Chapter Two

Uh, oh, more problems. Andrea noted Jonathan was still there, poking about in his engine as she shot down the drive, Chloe and Igglepiggle in her arms. ‘I thought you’d gone,’ she said as she passed him.

‘I haven’t. She has,’ Jonathan mumbled, from under the bonnet.

Andrea stopped. ‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’ Jonathan surfaced and gave her the briefest of smiles. ‘No good trying to make a fast getaway if the getaway car’s given up the ghost, is there? This isn’t working, Andrea,’ he dropped the bonnet and turned to face her, ‘is it?’

‘So get it fixed,’ Andrea suggested, puzzled as to what she was supposed to do about it, short of a motor mechanics course – at midnight, by candlelight. What on earth was wrong with the car anyway? It was barely past its warranty.

‘I wish I could.’ Jonathan nodded past Andrea, with a sigh. ‘She’s over the road, scaring the new neighbour.’

‘Oh.’ Andrea glanced anxiously over her shoulder to see the man who’d got in a tangle with his curtains emerging from his house. Obviously he was wondering what a slightly dotty old lady in wellies and nightie would be doing wafting about on his drive. ‘I’d better go and get her before she damages neighbourhood relations.’

‘Andrea, it’s not working.’ Jonathan caught her arm as she turned. ‘We have to make alternative arrangements.’

Andrea narrowed her eyes as she realised the look in his eyes was telling her he was talking about something more serious than a dodgy carburettor. ‘What alternative arrangements?’ she asked warily, hoisting Chloe higher in her arms.

Jonathan shrugged and looked towards Dee, who, were it not for the winceyette nightie, could be mistaken for a traffic warden, and was circling the new neighbour’s car with slit-eyed suspicion. ‘Andrea, I think we should—’

‘I have to get Mum, Jonathan. We’ll all freeze without our coats on,’ Andrea cut in. She had a sinking feeling she wouldn’t want to hear what Jonathan thought. ‘Back in a sec.’

Turning away, Andrea dashed across the road before Dee did irrevocable damage.

‘Sorry,’ she apologised, her friendliest smile plastered in place as she skidded up the drive opposite, where her new neighbour was looking anything but neighbourly. ‘She gets a bit—’

‘What?’ The man – up close he was tall, dark, and seemingly humourless – glanced at her askance. His eyes were blue, Andrea noticed, ice cool and agitated.

‘My mum,’ Andrea started again. ‘She gets a bit confused.’

‘Right,’ he said shortly, and checked his watch.

How rude. Andrea bristled inwardly as he looked inscrutably back at her. ‘I apologise if she bothered you.’ She forced a smile and tried to hang on to her miniature Houdini, who had dropped Igglepiggle and was so determined to get back to Jonathan, she almost wriggled out of her jim-jams.

‘In a minute, baby,’ Andrea promised, bending to scoop the decapitated toy from the ground, in the absence of any forthcoming assistance from her neighbour.

‘I thought I’d better come over and explain in case you thought she was about to steal your personalised number plate.’ Igglepiggle retrieved, Andrea glanced in the direction of his shiny BMW soft top.

‘I see,’ he said, parting with a whole two more precious words.

He obviously did have a basic grasp of English, then. Pity he hadn’t got a grasp of rudimentary good manners. Unimpressed, Andrea looked him over surreptitiously. His tie was askew, she noticed, and he was unshaven. Designer stubble? Or was he just a worried man in a hurry, which might explain his attitude problem. She noted the greying hair at the temples, which was definitely an asset on this man, who was good-looking if one liked the moody, silent sort.

‘Sorry, I’m waffling and we haven’t even met properly. Andrea,’ forging on, she introduced herself, determined to be civil even if he wasn’t. ‘Andrea Kelly. This is my mother, Deirdre. As I said, she gets a bit—’

‘Your licence is out of date,’ Dee said on introduction, having finally acquainted glasses with nose. She slid accusatory eyes from his windscreen, where his presumably out of date tax disc was displayed, to look him up and down. ‘And your shoes need cleaning.’

‘Um,’ Andrea tried to keep her face straight, ‘sorry. She gets a bit muddled sometimes. She really doesn’t mean—’

‘Obviously,’ he said, cutting her short. With which, he gave her a curt nod and turned away.

Ooh! How utterly … Andrea’s fuse fizzled as he walked to his front door without even a backwards glance. Disbelieving of his arrogance, she was about to turn away when a young boy stepped out of the house, still in his pyjamas.

‘Jake.’ The man stopped in his tracks. ‘Get back inside!’ the man, who was clearly the boy’s father, said.

The boy just looked at him. His expression was insolent, Andrea noted, but he was clearly upset.

‘Jake!’

The boy glanced at Andrea, whose heart twisted inside her as she noted his red-rimmed eyes.

‘Now, Jake!’ his father shouted, his face turning white with palpable fury. ‘Last warning!’

Dropping his gaze, the boy turned reluctantly back inside.

‘Get your uniform on, get breakfast and make sure you’re ready to go, Jake. Or else …’

Or else what? Andrea wondered, her tummy tightening inside her, as he closed the front door. She had no idea what was going on here, but whatever it was, this man seemed dangerously close to losing it. Concerned, she looked towards the house. It could have been Ryan at the same age, impotently trying to stand up to his bullying father. Andrea had been here, watching a similarly heart-breaking scene, before she’d finally asked her children’s father to leave. He’d struck out, once too often. Would this man? Had he already? Is that what the charged atmosphere was all about?

‘UFO,’ Dee imparted out of nowhere as Andrea turned, troubled, back to her house. ‘Unattached Fit Object,’ she clarified, seemingly oblivious to the scene they’d just witnessed. ‘You shouldn’t play too hard to get, darling. You’re not getting any younger.’

Andrea glanced back. ‘He’s an arrogant bully, if you ask me,’ she said, wishing she’d said something. At least asked the boy if he was all right. ‘I have no idea what any woman would see in him.’

‘Makes two of us,’ Jonathan said moodily as Andrea trooped back towards the house, Dee in tow.

‘Two of us what?’ Andrea eyed him curiously.

‘Unattached men.’ Jonathan shot Dee a less than amused glance.

‘And if she has any sense, you’ll stay that way.’ Dee gave him a long disparaging look back. ‘My daughter might not be in her prime, but she’s not desperate, you know. Or daft.’

Thanks, Mum. Andrea eyed the skies. ‘I am, actually,’ she said, nodding at Dee’s disappearing back, then offering Jonathan a sympathetic smile.

‘Me too.’ Jonathan didn’t smile back. ‘Andrea, about … what we were discussing …’

Andrea felt immediately uneasy. ‘Which was?’

‘Alternative arrangements. For Dee, I mean. I was thinking some kind of care, may—’

‘Care?’ Andrea stared at him, incredulous. ‘She’s my mother, Jonathan. She’s cared for me all my life. Do you propose I just abandon her to spend the rest of her days in some godforsaken care home because she gets a bit confused?’

‘No, I …’ Jonathan stopped and sighed. ‘I care, Andrea. I’m your fiancé.’

Unofficially, Andrea didn’t point out. He hadn’t actually put the ring on her finger yet. ‘Which doesn’t give you the right to lay down the law,’ she did feel inclined to point out.

‘Quite.’ Jonathan plunged his hands in his pockets and glanced at his shoes. ‘So, assuming our time together, or lack of, doesn’t matter in the great scheme of things, what about your kids, Andrea? Don’t you think they deserve a little more of your attention?’

‘I do know they’re my kids.’ Andrea tethered her temper and tried to placate Chloe, who was definitely getting fractious now. ‘One third of them is also yours, Jonathan. I’m sure Chloe would be delighted if you spent more—’

‘Look, Andrea, I know I need to pull my weight more, and I’ll try. But I can only do so much with my own business to run. It might look as if all I do is organise a few client meetings and, hey presto, I make money, but it’s not that easy.’

‘It was your choice to give up management and go into investment planning, Jonathan,’ Andrea reminded him, resisting the urge to also remind him that she’d supported him every step of the way. ‘And you are making money, aren’t you?’

At least he said he was. He was all for moving house and booking holidays six months ago. Thinking about it, he hadn’t been so keen to spend money recently though.

‘Jonathan, do you have a problem we’re not sharing?’ Andrea studied him carefully. If there were things he wasn’t telling her, whether to save her from worrying or to save face, then she needed to know.

‘Yes. No. I … Of course I’m making money. And, no, I don’t have any problems we’re not sharing, apart from … It’s stressful, Andy. We’re already stretched way too thin. And now you’re proposing some hare-brained scheme about starting a shop?’

‘It’s not hare-brained.’ Andrea stared at him, bewildered. She struggled to hold onto Chloe, whose little feet were reaching determinedly for the floor. Why did she have to keep trying to explain? Did he have any idea how stressful teaching was nowadays? Granted, starting a business would be hard work, but was it really so wrong to want a change of direction before it was too late? She wasn’t intending to stop working altogether and put her feet up.

Did he want her to? Andrea scanned his eyes. Would he prefer her to be a stay-at-home wife, brush up on her Delia and serve his clients gastronomic delights? She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She could never be entirely dependent on a man, he knew that.

‘I’ve played it by the book all my life, Jonathan, mostly to support other people,’ Andrea let it hang, hoping he might understand. ‘I still have people to support, I’m aware of that,’ she went on, alluding to Chloe, whom she loved with her very bones, but who wasn’t planned at the end of the day, ‘but now I want to do it in a way that fulfils me. Why do you insist on putting me down?’

‘I’m not putting you down. You’ve just got too many balls in the air. It’s a fact.’

‘Right.’ Andrea felt her hackles rising. ‘So let’s look at the facts, shall we? Woman multitasks because she has to: fact. This is fine. Woman multitasking includes taking a slice of time for herself, this is not fine: fact.’

‘There are only twenty-four hours in a day, Andrea.’

‘Which is why I don’t want to spend eight of them doing something that no longer interests me. I need a change of direction. I can do this. I want to. Why do you think I can’t?’

‘Because there’s not enough of you to go around as it is!’

‘There might be if you’d help out more!’ Andrea snapped, and then nipped hard on her bottom lip. She was doing exactly what she didn’t want to do, arguing. Because he wanted to? She looked back into his eyes, eyes which had changed somehow, from tranquil to tumultuous, truculent even. Why? Was he that scared of change? Did he want to take off in another direction?

‘I know there’s not enough of me to go around, Jonathan,’ Andrea said quietly. ‘But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? I need to get a little piece of myself back for me.’

‘Fine, whatever,’ Jonathan acquiesced with a shrug, but his eyes were still set to do battle. Mustering up a smile, he trailed a finger down the length of Chloe’s nose, which had her back in wriggle mode in an instant, hands outstretched and whimpering, ‘Want Dad-dee.’

‘Later, baby,’ Jonathan promised, planting a kiss on her soft peachy cheek. ‘Daddy has to go to work, but I’ll bring you some sweeties back. How’s that?’

‘Choclat,’ Chloe said, somewhat subdued by the promise of sweeties.

Andrea searched Jonathan’s face, trying to work out what it was he really wanted. His classic good looks seemed more chiselled somehow. He looked older, but still young for his age. Five years younger than her, she reminded herself, making him eligible marriage material for many less encumbered women. What was he doing with a woman with three children whose only hope of seeing a size ten again was to look at her daughter? ‘I’d better go.’ She glanced down and then back. ‘We’ll talk later, yes?’

Jonathan looked at her, as if he was going to say something, but stopped himself short. ‘Yes, fine.’ He smiled, but it was a half-hearted attempt, Andrea could tell. ‘I’ve got a late appointment, so I’ll meet you at the restaurant, assuming we’ve someone to keep an eye on the kids, that is?’

Andrea decided not to incite yet more argument by insisting that Ryan, though so laid-back he was almost horizontal sometimes, was perfectly capable of babysitting Chloe, had they asked him, and certainly didn’t need babysitting himself. ‘Sophie and Ryan are out, if you recall,’ she repeated what she’d told him when they’d made the weeknight restaurant booking, which apparently suited Jonathan’s evening appointment schedule. ‘As I also mentioned, Mum and Chloe will be over at Sally’s watching animated films. She’s only just back from visiting her mum, but she’s usually reliable, so … we’re good to go.’

Jonathan nodded, still not looking exactly overjoyed, Andrea noted. ‘See you later, then.’ She forced a smile and turned quickly away, a peculiar knot in her stomach as she wondered whether he’d rather not see her later.

How does she do it? Sally wondered, noticing Andrea heading back to her house as she emerged from her own cottage two doors down to deposit a recyclable. How did a full-time teacher with three children always manage to look so fantastically put together when her clothes were thrown on? Literally. Sally had watched Andrea select her outfit in awe on the odd occasion she’d called for her to walk to school, rummaging blindly in her wardrobe, her mind on her family, then tugging on whatever came to hand.

The result: casual, yet sophisticated with minimal effort. Who else their age in the village could wear retro Oxfam and get away with it? Her make-up would be minimal, too, Sally knew. She sighed and turned back to her door. No blending foundation, eyeshadow, or blusher for Andrea. ‘Until someone invents a one-pot potion one can apply whilst one pees, my face goes au naturel, broken veins, blotches and all,’ she’d said once. The amazing thing was Andrea wasn’t conceited. She was just plain pretty. ‘Effortless,’ Sally’s husband had once observed, his eyes roving over her as Andrea had circulated at her birthday party, ‘like she’s not trying too hard.’

‘Yes, well, a woman whose man obviously adores her wouldn’t need to try too hard, would she?’ Sally had retorted, watching peeved over her drink as Jonathan had walked up behind Andrea to plant a soft kiss on the nape of her neck, naturally, as lovers do. She hadn’t meant to be bitchy. Andrea was her friend. A good friend, but the thing was Sally had been trying to compete with the twenty-something slut she absolutely knew Nick was having an affair with at the time. She couldn’t hope to, of course, not without surgery.

Dragging a hand over her own blotchy face, Sally tried to quell a pang of jealousy at Andrea’s apparent happiness. Things weren’t quite as picture-perfect as the fulfilled mother and baby scene would have one believe, Sally was aware. Chloe’s rosy cheeks were more to do with teething problems than contentment, Andrea had said a while back, confiding that, though she loved Chloe fiercely and never regretted for a second having her, sometimes a toddler on top of two teenagers seemed one child too many. Sally tugged in a shuddery breath, her hand straying to her midriff.

She wished Andrea hadn’t confided, at least not that particular snippet. She’d regretted it immediately, distraught that she’d been so careless of Sally’s feelings around pregnancy and motherhood. Andrea was like that, sympathetic and thoughtful.

Sally wished she’d been able to confide in Andrea then that her sham of a marriage had reached the tit-for-tat stage. That in some misguided attempt to get Nick’s attention, get anyone’s attention, she’d offered herself like a tart on a plate to the first man who’d noticed her. She’d toyed with the idea of telling Andrea, but her pride wouldn’t let her – and she’d been hoping, she supposed, that her marriage might survive.

It hadn’t, of course, because apparently she’d ended it. Hah! She follows her husband on a business trip she knows damn well is all pleasure and she’d ended the marriage? Sally’s anger rose afresh, like bile in her throat she couldn’t spit out. Just as it had when she’d caught him red-handed.

She’d met her illicit lover that same night, in her hotel bar. After watching – like some sad heroine in a rom-com – Nick engaging in oral foreplay with his little tramp as he’d entered her apartment, Sally had returned to her hotel to try to wash the pain from her heart. She’d noticed him after a while, the man she’d met earlier when checking in. He’d seemed pleasant and easy-going. He was definitely easy on the eye. And there he was again, apparently also on his own. She’d joined him. Why not? she’d thought, several wines bolstering her confidence. He’d been amiable, receptive. And she used him, shamelessly. Yes, she had needed to be reassured, desired. Oh, and how. They were ships that passed in the night, that was all. She’d convinced herself of that as she slipped silently from his room the next morning. Two lonely people seeking brief solace from the storm of their respective rocky relationships. No one would ever know but her.

She hadn’t wanted anyone to know then. She’d still wanted Nick. She’d even considered sharing him. Nick hadn’t wanted her though. Sally swallowed hard. Had she really thought so little of herself?

When he had found out, when she’d blurted it out in her anger and frustration during the awful row they’d had a week ago, he’d packed his bags and left and she’d run to her mother’s for a shoulder to cry on. In truth, she was glad he knew. She’d wanted him to be angry, distraught, destroyed. Even then, she’d been clinging to the hope that another man finding her attractive might rekindle her husband’s desire. Pathetic. She’d handed him his get-out card. Nick’s reaction had been to finally, cruelly, crush any hope she might have had.

One mistake she’d made. One tiny mistake, her pain driving her. ‘Can you really blame me?’ she’d asked him.

Oh, yes. The adage ‘it meant nothing’ only applies to men it seems. ‘Women don’t do emotionally detached sex. They give themselves body and soul to a man,’ Nick had spat, quoting back what she’d told him when she’d discovered the nauseating truth about his affair when it had first started. She’d been hoping to make him see how deeply he’d hurt her, sleeping with his slut, even when she’d been pregnant.

The look in his eye had been one of utter contempt. Sally stifled a sob as she recalled how he’d banged furiously around the bedroom, crashing drawers and slamming cupboards, stuffing clothes in bags, as if he were the injured party.

And then, he’d gone. Permanently.

What comes around goes around, Sally supposed, her heart wrenching afresh as she stood in the cold light of a new day feeling lonelier than she’d ever felt. ‘Cheaters’ don’t change their spots, she should have known. Nick had been married when she’d met him, after all. All he’d ever really wanted was an affair, uncomplicated sex, carnal desires satiated, no strings. It had been satiating too. Hot hungry sex, fired by the illicit thrill of it. Lips eagerly seeking each other’s, tongues searching, limbs entwining. The piquant taste of forbidden fruit as he’d made urgent love to her. And then, the bittersweet taste of tears when he’d left.

Sally hadn’t been able to let him go, though. She’d been far too addicted to the man, too intoxicated by his touch to give him up. She hadn’t had to try too hard to keep him back then. She’d been younger. She’d loved him. She’d wanted him, and she’d won him. Nick had eventually left his wife and his children. He hadn’t wanted more children. She’d known that, too, deep down. Shackles with which to tie him down.

Sally heaved out a sigh that came from her soul, and then squeezed her eyes shut tight, to no avail. The tears came anyway. Great, dollopy tears, rolling down her cheeks to splat onto her breast, no matter that she’d already sobbed until she’d retched dry tears and thought she simply couldn’t cry any more.

It had been hard finally realising she had lost him. Sally ran a hand over the soft round of her tummy. It had been harder still losing her baby.