Wishes Under The Willow Tree

Praise for Phaedra Patrick’s debut novel The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

‘A feel-good story with oodles of charm that had me rooting for Arthur all the way.’

The Daily Mail

‘Charming by name, charming by nature, this book is a balm for the soul and the heart.’

The Sun

‘A gorgeous journey told through charms.’

Heat

‘Eccentric, charming and wise, this will illuminate your heart.’

Nina George, author of The Little Paris Bookshop

‘A charming, unforgettable story.’

Harper’s Bazaar

‘With many poignant as well as laugh-out-loud moments, in the vein of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, this is a lovely feel-good read.’ Compass

‘As charming and witty as the title suggests.’

My Weekly

‘We love this sweet story about self-discovery.’

Take A Break

PHAEDRA PATRICK studied art and marketing and has worked as a stained-glass artist, film-festival organiser and communications manager. She is a prize-winning short story writer and her debut novel was translated in twenty languages worldwide. She lives in Saddleworth with her husband and son, where she writes full-time.

Wishes Under the Willow Tree is her second novel. For more information, please visit www.phaedra-patrick.com and you can also follow Phaedra on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

For Mark and Oliver

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

1. White Opal

2. Ruby

3. Moonstone

4. Malachite

5. Amazonite

6. Peridot

7. Turquoise

8. Zircon

9. Aquamarine

10. Lapis Lazuli

11. Blue Jack

12. Carnelian

13. Blue Lace Agate

14. Jade

15. Fire Opal

16. Kunzite

17. Azurite

18. Red Aventurine

19. Tourmaline Quartz

20. Bloodstone

21. Tiger’s Eye

22. Sunstone

23. Garnet

24. Poppy Jasper

25. Citrine

26. Blue Topaz

27. Onyx

28. Amethyst

29. Smoky Quartz

30. Diamond

31. Black Obsidian

32. Emerald

33. Sugilite

34. Jet

35. Golden Beryl

36. Alexandrite

37. Rose Quartz

Author’s Notes

Reading group questions

Acknowledgements

Copyright

1. White Opal

hope, desire, fidelity

As Benedict Stone huffed his way to work, the sweet smell of the cherry scones in Bake My Day made him forget for a moment that his wife, Estelle, had packed her purple suitcase and moved out of their home.

His mouth watered and he stopped, sniffed and needed something weighty in his stomach, to help sugar-coat his sorrows. He curled his fingers into his palms and tried to resist, but it was like an ultra-strong magnet pulled him inside the baker’s shop.

A fella like you needs more than just a slice of toast, a sausage roll, bought by a schoolboy, said. You need something sweet too, a chocolate cookie, on display in the glass counter, chipped in.

Benedict tried his best to ignore them, but the lure of a succulent bacon sandwich and an oozy jam doughnut was too strong. He bought both and devoured them before he reached the front door of his shop, Stone Jewellery, just a few metres away.

When he unlocked the door, his stomach dropped as he glanced at the 25% Off Sale sticker he’d taped into his window three months ago.

He switched on the light and took off his jacket. Grey aluminium and glass cabinets lined the walls of the two-man deep and two-and-a-half-man wide space. The walls were all painted dolphin grey, and the floor was grey too. Benedict thought that the colour scheme was calm and elegant though his assistant, Cecil, claimed it needed more va-va-voom.

A black door behind the counter led through to Benedict’s workshop. The small, square room housing his workbench was his sanctuary. When he shut himself away in there, he could block out the outside world and almost convince himself that all was still fine with his wife.

He went inside and straightened up a file on his bench. He liked his tweezers, pliers, snips and soldering iron laid out in lines like a surgeon’s instruments. If Cecil moved his mallet by as little as a centimetre, Benedict could tell. Even with few entries in his appointment book, he felt driven to work. He crafted silver bangle after silver bangle, which he stacked like miniature tyres on the shelf.

Benedict slumped into his chair and placed his hands on his rounded stomach. He imagined the food dancing in there, laughing at him. Ha ha. Benedict Stone is a big guy but he has no self-control.

Shaking his head with remorse, he picked up a brooch he’d been working on. He switched on his gooseneck lamp and his face reflected in the shiny black metal.

Stone was a good name for him. His hair was short, swept back and graphite grey, the same colour as the stubble that peppered his upper lip and chin. Estelle said that he had a kind face, like when kids draw eyes and a smile into uncooked pastry. His hands were so large they looked as if they’d been inflated by a bicycle pump, but his fingers were surprisingly nimble when handling delicate silver findings.

Everything he wore was neutral, from his suit to his socks, except for his size fourteen burgundy loafers. He’d ordered them custom-made, online, but the company had sent the wrong shade.

‘I’m sure you can live with a bit of colour in your life for once,’ Estelle had said with a sigh. ‘Dark red shoes won’t kill you.’

But each time Benedict wore them, he felt conspicuous. His width and height attracted attention, and now he sported berry-hued loafers.

As usual, Cecil arrived at the shop ten minutes late. He had a tropical dress sense, wearing a powder-blue suit, with a peach shirt and an emerald-green tie. His white hair was waxed into a small triangle which reminded Benedict of a budgerigar’s quiff. Cecil spent a lot of time with his two young nieces, so often spoke as if he was on social media.

Each day, he brought his cat, the fearsome Lord Puss, into work. A white Persian, who thought he was superior to humans, Lord Puss sat on a purple velvet cushion on the counter, where he greeted customers with narrow lemon eyes and a flex of his claws.

‘Aloha,’ Cecil called through into the workshop.

‘Hello. The kettle’s boiled,’ Benedict shouted back, pleased to hear Cecil’s voice. He’d spent the weekend alone, mooching around listlessly and wondering what Estelle was doing without him. He watched too many action films and wondered where the heroes got their energy from.

‘Coolio.’ Cecil set his cat basket down and Lord Puss swanked out. The cat blinked around with disdain and settled onto his cushion.

Cecil made two cups of tea – one black for him and one white with three sugars for Benedict. He placed coasters on the workbench and set the cups down. ‘Ooh, what are you making?’ he asked.

‘A silver brooch.’ Benedict held it up for Cecil to see.

‘Another triangular one?’

‘Yes.’

‘It looks a bit Star Trek-y.’

‘Great,’ Benedict said.

‘Yes, if you want to look like Captain Kirk…’

Now that Cecil said this, Benedict thought the piece did look a bit space age. He placed it at the back of his bench.

‘We should make more effort to follow trends,’ Cecil said. ‘What about festival jewellery, or friendship bracelets? How about ear cuffs, or adding gems to your work?’

Benedict stared at him, as if he was speaking a foreign language. ‘This is Noon Sun,’ he said. ‘The villagers like simple, classic things.’

Cecil opened the appointment book and flicked through it. ‘Well, I can see that you’re not going to be rushed off your feet, when I go into hospital for my hernia op. I’ve told Lord Puss that you’re going to look after him.’

‘I don’t know how I’ll cope without you,’ Benedict admitted. He imagined Stone Jewellery being as still and quiet as his own home and the thought made his jaw ache. He wished that he could chit-chat with customers like Cecil did, but his own words queued up in his head like cars in a motorway traffic jam.

‘I don’t like to leave you on your own here, especially with Estelle moving out. How are things between the two of you?’

Benedict’s smile slipped. He picked up the triangular silver brooch and gave it a polish on his trouser leg. He would only allow his friend to see his hurt. Even though Cecil was a gossip, cooing and flattering customers, Benedict knew his assistant had integrity and always looked out for him. ‘All fine, I suppose,’ he mumbled.

‘Benedicto. You don’t have to put a shine on things, for me. How are things really?’

Benedict’s shoulders sloped. He wished that his life could be as shiny and simple as his jewellery. ‘Not good. Estelle’s still staying at her friend’s apartment, whilst Veronica’s working away in America. She’s been gone for six weeks now…’

‘Couldn’t she just check on the apartment each day?’ Cecil asked.

Benedict looked down at his big hands. ‘She wants a proper break, to clear her head. But the longer she’s gone, the more it feels that she won’t come back. Anyway’— he lifted his voice, to try to sound more positive— ‘I hope she’ll be back for our tenth anniversary, in three weeks’ time.’

‘Fingers crossed. Have you got anything spesh planned?’

Benedict opened the drawer in his workbench and took out a long grey box, lined with white satin. The necklace inside wasn’t yet long enough to reach a quarter of the way around Estelle’s collarbone. It was made up of hundreds of interlinked jump rings, each the circumference of a ladybird, in platinum, rose gold, yellow gold and silver. If Benedict didn’t think that a ring was good enough, he dropped it into an old teacup on his bench. It was almost full to the brim of the ones he’d rejected.

Cecil nodded. ‘Très elegant. But what else are you planning to do, to win her back?’

Benedict frowned. ‘I’ve bought her flowers, I took her out for coffee… What else can I do, but wait for her to make up her mind?’

Cecil moved the lamp out of the way and sat on the workbench. ‘You’re going to have to make a proper effort to stop her slipping away. In the medieval days you’d get on a fine white charger and joust for her.’

‘I can’t ride,’ Benedict said as he picked up a link. ‘I’d squash the horse. I want her to come home, but the thing we want more than anything, is the one thing we can’t have…’ His throat suddenly felt like there was a pebble stuck in it and he couldn’t swallow it away. ‘We’ve really tried, but I don’t think it will ever happen for us…’

‘Children?’ Cecil asked quietly.

Benedict nodded. ‘We want a family so much.’

No matter how many times he thought about his and Estelle’s unsuccessful attempts to have a baby, it always felt like he’d been shoved off a railway platform onto the track, in front of a speeding train. He was forty-four years old now and time was flying by. He longed to feel tiny fingers curled around his own and a small heart beating against his chest. The ache of wanting a child weighed him down like wet cement.

‘Estelle says she’s come to terms with being childless. But I haven’t.’ He swallowed. Not wanting Cecil to see that his eyes were growing watery, he shifted his seat closer to the bench and stared at the necklace. ‘I’m happy to adopt, but Estelle doesn’t want to. I hope that staying at Veronica’s gives her time to realise that it’s the best way forward…’

Cecil gave his shoulder a firm pat.

Benedict moved his lamp back into place. ‘I’m sure everything will work out for us,’ he said, sitting more upright in his chair. ‘I just need to bring Estelle home.’

That night, finding it difficult to sleep on his own again, Benedict ambled downstairs in the dark. He wore his grey suit jacket over the top of his striped pyjamas, and his burgundy loafers with no socks. The only sounds he could hear were the creak of the hallway floorboards, the Noon Sun village clock striking twelve, and his own heavy breathing from taking the stairs.

He picked up a torch, a tartan picnic rug and a shopping bag full of food, and opened his front door. He took three gulps of the chilly October air and padded out to the weeping willow tree, in the middle of the lawn. Using his head and shoulders to part its leaves, Benedict clambered into the hollow space. It was once an easy thing to do when he and his brother, Charlie, used the tree as their childhood den. But now, squeezing under proved quite a challenge.

He sighed and shone the torch inside the bag. After pulling out a four-pack of chocolate brownies, he prised open the lid. They were perfect, chunky brown squares with a dusting of icing sugar on top. He fought the urge to eat them, but it was as if he was a robot – hand out, pick up a brownie, munch, repeat.

When he had finished, his shoulders sagged with shame and he leaned back against the tree trunk. His parents had planted it when Benedict was eleven years old and his brother Charlie was three.

Their dad, Joseph, travelled overseas to source and buy gemstones, which he sold on to museums, shops and auction houses. When they could, Benedict, Charlie and their mum, Jenny, joined him.

Benedict was attracted to the solidness and definiteness of the neutral gems; the greys, blacks and browns – Smoky Quartz, Brown Jasper and Onyx. Charlie’s hand shot out for the biggest and brightest – the Red Aventurine, Tangerine Quartz and Golden Beryl.

Joseph drilled holes through each of the imperfect stones and Jenny snipped random lengths of silk thread. Benedict tied gems, a few inches apart, to form sparkling strands and Charlie stood on Benedict’s knee to tie them into the weeping willow.

It was a family tradition that, one day, Benedict hoped to carry on with his own children. But now his future stretched before him, and there was no tinkle of children’s laughter to be heard. The thought made his heart feel as heavy as a cannonball.

He looked up at the room that Estelle used as her art studio and thought how it would make a perfect nursery. But then his eyes moved across to their own bedroom. He wished she was in bed now, waiting for him, so they could rub their feet together under the covers.

Benedict climbed out from under the tree. He left the rug on the ground and crumpled up the bag. He took out his mobile phone from the pocket of his jacket and his big fingers flexed. They seemed to take on a life of their own and he knew that he shouldn’t send a text under the influence of excess calories. But he couldn’t stop. He scrolled to his wife’s number and tapped out a message.

‘I love you. Please come home x’

Inside the house, Benedict trudged upstairs. In Estelle’s studio, he stared at her canvasses, stacked against the wall. She said that her paintings weren’t good enough, but they looked wonderful to him. He cleared some clothes and paintbrushes off the bed, kicked off his loafers and lolled sideways until his cheek touched the pillow. Then he lay there, motionless, until his eyes began to flicker and close.

The loud banging noise startled him out of his sleep. Benedict sat up with a jolt and looked at his mobile phone to see the time – 1 a.m. Ugh. His tongue felt like it was covered in chocolatey fur. He paused, wondering whether to lie back down, or go to his own bed.

But there was the noise again. It was a knock on his front door.

A shot of adrenaline made him stand up. His heart pumped fast and he remembered his text to his wife. ‘Estelle,’ he said aloud and his lips flickered into a small smile.

He finger-combed his hair and felt his way out of the room. Negotiating the stairs in his bare feet, he yelped as he trod on something sharp – a small stone. He brushed it off his foot with his hand.

The knock came again, louder and more persistent.

The rain hammering against the door sounded like zombies drumming their fingers, trying to get inside. He hoped that Estelle was wearing a coat, or had taken a taxi. She would be soaking wet.

He fumbled for his keys and clumsily unlocked the door. Outside, the security light pinged on, illuminating the raindrops so they looked like a shower of diamonds. It took a while for Benedict’s eyes to adjust, and he rubbed them with his fists.

She stood with her back to him. Her dress was wet and clung to her legs. Droplets hung from the hem.

The skin on Benedict’s forearms tingled with anticipation. ‘Estelle…’ he said.

She turned. ‘I thought you were never going to answer.’

Benedict felt recognition glimmer inside him. He took in the shape of her chin, the jump of her nose, the raindrops glittering in her hair. He stared until he felt like he was in a trance.

He knew her face.

But it wasn’t his wife.

2. Ruby

visualisation, dynamism, vibrancy

Benedict wondered who the girl was. He seemed to know her from somewhere. She barely reached his shoulder in height and her wet, dark dress clung to her knees, so they poked through the cotton like knobbles of tree bark. Her legs were bare and she wore battered tan leather cowboy boots. Her arms hung by her sides, in a denim jacket at least two sizes too big for her, and the sleeves covered her fingertips. With her ears poking out through her long, damp hair, her face had an impish quality. Eyebrows, bushy and set too high and angled on her forehead, gave her an air of surprise. Dangling from the end of one sleeve was a small white drawstring bag, the type you get when you buy jewellery in a posh shop.

The outside light clicked off and they both stood in darkness.

‘I thought no one was home.’ Her voice was deeper and slower than Benedict expected. She had an American accent. ‘Where were you?’

‘Um, I was in bed, asleep.’

‘You’re wearing a suit jacket.’

‘I know.’ He wondered why she was questioning him, as if she knew him.

‘Benedict Stone?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Gemma.’ She offered her hand in a karate-chop move.

It was slim and wet, and Benedict’s brain ticked as he shook it. Gemma. Did he know a Gemma?

Estelle used to tell him that she’d bumped into so-and-so in the village, who went to school with such-a-person, who was married to thingamajig. He would smile and nod and not have a clue who she was talking about. Gemma? He couldn’t place her.

‘I’m Gemma Stone.’

Gemma? Gemma Stone? Gemma…Stone.

‘Your niece,’ she said sharply.

‘You’re Charlie’s daughter?’ He gasped. Now that he looked, she had the same nose and chin as his brother. ‘Is he here?’

‘No.’

‘You’re alone?’

‘Yes.’

She stuck out a foot and shook it. ‘And I’m very wet. Are you going to invite me in?’

Benedict took a few seconds to peel his hand away from the doorframe. He shook his head with confusion. ‘Um… yes.’

Gemma bent down and picked up a small, saggy rucksack that lay at her feet and slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll follow you, Uncle Ben.’

‘It’s Benedict, actually.’ He headed into the house and Gemma followed. Her boots squelched and left wet oval-shaped footprints on the floorboards. ‘This is the kitchen.’ Words swam in his head. ‘Can I, er, get you anything?’

‘I got a sandwich at the airport.’ She stuck her head around the door. ‘It smells musty in there. And it’s dark.’

‘I’ll switch a light on.’

‘Yeah.’

Benedict squinted as the kitchen light seemed twice as bright as usual. ‘About Charlie…?’ he tried again. How long was it since his brother walked out on him, to go and live in America? Eighteen years?

Benedict still pictured Charlie as a young boy. He’d brought his brother up, since their parents were killed in an accident when Charlie was ten and Benedict was eighteen. He sometimes reached up and touched the underside of his chin, positive that he could still feel the tickle of his brother’s copper hair tucked there.

Gemma stretched out her arms and gave a noisy yawn. ‘I’m so tired after travelling,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?’

‘Bed?’ Benedict repeated. ‘You’re staying the night?’

But she was already making her own way up the stairs.

Benedict stared up at the ceiling as the floorboards creaked in his bedroom, Charlie’s old room and then Estelle’s studio. What the hell should he do? Should he follow her up, or try to sleep on the sofa? Should he offer her a change of clothes?

He rubbed his neck and went upstairs anyway, trying to climb them as noisily as he could, so she could hear him approaching.

When he reached the landing, he heard clattering inside the bathroom. Something fell and skittered around in the sink. The toilet flushed, water gushed and the plughole gurgled. There was a bang and Gemma said, ‘Crap.’

Benedict cleared his throat loudly. ‘Ahem.’

Gemma opened the bathroom door by a few inches and pressed her forehead against the doorframe. ‘Before you ask me anything else,’ she said, sighing. ‘I have mental and physical exhaustion.’

‘I just want to know… Well, is your dad okay? Where is your mother?’ Questions bolted around his head like piglets let loose on a farm.

Gemma switched off the bathroom light and pulled the door shut behind her. She carried her clothes in a clump and she wore a pair of Estelle’s pyjamas. They were white with large pink roses and the sight made Benedict feel light-headed. The pyjamas should have his wife inside them, not a stranger.

‘I’m going to take this room.’ Gemma jerked her thumb towards Estelle’s studio.

‘Er, okay,’ Benedict said, too taken aback to add anything else.

His niece dropped her pile of clothes on the floor and pushed her soggy rucksack and boots against the wall with one foot. Leaving the door open, she peeled back the covers and clambered into bed. ‘Thanks, Uncle Ben,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’

When Benedict woke the next day it was 7.30 a.m. and his mouth was as dry as a sand dune. He lay for a while and shielded his eyes with his hand against the mustardy light that sliced around the curtains. At first, the morning felt like every other lonely one since Estelle left, too still and silent. But then Gemma murmured in her sleep, and the strange noise made the roots of his hair stiffen.

Turning, he saw one of Estelle’s empty perfume bottles sitting on top of her bedside table. He reached over, picked it up and held it under his nose. The musky rose scent transported him back to the heat and bustle of a Greek market where his wife laughed and haggled for the amber-coloured bottle. He could almost see the glint of sunlight on the sunglasses pushed back into her black bobbed hair.

When they were on holiday, Estelle liked to go out and explore. ‘What’s the point of sitting still when we’re someplace new?’ She’d smile as she set off to walk to the nearest town. She liked to find local craft shops and, when she returned, present to Benedict what she’d bought – a small ceramic butterfly, or a hand-painted dish for olive oil.

Benedict barely glanced at them. He liked to stay around the pool, listening to families splashing around and imagining that one day he might throw an inflatable Frisbee to his own kids. He tried not to look at the trim dads in their Speedos, when he himself sported an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts. ‘Isn’t this hotel great for kids?’ he said. ‘It’s got a children’s club too.’

Sometimes, Estelle’s moving out felt like he’d been rugby-tackled and knocked, breathless, off his feet. At other times, he told himself to be more optimistic. She was just helping out a friend and would be back soon. Things would return to normal and they’d pick up their conversation about adoption again. He would try to persuade her it was the best way forward.

Benedict picked up his mobile and saw that Estelle hadn’t replied to his text from last night. For a moment, he wondered about sending another one, but Gemma groaned in her sleep and he slipped the phone under his pillow.

He slid out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and put on his loafers. Stealing a glance in the studio, he saw his niece was curled up with her back to him. Her rucksack was on the floor and it didn’t seem to contain much, for a trip to England from America.

He crouched and strained one arm into the room and pulled her discarded clothes towards him. They were still damp from the rain. Damn, did he even know how to operate the tumble dryer?

As he gathered them to his chest, something white landed on the floor with a thud. It was the bag that had dangled from the sleeve of Gemma’s denim jacket last night. He froze, scarecrow-still, as she muttered in her sleep. When she started to snore, Benedict pushed the white bag back into the room with his foot.

Downstairs, Benedict read and reread the instructions that Estelle had handwritten and taped next to the dial on the tumble dryer. Since she’d gone, he realised how much she did in the house. It was as if a fairy magically popped in and did all the cooking, cleaning, the grocery shopping and the washing-up. For the past six weeks, he hadn’t done much. When his clothes needed a wash, he took them to his friend Ryan’s launderette, Soap’n’Suds, in the village, and Bake My Day provided most of his meals.

Benedict turned a dial on the dryer and hoped for the best.

The dining room used to be tidy, but now there were piles of his clothes, newspapers and screwed-up plastic bags on most surfaces. Estelle liked fresh flowers on the table but instead there was a pile of cork placemats and a heap of junk mail.

He used to think that the house was friendly and well lived in, but now it just looked ancient. The pine kitchen units had darkened over the years to a burnt orange colour, and the lino was torn and needed replacing. Estelle had suggested many times that they spruce up the place, but Benedict wanted to save money, for when they had a family.

Could he really blame her for moving out, when his motivation had shipped out too? Cecil was right; she deserved a jousting knight on a white horse. But that wasn’t him.

As Gemma’s jacket and dress began to spin, he wondered about her impromptu arrival. Why had she arrived so late, and why was she on her own? Something wasn’t right here and the familiar urge of wanting to eat crept up on him like a mutant blob in a fifties sci-fi movie.

It usually started with his stomach feeling as hollow as an empty beer barrel. Then a chirpy voice in his head announced that food would make him feel better. Benedict didn’t experience hunger as such, rather the need to feel full, to take his mind away from the present.

His fingers twitched as he opened the fridge door. On the top shelf sat two chunky slices of lemon cheesecake. Lemons are nice and healthy, they said to him.

‘Shut up,’ Benedict growled and set to work making an omelette instead. He sniffed and wondered if it would cover the musty smell that Gemma had complained about.

He ate it standing up, in front of the sink. Then he succumbed and ate a slice of lemon cheesecake anyway.

When Gemma woke up, he would make her some breakfast and ask for Charlie’s phone number. Benedict wondered what his brother had told Gemma about him. He rubbed his neck with shame and wondered if Charlie would reject him all over again.

When the tumble dryer rumbled to a stop, it had gone past nine. Benedict pulled out the clothes, folded them roughly and carried them upstairs. He was late for work and eating too much had made him feel cranky.

In the studio, Gemma was still in bed and he bent down to deposit her dried clothes on the floor.

‘What the hell…?’ The bed juddered and she sat up, clutching the blanket to her chin.

Benedict stood up so quickly that his back cricked. ‘Ouch.’ He flailed one hand behind him in a failed attempt to support it. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘I was, until you crept into my room, like a pudgy vampire or something.’ She flopped back onto her pillow and specks of dust burst into the air. She reached up, trying to catch them. ‘This house is dirty.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Um, yes.’

‘You’re not sure?’

Her question felt like a small punch in his gut. ‘I am married. And I dried your clothes.’ He stepped over them and opened the curtains.

Gemma squealed and covered her eyes with her hands.

When she lowered them, he’d forgotten what she looked like. Her hair was now dry, with strands stuck to her cheeks. It was a russet red, darker than Charlie’s copper mop, and it reminded Benedict of autumn leaves. Her irises shone teal blue against the pink of her eyelids. Again, because of the high angle of her eyebrows, he wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not.

‘When you’re dressed,’ he said, ‘I’ll make you an omelette.’

She screwed up her nose. ‘I hate eggs.’

‘I have cheesecake too.’

‘That’s a dessert.’

Her answering back made his head throb. ‘I’m not running a café. After you’ve eaten, we’ll phone your dad. You can tell him that you’re safe and we can make arrangements.’

‘What arrangements?’

‘For whatever you plan to do.’

Gemma frowned. ‘I planned to come here.’

‘To Noon Sun?’

‘Yeah. For an adventure.’

‘Adventure?’ Benedict’s brow puckered as he thought about the sleepy village, with its row of lacklustre shops. ‘You’ll be lucky. And it’s dangerous to turn up on a stranger’s doorstep unannounced.’