sat with her foot up on a kitchen chair, resting a sprained ankle. She picked up one of Maggie’s designs and studied it. “So what exactly happened in New York?”
“What happened in New York was meant to stay in New York.” Maggie got up, went over to the sink and filled the kettle.
“Come on, Magenta.” Layla started to tidy Maggie’s drawings into a neat pile. “It’s four weeks since you came home to Cornwall,” she said sulkily. “I’ve tried the softly-softly approach and it’s not working. There’s only so long a person can go without dying of curiosity. It’s high time you spilled the beans. I want details.”
When she’d moved back to the village half the magazines in the local shop had had pictures of her and Alex somewhere between their covers. She’d been a hot topic of local gossip for about a week. Then the WI’s Winter Fair and who’d be odds-on favorite to bake the best Victoria sponge cake took over. People lost interest and she went back to being the Plumtree girl.
Maggie looked out of the kitchen window. It was one of those lovely early-winter mornings before the frost killed the last flowers and the final golden leaves dropped. “There’s really nothing to tell,” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. “I met an old friend. We hooked up. Now we’re getting on with our lives.”
Layla narrowed her pretty, brown eyes. She watched Maggie’s back analytically. “I’m guessing there’s more to it than that. There’s something you’re not telling me.” Maggie opened a cupboard and took out her grandma’s old Chinese-patterned tea caddy. She got two flowery- patterned mugs and popped a tea-bag into each one. “You know your trouble, Magenta?” There was frustration in Layla’s voice. “You’re always pushing people away. And when you’re not pushing them away, you’re closing them out. You’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve known you, and let’s face it, that’s forever.”
Maggie knew she was right. She didn’t trust easily. She’d learned that being self-reliant was easier than trusting other people. Others let you down. She’d opened up to Alex, and he hadn’t returned her trust, didn’t tell her he was donor-conceived. She shouldn’t have let him into her heart. Worse, she’d spilled out feelings that she should have kept in. She’d overstepped the boundaries and given him her heart. She turned and gave her friend a fragile smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t talk about it.”
She hadn’t the strength to let Alex be a friend. Because she loved him. That’s why, this time, she’d been the one who had to leave.
She’d reconnected with him, and far from ending things by getting that spark of chemistry out of the way, the sex that she’d hoped would be a fun fling had deepened her feelings for him. That night on the bridge she’d finally accepted what she’d always known – he wasn’t in love with her.
Layla wouldn’t let it go. “This is me, remember? Best friends forever have rights.”
Maggie laughed. “Stop fishing.”
“Just tell me one thing. Was New York the start of something?”
“No-ooooooh.” Maggie sighed out her denial on a long breath. Nights like the one they’d spent in New York didn’t last forever. “Definitely not. It was an ending, really. Alex and I said goodbye.” Maggie opened the fridge.
“In that case how come you went to his first night?”
Maggie briskly closed the fridge door. “I’m out of milk,” she said, avoiding the question. “I’ll run down to the shop and get some. Wait here.”
Layla pointed to her bandaged ankle and made a face. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Maggie grabbed some small change and took her coat from a peg in the hall. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she shouted.
“Good. Cos I’m not leaving until I get some answers!”
The cottage door banged closed.
A white-painted wood gate swung on creaking hinges in the breeze. Alex marched to the glossy blue front door and reached for the brass knocker. Overhead a seagull screeched. It settled on the chimney pot as if it had come to watch the show. He inhaled a lungful of fresh sea air. Here goes. He gave a sharp rat-a-tat-tat. The garden in front of the cottage was a riot of color. Orange and yellow nasturtium flowers, their trumpets peeking out from between flat, circular green leaves, clambered and tumbled over the low, whitewashed wall. A window box and a couple of terracotta pots by the front door contained red geraniums, poised to defy the winter weather.
Alex hooked his sunglasses into his top pocket. The snooty voice on his satnav had been taking him around in circles for what seemed like hours. The high Cornish hedges didn’t help. Finally he’d arrived and there was no answer. Maybe she’d gone back to London. Damn!
Hamlet had been playing to packed houses for four weeks. Maggie had been right about everything. The Jago factor was attracting new audiences to Shakespeare. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that as well as angsting on stage as the Prince of Denmark, he was angsting off-stage between performances, at all hours of the day and night, about Maggie. She’d been a nightmare to find. He knocked again.
The door swung open and a young woman with unnaturally red hair appeared, hopping on one foot. Alex opened his mouth to say he’d got the wrong address.
Layla cut him short. “Alex Wells, I presume. Magenta won’t be long. She’s gone to the village shop for a pint of milk.”
Trying not to stare at the wild red hair Alex fixed on the red geraniums at his ankles. “She should bring those in. Before the first frost gets them.”
“I take it you haven’t come all this way to offer horticultural advice.” Her lovely Cornish accent was a lot more pronounced than Maggie’s.
“No.” Alex laughed.
“So why have you come?” she asked, fiercely protective.
Alex was stumped. He didn’t know exactly why he’d come. Except, he needed to see Maggie. Dog-tired from driving, stressing about what he planned to say, he ran a hand through his hair to the back of his head and threw a silent glance around his surroundings. He opened his mouth to reply, couldn’t find words, and closed it again.
“Sorry. None of my business.” The reception party mellowed. “I’m Layla, by the way. You’d better come in.”
Alex held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Although not about the hair.
“Not as much as I’ve heard about you, I’ll bet.” A sheepish look crept across her pretty features. “From magazines and stuff. Not from Magenta. She’s taken a vow of silence where you’re concerned.”
“I see.” A track ran up the side of a hill behind the cottage to the right, and to the left a narrow lane wound down towards the sea between higgledy-piggledy houses. He’d parked his Smart car in the lane in front of the row of cottages. One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched, Layla glanced back and forth between it and him.
“Which way’s the shop?”
“I think she took the cliff path.” She pointed down the hill to the sea. “But if you want to catch her up, it’s quickest to cut along the beach.”
“Thanks.” Alex called over his shoulder. He practically ran down the lane in his hurry to find Maggie. When he got to the beach he was struck by how beautiful it was. He could taste the salt in the air. He loved Maggie’s home in an instant – the cliffs, the little harbor at the far end of the curve of golden sand, and the steady roll of the waves, breaking and washing up the beach. No wonder this was her retreat.
He’d missed her like crazy. The flames she’d lit in him in New York wouldn’t die. He’d been an idiot. Maggie was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he’d let her go.
Drake