Brigid rolled her eyes in silent impatience. The sight of her mother, dressed as if she might be going out to lunch rather than volunteering to clean a cottage, was still vividly before her. It was clear that she was very taken by Alexander, considering him worthy of her mettle and attracted by him too. Brigid shuddered slightly. Quicksands lay ahead which must be carefully navigated. It would be too embarrassing if Frummie were to make a fool of herself. He had accepted her offer of help so politely—though pointing out that he had very little to be unpacked—accepting her offer of lunch graciously but with a private smile for Brigid, clearly noticing and understanding her anxiety. It was odd how protective she’d felt towards Frummie: protective and furious. She couldn’t have bome it if Alexander had been amused by the smart clothes, the unskilfully applied make-up, the ornate bracelets clanking on the skinny, fragile wrists. Yet she’d been scorched with humiliation at the sight of her mother frisking to and fro like some elderly chorus girl. She’d been glad to go away; to leave them to it.
The house had welcomed her as always; cool and shadowy after the bright, hot sunshine. She’d kicked off her shoes, enjoying the sensation of the flagstones sharply cold beneath her bare feet, stopping to crouch beside Blot, who’d been fast asleep, an inky puddle in the gloom. The peace and silence enfolded her, restoring her, and she’d decided to do some work. It was only when she’d been fiddling at the table that she’d seen the letter.
She thought: And even now I’m putting it off. Allowing myself to be distracted. Procrastinating.
She smoothed out the sheets, read through what she’d written, picked up her pen and began to write.
WHEN THEA had gone, Louise continued to sit for a while, deep in thought. Presently she went inside, put the tray on the table in the kitchen and sat down beside the telephone. Her call was answered very promptly. Martin’s voice was comfortingly familiar.
“Martin,” she said. “It’s me. Louise.”
“I can still recognise your voice, sweetie,” he said. “How are things?”
“This isn’t a difficult moment?”
“If you mean ‘Is Carol around?’ the answer is no. She’s having a lie-in.”
For a second or two the mental picture, with its associations, was so powerful that Louise was unable to speak: Carol asleep, relaxed and untroubled amongst the rumpled sheets where once she’d lain with Martin. She swallowed, frowning, trying to concentrate.
“Are you OK?” His voice was anxious.
“Of course. I just wanted to talk something through with you. The thing is, I’ve been thinking of starting work again. I can’t stay with Frummie much longer and I don’t want to be dependent on you either. Even if I can work with children again, it’s unlikely I shall fall into something this term and if I’m not earning I won’t be able to find something to rent. I might have to take a fill-in job—waitressing or something like that.”
“Look,” he said urgently, “don’t do anything in a hurry. Just don’t. I’m not worried about how long it takes. If it weren’t for me you’d be here still, wouldn’t you? You’d have come back home and we’d have gone on as usual.”
“Oh, Martin,” she said warmly, “it’s nice of you to put it like that. But don’t forget that I’ve changed too. I’m not certain it would have worked any more.”
“Probably not, but you’d have had the time and space to find out where you were going. Because of Carol it means that you’re doing it down there instead of up here. Just don’t jump into something without thinking it through. Give yourself time, sweetie. Promise?”
“Yes. But I have this cut-off point with Margot coming. I should be able to get a winter let—a cottage or a flat for six months. I’ve got to make the break sooner or later, Martin. I need to feel independent.”
“I can see that. But just don’t take on anything too permanent all at once.”
“No, I won’t. My real difficulty is that I think I might have to pay three months” rent in advance but I doubt I’d get paid until the end of the first month. Would you sub me? I could pay you back once I’m working …”
“Look, sweetie, if we’d been married for the last three years I’m sure you’d be able to claim all kinds of things. If you find a job and a flat I’ll pay for you to go in and sort yourself out. After that you’re on your own. How does that sound?”
“It sounds fine. Bless you, Martin. You’re a terrific comfort.”
“It’s not a problem. Stay in touch.”
She replaced the receiver, sat indecisively for a moment and then made up her mind. She collected her car-keys, hesitated over whether she needed a jacket and went out again. Frummie was lifting a box from Alexander’s car and Louise paused beside her.
“I’m going to Ashburton,” she said. “I want to go to the chemist and I think I’ll grab a sandwich while I’m out.”
Frummie raised her eyebrows. “I hope you don’t feel that Alexander and I need to be alone?” she asked.
“Of course not. It’s just I feel a bit… oh, you know. Restless. Twitchy. I need some exercise. Don’t worry. I won’t go off into the lonely wild. I’ll stick with the crowds.”
“Make sure you do,” said Frummie sharply. “See you later.”
Louise drove up the track and pulled out on to the road. There were the usual number of cars crammed into the layby beside the O Brook and, as she passed over Saddle Bridge, one of them, to her irritation, pulled out behind her. She hated being followed over the moor; she liked to be able to relish the glorious spectacle of the hills unfolding to misty horizons, the stony peaks, the deep-sided combes and wooded valleys. The rowan trees by the bridge were bright with berries, stonechats perched, swaying on the bracken, and the warm, exciting scent of gorse drifted on the faint currents of air. The car parks at Combestone Tor and Venford were packed with holidaymakers: families with children making the most of this last weekend of freedom before the new school term. The waters of the reservoir lay calm and unruffled in the noonday heat and it seemed impossible now, in bright sunshine, to imagine that sudden nightmare panic which had sent her fleeing from the wood. Perhaps, after all, it had been Pan, the god of fields and woodland, who waited behind stone and tree so as to ravish unsuspecting travellers. She chuckled, slowing to allow some sheep to cross the road, glancing in her mirror as she applied her brakes. The car following was idling some way back and she pulled away again, glad not to be pressured into driving too fast.
She clattered over the cattle-grid and picked up speed, heading for Ashburton, hoping it wouldn’t be too crowded. The small red car continued to follow her out on to the Poundsgate road and along beside the river to Holne Bridge. Here there was the usual weekend crowd of canoeists, putting on wet suits, unloading canoes from their cars and vans, and Louise sat in a queue of cars, waiting to cross the bridge, watching them and occasionally glancing in her mirror at the car behind. The driver, the only occupant, was wearing Ray-Bans and a baseball cap. His arm, in its rolled-up shirtsleeve, rested on the window-ledge and the fingers of his left hand beat a rhythm on the wheel. Louise felt a tiny pulse of recognition and wondered if he was the man who had come to Foxhole recently to clean windows. The car looked familiar…
She pushed her hair back impatiently, hot and wanting to get on, disliking the smell of diesel fumes and the noise of idling engines. Mentally she reviewed her conversation, with Martin, remembering the sudden need to communicate. If only she could effect some change in her circumstances. Despite the descents into fear she was quite certain that she needed to make a new effort but it was odd—and deeply unsettling—how the prospect of the future could be alternately exhilarating and terrifying. Suddenly, without warning, she was possessed with an overwhelming longing for Rory: the need to feel his arms round her, to hear his voice in her ear. “So that’s that. Now! Where were we?” She stared straight ahead, biting her lip, her eyes wide and staring against tears.
Suddenly the road was clear again; she was passing over the bridge and in anothe
r five minutes was approaching the town. She drove into the car park, peering for a space, spotting a car on the further side which was backing out. Feeling lucky, she parked, checked for some change and strolled over to the pay meter to collect a ticket. The small red car was not so fortunate. He pulled in, waiting behind a row of cars, watching until Louise had locked her car and walked quickly away towards the shops.
LATER, AFTER some lunch at the Victoria Inn and a trawl around the shops, Louise went back to the car park, put her shopping on the passenger seat and drove off. By the time she arrived back at Foxhole it was nearly four o’clock. Frummie came out to greet her and Louise climbed out, surprised and faindy alarmed.
“Is everything OK?”
“Yes.” Frummie gave a sigh of relief. “I’m just glad to see you back safely.”
“I only went to Ashburton, you know.” Louise reached into the car for her shopping and locked the door. “Oh, and I stopped on the, way home to climb Combestone Tor in the company of about four hundred tourists.”
“You may well joke,” said Frummie grimly, “but another woman was attacked last night at Buckfastleigh.”
Louise stared at her. “Oh, no. How do you know?”
“It was on the lunchtime news. Luckily some young chaps going home from the pub heard her screams and went to her rescue. Her attacker ran off but the girl was able to describe him. She thought that she’d seen him about The police say that it sounds as though he spies on lone women, watches their movements and then strikes. They think it’s related to those three murders.”
“How horrible.” Louise shuddered. “Oh, Frummie, supposing it was him last night…”
“We might just tell them about it. It’s not far from Venford Reservoir to Buckfastleigh, after all. Anyway, I’m very glad to see you home again and, for the time being, no more evening walks for you or Brigid.”
“No,” agreed Louise. “Absolutely right. No more evening walks.”
CHAPTER 29
“I’d love to see you.” Jemima was on the telephone talking to Louise. “Come and have lunch. Or supper. I can look through my files and see if we’ve got any winter lets that might suit you … No, not this weekend. It’s just hectic, I’m afraid … Oh, just lots of different things. There’s a private viewing at the Cove’s Quay Gallery … David Stead. I love his water-colours so I’m hoping to do that. And then I’ve got a friend coming for supper and a lunch with Mandy and Ness. It’s terribly muddly. But next week sometime would be great… Tuesday? For lunch?… OK. About one o’clock? Great. See you then.”
She replaced the receiver and let out her breath in a gasp of relief. It was not in her nature to dissemble and she was finding it difficult being quite so discreet. Yet this time, her new love affair was so important, so precious, that she’d become quite superstitious, deciding that if she told anyone about her feelings and her hopes it might all disappear; vanish as if it had never been.
Sometimes she wondered if she’d imagined it. Now that he was back in London, that her life had resumed its more ordinary quality, it seemed impossible to believe that she’d actually lived through those few blissful weeks. Yet on Friday he would be here again.
“Friday,” she said ecstatically to MagnifiCat, who was eating his supper. “He’ll be here in forty-eight hours. Two days.”
MagnifiCat continued to eat, unimpressed by the treat in store, unmoved by her transports of delight. His tail twitched dismissively, contemptuously. Jemima wandered into the sitting room and lay full length upon the sofa.
“I’m missing you,” he’d said. “It’s awful here. She’s taken so much.”
“How beastly.” She’d wanted to show support, and it was so tempting to bad-mouth Annabel, but she’d managed to restrain herself. “It must be awfully depressing.”
“Well, it is.”
She’d imagined him looking round the deserted flat, familiar objects and pictures gone, and her heart went out to him.
“She’s left a note.”
“Oh?” It had been difficult, at a distance, when she couldn’t see his expression, to know quite how to play it. She was by no means confident of her ability to hold him once he was back in his own territory. His and Annabel’s territory. Fear seized her and she’d wanted to scream, “Well, read it then. What does the bitch say? How’s the girlfriend from hell?” but she’d been too afraid. He’d sounded pretty low—which in itself was disappointing. Why should he care any more? Hadn’t they got a pretty good relationship going between them? Why should he feel it so much after these last few weeks together?
She’d had to hold herself in check, tell herself that it wasn’t quite that simple. Going back to the flat was bound to resurrect old memories, open old wounds. A month-long holiday romance was hardly to be compared with a five-year-old relationship and it was unrealistic to expect him to be unmoved as he confronted the break-up.
“She’s explaining why she’s taken certain things,” he’d said, “and suggesting that we discuss them if I feel it’s not fair. She’s trying to be civilised about it. There’s an address and a telephone number and she’s saying we could meet for a chat”
“Well, that sounds … OK.” It didn’t sound OK at all. It sounded absolutely all wrong. “Don’t go,” she’d wanted to beg him. “Please don’t go. It’s over. Finished,” but he’d been talking about how important it was that they should remain friends and she was unwilling to show herself in a selfish, jealous light. At least there had been no question of his changing his mind about the weekend.
“Can’t wait to see you again,” he’d said. “Seems like weeks already and I only left a few hours ago. Salcombe seems like paradise compared with this place.”
Jemina had been able to raise her game, then, to joke a little, tease him a bit, so that he’d forgotten Annabel and her letter and had talked, instead, about his plans for making some enquiries about IT jobs in the southwest.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t mind sharing your flat?” he’d asked.
“I’d consider a trial period,” she’d answered lightly, glad that he couldn’t see her face, her wide, delighted grin. “Anyway, it’s MagnifiCat you have to persuade, not me.”
“Don’t tell me that our future depends on that neurotic fleabag,” he’d said cheerfully. “God!” His voice had changed, deepening, not at all steady. “I really miss you.”
She’d taken several deep breaths lest her own voice should betray her. “Me, too,” she’d said. “Honestly.”
“Well.” She’d been able to sense him glancing about, bracing himself to deal with the depressing situation; his new status. “I’d better see what I’ve got here and get myself sorted. I just wanted to say ‘Hi’ before I got stuck in. Give me a call, won’t you?”
“Course I will,” she’d said. A tiny pause. “Hey. Not long till Friday.”
“No.” His voice had brightened a little. “Not long till Friday. Talk soon.”
She’d made herself wait until the next evening, praying that he might phone first but taking her courage in both hands and dialling his number on Saturday evening.
“At least she left the television,” he’d said—he’d sounded just the least bit surly—“and a couple of videos. Big deal!”
She’d felt a nervousness at the pit of her stomach, a tightening of the muscles as if she were bracing herself for some kind of contest.
“Was it worse than you thought, then?”
“If it wasn’t nailed down then she tried to take it,” he’d said bitterly. “I didn’t notice, not to begin with, but she’s taken all the ornaments, all the paintings and most of the books. I still can’t believe it”
“Have you … spoken to her?”
“Not yet.”
She’d cast about for some kind of comfort but her mind had remained obstinately blank. “I’m so sorry,” she’d said at last. How feeble it had sounded—and how hurt he must feel. “It seems very unfair. I mean, they must have belonged to you both, jointly.”
&nb
sp; “I must say that that was my view of it.”
“Well, perhaps you can sort it out with her.” She’d said it tentatively—she who hadn’t wanted him to go near Annabel. “Surely she’ll be reasonable?”
“If she was reasonable, she wouldn’t have taken them in the first place.”
“No, well…” There hadn’t been much she could say to that.
“Sorry, love. I’m in a shitty mood to be honest. I don’t want to take it out on you. Look, I’ll give you a buzz tomorrow. I’ll have pulled myself together by then. OK? ‘Bye then.”
The next twenty-four hours had stretched themselves interminably, giving her time to imagine every conceivable scenario, from his being unable to stand it another second and rushing back to Salcombe, to forgetting her completely in the upheaval of his new situation. It seemed, in this fraught, tense state, that every single one of her friends and relations decided to talk to her during that period of time. She’d wanted to scream at them, trying tef concentrate whilst wondering if he were trying to get through, her eyes fixed desperately on her watch until she could hang up with relief, only for the bell to ring again almost immediately with some other well-meaning and utterly time-wasting prattler on the other end of the line. By the time he’d telephoned, late in the evening, she’d hardly dared to pick up the receiver.
“How are you?” she’d asked, trying to pitch her voice between cheerfulness and concern.
“OK.” He’d sounded resigned. “Sorry about last night. It hits me every now and again, if you know what I mean. Being here brings it all back. Anyway” he’d sounded as if he were making a great effort, “how are things with you?”
Remembering, Jemima smiled to herself. She’d made an effort too, trying to cheer him, make him laugh—and she’d succeeded. She’d hung up, her confidence restored. He needed her. As the week progressed his mood improved. Once back at work he’d sounded more balanced, more positive. He’d been making those enquiries about jobs and had sounded quite hopeful: there would be quite a lot, he’d hinted, to talk about on Friday. She stretched, excited and nervous, and gasped as MagnifiCat landed heavily on her stomach, purring heavily, full of delicious rabbit. She stroked his soft fur with long sensuous strokes, her eyes closed, imagining delightful scenes for the weekend ahead, waiting for Friday.
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