by Rosalie Ash
There were some ominously blood stained white towels on the floor of the en suite bathroom. Feeling like a snooper, and terrified now of what she might find, she kept calling his name as she checked all the rooms. There were another three bedrooms and two more bathrooms. Matt wasn’t here.
She tried his mobile, and to her dismay heard it ringing out downstairs.
She ran back down, and almost cried with frustration. He’d left his phone in the kitchen. And gone out. Alone. In the wind and rain. Just four days after a vicious bottle-wound, and five stitches in his face. God, had he needed to go to hospital again? Rung for a taxi, or worse still ambulance? Fear and helpless anger surged through her. She couldn’t even hold out any hope of contacting him, if he’d left his bloody phone in the house!
Frozen with indecision, her heart hammering wildly, she examined her options. She could rush about like a headless chicken, ring all the hospitals in the area, dash out into the storm in the hope that he was somewhere up on the cliff path, or she could stay calm, busy herself, light a fire, tidy up the messy kitchen, the two ominous empty whisky bottles, four empty wine bottles, and unwashed mugs, plates and glasses, put some dinner on and sit down to wait for him to come home.
An hour later, dusk was rapidly falling. After sending a quick text to Jessica to say she was here safely, and waiting for Matt to reappear, she’d fetched in logs and kindling, got a cheerful blaze going in the hearth. She’d put the dirty dishes and glasses she’d found in the sink into the dishwasher, piled up the empties into a box by the bins at the back. She’d switched on table lamps but left the curtains open, so that the cottage glowed like a welcoming beacon in the dark. She found cutlery, candles, plates, napkins and glasses and laid the pine table for two. Jessica had grabbed dinner from her freezer and put it in a box on the backseat of the car to thaw out on the four hour drive, along with jacket potatoes, green beans and a nice bottle of Medoc. So one of her sister’s famous pheasant casseroles was now simmering gently in a low oven, and one of Jessica’s luscious home-made toasted-hazelnut cheesecakes was sitting in the fridge for pudding.
Finally, with still no sign of Matt, she rummaged in the cupboards and found a torch, which she put on the side in case of emergency. Then she took her overnight bag up to his room, made his bed, found fresh towels in an airing cupboard, and took a quick shower. She considered swapping her warm jumper and jeans for the silk shirt and leggings she’d brought, but decided not to. If she had to go out on the cliff path with the torch, and look for Matt, a prospect so agonising she was trying to ignore it, she’d be much better to stay in suitable clothing. She was operating on auto-pilot, she realised, as she sprayed a cloud of perfume over herself, pulled her black jumper back on and pushed her feet into black ballerina-flats.
She peered anxiously out of the window. The sky was completely dark. If there was a moon, it was hidden behind the rain clouds. The rhythmic crashing of the waves below sounded much more dramatic and unnerving in the dark. She reflected that if he wasn’t back in five minutes, she would allow her suppressed inner panic-attack full rein. She would call all the hospitals, even the coastguard if necessary, then go out and look for him. Until then, she had to make herself believe he’d just, for whatever utterly stupid and misguided purpose, gone out for a walk.
‘Victoria.’ Matt’s voice made her jump, over the whirring of the hairdryer. She spun round, her throat dry. He was rain-soaked, his open waxed jacket dripping water onto the floor, his hair plastered to his forehead. The white, tense look to his face, and the livid red scar from his chin down the side of his neck, made her heart miss several beats. The rush of relief at seeing him, relatively safe and well, was overwhelming.
‘Matt!’ She dropped the hairdryer, and ran to him. Putting her arms round him, she found him soaked to the skin. Even his thick grey sweater beneath the jacket was wet. When he didn’t move, she tugged the jacket off, and pulled him towards the bathroom, ‘For God’s sake, Matt! You’re soaked to the skin! What were you doing, out in this storm?
‘What are you doing here, Victoria?’
‘I’ve come to look after you, and it’s a good job I have. You clearly can’t be trusted to look after yourself! Get these wet things off, as fast as you can!’
‘When I want a mother-substitute, I’ll let you know.’
She clenched her teeth in frustration, and pulled at the hem of his jumper. ‘Just do as you’re bloody well told and get out of your wet clothes, then I’ll run you a bath.’
Wordlessly, he shrugged the sodden jumper over his head, and dropped it on the floor, followed by an equally wet T-shirt. When her fingers moved to unbuckle the belt on his jeans, his eyes held hers for a long moment before he pushed her hand away, walked into the bathroom and finished undressing. She followed, turning on the taps, averting her eyes to the hard-muscled naked body next to her. He was shivering violently, she realised with a fresh stab of anger. The idiot, the total idiot. She found a bottle of Radox muscle-soak in the cabinet and glugged it generously into the hot water.
‘In!’ she hissed, taking his arm to steady him, watched with relief as he submerged himself beneath the bubbles. ‘Were you deliberately trying to get hypothermia?’
He closed his eyes, and didn’t answer. She sat on a cushioned wicker chair beside the bath and let the silence spin out, watching the colour gradually come back into his face, replacing the frightening pallor. Eventually she said, ‘If I go and deal with your wet clothes, and fetch you a glass of whisky, will you promise not to fall asleep and drown?’
His lips twitched slightly. ‘Yes.’
She was as quick as she could be, thinking as she rushed back upstairs that their roles were neatly reversed, at least for the time being. She was being sensible and responsible, and he was behaving like a sulky adolescent. When she came back to the bathroom, he watched her beneath lidded eyes. Determined not to be intimidated by him, she handed him the whisky, avoiding his gaze. She’d found some brandy in the kitchen, and poured herself a restorative shot of that. She sipped it now. Dutch courage.
‘I’m not even going to ask you why you felt the need to escape again,’ she said, ‘Because I think I know. You asked me to marry you a few days ago! You gave me this ring!’ She waggled the diamond at him, ‘Now you’re panicking about committing yourself, because of Leo’s attack?’
‘You were right that night at the Southleache,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m not suitable family man material, Victoria.’
‘You’re the man I love, and you’re Archie’s father.’
‘I’m a man with a broken past. Tainted by that past. Jesus, Victoria, you could have been killed!’ His eyes glittered suddenly with such fierce pain, she caught her breath.
‘So could you! But I wasn’t, and you weren’t.’
‘Archie, or any of the other children there, could have been hurt! And they shouldn’t have had to see something like that. Witness violence like that. You and Archie deserve some nice, ordinary, normal guy with a nice ordinary normal family, not someone like me. Life-scarred, embittered…’
‘Emotionally stunted, repressed, cold and ascetic as a monk?’ She waited a beat, then added quietly, ‘But you are all we want, Matt.’
There was a protracted silence. The storm outside was growing wilder, the waves sounded like thunder down against the rocks.
‘Dinner smells good,’ he said finally, his voice devoid of emotion, ‘And the cottage looks good. Thanks.’
She stood up and held out the biggest clean white towel to him. She forced herself to stay positive. ‘Come on, then. Let’s find you some dry clothes, and go and eat.’
‘What made you go out for a walk in this weather?’ She piled more casserole on to Matt’s plate and watched him eat. Physically he looked a bit better, she thought cautiously. Some of the strained whiteness had gone. The scar had lost some of its livid redness.
‘I’d planned to walk round to Port Isaac. The sun was shining when I left.’
‘Well
, that’s something. You haven’t completely lost the plot.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Although, as you’ve opted to take charge of your own recovery, going for a long cliff top walk was possibly not the most intelligent decision.’
Matt looked at her with a hint of annoyance.
‘You’ve driven all the way down here just to nag and insult me?’
‘Whatever it takes to get through to you!’ She felt her temper simmering underneath her concern for him.
He forked up more casserole and vegetables, and continued to eat in brooding silence.
She sighed, pushing her knife and fork together. ‘What’s happening about Leo Kent? Have you decided whether you’re pressing charges or not?’
‘His mother is coming over. He’s only 19. I’m not going to press charges, as long as he goes into re-hab. He took the money meant for his gap travel year, came to the UK, bought himself a truckload of drugs and alcohol, vented his fucked up feelings by stalking me and trying to attack you.’ Matt’s half-lidded eyes hardened, ‘He’s going to apologise to you for that. That’s another condition I’ve set.’
‘OK. I can’t pretend I’ll look forward to meeting him again, but I think I can see where you’re coming from.’
‘He’s just a kid, Victoria. Angry with his father for quitting the family the way he did. Suicide has that effect on people. Hurting me was the closest he could get to punishing his father.’
She got up, clearing their plates into the dishwasher and bringing the dessert to the table.
‘Jessica’s finest recipe,’ she said, handing him a generous slice and tipping cream on top, ‘If I’m going to be Mrs Matt Larson I’d better take a few cooking lessons from her, don’t you think?’
The silence which followed resounded around the candle-lit kitchen.
‘Right.’ Her temper was rising, ‘So you’ve got Leo Kent’s future all worked out. What about our future, Matt?’
He exhaled sharply, took a sip of wine. ‘I told you earlier. I’m no good for you. You and Archie will be better off with some nice, safe, normal bloke like Sebastian. Not someone like me, with a sordid past that puts you in danger.’
‘If you think you can just pull out on me now, you are so wrong.’
‘Victoria, listen to me… ’
The pain and anger were like a searing wound inside her.
‘No, you listen to me! How dare you! How dare you just…just disappear from the hospital like that! With Emma sodding Goodman, of all people! Without telling me! Turning your bloody phone off! Ignoring all my calls and texts and emails. God, Matt, I was worried beyond belief! A week ago, you asked me to marry you. You made a commitment to me, and to Archie. Now you sit there and expect me to accept that you’ve changed your mind? Just because of a 19 year old boy with a broken bottle in his hand?’
He raked both hands through his hair, and rested his forehead in his hands. When he lifted his head, she saw that, bleak, remote, detached expression, the one he’d used to deter her that first weekend at Jessica’s. It felt like a physical blow to her solar plexus. Oh God, she was losing him, all over again.
‘You left your scarf behind. At the hospital,’ she said unsteadily, ‘I’ve been trying to wash it, but I still can’t get all the blood out.’
‘Thank you. It doesn’t matter. Just throw it away.’
‘Matt…’
‘That was an excellent meal. I really appreciate your coming down, bringing food, making sure I’m alright. If you don’t mind, I need to go to bed.’
He looked bone-weary, suddenly. When he stood up, he swayed slightly. Abruptly, she jumped up and took hold of his arm.
‘I’ll help you upstairs,’ she said. He started to shrug her off, but then almost lost his balance again and accepted her help in silence.
‘You’re really not well, I should ring a doctor,’ she began.
‘A decent night’s sleep is all I need.’
‘You’re taking antibiotics?’
‘Yes. At regular intervals. I’m fine. Really. If I need medical attention, the local GP is a friend of mine. So there’s no need to worry.’
‘I see. Well, I’ll say goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, Victoria.’
Frozen with conflicting emotions, she saw him into his bedroom, then after a moment’s deliberation she retrieved her overnight bag and belongings and put them in one of the spare rooms.
The overriding feeling was still anger, she reflected, as she mechanically cleared up downstairs, turned off lights, and got ready for bed herself. She was too furious even to cry. She didn’t even phone or text Jessica or Megan. She had to do this, stay strong, work this out by herself.
She woke early to brilliant sunshine, quickly dressed and packed her things and went to make Matt breakfast.
It seemed ridiculous to tap on his door, but she did anyway, before she took in the tray.
‘Good morning. Bacon sandwich, juice and coffee. I hope that’s OK?’
Matt looked pale and rumpled, but rested. He sat up, and took the tray with a small frown.
‘You didn’t have to do this, Vic.’
‘I have to go,’ she said, her throat tightening.
For a split second, she saw a depth of despair in his eyes that made her heart contract. ‘You need to get over this, face your demons.’ She bent to quickly kiss him on the mouth. She tugged the diamond ring from her finger, and placed it on his bedside table with a shaking hand. ‘This obviously means nothing to you at the moment. Give it back to me when you’re ready.’
She forced herself to walk from the room and close the door behind her. It wasn’t until she was in the car and driving north that the reaction set in, and the hot tears blinded her so much she had to pull in to a lay-by until she could control her shattered feelings.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Christmas Day dawned icy cold and bright, with a white frost sparkling on roofs and branches. As the morning went on, the clouds rolled in to darken the sky to a leaden grey, and the temperature went up to a couple of degrees above freezing, enough to make everyone wonder breathlessly if it might snow.
By midday, Roundwell Farm, and the village of Harbridge, had taken on the appearance of an old-fashioned Christmas card. In the early twilight, fairy-lights twinkled in cottage gardens, lights glowed in mullioned windows, woodsmoke drifted from chimneys and scented the air. Organ music shook the old walls of the church as the morning family service came to an end, with the congregation bellowing out ‘O Come All Ye Faithful, born this Christmas morning’ with varying degrees of tone-deafness.
The dining room in Roundwell Farm was festive with holly, ivy and mistletoe and white and gold Christmas tableware. Fat white candles were on the table ready to light, and a log fire was already burning behind its child-proof guard.
In the kitchen, Victoria was enveloped in a red reindeer apron to protect her little black dress, frantically cooking. The turkey had just about finished roasting, the potatoes were just beginning to brown at the top of the hot oven, pans of water were coming to the boil for the vegetables, and bacon bits, shallots and chestnuts were sizzling in butter in a frying pan ready to mix in with the Brussels sprouts. Bread sauce and cranberry sauce were already in serving bowls. Little sausage and bacon rolls were keeping warm on the huge serving platter waiting for the turkey.
To keep her spirits up, Victoria was singing along to her varied selection of Christmas music pounding out of the I-pod on the dresser. Currently George Michael was going to give his heart to someone else next year. Me too, she thought darkly, hauling the enormous turkey out of the oven and setting it on the worktop with a thud.
She had invited the whole family to Roundwell Farm for Christmas. She’d set herself the challenge of doing Christmas lunch all by herself, following mother’s recipe book lent to her by Jessica. She’d met Jessica’s offers of help with polite refusal. Trying to prove she could be a domestic goddess, an efficient cook, good mother, and the perfect ho
stess, she admitted secretly.
Anything to take her mind off the fact that Matt had utterly, completely, totally failed to contact her since her flying visit to Cornwall. Hadn’t even bothered to send her a Christmas card. Hadn’t even deigned to drop her a brief line to let her know how he was, hadn’t even had the decency or courtesy to ring, text, email, or bloody well communicate by carrier-pigeon…
‘Hey, you’re only supposed to prod it once with a skewer, not treat it like a pin-cushion!’ Jessica said over her shoulder.
‘Yeah, its already dead you know,’ Megan added.
‘Do you think it’s done?’ Flushed and blinking away angry tears, Victoria turned to her sisters.
