A Walk in the Park (32 page)

How long had he been kissing her? All Lara knew was that the singers in the kitchen had been warbling along to “A Winter's Tale” and now they were all bellowing out Greg Lake's “I Believe In Father Christmas.” Whether there'd been other songs in between was anybody's guess.

“Now listen to me.” Flynn drew back at last and gazed into her eyes. “I love you, more than you'll ever know.” He held her face between his hands. “This is going to work, do you believe that?”

Lara nodded, blinking back tears. It was such a relief to be able to relax and stop fighting every animal instinct in her body. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.”

“And I love you too.” She needed to say it, needed him to hear it. It was the truth.

“Guess what?” said Flynn, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “This is all I wanted for Christmas…”

“Brilliant. Lucky I kept the receipt for that shirt, then.”

Amused, he indicated the parcels under the tree. “Your presents are still there. Want to open them now?”

“Are they good ones?”

“I think you'll like them,” said Flynn.

Of course she liked them; hadn't she practically chosen them herself? The light-as-a-feather, swingy suede coat from Armani and the perfect black stilettos with crystal bows on the heels. They looked amazing and fitted like a dream.

“You took a risk,” said Lara. “I thought you were buying them for someone else. I might have chosen horrible stuff on purpose.”

“But I knew you wouldn't. You're not that type of person. That's why I love you.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“If I put my mind to it, I'm sure I could think of a few more.”

Lara kissed him again, then said, “That crew in the kitchen will be wondering what's going on.”

“You're right. We should probably tell them.”

The door burst open and Gigi cried, “No need, we were listening! This is so
brilliant
…”

Behind her, Evie said, “And about time too.”

By one o'clock all the food had been prepared and was either in the oven or on the stove.

“If you two want to head off,” said Nettie, “now would be the best time to do it.”

“Head off? What for?” Lara wasn't missing lunch for anything.

“We'll be dishing up at two.” Nettie wiped her hands on a tea towel and tapped the watch on her wrist. “So you'll have an hour.”

“Great.” Flynn had already reached for his car keys. “That's plenty of time.”

“Hang on, I don't have a clue what's going on here.” Her face burning, Lara feigned ignorance; if he'd asked Nettie to give them an hour so he could whisk her back to his flat for mad passionate sex, she would just
die
of embarrassment.

I mean, OK, it would be seriously long overdue mad passionate sex, but still. Talk about inappropriate.

“Ha!” Gigi was pointing gleefully at her. “Look at Mum's face! I know what she's thinking.”

“It's not that.” Flynn was holding the caramel suede coat out, ready for Lara to slide her arms into the sleeves. “There's something I want to show you.”

Hmm, she'd heard
that
line before.

“It's another present.” Gigi was clearly in on the surprise. “Well, kind of. No designer labels though, this time.” She pointed to Lara's feet. “And you won't want to be wearing those heels.”

***

Never before had driving through central Bath been so effortless. The normally clogged streets were virtually empty, all the shops closed. The silence was surreal.

“Are you going to tell me where we're headed?”

“No, you'll just have to wait. Be patient.” Flynn glanced sideways at her and said good-naturedly, “See how much you like it, for a change.”

Great waves of happiness kept washing over her; Lara simply couldn't keep the stupid smile off her face. “If a thing's worth waiting for, it's worth… waiting for. OK, that's not quite right, but I know what I mean.”

“Eighteen years. Actually, nineteen years now,” he amended. “That's a pretty long wait.”

“I'm worth it.”

Flynn's mouth twitched. “So am I.”

The city was looking stunning; the sky was palest blue and the snow sparkled like crystallized sugar in the bright sunlight. When she saw where Flynn was stopping the car, Lara realized why Gigi had insisted on her changing out of stilettos into low-heeled boots.

Royal Victoria Park, open every day of the year, was also emptier than usual, although they did pass the occasional family and dog-walker along the way. Much as she wanted to admire the beauty of the frost-laden trees, Lara found herself endlessly distracted by the sight of her hand clasped in Flynn's. It looked and felt so right. Just being here, her arm pressed against his, the blissful physical proximity, filled her with pure joy. She'd learned her lesson; life was here to be lived and risks needed to be taken. It was the only way.

“Not far to go now,” said Flynn as they climbed a slope and took a left turn.

This wasn't where James had collapsed and died. Thankful for that, Lara gave his hand a squeeze. Finally they rounded a bend in the path and Flynn said, “Here we are.”

They'd reached a small clearing ringed by shrubs and trees. In the center stood a wooden bench, its slats covered with a light powdering of snow. Allowing him to draw her toward it, Lara watched as he used his free hand to wipe frost from the brass plaque on the bench's backrest.

Engraved on it were the words “Barbara and James. In loving memory.”

Flynn's arm was around her. Lara leaned against him, her head resting on his chest, and gazed at the plaque until the names blurred.

“That's perfect. Thank you so much. They're here forever now.”

“I know.” He gave her a squeeze and dropped a kiss on top of her head.

It felt fantastic; how could she ever tire of that happening?

Gazing up at him, Lara said, “What would you have done if we hadn't got back together?”

“I'd have sneaked back here in the dead of night with a screwdriver and taken the plaque off. Or hired a van and driven off with the whole bench, then burned it.” He broke into a smile and shook his head. “No, this wasn't a bribe; it's not part of the deal. I wanted to do it anyway.”

“I love it.” Lara surveyed the clearing. “I wonder if my mum and James were ever here, actually right here on this spot?”

“Oh, I'm sure they were,” said Flynn.

Where was he taking her now? She stayed at his side as he led her away from the bench and toward the trees in front of it. He paused at the edge of the clearing and pointed to the trunk of an old silver birch, its overhanging branches iced with snow.

“Oh…” breathed Lara, transfixed by what was carved into the silver-gray bark. There it was, the slightly lopsided heart painstakingly created by James almost forty years ago, enclosing the initials BC and JA. Shaking her head, she said, “I can't believe you found it. I spent ages looking.” She'd come here to the park a couple of times following James's death, but with fifty-seven acres to search, had been defeated.

“I'd love to lie and take the credit.” Flynn watched her reach up and slowly trace the initials with her index finger. “But I can't. I asked one of the gardeners employed by the council's parks department. He didn't know, but he put me in touch with another gardener who told me there was an old guy called Billy who's retired now but worked here for forty years.” He paused, then went on, “So I spoke to Billy and he knew at once which tree it was. But he couldn't describe the location very well, so I went to fetch him and brought him along in his wheelchair to show me.”

“Where did you fetch him from?”

“He lives in Manchester now.”

Unbelievably touched by the lengths he'd gone to, Lara said, “And here it is.”

“And here it is.” Flynn nodded in agreement. “Your final present.” He gazed up at the spreading web of branches overhead, fifty feet high and every bit as wide. “Sorry I didn't wrap it for you.”

“That's OK. It's the best present I've ever had.” Lara pulled him to her and kissed him. “I definitely won't be taking this one back to the shop.”

“You won't be returning me either.” His mouth as warm as his hands, Flynn smiled as he murmured, “You're stuck with me now. For good.”

“At last! Honestly, I don't know what took you so long,” said Lara.

Read on for an excerpt from

Take a Chance on Me

Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca

‘Come on, come on, late as usual.' Waiting on the porch, Ash Parry-Jones tapped his watch as Cleo and Will hurried up the graveled path. ‘Better get in there and grab a seat. Place is filling up fast.'

Like it was an Elton John concert or something. Cleo paused to straighten Ash's wonky yellow-and-grey striped tie. ‘Don't nag. And I can't believe you're wearing this shirt.'

He looked offended. ‘Who are you insulting?'

‘You.' She gave his collar an affectionate tweak. ‘Stripes and swirls don't go.'

They found somewhere to sit in a pew on the left-hand side of the church. As the organ music played and Will studied the order of the service, Cleo composed herself. Of course it was a sad occasion—it was the end of a life, after all—but as funerals went, it had to be one of the cheerier ones she'd attended.

Then again, as deaths went, Lawrence LaVenture's had been better than most. It may even count as enviable. As Lawrence himself had been fond of remarking, the family name was descended from the French word for lucky or fortunate, and he'd taken enormous pleasure in living up to it. And what rakish seventy-three-year-old widower, given the choice, wouldn't want to go as he had gone, following a sublime meal and a bottle of delicious St Emilion, in bed with an attractive blonde many
many
years younger than himself?

Mind you, it had given the poor woman he'd hired for the evening a bit of a shock. One minute they'd been having a high old time together, getting up to all sorts of naughtiness. The next, she'd come back into the bedroom carrying the bottle of Cognac and two glasses Lawrence had asked her to bring upstairs and there he'd been, collapsed back against the goose-down pillows, stone dead.

Peering around the church, Cleo whispered, ‘Do you think she'll turn up?'

‘Who?'

‘The woman who was with him when he died!' Who had actually
technically
killed him, when you thought about it. ‘I want to know what she looks like.'

‘She'll be the one in the black leather basque,' Will murmured. ‘Stockings, garters, spike-heeled stilettos…'

Cleo dug him in the ribs, then slipped her arm through his, grateful to him for having come along. Will had never met Lawrence LaVenture, but she'd wanted him with her today and he'd obligingly taken the afternoon off work. He even knew why she'd asked him and hadn't laughed, for which she was grateful. Meeting Will Newman in a nightclub three months ago had definitely been one of the happier accidents in her life. She'd been nudged from behind in a crowded bar in Bath, her drink had splashed over his sleeve, they'd got chatting as a result… and what a result it had turned out to be. Will was handsome and charming, hard-working and intelligent… basically, he was perfect in every way. Her Mr Right had finally come along and she couldn't have been happier about it.

‘Could be her.' Pointing helpfully to a roly-poly woman in her sixties, squeezing into an already full pew across the aisle, Will said, ‘There's a high-class hooker if ever I saw one.'

‘That's Effie Farnham from Corner Cottage.'

‘There's a studded leather whip hanging out of her handbag.'

‘She breeds Cairn terriers. It's a dog's lead.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Trust me, Effie's not the whippy kind.'

‘You never know. Under that coat she could be wearing something completely outrageous.'

OK, this definitely came under the heading of Too Much Information. Thankfully, before Cleo could start picturing Effie in a tasseled thong, distraction was provided by the arrival of Lawrence's family. Well, such as it was. She held her breath and watched as the three of them made their way up the aisle, two ancient creaking older sisters swathed in politically incorrect fur and supported by silver-topped ebony canes. And between them, matching his pace to theirs, Johnny LaVenture.

He was looking smarter than usual in a dark suit and with his habitually wayward black hair combed back from his forehead. For a split second, he glanced to the left and their eyes met, prompting a Pavlovian jolt of resentment in her chest. She couldn't help it; old habits died hard. Then Johnny looked away, carried on past, and took his place between his ancient aunts in the front pew.

Cleo bent her head. OK, don't think about him now. Just concentrate on the funeral. Lawrence might have been an off-the-wall character, fond of a drink and, well, various other lusty pastimes, but he'd been entertaining to have around. They were here to celebrate a life well lived.

After the service, everyone huddled up against the icy wind and made their way across the village green to the Hollybush Inn where food had been laid on and the drinks were free, as stipulated in Lawrence's last will and testament. For so many years a cornerstone of the pub, he knew how to guarantee a good turnout.

Ash, catching up with Cleo and Will, rubbed his hands together and said cheerfully, ‘All went off pretty well then. I really enjoyed that, didn't you?'

And
still
he was managing to make it sound like an Elton John concert. Cleo said, ‘You're not supposed to enjoy funerals. Next, you'll be giving it five stars on Amazon.'

‘Actually, that's not a bad idea. We could do it on the show, get the listeners to call in with reviews of their favorite—'

‘No you couldn't. That's just wrong. Oh God, look at my
heels
.' As they reached the entrance to the pub, Cleo leaned against one of the outdoor tables and used a tissue to clean away the clumps of mud and grass. ‘Did you see me sinking into the ground while we were standing around the grave? I thought I was going to tip over and fall flat on my back.'

‘That's why I didn't wear mine.' Ash nodded sympathetically. ‘You know, you're looking good today. Scrubbed up well. Even if you don't deserve a compliment when you think of all the grief you give me.'

‘It's not grief. It's constructive criticism. Which you badly need, by the way.' Having more or less cleaned her heels, Cleo lobbed the muddy tissue into the bin and adjusted her narrow cream skirt. Of course she was looking good—hadn't she put in a whole heap of extra effort making sure of it? But that was pride for you. It was also the reason she'd dragged Will along for the occasion. When you'd spent your teenage years being mercilessly teased and humiliated, you didn't want to turn up to meet your tormenter looking like a… a
donkey
. You felt compelled to prove to them that you weren't still a complete loser, not to mention capable these days of bagging yourself the kind of boyfriend any girl would be thrilled to… well, bag.

And here he was, standing just inside the entrance to the pub, greeting everyone as they came in, and gravely receiving condolences in return. Oh well, on an occasion like this, at least he wouldn't call her—

‘Hello, Misa.' Dark eyes glinting with amusement, Johnny gave her hand a cross between a shake and a squeeze. He may even have been about to lean forward and plant a polite kiss on her cheek but she pulled back before that could happen.

I can't believe he just called me that
.

‘Hello, Johnny. I'm sorry about your dad. We'll all miss him.'

‘Thanks. I guess this village is going to be a quieter place from now on.' His gaze flickered over her and the smile broadened. ‘You're looking very well.'

Damn right I am.
Turning to indicate Will, Cleo said, ‘This is my boyfriend, Will Newman.'

‘I'm so sorry for your loss,' Will said politely as they shook hands.

‘Thank you. So, Misa, gone and got yourself a new man. Excellent.' Evidently pleased with his play on words, Johnny said, ‘From what I hear, the old ones haven't been much cop.'

See what a nightmare he was? Cleo quelled the urge to retaliate with something cutting; it would hardly be seemly, after all. Plus, dammit, she couldn't think of anything fast enough. Instead, she turned away. When they were safely out of earshot, Will said, ‘I see what you mean. Why does he call you Misa?'

All the old emotions were rushing back. Only someone whose teenage years had been similarly blighted could possibly understand how it felt to have been picked on nonstop.

‘Oh, it's a hilarious nickname. I used to work hard at school, pay attention in class, ask loads of questions, answer them too. One day, I was so excited about knowing the answer to a really difficult question that I stuck my hand up and yelled, “Me, Sir!” Well, everyone practically wet themselves laughing. And that was it: I was stuck with it for the next three years of school. I was officially Teacher's Pet. Some of the other kids thought my name actually
was
Misa.'

‘And he's still calling you it, all these years later.' Will jerked his head in Johnny's direction.

‘He was the one who came up with it in the first place.' Cleo cringed at the memory. It went without saying that she had never once put her hand up in class for the rest of her time at school, had stopped asking questions and paying attention to the answers. OK, maybe she couldn't blame everything on Johnny LaVenture, but he certainly hadn't helped. Her teenage hormones had been all over the place, she had fallen in with a wilder group of girls, and her grades had slipped badly as a result. When her GCSE tests had been a complete car crash, she'd felt an almost perverse sense of pride at their awfulness
. See, look at me, look at these
abysmal grades! Here's the proof that I'm not a Teacher's Pet anymore!

‘Poor baby.' Rubbing her shoulder in jokey consolation, Will said, ‘Want me to beat him up for you?'

‘Yes, please. Except you'd better not. It's his dad's funeral, after all.' Plus, although Cleo didn't say this bit out loud, Johnny was bigger than him and had always been pretty athletic. It would be frankly embarrassing if he were to reduce Will to a slushy pulp. Still, it was generous of Will to have offered.

An hour and a couple of drinks later, the party had begun to warm up; everyone had begun to relax and Cleo's skin had stopped prickling every time she glanced over at her nemesis. Was it stupid to still feel like this? Maybe, but she couldn't help herself. It was thirteen years since they'd been at school together. She had left at sixteen and plunged into the first of many jobs. Johnny had stayed on to take his A-levels—ha!
now
who was the swotty teacher's pet?—before heading off to art school. After that, he'd moved to New York, returning only occasionally to Channings Hill to visit his father, although Lawrence had evidently kept him updated on the subject of her less-than-dazzling successes on the boyfriend front. You'd have been more likely to spot Elvis around the village than Johnny in those days.