‘At the table in the corner.’
Following the direction of his nod, she studied the couple indicated, recognizing the lean, rather bony face and pale hair. ‘Yes, so it is. Small world. His wife looks attractive; I look forward to meeting her.’
‘They seem very engrossed in each other.’
Rona smiled. ‘Perhaps that’s what people have been thinking about us.’
He smiled back, his hand closing over hers. ‘And they’d be quite right. Happy birthday, my darling, and many more.’
‘Amen to that,’ she said.
Three
Lindsey had forgotten how much she loved France. They hadn’t, as she’d expected, flown to Paris, but landed in a field outside a small village in Normandy. She’d not associated Dominic with rustic pursuits, and, seeing her surprise, he offered an explanation.
‘We’re here because a few miles down the road is one of the best restaurants in France. I thought we could amuse ourselves bucolically during the day, and dine regally before returning home. If that appeals?’
‘Very much,’ she said.
He was, she thought, a man of surprises. She’d never before seen him dressed other than formally, and in his cords and open-necked shirt he looked at once younger and less formidable. For the first time, she felt able to relax with him.
A hire car had been awaiting them, and, having agreed a time to rendezvous with the pilot, he drove her the mile or so into the village and parked in the main square. They then spent a couple of hours wandering the cobbled streets, buying the ingredients for an al fresco lunch, and exploring the tiny stone-built church. It shouldn’t have surprised her that Dominic spoke easy and fluent French. She didn’t comment, but later, when they were seated at one of the pavement cafés, she placed her own order equally fluently, and had the satisfaction of a raised eyebrow.
‘Quite a dark horse, aren’t you?’ he commented.
‘I spent a year in Angers while I was at university.’
‘You told me you’d always lived in Marsborough?’
‘It’s been my permanent home, yes; but that doesn’t make me a provincial mouse.’
‘Obviously not. So – which university, and what did you read?’
‘Durham, Modern Languages.’
‘Impressive. Then, presumably law school?’
‘That’s right; I didn’t decide on law till I was halfway through my degree course. The parents weren’t impressed.’
‘Understandably.’ He studied her inscrutably from behind his sunglasses. ‘It strikes me I know very little about you.’
‘You’ve never asked.’
To his surprise, he realized that was true. ‘Then please enlighten me.’ He settled back, crossing his long legs. ‘Starting with your family.’
She waited till the waiter had set down their coffees and pains au chocolat.
‘Only if you’ll reciprocate.’
‘If you insist.’
She stirred her coffee reflectively. ‘As to family, my parents separated at Christmas, but seem to be coping well. And I have a twin sister, Rona, who writes biographies, though at the moment she’s concentrating on journalism.’
Dominic leant forward. ‘Hold on a minute. Rona Parish? Pitt the Elder?’
‘It seems her fame has gone before.’
‘It was a damn good biography. She’s your twin, you say? God, I never made the connection.’ He paused, seemingly reflecting on what he saw as a coincidence. Then he gestured apologetically. ‘But I interrupted you. Please go on.’
‘There’s little else to tell. I passed my law exams, joined Chase Mortimer, married, and then divorced. End of story. Now it’s your turn.’
‘Not so fast. Tell me about your ex-husband. What possessed him to let you go?’
Lindsey looked up quickly, but again the sunglasses hid any expression in his eyes.
‘We were pretty explosive together,’ she answered after a minute.
‘And that wasn’t good?’
‘It made for a stormy existence.’
‘Storms and explosions,’ Dominic said consideringly. ‘At least life wouldn’t have been dull. So what does he do, and do you still see him?’
Memories of the previous night, exceedingly unwelcome in the circumstances, flooded Lindsey’s mind, and she prayed her colour wouldn’t rise.
‘He’s a chartered accountant, and since he lives in Marsborough, yes, I see him from time to time. How about your ex-wives?’ she added quickly, to pre-empt further questions. ‘Why did your marriages fail?’
He held her eyes for a long moment, and she wondered if he resented the question. But, she defended herself, it was no more personal than those he’d asked her.
‘Not for such dramatic reasons as yours,’ he said eventually. ‘I dare say incompatibility pretty well covers it.’
Lindsey would have liked to probe further, but this was their first intimate conversation and she was chary of going too far. Instead, she asked, ‘Are you still in touch with them?’
‘Occasionally; we’re on reasonable terms.’
‘Both of them?’
‘It requires a balancing act, but yes. It’s only fair on the offspring.’
‘Tell me about your children.’
‘Hardly children; Crispin is twenty-three and at medical school, Dougal at twenty-one is training to be a surveyor, and Olivia’s nineteen and recently become engaged. My second ex and I are trying, so far unsuccessfully, to persuade her not to opt out of university, so you’ll appreciate we need a united front.’
Though Lindsey was curious to know more – about his business and his relationship with the glamorous Carla – she sensed he’d said as much as he intended, at least for the present, and accordingly held her peace.
As Dominic called for the bill, it struck her that she’d instinctively shown him a different side of herself from that presented to either Hugh or Jonathan – or, for that matter, to her family. How multi-faceted we are, she thought; far from being a freak of nature, multiple personalities are the norm.
As they left the café to resume their stroll, he took her hand and threaded it through his arm. It was, amazingly, the first time he’d touched her, and she felt a surge of excitement. This man intrigued as well as attracted her; she must take care not to let him slip through her fingers.
Tom Parish did not like Sundays. In the past, when the girls came home to lunch, it had been a highlight of the week, and during Avril’s most difficult phase, their visits were a welcome respite. Now, they were all scattered and the day had no cohesion. Furthermore, since the arrival of her grandchild, Catherine frequently visited her family at weekends, leaving him even more adrift.
God knows what Avril was doing, he thought, staring disconsolately out of the window. Perhaps that fellow they’d seen at lunch had been in touch. Tom had the impression that if so, he would not be unwelcome. Rona and Max, of course, would be involved with their own affairs, but it was just possible Lindsey was at a loose end.
On the off chance, he rang both her home and mobile numbers, but reached only the answermachine and voicemail. And what could he have said to her, if he’d got through? Damn it, they’d been together only yesterday; she’d not want to see him again so soon.
It was a lovely day; pity he hadn’t a garden to potter in. The flat had a communal one, but it was tended by contract gardeners, and though Catherine willingly let him help in hers, he couldn’t avail himself of it in her absence.
Perhaps he should get a dog; it would at least be company, and he could take it for walks to fill in the time. Though he no longer had the patience to puppy-train, a rescue dog was a possibility. On second thoughts, though, animals were a tie, and this interregnum was of limited duration. Once he and Catherine were married, Sundays would resume their former character. In the meantime, he decided on a flash of inspiration, he’d drive down to the golf club, and see if he could get a game.
Feeling instantly more cheerful, he went in search of his clu
bs.
They had driven into the countryside for their lunch, and Lindsey watched with amazement as Dominic extracted a folding table and two chairs from the boot.
‘I ordered them when I booked the car,’ he told her.
‘Any candelabra?’
‘Regrettably, we’ll have to manage without.’
She helped him set out the food, together with the plastic knives and glasses and the large paper napkins they’d had the foresight to buy. The brie was running in the heat, and the skin of the apricots warm to the touch. She and Hugh had often enjoyed similar meals on French holidays, though they’d never risen to table and chairs. She could imagine Hugh’s derision if she’d suggested them, but somehow, with Dominic, it seemed quite natural.
Everything was perfect, Lindsey thought: the dappled shade, the line of distant poplars, the murmuring of the stream a few feet from them. The wine, she noted, was ordinaire, and her initial surprise gave way to the acknowledgment that it, too, was just right, its slight roughness complimenting the crusty baguettes and soft, pungent cheese. Life didn’t get much better than this, she thought contentedly.
They ate slowly and for the most part silently, savouring their surroundings and, in Lindsey’s case, the new-found ease between them. She didn’t want it to end, wanted to remain indefinitely in the warm sunshine of this French idyll.
But then the meal was over and Dominic, having tossed the last crust to a hovering bird, was picking up the almost-empty wine bottle. When he rose and came over to her, she expected him to pour the last of it into her glass. Instead, to her confusion, he tilted back her head, and, as she looked questioningly up at him, bent to give her a brief but forceful kiss. Then, without a word, he did indeed tip the last of the wine into her glass before returning to his chair.
Above the clattering of her heart, Lindsey was relieved that instinct had prevented her from attempting to prolong that remarkably thorough kiss.
‘Have you been to Mont St Michel?’ he enquired, as though the incident had never happened, and Lindsey, hastily collecting herself, shook her head. ‘It’s a couple of hours’ drive from here, but if you’d like to see it, we’ve plenty of time; we shan’t be dining until nine.’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said.
Until the previous year, Marsborough’s weekly market had traditionally been held on the pavements of Market Street, which, though adding colour to normally sober surroundings, had caused a certain amount of congestion. Recently, therefore, the town council had opened up a large area further down the road to provide a designated site, and this July Sunday, the new Market Square was playing host to a French market.
‘There was no need for Lindsey to go to France,’ Rona remarked, surveying the Tricolore flying from improvised poles, and the blue, white and red bunting decking the stalls; ‘France has come to us!’
The air was filled with French voices calling out their wares, while the stalls themselves presented a tempting array: charcuteries offering succulent slices of ham, pies and pasties; bread of all shapes and sizes; pâtisseries displaying glazed apple and pear flans; herbs from Provence, and stalls piled high with fresh fruit and vegetables.
It was as they paused in front of the cheese booth that a jovial voice behind them said, ‘Bonjour, mes amis! Comment ça va?’ and they turned to see their friends Gavin and Magda Ridgeway smiling at them.
‘Isn’t this great?’ Magda said enthusiastically. ‘If I bought everything I covet, I wouldn’t have the strength to carry it home!’ She glanced into Rona’s almost-empty basket. ‘How are you doing?’
‘We’ve only just arrived. We spent last night in London, but I was determined to get back in time for this.’
‘Have a good birthday?’
‘Wonderful; and thanks so much for the earrings.’ She pushed back her hair. ‘As you can see, I’m wearing them.’
‘I thought you’d like them. You spent the day in London, then?’
‘No, we had the standard family lunch at the Clarendon, then went in to see The Sound of Music, followed by a theatre supper and a night at the Argyll. It was all perfect. So – what goodies have you found?’
‘Oh, the usual, really: bread and croissants and preserves and some luscious-looking ham; we were stocking up on cheese when you arrived. By the way, there’s a fabric stall over on the far side, that has lots of Provençal goods – place mats, napkins, bread containers and so on.’ She unearthed a package from the bottom of her own basket and pulled it open to show Rona the contents. ‘They’ll be ideal to take as gifts when we go to dinner parties.’
‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Rona agreed. ‘We’re invited to the Kingstons’ next Friday, and I was wondering what to take apart from the usual bottle.’
‘I don’t know about you,’ Gavin cut in, ‘but my feet are giving out. There’s a place over there dispensing food and drink, and I spy a free table. How about it?’
They followed him to where an enterprising stallholder had cordoned off a small area in which he’d set up three tables under striped umbrellas.
‘Lindsey’s gone to France for the day,’ Rona said, as they sat down. ‘I was saying to Max that she needn’t have bothered!’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Magda said. ‘I’d always go for the real thing, given the chance.’
‘What do you mean, given the chance?’ demanded Gavin. ‘You hop over there at the drop of a hat, to all the fashion shows.’
Magda owned a string of boutiques. ‘But that’s business,’ she protested, ‘and I really only see Paris. It’s rural France that I love – hanging villages and fields of lavender and squares where old men play boules under spreading plane trees.’
‘Well, close your eyes and pretend you’re there! The accordion should help!’
They ordered a bottle of wine and, since it was lunchtime, some savoury crêpes, and sat back, watching the colourful crowds swirl past their enclosure.
‘Is Lindsey over there for anything specific?’ Magda enquired.
‘Just a day out, I think. Her latest admirer has a private plane.’
‘Very civilized! And who is this desirable escort?’
Rona hesitated, but Lindsey had not requested secrecy, and thankfully, unlike Jonathan Hurst, this one wasn’t married. ‘Dominic Frayne,’ she replied.
‘Dominic Frayne?’ repeated Gavin, with raised eyebrows. ‘Better tell her to watch her step.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rona asked sharply.
‘Oh – nothing concrete. I’ve heard he’s pretty hard-headed in the business world, but that wouldn’t impact on Lindsey.’
‘Yet you said she should watch her step,’ Rona persisted. ‘Is there anything I should warn her about?’
Gavin looked embarrassed. ‘I was probably speaking out of turn. It’s just that his name’s been linked with several society women, and I wouldn’t like her to get hurt. Tell her not to get in too deep, that’s all.’
Nothing more was said on the subject, but his warning weighed heavily on Rona’s mind for the rest of the day.
Lindsey didn’t reach home till the early hours, but although tired, she was unable to sleep. Her mind was continually whirling through the events of the day; the flight out in the morning, their leisurely stroll through cobbled streets, and particularly Dominic’s sudden and unexpected kiss. Then the afternoon drive through lush countryside to the impressive mound of Mont St Michel, and the long climb up to its abbey.
Dinner at the chateau, now converted into a five-star hotel and restaurant, was as sumptuous as he had promised, each course meticulously cooked and presented. They’d eaten on the veranda by candlelight, watching winking lights in the darkness of the valley below them.
Yet now she was filled with a bleak sense of anticlimax. After that tantalizingly brief kiss at lunchtime, she’d felt sure they’d drawn closer, that at last they would come together. But throughout those long hours, other than a cautionary hand on her arm at the Mont, he’d made no further attempt to t
ouch her. And on the final stage of their journey home, despite the screen between them and the chauffeur, they’d sat as decorously apart as if a searchlight were shining on them. No goodnight kiss, simply a brushing aside of her thanks, thanking her in turn for her company.
Her dreams during brief intervals of sleep continued the theme, replaying in distorted form various incidents of the day, woven in with vivid but imaginary events, so that, when she tossed herself awake, she couldn’t be sure which of them had actually happened.
Minutes, it seemed, after she’d fallen into her first deep sleep, the alarm clock dragged her up from dizzying depths to the awareness of a raging thirst and an agonizing headache. Too much wine, she diagnosed; she’d been too distracted on her return to drink the requisite glasses of water to fend off dehydration.
Should she phone to thank him? she wondered, holding up her face to the stream of water jetting from the shower. He’d left his number when he’d called that first time. Or would it seem too eager? Perhaps a brief note – but she didn’t know his address. In fact, she thought in frustration, despite the more relaxed atmosphere between them, she still knew virtually nothing about him. The names and professions of his children: what earthly use was that?
God, she’d be like a limp rag at work today, and she’d a new client coming in this afternoon. Black coffee and paracetamol were the order of the day, and it was to be hoped one wouldn’t cancel out the other.
Rona’s uneasiness concerning Dominic Frayne overlapped into the next morning, and she agonized over what, if anything, to say to her sister. Lindsey would no doubt ring later with an account of her day in France, and she’d have to temper her response, or Linz would take the huff and clam up. On a flash of irritation, Rona reflected that she spent more than enough time worrying about her twin’s complicated love life.
Through the open study window came the sound of Gus barking in the garden below, and she went to see what was exciting him. The answer was apparent in the shape of a ginger cat, now sitting safely on the wall and glaring defiantly down at him. From the cat, Rona’s amused glance slid to the garden beyond the wall. There was a bench under the apple tree, and sitting on it, apparently engrossed in a book, was a woman who was definitely not Mrs Franks. Could she be the owner of the cigarette that had glowed in the dark? If so, she must be a regular visitor, and seemingly very much at home, since then, as now, she’d been alone.
Next Door to Murder Page 4
