“He’s with Southpaw.” Florence appeared in the kitchen, where Cat and her grandmother were sitting, and poured herself some more coffee. “They’re making something together. They’re covered in paint.” She shrugged. “It looks like a dragon.”
Cat stood up. “It’s so great. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s shy around men.”
“Your grandfather is a childish man in many ways,” Martha said, smiling. She stood up slowly. “Get some lemons, will you? Oh, and can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.” Cat hunted around in her purse, hoping against hope she might find some more English money in there.
“Can you pop into the Oak Tree and tell Joe I’ve found the extra champagne glasses in the attic and he doesn’t need to bring any more up?”
“Oh, right. Sure.”
If Martha registered Cat’s hesitation, she didn’t comment. She reached for a chocolate biscuit. “Have this, darling, you’re far too thin. Take your time. Lunch is all ready and Luke’s fine.”
As she strode away from the house, down the hill to the village, Cat swung her arms in front of her, breathing in the damp, mulchy air. Luke was fine, in fact more than fine. Since he’d been here he hadn’t stopped talking, a sort of French-English babble that he sang to himself as he ran around the sitting room, picking books off the shelves that lined the walls, asking Southpaw a hundred questions. His great-aunt Florence, too—he seemed fascinated by her and what she knew about things. “Why is your hair so messy?” he’d asked—only he said “messeee”—the night before at dinner, and Florence had simply thrown her head back and roared with laughter.
Recalling it now, his pleasure at Florence’s glee, the whole family together and the lightness of it, how silly it was, gave Cat a sharp pain in her chest. No matter how often she said to herself, “It’s just for the weekend, enjoy it,” she knew now that one of the reasons she’d never wanted to come back was simply that a part of her had always known she’d find it almost impossible, once she was here, to leave again.
To have been that person in Paris with that life seemed unreal, out here on this beautiful day, with the curling lane rolling away from her, the village in the distance, the gentle hue of ginger-brown leaves still dusting the tops of the trees. The sky was a clean gray-blue, wisps of cloud like lines of cotton wool. She breathed in again, clearing her mind. “Three more days,” she said to herself as she turned off and headed through the woods, her feet following the same old path across the stream she’d always taken. “Forget about everything else. Be like Luke. Enjoy it.”
• • •
It was a little after twelve when Cat entered the pub with her shopping, cheeks flushed from the crisp damp wind whistling through the village. The door banged behind her and the lady behind the bar looked up, as did the only other people there, a couple in the corner who then, after a brief pause, fell back into conversation.
“How can I help you?” said the landlady.
Cat stared. “Sheila? It’s Cat! Winter! I heard you were back in Winter Stoke. Gosh, hello!”
Sheila stared back; then her eyes widened and she clapped her hands together. “Well, I never. Cat, my dear! Come here, give me a kiss.” She hugged Cat. “Well, I heard you were coming back for this party, but I didn’t think it’d be true. You here to see Joe about tonight?”
“Oh—” Cat began.
But Sheila said firmly, “He’s nearly free anyway. Joe! ” she called sharply.
Cat’s heart sank as the man in the far corner turned round and, seeing her, scrambled to his feet. The woman he was with stood up quickly. “Cat!” she said brightly.
Cat froze. “Karen? Karen!” She’d seen her only once, and so long ago that it took Cat a moment to recognize her. She looked at her, and then at Joe. “How are you?”
“I’m really well, Cat. It’s great to have you back. I know they’re all so pleased you’ve made it.”
Cat thought Karen didn’t look well at all. She had yellow shadows under her eyes and she’d obviously been crying. She wrapped her shapeless black cardigan defensively around her, and Cat, trying not to let her mind run ahead, smiled at her in a friendly way.
“Oh, thanks.” All she could think was, Poor Lucy was right, and she wished her cousin were there, wished their last words hadn’t been angry ones. She laid a hand on the bar and gestured to Joe. “Hi. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Gran wanted me to give you a message.”
Joe glanced at Karen, who said, “I was just in to talk to Joe about your grandmother’s cake, actually! Bill’s sorting it out this end, and we’ve had—oh, we’ve had a lot of fun with it, haven’t we . . . Joe?” she ended, as though she weren’t quite sure of his name.
Cat nodded. She glanced at Joe, and their eyes met.
He looked awful, she thought, even worse than he had on Wednesday. Maybe he just looked like that all the time. She remembered Lucy saying he was gorgeous, dark blue eyes, all of that. To Cat he looked like a man pushed almost past endurance. His face was gray and he hadn’t shaved. Black stubble prickled his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot.
He rubbed his chin. “How’s your little lad?” he said. “And the car—it’s all sorted with the rental company? You’ll let me know what I need to do?”
“Yes, thanks. And—Luke’s fine. Thank you.”
“I wanted to give you something for him, actually. I haven’t—”
“Honestly, it’s fine.” Cat cleared her throat. “Listen, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know Gran doesn’t need the extra champagne glasses. She found the others in the attic.”
He nodded, still staring at her, but didn’t say anything. “Is that okay?” she said after a few seconds.
“Joe,” Sheila said sharply. “Answer her.”
He jumped. “Sure. That’s great. Thank you for letting me know. You must have enough on.”
“Me? I’m fine,” Cat said. “Seriously, are you all right? You look like you’re coming down with something.”
“I’ll be off, then,” Karen said chirpily to no one in particular. “See you—all later then. Bye! Thanks for the drink, Joe.”
The door slammed heavily behind her. Joe flinched, then shook his head. “I—sorry. I’m just tired.”
Sheila said, “He’s not been sleeping. It’s this party, is it, Joe?”
“Something like that.” Joe gave a small smile. His phone buzzed with a text, but he slid it straight into his pocket, then looked up at her. “Can I get you a drink?”
Despite herself, Cat suddenly felt sorry for him. He seemed totally alone, standing by the bar, his wide shoulders drooping, his jaw clamped so tight it was almost as though he were smiling. But this was the man who’d written off his own car and caused thousands of pounds worth of damage to her rental car, to say nothing of nearly killing her son in the process. And Karen—what was he up to, huddled away with Bill’s wife in the middle of the day?
“No. Thank you. So you know Karen, do you?” she asked, a little too bluntly.
“Yes.” Joe picked up a beer mat, cracking the hard cardboard apart between his fingers. “She’s been kind to me since I came here.”
“Yes,” she said uncertainly. “Course.”
“It’s strange. Moving far away from your—your family, not knowing anyone.” He stared out the windows at the gray sky. “When you want to belong. And you don’t. I’m grateful to her.”
Cat, who had expected some glib reply, frowned. “Yes. Of—course.”
He shook his head as though recalling himself to the present. “Look, I got Luke this book anyway. I meant to drop it off today. Jamie loved it when he was his age.”
He disappeared behind the bar, and pulled a package out from beside the till. Dust rose up in the air, and it seemed horribly symbolic, falling there in the deserted pub.
“Oh . . .” Cat said, embarrassed. “You didn’t
need to.”
“No, but I wanted to. Jamie and I read it all the time.” He handed her a paper bag, and she slid a long, slim volume out of it, and looked dubiously at the front cover.
“Stick Man,” Cat read. “Right. ‘From the author of The Gruffalo.’ It looks great. Thank you. Never heard of The Gruffalo, but I’m sure it’s a good one.”
Joe said softly, “Sorry. You’ve never heard of The Gruffalo?”
“No. Um . . .” She didn’t want to be rude. “I’m sure it’s a really good book. Looks great.”
“You have never heard of The Gruffalo?” He repeated this. “Seriously.” He looked around him. “Are you joking? Maybe it’s got another name in France. Look at the back. There’s a picture of the Gruffalo.”
Cat, feeling annoyed, turned the book over. “No. Sorry. There are lots of children’s books, anyway, and—”
“I think it’s really weird you’ve never heard of The Gruffalo, that’s all. What kind of a country is it you live in that doesn’t have The Gruffalo?”
“So you’ve said.” Cat put the book back in its bag.
“Let me give you some context,” Joe told her. “It’s like not having heard of Winnie-the-Pooh.”
“That’s rubbish.”
“It is,” he said insistently. “It really is.”
“Well, I’ll read him Stick Man tonight. Thanks.”
“Stick Man’s an idiot, basically, always nearly getting burned on a fire or carried away by a bird. The Gruffalo, that’s what you want. It’s double bluff, it’s genius.” He looked at her. “Look. I’ll give you my copy.”
“You’ve got your own copy? That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”
He grinned suddenly, and his face changed. “That came out wrong. I mean for when Jamie comes to stay. My son. You can borrow it while you’re here for the weekend. I’ll bring it up sometime.”
“This evening. The drinks.”
“Yes.” He stopped. “Of course. Look, I’d best get on. If that’s all?”
“Oh, yes.” She suddenly felt foolish, in the way. “Thanks again for this. Um—see you later.” She raised her hand to Sheila: “Lovely to see you again, Sheila,” and made to leave.
“Hey,” Joe called out. “Cat, listen. I’m sorry, again.”
Cat turned. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes.” Joe gripped his hair. “I’m really sorry. I feel worse and worse, every time I think about his little face. Believe me, I’m so glad he’s okay. It was so bloody stupid.” He stared at the floor.
Sheila had gone into the back and there was no one else in the pub. Cat crossed her arms. “Well, it was an accident. Wasn’t it?” she said, gently smiling, but he looked at her seriously.
“Of course it was, Cat.”
“I was joking,” Cat said. “I don’t actually think you were trying to murder us.”
“Right.” Again he scratched at his scalp. “I don’t even understand when people are making jokes anymore. This morning the guy from the brewery went ‘Boo’ to me and I nearly punched him in the face.”
She laughed. “You must have a lot on, with this party.”
“That’s about all we have on. This place isn’t keeping me busy. So the party, yes, I want it to be right. Impress everyone so they start coming here. It’s—yeah, I suppose it’s been on my mind a lot.”
She watched him. “Is there anything I can do?”
He gave a shy smile. “Just say ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ when the food comes out and make out you’ve never eaten anything so delicious before. That’s what you can do.”
Cat laughed. “Okay. Well, Gran says it’s going to be amazing. She doesn’t lie.”
“You live in Paris, though; you’re a tough person to please.”
“Believe me, I’m not. I can’t wait for a proper posh meal. I live on frozen foods and the odd croissant.” And Henri and Madame Poulain’s leftovers, and once I ate a baguette someone left untouched on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens. Basically, I don’t eat much because we live on eighty euros a week. And then people compliment me on how slim I am.
“Well, I hope you enjoy tonight. And lunch tomorrow. It’s very important to your gran that it’s all perfect,” Joe said, moving behind the bar.
She watched him, his easy strength as he lifted a crate of tonic bottles out of the way, almost like he could flick them with his finger. “Thank you,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “I think I know what it’s about, though.” She gave him a piercing look. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, when you think about it?”
He stopped unloading the bottles and their eyes met again. Cat had the strangest feeling whenever she looked at him. As if she knew him from somewhere.
“Whatever. She’s very glad you’re back. She’s missed you. And your granddad. He’s not been well, has he?”
She shook her head, her heart pumping. “I—I don’t know.”
“He’s a lovely man. Been wondering about him lately; wanted to ask someone in the family if he was okay.”
“You could always have asked Karen,” she said lightly.
There was a silence. “Yes,” Joe said slowly. He bowed his head slightly, and their eyes locked again. “Look, Cat—”
What would have happened next Cat didn’t know, but the door opened again. “Hello, Joe. Well, hello there, Cat!”
Cat turned round. “Hello,” she said warily. A plumpish woman, older than she, around forty, with sandy cropped hair and a big smile, plumped herself down next to Cat, who racked her brains wildly. Who was this?
“What can I do for you, Susan?” Joe said. Cat threw him a grateful glance.
“Anything you want, Joe, you know that!” Susan said, and gave an awkward titter. Joe smiled tightly. Susan . . . Cat racked her brains. Susan Talbot. Post office. George and Joan Talbot’s daughter.
She put her hand on Susan’s arm. “Hello, Susan. Lovely to see you.”
“And you, my dear.” Susan chuckled, her eyes twitching in a slightly disconcerting way. “I’m looking forward to the party tonight. You’ll all be there. It’s all anyone’s talking about. Have to work out what I’m going to wear!” She gave a matronly, arch smile and grinned at Cat, folding her arms below her big bosom. “I came in to get a bottle to take up with me tonight. You can help me with that, can’t you, Joe?”
Joe nodded and bent down, taking out three different bottles. “Of course. One of these any good?”
“You don’t need to bring anything tonight,” Cat told Susan, who was watching Joe with a look in her eye that Cat didn’t like. Susan had always been crazy. One of many tightly furled memories began to roll out in Cat’s brain. When they’d been at school, Susan had accused one of the teachers of being a pervert, and he’d been sacked. It hadn’t been true.
“No, no! I wouldn’t hear of it! I want to do my bit, you’re all like family to me! The Winters!” Susan took out her purse, looking at Joe from under her thick black eyelashes, so at odds with her blond complexion.
Cat caught Joe’s eye briefly. “Okay, well, I’d better be getting back.” She picked up the bag again. “See you later, both of you. And, er”—she smiled at Joe—“thanks again. So, I’ll get started on this. We’ll look forward to the other one. The Gruffle.”
“Something like that,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
She left him dealing with Susan and strode home back up the hill, wishing Lucy would hurry up and arrive. She was less and less sure of everything the longer she was here.
Karen
“I’M DISAPPOINTED NOT to be going. Honest, Bill.”
Karen sat at the foot of the stairs, watching Bill pull his coat on, and trying to catch his eye.
He buttoned his coat. Still not looking at her, he said, “I’m sure you are.”
“It’s just . . .” She tugged t
he dressing gown tightly around her. “I still feel really rotten. Think it’s best I stay in bed after my call’s done. Rest up for tomorrow. I’ll definitely be there, tomorrow.”
Bill didn’t say anything. He went to open the door, one hand resting on the frame so it was still closed. She swallowed, tasting metal in her mouth, feeling weak, wishing he’d speak. These last few days . . . just waiting for him to say something. Because she knew.
“Okay?” she said. “Are you listening to me?”
“Lucy’s already up there. I’d better go. Good-bye, Karen,” he said.
“Look, Bill, I told you weeks ago I wouldn’t be able to come, and I’m sorry, I wish I could. So—you go, give them all my love, I’ll see them tomorrow, yes?”
He met her imploring gaze then and she thought he was smiling because he agreed with her. For a brief, blissful couple of seconds she thought the world was right again, and then he held open the door and said, “I think it’s best you don’t come tomorrow, Karen. I think you know that, too.”
Cold air was rushing into the stuffy house. “What do you mean? Of course I’m coming.”
“Karen, don’t treat me as though I’m stupid. I’m not stupid.”
Karen stayed where she was, afraid to move. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do. Karen, I know all about you and him.”
The door was wide open; people walked past, looking into the house.
“Hello, Bill! Oh, Karen! See you up there, will we?”
Bill turned with military precision, hand on the door again. “Evening, Clover. On my way up. See you soon.” Then he closed the door and came toward Karen. He towered above her, sitting at the foot of the stairs. “I’ve known about it for weeks.”
Karen swallowed. “Who told you?”
“That’s—that’s all you’ve got to say to me?” His voice was thick with anger and, she realized, emotion. But Bill never got emotional. “You’re sleeping with someone, and all you care about is how I found out? Susan Talbot told me, that’s who. Came in last month to show me her verruca.” He gave an angry laugh. “Halfway through she said there was something she thought I had to know.” His voice was cracking and she looked away, unable to bear the look on his face. All the seeds she’d sown, everything she’d done, it was all coming out now . . . and she had to take it. Nothing to do but sit here and accept it. “That’s how I found out my wife is—is . . .” Bill covered his face with his hands. “Sleeping with someone be-be-behind my back. Susan Talbot with her sock off whispering secrets into my ear.” He turned and stared at the empty bookcase, breathing heavily.
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