After the Honeymoon Page 3

  It wasn’t just her striking height (five foot eight at a guess). Or her glorious shoulder-length mane of wavy dark hair, black eyes, creamy complexion and high cheekbones. Nor was it her rangy, boyish build, accentuated by the clingy top she was wearing over stretchy jeans and little red boots. It was the combination of all of them.

  Nick, he thought immediately.

  ‘Hello,’ she said shyly, although behind her eyes he was certain he detected a certain toughness. ‘I’m Melissa Greenwood.’ Her voice was surprisingly deep and gravelly. ‘Carole’s not well so she asked me to cover at the last minute. We used to work together years ago, before I had kids.’

  At this point, she glanced at the mobile in her hand before slipping it into her blue suede bag. ‘I hope that’s all right.’

  The resemblance to Nick was striking – or was it because it was four years to the day since it had happened, and he’d been thinking about it all morning?

  The post-traumatic stress counsellor had assured him it was natural to ‘see’ Nick because it gave him hope. It was a bit like when you went on holiday, she’d told him. You thought you saw people you knew on the plane or in the resort because it made you feel secure. The difference was that coincidences might well happen like that in real life.

  But not when someone was dead.

  He sat down on the chair, ready for her to start work. Don’t be so ridiculous, he told himself firmly. He had to get a grip, otherwise he’d go back to the way he’d been during those crazy months after it had happened when his sanity had been, very seriously, on the line.

  Luckily Melissa Greenwood was talking, so he used the opportunity to stop his hands from shaking through sheer will power. He wasn’t sure what she was saying but that gravelly cadence was soothing. Restful. Peaceful. Something that Winston hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her glancing at her phone again and then delving into her bag. ‘I’ve bought you a pot of honey, as a sort of thank you. For letting me do your face, that is.’

  She was stammering: maybe she was less tough than he’d initially suspected. ‘I mean, I’m sure you get lots of presents from fans, but my next-door neighbour keeps bees and I just thought you might like it.’

  Somehow Winston found his voice. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

  ‘I adore your programme,’ she said, biting her lip as though confessing a deep secret. As she spoke, there was a shrill ring from the blue suede bag. Instantly, that creamy white complexion developed two little red spots on each cheek. ‘Whoops. I’ve just got to take this.’

  He stood up and moved to the window to give her privacy but could hear words like ‘in the fridge’ and ‘homework’.

  ‘So sorry,’ she said, making a point of switching off the phone and putting it in her bag. ‘Is it all right if we start now?’ She was speaking, he observed, with a mixture of amusement and irritation, as though he had delayed her.

  Then Melissa sat down on the chair next to him and examined his features with a completely different look on her face. The rather nervous woman was replaced now by the professional. Without looking, he could feel her taking him in.

  ‘A bit of shading here, I think,’ she was saying, opening one of her palettes. ‘And a touch of foundation on the neckline.’ She locked eyes with him in the mirror. ‘Broad, generous lips. I like that.’

  Carole liked to work in silence but this one clearly enjoyed a chat. Normally it would annoy him but he found he didn’t mind Melissa’s chatter.

  ‘Tell me, Winston. It is all right if I call you that, isn’t it?’ She was talking while working with her pencil, her tongue showing slightly between those small white teeth in concentration. ‘What did you really want to do when you were little? Did you have a big passion in your life?’

  To his surprise, he found himself telling this pretty woman with a pale white space on her wedding finger that he had dreamed of being an artist like his mother, who had died along with his father in a train crash in India.

  ‘I used to love watercolours,’ he added.

  ‘Wow! I do a bit myself, with my children in the holidays, to keep them amused. Do you still do it? Paint, I mean?’ She added a touch of brown to his eyebrows.

  Briefly, Winston thought of the times when the only comfort in his tent had been to sketch what he had seen on the field in his notebook. They hadn’t been pretty pictures but it had helped to release the horror. ‘Sometimes.’ Then a dreadful thought struck him. ‘You’re not going to run off and sell all this to the Globe, are you?’

  Melissa stopped. Bending down, she put her face next to his in the mirror. To his dismay, he saw that he had offended her. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Then she made an expression that suggested she was cross with herself rather than him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m asking too many questions, aren’t I? It’s just that I’m nervous, because usually at this time I’m doing the school run – not talking to one of the most famous people on television!’

  She glanced at the bag. ‘That’s why I have to keep checking the phone. I know it’s not very professional, but I’m worried because I’ve left my daughter – she’s thirteen – in charge of getting her little brother off to school.’ She bit her lip again. ‘Not sure if I should have done, but it was the only way I could be here so early.’

  Thirteen? Winston thought back to himself at that age. He wasn’t just getting his own breakfast in the holidays. He was travelling to the other side of the world on his own to see his grandmother. ‘That’s old enough to cope, surely?’

  She laughed: a pretty, tinkly laugh, as though he’d just said something highly amusing. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Then she gave a little sigh. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but this is my first job for ages. I used to be full-time, but then I had my children and turned freelance.’ To his horror, he could see in the mirror that her eyes were growing misty. ‘It worked out well. I took on as much as I needed to but turned down anything that clashed with family commitments.’

  She looked down at her ring finger. ‘But then you got divorced,’ said Winston softly.

  There was a little nod. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘I’ve been taught to notice things,’ he replied evenly.

  Another nod. ‘Of course.’ Then her voice grew brighter in the way that Winston recognised; she was making herself sound stronger than she felt. ‘My decree nisi came through two days ago. It’s probably why I’m feeling a bit … well, wobbly. My husband …’

  There was a short pause before she continued. ‘Marvyn got together with someone from work and now they live round the corner, which is really awkward in one way, but in another it’s good, because he sees the children quite a lot.’ Suddenly, she picked up her pencil. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I really shouldn’t be telling you all this. It’s just that, well, you’re very easy to talk to.’

  ‘So are you,’ Winston heard himself saying. Don’t do it, screamed the voice in his head. You said you’d never love anyone else again. Have you forgotten?

  ‘Look,’ he added, ignoring the voice. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’m on in a minute.’

  ‘Wait.’ Her voice was strong now. Commanding, even. She was so close that he could smell her perfume, a mixture of roses and lily of the valley that reminded him of his mother. Funny how he could still smell her even though he could barely recall her face. ‘I’ve just got to cover up that scar.’

  Winston froze.

  Don’t touch it, he wanted to shout, but she was already running her finger over it questioningly. Carole had noticed it too but he’d told her in no uncertain terms to steer clear of the long jagged line on the base of his neck. Now he tried to do the same thing but failed. Her touch was so soothing! As though hypnotised, Winston found his eyes closing as she smoothed something cool onto it.

  ‘It’s a special oil that I make myself with herbs from the garden. Helps to make scars look less red.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘My mother taught m
e. She was Spanish, you know.’

  So that explained the dark looks. As for the scar, it had been troubling him all morning, burning, as though it was still open and raw. Was it reminding him of the date, as if he needed any prompting?

  ‘How did you get it?’ she was now asking tenderly.

  There was a flash of fire in front of his eyes. A scream. The smell of burning flesh – just like bacon – which had turned him vegetarian overnight. He pushed back the chair and leaped to his feet. Enough was enough. Who was this woman who thought she was some kind of psychotherapist?

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  She was looking at him now with a stricken expression. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy. It’s just that I’m talking out of nerves. Please don’t complain about me or they won’t ask me to do any more.’

  God, he felt like a heel now, even though it had been her, surely, who’d stepped out of line. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Three minutes, Winston,’ Poppy called out.

  Melissa actually had a tear running down her face. This was awful. How could he go before the cameras and do Work Out With Winston, knowing that he’d upset this woman who had somehow, on the strength of half an hour’s acquaintance, affected him more than anyone had in years, right where it mattered?

  ‘Look,’ he said urgently, leaning forwards. ‘I’ve got to go now, but how about a coffee afterwards?’

  He’d expected her to be grateful but instead she was texting on her phone, brushing away that tear as though it was an inconvenience.

  ‘I can’t. Sorry.’ She was frantically texting while speaking. ‘I’d love to but …’

  ‘It’s OK.’ He headed for the door, hot with embarrassment. ‘You don’t have to make excuses.’

  ‘No, really.’ She ran a hand through that glorious black mane, shaking it like a wild pony. ‘My son has left his homework behind so I’ve got to get back and take it in to school. If I don’t dash now, I’m going to be horribly late. There are only two trains an hour back home.’

  There was another knock on the door. Louder than the first. ‘Two minutes, Winston.’

  Damn that. ‘Where’s home?’ he asked brusquely.

  She was still texting. ‘Corrywood. It’s about an hour away.’

  ‘Wait there.’ Winston heard his voice barking like an order. Her face jerked up, startled. ‘I mean,’ he continued, in a softer voice, ‘I’ll get my PA to sort out a car for you.’

  ‘Really?’ Now Melissa was looking anxious and relieved at the same time.

  ‘Sure.’ He could feel his chest tightening with apprehension at what he was about to say. ‘But on one condition.’

  Her dark eyes searched his, just as Nick’s had done at the end. ‘What’s that?’

  Winston heard his voice coming out of his mouth without his brain having given it permission. ‘That you have dinner with me one night.’

  ‘One minute, Winston.’ Poppy’s voice was edged with panic.

  There was another toss of that wonderful black mane. Nick’s had been much shorter, of course, but the colour and texture were almost identical. Winston held his breath as his words came back to him, words which he’d tried so hard to bury all these years. I’m trying, Nick. I’m trying.

  Then Melissa smiled. A lovely smile which made him weak with relief. ‘I’d love to – providing I can get a babysitter.’

  That had been three months ago. ‘I loved you from the moment you walked in,’ he confessed during his proposal, which he’d blurted out while they were walking along the canal near her home. He’d been more nervous than he’d ever recalled, far more scared than when he’d run into that burning shack.

  ‘But will you love my children too?’ she had asked urgently.

  Winston thought of the girl – Alice – with her sharp, distrustful eyes: thirteen was a difficult age. He remembered it all too well. Freddie was friendlier; they’d already played a bit of footy together. No problems there, as far as he could see, especially if he could persuade her to put them into boarding school – something they hadn’t discussed yet.

  ‘Of course I will,’ he had promised, ignoring that little voice inside his head. Kids? What do you know about them? Nothing, he told himself firmly, that he couldn’t look up in some manual or work out for himself.

  ‘And you don’t mind living in my house,’ she’d continued, entwining her fingers in his, ‘so the children can stay at the same school? They’ve been through so much. They need continuity.’

  He’d put his arm around her, deciding that this wasn’t the time to discuss the boarding option. ‘Anything. Just as long as I make you happy.’

  After that, with her agreement, he’d arranged everything. The wedding at a registry office near her home. And the honeymoon destination: a simple rustic taverna in Greece which Melissa had cleverly found through someone at school. Provided no one spilled the beans, they’d be guaranteed privacy. Marvyn, the ex, was having the children and they would have a week together, just to themselves, before getting back to filming.

  Of course, the papers had a field day. A whirlwind romance, they all called it. One had run a cruel piece with a headline that had made his agent shudder: ‘Is Bachelor Boy Winston King Getting Married to Disprove Gay Rumours?’

  Still, if Melissa had seen the article, she hadn’t mentioned it, and Winston certainly wasn’t going to.

  Meanwhile, he privately swore on his life to protect this beautiful woman who could be so vulnerable one minute and so unreachable the next. She mesmerised him. If he went for more than a morning without talking to her, he felt as though part of his chest was missing. When they’d made love for the first time, he had silently cried in a mixture of relief and self-loathing.

  ‘I love you,’ he’d whispered.

  ‘I love you too.’ She’d turned towards him. ‘The last few months have been so difficult,’ she’d confided, biting her lip. ‘But now I feel safe.’

  Her words had filled him with both love and terror. Safe, he’d repeated, running the word round his mouth. He hadn’t been able to save Nick.

  But maybe now, Winston told himself, as he strode out of the television studio and unlocked his bike from the underground car park, he might finally be able to erase the past.

  TRUE HONEYMOON STORY

  ‘We had one night in a really expensive hotel with marble floors. To our horror, confetti fell out of our clothes as we undressed and we spent the entire night scrubbing off the pink and blue stains from the tiles.’

  Jo, who got married last year

  Chapter Three

  ROSIE

  Rosie woke, blissfully aware of the warm Mediterranean sun streaming in through the half-open white wooden shutters. If she opened her eyes just enough, she could see it dancing off the glittering aquamarine sea outside, in little sparkly lines. It was going to be a scorcher, she thought, sleepily stretching out like one of the stray cats who would, no doubt, be lazily licking themselves on the terrace outside.

  Even after sixteen years of living on Siphalonia, she still found herself counting her lucky stars. Paradise! That’s what the wide-eyed tourists called it – at least the ones who were adventurous enough to stray off the beaten track and find them.

  And it really was. Long, sandy beaches with clean, fine white sand. Whitewashed cottages with bougainvillea clambering up the walls and terracotta roofs, nestling next to each other like cloves studded on an apple, on different levels, leading up to the mountains above. Locals with gappy teeth and wrinkled leathery skins who grinned at strangers.

  But Rosie was under no illusions. It took at least two generations to be fully accepted here. Jack’s children might just make it, if they were lucky.

  Jack. Oh God. Rosie sat upright in bed, stark naked in the liberating knowledge that her bedroom was built in such a way that no one could see her through the window. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea, after all, to leave him. Running her hands through her short curls, bleached over the yea
rs by the sun, she suddenly panicked now that the time had come. Was she mad to leave Jack for three whole days on his own in charge of the Villa Rosa?

  It wasn’t too late to change her mind.

  ‘I can do it, Mum,’ he had insisted when the subject had first been raised, weeks ago. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  Yes, she did. Jack wasn’t like the fifteen-year-old boys you read about in the English newspapers. He was reliable. Solid. Practical. Older than he looked with a wise head on his young shoulders. Much taller than she was – which wasn’t difficult, given that she was barely five foot two. He’d had to grow up fast. They both had.

  But every now and then, her son made the odd slip-up, like that booking last year which he’d forgotten to write down. ‘It won’t happen again, Mum,’ he’d assured her. And it hadn’t. At least, as far as she knew.

  Now Rosie slipped into her pretty cotton rosebud dressing gown that her friend Gemma had sent her for Christmas (they were both suckers for Cath Kidston) and padded across the room to turn off the noisy air conditioning. She needed to keep an eye on the bills but a/c was an essential at night when it could get unbearably stuffy. Glancing in the mirror, with its bright blue driftwood frame decorated with shells, she tilted her head to one side, looking at what her old drama teacher had described as her ‘delicate elfin features and mischievous eyes’ which had earned her the role of Puck one year in the school play.

  Opening the shutters, she leaned on the window sill and gazed out across the water. It was a view that never failed to enthrall her. Today there was a large white liner on the horizon and, closer to the shore, a fishing boat returning with the morning catch. It looked like Greco’s, the Siphalonian, with its jaunty red and white bow and little cabin beneath.

  Rosie felt a small smile creeping across her face along with a tremor of misgiving as a tall, lean, tanned man with the hint of a beard, wearing shorts and nothing on top, leaped easily out onto the shore, hauling the boat in.