Maddie Please - The Summer of Second Chances - The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

‘Princess!’ he called. ‘How’s it goin’?’ He was quite casually dressed in head to toe Ralph Lauren. Well, casual for him anyway.

‘Great.’ I went out onto the drive and watched as he unlocked the back of the vehicle. Inside I could see a load of decorating stuff. Paintbrushes, huge tubs of paint, and folded-up dustsheets. Beyond that there were some familiar-looking boxes and bags containing the rest of my clothes and other things I had managed to salvage before the house was sold.

I felt an unexpected pang of irritation. Whatever was in those bags I had managed without perfectly well. Perhaps I was having a change of heart? Maybe it was the shock? I was beginning to enjoy having less clutter. That would make a change after decades of hoarding and wanting stuff. Perhaps now I would learn to embrace clear worktops, sweeping expanses of bare white walls with just one artistic twig in a glass frame. In years to come I would ask people to take off their shoes before they walked on my white carpets and I would talk knowledgeably about the liberation of minimalism.

On the other hand I could see my television and numerous wooden cases saved from Ian’s extensive wine collection and my spirits rose several notches. Now that was the best thing I had seen for ages. Well, apart from Bryn with his shirt off but I suppose that shouldn’t really count.

Greg came to envelop me in a friendly hug. He smelled of expensive aftershave and cigarettes and I tried to think how long it had been since a man had actually touched me with affection. It must have been months. I also tried to remember when I had smoked my last cigarette. At nearly ten quid a packet I definitely couldn’t afford them. Perhaps giving up would be the one good thing to come out of this mess.

‘All OK?’ he said.

‘Yes, fine, really.’

Greg jerked his chin at Ivy Cottage. ‘He’s not in then?’

‘Bryn? No, he’s been away for a few—’

‘Good, good. Well I’ll get this lot unloaded and then we’ll have a cuppa, eh? Stick the kettle on, there’s a good girl.’

‘Can’t I help you?’ I hovered around him, hands flapping. For one thing I feared for his crisp blue and white striped shirt.

‘Nah, piece of cake, won’t take me a sec. Jess says you’ve got some junk for me to take.’

‘Stuff I’ve pulled out from the garden; an old bike, some rotten wood and of course there’s a wet carpet. It stinks.’

‘Nice one.’ Greg turned back to the van and clambered inside.

‘Why don’t you want to see Bryn?’ I blurted out.

I don’t think Greg heard me because he didn’t answer. He jumped down and walked towards me holding a bundle of canvas dustsheets.

‘I’ll put all this in the garage, shall I? Talking about pieces of cake, I don’t suppose you’ve got any? Cake? Or I wouldn’t mind a biscuit if there was one going. Her Majesty’s got me on low carbs. I told you she would. I’d kill for a chocolate digestive.’

‘Jess said I wasn’t to give you any cake.’

‘Miserable cow. But she didn’t actually say biscuits?’

‘No, but—’

‘Well, there you are then. Just leave them out and I’ll nick a couple when you’re not looking.’

I laughed and went to put the kettle on.

I didn’t have room for everything in the house so Greg put all my stuff away in the garage, even the expensive clothes zipped into their dry-cleaning bags. I couldn’t face looking at them. A silk, beaded evening dress, an Armani suit, a Vivienne Westwood jacket, linen trousers and cashmere cardigans. None of it seemed to have a place in my newly small and unimportant life. I couldn’t imagine myself wearing white trousers or silk negligées ever again. Greg gave me a few funny looks and then hung the clothes from a metal tool rack.

‘Up to you, you could always flog ’em on eBay,’ he said.

‘Perhaps I will,’ I said.

Or I could take them to a charity shop.

I imagined myself sneaking into Stokeley or Okehampton very early one morning, dropping the bags off in a doorway under a sign saying ‘ No donations to be left here ’. Would the helpers be pleased to get such garments or exasperated? I had no idea. What if someone saw me and made me take them back? I shuddered at the thought.

I pulled out a tray, made a pot of tea and found two packets of biscuits. Bourbons and Custard Creams. Greg fell on them with an expression I could only describe as ecstasy.

He crammed in a Bourbon biscuit and munched. ‘So, how are you managing for money? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Ian and I were planning to go to France this summer, I had money for that in my account and I have some savings; I’ve been living on them up to now. But…’ I tailed off. Perhaps it wasn’t the most tactful thing to do, to complain about having no money when they were letting me stay here for nothing.

Greg looked thoughtful. ‘Oh well. Perhaps you could…no forget it.’

‘What?’

‘Nah.’

‘Go on.’

‘Get a job?’

‘I’ve already been into the local supermarket to ask about a job. There’s a doctor’s surgery in the next village too. I’ve left a message with them.’

‘That’s the way. Nil cardamom and all that.’

Perhaps I needed to try a bit harder.

Greg finished his tea and helped me take down the curtain hanging across the front door. Then he applied himself to moving the paint and the rollers in from the van.

I took up the thread of the conversation while we had coffee an hour or so later. Greg offered me a cigarette and I pounced on it with a cry of joy. He lit it for me and I took a deep drag, spluttering slightly. My head reeled with the nicotine rush. It didn’t seem quite as great as I remembered.

‘Anyway, I still have my jewellery. I can always sell some of that if the going gets tough.’

Greg blew across the surface of his drink and narrowed his eyes.

‘You’d only get scrap value. It’s never as much as you think. Unless of course Ian was in the habit of buying you Fabergé eggs? Or vintage Rolex watches?’

I pulled a face. ‘Hardly.’

I looked down at my emerald ring; I’d called it a commitment ring, not wanting to go as far as engagement ring despite the fact that Ian had proposed. It was a pretty thing and I clenched my fingers protectively over it. Surely I hadn’t come to that just yet? I had some pearls and a diamond pendant, bought to celebrate our first and fifth Christmases together respectively. I had various expensive things; even a bracelet in a turquoise Tiffany box, souvenir of our Christmas trip to New York. Was it only a few months ago? It felt like a lifetime.

God it had been marvellous. He’d really gone over the top. A hotel suite with fruit and flowers and an incredible view over Central Park. Ian had proposed yet again – it was like a running joke between us, he would ask me to marry him and I would come up with some damn fool excuse to make us both laugh. Let’s wait and see what happens with the Trump administration, I said. This time Ian tried to persuade me with the bracelet from Tiffany. I could remember his face so clearly as he gave it to me. Happy, proud, pleased with my delight. What the hell had he been doing? Stringing me along like that while all the time…

I remember having cocktails in the Waldorf Astoria. Margarita for me; Long Island iced tea for Ian. I closed my eyes. I could remember it all so well, the scent of money and perfume on a damp November day. I wonder now where the cash to pay for that had come from. A gambling win or just money siphoned off from the business?

I have been trying to get hold of Mr Ian Lovell for weeks. I wonder if you can help? I know he has been abroad on business recently; New York, wasn’t it?