‘Hi. Are you ill?’ she asked.
Then she saw a figure coming down Millerbrooke’s grand staircase, dressed only in a lace camisole and panties. Angie thought she was going to vomit. It was Diana Goodmann. Angie wasn’t sure exactly what she said to Richard. Something like, ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
Still clinging to her bag of pastries, she turned and stumbled back to the car. By the time she reached it, she had pressed so hard on the paper bag that the Danishes were crushed into an apricot and puff pastry pulp. She started the car and drove along the gravel, oblivious to the potholes, yet somehow avoiding them. When she turned onto the sealed road, she had to stop because she couldn’t see for tears.
‘What did that woman want?’ Diana asked, as soon as Richard had closed the front door.
‘She was selling raffle tickets, but I’d already bought a book in town.’
‘That’s a relief. I thought she’d come looking for me. Knocking on every door in the district.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s the one who owns the creepy B&B where I’m staying.’
‘You’re staying at the Manse?’
‘Yes. It’s a funny old place, Rich. She has photos of her dead husband in the hallway. And llamas in her garden. Like the ones you have out the back.’
‘They’re alpacas, not llamas, Di.’
‘Well, anyway, my luggage is still at her place, so I’ll drop in there at some stage and collect my things.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll go and collect your luggage.’
‘There’s no hurry. I have the basics in my handbag and it’s not as if I need to get dressed. Now come back to bed, darling. I’ll catch cold if I stand here much longer in my undies.’
As he climbed the cedar staircase, Richard felt a dull ache in his chest. He knew it wasn’t his heart – he’d had a check-up only a few weeks earlier and passed with flying colours. Might it be muscle pain from lifting those water containers? Then a strange thought struck him. It couldn’t be pangs of guilt, could it? No, of course not. He had no reason to feel guilty; he was a free agent and Angie Wallace had made her feelings crystal clear.
Even so, she’d looked shocked when he opened the door. Then again, who could blame her, discovering her missing guest in a state of undress in his house?
‘Rich, why are you taking so long?’ Diana called from the bedroom.
‘I’ll be there in a minute, Di.’
He paused on the top step. Why had Angie dropped by unannounced on a Sunday morning? Not to sell raffle tickets. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he’d smelt apricot Danishes.
6 RIVALS
On Monday Moira Johnson was sipping a coffee in the Gold Rush Café when Bert Williams came bustling in, wheezing as if he had asthma.
‘Are you all right, Bert?’ she asked, indicating he should take a seat opposite her. He was wearing one of his collection of hand-knitted jumpers. He wore them every day – except in the hottest weather – in memory of his late wife, Ellen, who had made them for him. Ellen and Moira had been best friends. When the cancer struck, Ellen had joked sadly about the whirlwind of widows, who would descend on the house after the funeral, offering casseroles and comfort. And that’s exactly what happened, but he had withstood the onslaught and slowly rebuilt his life, devoting himself to the museum. The little ritual with the jumpers was both sweet and sad, but Moira could empathise – she had her own quirky ways of memorialising her darling George, like maintaining his magazine subscriptions, just to see something arriving in the mail with his name on it.
‘I’m fine, Moira,’ Bert replied, heaving himself into the chair. ‘Just a bit out of breath. I’ve been looking for Angie. I went to the Manse and nobody was home. So I’ve been searching in every café and shop along Miller Street.’
‘Well, she’ll definitely be home later this morning. We’re having an extra painting session. What’s the problem anyway?’
‘It’s this emporium thing.’
‘Yes, I heard about it. How could Andrew Wright do something so contemptible?’
‘No sense of history, Moira.’
‘I imagine Angie’s very upset about it, being so close to Charles and Amy.’
‘Yes, she was livid when I told her. She thinks of them as family.’
‘I can pass on a message if you like.’
He lowered his voice. ‘Just tell her she needs to talk to Richard Scott as soon as possible about whether he’s prepared to sell the old mill.’
‘Okay,’ Moira replied, giving him a wink. ‘Am I right in assuming the mill might become the wedding reception place?’
‘We hope so.’
‘What’s to stop Andrew painting it some ghastly colour?’
‘First of all, it’s stone, and only an idiot would paint over that.’
Moira smiled. ‘And?’
‘Secondly and most importantly, it’s listed as an individual building on the National Register. Untouchable. He can do almost anything inside, but the façade has to be preserved.’
When Moira arrived at the Manse, the usual cars were missing. Had the other painting ladies walked to Angie’s? That wasn’t like them. They always had heavy baskets of painting gear. Or perhaps they’d forgotten about the extra class.
Beside the lych-gate was a post with a sign Angie had painted saying:
The Old Manse Bed & Breakfast 1870
Hanging at the bottom was a board with the words ‘No Vacancy’. Moira knocked on the front door, but no one came. She placed her face against the glass of the sidelights, trying to see inside. Was Angie ill? Then she walked around to the barn only to find it empty. Where were the other painters? Idly she checked her phone. There it was. A text saying, Sorry, no painting class today.
Moira was about to knock on the back door when she looked down towards the creek. Angie was sitting on one of the boulders with the three alpacas beside her. Instantly Moira knew something was wrong. She hurried down the slope, arriving out of breath. A seventy-five-year-old woman shouldn’t run, she thought to herself. It could give her a heart attack.
Angie hadn’t even noticed Moira. Still in her dressing gown, she was sitting with her head in her hands.
‘Angie, it’s me. Moira,’ she said as she sat down beside her. ‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong? It’s not one of your boys, is it?’
Angie shook her head but didn’t speak.
Moira didn’t know what to say next. Was it something to do with Angie’s husband? His birthday or the date of his death or even their wedding anniversary?
‘Angie, is it something to do with Phillip?’
The reply was a hoarse ‘No.’
Oh God, did something happen when Angie went to apologise to Richard? Had he rejected her in return? No, Richard had never been a spiteful person. Even when he was drinking, he hadn’t been mean, just morose.
‘Angie, did something go wrong at Millerbrooke?’
Angie removed her hands and looked towards Moira. Her eyes were swollen. ‘He had a woman there.’
‘What? His cleaning lady?’
‘Do cleaning ladies wear lace camisoles and G-strings?’
Moira was confused. Richard would never go to a prostitute. Besides, where would he find one in Millbrooke? Unless a lady in town was leading a double life that Moira didn’t know about.
‘It was the woman who was staying here. At my B&B. Diana Goodmann.’
Moira almost fell off the rock. In fact, she was so shocked she couldn’t speak for a while. When she felt calmer, she said, ‘It’s a cold day, Angie, and you’re only wearing that thin dressing gown. Let’s get you inside and I’ll make you a nice cuppa. After that, we can talk about Diana Goodmann.’
Inside the house, Moira boiled the kettle and made Angie a coffee, into which she added a good dash of brandy.
It wouldn’t do her any harm.
‘When did you last eat, sweetheart?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Did you feed your alpacas?’
‘Yes, I’d never neglect them.’
What had Richard Scott done? Moira was furious. Had he taken that woman back as if nothing had happened? Sometimes men were such idiots. And what was the story with Diana? Had she dumped the solicitor? Perhaps she’d left him years ago. Whatever had happened, it was a mess and now poor Angie was mixed up in it.
‘I’m going to keep you company today, Angie. Later on, I’ll go and get you some groceries.’ Moira had used the last of the milk for Angie’s coffee. ‘Do you have any guests staying?’
‘No, the Americans left yesterday. But I still have that woman’s luggage. It’s in her room. I imagine she’s too embarrassed to come back for it.’
‘You’re absolutely sure you saw her at Richard’s?’
‘I wasn’t hallucinating, Moira. She was coming down the stairs in her underwear. And he was in a dressing gown at ten in the morning.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Too right,’ said Angie, rubbing the tears from her eyes.
At a loss for more comforting words, Moira put her arm gently on Angie’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to make you a cold pack for your eyes.’
After Moira had attended to Angie’s face, she sat down at the table and took her hand. ‘There’s something you need to know about Diana Goodmann. She’s his ex-wife.’
Angie’s mouth dropped open. For a few seconds she couldn’t utter a word. Then slowly her expression changed from shock to disgust. ‘His ex-wife! So she’s the one who ran off with the solicitor and broke Richard’s heart? And now she’s come back. But how could he sleep with her? I just don’t understand it.’
Moira nodded. ‘Neither do I, Angie. She must have dumped Geoff, just like she did Richard.’
‘No,’ said Angie. ‘She didn’t dump him. He died from a heart attack. Six months ago.’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m upset. I hated that man after what he did to Richard. As for Diana, she’s certainly moved on with lightning speed.’
‘No doubt about that,’ said Angie wanly. Then something dawned on her. ‘Moira, last week she was pumping me for information. She pretended she didn’t know anything about Millerbrooke and she never let on about Richard.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Moira. ‘She’s a cagey one, Angie. I wouldn’t trust that woman as far as I could throw her.’
Richard remained puzzled about why Angie had turned up the previous day. Maybe she was just visiting the Chen grave and had knocked on his door out of courtesy. But why bring the apricot Danishes? It didn’t make sense. Like a detective, he reviewed the evidence. Only last week she’d made it perfectly clear there was no future for them, not in a romantic sense. Her comments had been unequivocal: Angie Wallace didn’t fancy Richard Scott. Full stop. Just because he’d decided she was a woman he could spend the rest of his life with didn’t mean she was intending to reciprocate. Attraction wasn’t always mutual, no matter how much a person longed for it to be.
He felt embarrassed now about presenting Angie with Charles’s love letter. She had never been interested in him in that way. Still, she must have been taken aback to catch him in flagrante delicto with her house guest. He flushed as he recalled the look on her face. He’d have to explain. He would do it right now and collect Diana’s luggage at the same time.
What was that banging sound? Angie wondered. Was it thunder? She stretched and rolled over. As the thunder continued, Angie became aware it wasn’t an approaching storm at all. Just someone at the door. Where was Moira? Oh, yes. She’d said she was going to buy some food. Angie climbed out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and padded downstairs. The outline of a man was visible through the patterned glass of the front door. It was probably Bert chasing her up about the emporium protest. She’d been out of touch for the last few days. When she opened the door, she wished she hadn’t.
‘Hi, Ange.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to apologise for yesterday’s . . . ah . . . imbroglio.’
Only Richard would use a ridiculous word like that. ‘I suppose I should have phoned you first,’ she replied curtly. ‘But I had no idea you were entertaining Mrs Goodmann.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if you were shocked.’
‘I’m not a child, Richard. And you’re a man of mature years.’ She couldn’t resist emphasising ‘mature’. ‘What you do in the privacy of your own home is none of my business. Especially when it’s with your ex.’
‘So you know.’
Angie didn’t respond. She certainly wasn’t going to reveal her source, although no doubt Richard had already guessed.
‘Ange, there’s something that’s been bothering me.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Why did you come to Millerbrooke yesterday?’
Angie had no intention of telling him the truth. In the wake of recent events, it would only make her look stupid. Instead, she supplied a cryptic answer worthy of Richard himself.
‘There was some information I required. But I discovered the answer for myself.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t be of help. If it’s to do with the alpacas, I have a lot of books on the subject.’
‘I know.’
‘Actually, there’s another reason I dropped by. I’d like to collect Diana’s luggage.’
‘Well, you’d better come in.’ She walked ahead of him, climbing the stairs to the bedroom. ‘It’s in there, just as she left it. I haven’t touched a thing.’
While he packed up Diana’s possessions, Angie stood in the doorway. There were cosmetics all over the dressing table, which he dropped loose into her suitcase. Typical man. They would probably spill everywhere and soil her clothes. Served her right.
‘I assume Diana’s paid you,’ he said, carrying the bag downstairs.
‘No, not yet.’
‘I’ll fix you up now.’ He started to remove his wallet from his pocket.
‘It’s her bill, not yours.’
‘She’s my responsibility, Ange.’
‘Your responsibility!’ she said, trying to quell the high pitch in her voice. Wasn’t Diana the one who deserted him all those years ago? How could he feel responsible for her? How could his ex-wife be his responsibility?
‘It’s a long story. I . . . We . . .’
As she listened to him struggling to come up with an explanation, her stomach turned. What were the ties that bound these two together?
‘Ange, you look ill. Do you have a cold?’
She thought she was going to explode. But she had no intention of telling him she’d been crying her eyes out since yesterday morning. What a bastard he was. Chatting up Angie one week and having it off with his ex-wife the next. Then again, it seemed to be one of the recurring themes in the dating stories exchanged at painting lessons. The ladies even had a rhyming name for it: ‘sex with the ex’.
‘Well, I hope you get well soon, Ange. Hot lemon and honey drinks are good.’
If she could have thrown something at him, she would have, but there was only her Art Nouveau glass vase sitting on the hallstand. If she broke that vase, she would regret it later.
‘Bye, Ange.’
She slammed the door behind him.
Bastard, bastard, bastard.
When Moira returned with the groceries, it was mid-afternoon and Angie was out of bed and in the kitchen, typing on her laptop.
‘Thanks, Moira. What would I do without you?’ she said, joining her friend at the kitchen counter to unpack the bags. ‘I should pay you for the groceries.’
‘No hurry. I used my card. Oh, by the way, was that Richard Scott’s ute I saw turning out of Church Lane just as I was leaving the deli?’
‘He came by to collect his wife’s
luggage,’ Angie replied bleakly.
‘Ex-wife.’
‘What’s the difference? She obviously wants to resume their conjugal relationship and so does he.’
‘Does she know anything about you and Richard?’
‘There is no “me and Richard”. And I never said a word to her. I imagine Richard hasn’t either. It wouldn’t be to his advantage, would it? I’m sure he made up a story about why I dropped by yesterday.’
‘Did you tell him she asked all those questions about Millerbrooke as if she’d never lived there?’
‘No, I don’t want to sound like a spurned lover, telling tales about her replacement.’
‘Well, it’s good to see that you’re dressed. What are you working on?’
‘A story for the Gazette about Charles and Amy and their emporium. I’ll email it to Jonathan and he can fix it up.’
While they put the last items in the pantry, Moira said, ‘Oh, Angie, I forgot to tell you, Bert Williams has a message for you. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.’
‘He wants me to sound out Richard about selling the mill, doesn’t he? I’ve been procrastinating – for obvious reasons. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘No, Angie, I’ll go and see him instead.’
‘Thanks, but if I’m going to live in this town I have to act like an adult. And there’s no better way to start than this.’
‘What if Diana’s there?’
‘She has no idea about my former friendship with her ex-husband or lover or whatever he is now. I have the upper hand.’
‘That’s true, I suppose. Just be careful. She’s always played the fragile princess with Richard, but she can be a bitch when it suits her.’
Angie was shocked. Moira avoided even the mildest form of bad language.
‘Don’t worry, Moira. I can handle her.’
The next day Angie styled her hair, put on her make-up and set off to beard the lion in his den. What an odd expression that was. Lions had manes, not beards. But first she would stop at the emporium café for a cup of tea and a muffin. It wasn’t exactly stalling, just steeling herself for a joust with the stubbly lion. He might even come in for his morning cuppa but she doubted it – not when he had someone at home to detain him.
A Place of Her Own Page 7
