Betrayed in Cornwall
Page 19
He turned away. Too much champagne had been his downfall, too. What he had intended to say had come out wrong. He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. In fact, he should not have made a move at all.
‘Do you want me to ring for a taxi?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll walk.’
She showed him to the kitchen door. The unwashed dishes mocked her; the evening had turned into a disaster. Neither of them now knew what to say, it was a complete contrast to how things had been earlier.
‘Goodnight, Jack.’ Rose was furious; with herself for ruining his birthday and with him for reacting as he had done. She grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack. Well, bugger him then, she’d have another drink then she would be able to sleep without reliving it all in her head and feeling guilty.
‘The answer to everything, I see.’ Jack nodded towards the bottle in her hand.
‘No, Jack, not everything, just the answer to my stupidity tonight.’
‘Are you really going to open it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that wise, after a bottle of champagne each?’
‘Jack, this is my house, this is my wine which I paid for and my wisdom or otherwise does not concern you. Are you leaving or are you going to stand in the damn doorway all night?’
‘Neither, not if you’d prefer to share that bottle. I ought to go home, but I don’t like to think of you drinking alone, you know, getting maudlin and ringing me up in the middle of the night to apologise.’
‘You know perfectly well I’d never …’ But he was laughing, then so was Rose. ‘Oh, sod you, Jack Pearce. Find yourself a glass then.’
As Rose flounced around the kitchen filling the kettle noisily and clattering the grill-pan, Jack’s lips formed a thin, straight line but he could not disguise the laughter in his eyes. Rose might be regretting what had taken place but she could not alter it. ‘You don’t have to make me toast, I can easily get something on my way to work,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to go home and change anyway.’
‘Jack, I –’ Rose kept her back to him, busy spreading butter.
‘Don’t say it, Rose. Whatever it is I’d rather not hear it. We can pretend last night never happened and carry on as before.’ The smile had faded. Rose might have decided it was better if they did not see one another again.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’ She turned slowly, not sure what she would read in his face.
Jack nodded. ‘Look, don’t bother with that. I’m not really hungry anyway. I’ll give you a ring sometime, okay?’
‘Okay.’
It was still early, only a little after seven, but Jack had to get back to the flat to change for work and collect his car. Rose watched him go from the kitchen door. He walked fast and turned left at the bottom of the drive without looking back. She sighed. The toast had gone cold but she was no longer hungry either.
Action was needed. Upstairs she stripped the bed although the sheets had been changed two days previously. But she did not want to smell Jack’s aftershave on the pillow when she went to bed that night.
During the morning the weather changed. Like her feelings it became unsettled. Banks of cloud were swept across the bay, out towards the sea. Occasionally patches of blue sky were revealed only to disappear again. It was not cold but Rose shivered. She drank coffee and toyed with a sketch-pad as the washing-machine ran through its cycle. You shouldn’t have done it, were the words which repeated themselves in her mind, you shouldn’t have led him on.
The sheets flapped on the line, snapping and crackling in gusts of salty wind. Rose didn’t care if it rained. Work was out of the question, her mood was all wrong. But there was something she could do. She picked up the parcel she had wrapped, then hesitated. Was it too soon? Would there ever be a right time?
The wind came at her sideways as she walked down the hill into Newlyn. When it dropped Rose could feel the sun on her head and the warmth rise from the pavement. Her pace increased and she knew she had been right to get out of the house.
The emerald sea was white-capped, the gulls mirroring its surface as they skimmed across the bay. It was a good day for walking. Striding along the length of the Promenade Rose began to feel better. She reached the Jubilee Pool and stopped to watch the swimmers before retracing her steps. At Wherrytown she crossed the road and walked up the hill to Etta’s house. She and Sarah were both working in the back garden, taking advantage of a cooler day to pull out weeds. Something had altered between the two females, Rose sensed they had become friends.
‘Come in, Rose,’ Etta said. ‘We were just going to make some coffee and it’s time to stop or we’ll both ache tomorrow.’
Through the open kitchen door which led to the hall Rose saw several bulging bin liners and realised what Etta and Sarah had been doing. Maybe this is the perfect time, she thought. The material accompaniments to Joe’s life were about to be disposed of; what Rose had brought was the opposite, it was the embodiment of Joe himself. ‘I’d like you to have this, but only if you want it,’ Rose said, once the coffee was on the table.
‘For me?’ Etta took the rectangular package and peeled off the wrapping. She gasped. ‘Oh, Rose, I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful. Thank you.’ Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of pleasure and unshed tears. She held the painting away from her. In the distance were the craggy cliffs of the Cornish coastline, in front was the open sea, neither calm nor rough, and slightly to the right, trailing wake and gathering a flock of gulls, was Billy Cadogan’s trawler, the number on its port side clearly visible as it returned to harbour. The swarthy figure at the stern was indistinguishable, apart from his black hair. ‘It’s Billy’s boat, and Joe, isn’t it?’ Etta said, her eyes still overbright.
‘Yes. It’s Joe.’
‘It’s really lovely, Rose.’ Sarah took the oil from her mother and examined it closely. ‘Over the fireplace?’ she suggested.
‘Yes. Over the fireplace where we’ll always be able to see it.’
Rose had known subconsciously the day she had painted that scene that it had been destined for somewhere other than a gallery: in the back of her mind she had known what she must do for Etta and Sarah. It was when she had realised that something vital was missing that she had added the trawler and the figure who might have been anyone until she had painted in the registration number.
With the wind swirling her hair in all directions, Rose made her way home. Jack Pearce, for the moment, was forgotten.
Laura rang to invite her for supper. Trevor was at sea. Their argument had been resolved as soon as Billy said they were sailing when Laura and Trevor relaxed, both in need of the space about to be granted them.
‘Drink? Silly question,’ Laura said when Rose arrived. ‘Red or white?’
‘Either.’
‘The wind’s getting stronger.’ Laura frowned. Once Trevor was out of her sight she worried about him. ‘Is something wrong?’ She looked at Rose carefully.
‘No. I was thinking about how small my problems are compared with Sarah’s. Not only has she lost her brother, she believed Mark was her boyfriend and look what he did to her. And he was partially responsible for Joe’s death. It’s a double betrayal.’
Laura knew all that had happened, and Billy had found a replacement for Joe. Life had to go on. ‘It’s more than that. You can’t fool me, Rose. Which was it, late night or too much vino? Or both?’
Rose lowered her head but it was too late. Laura had seen the blush creeping up from her neck. ‘Aha.’ She tossed the mass of her hair back over her shoulders and sat down next to Rose, her thin legs encased in leggings stretched out in front of her. ‘Might our debonair gallery owner have anything to do with this?’ She tapped a finger to the side of her nose.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Certainly not,’ Laura mimicked. ‘Okay. Then there’s only one person I can think of who makes you so indignant and prickly and that’s Jack Pearce. I’m right, aren’t I? You did the dirty deed, didn’t you? Poor old Jack.’
‘What do you mean, poor old Jack?’
Laura’s grin widened and the lines in her almost skeletal face deepened as she pointed a long finger at Rose. ‘See what I mean? God, everyone can see how he feels about you, why don’t you admit what you feel about him?’
‘I can’t. I don’t know. Oh, Laura, I’m not prepared to share my life to that extent.’
‘Can’t, or won’t admit what you feel? Sometimes I think you need a good shake.’ Laura turned her attention to the squid she was marinading.
‘Can’t,’ Rose said with emphasis. ‘You’re right. I don’t want to admit what I feel. Anyway, there’s no harm in keeping my options open.’
‘For what?’ Laura turned to face her, the spatula in her hand dripping oil on the floor. ‘Geoff Carter? Barry Rowe? Come off it, Rose.’
‘No, not for them.’ Rose smiled. ‘For the future, for whatever it might hold for me.’
Laura shook her head. ‘Anyone would think you were seventeen.’ She had always hoped Rose and Jack would become a couple. ‘You can be quite selfish at times, Rose. You want Jack only when you want him, at other times you keep him at a distance.’
‘You can talk.’
‘Meaning what?’ Laura folded her arms, a fierce expression on her face, the spatula dripping further oil on to the floor.
‘Meaning that little tiff you had with Trevor about him getting a land-based job?’
‘Oh, that.’ Laura grinned. ‘Yeah, well, I get your point. It doesn’t do to have them around all the time.’
‘I’m starving, Mrs Penfold, do you think you could get a move on?’ Rose returned Laura’s smile. Yes, she did still feel she was seventeen and that the future stretched ahead of her. Well, she would follow her advice to Etta and take one day at a time. For now there was her new career. And, of course, there was Laura’s barbecue. And Jack would be there.
By Janie Bolitho
Snapped in Cornwall
Framed in Cornwall
Buried in Cornwall
Betrayed in Cornwall
Plotted in Cornwall
Killed in Cornwall
Caught Out in Cornwall
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in 2000.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2015.
Copyright © 2000 by JANIE BOLITHO
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1902–0