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‘Well, of course I’m OK, darling,’ Julia says. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I miss Gramps – I’m bound to, aren’t I? But I’m keeping very busy sorting his things.’
Emily imagines her grandmother, short dark hair as smooth and neat as ever, sitting next to the telephone table with her elegant legs up on a footstool, dressed in one of her daytime outfits – a print frock, maybe, or a soft sweater with a knee-length skirt. She can hear Radio Three playing in the background. It’s the sort of tinkling piano concerto that Gramps hated. He’d have switched it over to something more upbeat.
‘So what have you been doing with yourself? Are you getting out and about much?’
There’s a pause. ‘There’s a lot to do at home at the moment. And I’ve got to tell you about the letters, Em.’
Emily listens, fascinated, as Julia fills her in on the chest full of family treasures.
‘You’re kidding? Family memories going right back to the fifties? How cool is that?’
‘I know! But it’s not just that. I’ve found another couple of letters this morning, ones I’d not read before, or I can’t remember having seen them, anyway. I’m getting the strangest hints here and there about something that’s been missing for a very long time and has never been found, as far as I’m aware.’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘A rather unusual opal ring. I remember Don telling me about it. He wanted me to have it when we got engaged but I think his sisters or maybe his brother had other ideas. It belonged to their mother, and then it was lost just before she was going to give it to me.’
‘Wow. Was the ring valuable?’
‘Yes. But also hugely important to the family. It was supposed to bring luck to the wearer. Three perfect opals in an antique setting with little diamonds. I read somewhere that opals are meant to enhance memory and decrease confusion.’
‘Really? I don’t think a few stones could do that, do you?’
There’s a short silence. Emily can hear her grandmother breathing rather heavily. Is she crying? ‘Gran? Are you OK?’
Julia heaves a huge sigh. ‘Yes, dear, I’m fine. I so wish I’d got the ring now, though. I could certainly do with it. I’m sure I’d cope better if it was on my finger. It’d give me strength, I know it would. Opals are so pretty. They catch the light, and almost seem to glow.’
‘It sounds beautiful. So can I read the letters?’
‘Oh, I don’t think I dare risk any of them to the postal system. They’re too precious.’
‘No, you mustn’t. That’d be mad. Shall I come and see you? I’m way overdue a visit.’
‘Emily! That would be lovely! When can you come?’
The sheer excitement in her grandmother’s voice adds to the heap of guilt Emily’s been carrying around for the last few weeks. She knows she should have been back to Pengelly long before this, but there’s been Max to think about. And having Max on the brain has taken up way too much of her time lately.
‘I’ll talk to my boss. I’m owed quite a bit of annual leave but I’ve been too busy to take it this year. I can probably be with you by next weekend, hopefully on Sunday? Only a week to wait. Is that OK? I’ve got some meetings I can’t get out of in the next few days, but after that it should be fine.’
‘So long as I’m not putting you out.’
There’s a slight chill in Julia’s voice, and Emily feels her shoulders slump. She could have phrased it better, but work’s so full on at the moment and it’s not going to be easy to get away at short notice.
‘It’s no problem, honestly, Gran. I can’t wait to see you. Will you make a lemon drizzle cake?’
Another silence. Then Julia clears her throat. ‘How about chocolate fudge, for a change?’
‘Mmm, that sounds yummy. You know I love anything you bake. Right, well, I’ll get going and make the arrangements then. Love you.’
‘You too, darling. See you soon!’
Emily’s heart twists at the joy in her grandmother’s voice as they end the call. She gets up from the huge sofa where she’s been lying in her usual position: flat on her back with her legs up on one of its arms, her head on a heap of cushions at the other end. This is a rare day off for her, and she’s still in her dressing gown. It’s a black and gold silk kimono that Max bought her back from a trip to Japan. Emily had been so touched at the time until she’d found out accidentally through his secretary that he’d bought his wife exactly the same one in blue and green.
She reaches for her laptop and makes short work of booking a flight to Heathrow and then sorting out car hire. It’ll be best to present Colin, her boss, with a ready-made plan to stall any arguments. He owes her several favours, after all, with the extra hours she’s been putting in lately. Then she texts Max to tell him of her trip. He’s working on his latest crime novel at his family home in Cape Cod this week. Emily knows hopping on a plane or heading out in his top-of-the-range sports car at a moment’s notice won’t bother him. But will he want to see her enough to make the effort?
Max cares about her – she’s sure of that – but the trouble is he doesn’t care enough. They met at the glittering publishing party when his latest mind-blowing psychological thriller was launched. Emily wasn’t looking for a relationship, preferring to be a free agent and keep men at arm’s length as much as possible, but Max has seriously tempted her to change her mind, for a little while at least.
She remembers the impact of seeing Max for the first time. It really was the old cliché about eyes meeting across a crowded room. She spotted the man in the shabby cord jacket and jeans as soon as she came in after talking to the caterers, but he was deep in conversation with his agent, Ned, a bumptious character whom Emily usually tries to avoid. As she picked up a glass, he turned and looked straight at her. He murmured something to Ned and leaned in to hear the reply. Then he patted the other man on the back and strolled across to stand in front of Emily, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a flute of prosecco.
In her high-heeled silver sandals, Emily was exactly the same height as Max. His green eyes fixed on her blue ones, and she felt her stomach flip and her heart start to pound.
‘Ned tells me you’re the lady responsible for this affair,’ he said. ‘How come we haven’t met before?’ He sounded like a smoker, which was one of Emily’s pet hates, and his hair was receding – another black mark in her book. But his smouldering eyes more than made up for these deficiencies.
Emily was at that moment very glad she’d bothered to put on the new crimson dress that clung to her curves. It was a bit too short with these heels but it showed off her well-toned arms and shoulders. She had even been to a very swanky hairdresser’s that afternoon in honour of the occasion, and her hair was artfully tousled, her blond curls just how she liked them but didn’t manage to achieve very often. In the morning she’d look like a haystack, but for now … yes, she was feeling pretty good.
‘I’m fairly new to this branch,’ she said. ‘I came over from the London office three months ago.’
‘Their loss. I’m very pleased you did. What time can we leave?’
‘I’m sorry? Aren’t you enjoying the party? It’s taken me ages to organise.’
Emily heard the plaintive note in her voice and cursed herself for sounding needy, but Max just laughed. ‘It’s great, but there’s one problem.’
‘Is there? I thought I’d covered everything. The canapés will be coming round soon, and there’s proper champagne for the toast …’
‘Stop panicking, honey. The problem is that there are too many people. Two is the ideal number. You …’ he touched the tip of her nose, ‘… and me.’
Much later, as they lay in his hotel bed listening to the subdued roar of the night-time city, Emily was horrified at herself for falling for such a cheesy chat-up line, but her whole body was tingling and her lips were swollen from so much kissing. It wasn’t until the end of a week of passion that she discovered Max had a wife and three children in Massachusetts, and that he had absolutely no intention of leaving them.
That was the time to call it quits, but the dangerous thing about Max is that he knows how to have fun, and even boring activities become sparkling in his company. He turns everyday events into adventures. Now, in the tiny open-plan studio that goes with her job, Emily pushes thoughts of this addictive lover out of her head and sits down at her desk to email back to the man who’s poked her conscience with a sharp stick.
Dear Andy,
It’s very good of you to be so concerned about my grandmother.
Does that sound sarcastic? Oh well, if he wants to take it that way, he’s welcome to.
I think it’s best if I come over and see for myself how she is. Work has been crazy since the funeral or I’d have been before.
Emily bites her lip. She shouldn’t have to apologise to some hick gardener who’s sticking his nose into her business, should she? But then she remembers how happy Gran had been to hear from her, and carries on. The man means well. Probably.
I’ll be in Pengelly next Sunday (11 June) sometime, depending on traffic. I expect we’ll bump into each other, like we always have.
She deletes the last sentence. It’s only manners to ask to see him properly, not just hope to find him in the potting shed.
I’ll give you a call when I get there. Maybe we can meet up? Thanks again for your care.
Emily
There. That’s done. Emily presses Send before she can waste any more time altering the message. She glances at her phone. Still no reply from Max, but that’s no surprise. He’ll be in the garden room at the back of that dream of a house on the coast. When he first showed her photographs of his home, soon after she let slip she knew he was married, Emily thought he was joking. ‘THIS is yours? It’s enormous,’ she gasped, looking at the pool with its Swiss chalet-style changing room and the lawns sloping down towards the bay. ‘What on earth did you do before you were an author?’
Max looked a bit shamefaced at this. ‘Oh, I was a struggling writer for years before Ned took me on. We’ve always lived in Marcia’s family home.’
‘Right. Well, I can see why it’s worth staying with her then.’
He flinched at her tone. ‘Ouch. I guess I deserved that. I know it must look like I’m some sort of gold-digger to you, honey, but honestly, I stay because of the kids and because … well, Marcia’s kind of … unbalanced.’
‘Is she really? That must be awkward for you.’
‘Now don’t be catty, babe – it doesn’t suit you. I need to be there for my kids. I’m the only stable thing in their lives.’ Max’s eyes misted over and his voice trembled. Emily was fooled at the time. It took her a while to realise that not only was Max a fine writer, he was also an excellent actor.
Her phone pings with an incoming message. Hmm. Sooner than she thought.
Hey, babe, missing you too. No chance of me getting over before next weekend though. Marcia’s on the skids again, and I’m in charge here. Catch up when you’re back? Love you Honeybunch xxxxxxxxxx
Honeybunch? When has he ever called her that? He must be getting his nicknames mixed up. That one most likely belongs to Marcia. Emily hesitates, but not for long. It’s time to make a decision. She’ll miss Max in so many ways, but the thought of being alone again is suddenly tempting. The relief of not having to feel guilty about Marcia will almost make up for losing her capricious, charming lover. She taps out the words that will set her free.
Max, let’s leave it here, shall we? It’s been good, but it’s over. I should have done this weeks ago. I’m sure we’ll end up at the same parties from time to time when I get back from England, and I hope we can stay friends. Take care, Emily
She sends the text and then turns her phone off. It’s done, and she doesn’t feel nearly as depressed as she’d expected. A long, hot soak in the tub is what’s needed now, followed by an evening of crappy TV and several bowls of Ben & Jerry’s. And before she goes to bed, she’ll write herself a reminder to stay clear of men, especially the kind with super-sized egos, and wives back home. It’s the only way to stay sane.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_6b7762e8-3f49-50a8-b3fc-51f09a4d697f)
Ida Carnell’s lounge is the sort of room that Julia usually tries to avoid. For one thing it’s so stuffy in here, with all the windows firmly closed. Then there’s the overload of occasional tables, footstools and pouffes just waiting to be tripped over, and the heavy abundance of knick-knacks on every available surface is enough to bring on a migraine in someone who hates clutter.
It’s the first time Julia’s been to a social event of any kind since Don’s death, and she’s feeling strangely disorientated and vulnerable, as if her skin’s too thin. She’d tried to get out of it, but nobody manages to go against the flow for long when Ida has her heart set on something.
‘Here’s the last one of us. I’m so glad you could all come at such short notice, especially on a Tuesday night when some of you should really be at choir practice,’ says Ida, ushering in George Kennedy. ‘Cliff sends his apologies – he’s minding the restaurant. Have a seat, George, and I’ll get us all a drink. Coffee, tea or something stronger?’
The other members of the Adopt-a-Granny scheme glance at each other furtively. Julia can tell they all want to go for the more exciting option but nobody wants to look like a lush. She takes pity on them.
‘I’d love some white wine, Ida, if that’s not putting you out?’ she says.
There’s a collective sigh of relief, and everyone else puts in their orders quickly. Soon George and Tristram are each nursing a large gin and tonic, Dominic Featherstone, who lives in May’s old house, has lager, and Ida, Julia and Gladys Mountbatten from the garden centre are clutching huge glasses of chardonnay. Only Vera from the village shop is looking disapproving, virtuously sipping an orange juice. Ida’s a generous hostess – she’s provided top-quality Kettle Chips and little bowls of olives and nuts for her guests – and soon the atmosphere is nearly as warm as the room.
‘Right, I’ll get on with the business in hand,’ says Ida. ‘Tristram, would you mind taking the minutes?’
‘Ooh, very official,’ Vera says. ‘I thought this was just a friendly chat to see how the scheme was going, Ida?’
‘Yes, but I always like to have something in writing. It saves trouble if we forget what’s said. Agreed?’
The others all nod. Julia thinks it would take a brave person to disagree.
‘So, the first item on the agenda is to say a huge thank you to you all for letting me involve you in my project.’
‘An agenda as well? This is turning into a parish council meeting,’ sniffs Vera.
Tristram exchanges glances with Julia and grimaces; her heart gives an unexpected little flutter. He’s very handsome, in a twinkly, slightly rakish way. His beard looks newly trimmed and he’s wearing a tweed suit with a waistcoat over a collarless black shirt. He looks like a model for an upmarket country gentleman’s catalogue, but with attitude. Then she blushes, filled with shame that she’s caught herself looking admiringly at another man with her own dear chap hardly cold in his grave, as the gruesome saying goes.
‘An agenda is a fabulous idea, Ida,’ he says, smiling at their hostess reassuringly. She beams back, and Julia reflects that Tristram has been married four times and his charm is legendary. He’s also very kind, though, and she’s sure he can’t be flirting with Ida … can he? Anyway, his reply has the desired effect and the meeting bowls along quite comfortably after this.
‘And so you’ve all got your allocated grannies or grandpas,’ says Ida, after reminding them how the system will work. ‘I just want to tell you that you’re all superstars for agreeing to take part. There’s too much loneliness around us these days. When I was growing up, one granny and granddad lived two doors away and the others were only in Truro. Nowadays, families are spread all over the place. We’ll have another meeting in six weeks to see how it’s going. Are there any problems so far?’
There’s a brief silence. Then Vera clears her throat importantly. ‘There’s that pesky Peke,’ she says. ‘I hadn’t bargained for the hairs. And it yaps.’
‘Oh dear. I know Marigold’s very protective of her little dog,’ says Ida. ‘Perhaps I could have a tactful word and ask her to leave it at home when she visits you?’
Vera snorts. ‘Good luck with that one,’ she says. ‘I’ve been trying to keep it out of my shop for years. Oh, well, it’s quite decrepit now. Shouldn’t last much longer. Smelly old thing.’
There’s an appalled silence as the assembled group digests this acidic remark. Tristram in particular looks disgusted. He’s always been a dog lover, and his two are never far from his side. Having said that, he probably wouldn’t take them where he knows they’re not wanted, and it is a food shop. Ida rallies.
‘Anyway, other than that, are there any other issues we need to discuss?’
‘We’ve had our first visit from Tom King and Joyce Carpenter,’ says George, ‘and they both seemed to enjoy themselves. Actually Tom was giving Joyce the eye all through lunch.’
‘Well, that wouldn’t get him far, would it?’ says Vera. ‘The poor woman’s virtually blind.’
Julia picks up her glass and tries to stop her lips twitching. It isn’t in the least bit funny to lose your sight, after all. But then she catches Tristram’s wicked glance again and nearly chokes on her wine.
‘I’m more than happy to take Bob Farmer swimming every week,’ says Tristram, as Julia tries to recover her equilibrium. ‘He loved it this morning. He did more lengths than I did. Maybe he should adopt me instead? He’s only eighty-five, and I’ll be eighty soon.’
‘You both look super fit,’ says Gladys, ‘and it’s not about that, it’s giving him a chance to do what he’s always liked doing. He can’t drive now, and the bus is only every two hours. It doesn’t go as far as the leisure centre either.’
‘How about you, Gladys? Is it going well with Lucy?’
‘I had a great time with her. Lucy’s a poppet,’ says Gladys. ‘I fetched her over to the garden centre this morning and she helped me pot out some seedlings. She loved it. She’s had to move into a flat and she hasn’t got a garden now. She’s always welcome at Chestnuts. I’m glad of an extra pair of hands.’
‘And Julia? How are you getting on?’
Julia’s back in control now. She takes another tentative sip of her wine while she thinks how to answer. Tristram watches her. How much does he remember about what happened years ago between Julia and Charles? Even May doesn’t know the full story, as far as Julia’s aware. Maybe it has been wrong of her to let herself continue to resent May so much over the years when it was May’s husband who’d caused most of the problems, but surely the woman had known what he was like and the damage he was doing? Couldn’t she have stopped him? And then there was the incident with the spoons … She feels the pounding of her heart as tension, never far from the surface since Don’s death, threatens to swamp her.
Julia takes a few deep, calming breaths. ‘We had a good chat,’ she says, when the silence begins to feel awkward, ‘and we’ll meet up again very soon, if Andy can bring her over to me.’
‘I’ve got to say this is a fabulous idea of yours, Ida,’ says Dominic. He’s been quiet up to now. Julia hasn’t had a chance to get to know him yet. He and his wife, Cassie, haven’t lived in May’s old house for long.
‘Thank you, Dominic. I almost didn’t ask you and Cassie to join us in the project,’ says Ida, ‘because you’ve hardly had time to get your breath back since you arrived. But then I bumped into her in the shop when I was explaining the scheme to Vera and she said she’d love to be involved.’
‘Cass wanted to be here tonight instead of me, but both of our youngest twins have got colds and they like their mum around when they’re grizzly. We’ve talked to our allocated granny on the phone and we’re fetching her round tomorrow. Luckily she likes kids. Our oldest pair of lads is … loud, is the best word to describe the little monsters, I think.’
‘Who have you been paired up with, Dominic?’ Julia asks, racking her brain to think of someone in the village who fits the bill. Female, old enough to be classed as a granny, likes children … No, she can’t imagine who it could be.
‘Her name’s Angelina.’
This time it’s Tristram who spits his drink out, and there’s a general outcry as Dominic speaks.
‘Oh, no, you’re joking, aren’t you? Ida, really? Why would you do that to Dominic and his poor unsuspecting wife?’ says George, wide-eyed.
Ida has the grace to look slightly shamefaced. ‘Angelina’s lovely,’ she protests. ‘She’s just eccentric, that’s all. And she’s very lonely.’
