The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Maddie Please

I tailed off. Perhaps it wasn’t the most tactful thing to do, to complain about having no money when they were letting me stay here for nothing.

      Greg looked thoughtful. ‘Oh well. Perhaps you could…no forget it.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Nah.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘Get a job?’

      ‘I’ve already been into the local supermarket to ask about a job. There’s a doctor’s surgery in the next village too. I’ve left a message with them.’

      ‘That’s the way. Nil cardamom and all that.’

      Perhaps I needed to try a bit harder.

      Greg finished his tea and helped me take down the curtain hanging across the front door. Then he applied himself to moving the paint and the rollers in from the van.

      I took up the thread of the conversation while we had coffee an hour or so later. Greg offered me a cigarette and I pounced on it with a cry of joy. He lit it for me and I took a deep drag, spluttering slightly. My head reeled with the nicotine rush. It didn’t seem quite as great as I remembered.

      ‘Anyway, I still have my jewellery. I can always sell some of that if the going gets tough.’

      Greg blew across the surface of his drink and narrowed his eyes.

      ‘You’d only get scrap value. It’s never as much as you think. Unless of course Ian was in the habit of buying you Fabergé eggs? Or vintage Rolex watches?’

      I pulled a face. ‘Hardly.’

      I looked down at my emerald ring; I’d called it a commitment ring, not wanting to go as far as engagement ring despite the fact that Ian had proposed. It was a pretty thing and I clenched my fingers protectively over it. Surely I hadn’t come to that just yet? I had some pearls and a diamond pendant, bought to celebrate our first and fifth Christmases together respectively. I had various expensive things; even a bracelet in a turquoise Tiffany box, souvenir of our Christmas trip to New York. Was it only a few months ago? It felt like a lifetime.

      God it had been marvellous. He’d really gone over the top. A hotel suite with fruit and flowers and an incredible view over Central Park. Ian had proposed yet again – it was like a running joke between us, he would ask me to marry him and I would come up with some damn fool excuse to make us both laugh. Let’s wait and see what happens with the Trump administration, I said. This time Ian tried to persuade me with the bracelet from Tiffany. I could remember his face so clearly as he gave it to me. Happy, proud, pleased with my delight. What the hell had he been doing? Stringing me along like that while all the time…

      I remember having cocktails in the Waldorf Astoria. Margarita for me; Long Island iced tea for Ian. I closed my eyes. I could remember it all so well, the scent of money and perfume on a damp November day. I wonder now where the cash to pay for that had come from. A gambling win or just money siphoned off from the business?

       I have been trying to get hold of Mr Ian Lovell for weeks. I wonder if you can help? I know he has been abroad on business recently; New York, wasn’t it?

      Now I was on my own, living in rural Devon with my life in bits.

      I felt giddy for a moment; perhaps it was the nicotine. I shook myself; Tiffany bracelets didn’t keep the cold out or the rain off.

      I opened my eyes to see Greg watching me.

      ‘I’d better be off soon. Are you OK?’ he said. He took another Bourbon biscuit.

      ‘I’m OK.’

      ‘Cheer up, no one’s going to prison, remember?’ And he winked at me.

      No one’s going to prison. Greg and Jess had come to see me a couple of days after Ian had died, bringing me a cake and a casserole I couldn’t eat. They found me crying over a bundle of letters and final demands I had found in Ian’s study filed erroneously under ‘Expenses’.

      ‘I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but Ian was a right sod to leave you with this to deal with. It’s a right dog’s breakfast. What the hell was he doing? This is serious, you need professional help,’ Greg had said, ‘this isn’t just a couple of quick phone calls. Is the house in both your names? This building society letter is only addressed to Ian.’

      I sat slumped over the table and thought for a moment, trying to remember. Never had I felt more stupid.

      ‘No, it isn’t. He already lived here when we met. He said it was better to keep it in his name, I don’t know why. Something to do with tax?’

      ‘That’s baloney, and if anything it makes it worse.’

      ‘Greg! Stop it!’ Jess said.

      ‘Well it’s true. I can’t dress it up. If these debts are real, and the house isn’t in your joint names, then the creditors will come after it.’

      ‘Come after me?’ I had a vision of more large men on the doorstep.

      ‘Come after the house. What’s it worth? Seven fifty? Eight?’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘They’ll expect to sell it to recover their money then. There must be some equity in it.’

      ‘I had a phone call from the bank yesterday, talking about a mortgage. I didn’t think Ian had a mortgage. It was paid off. I thought it was paid off. Ian told me it was. He’d had some money when his grandfather died and then the business took off. He said everything was great.’

      ‘Not according to this.’ Greg waved a letter at me. ‘Ian must have re-mortgaged to release some equity. It’s not illegal.’

      ‘But he should have told Lottie!’ Jess said, indignant on my behalf. ‘I mean if I found out you were keeping stuff like this from me, I’d have your bloody nuts in a mangle.’

      Greg winced. ‘Yes, I bet you would. By the looks of things he’s in…sorry I mean he was in one hell of a mess. I would guess he did the worst thing possible, and that’s ignored the problem. I mean, we all hate HMRC but there are a lot of small local traders after their money here. I know this one.’ Greg waved a second letter at me. ‘He’s a good bloke, a plumber. He did our en suites, works like old stink. This sort of bad debt could take him under.’

      I pressed my hands to my mouth.

      ‘I want to do what’s right, even if it’s too late.’

      Greg paused and looked at me for a few moments before he cleared his throat and continued. ‘Are there any more letters like this?’

      ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

      ‘You need to find out. You’ve got to know exactly who you are dealing with and how much.’

      ‘What then?’

      He shuffled the letters into some sort of order.

      ‘Like I always say; when you’re going through Hell, keep going.’

      Greg had then taken me to see a friend of his who was a financial advisor. The reassuringly named John Strong who had looked at me from under his beetle brows and tapped a pencil against his chin.

      ‘The best tactics with financial issues are absolute clarity and prompt communication, particularly with the Inland Revenue, two things Mr Lovell didn’t employ.’

      Well that was true. I’d already spent an hour with Simon Bentham at the Nationality Bank and been told much the same thing.

      ‘Do you believe he had other reserves?’

      ‘You mean hidden bank accounts? I don’t know,’ I said, slumping back in my chair.

      I found the courage to voice my greatest fear.

      ‘Am I going to go to prison?’

      He