Chapter 1
‘You and me both, Bonnie,’ muttered Mab to herself, mopping the kitchen floor with more than usual gusto, ‘but where are we going to find one? And I’ll give you strong and fast, but fresh from a fight?
I bet you’d spend the first half hour putting plasters on him, and telling him what a brave soldier he’d been. ’
Wringing out her mop, Mab paused for a moment in front of a large pin board hanging over the sink. In the montage of curling snapshots there was one right at the centre that offended her every time she caught sight of it. She unpinned the small picture and tore it into shreds.
‘Right, I’m putting you in the compost bin where you belong, Pete, down amongst the eggshells and smelly old tea bags.
I’m sick of your smug face looking at me while I’m washing up.
I’m going to be a success now. I’ll get my book published, find an interesting job with decent wages, and maybe I’ll even look for someone better than you, someone to cherish me.
And while I’m at it, I’d better stop talking to myself. ’
Mab had been thinking of her dream man off and on all morning.
She’d even typed out a list of his essential qualities, telling herself that she wasn’t wasting valuable writing time and that it would be useful background information for her next novel.
The man of her dreams (should she decide he was worth the risk) must have:
a wicked sense of humour
a kind heart
an aptitude for whipping up stunning little suppers
the sort of bottom that makes you want to bite it
a fabulous smile with strong white teeth
sparkling eyes
a great body, tall enough for me to look up at him; strong and muscular without being burly
squeaky-clean hair, with maybe a tendency to curl?
designer stubble
an interesting accent; soft Irish brogue, lilting Geordie, gentle Scots, etc.
But where was she going to find him? More to the point, would he find Mab amazing enough to pursue her, because there was no way she was chasing a man.
Never, ever again. And even more importantly, would he wait long enough for her to sort out the tangle of her life?
For around six and a half months? The phone rang, startling Mab out of her gloom.
With a sinking feeling, she saw her mother’s number displayed on the screen.
She reached for the handset. There was no point in ignoring the call.
Mab’s mum, Ria, seemed to have a supernatural instinct for knowing whether her daughter was out or just hiding in the bathroom.
‘Hello, Mum,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound lively and interesting. Ria’s latest criticism had been that Mab was always negative.
‘Morning, Mabel. I’m just ringing to remind you that you promised to visit Gran later. You know how upset she gets when you forget, and Dad and I can’t go because he’s booked tickets for the cinema. He says I need to relax.’
Mab sighed. ‘I never forget about going to see Gran, Mum. I love going to see her.’
‘If only that was true, darling. Gran still talks about last June, when you missed her birthday party. The matron of the home had gone to all that trouble with the cake, and the streamers…’
‘But Mum, you know why that happened. It was only two days after my accident. My leg was in plaster and I was on crutches. The taxi didn’t turn up and I couldn’t get to the bus stop, don’t you remember? I rang you to pick me up but you were having a spa day.’
Ria’s voice became shrill. ‘Are you trying to say it was my fault that you forgot, Mabel? I deserved that day. When do I ever get any “me time”? Your gran understood. She knows how hard I work.’
‘I didn’t say… oh, never mind. I’ll be there tonight. Got to go. Jess is expecting me. Bye, Mum.’
Checking the clock, Mab put the phone down hurriedly and pushed the bucket and mop into a corner.
That would have to do for now, she’d tackle the rest later.
Realising just in time that she was still in her pyjamas, she changed quickly, picked up her bag and slammed the door of the flat behind her.
The May sunshine was dazzling, and Mab slipped on a pair of huge sunglasses, feeling unusually glamorous as she looked sideways at her reflection in the pizza shop window.
If she pulled in her stomach, the overall effect wasn’t too bad; tall, but with a straight back – thanks to a nagging mother and early ballet lessons – masses of brown hair, and a flowing shirt that disguised some of her more voluptuous areas.
Mab remembered too late that she’d promised herself a trip to the swimming baths to begin her ‘Get Fit for Summer’ campaign. Oh well, there was always tomorrow.
As she headed for the marketplace, Mab saw that the sunshine had brought the tourists out in force.
She supposed Clayton-on-the-Bream wasn’t such a bad place to live if you had already found your man.
Tree-lined avenues ran into charmingly quirky shopping streets, and old-fashioned signs pointed to the river walk, the castle and the museum of willow-weaving.
Today there were lovers everywhere, holding hands, stopping to sneak a kiss, smiling sickeningly into each other’s eyes, and even one pair of lovebirds gazing into the jewellery shop window.
She saw them leaning together as they peered at the rows of shining rings.
‘Go on, then, which one’s it to be?’ the man asked, slipping an arm around his girlfriend’s skinny waist.
‘Ooh… you choose. They’re all so expensive, I don’t know…’
‘Nothing’s too good for my girl,’ he said, feeling around for his wallet. Mab felt faintly sick. When would this ever happen to her? And did she really want it?
Doing her best to avoid tripping over two closely entwined teenagers, Mab told herself how cool it was to be a strong, independent woman, in charge of her own life and destiny, rather than in a relationship as her status on Facebook had announced until recently.
Granted, it had hurt to go back to single when Pete had disappeared three months ago with a blonde scuba-diving instructor from Queensland and ￡2000 of Mab’s savings.
Pretty much her total nest-egg, in actual fact.
On the other hand, life without him was much less stressful and she could now watch the whole of EastEnders without any fear of interruption, and eat things which didn’t involve deep-fat frying and ketchup.
She frowned as she negotiated the crowd hanging around the mermaid fountain in the market square.
There seemed to be some sort of under-age love-fest going on everywhere today.
Several couples giggled and groped happily, and one of the boys was playfully trying to tip his girlfriend into the pool.
Mab shuddered. If she was going to even think of giving up her freedom again, it would be for a proper hero this time – a man who would dive in and rescue her from rushing waters, not push her into them.
But was she really ready to move on, after Pete and the way he’d made her feel?
What Mab really needed was a long heart-to-heart with her best friend, Jess.
There were things she needed to tell Jess, and soon.
Well, that wasn’t going to be today. Jess would be hard at work buttering toast and making baguettes in the café.
‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen,’ shouted the man who cleaned the windows of the town’s shops. Mab looked up at him as he swayed slightly at the top of his ladder. She gave him her best mean stare, lifting her sunglasses to maximise the effect.
‘Maybe it already has,’ she hissed.
Striding through mid-morning shoppers, Mab cursed their dawdling.
She crossed the cobbled street and headed down the ancient arcade of black and white timbered shops, with their sloping walls and bottle-glass windows.
As she pushed open the door of Beattie’s Bakehouse and sniffed the warm, vanilla-scented air, Mab felt the familiar swirl of queasiness.
She had always found it hard to be so dependent on cake, but today her stomach lurched as she caught the waft of baking biscuits, and beads of sweat appeared on her forehead.
‘Table six, four toasted teacakes and Earl Grey for two,’ shouted Jess from the kitchen. ‘Hi, Mab, I’ll be in as soon as I’ve loaded the dishwasher. We’re out of cups again. I think they’re eating them today.’
The tiny room was packed; all the tables but one were taken.
Mab squeezed into a seat with relief, took a few deep breaths and rummaged for her notebook and pen.
Maybe this wasn’t a very classy sort of office for an aspiring author but since discovering the steamy café with its seventies-style macramé hanging baskets, bamboo furniture and checked cloths, Mab had felt more at home every day.
The walls were covered with old photographs and posters of Venice, and Mab’s thoughts often wandered to the day when she would visit that magical place for the first time.
There was no worry that couldn’t be soothed by an imaginary gondola ride down the Grand Canal in the springtime. If only she could sell her book.
Bustling through from the kitchen, Jess looked pleased to see that her usual ploy to save Mab a place had worked. For some reason, nobody seemed keen to sit at the tiny corner table surrounded by heaps of dirty crockery and screwed-up napkins.
‘Morning, Mabel,’ said Jess, loudly, flicking Mab’s ear and beginning to load a tray with pots.
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that,’ said Mab, ‘I don’t call you Jezebel, do I?’
‘Good job too. I wouldn’t answer.’
‘Well, pack it in, then; it’s not funny.’
‘Yes, it is – and it still makes you go all red.’
Ever since primary school, Mab and Jess’s names had been a burden to them. At secondary school, things got steadily worse, and Mab endured several limericks composed in her honour, the cleanest being:
There was a young slapper called Mabel
Who was quicker to lay than a table.