‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea. I don’t know if I can hand Dolly over to novices. This is a vintage vehicle. She needs careful handling.’
‘Nelson, worry not, it—she—will get careful handling. No one handles a vehicle more lovingly than me or Carrie.’
Carrie could see he was totally unconvinced and she didn’t blame him.
‘Can I see inside?’ she asked.
‘Help yourself.’
She climbed in through the side door and was instantly transported back twenty years. When she’d been a little girl, she’d loved going on caravan holidays with her parents. The tiny scale of the fittings had fascinated her: all those hidden cupboards, pull-down beds, pint-sized cookers, and minuscule fridges. She’d loved the way they’d moved on each morning to a different site, sometimes on a cliff by the sea or alongside a stream where she could catch fish with her net. It was all a big adventure to a six-year-old. The problem was that Dolly was a lot pokier than her parents’ caravan and Carrie was about to hit thirty.
‘Be nice about Dolly. Nelson loves her to bits and she is gorgeous, isn’t she?’ said Rowena, joining her inside the van and carrying on with the typical Rowena sales pitch. They sat down opposite each other. The seats matched the curtains: fetching shades of orange and brown, adorned with huge yellow sunflowers.
Carrie ran her hand over the material. ‘The upholstery’s lovely. Very retro kitsch,’ she said loudly enough for Nelson to hear.
‘It’s a work of art. There’s a fridge for beer and a cooker, see,’ said Rowena, lifting up a lid to show a neat gas stove, its chrome burners gleaming. ‘Not that we’ll be doing a lot of haute cuisine. I’m planning to sustain myself entirely on the local wine.’
‘You’d better not be drinking and driving,’ warned Nelson, popping his head round the door.
Rowena rolled her eyes.
‘Do you really think we can get round Europe in this?’ said Carrie doubtfully. ‘Where are the beds?’
‘A double rock-and-roll inside and another double in the roof. But you’ll probably want to sleep out in the awning as it’s summer,’ said Nelson.
‘I know it’s a bit compact.’ Rowena lowered her voice as Nelson lifted up the rear bonnet to check the engine. ‘But I had a terrible job persuading him to let us have it. You won’t believe what I had to do.’
‘Doesn’t he want to come along too?’ said Carrie hastily.
‘With two mad women? God, no. He’s got to work at the garage, and besides, it’s the VW festival season. He’ll be happy as a pig in muck as long as we look after Dolly.’
‘Looking after Dolly is what worries me…’
‘Rubbish. All we have to do is drive the van, park it on a site, and go out on the town. What can possibly go wrong?’
She winked, then they both jumped as the engine spluttered into life. Nelson was sitting in the front seat, revving it for all he was worth. The stench of diesel filled the van.
‘Listen to that,’ he called enthusiastically. ‘It’s like a bloody symphony!’
Chapter 11
In his Oxford flat, Matt was lying on the sofa flicking through a textbook while trying not to shout ‘Bollocks!’ at a TV movie, which was the only thing on the telly at two thirty in the afternoon. After two weeks in the flat, he was already climbing the walls with frustration and boredom.
Have a rest, Shelly had told him as he’d left Tuman. A total rest. No work, no reading. He was going slowly insane and already wondering if he should phone her and see if he could go back earlier. All he could think of was how they would manage with all the clinics and workload with one fewer doctor. It seemed ridiculous that he was here, sitting on his arse doing nothing. His mobile rang and he pressed the button that muted the TV sound. He recognized the number immediately.
‘Matt, it’s Rob.’
‘Rob who?’ said Matt, sounding puzzled.
‘You know damn well who, you idiot.’
‘Oh. That Rob. What can I do for you?
‘I’m calling to let you know about Friday. I’ll be on the six thirty-five from Paddington. Meet me at Oxford station.’
‘Yes, Rob,’ said Matt, pulling a face at the screen in disbelief. The TV doctor seemed about to perform an emergency tracheotomy on some guy lying on the floor of a fast-food restaurant.
‘You have booked a table for Friday night, haven’t you?’ Rob barked into his ear.
‘Yes, Rob.’ Matt was shaking his head in disbelief. He’d done an emergency tracheotomy himself once. It had been on a little girl who was choking on a toy soldier, but he’d been in the ER at the time with full medical backup. ‘You can’t do it with a bloody steak knife and a cocktail straw,’ he muttered.
‘What did you say?’ said Rob.
‘Nothing.’
‘Good. Now shut up and listen to me. I want to impress Natasha and her friend Bryony, maybe both together if you know what I mean.’
Matt knew exactly what he meant but said, ‘You’ll be lucky.’
Ignoring him, Rob carried on issuing orders. ‘It’s twenty minutes to Packley from the station so we’ll have time to stop off for a drink at that nice little pub down the road from Grantley Manor. I think it’s called the Trout. I want to make the most of the fact that you’re driving…’
‘Sorry?’ said Matt as the TV patient miraculously recovered.
‘For fuck’s sake, are you even listening to me? Tell me what I just said.’
‘Six thirty-five. Station. Trout,’ repeated Matt mechanically. ‘Rob, have you ever performed a tracheotomy with a steak knife?’
‘Have I what? Christ, I give up on you,’ cried Rob in exasperation. ‘Look, be there or else. I want this to go well. Natasha and Bryony don’t come cheap and I’ll blame you if I don’t get a shag,’ he shouted, before slamming down the phone.
Matt pushed himself off the sofa and stabbed the button on the TV. He felt he’d go mad if he didn’t get out of the flat soon. He needed something to do, but what? As he straightened, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and leaned closer.
He’d shaved off his beard and had his hair cut that morning, partly because he was bored and also because he looked like Grizzly Adams. After an hour of shampooing and conditioning, cutting and blow-drying, a stranger had stared back at him from the salon mirror. ‘You look like a modern-day Mr. Darcy,’ the stylist had teased, while running her fingers through his hair. When he’d got outside, he found she’d written her phone number in a heart on the back of an appointment card. He shook his head and smiled wryly. Mr. Darcy his arse. She couldn’t have fancied him that much: she’d still charged him thirty-five quid.
Chapter 12
My God, this trip was going to be fantastic.
Carrie was lounging on the sofa of the cottage, her freshly painted toes propped up on a stool, drying in the breeze from the French windows. She had the Rough Guide to Europe in one hand and a glass of sangria in the other. She could hardly believe they were taking off on their tour in a few days’ time. By next Saturday they could be standing on top of the Eiffel Tower or strutting their stuff on the beach in St. Tropez, sipping a cappuccino in Venice, eyeing up the talent from the back of a scooter in Madrid…
Okay. She knew it might be pushing it to get round the whole of Europe in one month, especially in a vehicle so old it ought to be listed, but so what? With the sun on their faces and the wind in their hair (because Dolly had no air-con and they’d have to have the windows down or fry), she and Rowena were ready to take on the world.
It was exactly what she needed to take her mind off the past few months.
‘Summer niii-gh-hts!’ she heard Rowena warble from the bathroom. Then a screech. ‘Bugger! Carrie!’
‘Yes!’ shouted Carrie.
‘Can you find me some more shampoo? We’ve run
out. I’d get it myself but I’m dripping wet.’
Carrie almost skipped up the stairs, then stopped at the top, realizing that the strange sensation pulsing through her veins was happiness. Or if not happiness, something very like it.
It wasn’t just the trip making her feel as if the sun had come out after a long winter. Since Rowena had announced her intention of starting a drama course, Carrie had been thinking about the future too. She’d hoped to get a place on a teacher training course, been convinced she was too late, then phoned up anyway. Five of the six training colleges she’d contacted had almost laughed her off the phone, but that afternoon the sixth had come up trumps.
She couldn’t wait to tell Rowena her news over a drink at their local pub.
Scrubbed and buffed, the girls made their way into the beer garden of the village pub. The Trout was an ancient thatched inn that hugged a bend in the river. It had been thundering during the day and was now a middling kind of summer evening. Insects buzzed round their heads as they bagged a table among the early evening drinkers.
‘I don’t want to get bitten,’ said Rowena, batting away a gnat. ‘I’ve just had my legs waxed.’
Carrie nodded. ‘I popped into Tan Tastic courtesy of Huw’s latest guilt payment. You don’t think it’s too…’
‘What?’
‘Well. Too orange?’
Rowena shook her head. ‘You can never be too thin, too rich, or too orange. Look at Paris Hilton.’
‘Good. Because I thought I deserved a little treat. Just to celebrate, you know.’
‘Celebrate? What are we celebrating? Has Huw gone bankrupt?’
‘No. Not that good. I’ve heard back from the college in town. They said I’d left it too late for the primary teaching course but they could offer me a secondary place. I’m going to specialize in English and drama.’
‘Wow! That sounds great, hon,’ said Rowena.
Carrie felt a warm glow of pride. ‘Well, it’s not as glam as going to drama school, but it’s a job, and I’m looking forward to it. I can’t live off my salary from Huw much longer, however much I want to.’
The truth was, the thought of going to Huw—and Fenella—to sort out their joint finances was still way beyond her comfort zone. She still occasionally harbored thoughts of sabotaging his tractor.
‘I think it’s a bloody brilliant idea. You know, I think you’ve done really well to get over him so quickly. I’m proud of the way you’ve put the bastard behind you,’ said Rowena.
‘What’s the point in lying here rotting away? He’ll have won then, won’t he? I’m sure Huw’s not hiding in his bedroom, using up the entire world supply of tissues, is he?’ said Carrie.
‘Well, no.’
‘I expect he’s out working the land, preparing it for future Brigstockes to enjoy one day.’
Rowena hesitated, then took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this, but seeing as you’re so over him…’
‘What?’
‘Rumor has it that Fenella’s knocked up. Hayley saw them at the Dirty Duck the other night. She said she was sure Fenella had put on weight and she was drinking mineral water even though Huw was driving.’
‘In the Duck?’ Carrie repeated, as if it was the location not the information that had shocked her. Fenella pregnant… She couldn’t be. They’d only been together a few months.
‘They were in the lounge. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you but I thought you ought to know. Are you okay?’ Rowena said anxiously.
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t want a baby. In fact, I can’t think of anything worse,’ said Carrie brightly. Which wasn’t strictly true. She and Huw had never exactly discussed the idea, but now she realized the prospect had still been there, unspoken between them. One day, she’d assumed, there would be children, their children, running around the farm, chasing the chickens, and helping to milk the cows. Perhaps that had been the problem: she and Huw had assumed too much about their relationship. They’d grown too comfortable. But it still didn’t justify what he’d done to her. No way.
Rowena stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and patted Carrie’s hand. ‘The more I come to think of it, the more I realize what a lucky escape you had. Shall we have another drink?’
‘I’ll get them this time,’ said Carrie, determined to push Huw and Fenella from her mind and focus on the future. She stood up and gathered up the empty glasses, feeling her palms slick against the cool glass. A trip across the garden to the bar would give her a chance to take in this latest news. But she hadn’t taken a step when she froze.
‘Oh no. Not here.’
‘What’s up?’ said Rowena, craning her neck to try to follow Carrie’s gaze. Heading over towards their table from the pub’s rear entrance were two men, both tall and dark. One was wearing Ray-Bans and what was obviously part of a business suit, except he’d ditched the tie and had his sleeves rolled up. The other one was Matt Landor.
‘Don’t look.’
Rowena pulled a face. ‘Why not? Is it Huw? Is she with him?’
‘It’s not Huw. It’s Matt Landor. At least I think it is. He looks different.’
She longed for the ground to open up or a meteorite to hit the pub. Anything rather than have to face the man who’d practically thrown her out of St. Mark’s church.
Rowena’s head whipped round, and she waved.
‘I don’t want to speak to him,’ said Carrie.
‘Don’t be silly. Now’s your chance to show him you’re normal. After all, he is a doctor. I’m sure he’ll understand you weren’t in your right mind at the church, and he did call you to see how you were.’
The man with Matt waved back, but Matt didn’t. He just kept on heading for them.
Carrie closed her eyes briefly, hoping that she could be beamed up out of the pub garden to just about anywhere else in the universe. Rowena was wrong. She wasn’t sure she hadn’t been in her right mind.
Close up, it was obvious the other man was Matt’s brother—a slightly older, stockier, much paler version—apart from the florid cheeks.
‘Hello,’ said Matt, his mouth twitching in a smile as they reached the table. ‘This is my brother Rob.’
‘Well, good evening, ladies!’ said Rob, holding out his free hand. He had a whisky in the other.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Rowena in the voice she usually kept for serious roles.
‘Hi,’ said Carrie, unable to stop staring at Matt, who stood with a bottle of Coke in his hand. She hardly recognized him. The beard and ponytail had gone. His dark, almost black hair was now only longish and swept back from his face, revealing sharply defined cheekbones and dark, brooding eyes that seemed to be assessing her, unself-consciously, from head to toe.
‘You’ve cut your hair,’ she said.
His lips twitched in a smile. ‘I got fed up with buying scrunchies.’
Carrie wondered if Matt had already told his brother who she was. Had they been talking about her before deciding to come over? But Rob dispelled that by perching his whisky on the table slats and saying, ‘Matt, for God’s sake stop flirting and introduce me properly.’
‘This is Rowena Kincaid and Caroline Brownhill. We were at university together,’ said Matt.
Caroline? Carrie hadn’t heard anyone call her that for years. It always made her sound like a Tory Party candidate. Carrie was so much more Sex and the City.
Rob’s eyes glittered. ‘Really? You’ve never mentioned either of them before, and I can see why. Keeping them to yourself.’
‘We didn’t see much of each other,’ Carrie replied. ‘Different subjects.’
Rowena was visibly fluttering. ‘And what do you do for a living, Robert?’
‘Oh, this and that, you know,’ he replied, squeezing himself into the vacant
bench space next to Rowena.
‘Rob’s an orthopedic surgeon,’ said Matt.
Rob smiled. ‘Matt doesn’t approve of me being in private practice. He’s a saint, you see.’
‘You’ll have to excuse my brother. He’s tanked,’ growled Matt.
Rob curled a lip. ‘And Matt’s a sanctimonious git, but in the morning I’ll be sober.’
The atmosphere between them was so charged that Carrie half expected them to start dueling in the pub garden, but Rowena, relishing the scent of so much testosterone, was melting in a puddle of lust.
‘Do you come here often?’ she squeaked.
Matt threw a smile at her and Rowena turned to mush. ‘I would if I was in the country, but I’ve been working abroad and I’m only back here for a few months.’
‘He’s going to save the world if he lives that long. He attracts trouble like a cowpat attracts flies,’ laughed Rob. ‘D’you mind if I have one of your cigarettes?’
‘Not at all,’ twittered Rowena.
‘Where are you staying?’ Carrie asked Matt.
‘I’ve rented a friend’s flat in Oxford.’
‘Oh. That’s handy. Where is it?’ said Carrie, glad of a safe topic. She managed to spend five minutes talking about the merits of Oxford versus living in Packley Village. She’d have gladly talked about train timetables or paint charts rather than the circumstances in which they’d last met. She just hoped that he and his brother would go away very, very soon, but fate wasn’t on her side.
‘You ladies look like you could do with a top-up,’ said Rob.
‘That’s very kind,’ Rowena trilled. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic.’
‘Coke,’ said Carrie, knowing they had no chance of escape now.
Matt shook his head, holding up his half-full bottle.
Rowena pouted seductively at Rob. ‘Do you need a hand?’
He raised his eyebrows and held out his arm for her to take. ‘Always.’
‘So how are you?’ Matt asked Carrie when the others had gone to the bar.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said tightly, heart sinking as she realized what was going to happen.
Carrie Goes Off the Map Page 7
