Never Can Say Goodbye Read online

  Also by Christina Jones

  Hubble Bubble

  Seeing Stars

  Love Potions

  Heaven Sent

  Happy Birthday

  Moonshine

  The Way to a Woman’s Heart

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 9780748119455

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 Christina Jones

  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, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  For The Toyboy Trucker, Elle and The Doctor

  with all my love

  With many thanks to Broo Doherty, my agent, and Emma Beswetherick, my editor, for not even trying to talk me out of writing this book.

  And with thanks to Linda, whose pendant-twirling in the pub gave me the idea in the first place.

  Contents

  Also by Christina Jones

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter One

  ‘ … and to Francesca Angelina Maud Meredith, I bequeath my—’

  ‘Hang on, Rita,’ Frankie Meredith, perched on the wide and highly polished wooden counter of Rita’s Rent-a-Frock shop, interrupted. ‘I think I might have spotted a teensy bit of a flaw there.’

  ‘Really?’ Rita, Frankie’s middle-aged friend and employer, salsa’d between the claustrophobically crammed clothes rails in a too-tight, too-short, scarlet silk flamenco dress. ‘And what’s that, then?’

  ‘You can’t bequeath me anything. You’re not dead.’

  ‘Well spotted, love. No flies on you.’ Short and stocky, Rita gave a wobbly mock-curtsy. ‘But actually, not being dead doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘Doesn’t it? I’d always thought being dead was a vital part of bequeathing. And are we adding that dress to the shop or are you buying it?’

  Rita smoothed down the riotous ripples of scarlet silk. ‘Sadly, much as I love it, under the circumstances, once it’s been cleaned it’ll have to go into the stock. I’m trying to rid myself of clutter – hence the bequeathing. And even though it’s a very beautiful frock, it’s just a tad too tight.’

  Diplomatically, Frankie said nothing. The dress, donated by one of Kingston Dapple’s ladies-who-lunch, was probably a small size twelve, and Rita certainly wasn’t.

  Rita’s Rent-a-Frock was warmly cosy on this cold, grey, autumnal afternoon, and Rita was indulging in her favourite pastime of trying on newly donated dresses to while away the customer-free moments. The fictional bequest-making, Frankie assumed, was a new game invented for much the same reason.

  ‘Anyway,’ Rita continued, fluffing at her heavily hennaed hair, ‘with me being a titian, red’s not really me, is it? Red’s more your colour. You can get away with red seeing as you’re dark and dramatic and look exactly like Joan Rivers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You do, love. You know you do. Loads of people have said so.’

  ‘Have they? Lord … Well, OK, she’s very glam, but she’s also about four decades older than me, and blonde, and with an American accent, not to mention a caustic turn of phrase. I’m not sure we’re that similar, actually, are we?’

  ‘Maybe you’re not, then.’ Rita looked doubtful. ‘You know me and names … P’raps it’s not Joan Rivers. Maybe I mean Joan Collins, do I?’

  ‘Well, she’s still ultra glam, and at least she’s brunette, but, er, again, slightly older than me.’

  Rita frowned. ‘Yes, OK – you know I don’t do the celeb stuff. Oh, who am I thinking of?’

  ‘Claudia Winkleman?’ Frankie said hopefully. The vague similarity had been mentioned rather flatteringly before. Especially the hair.

  ‘Who?’ Rita shook her head. ‘No, definitely not him. You look like a famous Joan. Brian from the kebab van always says so.’

  Frankie laughed. Brian from the kebab van said a lot of things. Most of them wrong.

  ‘Brian says,’ Rita continued, ‘you look like that black-haired rock ’n’ roll woman who looks like Alice Cooper only much prettier and with a heavy fringe and more make-up and—’

  ‘You mean Joan Jett?’ Frankie sighed. ‘Oh, I wish … OK, our hair is much the same and there’s a bit of a physical resemblance, but I’d look terrible in leather – and you’d have to add gangly and gawky for a fuller and truer description of me.’

  ‘So you’re tall and a bit on the skinny side. So are the best-paid catwalk models and you don’t hear them complaining, do you? And don’t knock that retro rock chick look, love. It’s refreshing in these days of WAG-orange clones. That hairstyle and your panda eyes will make a comeback soon, you wait and see.’

  ‘You say the sweetest things.’ Frankie grinned.

  ‘What I mean is,’ Rita said, ‘when it all comes round again, as it will, you’ll be way ahead of the trend. Until then, you have a unique, um, style all of your own. Joan Jett dressed by Barbie.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s even a compliment, now,’ Frankie laughed. ‘I just seemed to drift into the primary-coloured, flouncy, girlie look early on. It must have been an amalgam of all those Goths and New Romantics when I was growing up … they were so glamorous to a plain Jane like me. As an eighties child, I’m only surprised I wasn’t born with a fixation for Dallas-type shoulder pads too.’

  ‘Shoulder pads!’ Rita clapped her plump hands. ‘Oh, I loved them! They gave a girl balance and style. We don’t get enough of them in here, do we? I loved the eighties. Like you say, such amazing outfits. And all that Dallas stuff too – huge hair and glossy lippy and skyscraper heels and big, big bling – it was a fabulous decade for fashion.’

  Frankie smiled. Rita thought every decade had been a fabulous decade for fashion. It was a shame that Rent-a-Frock didn’t reflect her passion.

  Rent-a-Frock was more like a haphazard Saturday jumble sale in the Kingston Dapple scout hut. Rita never turned anything wearable away. She accepted any item of clothing anyone brought in, with the result that everything was crammed in everywhere with no regard for style or era or colour or even size.

  ‘Anyway,’ Frankie said, ‘what did you mean earlier by “under the circumstances” and decluttering? Are you having a life-laundry moment? Is that what the bequeathing is about?’

  Rita stroked the red frock again. ‘No – and if you’d stop interrupting, I’l
l explain exactly what’s happening.’

  ‘OK.’ Frankie settled herself more comfortably on the wide counter. They weren’t busy; the shop had been empty all afternoon. ‘I’m all for a new game.’

  ‘It’s-not-a-game.’ With a further swish of red silk, Rita continued her stumpy dancing round the rainbow-crammed rails. ‘Right, where was I?’

  ‘You were making bequests. So far, you’d apparently left all your shoes to Maisie Fairbrother and your Mantovani vinyl record collection to Twilights Rest Home.’

  ‘Maisie Fairbrother has always been the Imelda Marcos of Kingston Dapple and a good friend even if she’s a bit, well, odd and has never set foot inside this shop.’ Rita twirled round a box of mixed gloves and socks. ‘And Twilights have tea dances every Friday afternoon and must get tired of foxtrotting to the same old music. So, that’s two bequests satisfactorily made. Now … ’

  Frankie leaned forwards. ‘Once you’ve made all your bequests, can I start on mine? Not that I’ve got much to show for someone who’s very nearly thirty. Half a very small rented house complete with ditzy flatmate, fourteen shelves of books – all paperback chick lit, not an improving literary tome in sight – a very small telly, an ancient DVD player, an even more ancient sound system, a laptop, one stack of rom-com films, three cases of girlie CDs, a wardrobe of second-hand dresses, a much-loved but moth-eaten teddy bear … ’

  ‘Frankie.’ Rita stopped shimmying. ‘Are you going to listen to me or not?’

  ‘Yes, OK.’ Frankie grinned, unabashed. ‘It’s not like we’re snowed under with customers, is it?’

  ‘Hardly going to be are we?’ Rita glared at the relentless rain lashing across Kingston Dapple’s deserted market place and hammering against the shop’s 1950s windows from a pewter sky. ‘Early November – terrible time for us. Always has been. In a couple of weeks’ time, once you get towards December, now that’s when you’ll be really busy, when everyone wants a new party frock for Christmas, ditto New Year’s Eve, and then on into the post-festive diet period when no one wants to spend a fortune on new dresses while they’re between sizes, and then the spring weddings and … ’

  Frankie scrunched up the layers of her purple wool skirt and drew her black-opaque-tighted knees up to her chin. ‘Mmm, I’ve been working here for three years – I do know the trading pattern – but you just said “you” there a lot. “You”. Singular. Not “we” … You’re being weird.’

  ‘Because,’ Rita said, executing a twirl, ‘that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m making the bequests – getting rid of everything I no longer need – because I won’t be here in December.’

  ‘What?’ Frankie stopped smiling. ‘Why? Why not? Oh, God, Rita, you’re not ill are you?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. I’m as fit as a fiddle. Now, if you’d just stop interrupting and let me do this before we get sidetracked again. To Francesca Angelina Maud Meredith, I bequeath my shop … ’

  ‘What?’ Frankie clutched the counter. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, love. So, listen. Rita’s Rent-a-Frock will be closed down and renamed Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks next week. I’ll be gone, and you will be the sole proprietor from next weekend.’

  Frankie gawped. ‘Are you joking? You are joking, right?’

  ‘Wrong, and don’t gawp, love. You’re a pretty girl, but it’s still not a good look.’

  Frankie snapped her mouth shut, then frowned. ‘OK – now – please can you just repeat what you’ve just said?’

  ‘About the gawping?’

  ‘About not being here and bequeathing me the shop.’

  Rita repeated it.

  ‘God, Rita, you are ill! You can’t be ill! You’re not, um, going to, um … ?’

  ‘Die?’ Rita chuckled. ‘Goodness me, I hope not. At least not for another eighty-odd years. No, as I’ve just told you, I’m as fit as a lop. Well, a few pounds overweight maybe, but otherwise I’ve just passed my MOT with flying colours.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ Frankie heaved a massive sigh of relief. ‘But please stop messing about. You can’t give me the shop – even in a game.’

  ‘For the umpteenth time, it’s not a game and yes, I can. And as I won’t be here for much longer, it seems eminently sensible to tie up all the ends now and—’

  ‘Stop, please. This is just too bizarre for words. And what do you mean you won’t be here for much longer?’ Frankie gulped. ‘That sounds really awful. Rita, you’re honestly OK, aren’t you?’

  ‘Never better. Now, do you want to hear about your future or not?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, if you’re being serious.’

  ‘I’m being very serious. About my future – and yours.’ Frankie shook her head. ‘OK, but to be honest, I didn’t think I’d got one. I’ve been worrying for ages that you were going to make me redundant after Christmas. After all, a second-hand rental clothes shop in a Berkshire village trading badly in the teeth of this ongoing recession can hardly justify two members of staff, and now—’

  ‘All gloom and doom.’ Rita sniffed. ‘You’ll be fine. Secondhand clothes always do well when money’s tight. I’m relying on you to carry on where I left off – and then some. I know you’ll make a success of it.’

  ‘But, why are you giving up the business? You love it. It’s your life. You can’t—’

  ‘Can and am. I want you to have the shop. It’s all arranged. You’ve been brilliant here, the customers love you, you’re a great walking advert for the business with all those retro frocks you wear, you did the stonking deal with the dry-cleaners, you’re ace at selling – and you’re nearly thirty, you’ve got no one permanent in your life and you’re basically rootless. You need stability.’

  Frankie sucked in her breath. OK, if the blush-making litany of entrepreneurial praise was more or less true, the last part of the statement definitely was. She was nearly thirty, with no significant other – there had been no significant other on the scene for years, and even the last insignificant other had been months ago – and nothing to show for her years of working in various retail outlets except a few paltry possessions that would fit into a couple of bin bags.

  ‘But you can’t just give me a shop!’

  ‘Can and have.’

  Frankie, still pretty sure this was just another one of Rita’s jokes, nodded. ‘So, come December, I’ll be running Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks, and where will you be?’

  ‘Mykonos.’

  ‘Mykonos?’ Frankie blinked. ‘Mykonos?’

  ‘Mykonos,’ Rita said, beaming. ‘Greek island. Glorious, laid-back, hot, one-time slightly risqué playground of the rich and famous, now just fabulous. Can’t wait. It’s going to be a million times better than spending yet another miserable cold winter in Kingston Dapple.’

  OK. Frankie nodded. It was beginning to make sense at last. Well, some of it anyway. Rita hadn’t had a proper holiday in all the time she’d known her. December in Mykonos would be wonderful. She’d misunderstood the rest of it. Rita was having a bit of a life-laundry moment and just wanted her to be in charge of the shop while she was away.

  ‘Are you going on holiday for the whole month?’

  ‘Nope.’ Rita glowered again at the relentless rain sweeping across the deserted market square outside the shop. ‘I’m going to live there. For ever and ever.’

  ‘But you can’t go! I’ll miss you!’

  ‘And I’ll miss you, too. But once we’re settled you can come and stay with us in our beachside taverna.’

  ‘What taverna? You never mentioned a taverna … And there’s a lot of “we” and “us” there.’ Frankie frowned. ‘Is this a sort of daydream to while away the grim grey hours of Kingston Dapple’s November non-shopping? You’re pretending to be Shirley Valentine, and Brian from the kebab van is going to be your Costas or whatever, and—’

  ‘I’m not pretending anything, love. I am going to Mykonos, and none of this involves Brian from the kebab van … ’ Rita paused and smiled dreamily
. ‘Although actually you’re not a million miles off the mark with the rest of it.’

  ‘Aren’t I? Am I getting warmer? Goody. Anyway, I know you and Brian were, um, close at one time. And he’s a really nice bloke, even if he’s slightly childlike and smells a bit funny.’

  ‘A touch fatty and garlicky, maybe.’ Rita shimmied round the empty shop with an imaginary partner. ‘Always a hazard in his line of work. And anyway, Brian as a beau is no more. He’s been an ex-paramour for some time now.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Frankie nodded. ‘So, as you’ve never been solo for more than five minutes ever since I’ve known you, who –?’

  Rita stopped prancing and waddled towards the counter, puffing. ‘All in good time. And actually, although he won’t be going to Mykonos, Brian does feature in my plans. He’s having my bungalow – poor sod, still living with that bitch of a mother of his at his age.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yes, way!’

  Frankie shook her head. ‘This is all getting far too weird. Does Brian know? Come on – please tell me what’s happening. Have you won the lottery or something?’

  ‘I never do the lottery, as you well know. I’ve never held with gambling. And no, I haven’t told Brian yet. It’s all sorted out though, as is the shop. The bungalow’s mortgage was paid off last year, so all he’ll have to find is money for the bills and what have you.’

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’ Frankie shook her head in bewilderment. ‘You going away and Brian having your bungalow and me having the shop? I mean, I couldn’t afford the lease on the shop or anything – I don’t even have a house to use as collateral and my overdraft is maxed out and—’

  ‘No need to worry about any of that,’ Rita said smugly. ‘It’s all taken care of. Change of name and everything. Lease, rent, business rates, utilities – all of it. Twelve months paid up front – or at least, the funds are lodged with my solicitor to take care of. You’ll have a year, hassle free, to make this shop your own. After that it’ll be up to you.’

  Stunned beyond belief, Frankie simply stared.

  ‘Say something.’ Rita stood in front of the counter, still puffing slightly. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’