what a romantic story.
At least, it seemed like one from the outside. But Louise knew all about how glamorous and exciting things could seem when you read about them, when it was a whole different ball game to live through them. Part of her ached for the young Laura Hastings, too.
She’d always seemed so perfect on the screen, had always been one of Louise’s icons. Who wouldn’t fall for that ice-blonde hair and those big, sparkling blue eyes? Laura Hastings had always looked so poised, so in control. She wondered if anyone had had any idea of the inner turmoil underneath the movie star surface.
She flicked back through the diary again. The entries seemed to be sporadic. Sometimes they were days apart, sometimes months. Sometimes there were gaps of a few years.
She carefully replaced the book in its hiding place and slotted the two tiles back into place. She discovered the one she’d pushed through would sit very nicely in its spot, held gently by the cast iron surround, as long as no one applied undue pressure to it. As she hid the book again, made everything look as it had before she’d made her discovery, she tried to wrack her brains about what had happened to Laura after her heyday.
She made films into her forties, but then she’d just quietly faded away. Must have lived here for some time and died an old woman. Louise was shocked to realise she didn’t even know if Laura had lived here on her own or if she’d been married. And if she’d been married, who had the husband been? Alex, still? Or Dominic?
She could ask Ben, she supposed, but he seemed to be a little tight-lipped about the previous owner. And, anyway, the diary wasn’t huge. It wouldn’t take too long to read it and find out for herself.
Louise frowned. She didn’t want to gulp it down in one sitting—it was too beautiful for that. Maybe she’d just read a little bit each week, ration herself. Then she could make the magic last for months. She had years to uncover the rest of Whitehaven’s secrets, so maybe she could be patient about finding out about Laura’s too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Almost a fortnight later, Louise was putting the finishing touches to Jack’s room. She looked at her watch. It was almost one o’clock, but she couldn’t even contemplate eating anything. Only five more hours and Jack would be here. Her eyes misted over as she fluffed the duvet and smoothed it out, making sure it was perfect—not bunched up in the corners or with an empty bit flapping at one end.
It looked so cosy when she had finished that she flumped down on top of the blue and white checked cover and buried her head in the pillow.
She’s made the trip up to London a couple of times to see him in the month and a half she’d been here, but it had been far too long to go without seeing him every day. She sighed. It had been the longest they had ever been apart. Toby had used to moan that she didn’t travel with him any more, and maybe that had been part of the reason their marriage had crumbled. Even strong relationships were put under pressure when the couple spent weeks or even months apart. But how could she leave Jack? He was everything. He always would be everything.
It wouldn’t have been fair to uproot him and ask him to change schools before the half-term break. She snuggled even further into the pillow, wishing it smelled of more than just clean laundry.
Toby had agreed—thank goodness—to let Jack live with her. Her ex was away filming so often that it wouldn’t have been fair to Jack to leave him at her former home in Hampstead with just a nanny for company. Even Toby had seen the sense in that.
So Jack would be with his father on school holidays, and even though Louise hadn’t lived with her son for weeks, she’d still agreed to let Jack stay with Toby for the half-term week. Her ex could be a true diva, so she’d decided it was sensible to appease him, just to make sure he didn’t change his mind.
But tonight Jack would be coming to Whitehaven. He’d be here.
She turned to lie on her back and stared at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Mostly she just ached.
Minutes, maybe even half an hour, drifted past as Louise hugged herself and watched the light on the freshly painted ceiling change as the October wind bullied the clouds across the sky. Eventually, she dragged herself off the bed and sloped towards the window.
Something shiny glinted in the bushes and instantly her back was pressed against the wall, every muscle tense. After five seconds, she made herself breathe out. Nosing very carefully round the architrave, so only half of an eye and the side of her face would be visible from outside, she searched for another flash of light.
No-good, money-grabbing photographers!
In her effort to remain hidden, she only had a partial view of the front lawn. She remained motionless for some time, until her left leg started to cramp and twitch, and then only when she was very sure nobody was in her line of sight, did she lean out a little further.
Another glint! There!
Once again she found herself flattened against the wall. But this time she let out a groan and covered her face with her hands. It wasn’t a telephoto lens but a big, shiny spade that had reflected the light. Ben the gardener-guy’s spade. It was Sunday afternoon and he was here. Just as he’d been for the previous two weeks. Only she’d forgotten he’d be here in all her excitement about Jack coming.
Not that she ever really saw him arrive when he came. At some point in the afternoon, she’d become aware that he was around. She’d hear him whistling as he walked up to the top lawn, or hear the hum of a mower in the distance.
So why had she felt the need to slam herself against the wall and pretend she wasn’t here? This was stupid.
She stopped leaning against the wall and drew herself upright. There. Then she walked primly across the room and out of the door. No one was hiding. She was just walking around inside her own house, as she was perfectly entitled to do. Okay, she’d chosen a path across the room that had meant she couldn’t have been seen from the window, but that didn’t mean anything. It had simply been the most direct route. Sort of.
She found herself in the kitchen. It was in serious need of updating, with pine cabinets that had darkened to an almost offensive orange, but it had a fantastic flagstone floor and always seemed warm—probably because, in the now defunct chimney breast, there was an Aga. It looked lovely and spoke of families gathered in the kitchen sharing overflowing Sunday lunches, but after a more than a month at Whitehaven she still had no idea how to work it.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She knew how to boil the kettle. And, at this present moment, that seemed like a shockingly good idea. She filled the battered, thick-bottomed kettle with water, lifted the heavy lid on the Aga hotplate and left the kettle to boil.
She hoped Jack would love Whitehaven as much as she did. What was she going to do if he decided he didn’t like living in the depths of the countryside, far away from the flash London townhouse she’d shared with Toby? It was the only place he’d ever known as home. Well, that and the New York apartment. And the villa in Beverley Hills. Whitehaven was charming, but it lacked the gloss of her former houses.
She’d been getting what she needed out of the cupboards while she’d been thinking, and now discovered that she’d placed two teabags in two mugs. Something she’d
