Tommy jumped out of the car to open the door for Catkin, taking her cases off the step and loading them into the back. She smiled gratefully and slid into the back seat.
‘Thanks, Tommy,’ she breathed as she sank into the soft leather, then leaned forward to wave at Sebastian who’d appeared at the front door.
Catkin hated Sunday nights. Leaving Sebastian made her nervous, but she had little option since the show she worked for had upped her appearance from twice a week to every day. She couldn’t afford not to do it. Correction, they couldn’t afford for her not to do it. The truth, which Catkin knew only too well and Sebastian chose to ignore, was that they were struggling financially. Despite her career and Sebastian’s success, it didn’t take long to blast through the money they had. Keeping a flat in London was bleeding them dry. The travelling up and down was exorbitant, and was at her own expense, because it was her choice to go back to Devon every weekend and she had to travel first class. Then there was her wardrobe, the hair, the beauty treatments. Sebastian’s studio had cost an arm and a leg, because Catkin had spared no expense in the hope of creating an environment where he could be productive, and everything had to be just so. He had protested that he would be just as happy in the old barn as it had been, but Catkin had got the bit between her teeth. Quarter of a million pounds later he had forty by thirty foot of bright light, with a state-of-the-art sound system on which he could play Iggy Pop or Rachmaninov, a kitchen and a wet room. There were racks and racks of gleaming tubes of paint flown in from New York, sable brushes as fine as an eyelash and as thick as a fox’s tail; banks of blank canvasses. She was furious that he absolutely refused to allow any magazines or newspapers to come and do a feature on it, but if Sebastian prized anything it was his privacy. Then there had been last year’s tax bill, which neither of them had anticipated being so large.
So there had been no question of her turning down her contract with Hello, England. And now her shooting schedule had become so hectic that they had no hope of seeing each other during the week. She hated leaving Sebastian to his own devices, but there was little harm he could come to in Withybrook. In London, he would find a million and one distractions - a poker school, a billiard hall, a bar, a club, a party. And besides, Catkin paid Stacey, their housekeeper, good money to look after him and keep an eye out. Stacey was under strict instructions to phone Catkin if she felt there was anything amiss.
She didn’t like controlling Sebastian like this, but he didn’t seem to have any self-discipline. She suspected it was the way he had been brought up. His parents had been loving, but over-indulgent. Not like Catkin’s mother and father, who had been dry, dusty academics. Her mother had left the marital home when Catkin was just thirteen. Not for another man, but for a prestigious job in an American university. Catkin had fended for herself and her distant father; had left school as soon as she could and had steadfastly refused to have anything to do with further education as a rebellion against her parents’ obsession with academia. And she thought she’d done pretty well for herself, all things considered. She wasn’t quite a household name, but she had begun to be recognised wherever she went.
She flipped open the lid of her laptop and started reading through the script the producer had sent her for the next day. It was dreadful - verbose and patronising. She started going through her lines, rewriting them in her own style, adding in a few humorous observations so that she didn’t seem too intense and worthy. After all, she was supposed to come across as a big sister, not a social worker.
By the time they reached the motorway, Catkin was totally absorbed in her work and had forgotten Sebastian altogether.
Charlotte stood on the doorstep of Myrtle Cottage and gave herself a severe talking to. She’d been given a way out of her sticky situation and she wasn’t to wimp out at the first opportunity. She slid the key into the lock and turned it, praying that the wood of the door wouldn’t have warped. But it opened easily, and she stepped inside.
The smell hit her immediately: a combination of damp, cat pee and the stale, lingering scent of . . . death? Something sickly sweet and cloying. Charlotte hastily put out her hand to flick on the light switch.
Nothing.
Shit. Gussie had assured her that the electricity was still connected, but she had warned her that Withybrook was prone to impromptu power cuts, particularly in inclement weather. So no doubt the house was fused. Charlotte tried to remember from the floor plans she’d been given where the fuse box was. In the kitchen, which was at the back of the house. She peered down the gloomy hall, disconcerted to find she was too scared to go any further. She wasn’t usually highly strung, but the house had been empty for some time, she was on her own and as far as she could make out there was no one around she could call on for help except the ancient farmer. What if there was a squatter, or a corpse?
There was nothing for it but to go back out to the car and find her torch. Luckily she’d packed it near the top. Feeling slightly more secure with its powerful beam, she swallowed her fear and inched down the corridor until she found the kitchen. A quick inspection revealed the fuse box, and she heaved the heavy black switch back up. There was an encouraging clunk and the light came on, a weedy twenty-watt glow that made the house even more tenebrous. The first thing she would do, she decided, was change all the light bulbs.
She thought she would give Gussie a ring and tell her she had arrived safely. She was the only person who would care, and Charlotte wanted to hear a friendly voice. She looked at her mobile. No signal. Not even one tiny bar. With a heavy heart, she turned to head back out to the car and get her luggage, then stopped in her tracks. Right in the middle of the kitchen, scrutinising her with its beady eyes, was an enormous black rat.
She didn’t even stop to shut the front door. She ran down the high street as fast as her feet would carry her, imagining the rat following, teeth bared, eyes gleaming. She flung herself against the double doors of the pub, pushing at the handle desperately, but it was locked. She stood back, choking a stifled sob, and realised there was someone standing behind her.
It was a tall man, six foot three at least. His hair was long and dark, and reached to his broad shoulders. He was wearing a padded blue lumberjack shirt and combat trousers. He gave her a disconcerted smile.
‘Let me,’ he said, and she felt his deep voice rumble through her.
He put his hand out to the other handle, and the door opened easily. She’d been pushing at the wrong one.
‘Are you all right?’ He looked at her, concerned.
‘There was a rat,’ she stammered. ‘In the kitchen. I can’t go back in. Do you know if they do bed and breakfast here?’
‘Not as far as I know.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’re shaking.’
Charlotte took in a deep breath to calm herself down. She knew she was on the verge of tears.
‘Sorry.’ She managed a smile. ‘I must look a total idiot. I’ve only just got here. And the first thing I see . . .’
‘Not the greatest of welcomes. I can understand that.’ He put a hand in the small of her back and guided her into the pub. ‘Let me get you a drink. For the shock.’
He settled her at the bar and bought her a large gin and tonic.
‘Now wait there,’ he commanded. ‘I won’t be long.’
Charlotte finished her drink in half a dozen gulps as she took in her surroundings. The pub was warm and cosy, with a flagstone floor and dark red walls sporting landscapes by local artists and photos of the regulars embroiled in jolly japes. All around the bar were the decapitated heads of some malevolent-looking furry creatures with sharp teeth and bright eyes. Otters? Could they be otters? People didn’t decapitate otters, did they? She shuddered slightly, then noticed one of them was sporting a beret and a pair of sunglasses, which made her smile and made the whole thing less sinister.
The chalked-up menu looked enticing: steak and mushroom pie, lamb shanks, baked trout. She thought she might come back later and have supper here.
She’d packed a few things from Waitrose, but she wanted something hot and nourishing that someone else had cooked.
There was a large framed Ordnance Survey map on the wall near the bar, and she wandered over to take a look. The glass was smeary with fingerprints; it had obviously been put up for the benefit of walkers rather than locals. She found Withybrook quickly, and the large scale of the map allowed her to get the lie of the land more than the cursory glance she had given it on her atlas. The rocky North Devon coast was about two miles away; the small town of Comberton about four, and Bamford, which according to Gussie boasted a railway station, a cinema, and a Marks and Spencer, was about ten miles inland. Between Withybrook and supposed civilisation were acres and acres of the sludge green that represented Exmoor, peppered with the occasional hamlet. Charlotte quailed at this evidence of just how remote she was.
She turned to find her rescuer standing behind her with a tiny, wire-haired dog under his arm.
‘This is Dido,’ he said, which made Charlotte realise she hadn’t introduced herself properly. She reached out to give Dido a scratch between the ears.
‘I’m Charlotte, by the way,’ she offered. ‘Charlotte Dixon.’
She used her maiden name, her professional name. She had already decided that she couldn’t risk calling herself Charlotte Briggs. Too many people might have read the articles.
‘Fitch.’ He smiled and held out his hand to formalise their introduction.
‘Fitch?’ She frowned. Was that his first name or his last?
He nodded. ‘Just plain Fitch.’
She took his hand, and her paw felt very tiny in his grasp.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Show me the offending rodent.’
Slightly anaesthetised by her gin and tonic, she led him up the street to Myrtle Cottage and showed him in, following behind with trepidation. For twenty minutes, Charlotte stood shivering in the hall, while behind the kitchen door she could hear Fitch’s murmurs of encouragement and Dido’s excited yaps. Eventually they emerged looking triumphant.
‘They’ve been nesting in your larder, getting in through the airbrick,’ he explained. ‘I’ve blocked it up, so they won’t be able to get back in.’
‘Have they all gone?’
‘Oh yes,’ Fitch assured her, pointing to Dido, who was happily lying on her back in the hall waving her legs in the air. ‘She wouldn’t be doing that if there were any still around.’
Charlotte looked at the heavy weight in the bottom of Fitch’s sack, and imagined the oily grey corpses.
‘What will you do with them?’ she asked, swallowing down her disgust.
‘Burn ’em,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘Beats watching Heartbeat.’
He smiled, and immediately his rather stern features softened.
‘You bought this place then?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t know it was on the market.’
‘I’m doing it up for a friend,’ Charlotte explained. ‘She wants to sell it. I’m an interior designer.’
He raised one of his thick, dark eyebrows.
‘Shouldn’t go too mad,’ he said. ‘They won’t appreciate it down here.’
‘Are you . . . not from round here then?’
‘My wife is, born and bred. But I’m from away.’ He gave the word a heavy irony. ‘Only Gloucestershire, but it might as well be Timbuktu.’
‘Oh. Are they that bad about outsiders, then?’
‘No, no, no - they’re fine, as long as you don’t try to rock the boat, or change anything. Or start any anti-bloodsports campaigns. And I wouldn’t recommend marrying in.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Charlotte hastily. ‘I’m not here to look for a husband.’
Fitch looked at her, rather puzzled, and she felt perhaps she had loaded her comment rather too much. Her voice went up an octave, as it always did when she was nervous. She smiled at him, eyes wide with innocence.
‘I’m young, free and single, and I intend to stay that way.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, and she felt embarrassed. She’d have to learn to play it cool if she wasn’t going to blow her cover.
‘Thank you so much for helping me,’ she went on. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t.’
‘No problem.’ He clicked his fingers to attract Dido’s attention. ‘Just give me a shout if you have any more unwanted visitors.’
He let himself out, and the two of them melted away into the shadows.
Charlotte stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them go. She felt the urge to call him back. She didn’t want to face the cold emptiness of the house. She was going to be incarcerated here for the next few months, and she knew already that she had made a dreadful mistake. But where else could she go?
She took in a deep breath to steel herself. She’d confront her fear, find the heating and put it on, get her things in from the car, then go back down to the pub for a meal and a large glass of red wine.
An hour and a half later she was feeling a little better about things. Once she’d turned the central heating on, the house heated up quickly. Gussie and her brothers had cleared out most of the old lady’s detritus, but had left behind the better furniture, so there were tables and chairs, a sofa and a bed, which Charlotte made up with her best linen sheets and goose-down duvet. She unpacked her clothes and put them in the wardrobe, put the food she had brought into the fridge, and decided to leave everything else in the back of the truck for tomorrow. She put her digital radio in the kitchen, and once she’d found a decent jazz station and the syncopated notes poured out into the emptiness, the house felt less threatening. She decided to leave a full inspection until the morning. Everything would look better in the light of day.
At seven o’clock she decided to venture back down to the Speckled Trout in search of sustenance. She kept her jeans on, but put on her favourite cable-knit cashmere sweater, knotted a Georgina von Etzdorf scarf round her throat, and put on some pale pink lip-gloss. She didn’t want to look overdressed, like some fancy out-of-towner, but making an effort to look nice was part of her default.
The pub was virtually empty when she went in. Apart from the barman, there was just one lone figure sitting at the bar: a boy, with a mop of dishevelled dirty blonde hair, wearing skinny jeans, Converse trainers, and a V-neck jumper that looked as if it had shrunk in the wash. From a distance, he looked like a fourteen-year-old in need of a good meal. But as he looked up at her and met her eyes, Charlotte saw a bleakness that no fourteen-year-old could summon up. He gave her a wintry smile and looked back down into his glass.
Feeling slightly self-conscious, she ordered some food and went to sit down at a small table for two near the huge inglenook fireplace. There was a merry blaze, and soon she felt the warmth defrosting her bones. While she waited, several people came in and ordered drinks, and went to sit on their own. Sunday night, it seemed, was a time of solitary contemplation: the time when all the fun of the weekend was over but the hurly-burly of the week hadn’t yet started. A time of reflection and resolution.
Her steak and mushroom pie duly arrived. It had a thyme pastry topping, and came with buttery carrots and new potatoes and crunchy mange touts. She felt strengthened by the fare, and went back up to the bar to order another glass of wine and a pudding.
‘Lemon sponge, please,’ she told the barman. ‘And another glass of red wine.’
The boy at the bar slid his own glass across the counter.
‘And another in there, when you’re ready, Norman.’
He ran his hands through his hair in what was obviously a nervous habit. His knuckles were raw, the nails ragged and bitten, and the skin looked chapped and angry. He turned to look at Charlotte, scrutinising her warily.
‘You’re not from round ’ere, are you?’ he asked Charlotte in a cod West Country accent.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You’re not in the obligatory
fleece. And you’re wearing lipstick.’ He leaned into her confidentially. ‘The sheep are more enticing than most of the women in Withybrook.’
Charlotte wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘Are you?’ she managed eventually. ‘From round here, I mean?’
Marriage and Other Games Page 10
