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For a second Layla’s heart wobbled and she wondered why she’d agreed to go travelling with Joe. She loved him here at home; but could she rely on him when it was just the two of them on the other side of the world?
Warmth seeped into her hands. She sat down, unwrapped the hot, golden chips and waited for them to cool enough to eat. Cross-legged she balanced her food in her lap and opened the ketchup, trying not to get sand on her fingers and replaying the conversation from the chippy in her head.
She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath of sea air in an effort to shake off her apprehension. She’d spent all afternoon finalizing her packing, obsessively putting things in her rucksack, taking them out again, and then putting them back in. Mentally she went through her checklist, knowing she’d double and triple ticked off everything on the to-do list.
‘Layla!’
Just as she dipped the first chip in ketchup and popped it into her mouth a deep voice she recognized startled her.
She turned her head in the direction of her name. ‘Dad!’
‘Hello, stranger.’
She’d been avoiding him. Things had been difficult before her parents had divorced, but since the split had been finalized a new awkwardness had settled in. ‘I had a feeling I’d find you here. I just wanted to wish you and Joe well.’ He looked up and down the beach, and cleared his throat, failing to disguise his surprise at finding her alone. ‘Say bon voyage and safe travels and all that for me. First stop Paris, eh?’
He’d touched a nerve. She’d been expecting Paris to be the first stop on the itinerary. It had been part of the original plan except Joe had contrived to veto it in favor of places he’d rather see.
‘We’re skipping Europe, flying to Australia first. I thought I told you.’
He shook his head. ‘Shame.’
‘I know. I’d have liked to visit art galleries and stroll along the Seine.’ She felt a bit peculiar. When Joe’s plan to travel had been suggested she’d made no secret of the fact that she’d love a romantic proposal in Paris and a bohemian beach wedding just for two on an island. With palm trees. Joe had other ideas.
‘Amazing sky.’ Her dad sat down beside her, stole a chip and dunked it in ketchup. ‘A sky so stunning has to be a good omen.’
‘What was it Granny Rivers used to say?’ She offered him the chips.
‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’
She shivered. ‘That’s it. Night. Delight. Morning. Warning.’
He nodded. ‘I love Porthkara. Haven’t ever wanted to leave.’ Falling into a pattern of sharing the chips they looked at the sea, not each other. ‘I regret not fulfilling your grandmother’s ambitions – for her, not for me. The things she wanted weren’t the same things I wanted.’ Layla didn’t really know what to say. Her dad filled the silence. ‘Things are better between me and your mum since the divorce. It can’t be easy for you – what with all of us living in the village and me getting together with Jasmine. At the end of the day I want you to know that I’m happy with my lot in life, and, well, I hope you – and your mum – will be too.’
It was hard to forgive him for the years of hurt that her mother had tolerated, for the damage it had done.
‘I’m fine. Mum’s fine.’ The night before she set off for the airport was a funny time for a father-daughter heart to heart. They hadn’t spoken about his relationship with the owner of the Porthkara gift shop before. Rumour had it they’d fallen in love during the shop’s refit. Ralph Rivers was a whizz with all things building related.
‘I know Joe has itchy feet, and you two have to see a bit of the world. It’s natural. But I’d hate you to think I’m pushing you away.’
Did everything always have to be about him? ‘Dad, I don’t think that.’
‘Your mum and I would be gutted if you stayed away for good.’
‘I know that.’
‘I don’t know how we’ll manage without you.’
Her chest tightened. Sometimes her love for Porthkara felt like a stranglehold. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a couple heading for the Lobster Pot Restaurant with its whitewashed walls and blue-painted window frames. She swallowed a chip, biting back her feelings. She and Joe had worked their last shift there at lunch time. All things considered, pitching in and waitressing at the beachside restaurant, away from her parents and their troubles, and loved by Joe’s family, had always been a welcome escape from playing a perpetual game of piggy-in-the-middle.
Her dream to set up a small business painting murals – the thing she liked most and did least – had been on hold while she saved for the trip. When Joe had come up with his travel plan her ambitions had been pushed aside. She’d have to save up again and resurrect them at some point.
‘The season’s winding down. We’ll be back by the time things get busy again in the spring.’
‘You’ll be missed.’
‘I’ll miss … home too.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘you’. After all, they managed to live in the same village and barely ever run into each other. He was respected in the community. He’d do anything to help anybody, fix things that needed mending. He was a great surfer, played guitar in a folk band on Saturday nights at the pub. She’d never spoken her mind, and it seemed like a terrible time to try to explain how she felt but she had a sense that it was now or never. The sadness, disappointment and resentment she’d been keeping in for much too long fulminated. ‘You’re a great dad, but you weren’t a good husband, and the thing you don’t get is that that was the part that hurt me the most.’ Her words spilled out in a jumble and her dad looked confused and sad. She felt bad, immediately wishing she hadn’t said anything.
‘I didn’t realize.’
She looked at her feet and dug her toes into the sand. With all the courage she could muster she said, ‘It’s difficult when one of you is moving forward and the other is staying still.’
‘Don’t I know it?’
The last blink of sun disappeared into the darkening horizon. Perhaps he didn’t understand, or chose not to, but one way or another he had failed to acknowledge the impact that all his years of unfaithfulness to her mother had had on her. He had a frustrating ability to sympathize with friends, neighbours, strangers, all the while blind to her take on things so much closer to home.
They polished off the chips in complicated silence and stood up together to go. Instead of challenging his self-pitying response to her comment she back-pedalled. ‘Look, it’s okay. Forget I said anything.’
‘Give you a lift home?’
‘No thanks. I’ll walk, take the cliff path.’ She smiled tightly and hugged her arms across her chest. ‘Brr. It’s chilly now the sun’s gone.’ He moved a fraction towards her, his internal choreography programmed to hug his daughter, but she flinched, stepped back from him and bent to pick up her flip-flops. ‘Bye Dad. See you in March.’
‘You take care, love. And send me postcards.’
A nervous laugh escaped. ‘Check my social media, you’ll catch up with me there.’
Half an hour later, back home at the cottage she shared with Joe, Layla took the cup of tea she’d made into the sitting room and sat with her legs curled up on the sofa, still uneasy after the tense moment at the beach. Strings of words rattled in her head. Her dad didn’t want to drive her away? Weirdly that’s exactly what he’d done. She craved space, freedom, time out. Hopefully some distance would give her a fresh perspective, soften her attitude.
It hadn’t occurred to her that something might happen while they were away, or that they might stay away longer, or not come back at all. She pushed the thought away, turned up the volume on the music in her earbuds, feeling sorry she hadn’t hugged her dad and sad that no matter how many miles away she went the real distance was right here in the gulf between them.
As she put her mug to her lips the door opened and Joe lolloped in the worse for wear.
‘Crikey! How many pints have you had?’
‘Three or four. Or five or six. I lost count. And shots. They all bought me vodka shots.’
‘You didn’t have to drink them.’
‘Rude not to,’ he slurred, staggering into the kitchen.
Only Joe could come back this drunk on such an important night. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears to the sound of him throwing up into the washing up bowl. She was too disappointed to be angry. He’d have a hangover and be as cranky as hell for the next day and a half. He lay down in a sorry heap on the sofa. Resigning herself to the task in hand, and making a mental note to bin it in the morning, she went into the kitchen, rinsed the gross plastic bowl, took it into the living room and put it down next to the sofa in case it was needed again.
A firm knock at the front door made her jump. ‘What now?’ She opened up and found herself face to face with one of the village police officers. ‘Hi Mervin. What brings you here?’ New to Cornwall, her mum had invited him to join her Tuesday night pub quiz team, and he was a bit of a genius, it turned out. ‘If you’ve come to remind me to lock the windows while I’m gone, you needn’t worry, it’s all taken care of.’
‘I’m sorry Layla. There’s no easy way to say this I’m afraid.’
His solemn tone went right through her. Outside she glimpsed a police car with another uniformed officer in the driving seat and knew in an instant that this wasn’t a friendly drop-by. Processing the grim look on his face a feeling of dread clenched her stomach and her stab at cheerfulness fell away. In absolutely no doubt that something wasn’t right, she froze. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I need you to come to the hospital straight away. It’s your mum. She’s been in a car accident.’ He threw a glance at Joe collapsed on the sofa and let go a long desperate breath. ‘I’ll be upfront with you. It’s serious. You’ll have to cancel the trip. They’ve got her on life support.’
It was lunchtime the next day when she got home. Her mother was in intensive care, clinging on to life, but stable. Layla checked every room in the house, and called the restaurant. Joe had gone. Without her. She checked her mobile phone. In defiance of the patchy signal there was a text from him. Bleary-eyed, head numb, she read it.
Hi. At airport. Going ahead. No point us both missing out. Think we should be on a break until you can join. Unofficial. No point telling everyone. See you later x
Layla texted back without a second’s hesitation.
Won’t be joining. You and me are finished. Over! Done! Finito! OFFICIAL!
Chapter One (#u91d75418-88a5-5e4c-aee4-00b120aed93c)
London, the following June
From: francescamatthews@einternet.co.uk
To: NickWells@hotmedia.com (mailto:NickWells@hotmedia.com)
Subject: Urgent
Dear Nick
Hiya. I don’t know quite how to word this so I’ll get to the point. We have a daughter. She’s called Elisabeth. Beth for short actually. She’s eleven. Please contact me. It’s really very urgent.
Love Fran x
PS Photo attached!
No matter how many times actor Nick Wells read and reread the email he couldn’t get it to sink in. It made no sense. He was a dad? Had been for all these years? Without knowing? Detached, confused, deceived – these words barely summed up his shock.
He sat on a white leather sofa as big as a family car, in the lobby of the exclusive London apartment block where his brother Alex and his family were temporarily living in a smart penthouse until they could find a forever home of their own to move into. He’d been looking forward to meeting his new niece and nephew but since he’d seen Fran’s email in the taxi on the way over from St Pancras Station, a state of emotional paralysis had taken him over. Suddenly all he wanted was to get this done and he’d be out of here. The enthusiasm of boarding the Eurostar in Paris for a flying visit during a break in his shoot had evaporated.
He’d have to speak to his girlfriend Toni. They’d hardly spent any time together the past two or three months. The chances of changing that, turning something wild into something solid, a real relationship, seemed increasingly unlikely now.
He scanned the lobby, the wall of glass at the entrance, the shiny marble walls and floor, the light-filled space – it was all very different from the ramshackle old house he and Alex had shared with a bunch of friends in North London when he’d gone straight from school into his first acting role. During that brief time he and his twin had come close to leading normal lives. The memory tied a knot in his gut because that’s when he’d met Fran, working on the television show that had turned out to be his big break.
Agitated, he shoved his phone in a pocket, got up and walked over to the reception desk. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the shiny walnut veneer. He’d brought a gift basket for the babies which was balanced on one arm. He set it down and stepped away as if it was something rather embarrassing, waiting for the militarily-efficient concierge to get the go-ahead from Alex to buzz him through to the elevator.
‘Sorry for keeping you waiting.’ The concierge eyed Nick curiously.
‘What’s taking so long?’ He felt transparent as if the whole world had read Fran’s email.
‘They’re with magazine people. Taking photos of the new arrivals. You can go up as soon as I get the okay from the other Mr Wells.’
‘So they’re doing a family photo shoot are they? They kept that quiet.’ The reception desk phone rang and the concierge picked up. ‘The okay?’ Nick signaled a hopeful thumbs up.
‘Yes.’
‘Finally!’
He stepped into the glass elevator wishing he’d asked to use the stairs instead. His stomach churned as the ground below got further and further away. He set the beribboned gift basket on the floor, gripped the handrail with both hands and closed his eyes.
Reeling vertigo gave way to relief as he stood outside the polished oak door. When the door opened Alex locked him in a hug. ‘Hey! Great timing! We just finished.’
Close behind, Nick’s sister-in-law Maggie appeared holding Phoebe. ‘Hi.’ With her stylishly casual, blonde hair gathered up in a tufty knot, she swayed the baby and proffered one cheek. ‘Welcome Uncle Nick!’ He bent and gingerly air-kissed Maggie, anxious not to lean too close, scared he might crush her she was so delicate and tiny. He was awed by the baby.
He followed them into the vast living room and his stomach climbed into his throat. Through floor to ceiling glass, London lay spread out before him. He tried not to look. He couldn’t live here. If he stayed well back from the windows he’d be okay-ish. He grabbed onto the nearest surface, a granite counter top in the open plan kitchen. He sucked in a deep breath and let it go slowly.
Fighting his anxiety, he flattened the palm of his hand on the cold granite surface. Avoiding looking at the windows, the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, the river, he zeroed in on a photo stuck to the fridge with a red magnet the shape of a London bus. It was keeping in place a picture of Alex and Maggie’s wedding. He picked out the figures in the wedding party. The bride and groom looking so happy. And his mother and father. They were shoulder to shoulder, smiling, in the same photo. That was previously unheard of. It was difficult to believe the picture wasn’t photo-shopped. Next to them was Maggie’s mother, the best man, AKA himself, and the bubbly bridesmaid, the girl with the sexy curves, the vivid red hair and the green dress. She jumped right out of the photo. He’d forgotten her name but he remembered her worrying about whether or not it was bad luck to wear green at a wedding. She’d talked about nothing else in the car on the way to the church.
‘Come and meet our son,’ Alex prompted.
Nick forced a tight smile and let go of the kitchen counter, steeling himself to venture closer to the terrifying views.
Over by the windows little Horatio was being fussed over, cradled in the arms of the photographer while her assistant pointed out the London sights to the infant. Alex joined them and took his baby boy in his arms.
Having a lightbulb moment, the photographer waved a small camera. ‘Guys, I have a brilliant idea. How would you feel about a few behind the scenes shots? Casual? The photos behind the photos?’
‘Cool,’ Maggie beamed. ‘What do you say?’ She walked over to stand next to him. ‘The babies meet Uncle Nick?’
She went to hand over Phoebe. He recoiled. ‘Leave me out of it.’
‘But you’ve come specially to see them.’
‘To see them, yes. I don’t want to hold them.’ Maggie’s face clouded. She looked stricken. He felt terrible. All of a sudden he’d developed a new phobia. ‘I don’t know how.’ He made an effort to lighten up, disguise his reaction of horror. ‘I haven’t done it before.’
‘There’s nothing to it.’ Carrying Horatio, Alex joined them. ‘It’s amazing how quickly you get used to them.’
‘Try.’ Maggie held Phoebe out to him. His head pounded. He held out a finger to the baby. She took it in her little fist.
‘Strong grip.’
‘Take her,’ she encouraged.
The tiny fingers uncurled and he reclaimed his finger. ‘I can’t,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to. She’ll ruin my suit.’
Maggie laughed. ‘Nonsense. Take off your jacket and come over here.’ He shuddered as she pushed him towards a sofa. Anchored amongst the cushions he absorbed the knee-knocking view. His reaction to heights, he’d expected. A fear of babies, he hadn’t.
The photographer buzzed around, picking up a couple more cushions, and arranging them either side of him. Instead of objecting, he slicked on a professional smile.
‘Crook your arms,’ she instructed. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’
His heart lurched as he was forced to cradle not one, but two babies. In an instant the moment had been captured on camera.
Alex sat down next to him. ‘Not freaking you out too much?’
‘The babies? Yes, a lot actually.’
His brother laughed. ‘I meant the apartment.’
‘That’s freaky too. But not half as scary as these.’ He wished he was joking. Alex took Horatio from him. Phoebe squirmed, reached for her foot, grasped a sock and pulled it off, revealing five diminutive toes. He stared, taking in her tiny nails, her soft baby scent. When Maggie took her from him, he faked charmed reluctance, careful not to hand her back too eagerly, aware he’d offended her before. ‘How’s the house-hunting going?’
