Spring at Lavender Bay. Sarah Bennett

from the church the previous day.

      There was still enough of the lessons in good behaviour drilled into her by Eleanor remaining that Beth forced herself to speak, though conversation was the last thing she wanted. ‘Excuse me?’

      Adjusting the handle of the leather handbag looped over her forearm, the woman nodded at the emporium. ‘I was just saying, I hope the new owners, whoever they are, do something about this place. Poor Eleanor, we all know she tried, but she was quite past it in the end. The place is an eyesore and really not in keeping with the tone we’re aiming for.’

      So much unpleasantness delivered with a pearly-white smile and a demure cock of the head. Beth barely knew where to start. ‘And who is “we” exactly?’

      ‘Oh, the Lavender Bay Improvement Society, of course. I’m Hester Bradshaw, chairwoman and founder.’ She held out a hand tipped with neat, short nails painted in some neutral tone.

      Beth stared at it, fighting the automatic response to shake hands. She wanted nothing to do with this woman, or her acid tongue. ‘I wasn’t aware the bay was in need of improvement. Excuse me, I have a train to catch.’

      Undeterred, Hester settled into step beside her. ‘Oh yes, the Major and I noticed when we moved here that things had been let go a bit. It’s such a lovely part of the coast, and it benefits the whole community if we can improve the calibre of the visitors coming here.’

      So, it was as she’d suspected. Mrs Bradshaw was a recent transplant to the bay. As Eleanor had been want to observe, it was always the incomers who wanted to change things. They only saw coastal towns and villages at their best, during the height of the summer season, and formed a romanticised ideal of life there. Once they made the move, they suddenly began to notice the peeling paint, the air of shabbiness brought on by slow years of decline and lack of investment. The residents of Lavender Bay had always maintained a sense of pride in their town, but it was almost impossible to compete with the all-inclusive cheap resorts on the continent that came with a lower cost of living and almost guaranteed sunshine.

      Reaching the end of the promenade, Beth took a sharp turn to the left, increasing her pace as the street began to climb upwards. With any luck, she could outpace her unwanted companion. Those boots of hers must’ve hidden a sturdy pair of calves, because Mrs Bradshaw continued to match her stride for stride. ‘You know the area, do you?’

      ‘Yes.’ Goodness, if Eleanor could hear her, she’d be in trouble.

      Impervious to her monosyllabic response, Mrs Bradshaw continued to prattle. ‘I haven’t seen you around the bay, and I like to think I know most people. I must say I was surprised to find a stranger so involved with the arrangements for Eleanor’s funeral. The flowers weren’t what I would have chosen, but you young people have such different ideas.’

      Parking her wheeled suitcase, Beth forced a smile so false it made her mouth ache. ‘Yellow roses were Eleanor’s favourite which is why I chose them. She bought a bunch every week to decorate our kitchen table.’

      Mrs Bradshaw blinked rapidly, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. ‘Well. I hadn’t realised that. The two of you were close then?’

      Suddenly overwhelmed with the memory of a smiling Eleanor pulling a roast chicken out of the oven, Beth squeezed her eyes tight against a threatening flood of tears. When she could trust herself to speak, she opened them to find a look of sympathy on the other woman’s face. She likely hadn’t meant any harm, was probably one of those people who spoke without thinking through the consequences.

      Beth owed her nothing, but knew Eleanor had valued kindness above all things. ‘She practically raised me. Although I’d moved away, we were still very close.’

      Mrs Bradshaw shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. As the Major says, I’m inclined to let my tongue run away from me. I meant no offence.’

      ‘It’s all right. I hadn’t noticed how the emporium had deteriorated. Hopefully, I can do something about that.’ Though what she might do, she had no idea. Selling the place would be the wisest option, but she couldn’t bring herself to think about it.

      Taking her leave of a chastened Mrs Bradshaw, Beth made it past the smiling greeting of the guard at the ticket barrier and into a corner seat of the waiting train, before collapsing into a flurry of choked sobs. ‘Oh, Eleanor.’

      Agreeing to rush back to work had been a huge mistake, but the pressure from Darren had been unbearable, not to mention shaded with hints he’d have to reconsider his support for her application for a supervisory position. Gritty-eyed, she avoided the concern radiating from Ravi on the other side of the partition and tried to focus on the screen in front of her. The lines of text wavered so she clenched her fist beneath her desk until the pain from her nails digging into her palm distracted her from the need to cry.

      Turning her attention back to the matter in hand, she worked her way through the trail of emails that had been flying back and forth. The clients had liked the presentation and returned with a long list of detailed questions about the proposed contract. A flicker of hope kindled in her stomach; they wouldn’t have bothered to probe so deeply into the deal unless they were very interested. There was a lot of dross in the emails, but also some pertinent information for the response piece.

      Scrolling back to the latest message, Beth highlighted all the text and dumped everything into a blank word document. The hubbub of conversations, ringing phones and the ever-present tap-tap of fingers on keyboards melted into the background as she began to work her way through, deleting the superfluous headers and footers, highlighting sections of text she thought she might need and annotating comments with the name of the contributor to ensure she didn’t lose track. Warming to the task, she reached for her headphones and plugged them into her phone, clicking on a familiar playlist she knew by heart which would melt into the background.

      Once she felt sufficiently caught up, she moved on to the draft response document Darren had tasked another member of their team to prepare. Scanning the first few paragraphs, Beth assumed she’d opened an early version of the file and stopped to double check their shared drive. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she tugged loose one of her earbuds and reached for the phone. ‘Marco? I’m trying to find the latest version of the Sampson response doc.’

      ‘Hello to you too, Beth.’ She rolled her eyes to the ceiling at the snippiness in his voice. Marco had been with them only a few months, but was already Darren’s blue-eyed boy. What he lacked in work ethic and ability, he more than made up for in sycophantic crawling. He deferred to Darren in everything and was one of his regular drinking buddies.

      ‘Sorry, Marco. It’s been a rough couple of days, you know.’

      He sniffed. ‘Yes, I do bloody know. You left us right in the shit when you buggered off without a word.’

      ‘A very good friend of mine died, it’s not like I was on holiday.’ Beth swallowed the urge to snap further, terrified she’d break down and start crying again. ‘If you could just confirm which version I should be working on, please.’

      Marco sighed like she was asking him to sacrifice his first born. ‘It’s in the J: drive, version 1.3. Darren and I have put a lot of effort into it, so it shouldn’t need much work, just the last couple of responses which came through overnight.’

      Beth stared at the file extension name on the document in front of her. Shit. She would be better off starting from scratch, because there was no way she could do anything with the incoherent crap they’d cobbled together. ‘Okay, thanks. Just remind me when this needs to go up to the director.’ Crossing her fingers, she prayed she had at least another full day to fix the mess.

      ‘It went up to Bruce earlier today. Like I said, it only needs a bit of tarting up.’

      Beth swallowed a laugh at the way Marco dropped the name of the director of key accounts. As if he’d call him anything other than Mr Turner to his face, pompous git. The implication of his words sank in. The nonsense on her screen had been submitted to the director … She choked at the very idea.

      Undeterred