Jill Mansell: Sheer Mischief

Janey glanced at her watch. ‘Three.’

‘Hmm,’ he murmured, rolling on top of her and kissing the frantically beating pulse at the base of her neck. ‘In that case, we might even have time for two.’

Once they’d torn themselves away from the bedroom to complete the formalities, Janey found she adored every moment and every aspect of being married. Each morning when she woke up she almost had to pinch herself to check that it was all real. But it always was, thank God, and the sheer joy of being Mrs Sinclair showed no signs of waning.

She enjoyed looking after their tiny flat, experimenting with new recipes and socializing with his surf-crazy friends. And because she was only twenty-five years old she enjoyed above all else knowing that they had the rest of their lives to spend together. Nothing need ever change.

No body was ever found.

‘But something must have happened to him.’ Janey, grief-stricken yet dry-eyed, simply couldn’t believe that it hadn’t. In an effort to convince the police, she uttered the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. ‘He’s my husband ... I know him ... he wouldn’t just disappear.’

The police, however, whilst sympathetic, were less convinced. Every year, they explained, hundreds of people in Britain with no apparent problems or reasons to disappear, did precisely that, leaving behind them distraught families, endless unanswerable questions and countless shattered lives.

Janey’s life was certainly shattered. On a sunny afternoon in July, after just fourteen months of marriage, her beloved husband had vanished without trace. Nothing had been taken from the flat and there were no clues as to the reason for his disappearance.

During the first few frantic days she’d pinned all her hopes on an accident, not serious enough to be life-threatening, just a bang on the head resulting in temporary amnesia. At any moment, she had fantasized helplessly, the phone would ring and when she picked it up she would hear his dear, familiar voice.

But although the discovery of Alan’s body was what she’d most dreaded, as the weeks dragged into months she found herself almost beginning to wish that it would happen. She felt like a murderer, even thinking such a’ thing, but at least it would be conclusive. The torture of not knowing would be over. And – most deeply shaming of all -- she would be spared the humiliation of thinking that her husband had vanished because he could no longer tolerate his life with her.

Nobody else had ever voiced this possibility aloud, of course, but whenever she was feeling particularly vulnerable Janey was only too easily able to imagine what was uppermost in their minds. As time passed she found herself, in turn, the object of macabre curiosity, whispered gossip and pity. And it was hard to decide which of these was worst.

Maxine drifted into the shop at ten-thirty the following morning, yawning and clutching a mug of tea. ‘God your sofa’s uncomfortable,’ she grumbled, rubbing her back.

Janey, who had been up for over five hours, lifted an armful of yellow irises into a bucket and slid them into position between the gypsophila and the white roses. The shop had been busier than usual and she still had three wreaths to make up before midday.

‘Sorry,’ she replied wryly. It would never occur to Maxine to bring her a cup of tea as well.

But Maxine was still massaging her back and pulling faces. ‘I’ll be a cripple by the end of the week.’

‘Are you really planning to stay?’

‘Of course!’ She looked surprised. ‘I’m not going back to Maurice-the-Righteous, and there’s nothing to keep me in London. Besides,’ she added dreamily, ‘I’d forgotten how lovely it is down here. Much nicer than smelly old London. I think a summer by the sea would do me the world of good.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Oh come on, Janey. Don’t look at me like that! It’ll be fun; we can cheer each other up.’

Having consulted the notes on her clipboard, Janey began sorting out the flowers for the wreaths. ‘You’ll be too busy complaining about your back to have any fun,’ she said brusquely.

‘And having to listen to your endless whingeing is hardly going to cheer me up.’

‘You don’t want me to stay?’ Maxine looked hurt and Janey experienced a twinge of guilt.

‘I do,’ she protested as the shop door swung open and Paula, having completed the morning’s deliveries, dropped the keys to the van on the counter. ‘Of course I’d like you to stay.

It’s just that the flat’s so small, and I don’t have a spare bedroom.’

‘I see.’ Maxine shrugged ‘Well, that’s OK. I’ll go and see Mum.’

Janey looked doubtful. Their mother would only complain that nothing cramped one’s style more effectively than a stray daughter hanging around the place. And Thea Vaughan’s highly individual lifestyle didn’t take kindly to cramping. She wasn’t exactly the slippers-and-home-made-sponge-cake type.

But Maxine knew that as well as she did, so Janey didn’t bother to voice these thoughts.

Instead, she said, ‘And you’d need some kind of job.’

‘Oh God.’ Maxine was looking gloomier by the second. Working had never been one of her strong points. ‘I suppose I would. But what on earth can I do?’

Paula, who was a lot more thoughtful than Maxine, returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea.

‘Paula, this is my sister Maxine,’ said Janey, seizing one of the mugs with relief. ‘Now, take a good look at her and tell me what kind of work she might be able to cope with.’

Maxine, perched on the stool next to the counter with her long brown legs stretched out before her, gave the young girl an encouraging smile. But nothing fazed Paula.

‘Here in Trezale, you mean?’ As requested, she studied Maxine for several seconds. ‘Well, selling your body’s out for a start. Too many giggling girlies on the beach at this time of year, giving it away for free.’

Maxine burst out laughing. ‘That’s too bad.’

‘Seriously,’ protested Janey, weaving fronds of fern into the circular mesh base of the first wreath.

‘Bar work?’

‘Ugh.’ Maxine cringed, rejecting the idea at once. ‘Too hard on the feet.’

‘Hotel receptionist?’ suggested Paula, unperturbed. ‘The Abbey’s advertising in the paper this week.’

But Maxine shook her head. ‘I’d have to be polite to ghastly tourists.’

Nannying.’ Paula looked pleased with herself. ‘The family my mother cleans for is losing theirs. You could be a nanny.’

Maxine looked amused. ‘Oh no I couldn’t.’

But Janey’s interest was aroused by this item of news. ‘That’s an idea!’ she exclaimed, temporarily abandoning the wreath. ‘You’d be able to live in. That way, you’d have a job and a place to stay. Max, it’d be great!’

‘Apart from one small problem,’ replied Maxine flatly. ‘If there’s one thing I hate more than tourists, it’s children. Children and babies and nappies. Yuk!’ she added with a shudder of revulsion. ‘Especially nappies.’

‘These two are a bit old for nappies,’ said Paula, ever practical. ‘Josh is nine and Ella’s seven. I’ve met them a few times. They’re nice kids.’

‘And they’d be at school during the day,’ put in Janey, her tone encouraging.

But Maxine, sensing that she was being ganged up on, pulled a face. ‘I’m just not the nannyish type. ‘I mean, for heaven’s sake, do I look like Julie Andrews?’

Losing patience, Janey returned her attention to work. ‘OK, you’ve made your point. You probably wouldn’t have got the job anyway,’ she added, unable to resist the dig. ‘Most people prefer trained nannies and there’d be enough of those queuing up when they realize who they’ll be working for.’