Jill Mansell - Falling for you

‘He’s thirsty. I’ll get him a bowl of water,’ said Estelle. ‘And we’re going to need some cans of food for him. Sweetheart, why don’t you have a shower and get dressed, then you could pop down to the shop and pick some up.’

Kate sighed; this whole charade was nothing more than a conspiracy to get her out of the house.

‘Can’t you do it?’

‘I have to hold the ladder while Marcella’s doing the high-up bits. Otherwise she might fall off.’ Estelle grinned. ‘And then who’d clean the windows?’

Shooting a look of hatred at Norris, Kate moved towards the door.

‘Actually, could you do me a favour?’ said Marcella. ‘When you see Jake, tell him to take the lamb chops out of the freezer. If he spreads them out on a plate they’ll defrost in a couple of hours. And remind him that Sophie has to be at the village hall by five o’clock for Charlotte’s birthday party.’

Could the day get any worse? Kate gritted her teeth; the very last thing she needed was to be forced to speak to Maddy Harvey’s brother. With barely concealed irritation she said, ‘Why don’t you just ring him?’

‘Because to get to the store you have to go right past Jake’s workshop. It’s sunny, so he’ll be sitting outside. Anyway,’ Marcella concluded with a dazzling smile, ‘why add to your parents’ phone bill when it’s not necessary?’

Oh, for crying out loud, thought Kate, increasingly tempted to literally cry out loud. My father’s a multimillionaire, a phone call costs less than ten pence, what are you talking about, woman?

But Marcella, armed with her brimming bucket and a whole host of window-cleaning paraphernalia, had already left the room.

Of course, Marcella had more than likely done it on purpose.

This thought struck Kate as she made her way down Gypsy Lane with Norris ambling along at her heels. It was by this time one o’clock; showering, washing her hair, dressing then carefully applying enough make-up to minimise the horror of the scarred side of her face had taken fifty minutes. The irony of this ritual didn’t escape her; once upon a time she had been a strikingly attractive girl and make-up had made her breathtakingly gorgeous. These days it was a tool necessary to prevent small children screaming with fright at the sight of her.

So long as it didn’t melt in this heat.

Thinking dark thoughts about Marcella, Kate rounded a bend and was brought up by the sight of the flowers on the verge opposite, a sudden profusion of poppies, ox-eye daisies and dog roses marking the spot where April Harvey had been killed. Marcella had planted them herself, shortly after the accident.

Each time she walked up the lane to Dauncey House, she passed them and was reminded afresh of April’ s death.

Although flowers or no flowers, she was hardly likely to forget it.

Kate paused to gaze at the flowers, remembering April with her funny, wobbly gait, slurred speech and lopsided smile. To her shame, she also remembered the way she and her friends from Ridgelow Hall had made fun of April whenever they saw her, mimicking her mannerisms and comical way of speaking.

At least, they had when the rest of April’s family weren’t around. Anyone caught making fun of her would have been swiftly and efficiently dealt with by either Maddy or Jake.

It was deeply embarrassing to recall now, but she had been only young at the time. Making fun of people because they weren’t perfect was what children did. It had never occurred to her that one day she might not be perfect herself.

Bored with waiting, Norris strained at his lead. Slowly Kate made her way on down the dappled, tree-lined lane. As they rounded the final bend, where Gypsy Lane joined the town’s broader Main Street, she saw Snow Cottage ahead of her on the right and beyond it the row of craft shops and galleries set back from the road, where metal-workers and artists and ceramicists produced and displayed their wares for visiting tourists.

And there was Jake Harvey, as Marcella had predicted, sitting outside his own workshop, chatting animatedly to an old woman while she examined one of his bespoke caskets.

Stripped to the waist in a pair of white jeans, Jake looked like something out of a Coke ad.

Deeply tanned, shinily muscled, with overlong hair streaked by the sun into fifty shades of blond, he was the archetypal bad boy at school, the one your mother always warned you not to get involved with.

Not that Kate had ever been tempted herself; during her teenage years she and her friends had spent their time lusting after public-school educated boys with names like Henry and Tristram.

Reluctantly she approached the workshop, aware that her stomach was jumping with trepidation.

God, all this hassle for the sake of lop.

Chapter 9

‘It’s perfect,’ the elderly woman was saying as she ran a gnarled hand over the glossy deep crimson surface of the casket. Alerted by the sound of footsteps — and possibly Norris’s laboured sumo-like breathing — she turned and greeted Kate with a cheerful smile. ‘Hello, dear, come and take a look, hasn’t this young man done a marvellous job?’

At least concentrating on the casket meant not having to meet Jake Harvey’s eye. Kate studied the picture of a leggy brunette in mid high-kick, presumably dancing the can-can. Frowning, she struggled to work out the significance.

‘It’s me,’ the woman explained with pride. ‘I was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. I was nineteen when this photograph was taken. It’s where I met my husband. Such happy days.’

Intrigued, Kate peered more closely at the lid of the casket, wondering how the effect had been achieved.

‘You make an enlarged colour photocopy of the original print,’ said Jake, reading her mind, ‘and cut around the figure you want to use. Then you soak it in image transfer cream, place the copy face down on the lid and rub over it with a cloth. When you peel the paper away, the photo’s transferred to the lid. Couple of coats of varnish and you’re done.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Kate told the woman, careful to keep the left side of her face out of view.

‘I know, I can hardly wait to get in it!’ Her eyes brightwith laughter, the woman said, ‘And it’s going to drive my children demented.’

‘Why?’

‘Ha! If you met them you wouldn’t need to ask. I have three,’ said the woman, counting them off on fingers weighed down with glittering rings. ‘A bank manager, a Tory MP and a perfect-wife-andmother who lives in Surrey. I don’t know where I went wrong. They’re dreadfully ashamed of me. I’m the bane of their lives, poor darlings. Oh well, can’t win ‘em all I suppose. Jake, would you be an angel and pop it into the truck? I want to show it off to my friends.’

Jake effortlessly loaded the casket into the back of the woman’s muddy Land Rover. Reaching up, she kissed him on both cheeks, leaving scarlet lipstick marks, then hopped into the driver’s seat and with a toot and a wave roared off.

Norris was by this time flat out on the dusty ground, snoring peacefully in the sun like a drunk.

‘Business or pleasure?’ said Jake.

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you here to buy a coffin?’

Kate suppressed a shudder. ‘No.’

He smiled briefly. ‘So, pleasure then.’

Hardly. ‘Not that either. Your mother asked me to tell you to take the lamb chops out of the freezer.’

Jake laughed. ‘Sounds like one of those coded messages. You say, "Take the lamb chops out of the freezer," then I nod and say, "Lamb chops are excellent with mint sauce." Are you sure you aren’t a secret agent?’

She hadn’t expected him to sound so normal, friendly even. Stiffly, Kate said, ‘And she also said not to forget about Sophie’s party.’