Me and Mr Jones Read online

  Dear Reader,

  We’ve all done it: fallen blissfully in love and thought This Is THE ONE … until you meet the family and want to run a mile. If it’s not the gimlet-eyed mother who blatantly dismisses you as not good enough for Her Precious, it’s the weird uncle who’s always standing that bit too close. Or maybe the evil sibling who keeps mentioning your partner’s ex, and how hilarious and cool they were (i.e. you are neither).

  Of course, none of my in-laws are like this (Hi, by the way, if you’re reading this. You are all SO GREAT) but there is something scarily random about the way you are thrown in with your partner’s family once you start a relationship.

  I thought it would be fun to write a novel about three brothers – the Mr Joneses of the title – and the women who fall in love with them, who are then absorbed into the Jones family. It felt like rich pickings for an author: so much scope for rivalry, drama and explosive arguments, yet also great potential for humour, unlikely friendships and love.

  I hope you enjoy Me and Mr Jones as much as I enjoyed writing it. And do tweet me your own tales of family joy or woe @LDiamondAuthor with the hashtag #MrJones.

  Love

  For Hannah, Tom and Holly,

  with lots of love

  Contents

  Welcome to the website of MULBERRY HOUSE!

  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

  Epilogue

  Lucy Diamond’s Breakfast Recipes

  Welcome to the website of

  MULBERRY HOUSE!

  Set in the picturesque village of Loveday, with easy access to Lyme Regis, Charmouth and Axminster, MULBERRY HOUSE is a friendly and welcoming family-run guest house. Built in the seventeenth century, with generous-sized rooms, beautiful views and a spacious garden, it is the perfect place to enjoy a comfortable stay.

  FEATURES INCLUDE:

  Centrally heated bedrooms with televisions and hairdryers

  •

  En-suite facilities in most bedrooms

  •

  Delicious home-cooked breakfasts using local ingredients

  •

  Free parking

  We look forward to seeing you soon! Your cordial hosts, Lilian and Eddie Jones

  No dogs or smokers. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  ‘So,’ said Lilian, pushing her glasses up her nose and addressing her husband with the kind of look that generally made his heart sink. ‘The question is: what are we going to do with the house?’

  Eddie still hadn’t managed to conquer the dread that always churned inside him whenever his wife asked this sort of loaded question. She was particularly adept at them; would have been a shoo-in for an interrogation job with the Special Forces. Are we going to get married or what, Edward Jones? she’d demanded nearly forty-five years ago, one hand on her hip. Only I’m getting fed up waiting for you to ask me, that’s all. He could picture her now, wearing the red polyester tabard she had to suffer as part of her Woolworths uniform, her glorious mane of chestnut hair up in a ponytail, those blazing blue eyes fiercely expectant.

  He swallowed, just as he’d done back then. ‘Well,’ he said, after a moment’s careful deliberation. ‘I suppose we should see if one of the boys wants to take on the business first.’

  She arched an eyebrow. God help him. Lilian’s eyebrows – skinny, plucked and with a beautiful arch to them, even now – could speak volumes with a single brisk twitch. This one, unfortunately, was screaming WRONG ANSWER at one hundred and twenty decibels. ‘I don’t think it’s quite as straightforward as that, dear,’ she said, a muscle flashing in her cheek. ‘If we simply ask do any of them want to run Mulberry House, then …’ She gave a theatrical, damning shrug. ‘Then the wrong one might end up with it. I mean, what if Charlie put himself forward, for instance? What would we say then? Oh – sorry, darling. When we asked if anyone wanted the house, we were rather hoping it wouldn’t be you.’

  Eddie felt hurt on behalf of his youngest son. ‘Why shouldn’t Charlie run the business?’ he asked. ‘Out of the three, he’s the one who could do with a lucky break. And you never know, it could be the making of him. A bit of responsibility might be just what he needs.’

  Lilian pushed out her lips in a small, tense moue of disagreement. ‘He’s too much of a risk,’ she stated. ‘And we both know he’s hopeless with money. No, Eddie. Handing over the house to Charlie would be an unmitigated disaster. We might as well give it to a complete stranger. Or burn the place down!’

  Eddie sighed. There was no mistaking the firm set of his wife’s jaw, the flint in her eyes. Thirty-seven-year-old Charlie wasn’t a bad lad – he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He was just one of those kids who’d always drifted along haplessly without any signs of a master plan whirring elsewhere in his brain. Nothing wrong with that, though, was there? Eddie could relate to such an approach, having plodded aimlessly through life himself. And okay, so Charlie might have been unlucky with work in the past – and money, and women, come to that – but he was still a good boy.

  ‘Who did you have in mind, then?’ he asked after a moment, not having the energy to wade into an argument right now. He’d learned to pick his battles with care. ‘Hugh?’

  Hugh was their eldest son – the undisputed leader of the pack. At the age of forty-two he was a strapping man, just on the edge of portly, who had worked solidly all his life, and now had the job and family life to show for it. Hugh had gone to university – Oxford, no less (my word, that had been a proud day) – where he’d studied hard, joined the rugby team and met his wife, Alicia, with whom he’d been ever since. Twenty years down the line they had three children and lived very comfortably in a large Victorian house in Axminster, five or so miles away. He worked as a manager of a midsized engineering works and they enjoyed holidays abroad every summer, as well as piano lessons for the children and an Ocado delivery pass.

  Lilian wrinkled her nose. ‘But would Hugh and Alicia want the house?’ she wondered. ‘Do they need the business? I can’t see either of them giving up their jobs in a hurry, can you? Hugh’s just been promoted, after all, and Alicia’s … well, she’s doing her own thing, isn’t she?’ There was an edge to her voice. Alicia taught biology in a nearby secondary school and had recently been made head of department. She was so thoroughly nice and well-mannered that she had never once flaunted her first-class degree or career successes at anyone, but Lilian was still braced for it, all these years on, and stored a few digs about working mothers up her sleeve, just in case. There was such a thing as being ‘too clever’, whatever Eddie said.

  ‘They might want to buy it as a family home,’ Eddie suggested, although privately he had his doubts. Hugh and Alicia were happy where they were, he knew that. Their road was a safe, friendly one, where the children played out on bikes and
scooters, and the neighbours organized street parties with homemade bunting and cupcakes. He wasn’t sure they’d want the upheaval of leaving that behind.

  Of course, Hugh had grown up here in Mulberry House, as had Charlie and David, back when the building was the Jones family home. The place had rung with boys’ shouts and wrestling matches, the thwack of cricket balls on willow, the swishing of shuttlecocks over the washing line and, later, the thump of music and slammed bedroom doors during the teenage years. When the boys had all, finally, left home (it had taken Charlie a number of aborted attempts), Lilian and Eddie had felt the space was too large for the two of them, and began letting out the rooms to paying guests.

  Fifteen years on, Mulberry House was a three-star B&B and was booked up for months in advance. ‘A charming, family-run establishment with good facilities’ as the AA put it, back in 2003. It had kept them well, this house, Eddie thought fondly, stroking the faded arm of the red velvet sofa as if caressing the head of a beloved child. The guests appreciated it too, if their repeat bookings were anything to go by. Jack and Doreen Willis hadn’t missed a Whit weekend yet, and the Dalgliesh family always came down from Aberdeen, regular as clockwork, for their week in July.

  Lately, Eddie had felt weary of the hard work, though. Because it was hard work, make no mistake, having a house full of guests to tend to. Lilian managed the laundry and cooking, and they had Mrs Daniels, the cleaner, who helped out during the summer season when they were busy as loons. He, meanwhile, kept the gardens tidy, did the accounts, answered calls and organized bookings, as well as undertaking all the hundred and one maintenance jobs that needed doing at any one time in order to keep the place looking shipshape. He’d always liked being busy, and relished the satisfaction of making people’s holidays that extra bit more pleasant, but over the last year the relentless slog of work had begun to weigh heavy on his bones. He’d hurt his back putting up a new shower rail. There had been that bad cough right through the winter that he simply couldn’t shake off. And was it his imagination, or were people getting … well, ruder, these days? More demanding? Time was, folks were satisfied with a Teasmade and a hairdryer in their room. Not any more. He’d lost count of the guests who’d complained about there not being satellite television, or Wi-Fi, whatever that was. He felt tired, tired of it all.

  As well as the hard graft, he’d never been entirely comfortable having other people coming and going from his home, either. Although the back of the house had been converted to their own private quarters, off-limits to guests, it was still discomfiting, sitting in your favourite armchair in the evening, trying to watch Gardeners’ World while hearing complete strangers through the wall – singing in the shower, watching a different channel, even having noisy, eye-popping sex without a thought for anybody else in the building. There were some things about running a bed and breakfast that Eddie would not miss, that was for sure. Whereas the thought of having their own little cottage, just the two of them, and not needing to get up and make twelve cooked breakfasts every morning of the week … it was becoming more appealing by the day.

  ‘Which just leaves David,’ Lilian concluded, steepling her fingers together and eyeing Eddie over the top of her spectacles.

  Eddie blinked, having momentarily lost himself, imagining the peace of retirement. He was particularly looking forward to not having to be polite to anyone if he didn’t feel like it. ‘David,’ he repeated, adding, ‘and Emma,’ after a second. He liked David’s wife, Emma. She was quite feisty and spirited, the sort of girl Lilian had once been, in fact. Not that he’d ever dared voice this comparison to either his wife or his daughter-in-law, of course. Heavens, no. He had the feeling both would be horrified.

  ‘Mmm,’ Lilian said. ‘You’d think they’d be keen to move out of Bristol and live a quieter life by now, especially after their recent run of bad luck. And I’ve all but given up asking when Emma is planning on having any kiddies, but she’s not getting any younger, is she?’

  There was a degree of tartness in this last comment and Eddie lowered his gaze. ‘Well, we can certainly see if they’d like to take over the business,’ he replied. ‘But David always seems so happy in Bristol with their friends and …’ He could feel his wife’s eyes boring into him and broke off with a small cough, not daring to remind her that Emma worked in the city too. ‘No harm in asking, though. Chances are, we’ll have to sell up, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  Lilian didn’t speak for a moment, as if unable to bear even contemplating the idea of selling. Mulberry House had been their life for more than forty years after all. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve invited them all down for our anniversary lunch next month anyway. We’ll put it to them then.’

  One thing was certain. They both knew that their beloved home and business wouldn’t slip out of the Joneses’ hands without a fight.

  Chapter Two

  Alicia Jones was having a wobble, and not just on her thighs. Up until now she had felt herself blessed in all aspects of life, propelled from one unexpected triumph to another. Born lucky, her dad used to say proudly. At the age of eighteen she’d aced her A-levels and won a place at Oxford University, not only the first member of her family ever to achieve such a feat, but also the first person from her entire comprehensive school. There, enveloped in the blissful world of academia, she met Hugh, who was two years older than her – sensible, kind, dependable Hugh – and they had married the summer she graduated, both still virgins on their wedding night. And here they were now, with their nineteenth wedding anniversary due this August, three lovely children and a big house in Dorset to show for themselves. Perfect.

  Although … Well, without wanting to sound ungrateful, things didn’t feel quite so perfect these days. Lately, she’d been thrown into doubt and turmoil because of a certain date on the calendar that loomed horribly on the April page, just two short months away. Alicia Jones was going to be forty, and it was freaking her out big time.

  Forty. FORTY! It sounded so old and middle-aged, so over-the-best-years. Her twenties had centred on her relationship with Hugh, their blossoming life together, their new-found careers. Her thirties had been consumed by the children, by family Christmases and birthdays and seaside holidays. But what on earth did she have to look forward to in her forties, apart from new wrinkles and a double chin?

  ‘I feel like I’m getting old,’ she moaned one evening on the phone to her sister Sandra, who lived in Cheltenham and ran a dog-training school.

  ‘You’ve always been old,’ Sandra said spitefully. ‘Even when you were thirteen you were middle-aged, Al.’ She followed this by a snorting laugh, so as to make it sound like a joke, but Alicia wasn’t fooled. The words stayed in her head for days, stinging her whenever she thought about them.

  Had she really been middle-aged at the age of thirteen? Admittedly, she had been a sensible and, some might say, swotty child (she hated that word), but she knew how to have fun too, of course she did! Just because she listened to choral music rather than the Top 40, it didn’t make her dull, merely different. Her own person. That was good, wasn’t it? And just because her sister had gone off the rails and dabbled with drugs and what-have-you, just because she’d dropped out of school as soon as possible, and shacked up with a police line-up’s worth of unsavoury types over the years without ever settling down, just because Sandra was still the spoilt, vivacious, attention-seeking baby of the family, it didn’t mean Alicia always had to be marked up as ‘the boring one’.

  Rationally she knew this, but nonetheless, with the dreaded 4-0 approaching, she was starting to wonder if she’d got it wrong the whole time. What if Sandra was right? What if Alicia had wasted her entire youth being prematurely middle-aged, therefore missing out on the so-called fun years; fun years that she could never get back?

  ‘Hugh, do you think I’m middle-aged?’ she asked in bed one night.

  Hugh looked up from his Stalingrad book in surprise. ‘Middle-aged? Well, technically, I suppo
se …’ he began, until he realized she was wilting with dismay. ‘Of course not!’ he amended hastily. ‘Isn’t forty-five when middle age begins? We’re still classed as young, I think. Aren’t we?’

  She shrugged. Not the best answer, Hugh. Not the most reassuring words ever spoken. Who cared about ‘technically’? She wasn’t talking about ‘technically’. She meant, did he think she was a boring old frump? Did he think she was mutton dressed as mutton? Judging by the way he hadn’t leapt to shout down the question as being absurd – of COURSE you’re not middle-aged, darling! – she was depressingly certain that she knew the answer.

  Yes, Alicia. You’re an old fart. You’re past it.

  Worst of all, in just two months she’d be even more past it. ‘Technically’ past it, so to speak. No longer a thirty-something with the world at her feet, everything to play for. She would cross a line into the next decade, while youth and fun slipped permanently away through her fingers. Unless she acted pretty damn quickly, that was.

  If only she had Christine to talk to. Her twin sister had been on her mind more often than usual recently. Alicia was originally part of a set, you see; a double act that had been torn in half far too early.

  The sisters had shared the mutual intimacy of their mother’s womb for thirty-five weeks before the merest whisper of time together in the real world. Unfortunately, poor tiny Christine had died from heart complications when she was just three days old, and that had been that. Alicia wished she had some memory – even the tiniest flicker of recollection – but there was nothing left of her sister, save a tiny headstone in a Cotswold cemetery. An Angel Returned to Heaven, the engraved letters read. Growing up, Alicia had imagined her small deceased sister with angel wings, a long white nightie and a chubby cherubic face. Oh, Christine, she’d been thinking lately, we should have been in this together.