The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie Please
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‘Would Ian…’
Again, the thoughtful tapping of his pencil on his chin before he answered me.
‘Quite possibly. Elements of this look fraudulent not just desperate bungling. Money siphoned off from the business and not declared. There is the unmistakable whiff of cash payments in several projects. I’m afraid he didn’t cover his tracks very well. And of course HMRC are the very last people you want to tangle with.’
‘No, he wasn’t very clever, was he?’ I whispered.
The mystery of where hundreds of thousands of pounds had gone was only solved when a local bookmaker and the owner of a casino had added their bills to the growing heap on John Strong’s desk.
Apart from some large holes in the company accounts that he had tried to cover up, Ian had been a compulsive and untalented gambler. He had fallen into the classic trap of trying to cover his losses with the ever-elusive big win. Sometimes he had won. The new carpet in his study was probably linked to a bet on the Brazilian Grand Prix. The last holiday we had in New York came after an unexpectedly successful night out in a casino. But ultimately, he had lost.
At this point I moved from the classic early stage of ‘confused grief’ and moved on to ‘anger’. How could Ian have done this? How could I not have realised? Why didn’t he tell me? Could I have helped him? All those times when he had been quiet and distracted, I had assumed he was fretting over some kitchen plinths or concealed lighting. I hadn’t known Big Kev O’Callaghan from the Galaxy Casino was after him.
Primrose – modest worth and silent admiration
I’d always enjoyed painting and decorating, even the tedious bits like sanding down and glossing the woodwork. Ian hadn’t and so it was something I had mostly done alone. I began work on Holly Cottage that afternoon. I cleared the hallway, switched on Radio Devon so I could learn about the traffic jams I wasn’t caught in, and found some old clothes and trainers to wear. It was a lovely day so I opened all the windows too. The air was fresh and clear bringing with it the faint scent of newly mown grass. I began to feel quite peaceful and in control of things for once. Decorating was just as therapeutic as I remembered; the steady rhythm of the roller covering the old paint with new. I’d opened one of Greg’s huge tubs of trade white to use as an undercoat. If I was going to do this, I would do it properly, as though it was my own home.
I think the previous paintwork had once been one of those ‘hints-of’ shades that only look interesting on the colour charts but always look the same once they are applied to a wall. Smoothing out the little bumps and blemishes, leaving a white, blank surface that no grubby fingers had touched, I began to have quite philosophical thoughts about this being a metaphor for life.
I would obliterate my rather dull past and begin anew. This was going to be a turning point. I would learn from my mistakes and move forward. I would never trust any man again. If I had been a character in EastEnders
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