Chapter 2

Stella had barely been in chambers for five minutes before she heard the monotone voice of Simon Fagan floating down from the room the junior barristers shared upstairs. It was all the motivation she needed to beat a hasty retreat. She bid the staff a speedy goodbye, wishing them all a good weekend, and made a dash for the door, leaving them all wearing a knowing look; Simon Fagan's reputation was legendary.

In the chambers' car park, she threw her cabin case into the boot of her silver hatchback A-Class Mercedes, climbed behind the wheel and selected her favourite Friday evening playlist, cranking the sound up. Moments later, she was inching out into the line of rush-hour traffic, singing along at the top of her voice, drumming her fingers in time to the beat. The Friday feeling was already kicking in.

The commute from York to the North Yorkshire Coast was one Stella relished. It offered the perfect amount of distance – mileage-wise and mind-wise – for her to put the stresses and niggles of the day behind her, shake-off her barrister persona and gradually unwind. She'd heard plenty of her contemporaries saying how their partners complained that they were still in "barrister-mode" when they got home, still primed for confrontation, some still strutting around as if they were taking part in a courtroom exchange. She couldn't imagine that working in a domestic setting. Only yesterday, she'd heard a colleague complain that her husband had told her she was behaving like a pompous twit – again. Stella was always mindful that she'd slipped out of her "barrister-mode" along with her wig and gown by the time she reached home – not that she was going back to anyone – she'd never been in a long-term relationship, the thought of sharing her home with someone else held no appeal for her – she'd go as far as to say it filled her with fear.

She'd be the first to acknowledge that once she'd donned her "pantomime dame" gear, as her friends jokingly referred to her wig and robes, she felt ready for her day in court. She often compared it to an actor getting into character for a role and was aware it was something a few of her contemporaries struggled to shake off. There was no way she would ever want to run the risk of taking her barrister behaviour home and directing it at her friends or her mum. And, heaven forbid, if she ever did, she knew none of them would be having any of it! They'd pull her back down to earth with a heck of a bang and give her backside a sound verbal kicking. She couldn't help but chuckle at that thought.

The sun was still shining by the time Stella arrived at her home town of Micklewick Bay, its rays glittering on the gentle undulations of the North Sea as she drove along the top promenade. Thanks to the mid-August sunshine, holidaymakers were still ambling along the broad pavement and a lengthy queue had formed at an ice-cream van that had parked up.

Stella felt a flutter of excitement in her chest as she made her way along the road to her new apartment. She'd only collected the keys from the estate agents last Saturday morning and was still settling in. Her mind went to the boxes that were piled up in the hallway. She'd been so busy with her work, unpacking them had proved to be a slow process. Her mum had kindly offered to help, but Stella had told her she'd prefer to do it herself; she knew where she wanted things to go and she didn't relish the prospect of having to hunt around for her stuff and ending up having to call her mum to find out where she'd put them. Thinking about it now, she should have taken the week off to move in, but the thought hadn't crossed her mind. She'd have felt unprofessional if she'd returned the Dixon brief at the last minute, especially with it concerning such a notorious family. And Stella didn't do unprofessional.

Arriving at the line of garages at the rear of the property, she stopped before the one allocated to her apartment and zapped her key in its direction. Seconds later, the electronic door slowly rolled back allowing her to slip her vehicle into the space.

She'd just climbed out of her car when her mobile phone pinged. Stella tapped the screen, smiling as she saw that it was a group message from Jasmine. It was in her friend's usual upbeat tone with a flourish of celebratory emojis.

Hiya lasses. It's Friyay! Woohoo!! Looking forward to seeing you all at the Jolly tonight! Jazz xxx

Stella fired a quick text back, her thumbs flying over the keys.

Hi Jazz, woohoo indeed! Looking forward to seeing you too! Sxx

That done, she slipped her phone into the pocket of her jacket, aimed her key fob at the garage door and watched as it slowly unfurled.

As she was making her way along the side street, her high heels tapping on the York stone flags, her eyes alighted on a man walking towards her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped dark hair. Dressed in jeans and a pale-blue linen shirt, he walked with an easy-going roll. Their eyes locked as they drew closer, and Stella felt the familiar punch of lust in her stomach. Wow! He really was out-of-the-way good-looking.

‘Hi,' the man said in a voice that could melt chocolate. He flashed a lopsided smile, his clear blue eyes twinkling, triggering an unexpected flutter in Stella's chest.

Well, hello!Her interest had been well and truly piqued. ‘Hi.' Stella returned his smile, her immaculately groomed eyebrow arching ever-so-slightly.

They maintained eye contact until they'd passed one another. Two strides later, Stella couldn't resist the urge to look over her shoulder, only to find him looking back at her. His grin widened and he raised his arm in a wave. Stella's heart gave an unexpected leap. What the heck was that?

Reaching the front of the imposing building and feeling slightly discombobulated by the unfamiliar feelings the stranger had stirred inside her, Stella tapped in the keycode for the oversized front door, pushing it open with a swish. Her nose was instantly assaulted by the smell of fresh paint. A thrill rushed through her as she stepped into the communal entrance area which had been tastefully decorated in neutral shades, the walls adorned with black and white photographs of the former warehouse in its previous incarnation. Large olive trees in oversized terracotta pots stood either side of the door, softening the look.

The vast, former commercial building had stood empty for decades in what had become a less than desirable part of town. Built in 1801 from imperial sized bricks, it stood five storeys high and had originally served as a warehouse, passing through many hands during its lifetime, most notably the wealthy and titled Fitzgilbert family. It had been purchased early last year and work under instruction of a mystery buyer had begun in earnest once plans for its conversion to nine luxury apartments had been given approval. It had generated a great deal of local interest.

Though the building wasn't listed, it had managed to retain many of its original features, including the wood panelling in the entrance area as well as that in the ground floor room that had once served as an office. This space had also managed to cling onto the coving around the ceiling, though the cast iron fireplace had long since gone. The wooden staircase in the centre of the entrance area was simple in its design – as could be expected of such a building. Several treads had been replaced and were now covered with a thick, hardwearing wool carpet. Its original wooden banister, worn smooth from years of hands running up and down it and contributing to its rich patina, was found to be in perfect condition and had been polished to a deep shine. The old lift, to the left of the stairs, had been given a thorough overhaul too, bringing it up to today's safety standards while still retaining its original charm.

To the right of the stairs was a row of metal letter boxes, one for each of the apartments. They sat above a long wooden bench that had been left in the derelict building. It too had been cleaned up and painted in the same shade of dove-grey eggshell to match the walls and was accessorised by plump tweed cushions in complementing shades. Lighting was courtesy of a vast contemporary style pendant light with strategically spaced spotlights in the ceiling. The whole space exuded an air of quiet sophistication juxtaposed against a shadow of its commercial heritage.

The exterior of the building had been given a face-lift too, the bricks cleaned up, its mortar repointed. The old, rotten window frames, once filled with the gaping jaws of grimy smashed glass, had been replaced with metal-framed Crittal windows which sat perfectly with the industrial vibe. The style was echoed in the wide doorway, allowing extra light to flood into the entrance.

To the rear of the old warehouse, the large outside space that had been piled high with rubbish and rubble had also had new life breathed into it. It been skilfully landscaped and divided into eight narrow, but long gardens, one for each apartment.

The building had been transformed from a derelict eyesore into an imposing and desirable property.

When news of the proposed development of the old warehouse had broken and the virtual images of the completed apartments displayed on a noticeboard outside the property, a frenzy of interest broke out. There were to be two, small, one-bedroomed apartments on the ground floor, two, larger apartments on the next three floors, with the grandest of them all occupying the entire top floor. It boasted three vast, arched windows. The central one had a door added that gave out to a large, wraparound balcony. Completing the refurbishment, it had been fitted with a domed roof-light of impressive proportions.

Having been given a tip-off by her contact at the local estate agents, Stella had been quick-off-the-mark in paying a deposit to secure herself an apartment; she'd put her own on the market straight after. That too had been part of an industrial conversion, though on a smaller, less imposing scale.

Since then, the air of neglect that had hung around the area had slowly begun to slip away. Another disused building nearby had gone up for sale, complete with plans for its conversion into more apartments. No one was surprised that it was quickly snapped up. The small run-down row of terraced houses to the rear of Stella's apartment building were also undergoing something of a renaissance. And the rubbish that was usually strewn around the streets in that part of town had disappeared. It had spurred the local council to give the rusting metal railings that formed a barrier to the drop down to the bottom prom a new lick of paint.

The once grotty area, where people avoided straying after dark, had suddenly become rather desirable, and property prices had shot up rapidly. Stella was glad she'd snapped her apartment up when she had.

After retrieving her post from her pigeonhole, she made her way up the stairs to her second-floor apartment, eschewing the lift in favour of taking the healthy option and clocking-up some steps, as she always did. Somewhere up above, she heard the click of a door closing. Though she'd heard activity on the stairs and the whirr of the lift, the building had been relatively quiet and she was yet to meet any of her new neighbours; she guessed not everyone had moved in.

A feeling of calm washed over her as she entered the hallway of her new home. Leaving her cabin case at the door, she kicked off her heels and strode across the thick wool carpet through to the living room. She slipped her jacket off and lay it over the back of the sofa, then headed straight to the glass door that opened out onto the balcony. Pushing it open, she stepped outside, taking a lungful of the warm, salty air, the tiles refreshingly cool underfoot. She closed her eyes for a moment, opening them again and slowly releasing her breath. Bliss! Her gaze swept over the panorama, following the broad arc of golden sand, continuing along to the cove that housed Old Micklewick over in the right, and resting on the clutch of higgledy-piggledy fishermen's cottages that were nestled there. It was here where her friend Lark lived in the quaint, but tiny, Seashell Cottage on Smugglers Row. This old part of town was also home to her favourite pub, The Jolly Sailors, and where she'd be venturing to in a couple of hours' time. It was something she was looking forward to enormously. Looming over the cove stood the powerfully majestic Thorncliffe. Its brooding presence signalled the start of the huge line of cliffs that ran along this part of the North Yorkshire Coast, keeping the surging power of the North Sea at bay.

Hearing the sound of her mobile phone ringing, Stella reluctantly pulled herself away from the view and headed back inside, leaving the door open. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her phone to see it was her mum calling.

‘Hi, Mum. How's things?' Stella flopped down onto the large L-shaped sofa, stretching her long legs along its generous proportions.

‘Hello, lovey, not bad thanks. How about you? Have you had a good day?'

‘Put it this way, I'm glad it's Friday.' Stella twirled her ponytail around her fingers, her eyes scanning her new living room.

‘Oh dear, that doesn't sound too good, but at least it's the weekend now.'

‘Yeah, thank goodness.'

‘Anyway, I was just ringing to say that I've spoken to Andrea and let her know you've moved. She'll be cleaning your new place on Monday mornings, same as she did at your other flat, as well as collecting your washing so nothing's changed there. And I've arranged it so she can clean the communal entrance area and the stairs on the same day too; makes sense.' Stella noted her mum had adopted her efficient tone once she'd switched to talk of work.

‘Thanks, Mum. Organised as ever I see.'

‘I just wanted to keep you up-to-speed with everything.' Her mum hesitated a moment. ‘I also wanted to double-check you're still okay to come round for Sunday dinner?' Her voice, usually so sure, suddenly quavered with uncertainty.

‘Course I am. I'm looking forward to it.'

‘Thanks, lovey.' Another pause. ‘I hope you'll like him.'

The sound of traffic floated up from the road through the open balcony door. It was joined by a burst of laughter and the shrieking cry of a seagull.

‘If he's making you happy, Mum, I already do.' Stella desperately wanted to believe her own words but she was still getting her head around the idea of her mum having a man in her life after all these years. It wasn't that she felt threatened or jealous, it was just that it felt different.

Her mother's relief was tangible down the phone line.

This new situation that had apparently softened Alice's usually tough persona was a first for them. Stella couldn't imagine how it would pan out, especially when it went against the steely advice her mum had drilled into her for as long as she could remember. ‘Be independent, Stella. Don't rely on a man for anything, they only end up letting you down… Think twice about living with a man, you don't want him to have any claims on you… Never get emotionally attached to a man,' were amongst the many words of warning Alice Hutton had regularly espoused. Stella had never thought to question her mum or challenge her about her views. After all, she'd grown up in a single-parent home, with no father figure in sight, and she'd felt nothing less than loved and happy and secure. Why would she doubt the person she trusted most in her life?

‘Righty-ho, lovey, I'd best get off. Enjoy yourself with the lasses tonight and I'll see you on Sunday.'

‘Thanks, Mum. You have a fab night too.' Stella ended the call and set her phone down on the coffee table. She gnawed on her bottom lip a moment, lost in her thoughts. She knew her mother was seeing Rhys this evening. Would he be staying over? she wondered. Not that she wanted to dwell too much on that, but it was hard to imagine her mum putting up with anyone else in her home, never mind a boyfriend – if that was the correct term for her gentleman friend. The only people who'd ever been allowed to stay over were Stella's friends when they'd have sleepovers, or if she'd brought a friend home from university. It wasn't anything she'd given much thought to, until now.

Pushing herself up, Stella headed to the kitchen, running a glass of water, gulping it down thirstily.

She would await Sunday and meeting Rhys Baker with great interest.