by M. B. Shaw
‘My darlings! You’re here! Come in, come in. Oh, how gorgeous you all look!’ Ariadne emerged from the house in a thick and rather marvellous woven woollen poncho, a riot of colour and pattern that made her look like Hampshire’s answer to an Inca queen, sweeping first Lottie and then a deliriously groggy Oscar into her arms for a hug. ‘Lorcan’s inside. He’s been waiting all afternoon to give you both one of his Bethlehem star biscuits. You can bake some more together in the morning if you like.’
Jenna and Marcus heaved buggies and suitcases out of the boot as their children ran squealing into the house, as excited as two piglets on speed.
‘You must both be exhausted,’ said Ariadne, hugging Marcus warmly and beaming at Jenna. ‘Come and have some mulled wine. Billy can help unload the car later.’
‘Oh, I can, can I?’
Right on cue, Billy emerged behind his mother, lounging against the front door like a dissolute lizard. God, he looks thin, thought Jenna. Gaunt. She wondered whether that was prison food or the stress of being back home under his parents’ roof at the age of twenty-seven, and with his life in ruins. He’d had to sell his flat to cover his legal costs, after Dom point-blank refused to fund his defence, snorting robustly that Billy was guilty as sin and must face the consequences of his own actions ‘for once’. Jenna knew from Ariadne’s daily calls to Marcus that things with Billy had been tense. But Billy’s sunken eyes and curling upper lip suggested the reality went far beyond that innocuous word.
‘Do I look like a fucking porter?’ he snarled. ‘Let Saint Marcus carry his own bloody bags.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ Ariadne tried and failed to keep her tone light. ‘Poor Marcus and Jenna have been on the road since three. Everyone’s got to muck in.’
Billy glided towards Marcus’s car. Opening his arms, somewhat to Marcus’s surprise after his earlier spiteful outburst, he enveloped his older brother in a hug. Marcus tentatively hugged him back.
‘Good to see you.’
‘You too,’ said Billy.
The words were warm, but over Marcus’s shoulder, Jenna shuddered at the rage she saw glinting in Billy’s eyes. Was he angry at Marcus, specifically, or just life in general? Jenna wasn’t sure, but either way his skinny arms wrapped around Marcus’s broad back suddenly put her in mind of a boa constrictor, choking its prey. Their problems momentarily forgotten, she found herself feeling overwhelmingly protective of Marcus. Get your hands off him, you bastard.
‘Billy, would you help me with this?’ she asked, pulling vainly at the heaviest suitcase.
‘Of course,’ said Billy, releasing Marcus to Jenna’s relief. ‘Anything for my favourite sister-in-law.’ It was uncanny how every word out of his mouth managed to sound like a curse.
‘Thank you.’ Jenna watched him swing the case out of the car one-handed as easily as if it were empty before setting it down softly on the gravel. Thin or not, Billy was incredibly strong.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Yes, darling. Thank you,’ Ariadne echoed, touching a hand lightly on Billy’s back.
Billy spun round as if he’d been branded with a hot poker. ‘Don’t touch me!’ Snarling at his mother like an animal, he stalked back into the house, all pretence at civility gone.
Jenna watched slack-jawed as the blood drained from her mother-in-law’s face. Meanwhile, astonishingly, Marcus pretended not to notice, slipping an arm around his mother’s waist and leading her inside, full of chatter and smiles and merry Christmases, as if the horrifying exchange they’d all just witnessed had never happened.
Another Christmas at the Mill, Jenna thought bitterly. Let the denial begin.
* * *
‘So you heard some strange noises on your way home. You got back to your cottage all right. And when you went upstairs, you found the toy clock on your pillow. Is that right, Ms Grey?’
Iris looked at the police sergeant’s doughy face and realised that, in the nicest possible way, he was dismissing her.
He thinks I’m an hysterical woman. That I’m hearing things. Seeing things.
She’d driven all the way into Winchester to file a formal incident report about what happened last night, but from the moment she sat down, the irritating man on duty had made her feel like a fool.
‘Or to put it another way, Sergeant…’ Damn it. Why am I so awful with names?
‘Trotter,’ he reminded her patronisingly.
‘To put it another way, Sergeant Trotter,’ Iris continued, annoyed, ‘someone broke into my house. Came into my bedroom, without permission or invitation. Invaded my private space with a deeply intimate gift.’
‘The little clock, you mean?’ The policeman raised an eyebrow. Clearly this wasn’t his definition of ‘intimate’.
‘Yes, the clock.’ Iris’s exasperation was getting the better of her. ‘Surely you can see that only somebody who knows me well, or who’s been watching me closely, would know about my interest in doll’s-house furniture? And it’s not the first time it’s happened either.’
Sergeant Trotter rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘You’re referring to the present you found on the doorstep a couple of weeks ago?’
‘The lamp,’ said Iris. ‘Yes.’
Sergeant Trotter leaned back in his chair. He’d been taught in training how to deal with all sorts of people. The great British public came in many different shapes and sizes. He’d already pegged this Grey woman as falling under the categories of ‘posh’ and ‘arty-farty’. Clearly she was making a mountain out of a molehill about the toys that some overzealous admirer had been leaving her. She was a pretty woman – badly dressed but pretty. Short of major mental illness, there was really no excuse for the cardigan with the pink appliquéd horses on it, or for the striped leggings underneath. But despite this, it wasn’t hard to imagine that someone in Hazelford had taken a shine to Iris Grey. Clearly her nervous disposition had misconstrued her admirer’s efforts at playing Secret Santa.
Luckily, Sergeant Trotter was here to offer reassurance and put the situation right.
‘If I might make a couple of observations, Ms Grey,’ he began, pleased with how intelligent and professional he sounded. ‘It’s coming up to Christmas. That’s a time when people like to leave presents, as you know. I daresay some people also think it’s romantic to surprise a lady at Christmas. To “go the extra mile”, as they say.’
‘By breaking and entering?’ Iris’s brown eyes widened.
‘Ah, but that’s the thing,’ said the sergeant. ‘You yourself said there were no signs of forced entry. The main door to the kitchen was locked, but the little door round the back was left open. Isn’t that right?’
‘Well, yes, but only because no one ever uses that door. You have to fight your way through brambles to get to it, and it’s practically wedged shut it’s so stiff.’
Sergeant Trotter spread his hands wide over the desk and smiled at Iris almost pityingly. ‘All I’m saying is, the door was unlocked. Isn’t it possible that some friend or admirer snuck in while you were out for a walk and left you the clock as a nice surprise?’
‘It’s not a “nice surprise” to have a strange man invade your bedroom!’ Iris shouted, getting furiously to her feet. ‘Never mind,’ she snapped. ‘I can see I’m wasting my time.’
‘That’s not true, Ms Grey. You’re welcome to lodge a report if you’d like to,’ said the sergeant calmly.
‘That you’ll file away under “Ignore completely”?’ Iris shot back witheringly. ‘No, thank you, Sergeant. I have better things to do with my time.’
For once this was true. She had a sitting scheduled with Dom Wetherby at five o’clock, and a mountain of emails and admin to do before that, stupid things that she’d been putting off for ever but needed to be finished before Christmas.
Outside the police station, Iris drew her heavy duffel coat more tightly around her and stalked angrily to her car. Useless bloody police. Heaven forbid that a really serious crime should happen out in Hazelford. The
idea that, if it did, Sergeant Trotter and his colleagues would be the men on the case was deeply, deeply disturbing. Like having Chief Wiggum from The Simpsons in charge.
God help us all.
* * *
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ Dom blustered into the study at five fifteen to meet Iris. ‘How awful of me to be late. These bloody parish council meetings are the bane of my life, I tell you. You can never get away. Has anyone offered you a drink?’
Iris smiled. She was used to Dom’s lateness by now, as well as the bonhomie that followed it, like being engulfed in a warm cloud of charm and attention and light. That was her overwhelming impression of her subject so far. Light. When Dom Wetherby walked into a room, any room, he lit it up at once, a veritable meteor of charisma. It could be hard to resist.
‘I’m fine, thanks, very comfortable,’ she said. Her earlier fury at the inept police sergeant who’d taken her statement had dissipated, now that she’d successfully finished all the forms for her driver’s licence renewal (joy!), taken a shower and changed, and made a heroic start at tidying the cluttered cottage kitchen, mess that had been getting her down for days. ‘Besides, I never drink and paint.’
‘Don’t you?’ Dom raised a mischievous eyebrow, pouring himself a dry sherry before assuming his usual spot on the Chesterfield. ‘I often drink and write. Nothing like a decent amontillado to get the old creative juices flowing, I find.’
Iris smiled again. She highly doubted this was true. For all his good humour and easy, flirtatious manner, she suspected Dom was rigidly disciplined about his work. It was his eyes that gave him away. Beneath the generosity and the teasing smiles, there was a steeliness that was almost frightening at times. It was still early days in their sessions together, but Iris was coming to know a man with two distinct sides. A man who was both kind and ferociously ambitious. A man who loved people yet could also be deeply selfish. Get on the wrong side of Dominic Wetherby and his light could burn you, like a too-bright sun.
‘So tell me about the meeting,’ said Iris as she started to paint. She found it easier to work when her subjects were talking. Animation was always better than forced stillness, which looked unnatural.
‘Oh God, it’s so awful. Awful.’ Dom groaned. ‘I know I sound like a terrible snob, but these dreadful Little Englanders with their dreary lives and petty grievances. “My neighbour this” and “The bin men that.” I don’t know how anyone can stand it. Sometimes I think they should all be rounded up and shot.’
Iris laughed. ‘That’s the Christmas spirit! Spoken like a true chairman of the parish council.’
‘I know, I know.’ Dom grinned ruefully. ‘I should never have taken the job.’
‘Why did you?’
He took another long sip of sherry. ‘To see off the developers, mostly.’
‘Developers?’ Iris asked, remembering the conversation she’d overheard in Hazelford Stores and interested to hear Dom’s side of the story.
‘They were a Russian company with operations in Oxford,’ said Dom. ‘I’m not keen on the Russians, as a rule. They’re bullies. Although if I’m honest, I also took the job to irritate that tit Harry Masters. Seriously, if the chip on that man’s shoulder got any bigger, you could build a bloody wardrobe out of it. And the way he leers after Ariadne. It’s pathetic.’
‘You’re jealous?’ Iris looked at him archly. She’d have thought Dom Wetherby far too arrogant to be threatened by the likes of a retired village piano teacher, but apparently not.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Dom purred, fixing her with his most direct, flirtatious stare in return. ‘I know my wife only has eyes for me.’
I highly doubt she can say the same, thought Iris, feeling more and more like a gazelle being eyed up by a lion.
‘You’re looking particularly gorgeous today, by the way,’ said Dom, reading her mind. Or perhaps just playing to the gallery; Iris wasn’t sure which. ‘New sweater?’
‘Yes, actually.’
She hoped she wasn’t blushing. The tight green scooped-neck cashmere she’d changed into after her Winchester trip had been an impulse buy, a cheer-herself-up present after another painful phone call with Ian. It was a lot more muted than her usual attire and it suited her, accentuating her slender arms and drawing attention to her small but buoyant apple breasts. Suddenly, ridiculously, Iris felt as if wearing it might have looked like some sort of come-on to Dom, and wished she were wearing something brighter and baggier, like she usually did.
She quickly changed the subject.
‘I saw Lorcan out in the village yesterday. He was admiring the Christmas tree. Is he getting excited?’
Dom’s face lit up with love. Whatever else he might be, there was no doubt he was a devoted father.
‘“Excited” doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s like a puppy with a new chew toy. Lorcan loooooves Christmas. I think he keeps the magic going for all of us. And, you know, he’s a great comfort to his mother,’ he added, thoughtfully. ‘Especially this year, with Billy back home.’
The mere mention of Billy’s name was enough to drag a cloud into the room. It was obvious to everyone, even Iris, that it was Ariadne who bore the brunt of her son’s anger. But no one at the Mill was immune to Billy’s dark energy, which hung around him like a rotten, sulphurous smell.
‘He hasn’t been bothering you, has he?’ Dom asked Iris, out of the blue.
Iris frowned. ‘Bothering me? No. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason,’ muttered Dom, unconvincingly.
‘I’ve hardly seen him,’ said Iris.
This was a lie. The truth was, she often glimpsed Billy, watching her from one of the upstairs windows in Mill House or hanging around in the shadow of the kitchen wall, shivering and hateful in the bitter winter air, sometimes dressed in little more than a T-shirt. Billy seemed to relish the cold, venturing out into the December weather half dressed, as if seeking out the punishment of a wind-whipped face and frostbitten fingers.
‘It’s a strange thing, having children,’ Dom mused, opening up as the sherry warmed his blood. ‘You give them everything: life, love, a home. And then they grow up and hurt you.’
‘Not always, surely?’ said Iris, her eyes still focused on her canvas.
‘Always,’ said Dom, deadly serious all of a sudden. ‘Some hurt by leaving. Others by staying. Either way, growing up’s a great betrayal.’
Iris kept painting, her brush capturing the fluid curve of Dom’s upper lip as he spoke. What a strange thing to say, she thought.
‘That’s the wonderful thing about Lorcan,’ Dom added, the light rushing back in as quickly as it had been extinguished. ‘He’ll never grow up. He’s our Peter Pan.’
‘Who’s our Peter Pan?’
Ariadne appeared in the study doorway in an apron with bright red cherries printed on it, her hands and forearms and face dusted with flour.
She looks like a poster for domesticity, thought Iris, as Dom beckoned her over and made a great show of pulling her into his lap and kissing her. The Angel in the House.
‘Lorcan,’ said Dom. ‘I was just telling Iris how he’ll never grow up.’
‘Nor will you, apparently,’ Ariadne teased, kissing him indulgently on the top of his head. ‘The chap from the Bentley dealership called earlier to confirm a delivery date. Another new car, Dom?’
‘It’s a Christmas present. From me to me.’
‘It’s two hundred thousand pounds!’
‘I’ve done well at the card table lately.’ Dom shrugged sheepishly. He knew Ariadne disapproved of his poker habit, even if he won. ‘I’ll take you for a spin up Hazelford Hill as soon as it arrives. Rev the engine outside old Harry Masters’ house. See if I can really piss him off. He fancies you something rotten, you know.’
‘Oh, please. You are ridiculous!’ Ariadne blushed. ‘I’m almost sixty years old.’
Dom gazed into her eyes. ‘You’re beautiful.’
Ariadne swatted him away, but Iris could see her positively
basking in the warmth of his affection.
Dom Wetherby did that to people, Iris had noticed, to men as well as women. He made them feel special, like the most important person in the world. With a shock, Iris recognised the unpleasant feeling building in her own chest as envy. Not because she wanted an old roué like Dom Wetherby to love her, but because she wanted somebody to. Ian used to, once. But that was so long ago it no longer felt real. More like a story she half remembered, that had happened to somebody else.
In that moment, watching Dom and Ariadne Wetherby canoodling playfully on the sofa, Iris wished she had what they had. And yet at the same time, she couldn’t completely shake the feeling that she was watching some sort of show. That their entire interaction, ever since Ariadne walked in on the sitting, had been somehow choreographed. Edited for her benefit. She remembered the mask Dom had slipped on at their last sitting, after he’d looked at the text on his phone, and felt her disquiet deepen.
‘I won’t disturb you,’ Ariadne said, getting up and wandering round to Iris’s side of the room to take a peek at her canvas. ‘I was just curious to see how it’s coming along.’
As she bent down, Iris noticed for the first time a faded scar round Ariadne’s left wrist. The flour on her hands made the pinkish-red lines and raised skin stand out, and Iris found herself wondering how Dom’s wife could have come about such a mark. If it were anyone else, she would have suspected youthful cutting or self-harm, but it was impossible to imagine the cool, capable Ariadne Wetherby as the suicidal type, even in a past life.
‘And how is it coming along?’ asked Dom. ‘I promised Iris I wouldn’t look till it’s done. But is she capturing my devilish good looks?’
He’s only half joking, Iris thought, hastily looking away from Ariadne’s scar and refocusing her attention on her subject. Iris liked Dom, but Ariadne had been spot on about his vanity. Iris couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a more self-absorbed man. Which, considering that she was married to Ian McBride, was really saying something.
