The look he shot her felt like a dagger piercing her heart.
“Oh, don’t worry. I blame myself as well. If I’d been more attentive instead of wrapped up in my work, if I’d come here with her that weekend instead of staying in London, if I’d guessed he’d go to see her against my express wishes, if I’d imagined what she’d do, if I’d never met him…”
“How is that helping anyone?” she asked.
Lysander made a dismissive sound.
“I’m serious,” Mollie said. “It was a tragedy, a terrible thing to happen, but you have to move on. Why do you live in a place with such bad memories? A garden you can’t bear to be in or even have anyone touch. Do you have some masochistic need to keep torturing yourself? Is that why you sleep with everyone who comes to live here, because you think it keeps you safe from feeling anything? Lodgers are transient. If they outstay their welcome, you can just tell them to fuck off.”
“Then fuck off,” he snarled.
Mollie gritted her teeth. “You’re a coward.”
Lysander laughed. “You can talk. Hiding from a guy who beat you, not going to the police and reporting him. You going to go running back into his arms when he finds you? Forgive him when he says he won’t do it again? What if he finds someone else and ends up killing her?”
She recoiled, tempted for a moment to tell him the truth. “I left him to start a new life. He won’t find me. I still have hope that I can be happy. You didn’t start a new life, you fell backward, not forward. Are you still living here to feel close to her or to punish yourself? If Elke committed suicide because she was afraid of losing you, afraid you wouldn’t give Flint up, she did it because she thought she’d lost. But what she wanted in life, she achieved in death. You pushed him away.”
Flint was hurting her fingers but she didn’t break free.
“What does any of this have to do with you?” he snapped.
“Nothing. But someone has to make you see what you’re doing. Whatever happened is done—gone—finished. There’s no point letting it wreck the life you have left. The tragedy of her suicide will always be with you but it doesn’t have to define you as a person. Flint needs a friend more than he ever has in his life. Can you imagine what it must be like for him? He can’t tell anyone what he wants, what he thinks, what he feels. How can he ever act again if he can’t speak? If the press find out, they won’t leave him alone. Every step of his progress or lack of it will be splashed all over the papers.”
Flint kept looking between the two of them. Mollie doubted he’d been able to follow any of that.
“Is he going to be able to speak again?” Lysander’s voice had calmed.
“Yes. He’s getting better every day. Some stroke victims never regain language skills, but the speech therapist thinks Flint will be okay. He just has to work hard at it and it exhausts him.”
“Do you understand?” Lysander asked him. “Did you understand what we said?”
“Little. Sa…sa…sorry. Sorry.”
Lysander put his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. “Shit.”
Mollie dragged Flint’s hand onto the middle of the table and held it there.
“Be friends again,” she whispered. “It’s not so hard.”
These guys weren’t much different from the boys in her class, though this was more than a petty squabble over a punctured football.
Lysander hesitated, then reached out and put his hand over theirs. When she tried to slip hers free, both men tightened their grip.
“I need to talk to him and I can’t even do that,” Lysander said.
“I’m sure he feels the same.”
“Come. Dinner. Night,” Flint said. “Please. Moll…ee. Liesss…sand. Talk.”
“Not if you’re cooking,” Lysander said.
Flint barked out a laugh so Mollie guessed he’d gotten that.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven,” Flint said. He rose to his feet and tugged on his hoodie, pulling up the hood. “Seven. Yes?”
“Seven.” Mollie nodded.
She walked Flint through the house and down to the track over the dam.
He took both her hands in his and swallowed hard. “Moll…ee.”
“It will be okay,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she believed that.
“Lyss…sander? Moll…ee like?”
“Yes, but he’s even more trouble than you,” she said slowly.
“Trouble.” He beamed at her and a lump formed in her throat.
“S…seven,” he said.
She nodded and he ran across the dam. When he turned at the end to wave, she waved back then slunk into the house.
Chapter Sixteen
When she walked back inside, Lysander stood in the hall waiting, his face blank. Her stomach rolled.
“You want me to go?” she asked.
“Come upstairs,” he said in a quiet voice. “I need to paint. It helps me get my head straight.”
“I have to shower.”
“Ten minutes.” He went up the stairs two at a time.
Mollie felt physically and emotionally drained. To think she’d thought she had problems. It was obvious Lysander and Flint still had feelings for each other and she was caught smack in the middle, though not quite in the way Lysander’s wife had been.
Lysander was riddled with guilt. Mollie had only heard part of the story, but even Lysander couldn’t know it all and his wife wasn’t here to tell her side. She stripped and stepped under the spray. How would she feel if she was—say—married to Flint and Lysander asked her to give him up? The first thing she’d do would be talk to Flint and ask him what he wanted. What if he didn’t know? What if he wanted both of them?
She washed her hair, recalling not so long ago Lysander had washed her hair for her. If she was being sensible, she’d make sure the two guys made friends again, then she’d disappear because there was no way she could choose between them.
Oh, get a life, Mollie girl. Choose? What makes you think either of them have any real interest in you, a primary school teacher with issues of your own? She’d pissed Lysander off big time and if Flint knew what she and Lysander had gotten up to in the shower last night, he wouldn’t want to see her again. She was complicating everything by her presence. If she stayed, she’d get hurt. So pack and leave, don’t go upstairs. Write a note for Flint—oh yes, a note he can’t read. Fuck.
She towel-dried her hair, dressed and padded barefoot up the stairs. Lysander called her in when she knocked on the door and Mollie took a deep breath before she entered. He had the camera in his hand.
“Take off the dress.”
She draped it over the door handle.
He ran his gaze over her. “Do you always wear the same underwear?”
Her cheeks burned. “I bought multipacks. It was cheaper.” Though she did have that one lacy indulgence in the top drawer.
“It wasn’t a criticism, merely an observation. You look…virginal, innocent.”
“Er… I’m not.”
“Yeah, I know.” He lowered the camera and stared at her. “I noticed you didn’t answer that question last night.”
“No.”
“Which leads me to suspect the worst.”
“Fine.” She shrugged. “I was twenty-four and it was behind Tesco’s, against a dumpster with a guy who told me his name was Colonel Mustard.”
He chuckled and she swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry I snapped about the garden,” he said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first. I thought it would be a nice surprise. I only managed the surprise bit.”
He threw a cushion onto the floor. “Lie down.”
She lay on her side and rested her head on her arm. It wasn’t comfortable but she didn’t complain. He moved around, taking pictures.
“Where did you meet your wife?” she asked.
He froze.
“Aren’t I allowed to ask? Don’t you talk about her?”
“No one ev
er does.”
“Probably because they think you’ll bite their head off.”
He sighed. “And you don’t think I’ll bite off yours?”
“Not until you’ve painted it.”
“True.” A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“Did you paint her? Course you did. Would you show me?”
He walked to the far side of the room and picked a canvas from a stack leaning the wrong way. Mollie saw his jaw tighten as he stared at it. When he turned the painting, Mollie took in a sylph-like figure with long silver-blonde hair, the sort that flowed like water, the hair that adverts promised and never delivered. She wore a pink dress, held a glass of champagne, looked as though a breath of wind could blow her away and she was possibly the most beautiful woman Mollie had ever seen. Even her name was beautiful. Elke was a fairy name. Mollie shared hers with dairy cows.
Lysander put the painting back. She couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t upset him so she kept quiet. He already knew Elke was gorgeous. Of course he missed her. Of course he blamed himself, but Elke might still have committed suicide even if Lysander had never met Flint. Or was Mollie clutching for something to try to make Lysander feel less guilty?
She didn’t think of herself as pretty. She was just…average, and she didn’t mind that because she was happy in her skin. But sometimes when she saw women like Elke, she wished she could be a little more attractive, a bit less gangly, with bigger breasts and smaller ears and longer eyelashes and fuller lips.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Talk to me. You worry me when you’re quiet. It’s like there’s a whole conversation taking place in your head. Is that actually what’s happening?”
“Wait a minute, I’m just listening to my answer.”
He laughed.
“Talking doesn’t put you off?” she asked.
He glanced at her over the top of the canvas. “Not unless you bore me.”
“I thought you wanted to put your head straight while you painted?”
“I do.”
“Did Flint buy one of your paintings the night you met him?”
“He bought three. He told me later he’d been looking for something that matched the color scheme in his newly painted house. The bastard.” But he half-laughed.
“Did you know who he was?”
“Yeah, I recognized him, thought he was even better looking than he was on the screen, and I also knew the instant I saw him and took in the way he looked at me that I wasn’t going to be able to walk away.”
“Have you painted him?”
“Yes. Can’t ever sell them, though. They’re not pictures for public display.” He laughed but broke it off. “I had thought— Well, doesn’t matter.”
Mollie waited a while before she spoke again. “It was a brave thing he did.”
“What?”
“Going to speak to your wife.”
“Brave?” Lysander spat out the word. “Look at what happened.”
“He was brave because he risked losing you and he knew it. He held his heart in his hands. I assume he told Elke he loved you, but she refused to give you up, and he accepted that and walked away.”
“I don’t know what she said to him.”
“You never asked?”
“No.”
“Do you still have her note?”
He hesitated. “No. I shouldn’t have told you about it. The police never saw it. I knew the shitstorm that would hit if Flint was trawled into the mess.”
“So you let people think she’d killed herself because of you?”
Mollie’s heart ached for him. Even in the midst of tragedy, he’d tried to protect Flint. That said something, didn’t it?
“What was she like?”
He sucked in his cheeks. “Difficult a lot of the time. She was German royalty—highly strung, volatile and yet she could be the sweetest, kindest… She loved the garden here. She was happiest away from London, wanted to spend more and more time in Yorkshire and I took advantage of that.”
“Does she have brothers, sisters, a family?”
“No siblings. Her parents are still alive. They live near Munich. They flew her back to be buried in Germany, but they’ve never spoken to me since the night I called to tell them what she’d done. I…read them the note. They guessed that meant there was someone else.”
“Have you tried to speak to them since?”
“What could I say more than the apology I’d already offered? Their daughter needed me and I wasn’t there. I cheated on her. I let her down.”
“You could give them a painting.”
His head whipped up.
“Package one up and send it to them. They can see how much you loved her in the way you painted her.”
He rolled the head of his brush on the palette. “They won’t forgive me.”
“How do you know?”
“Their lawyer told me they wouldn’t. They said I must have driven her to it.”
“It’s hard for them to forgive. Easier to blame you than look elsewhere. Maybe you should start by forgiving Flint and yourself.”
“You think you have all the answers?” His tone was sharp.
“I have no answers at all, but whenever anything goes wrong and my life gets fucked up, I just think—get it unfucked, because this is all we get. If I’m miserable, I’ll spread that misery whether I mean to or not. So I try to be positive and do good things, pay things forward, and sometimes I get it wrong—like the garden, but I keep trying.”
“You weren’t wrong about the garden. Elke loved it. She’d have been pissed off to see the state I’ve let it get into. But until today I couldn’t even bring myself to walk to the bottom of the lawn.” He gave a short laugh. “I did for you. I had this feeling you were out there so I made myself go and see. I found more than I’d bargained for.”
“You think you and Flint can be friends again?”
“Jury’s still out. I can’t just push away two years of feeling bitter.”
“Yeah, you can.”
He shot her a sharp glance. “You can’t put me and Flint right.”
“I know. You have to do that yourselves. But I can point you in the right direction. I teach little kids, remember? You two still have plenty of growing up to do.”
He laughed and for the first time she felt he and Flint had a chance. She’d continue to help Flint until he didn’t need her anymore, continue to pose for Lysander until he didn’t need her either. No more kisses, no more showers together, no slipping into the woods and making out. This was up to her to stop. She had to be the strong one.
“Did you know who Flint was when you met him?” Lysander asked.
“He had his hood up. I had no idea. He managed to make me understand he couldn’t speak. When I saw his face, I was shocked. He has people looking after him. A woman who cooks and some guy I guess is his minder. They don’t want me around but Flint insisted. I’ve been helping him with the exercises the speech therapist gives him to do.”
“Maybe I asked the wrong question before. Do you want him to fuck you?”
The air suddenly seemed too thick to breathe.
“Poker face, Mollie? Don’t lie to me. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
“I want both of you to fuck me.” She closed her eyes then opened them again. “But I can’t choose between you, so it’s not going to happen with either of you.”
Lysander didn’t speak again after that.
* * * *
Flint wondered what the hell he’d been thinking asking them to come for a meal, but worrying about that stopped him thinking about the other. His cooking skills were shaky and he was sure Beat was pretending not to understand him. He’d taken three plates from the cupboard, laid out three sets of cutlery and she’d pointed to herself and Ham. Fuck no.
He’d put them away again and gone into the garden to see if inspiration struck. There had been plenty of ripe blackberries at the other house, maybe there were some in this garden too
. He could stick them on a plate and squirt cream on top. Flint spotted a guy puttering down by the water feature and froze until he realized it was the gardener. Maybe he’d have an idea about what he could cook.
Flint put out his hand. “Ffflint,” he managed.
“Hajimemashite. Kentaro to moushimasu. Dozo, yoroshiku onegai shimasu.” The guy bowed at him, tapped his chest and said, “Kentaro.”
“Ken…taro,” Flint said.
“Hai. Kentaro. Nanika otetsudai shimashou ka?”
Just when Flint thought he was making progress, he’d landed on planet Zog again.
“Hmm. Is anything I do for you?” Kentaro asked.
Flint bit back his laugh. That had been Japanese. I’m an idiot. He pretended to eat something, held up three fingers, then gestured around the garden. The guy tugged at his sleeve and Flint followed.
They actually managed a stilted conversation because Kentaro was struggling to find the right words in English, which gave Flint time to work out what he was saying. The guy was in his fifties and had the biggest smile Flint had ever seen, so wide it almost reached his ears. In no time, Flint had a trug full of stuff, most of which he recognized. None of it needed cooking, just washing. Kentaro had even picked flowers and put them on the top, eating one to show him they were edible.
“Thank y…ye…ye. Thank…you.”
“Dou itashimashite. You. Are. Welcome.”
Flint made an attempt to repeat the Japanese and Kentaro gave him a broad grin.
Back in the house, he laid everything he’d been given on the kitchen counter. When Beat tsked and started to wipe up the dirt he’d dropped, he turned and said, “Go.”
She spoke too fast and he didn’t understand what she said, so he kept telling her to go and eventually she did. He pulled open the door of the fridge and looked for something to serve with salad. There were lots of eggs and cheese. He could make a soufflé. But weren’t they tricky? Cheese omelets? Not that he’d ever made a cheese omelet either, but how hard could it be? Eggs and cheese. Mix the two and cook them in a pan until they went solid.
He practiced talking as he put two different salads together, chopped up fruit and added that, then assembled the desserts. He laid the table in the orangery, put glasses out and swore when he realized he had nothing to put in them. Flint ripped off the label the speech therapist had put on the refrigerator and went up to his room. He took his other phone from the drawer and switched it on for the first time since he’d taken the taxi to Ryker’s house. As he waited for it to find a signal, he kept repeating the words he needed to say in his head. There were a whole load of voicemails and texts but he couldn’t deal with them. He looked for a name beginning with R like refrigerator and pressed call.
Talking Trouble Page 19
