‘Hang on,’ Helena had said. ‘Why is my brother going to want to kill you?’
‘Um,’ Teddy had hesitated. ‘Shall we go back to my place first to talk? Somewhere private away from the crowds. No?’ Helena shook her head. ‘Okay. Leon is very protective of you, yes? Just after your dad died, he asked me to take his place in that protective role when he wasn’t around because he trusted me to look after you like a brother and not want to have a relationship with you. He asked me to promise.’
Helena had stared at him in shock. ‘Leon said that?’
Teddy had nodded. ‘I had no hesitation about promising him I would look after you. I love being with you. But I didn’t realise how hard it was going to be to keep our friendship platonic. My brotherly feelings towards you had started to disappear around the same time Leon asked me to be his stand-in,’ he added quietly, catching hold of her hand.
‘There is absolutely no chance of Leon killing you because I’m probably going to kill him for interfering the next time I see him,’ Helena had said. ‘He is in so much trouble with me.’
Hand in hand, they’d made their way back to Teddy’s house, talking about how they would publicly deal with their changed relationship. It was Helena who suggested they should simply carry on to all outward appearances as usual, not tell anyone of their newly acknowledged feelings for each other. Keep their relationship as secret as possible at least until Leon was home and they could present a united front and show everyone how happy they truly were.
Helena’s mobile rang at that moment, breaking into her thoughts, and she smiled as she picked it up. ‘I guess you’ve had an email from Sandy, the retreat organiser?’
‘Yes. At least they’ve not cancelled on us and they’ve booked a great alternative,’ Mandy said.
‘You know the Villa Celestia?’
‘No, not personally,’ Mandy laughed. ‘Don’t you ever read glossy magazines? It’s one of the best places to stay and eat in Antibes – on the Riviera actually. The chef owner is brilliant, Guy somebody. At least the food should be great.’
Helena and Mandy had met when they both joined an online writers’ group. Discovering that they lived in villages on the outskirts of Bath, although on opposite sides of it, they’d met for coffee in town one Saturday and had been real-life friends ever since. Complete opposites in many ways, Mandy outgoing and bubbly, Helena quieter and reserved, their friendship complemented the pair of them. Both of them had the same two goals – to become published writers and to give up their day jobs. Mandy was a tourist guide around the Roman baths and the town in general, whilst Helena worked in the office of Waterstones in the centre of town. They spent as much of their spare time writing as they could and a couple of months ago both had celebrated selling short stories to two different women’s magazines.
‘We’re on our way,’ Mandy had said as they celebrated with a bottle of Prosecco. ‘We just have to write and send out more stories.’ That was the night, too, she’d convinced Helena that they should book a place on AntibesRetreats. Since then, they had both been trying to write even more short stories and had also made a start on writing the novels they both kept saying they were going to write.
As the call ended, Helena smothered a guilty sigh. She and Mandy talked about everything, with one exception – Teddy. Mandy knew how Helena had always felt about Teddy, but Helena had not told her how things had changed between them. She was determined to keep their relationship a secret until Leon had returned and then she and Teddy together would tell him how wrong he’d been to interfere.
Unfortunately, Leon wouldn’t be home for months. He was sure to video call her on her birthday, though, wherever she was. Helena determined she’d call him out on his action then.
6
Liz James closed her notebook and put her pen down with a sigh. It was no good, she couldn’t dredge up a single workable idea for her new book. Even reverting to the old-fashioned way of writing by hand in the hope that hand and brain would connect hadn’t worked. You would have thought that having written thirteen previous novels, she wouldn’t struggle quite so much to come up with storylines. After all, she knew about inciting incidents, structure and character arc these days, even if she was still a pantster who didn’t make detailed plot notes before starting.
But all those books had been written in her old life, not in the one she was now living. Had those thirteen books been written as a form of escapism from her daily life? Shut away in her office she could forget for hours at a time that her marriage had been a huge mistake. Now she didn’t need that escapism – had her writing mojo deserted her? Would it come back? Or was it gone forever?
Telling herself time after time that she was happier than she’d been for years had proved to be useless, even though it was the truth, as so far it had failed to coax her mojo to return. It was equally useless to wish that her ex-husband, Ralph Entwhistle, had never been in her life – something she still found herself frequently wishing. Her only consolation was that at least the rest of her life would be free of him.
Liz opened the French doors of the small room on the ground floor that she had turned into her office and stepped out into the garden. How on earth was she going to get her life back on track? Although she wasn’t sure that ‘back on track’ was the right cliché. After an acrimonious divorce, a different track, a different life, was needed. Writing about strong independent female characters bouncing back into a new life after however many life-challenging events she’d put them through was easy, doing it herself was most definitely not.
Being single after twenty-five years of marriage, Liz wasn’t at all sure how to go about turning things around. She’d forgotten what it was like to be a single woman for a start; forgotten how lonely working at home alone could be; forgotten how isolated one could feel if no effort was made to socialise. Liz didn’t socialise very well. She was always pleased to see the friends she did have, but never made an effort to make any more. Now she was living alone in Devon, she knew she would have to try to integrate more with the friends she’d made on their fleeting visits down the years, otherwise life would be very lonely.
She did love living in Sunshine Cottage, even if she hadn’t ventured out to the village a lot since moving in permanently four weeks ago. From the moment they’d seen it about fifteen years ago, Liz had adored the place, longed to live there full-time. Ralph had always refused to make it their permanent home – too quiet, too parochial, he’d always complained. A fortnight during the summer and the occasional weekend were more than enough for him. During the last couple of years, Liz had driven down to the cottage alone several times, staying for a month or two, leaving Ralph to his own devices and, she now strongly suspected, more opportunities to see his mistress – or mistresses, as it had turned out.
Two good things had come out of the acrimonious divorce for her. First was the fact that she now owned Sunshine Cottage outright. The right to live in the place she regarded as her forever home had been hard won. Because of the way Devonshire property prices had increased since they’d bought it, she’d had to sacrifice a decent divorce settlement in order to buy Ralph out and keep it, but she didn’t care. She only needed her next book to sell well and everything would be good. Except she couldn’t even think of an idea for her book and the six months she had to write it had already dwindled to four and a half.
The other good thing was living alone she’d rediscovered her love of cooking now she didn’t have to bother about Ralph’s fads. The kitchen in Sunshine Cottage was a delight to work in and she’d made some delicious meals for herself already. Later in the year when she’d settled in properly, she intended to invite her new friends in the village for supper. But she had a book to write before she could relax and let that happen.
She turned to go back into the cottage as she heard the ping of an incoming email. AntibesRetreats.
Isobel Peters, her closest writing friend and a successful thriller author, had convinced her to book a place with her at a writers’ retreat in France. ‘Brilliant place, this will be my third time. You must come, particularly after the year you’ve had; it will do you good.’ A few weeks ago, she’d finally given in and booked the fortnight as a treat to herself and also in the hope that she would be inspired by a new setting.
She remembered going on a retreat right at the beginning of her career before she was married, before she’d even met Ralph, and being so inspired by the surroundings and the other writers, she’d come back and written the book that had turned out to be her breakout novel. Hopefully, this retreat in Villa Celestia would also be as inspirational. She was really looking forward to it.
Liz quickly opened the email and read through it, relieved to read it was a simple change of venue.
Isobel phoned later to talk about the new venue. ‘Shame you won’t get to see the Belle Epoque villa Sandy usually hires, but Villa Celestia should be equally lovely. Has a real reputation for good food – Guy Lyon is a brilliant three-star Michelin chef – and anyone who is anyone has eaten there in the past decade.’
As Liz had never heard of Guy Lyon, she hadn’t reacted to his name, but she did like good food – both eating and preparing it – and she was looking forward to not having to worry about normal daily life chores. Somebody else would be in charge of all that. Hopefully she would be inspired for her next book, spend her time writing and eating lots of delicious food that had been prepared for her.
Time to start thinking about what she needed for a writerly break in the South of France where the weather in early May was sure to be warmer than here in Devon but not overly hot. Perhaps a trip to Exeter to buy a couple of new summer dresses and some cool trousers and tops. Some retail therapy was always a good idea.
