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

I stood watching him for a moment wondering who he reminded me of.

‘It needs a bit of a sort out,’ he said, his blue eyes flicking from the piles of junk mail behind the door to the chocolate handprints on the wall. At least I hoped they were chocolate.

‘A bit of a sort out?’ I said, incredulous. ‘Never mind the smell, it’s absolutely filthy and disgusting.’

‘Ah well.’ He shrugged his shoulders. They really were very broad. ‘I’m Bryn Palmer, by the way.’ He held out a hand and I shook it.

‘I’m Charlotte Calder. What do you mean “ah well”? Would you want to live here?’

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. ‘Nope.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘Well don’t then,’ Bryn said. He flicked another look around that conveyed his boredom with the whole conversation. ‘It’s up to you. I thought you needed a place to stay?’

‘You mean beggars can’t be choosers?’

‘Why would I say that? No one is forcing you to live here, are they?’

I struggled with my temper. I was caught between Holly Cottage and a hard place. I had nowhere else to go, at least at the moment. I had considered my Auntie Shirley in Croydon but I couldn’t bring myself to make that call. A one-bedroom maisonette with a view of the library car park seemed the very last resort. At least here I had a bit of privacy. And a bed.

‘Couldn’t someone have at least checked the place to make sure it was at least habitable?’ I said.

His dark brows drew together in a frown. I had overstepped the mark, that was obvious.

‘Someone? You mean me?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t have killed you,’ I muttered.

‘That was up to Jess and Greg to sort out, not me,’ he said, ‘you’re not my responsibility. I’m not here to sort your problems out.’

Bloody cheek, it was as though I was being passed around from one responsible adult to another. Like some sort of delinquent child.

‘But you live down here in this godforsaken spot,’ I said, dismissing the beauty of the hills around me with a wave of my hand.

He refused to be drawn in to any discussion.

‘If you aren’t staying I’ll have the keys back.’ He held out one hand, ready to take them.

I stood, fists clenched, trembling with indecision for a few moments. It was this or sleep in the car. I had no idea about council accommodation for a single woman without children but I guessed I would be low down on a long list. I didn’t want to spend money on a hotel. I couldn’t go back; the locks had been changed. I had no choice.

‘I’ll stay. For now anyway,’ I said.

‘Fine.’ Bryn obviously didn’t care either way. ‘If you’re staying we should get that wet rug out. I could help you do it now, if you like?’ he said.

I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. I needed him to help me; I’d never manage it on my own. Not that I’m scrawny or anything but I’m only five foot four, there’s only so much leverage I could get.

‘Thank you, that would be very kind of you.’

He nodded and I noticed there was a bit of Matthew McConaughey about him, mixed with some other actor whose name I couldn’t remember. Plus evidence of a fair amount of time spent in the gym. It was an attractive mixture. Pity his character wasn’t so appealing.

I spent the next half an hour helping him shift furniture and alternately pulling at the rug with all my strength and gagging at the smell. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had been helping me. By the time we managed it I must have looked a sight – red, sweating and with my hair falling all over my face. A glamorous episode in anyone’s book.

At last Bryn got the offending article out into the front garden, leaving me exhausted and filthy, shoving furniture back into approximately the right place.

‘Well, I must be off,’ he said.

He was about to leave and I was really going to be on my own. I was suddenly nervous. Perhaps I could keep him talking for a few minutes longer.

‘I’ve brought some stuff with me but is there anywhere I can get some fresh milk or some bread?’

Bryn gave an impatient sigh. ‘You can get milk and a few essentials at the post office shop in Bramford St Michael. Back down this hill and turn left. You can’t miss it.’

‘Towering skyscrapers and retail parks?’ I said.

His mouth twitched. ‘A fourteenth-century church, a pub and a bus stop on the left. You’ll see a row of thatched cottages and the shop is just beyond that. You’d better be quick; they close in half an hour. Unless they feel like closing earlier. Which they sometimes do. If they are shut you’ll have to carry on for a few miles to Stokeley. There’s a Superfine there that’s open until ten o’clock.’

‘Thanks,’ I said in a very ungrateful tone. With any luck Bryn and I would not meet again. I didn’t quite understand why he was here in the first place if he wasn’t involved in the upkeep of Holly Cottage. But I soon found out.

He flicked me a slow and rather blush-inducing glance. I could see the resemblance between him and Greg, at least in looks. He had that same energy combined with a strong impression of competence. He was the sort of man who would deal with life not let it deal with him.

‘I’ll be off then.’

I stepped to one side to let him leave but he walked in the opposite direction, out of the kitchen door, down the small garden and through the gate at the bottom.

‘Hey! Where are you going?’ I called after him.

‘Home,’ he said.

I followed him for a few steps and watched as he walked into the garden of the house next door. I realised for the first time that his garden was huge and absolutely crammed with spring growth.

The contrast between that and the untidy mess in what I already considered ‘my’ garden could not have been starker. Mine boasted a shabby, overgrown lawn, weed-choked borders and the battered remains of an old bath.

Bryn looked at me as he drew level. It was obvious he was trying hard not to laugh at me.

‘You live in Holly Cottage, I live in Ivy Cottage. I’m your neighbour,’ he said.

‘Just when I thought things couldn’t get any frigging worse! That’s all I bloody need.’

I couldn’t help it; the words were out before I could stop myself. Bryn looked at me for a moment, his eyes were very cold and my spirits sank even lower.

‘Sorry, it’s been a crap sort of day,’ I muttered.

‘Happy to help,’ he said at last.

I turned away and went inside, slamming my door behind me.

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.