‘Don’t go, Matt,’ I said as he turned away. ‘Please, let me explain. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I never meant to. I love you!’
For a moment he hesitated, looking up at the sky. I counted the seconds. If I got to ten and he was still standing there with his back to me, I’d go after him. I’d put my arms round him and he’d say he forgave me. I’d tell him everything. He’d understand. But I only got to seven before he walked away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With grateful thanks once again to Sharon Whelan, this time for her advice about rescuing a pony. And to Sue Viney for her first-hand knowledge about keeping house rabbits! And as always, to everyone at Ebury for all their hard work in bringing my stories to the readers.
Read on for an extract from the next instalment:
The Pets at Primrose Cottage:
Part Four
No Place Like Home
Coming soon
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
August turned into September. The little town seemed to be steaming with heat under a thundery sky. Even when it rained, which it was now doing with increasing regularity, it was still hot. When the sun did occasionally deign to come out, everywhere was bathed in a strange orange light, the wet streets shining, the trees dripping and glistening as they began to shed their leaves. Then the dark clouds rolled in again, blotting out the sun’s light but not its intensity.
The weather matched my mood. I found it difficult to sleep, and just as difficult to drag myself out of bed in the mornings. I walked my doggie charges, petted my cats and stroked an assortment of rabbits and guinea pigs while I waited, expecting at any moment for everything to blow up in my face – for the story of whatever Rob had found out to spread through the town and for the paparazzi to descend on Crickleford in their hordes. For the people to turn against me, for Lauren to throw me out. For Matt to turn up … or not. For a headline in the local paper to scream out his betrayal of me … or not. The uncertainty, the fear, the heartbreak about Matt was as unsettling and exhausting as the stormy atmosphere. Over and over again I replayed the scene where Matt walked away from me. Should I have run after him? Would it have made any difference? Was he really angry enough with me now to ruin my new life by exposing me?
I was terrified of meeting up with Rob again; but I knew I had to talk to Vanya, in case Rob had told her an untrue version of what had happened on my last day at the house. Finally, a week later, I walked down that long driveway twice, my legs shaking, turning back and hiding behind a tree, before finally plucking up the courage to go on, all the way to the house, where I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the garage door up, Rob’s car missing. As far as I knew, he never walked anywhere other than on the treadmill at his gym.
‘Don’t worry, Emma,’ Vanya said, as soon as she opened the front door to me. ‘He’s not here. And he won’t be back.’
I blinked at her. How did she know I was frightened of confronting her husband? And why would he not be back?
She smiled at me as she put the kettle on, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I wasn’t sure what was coming. Sugar was winding herself around my legs and I bent to stroke her absent-mindedly, my thoughts chasing each other through my exhausted brain.
‘Last week, on your last day here,’ she began, still in the same calm but strange tone, ‘you left in a hurry, didn’t you?’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I know I left Sugar on her own with Rob but it was only for a little while, and …’ I dipped my head and took a deep breath. ‘I need to tell you—’
‘It’s OK.’ Her voice, suddenly, was surprisingly, unusually, gentle. I looked up. She put a hand on my arm. ‘I know what happened. Well, I guessed. You left your pyjamas and dressing gown in the bathroom, the bed unmade. That’s not like you. And I knew you wouldn’t just walk out and leave Sugar.’
‘He came into my room!’ I blurted out. ‘He … he tried …’ I gulped and stood up straighter. It wasn’t my fault, I reminded myself. ‘He assaulted me, Vanya. I promise I didn’t do anything to encourage him.’
‘Of course you didn’t, love. And believe me, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I just wish you’d confided in me sooner so that I could have stopped him straight away.’ She smiled thinly as I stared at her in surprise. ‘Oh, he’s always stopped his little dalliances as soon as I’ve found out. He pretends he stays with me because he doesn’t want the scandal of a divorce, but really it’s because I keep him in the style to which he’s become accustomed. He acts as if he’s something rather special, doesn’t he, but in fact he’s been out of work for the past two years. He pretends to be working from home, while he’s … well, occasionally doing stuff for the parish council, but mostly just messing about playing computer games or looking at porn sites.’
I gasped, and she gave a little dry laugh. ‘I suppose you thought he was working. Well, he was a sociology teacher at the local high school, until he got dismissed for texting dirty messages to a couple of the sixth form girls. All this posturing and posing about being on the parish council is just him trying to make himself feel better, because in fact he’s just a rather pathetic piece of nothing.’
I flinched, but she carried on, apparently completely self-possessed.
‘I asked him why you’d gone, of course – and he stuttered and stammered and tried to hide his red cheek—’
‘Oh yes!’ I put my hand to my mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I slapped him … it was the only way I could stop him.’
‘Don’t apologise.’ She gave me that strange smile again. ‘He had it coming to him. Anyway,’ she added, picking up her beloved cat and laying her face against the fur of Sugar’s little head, ‘he’ll have to get over his fear of the scandal, because I’d already decided to divorce him, after the last girl he tried to seduce. It’s quite funny really,’ she said. ‘He hardly ever succeeds, you know. He’s not unattractive, so I suppose it’s his obnoxious personality that puts the girls off.’
‘I … I don’t know what to say,’ I stuttered. I took a deep breath. ‘So has he actually moved out now, then?’
‘I’ve thrown him out, yes. Not before time. So you won’t let this put you off from coming back to look after Sugar again, will you? I couldn’t bear to lose you now. Sugar adores you.’
It was bizarre. She seemed completely unmoved about splitting from her husband – her only concern was making sure her cat would be looked after while she was jetting off to her high-powered business meetings.
I finished my coffee, trying to calm my fears. It didn’t appear that Rob had told Vanya anything else about me. So presumably, apart from his horrible friend in the pub (who I hoped had been too drunk to remember any of it), he hadn’t told anyone else either. He may not have had time, of course. Apparently she’d given him his marching orders as soon as she guessed what had happened, and was so keen to see the back of him that she was paying the rent on a room in a B&B down in Paignton for him, as a temporary measure. He’d left the parish council and left Crickleford, hopefully for good. He surely had enough to worry about now – with a bit of luck, he wouldn’t have time to think any more about me and my background.
‘I’ll have to sell the house, of course,’ Vanya was saying sadly, looking around her. ‘He’ll expect a share. But I’ve got my furry baby. That’s all that matters.’
I admired Vanya, even if I was still a little nervous of her. She was a strong, dignified woman, as well as being beautiful and successful. I understood why she wouldn’t want someone like Rob in her life any more. But although I loved Sugar too, I knew her obsession with the little cat was somewhat over the top. Which had come first – his despicable behaviour, or her rejection of him in favour of her furry baby? Well, as long as I never had to see Rob again, I didn’t care.
I’d still heard nothing from Matt, though. For the first few days, I’d gone to hang around outside the Chronicle office – despite my fear that even as I stood there, he’d be inside, writing his killer story about my past
. I’d even stood for ages outside the door to his flat a couple of times, too scared to ring the bell. And of course I’d walked up and down Moor View Lane staring at Bilberry Cottage. I was desperate to see him, to try to sort things out between us, but conversely worried about what I might find out. If he was writing that story, it would mean the end – for me in Crickleford, and for us. That’s if we hadn’t already reached the end.
Eventually I stopped looking for him. Apart from the fact that I was beginning to feel like a stalker, as time passed and I looked fearfully every week at the Crickleford Chronicle as well as all the national papers, half expecting to see my name splashed across the front page, I began to believe that he wasn’t going to betray me. Perhaps he might still care about me – might have forgiven me? But even if he had, I sensed that I’d have to give him time. How much time did he need? I spent hours lying on my bed, staring at my photo of Albert, cuddling Romeo and Juliet, or listening to little Holly’s chatter and keeping her amused by playing games with her, waiting for my fear of exposure to recede, waiting for my heart to mend.
There’d been a big change at Primrose Cottage. Holly had started school at the beginning of the month, and told anyone who’d listened that she was now a big, grown-up girl. It seemed that there was now nothing her parents or I could tell her that she didn’t already know.
‘Mrs Jones told us that,’ she’d say about anything we discussed. ‘Mrs Jones knows about everything.’ Her heroine was apparently pretty, funny and kind, as well as being the fount of all knowledge.
‘I feel a bit redundant,’ Lauren admitted one day while we were preparing dinner together. ‘I’m going to talk to the school about working afternoons as well as mornings. I’m lucky that my job fits in perfectly with Holly, of course, and I do love being a teaching assistant. But sometimes I wish I could do something more challenging – perhaps train to be a proper teacher. But …’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I only got a handful of GCSEs at school.’
‘You’re cleverer than me, then,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get any.’
‘But you are clever, Emma,’ she said, looking at me in surprise. ‘Look at you! Running your own business! Being clever isn’t just about passing exams.’
Wasn’t it? I pondered this when I lay in my bed that night, as usual trying to get to sleep while the rain pattered against the window of my little room. Nobody had ever said that to me before. I’d always just assumed I was as stupid as the other children at my school said I was.
One afternoon, I was upstairs in my bedroom, with some time to spare before going back to the house where I’d been looking after a rather annoying budgie, when I heard Mary arriving with her latest supply of books for Lauren. Lauren put on the kettle and started to chat with Mary about her career ambitions. I lay back against my pillow and, as I often did, pulled out the photo of Albert and the letter that had come with it. It was now completely creased up, and I smoothed it out and stared at it, making my eyes go funny in the vain hope that some of the words might suddenly jump out at me, when there was a tap at the door and Mary appeared in the doorway.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Emma,’ she said. ‘Lauren’s just making a cup of tea and she asked me to call you to see if you wanted one. You obviously didn’t hear me.’
‘I must have been miles away,’ I said, quickly folding up the letter.
‘You looked as if you were struggling with that,’ she commented, giving me a smile.
‘Oh … um, yes. I don’t seem to be able to see properly.’ I screwed up my eyes and blinked a couple of times. ‘It must be my eyesight.’
‘Do you need glasses?’ She looked concerned now. ‘You should make an appointment at the optician’s.’
‘Oh, no, it’s just … I’ve probably got something in one of my eyes.’ I rubbed them and started to put the letter back under my pillow. ‘I’ll come downstairs – thanks, Mary. I’d love a cuppa before I go out.’
She stayed in the doorway, looking at me with her head on one side.
‘Would you like me to read that for you?’ she asked, slightly cautiously. ‘I mean – not if it’s anything personal, obviously. Or would you prefer to wait until your eye’s better?’
I hesitated for a minute. ‘It’s very spidery writing,’ I said. ‘Really small and cramped. I doubt you’d be able to—’
‘Well, I’ll have a try, anyway, if you’d like me to. I’ve got very strong glasses,’ she said with another smile.
Again I hesitated, the letter in my hand. It would be so good to know who had Albert, wouldn’t it? But what else might be in the letter? What might it give away to Mary about me, about my identity and my past life?
As if she could read my mind, she said quietly as she sat down next to me on the bed: ‘Whatever is in the letter, Emma, it’ll be between you and me, I promise. And anyway, I’ll forget it as soon as I’ve read it. My memory is shocking.’
I laughed. ‘I’m sure it’s not. But – well, OK, then. It might take a while for my eye to get better, I suppose. Thank you.’
As soon as she started to read, I realised how odd it must seem.
‘The letter’s dated July,’ she said, looking up at me. Of course it was. I’d had it under my pillow for two months, unable to read a word of it.
‘Oh, it must have got lost in the post,’ I said.
‘Mm, must have done. Well, anyway – it starts: Dear Candice …’ She paused, glancing at me again.
I shrugged awkwardly. ‘It’s a nickname some of my old friends used to call me.’
‘Oh, I see. So: Dear Candice, You don’t know me, but …’
By now my face was burning. I felt like grabbing the letter back from Mary but she was already ploughing on, peering through her glasses at the scratchy writing.
‘… my name is Dorothy Mason and I’m Shane’s grandmother. Not that I’m proud of that fact, and by now I’m sure you’ll agree with me. He’s never behaved like a grandson to me, nor has he ever been a good son to his mom or his dad. In fact the rest of the world may worship him but as far as I’m concerned, he’s a disgrace to the family. I’m only sorry you ever got involved with him, dear, as I’m sure you’re a good girl at heart and it’s just dreadful the way he treated you. I’m not so old that I don’t see what’s going on in the papers, all the scandals with the other women. It made my blood boil, I just wanted to disown him. I’m glad you’ve finally got away.
‘Anyway I wanted to let you know I have your dear Albert here with me in my little home. I’d like to say my grandson redeemed himself a little by giving him to me, but in fact it wasn’t him. It was a girl with a strange name – Emerald or Esme? – you’ll have to forgive my bad memory. Very thin. Very shrill voice. Too much make-up. She brought Albert round to me in a basket and said you’d run off and left him, and although she didn’t want him herself, she didn’t want to leave him with Shane. It seemed that despite appearances, she had a little bit of common sense at least, because she realised Shane would have neglected him. She told me he’d said he didn’t care what happened to Albert, but had suggested giving him to me because “old women always like cats”. Wouldn’t have hurt him to bring the cat to me himself, would it, as I haven’t seen him for years on end, but that’s Shane for you.
‘I told the thin girl to get me your address so that I could let you know Albert is being well looked after. He’s a beautiful cat. I realise you couldn’t have taken him with you, and I’m sure you’re missing him. Please be assured I will love him on your behalf. I enclose a picture, so that you can see for yourself how well he has settled down with me. I hope your life will be happier from now on. With kindest regards, Dorothy.’
Mary stopped reading but continued to look down at the letter for a moment. She folded it, handed it back to me and finally looked up at me. The tears were trickling down my face – I’d stopped caring about what on earth Mary might be thinking about the contents of the letter, almost as soon as she’d started reading, I was so overcome with emotion by every
thing Shane’s grandmother had said.
‘She seems like a lovely lady,’ Mary said quietly. She didn’t ask any questions. She just looked into my eyes and went on, very gently, ‘I’m sure she’ll love your cat and care for him.’
‘Are you two coming down for your tea?’ Lauren yelled up the stairs. ‘It’s getting cold!’
‘Coming!’ Mary called back.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ I said, wiping the tears from my eyes.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said – and she folded me into her arms and gave me a hug. I wondered how much she’d understood, how much she might have guessed. But before I could say any more, she added softly: ‘And of course, I’ve already forgotten every word.’
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Trust Your Heart Page 8
