A Leap of Faith

by Trisha Ashley

  She paused, and her eyes filled again. ‘I certainly surprised him all right – naked on the B-Bokhara in front of the fireplace in the living room with that food technologist female, Susie!’

  ‘Not a pretty sight?’

  ‘N-no – it was sort of totally unreal, and they b-both leaped up like one of those awful farces while I simply stood there numb from shock, until Susie – who has a gorgeous figure even if her face is all angles, like b-badly folded origami – said, “Oh, look, Chris d-darling – an escaped Great White Whale.”’

  ‘The cow.’

  ‘Well, then I completely flipped and threw the d-duck à l’orange and the raspberry pavlova at them, and ran out of the house.’

  ‘Well done. There’s nothing like a flying duck.’

  ‘That raspberry will never come out of the B-Bokhara,’ she wailed.

  ‘Why worry? You’ll never want to see it again anyway. So, what did you do then?’

  ‘I came straight home, though I d-don’t remember how I got here. I d-don’t remember anything until I’d collected Spike from the neighbours and wept all over him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you phone me? I’d have come round.’

  ‘I was going to, but Chris d-drove straight d-down after me – he was there almost as soon as I was. And he was in a complete state, Sappho, he really was. He insisted it was all a mistake and said he was glad I got there b-before anything happened, b-because it had b-been an impulse of the moment with Susie making all the running. And it will never happen again, b-because he really loves me.’

  ‘And I’m Tilly the Tooth Fairy,’ I said drily.

  ‘Really, Sappho, he d-does still love me,’ she said earnestly. ‘Only I’m now so grossly fat it’s a real turn-off. It’s all my fault for letting myself go, and not making an effort to look nice. I knew he d-didn’t want to b-be seen out with me any more, and I d-didn’t want anyone to see me either, even you and Mu.’

  ‘Of course Chris’s affair isn’t your fault, you dumb cluck! The weight is nothing to do with it either: you don’t stop loving someone just because they now come in economy size. You’re still Miranda, aren’t you? The gifted cook, whose perennial best-selling recipe book was written while she was still a student, and who is the real creative mind behind Chris Cotter, TV chef and well-known glove puppet?’

  ‘I-I d-don’t know . . . Chris can be so cruel, b-but really he meant to help me whenever he made d-disparaging remarks about my size, although actually they had the opposite effect, because they always made me go away and eat chocolate.’

  ‘He’s a manipulator. He’s making himself feel better by putting the blame on you, but it’s not your fault.’

  ‘Sappho, he cried with remorse, and said it would never happen again if I forgave him. And he will try and get d-down most weekends, though to b-be honest, I d-don’t see much of him then b-because it always seems to b-be open house on a Saturday night. He’s so popular.’

  ‘Anyone prepared to throw a party most weekends is popular. What did he make you promise to do in return?’

  ‘Go on a strict d-diet and b-become the Miranda I used to b-be, the one he was proud of. He says if I really love him I’ll lose the weight.’

  ‘Mental cruelty, blackmail and manipulation. Divorce the bastard,’ I advised her.

  ‘B-but he d-doesn’t mean it like that! We talked for hours . . . and I even asked him about the vasectomy, Sappho, and he said Lili was quite wrong and he’d never have d-deceived me like that.’

  ‘He would.’

  ‘No, I’m sure he was telling the truth . . . only after he’d gone b-back in the early hours of this morning I felt b-bereft, and miserable – and hungry. That girl is only twenty-three, Sappho, and so slim, even if she d-does have a nose so sharp she could drill holes with it and she makes squiggle quotation marks in the air with her fingers when she talks. She varnishes food to make it look pretty for the cameras, so she’s always there, while I’m here d-devising fattening recipes for Chris, and feeling miserable.

  ‘And the unhappier I feel, the more I eat, and the fatter I get. And the fatter I get the unhappier I feel, so the more I eat . . . and so on. I’m just one great b-big fat failure. I might as well eat myself to d-death. I am eating myself to d-death . . .’

  ‘I absolutely forbid you to eat yourself to death,’ I told her firmly. ‘I’m going to put you on a diet.’

  She sniffled and looked up at me, surprised.

  ‘It’s one I got from a romantic novelist called Peggy Mulvaney – she swears by it. It’s called “The Gin and Bear It Diet”. You must have two large gin and tonics every day, but otherwise you can eat and drink anything you want. Apparently you neither lose nor gain weight, but you feel very happy about the situation.’

  Miranda put the half-eaten slab of cake down as if she was surprised she was holding it, and a faint watery smile bobbed to the surface.

  So did Spike: one leap and a gulp and the abandoned cake was gone.

  Who’d have guessed the old dog had that much spring left in him?

  *

  Dear Tom,

  Your problem is that your wife understands you, and so do I.

  But I could meet you for lunch on the 31st if you like? I’m coming up to London then to be interviewed on a book-centred radio programme.

  The snotty bastards said they’d invited two ‘serious novelists’ and me, so they deserve all they’re going to get. The first person to say the words ‘literary novel’ will have their head shoved into their water glass.

  Love (but strictly no physical contact),

  Sappho

  PS. I am also now invited to appear on a TV show – as a children’s author! Do none of them ever read the books they discuss on these programmes?

  *

  Miranda was subdued but taking my advice about the gin, and generally carrying on with her life.

  On the Wednesday after the sordid revelations we went down to the Castle Craft Centre to make enquiries about a studio for Fantasy Flowers, but the rents were quite high, and the only vacant one was much larger than she needed.

  ‘If that’s what they charge, Lavender Duke must b-be making good money with her paintings,’ Miranda commented as we emerged from the converted turret that housed the office.

  The surroundings were admittedly picturesque, and the castle had clearly undergone several transformations in its lifetime: the stones were original, but except for the outer wall, not necessarily in their original order.

  In the car park was a familiar-looking little white van, but after all, the man worked here.

  ‘And Lavender only uses her studio in the afternoon,’ continued Miranda. ‘B-because she’s gardening in the mornings.’

  My attention was suddenly caught by what she was saying. ‘Does she? Why don’t you show me where her studio is?’

  She turned back obediently. ‘I thought you d-didn’t want to look around the rest of the workshops today? B-but it’s d-down here.’

  We made our way along a stone passage lined with windows on the inner wall, so visitors could see the craftspeople at work. Some were glazed and some were open, with just a waist-high barrier separating them.

  I didn’t need Miranda to tell me when we got to the potter’s den: the cluster of drooling women pressing their noses to the glass was a dead giveaway.

  His studio was quite dark, unlike the well-lit workshops we’d already passed, and within it the potter lurked like some vast spectral creature of the Underworld.

  He appeared to be entirely oblivious to his audience, for his broad back was turned away, revealing the white-gold hair curling on his neck, as he worked at something on the table before him.

  It must have been hot in there, because he’d taken his shirt off and his skin glistened. Every time the muscles on his back flexed there was a sort of unilateral sigh.

  He started to turn round so I hastily grabbed Miranda’s arm and hurried her past, for the last thing I wanted was to be caught goggling at him like
a zoo visitor.

  Lavender’s studio was at the furthest end of the passage, and she was in the final stages of selling a large and splashy flower painting to a Japanese couple when we arrived. They appeared to be tourists and left carrying it between them, so I wondered how they were going to transport it home.

  As soon as she was free I explained to her why we were there, and without prompting she immediately exclaimed, ‘But, Miranda, if you only want a workshop in the mornings and I only use it in the afternoons, we could share! There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘D-do you mean it?’ Miranda’s face glowed. ‘Oh, Lavender, that would b-be perfect! And it all b-being flowers, they sort of go together, d-don’t they?’

  Lavender enthused, and they were soon deep in discussion of the finer arrangements. Lavender became quite taken with the idea of painting Bouquets with Meanings (nice meanings) and she was sure that Miranda would get more orders from people who’d seen her work at the studio . . .

  When they left for the office to finalize things, I trailed slowly along behind, inhaling the wonderful smell of the leather shop next door, and planning the removal of the horrible little conservatory from the front of my house once Miranda had taken the flowers away. Then I could have the Portuguese door installed, instead of the ramshackle one currently in place . . .

  It was only when something grey squidged between my toes that I realized I’d come to a stop outside the potter’s lair.

  Fortunately he’d gone – everyone seemed to have gone, it must be getting late – but he’d left a slippery clay snail-trail behind him.

  The clay felt cold and rather nice, so I squidged a bit more, until all at once I realized I wasn’t alone: the spectre of the castle stood right in front of me, staring down at my bare feet. Then his gaze slowly travelled upwards until it reached my face, and suddenly I felt as if I was in one of those dreams where I’m walking naked down the main street without realizing it until too late.

  Most odd: and anyway, he was the semi-nude one, for although he’d put a shirt on, it was unbuttoned. I haven’t been that close to so much male chest hair for years.

  I couldn’t begin to describe the strange expression on his face, but bemused would be the closest. His eyes were blank grey echoes of the ancient stone walls: the lights were on but there was nobody home.

  ‘Someone could slip on this wet clay,’ I said severely, and he journeyed back from wherever he’d been and smiled.

  For a man with such Fallen Angel beauty he suddenly looked alarmingly vulpine – a suggestion of sharp teeth waiting to rend, perhaps, like Dragonslayer.

  But at least, I thought, he can’t read minds.

  I was wrong.

  ‘Everyone’s gone – there’s no one here except you and me,’ he said, again with that wolfish smile and I felt the heavy silence settling around me. ‘The clay will be dry by morning and I’ll brush it away.’

  It was certainly drying on my feet like cement, so that if he didn’t stop blocking my way he might have to brush me away in the morning, too.

  Except he’d totally lost interest in me: his eyes took on that faraway expression again and this time he simply walked round me without another word into his studio and closed the door.

  ‘Sappho!’ called Miranda, from somewhere beyond the shadowed corridor. ‘Sappho?’

  ‘Coming!’

  ‘Do not let me detain you if you have important business,’ Nala said sarcastically, but she said it to the empty air: Dragonslayer was gone . . .

  Mu arrived on Friday, for the morrow was turkey basting night, though if it worked we could call it Thanksgiving. In fact, we could call the baby Thanksgiving Graythorpe. Sounds quite Quakerish.

  She wasn’t supposed to be late – it didn’t take me that long to drive here from Pembrokeshire – but I’d forgotten her inability to turn right at junctions, a trait that renders even the simplest journey fraught with difficulties.

  By the time she made it I had to prise her fingers off the steering wheel, but once she was indoors with a drink in her hand she was fine, except for refusing to sit on the lounger.

  The alternative was the hideously uncomfortable camel saddle stool, or the Gil-rejected leatherette and horsehair sofa, which has seen better days, most of them on the horse.

  She brought six bottles of red wine as a house-warming present, and those might account for my unusual tardiness the next morning.

  Miranda had produced three boxed floral tributes – or insults – by the time I emerged from Vengeane and Mu yawned her way downstairs.

  Miranda’s appearance didn’t come as such a shock to Mu as it had to me: I’d discovered a mail-order company that designed perfectly wearable clothes in larger sizes and she was wearing jeans and a flowing tunic in a pretty blue that matched her eyes.

  We were soon celebrating our being all together again with coffee and the huge box of home-made jam doughnuts she’d brought.

  Then we settled down to update Mu with the local gossip, starting with Dorinda.

  ‘I call a man who mislays his wife more than careless,’ Mu said, biting into her second doughnut with a crunch of sugar.

  A trickle of red jam ran down her chin, making her look like an extra in a cut-price Dracula film.

  ‘Begone, foul fiend.’ I made a sign to avert the Evil One.

  ‘He d-didn’t mean to,’ explained Miranda earnestly. ‘He’s d-dreadfully upset about it.’

  ‘And she might have been disposed of by this potter that Lili is pursuing – with no luck, so far. His girlfriend turning out to be gay after they’d been in a relationship for years seems to have turned him into a misogynist.’

  ‘Oh, Nye isn’t like that at all,’ protested Miranda. ‘I’m sure he was really hurt, b-but perhaps it’s just that he isn’t ready for another relationship yet?’

  ‘Nye?’ said Mu.

  ‘It’s a Welsh name,’ explained Miranda. ‘It’s really Aneurin – Aneurin Thomas.’

  ‘He must be something special if Lili’s interested. She only goes for the spectacular.’

  ‘He is very handsome,’ Miranda agreed. ‘Have you read Sappho’s last b-book yet? B-because he looks exactly like D-Dragonslayer, and—’

  ‘It was a coincidence,’ I interrupted hastily.

  Mu looked at me.

  ‘Mostly a coincidence,’ I qualified. ‘Lili sent me a blurry black-and-white photo of him in a letter, but I’d forgotten about it. Only my subconscious must have picked up on it for Dragonslayer, and the strange thing is that Nye has all the things that I gave Dragonslayer that I couldn’t have known from the photo, like his peculiar eyes, and the way his ears go pointy at the top, and his eyebrows slant upwards . . . and that silver-gilt hair.’

  ‘Is he of this world?’ Mu asked drily. ‘Or an alien? And what’s peculiar about his eyes? How many has he got?’

  ‘Just the two,’ Miranda said. ‘Very light-coloured.’

  ‘Entirely colourless,’ I put in. ‘Like raindrops.’

  ‘The pupils have a d-dark edge, Sappho, and I wouldn’t say they are always colourless—’

  ‘No, sometimes they reflect things like a silver mirror,’ I agreed. ‘And when he’s angry they go leaden grey.’

  They both looked at me.

  ‘What? So I’ve met him a couple of times by accident – and he always seems to be cross about something.’

  ‘You d-didn’t tell me,’ Miranda said.

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing to tell. He’s not very interesting – you know my opinion of handsome men. Speaking of which,’ I added, changing the subject, ‘there’s been no word or sign of Dave since I got here – this must be the longest ever gap.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got tired of it?’ suggested Miranda hopefully. ‘He’s a most peculiar man . . . I mean, I often used to b-bump into him in London and he b-behaved as if we b-barely knew each other, and yet he’s b-been stalking you all these years.’

  ‘He’s batty,’ Mu said. ‘But let’s hope his absence from the s
cene means he’s had an argument with a London bus or something,’ she added unkindly. ‘Otherwise he’s bound to pop up sooner or later.’

  After a while Miranda went home to design a new advertisement for Fantasy Flowers, ready for when she moved it over to the craft centre in a couple of weeks.

  Luckily Chris was off whipping up a froth somewhere else that weekend, so she had the house to herself. She hadn’t bothered to tell him about her plans since he was so averse to them, but at least she wasn’t knuckling under and abandoning them.

  I brought Mu a bit more up to date with the mysterious incidents and my neighbours, the Dukes, and then after lunch we went for a walk just to fill in the time before Simon arrived.

  I don’t know about Mu, but I felt nervous.

  He came up from Bristol on his motorbike, not so much the god in the machine as the god on the machine, all glowing skin and nicely moulded black leather.

  ‘Have you got the goods?’ Mu demanded without finesse, almost as soon as he was in the door.

  Now, just where did she think he could have hidden anything in that outfit? And the cold air wouldn’t have done it much good if he had.

  He took off his helmet, revealing an aureole of curly gold hair, and blue eyes with a touch of devilment in them.

  (Blonds were proliferating in my life to such an extent lately, what with Mu, Miranda, Ambler, Dragonslayer and now Simon, that I was starting to feel as if I belonged to an entirely different species.)

  ‘You only want me for my—’ he began.

  ‘Simon!’ Mu yelled. ‘You promised to be good!’

  He grinned. ‘I am good, and if you’d like Personal Service I could prove it – to you or anyone else?’ he added, hopefully eyeing me.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said primly, though actually feeling rather flattered. ‘But it was kind and noble of you to offer.’

  Simon resignedly went off upstairs alone to do his stuff, about which I firmly refused to think (except to hope he could find his way through all that leather) and I’d just come into the sitting room with a fresh pot of coffee and the rest of the box of doughnuts, when Miranda rushed in with the news that Deadly Dorinda’s car had been found in the Bottomless Pool.