He shouldn’t have presumed upon Diane’s understanding, when he hadn’t offered her anything to understand.
Chapter Eleven
It was a lovely place. Old red brick and bright white render with a tall chimney and a corner plot hedged in with glossy green privet. Highly desirable in today’s market; so quirky and pretty it was an estate agent’s dream. Mature property on the edge of sought-after Whittlesey … many original features, herringbone brickwork, latticed windows, decorative roof tiles …
The lawn was cut and edged, the shrubs trimmed. Diane wondered at the prideful rage that had caused Wendy to turn down such a sweetheart of a house and whether she’d often thought of it when she lived at Brightside or in even more grisly accommodation.
Principles. Harsh masters.
Inside, the cottage was a delight. The brand new leather suite in the sitting room could scarcely be compared with the balding green velour at home, which would’ve been laughed at by the sexy little stereo, wide-screen television and cream wool carpet that looked so elegant with the gold slubbed-silk curtains and red-tiled hearth gleaming with polish. Upstairs, she made the power shower in the bathroom whoosh into life and bounced on the king-sized bed, its mattress a foot deep, and looked out over a reedy brook to fields of sheep.
She opened every wardrobe and drawer and poked through the contents.
Thoughtfully, she wandered back down to admire the kitchen, fitted with 1920s’ style painted cabinets and enamelled appliances. She helped herself to biscuits and tea and settled down at the oak table.
In silence, she drank an entire teapot, four cups – she had to visit the luxurious black-and-white tiled bathroom – and ate half a packet of chunky Marks & Spencer cookies. The kitchen’s colour scheme of cream and lemon with accents of forest green pleased her, all set off by the dried-blood red of the quarry tiles.
Even the china she was snacking from was tasteful, creamware with a pierced pattern edge.
As she ate, savouring the yummy chocolate chips in the cookies, she mulled over everything she’d observed in the delightful cottage. And so wasn’t totally surprised to hear the front door open.
Shoulders aching with tension, she listened to somebody humming and rustling in the hall. Then the door swung open and a woman swirled in.
‘Stella!’ Stella: Ivan’s sister-in-law, who Gareth had so often roundly stigmatised.
The small blonde squawked in shock, her hand flying to her throat. ‘Diane. You’re not supposed to be here.’
Diane suppressed her desire to drum her fists on the table. ‘No, I’m not, am I? I’m not to know about this place, or Gareth’s money, or his father or his sister or his nieces. And, now, it seems, not about you. Sit down, Stella. I’ll make you some tea.’
Stella hovered, glancing back at the door as if planning flight.
Then she flounced into a chair, folding her arms on the tabletop and regarding Diane warily.
Hospitably, Diane fetched another cup. ‘So. Tell me all about your affair with my husband.’
Stella flushed. Her hair was carefully styled to frame her face, her nails were perfect ovals painted pale sugary pink with silver diagonal stripes. ‘Gareth got in touch after I split up from my husband. It all went from there.’
‘Rewind, Stella. There’s more to the story than that.’
Stella met Diane’s gaze with more defiance. ‘All right. Me and Gareth had a thing, before that. I didn’t want to hurt you, honestly, although I don’t suppose you’ll believe it. We were very, very careful. We even used to bicker at family gatherings, as a smoke screen.’
Diane flinched at just how long, and how easily, they’d fooled her.
‘And then we had a big bust up. Gareth didn’t speak to me for months.’
‘He’s good at that.’
‘So I began the thing with that teacher to make Gareth jealous. It worked too well and he split on me to the old man.’
Wearily, Diane nodded. ‘I hadn’t thought about him being instrumental in the ending of your marriage, but it makes sense. Gareth isn’t very good at sharing.’
Stella sniffed. ‘Well, my marriage went for a burton and me and Gareth got back together. After a bit, Gareth got this place.’ She encompassed it with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Diane.’ She did look sorry – in a cross-to-be-caught-out kind of way.
Chin on hand, Diane gazed back. ‘I used to like you. I called you my friend.’ STM in Gareth’s phone book, she thought, suddenly. Stella Teresa Musgrave.
‘You don’t live here, Stella, do you? You’ve got some shower gel in the bathroom cabinet and a couple of changes of clothes in the wardrobe but that’s as far as he’s let you encroach, isn’t it?’
Stella looked found out. ‘He doesn’t live here, either.’
‘So far as I can work out, he lives here two days a week plus an occasional evening,’ corrected Diane. ‘How often do you come? Once or twice a month?’
Stella jumped up, hunting around the kitchen as if looking for something to occupy her. Her voice wobbled. ‘It’s been horrible not knowing how he is. He borrowed someone’s phone and sent me one text but I’ve been going out of my mind. I … I care for him.’
‘I’ll make sure he gets his phone.’ Hearing her own voice, so cold and composed, a wave of nausea sluiced over Diane. How casual she could be about her husband having an affair. How unsurprised that it was Stella in his bed; Stella, who’d pretended to be Diane’s friend. Nobody was reliable.
Not even herself.
And not James. Not James.
Chapter Twelve
Banging the door to Gareth’s room open, Diane burst in like a gangster on a death mission.
Gareth jumped. ‘Enter,’ he drawled, pointing the remote at the television and pressing the off button.
Diane flung herself into the chair, breathless and flushed. ‘Shall we stop pretending?’
‘About?’
From her back pocket she extracted a navy blue passbook and threw it on the bed. Slowly, he picked it up, smoothing out the slight curve it had taken on from the shape of her behind. He didn’t speak. Probably waiting to hear what she had to say.
Which was fine because she had plenty! The words tumbled over each other in their efforts to leave her mouth. ‘I’ve been to see your cottage. Nice, isn’t it? Nicer than our house, rather nicer furniture and decor, bigger garden – no vegetables in your garden, I see, but then you don’t have to eke out the pennies as I do.
‘Two hundred thousand pounds,’ she hissed. ‘And a house.’
He held on to the passbook, his eyes flickering. ‘You wouldn’t believe what those bastards took off me in tax –’
She leaned her elbows on the bed. ‘Rich people do pay a lot of tax. They pay a lot of everything. Including alimony. And Harold paid the tax up-front and so you netted two hundred K, didn’t you, Gareth? And as long as Harold doesn’t die in the next seven years you won’t have to pay tax on the cottage. Harold has just explained it all to me on the phone, very interesting, it was, about the financial specialist who negotiated with the taxman when Harold discovered his eldest child and wanted to make up to him for all the lost years.’ Launching herself out of the chair, she prowled around the bed.
‘Sit down. Calm down. Let’s talk.’
She halted at the foot of his bed. ‘OK, let’s talk about Stella – who I met at the cottage, today, making herself at home in your absence.’
‘She hasn’t got a key,’ he denied, instantly. And then, ‘Oh, Christ!’
‘Obviously, you’ve realised that she has. Your bit on the side.’
Gareth looked sour. ‘Must’ve got a copy cut, somehow.’ His injuries tied him to the bed literally and figuratively; the paraphernalia of the sick room, the bedpan and bottle in slots at the side of the bed; he looked exposed.
Abruptly, she returned to the chair and rearranged herself, calmly. Made her voice gentler, musing, though her heart still hammered with fury. ‘It all came from me refusing
my parents’ money, I can see that, even your affair with Stella. But what I don’t know is whether you only ever put up with me because you thought money would come your way eventually.’
‘Of course I didn’t only put up with you –’
‘So it was all about revenge?’
He halted. He stroked his swollen jaw. ‘See if you can get one of them nurses with some Tramadol, will you?’
‘What hurts?’
He laughed, shortly. ‘All of it, aching fierce. Head, ribs, hip, leg. And fingers. I need my pain pills and a nap, that’ll put me right. They make you feel dead swimmy.’ Then, when she didn’t move, ‘Diane … love. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my father, or Valerie or the money. I was just …’ He drew in a breath and winced, theatrically. ‘You know I’ve never had much. I kind of felt I deserved something.’
Slowly, she stood up. ‘And I deserved you to punish me by keeping your sad little fortune to yourself? Revenge – not very attractive, but probably satisfying.’ She glanced at the blue building-society passbook that still rested protectively in his good hand. ‘What a lot of money you’ve got, Gareth. What a lot of lovely, lovely money.’ She laid his mobile phone on the bedclothes. ‘Happy texting.’
Diane rarely cried. But walking across the car park she felt as if her life was nothing but nasty surprises. There was no reason to stay with Gareth. She’d had a bellyful. And were her lies and betrayal OK because of his lies and betrayal? How sordid her marriage had become.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ A voice came softly.
She jumped, but knew before she turned that it was James. His presence was like a breath on the back of her neck.
He rose from a bench beside a fall of cream and pink honeysuckle. ‘I don’t like to see you crying.’ His eyes were compassionate. The earlier frigid scene between them might never have happened.
‘I’m teetering on the brink of thorough self-pity.’ She wiped her cheeks, inelegantly, with the backs of her hands.
‘There’s a lot of it about.’ He smiled, ruefully. ‘Tamzin’s a bit fragile.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact, I was hoping to see you. I was going to try to force you talk to me again by taking advantage of your kind nature – but I can see now’s not the time to ask your advice.’
She sniffed. ‘Ask. Might take my mind off poor little me.’
He sighed. ‘It’s Tamzin. She’s been ill for so long. Your daughter had a sickly childhood – how did you cope?’
Diane looked at the frown lines between his worried eyes, and suddenly felt hugely sorry for him. ‘She’s lucky to have you.’
He grimaced. ‘But it’s so obviously her mother’s approval that’s key and Valerie has trouble facing up to Tamzin’s situation.’
Somehow, Diane found that she was sitting beside him on the wrought-iron bench. ‘Is that where the drink comes in? Valerie trying to avoid problems?’
‘I don’t know which is the grit and which is the pearl, frankly. Is Tamzin depressed because of Valerie’s drinking? Does Valerie drink as a refuge from Tamzin’s depression? The drinking seems to have been going on longer than the depression but how much has Tamz been hiding and for how long?’
Diane frowned. Behind the silver birches came the incredibly pure warble of a blackbird. The flowerbed blazed with marigolds, the sun lazed behind a sultry haze as a breeze scampered across the lawns. Pity that on such a perfect day two people should have nothing better to do than wrestle with problems. ‘Bryony had good patches when she could race around like other children but there would always be a bad patch around the corner. We kept her away from animals but sometimes all it took was sitting with a girl who had a cat and she’d be in bed on the nebuliser – we bought a second-hand one because we’re so far from hospitals in Purtenon St. Paul. And, bless her, she only had to get excited about a treat in the offing, a birthday party or Christmas, and she’d be wheezing. It made her a stoical little thing.’
‘But she’s OK now?’
‘Much improved, thankfully. She began to grow out of it when she was about fifteen. I’ve never been so grateful for anything. She would never have been able to join this scheme in Brazil a few years ago. But now she can have fun like other people, if she’s sensible.’
‘That’s all you want for them, isn’t it? Just to be like other people.’ He passed his hand over his hair, making it bristle. It changed colour like velvet, darker when brushed the wrong way. ‘Tamzin had a good patch and I got over-optimistic. I think that’s why this bad spell hit so hard. She really did have a shitty week, you know. I wasn’t making excuses.’
Love for his daughter was in every line of his face. Diane identified with his corresponding lack of concern for himself – Parent’s Disease, she called that, having had a hefty dose. ‘She missed her fitting on Tuesday.’
His eyes darkened. ‘But you can give her time, can’t you? I’m sure contact with you is good for her. I don’t know when she’ll make another appointment, though.’
She let herself smile at the way his eyes were trying to compel her to agree – but not for himself, for Tamzin. She was still mighty pissed off at him, but this wasn’t the moment to act it. This was about Tamzin. ‘How about if I were to bring the fitting to her? She might co-operate if I just turn up.’
His eyes brightened. ‘I ought to refuse; I live in Webber’s Cross, so it wouldn’t be a quick trip for you – but it would be brilliant. Thanks,’ he added softly. His eyes smiled.
Despite the unresolved tension between them, she touched the warmth of his hand as she got up to leave. For an instant, his fingers tangled with hers.
Tamzin was in her favourite spot – rolled in her duvet like a giant larvae.
Gazing at the curtains, gold on pink and still drawn shut, she picked out the segment of pattern that looked like a wild-maned lion resting his chin on his paws. She saw things like that. In the grain of her bathroom floor there was a goblin, winking, and on the wallpaper in the hall a bishop, in profile.
Staring at the lion sometimes helped on a day, like today, when her organs felt too heavy for her body, except for her stomach, which felt hollow. A day when memories of the Coven made her inert with misery.
And though she had heard two knocks at her door, she kept her gaze fixed on the lion. It would be Dad. He’d knock once more and then look in. Check on her. She wished he wouldn’t.
The third knock was louder and more impatient.
Then the door flew open. ‘Hello, Tamzin!’
Startled, Tamzin watched as Diane, billowing with fabric, unloaded a basket onto the bedroom chair. ‘I’ve come to do your fittings.’ The curtains swished back and were snagged deftly behind their ties. From the basket, Diane plucked a tape measure to loop around her neck and a pincushion to clip onto her wrist. She looked at Tamzin expectantly.
Tamzin pushed back the duvet, slowly, and rolled to the edge of the bed. ‘I don’t really feel like it.’
‘But I can’t get on without a fitting. Are those pyjamas?’
Looking down at herself, Tamzin had to admit that they were. A white top with a piebald pony and non-matching yellow seersucker bottoms. Baggy.
‘You’ll be OK in jeans on the bottom half but can you put a decent bra on the top?’ With an impatient movement, Diane consulted her watch then turned to the window. ‘I’ll admire your garden while you change.’
Tamzin gazed at the safety of her tumbled bed.
‘Tell me when you’re ready.’
Sighing, she clambered to her feet and opened her underwear drawer. Lying still for so long had left her feeling creaky, leaden.
She managed to find a bra and a pair of knickers respectable enough to be seen. From the wardrobe she selected a pair of black jeans that hung from her hips. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror, at her arms. Mingin. She curled up inside. ‘I don’t want to do this today.’
‘But I’m here today.’
Sullenly, Tamzin climbed into her clothes. ‘OK. Ready.’
Diane swung around.
Tamzin stared at the floor.
There was one still moment.
Then Diane swept up the pink fabric. ‘This is the double-breasted shirt, do you remember? I’ve set the sleeves in but they’re only tacked. I want to see how we are for length – left arm, please. Can you come to the mirror? Fasten the buttons, then I can see if I’ve brought the darts up far enough.’
Diane’s busy fingers twitched and smoothed. ‘The embroidery will be here, if you remember, with the little rings incorporated into it. I’ve done an experimental piece on this swatch, look, and I’m really pleased. Good, yes? I think the darts are OK, don’t you? But the cuffs need lifting about half-an-inch.’
The fabric felt smooth against her skin. Tamzin risked a glance at her reflection; more sufferable now she was covered. The colour was well cool; in it, she didn’t look like the neighbourhood ghost. ‘It looks nice!’ she observed, unwillingly captivated.
Diane laughed. ‘No need to sound so surprised. Of course it looks nice, what with my sewing skills and your good looks.’ She swooped suddenly on a wide-bristled hairbrush lying on the dusty dressing-table. ‘Do you mind if I get your hair out of the way? Then I can see the shoulders properly.’
Tamzin looked away from the mat of old hair in the brush. Mingin. Meekly, she allowed her hair to be brushed, pulled back and swished up onto her head, not even complaining when the knots were tugged.
‘What gorgeous hair you have – I wish mine had more colour.’
‘But yours is so pearly blonde!’
‘At least I’ve avoided going silver – so far. We’d be like the hymn about daisies and buttercups, then – me silver and you gold. Probably uncool, now, but it was my favourite when I was a child. Just let your arms hang while I pin.’
Scrutinising the collar and smoothing the shoulders, Diane began to sing, under her breath. ‘Daisies are our si-ilver, buttercups our gold ...’ Her voice was OK and she sang the hymn right through, all about diamond raindrops and emerald leaves, as she helped Tamzin carefully out of the pink shirt. Hymns reminded Tamzin of her primary school, a traditional private school where All Things Bright and Beautiful or Morning Has Broken contributed to the cosiness, along with blue gingham and grey serge. It had been a silken nest compared to university.
Want to Know a Secret? Page 12
