Kathy Jay - Reach for the Stars - A feel good, uplifting romantic comedy

‘I didn’t realize.’

She looked at her feet and dug her toes into the sand. With all the courage she could muster she said, ‘It’s difficult when one of you is moving forward and the other is staying still.’

‘Don’t I know it?’

The last blink of sun disappeared into the darkening horizon. Perhaps he didn’t understand, or chose not to, but one way or another he had failed to acknowledge the impact that all his years of unfaithfulness to her mother had had on her. He had a frustrating ability to sympathize with friends, neighbours, strangers, all the while blind to her take on things so much closer to home.

They polished off the chips in complicated silence and stood up together to go. Instead of challenging his self-pitying response to her comment she back-pedalled. ‘Look, it’s okay. Forget I said anything.’

‘Give you a lift home?’

‘No thanks. I’ll walk, take the cliff path.’ She smiled tightly and hugged her arms across her chest. ‘Brr. It’s chilly now the sun’s gone.’ He moved a fraction towards her, his internal choreography programmed to hug his daughter, but she flinched, stepped back from him and bent to pick up her flip-flops. ‘Bye Dad. See you in March.’

‘You take care, love. And send me postcards.’

A nervous laugh escaped. ‘Check my social media, you’ll catch up with me there.’

Half an hour later, back home at the cottage she shared with Joe, Layla took the cup of tea she’d made into the sitting room and sat with her legs curled up on the sofa, still uneasy after the tense moment at the beach. Strings of words rattled in her head. Her dad didn’t want to drive her away? Weirdly that’s exactly what he’d done. She craved space, freedom, time out. Hopefully some distance would give her a fresh perspective, soften her attitude.

It hadn’t occurred to her that something might happen while they were away, or that they might stay away longer, or not come back at all. She pushed the thought away, turned up the volume on the music in her earbuds, feeling sorry she hadn’t hugged her dad and sad that no matter how many miles away she went the real distance was right here in the gulf between them.

As she put her mug to her lips the door opened and Joe lolloped in the worse for wear.

‘Crikey! How many pints have you had?’

‘Three or four. Or five or six. I lost count. And shots. They all bought me vodka shots.’

‘You didn’t have to drink them.’

‘Rude not to,’ he slurred, staggering into the kitchen.

Only Joe could come back this drunk on such an important night. She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears to the sound of him throwing up into the washing up bowl. She was too disappointed to be angry. He’d have a hangover and be as cranky as hell for the next day and a half. He lay down in a sorry heap on the sofa. Resigning herself to the task in hand, and making a mental note to bin it in the morning, she went into the kitchen, rinsed the gross plastic bowl, took it into the living room and put it down next to the sofa in case it was needed again.

A firm knock at the front door made her jump. ‘What now?’ She opened up and found herself face to face with one of the village police officers. ‘Hi Mervin. What brings you here?’ New to Cornwall, her mum had invited him to join her Tuesday night pub quiz team, and he was a bit of a genius, it turned out. ‘If you’ve come to remind me to lock the windows while I’m gone, you needn’t worry, it’s all taken care of.’

‘I’m sorry Layla. There’s no easy way to say this I’m afraid.’

His solemn tone went right through her. Outside she glimpsed a police car with another uniformed officer in the driving seat and knew in an instant that this wasn’t a friendly drop-by. Processing the grim look on his face a feeling of dread clenched her stomach and her stab at cheerfulness fell away. In absolutely no doubt that something wasn’t right, she froze. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I need you to come to the hospital straight away. It’s your mum. She’s been in a car accident.’ He threw a glance at Joe collapsed on the sofa and let go a long desperate breath. ‘I’ll be upfront with you. It’s serious. You’ll have to cancel the trip. They’ve got her on life support.’

It was lunchtime the next day when she got home. Her mother was in intensive care, clinging on to life, but stable. Layla checked every room in the house, and called the restaurant. Joe had gone. Without her. She checked her mobile phone. In defiance of the patchy signal there was a text from him. Bleary-eyed, head numb, she read it.

Hi. At airport. Going ahead. No point us both missing out. Think we should be on a break until you can join. Unofficial. No point telling everyone. See you later x

Layla texted back without a second’s hesitation.

Won’t be joining. You and me are finished. Over! Done! Finito! OFFICIAL!

From: francescamatthews@einternet.co.uk

To: NickWells@hotmedia.com

Subject: Urgent

Dear Nick

Hiya. I don’t know quite how to word this so I’ll get to the point. We have a daughter. She’s called Elisabeth. Beth for short actually. She’s eleven. Please contact me. It’s really very urgent.

Love Fran x

PS Photo attached!

No matter how many times actor Nick Wells read and reread the email he couldn’t get it to sink in. It made no sense. He was a dad? Had been for all these years? Without knowing? Detached, confused, deceived – these words barely summed up his shock.

He sat on a white leather sofa as big as a family car, in the lobby of the exclusive London apartment block where his brother Alex and his family were temporarily living in a smart penthouse until they could find a forever home of their own to move into. He’d been looking forward to meeting his new niece and nephew but since he’d seen Fran’s email in the taxi on the way over from St Pancras Station, a state of emotional paralysis had taken him over. Suddenly all he wanted was to get this done and he’d be out of here. The enthusiasm of boarding the Eurostar in Paris for a flying visit during a break in his shoot had evaporated.

He’d have to speak to his girlfriend Toni. They’d hardly spent any time together the past two or three months. The chances of changing that, turning something wild into something solid, a real relationship, seemed increasingly unlikely now.

He scanned the lobby, the wall of glass at the entrance, the shiny marble walls and floor, the light-filled space – it was all very different from the ramshackle old house he and Alex had shared with a bunch of friends in North London when he’d gone straight from school into his first acting role. During that brief time he and his twin had come close to leading normal lives. The memory tied a knot in his gut because that’s when he’d met Fran, working on the television show that had turned out to be his big break.

Agitated, he shoved his phone in a pocket, got up and walked over to the reception desk. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the shiny walnut veneer. He’d brought a gift basket for the babies which was balanced on one arm. He set it down and stepped away as if it was something rather embarrassing, waiting for the militarily-efficient concierge to get the go-ahead from Alex to buzz him through to the elevator.

‘Sorry for keeping you waiting.’ The concierge eyed Nick curiously.

‘What’s taking so long?’ He felt transparent as if the whole world had read Fran’s email.

‘They’re with magazine people. Taking photos of the new arrivals. You can go up as soon as I get the okay from the other Mr Wells.’

‘So they’re doing a family photo shoot are they? They kept that quiet.’ The reception desk phone rang and the concierge picked up. ‘The okay?’ Nick signaled a hopeful thumbs up.