by Susan Lewis
Where in the world, she wondered, as she stifled a yawn, was he now; and when might he be back? He’d left again yesterday, having spent less than twenty-four hours at home, and he hadn’t called since. Nor was he answering his mobile, which wasn’t so much unusual as irritating, because she felt rather in need of hearing his voice. However, the frown between her brows, which Ernesto kept complaining about, was easily erased by allowing her mind to drift to their dinner last night, when she’d been so naughty in the restaurant that he’d had to take her home before the main course arrived. The memory of what had followed caused her lips to curve in an indolently satisfied smile, while delicious frissons of lust buzzed like small shocks between her legs. The resulting glow in her expression certainly seemed to please Ernesto, though not nearly as much as the recollection pleased her.
She sighed again. There was so much about her husband that set him apart from other men: not just his looks, or his intellect, or his incomparable skill as a lover, but other qualities too, equally potent, though much harder to define. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to, for sometimes putting things into words rendered them mundane, and mundane was a label she could never attach to him. No, her dilemma had nothing to do with the exceptional affinity they shared, both physically and mentally, for she never doubted for a moment how much she was loved, and knew he didn’t either. It was how much of his life Franz Koehler and the Phraxos Group had started to take up in recent months that was causing her concern.
She didn’t exactly mind the secrecy, for she understood, on the whole, why it was necessary, but she did object to the increased pressure he seemed to be under lately, and to the fact that it was creating the feeling that she had a much more formidable rival in Koehler and Phraxos than she’d ever really been aware of. So the question she was asking herself now was, what could she do to refocus his attention on her, and their life together, in a way that wouldn’t jeopardize his privileged status as one of Koehler’s trusted inner circle, but might at least make him re-evaluate his priorities and spend more time with her?
‘Sweeties! I have returned!’ Petey declared, sweeping in through the door like a diva. ‘Ah, what a vision,’ he swooned, standing so that he could get a view of both Stacey and Ernesto’s evolving masterpiece.
Ernesto grunted through a brush that was clamped between his teeth, and pointed to the ornate wooden box that was just out of his reach.
‘Oh, do let me,’ Petey insisted, as a response to the order.
Smiling, Stacey said, ‘Did everything go OK?’
‘Perfectissimo,’ Petey purred, taking a joint from the box and lighting it. ‘Everyone is happy, and believe me, our good friends will be too, “for they shall be greatly rewarded.”’
‘Yes, but will I?’ she murmured. Then before he could answer, ‘Try my husband again, will you? I need to speak to him.’
‘You sound desperate, ducky,’ Ernesto commented, taking the joint from Petey and raising it to his lips.
Stacey slanted him a look. ‘If you had such a man, so would you,’ she told him.
Ernesto sucked in the substance, held it, then slowly let it go. ‘If I had such a man,’ he responded, ‘I’d never allow him such a loose rein.’
Stacey’s lips twitched with laughter. ‘But you’re such an ugly bastard, you couldn’t afford to,’ she told him.
Ernesto chuckled with delight. ‘All the same, ducky,’ he said, taking another puff, ‘you’re worried, I can tell. You don’t know where he goes, or what he does when he’s gone. So time to clip the wings, methinks? Or, like father, like son?’
Stacey reached out for the joint. ‘Actually, Ernesto,’ she said, ‘I know a great deal more about where he goes, and what he does, than you might think, I just choose not to discuss it with the likes of you two gossiping queens.’
‘Blast,’ Petey muttered, clicking off the call. ‘Misdialled.’ Trying again, he waited for the ringing tone then passed the phone over.
Putting it to her ear, Stacey took a deep pull on the cigarette, and was about to respond to the hello at the other end when she suddenly recognized the voice. Casting a daggered look at Petey she said, ‘Robert, darling, how are you? We’re all here at the studio, so inspired by your mastery that I just had to call and tell you.’
‘It’s – it’s going well?’ Robert responded.
‘Oh yes. Ernesto’s performing such magic with his little brush, anyone would think it was a wand, and I am lying here, quite naked, thinking of you and the very naughty poem you gave me yesterday. It’s helping so much.’
There was a long silence at the other end, before Robert said, ‘You haven’t shown it to anyone else?’
‘Of course not. It’s our little secret.’
‘But Petey and Ernesto, aren’t they there, listening to this?’
‘Yes, but the only poems they’re seeing are those from The Geddons. Everything else is just between us, the way we agreed. Is Anna there?’
‘She’s upstairs.’
‘So you’re alone at the moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then speak the poem aloud to me, and think of me, lying here, unrobed and undone by the beauteous rhythm of your words.’
Again he was silent, until the tightness of lust sounded in his voice as he said, ‘Your husband, isn’t he there?’
‘Oh no, darling. I’ve no idea where he is.’
She looked up at Petey and Ernesto, but they were paying scant attention as they smoked their own joints and watched something on the TV.
‘I was thinking,’ Robert said. ‘Maybe I should pop over, to see how it’s all progressing.’
Knowing now why he hadn’t come earlier, she said, softly, ‘You’d be most welcome, you know that, but my husband could drop in at any minute, and I wouldn’t want him to see the kind of effect you have on me.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ he said shakily. ‘And I really shouldn’t leave Anna on her own. Perhaps we could have … a few private moments in your dressing room on Monday?’
‘Consider them yours,’ she murmured, and clicked off the line.
‘Bitch,’ Petey muttered, throwing her a sideways look.
‘You’re the one who called him,’ she responded, dialling her husband’s number. ‘And he loves it, so why shouldn’t I do what makes him happy?’
‘Ask Anna that question, see what she has to say.’ Petey retorted, turning back to the TV.
Stacey poked out her tongue, then getting up from the white mattress she trailed the long, chiffon shawl over to the kitchenette and closed the door behind her. ‘Hello, my love,’ she purred into her husband’s message line, ‘I have several things I need to discuss with you, but they can wait until you come back. I know you were stressed and worried before you left, even though you tried to hide it, so I hope everything’s OK. Call me as soon as you can. I love you. Meantime, I hope you’re in a comfortable place when you listen to this, because I’m naked right now, and very aroused, so I’m going to describe exactly what I wish you were doing to me, while I do as much of it as I can to myself.’
Chapter 11
IT WAS JUST after eight in the evening. The sun was still high, though subdued by a gauzy layer of cloud, while the sound of the sea was a constant, low growl in the bowl of the bay. The boats were all in, winched up on to the beach, disturbed only by the gulls that pecked around the crab and lobster pots, and a dog whose owner was gamely throwing a ball into the slowly returning tide.
As they wandered down the coastal path, heading for the big night out at the pub, Rachel and Laurie were discussing when, and where, they might shoot Rachel’s first interview for the programme. The idea of exposing herself publicly over something that was so intensely personal was making Rachel more uncomfortable than she was prepared to admit, in fact she really didn’t want to do it at all, even though she knew if she really wanted to get to the truth, it had to be done.
As they talked, Laurie’s mind was more focused on an email she’d just receiv
ed from one of Elliot’s researchers in London, telling her about a man’s body that had been dragged out of the harbour at St Tropez a few days ago. There was one bullet wound to the head ‘execution style’, Liam had written, though he wasn’t sure why Elliot had asked him to make her aware of this killing. Nor was she, yet; however, since the location was France, her first thought had been of Xavier Lachère, the Frenchman Katherine had spoken of to her friends. But after reading on she’d discovered that the victim had been identified as one Gustave Basim, a twenty-eight-year-old unemployed construction worker whose mother was Parisian, and father Algerian.
Naturally she’d sent an email to Elliot asking him exactly who this Gustave Basim was, and why she should be interested in his fate. As yet she hadn’t had a reply.
‘So how long do you think it’ll take to shoot the first interview?’ Rachel was asking, as Laurie held back for her to go ahead through a narrow part of the path.
‘I’ll set a day aside for it,’ Laurie answered, ‘but we won’t do it until Dan gets back from holiday.’
‘Dan being the cameraman?’
‘And co-producer,’ Laurie added. ‘He’s Rose’s son, did you know that?’
Rachel nodded, but her mind hadn’t really connected with the question, because she was watching Tom Drummond, one of the oldest and most respected of Killian’s fishermen, who’d just come out of his cottage with Candy, his partly lame King Charles spaniel. Had he just deliberately snubbed them, or had he just not spotted them? Either way, he was a reminder of how jittery she was feeling about the kind of greeting she was going to get when she walked into the pub.
‘Tell me again what Chris Gallagher said in his message,’ she pressed Laurie, still watching Tom Drummond, as he marched on ahead.
Laurie laughed. ‘You heard it,’ she replied. ‘Apparently everything’s been taken care of and everyone’s looking forward to seeing us. That was it.’
Rachel’s expression showed her lack of trust, but before she could comment Beanie came scooting up behind them with Romie.
‘Here I am,’ she declared. ‘Sorry to keep you.’
‘There’s no rush,’ Rachel assured her, smiling fondly at the old lady’s awkwardly backcombed hair and pink frosted lipstick. ‘You look lovely,’ she said, as Laurie stooped to fuss over Romie.
Beanie’s eyes glowed. ‘It’s Saturday night,’ she said. ‘Got to make a bit of an effort.’
Laurie and Rachel’s eyes instantly performed a droll appraisal of each other’s Saturday night attire of old jeans and sweatshirts, with next to no makeup.
‘Have you taken Laurie up to the other side yet?’ Beanie asked, as they walked on.
‘You mean to the Devil’s Frying Pan?’ Rachel asked. ‘No, we’ll probably walk over there tomorrow. Are you going to come?’
‘Mmm, why not?’ Beanie replied. ‘Romie will too, won’t you, cabbage? I’ll make us all a picnic, why not?’
‘You mentioned it before,’ Laurie said, laughingly, ‘so what is the Devil’s Frying Pan?’
‘It’s a kind of collapsed cave,’ Rachel explained. ‘It’s incredibly deep and dramatic. Well, you’ll see when we go over there.’
‘But why is it called the Devil’s Frying Pan?’
‘Oh, because the way the sea hisses and spits around the boulder in the middle of it is like an egg bubbling in fat,’ Rachel answered.
By now they were passing the small terrace of bright white cottages with cornflower blue window frames that led down to the path, and the flutterings in Rachel’s stomach were getting stronger, for the noise they could hear coming from the bar confirmed that the place was already crowded. She was so dreading a sudden silence at her entrance again that, were it not for the fact that she knew neither Laurie nor Beanie would allow it, she might actually have turned back.
However, as Beanie pushed the door open the noise instantly crescendoed, as though billowing an escape, or even reaching out to absorb them. The occasional strumming of a guitar was vaguely audible through the din, as well as something that sounded like maracas. The TV was on too, and Romie, thrilled to be out for the evening, bounded through the maze of legs to get to Dapper, who kept a ready stock of biscuits for his canine customers.
Beanie launched into the fray too, pressing her way to the bar, while Rachel and Laurie’s eyes moved warily around the room, as they waited to be noticed. Then Nick, Beanie’s nephew, shouted, ‘Hey, Rachel, what are you and your friend having?’
‘What? Who?’ Pinkie Pinkerton boomed. As though his surprise was the cue for a stream of generosity to break its dam, they were suddenly inundated with offers of drinks.
‘Mine’s a white wine. Australian Chardonnay, if they’ve got it,’ Laurie called out, giving Rachel a gentle shove to get her moving.
‘Coming up,’ Dapper assured her.
‘What about you, Rachel?’ Nick said, rudely brushing bodies aside to let her through.
‘Uh, lemonade, thank you,’ she said, still slightly stunned. Then trying harder, ‘How’s Jenny?’
‘Me? I’m great,’ Jenny cried, ducking out from behind a group of her neighbours. ‘How are you?’ and before Rachel could answer, the pretty, overweight young woman with dark curly hair and vivid red cheeks, scooped her into an embrace. ‘I’m so sorry about what happened,’ she murmured in Rachel’s ear. Rachel wasn’t sure if she was referring to the recent hostility, or to Tim’s death.
Rachel smiled, then laughed when several men in the far corner started to bay like hounds as Zac broke out a tune on the guitar. Chris Gallagher was over there too, though his back was turned as he talked to someone who was sitting down, while Jake Tucker rattled the maracas and performed a silly dance.
‘I can hardly believe this,’ she shouted into Laurie’s ear, as someone passed her a lemonade.
‘Me neither,’ Laurie laughed. ‘Have you seen Chris Gallagher? We need an explanation.’
‘He’s over there,’ Rachel answered, turning to nod in his direction.
As Laurie looked she moved in closer to Rachel and said, ‘On second thoughts, when a man looks like that, we need more than an explanation.’
Rachel bubbled with laugher. Jenny took her arm, shouting, ‘There are some seats over next to the door. Mum’s keeping them with Millie Phelps. We should have a pretty good view, because Zac’s set himself up next to the fireplace. That’s provided we can get this lot to settle down and clear some space!’ she hollered. Laughing, she shouted in Rachel’s ear again, ‘Everybody’s here. They must have come all the way from Helston. Penzance even. You know, he’s getting a right reputation, our Zac?’
‘Zac is Jenny’s brother,’ Rachel explained to Laurie. ‘By the way, Jen, this is Laurie.’
Laurie smiled warmly as she said hello, and was pleased to see nothing but friendliness in Jenny’s eyes too. It really was as though the past few days hadn’t happened at all, for there wasn’t even the slightest hint of embarrassment or wariness, or anything at all to suggest that she and Rachel had ever been anything but wholeheartedly welcome. So just what, she wondered, had Chris Gallagher done to change things so radically?
Rachel had just spotted Beanie wriggling her way in next to her reluctant beau, Vince Tucker, when a chorus of spontaneous singing erupted from the centre of the room. Soon everyone was joining in, for the song, ‘White Rose’, was well known to them all, and as Jenny steered a route through to the seats her mother was saving, she and Rachel began singing along too.
Not knowing the words, Laurie could only hum and listen and love the way hearts and souls seemed to pour into the lyrics, while the old stone walls and low wooden rafters resonated with the velvety dark sounds of the rhythm. The final verses were barely over, before ‘Robber’s Retreat’, a lively shanty, and the Killian anthem, was starting to bound about the room, getting feet stomping, and hands clapping, while Dapper, who was singing loudly too, pulled more pints, and his wife jigged to the beat as she and the barman cleared tables and took more orders.
Several more shanties followed, each louder than the last, until finally Pinkie Pinkerton got up to perform his party piece, which was such a deeply moving ballad about a young father who went out fishing one day and never came back, that it actually brought tears to Laurie’s eyes – until she caught Chris Gallagher regarding her with a humorously cocked eyebrow. She pulled a face, then bent an ear towards Rachel who was saying, ‘I think he quite likes you, and he seems to be on his own.’
Laurie’s expression was comical as she slanted Rachel a look, then finishing her wine she demanded to know what everyone else was having, and got up to go to the bar.
As she weaved her way through, Rachel kept an eye on Chris Gallagher, feeling certain he’d watch Laurie, but his attention seemed focused on Zac now, who was getting ready to sing. Then she found herself blushing as his eyes suddenly caught her watching him.
Laughing at the droll expression he pulled, she turned aside to listen to Jenny and her mother discussing how many cigarettes they’d rolled that day.
‘It saves the lads doing it when they gets out to sea, in all that wind and weather,’ Jenny explained, giving her a wink.
Rachel nodded understanding, and winked too, while raising her glass to Beanie, who was being purposefully shunned by Vince Tucker. Hearing someone call her name, she looked round to find Laurie signalling for help, but before she could get even halfway to the bar at least a dozen hands swooped in to provide assistance. Turning back, she found the way blocked by Chris Gallagher, who had just stood up to rest his foot on a stool, and a guitar on his knee.
‘Sorry,’ she gasped, almost colliding with him.
‘No problem,’ he answered, standing aside. ‘Do you have a drink?’
‘Oh yes, thanks. Laurie’s just getting them. Are you about to sing?’
He nodded and grinned, and to her surprise she felt a genuine warmth in her smile of response.
