Читать книгу Christmas at Strand House: A gorgeously uplifting festive romance! - Linda Mitchelmore - Страница 13

God, but this journey was taking forever. Not the taxi driver’s fault, of course. Coming out of London he’d known every shortcut known to man but still they hadn’t been able to avoid the standstill that was the M25 much of the time. Okay, so it was an indulgence taking a taxi all the way from London to Devon. But Bobbie had done the costings, and with price of the train fare both ways, first class – because Bobbie had so much luggage that would have been her only option – there’d only been a few pounds difference between that and the taxi fare. She’d paid for the taxi in advance. How she was going to get back home again she’d sort later. Anything could happen between now and 27^th December, couldn’t it?

‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Bobbie asked leaning forward and opening the communication window.

The taxi driver laughed, a deep and full-throated laugh, to go with the size of him. The boxer Anthony Joshua came to mind the second Bobbie had set eyes on him – big and black and handsome with a smile on his face.

‘What are you, madam, six? My kids ask that all the time even when I’m taking them to school and they know exactly where the school is and how long the journey takes!’

They’d spoken little on the journey – just the way Bobbie liked her journeys. Bobbie liked to catnap, something she’d learned to do early in her career as a model when there were often long hauls to exotic locations to shoot bathing costumes or high-end dresses, or shampoo even. Mercifully she still had that career although there were fewer exotic locations these days.

‘So, are we? Nearly there yet?’

Bobbie checked the time on her watch. And that, Bobbie reminded herself, showed her age – sixty-two should anyone ask although she did her level best, often at huge expense, to make herself look at least five years younger than that.

‘Twenty minutes or so now.’

‘We should be there by one o’clock, then?’

Bobbie checked the time again – just after twenty-five to one. All the young things these days only ever checked the time on their mobiles, didn’t they? Bobbie couldn’t understand the logic in that because you had to find the thing in your pocket or your bag, switch it on if it wasn’t already and then remember to switch it off afterwards and put it away again. All so, well, time-consuming. Bobbie liked a good watch – designer for preference. Modelling spoiled a girl, that was for sure. It wasn’t enough to wear a designer dress or jacket or shoes – accessories had to be designer too or it could spoil the whole look. The journey had taken just over five hours now. The last twenty minutes couldn’t go quickly enough for Bobbie. She was getting more than a little stiff. Only idiots decided to travel the day before Christmas Eve. So that made her an idiot then, Bobbie chided herself. Lissy’s invite had come out of the blue. She’d seen a Facebook post Bobbie had put up of a designer-clad woman sitting in an otherwise empty high-end restaurant, a glass of champagne in her hand, and a doleful expression on her beautiful face – an image Bobbie had captioned ‘Me on Christmas Day’.

And so, here she was, just minutes away from seeing Lissy again. And Janey, too. She’d only ever met both of them in person twice, the first time when they’d come, with Lissy’s friend Claire, to the life-drawing art weekend at Dartington at which Bobbie had been the life model, and the second when they’d all attended Claire’s funeral. What a sad waste that was. Claire had been a stunner. Fun, too. She’d had them in stitches each morning of that weekend, when they’d met up in Claire’s room for an impromptu exercise class – Claire’s toned body evidence that she practised what she preached as a fitness instructor. Claire had dusky skin, eyes like chocolate Minstrels, and a head of shoulder-length café au lait curls. Bobbie remembered asking Claire if she’d ever considered modelling because she had such unique looks. Times had changed, Bobbie had told her, and there was a call for older models these days, not just sixteen-year-olds. Claire had laughed and said that at thirty-four she was hardly old and that no, she hadn’t ever considered modelling, but she might now. But with clothes on, not life-modelling as Bobbie had been doing that weekend. A lump lodged in Bobbie’s throat remembering Claire and what a great weekend they’d all had together and how surprisingly quickly they’d all bonded as a group – the four Musketeers, Claire had joked – despite their differing ages and life styles … just one of those happy, serendipitous moments in life that happen sometimes. How Claire’s husband, Xander, must miss her, Bobbie thought. How almost unbearably sad he’d been at Claire’s funeral. And how sad it was that the first time of meeting someone it should be at a funeral. Bobbie didn’t think she’d ever be able to rid herself of the image of him, standing with his hand on Claire’s coffin as though it was glued to it, and he couldn’t bear to let his wife go, after the service as everyone filed out. One of the funeral attendants had had to prise Xander’s hand away, and Bobbie – who almost never cried – cried then. Xander would be at Strand House too.

‘Strand House!’ the taxi driver called out, reaching to open up the communication window. He pointed at a large, flat-roofed, house at the top of a steep drive. ‘I’ll pull up as close to the front door as I can, madam.’

‘Oh, just up my street,’ Bobbie said. ‘It looks wonderful. My friend didn’t say it was quite so grand.’

Lissy had told Bobbie she’d inherited Strand House but no other details, except there’d be plenty of room for all of them to stop for Christmas. Bobbie could hardly wait now.

The driver carried all Bobbie’s luggage – in three trips – to the front door, while Bobbie stood and sucked in the view. She hadn’t expected Strand House to be quite so close to the sea although, had she thought about it, the clue was in the name, wasn’t it?

‘Right then, madam, I’m off,’ the driver said. ‘My kids will be driving their mother mad, modifying their Christmas want list a thousand times and expecting her to get it all by the day after tomorrow. Christmas is for kids, eh? You got children, madam?’

Bobbie hadn’t been expecting that question.

‘No!’ she snapped.

It was what she told everyone who asked that question. It was easier that way. How could you say to anyone, especially, a stranger that you’d had a child – a boy; a child you’d washed and dressed and fed, and held close, and watched in sleep as he snuffled and sighed, if only for a short while – before you’d given him away? But every time that question got her, made her heart beat faster and often she would also feel a little faint with the holding of such a secret. It had got to her now. This perfectly nice and kind taxi driver, who had children of his own he hadn’t had to give away, had asked the simplest of questions, a question one might expect to get at Christmas because Christmas was all about children, wasn’t it?

It was her secret. The only person still alive who knew her secret was her cousin, Pamela, and her cousin’s husband, Charles. And they were in Australia, half a world away; half a world away where they’d taken Bobbie’s baby, Oliver, never to return with him. In her bag, safe inside the zipped section, was a letter. It had an Australian postmark. Bobbie had received it in with a letter from her own solicitor in London just a week ago now; just a short note to say he was passing it on as instructed by a colleague in Sydney. Bobbie had been afraid to open it, fearful of what she might read. Was it from Pamela and Charles to say something had happened to Oliver? Was it a letter from him filled with hate for abandoning him? Perhaps, here at Strand House, with friends around her she’d have the courage to open it? Perhaps.