‘It’s stunning,’ Jules murmured.
And it really was the prettiest house she’d ever seen.
‘It’s all yours,’ Carrie said, ‘for as long as you need it.’
Jules went and stood beneath the honeysuckle archway that framed the front gate. Lavender formed a low hedge bordering the path to the front door, its scent and the buzz of the bees filling the air. Marigolds intermingled with vibrant blue cornflowers crowded against the picket fence at the front, and above the front door a milky white rose was heavy with blooms. For the last week she’d felt almost numb with despair and disbelief, had no hope that she’d be able to feel anything approaching happiness ever again, but standing here with the sun on her head and a couple of swallows swooping in and out of the eaves, there was the pinprick of a feeling that maybe, just maybe, she would eventually be able to rebuild some sort of life; not the one she had imagined, not even one to savour, but something at least which would enable her to move through the days.
‘Come on,’ Carrie said, leaning around her and lifting the latch. ‘Let’s get inside and start to settle you in. We can sit down on the patio with a cup of tea and a slice of one of Rita’s amazing cakes.’
She handed Jules the key.
‘You go first.’
Jules walked unsteadily up the path and paused beneath the little wooden porch. Carrie had talked about this house as ifit had special healing properties, which she’d honestly thought was ridiculous. But look at Carrie. She exuded happiness, yet more than that, she seemed at peace with herself. Could a house really do that or was it just the fact that she had met Guy? Would she feel anything as she crossed the threshold, or would it be like entering any other pretty holiday cottage? She really couldn’t cope with any more disappointment so there was no point building her hopes up. All the same, she took a deep breath before turning the key in the lock.
Jules had to admit that the hall was charming. A blue jug overflowing with some of the same white roses that surrounded the front door stood on the central octagonal table. Beside it was a welcome note from Rita in generous looped writing with a single kiss at the end.
Carrie placed Jules’s case at the bottom of the stairs.
‘You have a wander around while I put the kettle on,’ she said, heading through a door to the right.
Jules glanced at the case, but didn’t really feel as if she had the strength to haul that upstairs as well as herself. The window was slightly open in the main bedroom, letting in a delicious breeze. She pushed back the fluttering curtains to sit on the built-in seat. The sun had warmed the padded cushion and was throwing flickering beams on to the carpet. She twisted and looked out over the rear garden to the fields beyond and then to the sea. Gavin was out there somewhere, across the water. For all she knew, he might not even be in Britain anymore. She didn’t expect to ever see him again and she’d probably never find out whether he’d meant any of the things he’d said to her. Perhaps it had all been lies. Perhaps he’d just been a conman and he hadn’t loved her at all. Perhaps her mother, sister and Carrie were right and she should report him to the police, or perhaps, and she really wanted to believe this, he had loved her but had got himself so deeply in debt that he couldn’t think ofanother way out. Perhaps he was so ashamed of the way he’d treated her that he just couldn’t face her. Perhaps he wasn’t actually out there after all. Perhaps he had felt such despair that he’d decided to end things, and his body was lying undiscovered. She didn’t know whether that made her feel better or worse. For the first couple of days, she’d clung to the thought he’d call or just turn up and explain, apologise, get down on bended knee and beg forgiveness, but she’d always known deep down that wasn’t going to happen. She’d been a fool. A stupid fool.
Gavin wouldn’t commit suicide. She might not know much about him, but she knew him well enough to be pretty sure of that. Out in the garden Carrie was carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers and a large, fluted teapot with a little domed lid topped with a gold acorn. She placed the tray on a wooden table and looked up towards the open window.
‘That’s one of my favourite places. Do you want your tea up there or are you coming down? Rita’s left chocolate and orange cake. I said you were partial to it.’
Jules felt a familiar tightness in her chest, the one that preceded floods of tears. She tried to massage it away with the palm of her hand. Kindness and chocolate cake; not so long ago she’d have thought that would have been the solution to almost anything. Now eating was an effort and kindness just left her in a thousand pieces, but she had to try, for Carrie’s sake, for the sake of their friendship.
‘I’ll come down,’ she said.
She paused as she made her way through the sitting room, trying to take in the squashy sofas, the carefully arranged ornaments on the mantelpiece and the higgledy-piggledy bookshelves to one side of the fireplace, but feeling as if she was seeing everything from a distance. Her feet on the carpet told her that she was really here, but the rest of her felt absent as if shehad left the part of her that engaged with the world somewhere else entirely. Carrie met up with her in the kitchen.
‘Forgot the milk,’ she said, wielding a small blue pottery jug.
She draped an arm around Jules’s shoulder.
‘Come and sit down in the sun. You look shattered.’
Jules allowed herself to be led. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to make another decision for herself ever again. How on earth she was ever going to go back to work she had no idea. Carrie cut her a large slice of cake and placed it in front of her. She wanted to eat it, but…
‘It looks delicious, but I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m just not hungry.’
Carrie poured the tea and passed Jules the milk jug. She stared at it as if she didn’t know what to do.
Did she even want milk in her tea? She had this urge to change everything, the way she looked, what she ate, what she read, the way she felt, especially the way she felt.
‘I’ve got lemon, if you’d rather.’
Jules blinked. Carrie understood. Of course she did. She’d been here. Well, not quite here, nobody else could be as stupid as that, to be duped by a man like Gavin. But she’d been at rock bottom and look at her now, brown hair bouncy and loosely curled, skin clear and lightly tanned, but above all happy. No, it was more than that. Content. It radiated from her, a sort of groundedness, a belonging, a knowledge of who she was and what she wanted for herself.
‘What?’ Carrie asked, leaning forwards slightly.
‘I just…’ Jules looked around, at the garden with its butterfly-laden summer flowers, neatly mown lawn and the soft borders of the fields beyond leading the eye towards the silver sliver of sea. ‘I just don’t know how I got here. It’s like a dream.’
‘I told you. You have your mum to thank. She was frantically worried. She said she’d peered through the keyhole and you looked really thin. She thought you’d barely eaten for a week.’
‘Toast,’ Jules murmured. ‘I had toast. And tea.’
