Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage Read online

  Also by Samantha Tonge

  The Christmas Calendar Girls

  The Summer Island Swap

  The Winter We Met

  SUMMER SECRETS AT STREAMSIDE COTTAGE

  Samantha Tonge

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Samantha Tonge, 2021

  The moral right of Samantha Tonge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN

  eBook: 9781800241671

  Print: 9781800246102

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For everyone who’s felt the need to ink their skin,

  to use their body as the page for a story,

  I hear your pain not from the needle but your past.

  I hope the tattoo moved you forwards. You are courageous.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Read on for an excerpt from The Summer Island Swap…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  Prologue

  One year ago

  For every ten thousand clovers with three leaves there is just one with four

  Like most Monday mornings, my working week started with a client stripping off. Bill laid his t-shirt on a nearby chair. He’d done a good job of shaving the hair off his chest and I’d already prepared the carbon stencil and tore off a square of kitchen roll to clean the area with Dettol. Wearing latex gloves, I pressed firmly as I applied the design and waited a few moments. Slowly I peeled off the tracing paper to reveal the outline of his new tattoo.

  ‘Let’s double-check you’re happy with the exact position.’ He stood up from the bench and I guided him over to the wall mirror as we both studied the shape and size of my drawing. It nudged comfortably against the inked guitar that already went across his right pec.

  ‘It’s exactly where my Sheila’s was.’ Bill’s scratchy voice teamed up with his yellow fingers and signature tobacco scent.

  ‘I didn’t know she had a tattoo there.’

  ‘No… her four leaf clover was silver-plated. Towards the end she never took that necklace off. It was my present to her on our twenty-fifth anniversary because marrying her had made me the luckiest man in the world.’ He swept dyed black strands of hair back across the top of his head. ‘She had the hereditary type, you know. It’s just as well we never had kids.’

  I reached out and gently squeezed his arm. I always reckoned my job was like being a hairdresser, the way people revealed things they might otherwise keep secret. Someone knocked on the door and Steve’s head poked into view.

  ‘Someone’s asking for you, Lizzie,’ he said.

  ‘Cheers, Steve. Can you explain I’ve started? They can either wait or leave a message.’ People were always dropping into the parlour to discuss designs before making an appointment.

  Bill lay down and I prepared my machine, fitting the needle into the tube. I secured it and dipped it into the black ink. Normally we’d have joked about me being the only woman he got his kit off for, apart from Sheila. My foot pressed down on the pedal and as the needle moved, he chatted about plans they’d had for the future and how much Sheila had loved running the café opposite that I frequently visited.

  Outside the door voices jostled to take centre stage and an impatient one took the lead. I heard my name and a gasp followed.

  ‘Do you need to go for a minute?’ Bill asked but I shook my head. It was probably a disappointed client who’d turned up unannounced expecting to be fitted in straightaway. Bill and I lapsed back into silence, experience having taught me when a client didn’t want to talk.

  ‘There. All done,’ I said eventually.

  He stood in front of the mirror. ‘Sheila wore her necklace in the coffin. I wished I’d kept it afterwards but at least I’ve got this now.’ His voice wavered.

  Like many tattoos, this one’s simplicity represented complex emotions. I taped cling film over my work and Bill sat down again with his takeaway coffee, draining the cold contents. He didn’t need to tell me that it was exactly one year to the day that his wife had died.

  Another knock sounded. ‘Are you going to be much longer?’ asked Steve. ‘This woman…’

  ‘Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Bill stood up, stretched and threw his cup into the bin. ‘You get off, Lizzie. I know the routine by now. I’ll buy a sachet of the aftercare cream when I pay and take the cling film off after a couple of hours, then it’s a matter of washing and creaming around four times a day for two weeks – right?’ His arms wrestled the inside of the black t-shirt.

  ‘I’ve got you well trained.’

  His head appeared out of his top and revealed a smile on his face. I walked around the bench and gave him a sideways hug before opening the door.

  The treatment rooms of Kismet Tattoos were white and minimalist – the reception area anything but. As you came in, on the right, there were three black wicker chairs with mustard cushions, circling a low glass table bearing portfolios of our work. The blood red walls in that corner boasted framed copies of our most popular designs, from those inspired by the natural or fantasy world, to meaningful quotes in English, Latin or Aramaic. Music played in the background – my mentor, Katya’s, choice today which meant hip-hop. Three treatment rooms led down the right-hand side, one of them for tattoo removals. Steve also did piercings and the shelving on the left, near the front window, displayed rings for an array of body parts. Straight ahead was the reception desk with a scanner by the wall. On top of the counter, in front of the appointment book, were sachets of aftercare cream in a gl
ass bowl next to the consent forms.

  Someone once told me that a reputable tattoo parlour should seem more like a doctor’s surgery, with sterilising tools and licenses on display. Kismet Tattoos certainly looked professional and sanitary but not at the price of character with its neon sign outside and exotic reception interior. A middle-aged woman, with a neat bob, sat on one of the wicker chairs, rimless glasses balanced on her nose. She was much less colourful than our usual clients. A bus thundered past outside and puffs of cloud blotted out the July sunshine. I didn’t want to keep her waiting any longer but needed to grab a glass of water after I’d seen to Bill.

  Katya looked up from the appointment book. ‘I think she’s come a long way – you’d better go over.’ Her voice was soft, her stare hard and I’d known Katya long enough to realise that combination meant this visitor was the bearer of bad news. Like the time a man had come back to complain I’d spelt his Latin quote wrong. Fortunately, I’d kept the printed out wording he’d brought in. I squinted across the room at the woman who studiously gazed into nothing. Curved arms folded underneath a generous chest causing the opposing buttonholes of her blouse to gape.

  I said goodbye to Bill and strode over. The woman looked up and removed her glasses.

  ‘Aunt Fiona?’ My heart thumped and I blinked rapidly for a few seconds. ‘I can’t believe… it’s so good to… is everything okay?’

  Creases deepening, her face screwed up like a piece of paper and she got to her feet, looking shorter than I recalled. The proximity highlighted her smudged eyeliner.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I remembered the name of this parlour and Googled.’ Her voice sounded thick. ‘I would have called but… this isn’t the kind of thing you say over the phone.’

  The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. She followed me to the back, past the buzz of tattoo needles and colleagues who suddenly looked busy. Steve patted my back as I walked past. We climbed the wooden flight of stairs and, at the top, entered the flat that I rented, with its open-plan kitchen, the breakfast bar and the lounge – the largest room by far in comparison with the bedroom and bathroom. I grabbed Ash’s pyjamas and my dressing gown off the sofa and told her to take a seat whilst I threw them in the bedroom. When I returned, Aunt Fiona sat amongst my colourful cushions and hugged one tightly.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Coffee?’ For some reason I felt sick. She felt like a stranger. More than ever I felt the ache of it having been five years since I’d last seen her and my parents.

  Aunt Fiona shook her head, took out a handkerchief and wrung it between her hands.

  I hadn’t expected to see a member of my family. Not yet. It seemed too soon, normal time having been skewed by the fall out.

  ‘Are… are Mum and Dad thinking of moving back to London?’ Aunt Jan doted on her sister and such plans wouldn’t have pleased her. Perhaps… perhaps my parents wanted a reconciliation.

  ‘I told the investigating officer it would be better coming from me. Now I’m not so sure.’

  Investigating officer. What could be wrong? Was Uncle Jack ill? Why were the police involved?

  ‘It was a beautiful sunny day. Your parents couldn’t resist taking a dip. Nothing pleased them more than swimming away from the crowded beach but they’d misjudged the tides…’

  Like hives allergic to words, red blotches appeared on her cheeks. My forehead tightened. Getting back to the beach must have been an Olympic challenge. They would be exhausted. Or perhaps it got late and they caught pneumonia. My mind went into automatic. Katya would give me the time off work. It would only take me ten minutes to pack. Within a few hours I’d be by their side in hospital. I’d stay a few weeks until they were fully recovered – start to make up for the last five years apart. We’d be a family again and—

  Her voice shook as she rose to her feet. ‘This is all your fault.’

  My voice caught. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They were swept away by a freak current. Your mum… it was all over by the time the rescue services found her. Later that night they found your dad’s body washed up on the shore.’

  No, Aunt Fiona must have got it wrong. My throat ached. I couldn’t move. For a second her face softened and she sat down once more. As she told me all the details, tears streamed down her cheeks.

  I couldn’t cry – couldn’t feel.

  I couldn’t speak.

  The room span for a moment and my hand flew to my mouth. I charged into the bathroom and crouched on the floor before everything went black.

  1

  Now

  The Latin word for tattoo is stigma

  Arriving in Leafton, I drove past a straggling estate on the left and over a junction. Quaint grey stone cottages edged the small village high street. A poppy-red letter box provided a splash of colour. It stood outside a post office that was situated within a small supermarket. I read the twee names of the few businesses – Blossom’s Bakes, The Pen Pusher, Styles by Stacey. There was one pub called The Tipsy Duck and an estate agency on the corner.

  I stopped at the traffic lights and glanced at my phone. Google Maps directed me to take the next left, an avenue that ran alongside a stream. Its row of cottages became increasingly spaced out until I came to one right at the end. It was set back and surrounded by overgrown lawns. My heart thumped at the thought of what I might find here.

  I parked the car on the road outside Streamside Cottage. Despite its uncared-for appearance I could tell that, once tidied, it would look like the front of a touristy box of fudge with its thatched roof and honey and white coloured stone dash. Window boxes hung underneath the ground floor windows although the plants inside them had shrivelled. The glass panes were each divided into six by white bars and needed a wash. The front door was cornflower blue although the colour had faded, with ivy sprawling up either side as if reclaiming the stone for nature.

  This looked like a family home that begged for children and a pet dog, for visiting grandparents, for football kick-abouts and vegetable patches. Ash would have liked it here. I swallowed and tried not to think of what happened with him and how that had pushed me to finally check out this place. I focused on the building that looked so isolated. Lonely even. I got out of my car. The stream carried on straight and then cut left and flowed along the property’s back garden which looked onto a forest. The gentle babble of water played in the background. I wasn’t used to such quiet. After Aunt Fiona’s visit last year, on that July Monday morning, the busy London soundtrack had provided a welcome distraction from the news she’d broken.

  I stepped forwards and a shed came into view in the distance, behind the driveway on the right. Oak trees and weeping willows stood tall at the rear, by the water. It was such a picturesque garden I almost expected Mr Darcy to wade out of the stream. I went through a wooden gate and the gravel gave a satisfying scrunch beneath my feet as I walked along the drive. At the front door a black plaque with the cottage’s name dipped on one side. Carefully I corrected it, as if straightening a tie.

  I ventured around the side of the building and strolled towards the stream and as the countryside enveloped me, I homed in on its finer sounds. The quack of ducks instead of the tattoo parlour’s recorded singers. Buzzing came from bees instead of ink machines and leaves rustled in the breeze like clients flipping through my portfolio’s pages.

  My jeans felt too thick for the June sunshine, despite the holes torn in them for effect. At least I was wearing my sleeveless t-shirt. The weathermen were predicting another heatwave. I stood at the water’s edge, in front of a wired fence that went all around the nearside of the water. A cluster of ducklings formed a queue behind mum.

  ‘You can do it,’ I said to one struggling to keep up, at the back.

  Leaf-dappled light added sparkle to ripples and crests of white water formed around the occasional boulder. Small fish flexed their bodies from side to side, in the calmer shallows, as if doing dance moves. In the middle the stream turned onyx as its d
epth increased. On the opposite bank a squirrel froze before darting into bushes. I couldn’t help smiling as my shoulders relaxed.

  A dragonfly hovered nearby. It was one insect I’d never done a tattoo of. I stared at its metallic-looking blue and purple hues and translucent wings and my paint box came to mind and the gift cards Ash had encouraged me to design.

  ‘There’s nothing you can’t do, Lizzie,’ Ash had once said. ‘You really should take your painting to the next level. You’re a natural – one hundred per cent it can be more than a hobby.’

  My boss, Katya, had even started to sell my cards in the parlour this last year. Despite my city upbringing, nature had always inspired me the most and my work reflected urban wildlife with watercolours of foxes, pigeons and blackbirds. As I gazed around the garden I felt overwhelmed by the textures, shapes and colours. I’d never seen so many different shades of green.

  I ducked under the hanging leaves of the weeping willow planted right by the water’s edge and ran my hand over the bark. In capitals someone had carved the word Earl and next to it a number eight, drawn lopsided as if the bark had made it difficult to chip out vertically. I pushed the branches aside and ventured out into the open again. A voice called out hello and I turned to face a woman who was all lipstick and tailored edges. A postman stood behind her. He wore baggy black shorts and red top accessorised with an apologetic expression. I walked up to them, for some reason unable to take my eyes off him.

  ‘It’s her,’ said the woman, her eyes moving from my ripped jeans, to my Doc Martens boots and finally snagging on my candyfloss pink hair. With her grey trouser suit and clear nail varnish she looked like a sketch waiting to be coloured in. A whiff of heavy perfume filled the air and her eyes darted to the side of my head where the hair was shaved.

  ‘I’m the local estate agent. We’ve handled the renting out of this cottage for years. This is private property.’