Page 4

chapter

four

I rush up to the front door at work and let myself into the reception area.

“Sorry I’m running late,” I call, turning to shut the door behind me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t close, and I fiddle with the catch while still talking. “I was trying to do something with the plants that Lucy Scrimshaw demanded. And by that, I mean I stood in the garden drinking tea and staring at them. I even tutted a few times.”

I turn around and come to a dead stop. The reception area is deserted, and now that I notice it, the whole building has a hushed quality.

“Hello,” I say, taking off my sunglasses and wincing a little at the light. “Where is everyone?”

I walk behind reception and poke my head into the kitchen—nobody. My office and Joan’s office are the same. “Weird,” I say out loud. “Is it a bank holiday that nobody informed me about? Or has the world been taken over by zombies? Bagsy, they eat Lucy Scrimshaw first.”

I place the box from the bakery in the village on the kitchen work surface. “I’ve brought cakes,” I call. “As per the office rule that I had nothing to do with drafting. How is it fair that the person with the birthday has to buy cake for other people? Especially as I am suffering with a hangover that no mere mortal man should have to deal with.”

No one answers, and I make my way down the long glass corridor that links the reception and offices to the second barn at the back and Con’s huge workshop. Grabbing the big metal door, I slide it back on its runners and stop dead as an explosion of colourful confetti blinds me, and everyone who I now see is hiding in here breaks into a loud chorus of happy birthday.

I wince at the noise and then stand stock-still in shock, my hand held to my heart as if I’m a debutante about to faint. “What the fuck?” I breathe.

Hank Marvin gives a displeased squark and comes to rest on my shoulder. “She was a good-time girl who met a terrible end,” he mutters.

“As will whoever has done this,” I say as the chorus comes to a stop. I look around at everyone clustered in the workshop and open my mouth to mention that I don’t celebrate birthdays and haven’t done it for ages, and then something strange happens to my face. I smile widely instead.

“Oh my god,” I say, laughing as another boom sounds and confetti drifts over me in a sparkling cloud. “This is going to be fucking awful to get out.” I wave my hand. “But that is definitely not the birthday boy’s problem.”

Joan laughs, and my gaze tracks everyone who is clustered in the room. Joan is standing holding a huge carrot cake with candles blazing. Next to her is Evan, Con’s apprentice, and on his left is George, who works with Con, and Mandy. My smile widens as I see Con standing to one side wearing a jaunty party hat with a pink party blower hanging from his mouth. The smile dims slightly as I see Tim next to him, clinging to his arm as if he fears an imminent earthquake.

Con steps forwards, removing the blower from his mouth. “Did I hear right? Birthday boy? What happened to the man who hates birthdays and won’t celebrate them?”

I smile at him. “I had a bit of an epiphany this morning, and I realised that I am too damn fabulous not to celebrate that.”

He laughs before drawing me into a tight hug. “I’m glad,” he whispers into my ear. “You’re definitely right about the fabulous bit. And it’s about time.”

I inhale and hug him back, loving the feel of his arms and the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Are you feeling as terrible as me?” he mutters, and I laugh.

“I feel fucking appalling, but I’m sure that birthday boys should rise above such things.”

He laughs, and I almost make a sound of disappointment as he pulls back so everyone else can hug me. But luckily, I stop myself and then become aware that he’s staring at me.

“What?” I ask, putting my hand to my hair. “Is something wrong with my face?”

He shakes his head. “You’re wearing colour again.”

I look down at my outfit of red checked skinny trousers, white T-shirt, and red braces and feel myself flush. “I think it’s time,” I say. “Time to move on.”

A funny expression crosses his face. “You said that last night. Why now when I just?—?”

His words break off as Joan comes over to hug me, and I look over her shoulder at him.

“What were you going to say, Con?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his usual smile pinned to his face.

The last one to offer birthday felicitations is Tim, who thankfully doesn’t hug me. I think we’re both glad of that fact. Instead, he offers me a lukewarm pat on the shoulder. “Happy birthday,” he says in a tone of voice that suggests he hopes I die horribly. He looks around him. “Not exactly a place I’d select for a party,” he sniffs.

I shake my head. “Well then, you’d be wrong,” I say softly. “This is the best room in the building.”

It’s a huge room that takes up most of the barn. It’s open to the rafters and full of rather ferocious-looking machinery and worktables. Guitars hang from slots on the wall in various stages of creation. There’s an air of happy industry about this room that’s palpable.

Everyone clusters around me as Joan brings over the cake. “Blow,” she says.

I bite my lip. “It’s a bit early in the morning, Joan.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thank you so much for your restraint,” she says tartly.

I lean forwards and pause. “Thank you so much for using this huge number of candles,” I mutter.

“Well, you’re getting on a bit, dear. We’ll need a fire extinguisher next year. And I’ll need help carrying the cake, or I’ll put my back out.”

“Such a witch,” I say admiringly and blow out the candles. Everyone cheers, and Con shouts, “Make a wish.”

I look at his sweet face framed through the smoke drifting from the candles. I wish for you , I think fervently, and everything screeches to a halt in my head. Where the hell did that come from?

His smile drops away slowly, and he straightens up, and I flush, breaking the connection by standing up in a panic.

“Ooh, what did you wish for?” Joan asks.

“Oh, no wrinkles until I’m fifty,” I say flippantly.

“Too late,” Tim mutters.

Joan watches me, her wise eyes sharp and knowing. “I hope it comes true,” she says, and I know she isn’t referring to wrinkle cream.

I blink, and she bustles away, saying she’ll cut the cake while Evan grabs my arm and drags me over to a table where a pile of colourfully wrapped presents is waiting. “All yours,” he says cheerfully. “Lots of presents and cake for breakfast. Brilliant .”

I smile at the young apprentice, still reeling from the lightning realisation that I want Con. “You’ve got that right.”

Everyone clusters around me as I open them. I end up with some bottles of wine and lots of chocolate, which indicates that my workmates have an alarming knowledge of my eating habits. Joan’s present is a box of Thornton’s rum truffles that I have an addiction to and some leg tanning cream. “Why?” I ask.

She looks pointedly at my ankles. “Because you persist in wearing trousers that don’t go down to the ground and have limbs that are paler than a pint of milk.”

“What a truly splendid present,” I cry, and we grin at each other.

The second to last present is from Evan—a red bow tie that spins around with alarmingly sharp edges. I look over at him. “That’ll be very useful when I run away to the circus,” I say as he laughs.

The last present is a big parcel set on the floor with Con’s name on the label. I open it slowly and gasp. It’s a huge wooden wine cabinet, the wood gleaming in the light. Carved around the slots for bottles are vine leaves, and along the top is carved, “The rose-coloured glasses of life.”

I trace my fingers along the words. “That’s F. Scott Fitzgerald, isn’t it?” I say, looking straight at Con. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and his eyes are intent on me.

He shrugs. “Very roughly paraphrased.”

“I can’t believe you made this for me, Con.”

He smiles, and it’s warm and soft and just for me. “It’s for all the champagne you’re going to drink for the rest of your life.”

“Will I be celebrating for all that time?”

“I hope so,” he says steadily. “It’s the least that should happen to you.” I swallow hard, and he smiles. “Do you like it?”

“I don’t like it. I love it,” I say quietly, still staring at him.

For a second, it’s like we’re in a little bubble dappled with the wood dust that floats in the air and scented with linseed oil. Then it’s broken as Joan bustles in carrying plates of cake. I straighten up, running my finger along the carving. Con is saying something to Mandy that makes her laugh, but I can’t help noticing that his breathing has picked up.

Joan comes up next to me and hands me a plate with a huge piece of cake on it. She nods at the cabinet. “He worked for weeks on that.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say quietly. “I’d know his work in the dark.”

“Well, there’s a reason for that.”

“Pardon?”

She shrugs. “More cake to hand out. Can’t talk.”

I stare after her departing figure but turn as George comes up next to me.

He’s a big handsome man with silver-grey hair and a slightly stooped posture from bending over workbenches all his life. He’s an immensely talented carpenter who’s been with us from the beginning, and Con adores him, saying he couldn’t do without him.

“Happy birthday, lad,” he says, clapping me on the back and nearly slamming me into next week.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

He nods at the cabinet. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful. It’ll look wonderful in my kitchen.”

“I’m glad. The lad’s been fretting and worrying over it for ages. It had to be perfect.”

I smile. “Con doesn’t fret over things. He’s the most chilled person around.”

“Ah well, it’s you,” he says casually. “You’re Con’s exception.”

“I am?” I say, startled, my heart pounding. “What do you mean?”

However, I’ve lost his attention. Joan has come back into the room handing out more plates of cake, and as usual, George’s attention is entirely on her.

I shake my head. “Why don’t you ask her out, George?”

He looks back at me. “Two reasons, really, Frankie. One, I’m not thirteen, which I think is the last time I asked anyone out.” I laugh as he says the latter in a disgusted voice.

“What do you old ’uns do, then, George?”

“We court,” he says. “Which brings me to the second reason. What if she says no?”

I smile at him. “I think you’re missing the point.” He looks at me. “What if she says yes?”

“Well, lad, that’s even more terrifying.”

I watch Joan approach Con and Tim with their cake and groan when she offers Tim the chipped plate that we feed Hank Marvin on. On it is the thinnest slice of cake I’ve ever seen. You could feed it through a paper shredder.

“Only a supermodel would be happy with that slice,” I whisper, and George shakes his head.

“She’s a terrifying woman. Brains and courage. It’s an unbeatable combination.”

“Is it?”

“You should know.”

“Why?”

He smiles at me. “Well, you’re the same. Sharp and clever.”

“Thank you, but in the gay world, that doesn’t rank quite as highly as a tight bum and a nice haircut.”

He blinks. “Maybe you should look for someone who appreciates it, then.”

“Easier said than done, George. I am twenty-eight now. That’s approaching dinosaur age in the kingdom of the gay.”

“Maybe you should look closer to home.”

He nods over at Con, and I blanch. “Oh no, George,” I stammer. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”

He chuckles. “I think I’ve probably got the right one, Frankie.” He claps me on the shoulder again. “Isn’t it lovely getting advice?” he says serenely and walks away.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” I call, and he laughs again, wandering over to Joan, whose face immediately lights up when she sees him.

“Say no, my arse,” I whisper.

I look over at Con. It’s an instinctive gesture. Wherever I am, I’ve looked for Con since the day I first met him. He calms me and makes me happy. I frown as Mandy moves, and I see him and Tim. They don’t look happy. Tim is glaring and hissing something at Con while Con rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. Tim says something else that makes Con frown and say something back that makes Tim flush an unbecoming red.

“Trouble in paradise,” Joan says, wandering over to me and handing me a cup of tea.

I jump. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say.

“I do.”

“You look far too happy about it.”

“I am,” she says cheerily.

“You don’t like him?”

“I don’t like what he’s standing between, Frankie.”

I shake my head. “ No ,” I say firmly. “We are not doing that. Con is a good friend of mine. I’m the widower of his best friend, and he wouldn’t look twice at me.” I pause. “Not to mention that I only see him as a friend,” I conclude heartily.

“Okay,” she says, giving me a suspiciously meek nod of her head. I narrow my eyes at her, and she brightens. “Oh, they’re definitely arguing now.”

“He hit them with an iron. Boom,” Hank Marvin says gloomily from his perch on a chair, where he’s eyeing the cake.

I’m in the kitchen that evening, hanging on my fridge door and once again contemplating the meaning of life when a knock comes at the door.

I look up nervously. If it’s Lucy Scrimshaw, I don’t think my nerves will take another inspection. It’s how I imagine the army to be if a five-foot-seven martinet ran it.

I creep closer to the window and try to peer through the shutters.

“It’s no use. I can see you,” comes a voice, and I instantly relax.

“What are you doing here?” I say, swinging the door open.

Con is leaning against the wall outside dressed in his customary jeans and an old striped shirt that has a rip in the side that offers an intriguing glance of his corded abdomen. I wipe my suddenly damp palms on my shorts.

With a rush, all the feelings from earlier come rushing back, and I find myself itemising the veins on his big hands, the broadness of his shoulders, the narrow hips, and the fresh scent of his cologne.

How did I miss you? I wonder. The thought is quickly followed by Oh god, what am I going to do?

His hair is wet, and I wonder with a sharp pang whether he and Tim have had a shag and they’ve showered together afterwards. I dimly remember doing the same back in my dating days, which currently seem like a millennium ago. My stomach twists and dives in a now-familiar motion.

He straightens up. “I’ve come to do the garden.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” I say nervously.

He raises one eyebrow. “Are you doing it yourself, then?”

I bite my lip. “Probably not,” I admit. “I was just thinking of emigrating to Antarctica instead.”

“It’s probably better. Not so many tourists,” he says, glaring at two women who are currently looking through my window without a shred of shame.

“Come in,” I say, holding the door open.

He bends to pick up something.

“Ooh, what have you got?” I ask, craning to see what it is. “Is it more cake and presents? Oh,” I add disappointedly. “A spade.”

He moves past me into the house, smirking as he goes. His body is big and warm as he passes me. “You seem very well adjusted to celebrating your birthday for someone who’s ignored it for the last few years.”

“You know me. I’m easily adjustable.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re about as adjustable as an old saucepan.”

“Lovely,” I say sourly.

I follow him through the kitchen as he stops and eyes the open fridge. “Air conditioning would probably be cheaper, Frankie.”

“You’re so funny you should have your own show.” I pause. “On Channel Five.”

“Ouch.” He walks out into the garden and whistles. “Christ, I’d forgotten how wild it is.”

“It’s not that bad.”

He looks beadily over at me. “I’d hate to see your definition of very bad, then.” He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. You could lose a person in that lilac bush. Has anyone seen Lucy lately?”

“If she’s stuck in that bush, we’re never chopping it down.” I look around as he laughs. “I’m just not a gardener. My only interest in the garden is as somewhere that I can drink my wine.”

He crouches down to grab one of the plants. “Show me where you want this.”

I’m distracted by the bulging of his biceps and the sheen of sweat on his golden skin. He’s so hot. I must have been blind all these years. I become aware that I’m staring when he clears his throat.

My eyes dart up to him to find him gazing at me. His eyes are dark and his expression very focused. “You okay there, Frankie?” he says, and there’s a roughness to his voice that makes me shudder.

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say. “I’m fine,” I babble. “Absolutely fine .” He crouches down to move another plant, and I watch the muscles in his thick thighs move. “Utterly fine,” I say again. “Wait. What are you doing?”

He pauses. “Taking my shirt off.”

“ Why ?” I’m sure there’s something in the animal kingdom that is higher sounding than me, but I’m pushed to think of anything at the moment. I eye him open-mouthed as he slowly removes his shirt, and I send my eyes greedily down his torso. If sculptors could see him now, they’d fight to carve his figure. He’s beautiful with broad shoulders and a muscled torso that narrows down. His sleeves of tattoos are a bright splash of colour on his golden skin and his jeans are loose and hanging from his hips, showing off the V of his pelvis. I tried hard to achieve that V when I was in my teens but had to admit defeat when I realised you didn’t get it through eating chips.

I narrow my eyes. “Are you … are you flexing ?” I squeak, and he starts to laugh.

“I’m just giving you a show.”

I draw in a breath which is no good because now I can smell his light sweat. “Well, rein it in a bit, Captain Chippendale. You’ve got gardening to do,” I finally say hoarsely.

He eyes me for a very long second, the silence stretching between us, and then he nods. “You’re the boss.”

And although he sounds normal and we garden in perfect harmony, laughing and joking as usual, I can’t help feeling this extra current from him. It feels almost like satisfaction.

Finally, he puts his spade down. “I think we’re done,” he says, wiping his hand over his forehead and smearing dirt over it in the process. It’s criminal how attractive he is, even with a fucking dirty face.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts. “Ugh!” I say. “I’m filthy.”

He laughs. “I must say in all these years, I’ve never seen you this messy.”

“And you never will again. You’d better put a reminder in your phone to come and prune my bushes regularly.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s an instruction because we both know I will never pick up a pair of shears again.”

I watch as he puts his spade into my shed. “Aren’t you taking that with you?”

“Nope. It’s more useful here.”

“I’ll say. Your garden is like the Amazonian rainforest. I’m sure we’ll find some new species in there if we look hard.”

He shrugs. “The difference between us is that I haven’t got Lucy Scrimshaw on my back.”

“Yes, and why is that?”

He taps me on the nose. “Because you, Frankie, are too nice.”

“I am not,” I say crossly.

“Oh yes. So, who was it who shopped for Mrs Tatler when she broke her ankle or listened to her collection of James Herbert audiobooks so she’d have someone to talk to about the plots?”

I slump. “Please don’t tell anyone.” I grimace. “Those audiobooks were seriously scary. I had to sleep with the light on for weeks.”

“Maybe I will keep your secret. Maybe I won’t.”

“It’s just that Lucy reminds me of my grandmother, which means I can’t say no to her.”

“She’s only in her late forties. I’m not sure she’d be flattered by the comparison.” He nudges me. “Which means you must, of course, tell her.”

I smile. “No, it’s just her way of getting things done. She reminds me of Grandma Cath.”

He looks at me curiously. “You were brought up by her, weren’t you?”

I nod, bending to pick up the bucket. “Yes. I never knew my dad, and my mum got bored of having a rather fabulous five-year-old, so she buggered off too, which left my grandma.”

“That’s terrible,” he says softly.

I shake my head immediately. “Terrible would have been being left with my mother. She’d have forgotten me on the underground or something one day, and I’d have been condemned to roam around raiding the bins.”

“You would never raid a bin.”

“Not unless it was behind a designer outlet store.”

He laughs and then cocks his head to one side. “So, your grandma was good to you? I can’t believe we’ve never spoken about this before.”

“We’ve had other things to do. Minor things to talk about like how to pay the staff and bills and stave off bankruptcy.”

“Not a problem now, so spill.”

“She was wonderful,” I say, her face in my memory for a second. “Very sharp and clever and didn’t take shit from anyone. When I was bullied, she sorted it out herself. This little old lady tore strips off these hulking twelve-year-olds. I think it’s safe to say they’re probably still shitting themselves, and they never spoke a word to me again.”

He smiles, and it’s far too tender for my pulse. “Like grandma, like grandson, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say lightly, shutting the lid on the garden waste bin. “I’m not as fierce as her. I wouldn’t have put up with David for so long if I was.”

“Love makes us put up with a lot, and you’re exactly like her. You’re fierce whenever someone you care about is threatened. I should know that. When David died, you could have waltzed back to London without a backward glance, taking the life insurance money and starting a new life. I would never have begrudged you that because of what he put you through.” He shrugs, staring intently down at one finger that’s tracing along a rose petal. “But you stayed,” he says, looking up, his eyes dark. “And you invested in the business, and you fought side by side with me to keep it. I’ll never forget that.”

I swallow hard and push my hands into my back pockets, regretting the move when it forces my hips forwards, and his gaze seems to cling, so it almost feels like I can feel his touch on my sharp hipbones.

“I’m sure you’ve blocked the dating lectures I’ve given you over the years,” I say, laughing nervously.

He stares at me for a long second. “Of course I did,” he finally says. “You weren’t telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“And what was that?”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he wanders into the kitchen, and I follow him, desperately trying to think of something to keep him here. I missed him while he was away, and I need more of his company. I’m coming to the awful conclusion that I’ve developed feelings for my husband’s best friend somewhere along the way. Feelings he’ll never return.

Oblivious to my turmoil, he stops and opens the fridge to peer nosily into it. “What’s this?” he asks prodding a container.

I peer past him. “It’s the remains of an old pasta dish I made a few days ago. I’m thinking of having it for tea.”

“Why? Have you been naughty?”

“Don’t be rude. I cook very well.”

“I know you do. You’re an amazing cook. It’s just that old pasta on your birthday is sad.” He stands up. “Come on. Get changed.”

I blink. “Why?”

“I’m taking you for dinner. You’re not eating that sh—” He pauses when he catches my eye. “That lovely pasta,” he finishes, and I suppress a smile. My heart is beating fast, and I feel anticipation run through my veins.

“Really?” I say breathlessly.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and it may be my imagination, but I’m sure he’s standing closer to me. The air seems thick, and it’s hard to breathe with the scent of him all around me.

“So, dinner, yes? Just me and you?” he says huskily.

I stare at him. He’s so gorgeous. Full of life and vitality. A lovely, kind man. My thoughts stutter and stop with a sudden horrible jerk. And that’s what he is doing now , I think with a sick realisation. He’s being kind to his dead best friend’s husband. Oh, I know I’m his friend too, but what on earth would he see in me? I’m sharp and thin and somewhat quirky-looking.

I’m well aware that my confidence has suffered from being with David and having him be unfaithful to me, but even in my best days when I was full of life, I would never have been able to compete with Tim. He’s gorgeous.

At the thought of the man waiting at home for him, my heart sinks to my feet so fast I feel sick, and I know what I must say. “Oh–oh no, it’s alright,” I say faintly. “Let’s not bother.”

His eyes narrow. “What? Why do you sound like that? You were all for it twenty seconds ago.”

I wave a dismissive hand. “You should go with Tim. I don’t want to be in the way. Go and have a nice night with your lovely boyfriend. You need to pay attention to him.”

He stares at me for a long second, his expression clouding, and then, without another word, he turns and leaves the house, shutting the door behind him with a final click.

I stand alone in my living room, my heartbeat pounding loud in my ears. “Shit,” I say softly. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”