Playing by Heart Read online

  Also by Cleary James

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  PLAYING BY HEART

  CLEARY JAMES

  Draft2Digital Edition

  © Cleary James 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means other than that in which it was purchased and without the prior written permission of the author.

  The right of Cleary James to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Cover design by Melody Simmons of Ebookindiecovers

  Table of Contents

  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 Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Chapter One

  A soft breeze from the sea ruffled Lisa’s hair as she locked the green door of her flat behind her. It was a clear September morning, the sun bright in a crisp blue sky, and the village was still sleeping as she walked through the narrow, winding streets that sloped down to the harbour. The shops and cafes were shuttered, the curtains still closed in the windows of the old colour-washed cottages, and she felt like she had the world to herself as she made her way to the waterfront.

  She loved the quiet of early Sunday morning, and was pleased to find the quay still deserted save for a solitary fisherman sitting far off at the end of the pier, lazily dangling a line in the water. She sat on a bench by the harbour wall and took the travel mug she had brought from home out of her satchel. As she lifted the lid, the rich, aromatic fragrance of the steaming coffee mingled deliciously with the salty tang of sea air. Clutching the cup in her gloved hands, she sipped the hot liquid carefully, grateful for its warmth in the chill of early morning.

  Sighing contentedly, she looked out over the bay, shielding her eyes against the sun. Gulls shrieked and wheeled in the air, and little boats bobbed on the sparkling water, their masts knocking softly against each other. Later there would be stalls set up all around the harbour, and the place would be crowded and buzzing with life. But for now all was quiet and tranquil, and she enjoyed having some time to herself before the hustle and bustle began. It had become a little ritual for her to bring her coffee down here first thing on market days.

  It still surprised her sometimes how quickly she had settled here and established a new life. It was only six months since she had first arrived in the little Cornish village, but it hadn’t taken long for it to feel like home.

  It probably helped that she had been here before with her grandparents. They had come to Porth Heron once for a summer holiday when she was a child. She had only been six years old at the time, and she didn’t remember much about it, just a scatter of vague memories – playing ball with her grandfather on the beach; her grandmother holding her hand as they paddled at the water’s edge – but she knew it was somewhere they had all been happy together, and she was glad that in leaving London, she hadn’t severed all ties with her past.

  There was a photograph of the three of them sitting on one of these benches at the harbour eating ice-cream – perhaps even the very one she was sitting on now, she thought with a smile. The sense of connection to her beloved grandparents was comforting, and had made her feel less alone when she first arrived. She couldn’t help feeling that they had led her here, still watching over her from beyond the grave, making sure she was all right.

  Coming here had been a pilgrimage of sorts, and she hadn’t necessarily intended to stay. She had just wanted somewhere peaceful to rest and recuperate for a while after the turmoil of her final weeks in London and her last-minute panicked escape. She was stressed out and exhausted, and she had decided she could afford to take a little time out to recover before she started looking for work.

  But she had fallen in love with the place straight away, and within a couple of days she knew it was where she wanted to be. She had felt a sense of calm and wellbeing from the moment she arrived. The peace and tranquillity soothed her ragged nerves. She liked the clean air and the quiet streets, and being by the sea gave her a wonderful sense of freedom. Much as she loved London, she welcomed the slower pace of life in Porth Heron and was happy to trade the anonymity of the big city for the sense of community she found here.

  The quaint village was one of the prettiest in Cornwall, and the surrounding area was famed for the beauty of its rugged coastline dotted with craggy coves and wide, sandy beaches. It was a popular holiday destination, and the transient population of visitors had made Lisa feel less conspicuously an outsider while she was finding her feet. But the local people had been friendly and welcoming, and she had quickly started putting down roots and making friends.

  The thriving tourist trade meant there was always work to be found in the busy pubs, cafes and guesthouses, and she had quickly got a waitressing job at a little coffee shop in the village. She had been delighted to discover that there was a lively and active group of artists working in the village. She had been shy about approaching them at first, but once she had, they had quickly welcomed her into their community. It felt good to be part of something again after years of isolation.

  London and Mark seemed worlds away now, like another lifetime. She still missed the city sometimes. But whenever she felt a twinge of longing for what she had left behind, she reminded herself what she had escaped from and how much she had to be thankful for.

  She was safe and happy. She had friends, a job, and a place to live that was all hers. She had found her tribe among the local artists, and she was painting again. Best of all, she had freedom. She tried not to focus on the things she didn’t have – family, a career in the art world, love ...

  Her thoughts drifted to Grayson sometimes – too often for her comfort. She thought with a pang of the week they’d spent together – the things he’d said to her, the way he’d touched and kissed her. She’d felt so happy and alive when she was with him. She had only known him for a few weeks, yet sometimes she missed him so much it was like a physical pain. Leaving him behind was her one real regret. She wondered did he ever think about her. She hated that she didn’t get to say goodbye, and she hoped he didn’t think badly of her for disappearing with his money before s
he’d earned all of it. She still intended to find a way to pay it back.

  As she finished her coffee, she was aware of the car park filling up behind her as stall holders started to arrive to set up for the day. The air filled with the sounds of van doors sliding open, the chirp of car locks, and the familiar voices of her friends carrying on the air as they called out greetings to each other. She put her cup back in her bag and strolled over to join them.

  ‘Morning, Lisa!’ Annie, a middle-aged lady who made beautiful jewellery from sea glass, called to her as she unloaded boxes from the back of her car. ‘You’re up and about early.’

  ‘It’s such a lovely day,’ Lisa said to her with a smile. ‘I thought I’d make the most of it.’

  ‘Gorgeous weather, isn’t it?’ Annie said, looking up at the sky. ‘Should be good for business.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  Lisa saw her friend Katya pulling into the car park in her colourful Volkswagen van. She waved and rushed over to meet her.

  ‘Morning!’ Katya said with a sunny smile as she hopped out. She pulled off her pink beanie hat, tossing it onto the driver’s seat, and shook out her straight, pale blond hair. ‘Great day for it, huh?’ she said as Lisa followed her around to the back of the van.

  ‘Yes, perfect.’ Katya opened the doors and they both scrambled inside and began unloading canvases and equipment. Lisa had met Katya at a yoga class, and they had hit it off straight away. Originally from Sweden, she had come to Porth Heron on a painting holiday three years ago and met her boyfriend Connor, a musician from Ireland. Six months later, they had both returned to set up home together in the village. It was Katya who had told Lisa about the local artists’ co-operative and invited her to join. They pooled their resources to run exhibitions and workshops, and they took it in turns to sell their work at the stall they paid for in the regular Sunday arts and crafts market. Lisa and Katya ran it together once every six weeks.

  Lisa enjoyed the atmosphere of cheerful industriousness and camaraderie on market mornings as everyone set up for the day, catching up with people they hadn’t seen in a while, and checking out each other’s stalls. She loved being part of their little community.

  ‘Connor’s playing in the pub tonight,’ Katya said as she arranged paintings on the canvas walls of their pop-up gazebo. ‘Do you want to go and see him? We could get something to eat first.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m going to Martha’s for dinner – you and Connor are invited too.’

  ‘Oh, great!’ Katya grinned. ‘Connor will be eating with the band, but I wouldn’t miss it!’

  Martha was Lisa’s employer, friend and all-round guardian angel, and her cooking was legendary.

  ‘Ellie’s home, so we could all go down to the pub later?’

  ‘Great! I haven’t seen Ellie in ages.’ Ellie was Martha’s daughter, a student in Manchester.

  ‘Oh, I love that,’ Katya said as Lisa propped up one of her canvases against the side of the stall. A large abstract, it was her oldest surviving painting, one of only two that Mark hadn’t thrown away. She had sent the other one to Grayson when she left London so hurriedly. It was all she had to offer by way of a goodbye. It meant she couldn’t look at this one now without being reminded of him, and she was loathe to part with it.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all you’re asking for?’ Katya pointed to the four hundred pounds price sticker. She knew as well as Lisa that it could fetch ten times that in a London gallery. But they weren’t in a London gallery now, and Lisa had to be realistic. There wasn’t much chance of finding a casual buyer ready to splurge thousands of pounds on a painting from a market stall.

  ‘It probably won’t sell anyway,’ she said with a shrug. Part of her almost hoped it wouldn’t, even though she could use the money.

  Lisa had found running the stall daunting at first. She had been shy, and found talking to strangers difficult. She’d relied heavily on Katya to deal with people. But everyone was so friendly and easygoing, she’d soon started to relax and enjoy it. Now she looked forward to it. It was fun to spend the day with Katya, chatting and laughing together when they weren’t busy, and taking turns to do runs for coffee and snacks from the adjacent food stalls. She actually liked talking to customers now, glad to discuss her work with anyone who showed an interest. She was still surprised sometimes when she caught herself chattering away happily to a complete stranger, and felt quite proud of how far she’d come. It was such a small, everyday thing that most people would take for granted, but for her it felt like a real achievement. She was a long way from the tense, timid creature she’d been when she first arrived here.

  As predicted, the warm weather brought out lots of visitors, and the market was busy, with a steady stream of day-trippers and locals out for a Sunday stroll. The sunshine put everyone in a good mood, and friends and neighbours stopped to chat to Katya and Lisa as they wandered through. The time whizzed by in a blur of good-natured banter, and they both made enough sales to declare the day a success.

  Returning from the final coffee run of the day, Lisa stopped to chat to a couple of stallholders as she wended her way back to Katya.

  ‘Sorry I took so long,’ she said, handing Katya her favourite chai latte. ‘I got us a couple of brownies too.’ She produced a paper bag from the pocket of her jacket and held it out to her.

  ‘Mmm, thank you.’ Katya took a sip of her coffee. ‘It’s a pity you weren’t here. You missed a customer who was very interested in your paintings.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lisa ran her eyes over the canvases. ‘Not interested enough to buy one,’ she said wryly, confirming that there were no more missing since she’d gone for coffee.

  ‘No, afraid not,’ Katya smiled. ‘It was that one he was particularly interested in.’ She nodded to The River of Dreams, the large canvas Lisa had brought with her from London. ‘He said it looked very familiar.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lisa felt a sense of dread creep through her veins. She had only started painting again recently, and her early work hadn’t been seen by many people. Mark had made sure of that. Apart from a handful of fellow students from art college, she could think of only two people who might recognise her work – and one of them was Mark.

  Katya nodded. ‘He thought he’d seen it before, or something very similar. He said he must have seen other stuff of yours.’

  Lisa knew that was unlikely. Her current paintings were in quite a different style to this one. She felt a tightening in her chest. ‘Did he ask you anything about me?’

  ‘He just asked if you were local. I told him you’d be back in a few minutes if he wanted to wait.’

  Lisa allowed herself to relax a little. Surely if it had been Mark, he’d have waited and confronted her, or at least pumped Katya for more information. Still, she felt exposed and vulnerable, and she wanted to run home and hide. She swallowed hard and forced herself to ask the next question. She dreaded the answer, but she had to make sure. ‘What did he look like?’ she asked.

  ‘Tall, very attractive,’ Katya said, unaware of the increasing pounding of Lisa’s heart. ‘Grey hair, mid-sixties, I’d say,’ she added, and Lisa sagged in relief.

  ‘Do you think you know him?’ Katya asked.

  Lisa shook her head. ‘I thought it might be someone from London. But it doesn’t sound like anyone I know.’

  ‘He said he lives here,’ Katya said. ‘In Cornwall, I mean – near Polperro.’

  ‘Oh.’ The man was obviously just mistaken about having seen her work before, whoever he was. Perhaps he had noticed that painting subconsciously at the market before and had simply forgotten where he’d seen it.

  But despite the reassurance, she felt unsettled and on edge for the remainder of the day, and she was glad when it was time to count their takings and go home. It had been quite a successful day, and Lisa had sold quite a few prints, and a couple of small, lower-priced paintings. They were both in high spirits as they dismantled their stall and packed up the van, tired and hungry after a satisfyi
ng day’s work and looking forward to a well-earned glass of wine.

  They were crossing the car park, making their final trip to the van with the last of the paintings, when there was a loud burst of laughter from down the street. Lisa looked in the direction it had come from – and froze. A few feet away, a tall, dark-haired man was walking away from them, and there was something about the ramrod straightness of his back, and the way his dark, wavy hair ruffled in the breeze, that hit her like an electric shock. Her stomach lurched, and her heart seemed to jump into her throat. Mark.

  ‘Lisa, are you okay?’ She turned to find Katya frowning at her concernedly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said faintly. She felt dizzy. Was it Mark? She turned back to make sure, struggling to hold it together. As she peered at him, the man turned to say something to the woman beside him, and Lisa saw his profile. Relief washed over her like a wave as she realised it wasn’t Mark after all.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Katya asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Lisa answered dazedly. For a moment she thought Katya was asking if she was sure it wasn’t Mark. ‘I just—I thought I saw someone I knew.’

  ‘You look like you saw a ghost,’ Katya said with a light laugh.

  Lisa shook her head as if to bring herself back to reality. She’d been spooked by the idea of Mark coming across her painting in the market earlier and had allowed her imagination to run away with her, that was all. ‘I was mistaken. It wasn’t him,’ she said, smiling, as much to reassure herself as her friend.

  As they drove towards the village, they passed the couple again, and Lisa turned to get another look at the man, just to reinforce the fact that it definitely wasn’t Mark.

  Chapter Two

  Lisa was ready for a drink to soothe her nerves when she arrived at Martha’s that evening for dinner. She had gone home briefly to shower and change, swapping the somewhat tattered jeans she wore to the market for a newer pair, and teaming them with a colourful hand-painted silk shirt she had picked up in a local craft shop. Her newly-washed hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and she had put on a little make-up. She was glad that casual dressing was the order of the day in the village, and a night out at the pub didn’t call for anything more glamorous than a good pair of jeans and a bit of jewellery.