Valentine’s brief had stirred up deeper and more dangerous memories. Thoughts of Nick Vermeer had loomed large and colourful in her head again and
would not lie still.
Two and a half years ago, she’d signed up for languagepals.com only to help brush up on her written German skills and pass some time in the lonely evenings after her divorce. She
wasn’t looking for romance, especially not on the internet – that infamous playground for charlatans and love-thieves. Then Canadian Nick Vermeer had hooked up with her, offering his
services.
Apart from the German, it was obvious from the first that they had nothing in common. He went hunting, owned guns and liked to fish whereas she didn’t know one end of a rod from the other.
‘I’ll teach you,’ he promised. He loved the great outdoors but her vision of hell was full of camping equipment. Yet she found herself writing to him, for hours, instant messaging
him, then after four months he rang her. She floated for hours after hearing his voice, which was exactly as she wanted it to be: a soft, masculine drawl, confident, witty and very, very sexy.
He sent letters, cards. She reciprocated, sending his letters to a post office box, because he was in the middle of selling his house in Osoyoos, a log cabin on the edge of a forest. From the
pictures he sent of the outside, she just knew that the inside would have huge fur throws over the furniture and a log fire burning in it at night.
Then Nick made plans to come over and visit her because their connection was something mad that had hit him from left field and he needed to discover if the chemistry was as much there in the
flesh as it was in their written words and voices. There was never a hint of gratuitous smut in his letters – he was a perfect gentleman – though they brimmed with the promise of
passion.
Floz had started researching where to take him when he came over. They talked excitedly on the phone about the lovely restaurants they’d eat in, going to London and taking in a show, and
the drives through the countryside they would do. If all went well, he said he would bring Floz over to Canada in the fall, because he said that if she saw it in that season, she would never leave
it. Then suddenly, just after Valentine’s Day last year, all contact from him ended. Floz had been bereft. She checked Canadian newspaper sites on the net to see if he had been injured or
killed, because surely there had to be a serious reason why he wasn’t in touch any more – but found nothing. And then she discovered that his profile had been erased from languagepals.com .
Yes, she knew exactly what poor Coco was going through. Even now, after all this time, the tears were too close to the surface for comfort when she thought about Nick Vermeer. They had been
intensely connected for a year and she still mourned the loss of him from her life. His disappearance had felt like a death.
Chapter 9
Guy nursed his second pint in the Lamp. His body might have been sitting opposite Steve, but his brain was elsewhere.
‘You’re a right bundle of laughs tonight, considering you’re on a night off,’ said Steve, polishing off his drink and nudging his empty glass against his friend’s.
‘Another one?’
‘Aye, go on then,’ sighed Guy. He might as well stay here with Steve as wander back to the empty flat that was attached to the family home in Maltstone. He had never considered the
Rosehip Gardens flat as anything more than a bolt-hole, somewhere to lay his head, despite the fact that he’d been ‘laying his head’ there for too many years to think about now.
The marriage and matrimonial-home thing had eluded him so far. What happened with Lacey, ten years ago, had sent him running from life. He didn’t want to get close to a woman again and open
himself up to all that potential hurt and confusion and crippling guilt.
Then he had to go and see Floz Cherrydale.
Somehow the combination of that silly
would not lie still.
Two and a half years ago, she’d signed up for languagepals.com only to help brush up on her written German skills and pass some time in the lonely evenings after her divorce. She
wasn’t looking for romance, especially not on the internet – that infamous playground for charlatans and love-thieves. Then Canadian Nick Vermeer had hooked up with her, offering his
services.
Apart from the German, it was obvious from the first that they had nothing in common. He went hunting, owned guns and liked to fish whereas she didn’t know one end of a rod from the other.
‘I’ll teach you,’ he promised. He loved the great outdoors but her vision of hell was full of camping equipment. Yet she found herself writing to him, for hours, instant messaging
him, then after four months he rang her. She floated for hours after hearing his voice, which was exactly as she wanted it to be: a soft, masculine drawl, confident, witty and very, very sexy.
He sent letters, cards. She reciprocated, sending his letters to a post office box, because he was in the middle of selling his house in Osoyoos, a log cabin on the edge of a forest. From the
pictures he sent of the outside, she just knew that the inside would have huge fur throws over the furniture and a log fire burning in it at night.
Then Nick made plans to come over and visit her because their connection was something mad that had hit him from left field and he needed to discover if the chemistry was as much there in the
flesh as it was in their written words and voices. There was never a hint of gratuitous smut in his letters – he was a perfect gentleman – though they brimmed with the promise of
passion.
Floz had started researching where to take him when he came over. They talked excitedly on the phone about the lovely restaurants they’d eat in, going to London and taking in a show, and
the drives through the countryside they would do. If all went well, he said he would bring Floz over to Canada in the fall, because he said that if she saw it in that season, she would never leave
it. Then suddenly, just after Valentine’s Day last year, all contact from him ended. Floz had been bereft. She checked Canadian newspaper sites on the net to see if he had been injured or
killed, because surely there had to be a serious reason why he wasn’t in touch any more – but found nothing. And then she discovered that his profile had been erased from languagepals.com .
Yes, she knew exactly what poor Coco was going through. Even now, after all this time, the tears were too close to the surface for comfort when she thought about Nick Vermeer. They had been
intensely connected for a year and she still mourned the loss of him from her life. His disappearance had felt like a death.
Chapter 9
Guy nursed his second pint in the Lamp. His body might have been sitting opposite Steve, but his brain was elsewhere.
‘You’re a right bundle of laughs tonight, considering you’re on a night off,’ said Steve, polishing off his drink and nudging his empty glass against his friend’s.
‘Another one?’
‘Aye, go on then,’ sighed Guy. He might as well stay here with Steve as wander back to the empty flat that was attached to the family home in Maltstone. He had never considered the
Rosehip Gardens flat as anything more than a bolt-hole, somewhere to lay his head, despite the fact that he’d been ‘laying his head’ there for too many years to think about now.
The marriage and matrimonial-home thing had eluded him so far. What happened with Lacey, ten years ago, had sent him running from life. He didn’t want to get close to a woman again and open
himself up to all that potential hurt and confusion and crippling guilt.
Then he had to go and see Floz Cherrydale.
Somehow the combination of that silly
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