The Truth About Melody Browne (39 page)

She walked for over five minutes, until she was thoroughly convinced that she was in completely the wrong place and that she would die out here, of heat exhaustion and dehydration, her body ultimately stripped of its flesh by the vultures that circled overhead, her bones left to bleach in the harsh Spanish sun. But just as she was starting to panic, a vista appeared on the horizon, a set of rustic, low-rise buildings, a cluster of fig trees, a vine-draped footpath, a line of washing, three small white goats, clustered around a metal tin, a white camper van, a moped and there, to the left of it, an aged, rusted motorbike with a sidecar. Her heart leaped in her chest. This was definitely the right place.

A woman smiled at her as she saw her approaching. She was about Melody’s age, dark-haired and very thin, wearing loose jeans and a floral camisole top. ‘
Hola
,’ she called.

‘
Hola
!’ said Melody. ‘Hello! Do you speak English?’

‘Yes,’ smiled the woman. ‘I speak
perfect
English. My name is Beatriz. Can I help you?’

‘Yes, I’m, um, I’m looking for Ken? Ken Stone. Is he here?’

‘Ken, yes, he is here. Who are you?’ she asked this in a friendly tone of voice.

‘Oh, I’m Melody, I’m an old friend, I’m kind of a …
surprise
.’

A small girl with dark hair and wide blue eyes appeared from behind Beatriz’s legs and eyed Melody curiously. ‘Hello!’ said Melody, ‘I mean –
hola
!’

The little girl blinked at her and then ran back into the house. ‘That’s Daria. She’s a bit shy. Come in. Follow me.’

Melody followed Beatriz into the house. She’d been expecting it to be basic, from what Grace and Seth had told her, but was still surprised by the lack of modern living on display inside the home. The kitchen consisted of three walls of open shelving, an old gas hob and a butler’s sink. The floor was bare concrete covered over in places with threadbare rush matting. Two more small children sat at an old table in the middle of the kitchen, eating oranges and reading a comic. But it was cool in here, and smelled good, of roasting meat and orange zest.

Beatriz led Melody through the house and out the other side, down a footpath lined with orange trees and sun-bleached old garden furniture. At the other end of the path was a smaller building and outside this house, sitting astride a stool and combing the thick hair of the biggest dog that Melody had ever seen in her life was a tall, slim man with long hair and a kind, beaten-up face. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps and squinted.

‘
Hola
!’ he called.

‘Hello,’ said Melody, smiling.

He got off his stool and walked a few paces towards them, his face still scrunched up in concentration, as he tried to place her face. ‘I know you,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Melody, ‘you do.’

‘Oh my God,’ he said, his blue eyes starting to shine with tears. ‘It is, isn’t it? It’s you.’

‘That depends,’ said Melody, ‘on who you think I am.’

‘Melody! It’s Melody. Oh my God!’ He ran towards her and held her before him by the arms, his eyes taking in the details of her face. ‘I knew it!’ he said. ‘I knew you’d come. I dreamed about you last week. I dreamed that you and I met on a boat, by chance, that you had twelve children and that you’d dyed your hair blonde! You don’t, do you,’ he said, ‘have twelve children?’

She laughed. ‘No. Just one. And I’ve never dyed my hair blonde.’

‘This is just – wow – like something out of a novel. This is the most perfect moment. Beatriz!’ He pulled the dark-haired woman towards them. ‘This is Melody. Remember, I told you about her, the little girl who used to live with me when I lived by the sea, the little girl I tried to adopt. This is her! This is her! She came!’

Melody smiled at Beatriz, and then at Ken, and as she looked at him she felt something warm wrapping itself around her heart. She’d been worried that the real Ken wouldn’t live up to the Ken of her memory, that he’d be just a sad old man, a man whose life had been a failure, the man that Matthew had warned her about. But he wasn’t, she knew that already. He was everything that she remembered and everything she’d hoped. She put out her arms and he entered them.

Her story was complete.

Simply search for
‘The Official Lisa Jewell fan club’
on facebook to become a fan and for all the latest news, competitions and fan feedback!

Go to
www.lisa-jewell.co.uk
for information on all Lisa’s bestselling books