‘Your primary emotion?’ He was using his calm tone again. The one that made him sound like a particularly suave robot. Gwen grabbed the Southern Comfort and drank.
‘I think we should have sex.’
Gwen choked, alcohol burning the back of her nose and throat. She coughed and snorted and had to get a tissue to wipe her streaming eyes. Finally, she managed, ‘Pardon?’
‘It’d clear the air.’
‘Yeah, that’s romantic,’ Gwen said. She blew her nose and pocketed the tissue.
‘I’m not talking romance. I’m talking closure.’
‘Closure,’ Gwen echoed.
Bob returned, uncorking a bottle of red wine with a pop.
‘Yes,’ Cam said easily. ‘Then we can move on. As friends. As adults.’ He looked he was discussing the weather.
‘Wow,’ Gwen managed.
‘You don’t have to decide right now,’ Cam said.
‘That’s generous of you.’ Gwen was torn between wanting to slap his smug face and wanting to tackle him to the floor and—
‘Get me some nuts! Dry roasted!’ Harry yelled across the pub.
‘Gwen?’ Cam said. ‘Have you finished ordering?’
Gwen blinked. Bob was standing in front of her. His face was perfectly impassive. ‘Right. Yes. Thanks.’ Gwen was determined not to look at Cam, knew that she was blushing furiously. She scooped up her change and stuffed it into her jeans pocket, then picked up the drinks. Then she looked at him. He was looking cool and collected as always. And he was smirking slightly which, unfortunately, didn’t make him any less desirable. Bastard.
Chapter 11
When Gwen woke up the next day, it was snowing and she thanked the sainted boiler man for fixing her heating. By lunchtime the flakes had stopped falling and she went outside to marvel at the fresh white blanket, the world made clean and new. She almost tripped over a lump on her back door step and made a mental note to always check before striding out. It was a package of silver foil topped with a layer of snow an inch thick. The path was pristine, any footprints masked by the new snow.
The air was still and cold, the world muffled. A magpie flew down from a nearby tree and Gwen automatically greeted it. It perched on the garden wall and screeched, a sound that was so exactly the sound of the front gate opening that Gwen did a double-take. A moment later, Amanda appeared from the side path and Gwen laughed at herself: it had been the gate.
‘Is this a good time?’ Amanda said. ‘For tea?’
‘Certainly.’ Gwen scooped up the parcel, the foil freezing to the touch, and brushed the snow off the top. ‘Come on in.’
‘What’s that?’ Amanda nodded at the parcel.
‘I’ve no idea. Someone left a ginger cake on my step the other day, though.’ Gwen watched Amanda’s expression. There was something tense behind her grey eyes. A wariness that stayed even as they exchanged pleasantries.
The warmth of the kitchen made the tips of Gwen’s fingers and ears tingle. ‘It’s proper cold today,’ she said, flicking the switch on the kettle.
‘My car says it’s minus six,’ Amanda said. She was looking around as if she’d never seen a kitchen before. She turned suddenly. ‘Can we have our tea in the other room?’
‘The living room?’
‘Any other room. Iris only ever showed me the kitchen. I’d love to see the rest of the house.’
‘Sure.’ Gwen found Amanda’s enthusiasm oddly touching. ‘Help yourself. Coffee or tea?’
‘Is that real coffee? Yes, please,’ Amanda said, already halfway out of the door to the hallway.
Gwen pottered between the kettle and the fridge, trying to ignore the magpie, which was on the kitchen windowsill, its long tail feathers half-crushed against the glass. She wanted to open the window and shoo it away; it was bad luck for a magpie – with its drop of devil’s blood hidden under its tongue – to be near a window. Gloria had always said that it meant a death in the household, but that was ridiculous. Superstition. Still, Gwen tried to keep her eyes averted. If she didn’t see the bird, maybe she could pretend it wasn’t there.
With the tea brewed and the silver foil parcel unwrapped to reveal an iced Christmas cake, complete with a red frill and a snowman on the top, Amanda still hadn’t reappeared. Gwen wrapped her fingers around her mug and wandered through the downstairs. In the living room, Amanda was on her knees in front of the writing bureau. The top was open, revealing a clean and empty interior and Amanda was busy opening the drawers underneath. She straightened up when Gwen walked in, bashing her head on the open lid.
‘Oh. Hi.’ Amanda was striving for casual, but couldn’t stop herself from rubbing her forehead.
‘Looking for something?’
Amanda flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I just had to check something. I needed … to check.’
Gwen was alarmed to see tears in her eyes. ‘Hey, it’s all right,’ she said, stepping forward. ‘Can I help?’
‘No, no. I was just … looking. Being nosey, I suppose.’ Amanda forced a laugh.
‘Were you looking for something in particular?’
Amanda took a deep breath. ‘I’d love that cup of coffee,’ she said brightly and marched past Gwen.
‘Okay then,’ Gwen said to the empty room.
Amanda was in the kitchen and she turned and gave Gwen a bright smile. ‘The garden will be lovely in the spring. Iris had green fingers.’
So they were pretending nothing had happened. ‘Take a seat.’ Gwen gestured, sitting down herself. ‘You seem upset. Is there anything I can do?’
Amanda shook her head. ‘It’s probably nothing. Just something Lily said, and she was probably just being mean. You know what she’s like.’
‘Not really,’ Gwen said.
‘Of course, you missed all of that.’ Amanda sat forward, her face animated. ‘She’s bad news. You can’t trust her.’
Gwen was tempted to point out that she’d just caught Amanda investigating her furniture.
‘Seriously. You need to watch out for that one.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Gwen hated herself for asking. She felt like she was taking part in a bitchy conversation, the kind of nasty gossip that had made her own life so miserable.
‘You know that house she lives in?’
Gwen nodded. She took a sip of tea and tried to pretend that she wasn’t a big, fat hypocrite.
‘Well, she inherited it from her parents. Her mum went into a nursing home ages ago. Early dementia or something, but her dad was still living there when he got sick. Lily moved in to look after him and not long after he died.’ Amanda sat back, her eyebrows raised. ‘So, there you go.’
Gwen frowned. ‘I don’t quite—’
‘She killed him,’ Amanda said. Her tone was matter of fact. ‘Everyone knows it, but the police inquiry didn’t find enough evidence to convict her.’
‘That’s a very serious thing to say. How on earth does everyone “know” it? Why would she even do that?’ Gwen felt sick. She knew exactly what it felt like to be falsely accused of something so awful.
Amanda shrugged. ‘Money? The house? She can’t earn much from her job and you know what prices are like around here. Extortionate.’
‘But to hurt her own father—’
‘I heard that she didn’t get on with him. He was a bit of tyrant by all accounts.’
‘Poor Lily.’ Pendleford was even more judgemental than Gwen had remembered. What was the phrase? Tried by a jury of your own peers. Just cut out the trial bit.
Amanda snorted. ‘Hardly. She murdered an old man. Shoved him down the stairs and left him to die.’
‘But maybe she didn’t,’ Gwen said reasonably. ‘If the police investigated it, then why should we decide she’s guilty? And if he was really ill, unsteady on his feet—’
‘If you’d been living around here, you wouldn’t be standing up for her. Trust me.’
Gwen decided to leave it. After all, she could look through Iris’s journals and find out the truth. Or Iris’s version
of the truth, at any rate. She realised that she trusted Iris a great deal more than she trusted Amanda and that was a peculiar feeling.
As soon as Amanda left, the thoughts that Gwen had been avoiding came back with a vengeance. Cam leaning against the bar, looking like sex in a suit, and offering her one last bite of the apple. She paced through the house, looking for a distraction. Something to stop her from running to Cam’s flat and stripping. As had become her habit, she settled down with one of Iris’s journals.
Mr Byres is still feeling pain in his feet.
Excellent, Gwen thought. Reading about Fred Byres’ chilblains ought to be the perfect anti-aphrodisiac.
He’s convinced it’s poor circulation and I’m sure that doesn’t help, but he won’t listen when I tell him what he really needs. He has to let his wife go. He’s carrying her around and the strain is playing merry hell with his legs and feet. I can’t tell him that though. He’d never visit again, and at least the salve gives him some relief.
Gwen scanned the recipe for the foot ointment and realised that she’d be able to make it easily. A practical project was just the ticket. If she was making ointment for Fred, then she couldn’t be making mistakes with Cam. Sweaty, athletic, mind-blowing mistakes.
She stood up and gathered the ingredients. She measured olive oil into a pan, added dried marjoram and comfrey from Iris’s stores, and put it on a low heat to infuse. The smell of the herbs as they warmed sent Gwen back in time. Suddenly she remembered Iris in this very kitchen. A tall woman with salt-and-pepper hair leaning back in one of the wooden chairs and smiling down at Gwen, holding out a sliver of apple. She turned to the table, half-expecting to find Iris there now. A prickling sensation on her neck made her turn back to the open book.
He has to let his wife go.
Poor Fred. No wonder he looked so hunched over, so defeated. Then it came to her; if the pain in his feet was emotional, a little heart’s ease might be helpful. Iris was so certain that Fred needed to let go, but Gwen wasn’t so sure. Why shouldn’t Fred hold onto the memories and the love from his marriage? Why was starting over again supposed to be so brilliant?
Humming to herself, Gwen pulled on boots and a coat and went out into the garden to gather the heart’s ease. The purple flowers were gamely struggling on despite the early frost, and she picked a healthy bunch. She crushed the petals in a pestle and mortar and grated beeswax on top. After she’d melted the wax with the oil and poured it into a glass jar to cool, she felt a lightening of the atmosphere, like after a summer storm.
At Millbank Comprehensive, Katie trailed out of double physics and thanked God it was lunchtime. Imogen was waiting in their designated spot next to the lockers. Katie dumped her bag and turned automatically towards the cafeteria, her stomach growling in anticipation.
‘Not today!’ Imogen’s eyes were bright. ‘Let’s eat outside.’
‘I haven’t got anything,’ Katie said, nonplussed. It was Thursday. The canteen had pizza on a Thursday.
‘I’ve already got us stuff.’ Imogen patted her coat.
Katie had been planning her meal for the last half an hour of double physics. She was going to have a slice of cheese, ham and tomato pizza and one of the chocolate flapjack things that you never saw outside of school.
Imogen had hold of Katie’s arm and was marching through the corridor, a sea of smaller children parting in front of her.
‘Why outside? It’s freezing,’ Katie said. ‘Grey. Looks like rain. And I was going to have pizza and flapjack.’
‘Consider your thighs saved then,’ Imogen threw back, not slowing her speed.
‘What’s the rush?’ Katie almost cannoned into a bench crammed with second years.
They pushed through the swing door and out into the open. Imogen let go of Katie’s arm and stopped marching. She turned a vivacious smile in Katie’s direction. ‘We’re going up the field today.’
‘What?’ This made absolutely no sense at all. Up the field was where the cool group hung out. They sat around on the cricket pitch, which was the furthest possible point from where the teachers patrolled the yard. The only more secluded place was behind the science blocks, behind a dip at the back of the grass, which was where the stoners smoked.
Katie stopped walking. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We’re going up the field. Exciting, no?’ She gave Katie’s arm another impatient little tug.
As they walked up the field, Katie slowed down again. She could see the group sitting ahead of them. The girls were sitting cross-legged, huddled together against the wind. The boys – so many boys – Katie felt her stomach flip in terror, were lounging about in their usual fashion. Some of them didn’t even have coats on.
She reached for Imogen’s arm. ‘Let’s not today. It’s too cold.’
‘We’ve been invited, Katie.’ Imogen put extra emphasis on the word, dressed it in sparkling clothes and high heels.
‘Still—’
‘Come on.’ Imogen moved ahead of her, was already smiling hello.
Katie followed, wishing she could tell Imogen not to smile as much. The cool group were a pack and they smelled weakness in an instant.
‘Hi, guys,’ Imogen said, plonking herself down in between Rachel Davis and Jessica Gibson. Katie stood for a moment, feeling awkward, not knowing where to sit. She wasn’t going to force herself into the minuscule gap between Jessica and Imogen.
‘Hey, Kitty Cat. Sit over here.’ Will Jones patted the grass next to him and leered. He was a year older, had been held back earlier on in his school career. When Katie had first heard this, she’d been surprised. Now she knew that academic prowess had very little to do with social success; Will Jones was built like a brick wall and was a shit-hot forward for the school rugby team.
Katie forced herself to walk over. She sat on the edge of the boy’s half, Will reclining on one side, Sasha Morgan a little further to the other. Sasha gave her a nasty look and turned away.
Imogen was giggling at something Rachel had said. She wasn’t looking at Katie at all.
Katie felt her skin go into goosebumps; the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Around her, people were talking and laughing; Gavin and Mark had got to their feet and were throwing a rugby ball back and forth; Imogen was showing off her earrings, but Katie felt an excruciating silence. I’m sealed in a bubble, she thought. Then, Oh God, I’ve totally lost the power of speech.
She felt a tap on her leg and looked in Will’s direction. He was kneeling up, hands on his waistband. Then he unzipped his fly and out flopped a rubbery, flesh-coloured thing.
The boys burst out laughing. ‘Will’s got his tackle out again.’
‘Jesus, man. You’re so fucking proud of your dick,’ someone said.
‘Watch out, Katie, he’ll have your eye out.’
Katie felt sick; she had looked away quickly, but the image was stuck. The incongruity of black school trousers and – that.
She felt her cheeks burning, a pounding in her ears. Then another voice broke in. ‘Don’t be such a twat, Will. Leave her alone.’
Katie looked up and straight into the eyes of Luke Taylor.
Chapter 12
Fiona Allen came today. I never thought she’d make it. I’d seen her at the church hall with those little heels named after an animal. What are they? Kitten heels? Those. Fussing with the floral displays and smiling all the time, smiling, smiling. When she knocked on the back door I don’t know what I expected. That’s a lie. I had seen some Love-Lies-Bleeding earlier in the week and seen her face amongst its drooping petals, so I had a strong suspicion she was running around behind Patrick’s back. And good for her. I expected a gardener or handyman, something exotic for her well-bred tastes. A bit of rough. But people are constantly surprising. She’s in love, of course, silly girl. Her paramour is Patrick’s brother and he loves her back, apparently. Ardently, she said, as if her life had transformed to an Austen novel. Which, I suppose it has. If you discount the heavy-rutting th
at has put that pinkish bloom in her pallid cheeks.
Gwen shuddered. Well, that was a little too much information. Although, if Patrick Allen was going to oppose the local craft market, perhaps the insider information would come in handy. Knowledge was power and all that. Gwen immediately felt ashamed of the thought. She felt even worse about the little spark of excitement the secret gave her. Suddenly she could see why Gloria had liked reading tarot for people; she held all the cards. Still, this would be for the greater good. Plus, she could try to get a whiff of Patrick’s aftershave; see if it was the same one she’d smelled after the break-in.
She fetched Patrick Allen’s card and called him. He sounded fake-delighted to hear from her and suggested they go out for lunch. ‘I’d rather just come to your office,’ Gwen said, thinking of her flat-lining finances.
‘My treat,’ Patrick said jovially.
The bell rang, saving Gwen from throwing up. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Someone’s at the door.’
Katie was illuminated by the porch light that was fighting the mid-afternoon gloom. Gwen had a moment to admire her youthful glow and the sparkling whiteness of her eyes before she blew into the hallway and began stripping off her outer layers. Her red gloves hit the floor, followed quickly by her bag, scarf and duffel coat. ‘I’m starving.’ She followed Gwen into the kitchen.
‘You’re always starving.’ Gwen fetched the cake tins. ‘Lemon drizzle or lime and pecan?’
Katie took a slice of lime and demolished it in short order.
‘Are you on a tight schedule?’
‘Huh?’ Katie sprayed crumbs onto herself.
‘You seem in kind of a hurry,’ Gwen said.
‘No. Just hungry.’
Gwen pushed the tin forwards.
‘Thanks.’ Katie took another slice of lime but, after the first couple of bites, she began to pick at it. The energy was fizzing off her.
Gwen waited.
‘Aren’t you going to ask about my day?’
‘If you like.’
Katie pulled a face. ‘Mum always asks. She wants, like, every detail.’
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