A Summer of Secrets Read online

  Rich reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘I would,’ he said.

  ***

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ admitted Annie, clearing away the remains of the vegetable lasagne her husband, Jake, had made for dinner. ‘I mean, I thought –’

  Portia nodded as she sliced off a sliver of Stilton from the hunk on the board in front of her. ‘That there’d be loads of money left?’

  Annie grimaced. ‘Not that it’s any of my business. But I merely assumed –’

  ‘As did we all,’ confessed Portia, nibbling the cheese. ‘But how wrong we were.’

  ‘Didn’t your father ever hint at money problems?’ Jake asked. ‘I mean, surely this has been going on for years. He must’ve known it would all come to a head at some point.’

  Portia shrugged. ‘He never said a word. But then he was a bit like Jasper in the sense that he didn’t like dealing with unpleasant things. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just stuck his head in the sand and hoped all the problems would miraculously disappear.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Sell the manor?’

  Portia grimaced. ‘Not if I can help it. Even if it is going to cost thousands to put it right.’

  ‘God. I feel really guilty,’ puffed Annie. ‘I should’ve kept a better eye on the place. But with the kids, the shop, and the party-planning business –’

  ‘It’s not your responsibility. Jasper and I should’ve been up here at least once a month.’

  Annie tutted. ‘There’s no way you could possibly have fitted that into your work schedule, plus visiting your dad in the nursing home. But with hindsight we could’ve asked someone else – someone conscientious and trustworthy – like Joe, the window cleaner – to keep an eye on the place. At least he would’ve been able to attend to the little jobs as they cropped up.’

  ‘It’s no one’s fault except mine and Jasper’s,’ reiterated Portia.

  ‘Hmph,’ harrumphed Annie. ‘I know Jasper is your brother, but I honestly can’t tell you how furious I am with him, leaving you to deal with all of this. Especially after everything else that’s happened to you recently.’

  ‘Would you really have expected anything else of him?’ asked Portia, swiping up her glass of red wine. ‘Jasper is, and always has been, concerned with nothing other than Jasper.’

  ‘So, any idea what you’ll do with the manor?’ Jake ventured.

  Portia set down her glass and twizzled the stem. ‘None at all at the moment. On the plus side, given that it’s months since I last saw it, it doesn’t look half as bad as I’d imagined it might. On the downside, though, it still needs bucketloads of cash throwing at it to bring it up to anywhere near a decent standard.’

  ‘You could try the banks. The building is part of the country’s heritage. They should be happy to help preserve it.’

  Portia shook her head. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think they’re so community-minded. Without a solid business plan and at least some form of guaranteed income to repay a loan, I can’t imagine they’d touch me with a bargepole.’

  ‘But with no job, how are you …? Sorry to be nauseatingly practical, but how are you going to survive?’

  Portia lifted her glass again and knocked back another slug of wine. ‘I put the London flat on the market yesterday. It’s mortgaged but should still realise a decent profit. That’ll tide me over for a while.’

  Annie’s eyes grew wide. ‘You’re selling the flat? So does that mean you’ll be staying in Buttersley?’

  Portia’s mouth stretched into a broad grin. ‘It does, Mrs O’Donnell. For the time being, at least. I think I need to … what do they call it? … regroup.’

  ‘Well, regroup away,’ Annie gushed, clapping her hands together. ‘That’s fantastic news. But only if we see you at least once a day.’

  ‘Keep feeding me like this and you’ll soon be sick of the sight of me,’ Portia giggled. ‘Now, if you two good people don’t mind, I’d best be making tracks. I’m absolutely shattered.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, what with the drive up and all that cleaning this afternoon. And I bet you’re not sleeping properly. Why don’t you stay here tonight? I know the thought of two squealing kids bouncing on your bed at six in the morning isn’t exactly appealing, but it might be better than being on your own.’

  Portia shook her head. ‘No, honestly. I’ll be fine. The cottage is looking great now, thanks to all the elbow-grease we’ve invested. Thanks again for that, by the way.’

  ‘My pleasure. But at least let me drive you back.’

  ‘I will not. You’ve done more than enough for me today. The walk will only take fifteen minutes. And I could do with a bit of fresh air.’

  Annie pulled a face. ‘Am I fussing?’

  ‘Totally,’ chuckled Portia. ‘But it’s lovely to know someone cares.’

  Although not of a religious nature, walking back to Buttersley Manor, Portia thanked the powers that be for blessing her with such a fantastic friend as Annie. She really didn’t know how she would’ve survived the last few weeks without her. And when she’d said it was nice to know someone cared, she’d meant it. It was a long time since she’d felt anyone had her best interests at heart. Not that she’d always held such things as important. Until a few weeks ago, flitting around some of the world’s most notorious countries, putting her life on the line to ensure the best TV coverage possible, had been her number-one priority. But following the incident in Afghanistan there had been a seismic shift in her priorities. In a complete fluke of fate, she’d vacated the spot where a bomb had gone off less than an hour afterwards. Sixteen people had been killed. She could so easily have been one of them, making her realise that life was precious. And far too short to spend amongst death and destruction every day. For years she’d felt like she was doing something important; making a difference; keeping the world informed of the plethora of atrocities taking place. But enough was enough. She’d done her bit. Was ready to pass that responsibility to someone else. When she’d handed in her notice, her boss had accused her of going soft in her old age. But Portia didn’t care. Rather than burning buildings, gunfire, and what she had once deemed as excitement, she now craved fresh air, birdsong, a calm, quiet “normal” life – with all the mundane things that entailed.

  She swiped a tear from her cheek as an image of her father suddenly popped into her head. Olivier Pinkington-Smythe had been a giant of a man and Portia had adored him. At six foot six, with a booming voice you heard minutes before the man himself appeared, a flamboyantly mismatched wardrobe, and an inability to take life seriously, he’d been a colourful, popular character – the archetypal eccentric aristocrat. Right up until five years ago when his beloved wife died suddenly of a brain haemorrhage. After that Olivier had slid steadily downhill. His head of jet-black hair, previously without a trace of grey, turned lily-white in a matter of weeks. Shortly afterwards he started to forget things. Always verging on the scatty, this failing had initially been attributed to his wife’s absence. She had been the more pragmatic of the two, always keeping him right. But when Portia received a call from Mrs Gates in the village shop one day, informing her that Olivier had been hammering on the door at three in the morning wishing to purchase some butter, she knew he couldn’t possibly be left alone, rattling around the enormous manor. And she couldn’t stay and care for him. Her job meant she was only ever in the country fleetingly. And given she wouldn’t rely on Jasper to look after a snail, never mind a human being, she’d concluded the best thing for all concerned was to find a suitable nursing home for their father.

  After weeks of searching she eventually settled on The Meadows in Derbyshire – ironically, a converted stately home. Clean and comfortable, with scarily efficient, pleasant staff, it came highly recommended. Olivier’s room had been large, airy and beautifully furnished, with spectacular views across the rolling countryside.

  Needless to say, all this luxurious comfort hadn’t come cheap, but the costs had been efficiently covered by the monthly direct debit set up from her father’s account. What Portia had only just discovered, however, was that if Olivier had lived a short while longer, the account would have been completely depleted, leaving her with no other option but to remove him from The Meadows. Well, that was one good thing, she mused, as she wound her way through the village. At least the poor soul had been spared that humiliation.

  Chapter Six

  ‘So what do you say, mate?’

  At a picnic table outside the Duck Inn on Buttersley’s village green, with a pint of shandy and a packet of tomato-ketchup crisps, Joe didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’m not sure, Phil. I’ll have to think it over.’

  Joe’s old school friend gawped at him. ‘What’s there to think about? Tenerife. Glorious sunshine, hot chicks, loads of booze, and the opportunity to rake in the dosh. What else could you possibly want?’

  Joe scratched his head. ‘I know. But it’s ages since I did any DJ-ing. All the equipment will have changed. It’ll be all high-tech now. I wouldn’t have a clue how to operate it.’

  ‘You’ll soon pick it up. And anyway, that stuff’s not important. What is important – and you can’t learn from an instruction booklet – is the patter. Yours is brilliant, mate. And you always knew how to put the best tunes together; how to get the party going.’

  Joe reached for his glass and took a swig of lager. ‘But what about the window-cleaning round? I’ve built it up nicely. It’d be a shame to let it go.’

  ‘Get someone to cover it for a bit, until you decide if you want to stay over there.’

  Joe bit his lip. It was certainly food for thought. Phil’s uncle had just bought a bar out there. Phil, a qualified chef, would be providing the hungry, holidaying Brits with burgers and chips and wanted Joe to join him as the resident DJ.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘You know you want to.’

  Joe snorted with laughter. Phil was right. Part of him did want to. After his narrow escape from the Fielding residence the other day, he’d begun to wonder if his nerves were still up to the job here. Fortunately, that little escapade had ended without any major drama. By some miraculous fluke, he’d parked his ladder directly outside Penelope’s bedroom window, thereby permitting him a nifty escape – albeit in the buff. Penelope had tossed his clothes out after him. Once on the ground, Joe bundled them up and retreated to the side of the house where, with a thundering heart, he made himself respectable before snatching up his bucket and ladder and sauntering down the street looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  It had been reminiscent of a Carry On movie. Only not half as funny. In reality it had been too close for comfort. In such a small place as Buttersley, one slip-up like that and he’d be ruined. In fact, it was a minor miracle he hadn’t been rumbled already.

  But it wasn’t just that near-miss that had set Joe thinking. Even before his visit to Penelope, the realisation that his opinion of women had morphed into a not particularly healthy one disturbed him, leading him to conclude that he couldn’t behave like this much longer. He’d had his fun; savoured his revenge – however misguided it might have been. But he’d now reached the gloomy realisation that no matter how many wives of rich men he bedded; no matter how much revenge he tasted – his behaviour had sunk to base level. Still smarting at the hurt Gina’s cheating had caused him, he was merely adding to someone else’s infidelity. Something which he not only despised himself for, but which, he now realised, would never erase the pain of her leaving. She had been the love of his life. And nobody would ever replace her.

  Joe had met Gina when he’d been labouring on the building sites. He and the lads often popped into the local greasy spoon at lunchtime where she worked as a waitress. Given the remarkably average food, she provided a pleasant distraction for the visiting males. Joe’s heart melted the first time he laid eyes on her. Dressed in cut-off black trousers and pink T-shirt, a gingham apron around her waist, she’d been clearing a table. And with her long, chestnut hair swept up in a high ponytail, she wouldn’t have looked out of place in an episode of Happy Days.

  ‘Okay if we sit here?’ he asked, given it was the only unoccupied table.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, gazing at him with huge hazel eyes, flecked with, Joe couldn’t help but notice, glints of amber. ‘Just give me a minute and I’ll have it ready for you.’

  Ignoring the lewd, juvenile comments this remark inspired from his colleagues, Joe nodded politely, standing aside while she worked.

  ‘There you go,’ she announced less than sixty seconds later. Then, whipping a notepad and pencil from her apron pocket, asked, ‘What can I get you?’

  Again, the lads resorted to a round of lascivious comments as they jostled into the plastic-clad banquettes.

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Joe. ‘Show a bit of respect.’

  The lads calmed down and the girl flashed him a grateful smile.

  And so events continued for another couple of weeks, with Joe’s excitement levels soaring the nearer the minutes ticked to lunchtime. Visiting the café became the highlight of his day. Or, more precisely, seeing the waitress became the highlight of his day. She lit up the room, meaning Joe no longer noticed the ripped plastic seats; the globules of grease clinging to every surface; or the acrid smell of chip fat.

  His fascination growing increasingly intense, he even ventured in one Saturday – his day off. The place, much to his amazement, was heaving. But rather than greeting him with her usual sunny smile, the waitress appeared decidedly harassed.

  ‘Bad day?’ he ventured, kicking himself for stating the obvious.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Honestly, it’s nice to see a friendly face, even if I haven’t got time to talk to you. The other waitress rang in sick so I’m on my own. And as you can see, it’s slightly manic.’

  An overwhelming urge to grab her hand and whisk her away from the mayhem rocketed through Joe. But of course he couldn’t. Not least because she’d think he was off his rocker – or worse. ‘Let me help,’ he insisted instead, shrugging off his jacket. ‘I’ve waited on loads of tables in the past. My auntie had a fish restaurant in Whitby when I was younger and I used to help out in the school holidays.’

  Her hazel eyes grew wide. ‘But I couldn’t let you –’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know if the owner would –’

  ‘Don’t worry about the owner. I don’t want paying. I just want to help.’

  ‘Hey, how much longer are our burgers going to be?’ shouted a fat man from the corner.

  The waitress looked from the man to Joe, and from Joe to the man. ‘Oh, what the hell,’ she huffed, thrusting two plates from her hands to Joe’s. ‘Table seven. Beside the window. And then you can clear table twelve and reset it. Cutlery’s in the box next to the till.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘It’s Gina,’ she giggled. ‘And you really don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for.’

  At the dazzling smile she flashed him, Joe really didn’t care.

  The shift proved more manic than anything Joe had experienced in Whitby. But on the positive side, he’d been so busy, he hardly noticed the time. The four intervening hours flew by and, the last table cleared, Joe shut the door and turned the sign to ‘Closed’.

  ‘Phew. I don’t know how I would’ve coped without you today,’ Gina sighed, flopping down onto the nearest chair and slipping off her pink ballet pumps. ‘I think that’s the busiest it’s ever been.’

  ‘Well, Whitby was certainly never like that,’ Joe chuckled. ‘I must admit, though, I’ve quite enjoyed it. But I don’t know how you put up with all the sexist comments. I could’ve punched those two guys earlier for speaking to you like that.’

  ‘Oh, you get used to it,’ she replied, bending over and massaging her feet. ‘Especially when you do it seven days a week.’

  ‘Seven days?’ Joe’s eyes grew wide. ‘How come you don’t have a day off?’

  ‘Oh, I could if I wanted. But I need the cash. I’m going travelling next year. South America. So I’m desperately saving every penny.’

  Joe’s heart plummeted. So she wouldn’t be around long. And it was unlikely she’d be travelling alone. ‘You going with your boyfriend?’ he asked, dreading the answer before the words had even left his lips.

  She tilted up her head, her gaze fusing with his. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

  They’d gone for a drink after that, when Joe had learnt that she was twenty, had spent a couple of years training as a ballet dancer before the onset of ankle trouble, and was planning on signing up for a degree in business studies once she got back from her travels.

  ‘Wow,’ he exclaimed. ‘You make me seem pretty boring in comparison.’

  ‘I can’t imagine there’s anything boring about you,’ she said, before stretching across the table and kissing him.

  They’d dated regularly after that – cinema; bowling; walks by the river, arms wrapped around one another. Then a couple of months into their relationship, Gina got a new job.

  ‘It’s in that really posh restaurant in town,’ she gushed, bubbling with excitement. ‘And the hourly rate is nearly twice as much as the café, which means I should be able to bring my travel date forward.’

  While pretending to be pleased for her, Joe’s stomach clenched. He didn’t want her to leave his sight for a second, never mind flit across to the other side of the world. He wanted to chain her to him – for ever. But as heavenly as that sounded, he knew he couldn’t. Not least because he’d probably be locked up for unreasonable behaviour. The other – more rational – alternative was for him to accompany her on her travels. But Gina hadn’t so much as hinted at that, and besides, no matter how much Joe loved her – and he truly did – the idea of traipsing around hot, foreign countries, with a dicky tummy, blistered feet, folk who didn’t speak a word of English, no decent cups of tea, and all sorts of dodgy bugs lurking in your trainers, had somehow never appealed. No, he’d just have to hope that, by then, they’d have formed such a strong bond that she would – at some point – come back to him.