Chapter Nineteen
Rosa
I change my complete outfit and put on a little bit of makeup. My face is showing the effects of the alcohol these days and probably all the stress I’ve been under of late.
It’s already gone four and Kane hasn’t turned up yet.
I busy myself by putting away all the clothes that littered my room from getting ready yesterday evening.
He still hasn’t turned up.
I’m trying hard to avoid pouring a drink. It may be Sunday and an excuse to perhaps start a little earlier than usual but I feel like I’ve got to make a good impression and alcohol doesn’t help with that.
I go into the kitchen to check my phone.
Two texts.
Sorry late.
Phew, that’s a relief. I text back telling Kane not to worry.
Then read the next text.
Too embarrassed to answer? Don’t you know it.
What is wrong with him? Cxxx. Why is he feeling the need to lash out at me now? He’s got his new life all sewn up. Hasn’t he?
I hover over the reply box before deciding to ignore it and click the phone off.
I forgot to tell Poppy about Charles’ text and his mistaken quip about what he thought he knew about Kane. And I won’t be worrying Kane about the texts either.
I start chopping some salad for an impromptu meal if Kane wants to eat before heading down to Oxford and even make a frittata before he buzzes on the gate.
I skip to the intercom like a carefree loved up teenager and buzz him in, quickly checking out my image in the hall mirror when I hear him bound up the front steps.
I’m standing on the other side of the door and can see his hazy outline through the patterned glass. I smile when he steadies himself and smooths down his shirt before rapping on the glass.
I take a deep breath before opening the door to him.
But the composure is lost as soon as he steps in, pushing me backwards against the wall with his mouth and his hands and his erection.
It’s like we’ve been apart for a month, not half a day.
He’s scented and his clothes are fresh, which is unfortunate because I secretly desired him in his work clothes, dirt soiled hands and sweat drenched chest.
His rough hands easily spin me around and bend me forward onto the stairs, which I brace off of as he takes me from behind.
There is no flirting or foreplay.
We’d been apart for nearly a day, you see.
With the last almighty ram, he bends over me, gently peppering kisses onto the back of my neck, where my hair hangs forward.
“Wow,” he growls into my ear.
“I’ve made salad.” I reply.
He laughs.
“I’m balls deep inside you and you tell me you’ve made salad?”
Oh my.
~~~~~~
He tells me about his day and the four hour drive down to Oxford while he drinks water and eats frittata and salad.
I watch and listen and sip wine.
We’re going to be apart for a whole month. It will be mid-July before he’s done and barely twenty-four hours have passed since our first date and I already know I can’t live without him. Not for a day, let alone a month.
He finally leaves at midnight, leaving me sated in my bed while he embarks on his long drive home.
Even though so much has happened today, I can’t fall asleep. It’s as if the fog that has clouded my thoughts for so long has lifted and I’ve actually got quite a lot to think about.
I break the tossing and turning to go make a malted drink. Curling up on the sofa with a blanket. I watch some random TV program and finally drift off without the knowledge of who killed her, or why.
~~~~~
I’d forgotten it was Monday when I first wake. Convinced it is Sunday and I’d slept on the sofa after a solitary skin-full the night before.
It takes me a good few minutes to piece everything together before I leap up with cramp and start frantically hopping around the living room, searching for my phone so I can check on the time.
It’s not good. I’ve got no time to get ready.
I run upstairs and grab a change of clothes. A quick brush of the hair and touch of make-up and I’m out of the house.
My phone is full of message alerts and I don’t really have time to read them, but I make time for Kane’s text.
Call soon?
On the way to the office I mull over the meaning of the text. Is he asking me to call him or is he calling me? Does he mean ring, or call round? When is soon? Now? Today? Next week? No kisses. Is that just a man thing?
Oh, why am I so worked up? We’ve had sex a few times over one weekend and I’m acting like we’re in a serious relationship.
Everyone is already in the office subdued with the Monday blues and I curse myself for not having had time to make decent coffee. The instant stuff in the office is so depressing. Breakfast I can do without but coffee? Absolutely not.
I take all of my files and notebook out of my desk drawer and power up the computer. I’ve been given a client to look after. Just following up on building drawings, not the interesting stuff, just where the drains need to go and that sort of thing. I think I might need a site visit this morning, otherwise it’s going to be a loooonnng day.
I deal with all the emails that have come in over the weekend from sad people who should have more important things to do. Like have sex on the stairs. My mind wanders again.
“So what happened to you Friday night?” whispers Ruth, who has sidled up alongside my desk.
“Nothing much.” I know full well my face is not agreeing with that evasive reply.
“Really? Who was that guy you left with?”
“What Kane?”
“Yes, I thought so.”
She slides back over to her desk when the boss comes in. He’s a bit precious about the office chitchat, telling me so, three times in the interview and again on the first day induction that it was not a place to socialise. They had organised events the last Friday of every month for that and a communal space outside for such frivolity during lunch breaks. Everyone had an excuse when it came to the Friday events, unless there was free food and drinks on offer, which apparently was rare; and the lunch breaks were staggered, so no chance of building relationships then either.
But I’m the one now wanting more information. What does she mean ‘Yes, I thought so?’ That implies she knows, or knows of, him.
I look across at her with a questioning expression. She emails me.
He used to date my friend.
What friend?
Michelle. It was awful what happened to her.
What happened to her?
The boss appears at my desk. He has a really disgusting habit of pushing his thighs right into the edge of it, rocking his hips back and forth. It’s like I can smell his rancid dick near my face. And this morning, with no coffee, and no breakfast, it makes me feel particularly queasy.
I stand to talk to him, like a proper human being would, and he asks for a run-down. This is his thing. Run-downs. He likes me to tell him what’s happening with all the projects I’m working on, before proceeding to give me ‘a little word of advice’ which is usually quite unnecessary and always condescending. I am as equally qualified, just my life choices weren’t as straightforward as his. If they were, I would have a practice of my own and I’m sure I wouldn’t be asking any of my staff for ‘rundowns’. But on the upside, he’s easy to push around. I tell him I’m going on a site visit and he doesn’t disagree.
“Does anyone want anything while I’m out? Coffee? Donuts?”
I’m barraged with a huge list of specialty drinks, none of which I’ll remember unless I write them down. Which I do at Ruth’s desk. While I scribble a list of skinny latte’s, matcha tea and full fat everything, she is penning me a note. She folds it up and discretely puts it on top of my list.
It’s like we’re swapping secrets in class, but I don�
�t care because I’m desperate to know where our conversation was heading.
I wait until I’m in the car before unfolding her note and have to read it through three times before I can decipher the scrawl.
Michelle was my best friend at school but then she went off to university. When she came back to see her family she would come with Kane. I only met him once but they were living together in Oxford by then, although I do remember him from school, but he was four years older than me. I didn’t recognise him at the bar, He used to have long hair (same backside)!!
Goodness me Ruth, get to the point.
Family said she started with headaches. Thought she was studying too much. Brain tumour - she died. It was awful.
Oh. My stomach knots.
After a few moments of contemplation, I turn the key in the engine and the car splutters a few times before firing up. A sign, me thinks, I need to progress with selling this car, sooner rather than later.
The site visit is straightforward, as I knew it would be, and gives me plenty of time to go to the coffee shop. I read the other messages while waiting for my order.
The estate agent has sent three separate messages. Must be their automated systems or something. They’ve arranged a second viewing with the Coots, have a new viewer request and they need me to ring them to discuss Mr Cockburn-Holt’s response regarding the price.
Typical. I’m sure he’s being difficult.
In response to my question about power of attorney for Dad’s car, the solicitor has reminded me that I am obliged to declare all sales over a thousand pounds. She quite clearly hasn’t understood my question or, more likely, her secretary is responding to the emails.
Typical. If you want a job done right, do it yourself.
I leave with two cardboard trays, studded with plastic foam cups, each with an illegible squiggle on the top. I know which is mine, as it just has a single letter on the top. ‘C’. I carefully place the trays in the foot well of the car, looking across to them, yearning for a drink at every set of traffic lights. There are no cup holders in this car and that is proving to be rather annoying. It has straps in the boot to hold a wicker picnic hamper and a clip on the dash for a fountain pen and a glove box that quite literally would only hold one pair of gloves. But no cup holder.
The solicitor’s message has annoyed me and I decide to deal with now, calling them before I leave the parked car. I insist on speaking to her direct rather than leaving a message or discussing it with her secretary. When I’m put through, she understands perfectly what I mean, which obviously indicates she’d never even seen my email, and promises to get their probate lawyer to deal with it today.
Good.
The boss is overtly studying his watch when I return and makes a snide comment about the drinks when I hand them all around.
Prick.
Ruth rolls her eyes at me.
I decide to forego lunch to make up the time at the coffee shop and also to ensure I can leave on time tonight.
Chapter Twenty
Rosa
As I thought, it turns out to be a seriously long day. I leave on time, not just because of how the day has dragged, but also because I have to catch the estate agents before they close for the day.
The traffic is heavy and it’s nearly half past five when I arrive at the shop. Joanne is about to turn the opening hours sign around on the door, just as I make a gesture to push against it. I put on my best ‘sorry’ face and she succumbs. They’ll earn five thousand pounds if they sell our house, so that’s the least she can do.
“Hello, Mrs Cockburn-Holt, you just caught us.”
“I know.”
“Have you come about the messages we left for you?”
“Yes.”
She sits down at her computer, tapping with her pen on the table and making mindless conversation, while it fires back up.
We arrange the viewings and then she taps and clicks and taps a few more times on the keyboard before telling me what Charles has said. It’s like she can’t just tell me, she has to read the notes she made, verbatim.
“He would like to discuss it face to face.”
“Humpf.” I cough. “Sorry, he wants to do what?”
A look of embarrassment settles on her face. I feel sorry for her. I’m sure her job description didn’t include marriage mediator but there is no way in hell I am going to sit across a table from him in an estate agent’s office.
“He wants to meet to discuss it.” She re-iterates.
“I’m sorry but, no. We will just keep the price where it is.”
‘Oh, well that will mean cancelling the Coots appointment.”
“Fine.”
“I could always ask the manager to call Mr Cockburn-Holt, see if he can get him to agree to a price reduction.”
“Yes, please do.”
“I’ll ring him now.”
She calls using her mobile and wanders into the back office which I think is awfully rude. I turn to the other girl in the office who is ready to go home, sat in her coat and with her handbag on her lap. I smile at her and she fake smiles back. Charming.
Joanne comes back to the main office.
“Yes, he said he will no doubt see Mr Cockburn-Holt tomorrow at the club, so he’ll have a word then.”
“Good.” I’m starting not to like this estate agent, especially if he’s fraternising with Charles.
I wish them a good evening and leave them to it.
Although it kills me, I manage to drive passed the convenience store without stopping for a bottle of wine. As I get to the gates I see a box placed on the floor near the pillar. Strange. As I edge closer I make out a flower motif on the side. I park the car and then go back to check it out. Flowers in a box.
I get butterflies in my stomach and I practically skip back up the drive and to the front door.
Taking them straight through to the kitchen, I quickly pick a ready meal out of the freezer, slapping it straight into the microwave. No breakfast and no lunch has left me ravenous and I’m ready to wolf down whatever the gloop is in the plastic container. I’m sure it was identifiable when I froze it but not now that I actually want to eat it.
Then I turn my attention to the flowers. The box takes some opening, which is actually an increasing frustrating occurrence, goodness knows what it will be like when I develop arthritic hands in later life. After repeated stabs with a kitchen knife and tearing at it with scissors, I finally manage to open the box. I carefully remove the flowers, along with the plastic bag full of water at the bottom of the box. I find a vase big enough under the sink, prick the water bag and transfer them into the vase. They smell divine and I arrange them before taking a photo to send to Poppy. Then I open the envelope which has obviously been hand written by the florist. I wonder what they must think when they are asked to write love sonnets and the like to a recipient, and if there are any messages they refuse to write or silently change.
It doesn’t sweeten the distaste when I do read the words, to know that it has been written by another’s hand.
Rosa, I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. Can we please talk? Cxxx
I drop the card on the floor like it is contaminated with cyanide and back away from it and towards the flower arrangement. Picking the whole vase up I walk it through the back hallway and out to the waste bins. The whole lot is dumped in.
What the hell does he think he is playing at?
I’m furious.
I sit at the kitchen table, panting like I’ve run ten miles and still the fury incapacitates me.
Who does he think he is?
My phone buzzes on the table and I take a deep breath before answering it.
“Hi Kane.”
“Hey sexy.” I cross my legs.
“Did you get back okay?”
“Of course. Good day at work?”
“Yeah work was fine.” I push the card around the floor with my foot.
“Something else wasn’t?”
I laugh of
f the comment. “No, it’s all good.” I cross my fingers, thankful that he hasn’t Face-Timed me. “How was your day?”
“Okay. Just found it hard to concentrate.”
“Me too.”
“Thought about this coming weekend.”
Where is this going? Mild panic rises up in my throat and I shuffle in my seat preparing myself for the worst. “Oh yeah?”
“And I wondered if… and you can always say no… I wondered if, you would like to come down here at the weekend? I’ll still have to touch base with the research team but we could still…”
“Yes.” I interrupt him.
“Go out and I could show you… Did you just say yes?”
“Yes, I’d love to.”
There are so many reasons why that sounds like such an awesome invitation but above all seeing him is the prime one.
Hmm. Then I think about the car. It will probably be a tad too far to risk taking the Jag but I am probably due a couple of days holiday. I could maybe do a long weekend and take the train.
Oh wow, this sounds so good. I’ve not been anywhere for months and not to have to spend a whole weekend in this house, and have a couple of days off work.
My brain is such a whirlwind of matching underwear sets, suitable shoes for Oxford’s cobbled streets and where my Kindle might be for the journey, that I only catch the end of him saying, “Great, because life is too short.”
Poignant.
“I…” I want to tell him I know about Michelle but don’t think it’s an appropriate revelation over the telephone. I’ll wait until he brings the subject up. I wonder if it is the house they shared that I’ll be staying at. That sends a shiver down my spine.
“I can’t wait.” I finish.
“Yeah same.”
We spend a whole hour chatting about our day, the frivolous bits anyway, I don’t tell him about the text or the flowers or the estate agent or the solicitor, because our relationship isn’t at that level yet.
He tells me about progress on their paper and how Belle has been grumpy. Jealous that she had been left the other night and when he went to pick her up late on Sunday she wouldn’t look at him all the journey home. Just curled up in the foot-well.
Into the Light Page 13