Kiss a Falling Star Page 5

  “Did you have pets as a child? Maybe you have one now?” Ally asked.

  “No and no.” He could barely feed himself let alone a dog, though he’d like one because it would be good to come home to someone happy to see him.

  Ally sighed. “I was desperate for a dog all through my childhood. In fact, I pretended I had one. A long-haired dachshund called Charlie. But I was in and out of care until I was eleven. I wasn’t even allowed a goldfish.”

  “I was sent away to school, so having pets wasn’t practical.”

  “I longed to go to boarding school,” Ally said.

  Caspar laughed. “I hated it.”

  “I liked the idea of uniforms, lots of friends and midnight feasts.”

  “And shifting staircases, exotic sweetshops and sorting hats?”

  Ally laughed so loudly people turned to look at her. Caspar’s heart swelled with joy.

  “Did you really hate it?” she asked.

  “Not all the time, but I was sent away too young. I missed my home, my sis—”

  Don’t ask me. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

  “You know what?” Ally said. “If I ever have kids, I’d never send them away to school. I only longed for boarding school because I didn’t have a family. When Finn’s parents fostered me, I used to follow his mum—my mum—around the house because I was scared she’d send me back. They wanted to adopt me but my birth mother refused. Mum said it didn’t matter, that I was theirs in every way other than name. I— Oh God, why am I telling you all this? Sorry. You must have one of those faces that make people want to confess. Not a professional torturer, are you?” She smiled.

  “A sideline. You can see how much people like talking to me.”

  Caspar wanted to tell her the secret everyone else in Wyndale half knew but wasn’t sure how. He’d had an opening a moment ago when he’d nearly said Jemima’s name and then missed it.

  “So, what sort of job are you looking for?” she asked.

  Any fucking thing. “I don’t know,” he blurted. Thirty-three years old and I sound useless. I am useless.

  “Me neither. I was hoping something would sort of leap out at me. Huge salary for fascinating job with flexible hours and lots of perks. What would you like to do?”

  Caspar leaned back in his seat. “Write a book. Build a house. Sail around the world. Climb Everest.”

  “Wow.”

  “Except I can’t write, I have no clue how to build a house and the only time I was on a yacht I was violently seasick.”

  Ally grinned. “What about Everest?”

  Caspar stood up. “We’re here.”

  He had to get away from her before he said something he’d regret. He’d not talked so much to anyone since he’d gotten back.

  Ally exited ahead of him and was pulled into the group congregating on the pavement. He saw Mary Binns, the vicar’s wife, tap Ally on the shoulder.

  I should have told her.

  Now it was too late. Caspar stuck his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the medal, making it dig into his palm as he walked past the woman who was going to make sure Ally never spoke to him again.

  “Be careful around Caspar Sanderson,” Mary said, knowing he’d hear. “He’s not long been out of prison.”

  Chapter Five

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caspar jammed his hands deep into his pockets and gave a loose stone a fierce kick. Why hadn’t he told Ally he’d been in prison? He could have just said it, blurted it out. Only he knew he couldn’t do that because the next question would be her asking why he’d been in prison, and if he answered truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could stop it all from pouring out. And if he didn’t answer, she’d think the worst.

  Fuck, she already thinks the worst.

  Caspar had nursed a tiny hope that despite Mary Binns warning her off, Ally would come running after him, but she hadn’t. Christ, he hardly knew her. What was he thinking? She’d been a pleasurable blip in his otherwise shit life and now it could go back to being shit again.

  He walked faster through the market town. He’d put this off for long enough. Caspar had told himself he’d wait to see if he found a job—any job—before he sold his grandfather’s medal. Twenty-five weeks of Job Seekers’ Allowance was about to run out, and with no work looming on the horizon, there was no longer any choice. Not unless he asked his father for a loan and Caspar would rather stick needles in his cock.

  In order to change his life, he needed money to enable him to move away and start again. Caspar made for the indoor market and wended his way through the throngs of elderly shoppers, past the stalls selling everything from vegetables to vinyl records and into one of the small shops that lined the edges of the cavernous hall. A bell tinkled to announce his presence and Yves Bouard, sitting behind the counter reading a magazine with a tank on the cover, looked up.

  “Morning. What do you have this time?” asked the weasel-faced guy. “More soldiers?”

  Caspar had sold him a set of old toy soldiers he’d found in a tin in the attic for fifty quid. That had all gone on sorting out a plumbing problem in the Gatehouse. This medal was worth considerably more. Caspar put his hand in his pocket and placed the cross on the counter. Rather, he tried to. It took a moment before he could unclench his fingers. Guilt raced around his bloodstream in a fiery torrent until he was so hot he could barely breathe. Finally the medal fell from his hand with a quiet clunk. He almost expected it to burn the counter.

  “Bloody hell. A Distinguished Service Order.” Bouard stared without blinking at the cross with the wreath of green laurel in the center. It hung on a distinctive tight-ribbed red ribbon with narrow blue edges.

  Caspar still had his fingers near it, spread on the counter. The DSO had been awarded to his grandfather for outstanding bravery at the battle of Arnhem in the Second World War and been left to Caspar in his will with a note. Stand tall but don’t be afraid to duck. A lump filled his throat at the thought of his merry-faced, gray-haired grandfather.

  I don’t want to sell this. Caspar’s fingers trembled.

  “How much do you want?” Bouard never lifted his gaze from the cross.

  “A hundred thousand pounds.”

  Bouard sucked his teeth. Caspar knew it was a fair price.

  “You should let it go to auction. You’d probably get more.”

  “No.” Caspar needed this done quietly. If his father found out, he’d— Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be pretty.

  “I need to get it properly appraised before I contact any of my customers. You’ll have to leave it with me.”

  Caspar hadn’t been foolish enough to think the guy would just hand over the money, but he wasn’t leaving the medal unless Bouard gave him something.

  “Can I have five hundred to be going on with?” Caspar asked.

  Bouard raised his eyes. “Two hundred. No more.”

  Everything screamed at Caspar to pick up the medal and walk away but he nodded. Bouard handed over ten twenty-pound notes.

  “Sign here.”

  Caspar signed. “How long do—”

  “A week or so. I’ll call you. What’s your number?”

  Caspar wrote it down with shaking fingers.

  As he closed the door of the shop, he angrily swept the back of his hand across his eyes.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  * * * * *

  Ally made no response when the woman told her Caspar had been in prison. After a moment of stunned disbelief, Ally set off after him. He’d been near enough to hear, so why hadn’t he stopped and explained? But then why would he? It wasn’t as if they had any sort of relationship. He’d walked her home and that was it. Ally thought about calling after him, but what could she say? I don’t care you’re an ex-con. The truth was—she might and she should.

  A spell in prison had to be the reason people in Wyndale didn’t like him. On one hand, whatever Caspar had done, he’d been punished for it, presumably he was sorry, and therefore should be allowed to get on with his l
ife. On the other hand, what if he’d done something terrible that people couldn’t forgive, no matter how much he regretted his actions? The fact that he’d raced off told Ally he thought she wouldn’t want to speak to him, but Ally was no longer someone who let others make decisions for her.

  By the time she’d followed him into the market and spotted him going into a shop called Militaria,Ally had decided not to ask him about prison but wait for him to tell her.

  Not hard to guess Caspar was selling that medal. When he came out and strode off, clearly upset, it also wasn’t hard to figure out he didn’t want to. Ally went straight into the shop. Only a ballsy performance would work. One thing Ally didn’t lack was courage. It was how she’d survived foster care and being told time after time that though her mother didn’t wish to see her, she didn’t want Ally to be adopted. No wonder Ally was insecure, though she did her best to hide it.

  “How much did you give him?” she demanded.

  “Who?”

  “My bloody brother. The guy who just walked out. He has no right to sell that medal. It belongs to both of us.”

  The man’s hesitation was all Ally needed to confirm she was right. “Caspar took it without me knowing. My mother will kill me if I don’t get it back.” She let her chin wobble as she took out her wallet. “Please. Please.”

  “How do I even know you’re who you say you are?”

  Shit. “I’ve followed him all the way from home. I guessed what Caspar might be up to. You’re going to be in serious trouble if you sell it. Half of it is mine.” She conjured a tear to trickle down her cheek. One of the most useful skills she’d acquired in care. It had got her out of all sorts of scrapes, though Finn’s mother had seen straight through her. Ally suppressed her smile.

  “How much did he ask for it?”

  “A hundred thousand pounds.”

  Her knees nearly went from under her. That had to be a joke. She looked at the guy’s face. Shit. Bang went her plan to buy the thing back. “Uh…”she gulped.

  “It could fetch more. There’d be my commission to take out of course, but fifty thousand’s a lot of money. Sure you don’t want me to sell it? You’d only have to wait a couple of weeks for the cash.”

  Hope sprang like a fountain in her chest and Ally sighed with relief. Of course this guy hadn’t handed over that sort of money. But had he handed over any?

  “No, you can’t sell it. Caspar had no authority to do this.” Ally took her phone from her purse. “I’m not lying. I’ll call the police. They can sort it out.”

  “There’s no need to involve the police.” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’ll have to give back the two hundred pounds I gave him on account.”

  Did she have enough? Ally counted out her money. She had to make ten pounds of it up in coins. Luckily she’d used a cash machine at Euston station yesterday.

  Ally put the medal in her purse. Her heart hammered until she got out of the market. What the hell had gotten into her? Maybe Caspar really did want to sell the thing and would strangle her for interfering.

  * * * * *

  Caspar hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before he accepted he’d made a terrible mistake. Yes, he needed the money. Yes, it would make a huge difference to his life. Yes, it would enable him to start again. But he shouldn’t have sold the medal. It needed to stay in the family. His father would never forgive him.

  Still, he had two hundred quid in his pocket and a couple of weeks before Bouard found a buyer. Caspar would just tell him he’d changed his mind and give him the two hundred back. If he spent any, he’d find something else to sell, though he had no idea what. His body? Caspar smiled.

  “Excuse me.”

  Caspar turned at the voice and saw a smartly dressed woman in her late thirties staring at him. He didn’t know her. He didn’t think. God, have I fucked her?

  “I wondered if I could have a word with you?” she asked. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

  “Do you want money?”

  She raised perfectly tailored eyebrows. “No.”

  Caspar smiled. “Then I’d be delighted for you to buy me a coffee.”

  He had to make sure she knew she’d be buying. He might have two hundred quid in his pocket, but he had to avoid spending it on anything unnecessary. It was his emergency fund. Caspar followed her into a small café.

  “Find us somewhere to sit,” she said. “You take your coffee…?”

  “Black, no sugar.”

  Caspar hoped she might buy him a cake too, but when she didn’t ask, he slumped at the nearest empty table. What did she want? Some religious nut determined to make him see the error of his ways? A journalist in a slack season? The sister of someone he’d not called back? Someone from his former place of employment? His pulse jumped. Someone who wanted…to hurt him? She sounded English and Caspar was good at detecting accents. No trace of anything European in her tone.

  The woman returned with two coffees, a slice of carrot cake, a blueberry muffin and a smile. Caspar swallowed his drool.

  She pushed the coffee with no milk in front of him, gestured to the plates and said, “Take your pick.”

  “I can’t have both?” Shit. That had slipped out.

  She laughed and took the cake. That was fine. He preferred the muffin.

  “I’m Juno Wallace.”

  “Caspar Sanderson.”

  “What a perfect name.” She lifted her coffee and sipped it.

  Caspar hoped this was something simple and that she didn’t—one, know who he was, two, want to yell at him for something, or three, want him to sleep with her. He didn’t want to go with four—be connected with his former life.

  Not that fucking her would be a hardship, but he didn’t want to. Caspar wondered if he was ill.

  She pushed her card across the table and he picked it up. Juno Wallace. Catch A Star. Email and phone number below. Caspar was no wiser. He started to eat the muffin before she realized she’d gotten the wrong guy and told him to bugger off.

  “You have the look,” she said.

  Of what? An ex-con? A guy down to his last few quid if he didn’t count the two hundred he mustn’t—couldn’t—shouldn’t touch.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  That was a bit personal. How would she feel if he asked her? He opened his mouth to tell her to mind her own business and said, “Thirty-three.”

  “You don’t look it. I bet you were stunning when you were a teenager.”

  No, he wasn’t. He was spotty with greasy hair and braces. He shot over six feet at the age of fourteen and grew feet the size of canoes. He kept waiting for the woman to get around to what she wanted, only he had the feeling she expected him to guess.

  She wanted to fuck. He refused to make the first move.

  She stared at him intently. “I’m a talent scout.”

  Caspar sniggered. That Britain’s Got Talent TV show must be getting desperate if they had to send scouts wandering around small market towns to drum up people to audition. “I don’t have any talents.” Caspar was fairly sure that being able to consume a muffin in three seconds flat wouldn’t count. Nor would bringing a woman to orgasm in less than a minute. Fifty seconds was his record.

  She leaned across the table. “You could be a model.”

  Unfortunately, Caspar heard that as he chewed the last mouthful of muffin and he inhaled at the same time as he laughed. He launched into a coughing fit and she wisely moved back. When he’d recovered, he gave a heavy sigh. Still, at least he’d gotten a coffee and something to eat.

  “This isn’t a joke.” She looked peeved.

  Oh. “Why me?”

  “Are you kidding? You’ve got the sulky, downtrodden look off to a tee as well as the just-fell-out-of-bed hair.”

  His normal self then.

  “Your clothes, the way you walk—perfect.” She grinned at him. “All I need to do is take a few photos of you outside in the street, get your contact details and then send work your way. I take
fifteen percent. The rest is yours. What do you say?”

  It had to be a scam. “What’s the catch?”

  “I’m not asking you for any money,” she said.

  Not now maybe, but somewhere down the line there would be a request for payment for professional photographs, training courses, makeup sessions— Ugh.

  “What do you say?” she asked.

  Caspar put a smile on his face. “Go ahead.” She’d been nice enough to buy him a coffee and a cake, so why be awkward?

  * * * * *

  Ally drew a hundred pounds out of her bank account from the machine outside the supermarket. She couldn’t ask Caspar for the two hundred. He needed it badly enough to sell something dear to him, so he’d hardly be pleased with what she’d done. In fact the more Ally thought about it, she’d been stupid. He might not have wanted to sell the medal, but he’d taken the decision to do so and she’d mucked it up.

  She tried too hard, that was her problem. After she’d gone to live with Finn’s parents and understood it was for good, she was so desperate to be liked at school, she’d given up her chocolate bars, her CDs, her DVDs. She took the blame when it wasn’t her fault. She learned the hard way that wasn’t the way to make the right friends but the need to please was still there. So was the lack of judgment.

  As she walked around selecting groceries, Ally imagined the conversation between her and Caspar.

  “I’ve been trying to pluck up the nerve to sell the thing and, thank God, I finally did. Now I can start writing that book while I build my house before I sail around the world, stopping off to climb Everest.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  She’d have to confess. Ally knew he lived farther up the hill but not where, though of course she could ask. No doubt everyone knew.

  As she piledmore and more into her cart, Ally accepted she’d have to take a cab back to Wyndale. Oh God. At this rate, she’d be broke in a week. As she pushed her cart into the next aisle, Ally was hit by a blast of sexual attraction strong enough to make her heart stutter and the cart wobble.

  Caspar stood a few yards away with his back to her. When he put chicken breasts in his basket followed by a pizza and a bag of apples, Ally realized he was buying from the reduced section. He put the pizza back, picked up what looked like a pie then put that down. Then he returned the apples to the shelf. Ally backed away. They needed to talk, but now wasn’t the time.