by Karen Swan
Fee walked beside her in silence, no doubt thinking the same thing. How long could Laura keep her secret for? Other men might not notice, but he would. He was too considerate, that was the problem. She felt Fee’s questioning glances coming her way, but she kept her eyes dead ahead. The subject was out of bounds.
The town was busy. School was out for the weekend and scores of children with daisy-printed wellies, bobble hats and duffle coats were cluttering the pavements, mittens dangling from strings beside their red-cold hands as their flustered parents queued outside the butcher to place orders for the turkey and ham, and then did it all again at the florist, agonizing over holly berries or cinnamon sticks or dried orange rings to go in their holly wreaths.
Laura side-stepped them briskly as Fee swapped admiring glances with an eleven-year-old girl who was dressed almost identically to her in faded skinny jeans, padded gilet, long-sleeved purple T-shirt and chunky sheepskin boots.
‘Did you see that?’ Fee chuckled as Laura strode on. ‘My very own mini-me.’
‘You probably shop in the same stores,’ Laura replied, throwing an eye over Fee’s sinewy frame.
Laura flung open the door to Tom’s and walked straight through to their usual table overlooking the veranda at the back as Fee threw her bags behind the counter. An oversized, twinkling Christmas tree had been erected since their last visit and stood quietly in the corner like a dutiful waiter, with tiny green plastic champagne bottles hanging off it instead of baubles, and white fairy lights wrapped around the clipper pictures. It was still quiet – it was far too early for the Friday-night regulars yet.
‘This is on you, right?’ Fee asked, fluttering on to the chair like a wind-blown leaf.
‘You make it sound like there’s a multiple-choice answer to that question.’ Laura looked out through the enormous windows. The sky was bleached with just a single drag of red slowly bleeding through the air, like a silk scarf in the hot wash, and she felt her body instinctively relax as she tracked the breeze rippling over the water. She hadn’t been in the studio at all today – before going for her hair appointment, she’d done some shopping for the beach hut – and her body felt stiff and tense. The view from her keep was like a meditation for her, and she felt it when she missed a day.
Fee sighed. ‘Not all of us have prosperity staring us in the face.’
‘Neither do I now I’ve blown it all on a heap of firewood.’ Laura rubbed her eyes and suppressed a yawn.
‘You look tired.’
‘I am. I was up till one o’clock last night.’ And awake again at four, but she didn’t add that.
‘Oh, you didn’t get stranded again!’
‘No. No. I was at home, writing up the notes from my interviews with Orlando and Kitty.’
‘Kitty?’ Fee mused, closing her eyes as she tried to remember the list of names. ‘Oh yes – Kitty Baker, Quinces Cottage.’ She shot Laura a crafty look. ‘She sounds like she does the gardening in pearls.’
‘Actually she has a camel with an ASBO.’
‘Oh!’ That shut Fee up for a moment. ‘And Orlando – which one’s he?’
‘Her personal trainer and business partner. She helped him set up the business.’
‘Oh, I remember. Sexy accent. Is he good-looking?’
‘Very,’ Laura nodded.
Tom came over with their chilled bottle of Prosecco. ‘Ladies,’ he said in greeting.
‘Thanks, Tom,’ said Laura as he half filled their glasses.
‘You can fill mine to the top,’ Fee winked. ‘We were just getting on to the man of my dreams.’
Tom rolled his eyes. ‘And how many times have I heard that before?’ he replied, walking off.
Laura patted Fee’s hand. ‘He plays for the other side.’
‘What makes you think I’m talking about your fella?’ Fee asked, clinking Laura’s glass loudly – it was just as well they weren’t crystal – and taking a hefty slug.
Laura watched her in surprise. ‘Spit it out!’ she sighed, rolling her eyes. Fee’s adventures always had to be accompanied by a drum roll and moody lighting.
‘I’ve met someone.’
‘Well, I gathered that! Who?’ Laura asked, peering at her curiously.
‘His name’s Paul,’ Fee said, swallowing hard. ‘Paul Weston.’
Laura spluttered on her drink and the bubbles went up her nose, making her cough noisily. ‘PC Weston?’ she managed.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Fee replied, looking nervous.
Laura laughed. ‘You are kidding?’
‘No. Why would I be?’
‘Because he’s as thick as two short planks and looks like a potato, that’s why!’ Laura guffawed.
‘He does not look like a potato!’ Fee replied indignantly. ‘He used to play prop in rugby, that’s all. That’s why he’s just a bit—’
‘Mashed up!’ Laura cried, beginning to shake with laughter.
‘Not all of us can go out with James Blunt, you know!’ Fee said stroppily. ‘If you must know, I personally think Jack is too pretty. He looks effeminate.’
She practically spat out the last word, and Laura stopped laughing. They each looked away, both knowing they’d gone too far, their eyes pinned on the horizon.
‘So it sounds like you’re really keen on him,’ Laura said more quietly after a moment.
‘Yeah, well, he’s a good kisser.’
Laura tried not to grimace. Her only direct interaction with PC Paul Weston had been at the fireworks night last year when a ground-cracker had sent her into an immediate freeze – Jack had been off getting hot dogs – and Paul had lifted her, fireman-style, out of the crowd. It hadn’t been an inconspicuous exit and she’d felt totally humiliated, the open scars she lived with plain for everyone to see. Clearly she held a grudge. ‘Well, that’s a good start,’ she murmured.
‘And he’s really strong. If I get cross with him, he bench-presses me until I laugh and forgive him.’
Laura frowned. ‘Just how many times have you seen him?’
‘A couple of weeks now.’
‘But this is the first I’ve heard of it.’ Laura was hurt.
‘Yes. Because I knew precisely how you’d react when I told you.’
Laura blew out through her cheeks. ‘I just think you can do better than him, that’s all.’
‘He makes me happy, Laur. He makes me laugh.’ Fee shrugged. ‘That’s good enough for me.’
Laura shot her a sideways glance. ‘You’re twenty-three. It’s not like you have to settle for any old bloke, you know.’
‘I’m not settling. I really like him.’ She stared at the bubbles rising in her glass. ‘In fact, I think I might even be able to . . . love him.’
Laura looked at her in alarm. ‘No, you couldn’t! You’d have told me about him before now if you really thought that.’
‘I really wouldn’t have. I knew you’d be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Jealous. You like keeping me all to yourself.’
‘I do not!’
‘Yeah, you do. You get to mess about being superior to me all day long, then go home to Mr Perfect who’s walked the dog and made your dinner for you.’
Laura gasped in shock. Fee didn’t really think like that about her, did she?
‘I am not being superior about him. Nor do I want you to be alone. I’d be delighted if you found your Mr Right.’
‘Well, I reckon I might have.’ Fee bit her lip, her eyes down.
‘But . . . but when have you been seeing him? I mean, you still spend every Saturday night with us!’ Laura protested, scarcely able to believe that all this had been happening to her very best friend in front of her and she’d deliberately kept it a secret. ‘Are we seeing you as usual tomorrow night?’
‘Yes. He works shifts and he’s been on weekend duty the past month. But that’ll change.’
Laura watched her friend closely. Something was up, she knew it was. There was no way Fee would have kept this
from her if she was a hundred per cent certain Paul was the man for her. ‘There must be something about him that drives you mad. There always is, with you. One little thing that niggles away in your head.’
Fee shook her head. But slightly too hard.
‘I knew it! Come on, out with it. Tell me his fatal flaw.’
‘Actually, it’s not a deal-breaker,’ Fee said, drumming her fingers on the tabletop.
‘I think I’ll be the judge of that,’ Laura said, refilling their glasses.
‘He pretends he can speak Korean.’
Laura frowned at her. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘He has to learn bits for his tae kwon do. You know, just phrases, but he always makes out he’s fluent. I think he wants to impress me that he’s got another language.’
‘French would be more useful,’ Laura replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘Well, it doesn’t bother me,’ Fee replied defensively.
‘You just said it did.’
‘No! I said . . . you said . . . you asked what irritated me. That’s different. Completely. I never would have brought it up.’
‘Yes you would. You know you would.’
‘Tch!’ Fee tutted tetchily, fidgeting in her seat. ‘Can we just drop it, please? I knew you’d be like this,’ she muttered more quietly.
Laura’s phone rang quietly on the table.
Fee frowned at it. ‘Why is that ringtone back on your phone? I put “Single Ladies” on for you.’
‘Jack replaced it with “Pachelbel’s Canon”. He read that its alga-rhythms chime with the brain, or something, and he says you’re not to change it. My startle response is high enough as it is.’
‘Oooh, get you and your startle response,’ Fee muttered, as Laura picked it up.
‘Hi, Jack . . . Yes, I’m at Tom’s . . . Uh-huh, with Fee. We’re just chatting about . . . Oh . . . uh-huh . . . But I thought you had to finish that Howard chair . . . I see . . . Okay, well, I’ll head back now, then . . . No, it’s fine . . . Yup, see you in a bit.’
Laura disconnected and gave Fee an apologetic grimace.
‘Don’t tell me, you’ve got to go,’ Fee said flatly, her eyes on the horizon as she watched the light of a ferry motoring back from Belgium.
‘I’m sorry. He’s made dinner,’ she said, tipping back her glass and draining it.
Fee shrugged as Laura stood up, the chair scraping painfully on the floor. ‘’Course he has.’
Laura looked down at her. ‘Really, Fee, I thought he was working late tonight.’
‘Sure. You’ve gotta go. I’ll stay here and finish the bottle. To m can come and join me.’ She looked around the still-deserted bar. ‘It’s not exactly heaving yet.’
‘I’ll make it up to you next time, I promise,’ Laura said, waving behind her as she marched towards the doors.
‘Yeah. That’s what you say every time,’ Fee murmured to herself, as the swing doors closed and she was left with only the stars for company.
Chapter Twelve
‘She can’t still be away, surely?’ Laura protested huffily down the line.
‘Well, she’s not responded to any of my messages, and I must have left, what – four now?’ Fee’s voice had risen an octave, a clear indicator that she was stressed, although whether that was because of Laura’s bad mood or the queue of ADHD kids in front of her wanting to go on the water flumes was open to question.
‘But I need to get on. I’ve seen two people on the list now and I was supposed to see her first,’ she argued, jumping as an HGV whistled past the lay-by she was sitting in, causing Dolly to rock like a boat.
‘Jeez, where are you?’ Fee complained. ‘It sounds like you’re sitting in the middle of a runway.’
‘I’m near Slough, looking at futons for Urchin. There’s a factory clearance sale.’
‘Mmm, well, I don’t know what to tell you,’ Fee murmured. Laura could hear her opening the till and handing over fifty-pence pieces for the lockers. ‘I can’t ring the woman incessantly. I’ll get done for harassment.’
Things still hadn’t quite returned to normal between them since their argument at Tom’s the week before and she knew Fee was sulking because she’d called Paul a ‘potato’.
‘Look, can you just text me the address? I may as well see if I can talk to her in person whilst I’m over this way.’
Two minutes later, her phone beeped and Laura looked up the village on the Surrey map she’d bought at the service station last time she’d been here seeing Orlando. Brampton Oakley appeared to be close to Kitty’s village. Just a few miles away, in fact.
Leaving it spread out on the passenger seat beside her, Laura pulled out of the lay-by and headed west towards Guildford, determined to pin this woman down once and for all.
Dolly sat idling as Laura looked up at the elaborate wrought-iron gates from the far side of the road. The Parsonage was carved into stone slabs set in each of the tall, dusty brick pillars on either side of the drive, and although she couldn’t see the house from here – the drive swept around and away from the road – she had glimpsed an impressive stack of chimneys beyond the fir trees on her approach. So far, so imposing.
Turning the engine off and getting out of the car, Laura crossed the road and pressed the button on the keypad. She took a step back, expecting a voice to bark back at her. Instead, a low whirr of motors started up somewhere nearby and the gates – with stately slowness – began to open.
Laura turned back towards Dolly in surprise. She wouldn’t be able to pass through the gates before they closed again. Clutching her bag closer to her, she stepped on to the private property.
The lawn spread out like a sheet, flat and smooth, before her as she followed the gentle meander of the drive up to the main approach. It wasn’t a long drive, maybe six hundred yards or so. From the street it looked as if it could have extended for half a mile, but the house was standing before her almost prematurely.
It was tall and reasonably narrow, built in a plum-coloured brick with high sash windows and a porticoed front door that was reached by a short sweep of steps. In the window above the door, she could see an antique bow rocking horse, and all the curtains appeared to be drawn and draped to exactly the same degree.
Laura shivered as she looked up at it. For all its desirable symmetry and impressive ceiling height, it looked forbidding, cold and reproachful. She could just imagine secrets lurking within it, trapped in the corners by sticky cobwebs and heavy locked doors.
She walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. Far inside the cavity of the house, she heard the jangle of a small brass bell, wall-mounted in the old servants’ quarters, no doubt. She waited.
But no one came. She tried again.
Nothing.
Bending to the side, she peered in through the front windows. A stack of boxes stood at the back of one of the rooms, a velvet wing chair the only piece of furniture in there. In the room on the other side was an oval dining table with eight chairs around it and an intricate candelabra with the remaining stumps of six mulberry-coloured candles.
Laura walked back down the steps and sat on the bottom one, pulling her notepad out of her bag. She thought for a moment about what to say.
Dear Mrs Tremayne,
I dropped by hoping to arrange an appointment for an interview with you, regarding the charm necklace Rob Blake has commissioned me to make for your sister’s birthday. Please would you call my studio on 01728 662490 at your earliest convenience.
Yours sincerely,
Laura Cunningham
She folded the sheet of paper and dropped it through the letterbox. She was just starting back down the drive, eager to leave the deserted house, when a sudden noise came to her ear.
Laura stopped and listened. It had come from the side of the house, in the gardens.
She walked tentatively around the building, almost tiptoeing. Part of her wanted to jump in Dolly and get on the motorway and back home. The sun had barely got
out of bed today and it was bitterly cold. But ‘150 miles’ kept blinking in her brain, and if she could just get this meeting over and done with, it would mean an extra day in the studio with Old Grey for company and the tides as her clock.
Laura passed an old lean-to glasshouse with several broken panes, rounded a corner and stopped abruptly at the sight of a long shadow moving ahead. She inched forwards. A woman was kneeling by a flowerbed at the edge of the lawn, weeding the bare, hard-crusted beds vigorously. Laura watched her, transfixed. Her hair was beautiful, a true golden blonde that shone in the late-afternoon light, her thin frame visible beneath her pansy-patterned needlecord dress and jumper as she grabbed, pinched and pulled the weeds from the soil. Oversized suede gardening gloves emphasized her thinness further.
‘Excuse me,’ Laura said.
The woman twisted round to look up at her, her pale face visibly draining of colour at the sight of Laura.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ Laura said quickly. ‘I rang the bell but no one answered. I’ve just dropped a note through the door. I was leaving when I heard you back here.’
The woman stared at her in silence. Her face was plain and devoid of make-up, and she looked nothing like the slick, body-con, sexualized women at the Cube. She was nothing like Laura had imagined Cat Blake’s sister to be.
‘You are Olive Tremayne, aren’t you?’ Laura asked. ‘My name’s Laura Cunningham. I’m a jeweller. Your brother-in-law has commissioned me to make a necklace for your sister’s birthday . . . I’ve been trying to contact you for a couple of weeks now.’
The woman continued staring at her, and Laura wondered whether she had understood. Maybe she was just a worker here, or perhaps she was foreign?
Slowly, the woman got to her feet and walked towards Laura, her palest-blue eyes pinned on her visitor like a sparrow hawk hovering above an unsuspecting mouse.
