The Memory Garden by Rachel Hore Read Free Book Online Page B

old newspaper offices.
    She knew at once what had happened and confronted him.
    ‘It didn’t mean anything. She’s not important, I’ll never see her again,’ he said, but they both knew what it meant. He had taken an axe to their relationship because neither of them could otherwise make the break.
    Two days later, he piled his possessions in the back of his car, kissed her with such intensity it took all her will not to plead with him to stay, and went back to Kennington and, she imagined, the first chapter of a new novel.
    The next hardest thing was visiting Anna and Freya at their home to explain. She could still see them, she insisted, but although they hugged one another and made promises, all three of them knew it would never be quite the same. And for the second time in a year, Mel went into mourning.
    I must write to them sometime, Anna and Freya, Mel thought that evening as she waited for the shop lasagne to heat up in the oven. She ate it at the kitchen table with a novel propped up in front of her. Later, she tried to watch a crime drama on television but, tired of the interminable commercial breaks, switched it off. She sat, curled up in an armchair, wondering what to do next. Ring Chrissie, she decided, reaching out for the phone.
    ‘It’s weird,’ she told her sister in answer to the questions Chrissie fired off. ‘I’d forgotten how dark it gets in the country. It’s really cut off. And this place, it’s quite spooky. Did Patrick tell you anything about it?’
    ‘Not really,’ said Chrissie. ‘His family are from Cornwall, like Mum and Dad. The great-uncle left the house to Patrick when he died last year. Patrick says he doesn’t know what to do with it, whether to sell it or keep it and move down there.’
    ‘Move? What did you say he did for a living?’
    ‘He runs some Internet business with a friend. Is he down there yet? He goes a lot at weekends, he said.’
    ‘No. At least, I haven’t seen him. What’s he look like, anyway?’
    ‘Mmm . . . tallish, dark reddish hair. Friendly but, I don’t know, doesn’t say a lot about himself. Not a city type, more of a jeans and sweaters man, if you know what I mean.’
    ‘What, with reindeer on like Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones ? Sounds okay.’
    ‘Now, Mel, don’t go getting ideas. He’s got a girlfriend and I think it’s serious.’
    ‘I only meant it as a joke.’ Spotting Mel’s ideal man was a game of Chrissie’s Mel always refused to play. Because Chrissie was cosily married with children she wanted Mel to be happy in that way, too. At the same time, interestingly, Chrissie hadn’t seemed all that regretful when Mel broke up with Jake.
    Now Mel changed the subject. ‘So it’s Portugal tomorrow?’
    ‘Tuesday, for two weeks. I can’t wait. Oh, I’ve emailed you our contact numbers.’
    ‘Thanks. Well, have a fantastic time. Bring me another piece of that pretty pottery.’
    After Mel had put down the receiver, she sat for a moment, wondering about Patrick. What would he do, living down here in the back of beyond? She hoped, when he arrived, that he wouldn’t be the kind of landlord who hung around, interfering. She might be lonely, but she needed the time to work.
    She forced herself to plug in her laptop to check she could get a connection. Everything worked beautifully. No point in looking at her college webmail, it would only disturb her, seeing life go on without her. She logged on to her personal email. There was just the promised message from Chrissie and one headed HI FROM THE BIG SMOKE from her friend Aimee, who had been away on a school trip when Mel left.
    Hope you’ve got there safely and that the place is OK. What’s it like and are there chocolate croissants within fifty miles? Sorry I didn’t see you before you left but we didn’t get back from Paris until late Thursday. It went all right – none of the little darlings fell off the Eiffel Tower or into the Seine, anyway. There was only one really bad