Half A Rainbow E-Book

Lorna Read

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

On the run after a disastrous affair, artist Leah Mason plans to reinvent herself in a small Cornish village where nothing ever happens.

But life is in St. Jofra is far from quiet, and soon Leah befriends her next-door neighbour Nat, and crosses paths with the handsome doctor Joshua Gray.

When an old friend tracks her down with vengeance in mind, Leah is forced to confront all the things she had hoped to forget. But can she find love?

Leseprobe

HALF A RAINBOW

LORNA READ

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Lorna Read

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Claire Moorhead

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Dedicated to the memory of Louise Cooper, a wonderful friend, musician and author who loved Cornwall.

PROLOGUE

Just a mobile number. Probably a disposable burner phone. No instructions. She was trembling with nerves and excitement. This was her one chance to make a large amount of cash very quickly and she couldn’t afford to slip up.

That evening, with nothing but coffee in her system, as alcohol might dull her senses and she didn’t want to be outwitted by a man who, from his public profile, she knew to be intelligent and on the ball, she wrote out and practised her script. Then she dialled.

She’d expected it to go straight to voicemail, but he must have been waiting for her call.

“Clyde!” he barked.

She inhaled sharply. “Paula.” She spoke her false name quickly, hoping he wouldn’t hear the nervous quaver in her voice.

“Just how much are we talking about?”

She grinned to herself. She was enjoying this, her first ever attempt at blackmail; even more so because he had just tripped up and incriminated himself. She had already decided on a sum, not preposterously large but not so small that he would take her for an idiot, an amateur. She knew he could easily afford it as his father was a millionaire.

“A hundred thousand will do nicely.”

CHAPTERONE

On a turbulent Tuesday in late March, with horizontal rain and a wind that battered the fluff off the pampas grass in the front garden, Leah Mason moved into Shangri-la. She was fulfilling a promise she had made to herself: that once it was all over, done and dusted, dotted lines signed on and conditions met, she would leave London and find herself a home by the sea and begin a new and very quiet life.

Bloody Stephen! She shook her head to clear it of memories, both the good and the heartbreaking, and felt her thick chestnut plait thump between her shoulder blades. It wasn’t all his fault, she reminded herself. It had been her own stupid choice to get involved with a married man, after all. She could have said no…

Shangri-la was nothing to look at, just a small grey Sixties bungalow in Trenown Close, a street of identical houses, which had that slightly wistful air of a house that hasn’t been lived in for months, a fact that was emphasised by the heap of yellowing junk mail kicked aside by the agent as he’d unlocked the front door.

The rent was reasonable as the elderly owner had gone to live with his son in Scotland, leaving the house shabby and unfurnished. They were willing to rent it cheaply to someone who would do it up for them, with a view to their letting it to holidaymakers once the year’s lease had ended. Leah had said yes immediately. After spending the last two months in a B&B whilst looking for somewhere to live, she needed something to do; something to get her teeth into that would help her forget about the last few months. If she ever could.

The wooden name-plate, which bore the name Shangri-la in faded white lettering, was hanging askew, its split wood suspended by one nail. While the dripping wet removal men were trooping past her, hefting furniture up the cracked concrete path, Leah tugged at the plaque, trying to remove it.

“You there! Don’t do that!” Leah looked round and found herself shrivelling in the full-on glare of a small elderly woman with immaculately styled, pale-golden hair who was standing, arms folded, in the front garden of the house next door. “Do you know what Shangri-la means?”

“Sorry, no, I don’t.”

The woman tutted. “It means a remote and beautiful paradise. Mr and Mrs Edwards chose that name when they moved in. They were my neighbours for many years. Very good people, too.”

Leah bristled. Is she implying I’m not a good person? She doesn’t even know me! “I’m sorry. It’s just that it was about to fall off. I’ll replace it. In fact, Mr Edwards is my landlord and I shall be doing the house up for him. I’m Leah Mason, by the way. I’m going to be your neighbour for the next twelve months.”

She walked towards the low wall that divided their front lawns, her right hand outstretched, but the woman retreated into her house and pulled the door shut, leaving Leah standing there feeling foolish and a bit guilty. She hadn’t wanted to upset anybody, especially someone who lived right next door. She could feel tears pricking her eyes and blinked them away. She had cried far too much over the last few months.

“Hey, Miss, where do you want this bookcase?”

By the time she had directed the removal man, located the kettle and mugs, grubbed around in the backpack containing groceries she had bought in the village and provided the men with tea and biscuits, her dark mood had changed to one of brisk purposefulness as she searched for the box she had packed her sheets and duvet in.

But once the movers had gone… once the gloom of the wet afternoon had faded into the thickest, darkest night she had ever known… once the bad memories that had followed her from London to Cornwall had come swirling into her mind like evil vapours, like plaguing demons, she found herself wondering if she had, by one careless act, got off to a very bad start.

Leah had looked forward to being alone – even to being lonely. It was what she needed; time to herself, to come to terms with things, to think, to heal. She didn’t care if nobody spoke to her. She was back in St Jofra, the Cornish village she loved; the place where she had spent so many happy childhood holidays with her parents and sister. She felt happy and safe here. In previous years, she had explored every little footpath and all the narrow, stony lanes that led between shops to the houses up the hill near the Lookout, the highest point in the village, from which there was a wonderful sea view in all directions.

She loved the higgledy-piggledy quality of an ancient village that had grown organically; the way one dwelling butted up against another at an odd angle in a strangely haphazard way, more like a herd of animals than buildings. She loved the little river that tumbled over rocks all the way to the sea; the cottages, the window-ledges bright with geraniums; cats sitting on doorsteps like guardian spirits; steep streets that swooped down to the lower part of the village, where the surfers’ bar, Surf’s Up and the shops selling wetsuits and boogie boards and baggy, tie-dyed, hippy-ish clothes were located and the road wound down to Jofra Beach. She felt at home here. It was such a relief to get out of London where so many bad things had happened.

However, she soon realised that, much as she wanted to keep herself to herself, an incomer was an object of curiosity to the villagers and one by one, a string of people presented themselves at the door of No. 36 Trenown Close, ostensibly to introduce themselves but mostly trying to drum up custom for whatever service they hoped to sell.

One of the first had been the local vicar bearing a list of services and saying that he hoped to see Leah amongst his congregation soon. Then there had been the small, bouncy blonde with the tinsel-like curls who organised dance and exercise classes and yoga in the village hall. Leah had taken her leaflet with a bit more enthusiasm than she had the vicar’s. Next day, it was the turn of two sweet, smiling elderly ladies who ran a quilting group and asked her to consider joining.

The man who owned Sea Deep, the fish shop in the high street, had also called round. Handsome in a sleazy way, with silver grey hair so thick and wavy that it looked as if he had a poodle curled up on his head, he had handed Leah yet another leaflet, this one listing Special Offers. “I’m John. We do home deliveries. Anything you fancy?” he’d said. And he had winked – actually winked, in a leery, Benny Hill way that made her feel queasy.

And so it had gone on.

“Nose disease!” her sister Emma said when Leah rang up to complain.

Leah giggled. It was a term they had invented as children, so they could say someone was nosy without that person knowing what they meant, as ‘nose disease’ could have meant anything from a bad cold to a deviated septum. There was certainly a plague of nose disease in St Jofra, of Cyrano de Bergerac proportions.

“Are you sure you’re all right on your own down there?”

There was a croak of concern in Emma’s voice that Leah picked up on and she knew her tone was too loud and hearty as she assured her younger sister, “Yes, of course. I’m fine. It’s great here, you know that. I came to the right place.”

“I miss you,” Emma said. “I’ll come down and see you in the summer hols. Big hug. Love you. I still don’t know why you left London though.”

Leah ignored her last words. “Big hug to you, too and give Poppy a sloppy kiss from me. You know how she hates those. I do miss you and Mum. Speak to you soon.”

Emma, her husband Alan and their five-year-old daughter Poppy, lived a few roads away from their mother in Canterbury. None of them had been told the real reason for Leah’s sudden defection from London, where she had seemed to be so happy and doing so well as a designer for an advertising company. She had stuck to her story of being made redundant, getting a good pay-off and deciding to take time out and see if she could make it as an artist, and her family had swallowed it. She had also told her mother not to give her address or her new phone number to anyone, not even her old friends from Canterbury, and especially not Cassidy, as she was hiding from a jealous boyfriend and didn’t want him trying to trace her.

When her mother had voiced concern, Leah had laughed it off.

“I just want to make a fresh start, Mum.” That, at least, was true.

The house to Leah’s right was a holiday let and empty most of the time. It was three weeks before the neighbour at No. 38, the elderly lady Leah had clashed with on moving-in day, finally introduced herself as Nat Fleming and invited Leah in for coffee. Nat handed Leah a fat slice of home-made carrot cake, moist and speckled with vivid orange which made her think, somewhat bizarrely, of shredded goldfish and she settled herself against a pale gold cushion on the pale green sofa, to eat it. Nat was nestled in an armchair that seemed much too deep for her. Her legs dangled over the edge like those of a doll on a shelf. She was wearing sky blue slippers edged with fake fur, that matched the blue of her jumper – and her eyes, too, Leah noticed.

“Round here, we take our time getting to know someone,” Nat said solemnly.

“It doesn’t seem like it,” Leah said. “I’ve lost count of the number of visitors I’ve had.”

“Oh, take no notice of that lot. They’re always the same with incomers. Once they think they’ve got the measure of you, they’ll leave you alone. Anyway, most of them are on the make, one way or another. A new arrival means a potential new source of income. By the way, I’m sorry I was so crotchety on the day you moved in. I wasn’t feeling too well and there was so much shouting and banging going on.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Leah confessed.

She was rewarded with a high-wattage smile and a sparkling flash from her neighbour’s animated blue eyes. “I didn’t know what sort of person was coming to live next door to me. You might have been the sort to have wild parties and a string of unsavoury young men visiting you.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” Leah teased, warming to this spirited woman.

Nat laughed. “I pride myself on being a good judge of character. It doesn’t take me long to get the measure of someone. Sometimes, a few seconds are all I need. It’s the aura. The vibes.” She was still staring into Leah’s eyes. Leah found she couldn’t look away, especially as she knew exactly what Nat meant. She was the same.

Nat blinked and seemed to shake herself. She slipped out of the chair, crossed the room and touched Leah lightly on the arm. “Come and see what I’ve done to my house. Yours is in a pretty bad state, isn’t it? I should know. I’ve been inside it often enough. I used to clean and dust for old Mr Edwards after his wife died. He had no-one else as his son’s family live in Aberdeen. Nina, shoo!” She clapped her hands and a dainty white cat with eyes as blue as Nat’s scooted away from the plate she was trying to lick.

As Leah followed Nat around, admiring the oak floors, the large country kitchen and the conservatory which had a sea view, owing to the fact that No. 38 was several feet higher up the hill than No. 36, she enquired, “How long have you lived here then?”

“Thirty-two years. We moved down from Birmingham when my husband took early retirement from the police force. We used to come here for holidays and fell in love with it.”

Leah wanted to ask if Nat had a family, but felt she might be overstepping the mark. Perhaps, once they got to know each other better, Nat would mention sons, daughters, grandchildren, though there were no family photos on display.

“I see you don’t have a car,” Nat said. “Did you know that the supermarket in Truro delivers to this area?”

“No, I didn’t. Thank you.”

Leah was genuinely grateful. She probably would get a car at some point. She hadn’t really thought about it. She hadn’t bothered with one in London as the public transport was so good and the parking so dreadful. In any case, she was still too busy adapting to her changed circumstances to think about practicalities. She might be a lady of leisure at the moment, but doing up the house would constitute a full-time job. A car could be a help to her when it came to transporting pots of paint, but she was managing for now. The local DIY shop would deliver most of the things she

needed. The rest, she ordered online.

“I rely on their deliveries,” Nat continued. “I had to give up driving when my eyesight got so bad. I haven’t been behind the wheel for five years. I miss it. But the bus service isn’t bad, once you get used to the fact that it only comes once an hour. It’s not like in the city, when you know there’ll be another one along in a few minutes. Though I don’t use the bus much these days.”

Nat sighed and, just for a moment, looked quite frail Leah thought. Pale, too, with purplish shadows like bruises under her eyes.

“Have you been here before? To St Jofra, I mean?” Nat’s polite question broke in on Leah’s musings.

“Yes, several times with my parents, when I was a kid. They were the best holidays I ever had.” Leah smiled at the memories. “That’s why I decided to move here.”

Once she had reminisced about the holidays and Nat had responded with holiday memories of her own, trips with her late husband to Germany, Italy, Scandinavia, Leah found herself cautiously warming to her neighbour, ‘cautious’ being the operative word. It wouldn’t do to rush anything any more. She knew only too well where that could take her. ‘Impetuous’ should have been her middle name. Or her first name: Impetuosity Mason, like Endeavour Morse, the Christian name that the famous fictional detective always kept a secret.

Cassidy never used her first name, either, but then, who would want to be known as Tuesday Cassidy? She really missed Cassidy. They had been close friends for four years, ever since Leah had landed her job in London. She must have thought Leah was dreadful, disappearing without a word, but that was what Stephen had insisted on: that nobody must know where she had gone – that, as far as possible, she should be untraceable. He had even suggested Australia.

Nat was still talking, pointing out things, giving Leah the names of kitchen fitters, decorators, plumbers. A bumble bee was caught behind the yellow and white checked kitchen curtains. Its frantic buzzing distracted her. Nat picked up a glass, deftly trapped the bee and shooed it out through the open transom. “There. You fly free, my beauty.”

Leah sighed deeply and, as she exhaled, it felt as if she were blowing away months of pent-up tensions and anxieties, getting rid of all the toxic things that had infected her in London – like Stephen.

She realised that, like Nat’s bee, it was time for her, too, to fly free.

CHAPTERTWO

All depressed women should be prescribed lipstick, thought Cassidy, triumphantly slashing her mouth with Violent Vamp and instantly feeling a boost to her spirits. She smacked her lips together, blotted them gently with a tissue, then looked critically at herself in the bathroom mirror. The line wasn’t quite straight. Her hand must have jerked as she reached the left-hand corner of her lower lip.

“Shit, I’m going to be late,” she said out loud, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t be seen on the Tube with crooked lipstick. She would just have to wipe it off and start again.

It was Friday morning in Kentish Town, north London. Soon, she would face another Friday night with nothing to do. When she was a teenager, and even when she reached her early twenties, not to have anything to do on Friday and Saturday nights was social suicide. You wouldn’t dare admit it to anybody. You would have to make something up. Anything, no matter how outrageous or unbelievable.

I wish Leah was still around, she thought, tidying the already perfectly folded towels heaped on the glass shelf next to the tall chrome bathroom storage cabinet. What on earth’s happened to her? Was it something I said? Something I did?

How could a friend – a good friend at that – simply disappear without trace and without a word? It was just what her mother had done when she was ten. Having left a note to the effect that she had met someone else, she simply left one day while Cassidy was at school, leaving her husband to bring Cassidy up alone. As an only child, there was nobody close in whom Cassidy could confide. She couldn’t talk to her dad as he had made it quite plain that her mother’s name was never to be mentioned again. There were no cousins nearby, no uncles or aunts or even parents of school friends, to whom she could spill out her confused, angry, hurt feelings. She felt sure that in some way she was to blame for her mother’s desertion. Was she a difficult child? Was she selfish? Had she not shown her mother that she loved her?

Now, as an adult, she could see that her mother had simply fallen in love with another man and run away from her responsibilities at home. She had been the selfish one. Yet somehow Cassidy knew that, emotionally, she remained stuck in the past and, even at the age of twenty-eight, was still that hurt, bewildered young girl who wasn’t worthy of anyone’s love. She had decided years ago not to let anybody get too close to her in case she got hurt and let down again, but when she had met Leah through a joint project that both their companies had worked on, she had liked her so much that she had let her guard down.

Now Leah had abandoned her, too and all that deep-seated hurt and those bitter, anguished feelings had surfaced again. It just served to underline Cassidy’s long-held belief that money was safer and more rewarding than love and friendship, because money couldn’t plunge a dagger into your heart the way a treacherous human being could.

When a week had passed without a phone call or text from Leah when she was used to almost daily contact, Cassidy had left a host of messages. Was she ill? Had an accident? In hospital? Then the mobile number had suddenly ceased to work and her emails had begun bouncing back. That was when Cassidy had gone to Leah’s office, only to be told by the receptionist that she had left.

“Left? But why? How? Wasn’t she on three months’ notice?” The questions stumbled off Cassidy’s tongue and she found she was trembling as the girl repeated that she couldn’t help her… that Leah had left the firm and no, there was no forwarding address or phone number they could give her.

She had travelled across London, to Ealing, to Leah’s rented flat. Nobody was in. She took herself off to a local pub. When she went back after two vodka and tonics and a stale sandwich and rang the bell again, a stranger answered, a girl who looked blankly at her and told her she had just moved in and didn’t know anybody called Leah. She had rung hospitals, messaged her on Facebook, tried every way she could think of to make contact, but it seemed that all routes to Leah were closed. She had vanished as successfully as Cassidy’s mother had and the pain of rejection was fresh and keen and hideous.

That was four months ago and Cassidy still hadn’t come to terms with it. She still tormented herself by playing their last couple of meetings over and over in her memory, examining in detail every look, every scrap of conversation, finally concluding that there was nothing, absolutely nothing that she had done wrong. She couldn’t be the reason for Leah’s disappearance. But the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that something had gone very wrong in her friend’s life.

Leah had been most cagey about her love life over the last couple of months. Normally, they shared almost every detail of their relationships, pleased for each other when things were going right, commiserating when things went wrong. This time, though, despite much probing, Leah’s boyfriend had remained a mystery man. She had been briefly enamoured of some guy called Stephen, but had only mentioned him once or twice so Cassidy thought the fling must have died a death. All Leah would tell her about the mystery man was that he was away a lot and worked in something hush-hush. MI6? A mobster? A cop in deep cover? Cassidy was fascinated but couldn’t get any more details out of Leah, although she sensed that, whoever he was, he wasn’t making Leah very happy. She had made excuses, avoided several good nights out and parties. She had seemed preoccupied, a bit depressed. She had looked different, too; thinner, drawn, tired, perhaps even ill. Was that it? Had she developed some dreadful disease, or… ? She didn’t dare contemplate the worst case scenario.

There was a huge mystery to be solved, but overshadowing it was the fact that Cassidy missed her friend and playmate dreadfully. Cassidy was a man’s woman, not a woman’s woman. She didn’t make female friends easily, unlike some women she knew who had a whole pack of them. All through her life she had had just one best friend at a time, a close, intense friendship with a kindred spirit who became like a sister – no, more like a twin. And now that Leah had gone, she felt as if she had had a limb amputated.

She shook her head and sighed. “Work!” she told her reflection decisively. She didn’t want to be late. She had an interview to write up. She smoothed lip gloss over her freshly applied lipstick, brushed imaginary flakes of dandruff off her shoulders and teased out a strand of over-moussed hair with the handle of her comb so that it didn’t look quite so cardboardy. That was the trouble with boring brown hair, she thought; if you weren’t careful, it could let the rest of you down so easily. Perhaps it was time to go chestnut. Leah’s shade, maybe; thick and rich and shiny. She had never believed Leah’s colour was natural, anyway. All she needed to do was find the right dye.

If only she could just pick up the phone and ask Leah. Not having her around to have fun with, to have sisterly gossips and shopping trips with, was nagging at Cassidy. There was a Leah-shaped gap in her life. She had nobody to go on holiday with now. No-one to whom she could tell the crazy stories of what had happened when she’d picked up the latest man. It just wasn’t fair of Leah to do this to her. What was she punishing her for? Damn Leah!

Huffing to herself, Cassidy clicked out of the bathroom, her high heels echoing on the shiny black slate floor, picked up her enormous red Mulberry bag that weighed a ton but looked the business, and left the house, ten minutes later than she should have done.

The office where Cassidy and her team put together a monthly high profile business magazine was in Blackfriars, close to where Leah had worked. That last time they’d seen each other was so odd, thought Cassidy, as she sat squashed uncomfortably in the joggling Tube carriage. They had met for a drink in a wine bar, but, for the first time since she had known her, Leah had drunk only mineral water. She had looked… well, Cassidy could only call it ‘haunted’; like a woman with secrets. Piaf had had that look, and Garbo, and Judy Garland, and even Princess Diana had had some of that pained, guarded aura about her.

There had been a time when Cassidy, under the influence of some old movie or other – Dr Zhivago, was it? Or Elvira Madigan? – had tried to engender the same look in herself. She cut down on food, smoked and drunk more, deliberately stayed up late for ten nights running, but had ended up looking less like a haunted Cathy pining for Heathcliff and more like a raddled old sot.

But then, Piaf and Garland had been raddled old sots, too – raddled old sots who were riddled with talent. Unlike me, Cassidy thought wistfully, pulling her Mulberry bag closer to her chest as a man sitting opposite seemed to be staring at it a bit too intently. Then she rallied. She did have a talent, though it wasn’t for singing or acting. Cassidy’s talent was for attracting men; gorgeous, sexy men. She had high standards when it came to choosing the ideal partner. First, the man had to be good-looking. Second, he had to be rich. Not just earning a good salary, but rich-rich. Possessed of at least one massive house plus a holiday home somewhere exotic, a fleet of expensive cars, a private jet – why not? – and, if not a title, then a hefty dose of celebrity.

She hadn’t yet met anyone who qualified, but she had a plan. She was certainly not going to waste her life running a boring business magazine for ever. At least Leah’s job in an advertising and PR agency had brought her into contact with some famous people, not just business suits and number-crunchers.

As the carriage shuddered towards the Tube stop before her own, Cassidy let her mind drift off. She pictured herself in a palatial house with a huge marble hallway; a film star house with its own gym and swimming pool, and extensive grounds where she could keep a horse; no, a whole herd of horses. Racehorses, show jumpers, polo ponies. She would never have to work again, never have to travel on the smelly, horrible, dangerous Tube. She thought of her special savings account. For three years now, she had been squirreling money away. She called it her Future Fund and she intended to use some of the accumulated cash for self-enhancement. As soon as she had enough, she was going to have a boob job, Botox, give up her lease and rent a more expensive flat in a good area for meeting rich men, like Chelsea or Westminster, join the right gym, wear the right clothes, be seen in the right places and ensnare a prime catch and marry him before she reached the age of thirty-five. After that, she knew it would be too late.

She played her game of, ‘if the world was about end and I had to choose one man in this carriage to make love to for the very last time, who would it be?’, and decided on a chilled-looking black man in an immaculate navy pin-striped suit and beautifully shined, scuff-free shoes. He wore trendy red-framed spectacles and clutched a briefcase on his lap, as shiny-black as his shoes. Perhaps he was a government official. Damn it, he’s probably a bloody insurance executive, she thought as the train jerked to a halt. Then: Oh, bloody hell, I’ve missed my stop!

CHAPTERTHREE

Leah felt tired. Not just the tiredness that came from lack of sleep, though she had certainly been suffering from that. No, this was a deep, bone-aching weariness, a general malaise. Each morning when she woke up, she prayed to have a clear head and a body full of energy, but so far it hadn’t happened and she didn’t think her exhaustion was completely the result of the decorating she’d been doing, stripping off peach-coloured woodchip and painting walls and woodwork. She wondered if it was purely physical – she had suffered a health trauma a few months back, after all – or if it had a psychological component, too. Perhaps the two were connected. Maybe she was suffering from depression. It wouldn’t be surprising if she was.

She sighed heavily and balanced her paint brush on top of the pot of ‘white with a hint of lemon’ vinyl silk emulsion. She rubbed her arms, trying to force some vitality into them. Coffee; that would help.

Sitting down with her hot drink and a plain chocolate Hobnob, she felt herself droop and took another deep breath. Suddenly, events of the last few months seemed to fly through her mind, like they said happened when you were drowning… on your last gasp, fingers clawing at water, desperately seeking something to hold onto to save your life. She saw her old London apartment, her flatmates, their faces receding as if she were flashing past them in a speeding train. Cassidy, her best friend, her polar opposite, her dark sister. Her office. The hospital ward – no, no, don’t want to remember that. Go away! She felt her throat tighten as if invisible hands had squeezed her neck and she coughed and reached out a trembling hand towards her coffee mug, which was standing on a table that seemed to be moving away from her as she leant across it.

The rushing motion suddenly jolted to a stop and there was Stephen Clyde, in the suit he had been wearing the day she had met him. She blinked hard, trying to drive his image out of her mind’s eye, but it wouldn’t go. It was as if it had been etched onto her retinas.

When she had first set eyes on him at a business meeting, he had seemed the type of man who belonged on the cover of a Mills & Boon novel. Tall, lean, with gleaming dark hair, smoky grey eyes and a smile that made her toes curl and her breath catch in her throat, he had had such an effect on her that afterwards, she couldn’t remember anything that had been discussed at the meeting, she could think of his neat eyebrows, his white teeth, his clear, deep voice; his eyes, like dove-grey silk, like still water. When he had had asked her out, she hadn’t thought twice about accepting. Yes, there was the little matter of his being married to a French woman, but all the world knew it was over. Tales of her dalliances with much younger men had been splattered all over the gossip magazines.

Stephen was a politician, the son of a property millionaire; intelligent, well-read, witty, used to having people follow his orders. He was friendly with the type of people she had only read about in gossip columns and glossy magazines. Every day, she had looked in the mirror and wondered what a man like him was doing with Leah Mason, struggling artist.

She could see now that she had been completely spellbound, unable to see him for the ordinary, flawed human being he really was. He told her that he was separated and awaiting a divorce and that while the terms were being thrashed out by their respective lawyers, he would have to keep their romance a secret. The way their affair was conducted had made Leah feel like the leading lady in a spy thriller. He had a chauffeur who would ferry them to restaurants and clubs, where he would have booked a private room in advance and they would sneak in through a back entrance, giggling like naughty school children rather than a woman of twenty-six and a man of nearly forty.

He bought her gifts – jewellery, perfume; shoes with vertiginous heels that were impossible to walk in but fine for swanning around in a limo; a cashmere sweater, a designer dress. He promised her holidays in the Maldives, Necker Island, Cannes. He had made her feel special, pampered, adored.

“Once the divorce is through, we can be together properly. No more skulking around,” he had promised. The thought had thrilled her. She didn’t care about his position and the glamour attached to it, though she knew Cassidy would have revelled in it. All she had wanted was to be with the man she loved and be free to tell people about him; introduce him to her family, her friends. She knew he had two children who lived in France with his wife. He had hinted that perhaps he would like more some day. That, more than anything, was why, when things ended the way they did, she had found it hard to accept. Surely he hadn’t meant to be so cruel? It was all to do with the lawyers and his ex wife, wasn’t it?

“No, it wasn’t.” She spoke her thoughts out loud. No one who really loved her could have thrown her out of his life the way he had, as if she had been a sack of rubbish. How could she have been so naïve? She had made a huge mistake in trusting him… in loving him.

She decided to write the rest of the day off and lay on the sofa watching old black and white movies from the days when cads were cads and heroes had neat hair and wore sharp suits like Stephen’s and saved the heroine from being shot, run over or cheated out of their inheritance. The films always seemed to end with confetti and wedding bells. It gave her a bitter taste in her mouth and she switched the set off and went to bed, determined to wake the next day feeling a bit more like her old self; her pre-Stephen self.

And she did. In fact, she felt energetic enough to give a ‘Leap With Lindsey’ dancercise class a try, Lindsey being the name of the tinsel-haired girl who had been one of the procession of callers during her first week in Trenown Close.

Back in London, before it happened, she used to go to water aerobics as well as jog three times a week, but since she had been in St Jofra, the only form of exercise she’d had was decorating. She still had her old gym clothes, though and was surprised to find the stretchy leggings had gone baggy. Or had she lost weight?

She had seen Lindsey around the village a few times. She was regarded as a bit of a local eccentric as she was often seen in sparkly clothes with a pair of sequinned wings strapped to her back and Nat told her that she was known to most people by her nickname, Fairy. Leah had even spotted her wearing a glittery plastic tiara, the sort they sold in packets at the local Costcutter for five-year-olds’ birthday parties. She wasn’t quite sure what name to use when she met her today, but as she called herself Lindsey on her leaflet, Leah made up her mind to call her that. After all, it wasn’t as if they were likely to get on ‘Fairy’ terms. It looked as if Lindsey might be into Cosplay and Leah certainly wasn’t.

Besides, she didn’t need a friend, did she? She’d had one, a very close one and, thanks to Stephen, she’d been forced to break off the friendship and every day she beat herself up about it. She was managing perfectly well on her own and if she needed to chat, she only had to go next door and have a cup of tea with Nat. Despite an age-gap of almost fifty years, she felt the two of them were kindred spirits.

At the doorway of the village hall, she found herself in a dither. Did she really want to go in? Oh, come on, she chided herself. Even Stephen couldn’t expect her to hide away for the rest of her life, never speaking to another soul, never having friends and going out. She just had to be careful not to reveal too much about her past.

She sighed and pushed open the hall’s creaking door. A bit of dancing, a bit of music. That was what she needed. Once she lost herself in that, it would all go away. Well, for an hour, at least. She paused in the entrance hall, opened the bag she was carrying and prepared to swap her sandals for trainers. Then, squaring her shoulders, she strode in.

CHAPTERFOUR

That Tuesday when she had called round to inspect the new occupant of Shangri-la, Fairy hadn’t been at all sure if she liked what she saw. There was something a bit… suspicious about her. Something stand-offish, as if she were trying to give out a ‘piss off and leave me alone’ signal.

“I got the impression she was running away from something,” she had said to Mick that evening, once they had got the younger boys off to bed.

“Isn’t everyone? That’s why they invented that TV series, Escape from the City.” He smirked and took a noisy swig from a can of Fosters.

“It’s Escape to the Country,” Fairy corrected him.

“Whatever. Same thing, isn’t it?” Mick swung his feet up onto the arm of the sagging old sofa which was swathed in a faded red and blue Indian print throw. As his heels thumped down, a cloud of dust and dog hairs flew up.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Mick,” Fairy complained. “You know we can’t afford another one.”

“We don’t have to. Clients of mine seem to change their furniture every time they change the colour of their décor, so I’ll see what I can pick up.” Mick grinned. His hair, a dirtyish blond that was greasy and speckled with white paint from his day’s decorating, stuck up in tufts. He looks like a moth-eaten parrot, thought Fairy exasperatedly, though when she had first met him at a surfers’ beach party three years earlier, she had thought he looked like Jamie Oliver as he had the same kind of crooked features and quirky smile.

“What I mean is, perhaps she has a criminal past or something.”

Mick let out a loud snort of laughter. “Don’t be daft! She’s probably getting over a nasty divorce, or writing a novel. Anything. Knowing you, you’ll soon find out.”

A loud crash, followed by a metallic tinkle, came from somewhere over their heads. Fairy looked at Mick. He looked down, fiddling with the brass pentacle he wore round his neck. When Fairy had first met Mick Laine, she had been intrigued, wondering if he was a member of a witch’s coven who danced widdershins on the Lookout at midnight, spouting spells by the light of a waning moon, but it turned out that he’d bought it when he became a member of a teenage motorbike club, as he thought it made him look like a genuine Hell’s Angel.

Another thump from upstairs.

“Boys! Will you stop that at once!” Fairy screamed, stamping up the uncarpeted stairs with a noise and velocity that belied her slight build. “If you’ve broken that bed, I’ll have your guts for garters. It’ll be no pocket money for a month, and I mean it!”

All was silent as she arrived on the landing. Then she heard a tiny, smothered sniffle of a giggle. “All right!” she screeched, pushing open the door of the boys’ room.

Two single beds, two pillows, one close-cropped head on each pillow. Two sets of closed eyes, though one set of eyelashes was flickering slightly, as if the eyes beneath it were laughing. Fairy smiled to herself. Although they were identical twins, there were ways of telling which was which. Ross had a crescent-shaped scar by his right eyebrow from where Wayne had whacked him with a toy truck when they were toddlers, and Wayne’s voice was slightly gruffer than Ross’s, which was a bit squeaky. They were good boys, really, she thought, considering everything they had been through when their mother left.

She had been substitute mum to the twins for just over a year now. Wayne and Ross, named after Mick’s motorcycling heroes, Wayne Rainey and Valentino Rossi, were eight now and, thanks to their GP, who had put them on medication for the whole of that dreadful year when Mick had first moved in and his offspring had seemed hell-bent on destroying the house and kicking her to death, they were now a lot better behaved. Well, in her presence, at least. She had heard a few stories, but she knew better than to pass them on to Mick, though she would as a last resort.

One good thing about being a substitute mum and not being married to Mick, was that not only was she free to kick the lot of them out if it all got too much, but it cured any desire within her to produce children of her own. Anyway, she liked her slim, athletic figure too much and whoever heard of a pregnant fairy?

It was their older brother, fifteen-year-old Rory, who had really taken the defection of his mother to heart. When did I last see him? Fairy asked herself. Was it Thursday? Or was it before that? He rarely joined them for meals, preferring to eat round at his friends’ houses. He would often sleep over at a friend’s, or else creep in long after she and Mick had gone to bed and doss down on the sofa with the dog, rather than risk waking them by climbing up to the den he had made for himself in the loft. She realised that some people might think she neglected Rory, but really he was Mick’s responsibility, not hers. He was big for his age – could easily pass for seventeen or eighteen – and was awkward, surly, independent. He could look after himself, she thought, feeling a tinge of worry pricking at her conscience that she did her best to banish.

Her life had been so easy and simple before the boys came kicking and shouting into it, wrecking her peace, invading her private make-believe world of magic and miracles, preventing her from spending much time chatting to people on Fairy Fever, her favourite website. She had packed away all her porcelain fairies after three of her favourites were hurled down the stairs and broken by Wayne in a fit of rage. She had packed away most of her costumes, too, after being ridiculed by Rory once too often. But the one thing she refused to pack, and still defiantly wore because they were part of the identity she wanted to project to the world, were her fairy wings. She owned more than a dozen pairs in different colours and styles, and wore them as often as possible, even in public, sometimes even during her classes, when she would twinkle her way around the room in a sequinned top, doing star jumps with a pair of fluttering silk wings attached to her back.

Fairy had grown up in this cramped cottage in the high street and since her parents had moved to New Zealand a few years ago to be close to Fairy’s brother and his family, she had lived there alone. Well, alone until nineteen months ago. It had only two bedrooms and no back garden, just an eight feet by six feet area of uneven paving stones packed with pots containing pansies and herbs, over which flapped the clothesline that was forever in use.

Up until the point when Janine, Mick’s wife, had suddenly absconded with ‘The Man from Truro’ – a hippy musician, according to Joanie from the greengrocers – Fairy had never let herself fantasise about being with her lover permanently. She had been quite happy with their sporadic rough, earthy, exciting sex life, which had usually taken place in the daytime between her fitness classes, when Mick found an excuse to dodge away from his current decorating or building job for an hour to ‘get supplies’.

Fairy never knew if Janine had found out about her and Mick, or if Janine, too, had been playing away for some time. After she left, Mick had had to stop work in order to look after his sons. He was soon in debt, the council were taking ages to sort out benefits and when they were on the point of being evicted by their landlord, Fairy had offered them a ‘temporary’ home with her. She hadn’t been one hundred percent sure if the situation would work. She still wasn’t sure now. One part of her had felt thrilled, as now he was free to spend every night with her. But, on the other hand, there were the boys; three lively, buzzing flies in the ointment of their relationship.

Over the last year she had grown quite fond of the twins (not Rory, he was just plain unlovable – great, untidy, surly lump that he was), but… love? Looking down at their cheeky faces now, she felt no surge of emotion, no tug at her heartstrings. She tolerated them, did her best to see that they were clean and fed, but that was all. They were just boys. Mick’s boys.

Two bedrooms didn’t easily divide between two adults, a pair of young twins and one older brother. Whichever way they had tried to arrange it, it always came down to one person having to sleep in the living room on the sofa, which was not popular with any of them as the front door opened straight into the living room from the street and there was a large, draughty gap under the door and all the noise and dirt came in. And anyway, Barney, Mick’s large, grey, hairy dog, needed to sleep in the living room, too, as the kitchen was too small for a dog bed.

It was Rory himself who had solved the problem. He had simply disappeared one evening and when they had gone looking for him, it was only the fact that they could hear ghostly, muffled footfalls and see torchlight flickering through gaps in the wooden slats of the loft hatch that had led them to discover his hideaway. He had shinned up the ladder and pulled it up after him like a drawbridge, cutting himself off from his enemies. From then on, the attic became known as Rory’s Roost. Mick had found a new-looking single mattress in a skip and this, plus a sleeping bag and a big sheepskin rug bought at a car boot sale, constituted his rather whiffy bed.

After placing a cool hand on the forehead of each ‘sleeping’ twin and tiptoeing back downstairs, Fairy let her prickle of anxiety have its head. “I think we should report Rory as missing,” she told Mick, removing his feet from the arm of the sofa and swinging them down onto the floor so she could squash in beside him.

“Why? The school hasn’t reported him for truanting, so he must be turning up for classes. He’ll come back when he wants to,” replied Mick drowsily. He worked his feet out of his unlaced work boots and placed his smelly socks on Barney, who huffed a long-suffering sigh and allowed himself to be used as a footstool. “Anyway, we don’t want them poking around here, do we?” He took a deep drag on his joint and held his breath. Then he coughed and the rank-smelling marijuana smoke shot out of his nostrils in twin puffs, like dragon’s breath.

Fairy knew that if the house was raided for drugs, then she, as the owner, could be held responsible and fined. She didn’t want that. She was Fairy and she wanted to remain that way: airy-fairy, untainted by anything worldly and nasty, living on a slightly higher plane than other mortals, wearing her fairy wings and surrounded by beautiful colours and music, her skin delicately brushed by perfumed breezes and her hair combed by the whirring wings of emerald green and sapphire blue dragonflies. The Titania of St Jofra.

As she walked towards the door of the hall where her dancercise class was to be held, she couldn’t get Rory out of her mind. Perhaps it was time they called the police. He could have fallen down the cliffs and been drowned. He could have hitch-hiked to Exeter or Plymouth and fallen into the hands of evil men who wanted to turn him into a rent boy. Then she had a eureka moment: perhaps he’s found his mum and gone to live with her!

A sense of relief washed over her and she spun round and bumped straight into a red-haired woman with a ponytail, who dropped the bag she was carrying.

“I’m so sorry,” Fairy said, recognising her as the newcomer from Trenown Close.

“No worries,” her new recruit said. “I’m Leah, by the way. I know your name, of course.”

“So you’re going to give my class a try, are you? I’m glad I dropped that leaflet off then, though it’s taken you a while, hasn’t it?” Fairy smiled up at her.

The smile Leah gave back held genuine warmth and her hazel eyes glowed. “I love exercise,” she said. “I need to work out more. Mind you –” She tweaked her right bicep with the fingers of her left hand. “– I don’t think I’ll need to clean my windows any more. That’s going to be such a relief.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Leah grinned again. “I’ve just acquired a window cleaner.”

“Who? You mean the bald bloke with the blue van?”

“No, the teenager with the bicycle,” Leah replied. “Rory. He came round yesterday and introduced himself and I took him on.”