by Maggie James
He’s back on Facebook the next evening, as promised – will be in touch – saying how he’s still unsure about the fun run, mentioning a prior tentative arrangement for the Sunday in question, how he won’t know until nearer the time whether he’ll be free. He doesn’t elaborate and Rachel doesn’t press the issue, too frightened of scaring him away. By the third time they chat, he’s more forthcoming.
‘You free this weekend? Fancy meeting up?’
She agrees straight away. He suggests lunch in Exeter on Saturday. Thankfully, Rachel doesn’t have any events booked for her catering business that day. She punches the air in triumph before typing in: gr8 idea. Then: I no a gd pub we cn go 2.
Will leave choice of venue up to you, he replies. They decide on a time, swap mobile numbers, chat some more. Rachel’s ecstatic when she eventually logs off.
She buzzes through the next two days on a fantasy-driven high. The time drags unbearably, despite the fact she revels in the anticipation. Saturday arrives at last. Rachel wakes up early, shot through with excitement. Today she has a lunch date with Mark Slater. She turns his name over in her head, approving of it. It’s solid, permanent, strong. The name of somebody who could make his mark on her emotionally, and Rachel’s ready for such a man, she really is. Mrs Rachel Slater. Sounds good, she thinks. The gremlins of self-doubt invade her thoughts immediately, ordering her not to set her sights too high. Don’t get your hopes up, they shout.
Is it so wrong, she wonders, to want normality, a boyfriend, children? A stable home life? One without rows reverberating through a house that is supposedly a home but isn’t? A marriage in which the husband doesn’t stagger through the door late at night incoherent and stinking of beer?
Rachel sighs. She understands why she needs these things. They’ve been noticeably lacking in her life, all twenty-four years of it, so far.
She breathes in deeply, willing her nerves to subside. If only their initial meeting had taken place under different circumstances. Sometimes - no, often - it’s as if her life is ruled by the abduction and murder of her sister. Recently she’s had to endure the anniversary of Abby’s death along with the dreaded annual vigil. Not to mention dealing with her mother. Thank God for Shaun. He’s been there for her, as he always is. Her brother, her rock. Every year, Rachel contemplates not attending the vigil. She forces herself to go, terrified that if she doesn’t, her mother will disown her completely. A thought too painful to bear. In order to cope, Rachel always performs her own private homage to Abby the night before the vigil. Something of which only Shaun is aware.
Enough of dark thoughts. Rachel turns her attention to what she’s going to wear today. Something stylish that’ll emphasise her figure; although slim, Rachel’s curved like a Coke bottle. She’ll go for smart casual, as befits a lunchtime pub date. Her new jeans, teamed with black suede ankle boots. She dithers over choosing a top, eventually selecting a slash-necked one with long sleeves in pale mint. It skims her hips, hugs her waist. She twists and twirls in front of the mirror, frowning. Her head tells her she looks good, before self-doubt rushes in to tell her she’s plain, ordinary, nothing special.
Gold dropped earrings, a beaded bracelet. A slick of lip-gloss, a touch of mascara, and she’s ready. She pulls on her leather jacket, grabs her handbag and car keys and heads for the door.
They’ve arranged lunch at The Thatched House pub in Exeter, a favourite with Rachel. She arrives ten minutes early, concerned Mark won’t show up, worried he’ll have forgotten or found somewhere else to be. Met another woman who’s more to his taste. She avoids the cramped area near the toilets, with its busy pool table, and settles for the alcove opposite the bar. Near the door, so she’ll spot him when he walks in. Rachel hopes he’ll approve of her choice of venue. The management of The Thatched House have gone for the old-fashioned touch with the décor, in keeping with the image invoked by the name. Thick oak beams traverse the ceiling, a few obligatory copper kettles hanging from them. Old books stacked on high shelves, flanked by china dogs. The effect of all the piled-on kitsch is beyond cheesy, but for Rachel it’s familiar, soothing, comfortable. What’s more, the food is outstanding.
Mark’s five minutes late. The insecurities in Rachel’s head grow ever more macabre; he’s been mugged, suffered some terrible injury, died in a car crash. Right at the point where her mental scenarios are spiralling out of control, he walks through the door.
He doesn’t see her at first, affording her the luxury of being able to give him the once over, and he’s every bit as delicious as she remembers, dark and spicy and carrying an air of mystery about him. He eventually spots her and heads over to the window table she’s bagged, his expression flustered.
‘Sorry I’m late. Traffic was terrible.’
‘Don’t worry. You’re here now.’ He flops into the seat opposite her, shrugging off his jacket, and she glimpses again his chest hair making a bid for freedom over the top of his sweatshirt. Sexy. Very. Rachel’s immediately bitten by shyness, so she buries her face in the menu. They make small talk – how have you been? I’m good, thanks - whilst they study the options.
‘Steak and chips for me. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy, apart from my love of Chinese food,’ Mark announces. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll go for the fish lasagne. Sounds intriguing and a change from the ubiquitous beef ones. If it’s any good, I’ll make my own version sometime.’
‘You like to cook?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Really?’
‘Got my own business. Started last year after catering college.’
‘I’m impressed. An entrepreneur.’
Rachel laughs. ‘I love it. I’m keeping it small for now, working from home, but watch this space.’
‘You do dinner parties, that sort of thing?’
‘Anything clients require. What do you do work-wise, Mark?’
His gaze slides away. ‘Assistant manager for a building supplies company.’
She senses he’s embarrassed for some reason. ‘You don’t enjoy your job?’
He shrugs. ‘I do, actually. It’s just that, well, it’s not very glamorous, is it? Not like you, with your own business, dinner parties and all that. But I guess it suits me.’ He lays down the menu. ‘Can I get you a drink whilst I place the orders?’
‘Small glass of dry white wine, please.’ She watches him as he moves to the bar, this man to whom she’s taken such a shine, and reminds herself to relax. He returns with a pint for him and the wine for her, and she fishes around for some topic of conversation. Of course. The fun run. Time to pin him down.
‘Thought any more about doing the charity race?’ She’s afraid to look at his face to gauge his reaction. His reply doesn’t come immediately and when it does, he’s non-committal.
‘Still not sure. Waiting to see if I’ll be free on the day.’ Best not to push it, Rachel tells herself. She mustn’t be paranoid; he probably does have some other arrangement that clashes. She forces herself to shrug. ‘Fine.’
He nods. ‘So what’s been going on with you? The other day, you weren’t having too good a time. Not surprising, in the circumstances.’
‘You’re not wrong there. Sorry again for being a bit rude when you first spoke to me.’
‘Understandable. Don’t worry about it.’
Rachel sips her wine. ‘The vigil is always pretty tough on all of us. Mum especially, but me too. Shaun as well, although he does a great cover-up act.’
‘He’s the strong silent type?’
‘Definitely strong. Not so silent, though. Shaun’s a master of straight talking at times.’ Rachel remembers some of those occasions. ‘Particularly where Abby’s killers are concerned.’
She notices Mark’s gaze sliding away.
‘You think about your sister a lot?’ he asks.
Rachel nods. The conversation is moving into uncomfortable waters but somehow Mark seems to understand. As though he’s able to empathise with how life after th
e murder of a family member continues, but never down its previous track. She wonders briefly if his empathy is born out of suffering something similar, but lacks the courage to ask. Too soon for such questions, probably. Her situation is public knowledge, whereas his, if it exists, will be private, something to prise out of him when they know each other better. She likes the thought of unravelling the mysteries of the man sitting opposite her.
She realises he’s waiting for an answer. ‘Every day. Hard not to. I wonder what she’d look like now, what things she’d enjoy doing, how she’d be. She was so pretty, you see. Like a stereotypical princess, all blonde curls, with a really determined character starting to shine through, although she was only two when she died.’ Rachel drains her wine. ‘Her murder tore the family apart. Something so terrible has to. None of us have been the same since.’
‘I can imagine.’ He takes a sip of beer; she notices his hands are shaking slightly as he sets the glass down.
‘It’s like being branded. We’re marked out, in both Exeter and Moretonhampstead, because of what happened. People stare, they talk, they ask terrible questions and make insensitive comments. Not one of them has any idea what we go through. Day in, day out, living with something so awful.’
Mark is silent. Rachel appreciates a murdered sister is a weighty subject for a lunchtime discussion. She decides to switch tack. Before she’s able to, though, Mark clears his throat.
‘Those two boys who were convicted of killing your sister.’ His gaze is on his pint, his hands slowly rolling his glass between his palms. ‘They were eleven at the time, weren’t they? Wasn’t there a lot of fuss about their ages, how they couldn’t have known what they were doing?’
‘You should hear my mother on the subject. Sorry, I forgot; you already have.’
‘She seems to reckon they were fully culpable. Like adults. Both of them.’
‘Yes. She does.’ Rachel fiddles with her fork. This wasn’t what she came here for, although she appreciates Mark’s obvious empathy. ‘Listen, do you mind if we don’t discuss it anymore?’
He pulls back immediately. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean -’
‘It’s just that it’s still kind of raw. After the vigil and all that.’
‘I understand. Sorry.’
An awkward silence arises, broken by the arrival of Rachel’s fish lasagne and Mark’s steak. Mark gets himself another beer and she allows herself a second glass of wine. They discuss running, music, food and favourite films; with the tension now eased, somehow the time slips away. The lasagne is sublime; lemon sole, prawns, cream and pasta combine into a piscine taste sensation. Across the table, Mark quickly disposes of his sirloin. Dessert for both of them is a superb raspberry and rhubarb charlotte. Rachel can’t remember when she last enjoyed herself so much. An idea is forming in her head. Emboldened by the wine, she plunges ahead.
‘Do you want coffee?’ she asks.
‘A shot of caffeine wouldn’t go amiss.’
Right answer. ‘We could go to my place.’ Unable to maintain eye contact, she ploughs on. ‘Unless you need to get back to Bristol?’ There it is; the get-out clause, the one she hopes he won’t take.
He doesn’t. He seems surprised, but pleased. ‘That would be great. Thank you.’
Job done. Rachel’s happy. Mark insists on settling the bill, his old-fashioned approach both amusing and gratifying to her, and they head towards the car park. Rachel gestures at her Fiat. ‘Follow me. It’s not far.’
Back at her flat, she’s conscious of the fact she’s not tidied away her breakfast dishes from the coffee table in the lounge. A whiff of bacon lingers in the air, along with the bread smell from the loaf she made earlier on. Thing is, she had no notion she’d be inviting Mark back here this afternoon. She notices him glancing around, taking in the blank walls, bare of pictures or photos, the lack of any ornaments, any personal effects.
‘You’ve only just moved in?’ he enquires.
‘No.’ She’s embarrassed. How best to explain this? ‘Been here a few years now. It’s just that - well, I’ve never really felt at home here. So I haven’t got round to doing all the homely stuff, pictures, plants, those kinds of things.’
She sees he’s still puzzled. ‘This place was my bolt hole originally, you see. When I moved out from home, in Moretonhampstead. When life there got too difficult.’ Please, please, she prays silently, don’t ask me to elaborate what too difficult means. She can’t deal with questions along those lines, not when she wants him to like her, not see her as weak and needy.
‘I can’t afford to move, not yet, anyway.’ She turns away. ‘Coffee coming up.’ She injects a breezy tone into her voice as she walks into the kitchen. ‘Got some lemon cheesecake too. Made it myself. Think you can squeeze any more food in after that humongous dessert?’
He laughs, and she realises he’s following her. ‘Not an offer I can turn down. Thanks.’
He lounges against the doorjamb, watching her, but it doesn’t make her nervous. Rather, she likes it. She forces her mind to concentrate on the task in hand. Coffee, sugar, milk. Mugs, spoons, kettle. Oh, and plates for the cheesecake. Top shelf of her cupboard. At times like these, she wishes herself taller, better able to reach, but she’s keen not to play the helpless female. No asking for help.
Rachel opens the cupboard door, stretching up. The sleeves of the pale mint top flop down to her elbows and before she has time to do anything, it’s too late. Mark will have seen her shame. Her body freezes in its stretch before contracting back, her arms falling against her sides, her hands tugging down her sleeves. Right now, she doesn’t possess the courage to turn around, face him, check his face for judgement, condemnation, contempt.
He’s only a couple of feet behind her. She’s acutely aware of the tension that’s arisen in the small kitchen. He’s seen her arms; he must have done, unless by some miracle he wasn’t looking as she stretched upwards. He’ll never fancy her now, never want her the way she wants him. Mrs Rachel Slater is over before she’s even begun.
Then he’s beside her, reaching into the cupboard, bringing down two plates. He opens a drawer, taking out forks and a kitchen knife, before pulling the fridge door open. His hands reach in and take out the cheesecake. He cuts two generous wedges, sliding them onto the plates, adding a fork at the side of each. So neat, so precise, she notices, the slices identical in size. She’s not yet dared look at his face but his actions don’t suggest judgement. He hands her one of the plates.
She’ll have to explain, of course. Even if he rejects her, even though they might never see each other again, she’s unable to bear the idea of what he might think if she doesn’t. Perhaps it’s better this way. If anything worthwhile is to develop between them, he’ll have to accept her the way she is. If, by some miracle, he’s still unaware of her shame, he’ll find out the minute sex comes on the agenda. Heat rises into her face at the thought.
‘Shall we go and sit down?’ She gestures towards the living room. She’s still not able to meet his eyes.
12
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE
Fourteen years ago. March 21, to be precise.
It’s the Easter holidays; Joshua and Adam are bored, restless. There’s only so much hanging around the park and the shops they can do. Joshua’s relieved Adam hasn’t suggested any more stealing expeditions. Although he’s aware it’s only a matter of time, he’s grateful for the respite.
‘We’ll go over to Moretonhampstead,’ Adam announces. Joshua’s surprised. Nothing against the place, but he can’t imagine why they’d want to visit, unless Adam sees it as fresh ground for nicking stuff.
‘Why there?’ he asks.
Adam shrugs. ‘Somewhere different to hang out. I’m so fucking bored with the same old crap around here. Aren’t you?’
‘Well, yeah, but…’
‘That’s settled, then. We’ll go, check out what’s there. Been before. A few times.’
‘What for?’ Joshua’s reckons Adam’s probably
been to suss out the shoplifting potential, and he’s unnerved.
‘Stop asking so many fucking stupid questions. Come on; get your arse in gear.’
By now, he’s too scared of Adam even to think of saying no or suggesting something else. They trudge off to the bus stop. Adam is unusually quiet on the way. His silence unnerves Joshua because it’s so uncharacteristic, although he can tell the other boy isn’t in a bad mood. Rather, he projects understated elation, as though he’s anticipating some future treat, which Joshua surmises must be some high-value item he’s intent on stealing. The thought increases his anxiety; he forces his mind away from the seemingly inevitable prospect of store detectives, being caught, his mother’s reaction.
Once in Moretonhampstead, Adam steers them in a certain direction, clearly knowing where he’s going. To Joshua’s relief, they don’t appear to be heading towards any shops, but into a residential area. He’s baffled, but follows Adam without question.
They walk for a while, until they’re not far from the edge of town. Adam’s striding on ahead, leading the way. Joshua’s following, concerned about what the other boy has planned. To his right, he sees a silver Mondeo, facing away from him, parked in a nearby street. A man is unlocking the driver’s door. A woman waits by the passenger side. Both the man and the vehicle’s registration plate appear familiar.
Something clicks in Joshua’s brain.
He’s seen the car parked in the driveway of Adam’s house.
The man is Adam’s father.
The woman is not Adam’s mother.
Jon Campbell and the woman get in the Mondeo. They kiss, long and hard, their bodies an inverted V-shape straddling the gear stick. Eventually Joshua hears the engine start. The car drives off. Joshua’s unsure as to what he’s just witnessed or its significance.
