Because You Loved Me

BECAUSE YOU LOVED ME BETH MORAN In memory of my dad, David Robbins. It was an honour. And to George. Thank you for the tea. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Acknowledgments More from Beth Moran About the Author About Boldwood Books 1 ‘Who are you?’ My first thought was to lie. To not be me. I hesitated. The girl in front of me, so desperately trying to be an adult with her dark make-up and uneasy piercings, looked up for the first time. Her expression from behind the counter said it all. What type of person doesn’t know who they are? A dozen names zipped through my brain. The women I wished I could be. Amelia Earhart. Emmeline Pankhurst. Lady Gaga. The girl began tapping her biro on the book in front of her, jabbing angry marks on the white page. ‘Marion Miller.’ This is my real name. I was here (and not standing behind my own counter at Ballydown Public Library) to discover what that name meant. She checked her book. ‘You aren’t on the bookings list. Did you reserve a pitch or a caravan?’ ‘No. I haven’t reserved anything—’ She slammed the book shut, shoving it to one side. Scowled through the inch-long spider legs glued to her eyelids. ‘It’s August. We’re full.’ I was about to explain that I only wanted directions to the Sherwood Forest visitor centre. But before I could, the outside door opened and a woman sashayed in. Apart from her tiny frame, nothing about her appearance said ‘girlish’. All of her, from the top of her platinum-blonde chignon to her sleek heels, declared her a lady. Her simple red dress wrapped her perfectly, emphasising curves where curves are meant to be. I couldn’t guess her age. Thirty-five? Forty? Fifty, possibly? It felt crass even to consider how old she might be. For a woman like this, years and the passing of time are irrelevant. She was breathtaking. She turned to me and smiled. ‘Hello. Welcome to the Peace and Pigs. I am so sorry, but an emergency has occurred and I require my daughter’s assistance immediately. Have you booked in yet?’ A voice of pure honey. Made with pollen from the sweetest of North American flowers. Deep and rich. A Southern Belle. As I opened my mouth to reply, the girl who must be her daughter answered. ‘She hasn’t booked.’ ‘I’m not here on holiday. I…’ The woman grabbed my wrist with her French-manicured nails. ‘You must be Becky Moffitt’s niece – Jenna? You made it! I’m Scarlett. You are so very welcome! To be honest, I was beginnin’ to think you decided not to show up, but better late than never, today of all days. Now please, I don’t mean to throw you in at the deep end, but as I mentioned, we are in the grip of an emergency. Would you mind very much taking over from Grace and supervisin’ check-in? All you need do is welcome arrivals, find their pitch number in the book, make sure they’ve paid and hand them the information leaflet.’ As she spoke, the woman steered me behind the desk. She patted my arm and turned back to her daughter. ‘Little Johnny escaped again. Valerie has him cornered with a broom by the bottom wash block, but he is squealin’ like a great big baby; we need an extra pair of hands.’ For a few beats of silence, Grace didn’t move. I could feel tension swinging like a pendulum between them. Scarlett reached up her hand to smooth a non-existent stray hair back into place. ‘Please, would you come and help?’ Grace rolled her eyes and plodded out to join her mum. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving me standing on the wrong side of the counter. A prickle of sweat popped out on my forehead, due to a lot more than the stifling August heat. * * * For the first few minutes, nothing happened; the only sound my breathless prayer, muttered over and over again, as if saying it more times made any difference. ‘Please let no one turn up. Don’t make me have to speak to anyone else.’ The bell on top of the door jangled, and my heart accelerated to triple time as a man and woman stepped in. Crumpled and sticky, like the old sweet wrappers inhabiting my car footwells, they barely glanced up as they handed over their reservation details. I checked the name on the piece of paper against the entry in the book. ‘Pitch fourteen.’ My voice had been replaced with that of an elderly toad. ‘Excuse me?’ I coughed to clear my throat. ‘Pitch number fourteen.’ I pointed out the map on the back of the welcome leaflet I had been memorising for distraction purposes. ‘Just here, by the play park.’ ‘That’s great.’ The woman swiped at the hair drooping in her eyes. ‘The kids have been stuck in the back of the car for five hours. They can play while we put the tent up. You might have genuinely saved us from committing murder. You know what it’s like.’ Nope. They had already paid in full and I couldn’t think of anything to say, but they stood there expectantly. I fought past the seven-year-old mute who grabs hold of my vocal cords whenever I am forced into making conversation with people I don’t know. Remembered to do my mute busters: breathe out, drop shoulders, pause. Breathe in, open mouth, speak. ‘Um. Have a nice holiday. And if you need anything, feel free to come and ask.’ The couple smiled and nodded as they opened the door to leave. I