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It’s another hectic Monday morning in the Hardy-Miller kitchen, underscored by the clatter of plates and cups and bowls and flatware, and the gurgle and hum of the Keurig. David Barrett is munching on toast, grousing nearly inaudibly regarding some news story he’s skimming on his mobile. The man has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, but his reading is thus far unimpaired—as is his ability to whinge about the latest political outrage scrolling past on his little screen.
Fred’s absorbed in a tattered Spider-Man comic, silently spooning up cornflakes. His new Broadchurch Secondary jumper, navy blue over a crisp white shirt and striped tie, is a bit of a shock to his mum after years of seeing him in Broadchurch Primary’s forest green. Isobel—wearing one of Fred’s baggy hand-me-down jumpers, and a white polo shirt, and a grey box-pleat skirt—is toying with her scrambled eggs and wittering on about her new teacher. Only a week into Year Two, the little girl has developed an obvious crush on Miss Campbell.
Alec is quiet, making only brief responses to his daughter's bubbly comments, sipping his coffee and frowning at the overcast sky outside the window. Ellie's not surprised; her husband and partner has has never been much of a morning person.
She reviews the calendar on her mobile while steadily consuming her customary bowl of Weetabix. Izzy is scheduled for a speech and language evaluation with her Down Syndrome specialist in Poole on Tuesday afternoon; Ellie reminds herself that Miss Campbell will need a note about the early pickup. There’s a mandatory orientation meeting for the Year 7 parents at Fred’s school on Thursday evening. Fred has just begun his first year at Broadchurch Secondary, but Ellie is familiar with the place from her experiences with Tom. It’s been a long time since Tom attended secondary, though. Good Lord, she muses—he'll be 22 in a few months. Who knows what’s changed at the school since he was 17?
Ellie quickly checks the David-care schedule for the week, making sure it’s all straight in her head. Callie Carlson is on the rota today; the retired DI, now a family friend, tends to prefer Mondays. Lucy’s taking dad-duty tomorrow; she’ll be handling David’s trip to the dentist in Dorchester. On Wednesday, Kenny Stroud, David’s close mate and snooker competitor from The King’s Arms, will spend the day at their house. Alec will drive his father-in-law to his weekly day programme in Weymouth on Thursday, and on Friday, Marla Telford—their longtime babysitter, now mostly a David-sitter—will be in to tidy the house and do laundry while making sure the old man stays in line.
They’re blessed with volunteers, as well as the stalwart Marla, but having so many people involved in David’s care can pose quite the organisational challenge. Ellie periodically wonders if it wouldn’t be easier to shift completely to work-from-home, and perhaps cut back her hours, or even quit. But deep down, she knows it would be a terrible idea. For the sake of her sanity, she needs the time away from the house: working with Alec investigating cold cases for NCA, living her “competent professional adult” life as opposed to her “beleaguered carer and mum” life.
“Hey,” Alec murmurs, leaning over and placing a hand on her knee.
Ellie jumps.
“Sorry, Miller. You’re a million miles away. You all right?"
She laces her fingers through his and looks up into his scruffy, serious face. His concern for her is palpable, as it has been during this whole challenging year. She suddenly wants to snog his face half off and deliver some soppy words about how much she appreciates him. But now’s not the moment.
“I’m fine,” she says instead, giving him a smile, which prompts one in return. “Just trying to keep all the balls in the air. Bit of a struggle sometimes.”
“Aye. But you’re pretty brilliant at it.”
Alec checks his watch, gulps the last of his coffee, and rises and puts his dishes in the dishwasher. “School clock’s tickin’, kiddos,” he announces. “Finish up and get your things.”
Ten minutes later, the usual flurry with backpacks and jackets is under way in the bungalow’s small foyer. It’s warm outside, for September, but it’s drizzling. Callie has arrived and escorted David to his attached “granny annexe” flat. She’ll brew a fresh pot of coffee for the two of them, and discuss what he might like to watch on telly and what he’s going to want for lunch.
Alec dons his trusty grey mac; Ellie’s already wearing her ancient orange jacket, with her big leather bag slung across her chest per usual.
“Mum, mum,” Izzy cries, tugging at Ellie’s sleeve. “I forgot to—”
Rrrrrrrrip.
The four of them stare, momentarily stunned into silence. A foot-long vertical tear has appeared in the left sleeve of the venerable garment. Elle twists her head and pulls down the cuff with her right hand, taking a closer look. It’s not just a ripped seam; the worn fabric has given way, exposing the thin grey lining.
“Shit,” she says, percussively. “Bloody hell.”
“Oh, mum,” Izzy whispers. “Oh, mum. I’m sorry, mum. I didn’t mean to.”
The sensitive child’s eyes are filling with tears.
Ellie squats, getting herself eye-to-eye with her daughter. Pulling Izzy’s long, strawberry blonde hair out of the collar of her anorak, she smiles and kisses the girl’s forehead.
“Don’t worry, little love. Of course you didn’t. It’s an old jacket. Bound to happen sooner or later. I’ll just have to get a new one. No need to cry, sweetheart.”
“Not mendable?” Alec asks, scooting around Fred so he can assess the damage. It’s getting progressively harder for Fred’s parents to look over his head; Ellie can only manage it on tiptoe, now, and she thinks Fred might ultimately outstrip Alec in height.
“Probably not,” she replies, giving Isobel a quick hug and then standing. “The fabric’s knackered; it would just rip again. The elastic in the cuffs gave up a while ago. The zip keeps jamming, too. It’s all right. Nothing lasts forever.”
Fred opens the front door. “Thought that thing might, though,” he says. “Kind of hard to imagine you without it.”
The boy heads for the car, but Izzy pauses in the doorway, looking sadly back at her parents, her regret evident.
“I’m sorry, mum,” she says once more.
Alec smooths his daughter’s hair with a gentle hand. “Don’t fash yourself, darlin’. We’ll buy mum a nice new jacket. Maybe you can help her pick it out.”
Ellie nods. “That’s right, lovey. Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big thing. Go on, we’ll be late.”
“Okay!” the girl shouts with a grateful grin. She runs to the sedan, and Ellie follows, clicking open the doors with her key fob. Both of the kids climb in while Alec locks the front door.
The subject of the jacket doesn’t come up again until the children have been safely deposited at their respective schools. The drop-off takes longer, these days, because the buildings are more than a mile apart. Ellie’s already missing the ease of having both children in the same place.
She’s tempted to suggest a stop at Broadchurch Bakery for pastries; she has a yen for custard tarts, by way of compensation for the morning’s trials. But she didn’t like the numbers on the scale yesterday, so she merely glances longingly at the goodies behind the plate-glass window as she drives down the high street, wishing for the umpteenth time that she could give her too-thin husband some sort of fat transplant.
The dashboard clock reads 9:06. They’re usually at the office by now, but they’ve been delayed by a playground discussion with Alice Neeley, Izzy’s Learning Support Assistant, regarding the child’s possible need for new glasses. Ellie makes yet another a mental note: “Optometrist appointment.”
Steering the sedan into the car park behind the Wessex Police building, she tries to shift herself into work mode. She and Alec should have a serious discussion this morning regarding their next priority cold cases. They’ve been arguing the relative merits of a dozen possibilities on NCA’s hot list for the past week; they need to make a definite selection soon, or Emily Watson, their supervisor, will be ringing them up to demand a status report in that cordial-but-irked tone they know so well.
Ellie scans for a good parking spot, her brain ping-ponging. Alec needs to try on his good black suit sometime soon. If he’s going to stand up with Paul Coates—former Broadchurch vicar, now director of a Bristol halfway house—when the man marries Holly Patel next month, he needs to look decent. Ellie’s not positive Alec’s wedding suit will fit without alterations, and she doesn’t know what she’s going to wear, either. She’s already worn her own wedding dress, a coral sheath in frosty silk shantung, to two other weddings. Ellie is a bit tired of it, and, alas, it’s also now rather tight. Maybe it’s time for something new.
Her husband has been silent since they left Broadchurch Primary. He speaks up as she pulls into a space.
“Sorry about your jacket, El,” he says, reaching over to glide his hand down the ragged rip.
“Yeah. Ta.”
Ellie is ashamed by how gutted she feels about saying goodbye to this garment. It’s just a jacket, after all. She shuts off the ignition.
“End of an era,” Alec comments, soberly. She appreciates that he’s not making a joke about it. He merely sits and looks at her, waiting, not getting out of the car.
“Did I ever tell you why I bought it?”
“Nah. Don’t think so. Think I’d remember that.”
“Tom was little. Younger than Izzy is now, even. Reception Year. Joe was still an EMT. I was a PC here already, but starting to think about becoming a detective. And Fred—it was obviously before Fred.”
Alec nods. “So …. 2008, 2009, somethin’ like that?”
She calculates for a second. “Yeah. Seems like forever ago. Seems like yesterday. Anyway … Tom was little, and he was anxious. Like Joe could be, sometimes. You remember.”
"Aye." Alec tends to avoid the subject of Tom Hardy-Miller’s similarity to his biological father.
“So,” Ellie begins again. “Tom was nervous about school, the dropping off and the picking up. Eventually he made friends and it stopped being a problem, but at the beginning? It freaked him out, a bit. He was always worried he wouldn’t be able to find me, or I’d be late and he’d be waiting alone. I finally bought this thing so he’d be able to spot me right away in a crowd of other parents. I was the only mum who looked like a Sharpie marker.”
“Interestin’,” says Alec. “I had no idea. Just thought you might have a thing for orange. I thought it was a bit over the top, for a copper, at the beginnin’. But still. Gutsy. I’ve got used to it, since.”
Ellie laughs. “I do not have any kind of a thing for orange. Hardy. I don’t own any other orange clothing, except for my wedding dress. And that's not even really orange. Not like this. I mean, I’ve got used to it, too. But in the beginning, I just did it for Tom. I was a little embarrassed, but I cared more about making him feel safe than about any of that. And then after a while …. it was just my jacket. I didn’t think of buying another one as long as this one was doing the job. Too many other things to think about.”
“Aye.”
Alec smiles at her, and he exits the sedan and comes around to the driver’s side and opens her door, standing in front of it as she climbs out. Neither of them elaborates on the “many other things,” but the weight of them hangs in the air as they face each other. So much has happened since she acquired that jacket.
“We should have a bit of a funeral for it,” Alec suggests, placing his hands on her shoulders, squeezing the fabric. “Stage a ceremonial cremation in the back garden. Say a few words and bury the remains with honours under the Japanese maple.”
“Wanker,” she says. “It’s polyester. It’d probably just melt.” But she’s grinning.
Alec takes her in his arms, apparently not caring that a few stragglers are still pulling into the police car park. He kisses her head; moisture from the mist is collecting on her springy curls.
“Love you, Miller,” he says. “No matter what you’re wearin’. Or not wearin’.”
She rests her head on his shoulder, thinking that, as much as she adores Fred and Izzy, Alec Hardy is absolutely the best thing that’s happened to her since that long-ago morning when she stood in a shop in Yeovil, perusing dozens of jackets before reaching for the only orange one on the rack.
Alec squeezes her, and she pulls his head down and kisses his mouth just once, lightly, before patting his cheek and then releasing him.
“I love you too, you big twat,” she says. “C’mon. Let’s go in. You can make me a cuppa.”
***
It’s a bit after half-nine on a cold Thursday night in October. Ellie’s attending to the weekend packing while Alec wraps up the bedtime routine with the kids. Paul’s wedding isn’t until Saturday, but because Alec is standing as best man, they have to be in Bristol tomorrow afternoon for the rehearsal.
It’s taken a while to arrange childcare and David-care for the long weekend. Lucy’s driving her dad over to Exeter tomorrow morning to stay with his sister, Ellie’s Aunt Bettina, for several days. Fred’s spending the night with his best mate Mickey on Friday and his Aunt Lucy on Saturday. Mark and Beth will take Isobel for the whole weekend; outside the immediate family, they’re the child’s favourite people, and she and Lizzie Latimer play well together.
Ellie’s looking forward to the wedding. In her opinion, Paul Coates deserves all the happiness he can get, including this unexpected midlife love match with Holly, a young widow with a toddler son.
She’s looking forward even more to spending a couple of nights alone with her spouse. Their hotel, Berwick Lodge, is a huge brick pile, very High Victorian according to the website photos, with décor just this side of camp and impressively large beds and bathtubs. She plans to take full advantage of both.
Ellie hangs Alec’s suit and dress shirt on the back of the bedroom door and works the garment bag around them, rolling up his plain grey silk tie and tucking it into one of his black leather shoes, which she then inserts into a shoe compartment. She slips her seldom-worn black slingback heels into the other shoe compartment, then hangs her new emerald green velvet dress in front of the suit. It’s a fit-and-flare style, somewhat retro, with a low sweetheart neckline and three-quarter sleeves. The cut emphasises her best features and masks some of those she’s less fond of. Ellie knows Alec likes this colour on her, and she’s eager to show off the dress, when the time comes.
Glancing over at the bed, she frowns at the suitcase the two of them will share for the short trip. She’s already packed her things, except for her toiletries and slippers and dressing gown, but his side is annoyingly empty. Her husband is supposed to be taking care of his own stuff, and she asked him to sort it right after supper, which he obviously hasn’t done. She suspects she’ll end up doing most of it, regardless.
As if on cue, Alec comes through the door, clutching a squishy parcel. It’s a little larger than a loaf of bread, wrapped in white plastic with a big mailing label stuck on. Ellie raises her eyebrows at him, but all she says is, “Kids go down okay?”
“Aye. Fred’s readin’ in bed, but he’s fadin’. Izzy fell asleep halfway through the chapter we were on. The one where they’re havin’ supper with the beavers.”
Alec’s in the midst of his second attempt at reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe to Isobel. He tried earlier this year but quickly decided it was a bit too old for her; at seven (eight, in a few months), their daughter’s cognitive level is more like that of a six-year-old.
“Ah, well,” says Ellie. “Long as they’ve both got their teeth brushed and homework finished. The beavers and the Pevensies can wait.”
“Aye. All good.”
He’s facing her across the room, his expression unreadable. She wonders if he’s feeling guilty regarding the packing, or just fighting basic procrastination, or … who knows what? They’ve had a stressful day at work, helping CID wrap up an urgent missing persons case. They’re both tired. She wants to finish this so they can get to bed early, or at least, early-ish. It’s only a couple hours’ drive to Bristol, but they’ll still have all the morning hassle of making sure the kids and her dad have everything they need for the weekend, and the school drop-off, and liaising with Mickey’s parents and the Latimers, and the hand-off of her dad to Lucy. Ellie’s made an actual physical checklist; it’s far too much for mental notes. She’s weary just thinking about it.
“What is that?” she asks, pointing at the parcel rather than nagging Alec about the suitcase. She wonders if he’s bought himself new underwear, or decided to surprise her with some sexy lingerie. It’s been donkey’s years since he’s done either.
Alec hands it to her. He’s already cut the tape so she doesn’t have to search for scissors.
“Just a little thing. Thought you might want it in Bristol. Supposed to be chilly up there this weekend.”
Ellie wastes no time opening the package. Her eyes widen as she perceives what’s inside.
“Oh, it can't really be—”
But it is. It’s her orange jacket. Not hers, of course; that jacket is folded up in her bottom drawer. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to discard it, though she’s no longer wearing it.
Extracting the garment from the package, she shakes it out, confirming that it's identical to her beloved jacket in cut, colour, size. This jacket's clearly not new, but it seems to be in very good condition. The previous owner must not have worn it much.
Alec is grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat, but he’s also looking rather shy.
“eBay,” he says. “Been searchin’ for weeks. The right one finally came up.”
“Oh, you daft git,” she breathes.
“You don’t have to wear it, Miller. It was just an idea. It’s fine if you’re not interested anymore. Know orange isn’t really your—”
Ellie tosses the jacket and its bag onto the bed and practically runs across the room, stopping his words with a close-mouthed but emphatic kiss, then giving him a peck on each cheek for good measure. She’s laughing, but she’s also inexplicably teary.
“You twat,” she says. “You dear, clever man. Of course I’ll wear it. I can’t believe you found it.”
“eBay,” he says again, shrugging. “It’s amazin’ what you can find on there.”
“Amazing,” she agrees.
“Aye. You honestly don’t have to wear it, though, El. I won’t be hurt.”
“Oh, shut up. Just shut up. Of course I want to wear it. I loved that silly thing. I’ve been missing it. I’m definitely going to wear it.”
“Good. Because I’m like wee Tom. I like to know where you are.”
He smiles, and he puts his arms around her and kisses her quite tenderly. It’s the sort of kiss that makes her feel floaty and free and deeply grateful for the man. She would shove him onto the bed and have her way with him if she weren’t so bloody tired, not to mention keyed up regarding logistics. But the weekend’s almost here. Two nights alone together in that posh Victorian place, with the big bathtubs and big beds. And a wedding, to boot, which will doubtless make them sentimental and soft for each other.
Ellie can hardly wait.
“You know I love you a ridiculous amount,” she murmurs, reluctantly withdrawing from the kiss, pushing back his floppy hair. “You and your mad eBay skills.”
He chuckles. “Good. Good. I love you, too. I trust you’re goin’ t’be modellin’ that for me this weekend.”
“Yup. I promise. I’ll parade around the hotel room in it, with nothing else on. Just don’t damage it when you rip it off. Pack your things, please.”
The chuckle turns into a real laugh, and Alec squeezes her tightly before letting her go. Crossing to the chest of drawers, he begins to remove pants and socks and tee shirts, shifting them to form neat piles in the suitcase.
“I’ll exercise due caution,” he assures her. “Restrain my ardour. Wouldn’t want to tear it. Might never be able to find another one. Even eBay has its limitations.”
“Yeah. Quite right. Only not too much restraint, please. That’d be no fun.”
He pauses his packing to give her the patented Alec Hardy leer. Ellie loves that look.
“Oh, we’re goin’ to have fun, Eleanor. Fun is definitely goin’ to happen, if you stick with the agenda. I’m a cultured man. Able to appreciate a woman modellin’ vintage couture.”
She snorts, but he just keeps going.
“I appreciate classic fashion,” he grins. “Not to mention beautiful women.”
“I see. Impressive. How many women?”
“Just one woman, I guess,” he says, resuming his packing, clearly pleased with himself. “One, in particular. My favourite. And she looks absolutely spectacular in orange.”
Ellie can't seem to stop smiling, and she's now reconsidering whether she’s all that tired. Her husband is being idiotically sweet, and that kiss was so delicious. Maybe she wants more. Maybe she's getting a second wind. Tomorrow night suddenly seems entirely too far away.
“Alec? You can stop what you’re doing, now.”
“Aye?” He straightens up, concerned. “What? Somethin’ wrong with my packin’ technique?”
She shakes her head, beginning to move languidly towards him, maintaining eye contact all the while.
"Somethin' on your mind, Miller?" His expression is morphing from baffled to hopeful.
She reaches for the jacket.
“Everything’s brilliant, my darling," she says. "Everything's lovely. Just take that suitcase off the bed, please. And then I think you should lock the door.”