‘Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve lost your lovely bracelet, Nat?’ Marion said, frowning. ‘It’s full of such wonderful memories.’
‘I know, I’m gutted, Marion. The catch has always been a bit loose and I’ve been meaning to get it repaired. I have no idea when or where I might have lost it, which doesn’t help. I’m checking everywhere I’ve been.’
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry,’ Marion said, glancing at Sean a couple of times. ‘But of course, if it turns up, I’ll let you know.’
Libby looked from Sean to Marion to Natalie and back to Dan and his schoolbooks, her entire body tense. To stop herself saying anything else she’d regret for the third time in less than an hour, she downed the rest of her whisky and excused herself, fighting back the tears as she went upstairs to run herself a bath.
Ten minutes later, as she sank down into the water, she wondered if she was going mad – seeing things that weren’t there. Seeing what she wanted to see – anything to make reality different. Unsure what to believe, Libby allowed herself to slide further down into the water, her hair billowing out as she submerged, praying that when she resurfaced, everything bad would be washed away.
Thirty-One
‘Here,’ Marion said, handing Libby a cup of chamomile tea. After Natalie had left, Sean had decided to go down to the local for a couple of pints. Libby doubted he’d talk with his father – each man preferring to sit at opposite ends of the bar if they happened to be in there together, chatting with their own friends. Sean had barely said a word before he left and Libby was relieved when he’d gone, watching in silence as he slung his Barbour jacket on. He’d mumbled a ‘don’t wait up’ to her before sending a quick text to someone and shoving his phone in his pocket, closing the back door behind him, his limp more pronounced than ever. Libby wasn’t sure if he’d meant to slam it.
‘Drink up. It’ll help you relax,’ Marion said, taking a crocheted throw from the arm of the sofa. She draped it over Libby who, after her bath, had put on clean pyjamas. She’d brought a few extra things up from the cottage, making her conviction to not move back any time soon evident, despite Sean saying they must. The farm, even though it was old-fashioned and had none of the comforts of home, suddenly seemed like the safest place to be.
‘Thanks,’ Libby said, staring into the mug. She squashed the teabag with the spoon.
‘I know it’s hard, love, but you need to stay strong.’
‘Sean tries to be brave but I know when he’s stressed,’ Libby said, blowing on her tea. ‘His knee gets worse.’
‘It always has done,’ Marion went on. ‘When he was younger, I used to think he put his limp on for attention. I know he doesn’t.’
‘Tell me about his accident,’ Libby said. The warm bath had made her feel unusually relaxed, as if, just for a few moments, she could switch off. ‘He never talks about it.’
Marion looked uncomfortable. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, as if that was reason not to discuss it. ‘Some things are best forgotten.’
‘But I want to know,’ Libby said, refusing to be fobbed off. ‘He’s my husband, after all.’
‘Then maybe best he tells you himself?’ Marion said, but Libby was having none of it.
‘How old was he when it happened?’
Marion touched her head. ‘Seventeen, if I remember rightly.’
‘Had he been drinking?’ Libby said with a smile. ‘I’ve heard what those village boys were like – him, Chris, Dean, Tony and Phil. Sean told me they pretty much graduated straight out of Scouts and into the local.’ Sean was still good friends with many of the guys from his youth – he’d been to school with some of them since the age of five – though not all had ended up as successful as him. But, despite taking different directions in life, they were still friends, seeing each other when they could – and they’d welcomed Libby into their community when she and Sean had got together. She couldn’t have asked for more.
‘No, love, he hadn’t been drinking, despite the reprobates he used to hang out with.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘But most of them came good in the end. As good as could be expected, anyway.’
‘You must be very proud of Sean,’ Libby said. ‘He’s such a good vet, and a brilliant dad.’
Marion smiled again. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I just wish Fred felt the same.’ She slowly covered her mouth, as if she’d not meant to say anything.
‘Oh?’ Libby knew there was tension between father and son, but whenever she’d asked Sean about it, he always changed the subject. She wasn’t sure if it was just healthy rivalry or something deeper.
Marion sighed, clasping her hands around her mug. ‘Fred always expected Sean to do a stint in the army, as he and his grandfather and great-grandfather had done. After the military, Fred was going to hand over the farm. He’d got it all planned out. It’s the way it’s always been in this family.’
‘The army?’ Libby said. ‘Sean’s never mentioned that. He doesn’t mind shoving his arm up a cow’s behind, but I can’t see him in camo gear on his belly in the mud with a rifle.’ Libby managed another laugh.
‘Ever since he was born, Fred had plans for him. We knew soon after that he’d be our only child.’ Marion briefly touched her tummy. Libby suspected her health issues went way back. ‘Fred’s old-fashioned like that and believed you weren’t a man until you’d served your country. But then the accident…’ Marion trailed off, looking away.
‘Go on,’ Libby said, noticing the tears in her eyes.
Marion shook her head and sniffed. ‘Sean and a couple of his mates were out baling. We’d not long switched to the big round ton bales, you know the kind? Fred was made up with the new machinery that spewed them out. He and the boys were out in the fields, collecting them up for storage. Fred used to offer his services to other local farmers too, and he was on the tractor, spike at the front, using it to lift them onto the trailer. Sean had been driving tractors and working on the farm since he was ten. He knew all there was to know.’ She stopped, taking a breath and a sip of tea.
‘It happened after lunch. I used to make them all sandwiches to take. It was the summer holidays and they liked the extra cash. Sean was meant to be driving the tractor with the trailer, where all the bales were stacked to take back to storage.’
Libby saw something in Marion’s eyes – something that made her want to put a hand on her arm and tell her to stop, not to go over painful memories if it was hard. But there was also something compelling, even ominous, about the way she was recounting the story. Libby wanted to know everything.
‘Anyway,’ Marion went on, shaking her head as if to stop herself saying too much, ‘there was no way the army would take him with that knee injury. That’s what Fred said. That he’d be a liability. Said it was best Sean laid low, lived here with us until it all blew over.’
‘So he didn’t even apply to join up?’
‘No, love,’ Marion said. ‘Not after… after everything. After the… accident. That’s when… well, that’s when things turned bad between Sean and his father. Sean had… well, it was just a blip, Fred eventually convinced himself – and me. Nothing more than stupid behaviour. Turns out he was right.’ Marion gave Libby her biggest smile yet, touching her arm. ‘It all turned out fine.’
‘I see,’ Libby said, not completely understanding. Fred had always been reserved, a bit gruff and unapproachable, though she’d always thought he had a soft spot for her, as if he approved of her.
‘Anyway, I can’t tell you how pleased we both were when you came into Sean’s life, love,’ Marion went on. ‘After Natalie, you’re the next best thing that’s ever happened to him.’
Thirty-Two
Libby stared at the contents of the catering fridge in the barn, wondering what to chuck out first. It was a reminder of how things were, before Sasha went missing, when she’d bought ingredients, had menus planned, clients booked in. Everything normal.
‘Damn,’ she whispered, reaching for a dish of meat glaze that she�
�d saved. She stared into it, almost seeing her reflection through the clingfilm in the viscous surface of the dark liquid. Then she tipped it into the stainless-steel sink, running the tap, watching as the plum-coloured liquid swirled around.
Blood, Libby thought, as it spiralled down the plughole.
Her nerves on fire, she grabbed dish after dish, packet after packet, chucking them into the large waste bin near the stable door. She looked out at the empty space next to her car. Sean was still at work, even though it was nearly seven o’clock. Marion had agreed to have Alice stay at the farm another couple of nights, until things were more settled at home.
Libby hadn’t wanted to come back to the cottage that morning but had reluctantly made her way out to the car where Sean stood, clutching their scant belongings in a few carrier bags and a holdall. She’d felt mentally frog-marched home, but they’d talked about it at length while lying in bed the night before and, ultimately, she knew Sean was right. The longer they stayed at the farm, the harder it would be to come back.
When the fridge was empty of out-of-date ingredients, Libby set to work unpacking the haul she’d collected from the supermarket earlier that afternoon. Running out of time, she hadn’t had the luxury of picking and choosing local organic ingredients, and had missed the wholesalers’ day earlier in the week. What she’d managed to find in the aisles would have to suffice for her next client – she’d figure out some good recipes. If she let anyone else down, word would soon spread. Her business was built on reputation and she couldn’t afford to lose more work.
‘Don’t be hard on yourself, Lib,’ Sean had said. ‘Mum’s in her element with Alice. You might have had to cancel some clients, but you’ve still got bookings for this week, right? And why not take some time out and treat yourself? Maybe get your nails done? It’ll do you good.’
Libby had nodded, staring at his chest as he gently held her. ‘But how will I ever look at anything in the kitchen ever again without thinking of Sasha?’ she said, her voice wavering.
‘Maybe have a clear-out – in the kitchen as well as your mind. Then it’ll be easier to block out. It’s the only way, Lib. Do you trust me?’
‘I trust you,’ she’d said, staring into his eyes. Sean had always been a coper, a fixer, the one who made things better. ‘I really do,’ she added, just so he knew.
* * *
Libby often listened to music as she cooked – David Bowie to Mozart and everything in between. She’d already tried a couple of times to construct tomorrow’s menu to a backdrop of sound – at full volume and low – but it hadn’t worked. Silence was equally as deafening as she made a list of the ingredients she’d forgotten to pick up earlier. The kitchen might be clean and organised, and the old ingredients consigned to the bin, but her state of mind was far from that.
She stared at the notebook she kept for inspiration, pen in hand, willing her mind to function in the way it had until a little over a week ago. She tapped the pen on the work surface, trying to decide how best to cater for the dietary requirements requested without having to compromise the starter and canapés. People with allergies or intolerances didn’t like to be singled out, she’d learnt, so she always made a point of making similar dishes for everyone as far as she could. It was at times like this that she was grateful she’d frozen some vegan sauces and various other special meals for just such instances. They were perfect as a fall-back option now as she simply didn’t have time to do different versions of the same meal.
It wasn’t until she touched her cheek that she realised the tears were streaming down her face. She reached for a tissue, blowing and wiping, staring into space for what seemed like ages before something inside switched, making her lock up the kitchen, go back into the cottage, grab her phone, handbag and keys, and get in the car. She simply couldn’t concentrate on work.
* * *
Libby headed straight to Fran’s house. She knew she wouldn’t mind her just turning up and she needed someone to talk to. With no parking spaces immediately outside, she drove around the block several times before finding a spot a couple of streets away. She bleeped the car locked and walked back to Fran’s, almost in robotic mode, and rang the bell of the Victorian terrace. She was still fighting back the tears when the door opened, but broke down completely when Fran spread her arms wide and beckoned her inside.
Thirty-Three
‘Right,’ Fran said. ‘Sit, eat, drink. Not necessarily in that order.’ She pressed Libby down into a chair at the tiny kitchen table. ‘You look so thin. When did you actually last put anything between your lips?’
Libby couldn’t help the laugh – a cross between hysteria and relief. ‘Says the woman with a fag hanging out of her mouth.’
‘Fair point,’ Fran said, flicking her ash out of the back door. ‘Get this in you.’ She passed across a plate of things she’d plucked from the fridge – salami, olives, cheese, as well as some crusty French bread – arranging them on a plate. ‘And get this in you too,’ she added, handing over a large glass of wine. ‘You can stay the night.’ Libby had already told her Alice was with Marion.
‘Maybe I will,’ Libby replied. ‘Sean is… well, he’ll no doubt be working late again. I don’t think he can stand being around me, but I can’t stand being at home alone either.’
‘Which is why we’ll throw some fresh linen on the spare bed and work our way through this.’ She held up the bottle of wine. ‘And possibly that too,’ she added, pointing to another bottle in the rack.
‘I love you,’ Libby said. ‘God knows what I’d do without you right now.’
‘You don’t think I’ve said the same about you over the years?’ Fran went on, stubbing out her cigarette and gathering the food plate and wine. She ushered Libby through to her small living room, turning on the gas fire and pulling the curtains closed. ‘Bollocks to the world tonight. It’s just you, me and whatever misery we choose to invite. OK?’
‘OK,’ Libby said, grinning and falling backwards onto the large sofa. As she wiped her eyes, she couldn’t help noticing that the framed photograph of Fran and Chris, her late husband, had been moved from its usual place on the mantelpiece and was now barely visible on a side table over by the window. She wondered if it was indicative of Fran finally moving on, of letting go of the only man she’d ever truly loved and, she believed, the only man who had ever truly loved her back. ‘And I’m sorry,’ she added. ‘You don’t need this.’
‘I’m not keeping score, Lib, but you’re way in credit in that department, so chin up and spew it out. What’s going on – apart from the obvious? I know you better than you think.’
Libby smiled, knowing that was true. Back when they lived together – a pair of naive twenty-two-year-olds not long out of university, grappling with the transition from student to ‘proper grown-ups’, it was Libby who seemed to master the art of adulting better than Fran. She was always a shoulder to cry on, the picker-upper of the fragments of Fran’s heart. ‘You give it away too easily,’ she’d told her after one particularly bad break-up. ‘How long was it this time? Three weeks and you’re telling him you love him?’
‘He told me first,’ Fran had sniffed. ‘And I believed him.’
‘I know,’ Libby replied, rocking her back and forth on the bed. ‘But don’t listen to what men tell you, Franny. Listen to what they show you.’
‘Apart from the obvious…?’ Libby said, turning back to the present as she sipped her wine. ‘It’s the note. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s like… my thoughts are a load of laundry that got knotted in the tumble drier. They keep spinning round, getting more and more tangled. Every time I think of Sasha, it reminds me why we went out for the meal in the first place. Then I’m back to the note again, who wrote it, and then Sasha is in my head again, and round and round it goes. I even once suspected Sash…’ Libby trailed off, shaking her head.
‘Lib?’ Fran said after a pause. She sat forward, pouring more wine. ‘You don’t think…?’
The two w
omen stared at each other. ‘It’s crossed my mind,’ she said. ‘Of course it has.’
‘But she was… is… a kid,’ Fran said. ‘Sean wouldn’t go there, would he?’
‘No, no I don’t think so,’ Libby replied. ‘I’m certain he wouldn’t.’ Then she fell silent, taking an olive and putting it in her mouth.
‘Sounds to me like you’re still overthinking this, my love. The note and Sasha are completely separate, if you want my tuppence worth.’
‘I found something else,’ Libby said, needing to get it off her chest. ‘Don’t judge, but Sean’s been really secretive lately. He’s glued to his phone too.’
‘Found what?’
‘Apart from him changing the password on his laptop?’
Fran shrugged, made a face as if that was inconsequential.
‘I found a gift. A present. It was hidden away in our bedroom.’
‘Lucky you,’ Fran said. ‘See? He’s a good guy, Lib. Chris was like that… always surprising me with thoughtful little things…’
Libby waited until the tears in Fran’s eyes had melted away.
‘This is a bit different. It was all wrapped up and labelled “with love” in Sean’s writing. It even had a kiss on it.’ She choked back a sob, conscious that Fran was also tearful.
‘And your problem is?’
‘It was a lighter, Fran. An expensive-looking one. With an engraving.’
‘Oh,’ Fran said quietly, standing up. ‘In that case, I’d better replenish supplies.’ She went to the kitchen to fetch the other bottle of wine.
Date Night (ARC) Page 20
