If she was going to work here, survive here, she couldn’t allow her past to intimidate her.
‘Okay,’ she said, putting the now empty glass down on the table and reaching for another of Fliss’s concoctions—this time a sickly green. ‘Backing vocals only. Let’s do it.’
* * *
She was seated on the other side of the stage, angled towards the tables, so that all he could see was the fall of her hair, the curve of her cheek.Not that he was attracted to her—he knew her too well. Even after all this time. It was just that she seemed a little lost, a little vulnerable...
And there had been a time when Jonas Jones had been a sucker for dark-haired, big-eyed, vulnerable types.
He’d learned his lesson the hard way, but a man didn’t want to take too many chances—not on a night filled with ghosts. He looked around, half expecting to see the creamy painted wooden slats of the old boathouse, the rough floorboards, the mismatched tables. But a twinge in his fingers brought him back to the present, reminding him that he was no longer nineteen and that, although thirty-two was certainly not old, he was too old to be playing all night on a work night.
His mouth twitched wryly. Once a work night had meant nothing. His hobbies and his job had blended into one perfect hedonistic existence: the bar, the music, the surf. He didn’t know what had infuriated his parents more. How successful his beach shack had quickly become or how effortless he had made it look.
But in those days it had been effortless.
It wasn’t that easy any more. Would his parents be proud or smug if they knew how many of the things he loved he had given up for success? Or would they still think it was not enough.
Maudlin thoughts. A definite sign that it was late, or that he’d allowed Fliss to make the cocktails again.
Time to wrap things up.
Only Fliss had started another song, carefully picking out the tune on her guitar. The breath caught in his throat. His heart was a painful lump blocking its passage.
Not this song. Not this night. Not on what could have been, should have been, their twelfth wedding anniversary.
There was only so much nostalgia a man could take.
And then Lawrie picked up the tune and he was plunged into a whole other level of memory. Her voice wasn’t the strongest—nothing in comparison to Fliss’s—yet it had a true, wistful quality that tore at him, hooked him in, wringing truth out of the plaintive words.
Despite it all Jonas found himself playing the harmony, his hands surely and smoothly finding the right notes. They hadn’t forgotten. He still knew—still felt every note, every beat, every word. How long was it since he had played this song? Not since Lawrie had left. Not even in the last desperate year of their marriage as he had watched her retreat further and further away, her eyes, her focus, firmly fixed on the gleaming spires of Oxford.
Suddenly simple folk tunes hadn’t been her thing at all.
Yet she still knew all the words.
* * *
It was as if her whole body thrummed with the music. Her blood, her heartbeat, the pulses at her neck and her wrists. Long after the guitars had been packed away, the last few glasses cleared, the final lurid cocktail poured away—no one had felt able to risk the neon orange, not at past one in the morning—the beat still possessed her.
How had she managed to spend the last nine years without music? Had they even had music in the house? Music to listen to simply for the thrill it evoked deep down inside? There had been a stylish digital radio permanently tuned in to Radio Four, occasionally switched to Classic FM when they entertained. And Lawrie had attended concerts for corporate purposes—just as she had been to countless sporting events, black tie galas, charity auctions.
After a while they all blended together.
There was so much she had expunged from her life. Colour, impulsiveness, walking along a beach at dusk with the wind blowing salt-tinged tendrils of hair into her face. Enjoying the here and now.
She might have chosen a controlled, sleek, beige, stone and black existence. It didn’t mean that she hadn’t occasionally hungered after something a little more vibrant. But vibrancy had a price she hadn’t been prepared to pay.
In the end control was worth it. It allowed you to plan, to achieve.
But, damn, the music had felt good. The right here, right now felt good. Even those ridiculously bright cocktails had been—well, not good, exactly but surprisingly palatable. Maybe coming back wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.
‘How are you getting back?’
Lawrie jumped, every sense suddenly on high alert. She didn’t want to look Jonas in the eyes in case he read the conflicting emotions there. There had been a time when he’d been able to read her all too easily.
‘I was planning to walk,’ she said.
‘Alone?’
‘Unless there are suddenly bloodthirsty smugglers patrolling the dark streets of Trengarth I think I’ll manage the mile home okay.’
‘There’s no lighting on your gran’s road. I’d better walk you back.’
Lawrie opened her mouth to refuse—then shut it again, unsure what to say. Whether to make a joke out of it, point out that after negotiating London streets for the past few years she thought she could manage a few twisty Cornish lanes. Whether to just say thank you.
Jonas took her silence for acquiescence and strode off towards the door. Lawrie stood indecisively, torn between a childish need to stand her ground, insist she was fine, and a sudden hankering for company—any company—on the walk back up the steep hill.
She had been all too alone these last weeks.
Without thought, almost impulsively, she followed him.
The night was warm, despite the breeze that blew in from the sea and the lack of cloud, and lit up by stars shining so brightly Lawrie could only stand and stare, her neck tilted back almost to the point of pain as she tried to take in the vast expanse of constellation-strewn night sky.
‘Have you discovered a new planet?’
Lawrie ignored the sarcastic tone. ‘I’m not sure I’d realise if I had,’ she said. ‘It’s just you never see the sky like this in London. I had almost forgotten what it was like.’
Another reclaimed memory to add to the list. Just how much had she shut out over the last nine years?
And how much could she bear to remember? To feel?
The shocking ache of memory—the whispers of ‘what might have been’. If she hadn’t walked in on Hugo she would still be in London, with Trengarth a million miles away from her thoughts, her ambitions, her dreams.
It was all so familiar. The dimly lit windy street, the harbour wall on one side and the shops on the other—a trendy mixture of surf-hire, arty boutiques and posh grub for the upmarket tourists who sailed or stayed in the village throughout the summer.
As
