Vivi Misti - Book 5, The Porth Kerensa Series

Flat Three, Vivi Misti

Francesca Armstrong

The flat was cold and smelt musty when Francesca pushed the door open and walked inside. She shivered and dumped her huge rucksack and bags down with a sigh of relief. She flicked the lights on as she walked through the flat, taking in the little details she had forgotten during her eighteen months travelling. The fading wallpaper that needed to be replaced, the outdated kitchen that had driven her mad for the last twenty years and her mother’s slippers still in front of the fireplace.

Had she really been in such a hurry to get away after her mother’s death, that she hadn’t even found the time to put away the old lady’s slippers? It was hard to remember, if she was honest. Her mother had always been such a huge part of Francesca’s life that she had found herself completely adrift after Corrine Armstrong died. Somehow she had found the strength to make sure her mother’s funeral was done properly, but the day after she had bought a ticket to Acapulco, taken a leave of absence and fled.

Somehow, in the sunshine and heat of Mexico, against the backdrop of the Pacific, her leave of absence became a sabbatical and Francesca forgot about her now empty flat in Porth Kerensa. She pretended her mother wasn’t gone forever and she pushed from her mind all the things she should be at home sorting out in Vivi Misti.

She was home now and there could be more procrastinating. Everywhere she looked there were signs of the life she had lived with Corrine for fifty years. Francesca sat down gingerly on one of the chintz armchairs her mother had cherished and brushed away the tears that pricked at her green eyes. Wistfully she tried to recall her travels through North and South America, but her mind was being crowded out with memories of Corrine Armstrong.

Corrine had been more than just her mum. Widowed at the tender age of thirty with a three year old daughter, she and Francesca had become everything to one another. Corrine was a tactile affectionate mother, always hugging Francesca and telling her she was her angel.

“You’re my only real friend, my darling, the only person I trust. We’ll be together, forever, Francesca. You’ll never leave me, my angel girl. It’s us against the world,” Corrine used to say.

Francesca had never allowed herself to think about her life without Corrine, even though people had tried to prepare her for it over the years. Friends from work had bombarded her with invites to various different social events. As she got older Francesca rarely accepted them, preferring to go home and have dinner with a rapidly aging Corrine. She knew they’d called her an old maid and joked about how she'd end up in a flat filled with cats. God help her, sometimes she had laughed along with their teasing banter.

Only her boss, Ethan, didn’t laugh at the jokes. He would purse his lips and shut his office door whenever the subject of Francesca joining them at the pub came up. She’d often wondered if he’d ever told them about the young rowdy Francesca who had first come to work with him. She wondered if he’d ever told anyone about rebellious Francesca who ‘worked late’ and drank scotch in his office all those years ago, leaving Corrine at home alone.

Francesca lent her head back on the chair and massaged her temples. Thoughts of Ethan Miller always managed to give her a headache. The big lug had been the bane of her life for twenty-eight years. If she was truthful she had loved him for every minute of the twenty-eight years. Not that she was honest enough to tell him that. She had successfully managed to avoid that conversation for a long time.

She pulled her phone out of her coat pocket and hit the speed dial button for Ethan’s number. It only rang once before he answered it.

“Hey! The wanderer returns.” His voice, absent from her life for so long, warmed her instantly.