Jill Mansell: Falling for you

‘Hmm? OK, just the one.’ Having. opened the envelope, Marcella’s eye slid automatically to the name at the bottom ofthe letter. It was like bouncing along happily on a cloud, then all of a sudden landing on a tangle of barbed wire. Marcella’s breath caught in her throat and her heart began to race. She wondered if this was someone’s idea of a sick joke.

But the wording of the letter seemed honest enough.

Dear Marcella,

Please don’t ignore this letter. I have liver failure and very little time left to live. I need to speak to you before I die.

This is very important to me, and will be to you too. Please come to Dartington House on Friday afternoon. I’m so very sorry.

Once more, Marcella found herself gazing at the signature at the bottom of the page. It looked like the handwriting of someone hopelessly frail. Pauline McKinnon, no less. Close to death. Saying shewas sorry. Well, that was a first.

Without even realising it, Marcella had risen from her seat and was busy deadheading roses.

Needing something to do with her hands she snipped away, doing her level best to block all thoughts of Pauline McKinnon from her

‘ Ouch.’ She snatched her left hand away as a thorn on one of the branches punctured her skin. A bead of blood welled up and Marcella sucked her finger, thinking that if she caught tetanus now, that would be the McKinnons’ fault too.

Why the bloody hell should she go over to Dartington House anyway? What had her doctor told her about avoiding stress? And if seeing that woman again wasn’t stressful, Marcella thought resentfully, she didn’t know what was.

Then again, the woman was dying. Pauline McKinnon had lost her son as a result of the accident, albeit in a less final way than April had been taken from her own family.

And she had just said sorry.

Marcella, barefoot and still sucking her index finger, gazed around the sundrenched garden she loved so much. Her hormones must be getting the better of her; at any other time she would have ripped Pauline McKinnon’s letter to shreds by now, and been stomping around the garden calling her the kind of names no granddaughter should ever overhear.

But as Sophie emerged from the kitchen and came racing across the grass towards her, Marcella found herself sliding the letter into the pocket of her white cotton shirt. Not that this meant she’d definitely be going along to the nursing home tomorrow; she simply hadn’t yet made up her mind.

‘I brought chocolate fingers and Hobnobs, so you can have some too.’ There were telltale chocolate marks around Sophie’s mouth as she generously offered the opened packets to Marcella.

Spotting the letter sticking out of her grandmother’s shirt pocket, and keen to avert attention from the number of biscuits missing from the chocolate finger packet, Sophie said brightly, ‘Was it a birthday card?’

Marcella smiled; as far as Sophie was concerned, post was either birthday cards or bills. ‘No, darling, it’s not my birthday until November.’

Breaking a Hobnob in half, Sophie surreptitiously fed it to Bean – who proceeded to chomp away in a very unsurreptitious manner. Rolling her eyes – and looking uncannily like Jake – she said sympathetically, ‘Another bill then, I suppose. Electricity?’

‘Something like that,’ said Marcella.

Maybe it hadn’t been electricity, but it had certainly given her a shock.

Chapter 57

‘I hope you didn’t mind me coming.’ Estelle dodged out of the way of a porter wheeling a patient past on a hospital trolley.

‘No, no. Jake said you wanted to pop over.’ Vigorously Juliet shook her head.

It was a toss up, Estelle realised, which of the two of them was more nervous.

‘I wanted to clear the air. Get everything sorted out,’

she plunged on. ‘It’s OK, that’s what I’m trying to say. You and Oliver, well, it all happened years ago. Of course it was a shock at first, but I’m used to the idea now, so—’

‘I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you,’ Juliet blurted out, her cheeks pink with mortification. ‘I’m just so glad you and Oliver are back together.’

‘After me making the world’s biggest fool of myself.’

Estelle’s smile was rueful. ‘With Will Gifford.’

‘Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,’ said Juliet. ‘If you ask me, it was the best thing you could have done. Made Oliver sit up and take notice, didn’t it?’

Estelle moved to one side to allow a group of medical students to pass. Out here in the hospital corridor, it struck her afresh how much she’d always liked Juliet Price. Rather more astonishing was the fact that Juliet had liked Oliver enough to have an affair with him. But now she and Jake had got it together — at last — and as a pairing they made so much more sense.

‘So anyway, we’re OK,’ Estelle said hurriedly. ‘You and me. No awkwardness, no hard feelings, everything’s fine as far as I’m concerned. And we’re just so glad Tiff’s better.’

‘We are too. He’s always said how nice you were.’

Touched, Estelle said, ‘Hopefully we’ll get to know each other even better now. I’ve never had any nephews or nieces. Maybe I can be a kind of informal auntie.’

‘He’d love that. We’d all love that.’ Juliet smiled automatically as the doors of the paediatric unit swung open, spitting out a doctor she recognised.

‘Ah!’ Having headed past her up the corridor, the doctor did an abrupt about-turn and said, ‘Tiff’s blood test results came through. All clear. The consultant wants to see him at the ward round tomorrow, then if everything’s OK you can take him home after that. Take Tiff home,’ the doctor amended. ‘Not the consultant.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Juliet’s dark eyes glinted with tears. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Unless you want to leave him here,’ the doctor said with a grin, before turning and rushing off.

‘Here.’ Estelle pushed a clean tissue into Juliet’s hand. ‘Oh, thanks. I can’t believe he’s actually going home. Wait ‘til Jake and Sophie hear this.’

‘It’s brilliant news,’ said Estelle, happier than ever that she’d come along to the hospital.

Giving Juliet’s arm a reassuring squeeze, she said, ‘Now you can really celebrate.’

Kate was in her bedroom getting ready to go to work on Friday morning when she heard the doorbell.

ringing downstairs. Norris, who was lying on his side recovering from the exertions of their latest walk, lifted his head and cocked an inquisitive ear as the front door was opened and they were just able to make out the sound of a female voice.

Two female voices, in fact, Estelle being the one who had gone to answer the door. Putting the finishing touches to her lipstick and giving her hair a last hasty swoosh of Elnett, Kate said, ‘Who’s that then, hey? Shall we go and find out?’

Wagging his stumpy tail, Norris trotted downstairs at her heels. Whoever had rung the doorbell was now in the kitchen with Estelle; Kate could hear the mystery voice chattering away in there.

When she saw who it was, she was none the wiser. A tall gangly woman in her mid-fifties was sitting at the kitchen table with a pile of photo envelopes. Her lipstick was a garish shade of orange, her eyeshadow was electric-green and she was waving a photo at Estelle, of herself standing in front of — oh God — the Sydney Harbour bridge.

Looking up, the woman’s eyes widened. ‘And here he is!’ she exclaimed, bending in two like a marionette whose strings have been cut and flinging her arms wide. ‘Norris, baby! Oooh, look how thin you are, have you missed us terribly?’ Peering up at Estelle, she said, ‘Hasn’t he been eating? Hang on, I’ve got some chocolate here in my bag.’