landing, as I reminisce.
Clint Thornhill had been my childhood sweetheart, a wild bad boy with convincing patter. As a teen, I hadn’t noticed his (many) obvious flaws, instead blindly worshipping the ground his bovver boots walked on. I’d fallen hard and deep, smitten by his white-blonde hair and strong features. He’d reminded me of my first major celebrity crush, Matt Goss from Bros. The similarity had set my heart aflutter.
I’d had to pinch myself to believe Clint would be interested in me, but for some reason he’d kept hanging around, turning up at places he knew I’d be. When he finally asked me to the pictures I’d accepted in a flash. We shouldn’t have wasted our money because we hadn’t watched the film: instead we’d snogged for two hours solid in the back row of the local fleapit. My lips had felt like they were burning, a blissful pain searing through my fifteen-year-old self that was full of both danger and excitement.
Two and a half years later we were married, a small register office do on my eighteenth birthday. Seven months after that came the two blue lines on the white plastic stick that had revealed I was expecting Josh, and I’d been so, so happy. Other people my age seemed so unsure, but I’d got it all – a husband, a council flat, a baby on the way. I’d foolishly thought I’d got it sussed.
But it hadn’t taken long for me to realise my mistake in marrying too young, and although I’d never regret Josh and Kelly, I do regret Clint. Mostly I regret the shame he brought on my family, the absolute heartbreak both his mum and mine had suffered when he’d been sent to prison ten years ago. Armed robbery, like one of those bank hold-ups in a cartoon. He’d even been wearing a black balaclava in an attempt to hide his face, just to live up to the stereotype. It was almost laughable. All he needed was a swag bag and a black-and-white-striped jumper to complete the Burglar Bill look.
The balaclava hadn’t worked, anyway. The bank teller he’d threatened had recognised him despite his disguise. In court she’d said that she knew it was Clint who’d pointed that gun at her because she’d recognise his eyes anywhere. Funny how the piercing blue eyes I’d lost myself in so many times were the very thing that eventually tore us apart.
After that things changed. Every time I walked into a shop people would stare, gossiping behind their hands about what an idiot I must be to have ended up saddled with two kids and a criminal for a husband; and his poor mum, you’d think she’d given birth to the devil himself from the way people spoke to her. People judge you on how your kids turn out, and Vivienne’s parenting skills were well and truly under scrutiny after Clint’s escapades. There’s no hiding in a small town like this.
Soon after Clint was locked up, I filed for divorce. Unreasonable behaviour, although I could have easily named adultery as the reason for the breakdown of our marriage. Clint might have made me feel like one in a million at the beginning, but a string of affairs throughout our married life left me with zero confidence. He came back grovelling time and time again, plying me with platitudes about how it was me he loved and how he only ever strayed when drunk, but I’d become a laughing stock, one of ‘those women’. His prison sentence was a chance for me to break free and reclaim my fragile heart, although I’m still recovering from the damage our toxic relationship caused.
If I’m being completely honest, that’s why I threw myself into The Lake House Café with every ounce of my heart and soul. The café had been a welcome distraction from the romance that was sadly missing in my life. It gave me a purpose, along with a ready-made excuse for turning down the occasional offers of dates I did get – always claiming to be too busy for love when really I hadn’t found anyone I was willing to take a chance on. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.
But today’s a Saturday, and Saturdays mean one thing – football coaching in the park. And football coaching means the handsome Italian with the floppy jet-black hair; tall, lean and athletic with rich olive skin and strong, taut thighs. Yes, Saturdays are especially pleasurable. He’s exceptionally easy on the eye.
It hardly matters that I’ve barely said a word to him in all the months he’s been running the kiddies’ football course. I’ve seen him, and that’s enough. My heart flutters more than I care to admit at the thought that he might pop into the café for an Americano and a slice of gingerbread at the end of the session. He doesn’t call in every Saturday, but when he does it brings a spring to my step and a smile to my face. Sadly, it’s the highlight of my week, so I hope today will be one of the days he rewards his hard work with some home baking. Please, please, please…
Pushing back the chair, I catch my reflection in the window. I plump up my dark brown curls to give them more volume and smack my lips forcefully together in the hope it’ll enhance their colour. Ensuring I look my best, just in case.
The jangle of the bells over the door catches my attention and my heart pounds for all the wrong reasons as I see my assistant Fern. Her face is blotchy, her eyes narrow and red. She sobs loudly and I dash towards her, placing my arm around her shoulder.
“Fern! Whatever’s the matter, sweetheart?”
The young woman pulls away, dragging the backs of her index fingers underneath her eyes in a bid to wipe away the tears. It works, but she smears her mascara in the process, leaving prominent dark streaks stretching to the edges of her face. She looks like a bedraggled version of Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.
“Oh, Maggie, it’s Luke,” Fern says, referring to her younger brother. He’s a friendly, handsome boy; energetic and confident, the polar opposite of super-shy Fern. He’s been in the same class as Kelly since infant school. They dated briefly, and I’d been surprised and quietly disappointed when they’d called time on their relationship. He’d been good for her: far better than Mischa, the moody goth girl she’d dated last year. Mischa had a notebook full of depressing song lyrics from bands like Depeche Mode and The Cure, and the amount of kohl she used on her eyelids would have given Robert Smith a run for his money. It made her look like a raccoon. I’d never understood why Kelly was with her. They had nothing in common. Not once did Mischa’s purple-coated lips crack a smile, whereas I can’t help but smile at the thought of Luke, all youthful effervescence and enthusiasm. He’s a cheerful boy, uplifting and full of zest. “Last night he was screaming in pain and saying he couldn’t see. He’s been complaining of migraines for weeks, but this was the worst yet. Dad rushed him straight to the hospital and they ran all these tests, dozens of them.”
Fern whimpers, helpless, then swallows. When she finally speaks her words hit me like a sledgehammer.
“They found out what it is that’s making him feel so awful. It’s not a migraine, Maggie. It’s a brain tumour.”
If Maggie looks stunned by my revelation, she can’t feel as shocked as I do. It’s still sinking in that this is actually happening to my brother.
It had been one hell of a night, with all of us sat on uncomfortable plastic seats in a strip-lit hospital corridor while we waited for any scrap of information we could garner from the white-coated medics that hurried past us. Mum had started wailing at one point, a deep and hollow baying cry that echoed horrifically around the clinical grey hallway while I’d stared at a poster about diabetes testing for three hours solid because if I focussed on that I didn’t have to think about all the awful tests Luke was so bravely enduring in another room. It had been, without a doubt, the worst night of my life.
“They’re going to operate on him as soon as they can, but he’s too run down right now. They’re not sure he’s strong enough to survive a ten-hour operation, so they’re
