Chapter 11
ALYSSA
The tyres of Alyssa’s Citroen Berlingo van crunched in the snow as they turned into the street on the south side of the city that housed the Moira Chiles Academy of Drama and Music.
She’d bought the second-hand van when she first opened the café, and it may be ten years old and have questionable suspension, but it had allowed her to offer home catering and takeaways in her local areas.
She was pretty sure there was still a box of cupcakes in the back, after Ginny messed up a phone order yesterday and took a dozen cupcakes to a customer who’d requested twelve vegan vol-au-vents.
Although, if things went the way Ginny hoped at her interview today, Alyssa was about to lose her most unreliable, yet essential, extra pair of hands.
Ginny had been brushing up on her factual information for the last fifteen minutes of the journey, recounting the facts out loud so that they’d have more chance of sticking.
‘The Academy was founded by the actor, Ollie Chiles – by the way, I totally would – and named after his mother, who was a singer…’ Ginny ha d broken off.
‘That’s the woman that Mum was talking about this morning, isn’t it?
Moved to the village last year and sometimes comes into the café? A large cappuccino and a ginger slice?’
‘What?’ Alyssa had answered, distracted, then she’d run the conversation back in her head until she’d reached the correct answer. ‘Yes. She’s really nice. Gets her hair done over at Copper Curls.’
Ginny had nodded. ‘I hope she’s here today and part of the interview panel. Would you be upset if I offered her free ginger slices for life if she gives me the job? I’m not above a bit of bribery.’
‘No, but you’ll have to be quick, because apparently I won’t have a café in sixty days.’
‘Oh shit, sorry. Here’s me rambling on about an interview and you’re on the verge of losing everything…’
‘Thank you for the recap,’ Alyssa had said, with a sad smile, before giving herself a shake and focussing on her enthusiasm for Ginny’s opportunity the rest of the way.
Now, as she brought the van to a stop outside an old church building, a huge sign on the front announced they were in the right place.
When she pulled on the handbrake, she turned to her sister, pushing her own woes to the side yet again.
‘I’ll wait here.’ She leaned over and gave Ginny a hug.
‘You’re going to get this job because you’re brilliant and talented and they’d be lucky to have you. ’
‘Brilliant and talented and they’d be lucky to have me,’ Ginny repeated, as if memorising that too. ‘Honest to God, I’d rather recite The Gruffalo in front of a hundred five year-old schoolkids than be interviewed by a panel. And five-year-old schoolkids are brutal.’
A primary-school reading tour was just one of the many gigs Ginny had taken on in the last few years as she’d attempted to make a living while at college, and then as a jobbing actress.
Alyssa knew she’d be brilliant in the role that she was about to interview for, though.
Teaching drama and music to teenagers was right in Ginny’s wheelhouse – she was incredibly talented but super-cool and relatable too.
Alyssa just hoped the panel saw that in her today, and that she got the job, because worrying about Ginny was just another big fat cherry of problems on the icing of the shitshow of a cake that had been delivered today.
As Ginny climbed out of the van, Alyssa shouted another, ‘Good luck,’ and gave a cheery thumbs up, before dropping the smile immediately when Ginny disappeared through the doors.
She let her head fall onto the steering wheel, and left it there for a while, until it stopped aching.
What. A. Nightmare. Her cunning plan to speak to the lawyer had been a total waste of time too.
They’d stopped at his office on the way here and she’d begged the receptionist to let her speak to Jeremy Sprite, but after a phone call, she’d been told that Mr Sprite wasn’t available.
‘Can you ask when he will be free?’ she’d asked, not accustomed to being forceful, but feeling like she had no choice.
The receptionist had grudgingly picked up her phone again, hit a few buttons and asked the same question, although, for all Alyssa knew, she could have been talking to a dialling tone, because the second call got them no further forward.
When she’d put the phone down, she’d simply said, ‘Mr Sprite’s secretary has advised once again that he’s unavailable.
She suggests that you put your request to see him in an email and he’ll respond accordingly. ’
Accordingly? What did that even mean.
A loud bang on the van window shocked her out of her thoughts and she jolted her head up to see an elderly man in a flat cap and thick peacoat, with his face pressed up against the window.
As soon as she reacted, he pulled his head back and she watched him smile with what looked like relief. She quickly rolled down the window.
‘Jeezo, lass, you gave me a fright there. I thought you were deid,’ he told her, chuckling.
‘Sorry, no! I mean, not sorry that I’m alive, but sorry if I scared you.’
‘Och, that’s okay. Sometimes we just need to test that the old ticker is still working,’ he told her, clutching his heart as he wandered off down the street.
After the absolute wankery she’d just been thinking about, it was a much-needed reminder that some people could be nice.
Which took her back to her earlier thought about her landlord’s family.
Maybe they were decent people who would listen to her.
And just because she couldn’t speak to the tosser of a lawyer – who might actually be a very nice man, but she wasn’t prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt after he refused to see her – didn’t mean that she should give up.
This was just an obstacle that she had to find a way to overcome because she damn well wasn’t going to lose her home and her business without a fight.
Maybe there was another way to reach the people she needed to speak to.
Inspired, she lifted her phone from the centre console between the driver and passenger seat and googled Martyn Morden.
An obituary in The Herald newspaper from several weeks ago was the first thing that popped up.
It is with deep sadness that the family of Martyn Morden, husband, father, and notable Scottish businessman, announce his passing on the 10th October 2025.
Nearly two months ago. That made her feel two things – first of all, sadness at the loss of this poor man’s life, and then a depressing realisation that the events that had led to this moment had kicked off weeks ago, and she’d had absolutely no idea that her future was in jeopardy this whole time.
She skimmed through the rest of the obituary, which listed a whole load of Mr Morden’s achievements in business and philanthropic endeavours. Given that it was a long list, it seemed like maybe he was a decent kind of guy after all. Hopefully those genes had been passed on to his family.
She skipped down to the bit she’d been looking for.
Mr Morden is survived by his wife, Demi, and his sons, Jason and Lachlan.
Yasss! He had a wife. And two sons. Now she just had to know where to find them. She went back to the article.
The funeral will be a private ceremony, but will be followed by a service of reflection on 11 November, at the Cimetière de Monaco , La Colle in Mr Morden’s beloved adopted homeland of Monaco.
Alyssa groaned. Monaco. How the hell was she going to reach these people if they lived in bloody Monaco?
It was no use – the lawyer was her only way in and she was going to have to find a way to reach him. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.
She said that many more times, only stopping when the passenger door opened and Ginny climbed in, face flushed, eyes bright as she tossed her parka into the back seat. Alyssa immediately dropped her rage and directed all the optimistic energy she could muster to her sister .
‘Well, how did it go?’ she asked, grinning, picking up on Ginny’s positive vibes.
‘Good, I think. Apparently, I was the only one who braved the weather to get there – thank you again, I owe you a body part should you ever require it. They asked me a bunch of questions, got me to talk about my experience and what I could bring to the students, then told me that they’d review all my audition tapes and previous interview.
They said they’ll let me know by Friday. ’
‘Amazing! I knew you’d be great. For what it’s worth, I’m really proud of you and I think you’re going to get this because you’re fricking fantastic.’
Ginny responded with a cheeky grin. ‘You’re right. I am.’
Alyssa was laughing as she pulled her seatbelt back on. ‘Okay, let’s get back and put Mum out of her misery.’ Alyssa knew Dorinda had only agreed to man the fort because Jessie had offered and shamed her into it.
They were just out of the street, when Ginny remembered another pertinent piece of information.
‘Oh, and Moira Chiles was there. When I told her I worked in the café, she said she knew she recognised me. Hopefully that’s in a good way. Anyway, she was lovely and I didn’t even have to bribe her with cake.’
‘We’ve got a dozen cupcakes in the back if you want to change your mind on that,’ Alyssa joked. Yes, definitely a joke. But something in it…
She swerved to the side of the road, stopped, then reached for her phone and put the address of Huntington Farrell into the satnav again, while Ginny watched, confused.
‘We’re going back to the lawyer’s office?’
‘We sure are.’
Twenty minutes and a hastily concocted plan later, they were back in the space they’d left after they’d drawn a blank earlier. This time, Alyssa reached into the glove compartment for her Once Upon A Time Café baseball cap, then retrieved a slightly bashed box of cupcakes from the back of the van.
‘Wish me luck,’ she told her sister. ‘If it’s the same receptionist, I’ll come straight back out and get you to do it instead.’
‘You know that just because this happens all the time in movies, it’s still highly unlikely to work in real life,’ Ginny pointed out, woefully failing to reciprocate Alyssa’s positive pre-interview encouragement.
‘I do, but it’s the only thing I can think of, so it’s worth a shot.’ She reached back for Ginny’s parka and pulled it on, having decided that her own bright red duffel coat would probably be too easily remembered from earlier.
‘You’re right. And don’t worry…’ Maybe Ginny was going to be positive after all. ‘If you get arrested, I’ll have a whip-round for your bail money. But I’ll need my parka back before they cart you off.’
Alyssa didn’t rise to it, just pulled her hat down tight over her head, fastened her jacket, grabbed the box of cupcakes and made a run through the falling snow for the door.
For the second time today, she entered the glittering foyer of the building that housed the offices of Huntington Farrell.
Her gaze immediately went to the desk in front of her and she was relieved to see that it was a different receptionist to the two who’d been there earlier.
‘Hello, I have a delivery for Jeremy Sprite,’ she said, with as much confidence as she could muster.
She just had to get upstairs to speak to the lawyer face to face, and she was sure she could convince him to help.
This – false pretences and the promise of a calorie-laden sweet treat – was how she was going to do it.
As Ginny had pointed out, it was a scenario that had worked in more TV shows and movies than she could count.
It was a sure thing. A definite win. Her key to turning this whole crappy day around .
‘If you leave it here, someone will come down for it.’ The receptionist burst her bubble with a proverbial pitchfork.
Bollocks. Alyssa had to think on her soggy feet.
‘My instructions are to have Mr Sprite sign for them. It’s cupcakes. They’re from his wife and she insisted that I deliver them personally.’
She sent up a silent plea to the gods of big fat porkies. Please let him be married. Please let him be married. Please let him be married.
‘Hold on,’ the receptionist told her, with just a touch of wariness, as she picked up the phone and went through the same procedure as the earlier visit. ‘Hi. I have a delivery here for Mr Sprite and her instructions are to deliver it personally. It’s from his wife.’
And again… Please let him be married. Please let him be married. Please let him be married.
Alyssa watched as the receptionist’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded her head, listening intently.
Was this when her cover was blown and the receptionist learned the Mr Sprite was either single, gay, widowed, or divorced his wife in 2016?
When the phone was hung up, Alyssa realised she could no longer breathe.
‘I’m sorry, but it won’t be possible to deliver them personally.’
She forced her lungs to kick in, ‘But I have to. Can you ask again? I know he’s a busy man.’
‘No, you don’t understand. It’s not possible because Mr Sprite has already left for the day. He’s not expected back in the office until next week. I’m surprised his wife didn’t know that.’
Alyssa somehow managed a weak smile. ‘Yes, erm, me too,’ before retreating as gracefully as a woman clutching a battered box of cupcakes could do.
Ginny went to the obvious conclusion when Alyssa climbed back in the van. ‘It didn’t work?’
‘Nope. He’s gone for the day. And the rest of the week. ’
‘Bollocks, I’m sorry, Lyss. But also slightly relieved that I don’t have to rustle up bail money. Okay, so what’s the next plan then, Lara Croft?’
Alyssa tossed twelve stale cupcakes into the back of the van. ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to think of something, because I’m not giving up.’