Matty appeared untroubled by his early morning misadventures, so she dropped him off at school, then a bubbly Charlie at crèche for her morning session. Strictly speaking, the rules required her to keep him off for forty-eight hours, but he usually bounced back after an episode and Kiki preferred not to make a fuss about it. His bouts of sickness had started a few months previously, frequent enough for her to have taken her son to the doctor. After a range of tests, they’d not been able to find anything wrong with him, and Kiki was keeping a food diary to see if there might be an allergic connection. She hadn’t found an organic link to his problem, and she was beginning to suspect the doctor’s other suggestion—stress—might be the real cause.
The resilience the children showed filled her with pride, and not a little guilt. They shouldn’t have to tiptoe around their father the way they had been recently. She would have to try and talk to him, ask him to be a little more patient around them. Her stomach churned at the thought, but if she broached the subject when he was in a good mood, maybe she’d get through the conversation without it turning into a shouting match. Not that she did any shouting of her own. Perhaps if she made his favourite meal for dinner… she turned left at the next set of lights towards the supermarket.
Brushing the flour off her hands onto her apron, Kiki ran to the hall to fish her mobile out of her bag where it hung over the end of the bannister. The damn thing had found its way to the very depths and she almost dropped it in her hurry to answer before the caller rang off. ‘Hello?’
‘Jesus, Kiki. Can’t you even answer your phone without a drama?’
‘Sorry, darling. I was in the kitchen and I’d left my bag in the hall…’
Neil sighed. ‘I don’t need to hear your latest line in stupid excuses. Just go into my study, will you? There’s the name of a hotel and a phone number on my jotter and I need it.’
‘Hotel?’ She crossed the hall and pushed open the study door. The room reminded her so much of her dad’s, and it, too, was off limits unless she was cleaning. The high-backed leather chair behind the desk had cost a fortune, but Neil needed to be comfortable when he was working in the evenings. She nudged the chair to one side and scanned the familiar scribble on the cream-coloured jotter. ‘What’s it called?’
‘If. I. Knew. What. It. Was. Called. I. Wouldn’t. Be. Wasting. My. Time. Talking. To. You.’ She winced at the deliberate pause he put between each word. ‘It’s on the left-hand side somewhere.’
Using her finger, she traced the scribbled notes. ‘Oh, here. Lilly’s Island Hotel? Number starts with a plus-thirty?’
‘That’s the one. Hurry up, I need to get back to the meeting.’
She reeled off the number, then paused. ‘Antiparos? Isn’t that near Despotiko?’ The island was one of the most famous archaeological treasures outside of Delos. Neil’s research focused on the cult of Apollo and he had been trying to get on a dig at the sanctuary for the past few years. ‘Did you get your approval?’
‘I won’t get anything if you don’t stop chattering, but yes, looks like I’ll be there for the summer.’ He hung up without saying another word.
Kiki sank into the deep leather chair. How many times had they talked about a summer trip to the islands when they’d first got married? Curled up in Neil’s bed in his tiny flat, they’d spun dreams of days spent uncovering hidden treasures buried deep in the rocks and nights sipping ouzo and eating local delicacies. Then she’d fallen pregnant with Matty and those dreams were put on hold while they struggled to make ends meet. She’d dropped out, knowing there was no way she could finish her degree with a new baby and Neil needing all the help he could get with his research.
Life had got in the way, as it so often did, but maybe this would be a chance for them to spend some quality time together. A tiny bubble of hope stirred in her heart. Away from the stresses and strains, perhaps they could find a way to make things right between them. The kids could run and play in the sunshine, and she could help Neil catalogue his findings. She bit her lip, unable to stop a smile. If they could just get back to the way things used to be…
She reached for the wireless mouse on Neil’s desk and shook it gently to wake up his computer. A word document filled the screen, so she scanned the lower toolbar looking for the browser icon, but accidentally clicked on the email one. The screen changed, displaying an open message and she gave it half a glance, before looking back at the bottom bar.
Darling…
Her finger froze on the mouse as the word registered. Who would be calling Neil darling? Ignoring the little voice in her head that warned he would be furious at her for snooping, Kiki rolled the mouse to the top of the message and began to read. Incredulity became denial, became horror, as she followed the email exchange back over several weeks. She wanted to shut her eyes, refuse to see the truth laid out in black and white, but her finger kept clicking on the previous arrow. Every click was punctuated by the same word, the admonishment Neil threw in her face on a regular basis—stupid, click, stupid, click, stupid.
He was right.
The problem with his best friend finding a wonderful girlfriend, Aaron Spenser mused to himself, was the way it emphasised the complete failure of his own love life. Ensconced in his very favourite place in the world—the cosy kitchen at Butterfly Cove—he watched the banter between Daniel and Mia and rubbed the phantom pain in his chest.
‘Everything all right?’ Mia cast him a little frown.
He stopped his hand, embarrassed at being caught mooning over his poor, lonely heart. ‘Fine, thanks. Touch of heartburn, that’s all.’ He paused to give her a sly grin. ‘I blame the chef.’
‘Cheeky sod!’ The balled-up tea towel caught him on the side of the head when he ducked too slowly.
Rising from his assigned seat around the wooden table, he stretched his arms above his head to loosen the last bit of stiffness from the exertions of the previous day. Mia’s project to renovate the rundown old house perched beside a beautiful sandy beach in the picturesque village of Orcombe Sands was going full steam. Three of the five guest bedrooms were complete, and the final two were a few days from being finished. Aaron had spent every spare weekend since Daniel’s surprise exhibition in March travelling backwards and forwards from London to Orcombe to lend a hand.
Life in the celebrity hurricane could destroy even the hardiest of souls, a lesson Daniel had learned the hard way. Exhausted, hungover and burnt-out, he’d hit rock bottom. Fate, the West Coast mainline and a well-meaning neighbour had delivered Daniel to Mia’s doorstep, and into the lonely young widow’s life.
His friend’s abrupt career change, from successful art photographer to creating a new artistic retreat on the south coast, had set tongues wagging in the gossip-fuelled celebrity circles he’d escaped from one cold, miserable February morning. There was already a huge level of interest and Aaron had helped them set up a mailing list and blog to maintain the buzz.
Every stage of the renovation works on the guest house, as well as the adjoining barns, which would house Daniel’s haven for artists needing to take a break, was carefully documented and posted on the blog. They’d gained followers from all over the country and enough booking enquiries to fill the house for the entire summer season. The race was on to get everything ready in time for their grand opening next weekend.
Aaron picked at the remnants of red paint stuck under his nails, before abandoning it as a hopeless task. He still had the doorframe and windowsill to gloss in the country-garden-themed bedroom, so he’d no doubt end up with more on his hands. Saturday had been a washout; a huge squall had blown in off the sea, forcing them to keep the windows closed and dropping the late May bank holiday temperatures by several degrees.
The grey army—Mia’s late-husband’s in-laws and her neighbours Madeline and Richard—had battled valiantly