Читать книгу A Winter's Wish - Alice Ross - Страница 12

Chapter Two

‘You look nice, dear.’

Ella Hargreaves bit back a satisfied smile as she wandered into the kitchen of Stanway House, where her mum sat at the table with a mug of tea and a copy of the local newspaper. ‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘But it’s only an old pair of jeans and a tatty T-shirt.’

From behind her reading glasses, Mona Hargreaves arched a dubious brow. ‘There’s nothing old or tatty from where I’m sitting. And I hope you’re putting a cardigan on. You’ll catch your death in that top.’

Ella gave a dismissive toss of her long chestnut locks. ‘I’m babysitting, Mum. Which means I’ll be indoors all evening.’

Mona narrowed her eyes. ‘Just watch what you’re doing, that’s all.’

Ella planted a kiss on the older woman’s plump cheek. ‘You worry too much,’ she said, before uttering something about being back about eleven, and making a hasty retreat. Honestly, as much as she loved her mum, it did unsettle her sometimes just how perspicacious the woman could be: like she had x-ray vision that drilled right through to Ella’s mind. Because, as glib as Ella’s reply had been to the “looking nice” comment, she’d actually invested a great deal of effort preparing for this evening.

In addition to the hour banishing every one of her natural, much-hated curls with straighteners, she’d spent an age applying her make-up, including the new glittery green eyeliner and peachy lip gloss she’d bought earlier in the week. By far her most successful purchase during her shopping trip to Harrogate, though, had been the pink push-up bra, which gave her cleavage a boost she previously would only have thought possible with a surgeon’s knife and some silicone implants. Showcasing her newly boosted assets in a low-cut lilac T-shirt, and her long slender legs in faded jeans with the requisite rip at the knee, Ella looped a woollen scarf around her neck and tugged on her khaki parka in the hall, before making her way to The Cedars, excitement swirling about her stomach.

Having left school after her A-levels in the summer, Ella had decided to “take a year out”.

‘Only a year, mind,’ her mum insisted. ‘If you haven’t sorted yourself out by next August, you can enrol in a business studies course. There are always lots of jobs in offices.’

Plenty of jobs in offices there might be, but Ella didn’t want any of them. The thought of pushing bits of paper around for the rest of her life made her nauseous. But she honestly had no idea what she wanted to do. Unlike her siblings. Harry was out in Papua New harr doing something with anteaters for his PhD; Honor and Mark were both studying medicine; Robert was ploughing his way through to becoming a barrister; and Olly had just started his architect’s course. Add to this the fact that her father was a physics professor at Leeds University and her mother a biomedical scientist, and Ella could not have felt like a bigger underachiever if she’d had the words tattooed in neon across her forehead.

While her siblings sailed through life attracting top grades with a magnetic-like force, thriving on the pressure of tests and exams, Ella had been a jittering bag of nerves at every one of her A-level sittings, scraping a measly B and two C’s – embarrassingly not enough for her to be offered a place on the journalism course she’d been considering. The look of disappointment on her parents’ faces when she’d informed them of said results would stay with her for a very long time.

And so Ella had more or less resigned herself to being a failure. And, by taking a year out, knew she was merely postponing the inevitable. At some point she’d have to bite the bullet and enter the world of proper work – earn enough money to support herself. But doing what? So tired was she of contemplating that question that she’d neatly bundled it up and lodged it in an “only to be visited when absolutely necessary” crevice of her mind. As naff as it sounded, she’d convinced herself that this year was all about “finding herself”. Or, at the very least, stumbling across something she derived a soupçon of satisfaction from.

‘You can’t sit around doing nothing for a year, though,’ her mum proclaimed, the moment Ella’s exams had finished. ‘You’ll have to find a job.’

So she had. She’d headed straight up to Buttersley Manor to enquire about work, and the following day began waitressing in Annie O’Donnell’s tearoom. Ella loved working there. The entire manor house, owned by Annie’s best friend, Portia, had recently been rescued from its dilapidated state, and beautifully refurbished and restored. It now offered a range of immensely popular courses throughout the year, including photography, cookery, dancing, and writing. Those visitors, combined with locals and day-trippers, all swarming to the Stables Tearoom for freshly squeezed orange juice, frothy hot chocolate, and Annie’s mouth-watering cakes, conspired to make the place a hive of activity every day of the week.

Ella enjoyed the buzz, the banter, the generous tips and last, but certainly not least, the fascinating mix of individuals. People came from all over the country to attend the courses – interesting people who seemed to know stuff about everything: politics, books, music. People who’d travelled widely and had fascinating tales to relate.

Not that Ella ever joined in any of these conversations. For one thing, she was never invited to, only mustering snippets as she set down lattes or scones, or cleared a nearby table. But mainly because she couldn’t join in. Her knowledge of politics stretched only as far as the name of the prime minister; the only serious books she’d ever read were those forced on her by her teachers; and she didn’t think any of the manor’s well-heeled visitors would be remotely interested in the latest One Direction album. As for being widely travelled, the furthest she’d ever ventured was to London on a school trip. Yet another disadvantage of coming from a large family, she concluded. With six kids for her parents to lug around, not to mention the expense, holidays to Disneyland or Spain had been experienced vicariously through mates at school.

Nonetheless, Ella enjoyed collecting these oddments of conversation – these insights into other people’s lives. Not, she was aware, that this little sideline would sit well on any proper job application form. But as she didn’t have any proper job application forms to complete at the moment, she wouldn’t waste time worrying about her future tonight. Indeed, she couldn’t have worried about it even if she’d wanted to. Because she was far, far too excited. And even now – five months on – still ever so slightly chuffed with herself for exploiting this opportunity when it first arose …

One day, when she’d been working at the tearoom for a few weeks, Ella had been taking a bag of rubbish to the bins outside when she’d overheard Annie on her mobile.

‘Oh no. What a pain … No. Honestly. It’s fine. Don’t you worry … Let me know when you get back … Okay. Bye.’

‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, just as Ella appeared round the corner. ‘Oops. Sorry, Ella. That wasn’t aimed at you. I’ve just had a call from Miranda, my partner in the party-planning side of the business. She’s been to Portugal for the week and was due to fly back this afternoon in time to supervise a big birthday party. But now her flight’s delayed, which means I’ll have to do it. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but Jake’s in Glasgow at a book-signing and I don’t have anybody to look after the kids.’

Ella’s stomach leapt. ‘I can look after them if you like,’ she gushed, hoping she didn’t sound overly keen.

Annie’s emerald-green eyes grew wide. ‘Oh. I didn’t mean … That is, you don’t have to—’

‘It’s no problem. Honestly,’ blustered Ella, battling the urge to jump up and down. ‘I’m not doing anything else tonight and it’ll be fun. Your kids are lovely.’

Annie’s pretty features twisted into a dubious expression. ‘Hmm. Hold on to that thought for as long as it lasts. Are you really sure you don’t mind?’

Mind? Does a pig mind muck? Ella almost replied. ‘Of course not,’ she said instead. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

‘Seven o’clock okay?’

‘Perfect,’ said Ella. In oh so many ways.

That had been her first time babysitting for Annie. And her services had been called upon many times since. But tonight was one of those special nights.

By the time Ella reached The Cedars, her heart was pounding so much she was convinced the effect must be evident in her push-up bra.

She rang the brass doorbell. Annie answered it.

‘Wow,’ she exclaimed, the moment Ella stepped inside and shrugged off her parka. ‘You look stunning. You meeting up with your mates later?’

‘Er, yes,’ lied Ella.

‘Come on in,’ breezed Annie, whisking around and marching across the tiled hall. ‘Thomas has been in the foulest mood all day and fell asleep half an hour ago, so you’ll be pleased to know you have one less to deal with. I’ve told Sophie she can stay up until half past eight. And there’s plenty for you to eat. There’s chocolate cake in the fridge, and cheese—’

‘And don’t forget my homemade bread,’ came a deep male voice from behind.

Ella whipped round to find Jake striding down the corridor behind her, looking even sexier than usual in black jeans and a slim-fitting grey jumper, which showed off his toned torso to perfection.

Ella’s heart skipped a beat, her shaking legs almost caved, and her throat went dry. ‘Hi, Jake,’ she managed to croak.

*

‘I’ve ordered a brochure for St Hild’s Girls School,’ Bea announced over their Chinese takeaway.

Maddy had been fractious all day, mercifully wearing herself out by six o’clock. With her soundly asleep, Stan had suggested the takeaway as a treat for him and Bea. And, for what seemed like the first time in eons, Bea had actually deemed his suggestion a good one, even going so far as to open a bottle of his favourite Riesling to accompany the food.

A tiny part of Stan dared to hope they might enjoy a relaxing baby-free evening, along the lines of how they used to spend Sunday evenings in Life Before Maddy, or LBM, as he secretly termed it. He should’ve known better.

‘Schools,’ he spluttered, almost choking on his wine. ‘But she’s only nine months old.’

‘Precisely,’ confirmed Bea, stabbing an anaemic-looking prawn with her fork. ‘Some people reserve a place before their child’s even born. If we’re not quick, her year will be full.’

Stan ripped a sheet of kitchen tissue from the roll on the table and dabbed at his mouth. One of his colleagues whose daughter went to St Hild’s was constantly pleading poverty due to the astronomical fees. And his wife was a GP! How on earth Bea thought they could afford such an extravagance when she’d packed her job in, he was more than intrigued to know.

‘How much are the fees?’ he asked innocently, opting for the tread-lightly approach rather than the confrontational. The latter would undoubtedly lead to yet another row, which, after spending all day assembling Maddy’s new wardrobe, he didn’t have the energy for. Nor did he want to waste the thirty quid he’d spent on the takeaway, which would inevitably end up in the bin if Bea kicked off again.

He watched as her slender arm stretched across the pine table and plucked a prawn cracker from the packet, her emerald engagement ring glinting in the overhanging kitchen light.

‘Well, it’s not the cheapest,’ she conceded. ‘But it’s a fantastic school. Think what a great start it would be for her, Stan. You only have to look at all the successful people who’ve been there to see how having the name behind you helps you get on. And imagine all the influential contacts she could make.’

Stan scooped up a forkful of Chow Mein, carefully considering his reply. He didn’t believe in all that public school crap – the nepotism, the elitism. He’d gone to the local comp and worked his butt off to get where he was. There was no substitute for hard graft in his book.

‘I’ve heard great things about Buttersley Primary,’ he ventured. ‘A couple of guys from work send their kids there, and they’re always saying what a great little school it is.’

Bea’s gaze dropped back to her plate. Stan could almost see her brain working out how best to respond. God, it was like a game of chess: each player attempting to second-guess their opponent’s reaction, before daring to make a move. It wasn’t that long ago they used to be so relaxed in one another’s company, tell each other about their day, bitch about work colleagues, giggle at the pathetic office politics surrounding them. Now they were like two adversaries – strangers with completely opposite goals.

‘I’m sure it’s a lovely school,’ she eventually batted back. ‘It’s just … not what I want for my daughter.’

Stan flinched. ‘Er, I think you mean our daughter. And it would be lovely for her to go to the local school. She’d have her little mates around her. Have them over for tea. All that sort of stuff. If she goes to St Hild’s we’ll never be out of the car ferrying her backwards and forwards, and—’

Bea set down her knife and fork with a great sense of purpose. ‘Well, if you’d rather not put yourself out for the sake of our daughter’s future, then I’ll do all the ferrying.’

Stan sighed inwardly. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he’d realised he shouldn’t have added that bit about the ferrying. But the fact that St Hild’s would mean a forty-mile round trip every day wasn’t the main reason he didn’t want Maddy to go there. He honestly did think it would be lovely for her to feel part of Buttersley. And it wasn’t as if the village school was full of glue-sniffing, drug-snorting reprobates. Perfectly nice children went there, from respectable families. Surely that would suffice until Maddy was eleven at least. But before he could bolster his case, Bea had rocketed off on a super-charged tangent.

‘And what about horse riding? Or tennis?’

Stan shook his head in an attempt to clear it. ‘What are you talking about now?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Our daughter, of course. I think it’s important we decide what extra-curricular activities we’d like her to be involved in.’

Stan set down his fork and scratched his head. ‘But she can’t even walk yet. How on earth do you expect her to hold a tennis racket?’

Bea gave an exasperated tut. ‘Honestly. Sometimes I think you’re not remotely interested in Maddy’s future.’

Stan gawped. ‘Of course I am. But don’t you think it’s a bit early to be talking about all that stuff? You’ll be booking the church for her wedding next.’

In one swift move, Bea scraped back her chair and thrust to her feet. ‘Now you’re being facetious. And the way I’ve been feeling lately, that’s the last thing I’ll be doing,’ she huffed, before strutting out of the room.

Stan pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, surveying the remains of the barely touched meal. Thirty quid down the drain. Precisely the direction in which his marriage appeared to be heading.

He knocked back the remains of his wine, and poured another glass before starting to clear away the detritus. He heard Bea stomping up the stairs, a couple of loud sniffs informing him she was crying. He could follow her up and apologise – although what he’d be apologising for, he had no idea. But he couldn’t face another showdown. It didn’t matter what he said lately, it was wrong. The whole thing was wearing him down, sapping his energy, making him miserable. And miserable was the one thing he never, in a million years, would’ve thought Bea would ever make him …

Stan had met Bea in Thailand. She’d been on a gap year after university, exploring the Orient with three girlfriends. Stan had been there on a fortnight’s holiday with the lads. He’d bypassed uni, failing to see the point of three years messing about, only to emerge with the same meaningless bit of paper as thousands of other kids, plus a mountain of debt. He’d known exactly what he wanted to do – be an accountant – and so he’d gone for it. Following impressive A-level results, he’d accepted a position as an accounts clerk at a small, local company.

He’d used the opportunity as a springboard, taking advantage of the excellent training package. He worked hard and studied hard, sailing through the mountain of exams with flying colours. In fact, so focused had he been on his career, that girls hadn’t really featured in his life. Oh, he went out with the lads at the weekend and had the occasional – very occasional – one-night stand. And he and the lads went on holiday every summer – a booze-ridden couple of weeks in Marbella, Magaluf or Marmaris, or anywhere else beginning with M with cheap booze and plenty of totty. But, other than that, he didn’t really have much to do with the opposite sex. A couple of his mates were going out with girls they’d paired up with at school, already, at the tender age of twenty-two, talking about mortgages and babies. Stan hadn’t been interested in any of that. Until he met Bea.

It had been on the beach, under the heat of the midday Thai sun. Stan and one of his mates had been messing about with a Frisbee, which accidentally hurtled straight into Bea’s neck as she came out of the sea.

‘Ow,’ she yelled, holding the Frisbee in one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. ‘That bloody hurt.’

Stan opened his mouth to apologise, but no words came out. He’d been completely bowled over by the vision before him – the lean, toned body with skin the colour of golden honey; the scraps of red bikini, concealing bits he couldn’t even bring himself to think about; the cascade of dripping wet raven hair; the flashing huge green eyes—

‘Watch what you’re doing,’ she huffed, flinging the Frisbee back at him. And off she’d strutted up the beach. Leaving a speechless Stan gawping after her.

‘Phwoar, mate. You missed a chance there,’ sniggered his mate. ‘She’s drop-dead gorgeous.’

She was drop-dead gorgeous but Stan had the distinct feeling she was also way out of his league. ‘Seemed a bit of a snotty cow to me,’ he replied.

‘I’d be snotty as well if someone had almost sliced my head off,’ his mate went on. ‘You should go after her. Buy her a drink.’

‘Nah,’ said Stan. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to the others and crack open a couple of cans. I’m parched.’

And that, he’d thought, had been the end of it. Until, two nights later, they were in the local nightclub.

He first spotted her as she made her way to the bar. Wearing a tiny pair of white shorts and a pink camisole. With her jet-black hair in two long plaits, she’d looked about twelve. But, remembering the luscious body in the bikini, was obviously a fully grown woman. Stan pretended he hadn’t seen her, until his mate piped up, ‘Hey, isn’t that Frisbee girl over there? The one from the beach?’

Stan cast a cursory look in the direction of the bar. ‘Dunno. I can’t remember what she looked like.’

‘Well, I can. That’s definitely her. And she’s clocked you. She’s looking right over here.’

Stan’s heart skipped a beat as he turned his head once again and met her emerald-green gaze. But the brief moment was broken as a crowd of rowdy German guys barged to the bar.

Stan did his best not to think about her after that. Larking about with the lads, he knocked back more than his fair share of lager and was on his way back from the loo when he spotted Frisbee girl hemmed in a corner, one of the rowdy Germans leering over her. As inebriated as he was, Stan could tell it was not a place she wanted to be.

Without even thinking of the consequences, he weaved his way over to them.

‘You ready to go?’ he asked her, hoping he sounded more assertive than he felt.

Her eyes grew large. ‘Er, yes. Yes, I am,’ she replied with a shaky smile.

‘She vill be leaving with me,’ the German informed him.

‘I don’t think so, mate,’ retorted Stan, wondering how he hadn’t noticed the guy was a good foot taller than him and twice as broad, before he’d had this sudden attack of gallantness. The German sucked in a breath and straightened his back, adding several more inches to his already impressive form.

‘Maybe we should ask her who she wants to leave with,’ Stan piped up, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking half as much as his legs.

They both turned to the girl. Looking completely terrified, she grabbed hold of Stan’s hand.

‘I’d like to go now, please,’ she said.

Stan gave her a reassuring wink and, before the German could grow even taller, they scuttled out of the nightclub.

‘Thanks,’ she said, once outside. ‘I couldn’t get rid of him.’

Stan shrugged as he tried desperately not to notice the shape of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her top. ‘It was the least I could do after almost slicing your head off the other day.’

She laughed. ‘You’re right. That hurt. But you’ve redeemed yourself tonight.’

Stan smiled, breathing in the light, flowery scent of her perfume. ‘I don’t think we should go back in,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go for a drink or something?’

She screwed up her nose. ‘Not really. I’m a bit knackered. I’d rather go back to the hotel.’

‘I’ll walk you.’

She smiled her thanks. ‘I’m Bea, by the way. Short for Beatrice.’

‘Stan,’ said Stan. ‘Short for Robert.’

That feeble joke which, to his delight, she’d found highly amusing, combined with his heroic antics, evidently wiped the previously Frisbee-marked slate clean. They were inseparable for the remainder of Stan’s holiday. But, as much as he was having the time of his life, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was temporary. Just a holiday romance. And when he returned home, he wouldn’t hear another word from her.

Yet, despite Bea continuing her travels for the next few months, and him being back behind his accountancy desk, via the wonders of modern technology they did maintain contact. And when they both ended up working in London less than a year later – Stan for an international accountancy company; Bea for an advertising agency – their relationship went from strength to strength, resulting in them eventually buying a flat together. They worked hard and played hard, building a great network of friends and a fantastic social life. But all that seemed a million light years away now – in LBM.

As Stan slammed shut the dishwasher door and pressed the ‘On’ button, he realised he wanted that life back. Every single bit of it. But it had gone. For ever.

That thought making him even more depressed, he grabbed his jacket and headed to the pub.