Page 12 of Never Gonna Happen

‘Let me get some proper shoes on, you can take me for a drive. Your dad’s watching the football.’

Emily had hoped to go out for a drive on her own first, but she didn’t want to dampen her mother’s enthusiasm. She’d sold her battered Nissan Micra when she moved to London, so the only driving she’d done in the past eight years was occasionally getting weekend insurance on her dad’s Ford Focus, and a trip away to a caravan in Lyme Regis with Kelly and Beth in a hire car. But since she had a two-hundred-mile drive tomorrow, maybe a few laps round the block would be a good idea. She had a flash of inspiration.

‘I’ll drive us to M&S and we can pick up some fancy pizzas for dinner. My treat.’ She mentally totted up the calories she’d have consumed by the end of the day and vowed to adopt a rigid exercise regimen the minute she arrived in Norfolk. If she carried on like this, none of her new clothes would fit.

Carol beamed. ‘Sounds lovely. Give me two minutes, I’ll just put my face on.’

The drive to the M&S Food Hall put a further four miles on Emily’s car, driven at a glacially slow pace so she could get used to the feel of the car. It drove smoothly and quietly and the automatic gearbox made everything easier, especially with her mum attempting maximum distraction by flicking through every radio station in search of Magic FM.

‘I love Michael Bublé,’ said Carol, swaying along happily to ‘Everything’. ‘It smells so lovely in here. Your dad’s car stinks of dog and that pine air freshener. Go back the long way round, will you? The only thing waiting for me at home is the ironing.’

Emily smiled and turned right at the traffic lights towards the ring road, vowing never to hang a magic tree from her rear-view mirror or fill the door pockets with coffee cups and empty crisp packets.

By the time they pulled into Grove Street, Emily had taken the car up to the speed limit on the Chichester ring road and put a further eleven miles on the clock, but she was also conscious that the day was ticking on and she still hadn’t started packing. She handed her mum the shopping and headed upstairs, trailed by Rudy. He was some kind of spaniel mixed with some kind of terrier, giving him the look of a wiry old man with big ears. He scrambled on to the bed with a little help from Emily, then settled down to watch her fold her new clothes into her new suitcase, then pack a cardboard box with books and stationery and photographs, and a brand-new set of ghd hair straighteners.

An hour later she was pretty much done and couldn’t ignore the parcel any longer. It was a thick padded envelope with the address written in black marker pen, and Emily had known straight away from the flourish of the capital E that it was from Mark. She’d moved it to her mother’s craft table, not wanting whatever was inside to spoil the nicest day she’d spent in ages. But eventually there was nothing more to do but open it, so she sat on the bed and took a few deep breaths.

Inside was a sea-green leather Smythson notebook in a tissue-lined blue box tied with a ribbon, identical to the one that had burned in the fire. Emily traced the monogrammed EW on the cover with her finger, hating how much she missed him. Mark was the first time Emily had properly fallen in love, even though she’d never been stupid enough to tell him. She’d known from the first few months working for him, and that night in Dubai had been inevitable, like a magnetic collision after nearly a year of edging towards each other.

She opened the front cover and found a plain white card tucked inside. On one side he’d written ‘I’m sorry. Mx’, in the same black pen, but the other side was blank. Emily wondered what Mark was sorry about – that his original gift had been cremated, or that he’d got under her skin enough that she’d opted to leave her job rather than look at him every day? Or did he regret finishing things, and wish he could take her back? Or maybe he regretted propositioning her in King’s Cross a few weeks before? It was the most ambiguous apology of all time, and that was almost certainly not an accident. Her yearning turned to frustration that he couldn’t be straight with her, that he’d floated out a vague apology to establish which way the wind was blowing.

She stuffed the card and all the packaging back into the envelope, clutching the notebook in her hands. Mark wanted her to make the next move, but she’d never been any good at chess and was done with playing his games. She ran her hand over the soft leather cover for a final time, then slid the book into her handbag. This time she wouldn’t keep it in a drawer – she was going to use it. Tomorrow was the start of a new chapter, and Emily had no plans to repeat the mistakes of the past.

Chapter Nine

‘I’ve made you some sandwiches,’ said Carol, opening the Asda carrier bag to show Emily the foil parcels inside. ‘Ham and cheese. And a flapjack, just in case. And a carton of apple juice.’

Emily bit her tongue, deciding that now wasn’t the time to point out that she wasn’t eight years old and off on a school trip to Marwell Zoo. Her mum meant well and liked to feel useful. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She gave her a final hug then got into the car and pressed the button to lower the window.

Her dad slid the cardboard box into the boot and slammed it shut. ‘You drive carefully, Moo,’ he said. ‘Take lots of breaks and call us when you get there.’

‘I will,’ said Emily, feeling a sudden rush of warmth and love for her parents. ‘I’ll be back for a weekend soon.’

‘Get yourself settled in and let us know how you’re getting on,’ said Carol. ‘Don’t let your boss bully or exploit you. You still have human rights.’

‘Bloody hell, Carol,’ said Martin, rolling his eyes.

‘What?’ said Carol. ‘I’m reading this book where this woman is trafficked into modern slavery and there’s this gang of men who . . .’

‘Not now, eh?’ said Martin, patting the roof of the car. ‘Get on your way, Moo.’

Emily smiled and gave them a final wave. Her parents stood on the pavement and kept waving until she disappeared round the corner, at which point Emily let out the breath she’d been holding in for several hours. She relaxed into her seat, then turned on Radio 1 and headed for Norfolk.

Emily followed the route she’d travelled with Leon two weeks earlier, stopping at the same motorway services on the M11 to eat her lunch and stretch her legs. She popped into M&S to stock up on Percy Pigs, crisps and cans of G&T to keep in her room; they’d be something to look forward to after work, a way of passing the long evenings while she was settling in.

The second half of the drive took her through the same hundred miles of dual carriageway through unremarkable countryside to Norwich, then west on the ring road and fifteen minutes of narrow country lanes to the imposing gates of Bowford Manor. Anna had sent her a remote control to open them, presumably previously owned by Andrea, along with a key to the delivery door on the side of the house. So she took the fork off the main drive and followed the road round to the left past the stables and the garage, then parked up in the delivery yard and started unloading her belongings. The weather was cold but dry, so there was no hurry. Nobody seemed to be around, but it was Sunday and presumably even Anna was allowed a day off.

As Emily piled her belongings by the back door, Leon appeared from the garage and gave her a wave. He opened his arms a little like he was going in for a hug, which Emily deflected by grabbing her suitcase and wrestling it over to the door. Leon seemed nice and maybe that was normal in Croatia, but she wanted to get to know him a little better before they moved their friendship into the hugging zone.

‘Let me take that,’ said Leon, grabbing the case. Hugs or no hugs, Emily definitely wasn’t going to turn down an offer to help her lug all this stuff up to the attic. She smiled and thanked him, then went back outside to grab the carrier bag of snacks and her rucksack instead.

By the time she’d puffed her way up to the attic Leon was waiting outside her room, so she propped the door open with her rucksack. She turned to walk back down the stairs, but Leon held up his hand. ‘No, is fine,’ he said. ‘You stay here, I will bring up the rest. Is good exercise for me.’

‘Thank you, Leon,’ said Emily, wishing he didn’t look at her with quite such a dazzled expression. She stood for a moment and appreciated the room. The bed had been made with crisp white sheets, and pale blue curtains had been hung at the windows. The dust was gone and everything smelled of lemony furniture polish. She walked through to the second room, which now had a flatscreen TV on the table. She peeked into the cupboard and there was a mini fridge with a kettle, a mug and a teaspoon on top, but the fridge was empty. What else were you expecting? she thought. Champagne and chocolates?

By the time she walked back into the bedroom Leon was waiting with the cardboard box, breathing heavily and looking a bit pink in the face. She dragged it into the room, then returned to the door. ‘Thanks, Leon. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage that.’

‘You are welcome. I just saw Mr Hunter, and he said to tell you that he’ll be trying to roast a chicken in the kitchen later if you want to join him for dinner at six, but please don’t feel obliged if you are tired.’