by Lynn Watson
Copyright © 2018 Lynn Watson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
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ISBN 978 1789011 258
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Rob, Jay and Lani
and with sincere thanks to all my curious early readers
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 1
She stirred the mottled froth of her coffee until the perfect leaf pattern dissolved into a long swirl and vanished. As she looked around before surreptitiously licking the spoon, the man at the next table leaned towards her. She took in his smart navy jacket and thick but well-tended grey eyebrows.
‘Would you mind keeping an eye on my things while I step outside for a quick call?’
‘No, that’s fine. I’m in no rush.’
He left his leather man bag lying on the table beside an open laptop, a wire-bound notepad covered in squiggles and a stylish fountain pen. There was something half-jutting out of the bag – a wallet or card holder, was it?
Looking again at the sleek black pen, she felt a familiar shiver. Bad idea; she jolted her head to shake it off. The dark-haired woman sitting near the window, the only person she had noticed when she entered the café, was staring at her. Their eyes met and blood rushed to Fran’s cheeks. Had she behaved oddly or acted suspicious? No, it was a passing thought, nothing more. She was dutifully looking after someone else’s property. The woman let her gaze wander before she glanced across again, offering a cryptic smile, almost playful, while the man with the eyebrows returned to his table and mouthed a quick ‘Thank you.’
She had to get a grip, once and for all. She couldn’t afford to blow it, screw up her new life in London. The impulse was weaker now, thankfully. She had never seen a therapist but had long assumed that the snatching – stealing, let’s face it – was linked to her first memory: the screeching of tyres or brakes and the figure of a man in a helmet flying through the air, limbs outstretched; a motorbike on its side by the wall; her dad sweeping her up and passing her to a stranger, toddler legs kicking wildly in protest. And before that indelible sequence, in the lost and critical opening scene scattered in pieces on the cutting-room floor of her mind, the proof that it was all her fault.
There were some things you couldn’t just chuck out or hand in at the charity shop when you moved home, whether it was your fault or not. And some unbidden thoughts that tended to bubble up at exactly the wrong moment. She was here now though, in a small café in a part of London in a corner of the universe where no one knew her – except perhaps Ned, a little.
She looked over to the window table and then through the glass door to the visible stretch of pavement. The dark-haired woman had disappeared, slipped away without her noticing. It was time to go, anyway; she could sit here all day but she had set out on a circular walk, to see if she could find a new route back along the river.
The quaint row of shops made her think of a stage set or a children’s model village – the French patisserie café, an old-style butcher, fishmonger and greengrocer, a bijou dress shop called Frocks and Chocs and a fancy jeweller’s dealing in beautiful new and second-hand pieces. There were also the ubiquitous estate agents and charity shops, plus a hair salon and a tattoo parlour, but in this setting even they managed to project a kind of traditional charm.
Once again, the striking window display in the dress boutique made her stop and look. Two mannequins modelled red and purple frocks, while scarves and lingerie items were draped across a mirrored dressing table, a chest of drawers and carved wooden chairs. In between the clothes, there were white boxes of chocolates arranged across the furniture and floor space, some with lids open and others closed, wrapped with purple or red ribbons. She wondered if they changed the ribbon colours to match the dresses in the window. It was a funky name, Frocks and Chocs; she liked it. Now all she needed was a special occasion to justify splashing out on a new outfit.
***
Lying on her side, one knee resting on the other, she yielded to the silkiness of the pillows, which insisted on curling up around her head instead of staying firm and flat like her less plush ones at home. She rolled onto her back and stretched her arms towards the high blue ceiling, fingers and thumbs splayed wide and peach nails gleaming in the shaft of light that fell through the half-open door into Ned’s bedroom.
Along the length of one wall, there was a high black shelf displaying a row of hats. Fran brought her hands down together, gently deflating the duvet under its striped cover, while her eyes scanned the shelf and she named each hat in a near-silent whisper: fedora, trilby, top, bowler, panama, sombrero, homburg, cowboy, deerstalker, military beret, fez, porkpie, Cossack, tricorn, boater, wizard and finally, in the near corner, a pirate hat with red feather and glow-painted skull and crossbones.
Did Ned wear any of these hats, and did he have a special favourite? The brown fedora, perhaps, together with the stone-coloured trench coat he had on the first time she saw him, waiting at the door to the pub with his collar turned up against the teeming rain. The image of the long coat and fedora fitted with her idea that there was something more secret agent than estate agent about Ned, although he said he owned and rented out properties – flats, houses and industrial units spread across South London – and she had no good reason to doubt it.
She felt for her phone on the unfamiliar bedside table. It was almost nine, time for dinner. Turning towards the middle of the bed, she contemplated the rounded muscles of Ned’s exposed upper arm and shoulder, the prominent ridge of his spine and the well-defined hairline across the back of his neck. Was it just her who found this part of a man so alluring, wanting to run her fingers along the edge of his hair or ruffle it up if possible, twirling any relic of a duck’s tail? She would ask Judi about it, if they still had time left to talk. Judi was fading fast. And as for long-haired men, the seriously long-haired ones, that was a while ago now.
Her hand reached out and touched Ned’s hair, first at the nape of his neck and then the light downy growths beneath his ears that had escaped or been spared the razor. It was a rich brown, with scattered flecks of grey. How old was he – mid forties, a little younger, older? He murmured at her fingertip caress, stirring and smiling sleepily, she imagined, although she couldn’t see his face. P
ropping herself up on her elbows and looking across the duvet to the end of the bed, she saw that his feet were suspended over the edge, even though his knees were bent.
When he surfaced, it would be quick showers and dressing for dinner in the velvety twin bathrobes. This already felt like an established ritual, although she had only been to the flat four times, including tonight. Ned would have the ingredients laid out on the granite kitchen counter or chilling in his up-to-the-minute smart fridge, so he could just spin them together and serve up the meal in half an hour.
‘It’s the fridge that decides what to make. It’s got all the ideas and recipes and I don’t argue. I’m in love with it.’
His bedroom was blue and manly, decorated by a stained-glass lamp with a stem of twisted snakes, and a wooden hatstand with assorted umbrellas, walking sticks and squash racquets propped around it. An open wardrobe took up an entire wall and held a large collection of clothes and shoes, arranged by colour and season. There were two guitars on hooks, black-and-white photos of a semi-naked couple above the bed, and the obligatory bachelor-pad dumbbells, two pairs, stacked in the corner.
‘Hey you, still here? Are you ready to eat?’
He had finally come to and was looking up at her from the sea of pillows. His eyes were light brown, with a fan of deep creases at each side.
‘Yes, that’d be wonderful.’ She sat up properly. ‘I’m ravenous, now you mention it; I can’t think why.’
He gave her a butterfly kiss on the forearm, his long eyelashes fluttering on her skin. ‘You’re a very sexy woman, do you know that?’
She stretched up her arms again and nestled further under the duvet. ‘You’re quite cute yourself, Mr Hat Man. You’ll have to give me a fashion show one evening – just the hats, nothing else.’
‘Sounds like fun – I’ll speak to my agent and see what we can offer.’
She watched as he swivelled his legs to sit on the side of the bed, then leant down to gather up the crimson robes that lay spreadeagled on the floor. Handing her the smaller one, he stood up, being careful to allow her a few glimpses as he fumbled to find the sleeves of the robe, shook his shoulders into it, straightened the collar, pulled the sides firmly across and tied the belt. She dismissed the lingering thought that they might come back to bed after dinner. The pattern and tone of their evenings was set now and she wasn’t inclined to disturb the rhythm.
It was pasta tonight, linguini with thinly sliced beef and a colourful mix of vegetables, all beautifully chopped. She sat on a high bar stool with a bowl of cashew nuts cradled in her lap. It was pretty good so far, living in London, totally different from before and a far more positive start than she had dared to imagine.
‘You chop like a proper chef,’ she said, pointing with salty fingers towards the tightly packed rows of onion and the red and green pepper slices waiting to slide gracefully into the frying pan with the sizzling beef.
‘Well, it was my first thing, catering, when I dropped out of school at seventeen and came to the city to seek my fortune. I found a live-in job at a hotel; not one of the well-known ones and it closed down years ago and was turned into flats. Funnily enough, I now own three of them.’
‘Three of the flats, you own them, really? It must have worked for you, then.’
‘Yep, you could say that. My peppers are always perfectly chopped, that’s for sure, and I’d challenge anyone to beat me in a race to slice the perfect carrot without ending up with half a finger.’
She raised her wine glass. ‘I’ll lay a bet on it. You’re the first super-chopper I’ve met. You must give me a masterclass one day and I’ll return the favour.’
He turned and laid down the stirring spoon to clink glasses with her, right arms intertwined to bring their faces together. In the bright yet warm light of the ultra-modern kitchen, she noticed for the first time the specks of wildcat-yellow in his hazel irises.
‘What’s your hidden talent then, Fran? What do you want to teach me?’
‘Hold on, I’m not sure, thinking about it. It’ll have to be good, to match your prowess with the carrots. Maybe I won’t say just yet, keep you guessing.’
‘Okay, as long as I have the option of refusing. I won’t leap from a great height, for a start, or explore an underwater cave, even if the fish are fabulously beautiful.’
‘God, no way; nothing would induce me to jump out of a plane or dive off a cliff. It’s hard enough avoiding free fall in everyday life. The deep-sea cave idea, though, I like that.’
They moved through to the sitting room with its two large bay windows. The flat looked down on a tree-lined street, where a middle-aged couple walked arm in arm and a passing group of young men ranged loosely across the pavement and into the middle of the road. The trees were heavy with white blossom and spring-green foliage, which obscured the view sufficiently for Ned to leave the curtains half-open. Fran sat down, closed her eyes and took in the aromas of garlic, basil and superior red wine. A fun, self-indulgent evening – nothing complicated, just as she wanted it.
After dinner, while they were loading the dishwasher, Ned began to talk about his teenage daughters, who lived in Paris with their mother and whom he saw very infrequently because his ex-wife did whatever she could to sabotage his visits. The older daughter was keen to have more contact but the younger one was resistant and avoided communication as far as possible.
Fran turned on the tap and squeezed washing-up liquid into the sink to soak the pans, while watching her reflection in the dark glass of the window. Ignoring the yellow plastic gloves, she made her hands disappear in the soapy water and gazed downwards, as if entranced by the suds and exposed pan handles. Ned’s ex would tell the same story very differently, of course; or an entirely different story, and one that would inevitably change shape over time.
The evening ended, as usual, with coffee in delicate china cups, broken-off pieces of dark chocolate and background jazz music, sitting one each end of the enormous U-shaped sofa. He drove her home and they stayed quiet, wrapped in their thoughts throughout the ten-minute journey. She fiddled with her phone in the top pocket of her bag, thinking there might be an upbeat message from one of her children, Max and Chaddy, or that Judi might have called again, which she guiltily half-dreaded.
Ned had shown an odd lack of curiosity about her family and previous life, or about what she might be doing now for work. He had skipped all the usual introductory questions. But then again, it didn’t feel that odd. It followed the unspoken terms of their relationship and she was happy with it, happy to play in the shallows. She hadn’t invited him into her home yet and, for whatever reason, she preferred them to meet on his territory. The arrangement was for him to drive over and pick her up around seven, sending a ten-minute alert to her phone. When he arrived, she was waiting inside her front door with a bottle of wine and bar of chocolate – orange, mint or ginger for preference – intrigued and excited at the prospect of their next four hours together, each hour lightly spiced, amusing and delicious.
***
It was early on a Monday morning, with office workers streaming towards the tube station and shop staff reeling out the striped awnings and organising their trays of fresh produce, flowers in metal buckets and stands full of postcards or long silken scarves. One or two were also dousing and brushing the pavement, as far as they could manage in the midst of the procession of commuters. Fran walked slowly, taking her time to arrive at the parade of shops and enjoying the sense of having no commitments for the rest of the day. The paving stones along her street were broken up at intervals by twisting tree roots breaking free from their subterranean domains and creating hazardous uneven hummocks. The elegant semi-detached homes opposite were also outgrowing their allotted spaces, extending upwards and down with new lofts and basements. Scaffolding was speedily erected and dismantled, rubbish skips were filled to overflowing and builders’ vans arrived promptly at eight o’clock, six days a week.
On this side of the street, her side, the houses
were not so grand. They were late-Victorian terraced properties with an archway between each row of four and a roughly paved path leading to the grassy lane running behind the back fences. Some of the small front gardens were beautifully kept, with tiled paths laid out in the original style, spreading flowers and evergreen shrubs in terracotta pots. Others were neglected, concreted over or packed with an assortment of domestic debris, bicycles and out-of-control weeds.
Catching a powerful scent of rosemary, she paused to inhale and to sweep the palm of her hand discreetly across the overhanging bush. A tortoiseshell cat, hardly more than a kitten, padded behind her as far as the corner, where it jumped up and crouched low on the wall. After less than three months living here, such familiar smells and everyday incidents still felt novel and somehow remarkable.
The shops were beyond the triangular area of grass that would have been the old village green before it was swallowed up by the encroaching city. There was the medieval stone church with its squat tower and small, crowded cemetery, while two traditional-style pubs bordered the green, their hanging baskets, flower tubs and benches waiting to welcome the late-morning customers after opening time. There was even a village pond in the centre of the grass, with waterweeds, lilies and noisy ducks.
Gazing into the patisserie window at its enticing display of cakes and fruit flans, she felt the presence of someone standing close to her, too close. She stepped sideways to create a more comfortable space, trying not to make it obvious. The woman didn’t look directly at her, but she was watching Fran’s reflection as she spoke.
‘Spare some change, lady? I need money to get me to the hostel, for the bus. It’s urgent.’
Fran turned her head reluctantly. The woman, a girl really, had a bloodshot eye and a purple bruise, starting to turn black, across her cheek. Her streaky hair was messily twisted and tied on top of her head and she wore a dirty-green parka that was too big for her. Her expression was openly imploring and she reached out both hands to show that they were also cut and bruised. Fran flinched and stepped back, fearing the girl was going to touch her on the arm, but she simply stood there, hands outstretched.
