The Happy Endings Book Club (3 page)

“Perhaps my father can tell me,” she muttered as she switched on the main lights overhead.

She began to search the shelves and found a book on dementia. She scanned a few pages, but it wasn’t her mother she was reading about. The symptoms weren’t familiar.
Memory loss.
Jean seemed to be remembering things rather than forgetting them. She read down the whole checklist. There was nothing there that indicated her mother was in the early stages of dementia—but instead of bringing comfort to Paige, this realization filled her with terror.

If Jean didn’t have dementia … then …

She placed the book carefully back on the shelves and walked around to the new age and spirituality section. There, she pulled out a couple of books she’d stocked on a whim:
A Real History of Britain’s Fey Folk
by Rebecca Morris (an Oxford scholar) and
Cornish Folklore
by Wendy Newbury (a Cornwall-based psychic). Paige pulled up a small reading stool and perched herself on it, the books on her lap.

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this … and I can’t believe I’m talking to myself.”

She opened the history book and read the first few pages. While interesting, it was rather dry and academic—not quite what she was after. She slid it back onto the shelf and opened the book on Cornish folklore. She read about giants and mermaids, knockers and piskies, and King Arthur. But while the book was beautifully illustrated, it was as helpful as the book on dementia.

Zap!
The light flickered off. Paige had just enough time to tell herself that the bulb must’ve blown before it came back on. She shivered. She suddenly felt very cold, despite the heating. An icy breeze tickled the exposed skin on her neck. She knew it was just her imagination, but she felt frightened and wanted to get back upstairs.

As she put the book back in its place on the shelf, she noticed a small, battered little book beside it. She knew immediately that it hadn’t been there earlier. She’d never seen it before and felt uneasy. She considered leaving it, and praying that tomorrow it would be gone. But curiosity got the better of her and she drew it out anyway.

The book was slightly larger than the palm of her hand and bound in worn brown leather. There was a small title on the front in gold lettering, but in an unfamiliar alphabet.

Paige tentatively opened the cover. There was no imprint page, or any way to tell when it had been published or who had published it. It appeared to be handmade. The pages seemed to be made of fine gold. She turned another page to discover a sketch of a woman in an unusual type of ink. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful and dressed in what appeared to be royal garb. On the next page was another drawing, of a man, equally attractive. The next page contained a drawing of them both together, holding a child. More pages, more drawings, more faces and people, each page becoming more and more fantastical with strange creatures and worlds.

Paige’s body filled with an icy dread. Where had this book come from? And why did she feel like she was being watched?

She flipped the book over and on the back cover was one word in gold lettering:
Paige
.

*

Paige usually had more restraint but this morning she couldn’t wait for a suitable time to visit. She was up. Hell, she hadn’t slept. So why should her mother? She marched into her mother’s room at 7:30 am, expecting to find Jean asleep. Instead, she was in the chair beside her bed. She was fully dressed, her hair had been styled, and she had a visitor. It was Arley, sitting in another chair he’d pulled up to face her. They were deep in conversation and he was holding her hand.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence when Paige entered. “Am I interrupting something?”

Arley stood. “All good. I was just leaving.” He gave Paige a warm smile as he left.

Paige breathed his scent in as he walked past her. God, he made her dizzy. She realized her mother was watching her with interest.

Paige stalled. “You’re wearing lipstick at this time of the day?”

“I leave it on. I’ve decided I’ve wasted too many years looking like death, so when I actually do die, I want to be wearing Revlon Really Red.”

“So you’re sleeping in it?”

“One can never be too careful at my age. Every night some poor bugger dies around here. When it’s my turn, I’m checking out with red lips.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. This is a rehabilitation clinic, Mum, not a nursing home.” Paige thrust the book at her mother. “What’s this?”

Jean refused to take it, so Paige poked her with it a few times.

“Get that away from me,” Jean squealed.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, but I sense that I don’t want to touch it.”

“You
sense
you don’t want to touch it? What do you mean by that?”

Jean looked wary. “One must be very careful what one accepts, when it’s from those bloody Fey folk.”

Paige thrust it at her mother. “Take it!”

This time, Jean did as she was told. She held the book like it was the hand of a leper, and carefully opened it, landing on the page with the illustration of the man, woman and child. She stared at it for a moment, then slammed the book shut and thrust it back at Paige. “No idea. Never seen it before in my life.”

“You’re lying.” Paige eyeballed her mother. “Don’t you dare tell me my father is a bloody fairy and then clam up when things start to get even weirder. Where does this book come from?”

“I don’t know. Where did
you
find it?

“In the shop, and I didn’t put it there.”

“They have a way of being everywhere. It’s a sign. He’s reaching out.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that drawing is of us. Of him.”

Paige closed her eyes for just a moment to regain her balance. “That’s my father?”

Jean nodded. “Holding you. Me beside him.”

“That’s you?”

“I told you I was a looker,” her mother said defiantly.

Paige studied the picture with great intensity. “My father?”

“Yes … your father. Cadoc,” Jean’s tone softened slightly. “You have a father, and you should go find him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Paige looked her mother in the eye, something she hadn’t done for a very long time. “The worst that could happen? I could find out you’re right.”

*

Paige marched straight over to Arley’s office. Despite her resolve yesterday not to involve him in her problems, she wanted to see the specialist he’d told her about.

“Everything okay with your mother?”

“Yes, she seems fine, in her red lipstick. My world has been completely turned upside down though.”

“What fun.” Arley’s blue eyes twinkled.

Paige looked at him as though he too must be mad. He might be the most magnetic man she’d ever met, but he also said some rather odd things. She knew it should put her off, but instead it stirred a pool of excitement in her gut. It was as though his presence offered the promise of adventure, and she was both excited and terrified by that.

“You mentioned there was someone I could talk to. A specialist.”

“Yes. You’d like to see her?”

“Yes … can you refer me?”

Arley gave her a nod. “Okay, you’re referred.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just referred you.” Arley laughed. “You don’t need a referral, Paige. You just need to show up. How about I take you and introduce you to her?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Her work hours are a little odd. Why don’t you meet me here at nine and we’ll head on over.”

Paige glanced at her watch. “Okay, that gives me just under an hour.”

“No, I mean 9 pm.”

“Tonight?” Paige was thrown. What the hell would she wear? Her next thought was that perhaps
she
was regressing, not her mother. She was acting like a teenager. It wasn’t a date. As much as she’d like it to be.

She nodded in a way that she hoped indicated that she knew it was a professional meeting. “I’ll see you back here at nine this evening.”

“Great.” Arley gave her a wink. “It’s a date.”

*

Paige knew it wasn’t
really
a date, but she still wanted to look fabulous. She discarded one piece of clothing after another. Too dressy, not dressy enough, mutton dressed as lamb. Her wardrobe was a wasteland.

She grabbed her bag and keys and bolted out of the house. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed advice, so she headed for the Pantry, across the road from her shop.

The Pantry was a gorgeous little boutique, owned by Amanda. Paige had watched Amanda come and go every day for a year before she’d finally introduced herself. Amanda was an immaculate brunette who was probably about forty but looked younger. She had class. She had style. Paige had found her intimidating until one afternoon when Amanda had come into Happy Endings and headed straight for the romance section. What Paige discovered that afternoon was that Amanda was also warm, and funny, and a little lonely after her divorce. Paige invited her to join the book club and friendship quickly followed.

Amanda’s face lit up when Paige entered the store. “Hello, love.”

They exchanged kisses and Paige plopped her bag on a chair. “I need your help. A whole outfit. Style me.”

“Do you have a date?”

“No … but I want to dress like it’s one.”

Amanda gave Paige a nod. Challenge on. She swept around the shop, pulling clothes off racks. Not lots. Just a few pieces that together formed one outfit. Then she handed everything to Paige and ushered her into the change room.

Amanda chatted to Paige through the dressing-room door.

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

Paige slid a sweater over her head. “No idea. Linda has asked me to spend it with her and her husband, but I’m waiting to see if Mum will be allowed home. How about you?”

“I asked Peter and his new girlfriend over.”

“No! Are you comfortable with that?”

“Christ, no. I totally regret it, but it was one of those moments where the kids were pushing for it, and I was put on the spot.”

“Can you cancel?”

“I wish,” Amanda said. “I’ll probably just drink too much instead. That’s what Christmas is for anyway, right?”

Five minutes later, Paige barely recognized herself.

Black wool pants and ankle boots, a gray and blue striped sweater and a well-cut dark gray tweed blazer. She knew it was a great outfit. It suited her, although she’d never have pulled it together herself. Thanks to Amanda, tonight she was going to embrace being fifty-something and fabulous.

“What do you think?” Amanda asked with the confidence of someone who already knew the answer to her question.

Paige beamed at her. “I think I’ll take the lot.”

A few hours later, Paige dug around her bathroom and found her make-up bag. It hadn’t seen the light of day since she’d moved in. She applied some make-up, keeping it natural, but accentuating her eyes. She thought of her mother as she did, and smiled. Jean would be pleased.

Next she took a good long look at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. She wasn’t bad—still slim, though she had always been short—and her dark hair was glossy, although that now came from a bottle. Her skin was good, her eyes probably her best feature. She had been quite beautiful when she was younger, not that she’d ever appreciated it, or taken advantage of it at the time. It’s often only as beauty fades that it becomes apparent it was ever there, she thought ruefully.

But something sparkled back at her in the mirror tonight. It was her mother, or at least a glimmer of her. Not the version of Jean she’d grown up with, but the real Jean, the Jean who, if everything she said was true, had sacrificed herself to protect her daughter.

For years Paige had been petrified of turning into her mother. Now, for the first time in her life, she felt that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

*

Paige was surprised to discover that this
specialist
worked out of a pub in Highgate. Alarm bells immediately rang, but she followed Arley into the King & Mistress anyway. The specialist could’ve worked in a Taliban training camp and Paige would’ve followed Arley there.

It was warm inside, and quite packed. A bluesy version of some traditional Christmas carols played in the background, and a Christmas tree shimmered in the corner. It was a quirky pub, welcoming and cozy. And Arley obviously knew the place well. He marched across the room and gave a woman behind the bar a friendly wave.

She blew him a kiss. “Arley, love, good to see you.”

“You too, Batty.”

Arley led Paige away from the main bar and through myriad smaller rooms. She felt like she should drop a trail of breadcrumbs to help find her way out. Then she looked at Arley’s broad shoulders and firm ass and decided she’d rather follow those.

And so she did, through a corridor and down a set of stone steps into a small basement bar. A sign at the door said:
Calypso’s Cauldron. Anyone who says alcohol never solves anything has never been here before.

Now Paige was starting to worry. Surely this was a professional visit and not a date. It was a bit late to ask him now. Instead, she looked around, to see if she could spot a dementia specialist, or at the very least a GP.

The room was lovely, with oak-lined walls and a stone floor. It had low ceilings and was dominated by a large, ornate bar. The lighting, while dim, was welcoming. There were candles and lanterns scattered everywhere and the glow from an open fireplace. Two long, rustic tables were surrounded by stools and by the fireplace were a couple of Empire armchairs paired with genuine Victorian footstools. Groups were seated at the tables and a few people milled together by the open fire. Others crowded around the bar, mesmerized by something hidden from Paige’s view.

She followed Arley toward the front of the room and saw what everyone was looking at: the most stunning woman she’d ever laid eyes on. Flaming red hair, alabaster skin, green cat’s eyes. Paige stood on her tiptoes and looked across Arley’s shoulder. The woman was making a cocktail. Jesus! He’d brought her to a cocktail bar. This
was
a date.

As if he could read her thoughts, Arley turned to her. “Just in case you’re wondering, this
is
work.”