs, and, not wanting to talk right now, Alice leaves the room.
In the shower, soapy water strips away the smell of him from her skin. She has no regrets, but knows they are still miles away from each other with what they want from life – what they want from the future.
Downstairs, Henry plods across the kitchen towards her, tail wagging in a greeting.
‘Hello, lovely boy.’ She crouches down to snuggle him for a few moments, before opening the back door to let him out.
She plugs in her phone to charge, and once she’s made some coffee, she picks up her mug and steps outside into the cool air. ‘Henry?’ she calls, her eyes flicking over the untidy garden. ‘Where are you?’
The Island House Page 4