‘I’ve barely been in here since we lost her,’ he says softly.
‘We don’t have to do this now,’ I murmur. His wife died just over seven months ago. I’m not at all sure that he’s ready for this. I’m not sure that I am.
‘It’s fine,’ he says, leaning in and taking the mouse. I scoot my chair over to the left, watching as the arrow hovers over a blue folder on the dock at the bottom. The name comes up: ‘SECRET’. Charlie moves the mouse to the right and clicks on a folder called ‘CONFESSIONS’.
‘Is that the title of the sequel?’ I ask, alight with interest.
‘Confessions of Us,’ Charlie tells me. ‘Sara wasn’t sure about it.’
Sara was Nicole’s agent, too, of course.
‘I like it,’ I tell him, peering more closely at the contents of the folder:Characters... Confessions... Research... Synopsis... Timeline...
‘You’ll have to check out herSecretsfolder, as well. I’m not sure she moved everything across.’
‘Okay.’ I nod.
‘If you want the job, that is.’ He lets go of the mouse and straightens up.
‘Isn’t that up to you?’ I ask him carefully.
He stares down at me. ‘I’ve read a couple of your blog entries,’ he replies instead of giving me an answer. ‘Fay was right. Your tone of voice is very similar to Nicki’s.’ Charlie leans against one of the filing cabinets and folds his arms across his chest. ‘But are you sure you have the time to take this on?’
‘Absolutely,’ I state. ‘This will take precedence over all of my other work,’ I assure him. ‘I can blog in my spare time – I don’t have a deadline and there are no other pressures on me.’ I take a deep breath before announcing, ‘I think I’d do a good job.’
He eyes me thoughtfully as the seconds tick past, and then he finally nods in what I hope is agreement. ‘I’ll speak to Fay.’
Chapter 3
‘I don’tdocamping, Dad!’
‘Campervanning is not camping, Bridget. There’s a fold-down bed, for Christ’s sake! You’d love it. Don’t you remember how much you once adored messing around in your little playhouse? It’s not so different to that.’
‘That was back when I used to make mud cakes.’
‘I’m not advocating you make mud cakes inHermie. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.’ He pauses before being sure to add, ‘I’ddefinitelyrather you didn’t.’
Hermieis the name he gave to his seventeen-year-old Mercedes Vito campervan. OriginallyHerman the German– chosen by his now ex-girlfriend when he brought it over from Germany a few years ago – the name swiftly morphed into the far cuter variation. AndHermie iskind of cute. I just don’t want to live in the bastard for two months.
‘Charliereallyliked you,’ Sara effused after my recent trip to Cornwall. I suspect this was a bit of an overstatement. ‘He definitely wants you on board,’ she added.
‘Really?’
‘Yep! There’s just one little thing...’ she said.
Apparently, Charlie panicked when Sara asked him if he could box up Nicki’s things for a courier to collect. She assumed it could all be delivered to me in London, but Charlie wasn’t ready for Nicki’s diaries and notebooks to leave the house. The solution? I go to Padstow and work from her office.
It’s just as well I don’t have much of a life at the moment. I don’t even have an apartment. I’m staying with Dad in Wembley because my place in Chalk Farm is still being rented out to the people who took it over when I went to Australia. I saymyapartment, but it’s technically Dad’s – he bought it as an investment, although he accepts only enough rent to cover the mortgage. The current tenants pay way more, so, when they asked if they could extend their lease until October, Dad suggested I move in with him to save money. He knows I struggled financially in Australia, but really he just likes my company. We’re very close. He raised me practically single-handedly from the age of six.
I love hanging out with him, but there’s something a little bit creepy about living at home at my age. So I came around to the idea of Cornwall pretty quickly. After all, who wouldn’t want to spend their summer at the seaside? I only really started to stress this morning after calling around and discovering that all the B&Bs and hotels in Padstow are booked out, if not completely, at least for a good part of the summer.
I gave up and came straight to the pub. Not to drown my sorrows, mind. Dad owns the place. It’s a medium-sized, definitely-not-a-gastro-pub that’s a fifteen-minute walk to Wembley Stadium in one direction and about the same distance to his house in the other. On game and gig days, it gets pretty hectic, but right now it’s quiet, save for a couple of regulars.
‘Honestly, darling, that campsite on the hill is really lovely,’ Dad says, coming back over to me after taking an order for two scampi and chips and a lasagne.
As I say, not a gastro pub.
‘I can just see you climbing the hill and having a drink while watching the sunset.’ He pauses, cocking his head to one side. He still has a head of thick, bushy hair, but it’s dark in colour now, thanks to his regular Just For Men habit. ‘You’d be able to hook up some solar-powered fairy lights,’ he continues, ‘and fill up the fridge with mini-bottles of Prosecco.’
