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They were sitting on the threadbare Aubusson rug – another of Granny’s hand-me-downs – backs against the sofa, watching a rerun of The Mr Tibbs Mysteries on a satellite channel.
Henry reappeared with the last tin of beer and settled himself back down. ‘I rather fancy old Nancy,’ he said.
‘She’s very glam,’ agreed Ella. ‘But then Mr Tibbs is very handsome too.’
‘I read somewhere that in real life he’s a bit of a goer,’ Henry said.
‘Really? He looks like the perfect gentleman.’ They watched as Mr Tibbs climbed in through an open window at the suspect’s house. He was closely followed by his secretary and sleuthing sidekick, Nancy Trumpet, who revealed a lacy stocking top as she slid over the casement.
‘Phwoar!’ murmured Henry.
Ella tutted.
‘What?’ her brother said.
‘You know what.’
‘What do you expect me to do when I see a lacy stocking top and a glimpse of suspender? My generation are sold short on all that stuff. You girls and your tights and big pants and boring bras! I was born too late.’
Ella laughed. ‘So Jools has blown you out, has she?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last see her then?’
‘The other day.’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She blew me out.’
‘Ha. Why?’
‘She said she liked me and all that, but …’ Henry pitched his voice higher and posher, ‘she couldn’t see a future for us and anyway, she wanted to be free to see other people.’
‘Like who?’
‘Justin.’
‘Justin no socks and loafers?’
‘Yeah.’
Ella was offended on her brother’s behalf.
‘Well, she’s welcome to that total prick.’
‘He is a prick, isn’t he?’
‘Total.’
They sat quietly thinking about Justin and Jools and watching the television screen as Mr Tibbs slipped his penknife into the lock of the desk drawer and revealed the stolen diary he’d been searching for. The camera cut to Nancy, a lock of hair falling alluringly over one eye and a button or two of her silk blouse undone more than was strictly necessary. Henry was rapt.
‘Stop looking at her cleavage.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘If you must know, I was looking at the gorgeous scenery.’ The screen was now on a wide shot of a Cornish beach, the wind whipping white horses off the crests of the waves. Henry sighed. ‘I miss Cornwall.’
Ella sighed too. ‘Yep. We haven’t been back for a long time, have we?’ She poked him with her foot. ‘If you ever get a girlfriend you can take her down. Give her the romantic tour of Trevay – Granny’s old house, our old school – and she’d be putty in your hands.’
That night, lying in her bed and listening to the rain still hurling itself at No 47, Ella thought about what her brother had said after they’d finished watching TV. She did need a job. She’d had plenty of them since getting her art degree from Swindon where she had trained to be an illustrator specializing in children’s books, but none of them had been as an illustrator. She’d been a chalet maid in Val d’Isere, a nanny in Ibiza, Holland and Scotland and a barmaid in countless pubs and bars in South London. Henry had taken pity on her and offered her a room in No 47, a house he’d bought from his best friend when he’d left to get married. Henry was working his way up in a firm of commercial surveyors but he was making it very clear that he couldn’t afford to have his sister as a non-rent paying guest for ever, even if she had brought her share of Granny’s furniture with her.
She thumped her pillows into a more comfortable shape and sent a little prayer to her grandmother. ‘Granny, would you find me a nice job? Either someone who’d like me to illustrate a book or a publisher who wants to print Hedgerow Adventures? Please Granny. Night-night.’
In the morning Ella felt refreshed and hopeful. The sun was shining and every rain cloud had vanished, leaving the sky periwinkle blue. She sang along to the radio as she washed up last night’s curry plates and put some bacon under the grill. Henry appeared. ‘Bacon? Ella, you’re a darling.’
‘It’s the last few rashers but enough for sandwiches.’
‘What sort of day have you got planned?’ he asked as she plonked a bottle of ketchup in front of him.
She had good news. ‘I’m going to look for a job.’ He raised his eyebrows at her as he bit into his sandwich. She raised hers back. ‘A proper job. And I’m going to send out Hedgerow Adventures to another literary agent.’
He couldn’t hide his frustration. ‘Not another one?’
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s a good story and the pictures are some of my best. Every child I’ve ever nannied for has loved it.’
He shrugged. ‘Ever thought they may have been being polite?’
‘Charming! Thank you, you really know how to boost confidence, don’t you? Ever thought of life coaching? Writing a best-selling personal help book, such as Achieve The Ultimate You by Henry Huntley, Fuckwit with Hons?’
‘Ella, I’m trying to be helpful. Hedgerow Adventures is very charming, but it’s not going to turn you into J.K. Rowling overnight, is it?’
She couldn’t disagree.
‘So …’ He stood up and put his plate in the sink before doing up the top button of his shirt and straightening his tie. ‘By all means send it to a new agent – but promise me you’ll check out the job agencies too?’
It was lunchtime and her feet were tired. Not having enough money to top up her Oyster card she’d walked for miles, checking every job agency before setting off on the long hike up to Bedford Square and the offices of the latest hotshot literary agent she’d read about in The Bookseller.
The brass plaque outside was freshly polished. She walked up the short flight of steps and pushed the doorbell on the intercom. A buzzer sounded and the blackly glossy front door opened to reveal a silent marble hall with a grand staircase curling up to the right. On her left was an open doorway and a smart young man behind the desk spoke without looking up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Thank you, yes. I was wondering if I could have a meeting with someone about my book.’
His eyes scanned her from head to toe and back again. Expressionless, he asked, ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but perhaps I could—’
‘I’m sorry, but we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts.’
‘I see. It’s a very short story, it would only take a few min—’
‘You must have an appointment first.’
‘May I make one?’
‘Has anyone asked to see your manuscript?’
‘Well no, but—’
‘Then I can’t make an appointment.’
‘But how do I make an appointment if no one’s read my book? And how do I get someone to read my book if I can’t get an appointment?’
He smiled wanly. ‘It’s a very difficult business.’
The phone on his desk rang and he took the call, making it clear that he’d terminated his dealings with her.
Ella was angry and felt humiliated to boot. She pulled herself up tall and walked back into the hall to let herself out.
Running down the staircase was a young woman with her hair scraped messily back from her face and a smudge of red ink on her cheek. She was heading for the front door as Ella was struggling with the handle.
‘Here, let me help you,’ said the woman.
The door opened with ease under her practised touch. She smiled at Ella. ‘Are you Gilda’s temp?’
Ella wished she were. ‘No, but …’
The woman spotted Ella’s manuscript.
‘Oh, an author?’
‘Well, not exactly, I—’
The woman smiled knowingly. ‘Supercilious Louis wouldn’t let you hand it in? Give it to me and I’ll read it. You’ve got your contact details on it, I assume?’
‘Yes, on the front page.’
‘Great. Sorry, I must rush. Meeting someone for a coffee. I’ll be in touch. You never know, this just might be our lucky day. Bye!’
Ella watched as the woman walked quickly across the square.
‘Granny,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’
5 (#ulink_38026da2-7d00-54b9-81a2-97249c74c5c4)
In the vicarage in Pendruggan the sun was still hiding behind the cliffs – and Penny wished she could hide under her covers. She felt lightheaded. She hadn’t slept well because Jenna had had her up three times in the night. Teething was horrible for both of them. Night feeds were usually rather special. Jenna and she would sit in the silence, staring into each other’s eyes, sharing comfort and love. But last night had been awful. Jenna had wanted to bite down on Penny’s nipples to relieve the pain in her gums but she did it once too often and Penny tapped her leg in anger. In the split second before she opened her lungs and screamed, Penny saw her look of shock and disbelief.
‘Jenna, darling! I’m so sorry. Shh, Daddy’s sleeping. Shh. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Penny was beside herself. How could she have hurt Jenna like that? She wrapped her up in a cot blanket and held her close as she carried her downstairs. She went to her study, the room furthest from their bedroom, so that Simon wouldn’t be disturbed.
‘Darling, shh, shh. I love you. I’m so so sorry.’ She rocked Jenna back and forwards until she calmed a little and reached out to touch Penny’s face. Penny kissed the tiny palm and smiled. ‘Forgiven?’
She fumbled for her handbag, which was on the floor next to her desk, and found the travelling sachets of Calpol. ‘Here, darling, open wide.’ Then she found the teething ring she’d bought the day before and offered that to Jenna too. At last peace reigned again.
Penny got herself and Jenna comfy in her desk chair and she idly turned on her computer to see if there were any messages from Mavis. There were about fifty messages. She scrolled through them. The first dozen were spam or unimportant. Then she saw Jack Bradbury’s name. Three emails, one after the other, all of them with the same subject. URGENT: MRTIBBS
She felt her pulse quickening and her breathing become shallow. Her fingers were shaking. She couldn’t make herself open the emails. She scrolled down to see if Mavis had replied. Nothing. A black dread settled over her. She heard the roar of her own blood in her ears. Shit shit shit. What was she going to do? Where was the old Penny who would have known what to do and would have done it? Overwhelming grief at the loss of herself bore down on her shoulders and she wept silently, her tears falling on the sleeping Jenna. She deleted Jack’s emails and shut her computer down again.
And now it was just after midday and she was exhausted, but this feeling was not simply tiredness. Since she’d heard about the death of her mother an extra layer of darkness, an invisible membrane, was separating her from the world. She had often felt like this as a child, particularly after her father had died. A feeling that she didn’t really exist, that life rushed around her and she simply glided through it like a ghost. Occasionally she’d reach out a hand to touch a wall or her leg, just to make sure she was real, but it still didn’t feel right.
As a child, she had tried explaining it to her mother. ‘You’re liverish,’ Margot had sniffed.
‘What does that mean?’
‘That there’s nothing wrong with you.’
It was one of the many things she looked up in later life. Her computer dictionary gave the meaning as ‘slightly ill as in having a liver disorder’ or ‘unhappy and bad-tempered’.
Well, she’d certainly been unhappy.
And now her mother was dead and the feeling had come back. She wandered through the downstairs rooms and hovered at the closed door to her office. She told herself that she should go in and get on with some work. Work had always been her salvation; a raft to cling to when storms raged.
‘Keep going, Penny, keep going,’ her father had told her when she started to learn to use her Hula Hoop. She had kept going every day of the summer holidays until she became really very good at it. It was the same mantra she had applied to her work and to every contraction that had squeezed Jenna into the world.
Keep going, Penny, keep going.
Now, standing outside her office door she said it to herself again. ‘Keep going, Penny. Just open the door. Keep going.’
‘Hellooo.’ A stranger’s voice came from the back door and startled her.
She jumped in fright.
Her heart was in her mouth. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’
Thank God Simon had taken Jenna out for the day. If she was to be murdered by a stranger at least they were safe.
The voice called out again. ‘Hello? It’s your new neighbour. Kit?’
The bloody man with the uncontrollable dogs! She’d tell him where to go.
Penny stomped to the kitchen where she found Kit standing apologetically at the open back door with a large bunch of flowers. He smiled, not unattractively she was annoyed to notice, and proffered them to her. ‘Good morning. These are from Terry and Celia and me.’
Penny’s pursed lips were not the reaction he had expected but he continued valiantly, ‘As way of an apology for the way they behaved yesterday.’
