Chapter One
When my phone binged at ten to twelve, five minutes before I was due to leave, I could have predicted that the text message would be from my cousin Shelley. What I couldn’t have predicted was that her absence that day would change my life.
Sorry babe, I’m not going to make it.
Why was I even surprised? Spontaneous was her middle name, which made her possibly the most unreliable creature this side of the M25 but also possibly the most fun, which, when you had a childhood like mine, was a blessing of the mightiest order.
I could have been miffed. After all, she’d insisted I come with her because we’d be the only youngsters at her parents’ annual barbecue bash. I glanced at my watch. Nope. Couldn’t do it. She might be able to let Aunty Lynn down with no qualms – she was her daughter – but I had a few more scruples. Plus, it was a glorious sunny Sunday and I had no other plans, no garden, and no food in the fridge. Aunty Lynn was a bloody fabulous cook and believed in the feeding of the five thousand, which meant there’d be enough leftovers not only to see me through the week but also to take into work, where her interesting salads, incredible pavlova and chocolate cake would all be hugely appreciated, especially by the children. Lynn was nothing if not generous – well, apart from the fact that it seemed she’d hogged all of the giving and sharing genes and left none for my mum.
Giving myself a quick once-over in the mirror, I decided that my navy shorts and pale-pink vest top, both of which had seen better days, weren’t going to offend Aunty Lynn or Uncle Richard. Where hospitality was concerned, they were of the laid-back, the more the merrier persuasion. Anything went, as long as you brought a bottle. Pulling on my tennis shoes, because I planned on having a few drinks and the short walk across town was rather pleasant, I grabbed a four-pack of Budweiser I’d bought especially for the occasion and set off.
It was the sort of sunny day that makes you think that the weather might actually last and that the rest of the summer will be like this. There were a few wispy, cotton-wool-ball puffs of white in the sky, and the sky itself was that vibrant blue that feels as if it has depth to it, and as you stare at it you can almost see that it stretches right to the edge of the universe, which I think it probably did. Or maybe it didn’t. This set me off thinking about the sky and the sun, wishing perhaps I’d paid a bit more attention in physics… No, I didn’t. I bloody hated physics at school. Was glad to give it up. But I felt good that I’d sort of been pondering important things as I’d walked along. My job had been busy over the week, demanding on an emotional level which I was always careful to pack away in a metaphorical box. It’s the sort of job that can consume you and take over your headspace, which is why pseudo-physics and the contemplation of bigger things were especially good for my mental wellbeing. It’s the sort of job which, if you let it, could really drag you under.
And all this pondering had taken me through town, along the High Street, across the park with its fenced-in playground of busy swings and slides, teeming with small people who looked like plastic Fisher Price toys in their brightly coloured clothing, and now up the slight incline of Pettyfeather Lane to my aunt and uncle’s modest-looking semi. Modest-looking as in Tardis-like because the front is deceptive: once through a narrow, dark hall, it opens out into an enormous open-plan kitchen-diner-living-area with a whole wall of bi-fold doors leading onto a spacious, perfect-for-parties patio.
The front door was ajar, which immediately made me smile. It meant everyone was in the garden and as I walked up the short drive, I could hear that happy cacophony of a party in full swing. I stepped inside, skirting round a few discarded pairs of shoes, dumped handbags and jackets in the hallway. In this small market town, a forty-minute commute from London, people were pretty trusting and my aunt and uncle’s contemporaries and neighbours, having reached suburban, reasonably well-heeled mid-life, took the local low crime-rate and all-round decency of people for granted. It was a world away from the experiences of the people I worked with but it gave me hope that there could be a better way of life for them one day.
‘Jess, Jess!’ hollered my uncle in greeting from his spot behind the breakfast bar where he was doing battle with a Prosecco bottle, carefully easing out the cork. In his excitement, he let go of the cork, which promptly shot out with the pop of a gunshot and effervescent liquid foamed out of the neck of the bottle, which he waggled in his hand. ‘Quick, lovely, grab yourself a glass. Don’t want it going to waste. This is the good stuff. At least eight quid from Tesco.’ He waved the bottle at me enthusiastically which wasn’t doing the wastage any good at all.
Luckily, my darling rellies, unlike their daughter Shelley with her spontaneous unreliability, are totally by-the-book, stick-in-the-mud reliable (except they’re so not stick-in-the-mud personality-wise), and the flutes were exactly where they always were when they threw a party, just like the large plastic trug filled with ice and water and lager bottles, which I neatly sidestepped as I grabbed a glass and rushed to rescue Uncle Richard.
‘Well held, that girl.’ He filled my glass up. ‘How are you? Do you remember Fiona? Fiona, you’ve met Jess, my niece, right? Sorry, love, you know your cousin’s buggered off. Shame.’ He turned to Fiona who lived next door and whom I had met a gazillion times. ‘Of course, Jess is our favourite daughter. The daughter we wish we’d had instead of Shelley.’
Fiona laughed. ‘I’m not sure you’re allowed to say things like that.’
‘You don’t live with Shelley,’ said Richard darkly.
‘Hi, Uncle Rich,’ I said, giving him a quick hug, holding out my Prosecco glass so it wouldn’t spill as he gave me an effusive hug back. ‘And yeah, I should be favourite daughter. She’s bloody rubbish.’ I grinned at him as Aunty Lynn bustled up. ‘Dumping me for some bloke she met five minutes ago.’
Shelley was incapable of being without a man, whereas I was a bit – no, make that a lot pickier. It might have had something to do with my job.
‘Jess.’ My aunt gave me a big hug and then stood back with that typical, maternal cock of her head. ‘Are you eating properly? I can feel ribs.’
I laughed. ‘You said that last time I came, and that was after Christmas day when you force-fed me a ton of turkey and made me take the rest of the Christmas cake home.’
‘I probably did. You’re so lucky.’ She prodded her own contented-with-life rolls around her middle. ‘It would be lovely to get rid of these. I should join you on your parkruns.’ She pulled such a mournful face that both Fiona and I burst out laughing.
Richard put his arm around her. ‘Don’t you dare. I love you just the way you are.’
She brightened, patting his face. ‘I’ve trained you well. It’s only taken me thirty years.’ Suddenly she straightened as if remembering something. ‘Now Jess, why don’t you go outside. It’s far too nice to be inside.’
Given that the glorious weather was one of the principle reasons for coming, I did as I was told, although most people did when Aunty Lynn was around.
I spotted him the minute I stepped out onto the patio. Well, you couldn’t really miss him. He was the only other person my age. OK, and he just happened to be big, golden and … just downright gorgeous. He had one foot propped on the small wall edging the patio and he was leaning forward on his knee, lifting a beer bottle to his lips as the sun glinted off the blond hairs on his arms, which were tanned and muscled in all the right places. He had almost white-blond hair, tied back before exploding in a bundle of scruffy curls, and matching eyebrows that made him look like a Thunderbirds puppet. He wore baggy shorts which came down to his knees and were so scruffy they made mine look as though they’d been tailored by Alexander McQueen, the most hideous brown sandals (think: a pair of dead turtles) that were so middle-agedly awful that they were almost trendy, and one of those wife-beater vests in white (although, to cut him a bit of slack, it was very clean) that revealed plenty of bare golden skin (highlighted by design? I wondered) and a well-defined body (definitely highlighted by design). Oh dear, someone fancied himself.