"You're a charming sod," Gemma agreed now. "Poor Doug would've given rubies to keep us there. I imagine she's pouring boiling oil over him as we speak."
"Doug's all right." Although he said it as a statement, Gemma sensed that her approval mattered to him.
"Yes."
"The best of the lot, since you left. It helps a bit." He glanced at her. "I shouldn't say this. But in a way I'll be sorry to see this case finished. It's been good to be together again."
She touched her fingers to his cheek. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be fed up with me soon enough."
***
At first, she worried about the bedroom's distance from Toby, who was now an entire floor below, when she was used to hearing his breathing from the next room. But she told herself he was safe and sound, sharing with Kit, and Kincaid soon took her mind off anything but decreasing the space between them.
She slept, in their bed for the first time, deeply and luxuriously, and she awakened early with a tremendous sense of energy and a determination to put her house in order.
By early afternoon, by force of will, she had reduced the still-packed boxes to a meager half-dozen. And she'd been to the supermarket, stocking pantry and fridge with necessities as well as treats for the children. The boys had organized their room, Toby with considerable assistance from Kit, and when they'd finished sandwiches in the kitchen, she'd sent them out to the garden to burn off some energy. An arctic front had dipped down from Scotland during the night. There was the smell of snow in the cold, gray air, and to Gemma it finally felt like Christmas.
Kincaid had been shelving books, hooking up the stereo system, and, last she heard, hanging his beloved London Transport posters. The hammering had recently stopped, however, so she went into the sitting room to see what he was doing.
He stood with his back to the hearth, looking quite pleased with himself. He'd managed to get the gas fire going, "White Christmas" played on the sound system and, above the mantel, he had hung the oil painting of the soulful-eyed hunting spaniel. Until now, they'd had no place to display the portrait. It made her think of Geordie, the cocker spaniel, and she wondered if she should tell Duncan about the commitment she'd made. No, she'd wait, she decided, at least until she heard from Bryony.
Instead, she said, "Oh, it's lovely… Everything's lovely." With books and posters and baskets of the children's toys, the room looked infinitely inviting. The only thing missing was the Christmas tree, and Wesley hadn't rung her. She realized she'd no way to contact him, and chided herself for not getting his phone number.
As if summoned by her thought, Wesley arrived three minutes later. Beside him stood not Bryony, but Marc Mitchell, holding the cocker spaniel in his arms.
"What-" Gemma stared at them. "But I thought you were going to ring- both of you, I mean."
"Bryony's holding her first clinic this afternoon," explained Marc. "And the dog's owner brought him round, so Bryony asked me if I'd bring him to you as a surprise. Heavy beastie," he added, setting Geordie down.
"And as I was lending a hand at the clinic," said Wesley, "I thought I'd bring your tree." He nodded towards a white van sitting at the curb. "Otto's contribution- he loaned the van."
Gemma recovered enough to say, "Oh, come in, please. Forgive my manners." Kincaid had appeared behind her, a hand on her shoulder. She introduced him, then gave him what she hoped was a coherent explanation of their visitors' burdens.
"Geordie, eh?" Kincaid dropped to one knee to fondle the dog's silky ears. "The kids will be thrilled."
"You don't mind, do you?" Gemma asked softly. "He was meant to be a Christmas surprise… for the family."
"I think he's lovely." He gave the dog a last pat and stood up. "Now, what about this tree?"
The three men managed to unload the tree from the van and lean it against the wall in the corner of the sitting room before the children, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, came trooping in from the garden.
It was the dog they noticed first, Kit wide-eyed with surprise, Toby his usual vocal self.
"What kind of doggie is he, Mummy? What's his name? Is he ours? Can we keep him?"
Gemma was accustomed to answering sequential questions. "Well, he's a cocker spaniel, his name is Geordie, and we'll have to see how he gets along with Tess and Sid before we're certain he can stay."
Tess was sniffing the spaniel cautiously, while Geordie stood, alert and quivering. Gemma watched anxiously, terrified the dogs might snap, but after a thorough investigation, Tess gave a playful bark and Geordie, his stump of a tail wagging furiously, sniffed back. Gemma breathed a sigh of relief.
"That just leaves Sid," she said, "though heaven knows where he is." Sid the cat had been released from the downstairs loo yesterday evening and had promptly vanished under the furniture, but his food bowl had been empty that morning. "Now he'll be even more upset."
"He was rescued from a rubbish bin when he was a kitten, so I imagine he can deal with another dog in the household," Kincaid reassured her.
"Do you mind if I nip out to the van for a minute?" asked Wesley. "I left a couple of things."
He came back with a paper bag from which he removed several boxes of tiny white fairy lights. "I didn't know if you had any, and I thought it would be rather a letdown if not…"
"Oh, Wesley, I don't know what to say. I bought a stand for the tree at the supermarket this morning, but I completely forgot lights." She retrieved the stand from the pantry, and Marc lifted the heavy tree into it with one apparently effortless heave.
"Can we put the lights on the tree now?" asked Kit, with the quiet intensity Gemma was learning meant he was either very excited or very happy.
"There is one more small thing," said Wesley. He pulled what looked like a pasteboard shirt box from the bag and opened it. A dozen little nests of white tissue paper held what at first glance looked like bright birds. But when Gemma examined them more closely, she saw that they were angels, their faces delicately painted on cloth, their robes and wings exquisitely sewn from colorful scraps of silks, brocades and organdy.
"But-"
"A housewarming gift from my mother. She makes them, and when I described you- Anyway, she said a new household needs its own set of angels." He shoved his hands in his pockets, and Gemma wondered if he were blushing. It was the first time she'd seen him discomfited.
"Wesley, they're gorgeous. Thank your mother for me. Where on earth did she learn to sew like this?"
"My grandmother was a crack seamstress-"
"Why is your hair like that?" interrupted Toby, pointing at Wesley's head. "Can I touch it?"
"Toby!"
"No, it's all right," said Wesley, laughing. He knelt down. "Put your fingers right in. They're called dreadlocks. White people can have them, too, but they have to work harder at it."
The doorbell rang again. This time it was Hazel, with Holly in tow and arms laden with carrier bags. Gemma did what any good hostess would do in such circumstances: She made tea.
***
Bryony packed her few remaining supplies into her case. The last of her clients had gone, and Marc had not yet returned from delivering the cocker spaniel to Gemma James.
Her task finished, she sat back in contentment, recalling each of the dozen or so dogs and the two cats she'd treated, and their owners. Sore paws, skin conditions, minor infections, fleas; there'd been nothing she wouldn't see in a normal day's work. But the owners' gratitude had been completely out of proportion to the seriousness of the animals' condition, and the work had given Bryony the greatest satisfaction she could remember experiencing.
Of course, there had been frustrations as well, things she'd been unable to treat, and she'd used most of the medicines and bandages she'd brought from the surgery. If she were going to continue this, she'd have to find some other means of financing- her bank balance wouldn't hold up long at this rate. And Gavin had been a right prat yesterday, standing over her, making sure she noted every item against her account. Did he think h
er dishonest?
It seemed to her that Gavin had been more difficult than usual this past week, making her wonder if Dawn Arrowood's death had had more than a casual impact on him. Could there have been more to their relationship than Gavin's flirting? She couldn't imagine a woman like Dawn taking Gavin seriously.
But then, who was she to say? She'd been attracted to Tom, after all, and had not seen him for the complete rotter he was until he'd waved it in front of her like a red flag.
A niggle in the back of her mind asked her if she could be wrong about Marc, too, but she refused even to entertain such an idea. The real question, the one she'd been avoiding for a good bit now, was where their relationship was going.
She'd invited him over for dinner the previous evening, as she often did, and although she couldn't compete with his cooking, she'd done her best with wine, candles, and atmosphere. For a moment, as he was saying good night, she'd thought something might happen. But then he'd given her his usual quick peck on the cheek and left.
Had it been her imagination, that instant of chemistry? Or did he truly believe that men and women could simply be friends, in which case her feelings for him could only lead to her complete humiliation. What if she were to slip up, say something blindingly obvious, and be kindly, politely rejected?
Just the thought made her face burn with anguish and embarrassment, and at that moment Marc walked in.
"Bryony? Are you all right?" He came closer and peered at her. "You're as red as beetroot."
"I'm fine," she lied. "I'm absolutely fine."
***
Toby had commandeered Hazel and Holly for an immediate tour of the house and garden, while Marc helped Kincaid and Kit level the tree in its stand.
Gemma glanced at Wesley as they waited for the water to boil in the kitchen. "You're good with the kids. Didn't you say you help Otto out a bit? I remember you were picking his girls up from school the other day."
"Poor mites. At least their dad's around all day, but Otto doesn't have a clue about little girl things, you know what I mean? Plaiting hair and choosing dresses, stuff like that. Now me, I grew up with five sisters, so I know about girls."
"Five? One was bad enough in my case," Gemma said with feeling. Having nothing that matched, she put an odd assortment of mugs on a tray. "You've worked for Otto for a while- are you planning to stay in the restaurant business?"
"No way. It just pays my school fees. I can only afford to go part-time."
"University?" When he nodded, she asked, "What sort of degree?"
"Business." Wesley said this with no great enthusiasm.
"That sounds very practical. So what is it that you really want to do?"
He grinned. "You don't miss much, do you? I'd like to go into photography, like my uncle, but there's no money in it. So in the meantime I just shoot for fun, you know? Your little one, he'd be a treat to photograph some time, if you wouldn't mind. His face is transparent; it shows everything he's thinking."
"Devil or angel," Gemma agreed, chuckling. "But you might have to sit on him to hold him still long enough," she warned.
***
When the lights had been threaded on the tree and the handmade angels hung, Wesley and Marc said good-bye, to much protest from the children. Kincaid took the children and the dogs out into the communal garden for a game of football before the light faded altogether, leaving Gemma and Hazel curled up before the fire. Gemma had substituted Italian carols for old Christmas standards, and the ethereal voices filled the room.
The coffee table was littered with empty teacups and crumby biscuit plates that Gemma pushed aside to make room for her feet.
"I've brought a little housewarming gift," said Hazel, removing a book from her capacious handbag and giving it to Gemma.
"The Secrets of Aga Cookery?" Gemma asked, studying the cover.
"If you don't learn how to manage the thing, you'll be living on take-away pizza."
"You're not expecting me to turn into some sort of gourmet cook, are you? This"- Gemma's gesture took in the house- "is quite overwhelming enough. I'm still pinching myself. This can't be me, this can't be my life."
"And why not? There's no reason to limit yourself. And I don't know anyone more deserving. You've done a good job, bringing Toby up on your own." Hazel wagged an admonitory finger at her. "Not that I think this blended family of yours will be easy, mind you, but the point is, you don't have to do everything by yourself."
Gemma felt the too-easy tears stinging her eyes, and swiped angrily at them. "Damn it, I feel like a bloody fountain these days. It's maddening."
"It's your hormones, remember. You might as well resign yourself to it for the next few months."
"It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for this damned case. Every avenue turns out to be a complete dead end."
"But surely it's only been- what? A little more than a week? You don't normally expect a resolution in that short a time, do you?" Hazel frowned. "Tell me you won't have to miss Christmas dinner. No case is worth giving up Christmas turkey-"
"And Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without any turkey," Gemma chimed in, laughing.
"I've made the pudding, if you'll bring the brandy. You know," Hazel added more soberly, her dark eyes intent, "I didn't realize how accustomed I'd become to having you in the garage flat. Even when you weren't home, it still felt occupied. Now I find myself trying not to look across the garden."
"Will you let the flat again?"
"I don't think so," Hazel answered slowly. "I'm considering going back to work, actually, and using the space as an office. Now, with Toby gone, there's no reason Holly can't start infant school."
"I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me, get your life back. Now I feel I've left you in the lurch."
"Oh, forgive me for whining." Hazel reached out to pat Gemma's arm. "I'm just being selfish, and I'll get over it. You did absolutely the right thing- and I'd have been furious with you if you hadn't. Although I have to admit the house isn't the same without you banging on the old piano."
"I never banged!" Gemma protested, laughing, then sighed. "The only good thing I can say about this case is that I've been too busy to miss playing."
"How's Kit, by the way?" asked Hazel, as the sound of the children's shouting and the dogs' excited barking came from the garden. "It must be hard for him, leaving Grantchester, not to mention his dad- I mean, Ian- sodding off without a care in the world."
"If he misses Ian, or the cottage, he hasn't let on. But he seems happy." Gemma thought of all Kit had endured in the past year. "This will be his first Christmas without his mum, of course. I just hope we don't let him down."
***
By November, Mr. Pheilholz's grocery had closed its doors, unable to compete with the new Tesco on Portobello Road.
But it no longer mattered to Angel: she'd left her job the previous month. Karl had rented a flat in Chelsea, in a tiny Swiss-cottage mews just off the King's Road, and Angel had moved in with him.
At first, she'd intended to get another job, but as the weeks went by, the prospect seemed less and less inviting. Their evenings were a dizzying round of clubs and parties that lasted into the wee hours. Then there was bed to look forward to, sleeping intertwined until late in the mornings, when Karl got up to arrange the business meetings at which he liked her to play hostess. He was making a name for himself finding specialized antiques for well-off clients, and rather than expending capital on a shop, he conducted most of his transactions from the flat.
To Angel it seemed a dream, so far removed was their life from her existence in the Colville Terrace flat. And if, in quiet moments, she missed her old friends, she pushed such thoughts away. She had made an effort, in those heady first weeks, to introduce Karl to Betty and Ronnie Thomas. She'd arranged for them to have tea in a Portobello café, but she could tell from the moment they sat down that the meeting was doomed. The café was the sort of place Karl particularly disliked, with rings on the table, cheap crockery, and the per
vasive smell of chips frying in rancid oil.
Betty eyed Angel's new rabbit-fur coat and miniskirt with a mixture of dismay and envy. "My mum would die if she saw me in that," she whispered, and Angel could think of no reply that would not hurt Betty's feelings.
The tea, when it came, was coffee-colored and tasted like motor oil, and Karl didn't hide his distaste. Angel tried to carry the conversation, but Betty was shyly awkward, Ronnie hostile and condescending, and Karl obviously bored by the whole affair. When, after half an hour, he excused himself, pleading a business meeting, Angel was left staring at her friends across the table.
"Karl's awfully good-looking," Betty began hesitantly. "And older. Are you sure-"
"He's bad news, is what he is," interrupted Ronnie. "Have you any idea the sort of people he knows? Or what they do? It's nothing you've any business getting involved with-"
"I've met his friends," Angel retorted. "They're perfectly nice-"
"Nice! They do drugs, and worse. If you've any sense, you'll walk away from him before you get yourself in real trouble. I told you when you took that bedsit that no good would come of it-"
"That's enough, Ronnie," Angel spat at him. "You don't have any right to tell me what to do, and I'm not going to listen to you anymore." Trembling with fury, she stood with as much dignity as she could muster. Every head in the restaurant had turned towards them.
Betty's dark eyes had filled with tears. "Angel, don't. He didn't mean-"
"I'm sorry, but I have to go." Angel threw some money on the table and stormed out.
Huddling into her coat, she trudged up Portobello towards the tube stop. Yellow leaves rustled and whirled along the pavement, a harbinger of autumn, and she reminded herself how lucky she was not to be facing another winter with only a paraffin heater for comfort.
She hadn't told Betty and Ronnie that she'd moved in with Karl- God knew what Ronnie would have said then! But she had to look out for herself, move on with her life, even if it meant leaving Betty and Ronnie behind. Betty had her Colin, after all, and Ronnie… Why should she care what Ronnie thought?
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