by Jill Mansell
“Anytime,” said Maddy, realizing as she let herself out of the room that they were doing it again—making jokes about something that really wasn’t a joking matter.
Chapter 8
It was midday on Thursday and Kate was still in bed, buried under the duvet because in all honesty what was the point of getting up?
But she wasn’t asleep, which was hardly surprising considering the racket going on downstairs. Her mother had visitors, judging by the snatches of laughter, the doors slamming, and the click-clacking of high heels across the parquet flooring in the hall.
Finally she heard Estelle climb the staircase and call out something muffled.
Kate groaned and rolled over onto her back, wincing as the sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window and into her eyes. But trying to ignore her mother was pointless; when she wanted a reaction, she was as persistent as a political interviewer.
As the bedroom door swung open, Kate said wearily, “You’ve got a what?”
“A surprise! Darling, come on! Just slip some clothes on and come down to the kitchen. You’ll love it, I promise.”
Kate doubted it.
“Who’s downstairs?” She had successfully avoided Marcella Harvey so far, by the simple expedient of staying in bed until midafternoon.
“No one.”
“I heard noise. And voices.”
Looking suspiciously smug, Estelle said, “Oh, that was Barbara Kendall. She’s gone now. Come along, sweetheart. I can’t wait to show you!”
Grumpily, Kate crawled out of bed and pulled on a gray T-shirt and baggy jogging pants. At least if the house was empty, she needn’t bother with makeup.
Triumphantly, her mother flung open the door to the kitchen. Presented with not one but two unwelcome sights, Kate took a step back and said, “Oh, good grief, what’s that?”
The thing straining toward her was dark brown, snuffly, and grossly overweight. Its claws scrabbled against the quarry-tiled floor while its stubby tail—like half an old discarded sausage—juddered with excitement. Sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, hanging on to its leash, was Maddy Harvey’s mother.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” cried Estelle. “His name’s Norris!”
Norris the bulldog. “He’s gross,” Kate declared. “And I thought you said there was no one here.” She avoided looking at Marcella as she said it but was acutely aware of the bright glare of sunlight on her own unmade-up face.
“Darling, I just meant that Barbara had gone. Marcella isn’t a visitor. She’s part of the family.”
Family indeed. Kate bit her tongue. Now she knew her mother was officially losing it.
“Hello, Kate, it’s been a long time,” Marcella said easily. Raising herself from her chair, she said, “Now, why don’t I take a good look at you, then that’ll be the awkwardness put behind us.”
“Good idea,” said Estelle. “I’ll take Norris, shall I?”
Take Norris and drown him in a bucket preferably, thought Kate, scarcely able to believe that she was standing there like a statue in a bloody art gallery, allowing Marcella Harvey to walk around her, studying her face from all angles. How Estelle could possibly think this was a good idea was beyond her. The woman was hired to clean their house, for crying out loud.
“Well,” Marcella said finally, “I haven’t run screaming from the room. It’s only a bit of scarring when all’s said and done.”
Only a bit of scarring. Kate could have slapped her.
“You were lucky not to lose that eye,” Marcella observed. Catching the mutinous look on Kate’s face, she smiled and said, “OK, I know, there’s nothing more annoying than being told to count your blessings. But all I’m saying is, it doesn’t change who you are.”
Of course it does, you stupid old witch. It changes everything.
“Not unless you let it change you,” Marcella went on, “and it’d be a real shame if you did that. You’re still a pretty girl, you know.” Kate flinched as Marcella reached out and gently stroked her face, first one side, then the other. “Anyone who can’t see that isn’t worth bothering with.”
Appalled, Kate realized that quite suddenly she was on the verge of tears. Marcella’s gentle fingers and matter-of-fact tone had gotten to her. She was talking absolute rubbish, of course, but at least it made a change from the endless sympathy.
She wondered if Maddy had told Marcella about the incident in the pub and guessed that she hadn’t. Marcella’s loyalty to her own family was legendary. Giving herself a mental shake, Kate said, “So what’s the dog doing here anyway?”
“He’s Barbara’s dog,” Estelle proudly explained. “She rang me yesterday in a terrible state. They’re all off to Australia in a few days and they’d arranged for Norris to be looked after by a neighbor, but the neighbor’s broken her hip and all the boarding kennels are booked up, so I said why didn’t we have him here with us?”
Kate could think of lots of reasons, not least that Norris was diabolically ugly, as fat as a pig, and—on the current evidence—a champion drooler. If there was a national saliva shortage, they could donate Norris to the cause.
“It’s only for six weeks,” Estelle chattered on, “and he’s such a dear. He has a lovely nature. You’ll be able to take him for lots of long walks, darling… It’ll do both of you the world of good. To be honest, Barbara spoils him rotten and he doesn’t get nearly enough exercise. I thought we could put him on a bit of a diet while he’s with us, work out a fitness regime—”
“I don’t need to lose weight.” Kate was stung by her mother’s comment that it would do her the world of good.
“Darling, I know you don’t. But you can’t spend all your time in bed. You should be out in the fresh air, and taking Norris for a walk would be such a nice way of meeting people.”
“I don’t want to meet people.”
“But you must! Sweetheart, you’re twenty-six,” Estelle pleaded. “You can’t hide away like a hermit. Anyway, it was Marcella’s idea, and I think she’s absolutely right. Since they got Bean, they can’t imagine life without her. And Norris is here now. We can’t kick him out into the street, can we?” Bending down and cupping Norris’s lugubrious face in her hands, she cooed, “Eh? Of course we wouldn’t do that, because you’re beautiful, aren’t you?”
The world had gone mad. Her mother had never shown the remotest interest in dogs before, and now look at her, crawling around on the floor, making goo-goo noises like some besotted new mother.
Is this what happens when you hit menopause?
“Well, I’d better make a start on those windows,” said Marcella.
About bloody time too. But Kate couldn’t help covertly watching as Marcella crossed to the utility room, took a yellow bucket out from under the sink, and began to fill it with water and a dash of detergent. She was wearing lime-green cotton capri pants, a raspberry-pink shirt knotted at the waist, and orange flip-flops. Her skin was the color of chocolate malt balls, her black hair tied back with a glittery pink scrunchie. Marcella had to be in her early forties, but she possessed an enviable figure. As she vigorously swirled the Fairy Liquid around in the water, her high bottom jiggled like a twenty-five-year-old’s. And her waist was tiny, Kate noted. Unlike Estelle, who had been letting herself go lately and could do with losing some weight.
“Don’t drink it, you daft animal,” Marcella gently chided as Norris investigated the contents of the bucket with snuffly, snorty interest. That was something else about Marcella: she had a beguiling voice, warm and husky, with that hint of a Newcastle accent betraying her upbringing on Tyneside.
“He’s thirsty. I’ll get him a bowl of water,” said Estelle. “And we’re going to need some cans of food for him. Sweetheart, why don’t you have a shower and get dressed? Then you could pop down to the shop and pick some up.”
Kate sighed. This whole charade was nothing more than a
conspiracy to get her out of the house.
“Can’t you do it?”
“I have to hold the ladder while Marcella’s doing the high-up bits. Otherwise she might fall off.” Estelle grinned. “And then who’d clean the windows?”
Shooting a look of hatred at Norris, Kate moved toward the door.
“Actually, could you do me a favor?” asked Marcella. “When you see Jake, tell him to take the lamb chops out of the freezer. If he spreads them out on a plate, they’ll defrost in a couple of hours. And remind him that Sophie has to be at the village hall by five o’clock for Charlotte’s birthday party.”
Could the day get any worse? Kate gritted her teeth. The very last thing she needed was to be forced to speak to Maddy Harvey’s brother. With barely concealed irritation she said, “Why don’t you just ring him?”
“Because to get to the store, you have to go right past Jake’s workshop. It’s sunny, so he’ll be sitting outside. Anyway,” Marcella concluded with a dazzling smile, “why add to your parents’ phone bill when it’s not necessary?”
Oh, for crying out loud, thought Kate, increasingly tempted to literally cry out loud. My father’s a multimillionaire, a phone call costs less than ten pence, what are you talking about, woman?
But Marcella, armed with her brimming bucket and a whole host of window-cleaning paraphernalia, had already left the room.
* * *
Of course, Marcella had more than likely done it on purpose.
This thought struck Kate as she made her way down Gypsy Lane with Norris ambling along at her heels. It was by this time one o’clock. Showering, washing her hair, dressing, then carefully applying enough makeup to minimize the horror of the scarred side of her face had taken fifty minutes. The irony of this ritual didn’t escape her. Once upon a time, she had been a strikingly attractive girl and makeup had made her breathtakingly gorgeous. These days it was a tool necessary to prevent small children from screaming with fright at the sight of her.
So long as it didn’t melt in this heat.
Thinking dark thoughts about Marcella, Kate rounded a bend and was brought up by the sight of the flowers on the verge opposite, a sudden profusion of poppies, oxeye daisies, and dog roses marking the spot where April Harvey had been killed. Marcella had planted them herself, shortly after the accident. Each time she walked up the lane to Dauncey House, she passed them and was reminded afresh of April’s death.
Although flowers or no flowers, she was hardly likely to forget it.
Kate paused to gaze at the flowers, remembering April with her funny, wobbly gait, slurred speech, and lopsided smile. To her shame, she also remembered the way she and her friends from Ridgelow Hall had made fun of April whenever they saw her, mimicking her mannerisms and comical way of speaking. At least, they had when the rest of April’s family wasn’t around. Anyone caught making fun of her would have been swiftly and efficiently dealt with by either Maddy or Jake.
It was deeply embarrassing to recall now, but she had been young at the time. Making fun of people because they weren’t perfect was what children did. It had never occurred to her that one day she might not be perfect herself.
Bored with waiting, Norris strained at his leash. Slowly Kate made her way on down the dappled, tree-lined lane. As they rounded the final bend, where Gypsy Lane joined the town’s broader Main Street, she saw Snow Cottage ahead of her on the right and beyond it the row of craft shops and galleries set back from the road, where metalworkers and artists and ceramicists produced and displayed their wares for visiting tourists.
And there was Jake Harvey, as Marcella had predicted, sitting outside his own workshop, chatting animatedly to an old woman while she examined one of his bespoke caskets.
Stripped to the waist in a pair of white jeans, Jake looked like something out of a Coke ad. Deeply tanned, shiny muscled, with overlong hair streaked by the sun into fifty shades of blond, he was the archetypal bad boy at school, the one your mother always warned you not to get involved with. Not that Kate had ever been tempted herself: during her teenage years, she and her friends had spent their time lusting after boarding-school-educated boys with names like Henry and Tristram.
Reluctantly she approached the workshop, aware that her stomach was jumping with trepidation. God, all this hassle for the sake of ten pence.
Chapter 9
“It’s perfect,” the elderly woman was saying as she ran a gnarled hand over the glossy, deep-crimson surface of the casket. Alerted by the sound of footsteps—and possibly Norris’s labored sumo wrestler–like breathing—she turned and greeted Kate with a cheerful smile. “Hello, dear. Come take a look. Hasn’t this young man done a marvelous job?”
At least concentrating on the casket meant not having to meet Jake Harvey’s eye. Kate studied the picture of a leggy brunette in mid-high-kick, presumably dancing the cancan. Frowning, she struggled to work out the significance.
“It’s me,” the woman explained with pride. “I was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. I was nineteen when this photograph was taken. It’s where I met my husband. Such happy days.”
Intrigued, Kate peered more closely at the lid of the casket, wondering how the effect had been achieved.
“You make an enlarged color photocopy of the original print,” said Jake, reading her mind, “and cut around the figure you want to use. Then you soak it in image transfer cream, place the copy facedown on the lid, and rub over it with a cloth. When you peel the paper away, the photo’s transferred to the lid. Couple of coats of varnish and you’re done.”
“It’s beautiful,” Kate told the woman, careful to keep the left side of her face out of view.
“I know. I can hardly wait to get in it!” Her eyes bright with laughter, the woman said, “And it’s going to drive my children demented.”
“Why?”
“Ha! If you met them, you wouldn’t need to ask. I have three,” said the woman, counting them off on fingers weighed down with glittering rings. “A bank manager, a Tory parliamentarian, and a perfect wife and mother who lives in Surrey. I don’t know where I went wrong. They’re dreadfully ashamed of me. I’m the bane of their lives, poor darlings. Oh well. Can’t win ’em all, I suppose. Jake, would you be an angel and pop it into the truck? I want to show it off to my friends.”
Jake effortlessly loaded the casket into the back of the woman’s muddy Land Rover. Reaching up, she kissed him on both cheeks, leaving scarlet lipstick marks, then hopped into the driver’s seat and, with a toot and a wave, roared off.
Norris was by this time flat out on the dusty ground, snoring peacefully in the sun like a drunk.
“Business or pleasure?” asked Jake.
“Sorry?”
“Are you here to buy a coffin?”
Kate suppressed a shudder. “No.”
He smiled briefly. “So, pleasure then.”
Hardly. “Not that either. Your mother asked me to tell you to take the lamb chops out of the freezer.”
Jake laughed. “Sounds like one of those coded messages. You say, ‘Take the lamb chops out of the freezer,’ then I nod and say, ‘Lamb chops are excellent with mint sauce.’ Are you sure you aren’t a secret agent?”
She hadn’t expected him to sound so normal, friendly even. Stiffly, Kate said, “And she also said not to forget about Sophie’s party.”
“Ah, yes, the party.” Still nodding in a spy-like manner, Jake said, “Five o’clock, in ze village hall. Zat is when ze party begins. I haff ze situation under control—oh bugger, actually I don’t.” He looked at Kate, then, quizzically, at Norris. “Where did the dog come from?”
“We’re looking after him for a friend of my mother’s. Just for a few weeks. Actually, it was your mother’s idea,” said Kate.
“Tell me about it.” Jake’s greenish-yellow eyes narrowed with amusement. “Ideas are my mother’s specialty.”
“She thought a dog would get me out of the house.”
“And here you are, so she was right. Would you be on your way to the shop, by any chance?”
“Yes.” Kate eyed him warily. “Why?”
“Ze party at five o’clock. I haff ze present, but no paper in vich to wrap it.”
“OK.” Kate sighed. Was this where her future lay, as some kind of lowly gofer? She jiggled Norris’s leash, and he opened a baleful eye. “Norris, come on. Get up.”
“Leave him with me,” Jake said easily. “You’d only have to tie him up outside the shop.” Taking the end of the leash, he looped it over the gatepost, then dug a pound coin out of his jeans pocket. “There you go. Actually, I’m holding him hostage to stop you running off with my money. Bring me the wrapping paper and you’ll get the dog back.”
“You’re assuming I want him back,” said Kate.
“And von more zing,” Jake called after her as she headed along Main Street.
She turned. “What?”
“Ze wrapping paper. No Barbies. No pink.”
The general store, a kind of mini supermarket-cum-TARDIS, was owned by a garrulous old spinster named Theresa who had run the place for the last forty years and knew everything that went on in Ashcombe. Kate couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
“Hello, dear. Heard you were back. Look at your poor old face, eh? What a shame. What a thing to happen. That’s America for you, though, isn’t it? Everyone drives like maniacs over there, rushing around. I’ve seen ’em doin’ it on the telly. What I always say is take your time and get somewhere safely, better than goin’ too fast and not getting there at all… What’re you doin’ buying dog food then?” Beadily she eyed Kate’s basket, as if suspicious that the cans of Pedigree Chum might be lunch. “You ’aven’t got a dog.”
Just ring them up on the till and stop yabbering, you nosy cow.
Kate smiled blandly and wondered how Theresa would react if she’d actually said the words aloud instead of just thinking them.
