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what?’ he asked suspiciously.

      ‘We need a plan.’

      ‘We?’ Benedict said. As he plodded over to the counter, to lean against it, he felt like his feet were coated in tar. ‘Need a plan?’

      ‘Yes. A plan. An operation…to win Estelle back. Hey, Operation Win Estelle Back, that spells WEB. Well, OWEB really, but that doesn’t sound as cool.’

      ‘WEB?’ Benedict repeated, feeling both scared and intrigued at the same time.

      ‘Yes. WEB. You need a plan to get your wife back, Uncle Ben. And you need my help to do it.’

6. Peridot

       protection, emotional balance, renewal

      Benedict could kill for a chocolate éclair, or a slice of lemon drizzle cake. He wanted to eat and take his mind off Estelle. The sugar might stop his directionless thoughts from whirring around in his mind.

      When Gemma tried to show him her purchases from Deserted Dogs, he scrambled in his head for an excuse to go into the kitchen and search through the cupboards for a stray bar of chocolate. However, his niece would probably be like a sniffer hound and know what he was up to.

      He decided to slump on the sofa and let her chatter wash over him.

      ‘I got some cool stuff. Here’s this cute red dress and a plaid skirt. Oh, and a leather bag with lots of pockets. There was a box full of expensive underwear and pantyhose. It was all new, with the tags on and everything. I got us some good food too. Fruit. I put it in the fridge.’

      ‘Lovely,’ Benedict said. He pondered about what he could have said to Estelle, in the shop. Perhaps he should have introduced Gemma…

      Gemma shook out a pair of jeans and tried to hoist them on over her cowboy boots, managing to only pull them up to her ankles before they got stuck. She slid her legs back out and the boots remained jammed in the trouser legs. ‘I’ll show you these ones later.’

      ‘That’s fine.’

      She tugged out her boots and dropped them to the floor with a couple of thuds. ‘Are you even listening to me, Uncle Ben?’

      ‘I am,’ Benedict lied. ‘You’ve bought some nice things. Well done.’

      Gemma gave a small low growl, like Lord Puss when he saw another cat.

      ‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands. ‘I was thinking of other stuff.’

      ‘About Estelle, right? And my dad, I bet.’ Gemma folded up her clothes into neat squares and set them on the armchair.

      She sounded dismayed, but there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Both. Now, will you write down Charlie’s address for me?’

      ‘You don’t need it. I texted him before I lost my phone.’

      ‘I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you again. Can you remember any other phone numbers, so we can get a message to him?’

      Gemma’s pointed eyebrows twitched upwards. ‘Nope.’

      ‘Then I’ll have to write.’ Benedict picked up a pen and scrap of paper from the table and handed them to her. ‘Scribble down his address.’

      Gemma flicked her hair, but she wrote on the paper and tossed it back to him.

      ‘Sunnyside Farm,’ he read. ‘North Maine’.

      The words made him feel a little calmer. He finally had a name, a place and a way to get in touch with Charlie, even if it was by letter. He smiled at Gemma, but her face was screwed into a scowl.

      He addressed the envelope then added his own details, his phone number and email address to the top. Stuck for what to write, he brushed away a speck of imaginary dust from the paper with the side of his hand. Gemma peered over his shoulder, so Benedict couldn’t write about his real feelings and worries and regrets, and he kept the letter short.

       Dear Charlie

       This is just a small note to let you know that Gemma arrived here safe and sound. I understand that she texted you to let you know, but I thought that you might like to hear it from me, too. Unfortunately, she’s lost her phone so we don’t have your number to call you.

       We’ve agreed that she’ll stay for a few days, maybe longer, depending on what you’re happy with. I’ll help her out all I can; however, it would be useful if you could contact me as soon as you can, so we can discuss her next moves. I’ll keep this letter short and sweet, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

      Then he added:

       I hope you are well. Best wishes from your brother, Benedict

      ‘That sounds okay,’ Gemma said. ‘You’ll need an airmail stamp.’

      ‘I’ve got one, from when Estelle writes to her friend Veronica.’ He sealed the letter into an envelope and set it on the kitchen table. ‘Done.’

      Gemma idly picked up her new bag. She unzipped its many pockets and peered into them. ‘So, why did Estelle leave you? You’re not such a bad guy.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Is it because of your…size?’

      Benedict sucked in his stomach. In the ten years they’d been married, Estelle had never mentioned his weight as an issue. ‘No.’

      ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘So, she’s just gone?’

      Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you don’t have any children?’

      It never ceased to amaze Benedict how often questions about kids rolled off people’s tongues, as if they had no other dialogue in their heads.

      ‘So, when will we hear the patter of tiny feet for the two of you?’ Margarita Ganza had asked Estelle as she picked up a bunch of withering daffodils outside Floribunda.

      Ryan often told Benedict stories about his kids, over a pint at the pub. He finished his tales with a knowing, ‘You have all this to come, Benedict.’

      ‘No,’ Benedict said. ‘We don’t have any kids.’

      ‘Don’t you want them?’

      He didn’t want to discuss this. His niece seemed to hook on to things like a prickly burr on a woollen sweater.

      ‘I think that having children is probably overrated, anyway,’ she said, before he could answer. ‘It’s a big responsibility. Do you and Estelle…?’

      Benedict didn’t want to answer another question about the family he and Estelle didn’t have, so he tried to think of something, anything, to change her path of conversation. ‘So, you want to look in the attic for your grandfather’s gemstone journal?’ he asked brightly. ‘Shall we go up there now?’

      Benedict stored the metre-long stick with the hook on the end, under his bed. It had been there, unused, for at least five years. The last time he ventured into the attic was when rainwater had leaked through the ceiling into the master bedroom. He had gone up through the hatch and patched up the hole in the roof, walking around his parents’ wooden chest and pretending it wasn’t there. Even a glimpse of the dark, curved box could make him feel shivery with emotion.

      His parents had brought it home from one of their trips overseas. Benedict and Charlie used to pretend that it was a pirates’ chest and they crawled around it with plastic cutlasses clenched between their teeth.

      When his mum and dad died, Benedict didn’t want the chest in the house any longer, but he couldn’t bear to get rid of it either so he gathered together their tools and belongings and stored them away in the attic.

      In

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