A Summer of Secrets (8 page)

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.

But then something happened that threw both their worlds into turmoil.

‘I’m late,’ Gina announced one day.

Joe furrowed his forehead. ‘Late? For what?’

‘My period, stupid.’

It took several seconds for this information to infiltrate Joe’s brain. ‘But you can’t be … I mean … we’re always really careful.’

‘We weren’t careful last month. The day we took a picnic down to the river.’

Joe cast his mind back to that hot, balmy August afternoon, when too much sun and wine had resulted in a daring, impromptu love-making session.

‘Shit,’ he exclaimed.

‘Exactly,’ she agreed.

Confirmation of the pregnancy followed a few days later, after which a heartfelt discussion occurred.

‘I can’t get rid of it,’ Gina insisted. ‘It would just feel so … wrong.’

‘I don’t want you to get rid of it,’ Joe stressed. ‘I want us to get married. Be a proper family. Bring up our baby together.’

Gina chewed her bottom lip as he ploughed on.

‘I know it’s not what you planned, but I’m working and earning half-decent money. And I know it would mean an end to your travelling dream, but you can still do your degree.’

A long silence ensued, during which Joe held his breath. For all this had come as a total shock, he was secretly delighted.

‘Okay,’ she eventually conceded, taking his hand and squeezing it affectionately. ‘But let’s not rush into the wedding thing. Let’s get a flat together, have this baby and see how it goes.’

Joe had been so happy he thought his heart might burst. Until, a few months later, when baby Charlie made an appearance, and everything Joe had previously deemed as happiness paled into insignificance.

Joe knew he was biased, but Charlie had to be the most gorgeous baby on the planet. All chubby legs, gurgling smiles and dark curls, Joe spent hours gazing at him in his cot, marvelling at how he could have played any part in producing such a perfect creature. And not only that, but the baby was as good as gold, sleeping through the night within weeks of his arrival.

When Charlie was two months old, Gina returned to her job at the restaurant – on a part-time basis. The extra money came in handy and, although her absence four evenings a week and his work and DJ-ing meant they didn’t see nearly as much of each other as Joe would’ve liked, the arrangement worked well.

Until, less than a year later, she announced she was leaving him. For some minted guy who owned a car dealership. She’d met him in the restaurant. He was a regular diner there, apparently, entertaining clients.

Distraught went nowhere near describing Joe’s feelings. In a fashion which now made him cringe, he’d begged and pleaded with her to stay.

‘Is it the money?’ he pressed. ‘Because if it is I’ll find a better job. I’ll work twenty-four seven to keep you here.’

‘It’s not the money,’ she sobbed, shoving Charlie’s menagerie of stuffed toys into a black, plastic sack. ‘It’s just … I don’t know. It’s just different with him.’

And then they left.

Leaving behind half a packet of baby rusks in the kitchen, a bottle of Gina’s cleanser in the bathroom, and a huge whopping hole in Joe’s heart.

‘Another pint, mate?’ asked Phil, his voice hauling Joe back to the present.

Joe shook his head. Partly to wipe away the painful memories; partly to communicate his answer. He’d had enough blokey banter for one afternoon. He wanted to go home and crash.

‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Got an early start tomorrow. I’ll give the Tenerife thing some thought and let you know.’

‘Well, don’t give it too much thought,’ replied Phil. ‘The summer season’s already well underway and the bar opens in three weeks.’

‘No pressure then,’ remarked Joe.

‘None at all,’ chuckled Phil.

***

‘Good morning, Jenny.’

Rummaging in the back of her car outside the village school, a startled Jenny whipped round to discover Len Ratner, the newest member of the History Society, beaming at her. Her stomach flipped. She’d forgotten – well, actually she hadn’t – but she had at least been trying not to think about – just how handsome he was.