Merrin woke to the sun coming through the French windows and the soft white curtains fluttering in the early-morning summer breeze. It would be inaccurate to say Miguel had entirely erased the hurt caused by Digby, but his lovely attention and the sheer beauty of him had certainly diluted it. Her gran’s death, almost a year ago now, had reinforced what Bella had reminded her of: that life was not a rehearsal. And for her, this had certainly been a factor in slipping further into Miguel’s arms. He made her laugh like no one else and understood the demands of her job: the long hours, the unsociable shift patterns and her utter exhaustion at the end of a trying day. He liked to pop a flower in a vase and leave it for her on reception, or he’d run her a bath when he knew she was due back. It was these little things that pepped up her day and reminded her how very lucky she was to have someone like him in her life.
They had forged their relationship slowly, kissing gently and walking in the fields on their days off. He had wielded his humour like a sword to cut away her reservations and over the last twelve months they had ended up here: a couple. She was in no doubt that they worked because she was away from the tittle-tattle of Port Charles, had shaken off her old skin and was free to exist in Thornbury without leaving a trail of gossip and speculation in her wake.
That, and they shared an understanding. Their relationship was fun, frivolous and sometimes he spoke casually of a love she could not return, jesting in wine-filled moments: ‘I could fall hard for you, Merry.’
‘Don’t you dare do that!’ she’d answer with directness. ‘Save your love and all about you that is fabulous – save it for someone who is not broken and disillusioned, Miguel. Don’t waste it on a lost cause like me.’
His expression was crestfallen but, reaching for her hand, he rallied. ‘I’ll save it because I think you might change your mind. Who knows what’s around the corner? Or how you might feel in six weeks? Six months?’
‘None of us, I guess.’
Not that she ever gave him reason to think they should plan too far ahead. How would that even be possible when she lived her life one day at a time?
This weekend she was venturing home for the first time since leaving. Home. The thought of it was enough to make her stomach flip and her muscles clench. All at once she felt excited, nervous, happy and scared. How she longed to plant her feet on Cornish soil, but at the same time she felt the rise of sick nerves at what it might be like to return to the place of her humiliation. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t wary of seeing Ruby, who was the reason for returning, as this was the weekend when her sister would waltz up the aisle to marry Jarvis Cardy.
Merrin was pleased that her sister had found happiness and delighted that it was with Jarvis who, as close to her parents as he had become, was already practically part of the family. It made sense to her. His kind and patient manner was the perfect complement to Ruby’s fiery nature. Concentrating on her sister’s marriage to such a smashing man kept her from submitting to the threat of nausea at the prospect of returning to St Michael’s Church.
Miguel’s arm was lying across her neck, clamping her to the mattress. She lay still, not wanting to disturb him, knowing he had come to bed late, his body heavy and his sigh weary. She understood the bone-aching fatigue that a busy day left you with, but at the same time she felt the pressing need to use the bathroom.
Her alarm sounded.
‘Nooooo!’ Miguel moved his arm and placed the pillow over his head.
‘Go back to sleep,’ she cooed, kissing his shoulder, as he rolled on to his side. ‘I’m on an early.’ She left the bed carefully, trying to cause him the least amount of disturbance, and hit the shower. Her uniform, laundered in-house, lay under plastic wrap and hung on the back of the bathroom door. The sight of it brought back a memory of when she was no more than eleven. It had stuck in her mind as it was the first time she heard the name Loretta, cast into the room from her dad’s mouth in a torrent of anger. Mrs Mortimer had presented his wife with a uniform of starched cotton pinafore and a hat with a frill, which Heather had placed on the table, as if quite indifferent to them. Her dad, however, had raged at the mere sight of them.
‘There’s no way a wife of mine is wearing a get-up like that, and not for the likes of her! You can tell her to stick her job and her uniform where the sun don’t shine!’ he had yelled, and abandoned his supper of chicken pie and mashed potato, hitting the table with the flat of his palm so hard it caused the plate to jump. Thick gravy had spilled from the plate and run across the table on to the floor like a savoury, golden river. She and Ruby had been too shocked to move, staring at the little trickle and listening to the pleasing sound it made as it hit the wooden floor. ‘Where does she think she lives? Buckingham bloody Palace? She grew up in a caravan at the back of the bog! I won’t ’ave it!’
Her mum had calmly held her ground and turned her attention to her sewing. ‘I couldn’t care less what I wear. I’ll stick a turnip on my head if she likes. We need the money, Ben.’
This reminder of the fact that his fisherman’s wages alone weren’t enough to cover their living expenses did not help the cause. Her dad had grabbed the offending items and marched from the house. Merrin had no idea where they ended up, but suspected they were heaved into the fish-gut bin with a few choice words to send them on their way.