I repeated the thought over and over, until the repetition began to make it real. Later on, though, lying in bed, the fear returned, not with the panic that made my pulse race but creeping and insidious. The worst thing was that I didn’t understand. How could he ever think I would go back? How could he lie so easily about what had happened with Sarah? It was the sheer incomprehensibility of him that was so frightening. Trying to understand him – what he might think or do – was impossible, like grappling with smoke.
When I went to open up the café in the morning, Mary was already there. ‘Been here since seven,’ she said, tucking her fringe back inside the front of the elasticated mop cap she wore when cooking. ‘I want to take Mum away for a bit of sun for a few days – her arthritis is terrible in all this cold and damp, poor thing – and I’m trying to get ahead of myself and get some stuff in the freezer. Make us a coffee?’
We leaned against the counter and drank our cappuccinos. ‘You’re getting good at these,’ she said. ‘Look at the foam on that – couldn’t do better myself.’
The café was hot from the oven, and the air was freighted with the buttery scent of the muffins that she’d just put in. Despite her cooking mission, she was relatively relaxed; it was good to stand and talk for a few minutes, to be asked my opinion on whether a lower-calorie chocolate cake featuring beetroot might be a bridge too far for the palettes of Yarmouth. In this environment of utter normality, even the idea of Richard was surreal. In company, clearing the tables and taking orders, I felt the power of his shadow diminish.
Mary stayed all day, stopping only for another coffee just before lunchtime. Every half an hour the aroma coming from the tiny kitchen was superseded, the muffins giving way to banana cake, then fruit cake and then on to the soups. The procession of new produce cooling then being clingfilmed, labelled and stowed in the freezer lent a momentum, as if we were making preparations for a siege.
At about half three, she ran out of eggs. ‘I’m just going to whizz up to the Co-op in Freshwater,’ she said, untying her apron and hanging it on the hook by the back door. ‘I’ve only got a couple more things to do but I want to get it all done today. Won’t be long.’
The elderly couple who’d been eking out a pot of tea for the past hour finally paid the bill and shuffled off. I propped the door open for a couple of minutes to let some fresh air in; the vat of soup simmering on the hob was fogging the place up. I got a tray to clear their table, put the things in the dishwasher, then went to the store cupboard to replace the bottles of organic lemonade that had sold over lunch.
As I came back in, my arms full, I saw a figure slip out of the front door. It was a furtive movement; I knew immediately that something was wrong. I glanced at the till – still closed, thank God – then put the bottles down and ran out on to the street. ‘Hey!’ I called after him.
He was moving down towards the Square with a walk that he could only have got from American cop shows, a ludicrous sort of pimp roll. Despite the bagginess of his jeans, he was visibly thin and his light brown hair was long on the collar. With a sinking feeling I realised I knew him.
‘Hey!’ I shouted again.
He turned slowly. Sally’s son Tom looked back at me, his face a picture of scorn. In his hand was a bottle of the lemonade.
‘Give me that. You haven’t paid for it.’
‘Oh, fuck off, you sad cow. No one gives a shit.’ Without taking his eyes off me, he cracked the bottle open, took a long swig, then turned and rolled off.
‘Everything all right?’ Mary asked when she bustled back in with bags of shopping ten minutes later.
I’d debated whether to tell her and had rung the missing lemonade through the till and paid for it myself in case I decided not to. I didn’t mind getting Tom into trouble but I thought Sally had enough on her plate already. It would ruin any chance of our becoming friends, too, if I told her. On the other hand, I thought Mary ought to know, if only so she could be on her guard against it happening again.
‘Let me guess who,’ she said, when I’d explained what had happened.
‘What?’
‘Tom Vaughn. Bound to be – it always is, anything that happens round here like that. Stealing, vandalism, any kind of trouble – he’s totally out of order. You saw his comment on Christianity at the church over Christmas? We all feel sorry for Sally – she does her best with him but he’s beyond her. He wasn’t ever a nice child but over the last couple of years he’s turned into a right little psycho. The only reason he’s been allowed to get away with as much as he has is that people like her.’
‘Should I tell her – about the lemonade?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’ll have a word. Easier coming from me.’ She opened the fridge door and started unpacking the shopping. ‘Much more of it and someone will have to get the police involved, though.’
On the phone that evening I told Helen what had happened. I also told her about the email from Richard.
‘He’s written again? But it’s been weeks now.’
‘It’s probably nothing but, you know, it is slightly worrying,’ I said, feeling the gulf between the word and reality. ‘He’s split up with his wife. I think that’s what it’s about: she’s gone so he’s looking for the replacement. I’m the obvious choice.’
‘But he knows you won’t go back, doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t know.’ I took a deep breath. Before ringing her, I’d made up my mind to tell her everything; after all, I’d told Sally some of it and that hadn’t been too bad. But now I felt the difference again, the shame of admitting to someone I knew well, someone whose life wasn’t a mess, how I’d let it happen, how I’d been controlled by him to the point where I had risked my safety – my life. No, I thought; I had to tell her; I owed her the truth.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you about Richard,’ I said.
In the background, very close by, I heard another phone.
‘Oh shit, that’s my boss,’ she said.
‘Your boss? Helen, are you at work? It’s nearly nine o’clock.’
‘I know, I know. We’re just flat out at the moment. The TV networks are doing their new scheduling – it’s crazy. But it’s only for a couple of weeks. Look, I’ve got to answer this. But I’ll call you, OK? Speak soon.’
Later I stood at the sink to clean my teeth. In the small mirror above the basin I looked at my face, the same ordinary face that had looked back at me for years. It seemed incredible that this could be happening to me, that he’d picked me that night out of all the women in that packed bar. But I had been open to it, hadn’t I? Lonely and bored, I’d been open to the idea of excitement, a powerful connection. He’d seen that in me and used it.
I spat out the last mouthful of toothpaste and put my brush back into the glass. Before turning off the computer, I had made myself check my email. Sure enough, there had been a message:
I’m putting your lack of response down to the fact that you’re temporarily out of email contact.
* * *
There was always a single day, I thought, when the outgoing season conceded to the one which would come next. There had been signs before that the winter wouldn’t last for ever but the following Saturday, while I waited for my toast to cook, I stood in front of the sliding doors in the sitting room and let the glass magnify the sun’s heat on to my face until it made my cheeks rosy. The sky was piebald, patched with clouds, but if I stared, the sun behind them was strong enough that I could see their shapes against the red of my eyelids when I blinked. I slid the door open and stepped out in the yard. It wasn’t warm but the cold was tempered, at least. I walked to the end of the yard and back, noticing new leaf buds on the clematis that came over the fence from my neighbour’s garden. In the terracotta pots that I’d always assumed were empty there were long slim shoots – daffodils.
After breakfast I spent an hour or so in the boat, poking round the few little creeks and lagoons which I hadn’t yet explored, drifting on shallows whe
re the water scarcely seemed to move at all and watching a ragged heron standing storklike on the roots of a long-dead tree while he waited for a snack to swim into view. There was a group out from the sailing club near the bridge, ten or twelve little fibreglass boats that zipped here and there across the river like water spilled on a hotplate. Tucked under their tight sails, fat in padded life jackets, were boys and girls not even in their teens.
As I neared the pontoon on my way back in, I noticed a man standing on the quay wall by the harbour office. He was strikingly tall and there was something familiar about the set of his head and shoulders. Another few strokes closer confirmed that it was Peter, and he’d seen me. As I brought the dinghy alongside, he raised a hand and started down the jetty. I tied up and got ready to get out as his footsteps approached along the boards.
‘Pass me those,’ he said, as I made to slide the oars on to the pontoon. He took them and held them in the circle of one arm while he extended his other to help me.
‘Thanks.’ I sprung up next to him, leaving the dinghy rocking, and put my hand up to shade my eyes. His face was in shadow but the sun was streaming from behind him, outlining him and picking out chestnut tones in his dark hair. He was in the blue Musto jacket I’d seen before but a different – cleaner – pair of jeans.
‘Dry feet today,’ he said, smiling slightly.
‘Yes – progress.’
‘I was out sailing yesterday,’ he said. ‘First time this year.’
‘In Chris’s boat?’
‘Mine. I didn’t take it out of the water this winter.’
‘Is it here?’ I turned to look, expecting him to point it out.
‘No – in the river at Newtown.’
A few seconds passed. A motorboat – huge, white and ugly, engine growling – had just left its mooring and the dinghies bounced and jostled against each other as its wash peeled across the harbour and passed beneath them.
‘I was wondering yesterday,’ he said, ‘if you’d like to come with me next time? Maybe next weekend?’
Taken by surprise, I didn’t say anything.
‘Chris will take you out on Sirene when she’s back in, I’m sure, but in the meantime – if you want to and you don’t mind the cold? It’s pretty bracing.’
‘I can wrap up.’
‘OK – good. Saturday, if the weather’s decent?’
It was only as I was watching him stride back up the pontoon again that I realised what I’d agreed to. Oh God, I thought; why did I never think before jumping in with both feet? Surely if Richard had taught me anything, it was the need to be wary, and surely if there was anyone of whom to be wary, it was Peter.
Chapter Twenty-two
I asked you to marry me, you stupid bitch, and you think you can ignore me. You know, I always thought you were an intelligent woman. That’s one of your little fantasies about yourself, isn’t it, that you’re clever? Well, you’re being pretty fucking stupid now. I gave you the benefit of the doubt – I’ve given you days now – and still you don’t deign to respond to me.
I’ve sacrificed my marriage and access to my son for you and this is how you repay my trust? Nobody does that to me – I’d have thought you’d know that by now.
You said once that you saw us as two points on the earth’s surface, lit up by our connection. I think about that all the time, and do you know what, I think you’re right. You might not be talking to me (more playground behaviour – Helen’s idea?) but we’re still connected. I lie awake wherever I am and I imagine you lying in your bed as well, and I feel our connection.
I can be a very powerful enemy.
It was late afternoon on Tuesday when Sally came into the café, nearly quarter to five, and most of the customers for tea and cake – eight or nine people; a busy day – had paid their bills and gone. I was cleaning behind the counter, clingfilming the salads and idly eavesdropping on the two old ladies nearby when the bell over the door went. Mary must not have said anything to her, I realised; she would have been too embarrassed to come in if she had.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve just been up the other end of town and I thought I’d come and say hello. It’s nice in here, isn’t it? Cosy.’
‘Would you like anything? A cup of tea? Cake? It’s very good.’
‘Oh no, thanks. It’s just a flying visit, to see how you’re doing. Any news?’
‘News? No – not really. Mary’s away this week so I’m here on my own.’
‘Me?’ she said. ‘No, nothing much. Tom’s had half term but that’s about all.’ She looked around the room and then again at the cakes, her gaze settling on the chocolate sponge.
‘Are you sure you won’t have a piece?’
‘I shouldn’t.’
‘Go on.’
‘No, really . . .’
It dawned on me all of a sudden that the reason she was refusing was nothing to do with her weight or spoiling supper. It was about money: she couldn’t afford it. I thought with a pang of the supper she’d cooked for me and the bottle of wine. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take a slice home. The chocolate one’s lovely. I’ll get these.’
‘It does look nice.’ She looked at me with a guilty expression.
‘One slice won’t hurt; you’re slim as a bean,’ I said. ‘Go on – give the rest of us a fighting chance.’
After she’d gone, the ladies at the window table asked if it was too late for another pot of tea. It was, really; it was five already and I should have been closing up but they were sweet and I preferred to be here than back at the cottage where, however much I tried to distract myself, Richard’s emails played on my mind, growing in significance the later it got, and the quieter outside.
It was because of the emails, I’m sure, that it happened. By the time the women had gone and I’d cashed up and given the café a final sweep, it was past six. The last traces of the red and apricot that had streaked the sky as the night came down had been erased, and now there was only the rich velvety black that I never saw in London, the first stars pricking out against its absorbent darkness.
I locked the door, tugged twice on the handle and then slipped the keys into my bag. The walk home was barely five minutes but with no insulating cloud, the air was so cold it felt wet on my hands and face. I felt in my pockets for my gloves.
It was when I looked up from putting them on that I saw him: a man so like Richard that my breath caught in my throat. His height; the way he stood, the shape of his body – identical. I stopped still. He was no more than a hundred yards away, just where the High Street met the Square, looking in Harwoods’ window.
I was a few feet from the mouth of one of the alleys that led down between the cottages to the sea. I ducked into it and pressed myself into the ivy that spilled over the wall. My heart was pounding, my armpits suddenly wet. I held myself rigid. Every sound was magnified: the waves lapping at the wall at the bottom of the alley, the low hoot of a ferry over towards Southampton, a car coming into town on the road from Shalfleet. I was terrified that my feet would move, and the loose shingle give me away.
Blood thundering, ears straining, every muscle tense, I waited for the footsteps. I pictured him walking up the road, hands in his pockets, looking in at the end of the alleyway to see me: ‘Hello, Katie. Waiting for me?’
I listened so hard that I almost imagined the footsteps but none came. No one passed the end of the alleyway at all. I stood there for five minutes, maybe ten, but then, as I gave a long, silent out-breath, I realised what I would look like to anyone who saw me: crazy. Paranoid.
Think, Kate. Yes, he had been like Richard – the same build, the same dark head – but I’d seen him from a distance and the High Street was poorly lit. His coat, too, had been wrong, full-length. He didn’t have one like that and I couldn’t imagine him in one; he had a three-quarter-length coat for over his suits or his leather jacket for jeans. But why was I even grasping at these details, when I knew it couldn’t be him? He didn’t know I was here, there
was no way he could, and the emails made it plain.
I knew I still looked for him. In Newport on my birthday, there had been a man with dark hair the same velvet texture as his, and as I’d stood behind him at the checkout, I’d remembered my old urge to reach out and touch. As I’d driven through Shalfleet after the storm at Christmas I’d caught sight of a man with a similar build waiting to cross the road by the church. It hadn’t been him – a momentary glance in the rear-view mirror had told me that – but on some subconscious level, I’d realised then, I was looking for him. At first I’d thought it was a vestigial thing, a hangover from the times when he was away and I’d sought traces of him in strangers, just to remind myself. Now, though, pressed into the ivy, I knew it was more than that: I was watching for him.
I waited a couple more minutes before gently standing away from the wall and taking two quiet steps to the end of the alley. I felt foolish doing it but I leant out and scanned the High Street, quickly at first and then again, to make sure.
The obvious route to the cottage was via the bottom of the High Street and the Square, but instead I took a circuitous one along South Street and back around by the church. My heart rate had slowed from its pounding panic but it was still beating much too fast, and now the sweat on my forehead was cold. I walked quickly, conscious all the time of the darkness behind me and the shadows that seemed to stretch and move in the corners which the street lighting didn’t reach.
On Saturday I waited for Peter on the pavement in Bridge Road. When we’d made the arrangement, he’d said he would come and pick me up from the cottage. I’d done a double take at that, wondering how he knew where I lived, and then remembered that Chris had mentioned it at dinner. Still, he wouldn’t know which house in the row was mine.
The Bed I Made Page 20
