The journey would take no more than thirty minutes, James Harcourt said, sounding full of manly authority. An authority she had missed, Frances realised with a lurch of her heart, meticulously taking down every one of his details about the route, which included numerous specific stretches of miles and yards and unmissable landmarks for turnings left and right. Their tryst was to be in a pub called the Dancing Bear. It served excellent food, James said and was informal without being noisy. Frances had ventured the reply that perhaps they should be meeting somewhere Italian. At which he had laughed, adding that he hoped there would be time for such treats later. Frances had laughed too, her heart pounding, half marvelling and half horrified at her daring. After she put the phone down, it had taken several minutes for her pulse to recede to its usual imperceptibility. Being alone had suddenly felt intolerable. As did the thought of surviving for any longer on a social diet of Libby and Joseph Brackman.
Sitting alone in the car however, waiting for the digital clock to creep round to six thirty, Frances felt very remote from such convictions. It was too early to set off, but there wasn’t enough time to go home either. She switched on the radio and tried to concentrate on a derailed train in India and an emergency summit on the state of the world economy. There was a fresh peace drive in Northern Ireland and a toddler rescued from an icy lake by a family dog. With an enormous effort of will, she managed to listen to five minutes of the quiz show which followed the news before inserting the key in the ignition. It would not do to arrive early, to show any of the terror and desperation she felt inside. She would be cool and demure, she told herself, exiting from her parking slot at last. Once on the main road, she accelerated to a modest speed which she hoped would allow her to arrive five minutes after James Harcourt, all the while reminding herself not to shriek out loud if he had hairy ears or a bulbous wart on his nose.
This veneer of composure was soon shattered by a prolonged spell behind the mud-spattered bumper of an articulated truck. Usually wary of overtaking even a moped on dark country lanes, Frances found herself pulling out at the most reckless moments, and cursing viciously every time oncoming headlights or a sudden bend forced her back into confinement. Just when she had convinced herself that James Harcourt must have dictated the same cross country route to the driver of the truck, it turned off, swinging out of sight like a ponderous dinosaur. It was already five to seven and she was barely halfway. With an open road at last, Frances drove like a creature possessed. She made up so much ground that on reaching the village before her destination, she was only twenty minutes behind schedule. To celebrate, she slowed to the prescribed speed limit and took a series of deep breaths. By the time she stopped at the last T-junction she had returned herself to a state of oxygenated serenity. Apart from a car already indicating its intention to turn into her road, the coast was clear. Seeing the car slow down Frances pulled out to turn across it. It was only then that she saw the cyclist, until that moment shielded from view on the far side of the approaching car. A split second later there was a terrible muffled thump, as the bicycle made contact with her bumper. With almost comic athleticism the cyclist flew several feet into the air before landing in the middle of the road, a frozen dark heap illuminated in the beam of her car headlights. Frances was so sure that she had killed him that she watched in disbelief as the man clambered to his feet and retrieved his bicycle. Realising suddenly that she was straddling the main road, she jerkily manoeuvred to the grass verge on the far side. The next thing she knew he was banging his fist on her back windscreen, yelling, ‘Just you hang on a minute.’
‘I was just parking,’ she called, quickly getting out of the car and finding that her knees were shaking so much she had to lean against the bonnet to steady herself. ‘Thank God you’re all right. I just didn’t see you – I mean suddenly you were there and flying through the air – I’m so sorry – thank God you’re OK.’ He was wearing a helmet, a dark jacket and jeans.
‘It was my bloody right of way.’ He undid the chin strap of his helmet, leaving it to flap against his cheek as he talked. ‘And I’m not all right, I’ve hurt my ankle and the front wheel of my bike is buckled – Christ knows what that will cost – weren’t you bloody well looking, or what?’
Frances felt close to tears. The shock was still with her, compounded by a mounting sense of helpless urgency. James Harcourt would be sitting at the bar looking at his watch, writing her off as a coward, or as someone incapable of punctuality – a trait he would not find endearing, she decided suddenly, a moment of lucidity briefly piercing the confusion inside her head. ‘Look, I’m very late – on my way somewhere.’
‘Well, sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you in any way.’
‘No, I didn’t mean…it was all my fault, I know. You were hidden by that car that was turning, I just didn’t see you until it was too late and I’m sorry you’re hurt and of course I’ll pay for whatever damage has been done to your bicycle.’ She rummaged in her bag for a pen and something to write on.
‘Could do with a witness,’ he muttered, glancing up as a van sped by, the car which had been the unwitting catalyst for their accident having long since disappeared. He limped over to where Frances stood, watching her write her name and address in silence, before suddenly blurting out, ‘How do I know it’s not false?’
‘Because I’m not that kind of person,’ Frances retorted, suddenly furious at the whole calamitous situation, at the vile inevitability of it. Of course she wasn’t going to meet a handsome, kind stranger over a candlelit dinner for two. Life wasn’t like that. Life was bumping into things in the dark and nearly murdering them. ‘And I’d better take your details too.’ She tore off a back page of her cheque book and handed him the pen. ‘We can put the bike in the boot and your ankle probably ought to be looked at – I don’t suppose there’s a hospital with an emergency department near here is there?’
‘I don’t need a hospital, thank you. A lift home will do.’
Frances experienced a moment of hesitation. The way her evening was going it would be just her luck to have collided with a serial killer. But on seeing how he dragged his left leg on traipsing back to his bike all her guilt and sympathy returned. ‘Oh dear, I am so sorry.’ She tried to pick up one half of the bicycle but he swung it out of reach. She could see that the front wheel was badly bent. ‘I’ll pay to mend it of course,’ she repeated weakly, watching him struggle to fold it into a position that would allow the lid of her boot to stay down, if not properly closed.
‘If you could just take me home that would be great,’ he muttered, easing himself into the passenger seat with a grimace of pain. He took off his helmet, revealing a young pale face and dark features. His eyes, she saw were dark brown and glowering with anger and discomfort. ‘I’ll get the bike seen to tomorrow.’
‘Send me the bill, won’t you?’ she offered quickly, adding, ‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t need a doctor?’
‘Just a hot bath, thanks. I live back that way.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
‘You’ll have to direct me,’ she murmured, ‘I’m not familiar with this area.’ After checking the road several times, she swung the car round in a U-turn. She drove steadily and with exaggerated care, not just because of the tremors of shock still pulsing through her kneecaps, but out of an awareness that every turn of the wheels increased the distance between her and the Dancing Bear. A distance that felt more than just miles, but of time and possibility too. Fate had clearly changed its mind, she reflected grimly, waving a mental farewell to James Harcourt and the whole harebrained idea of throwing herself at the mercy of strangers.
Chapter Sixteen
While the bath ran, Daniel poured himself a glass of wine. He sat sipping it on the edge, swirling his free hand in the hot water. He’d had collisions on his bike before but none at such speed or comprising so blatant a threat to his life. To be mashed by a car bumper at the tender age of twenty-six was not how he intended to make his exit from the world, even
after a lousy term, an indifferent Christmas and with no obvious prospective mourners other than his immediate family. Vicky, his ex, would probably do a celebration jig on his grave, Daniel reflected gloomily, shuddering at the recollection of all the petty arguments over ownership of books and kitchen utensils which had helped to sour the previous year.
Having turned off the taps, he held out his left hand and studied it for signs of trembling, remembering not the moment of impact so much as the clench of his heart in the split second it had to brace itself for pain. There was no clear recollection of making contact with the car, only of the shock of his own weightlessness as he was catapulted across the road. What had nearly happened was in fact far more terrifying than the event itself, Daniel realised, easing off his T-shirt and levering himself into the hot water. Since arriving home, his left shoulder had started hurting, although the only obvious signs of bruising remained on his right knee and elbow. His sprained ankle did not even look swollen.
Dexterously using three toes to nudge the hot tap back onto full throttle, Daniel tipped his chin up until the water was lapping over his head up to his eyelids. With the benefit of hindsight he found it impossible not to acknowledge some culpability in the accident. Apart from his helmet, no aspect of his appearance or behaviour had been geared to further the cause of his own personal safety. He had been wearing dark clothes, without a single one of the numerous luminous accoutrements doggedly bestowed on him over the course of several years by his mother. As Vicky had warned him many times, the front light on his bike was so feeble it could be mistaken for a trick of the imagination. On spotting the woman’s car waiting to turn onto the main road, it had even crossed Daniel’s mind that he himself would not be so visible, that it might not be the most prudent of moments to accelerate past a vehicle slowing into his front wheel.
In a bid to fend off yet another detailed action replay of the collision, Daniel reached for the soap and began vigorously lathering his body. White and translucent bubbles streamed down from his armpits and through the dark hairs on his chest. He had been aggressive, he knew, even after the woman had offered to drop him home. Looking back he realised that this was not simply because of shock, but also because of the distinct – and somehow jarring – impression of her being in a hurry to get away; that even though his initial fear about her bolting had proved unjustified, a part of her would have liked to.
After submerging himself one last time, Daniel stood up and spent a few moments brushing water from his arms and body before stepping onto the bath mat. He reached for the towel on the back of the door, still faintly damp from his shower that morning, and hastily rubbed himself dry. He worked the towel like a saw across his back, cursing quietly at the ice-box temperature of the air. The bathroom was the only space in the cottage without a heater of any kind. In the sitting room there was an open fire, together with one of the large brick storage heaters which served the rest of the house. They were cumbersome but cheap, and quite effective once they got going. The lump sum left by his grandmother had all been swallowed up by the purchase of the property, leaving none spare for niceties like rewiring and radiators. On the whole, Daniel didn’t mind. Having his own place was what mattered, especially since the income from his chosen career path would have precluded such a luxury for many years to come. Though most of his colleagues liked to hang around their university accommodation during the vacations, it had always been important to Daniel to have a bolt hole. Remembering suddenly that he was at the start of a six-month sabbatical, that his faculty was already in the thick of another term without him, he gave the towel a flourish of satisfaction. It was a breathing space for which he had fought hard and he was determined to put this inauspicious start behind him and enjoy every minute.
Thoroughly warm now, he knotted the towel firmly across his hips and rubbed a porthole in the steam on the basin mirror. Leaning forwards, he ran the palms of both hands over the dark bristles on his chin and cheeks, debating whether to shave, reminding himself that night shadow could be of no possible concern to men who slept alone. It was a relief not to have Vicky to worry about but it left a feeling of emptiness too. Beside him the green eyes of a printed replica of Botticelli’s Venus peered through a thin veil of vapour, their demure gaze directed over his shoulder, as if too polite to confront his semi-nudity head on. Daniel picked up his razor and put it down again, spinning impatiently away from the basin and causing a sudden spasm of pain to shoot up through his ankle bone. Cursing volubly, he limped out onto the landing, supporting himself along the wall. Through the banisters he caught a glimpse of his injured bicycle, propped forlornly against a coat stand in the hall. There were bad scratches in the paintwork which he hadn’t noticed before, as well as a curious lopsided look to the handlebars. Gritting his teeth, glad he had been so firm with the Copeland woman after all, Daniel proceeded gingerly towards his bedroom, making a mental note to call Joe at the garage in the morning and to tell him not to stint on the estimate for repairs.
*
‘It obviously wasn’t meant to be,’ said Libby kindly, once Frances had completed her account of the disastrous events of the previous evening. ‘Although I still think poor James Harcourt deserves some sort of explanation as to why you didn’t—’
‘I’ve told you, I tried a couple of times, but there was no reply, Frances insisted. ‘The whole idea was insane anyway. I don’t know what got into me. It’s far too soon even to consider another relationship. Dreadful though it was, I even feel sort of grateful to that poor creature on the bicycle. When I got home last night – and again when I woke up this morning – I just felt so relieved, not only because I hadn’t killed him, but because of having been saved the hideous embarrassment of a blind date. God only knows what I could have been letting myself in for. And the fact that James Harcourt hasn’t made any obvious attempts to get in touch with me shows the feeling is almost certainly mutual. As you say, it just wasn’t meant to be,’ she concluded firmly. ‘Now then, where did you say you wanted these?’ She held up one of the wooden-framed pastel prints which had arrived amongst several boxes of stock that morning.
‘I thought on the wall over there, above the decorative candles and jewelry boxes.’
‘But it might look good in the window,’ murmured Frances, casting a critical eye over the picture, a still life of asparagus and onion in smudgy pale water colours. ‘I can just see it on one of the upper dresser shelves, maybe next to those kitchen jars in the shape of vegetables.’
Managing to suppress a pin-prick of pique that Frances’s eye for arrangement was proving so patently superior to her own, Libby clapped her hands in approval. ‘Good idea. Do you mind giving the jars a dust first? I’ve had them for centuries. You ought to do some pictures of your own, you know,’ she added, wanting to make up for the meanness in her heart. ‘You could run up this sort of thing in no time.’
Frances laughed, flattered but uncertain. ‘Your faith in my abilities as an artist never ceases to amaze me – but thank you, not just for saying that, but for everything, taking me on and so on. You’ve been marvellous Libby and I’m not sure I’ve told you.’
‘Nonsense. You’re invaluable. And I mean it about the pictures. If you ever want me to look at anything with a view to selling it I would be more than happy.’ Feeling closer and better, both women turned to their tasks in a comfortable silence.
Still full of anxiety about James Harcourt, the sight of the flashing red light on her answering machine when she got in from work later that afternoon caused Frances’s heart to skip a beat. But it was only Daisy, sounding chirpy and upbeat, insisting on a return call to have another go at arranging a date for a visit.
‘Only if you’re up to it obviously, Mum,’ she said, when Frances came on the line. ‘I’d hate to feel I was putting any pressure on you—’
‘No darling, I’ve been feeling much better since Christmas, much more my old self,’ Frances assured her, thinking the moment the words were out of James Harcour
t and the fact that, while certainly much happier, her current existence bore very little relation to any of the routines with which her daughter associated her. ‘I’m helping Libby in her shop now, but that’s only three days a week so I could come from any Thursday to Sunday. Name the days that would suit you.’
They agreed on a long weekend in mid-February. ‘Third time lucky maybe,’ murmured Daisy to herself as she put down the phone. The awfulness of Christmas felt wonderfully distant, almost like it was part of someone else’s life. In the weeks since she and Claude had been if anything closer than ever before. They had gone back to making love almost every night, with an intensity that felt new and which confirmed Daisy’s sneaking conviction that the explosion in December had been worthwhile. It had cleared the air, restored them to the alert generosity of the early days before familiarity began its stranglehold; before Claude’s sudden and absurd fixation that she was having an affair with Marcel from the gallery. Eager to prevent such suspicions from ever souring their life again, Daisy had given up accepting invitations to lunch and was careful to inform her lover of any movements outside her usual routine. She had even stopped popping out of the flat for an afternoon walk for fear of missing his arrival home. Such sacrifices felt small in comparison to the rewards they reaped. Each day that passed Daisy grew surer that the horror of Christmas had really been about love, about Claude’s terror of losing what they had.
The Lover Page 11
