‘Some other force takes over sometimes,’ Rosie said. ‘A safety valve for our brains or something.’
‘Yeah, maybe. It was pretty embarrassing though, welcoming Tom the way I did. You know …’
‘I know. Half dressed and looking damned sexy, if I might say so, and don’t take that the wrong way. Although, if I were a betting woman – which I’m not – I’d put money on the fact Tom Gasson-whatsit doesn’t think you’re rat-ugly.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Cara laughed.
‘Meant as one, sort of. It’s time you started thinking about it again, sweetie,’ Rosie said.
‘What?’
‘Feeling sexy. Being sexy.’
Cara didn’t think this was really the moment for this sort of conversation, but that was Rosie all over – sort one problem, onto the next. Not that Cara had considered feeling sexy or not a problem.
‘Rosie, I …’
‘Stop! No excuses!’ Rosie held a hand out, palm forward, traffic-policeman style. ‘And you can start with that chap upstairs.’
‘I don’t think so …’
‘If you don’t want him, I’ll have him.’
‘Hey, hang on. I only said I didn’t think so, not that I wouldn’t – not the same thing. But maybe not tonight,’ Cara said. She grinned at Rosie.
‘But you’re thinking about it?’
‘I could be,’ Cara told her. She twisted her rings round and round her finger.
‘Not with those still on your finger, you couldn’t. Did Tom double-barrelled Whatsit notice?’
‘He didn’t bring it into the conversation, no,’ Cara said. She yawned, monumentally tired now.
‘Ah, my cue to go,’ Rosie said. ‘Or I could stay if you want me to. In case you have the vapours in the night or something.’
‘No, I’ll be fine,’ Cara said, unable to stifle yet another yawn.
‘Oh yes, quite forgot. You’ve got your very own knight in shining armour upstairs.’ Rosie affected an over-the-top pouty pose and performed a sexy wriggle.
‘Stop it. I doubt he’ll want to stay more than the one night now. He must think this is a madhouse. First you clock him one, then a policeman walks in with Mae looking white with shock and soaking wet. This B&B hasn’t got off to a good start, has it? And I need the money, I really do.’
‘Right. There’s only one way to do that then, isn’t there? Get some shut-eye, then get to work on getting more bookings and earning it. You don’t think I like doing Brazilians on women who, well, let’s say, should be spending more on personal hygiene, for heaven’s sake! No, don’t say anything. I’m off, sweetie.’ She reached for Cara and gave her one of her massive, rocking, bear hugs. ‘As that lightweight Scarlett O’Hara would have said, tomorrow is another day.’
Mae lay shivering in the darkness despite the hot bath that Rosie had run for her. Honestly, did Rosie really think I wanted her to sit and watch me? Mae was outraged at the thought. But Rosie had stayed, citing the fact that shock was dangerous and that Mae might faint in the bath from the contrast of going from cold sea to warm scented bath water. The paramedics had already given her a going over in the back of the ambulance and pronounced her okay to go home and not to hospital, so how come Rosie thought better than them? What was Rosie doing here anyway? She could hear her mother and Rosie trying to talk quietly in the room below, but since being in the water and listening hard for sounds of the lifeboat, her hearing seemed to have taken on radar-like properties. Ah, the front door was being opened and then closed again – well banged shut – that would be Rosie, who never did things by halves. And then Mae heard her mother’s footfalls on the stairs; the way she stepped on the outsides of the treads so as not to make the loose boards creak – it sounded to Mae like a large and loping creature coming slowly to get her.
‘Mae?’ Her mother’s whisper, not far from her ear.
Mae opened her eyes a little and her mum was there, silhouetted in the light coming in from the table lamp on the landing, a bit spooky really.
‘I was nearly asleep then,’ Mae grumbled. She didn’t want to talk now. Didn’t want to have to say that it was all over between her and Josh, even though she’d probably saved his life. The scumbag hadn’t even said thank you. And as for his father, well, the Reverend David Maynard had had the cheek to suggest it was her fault for making Josh take the Laser out! As if!
‘We’ll talk in the morning, then.’
‘Like who was that bloke on the sofa with you? You practically had no clothes on, Mum. And I’d been out there in danger, and you knew!’
Oh God, why had she said that? She was only prolonging the conversation, wasn’t she?
‘Shock and fear makes you do funny things, Mae. I knew there was nothing I could physically do to save you, and that all I could do was sit and wait. But I had to do something, so I had a shower. And …’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mae interrupted. She knew all about shock and fear now. She’d been shocked at how quickly Josh seemed to give in when they were in danger and did nothing to save her. Fear had made her try to keep him afloat in the darkness – keep him alive because the thought of being with a dead body had terrified her. And then there was the fact he had been drinking again, sneakily putting something in his coke bottles, changing his personality – the Jekyll and Hyde effect, so Mr Trimble had told them all in a Social Studies tutorial.
‘And I was wearing a raincoat,’ her mother said.
‘But it’s beyond terrible, that raincoat!’
‘I don’t suppose he noticed. And anyway, he’s a B&B guest, not a friend or anything.’
‘Keep him that way then, Mum. Okay?’
‘I thought you didn’t want to talk.’
‘I don’t. So who is he?’
‘Tom Gasson-Smith. He’s an artist. He’s our new B&B guest. I thought I’d told you?’
‘I dunno, did you?’
Mae glanced at the photograph of her dad on her bedside table. The light from the ridiculously low-wattage bulb her mum insisted on made it look as though he had a halo. Whatever … he was a million times better than that Tom Gasson-Whatsit and if her mum thought for a minute…
‘He could be here until the …’
‘In the morning, Mum,’ Mae interrupted. ‘Please.’ She snatched at the switch on the bedside lamp. She turned away from her mother and pulled the duvet up over her head. Oh, Dad, none of this would have happened if you hadn’t gone and got yourself killed. Nothing’s been the same since. I don’t want all these strangers sharing the bathroom, sitting in the kitchen eating toast and drinking coffee. And I want to know why it’s taking so long to value a few paintings. Mae yawned – she must remember to ask her mum about the paintings and when they would be coming back. Or, if they were worth thousands, she could sell them and then they wouldn’t have to have stupid B&B guests, would they?
She felt the weight of her mum’s hand, pressing the duvet onto the top of her shoulders. Although she didn’t really want it to, the gesture brought tears to her eyes. Her mum hadn’t said one word about the accident with the dinghy. When she got back home, she’d just hugged her tight like she’d never let her go, as wet as Mae had been and wrapped in a scratchy, smelly old blanket the policeman who’d brought her home had got out of the boot of the police car.
But now she was going to have to face the whole village as the ex-girlfriend of Josh Maynard, wasn’t she?
I’m not going to cry. I’m not. I’m not…
Chapter Seventeen
‘Cocoa,’ Cara whispered to herself, closing Mae’s bedroom door gently behind her. ‘I need cocoa.’ She knew she wouldn’t sleep yet, so there was no point in trying.
She crept back down the stairs, doing her best not to step on the loose boards and make them creak. Tom might be asleep – and probably nursing a black eye by now.
But no, there he was, as though thinking about him had made him materialise in front of her. Tom stood facing the door, hands deep in the pockets of h
is chinos, glancing back now and then at a pan of milk beginning to bubble on the stove. The cocoa tin, and two mugs with spoons in them, were on the table.
‘How’s your daughter?’ he asked.
‘Cross, I think. Probably embarrassed.’
‘About?’
Cara shrugged. What could she say? The fuss she’d caused? The worry she’d given her mother? The fact her dad had died and wasn’t there to protect her? Cara knew in her heart that Mark would never have let Mae go sailing with Josh. And then there was the fact Mae had read all the wrong things into the fact she’d come home to find her mother on the sofa with Tom, showing more flesh than she ought? No, she couldn’t say that.
‘Mothers and daughters. Never an easy ride,’ Tom said when Cara was slow to respond, helping her fill the conversational gap. ‘My mother and my sister were at one another’s necks for years. Still are at times. And don’t get me on the subject of fathers and sons.’
He smiled sadly at Cara. Now wasn’t the time to ask what sort of a rotten time of it he might have had with his father. And anyway, wasn’t he just being kind, saying all that – trying to make Cara feel better about things?
‘Ah! Milk!’ Tom said. He yanked the saucepan from the flames just before it boiled over. ‘Hot chocolate? I thought you might be able to use one. Forgive me for taking liberties when I’ve only been here, what, a couple of hours, but cocoa’s my cure-all.’
‘Mine, too,’ Cara said.
‘You’re not going to throw me out, then?’
‘For making cocoa?’ Cara said, a smile creeping to the corners of her mouth. ‘No.’
‘Phew! Tom said, wiping the back of a hand across his forehead. ‘You’ll find I’m fairly house-trained.’ He scanned the room as though looking for something. ‘Sugar?’ he asked.
‘Middle cupboard, top right,’ Cara told him.
‘Oh, I’ve found that. I meant, do you take sugar?’
Cara waited for it to feel strange, having a man in her kitchen again, and a stranger at that, but it didn’t.
‘Two, please. I think I might need a sugar fix after tonight’s drama.’
‘Make that two of us,’ Tom laughed. He put a hand to his eye, which was now beginning to close, the skin around it taking on the start of a bruise. There was a strip of drying blood on his left cheek where Rosie had hit him. ‘Your friend packs a punch.’
Cara winced.
‘I’m so sorry about that. Rosie’s been overprotective of me ever since …’ No, she wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t even think about evoking sympathy from Tom for her situation.
Cara waited while Tom finished making the cocoa.
‘I’ve got some hobnobs in a tin on the dresser.’
Tom put a hand to his mouth and brushed away imaginary crumbs.
‘Already found them as well,’ he laughed.
‘Have another.’
Suddenly, Cara didn’t want to be alone. But could she reasonably expect to keep Tom chatting? It was getting late. And he had a bruiser of a black eye in the making.
‘Not now,’ he said. And then he yawned. ‘Right, I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for a bit of shut-eye. And I’m not talking about the one Rosie shut for me.’ He stirred sugar into Cara’s cocoa for her, found a tray and put her mug on it. ‘Up you go.’
‘Your room’s on the second floor. I could show you.’
‘You did. Earlier.’
‘God, yes,’ Cara said. ‘Sorry. It’s been a long day. I think I remembered to put a hospitality tray in there, didn’t I?’
‘Yep. But no cocoa. Hence the field trip to find some.’
Cara picked up her mug of cocoa from the tray and wrapped her hands around it – such a simple gesture to have a hot drink made for her, but a very profound one from Tom to know what she needed at that moment.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Cara said. ‘Breakfast room is just down the corridor. You can’t miss it.’
‘I’ll find it,’ Tom said. ‘Not for nothing did I get an A level in geography. Now up you go. I’ll turn off the lights.’
Cara went. Closing her bedroom door behind her, she put the cocoa down on the bedside table, and without taking off her clothes, crawled into bed.
She heard Tom moving about downstairs, shutting the fanlight windows, locking the door. Ought she to be more wary that he was doing that? After all, the Hines hadn’t felt threatening and look what they did! But there was something about Tom that told Cara he was to be trusted – the sort of man who would always do more good than harm. She must remember to ask him how long he would be staying, just so she could let his room if he decided to go. He might or might not want to stay more than the one night now, and really it didn’t matter if he didn’t, but Cara hoped he would.
Chapter Eighteen
Tom Gasson-Smith didn’t disappear in the night. Cara took tea and toast to Mae in bed and came back down to find Tom leaning against the counter-top by the sink in the kitchen.
‘I don’t suppose,’ Tom said, ‘that you have that old American movie remedy for a black eye lurking in your freezer, have you?’
‘Steak?’ Cara laughed. ‘Afraid not. Half a pound of streaky bacon is the nearest I can get. Sorry. And I’m sorry I laughed. That eye doesn’t look funny at all.’
Tom’s eye had completely closed up and was very swollen, the skin around it all shades of blue and yellowing at the edges, and there was a deep ridge of the same colours on his cheekbone.
‘Let’s just say,’ Tom said, ‘that it’s probably fortunate Rosie is your friend. I wouldn’t want her as an enemy.’
‘That’s what Mae says. She can be a bit bossy sometimes. She’s Mae’s godmother, and lays down the law a bit.’
‘So, what does the handy-with-her-fists Rosie do?’
‘Beauty therapist.’
And the irony is not lost on me, looking such a wreck this morning – and my best friend a beauty therapist.
Cara ran her hands through her dishevelled hair, ran her tongue around lips she knew ought to have had at least a slick of lip gloss. But since Mark’s death she simply hadn’t bothered to do her make-up first thing, only bothering to put a bit of mascara and lipstick on before leaving the house.
With Tom standing in front of her, she didn’t wonder why she was now bothered about looking good, wanting to look better than she knew she did in her second-best jeans and a T-shirt that had gone out of shape with age. At least she’d had a shower – first hot, then cold to wake her up and get her circulation going – and rubbed some face cream in.
‘I didn’t expect you to be up so early, Tom,’ Cara said.
A lousy excuse for slapdash habits, she knew.
‘The artist in me,’ Tom said. ‘Dawn light is quite marvellous to paint and there are few distractions. Um …’ He was looking embarrassed now. ‘Cara?’
‘Yes. Cara Howard.’
‘Phew! I know you told me but, well, with everything that went on last night I lay awake for ages trying to remember your name. I went through the whole alphabet at least a dozen times before I decided it had begun with a ‘c’. Lovely name, by the way.’
‘Thank you. I’ve always liked it. My mother always told the story that she was reading a romantic novel when she was pregnant with me and the heroine was called Cara and so here I am!’
‘Mrs Cara Howard?’ Tom asked.
‘Officially,’ Cara said. ‘I’m a widow.’ Widow. The word sounded so old – something that normally came with a pension and married children there to have you over for Sunday lunch and Christmas Day. Not someone who was yet to have their fortieth birthday. And then, because she hadn’t intended to play the sympathy card and she was afraid that was how it might have come out, she went on, ‘That’s why I asked Rosie to come over when Mae went missing. Being on your own is scary, and the thought of something terrible happening to Mae was just too much. And I didn’t want to be here on my own if it had.’
‘No. No, I can understand tha
t. I’m sorry, Cara,’ Tom said softly. ‘That you’ve had the sadness of widowhood to deal with.’ He pressed his lips together as though he wanted to say something else on the subject, but wasn’t going to. Then he smiled warmly. ‘Shall I cook the bacon and rustle us up breakfast, or will you?’
‘I will, of course,’ Cara told him, already beginning to find bowls and plates and cutlery – things that didn’t match but which would have to do. She opened the door of the fridge and found a box of eggs, and two tomatoes.
‘I’m easy to feed,’ Tom said. ‘In fact, if you show me where everything is, I’ll do it myself for the rest of my stay. I need to be up and out very early to catch the light, and then I’ll be in my room painting, maybe start a few canvases if that’s okay with you.’
‘What do you paint?’ Cara asked, knowing she was being rather unrefined if Tom was indeed as well known for painting nudes as Rosie said he was. She’d looked him up on Google but hadn’t looked at any of his artwork, only him.
‘I’ve got a reputation for figurative art. That’s, um …’ Tom laced his fingers, making his knuckles crack. Choosing his words?
‘Nudes,’ Cara finished for him. ‘Rosie said.’
‘Ah, I thought she might. My reputation has come before me.’
‘She was full of compliments.’
‘Phew!’ Tom said, running the back of his hand across his forehead in mock-relief. ‘But nudes aren’t all I can do. I’ve got to the stage where I feel my work needs to move on, hence this art festival. I might have a stab at portrait painting, too. Watercolours and oils, but I’m straying into acrylics now as well. The view from your front door is amazing, so I may want to take some photos from there after breakfast, do a few quick sketches. I won’t get in your way. Don’t worry if you hear the click of my camera at odd times.’
Tom was sounding as though he was reading Cara his CV – almost as though he was nervous.
‘Yes,’ she said smiling, and doing the best she could to make him feel at home in her house, ‘the view is amazing, and no, you won’t get in my way.’
The Little B & B at Cove End Page 14