‘I think I’ll just go and check up on her if that’s all right?’
‘Of course it is, and when you come down I’ll have the table laid. I’ve a nice raised pie I picked up earlier from the local butchers in Wraysbury.’
‘I’ll only be a tick, you’ve probably told me everything anyway.’
Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the landing in seconds, having to pause to catch his breath, his heart clambering around in his chest like a tap dancer on fast forward. This was an old house. The stairs creaked, as did the floorboards. In fact, everything about the place shouted out old and past it. The walls were a former cream, and just like the halls and rooms below, were marked with the faded echoes of long gone pictures. Everything was bare; bare, lonely and ever so slightly depressing. Here was a house, a house well past its sell by date and yet still struggling to be a home to both Mrs Angent and to Cara, if only she’d accept it.
Slipping off his loafers he sneaked his way in stockinged feet to her room, not really expecting to find her anywhere except tucked up in bed where he’d left her about an hour ago.
But sometimes in life what you expect isn’t what you get. When he’d realised the beautiful woman in the park was teaching Evelyn, he’d envisaged a quick union full of hunger where need met desire in an explosion of passion. The reality of it was a woman racked with pain and a life tainted by shadows from the past. The truth was a woman more likely to walk away than walk into his arms. A woman who, his eyes flickering around the room, wasn’t in the room she was meant to be. A woman who wasn’t in the bed he’d placed her in, his hand on the still warm sheets, the faint aroma of her scent making him sick with fear.
‘What are you doing in my bed?’
Chapter Eleven
She didn’t know why she couldn’t settle. The pain, never more than a whisper away had dimmed to a mere memory. It was the cold, the intense biting cold that had drilled down through her skin and set a chain of reactions culminating in him having to carry her up to bed. But it wasn’t the cold she remembered now, lying there staring at the same ceiling she’d stared at many times before. It wasn’t the yellowing paintwork she looked at as her eyes scrolled over the same grooves and cracks that were all part and parcel of an aging house, just as it wasn’t the wind battling against the mullioned windows that she heard. All she saw was the expression on his face as he berated her, his words still ringing over and over in her ears.
He thought that little of her to tear her apart word by word, and each successive sentence chipped away another slice off her confidence, there being little enough to begin with.
Sitting up, she allowed her eyes to wander over her room, many happy memories hidden amongst the piles of books that still littered every surface. She’d never been one for posters of pop stars, preferring instead an eclectic mix of pictures she’d stockpiled of all the animals she’d used to adopt. As her gaze shifted over the treasures from her childhood, she felt a shift in her judgement. It wasn’t much, hardly noticeable in the scheme of things as she fixed her attention on a picture of her mother. The only photo she’d kept in her room. The only photo she’d kept in her room for all the wrong reasons as she took in her mother and her father on their wedding day.
Standing up, she lifted the silver frame off the shelf, the surprisingly dust free shelf, her fingernail tracing her mother’s auburn hair. They were meant to be mirror images of each other; the hair, the eyes, the same rounded lips with a hint of melancholy in their downturned edges. Did her mother have to put up with strangers telling her to cheer up, day in and day out just because nature had degreed that, in repose, her face looked an unhappy one? Did she have the same difficulty in never being able to get a dress to fit with her size ten waist and size 14 top? Her nail shifted across to her father’s familiar handsome features, so youthful in his top hat and tails. This is the way she wanted to remember them; carefree, happy and in love. But the truth of it was, there’d been very little happiness for them after she’d been born. Turning away, she pulled open the top drawer of her dressing table searching for a different glove, something with fingers because, despite being indoors, the house was still chilly, too chilly.
Her drawer was bare, excepting for the faint smell of lavender from the heart shaped sachet Pauline must have popped in. Shutting it with a slam, she remembered storming out of the house after yet another row with her parents, this time just after the wedding. She couldn’t remember what it had been about and now, staring around the barren remains of her childhood, it was all so senseless. Her father had gone, as had Aaron. All that was left were a couple of embittered women too stubborn to at least try and make their hotchpotch of a relationship work. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, her hand wrapped up in one of the towels Pauline must have left out for her, she felt a glimmer of something, if not guilt then guilt’s best friend, creep up on her.
It wasn’t Pauline that was the embittered old woman. Pauline had offered everything for nothing in return. That’s what adults did for their children, even if she wasn’t technically her child. But she wasn’t a child anymore. She’d left childhood behind and she now knew exactly who was responsible for their screwed up relationship, and it wasn't Pauline.
The throbbing in her heart started, matching the throbbing in her hand as the tears fell; big fat glistening tears of pity, which she wiped away with the corner of the towel. She needed to do something, but what? She needed to do something to at least try and keep her hand warm but there was nothing excepting perhaps a bath, her thoughts now on the old-fashioned claw foot antiquated job situated on the second floor. She had no idea where Pauline would put Matti to sleep but it was bound to be as far away from her room as possible with the memory of Aaron lurking in and around every corner. Aaron, the only man she’d ever brought to the house.
Rushing out the room she hurried up the stairs and, turning left, pattered along the stark corridor wondering just where her boots had gone as bare feet met cold floor. The wave of shivers working their way up from her feet to her ankles and then legs would eventually track up to her arms and were all the more reason for a bath, and as quickly as possible. She burst through the door and, plug in the bottom, turned the hot on full.
The pipes, like old friends, creaked their annoyance at having to do some work for a change but the water, when it finally emerged, was boiling thanks to the Aga. With her hands now trailing the water, the heat like magic dissolved any lingering remnants of the ache that never seemed to leave. She watched the water swirling around her fingers, her palm distorting and stretching, turning ugly into a freak show.
But she wouldn’t allow that to worry her as she squeezed any last vestige of grief back where it belonged, locked in that safe place she’d also sequestered any hopes of ever being a concert pianist.
The bath now half-full, she stripped down to her undies, searching for something to help her with her hair. Being one handed had other disadvantages. She had to give up on wearing those fancy bras with fiddly hooks, instead opting for over the head jobs, which usually came in boring white or black. In fact, all hooks and buttons were now as complicated as a child learning to tie their laces for the first time. She did have some use in her fingers but not enough for them to be of any real use except with the simplest of tasks. But hair washing? Hair washing invariably took two hands. Chopping it off still wasn't an option because she’d still have to wash it. She’d still have to dry it. She’d still have to brush it.
That’s why going to the hairdresser, something that used to be a luxury, was now an essential. In New York she’d found a little independent hairdresser along East 23rd and visited her twice a week for a quick wash and blow dry. In between times, she just bundled it up in one of those messy buns and forgot about it.
Standing there freezing wasn’t helping. She could borrow Pauline’s shampoo and soap and she already had a towel but she needed some kind of jug for her hair; something near to hand and not too heavy as her good hand was far from s
trong. Dragging the thin dressing from behind the door she hurried back to her room in search of the beaker beside her bed, which would do just fine.
Chapter Twelve
‘I asked you what you were doing in my..?’
‘I heard you the first time,’ he said, turning and taking in the sight of her wrapped in the thinnest of wraps, her hair all over the place and her hand wrapped in a towel. He ignored the fact she looked good enough to eat, the outline of her body clearly defined under the robe, or at least he ignored it then. It was something to savour in the privacy of his own bedroom when the time was right and, standing there with his hand on her bed clearly wasn’t the right time. ‘I, er, we were worried about you. I was just seeing if the bed was warm,’ which might be the truth but sounded feeble even to his ears.
‘Oh, well I-’ She met his eyes briefly before brushing past him to reach for the glass. ‘Sorry I-’ she shook her head with a brief smile. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s the cold that does it. I should have realised. The surgeon told me to always wear gloves…’
‘Oh my God, and I took them off you,’ his own hand reaching into his pocket to produce them.
‘You weren’t to know, and anyway it’s not as if they’re fur lined; more of a fashion accessory if anything. I’ll have to get some fleecy ones as soon as this blasted snow stops. Anyway,’ she added. ‘I was just getting my glass. A hot bath is the best thing at the moment; a hot bath and bed.’
He’d like to say the obvious, but she probably wouldn’t appreciate it. He was lucky she was still talking to him, the amount of pain he’d just caused her. And all he’d been trying to do was help.
Following her out the room, he made his way to the top of the stairs, only to pause, one hand on the curved newel post. ‘Excuse the dumb question but why do you need a glass if you’re having a bath?’ his eyebrows arched.
She looked at her hand before meeting his stare. ‘Have you ever tried to wash your hair with one hand?’
‘Oh, I didn’t think… I could always help, it’s the least I can do.’
‘Yeah, right. As if I’d allow you.’
She looked more amused than offended, which was good because the offer had been a genuine one. He’d already caused her enough pain to keep the pharmaceutical companies whooping with joy, he wasn’t in the game of causing her any more.
Crossing the landing and placing both hands on her shoulders, he stared down into her face, keeping his eyes well and truly averted from her mouth, those pouting lips like twin beacons drawing him in like pirates of old. If he lowered his gaze even an inch he’d be lost just like the thousands of shipwrecked sailors that littered the coastline off Cape Cod.
‘It’s a genuine offer, Cara. Remember I was married and I’m a dad. I’m not interested in seducing vulnerable women, especially not in their stepmother’s house. Pauline’s only heating up soup for supper. She could bounce up those stairs any minute to see what’s happened to me.’
‘But she won’t.’
‘Why won’t she?’ His voice confused.
‘Because she likes and trusts you and so do I,’ she added, pulling away before reaching out for his hand. ‘Come on then, but no peeking mind and there are ground rules.’
‘Ground rules?’ he repeated.
‘Ground rules,’ she affirmed with a nod of her head. ‘Ground rule number 1: no touching anything apart from my hair.’
‘What about your scalp, I don’t think I can…?’
‘You know what I mean! Ground rule number 2,’ her voice disappeared leaving a frown in its place. ‘You’re a lawyer, lawyers are sneaky critters,’ she mused with a sigh. ‘Okay, ground rule number 2 is the same as number 1 because I want to see what you’re made of Mr Hot Shot Lawyer. So to spell it out, number 2 is you finishing the job without allowing yourself to wander from the task in hand.’
‘Finishing the job?’ His eyes wide as all sorts of ideas; ideas normally reserved for the privacy of his own room took hold and multiplied like microorganisms on a petri dish.
‘Yes, finish the job. You know, hair drier and brush.’ She smiled up at him, a smile so sweet he’d have fallen at her feet if he hadn’t been there already. He was pushing his luck helping her in the bath; the feel of those lustrous strands flowing through his fingers and he’d be a drowned man.
‘I’m not sure I’m any good at the drying bit, I’ll ruin it.’
‘No you won’t, and anyway, anything’s better than me doing it. Come on now, the bath water’s getting cold.’
‘Did you want me to turn my…’ But he needn’t have bothered as he watched her drop the robe and step into the bath. If he’d blinked, he’d have missed it - lucky he hadn’t blinked!
‘I used to go to an all-girls school. Nudity is only a state of mind, although I’ll keep my underwear. It’s only because you’re Evelyn’s dad, you understand, otherwise I wouldn’t give a toss.’
‘Of course,’ he croaked, trying to hide the sudden hoarseness at the back of his throat with a little cough. She’d submerged her head under the water so with a bit of luck she hadn’t heard. Trying to keep his eyes averted from anything but the task in hand was impossible so he didn’t even try.
His eyes roamed over her body, clad in sturdy plain bra and pants totally unlike what he’d imagined. He’d though all women wore the expensive lacy kind but hers were industrial white with barely a hint of lace to offset the starkness of the cotton fabric. He liked them, they suited her.
‘Shampoo’s on the shelf over the sink,’ her voice interrupting his thoughts. ‘Just in case you were looking for it?’
He gave her a sharp glance but found her eyes closed, her lips pulled into a teasing smile.
Damn her, she knew he’d been looking, but what man wouldn’t? No man he knew, except perhaps that bloke that worked in accounts he’d found in the men’s loos last week changing out of his suit and into something tight and leopard skin. He’d said he’d been heading out to a fancy dress party but he wasn’t so sure he believed him. He could sort of believe the dress but the six inch heels he’d slipped into with all the finesse of a street walker told of a very different story; a story he wasn’t prepared to hear the end of, so he’d retreated out backwards and hightailed it to the gents on the floor above.
A dollop of shampoo in his palms, he tried to forget there was a near naked woman lying in front of him as he started to massage her head, very much in the way he’d massaged Evelyn’s scalp all those years ago.
‘Harder, Matti, I’m not a child, you know.’
There wasn’t any answer to that, or at least not one that wouldn’t get him into hot water, his eyes wandering again across her skin only to pause on her arm and the red scaring right up to her elbow.
This was a woman who deserved quite a lot more than what he was giving her. This wasn’t some cheap thrill and this certainly wasn't some cheap woman, as he remembered Pauline’s words. This was a hero in very sense of the word. A hero, or heroine if you like, who’d put everyone first and had suffered life changing injuries because of it.
Grabbing the glass like a weapon or perhaps a shield, he warned her what he was going to do and quickly rinsed off any remaining soap, his eyes now trained on the wall opposite.
‘I’ll meet you back in your room,’ he said, his gaze still averted. ‘I’ll tell Pauline we’ll be down shortly, once I’ve sorted out that mop of yours.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Hey, it’s not a mop.’ But she was speaking to a closed door. She let out a laugh. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was running away - too bad for him, especially as it was about to get interesting as she flung her underwear across the floor and finished washing herself in peace. Climbing out the bath and wrapping a towel around her, she placed the dressing gown on top before draining the bath. Bending down to pick up her bra and pants, she arranged them on the heated towel rail, the only part of the room that was actually warm.
Hurrying back to her room, she
found him sitting on the end of her bed with a mug of tea held out.
‘Oh God, you’re a life saver. Why the hell doesn’t she have the heaters on I don’t know,’ she added, holding the mug up to her lips.
‘Because that takes money and, as you must know, your stepmother doesn’t have any.’
‘Doesn’t have any? What do you mean doesn’t have any? Dad left her everything in the will; of course she’s got money.’ Sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, she rummaged in her bag he must have brought up, before pulling out a wide-toothed comb and a hair bobble. ‘I never did ask you why you’re here.’ Holding the comb in her good palm she ran her fingers over the teeth one by one.’ Why are you here, Matti?’ her eyes finally meeting his.
‘I, I can’t really say.’
‘Okay you can’t say. I’ll just go downstairs and ask her myself.’
‘You can’t do…’
‘Why can’t I? After all, you keep reminding me she’s my stepmother and that I need to be nicer to her.’
‘Cara, I.’
‘Sorry, Matti, did I hear you wrong earlier in the lounge? That’s what you meant, right?’
Standing up, she gathered together her clothes in a pile and, without another word, tore off her dressing gown, letting the towel drop to the floor. She ignored his sharp intake of breath. In fact, she ignored him completely as she finally managed to pull on her socks. She never felt completely dressed without underwear but as there was little she could do on that score... Running the towel over her stomach and chest where her hair was dripping, she dragged her dress over her head before rooting around for her boots and heading for the door. Only then did she turn to find him staring at the window.
‘Are you coming or is the view from the window that riveting,’ her eyes shifting to the brown curtains she’d dragged across in an effort to keep the draft out.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 44
