Socialite’s Nine Month Secret

After a long flight, a sleepless night in an airport hotel and too many hours in the town car she’d hired to drive her from London to Cornwall, the sight of the first sign for the village of Rumbelow sent relief flooding through Willow’s tense body.

She’d made it—near enough, anyway. And, as far as she could tell from social media, without being spotted, which was the most important thing.

Nobody would be looking for supermodel and socialite Willow Harper in Cornwall, when she was supposed to be in New York. What possible reason could she have to go there?

Even those who remembered the early days of her career, when she’d modelled with her twin sister, didn’t know where Rowan had fled to when she’d disappeared six years ago. The family had no link to Cornwall, despite hailing from London originally, and Rowan had been very circumspect regarding her whereabouts ever since. Willow suspected she was the only person from their old life who knew where she was at all.

And even she hadn’t visited, or seen Rowan, in those six years.

Until now.

Because now she needed her help.

The car and its silent driver took the last curve in the road and the small harbour of Rumbelow came into view, the sea glistening in the early spring sunlight. Tiny fishing boats bobbed out on the waves—so different from the mega yachts and sailing club boats she’d grown used to in her society circles in the States.

They drove along the edge of the village, the long black car slowing almost to a stop to make the tight corners safely, and Willow peered out of the tinted windows at the quaintly painted cottages and the cobblestone streets that led away from the road and into the village centre.

It was a pretty enough hiding spot, she had to allow that—for Rowan, and for her.

Rowan’s cottage, it seemed, was on the outskirts of the village. They drove around the outside to the other side of the harbour, where the glass and steel outline of what appeared to be an old lifeboat station that someone had converted into living accommodation gleamed in the distance above the waves. Before that, though, was a small stone cottage with a thatched roof, looking down on the beach below, its sand covered in seaweed and stones, and over at the cliffs beyond, now the neat harbour had given way to more natural coastline.

The driver drew the car to a halt and got out in silence, the same way he’d undertaken the entire journey. She heard the trunk of the car open and assumed he was getting out her suitcase. She waited and, soon enough, he opened the door for her and she climbed out.

It was the air that hit her first: salty and tangy and fresh as a steady breeze beat against her skin and tried to mess up her hair. There was no reason for it to feel so different from the coast in the States, really, but it did. If she closed her eyes, she could be back at the seaside with her grandparents, Rowan paddling beside her, waiting for salty chips and sweet, sticky ice cream.

Before her grandparents died. And before that scout told their mother how much money they could make her.

Willow swallowed and shook the thought away. She had nothing to complain about. Her whole world had changed that moment—and look how far it had taken her. She had fame, riches, a life others would kill for.

Right now, though, she also had a secret.

The driver was looking dubiously at Rowan’s little stone cottage. Willow supposed she couldn’t blame him; it did look a little like it might crumble into the sea at any moment.

‘Do you have the keys, miss?’ he asked, his voice a little creaky. ‘I can take your bags in for you.’

‘Uh, actually, I’m just going to wait here for my sister.’ Along the cliff path, she could see a figure approaching, perhaps from that lifeboat station, since it seemed the only house further out of the village than Rowan’s. ‘You can just leave my bags here, it’s fine.’

The driver frowned. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Very.’ Willow swallowed down her irritation and forced a smile. She needed him to go, and fast, before Rowan’s neighbour got any closer and started asking questions. She fumbled in her bag for a tip, and thrust a few notes into his hand. ‘Thank you for the drive. Please, you should get going. It’s a long way back to London.’

He gave her one more sceptical look, then took the money and got back into the car, reversing slowly into a side path to enable himself to turn around without driving off the cliff. The car disappeared towards the town before Rowan’s neighbour reached her front gate, and Willow let out a small sigh of relief. She settled on sitting on top of her suitcase while she waited for her sister, her eyes tracking the neighbour as they jogged closer.

He. Definitely a he. With strong muscled legs under his running shorts and a black T-shirt already clinging to his torso. His dark hair hung long enough for him to shake it out of his eyes as he ran, and he was moving at an impressive pace. Willow ran, for fitness, stress relief and because it looked good in paparazzi photos, but she never went fast enough that she ended up unpleasantly red-faced and sweaty in those photos. She saved that sort of effort for the private gym in her Manhattan building.

But this guy was moving fast and still looked good. She was almost jealous.

She jerked her gaze away as he approached the gate and, standing quickly, dropped her tan leather jacket over her bags in the hope he wouldn’t notice them, pushing them slightly behind the overgrown shrubbery of Rowan’s front garden.

‘Morning!’ he called as he reached the edge of the fence marking her property.

‘Uh, yeah,’ she said back, somewhat taken by surprise. ‘Morning.’

In New York, locals and tourists barely acknowledged other people with a nod, let alone a verbal greeting.

You’re not in New York any more, Willow.

For all she knew, Rowan was best friends with her neighbour round the harbour. Maybe they had coffee together every morning. Maybe they were more than friends.

In which case, her sister had definitely been holding out on her during their calls, and she was in for a grilling.

The guy slowed to a stop at the gate, one hand on the fence as he looked at her, a small frown line between his eyebrows. ‘You lock yourself out or something? I can run back and get my spare key if you need it.’

He had a spare key. Okay, so friends, then.

He also thought she was Rowan, even if the frown suggested he sensed something was amiss.

‘Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks. Just…enjoying the morning.’

‘Not contemplating joining me for a run at last?’ The teasing tone of his voice hinted that this was something he suggested often.

Willow shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’m dressed for it.’

‘No.’ And now that frown was back, as he looked her up and down. ‘Big plans today? You’re looking very…smart.’

She glanced down at herself in case she’d suddenly changed into a ballgown or something. Nope, same wide-leg nude trousers and black sweater, with her chestnut leather boots. It was warm enough that she’d even taken her tan leather jacket off for now.

‘No, just…a normal day. Perfectly normal.’

Oh, yeah, that sounded convincing.

And from the way the guy’s eyebrows rose, he wasn’t convinced either.

***

Gwyn looked at his neighbour with what he could only think of as amused suspicion.

He and Rowan weren’t exactly close friends, but they were neighbours, the two furthest out dwellings in the village, and so they’d got to know each other a little. They had spare keys to each other’s houses, checked with each other on bin days and WhatsApped snippets from the local village Facebook group for their mutual entertainment.

And he jogged past her cottage every morning and more often than not spotted her on her way in or back from the village centre, or working in her garden, or just pottering about inside the cottage. Sometimes she’d wave. Sometimes he’d invite her to join him and she’d laugh and shake her head. Sometimes he’d stop for a chat, especially if he was on his way back and kind of already done and needing a break before the last burst up the hill and round the harbour to his house.

But never, in all the years they’d been doing this, had he ever seen Rowan in full make-up, her hair brushed and her shoes shined at this time in the morning. Or ever. He’d never seen her wearing clothes so plain and colourless either.

And he’d never seen her hiding a suitcase under her coat, for that matter.

Was she going somewhere and didn’t want him—or, by extension, probably the rest of the village—to know about it?

Rumbelow was a small place. And as much as the locals let newcomers live their own lives without asking too many questions, that didn’t mean they weren’t watching. Or talking about them behind their backs.

Gwyn wasn’t a newcomer, exactly—although he suspected Rowan thought he was. After all, he’d bought the most obvious, expensive, fancy modern renovation place in the whole village when he’d moved back from London. That wasn’t why he’d bought it, of course—he’d bought it because it was the furthest out of Rumbelow he could be while still being in the village, and because it only had one real neighbour, and because he liked looking out over the sea from the giant glass windows that used to be the doors to the lifeboat shed.

Rowan, as far as he knew, didn’t know that Gwyn’s family had been in the village for generations, or that his sister and nephew still lived there. She didn’t know he’d grown up there, moved away, then come home when everything had fallen apart.

But then he suspected Rowan still thought that nobody in town had clocked that she used to be a kind of famous model, when obviously they had, almost immediately. They were just too polite around here to make a big deal of it, since she so obviously didn’t want a big deal being made.

None of which explained why she was sitting there with a suitcase, looking like she was about to head up to London for some big fashion shoot. Maybe she was. Maybe that was what she was hiding—or hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Well, if she wanted to keep her secrets, he’d let her. After all, he had no interest in sharing his own.

So he gave her a last smile and said, ‘Okay, well, enjoy your day.’ Then he pushed off again and began the easy run down the hill back into the village, planning to stop in at his sister’s to see if she had any coffee on the go, and maybe some of those cinnamon rolls she made…

Which was when he spotted Rowan walking up the hill towards him, wearing the bright turquoise and pink maxi skirt he often saw her in, her hair in its usual bun on the top of her head and a straw shopping bag swinging at her side as she smiled and waved.

He blinked, almost stumbled and then kept going.

Other people’s secrets were none of his business. And neither were their problems.

Although he had to admit he was curious as to what supermodel Willow Harper was doing pretending to be her own sister, right here in Rumbelow.

***

Willow braced herself as she saw her sister appear around the corner, looking as bright and cheerful as she always did on their video calls these days—a sort of relaxed contentment that Willow couldn’t remember seeing in person since they were kids.

It was real, that contentment, she was sure. But she always felt there was just a hint of something missing underneath it too. A feeling that Rowan had settled for contentment rather than reaching for happiness.

Willow stifled a snort. Who was she to talk about happiness as something to be actively pursued? Hadn’t she spent the last few years settling for image—style over substance—in all areas of her life?

Not any more, though. I can’t do that any longer.

And maybe her new resolution to do better could help her sister find the life she was meant to be living too. Even if she had doubts at how effective her plan would be at really fixing everything that was wrong in her own life.

I just need time. Space. To breathe and think and figure things out.

Rowan was the only person in the world that Willow could rely on to give it to her.

She knew the moment that her twin spotted her. It was obvious in the way her easy gait faltered, and her shoulders stiffened even as her face slackened.

Maybe she should have called ahead, told her she was coming. Or emailed, even. Except…she was never sure how secure those things were. All it would take was one journalist listening in or hacking her email and her secret would be out.

Because Rowan was going to have questions—a lot of questions. Questions Willow needed to answer in person, without being overheard, if she wanted to keep her secrets.

Suddenly Rowan shook her head and hurried towards the gate, fumbling for her keys even as she stepped onto the path.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her whisper was harsh, unwelcoming, as she fiddled with the lock until the door fell open. ‘Come on, come in. Before someone sees you.’

Willow did as she was told, following her sister into the tiny, dark cottage. Not quite the homecoming she’d been hoping for, but that probably served her right for showing up with no notice.

‘How long have you been here?’ The door slammed behind them.

Willow raised her eyebrows. ‘In England or on your doorstep?’

‘Both.’

Willow placed her large tote bag on the floor beside the telephone table and frowned at the old-fashioned rotary dial phone that sat there. How ridiculously impractical. And convenient for her, actually.

‘I arrived in England last night,’ she said, straightening up again. ‘I stayed at a hotel near Heathrow, then got a car to bring me down here this morning. I’d been standing on your doorstep for about ten minutes when you arrived. I did try to call, but…’

She gave the rotary dial phone another dubious look to back up her little white lie.

‘Cell signal can be unreliable here.’ Rowan carried her own tatty straw bag down the darkened hall into a decidedly brighter kitchen at the back of the cottage. It looked out over a higgledy-piggledy garden that looked like someone—presumably Rowan—might have been trying to grow vegetables.

This really was another world.

Rowan emptied her bag out onto the battered kitchen table. ‘Croissant?’

The morning sickness had mostly passed now, which she took to mean she was probably past twelve weeks, since that was when all the websites she’d read in secret said it would. But mornings had never been Willow’s favourite time to eat, and after a long flight and a lengthy car journey her stomach turned at the idea of the flaky pastry. She shook her head and Rowan bit into one with a shrug.

Willow looked away, taking in the kitchen, with its mismatched sage and lavender chairs that matched the pots of lavender growing outside the window. It was a sunny, happy place. It suited Rowan.

Willow had never felt more out of place in her life.

Still, when her sister motioned for her to sit, she did. And then she got down to why she was there.

‘I need your help.’

Rowan reached for another croissant. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

Willow knew why. This wasn’t the way things went. Willow didn’t come to Rowan for help; it had always, always been the other way around, ever since they were kids.

Willow had been the strong, capable one. Rowan the one who needed protecting, looking out for.

When Rowan had needed to leave, Willow had been the one to get her out—and the one to stay behind and face the wrath of their mother, and all those contracts Rowan had walked out on.

Rowan hid, Willow stayed and faced the music.

But this time…this time it needed to be the other way round. It was time for Willow to call in that favour.

‘What do you need?’ Rowan asked cautiously.

Willow glanced towards the kettle. ‘I think we might need tea for this.’ She would have preferred coffee, but apparently tea was better right now. She’d been trying to limit herself to just one strong coffee in the mornings, and she’d already had that on the way from the airport.

She waited until her sister had got up to find mugs and tealeaves and an actual teapot, complete with knitted cosy, and poured the tea. Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘I’m going to have a baby.’

‘You’re pregnant?’ Rowan plonked one of the mugs of tea down in front of her, and Willow watched a few drops slosh onto the table top. ‘How did that happen?’

‘It certainly wasn’t planned, I can tell you that.’ Willow sighed and reached for her mug, blowing slightly over the surface so steam snaked up towards the ceiling. The plan, such as it was, had been very, very different. If it had been planned she might have a better idea when exactly it had happened, but her cycle had never been regular enough for that. Still, that many pregnancy tests didn’t lie.

‘Who’s the father? Does he know?’ Rowan demanded.

‘Ben, of course.’ Willow frowned at her sister across the kitchen table. ‘What did you think?’

‘Sorry. I just…’ Rowan trailed off. She’d never met Ben, Willow supposed. She wouldn’t know. ‘I guess I figured that if the father was your long-term boyfriend you’d be talking to him instead of me.’

That made Willow wince and look away towards the window. Talking to Ben was right at the bottom of her list of things she wanted to do right now.

How on earth was she going to explain her relationship with Ben to Rowan? Rowan believed in true love and authenticity and finding your person.

She wasn’t going to understand what Willow had with Ben.

‘Things with Ben and me…it’s not what I’d call a stable relationship environment. Or anything a kid should be involved in.’ Willow took care to keep her words flat, unemotional. But Rowan’s expression told her she was reading plenty into them, all the same.

‘Does he hurt you? Physically or emotionally? Because you do not have to go back to him—’

‘It’s not like that.’ Willow sighed. ‘He’s… I mean, we’re…’

‘You’re really convincing me here, Will.’

Willow huffed a laugh and looked down at her tea again. Fine. It was going to have to be the truth, then. However shameful it felt in the face of Rowan’s fairy tale cottage by the sea life.

‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…the world thinks we’re some fairy tale romance, right? The supermodel and the CEO, living our perfect glamorous life together, madly in love?’

‘And it’s not really like that?’ Rowan asked softly.

It was, she supposed, in parts. They were a supermodel and a CEO, and their life was pretty glamorous, certainly from the outside.

It was just the in love part that tripped the whole thing up.

‘You know, some days I’m not sure we even like each other,’ Willow admitted. ‘Right from the start…we were together because it was good for our images, our careers. We look good next to each other, and the papers like to talk about us a lot, and that was kind of what we both needed. We could fake the rest.’

Her mind flashed back to the night they’d met, at some party held by a mutual acquaintance. The way they’d sized each other up, figuring out what the other could offer them in a world where everything was a commodity or a status symbol. Even love.

‘You faked being in love with your boyfriend?’ Rowan made it sound like a bad rom com movie.

‘Not…intentionally.’ Willow sighed again. She’d known Rowan wasn’t going to get it. She was barely sure that she understood how it had all happened.

But Rowan was obviously determined to try. ‘Okay, tell me the whole story.’