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“I thought we did them specially for her.”

“We did. I’ve just got to put them into a separate file so I can send them to her. We’ve got ICT this afternoon, so I might be able to do it then.”

“By the way, I thought your sister was brilliant in assembly this morning,” Hayley told Owen. “The way she plays the violin…She’s like a bloody professional.”

Owen nodded and continued to eat.

“Don’t you reckon she is?” Hayley asked the others.

“Definitely,” Paige and Charlotte agreed.

“She practices all the time,” he told them.

Paige couldn’t help wondering why he always seemed so reluctant to talk about his sister, especially given how close they were. They came and went from school together and were often together during breaks; Paige was sure they’d eat together if Olivia ever came into the canteen, but she never did.

Moving up to make more room as Cullum and Matt came to join them, Paige snatched a chip from Matt’s plate and almost instantly wished she hadn’t, because of how hungry it made her feel for the rest.

“Have you been picked for the team this week?” Cullum asked Owen.

Owen nodded. “Second row.”

“That’s where you belong, mate. Matt’s on the bench.”

“Knee’s still not right,” Matt reminded them. “Coach reckons I could be fit again by next— Paige! Get your hands off my chips, will you?”

“She hasn’t had anything to eat,” Hayley told him.

“So go and get something and stop half-inching mine.”

“Who are you playing this week?” Charlotte asked Owen.

“Bishopston.”

“Don’t forget to go after that clown who did this to my knee,” Matt told him.

“I’m on it,” Owen promised, glancing at Paige’s mobile as a text came in.

Sorry Dad didn’t bring money. Change of plan. He’s not going into Cardiff today. Did you manage to borrow from Charlotte or Hayley?

Everything’s cool,
Paige texted back, looking up as Mrs. Haynes, their form tutor, called out from the door, “Paige, you’re helping to set up the charity-bag pack for the year eights, aren’t you?”

“Yes, miss,” Paige replied.

“Good. If you’ve finished your lunch, could you come over to the study center for a minute? There are a couple of things we need to go through. It shouldn’t take long.”

As Mrs. Haynes continued to hold the door open, Paige got to her feet. “You’re on the committee too,” she reminded Matt.

“Yeah, but she didn’t ask for me.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Charlotte offered, apparently sensing Paige’s reluctance to walk past Kelly Durham’s table on her own.

“No, it’s OK,” Paige replied. After all, what could Kelly do with Mrs. Haynes standing right there?

The answer was clearly nothing. In fact, as Paige passed their table neither Kelly nor any of the Durmites even lifted their heads to watch her go by.

For some reason that felt almost as bad as if they’d jeered and called her names.

“Am I still in disgrace?” Jack asked cautiously as he peered into the office, waving a white handkerchief to prepare the way.

Looking up from her computer, Jenna rolled her eyes and tried not to smile. He could be completely maddening at times, even thoughtless, definitely impulsive, and occasionally irrational, but she wouldn’t do a thing to change him. “You should be,” she informed him. “I was soaked to the skin by the time I got home.”

“But what was I to do?” he protested. “I couldn’t just leave the poor thing running loose. Anything could have happened to it.”

“You mean in all that traffic down in Port Eynon?”

He pulled a face. “Have a heart.”

She laughed and shook her head. Since Irene Evans’s ancient poodle had become the object of many rescues lately, she could only wonder now why she hadn’t thought of it when Jack had disappeared.

In fact, it was generally agreed that the lonely but canny old lady urged the half-blind, arthritic little beast out of the garden on purpose in the hope of luring a hero or heroine into her cozy little cottage for a nice cup of tea, a homemade biscuit, a bit of a chat, and
oh, just a tiny job that needs seeing to, if you have the time.

In Jack’s case this morning she’d had him unblocking her bathroom sink and sorting out her Internet connection. She’d even talked him into driving all the way to Mumbles later to take the dog to the vet, which was where he’d just returned from. Precisely why the poodle couldn’t see someone closer to home Jenna had no idea, nor was she particularly interested to find out. She had a lot to get through today and didn’t want Irene Evans, sweet as she was, hijacking any more of it. “You could have answered your phone,” she reminded him, going back to the notes she was making.

“As I said, I had no idea I’d managed to switch it to silent,” he replied, dropping a pile of Sunday’s papers on a side table before sinking down at his own desk. “But I did text.”

It was true, he had, and thanks to the erratic reception in the port it had turned up a good hour after he’d sent it.

“And let’s not forget,” he went on, “I was just as wet as you by the time I got home.”

This was also true, for when he’d returned to the car and found no sign of her, he’d spent twenty or more minutes walking up and down the dunes searching for her and Waffle—half afraid, he’d insisted, that the tide had swept them away. “And have I asked you why you didn’t answer your phone?” he grumbled, opening his inbox.

Jenna blinked in surprise. “I guess that would be because it didn’t ring,” she replied.

“Then you need to get it checked, because I definitely tried calling. Is this correct? Did we really receive three more submissions while I was out?”

“Two poems by the same person,” she confirmed, “and a pornographic short story about dragons and maidens that I’ve already trashed.” At the beginning they’d found most of the lewd submissions—and there were plenty of them—either hilarious, sickening, or downright mind-boggling; these days they rarely got past the first page before binning them. “Martha rang while you were out,” she told him.

His head came up. “Really? How come she didn’t call my mobile?”

She shrugged. “Maybe because it was on silent? Anyway, she said she’s sorry she had to cancel today, but she should be free tomorrow morning around ten.”

He frowned, keeping his eyes on her even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Was that all?” he prompted.

“Were you expecting more?”

“I guess I was hoping she might have had more news on the upload problem. She didn’t mention it?”

“Correct, she didn’t.”

Scowling, he returned to the task at hand, not speaking again (other than on the phone, volubly and at some length, to one of his golfing buddies) for at least half an hour. Then he said, “Remind me what Bena’s full name is again.”

“Verbena Forse. Why?”

“I’m doing the About Us page. Do we have a photo of her?”

“She’ll have one, or we can take one when she comes in tomorrow.”

“We’ll need a short bio as well. I’ve got yours. Great shot of you, by the way. Do you think we should include Martha?”

Jenna frowned. “Would she want to be included? I mean, she’s an adviser, not an actual member of the team.”

He shrugged. “I guess you’re right, but we wouldn’t have got this far without her and her team.”

Since this was true and had been acknowledged so many times it needed no further airing at this point, Jenna sat back in her chair and stretched and yawned. “Fancy a cup of tea?” she offered.

He nodded but didn’t look up. “Tell you what, I’ll make it,” he suddenly declared, noticing the time. “Your mother should be here any minute with whatever she’s tortured in the oven today.”

Jenna had to laugh. In spite of loving to bake for when the children came in from school, her mother’s choice of gluten-free, low-fat, no-sugar recipes rarely won her efforts many fans. “Actually, she’s on one of her socials with the Women’s Institute today,” she informed him, “so we probably won’t see her until teatime.”

“Your mother’s on a day trip?” He smiled, getting to his feet. “Blessings. I can hardly wait to find out what she brings us all back. What was it the last time? A miniature china watering can for me, a clockwork ballerina for Paige, a pack of doggy-doo bags for the twins…I’ve forgotten what she brought you and Josh.”

“A tea towel for me and a CD of
Land of My Fathers
for Josh, but it’s the thought that counts.”

With an ironic tilt of his eyebrows, he took himself back through the garden to the kitchen, where she could see him filling the kettle while clicking on his phone to answer.

She loved watching him like this, a romantically shadowed image through all the rain-spattered glass, knowing he could be seen, and sometimes putting on a bit of a show to entertain her. It was so pleasing to see how relaxed and happy he was in Wales, at least most of the time, clearly delighting in the many new friends he’d made, clubs he’d joined, new sports he was learning. Sailing, surfing, fishing, and even flying had made it onto his agenda lately, though he’d yet to have his first pilot’s lesson. It was doing him so much good here that she didn’t even want to think about how he’d handle it if their business didn’t succeed.

So she wouldn’t think about it, because it wasn’t going to happen. OK, it was probably going to take a while longer to get off the ground than he was expecting, but new ventures often did, and it wasn’t as though they were looking to make a fortune from it. All they needed was enough to get by, so they could carry on living this idyllic life with the children while helping to bring some very real artistic talent to a marketplace.

Reaching for the Sunday papers, she reminded herself that this was what really mattered to her about Celticulture, that they were using it to win recognition for those who truly deserved it. And many did, that was for sure. Perhaps not always in a big way, but even those who probably weren’t going to soar to the dizzying heights of stardom were excited about having their work professionally represented and published in electronic format. She could sense it every time she spoke to them on the phone—she even felt it coming through in their emails, along with impatience to get going—and loved every one of them for it. In her wildest dreams she sometimes even dared to envisage their exclusive list being recognized as a fertile source for major new talent—though she accepted that they were probably going to need a goodly amount of Welsh fairy dust to make that happen.

Feeling her heart sinking at how much of that very dust her own creative efforts needed, she opened the Culture section of the
Sunday Times
to the latest charts and almost immediately wished she hadn’t bothered. Sitting there, right at the top of the hardback fiction list, was a name she knew well.

Natalie West.

She’d met this renowned author only once, at a publishing party in London where their joint editor had introduced them.

“Oh, so
you’re
Jenna Moore,” Natalie had drawled, looking down at Jenna from her imposing height. “I haven’t read your book, but I hear it’s been selling.”

“Yes, I believe so.” Jenna had smiled, not sure whether this towering (literally) author was being insulting or not.

“Mm, you can never tell what’ll work,” Natalie murmured, her busy eyes hunting the room for more interesting guests. “
Poetry Emotion.
Not a title I’d have chosen myself, but then I’d never have wanted to reduce Byron and Shelley to the indignity of popular fiction.”

Shocked by the rudeness, as well as the unjustified attack on her work, Jenna had simply stared at her, at a loss for words.

“You have children, don’t you?” Natalie asked.

“Yes, four,” Jenna automatically replied.

“Well, I’m sure you’re a wonderful mother.” And with that she’d swept off into the crowd.

“Wow. Is she like that with everyone?” Jenna had whispered to her editor as they watched her go.

“Only those she sees as competition,” the editor had replied, “or more talented than her, so try to take it as a compliment.”

Jenna might have managed that, and might even have put it out of her mind altogether, had Natalie West not decided a few months later to review Jenna Moore’s second book for one of the national papers—and totally decimated it. OK, Jenna had to admit it wasn’t her best work. She was sure that if she’d had longer to produce it she’d have made a better job of it, but even so, she truly didn’t believe it had deserved the kind of derision Natalie had poured all over it.

It had just seemed spiteful and unnecessary, especially since no one, apparently, had even invited her to submit a review.

It could easily be said that Natalie West was responsible for Jenna’s writer’s block, though Jenna had no wish to give the woman such power over her. In fact, she’d rather not think about her at all, especially when West’s style of writing, in her opinion, contained very little charm or nuance and her characters were almost entirely unsympathetic or stereotypical. And, again in Jenna’s opinion, it was nothing short of a travesty that someone with such a stunted talent should be enjoying the kind of success that she did.

Dumping the Culture section in the bin, she purposefully cleared her mind of the bitterness and looked up to find out if Jack was on his way with the tea yet. He was still on the phone, pacing up and down the sitting room, waving an arm as he spoke, clearly engrossed in his call. She wouldn’t bother telling him about Natalie West’s latest success when he came back. He’d only become angry on her behalf, which could easily turn into a row between them, and what was the point of that when she was OK with it, really? Her life had moved on, or it was here, anyway, with him and the children—and her mother—and since they were happy, healthy, and totally in the right place for them, that was all that mattered.