The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie PleaseЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER 2

       Daffodils – uncertainty, unrequited love, deceit

      It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It really wasn’t.

      Nine years ago I’d finished my English Masters degree and taken a sort of late gap year working for the local paper as gofer while I wrote my ‘bestselling novel’. I had been filling in for someone one lunch hour, selling advertising space, and Ian had come into the office to place an ad for his company; Lovell Kitchens. He had amused me so much that I had agreed to go for dinner with him that evening. He’d then charmed me into meeting for a picnic the following day, then into a relationship, and after six months much to his mother’s annoyance I moved in with him.

      By the time that happened, my gap year had become two years and looked as though it was turning into a career choice. Ten years older than me, Ian had seemed handsome, sophisticated, funny and charismatic. We had wanted the same things, we enjoyed similar tastes, and he had made me laugh back then. I’d been very lucky. When my university friends started complaining about trying to save a deposit for their first house, I just walked into one.

      Ian worked hard, the years had been good to us, and we had a lovely home. Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, a fabulous hand-built kitchen with every possible gadget, and a wood-panelled study for Ian. I’d discovered a talent for interior décor and had brought new style and colour to the house, all paid for by Ian’s generous hand. Even in the middle of winter the half-acre of manicured gardens were neat and attractive, mostly thanks to the attention of our gardener. Much to Susan’s disgust we’d never married but we enjoyed our lives together. Ian was a generous host and I was a good cook. We’d had some marvellous parties when we first met.

      In the past couple of years I suppose we’d just got a bit out of practice, with Ian away so much on business. And for want of something else to do, I’d recently gone back to part-time work. Not for the money, but because I was bored. There are only so many times you can decorate a house and move the furniture round.

      We’d made lots of friends who included us in their busy circle of golf, fussy dinner parties and meaningless celebrations. Most of the men were more Ian’s age than mine, and many were involved in property development or building, but I was cultivating a group of my own too. Younger second wives and girlfriends keen to shop and have fun and go on spa breaks. Spa breaks! Wouldn’t that be nice now? And best of all, Jess had moved into our village, a sparky high-maintenance blonde with a taste for heels and spray tans and a laugh like Barbara Windsor. We’d instantly recognised a kindred spirit in each other even if I could never rival her for glamour. She was married to Greg, a meaty-looking man, and last year they had returned from several years living in Spain and bought The Grange, the biggest house for miles. Ian had nearly had kittens with his excitement.

      After I was sure that Bryn was staying indoors, I found my handbag, took my cigarettes out to the garden and lit one. Always one to conform, I knew I shouldn’t smoke in someone else’s house; not that it would have mattered under the circumstances.

      I felt giddy for a moment; perhaps it was the nicotine. I went to brush some dead leaves off one of the garden chairs near the back door and sat down. It wasn’t fair, none of this was my fault, was it? And yet here I was, on my own, miles from anywhere, looking into a future that was uncertain to say the least.

      I shook myself; self-pity had no place here, I was going to have to buck up my ideas. I couldn’t treat having a job as an antidote to boredom any longer. I couldn’t rely on Ian’s seemingly bottomless wallet or acquaintances that had bought me flowers and sent cards when it all happened but now shied away from me in case my bad fortune rubbed off on them.

      I walked down to the end of the garden through the thick, neglected grass and tried to see if there was anything apart from rubbish and weeds. A bank of nettles had taken over one of the borders. Something else that I think was honeysuckle was curling bare tendrils around a dirty and unpainted wooden lattice. It was a mess. Perhaps I could do something out here when I had a moment? Perhaps there was more under the rich red soil than was apparent. I went back into the house and picked up all the junk mail that had stacked behind the front door. Nothing to do with pizza delivery or takeaway menus, I noticed. Leaflets about hedge cutting, the local parish magazine, details of refuse collection, a flyer from the local feed merchant telling me about special offers on hen coops and wire netting. Perhaps I would have some chickens.

      I pictured myself wandering down the garden with a bowl of kitchen scraps, the hens fat and feathery clustering around my ankles. For some reason I imagined myself wearing an old-fashioned wraparound apron over a flowery frock. Oh get a bloody grip! I had moved a few miles over the county border, not into the last century! It wasn’t that long ago I was hosting dinner parties in the latest season’s fashion. I’d been famous for my huge shoe collection. I hoped Age Concern in Taunton had appreciated them.

      When I had finished decorating and styling Ian’s house for the second time, I had found a job working part time as a receptionist at the doctor’s surgery. I’d been on duty one Saturday morning when I met Greg Palmer. It was also the day I found out we were having a New Year’s Eve party.

      There were several messages to deal with on the answerphone and a trail of people came through the doors with appointments or wanting repeat prescriptions. The phone rang almost continually. At about ten thirty there was a brief lull and after having made sure Dr Hawkins was occupied with a patient, I went to make more coffee. When I came back to my desk a tall figure was standing there, muffled up in an expensive-looking tweed coat and a cashmere scarf. He fired me a broad, white smile.

      ‘Greg Palmer to see Doctor Hawkins,’ he said.

      I stabbed at a couple of computer keys. I hadn’t worked here long and I was quite capable of getting things wrong.

      ‘I don’t seem to have you on the system,’ I said at last.

      ‘No problem, princess. I saw the good doctor yesterday, he told me to pop in today to check everything was OK. Just tell him Greg Palmer is here.’ He winked and flashed me another smile, utterly confident of his success in circumventing our appointment system. It was a good thing the other receptionist, Daphne, wasn’t in my place. She would have sent him packing and enjoyed doing it too.

      ‘OK, I’ll tell the doctor you’re here. Do take a seat.’ I spoke into the intercom. When I turned back he was still there, looking at me with a speculative gaze. He held out a large, tanned hand. A heavy gold bracelet clanked out from under his coat cuff.

      ‘You’re Charlotte, aren’t you? Charlotte Calder? Ian’s partner?’

      We shook hands.

      ‘I’m Jess’s husband. We’re looking forward to coming over on New Year’s Eve,’ he said. His eyes, startlingly blue in his tanned face, didn’t waver for a second. I had the uncomfortable feeling he might be imagining me with my clothes off.

      I must have looked a bit blank for a moment. What bloody party?

      ‘New Year’s Eve?’

      New Year’s Eve was weeks away. What the hell was Ian playing at?

      Greg leaned a companionable elbow on the desk, and a blast of his aftershave punched me in the nose.

      ‘Yes, I saw Ian the other day up at the golf club and he mentioned you were thinking of having