Page 3 of A Wish For Jo
‘She means the chocolate chips,’ said Jo, huffing out an exasperated sigh. ‘Aaliyah has a dark sense of humour.’
‘And such a pretty name,’ added Angela, placing a possessive hand on Ed’s knee. ‘Unusual for Newcastle, no?’
Aaliyah shrugged. ‘I wasn’t born there. My origins are, shall we say, a little more exotic.’
Before she could say more, Jo steered her back towards the kitchen. ‘We’ll just find the chocolate chips, shall we? Ed, Angela, just leave some cash on the counter. I need to crack on before any more customers arrive.’
Hustling her errant assistant out of sight, Jo wished she could turn back time. Sadly, that wasnota wish that could be granted…
CHAPTER3
Harvey Quinn swirledan inch of amber liquid around the solitary whisky tumbler he possessed. Packing up and leaving his old life behind with indecent haste meant that little had found its way to his current abode.
Taking a sip, he eyed the newly opened bottle of 12-year-old malt whisky with disdain. At the peak of his ‘troubles’ — Harvey choked down a bitter laugh at such an inadequate description — he’d downed at least half a bottle a day. Usually after several large glasses of red not of the vintage quality his previous existence demanded. More often than not, the wine came from a cheap three-litre box found on the bottom shelf in the supermarket.
Harvey reflected on the times when he’d been tempted to recline beneath the plastic tap and keep pouring until oblivion kicked in. As it was, he often stripped away the cardboard casing and squeezed the foil bag until it was empty, like a demented bagpipe player.
The plastic container in front of him contained the congealing remnants of his microwave ready meal. Allegedly it had been fish pie, although three insipid prawns and a chunk of cod swimming in a sea of soggy mash hardly earned it that title. Harvey had eaten it straight from the container: it didn’t warrant dirtying a dish.
He put down his glass and tugged the ancient picnic rug more tightly round his knees. His current abode, Brae Cottage, possessed central heating, but the radiators gave off less heat than a low-voltage light bulb.
The previous tenant, Jenny or something, had attempted to spruce the place up a little. The rental agent had taken great delight in pointing out the colourful throws draped over the mangy sofas and the fairy lights festooning the unused fireplace. Apparently, she’d moved in with her boyfriend a few months earlier, and left what furniture and knick-knacks she possessed to the next occupant. Harvey wasn’t ungrateful. He didn’t plan on entertaining in the foreseeable future, though, so the two folding garden chairs were one too many.
He eyed the chipped mantelpiece, home to two unlit candles (another gift from his predecessor) and a framed photograph. Harvey rubbed his chin, the three-day-old stubble rasping against his fingers. He also traced the scar on his left cheek, the legacy of intervening in a drunken brawl outside a Glasgow pub a long time ago. One of the sparring duo had smashed a pint glass and sliced through Harvey’s face with it, then the pair had scarpered into the night, leaving Harvey to find a taxi for a bum-numbing wait at A&E.
So much had happened since then. The scar had faded, but others, much fresher, remained. The biggest and most painful of all stared at him from the mantelpiece. His one true love. His reason for getting up in the mornings and devoting his life to the world of entertainment. Without her by his side, he’d never have attained the success he’d enjoyed: years of being the bad guy with a nugget of gold tucked inside him. It just needed excavating, that was all.
‘Lindsey.’ Harvey said her name out loud. He sometimes thought that by saying it she might appear. A glorious apparition, as beautiful as when they’d first met. Thirty years ago, almost to the day.
‘You stupid, nostalgic old fool.’ Harvey tossed off the blanket, stumbled towards the mantelpiece and picked up the photograph, tracing a finger across the glass. Not a speck of dust, unlike the rest of the cottage. Every day, without fail, he lovingly polished his most treasured possession, making sure the intricate silver frame gleamed and Lindsey’s serene countenance shone through.
‘Why did you have to leave me?’ he murmured. ‘Everything’s gone to hell, and I don’t know how to carry on. My career’s in ruins, my so-called friends have deserted me, and now I’m living in a godawful village full of nosy parkers with nothing better to do than waggle their useless tongues.’
Harvey closed his eyes for a second, imagining Lindsey beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his arm — or, more likely, giving him a severe ear-bashing for wallowing in self-pity.Get a grip, H,she’d say.Yesterday’s scandal is tomorrow’s fish-and-chips wrapper. Things could be worse. They certainly are for me!
Harvey choked back a sob. Could things really be worse? Unless several body parts spontaneously dropped off, or someone discovered his cold, dead body after several months, he doubted it. The tabloid press had moved on in recent months, but Harvey doubted they’d closed the door completely. One person’s word against his was enough to cast a shadow over his reputation.
Opening his eyes, Harvey looked at Lindsey again. That cheeky hint of a smile — never a full one, as she hated showing off the gap where she’d lost a back tooth. In his eyes, it only added to her charm. Practically perfect, with flaws only the forensically inclined would notice. Heck, he was no oil painting himself, unless said painting incorporated pock marks from teenage skin problems and the silvery scar he carried like a badge of honour — or idiocy.
She’d reminded him so much of Lindsey. That woman in the café, A Bit of Crumpet: what kind of daft name was that? She was shorter, her hair darker, but there’d been a feistiness there that punched Harvey in the gut. He regretted his rudeness, but how could he explain? What could he say?Sorry I’m a miserable bastard, but life’s dumped on me from on high and I can’t seem to drag myself back into the human race. I’m destined to be a pathetic straggler, watching the rest of the field sprint for the finishing line.
Moving from his palatial pad in Glasgow’s West End to a sleepy Scottish village had been a relief. He was too familiar in those parts — a ‘weel-kent face’ — and had worn sunglasses and grown a stupid beard as a disguise. He recalled the sideways glances and the glimmer of recognition — the mothers tugging daughters closer to their sides and fathers’ lips curling in disgust.She was young enough to be your daughter.Words unsaid, but still capable of cutting through Harvey as effectively as that pissed-up lout’s makeshift knife all those years ago.
He had been glad to shave off the beard, and he didn’t bother with the sunglasses now; nothing said ‘pretentious prat’ more than wearing shades on a dreich East coast day. He knew someone would recognise him at some point, even in this tiny place, but for now he’d keep a low profile and pray it happened later rather than sooner.
CHAPTER4
Jo stabbedat a fluffy Parmesan and pine nut dumpling, which nestled in a simmering pesto chicken stew. Normally she'd savour every mouthful of the food served up at The Jekyll and Hyde pub, but her appetite had deserted her ever since the day she'd given an old lamp the once-over with some Brasso and got a lot more than she bargained for.
Waving at Angela, who was drying glasses behind the bar, Jo's thoughts drifted back to that fateful morning. She'd arrived at the café early, determined to get a head start on birthday-tea preparations for a ninety-year-old. For a few months she'd employed Angela as her assistant, grateful for an extra pair of hands as she built up the outside catering element of her business. However, when Ken and Mags took off on their trip, Jo had reluctantly let Angela go and help Ed run the pub, although she still helped Jo from time to time.
With a second strong coffee at hand, Jo had stared at the list provided by the birthday girl's granddaughter:
Nothing with dried fruit or nuts in—they play havoc with Gran's dentures.
No garlic or anything else exotic. She ate some chicken korma once and spent three days solid on the loo.
Sweet stuff is a favourite, but not too chewy (see dentures). Chocolate is good.
