The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie Please
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on a minute. You’re the one who wants this party, not me!’
He threw me a furious look and slammed the front door behind him so the air between us shuddered.
‘And I’ve only got seven handbags!’ I shouted after him. ‘And one of those is a fake!’
I went into the living room and watched him through the window as he unlocked his car, dropped his keys on the drive, picked them up and threw his briefcase into the passenger seat before driving off in a spray of gravel. He turned left out of the drive – he definitely wasn’t going to work. I stood watching the road, wondering if he would come back but he didn’t.
I went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table, leafing through a pile of catalogues. I’d seen a lovely pair of suede boots in one of them, perhaps if Ian was starting to complain about my spending I’d better not buy them. I sat leafing through some others until I realised an hour had passed and Ian still wasn’t back. I went back to look out of the window, worrying, biting my nails, wondering what had happened. What had I done to provoke this sort of reaction? Everything had been all right until…until he got that email. Some business problem. Of course. I’m a lot of things and one of them is nosey.
I went into his study, my bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the new carpet he had insisted he needed, in case he was going to take business contacts in there for a drink or something. The room was stuffy and dark, the curtains nearly closed. I drew them back and let the sunlight in. Dust motes spun in the warm air. I opened a window, letting in the cold afternoon to freshen up the atmosphere.
On his desk were piles of paperwork. Estimates, delivery notes, all fastened together with big bulldog clips. His massive iMac computer was turned off and there was a yellow Post-it note stuck on the side; Bentham Tuesday 11.30. It meant nothing to me. The printer stood silent in the corner. The bin was filled with shredded paper.
Feeling rather uncomfortable, I sidled up to the wire in-tray and casually leafed through the contents. Notes from customers, queries about delivery dates, a few photographs of a kitchen Ian’s firm had recently installed. I opened a couple of the drawers but there was nothing other than a bundle of red Lovell Kitchens pens, paperclips in a china dish, a ball of elastic bands.
I thought about looking through the filing cabinet and went to open the top drawer, but it was locked and there was no key. I wondered why and I began to feel the first shivers of unease. He was hiding something from me; I knew he was. But why? He always told me everything. Confided in me when he was worried about something, came home to share his successes with me first.
The front door banged and I gave a guilty start. Ian was back. I went out into the hallway to see him shrugging off his coat.
‘What are you doing in my study?’ he said. ‘You know I don’t like anyone interfering with my stuff. Poking about.’
I bit down my temper. ‘I’m not poking about.’ I wished I had thought to bring a duster and some polish with me as cover. ‘I do live here, you know. I was just tidying up. I opened the window, it was hot and stuffy in there.’
He went into the study and looked around as though he might have been burgled. He took the Post-it note from the computer screen, screwed it up and threw it into the wastebasket. Then he closed the window and turned to me.
‘Lunch?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’
He hurried off to the kitchen and I’m afraid I stuck my tongue out at his retreating back. We sat down at the kitchen table and I passed him a pottery bowl filled with soup.
‘Nice,’ he said after a few mouthfuls. He reached for some pitta bread and dunked it into the hummus.
‘Are you OK?’ I said.
Ian looked up, surprised, ‘Of course,’ he said.
He carried on eating, his spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl, setting my teeth on edge. I winced.
‘So have you thought any more about the food for the party?’ he said.
‘No, not really, I rather thought you had gone off the whole thing.’
‘Not at all, I’m looking forward to it,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘You do have some funny ideas.’
I was confused. An hour ago he had stormed out, berating me for my profligacy, now he was behaving as though nothing had happened.
‘I saw Steve when I was out; you know, bald Steve from the granite place. I bumped into him on the industrial estate. I’ve asked him to our party. I think he might come, although he did mention something about having visitors. You knew he and his wife had split up, didn’t you? I think the young brunette he was with might have something to do with it. Very naughty-looking little thing.’ Ian chuckled.
I couldn’t let it drop. ‘So why did you go off like the hounds of hell were after you an hour ago?’
‘Oh nothing at all, just a misunderstanding,’ Ian said, scooping up the hummus with a sweep of the last pitta, ‘all sorted out now.’
I got up to put some more in the toaster. ‘You’re sure?’
Ian sighed and smiled up at me. He put an arm around my waist and pulled me in against him. ‘You’re such a worrier, Lottie. Everything is fine. So, any plans for this afternoon?’
‘No, not really; I suppose I should get the ironing done,’ I said without any enthusiasm.
‘Well I know what I’m going to do, I’m going to put a new battery in that darned clock.’ He finished his soup and dropped the spoon into the bowl with a clatter. ‘I’ve been meaning to do it. Didn’t you realise it’s been stuck at eight thirty for weeks?’
‘Yes, of course I did. I asked you to sort it out ages ago. I can’t reach it.’
‘I don’t remember that. Anyway, there’s a tall man here now, little lady, I’ll fix it.’
I stood up and began to clear the table while he whistled ‘Edelweiss’ and rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a new battery.
Everything seemed fine again. His mood swings were becoming very hard to predict. In the following weeks, of course, it would become all too obvious what the matter was.
Aquilegia – resolution, determination, anxiety
My brief foray into Bramford St Michael’s village shop that afternoon had sadly not uncovered a little known haven of locally produced delights, but a dingy place with half empty shelves and a freezer that needed defrosting. I liberated three packets of savoury curried rice, a sliced loaf reduced to 25p, some cheese slices, long-life milk, and an exhausted-looking Cornish pasty. Presiding over it all was an elderly woman with wild, white hair who watched me warily as though I was going to pull out a shotgun. She counted out my change with slow fingers and grave suspicion in her face.
‘I’m so pleased you’re still open,’ I said rather gushingly, wondering if I could loosen her up a bit with my devastating charm, ‘isn’t this a lovely village. So pretty.’
‘…and one makes five and five is ten,’ she said, not to be swayed from her task.
‘Well, I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure,’ I said with another bright smile.
‘Yes, mebbe we will,’ she said in a tone that suggested she’d heard that before.
The village straggled along the river valley, beginning with some modern-looking houses where a few children were leaping about on a trampoline in the garden, and then some older cob cottages, their thatch green with moss. There was a pub, The Agricultural Arms, still with a string of fairy lights outside, left over from Christmas.