The other shirt was the delicate colour of clotted cream and the fabric as soft as tissue. Diane held it up. ‘Don’t be disappointed in the plainness, at this stage. The over-layer of gold gauze is going to bring out the lovely colour of your hair. Slide into it carefully … there. That round neck suits you, Tamz. Your dad’s invited me to stay for supper – are you in tonight?’
As if Tamzin was ever anything but ‘in tonight’, except for visits to the hospital. ‘I should think so.’
‘Great. Because I’d like to start on the decorated jeans, so we can throw ideas around. Your dad says he’s grilling steaks. Can he cook?’
Tamzin watched Diane’s efforts through the mirror, with growing interest. ‘He can do anything he decides to. Ask him to make mustard sauce as well – it’s wicked.’
Chapter Thirteen
Part of Diane’s long hair was bunched up on the top of her head and the rest was a moon river down her back. Pleasurably, James turned over the memory of her hair tumbling around her nakedness in the back of his car. What had happened had happened only once and maybe he ought to be glad that his complicated life hadn’t been sent spinning by it happening again. But he would really like to see her like that again. Daily.
Although it made him feel odd to see Diane here, in Valerie’s home in the upmarket village of Webber’s Cross, he couldn’t stop watching her eating her steak and salad as if it was a treat – in stark contrast to Tamzin, who treated every mouthful as a trial. Finally, Diane sat back with a sigh. ‘You were right about the mustard sauce, Tamzin, it was wicked. And the chocolate ice-cream with mini doughnuts, even wickeder.’
Tamzin just smiled. From her lack of participation in the conversation and her pallor, James could tell that she was shattered. Soon, she’d retreat to her room. But at least Diane’s breezy presence had dragged her out of it for a few hours.
Sure enough, it was only five minutes later that Tamzin climbed slowly to her feet. ‘I’m tired.’
Diane looked up. ‘Going to bed? ’Night, sweetheart.’
‘Night, Diane.’ Tamzin wafted through the open French doors and marked her progress through the house with a trail of illuminated windows.
James, hoping that Diane wouldn’t make Tamzin’s departure a sign that she ought to be turning for home herself, poured her a fresh glass of fruit juice. ‘She had a good evening. I haven’t seen her so bright for a fortnight.’
‘How do you feel about the quantity she ate?’ Diane slapped at one of a squadron of bugs out on its evening sortie.
‘For her, it was OK. Most of a small steak and salad, plus a small portion of dessert.’
Diane pulled a face. ‘It’s funny to think that Bryony and Tamzin are exactly the same age because they don’t seem it. And Bryony would have eaten eight times what Tamzin ate. It seemed incredibly little.’
‘I suppose it does, when you’re not used to it.’ The ‘small’ steak that Tamzin hadn’t quite managed to finish had begun as the size of a modest burger; the salad consisted of a cherry tomato and two leaves of frilly lettuce.
‘I could have polished it off in three mouthfuls,’ said Diane, feelingly. ‘I pigged out on a steak like a butcher’s buttock, a mound of salad and coleslaw and what felt like half a French stick. Was it tactless to take a second dessert?’
He laughed at her guilty expression. ‘Not at all. It’s fine to eat normally in front of her. The only rule, really, is not to pressurise her to do the same.’ The light from the house fell on one side of Diane’s face. She looked relaxed, her legs stretched out, her elbows on the arms of the chair and her top clinging interestingly across her chest.
The house, once the vicarage, lichened grey stone with a slate roof and a gravel drive, stood in the centre of the village on a little square green. The village shop and the pub, The Old Dog, stood opposite, and provided them with a background noise of cars pulling up and their doors slamming. He crossed one leg lazily over the other and thought how comfortable he felt, lounging here on a balmy evening with Diane, listening to the rise and fall of her voice and her occasional flickers of laughter.
‘It’s been a pleasant evening,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘All I would have done at home alone is think what a shit Gareth has been.’
He could have made an anodyne response about enjoying her company. But he never let a sleeping dog lie if he thought he’d achieve more by giving it a good old shake. He let his voice drop. ‘Is everything all right, after that night? Do we have any pregnancy worries?’
Diane was reaching for her glass and it wobbled alarmingly as she swung around to frown at him. ‘I thought it was too good to be true that you were co-operating with me to forget that madness,’ she whispered.
‘How can I?’ he murmured. Forget her hands, her mouth, the satin of her body, her pleasure in the act? In him?
She swallowed a mouthful of juice. ‘Yes. All fine.’
‘And you know … how?’ The light from the window hadn’t fallen on him so she wouldn’t be able to see his smile as he delved into the subject she so obviously wished left alone.
She sent him a darkling look. ‘Dr Cooke is a sensible woman and pleasantly unshockable about prescribing the morning-after pill.’
‘Good.’ He paused long enough to let her think she might be off the hook. Then, ‘You’ve never had to consult her about anything … like that, before?’
‘Scandalous, do you mean?’ she returned, smartly. ‘Or perhaps a 43-year-old woman who’s had a one-night stand isn’t scandalous, in your world? Maybe it’s just what people do? And move on?’
‘I feel terrible that I didn’t phone you. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but Tamzin’s been –’ Having made the opportunity to talk about it, he hesitated, not knowing how to go on.
Then Diane sighed and the tension seemed to seep from her. ‘Yes. I can see how she’s been. I’m glad you warned me before I went in – about her arms. I had no idea.’ Her voice was sadder than tears.
He watched her shiver. The ladder of scabs and scars that ran up the soft inner of each of Tamzin’s arms made him feel like that, too. Some fresh, some old, some no more than white or pink cords. Each scar an ugly statement he couldn’t completely understand or a question he wasn’t hearing. ‘She tries to hide it. Self-harmers do that, they find it deeply personal.’
For a moment she touched his hand, her fingers cool in the evening air. ‘I’m so sorry, James. Even though you’d warned me I’m afraid it took me by surprise. I don’t think I quite carried on as if I hadn’t noticed. I’d like to understand what makes her do that.’
He laughed, mirthlessly. ‘So would I.’ He fell silent. Tamzin was that rare thing – a problem he couldn’t fix.
Diane reached for her bag and made an obvious attempt to change the subject. ‘Look, I bought a mobile phone, yesterday. I’ve made one call on it to check that it works but I’m useless with it, really.’ She held the flat black phone out for his inspection.
He took it. ‘Sensible to have one.’ His thumb moved over the touch screen. ‘There. The first entry in your phone book.’ He turned the screen so that she could see James mobile and his number. The thumb went into action again and he showed her: James home.
To view the screen properly, she had to draw close to him. And if he shifted his hand a little – even closer. ‘So they’re there forever, are they?’
‘Yes, you press menu, then phone book, then the first letter of the name. See? Then press the green button.’ After a pause a muffled buzzing soaked out into the evening air. He reached into his pocket and brought out his BlackBerry. ‘Hello?’
She giggled, taking her own phone back and putting it to her ear. ‘Hello!’
‘Now I can put you in my phone book.’ He showed her how to save the number and typed in Diane mobile beside it.
She played for several minutes inputting phone numbers. ‘Home … Freddy, my brother … Rowan, the mean git who sells some of my garments at his shop … the hospital.
>
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s be adventurous. How do I send a text?’
‘Not difficult.’ He bent his head next to hers. ‘Tap this icon, select me from your phone book, type the message, then press send.’ In a few moments, his phone vibrated against his leg and a little envelope flashed on the screen, Diane mobile showing in his inbox.
They laughed at the message, ‘I have a mobile!’
Then, under the cloak of darkness, he took her hand.
She stopped laughing and examined the way his fingers enveloped hers. All the hairs on his arms stood up. Something in her faraway expression brought back the way she’d looked down at him when he’d been inside her, the wonder, the lust, that volcano of pleasure that erupted for him. The way she’d kissed him when she’d come down after the explosion, the sweetest, deepest, most perfect kiss. He remembered how to move, how to touch her to drive her crazy.
Gently, he squeezed her fingers. Even that chaste contact felt good. ‘I wish I’d rung you when I should have. I wanted to see if we could make each other happy – but I was caught in the middle of Tamzin’s black cloud and I felt as if I’d contaminate you with it. I had no right to ask, anyway. I’m stuck here and could never give you the relationship you deserve. And I’m being a presumptuous prick in disregarding Gareth. But I want you to know how I feel. You don’t have to say anything, I just want you to know.’ His fingers tightened. ‘I feel good just being with you. I think about you all the time. And want you. Our couple of hours at Farcet Fen was an oasis of pleasure during a shitty time. Your husband doesn’t deserve you because he’s an arse. I don’t suppose I deserve you any more than he does – and I’m just as married as you are – but none of those things stop me wanting you.’
She sounded strained. ‘I took it as a one-night stand.’
His heart began a long slow slide south. ‘If that’s what you want, it will be. Our secret.’
Abruptly, she closed her fingers around his, suddenly breathless. ‘Let me think about it.’
A big meal, a long and emotional day, she was sleepy. She kept the car windows open and Lily Allen playing loudly on the stereo to keep her awake as she drove the hypnotically long, dark lanes.
Home. Her neighbours’ houses were bright with windows where hers was dark.
Across the kitchen, through the dining room, up the stairs; a one-minute shower and she cleaned her teeth and fell into bed. She wasn’t going to think about James and the words she’d been shocked to hear emerging from her mouth … Let me think about it. She was going to sleep.
The phone rang. She groaned. Stop ringing! It stopped. Thankfully, she drifted towards sleep.
The phone rang.
Swearing, she rolled out of bed and staggered down the stairs. ‘Hello?’
‘Mum! Guess what? I’m coming home!’
Diane blinked, trying to engage her brain. ‘Bryony, what’s the matter? Are you ill?’
Bryony’s laughter rocked around the earpiece, shrill and excited. ‘Dad rang me and we had a big heart to heart. He explained why he’s been so odd. Isn’t it cool about his father tracking him down? I’ve got a grandfather! Dad says he’s sweet. It’s so good that Dad finally told you. I saw him with a woman and I thought he was having an affair. It was so scary, even though he kept saying he wasn’t. But she was his sister. He’s explained. This is so good!’
‘You saw him?’ Diane repeated, blankly.
‘And it was horrible thinking that he was having an affair – I mean, what was I supposed to do? Tell you and betray him? Or be quiet and betray you? I felt such a cow. But Dad wants me to come home and, like, see him, so we can all be together again, the three of us. I’m taking indefinite unpaid leave. Dad says he’ll pay my fare. Isn’t that cool? I’m so glad that you and Dad are OK. I’ve been feeling so bad, thinking that he had a girlfriend. I felt so bad about you.’
‘Did you?’ said Diane, shaken by the enormity of Bryony having known. Even if she hadn’t known what she’d thought she’d known, she’d kept a huge secret. No wonder she’d been keen to get far, far away from home.
‘I thought you guys were going to split up, I couldn’t bear it. It was horrible.’
After a moment, Diane heard herself say, ‘I can see how it was for you.’ That was Parent’s Disease again – sympathising with your child even when the same set of circumstances were so much worse for you. But she shoved the hurt to one side. Bryony was coming home. Bryony was coming home!
And she was thrilled that Diane and Gareth weren’t going to split up.
Oh.
Chapter Fourteen
The wind thrashed her ponytail as she locked the car in the car park near Peterborough Cathedral. Diane wasn’t going to see Gareth today. She’d sent him a text message, feeling, as she laboriously worked through the txt talk guide helpfully supplied with her phone, that she was finally in the twenty-first century.
Will nt b able 2 visit u 2day, have 2 c Rowan. C u l8r.
No kisses, no Love Diane. She felt neither kissy nor lovey. Every fresh revelation forced her old feelings for her husband through the mincer. And now he’d manoeuvred to bring Bryony home, which – obviously – was wonderful, because, ever since Bryony left for the steamy heat of Brazil, Diane had carried an ache around that was both hollow and heavy. But she was under no illusions that he’d done it to ease Diane’s aches. Or even his own, although he missed Bryony, too.
No, he’d done it to make it more difficult for Diane to leave him.
And he wouldn’t want Diane to leave him in case she took half of his stash with her.
Bryony, a forgiving little soul, had been moved by her dad’s crocodile tears and intrigued by acquiring a grandfather and assorted other relatives. But it wasn’t quite the same for Diane.
She set out for Rowan’s shop in Rivergate Arcade, crossing at the lights into that segment of Bridge Street with a hundred other people.
Rowan Chater bought her garments for his idiosyncratic little shop, on what seemed a whimsical basis and with an air of doing her a kindness. She detested his condescension but income was income, so she’d put together a small collection of five pairs of decorated canvas trousers and ten colourful tops for the coming autumn season.
In the shop, Rowan, perched on a wooden stool behind the counter, was talking to an over made-up woman with a small child. ‘Oh, hullo,’ he drawled unenthusiastically, when he noticed Diane.
‘Hi.’ She gave what she hoped was a confident smile, hating having to hover with the heavy garments while he took his time nattering.
When woman and child finally left, Rowan gave a tiny sigh. Short stubble defined his jaw and head; he had seal-like eyes and a misleadingly sweet smile that he rarely bestowed upon Diane. His effete speech reminded her a little of Bryony, the way he emphasised at least one word in a sentence and used a final upward intonation as if statements were questions. ‘Shall I have a look?’ he suggested with the air of doing his good deed for the day.
Silently, slowly, he turned over each item. Diane ran her eyes over the racks, the torso mannequins, the garments hanging sideways with broomsticks through the sleeves.
None of her work, boasting the little label in the neck with DRJ embroidered in turquoise on a bright yellow ground, was currently displayed in the shop. She tried a bit of casual self-promotion. ‘The last batch all sold, did it?’
He turned another garment. ‘In the end.’
She subsided. She didn’t want to ferret for details only to find that he’d had to slash the price to get her stuff off his hands.
‘Mm,’ he conceded. ‘Good colour choices, anyway.’ He always seemed to have to cast about for some detail to praise. He folded back the final garment – a bronze linen tunic embroidered with a goldfish, bubbles rising in the form of clear washers. Sighed. Raised his eyebrows. Tapped his fingertips on the counter.
Diane held her breath.
‘Yes, OK,’ he agreed, eventually. ‘I can usually put a “Hand made” label on them a
nd make them go. Send me an invoice.’ He wrote a figure on the back of a brown paper bag. He always did that, as if it might invoke bad luck to speak money aloud. It was exactly the same price per garment as the last lot. And several prior to that.
Diane bit down on her disappointment and the urge to point out the 70% mark up he put on the garments. The important thing was that Rowan was already writing a cheque.
‘Overheads are escalating,’ he mentioned, conversationally.
‘Mine, too.’ Perhaps she could find an outlet where the proprietor didn’t make her feel as if she ought to be so damned bloody grateful all the time. Cambridge, maybe? There was money, there.
To cheer herself up she found a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. It came in a glass cup with not enough sprinkles but she settled at a table near the window to savour it as she watched the people milling along Bridge Street.
An imperious series of beeps from her pocket almost made her drop the cup. She plucked out her phone. James mobile. After a bit of fumbling, she opened the text. Tamzin @ NatÕs. Need dinner companion 2nite. How u fixed?
Thoughtfully, she laid the phone on the table and returned to her coffee, staring out at mothers with buggies, lads in jeans that swung like satchels from skinny backsides. The planters that decorated the street were filled with the kind of geraniums you’re supposed to call pelargoniums, as jolly and scarlet as Bryony’s favourite nail varnish.
The phone beeped again. Diane wondered if she’d ever be the nonchalant phone user that everyone else above the age of six seemed to be. I promise 2 behave. Strictly no pouncing. Will pick u up@8. She grinned and ordered another cappuccino. She always considered herself a strong woman but she discovered herself quite powerless to resist the idea of dinner with James, with his dark grey eyes and lightning smiles.
When Tamzin’s phone rang, the next morning, Dad showed on the screen. Tamzin rolled herself a little more tightly in the covers of Nat’s spare bed before she answered.
Want to Know a Secret? Page 13
