Daisy looked like she was going to start crying again but with superhuman effort she smiled instead. ‘Let’s start tonight, then. Let’s go somewhere tremendous for dinner. Not the restaurant opening – my friends won’t mind. A quiet place where it’s just us. But somewhere memorable. Jude, I do love you.’
‘Me too,’ Jude said, squeezing his sister to him. He thought about the wise words from the old man in the hospital and knew that at least he could count on Daisy and the rest of his family and friends. He wouldn’t die alone.
Chapter Ten
JERSEY, SUNDAY
SUMMER
It might have been a fluke but, arriving in Jersey in May and stepping off the plane, Summer felt like she’d landed somewhere tropical, not a British island just half an hour from London. A balmy breeze enveloped her as she descended the plane steps, the sort of warmth that felt like a caress.
The journey by taxi from the airport to Mandla was very stop-start – not because there was a lot of traffic, but because the drivers were endlessly polite to one another, going to great lengths to let each other out. As they turned right at Waitrose in St Brelade, Summer noticed a series of cars flashing their lights at the taxi driver.
‘Why are they flashing?’ she asked.
‘There’ll be a police officer along this road with a speedometer. They’re warning me,’ the man replied, lifting a hand to thank the drivers in the opposite direction. He slowed down. A place of courteous drivers. It had been years since she’d been to Jersey and she’d forgotten its charming idiosyncrasies. She remembered now. What else did she recall from her last trip? The sea – nearly always visible and so clean and clear and inviting. Long, sandy beaches on the west of the island, craggy cliffs in the north and the beautiful, tranquil harbours of Gorey and St Aubin. Red squirrels scuttling up trees. £1 notes. Ducks crossing the road with their ducklings following at a leisurely pace. Farmers plodding along the lanes with their herds of dairy cows – no rush, cars just waiting patiently. The Franglaise feel to the place – so utterly Cornish in many ways, yet with French road names, delicious baguettes and a certain je ne sais quoi to the atmosphere that made it just seem French.
‘That’s it, the next right after those apartments,’ Summer told the taxi driver as the car swept down the hill. ‘Perfect. If you could just pull up on the left . . .’ The cottage was small but looked instantly welcoming and coastal, with lobster pots stacked up along one side of the exterior. It had been newly painted a crisp white and a string of bright pink buoys had been hung like balloons along the outside wall. Mandla looked striking.
‘Beautiful spot,’ the driver remarked.
‘Isn’t it?’ Summer agreed. She’d forgotten just how close to the tiny cove at Petit Port the cottage was. It was perched just above the beach with the most incredible view of the ocean, Corbière lighthouse in the distance. On a beautiful early-summer’s day like this, it was breath-taking.
Summer paid for the journey then wheeled her case along the path to the back door, where, as promised by Mrs Le Feuvre, the key was hidden under the doormat.
She opened the door, expecting to enter the pure 1970s lime-green kitchen she remembered from her last visit, and gasped out loud to find herself standing in the most pristine, welcoming and tasteful kitchen she’d ever had the pleasure to encounter.
It was an oblong room – not huge, but perfectly proportioned – with white New-England-style cupboards, a butler sink with jewel-coloured splash-back tiles above it, oak working surfaces and sand-coloured flagstones. Within a recess on the right-hand wall was a dark-blue Aga and beside it was an armchair dressed with two plump cushions. On the other side of the room there was a round oak table with four matching chairs and in the centre of the table was a ceramic jug filled with Jersey lilies. The room felt warm, cosy. Settled.
‘Wow!’ Summer said to herself. She abandoned her case in the kitchen and went to explore the rest of the cottage. She discovered the entire place had been revamped. A door led from the kitchen straight through to the south-facing living area – a long room with enormous windows providing the perfect combination of wall-to-wall sea views bathed in day-long sunshine.
Patio doors led on to a terrace but Summer stayed inside for now, taking in all the beautiful details of the living room. Two generous sofas and an armchair, all upholstered in soft grey linen and scattered with pink cushions. Walls washed white with the merest hint of pink and grey tones. The central feature of the room (aside from the view) was a cream wood-burning stove. Above the fireplace was an exquisite coastal painting and in front was a glass coffee table on which was stacked a neat pile of glossy magazines. The numerous lamps dotted around the room were nautically themed – huge cream lampshades balancing on models of lighthouses, boats and beach huts. It was like something out of an interiors magazine. Summer knew her aunt had received a decent divorce settlement from her latest ex-husband but she hadn’t realised until now quite how decent it must have been. Sylvie had gone to town on the place.
There was also a bathroom and a twin room, then – next to that – a door opened to a bedroom that shared the sea views of the living area. The windows were open and a breeze made the soft pink curtains quiver. A breeze that smelt of salt and sand and sunshine. Opposite the windows was an enormous bed covered with starched white linen and scattered with dozens of comfortable-looking pillows and cushions, as well as a grey cashmere blanket. Summer jumped on to the bed and lay back – it was like lying on a cloud. Deliciously comfortable. She wondered how she was going to feel sleeping alone after putting up with Seth’s teeth-grinding for so many years. She’d worried she might feel lonely and a little sorry for herself, but there was something about the feel of the cottage that made her realise she was more than likely to enjoy her solitude. And, she realised, for the first time in a very long period she wouldn’t have to pretend. Her life as a headmaster’s wife had been one long pretence – following convention after her laid-back, nomadic childhood – and although she’d been quite happy to make the sacrifice (and had, to some degree, embraced the security her new life offered her), she felt relief at having cast off the shackles of living in a school, married to a difficult man, and conforming in every area of her life.
From the comfort of the bed she observed the rest of the room. White plantation shutters on the windows, as well as the long pink curtains. Two white bedside tables, each housing a nautical lamp, magazines and a pitcher of water with a tumbler. The blinds were open so Summer looked out at the scene beyond and could barely believe her luck – the gently undulating sea of an incoming tide, the lighthouse in the distance.
Though she had hardly admitted it at the time, even to herself, she’d been hurt by Seth’s decision to have a marital break. Of course she had. But now – having made it to Jersey – she was simply grateful. For being granted an escape from that conventional life. An escape to what had to be the most perfect retreat on earth. She shook off her shoes, snuggled down and decided to enjoy an indulgent afternoon nap.
This was heaven.
PART TWO
FALLING IN LOVE
MAY–MID-AUGUST 2017
Chapter Eleven
JERSEY, MONDAY
JUDE
He was dying, but he’d never felt so alive. The words of that old man at the hospital still ringing in his ears, Jude had decided to make the most of every second of the life he had left. He’d started by making a bucket list. Not the sort most people would make, but a humble one that reflected the kind of simplicity Jude had been brought up to value. The first item on the list was the most important: ‘1. Don’t die alone.’ He was pretty sure he wouldn’t – after all, he had his sister, his parents and his friends to count on. But there was also a part of him that wondered if he might just be lucky enough to meet someone – romantically – who would be there with him until the end. The old Jude would have thought that ridiculous – who would be willing to open their heart to someone who was going to die? But the new Jude was m
ore optimistic and he planned to join a dating website as soon as possible.
He’d arrived home from London the night before and, keen to make the most of feeling so unusually full of verve, he ignored the suitcase he ought to unpack and decided to head straight to the office to extricate himself at last from his ball-and-chain job. Fortunately, he’d been saving for years for a deposit so he could buy a flat rather than rent for ever, so he had plenty to live on during the time he had left.
Peggy’s office door was open but he knocked on it, feeling nervous.
‘Come in,’ she said, looking up from her desk. ‘Oh Jude, are you better? A sick bug, wasn’t it?’ She looked concerned, though Jude knew that Peggy was extremely averse to catching anything and he could see her trying to calculate whether he was past the contagious stage. He shut the door gently behind him.
‘Actually, I’m afraid that wasn’t the full truth. I ended up in hospital with that bad headache I had last week. I had some scans carried out and the long and the short of it is that . . . is that I’m dying,’ Jude said, tripping over his words.
Peggy looked at him sharply. ‘Are you joking?’ she asked.
Jude laughed. ‘No, Peggy, I’m really dying. I’ve been given less than a year to live.’
Peggy paled. She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Jude, this can’t be true . . .’
‘It is,’ Jude persevered. He wondered if he was going to come up against this sort of resistance with every single person he told the bad news to. The thought was exhausting.
‘But . . . but that’s dreadful . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say.’ She looked appalled.
‘Look, you don’t need to say anything. In fact, please don’t. Don’t tell anyone else. I’m trying not to think about it all.’
‘But what is it?’ Peggy asked. ‘Is it cancer?’ she whispered, hardly daring to say the ‘c’ word out loud.
‘A brain tumour. It’s terminal . . .’ It was still shocking to say those words. He still felt like this drama should be happening to someone else. ‘But, look, I want to finish here and I don’t want to have to work the notice period specified under my contract. Time is precious,’ he said, smiling ruefully. ‘Would that be okay?’
‘Of course, of course. Finish at the end of this week.’ Peggy shuffled some papers on her desk, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’ll just need a note.’
‘A note?’
‘From your doctor. If I waive the requirement under your contract for you to work your notice period, I need evidence of your . . . situation . . .’
Jude thought he might laugh out loud. He’d always known Peggy was a stickler for the rules, but really? No doubt there was a section on this very subject in Peggy’s management manual. Page 354: Always ensure you have firm proof that an employee is dying when they ask to leave without working their notice period, just in case they’re pulling a fast one on you.
‘Don’t you believe me?’ he asked her.
‘Of course I believe you . . . It’s just the rules.’
‘Sure it is,’ Jude replied, sighing heavily, amusement replaced with a bittersweet realisation that this was probably the last time he’d ever become exasperated by his boss, whose insistence on rule-abiding was pathological. Despite this, Jude felt a deep-seated loyalty towards her, and he wasn’t going to give her a hard time. He thought back to the job interview he’d had with Peggy a few months after the stabbing, when he’d left his teaching post and was desperate for an income. The interview had gone appallingly badly and Jude had just resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t get the job when Peggy posed one last question.
‘Why did you leave your old job?’ she’d asked. ‘It’s just, it seems like a bit of a funny leap – from teaching to banking?’
Jude had wondered about coming up with some innocuous reason, but in the end he’d told the truth. ‘I was stabbed by a student,’ he’d said. ‘I’m recovered physically but it was a lot to take on board mentally. Not that my mental health is an issue,’ he’d added quickly. He knew that, even in this day and age, employers could be prejudiced against poor mental health.
Peggy, who’d shown herself to be rather brusque until that point, had looked at him sympathetically. ‘Ah,’ was all she’d said, but the very next day she’d called him up and offered him the position. However dull the job had turned out to be, he would never forget her kindness.
‘I’ll get you a note by tomorrow,’ he said now. ‘I’ll leave on Friday.’
‘One last thing,’ Peggy said, smiling weakly – no doubt with relief that this dreadfully awkward meeting was almost finished. ‘I won’t tell anyone why you’re leaving but we’ll need to have bubbles and nibbles for you on your last day. Five thirty in reception. I’ll organise it.’
Jude’s heart sank, but Peggy clearly thought she was doing him an enormous favour.
‘Thank you,’ he said feebly, and he began to prepare mentally for the end of the week. The day at work felt long – a waste of time – but by twenty past five he was home and, after tripping over his bag, he decided he should probably get round to unpacking it. He hauled it through to the bedroom. It was a huge case – far too large for a weekend – but it was the only luggage he had. On the way out it had been virtually empty, but Daisy had filled it with heavy medical books on brain tumours, which he’d taken to humour her. He’d also been on a shopping trip with his sister – she’d persuaded him to buy virtually a whole new wardrobe, most of it from Superdry. The stuff would make him look like a proper hipster – skinny jeans, tight-fitting shirts, uber-hip jackets and proper shoes – but perhaps it was time for a change from his boring old T-shirts, trainers and boot-cut jeans combo. Particularly if he was going on a dating mission.
He unzipped the large grey case and laughed. Was this a joke? It was filled with women’s clothes. He held up a couple of items. Somebody small and fixated on the 60s and 70s, by the look of things. The clothes smelt a bit fusty. There were a couple of photo albums, one full of dated-looking pictures showing someone wearing the clothes in question. She looked about eighteen. He thought at first the photos were old, then wondered if it was just the filter on them. But then he saw the next album – pictures of babies growing into toddlers – and he couldn’t believe the tiny young woman in the other album would have kids.
The doorbell rang and Jude hopped up to answer it. It was Cat. Jude was pleased she now felt she could just drop in – something she wouldn’t have done before his diagnosis. He realised that this was one of the silver linings to his recent news and Cat’s attitude was just what he needed to help him with his quest to seize life by the horns.
‘Cat! How are you? Come in . . .’
‘Shit day, but okay. Better than you. How you doing?’
‘Feeling weirdly positive about life – or what’s left of it. I’m making the most of it. But something odd’s happened. Come and see.’
Jude took Cat through to the bedroom, where he’d started to unpack the case.
‘I’ve obviously picked up the wrong bag. Which means someone on Sunday afternoon’s flight must have mine!’
‘Jude, this is perfect. A story for me. Can you let me run with it? I’ll do a feature on the news tomorrow. “Young Jerseyman seeks woman who stole his case!”’
‘Well, “stole” is a bit strong. She could say the same about me.’
‘Whatever. Can I do it?’ Cat looked so eager that Jude didn’t want to disappoint her. And anyway, he wanted his stuff back so it was worth a punt, however unlikely a successful outcome was. He’d spent a fortune on all his new clothes.
‘Go on then,’ he agreed, and they went through to the kitchen, where they sat at the counter and Cat made notes for the feature while Jude found a couple of beers and some crisps.
By the end of the evening Cat had the story sewn up. ‘Right, watch the news tomorrow morning. Hopefully the bag thief will see it and call up. Bloody exciting!’
Jude stood at the door and waved Cat off. He wondered if anythin
g would come of the news item, but either way he’d made Cat’s evening and he felt like he really owed her after her support following his diagnosis.
Jude gave the kitchen a cursory tidy-up, took out his lenses and cleaned his teeth. In his newly optimistic mood, he went to bed feeling more convinced that Cat’s suggestion might not be such a long shot after all. Perhaps her news story would bring him back his suitcase. For some strange reason, he had the feeling that getting his bag back might be another catalyst for him. It was just a feeling – the sense that something positive could well be just around the corner.
Chapter Twelve
JERSEY, MONDAY
SUMMER
The next thing Summer knew, it was seven o’clock in the morning. She’d only meant to have a nap but the bed had been so comfortable. How incredible to have slept right through. She usually woke up fighting for the duvet with Seth at least once during the night.
She got up to use the bathroom then ran back into the bedroom and jumped on to the bed. She bounced up and down for a minute, laughing with joy at waking up in such an amazing place, then snuggled back against the sumptuous cushions. The blinds and curtains were still open and she could see the tide was high; right up to the sea wall beneath the terrace. She could hear it too, the waves pounding at soothingly regular intervals. She took a deep breath and realised she could even smell the ocean – the scent of purity, a briny, intoxicating freshness.
Summer closed her eyes and carried on breathing deeply. Then she opened them. Something was strange, different. Then she realised – she could see! But it was no miracle. She hadn’t taken her contact lenses out when she’d had her afternoon nap. Her eyes felt sore now that she thought about it and a glance in the mirror showed they were red and bloodshot. Oh dear. She hoped she wouldn’t get an infection. She would need to try to get them out, but first she’d need her glasses, which were in her suitcase. Which was where? Summer padded out of the bedroom and searched around the cottage, eventually finding the case in the kitchen. She was about to open it when she spotted the kettle. Tea first – essential first thing. She opened the fridge and was amazed to see there was not only cow’s milk but soya milk – ideal – and that it was fully stocked with essentials, fruit and vegetables. Even a mini bottle of champagne, which Summer earmarked for the evening. She made a mug of tea and took it outside on to the terrace, where she drank it at the wooden table and relished being splashed with sea spray and feeling the breeze ruffling her hair.
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