On My Life

by Angela Clarke

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

When a pregnant woman is imprisoned on suspicion of murder, she must fight to prove her innocence from behind bars or her baby may be given away to whoever framed her...

Framed. Imprisoned. Pregnant. It's her worst nightmare...

Jenna Burns thought she had the perfect life: a loving fiancé, a great job, a beautiful home.

Then she returns home one day to find her stepdaughter murdered; her partner missing.

And the police think it was her...

Jenna knows she's been framed. But how can she prove it from behind bars?

And then she finds out she is pregnant.
It's not only her life at stake.

Surrounded by prisoners who'd hurt her if they knew what she's accused of; aware that someone outside hates her enough to kill; Jenna will do whatever it takes to clear her name, save her baby, and find out the truth.

But can she do it in time?

(P)2019 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: March 7, 2019

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

Now

The crowd outside sound crazed. The noise rushes toward us as I’m pulled away from the courtroom. Mr Peterson, my solicitor, is running alongside me. His face furrowed, concerned. I can barely make out his words over my panicked breaths.

‘Put your jacket over your head. Shield your face!’ he shouts. ‘There must be a way to take her out back?’

The officer ignores him, and pulls harder on the handcuffs that bind us together. The metal scrapes against my wrist. I can’t speak.

‘Cover your face!’ Mr Peterson yells.

The officer is in his late twenties, the same age as me. Tattooed Sanskrit symbols burst out the top of his shirt and climb his neck. He doesn’t look at me. His one barked instruction told me he speaks like I used to. He’s from London. South. We might have gone to the same school, passed each other on the street. Did he move to Gloucestershire to escape the past too? His tattoos a roadmap to his new self. The dolphin on my bikini line is one of the only things left from my time on the Orchard Park estate. Always a stupid name for an ugly growth of concrete tower blocks. I erased everything else. Rewrote myself. But the faded blue ink remains. A childish mistake. Mistakes Emily won’t get to make. A sob catches in my throat: I won’t cry here.

Mr Peterson yells again, but his voice is lost under the roar of the screams outside. I grab at my Burberry mac with my free hand, try to swing it up and over my head. The fabric lands at a strange angle and I’m plunged into darkness. The shouts get muffled into indistinct anger. The officer pulls at me and I trip. It must be the steps.

‘Jennifer! Jennifer!’ voices yell.

How do they know my name? What do they want? The fabric of my coat is sucked into my mouth. I’m choking. Must pull it away. Must keep my face hidden. Must get air. I’m suffocating.

I can see feet, a swarm of legs against the barrier. The edges of camera flashes.

‘Why did you do it, Jennifer?’

‘Murdering bitch!’

‘Burn in hell!’

Their vitriol sears chunks out of me. Has Sally at the office heard? Is she out there? I can’t imagine anyone I know doing this. Slinging bile at strangers. At me.

‘Hang her! Hang her! Hang her!’ The chant is gathering pace. It’s animalistic. Raw. I want to tell them I feel their pain too. But even if I could find the words, they’d never hear over this roar. The belt of my mac whips round and lashes at my back, as if carried by their hate. Can they get to me? Could they hurt me? I try to move toward the officer. The trainers they gave me, still laced for display in the shop, catch on the ground. The steps are the yellow Cotswold stone I normally love. It looks diseased now. My ankle twists. I trip forward. My arm is jerked up like a puppet’s by the man I’m handcuffed to. Pain tears into my shoulder. The coat is caught and flicks back and away. I’m exposed.

A volley of camera flashes. There are a hundred screaming faces. I must get my coat. The tattooed officer pulls me on. Must cover my face. I try to use my hand but it’s hopeless. Arms reach for me. The police are trying to hold them back. Flashbulbs explode. Everything’s white. Bright.

I’m in our kitchen. The glass panel in the door is shattered. Flashes of red slice across the white walls. Emily’s birthday cake falls from my hands. It smashes onto the floor, an eruption of icing and sponge. I can’t look down. Won’t look down.

‘Jenna!’ The voice rips through the chaos.

Ness! I can’t see her. ‘Ness!’ I scream. Where is she? I try to stop; the crowd surges forward. A hand snaps out like a snake’s tongue and claws at my arm.

‘Keep moving!’ the tattooed officer bellows.

‘She’s my sister.’ Where is she? He pulls me on. There are barriers and a van. Oh god. A prison van.

‘Jenna!’ Ness’s voice again.

I turn. I need her. I need to speak to her. Where’s she been? Where’s Mum? A flash of red hair. There!

‘Get off me, you prick!’ Ness shouts, barging aside a screaming man in a cagoule.

‘Easy, love,’ shouts a meaty policeman.

We’re almost at the van now. ‘I need to speak to her. Please.’

The hatred in the tattooed officer’s eyes winds me.

‘Jenna!’ Ness is at the front now, hanging over the barrier.

‘Is Robert with you?’ It’s my only hope. That the police have made a mistake. That for some reason he’s there.

She shakes her head. No. The police said they found Robert’s blood in the kitchen. He’s missing. Gone.

Agony twists through my gut. The stone melts under my feet. I reach for Ness. For comfort. For support.

The officer jerks me back. The rabble seem closer. Ness is being buffeted from the side. ‘Is Mum all right?’ I shout.

She nods, tears in her eyes. ‘We didn’t know. The electric’s been down – the phone’s been out.’

My heart lurches. When did they find out? Now? Is that why they weren’t here before? I was arrested two nights ago, charged yesterday. Mr Peterson said he couldn’t get hold of them. I’d feared he was lying, that they might have believed this, refused to come.

Ahead, a female prison officer is unlocking the van. Sweat patches bloom under her white shirtsleeves. I can’t do this. I need to speak to Ness. To Mum. To Robert. Where is Robert? My heart contracts. The floor threatens to suck me down. I twist back. Yell. ‘My lawyer is called Mr Peterson. He’s inside.’

‘Bring back the death penalty!’ shrieks a puce blur.

Mr Peterson must know where they’re sending me, mustn’t he? I can’t get everything straight in my head. Can’t make it all make sense. ‘Mr Peterson will find out where I’m going.’

The mob bulges. The meaty policeman stumbles, falls backwards. A crack. The barrier holding back the howling mass tips. There’s a rush forward.

‘Jenna!’ Ness screams as she’s swallowed by heaving bodies. A multi-headed monster swells closer.

I could step toward them. Let them rip me limb from limb. Make this all stop. But I’ve got to stay alive for Robert. He must be out there. He needs me.

The officers either side of me shout. A hand grips my arm and pushes me up into the van’s narrow corridor. I feel like I’m underwater, their voices muted bubbles. The step grazes my shin. I stumble. Try to put my hands out. The handcuffs lurch me back up. The guy chained to me undoes his cuff and I fall to the floor. He turns back and squares up to the advancing crowd. Behind him the police are fighting to keep them from the vehicle. From me. A photographer jumps over the barrier’s legs and, camera up, starts snapping. I shield my face. Too little, too late. I see Ness through my fingers, behind the crowd, stooping to pick something up. My trampled mac. Mascara streaks her face. I haven’t seen my sister cry since we were kids. It breaks my heart afresh.

The female officer jumps in and pulls the door closed behind her. Her foot catches the edge of my shin and I feel the skin pinch. The air shifts. It smells like a piss-stained alley. Stale, acrid, suffocating. Don’t panic. It’s just me and her as she towers above. She’s in her fifties, her hair dyed straw yellow over wiry white. Her eyebrows dark and pencilled on. A sickly smile on her lips.

‘Welcome to the sweatbox, Princess.’

Then

My mobile jolts to life on my desk. Sally calling. Sally calls my mobile when she wants to speak directly to me. She’s that kind of boss: too efficient to be placed on hold. I pick it up. The other two girls who make up the S. Parr Recruitment Service are busy talking into their phones.

‘They’re all on calls, you would’ve got me anyway, Sal.’ I press send on the email to the Cotswold Blue Cheese Company. ‘I’ve just sent the cheese contract, by the way.’ Another new client.

‘Oh my darling girl, thank god.’ Sally’s voice is even higher than usual.

‘You okay?’

I can hear echoing in the background. Is that a toilet flushing? ‘Dear god, no. I must’ve eaten something that disagreed with me,’ she hisses.

Ah. She’s in the loo. This is awkward, even by her standards. ‘Where are you? Do you need help?’

‘Urgh. There’s no way I can come back to the office, darling, you’ll have to take my meeting this afternoon,’ she says. It must be bad if she’s missing a meeting.

I have her diary synced with my iPhone. ‘The three thirty with Milcombe?’ I took Mum for a Mother’s Day treat to Field House spa, one of the Milcombe Estate hotels, last year. It was heavenly. Ranger & Co have run Milcombe’s recruitment for years; if we at S. Parr can nab them it’d be a huge deal. ‘Sure you don’t want me to rearrange?’

‘No, no, darling, muck their manager around and they’ll be sticking with mangy Ranger. They’ve got a new build underway. Renovating some stables. It’s targeting the corporate away-day market, and all that. You can handle it.’

‘Are you sure?’ I’ve been here six years, and Sally treats me like her right-hand woman, but I still suffer from imposter syndrome. The fear that I’ll be uncovered as a fraud picks at my seams. It’s ridiculous really. I’ve told Sally I grew up on a sink estate and she says she doesn’t care. I think that’s because she has no idea what it really means.

Sally exhales forcefully. ‘Oooof. No time to argue, they’ll love you like I do. Kisses.’ And she rings off.

Luckily, I know her system well. Sally’s placed the files for today’s clients on her desk, and within half an hour I’m up to speed. The plan is to offer them a cohesive package for their new venture. Top-dollar sourcing, shortlisting, and training. I can see that Sally’s aiming to win them over with this project in the hope of getting introductions to the wider estate.

At three thirty I’m all set up in the meeting room. It’s good to look busy when the client arrives. Becky is teed up and I hear her laughter and offers of tea or coffee as she and the client approach. A quick check of our glossy brochures and I’m ready. I stand up, smooth my white shirt down over my cigarette pants and smile as she opens the door. I almost forget to extend my hand when the man walks in.

Taller than me, with messy blond hair, he’s wearing a green Milcombe Estate polo shirt, shorts, and, most incongruously, wellies. He greets me with a confident grin.

‘Sorry for the attire, I’ve come straight from calving.’ He holds out a hand and a piece of straw drops from his watch.

Surprise must have shown on my face, because he looks bashful. Way to make him feel comfortable. ‘No problem. I’m Jenna.’ His hand is soft for a farmer. I stop staring at his forearms. ‘Sally’s been unexpectedly detained, I’m afraid, so I’ll be talking to you today.’ Let go of his hand. He’s going to think you’re mad. I drop it.

‘She’s not expecting as well, is she?’ he asks, concerned.

As well? He can’t think that I’m pregnant, can he? I need to lay off the carbs. Sally’s fifty-five and has no children, I’m not sure what to say. ‘I . . . she . . . well . . . I think it’s unlikely.’

His face creases with a smile and his eyes sparkle. ‘I meant the herd. I heard she bought Bridge Farm last year.’

What’s wrong with me? ‘Oh, of course! I see!’ He doesn’t think I look fat. ‘No, she rents the land out. Sally can barely keep a cactus alive.’ My laugh comes out all squeaky. ‘She definitely doesn’t have livestock. God no.’ I’m babbling.

He bends to retrieve the piece of straw from the floor. ‘I’m making a mess again.’ His voice is friendly. I catch basil and cedarwood as he reaches past me to the bin.

Behind him through the glass door, I can see Becky fanning herself and mouthing he’s hot!

Ignore her. Stay focused. ‘I’m so sorry, the calving comment threw me a bit. I wasn’t expecting it.’ I was expecting a corporate hotel manager. A less hands-on one.

‘Have I put my foot in it again?’ he beams. ‘Bit of a bad habit. Size elevens, you see. Bloody great big things.’

I feel the urge to giggle. ‘No, no, not at all.’ I remember my manners. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t get your name?’ Get a grip, Jenna. You’re behaving like a schoolgirl.

‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ He holds out his hand. ‘No calves this time. I’m Robert. Lovely to meet you, Jenna.’

I smile and shake his hand again, strong, warm. My face flushes. Behind him I can see Becky crack up. I’m not used to men having this effect on me. A little too late, I remember to let go of his hand. For the second time.

We stand for a moment, looking at each other. And then it comes back to me: I’m at work, this is a meeting. ‘Shall we?’ I gesture at the table, trying hard not to meet his gaze, to keep my voice upbeat.

‘Let’s,’ he says. A dimple forms on the left side of his face as he smiles.

I’m hyper-aware of all my limbs as Robert pulls the chair out for me, as if my body might throw me into him of its own free will. It knows before I do that I want him.

The meeting passes in a blur. I have no idea what’s coming out of my mouth, or if I’ve completely screwed up our pitch. All I know is that when Robert tentatively asks, blond hair falling over his anxious eyes, if I would consider going for a drink with him, my heart sings. I’m going to see him again. I’m going to see him again!

Now

There’s a thud against the side of the van. And another. They’re kicking it.

‘My sister’s out there!’ What if they turn on her? ‘They might hurt her!’

‘Should’ve thought of that before.’ The prison officer smiles. She looks delighted.

My stomach drops.

Another thud against the van. There are shouts from outside. I know what they’re saying. Saliva pools in my mouth. I need to use the bathroom.

The officer unlocks a door to her left. The van is lined with tiny metal cells.

‘In,’ she commands.

Panic is hauling itself up my throat. ‘I get car-sick,’ I say, as she pulls me toward the cell.

‘You’ll have something in common with our last guest then,’ she says.

The smell hits me immediately. Rancid vomit. My whole body contracts. ‘It’s not clean!’

‘It’s been hosed down,’ she grins. ‘But they might have missed a bit.’

She pushes me toward the tiny, metal-lined cell. It’s like a coffin on its end. There’s a small metal bench. A tiny side window. No seatbelt.

‘Please.’ I can’t go in there. ‘I won’t run, I promise. Please.’ The smell catches in my throat. I’m going to gag.

She pushes me in. Hysteria scratches at me. She slams the door. I hear it lock. I swivel back. There’s no other way out. One of the photographers outside has pressed a camera against the small window. The flash detonates, making dots in front of my eyes. I’ve seen photographers do this on the news. Hold cameras up over their heads to get the shot of the guilty party. But I’m not guilty. I didn’t do this. There’s been a mistake.

The noise outside increases. The prison officer is yelling something. There’s the blast of a siren. And then the van lurches. I slam into the side of the cell and sit down with a bump. The smell is overpowering. I close my eyes and try to stay calm. We rumble over a pothole. Eyes wide open. It’s all still here. This is happening. This is real.

‘I didn’t do anything!’ I cry. ‘I’m innocent!’

My words crunch under the wheels of the van. No one replies. No one is listening. I imagine I’m holding Emily in my arms, stroking her hair. I can’t stop the tears any more.

Now

You’re supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. I pleaded not guilty. Told the Magistrates’ judge I didn’t do this. But he locked me up anyway. On remand until the hearing. How long did the solicitor say it would be? Shock has mangled my brain. I blink grit. When did I last sleep? The custody cell had a board of a bed, a grey blanket. I remember holding it like I cradled Emily’s body . . . I cried when they took my clothes and shoes for evidence. I’d hugged Emily in those clothes. They smelled of her. The T-shirt and jogging bottoms they gave me smell of plastic.

When they explained I was going to court I thought Mum or Ness would bring me new clothes. Now I know why they didn’t. The prosecution said they’d found Robert’s blood in the house. The police accused me of killing him. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I love him. They haven’t found a body. That means he could still be alive. He could still be out there. My stomach tilts as the van turns. They’re not looking for him because they think I killed him.

I slam my fist against the door.

‘Let me out! Please!’

There’s no response.

I rest my head against the metal and close my eyes. Each bump jolts the van and me, but there’s something comforting in the pain. It’s rooting me here. If there’s anyone out there who can hear this, please protect Robert. Please let him be okay.

Does he know about Emily? My heart feels as if it’s being squeezed. What happened? I replay it in my mind, but I always stop at the kitchen door. At the shattered glass.

The feeling of nausea rises again. This time I’m not going to win. ‘Hey! Please! Stop! I’m going to be sick!’

I tip forwards. Oh god, there’s no bag, nothing. My throat clenches and punches up. Liquid sprays out and onto the metal wall, the floor, splashing back onto my feet and legs. There’s nowhere to escape it. I retch again. Someone must come now. They must stop the van. Acid burns my throat. My eyes are watering, my nose dripping. The bile makes me cough.

No one comes.

The van turns another corner and I slide toward the mess. There’s nothing to clean myself with. It’s disgusting, but it gives me a task to focus on. I take off one of the trainers they gave me and remove a sock. I wipe my face first, then my arms, then my legs and my shoes, before dropping the sock on the floor and trying to contain the situation there. It’s better than nothing.

It feels like we’re slowing down. Reversing. We must be parking. Through the small window to the side I can see a brick wall. Thank god, we’re here. Then I remember where here is. Prison. I am going to prison.

I hear the driver’s door slam. Then there’s the sound of shouting. Who’s shouting? They sound angry. Is it the driver? Maybe they’re arguing with the prison officer? No, there are other voices too.

I can hear bolts grinding: the door into the van is being opened. They’re going to let me out. Thank god.

‘Get your hands off me!’ shouts a man. A man. My heart starts to hammer. Surely they don’t use the van for male prisoners too? ‘Where you taking me! I got rights! My baby-mumma’s coming with the kids tomorrow.’

I step back from the door.

‘Shut it!’ roars the female guard. There are multiple footsteps. A struggle.

‘I want my lawyer! You’re bent, you fuckers! Get off!’

Shoes squeak on the floor. We’re not there. We’re picking up another prisoner. A male prisoner. They don’t keep the men and the women together, do they? They’re murderers, rapists. No, that’s madness. You’re letting your thoughts run away with you, Jenna. A small voice inside me whispers, they think you’re a killer.

The guy is struggling. Rocking the whole van. Between spat words I can hear slivers about his kids. I think of Emily again and close my eyes. I could never hurt her.

The guards ignore him. They don’t even shout back. The door slams shut.

If I don’t speak now I’ll miss my chance.

There are new voices outside. I wish I could see more than the wall. They’re bringing another person in. I press my face fully against the crack of the door to see if I can hear who it is.

Another cell door opens. I can’t remember how many there were – eight, maybe? I should’ve paid more attention. Will they fill them all? When will they drop me off? Are we even going in the same direction? This is a twisted bus service for prisoners. Is this one a man as well, or a woman?

I can hear the door being closed, movement in the corridor. This is my chance to get them to move me. To give me some water. I need the bathroom.

‘Hello?’ I say. Too quiet. ‘Excuse me – could I get some water and some tissue? I’ve been . . .’ I can’t bring myself to say I’ve been sick, it’s too embarrassing. ‘I’ve had an incident.’

The female guard gives a barked laugh. ‘An incident? You break a nail, Princess?’

Keep calm. ‘Could I use the bathroom?’

‘No breaks!’ Her hand slams against the door and I jolt back. No breaks? Is that legal?

‘Is that a girl?’ the guy to the left of me shouts. Goosebumps run over my forearms.

‘Oh yeah!’ the guard yells. ‘Just your type, Boyd. Blonde and stuck-up!’ She slaps her hand against the door again and it shakes. ‘Something for your wank bank, that’ll keep you quiet!’ Then there’s silence as the door is bolted.

I can barely breathe.

‘I like blondes,’ the guy to the left says. Can he see me? ‘Guess what I’m going to do to you when I get out of here?’

‘Shut up, man,’ says another voice. The other prisoner. They’re both men. It’s me and two men. I back into the corner as much as I can and hug my arms round my body.

I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t do anything wrong.

‘I can smell your pussy,’ the guy on the left says.

Revulsion crawls over me. I screw my eyes shut. Put my fingers in my ears. Under my breath I start to count elephants – one elephant, two elephant – like I do between lightning and the roll of thunder to reassure Emily the storm is far away. But it’s not far away. It’s right here, and I’m caught in the eye of it.

Then

‘Please tell me you are joking?’ Becky’s purple-lipsticked mouth is agog as I lace up my walking boots.

‘He suggested I wear sturdy footwear.’ Robert texted me directions to our date tonight; I’m to park up in Batsford-on-the-Hill and walk from there.

‘Where’s he taking you – a barn dance?’

I don’t actually know where we’re going. It’s intriguing. And for a moment I imagine we’re about to go on a true adventure. A hot-air balloon trip, rally driving! ‘I’m sure it’s just a pub.’ One of the ones only locals know about.

‘I still can’t believe you said yes to Farmer Giles! Can you, Sally?’ Becky has clearly had enough of sifting through applicants for the Snapdragon Bakery. Especially when it’s so much more fun to make me squirm. She knows I hate discussing my love life. Or the lack of it.

Sally looks up and over her glasses, fountain pen still poised over her paperwork. ‘Said yes to what?’

‘Jenna is going on a date with the Milcombe Hotel manager.’ Becky claps her hands together, revelling in her own gossip. I’m not a keen dater. I haven’t been out with anyone since a friend set me up with a guy who made me meet him at a pizzeria at 5 p.m. so he could claim the Early Bird deal. He then spent an hour telling me about his pension plan while he dropped spaghetti sauce all over the table. And he wouldn’t let me leave a tip, even though I’d paid for my half of the bill. He kept picking the note back up and thrusting it at me while talking about market value. I was so embarrassed that I went back the next day to give the waitress her due. That was eight months ago. Maybe I shouldn’t have said yes to tonight?

Sally is obviously thinking the same thing. ‘I thought you were off men?’

I’m not off men as such, it’s just that I’m happy with my life. With me. I’m busy with work, and . . . oh god . . . ‘It’s not inappropriate, is it? Me seeing the client?’ I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. ‘I’m so sorry, Sally. I didn’t think it through. I don’t know why I said yes really . . .’

‘Because he’s hot!’ Becky cackles.

‘No. I mean, yes, he is . . .’ My cheeks flush. Why did I say yes? It’s not like I don’t get my fair share of offers. The barman at the Kilkenny has made it clear with his ‘let me message you, baby’. And he’s fit. Why on earth did I say yes to a client? ‘Do you want me to cancel?’ It was something in his eyes. The way he said it. I didn’t get the sense he’d asked anyone for a long time, either. Please don’t make me cancel. I’m surprised to realise how much I do want to see him.

Sally peers at me for a second too long. I always have the feeling she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then a smile breaks over her lips. ‘I met my second husband when I recruited the staff for his new restaurant. Just don’t break his heart before you get the signature on the contract, my girl.’

Becky and I crack up. Typical Sally! Nothing phases her.

 

I park on the high street in Batsford-on-the-Hill. An American couple, in matching T-shirts, are pushing two huge cases into the Batsford Hotel. I follow the directions Robert sent me, turning off the high street and resisting the familiar earthy vanilla smell of a second-hand bookshop. Past the Golden Fleece pub, and down Bell Street. The road tapers off into a country lane, the markings sporadic like drips of ice cream, until they’re gone completely. The late April sun turns the few houses I can see over the wildflower hedgerows honey gold. As instructed, I use them to navigate. Where am I going? One cottage on the left, two on the right, and sure enough, there is a sign for a footpath. I should be anxious meeting in such a deserted spot, but I feel nothing but excitement. Besides, Robert asked me out in front of Becky, hardly the move of someone who wished me harm.

Hedges press up against the path, casting me into cool shadow. The ground underneath is dry churned mud, sloping upwards. I turn and the hedges dwindle, and I’m on the top of a stunning vista. The fields and hills roll away like waves of watercolour paint. It feels like I have the whole world to myself.

‘Not a bad view.’ His voice comes from behind me, making me jump.

His blond hair is lit by the sunshine, his cream shirt and jeans rendered golden in the light. I whip my hand up to my face, trying to shield the flush I feel betraying me.

‘Oh god, I meant the landscape,’ he says, jumping up off the stile he’s sitting on. ‘That sounded unintentionally creepy. Not that you aren’t incredible to look at too. Oh god.’ He looks so stricken I can’t help but laugh.

‘Thanks, I think.’ He said I was incredible to look at. Incredible.

He smiles. He really has the most amazingly long eyelashes. ‘I’m not making a very good impression, am I?’ he says. ‘I’m a bit out of practice at all this.’

Does that mean I was right: he hasn’t been out with anyone in a while? Jump in. Be honest. ‘My last serious boyfriend was over a year ago.’

A shadow passes over his face. ‘We lost Erica when Emily was one.’ He swallows. ‘She was a wonderful woman. The best mother and wife you could wish for, till she got sick.’

Oh god. ‘I’m so very sorry.’ My heart aches for him.

He smiles. ‘It’s okay. It was a long time ago.’

I want to reach for his hand, but it feels too forward. ‘How old is your daughter now?’

‘Thirteen, going on twenty-three,’ he laughs.

‘I bet she’s a handful,’ I say.

His eyes are so warm and full of feeling. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. She loves it up here.’

I turn back to look at the hills, aware of his heat next to me. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘It is,’ he says. Out the corner of my eye I can see he’s not looking ahead, but at me. I get that tingly feeling in my stomach. The one Becky calls ‘the butterflies’. This is daft. I met the guy two days ago. I’ve only spoken to him twice.

‘Right.’ He seems to gather himself. ‘I thought we could enjoy the view with a snack – how does champagne and strawberries sound?’

‘Delicious!’ What a sweet thing to do. Far better than sitting in the pub.

He bounds back to where he was sitting, and picks up a bottle and two glasses, which were leaning against the side of the stile. Holding them up as if in victory. His energy is contagious. ‘You came prepared . . .