Chapter One

I saw the women get their phones out. They were hard to miss; they’d been staring at the man at the bar and whispering behind their hands ever since they’d followed him in. Now they were about to interrupt him for a picture.

I didn’t really know the man they had followed. I knew who he was, of course—I’d seen some of his movies. I loved how he came across in interviews, and my heart skipped a beat each time he came in here, but I wasn’t his friend. Other than taking his drink order for the past two weeks, I hadn’t spoken a word to him. I owed him nothing.

Except that when I’d first got to this village almost three years ago, it was his mother, Diane, who had first made me feel welcome here, helped me believe I might be able to call this place home. That made me feel protective of my friend’s boy, even if he was technically older than me.

The women were becoming bolder, so I came around the bar. After collecting some empties, I approached their table.

“We have a strict no-picture rule,” I told them, which was usually enough to shame fans and stop them imposing on the resident celebrity.

“What? No you don’t!” one girl said in disbelief.

I turned and pointed to a sign behind the bar that proclaimed “No Photographs.”

To be fair, it had been bought because it was a vintage sign, not because we genuinely had such a rule, but I decided to enforce it because I didn’t want Tom being disturbed every day.

“That’s ridiculous!” the second girl chimed in. “We only want a quick selfie with Tom!”

Both women looked to be in their early twenties—certainly old enough to know better.

“This is a bar, not a photography studio,” I said as politely as I could. I wasn’t really used to patrons arguing with me. “If you want to take selfies, there are plenty of tourist attractions for you to visit.”

“This is the twenty-first fucking century. You can’t stop us taking pictures! It’s against our human rights!” The first girl was becoming irate.

I’d had enough, though. I put the glasses I held down and lowered my voice as I leaned over the table.

“What about his human right to have a beer in peace while he’s recovering without being bothered by idiots like you who think your right to a picture with a total stranger is more important than his right to peace and quiet? If you want to wait outside and pounce on him the moment he leaves, I can’t stop you. But in here, you don’t have a right to harass other patrons and”—I pointed at another vintage sign that actually was a bar rule—“we have the right to refuse service to anyone. I don’t want to throw you out, but if you don’t put the phones away, I will.”

I picked up the empty glasses and walked back behind the bar, keeping an eye on the women. For the millionth time, I wondered why I could stand up for other people but not for myself.

The girls were clearly upset with me, but I didn’t care. Not as long as their phones stayed on the table.

I glanced over at Tom, my only other customer at the moment. He didn’t need a refill yet. He offered me a small smile, the corner of his mouth quirking up sadly. I nodded in reply, and he went back to contemplating the beer in his glass.

I worked the lunch shift four times a week, 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. After the lunchtime rush, the place was very quiet, especially as the school summer holidays had ended and most of the tourists had left. For the past few weeks, I’d usually had no more than four tables in the afternoon, if that.

That allowed me to catch up and leave things tidy for the evening shift. I went back to polishing the glasses that the dishwasher had cleaned.

Allborough was an odd village for a young woman to choose to live in, I mused as I worked. With a thriving artist community, it mostly attracted retirement-age people, here to live out their golden years. There were young people, of course, mostly families who grew up here, but it was unusual for young people to move here. I’d liked the laid-back atmosphere, the charm of living among artists. If I was honest, the slow pace of life felt safe.

“Excuse me?” My celebrity guest pulled me from my reverie and held his glass up.

“Another?”

“Please.”

Two beers. Every day he came in and ordered two beers. I plucked a new bottle from the fridge, got him a fresh glass, and poured some of the amber liquid in.

He didn’t really look like himself right now, at least not the polished version I was used to seeing on TV and in the movies. He was still classically good looking, with angular features and cheekbones that I would kill for; his gray-blue eyes were almost hypnotic in their intensity and his athletic build was the same as ever.

However, his dark blonde hair badly needed a trim; curling up at the ends and brushing his collar. Clearly he was just washing it and letting it dry without bothering with his usual styling products to keep his curls under control. The one or two weeks’ worth of beard hiding his strong jawline didn't quite disguise the new pain lines grooved around his mouth. His muscular runner's physique was hidden under a rather disreputable T-shirt, hoodie, and sweatpants. Worst of all, the man known the world over for his energetic smile and twinkling eyes looked tired and downtrodden.

Movement caught my eye. I looked up in time to see the couple snapping some stealthy pictures of Tom, who was watching them in one of the mirrors behind the bar and looking none too pleased about it.

People are idiots. What do they think? “Hey, I love you so much! Please allow me to prove it by invading your privacy, taking your picture without permission, and upsetting you.”

I handed Tom his beer, leaving the bottle since it still had some in, and collected his empty glass up. My next stop was going to be the fangirls’ table to give them their marching orders, but they had evidently decided that discretion was the better part of valor and were leaving anyway.

“Thanks for trying,” Tom said once they had gone.

“No worries. I’m sorry they were a bother.”

That was the longest non-beer-related conversation we’ve ever had.

Tom wasn’t much of a talker these days, and I couldn’t really blame him. About two and a half months ago, he’d been injured while filming a movie, and he’d been laid up in the hospital for some time. His mum, Diane, had told me he had pins in his leg and some burn injuries.

Diane had been distraught when she found out, and I’d helped her book her flights. She and Tom had finally returned home two weeks ago. He looked healthy enough, but it was clear that he had trouble walking. Diane had told me he had come to recuperate away from the spotlight—but of course the spotlight had just followed him here. The first week, there were about six photographers trying to snap photos of him, but most of them seemed to have left. I guess there’s only so many pictures you can take of a man walking on a beach before they stop selling.

He stopped in here every day on his way back home. It was both his reward for doing the exercise and a rest before he had to face the town steps, which led back to his mother’s house. They weren’t terrible, but the village was built on a hill before cars became the norm, and the town steps were along the central thoroughfare. They consisted of about forty individual steps, broken up into groups of ten, but that must feel like Everest when you had a dodgy leg.

“Can I get you anything to eat?” I asked.

“Not today, thanks.”

I don’t know why I offered—it wasn’t like he needed feeding up. Maybe it was because he always looked a little sad and I wanted to offer him some comfort.

His phone rang then, so I made my way into the kitchen to give him some privacy. I could still see out into the bar area, so I’d know if anyone came in and needed serving.

I checked the dishwashers and unloaded the full one, and then I wiped everything down. I could hear Tom talking, sounding terse, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Terse was a good way to describe him, actually. He was never rude or unkind, but he was very different than the impression I used to have of him. I’d heard a couple of locals moan that he wasn’t the friendly guy they remembered. They thought Hollywood had gone to his head, but I knew better.

He was recovering, and I knew from personal experience that recovery came with all sorts of hurdles, including emotional ones. From everything Diane had told me, he used to be very fit, running at least five miles a day and doing his own stunts where he could. Now he limped around and carried a folding cane everywhere for the times when his leg became tired and prone to give out.

In the same circumstances, I would probably be more than terse.

I popped into the bar, but when I saw Tom still on the phone, I took the condiments tray back into the kitchen to refill. He didn’t look happy. I wondered what he was hearing. I hoped it wasn’t bad news.

Shouting pulled me from my task. I froze, my eyes fixed on the hatch through to the bar. I anticipated trouble, but it never came. Tom hung up, and a few seconds later I saw him limping out.

It was irrational, but I waited until I heard the door close before I breathed out.

Three fucking years and a raised voice still terrified me.

“One day,” I promised myself. One day, I wouldn’t freeze. Wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t cower, wouldn’t hide.

I took my condiments tray back into the bar and saw that Tom had hardly touched his second beer. He’d paid with a twenty-pound note as usual, although he normally handed it to me and told me to keep the change instead of just leaving it under the glass as he had today.

Dumping the contents of the glass out and loading it into the washer, I wondered who or what had upset him.

***

Tom came in the next day and took his regular seat at the far end of the bar.

“The usual?” I asked.

“Please.” He found a small smile for me.

I brought him the beer. He opened his mouth. I paused, but he didn’t speak.

“Something else?” He looked sad, and my desire to look after him was greater than usual.

“Whiskey chaser,” he finally decided.

I tried not to show my surprise. I got him one of our nicer whiskeys because, despite dressing like a hobo, his cut-glass accent said that he clearly wasn’t a Bell’s man.

“If you want any food, let me know,” I said as I pushed the glass toward him.

Normally, I popped in to see Diane a couple of mornings a week. Since Tom had been back, though, I’d been meeting his mum in a local tearoom on Fridays, my day off, rather than at her house, so that Tom could have his privacy. We were due to meet again the next day, so I figured she might tell me what was troubling him. I knew she’d been worried about him recently.

I’d long since proved myself trustworthy. Although Diane loved to talk about her children, including Tom, nothing she’d told me had ever made it into the press. I think she might have tested me back in the beginning, because some of the projects she mentioned didn’t seem to come to anything, but when I asked she would just say, “Oh, that didn’t pan out.”

Another table came in. I took their drink orders, gave them a snack menu, and then when I returned with their drinks, I took their food order. Tom waved his whiskey glass, so I poured him a second shot before I went to prepare the food.

They’d ordered chili and chicken wings, so I prepared those dishes. I also made a plate of beef nachos. Once I delivered the table’s order, I took the nachos to Tom.

“I misread my pad and made nachos by mistake. Do you want them? Free of charge.” His eyes narrowed slightly, and I wondered if he saw through my story. “They’ll just go in the bin otherwise.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “Why not?”

“Another?” I pointed to the whiskey glass.

Tom hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “Maybe later.”

I took the glass away and began wiping down the bar.

Tom ordered a second beer, as usual. Although he didn’t order a chaser this time, he did order a third beer. It was nearing the end of my shift by the time he was finishing that.

I couldn’t help but worry about him. Not necessarily about why he was drinking—that was his business. And sure, five units of alcohol over nearly three hours wasn’t enough to make most people falling-down drunk, but then most people didn’t have a dodgy leg and take pain medication.

I approached as he got his wallet out. “Ready to go?”

He fished some notes out. “I hope that covers the extra spirits, the food, and still leaves you a tip?” He handed me thirty pounds.

“You don’t need to pay for the food. Honestly. It was an over order, so it would have gone to waste otherwise.”

His expression asked if I thought he was born yesterday. “I saw you put the nachos through the till about an hour ago.”

Busted! Damn.

“I’m sorry. I just—” I flustered.

“No need to apologize. You were right. I shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Thank you for looking after me.”

“No worries.” I smiled. I wanted to offer to walk home with him, but I still had ten minutes until my shift ended and I couldn’t really caution him to go the long way around without admitting I’d seen him struggling before. “Take care,” I said as he turned away.

“I will.” He seemed amused by me, which was embarrassing. But what the hell?

I turned my back so I didn’t appear to be too stalkerish and busied myself below the bar while he left.

***

I didn’t tell Diane about Tom’s extra drinks. That felt a little too much like telling tales on him, but I did mention the phone call that had upset him. I hadn’t heard any specifics, so that didn’t feel like betraying a confidence.

“It was about his so-called girlfriend,” Diane scoffed. “I didn’t meet her until after the accident. They were casual, Tom had told me.”

“You don’t sound as if you liked her.” I noted, sipping my tea.

We were sitting in Missy’s, who sold the best coffee cake this side of London.

“I don’t, but I admit she stepped up and was there for him every step of the way. I began to think I might be wrong about her.”

“What changed your mind?”

“First she kicked up a fuss when Tom wanted to come back here to finish recuperating; she didn’t want to leave LA. She probably would have returned to London with him, but I think Tom just wanted to come home for a while.”

“There’s nothing like mum when you’re unwell,” I said.

“Exactly.” Diane smiled. “Anyway, she made some excuses about work commitments and whatnot and promised to visit when she could.”

“But she dumped him instead?” I guessed.

“Oh no,” Diane said with a wry laugh. “She’s been selling information about him to the tabloids. We knew someone was leaking information. We thought it was at the hospital or maybe someone in the insurance company who were paying for his treatment. Turns out it was Evelyn.”

“Ouch.” I winced in sympathy. “So injured and single. That’s a lot of bad luck.”

Despite my sympathy for his plight, I felt a little flutter in my heart, which I quickly stamped down. Nope, not going there again, not even if Brad Pitt asked me!

“No, he hasn’t broken up with her.”

My fluttering heart sank like a stone. Stupid thing.

“Really?” That was the only coherent response I could think of that didn’t imply that her beloved son was a pathetic sap.

“Well, she’s not here to bother him. The most he has to do is send her a few texts, a phone call every other day, so I reminded him that he didn’t always have to tell her the truth.”

It took a few moments for me to twig.

“Diane!” I smirked. “You’re going to feed her fake information and humiliate her, aren’t you?”

She just shrugged.

“I had no idea you could be so evil!” I laughed.

“No one messes with mine.” She smiled sweetly.

I raised my teacup, and we clinked in an imitation of a toast.

“I am worried about him, though,” she admitted once our smiles faded. “He’s not himself.”

“He’s had a trauma. It’s possible he’ll never be quite the same,” I said kindly.

“Oh I know,” she assured me. “He needs time and space and freedom to recover, physically and mentally, but it’s . . . hard to watch your children go through something like that and not be able to help.”

I understood a little how she felt. I didn’t even know him and I wanted to help!

At first glance, Diane and I looked more like mother and daughter than friends, especially since we both had our hair bobbed, although hers was shorter than mine. She had a warm expression and was always immaculately turned out.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m hosting a get-together on Sunday. Just a few people Tom knows, hoping to raise his spirits a little. I thought we’d have salads, cold meats, lovely fresh bread—very Mediterranean.”

“That’s a good idea,” I agreed. “Make the most of the sun before autumn sets in.”

“I’m glad you agree, because I wanted to ask if you could make those fancy salads.”

“Which ones did you have in mind?”

“I’ll let you choose, but that Mexican bean one was lovely. And the avocado salad you did last year. Oh, and the quinoa salad you made a few months ago—delicious. The only time I’ve ever liked quinoa. Your potato salads are lovely too.”

“I’ll make them all if you think your guests will like them,” I offered shyly, pleased she asked.

“How could they not?” she reassured me. “But just pick two of your favorites.”

“Okay, so how many people are you inviting?” I needed to know how big to make them.

“I thought ten people, maybe twelve.”

“Okay, I’ll bring them over Sunday morning.”

“Just bring them when you come, dear. There’s no rush.”

“Me?”

“Well, of course you, Kelsey! I’d hardly ask you to bring food to a party and not invite you, would I?”

“I thought you were only inviting Tom’s friends.” I smiled sheepishly.

“Ah, well. I need some people there for me, don’t I? Besides, I’m sure the two of you’ll be firm friends before long.”

I wasn’t so sure. He’d been coming into my bar every day for nearly two weeks, and he didn’t even know my name.

Diane leaned over the table as if she wanted to whisper something, so I moved closer.

“Just don’t tell him about your penchant for photography.” She gestured to my bag, which had my camera poking out of the top. “He might think you’re paparazzi and want nothing to do with you!”

“Maybe I should snap some stealthy shots of him.” I laughed. “At least I might sell something then!”

“You should let me put an exhibition on for you,” Diane offered again. “You just need some publicity, a few good reviews, and word of mouth will do the rest.”

“I’m kidding,” I assured her. “It’s still just a hobby, honestly.”

“Waste of talent if you ask me.” She shot me a peeved look, but I knew she wasn’t really angry because we’d been having variations of this conversation for almost as long as I’d known her. “I’ll get you to show your pictures one day, Kelsey Beaufort, you mark my words.”

A part of me wanted to display my wares and proclaim, “Look what I can do!” But the larger part of me likes living in the shadows and being anonymous. I do sell some of my pictures, but only online where my username obscures my identity.

We went our separate ways about half an hour later, and I headed to the beach and along past the mill, looking for people or places to photograph.

***

I opted to make a quinoa salad and a Mexican bean salad since they were a little unusual. I spent Sunday morning in my small kitchen, preparing them. Once done, I covered them and headed upstairs for a quick shower and change.

My house was a converted stable, and it was, by any standards, tiny. Probably designed to be a holiday home for a couple, it had one bedroom, one reception room, a kitchen, and a bathroom that was too small for a bath. It was more than enough for little old me, however, and it had a lovely walled yard at the rear. It had been barren when I moved in, all wall and paving slabs. With the careful placement of wooden flower beds, a few climbers and creepers, it was looking lovely by the ends of its third summer, if I do say so myself. And it was low-maintenance, which was another plus.

I was running late, so I dried quickly and pulled my shoulder-length bob out of its ponytail, lamenting that I hadn’t had time to wash and dry it. I ran a brush through it, then pulled on a black maxi dress and a red cardigan, just in case it grew chilly.

As I ran down the stairs, I considered how to get everything over there in one trip. I had two salad bowls, a bottle of wine, a six-pack of lemonade, and a box of chocolates for the hostess. A giant Ikea bag seemed like overkill, but everything would fit in there, which would leave me with one hand free for doors and gates.

I grabbed one of the now-iconic blue bags and spread it open on the kitchen table. Then I placed the bean salad in one end and grabbed the quinoa for the other.

But as I turned back, I screamed as I saw an unexpected man silhouetted in the doorway to my backyard.

The bowl slipped from my hands and shattered against the tile floor.

“Fuck!” I exclaimed as salad went everywhere.