The Warning
Page 3
Not telling Tom Rigbey what she said, assuming I ever meet him again, will be easy. It was so horrible, so extreme. Surely undeserved, too. How could anyone, apart from the worst, most sadistic criminals, deserve to be spoken of in such terms? Repeating insults as vicious as that to a man who has only ever been kind to me . . . it’s unthinkable. He’d be so hurt.
Forgetting’s going to be slightly harder. If Nadine Caspian wanted me to forget, she should have chosen words that wouldn’t sit so heavily in my mind.
“Give him nothing, tell him nothing, trust him not at all. Avoid him like the plague because that’s what he is—a plague in human form.”
Chapter 5
“SO WHAT DID you do?” Lorna is fizzing with excitement. We’re in St. John’s Chop House having dinner. Several hours have passed since my exchange with Nadine Caspian. I still haven’t forgotten what she said.
“I—”
“No, wait, don’t tell me. I want to guess.” Lorna shovels a forkful of dauphinoise potatoes into her mouth. “You hung around on the stairs for nearly an hour, agonizing about whether to leave the present where it was or go and get it back. Eventually you decided to leave it. Right?”
“No. I went back to reception and asked the other receptionist, Rukia, to give me the gift bag back—”
“Really? Wow, well done!”
“Wait. I didn’t take the present away, I just tore the top off my note—the part where I’d put my contact details. I thought that was the perfect compromise: Tom Rigbey gets his thank-you present, which he deserves and which I want him to have, but I haven’t given him my email address, so . . . if this Nadine woman’s right and he’s dangerous . . . well, he’s no danger to me, is he? He has no way of getting in touch.”
Lorna sighs. “It’s a compromise,” she says. “I’m not sure I’d call it perfect. You really took the gift bag back, got out the note, tore the top off it, then stuck it back in the bag and gave it back to the receptionist?’
“Yes.”
“She must have thought you were a nutter.”
“You don’t think I did the right thing?”
“No, Chloe. Don’t look so rejected. I never think you do the right thing. You’re way too soft and soppy about people.”
“What would you have done?”
“First off, I’d have sworn on my honor not to breathe a word of what Nadine told me to Tom Rigbey—that way you might actually have found something out! But even based only on what she said to you, I’d have asked for my prezzie back and scarpered, thankful for a useful warning and a narrow escape.”
I stare at my tagliatelli with porcini mushrooms, wondering how long it will be before Lorna orders me to eat it, and whether I’ll admit to having lost my appetite or force it down just to shut her up.
“I know what you’re thinking, Chloe. You’re thinking: ‘Mean, nasty Lorna, not giving the benefit of the doubt. What if Nadine is wrong? Wouldn’t it be awful and unfair to think badly of Tom Rigbey on the basis of no evidence whatsoever—just hearsay, just someone else’s opinion?’ ”
“Pretty much,” I admit.
“You’re thinking that I’m thinking, ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ ” Lorna pauses to take a gulp of red wine. “I’m not, though. Sometimes there is smoke without fire—anyone with a brain knows that—so you have to look at the precise nature of the smoke. If Nadine had said, ‘You don’t want to get involved with Tom Rigbey—he’s a real heartbreaker’ or something like that, you could safely ignore her—that kind of thing can mean anything. It’d most likely mean he spurned her advances. But ‘a plague in human form’? ‘Give him nothing, tell him nothing, trust him not at all’? And you said she looked scared? Chloe, come on—that’s got to be a warning worth listening to.”
“So because she said really terrible things about him, that means she can’t be wrong? Why?”
Lorna groans. “How are we still friends?”
“I’ve no idea.” There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat anything tonight. I put my fork, empty of food, in my mouth, to create the illusion of eating.
“This isn’t a court of law, Chloe. Would Nadine’s cryptic warning be enough to get Tom Rigbey locked up forever? No, and nor should it be. It’s hearsay. But she works with him. She knows him. You don’t. And you have nothing invested in him. If a stranger warns you to steer clear because he’s a plague person, why wouldn’t you listen to them? Nadine could be wrong—I’m not denying that—but isn’t it overwhelmingly more likely that she’s right?”
Lorna’s questions have stopped sounding like questions, because they aren’t. They’re conclusions, presented in question form for rhetorical effect. That’s why, even though I have answers to each and every one, I don’t feel like sharing them with her.
It’s not true that I have nothing invested in Tom Rigbey. Not if hope counts as a thing. Hope for what, though? Nothing will happen. Nothing can. I tore my email address off the note. He can’t contact me even if he wants to.
Perhaps I ought to try to believe Nadine Caspian, as a consolation. If I can make myself believe I’ve had a narrow escape . . .
“Eat your pasta, Chloe. Going off your food because Nadine the receptionist might have unfairly maligned your favorite stranger makes no sense. You’re living in a complete fantasy world. Whatever your instincts are telling you right now, for God’s sake do the opposite. Your judgment’s completely askew.”
“We don’t need to talk about it anymore,” I say quietly.
“Good. Fantastic.”
“He hasn’t got my email or phone number, so. End of story.”
“Praise the Lord.”
“You’re forgetting that I’ve actually met him. I’m not weighing Nadine’s hearsay against nothing, I’m weighing it against my own first-hand experience. Tom Rigbey did something amazing for me and Freya, something no one else would have done. I spoke to him, we chatted. I just don’t believe her!”
“Right. Because no manipulative psychopaths know how to chat nicely and fool people. If someone can make a few witty comments about an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, that proves they’re a good person.”
“So now you’re making him a psychopath?” I snap.
“You know what, Chloe? I do believe her. I don’t think people say things like that for no reason. I haven’t got any proof, but I don’t like the sound of Tom Rigbey. Didn’t from your first mention of him. All this ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Your Highness’ stuff, saluting you, cycling off to the car park for Freya’s music as if someone’s life depended on it . . . It’s too much. Way too much. You said it yourself: ‘He did something no one else would have done.’ And you didn’t ask him to, did you? He overheard, and forced his way in. There was your warning alarm bell, right there—you chose to see it in a positive light because you’re naïve, but if you ask me, it’s creepy.”
“You could be right,” I say, not really caring if I mean it or not. A lot of my conversations with Lorna end this way. She loves arguing and could go on all night. I hate it, and usually give in.
I wish I hadn’t taken the note out of the gift bag and torn the top off it. I allowed a stranger to scare me. If I’d taken no notice of her, I would now be looking forward to hearing from Tom Rigbey. He’d have been bound to email and thank me. He might have said something about the present and how much he liked it. Whatever he’d have written, I bet it would have made me laugh. Lorna’s always telling me that she has my best interests at heart, but most of what she says makes me feel worse, not better.
I wish I’d argued with Nadine Caspian. Tom Rigbey is not a plague in human form. No way. That’s too over the top. I don’t buy it. He’s sweet, and not dangerous at all. I trusted him with my car keys, and he didn’t let me down. I’m the one who’s let him down by allowing myself to be scared away by the spiteful insinuations of a stranger.
Chapter 6
EXCEPT—AND THANK YOU, life, for being so surprising and almost making me believe in God—I do hear from Tom Rigbey again, and in a pleasingly familiar way. Four days after my depressing dinner with Lorna, I’m sitting on a bench on Castle Street, waiting for Freya to emerge from her first Joseph rehearsal, when I hear a man’s voice singing a song:
“Down yonder green valley, where streamlets meander / When twilight is fading I pensively rove / Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander, / Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove; / T was there, while the blackbird was cheerfully singing . . .”
It’s him. I leap to my feet. “Tom Rigbey!” Oops. That was uncool. Too late now to pretend I’m not thrilled to see him. He’s got his bike with him. Same red bicycle clips as last time, a black suit, white shirt with thin blue and lilac stripes . . .
“Hello, Chloe Whose-Surname-I-Still-Don’t-Know-Because-She-Didn’t-Write-It-On-Her-Card.” He sounds equally thrilled to see me. My heart is bouncing up and down like an excited toddler in a soft play center ball pit.
“This . . . this is such a coincidence,” I stammer.
“Not at all. I hunted you down. I’m pretty ruthless when it comes to stalking people I’m keen on. You don’t mind, do you?”
He is obviously joking. I am obviously not going to mention to Lorna that he said it.
“I’m serious,” he says. “You wrote in your note that Freya aced the auditions. I found out where and when they were. I figured you’d be exactly where I found you, waiting to collect your talented progeny.”
“You were right. Here I am!”
“They don’t call me the Talented Mr. Rigbey for nothing. Now, may I draw your attention to this quite exceptionally beautiful tiepin I’m wearing? With what I like to think of as ‘our song’ ”—he mimes quote marks in the air—“ ‘The Ash Grove’ contained within it! What an incredibly thoughtful idea. I love it—seriously, I can’t think of any present I’ve ever been given before that I’ve loved anywhere near as much. Where did you get it from? I’m guessing the Folk Song Tiepins Warehouse just off the M11, right?”
I giggle. “I made it.”
“You made it? Wow. You’re a genius, Chloe No-Surname.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a jewelry maker—that’s what I do. And I’m Daniels.”
“Daniel’s? Who is this Daniel? I’ll have him killed.”
Another joke not to be repeated to Lorna. Though, actually, maybe I should tell her. No one who was planning to commit murder would announce it so cheerfully and openly.
“I mean my surname is Daniels. Chloe Daniels.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a relief. I must admit, I was rather hoping you didn’t belong to anybody—apart from Her Highness Freya, that is. But this jewelry business of yours sounds amazing—when did you start it up? What’s it called? Is it just you, or do you have a whole team?”
Normally, I like to be asked about my work. It might be a frivolous thing to spend my days doing, but I love it. I look forward to making each new piece, and not many people can say that about their work. And I love having a company, however tiny. I loved choosing its name, all by myself, and not having to consult anyone else.
“It’s called Danglies,” I say. I can’t manage any more words at the moment. My brain is busy doing acrobatics around the idea that Tom Rigbey doesn’t want me to belong to anyone. He definitely said that—I didn’t imagine it—and there’s only one thing it can mean.
“Ah, voila Mademoiselle Freya!” Tom exclaims, as she emerges from the rehearsal hall and comes running towards us. I don’t speak French, but I’m guessing that he said something like, “Here comes the lovely Freya.”
“Congratulations on your successful audition, young lady. Have you been promoted to Pharaoh yet? I’m sure it won’t be long.”
“What are you doing here?” Freya asks him.
“I wanted to thank your mother for the present she made for me, and she annoyingly withheld her phone number, hoping to shake me off. As a result, I’ve had no alternative but to become a musical theater groupie.”
“I wasn’t hoping that at all,” I say. “I didn’t want you to think I expected a thank-you, that’s all.”
I’ve just lied to Tom Rigbey. Nadine Caspian warned me that he was untrustworthy. Maybe she’d have been better off warning him about me. So far in our very short acquaintance, he’s been nothing but lovely to me and I’ve failed him twice—once by taking Nadine’s stupid badmouthing too seriously, and now by lying to him.
“I wouldn’t have thought that for a moment. And I’m not letting you off the hook, I’m afraid. I think, since you’ve put me out by making me roam the streets looking for you, I ought to be allowed to take you out for dinner very soon. You and Freya, if she’d like to come too.”
“Don’t invite me.” Freya rolls her eyes. “I mean, thanks, and I get what you’re trying to do, but . . . it’s silly. You should just invite Mum, on her own. I won’t feel left out, abandoned or anything like that.”
“Oh.” Tom frowns. “Thanks for the tip, remarkably well-adjusted child. See, I feared that not inviting you might have overtones of When-I-marry-your-mother-I-intend-to-keep-you-locked-in-the-cellar. Am I wrong? Because I totally wouldn’t keep you locked the cellar. I’m happy to shake on that now if you’d like?”
He extends his hand and Freya shakes it. She says, “I love our cellar. It’s where my Xbox is. I’d like to spend more time there—Mum’s always dragging me upstairs to do mind-improving things, yawn.”
“You should always listen to your mother, if only because she’s a jewelry magnate and has access to diamonds.”
“That is so not true.” I laugh. “My only experience of diamonds is seeing them in shop windows.”
“Then that must change,” says Tom Rigbey. “Now, when can you lock your daughter in the cellar and have dinner with me?”
“What about tonight, Mum?” Freya suggests.
“Um. I’m not sure if—”
“Ninny’ll babysit. You know she will. When does she ever say no?” To Tom, Freya says, “That’s my gran. Our Wi-Fi’s way faster than hers. She’d move in with us if she could.”
Tom bows. “I greatly admire your strategic slant of mind, young lady. But we can’t make plans unless your mother joins our little conspiracy. What shall we do to persuade her? I mean, it’s only dinner. It’s not as if we’re proposing to blow up the Houses of Parliament.”
Freya laughs and tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s clearly delighted to be treated as if she’s a key player. Smart move, Talented Mr. Rigbey.
“All right,” I say. “Dinner tonight.”
I’m glad this evening is still several hours away. So much has been said during this short conversation that I need to analyze. I want to make the arrangement as quickly as I can, so that I can get away from Tom Rigbey right now.
I need to get away from him so that I can think about him properly, without him there to distract me.
Chapter 7
WE MEET FOR dinner at eight o’clock, at a restaurant called the Oak Bistro, on Lensfield Place. I’ve never been here before, and it doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside it’s beautiful: striking, colorful paintings with price tags attached occupying whole walls; thick white tablecloths and proper napkins—or, as Tom said when we sat down at our table, “None of your folded-paper nonsense.” I notice there’s an attractive outdoor eating area too, which must be fantastic in summer.
Will Tom and I ever sit out there? Will he still want to take me out for dinner by the time summer comes around?
Don’t be an idiot, Chloe. Take it one day at a time.
I know why I’m feeling insecure, and I know how pathetic
it is. Since we met this evening, Tom hasn’t once mentioned marriage or diamonds. He seems to have two modes: frivolous and earnest. Tonight he’s in earnest mode and not cracking silly jokes. He seems mainly to want to hear about my work and relationship history, and to tell me about his. Which is nice in a different way, but . . .
No. No buts. It’s nice. I’m having a lovely time. It’s just that after everything he said this afternoon, I was half expecting to arrive at the Oak Bistro and find him on one knee, holding out a diamond engagement ring, with a specially commissioned orchestra playing romantic music in the background.
I’ve read him wrong, clearly. He’s not straightforwardly soppy and romantic. Thinking about it, he says some quite jarringly unromantic things. A straight-down-the-line romantic person wouldn’t joke about stalking, murder and locking my daughter in the cellar.
Tom Rigbey is a highly unusual man. That doesn’t mean he will never ask me to marry him. It’s more likely to mean that, if he ever does, he will do it in a highly unusual way.
Not that I want to marry him, or would say yes. I barely know him.
I tell him about Freya’s dad—my short relationship with him and our breakup. “That sounds tough,” he says sympathetically. Then, with a more mischievous expression on his face, he says, “But your mother’s been supportive, right? In exchange for great Wi-Fi?”
I laugh. “Actually . . . now she’s great, and Freya’s right—she’ll babysit whenever I need her to, but that’s only since she split up with Husband Number Three. When I was on my own with a six-month-old baby, Mum had only just met Clive and was pandering to his every need all day long. He was the child she looked after—and emotionally he was such a spoilt kid. She had no time for anyone else.”
“Could you ever pander to a Clive?” Tom wrinkles his nose. “I couldn’t. Names are important. I could pander to a Chloe, but never a Clive.”