It Started with a Secret

by Jill Mansell

  Chapter 26

  The view from his room on the second floor of the hotel was the kind that couldn’t fail to lift the spirits. Wyatt took in the sweep of Mariscombe Bay, the crescent of pale-yellow sand, the early-morning swimmers and joggers, and the seagulls soaring overhead in a pale-blue, nearly cloudless sky.

  Penny, who was in no way an early riser, was still asleep in her own room; they’d made plans to meet downstairs for breakfast at 9:30, which was two hours from now. Picking up his phone, Wyatt took several photos of the beach to show her later—what a beautiful morning, and hopefully the weather would hold for tomorrow’s wedding in Saint Ives. His attention was caught by two dogs cavorting together on the beach, launching themselves into the waves in pursuit of a yellow ball that had been thrown by their owner. The larger of the dogs managed to reach it first and swam back to shore, its tail wagging triumphantly as it dropped the ball at the feet of…

  Wyatt picked up the pair of binoculars on the window ledge and brought them into focus. Yes, it was Lainey’s coworker, Kit. Wearing rather fewer clothes than he’d had on during dinner last night.

  And now he was hurling the ball back into the sea, this time racing after the two dogs into the water. As he watched them, Wyatt found himself smiling; he hadn’t seen his parents’ dogs for a few days and was missing them. He put down the binoculars, pulled on a shirt and board shorts, and picked up his room key.

  Down the stairs he went, out of the hotel, and across the sloping lawn, still damp with dew where the sun’s rays hadn’t reached it yet. He made his way down the path to the stone steps and began his descent.

  It was stumbling on a stray pebble that caused him to miss a step, lose his balance, and go careering down the rest of them with an undignified shout. He braced himself in anticipation of the pain when he reached the bottom, but the worst had already happened. Landing on the sand with a thud caused no further damage, apart from to his pride.

  “Oh great,” he muttered to himself as heads turned in his direction and a young blond woman came hurrying across the beach toward him.

  “You poor thing! Are you hurt?”

  “Nothing too terrible.” The pain in his ankle was as breath-catching as it was familiar. “Just give me a minute…”

  “The same thing happened to me once. Right here.” The blond indicated the steps. “I tried to catch a runaway stroller and it landed on me, sent me flying. My back was in agony and I could hardly walk for days! Although, on the bright side, it’s kind of how me and my husband ended up getting together, so—”

  “Wyatt, it is you. Oh God, are you OK?” It was Kit, dripping with seawater and clearly concerned, the two dogs at his heels. He knelt beside him. “Did you hit your head? How’s your back? Glenda, stop it, don’t lick his toes.”

  “I didn’t hit my head. My back’s fine.” Despite the waves of pain, Wyatt couldn’t help gasping with laughter. “But could you get the dog away from me? My feet are really ticklish. It’s my right ankle that’s the problem,” he went on as the blond woman gently scooped Glenda into her arms. “I broke it last Christmas and it felt exactly like this. And I wasn’t watching where I was going, so it looks like I’ve just done the same thing again.”

  “Oh, Wyatt, that’s terrible,” said Kit.

  “They did warn me the break might be weaker and more vulnerable. I went over on a pebble and missed the step. I’m an idiot.” Wyatt sighed, because his ankle was already beginning to balloon. “I just wish it weren’t my right foot. Means I’m not going to be able to drive.”

  The blond woman took control of both dogs while Kit helped Wyatt to his feet. Well, foot. Attempting to put any weight on the bad ankle made him gasp, and he had to lean heavily on Kit in order to stay upright.

  “This isn’t great timing.” Kit was sympathetic.

  “I know. Can’t see me dancing at the wedding.” Wyatt grimaced with pain; it was also hard to concentrate when you were being supported by a dripping-wet male wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. His own arm was slung across Kit’s broad shoulders and Kit’s arm was firmly grasping him around the waist. Never having been the rugby- or football-playing type, close physical contact with another man wasn’t something he was remotely familiar with. “Owww,” he hissed through gritted teeth, having accidentally put pressure on his right foot.

  “It’s OK, I’ve got you,” said Kit. “Just relax and lean on me. I’m stronger than I look.”

  It took a while to reach the hotel. The blond woman’s name was Sophie, Wyatt discovered, and she was married to the man who ran the place alongside his grandmother, the glamorous Dot. She volunteered to take the dogs back to Menhenick House, and Kit raced upstairs with the key to let himself into Wyatt’s room, collect his car keys, and borrow a shirt. Having called Lainey to let her know what was happening, he then helped Wyatt out to the car and drove him to the local hospital.

  Hopefully they wouldn’t have to sit in the emergency room for seven hours surrounded by drunks and full-on gang warfare, which had been Wyatt’s experience last time.

  * * *

  “Oh my God!” Coming down the staircase on her way to the hotel’s breakfast room at 9:30, Penny stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s been going on?”

  The answer to that was: quite a lot. But Wyatt, levering himself to his feet, said, “You see, this is what happens when you stay in bed half the morning; you miss out on all the fun.”

  “If that’s what you call fun, I’m glad I stayed in bed. But where have you been? What happened?” Her eyes widened. “Were you sleepwalking? Did you jump out of your window?”

  “Nothing so dramatic. I was heading down to the beach and went over on my bad ankle. Kit was there, thank goodness. He helped me up and drove me to the local hospital. They were brilliant.” And it was true; each time they had tried to resume their conversation about Kit’s year at the chateau, they’d been interrupted, first by the triage nurse, then the doctor, then the trip to the X-ray department and finally the second meeting with the doctor. Wyatt had scarcely been able to believe the speediness of it all; within an hour, he’d been fitted with a heavy surgical boot and a crutch and sent on his way.

  “Same ankle as before?” Penny winced at the thought.

  “It’s the same break, just cracked open again. But it’s stable and it’ll mend, no need for surgery.” He indicated the cumbersome boot. “I have to wear this for as long as I need it. And I can’t drive, obviously, but if we want to stay here for an extra night, it’s Kit’s day off tomorrow and he’s happy to take us down to Saint Ives and bring us back again after the wedding.”

  “Oh, but we could get a taxi.” Penny looked worried. “Although it’d cost a fortune.”

  Wyatt was touched; despite his family’s wealth, she was always trying to save money on his behalf. “That doesn’t matter. But Kit offered and I’ve already accepted. It’d be rude to change the arrangements now.”

  “Poor you.” She gave him a consoling hug. “You aren’t going to be able to dance!”

  “I’m beginning to think I’m a bit jinxed when it comes to weddings.” Wyatt broke into a grin. “Never mind. I have my boot and my crutch. I’m sure I can manage to hobble in time with the music.”

  “Your eyes are all sparkly.” She studied his face. “You look so happy.”

  “Possibly because I’ve been up for hours,” Wyatt told her, “and I’m finally going to get some breakfast.”

  * * *

  “You’ve got that look in your eyes,” said Richard.

  “I have.” Lainey nodded. “Well spotted.”

  He put down his coffee. “You’re going to make me do something, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m just asking for permission to open any letters addressed to you.”

  “Of course, fire away.” Evidently relieved, he gestured around the cluttered study. “Help yoursel
f, do your thing, answer as many letters as you like.”

  “And when I’ve typed them, you can sign them.”

  “Yes, yes. Whatever.”

  Lainey felt all-powerful; Richard’s conscience had clearly been pricked by last night’s encounter with well-meaning Penny and über-grateful Pauline. “Thanks. You’ll make a lot of old ladies very happy.”

  He looked rueful. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I can tell.”

  “I am a bit. Smile.”

  “What?”

  He was sitting in his favorite armchair with a fountain pen in one hand and the newspaper open to the daily crossword. He flashed a professional smile, allowing her to take a few nicely informal photos, then said, “I suppose you’re going to send them pictures of me looking ancient and knackered.”

  “You’re older than the Rolling Stones,” Lainey reminded him. “You’re allowed to look ancient and knackered.”

  Richard wagged a finger at her. “Now you’re pushing your luck.”

  “Hey, you’re lucky, these women love you for who you are. I’m just saying a little bit of interaction goes a long way.” Lainey was already busy rummaging among the clutter of magazines and newspapers on the desk, picking out unopened letters that were only still there because he was too lazy to throw them away. “Right, I’ll make a start with these. From now on, give them to me instead of leaving them in random places. And well done,” she added, because one thing she’d learned while running the children’s club at the chateau was that praise was important. “You’re doing a good thing.”

  Richard’s shrug was good-natured as he returned his attention to the crossword. “You’re the one doing it.” She was about to leave the sunny study when he added, “You forgot to look in the wastepaper bin. There’re probably a few more in there.”

  * * *

  It was seven in the evening, and Kit had headed off to the gym. Lainey was sitting cross-legged on the pull-out bed in the flat above the garage, surrounded by opened letters and cards, compiling a list of people to reply to. She’d already printed off a hundred of the photos and stood over Richard making sure he signed them himself, rather than outsourcing the dreary task to a passing grandchild.

  Reaching across now, she picked up one of the last remaining envelopes, the turquoise one with the neatly handwritten address that had to have been sent by Pauline’s friend Nerys. OK, this was one letter she was definitely going to reply to.

  She unfolded the two sheets of matching turquoise writing paper and began to read.

  Dear Sir Richard,

  This is the third and final time I shall be writing to you. I know you don’t reply to letters as a rule, but I do wish there was a way of finding out whether you’ve read the previous two I sent you.

  Anyway, I hope you’re keeping well. I’ve enjoyed following your career over the years. The reason I’m contacting you is because I’d love to know if you remember my mum, Alexandra Davies. She met you while she was working as a secretary in your agent’s offices in Los Angeles. I’m afraid Mum died a few years ago, but she always loved watching you on TV. After returning from LA, she settled back into life in Cardiff. I would love to hear if you have any happy memories of her and wanted to tell you that she thought you were a wonderful man and remembered you fondly for the rest of her life.

  That’s all. It would be lovely to hear from you, although I’ve learned that it’s highly unlikely to happen. Still, you never know, which is why I’m giving this one last try.

  Respectfully yours,

  Nerys Davies

  P.S. Mum’s favorite of all your films was “The Unsent Letter.” It always made her cry.

  Lainey refolded the sheets of writing paper, picked up her phone, and called Richard’s number. Not that he often bothered to charge it up, but it was worth a try.

  “Hello, what now?” By some miracle, he’d actually answered the call.

  “Richard, that letter in the turquoise envelope from Pauline’s friend Nerys. She’s the daughter of Alexandra Davies, who knew you years ago in LA.”

  “Who?”

  “Alexandra Davies. She was a secretary at your agent’s offices.”

  “You know what I’m like with names,” Richard grumbled. “And have you any idea how many people worked in those offices?”

  “I just thought you might remember her.”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Richard. “Hollywood’s full of people who think actors will remember them when all they did was say hello to them once in the street. Can I get back to my snooze now?” Signing those photos had evidently exceeded his being-nice-to-the-fans capacity for the day.

  “Of course you can. I’ll write a nice letter back to Nerys apologizing for your terrible memory. You enjoy your snooze.”

  He chuckled. “Thanks, boss.”

  “And you can sign the letter before I post it tomorrow.”

  “You’re a hard taskmaster,” said Richard.

  * * *

  Sunshine was dappling the surface of the Pacific Ocean, Venice Beach was dotted with people enjoying the weather, and Richard was wondering if he’d ever felt this happy. There she was, making her way up the beach toward him in her modest dark-blue one-piece swimsuit. As she reached him, her pale skin glimmered with droplets of water and the look on her face was one of sheer joy.

  “You’re back.” He was scarcely able to believe it. “I thought I was never going to see you again!”

  “I had to come back. I missed you so much.” As she fell into his arms, her warm breath mingled with his, and he felt the seawater from her swimsuit sinking into the sweater he hadn’t even known he was wearing.

  “I’ve missed you too. But how did you get here?”

  “I swam here.” Sandy stroked his face lovingly. “All the way from Cardiff.”

  Richard opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, his heart clamoring in his chest. For some reason, it wasn’t the fact that she’d swum from Cardiff that had done it; it was the discovery that his body was tanned and taut, as athletic as it had been in his twenties, that had jolted him into realizing this was a dream.

  But a dream that just went to show that his subconscious had been working away during the night, solving the conundrum he hadn’t managed to work out for himself.

  He’d only known her as Sandy—they’d all called her that at the agency. But of course it was short for Alexandra. Sandy’s shyness, her pale skin, and her soft Welsh accent had marked her out among all the tanned, confident California girls. And it was that unprepossessing manner that had charmed him when he’d gotten to know her.

  Having been able to identify Alexandra Davies as Sandy, Richard felt as if the last piece of a jigsaw had just slotted satisfyingly into place. And now her daughter had written to him asking if he remembered her mother, which meant Sandy wanted to see him again and was wondering, in her characteristically shy way, if he would be interested in meeting up with her.

  He checked his bedside clock and tried to decide whether it would be OK to wake Lainey at 5:23 in the morning.

  Because the answer to Sandy’s question was yes, yes he definitely would.

  Chapter 27

  Hurrying to answer the hammering at the door at 6:30, a dozen possibilities as to what could be wrong flashed through Lainey’s mind, the most likely among them being that something bad had happened to Richard.

  Well, he was eighty; sooner or later it was going to come to them all.

  But when she unlocked the door, there he was on the top step outside the flat, fully dressed and completely alive.

  “What’s happened?” said Lainey. “Is someone ill?”

  “No. I’ve remembered who she is. I do know her!”

  For heaven’s sake, was he drunk? “Who do you know?”

  “Alexandra. Sandy!”

  She leaned against the door. “Ric
hard, it’s half past six in the morning.”

  “I know! I waited a whole hour before I came over. Are you going to let me in? I’ll make you a cup of tea if you want. We went out together for a few weeks…well, not out out, because it needed to be under the radar.” Having followed her inside, he watched as she swept the sheets and pillows off the bed and expertly folded it back into its day job as a sofa. “Well, will you look at that? Marvelous what they can do these days.”

  “Why did you have to be under the radar?”

  “It was when I was meant to be having a passionate affair with Lara O’Leary. I wasn’t, because she was a lesbian, but our studios needed the public to think we were a couple. Right, where d’you keep the tea bags? And the milk? And the cups?”

  “Sit down.” Lainey indicated the sofa. “I’ll make the tea.”

  “I bumped into her in a coffee shop one evening, close to my agent’s offices. Literally bumped into her,” Richard went on. “She dropped her doughnut on the floor, so I bought her another. She was the loveliest thing, unlike anyone I’d ever met before. We started seeing each other, and it was such a breath of fresh air… She used to wear dark glasses and a head scarf, and slip into my apartment building so no one knew what was going on. And she was happy for us to be a secret too, unlike all the other girls over there, who only ever wanted us to be seen out together in public.”

  “I like this story.” Lainey’s voice softened, because he was so clearly picturing his young girlfriend in his mind’s eye.

  “I dreamed about her last night. Isn’t that amazing? It was like we were there, together again on Venice Beach…”

  “So what happened? Back then, I mean. Not in the dream.” She finished stirring sugar into his tea and passed the mug to him. “What went wrong?”

  “Nothing went wrong between us. Her father was taken ill and needed looking after, I heard, back in Wales. I was in Rome for a few weeks, shooting a movie. By the time I got back, Sandy was gone. Left her apartment, left the agency, left LA. She didn’t leave any kind of message or write to me and I had no way of getting in touch with her. It was fifty-odd years ago,” Richard said defensively when Lainey frowned. “Not like these days.”