Her mother’s words washed over her, barely registering. Beatrice was too shocked to listen, because she knewexactlywho had been hiding under that mask.
CHAPTER THREE
Beatrice climbed the stairs, a pile of ironing in her arms, and tried to ignore the squabbling coming from the living room. The girls could only entertain themselves for so long, and she sensed they’d reached their limit.
The chores had to be done though, and this morning she’d managed an impressive array of cleaning, tidying, washing and ironing. In fact, she’d got carried away and had done more than she’d intended. Whenever she thought she’d finished, she managed to find something else that needed doing. The house hadn’t been this clean since she’d been forced to blitz it after hosting Sadie’s fifth birthday party in the summer and sixteen children had rampaged through the place.
As she entered her youngest daughter’s bedroom, her eye fell on Sadie’s favourite story and her lips tightened. Its author was the reason she had been unable to keep still for more than five minutes today.
Placing the ironing on the bed, she picked up the book and scowled. Beatrice had to admit that Mark told a good yarn, one that appealed to kids and adults alike, and the illustrations weregorgeous. Taya had been given it a few years ago, and if Beatrice had realised who’d written itat the time, she might well have hidden it. Or thrown it away. But when she’d seen the name ‘Mark Stafford’ on the cover, she hadn’t initially realised that the man she had entrusted with her heart and the children’s author were one and the same. When she’d found out, she had been… not upset, exactly, but it had brought an unwelcome rush of buried feelings to the surface.
The book had become a firm favourite of Taya’s and had eventually been passed on to Sadie, who loved it equally as much. Beatrice must have read the blasted thing at least a hundred times, and she was heartily sick of it – and not just of the story itself. The book was a constant reminder of a part of her life she would prefer to forget. Unfortunately for her (not for the author) the book was extremely popular so there was no escaping it. Then the damn man had gone on to publish several more. So she now pretended that the books gracing her daughter’s shelf had been written by some other Mark Stafford, a Mark Stafford who she had never met and had never loved. A Mark Stafford who hadn’t chosen a career instead of her. And she had succeeded up to a point, her memories safely buried underneath those that had come after – marriage, babies, divorce.Life.
Then yesterday happened. Why the hell had he come back? His parents had moved away years ago, so what reason could he possibly have to return to a backwater (his words) like Picklewick. “Something to do with his books” didn’t sound at all believable.
And how had he ended up playing the Grinch at the farm? She was positive it had been him. Or was she?
Beatrice reached for her phone.
‘Who was under the Grinch mask?’ she asked Dulcie after the pleasantries were out of the way. ‘I didn’t think it was Walter.’
‘It was originally, but this guy showed up, a children’s author. He asked if he could take a look around because he’s doing some research for a new book, and when we got to the grotto Walter wasn’t feeling too good, so he stepped in.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Mark Stafford.’
‘I knew it!’ Beatrice muttered.
‘Nikki has heard of him – his books are very popular, apparently – but I had to Google him. He was alright, wasn’t he?’ Dulcie sounded anxious.
‘He was a brilliant Grinch,’ Beatrice assured her. ‘Very believable.’
‘Thank goodness for that. You had me worried for a minute. He seemed really down to earth. I wanted to pay him, but he refused to take any money. That was nice of him, wasn’t it?’
‘It was.’ Markwasa nice guy. Or he had been until he’d dumped her.
Her heart was thumping by the time she came off the phone, as something occurred to her. Something it shouldn’t have taken this long to realise.
Ifshehad recognisedhim, even with a green latex mask hiding his face, thenhewould have undoubtedly recognisedher. And he hadn’t said a word.
It wasn’t working. This was Mark’s third day in Picklewick and so far he had nothing, and his visit to the farm on Muddypuddle Lane on Saturday had produced zero results, despite the impromptu Grinch performance.
He still had trouble believing he’d actually agreed to it. With her powers of persuasion Dulcie would go far, he thought wryly. She’d failed to manage to talk him into a repeat performance next Saturday though. He hadn’t minded helping out in an emergency, but he wasn’t going to make a habit of it, especially since Beatrice worked at the farm.
It was no secret that he was back, so she was bound to get to hear of it, and there was also a possibility he might bump into her again, but he didn’t want to be wearing a lurid green mask when he did.
He should go back to Bristol. It would be the sensible thing to do. If he was going to continue to suffer from writer’s block, he may as well suffer from it in the comfort of his own home. He’d spent all of yesterday cooped up in this room, wracking his brains for ideas, without success, only emerging at mealtimes.
For Mark, his imagination was often sparked by an image or a scene; he would feel the urge to draw it, and from that a story would form. But nothing he’d seen in Picklewick so far had inspired him. And having Beatrice’s face pop into his mind every ten seconds didn’t help. She hadn’t changed, she was as lovely as he remembered.
A thought drifted across his mind – what would have happened if he’d stayed in Picklewick? Might he and Beatrice have got married and had kids? A pang went through him, and he brushed it aside.
‘What can I get you?’ Dave asked when Mark ventured downstairs in search of a spot of lunch.
He wasn’t hungry (the full English had been, well….full) but he could do with a break. Staring into the distance with a blank sheet of paper in front of him, was rather demoralising.
‘An Americano and a cheese and pickle sandwich, please.’
