Love on the Rocks (48 page)

‘Who’s it for?’ she asked teasingly, watching Graham carefully show Alfie how to use the controls.

Molly was sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching her son proudly. When Lisa had first met her, she had been painfully thin and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes, the weight of the world on her shoulders. Now she had filled out and had some colour; her hair was thick and shiny, her eyes had some sparkle. She was wearing jeans and a thick red polo-neck sweater sprinkled with snowflakes.

Molly had paid a duty visit to her mother that morning. Despite her changed circumstances, she hadn’t had it in her heart to cut her mother off. But now she wasn’t dependent on her in any way, she could handle her. Teresa had made a spiteful remark about her going off to the big house.

‘It’s all right for those who can afford it,’ she griped.

She was going to the pub for her Christmas dinner, to get slaughtered with her cronies. But Molly didn’t feel guilty. She wasn’t going to the Thornes for the extravagant gifts and the sumptuous food, although she knew that would be there. She was going for the love, the incredible love that they lavished on Alfie that was worth more than any money. Joanie and Graham spent hours patiently answering his questions and showing him things and playing endless games of snap and dominoes, or colouring in. They wouldn’t leave him in his pushchair in the corner of a pub with a beaker full of pop and a dummy.

She had finally agreed that they should buy her a house. Bruno had persuaded her that it was only right; that Joe would have provided her with a roof over her head. There was money in his trust fund that would have gone towards a house for him eventually, if he had lived. So by rights that money was Alfie’s. Reluctantly, Molly was persuaded. They had put in an offer on a tiny terraced house in Mariscombe. Molly felt ill with excitement whenever she thought about it.

She was determined to keep her independence. She had carried on working at the hotel and Bruno had finally persuaded her to take on the position of housekeeper. But the best of it was that Joanie looked after Alfie during the day, and she knew he would be loved and cared for and fed. It had taken her a while to surrender him. After all, Molly had protected herself with a wall of wariness for over two years, had lived a life shrouded in secrecy and become adept at keeping people at arm’s length. But the Thornes were incredibly kind and considerate. They seemed to understand that Alfie was hers first and foremost, and didn’t put her under undue pressure to share him. They took her guidance on what he was allowed and not allowed, and they tried very hard not to spoil him, preferring to give him their time. But actually Molly didn’t mind if he was spoiled; the first couple of years of his life had been a time of such deprivation, of making do and going without.

They spoiled her, too. Today she had been given a pair of ceramic hair straighteners – Molly was touched because she knew Bruno must have done some serious research to work out that was what she wanted. It would have been Hannah who’d given him the clue.

Hannah had blossomed beyond belief since going ahead with her nose job, despite Frank’s protestations that had lasted right up until the minute she had gone into the hospital. Still solid and reliable, she now had a patina of confidence that had grown not so much from her surgery as from her relationship with Frank. Her dress sense, her hair, her posture had all become more confident. She had lost weight and become more toned, thanks to Frank forcing her into the sea. She was almost a beach babe. Bruno was grooming her as his right-hand girl at the hotel. When Caragh had left with her tail between her legs, Bruno had taken over as manager, but was looking for someone to delegate to. Hannah had told Molly, in gleeful tones, that she and Frank were moving into a little flat together. They wanted some privacy, away from the communal staff accommodation they were growing out of.

In the kitchen, Bruno pulled a tray of mince pies that his mother had brought out of the Rayburn and tipped them on to a plate. It had been a wonderful Christmas, he reflected. At last, Joe’s ghost had been laid to rest. The burden of guilt they all felt equally between them had rolled away and they could look to the future. More than anything, Bruno couldn’t believe the change in his mother. Between the day he had introduced her to Alfie and now, she had altered immeasurably. She had recovered her zest for life, rediscovered her old friends and hobbies. She’d gone to the hairdresser’s and had a radical cut and change of colour which had rolled back the years. And her renaissance had given his father back his
joie de vivre
. Graham seemed to be discovering his second childhood, forever messing about with train sets and kites and doing silly card tricks – Bruno had forgotten what an endlessly patient father he had been.

Of course, they would never forget Joe. With his parents’ permission, Bruno had made a small speech before they began lunch, and they had all raised a glass in a toast to Joe, the wild one, the
enfant terrible
. The one who had brought them all together.

Lisa woke with a start. She’d nodded off on the sofa and it was nearly six o’clock. Two hours had seemed like two minutes, and she realized with regret that she was going to have to leave this haven and get back on duty. She scrambled to her feet.

Bruno looked troubled.

‘I’d drive you but I’m way over the limit now. Too much of Dad’s claret and far too much Paddy’s.’

‘I’m happy to walk.’ The fresh air would do her good.

‘I’ll walk you. Hector needs a good run.’

‘OK.’

The night was cool and crisp and even, as all good Christmas nights should be. Hector bounced along the beach, as full of energy as ever, retrieving sticks good-naturedly. The stars in the sky looked as if they had been positioned there by an Oxford Street window-dresser, sprinkled evenly across the velvet black and winking in sequence. The moon hovered, milky white and luminous. Lisa shivered slightly and tucked her scarf in more tightly.

‘Cold?’

She nodded and the next moment found Bruno had put his arm around her.

She stopped in her tracks. He pulled his arm away hastily.

‘Sorry.’

‘No.’ She smiled up at him. ‘It was . . . nice.’

She stepped forward to be closer to him. This time he put both arms around her. She melted into his chest. She could hear the gentle pounding of the waves, feel the cold of the night air around her. And his warmth. Tentatively, she slid her arms around his waist. They stood, locked together, for what seemed like an eternity.

‘Lisa . . .’ Bruno stroked her cheek gently with the back of his forefinger. She tilted her head back, looking straight into his eyes as he kissed her. She could feel him, taste him, smell him, the Bruno-ness of him: there was Earl Grey tea and Irish whiskey and the scent she had smelt that first day she’d met him that now made her weak with longing.

She marvelled at how right it felt, despite her reservations, despite her caution, despite her rules. She’d never experienced this combination of emotions: wanton desire; hot, desperate urgency; a compulsion to devour and be devoured – all underpinned by a glow of warmth and security that was like coming home.

Trembling, they parted and gazed at each other. Her curls were blowing wildly about her face. He smoothed them down with his hand and she closed her eyes at the very bliss of his touch, wanting to nudge at him for more caresses like a demanding cat.

‘New Year’s Eve,’ he said gently. ‘Come for supper. I know you’ve got a mad week ahead of you. You deserve to be pampered.’

‘But—’ She was about to protest. The hotel was full for New Year’s Eve. But he put a finger to her lips.

‘Shush now,’ he commanded, smiling. ‘I’ve already sorted it. Frank is in total control. The staff are perfectly capable of overseeing his gourmet dinner. Hannah will be on duty at the Mariscombe and she can be at The Rocks in two minutes if there’s an emergency. For heaven’s sake, Lisa. When did you last have a day off? Or a night out?’

She couldn’t actually remember.

‘I don’t mind. I love my job.’

‘That’s not the point.’

They kissed again. It was fervent, passionate. For one wild moment Lisa felt like throwing off her clothes and pulling him down on to the wet sand. But duty called – at six thirty her guests would be in the drawing room ready for yet more champagne. She tore her lips away.

‘I must get back.’

‘I know,’ said Bruno regretfully. ‘Come on.’

He grabbed her hand and pulled her along the last stretch of beach. She followed after him, breathless, laughing, Hector springing along behind them wondering what on earth was going on but happy to join in.

All evening, as she poured champagne and passed around canapés and made polite conversation with her guests, Lisa couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

At last it was time for bed. The final guest had been despatched up the stairs, the staff had gone home, the tree lights had been turned off. It wasn’t quite midnight. Lisa stood in the reception hall, gazing round at its white walls, at the ivy garlands entwined with chiffon ribbon, at the enormous flower arrangement studded with tiny dark red rosebuds, the wrought-iron candelabra filled with church candles. She flipped through the bookings’ register, marvelling at the reservations she already had for the coming year. She picked up the champagne glass she had been carrying around all evening but barely touched, and finally allowed herself to drink. She didn’t usually use alcohol to fortify herself, but on this occasion she needed to summon up some fortitude.

There was one more thing she had to do before bedtime.

She picked up the phone and dialled. Although she’d never used the number, she’d learned it by heart, for fear of losing it. She glanced at the clock – what was the time difference? Ahead or behind? She couldn’t be sure, but nor did she care. If she didn’t do it now, she never would.

Someone picked up the phone at the other end.

‘Hello?’

The voice was so familiar, even after all this time, even from so many miles away.

‘Dad . . . ?’ That was the only word she could manage as a huge lump in her throat choked her.

‘Oh, Lisa, love.’ The words came out almost as a sigh. And in that sigh was a myriad of emotions: grief, relief, shock, love. And anxiety. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ She could only manage a croak, before the tears came. She valiantly tried to control her sobs. ‘Happy Christmas, Dad.’

‘Oh, Lisa, love,’ he repeated, and this time there was joy in his voice. ‘Happy Christmas to you too.’

Twenty minutes later she put the phone down with a slightly shaking hand. To her amazement, she’d agreed to fly over to Spain, in less than three weeks. Her father had wanted to jump on a plane the very next day to come and see her, but she’d been firm. She needed time to prepare herself for their reunion, to make sure she was strong, that she had things straight in her own mind. Besides, she had other things to attend to before then.

She carefully snuffed out the candles, taking care not to let any hot wax drip on to the floor. She walked into the drawing room to check the French windows were closed. Her eyes raked along the dark outline of the beach, until they came to rest at Bruno’s house. There was a light on and she wondered if he was still up, or if it was just left on for security.

She turned and left the room, walking back across the hall to the telephone. She picked it up and dialled a number hastily, before she could change her mind.

He answered after the third ring.

‘There is absolutely no way,’ she said firmly, ‘that I can wait until New Year’s Eve. I’ll meet you on the beach in ten minutes.’

For a taste of summer, read on for
VERONICA HENRY’S

T
he M5 motorway on a Friday afternoon in August was enough to drive you mad. It took Craig forty minutes just to get out of the city. Then the traffic would be nose to tail all the way from Birmingham to Taunton. Stop–start. Stop–start. A slow crawl that had him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Craig looked longingly at the hard shoulder. It was so tempting. If he got stopped, he could just flash his badge. He’d probably get away with it, except he wasn’t that sort of copper. He didn’t abuse his position. He had mates who had no problem with doing that kind of thing – breaking the rules – but Craig liked to stick to the letter of the law. He always played it straight, even if it wasn’t always the easy option.

He could feel his T-shirt sticking to the back of his seat. He wasn’t going to be a pretty sight by the time he got to the beach at Everdene, nor a pretty smell. The air-con didn’t seem to make any difference, and opening the windows didn’t help. He took a swig from the bottle of water he’d stuffed in the cup holder. It was warm, but it took the edge off the dryness in his throat. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm and looked at the sweat. Gross.

After Taunton, the traffic cleared and he put his foot down, keeping at a steady seventy miles an hour until he turned off the motorway. The car headed over Exmoor – its high, bleak landscape parched and brown from the summer sun. Away from the traffic Craig started to relax. He had a whole week off. A whole week to do what he liked. All he had with him was a few clothes, a wetsuit and his surfboard. And the key to the beach hut.