After crossing through town, she pulled into David’s drive. Someone had done the garden, since the front window, once hidden completely by very tall grass, was fully visible. She took a key from her purse and let herself in, her breathing slowing while she waited for the alarm to sound. Nothing. The red eye in a top corner of the hall winked at her, but no siren followed. He’d forgotten. He was forgetful, and she adored him. Samson pushed a cold, wet nose into her hand before returning to his basket, a lavish, padded item chosen by a master who clearly loved his dog.
She entered the kitchen and switched on the lights. It was all new: bright white units, stainless steel splash-backs, Belfast sink, cooker with seven burners. Lights on kick-boards poured changing colours on to a metallic floor. It was fabulous. The living rooms were also stunning, and he had done all this for her.
Lucy crept up the stairs. Every time a tread creaked, she flinched, but she held on to the hope that his sleeping, like everything else, was done thoroughly.
Oh, God. He had bought her a four-poster and, if her eye was as good as she suspected it to be, it was French and a restored antique. He knew she loved château furniture. She felt like weeping. He was asleep, bedside lamp still burning, a book drooping from his hands. After removing his skew-whiff reading glasses, she relieved him of his book. It was Anne Robinson’s autobiography, so at least he had managed to put down the medical tomes.
In the en suite, which had clearly been a large bedroom in an earlier life, she found a double bath, plus a double shower. He was living in hope, then. Twin washbasins perched boldly on a granite surface above storage cupboards, and the mirror was surrounded by lights so bright that they were judgemental. Naked, she stared at herself, noting every crease, every bulge, oversized breasts that seemed to be moving south for the winter.
‘You have to be brave,’ she mouthed. David was going to be a lights-on man, so he might as well see what he was getting, warts and all. She shivered, pulled on a robe that was still damp from his shower or bath, switched off the bathroom lights and returned to the bedroom.
He was still asleep. She threw off the robe and, with excruciating slowness, peeled back the duvet and slid in beside him.
‘You’re late.’
She almost jumped out of her skin. ‘You sod. I thought you were fast asleep.’
‘Nope.’ He turned towards her. ‘Thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule. Who’s looking after Moira?’
‘Richard. I told him to come.’
‘Excellent. Now, be a good girl and think of England. You can leave the rest to me.’
Twelve
Lucy sat at the kitchen island in David’s suddenly spotless house. She was wearing one of his shirts, plus a pair of sunglasses she’d discovered in the depths of her Tignanello handbag, and she felt stunned. She hadn’t expected him to be so … so what? Competent scarcely covered it. Amazing was, perhaps, nearer the mark. But she was absolutely exhausted, and a busy day lay ahead.
She also nursed a vague suspicion that she was sitting outside the head teacher’s office after receiving punishment, and it wasn’t fair, since she’d done nothing wrong. Or maybe last night had been some sort of competition, in which case he’d taken gold. Stamina? The word had been invented for Dr David Vincent. There’d been champagne, too. But champagne didn’t create hangovers, did it? The world was too bright, and he was too flaming cheerful for such an early hour. And, in spite of all the above, she was deliriously happy. She wasn’t going to tell him that, though. Not yet, anyway. Because he, too, was learning how to play the game, and he was cleverer than she was.
‘Why the shades, Louisa?’
‘Flashing bloody lights under your cupboards. And my head’s become a holding cell for the Jerry Springer Show. Please, please, try not to clatter.’
He shrugged, stamped on a black button in a corner, and returned to the task of making breakfast. ‘Lights gone,’ he said, amusement colouring the words. ‘And my kick-board illuminations don’t flash, they come and go. Slowly. Very slowly.’
Samson sat between them, head moving in the direction of each speaker, so that he was doing a fair imitation of a Wimbledon audience.
She knew all about very slowly. ‘You sod,’ she said, not for the first time in recent hours. ‘Are you related to Tchaikovsky? That 1812 thing?’
‘No idea.’
Tchaikovsky had experienced difficulty when it came to endings. The 1812 Overture had about fourteen finales all stitched together like the pieces of some patchwork quilt he’d made out of odds and ends. ‘Any Russians in the family, David? And do you realize what I have to do this morning?’ She patted the dog. The dog was the only sensible person in the room.
‘Erm. Probably no to the first question, then yes to the second.’ He turned. ‘Eggs over-easy or sunny side up, hon?’
‘I don’t do eggs.’
‘Right.’ He went back to the job in hand.
There was a surreal quality to the morning. Here she sat in a blue-and-white striped shirt with a size sixteen collar, and there he stood in a plastic apron with NOTHING TO DECLARE printed across its front. And he had nothing to declare, because he was naked apart from the apron. For a man in his forties, he retained quite pert buttocks. In fact he retained … What was he up to now? He seemed to be placing in a basket everything he had prepared. ‘What the f— flipping heck are you doing, David?’ He was holding out one hand in her direction, while the other picked up the basket.
‘Picnic. Come. Come along, do as you are told for a change.’
‘But … we’re not dressed for a picnic. We’re not dressed at all.’
‘Come. My house, my garden, my woman. Git yo ass outta here, baby.’ He then addressed his pet. ‘Stay. You can come to Cheshire later. Or you can go next door. I’ll leave you to think about it.’
‘How will you know what he wants?’ Lucy asked.
‘He’ll stand near the car, or he’ll go next door. He’s easy. Which is more than can be said for some extraordinarily difficult people.’
It was very cold in the garden, especially for two people with no shoes, no socks and very little clothing. And it was only seven-thirty, and— Then she saw what he had done for her. It was an almost faithful copy of the tree house from thirty-odd years ago, from those Diane-David-Louisa days when the sun had been brighter, clouds fewer, life fuller of joy. He had rebuilt their childhood.
‘Oh, David.’ She was truly moved, because he had done this himself – she knew he had. ‘What a wonderful surprise this is. The care you must have taken to make it look so much like … Oh, bless you, but I can’t climb that ladder. I’m forty-five, darling.’
‘I can climb it. There again, I’m only forty-four. There are blankets in the tree house. It’s worth the effort just to get warm.’
She climbed, reached down to take the basket, sat down and waited for him. It was the same inside, too. Crude seats made from rough wood were topped with old cushions and pillows. On the wall were pinned drawings and paintings of hated teachers, beloved teachers, trees, flowers and houses. Diane’s drawings. ‘You saved everything,’ she said when he was seated beside her. ‘Everything.’
‘Yes – even our cricket scores and a couple of school reports. And the photograph – those two tall girls with a shrimp of a lad – you, me and Di. Take this blanket and wrap up. Don’t be sad. We’re home now, Louisa.’
Lucy imagined him coming back from school on the fateful day when his mother had decided to move out. He had run off to collect his life from the tree house; he had taken Diane and Louisa with him. ‘You’re the last of the great romantics, aren’t you, sweetheart?’
‘I hope not. There must be more of us somewhere.’ He poured coffee and placed a plate of toast on an upturned plastic box. ‘Eat. You’ll feel better.’
She pretended to glare at him. ‘Will I? Three hours’ sleep, I had.’
‘Are you complaining about the quality of my work? And I did overtime for which there’ll be no extra c
harge. Well? Did I disappoint?’
‘No.’
‘What, then?’
‘I’m bloody knackered.’
A self-satisfied expression appeared on David’s face as he leaned forward and planted a kiss on her nose. For a rusty, middle-aged man, he seemed to have done quite well. The champagne had perhaps been rather too much gilt on the lily … Yes, she had a hangover. But there was mischief in her eyes – she was playing a part.
‘It’s a wonder I can walk at all,’ she said.
‘Louisa?’
‘What?’
‘Shut up.’
She shut up for a few moments. In the corner, a pile of Beano and Dandy comics stood alongside exercise books and a tin with a photograph of Buckingham Palace on its lid. Their sweetie box. ‘Is it all real? Are those Diane’s brushes and paints? Is that my copy of Black Beauty?’
‘Yes. Now, tell me about Tchaikovsky. You were indicating that I went on too long last night?’
She said nothing.
‘You were given adequate warning. I said you’d be dealt with. I’ve lost count of the number of times I threatened to stop you in your tracks, lady.’
Wrapped in a rough blanket, she started to laugh. ‘You’re trying to tame me, aren’t you?’
He sniffed meaningfully. ‘Trying, yes. But the anger needs to come out first. You held on to your temper for so long in that moribund marriage – the magma has to escape at some point.’
She thought about that for a few moments.
‘Am I right?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Richard’s been my target so far. You won’t ever be that. I know they say you always hurt the one you love, but I can’t imagine that I’d ever really lose it with you.’
‘And Tchaikovsky?’
‘Oh, just confiscate his baton.’
He paused, a fried egg sandwich held just south of his chin.
Lucy, seeing the devilment in his eyes, clouted him and his sandwich with a grubby pillow. ‘You were punishing me, punishing me, punishing me.’ With every ‘punishing’, she delivered a blow. The bloody man was laughing. ‘You’re wicked.’ She screamed. ‘You made me wait and wait, and I’m still aching. Oh, you think you’re so clever, David Vincent.’
And they were children again. It was another of their pillow-and-cushion fights, and they were no longer middle-aged. For a split second, Lucy heard the terrible, high-pitched scream that had been the property of her dead sister. Both out of steam, they sat down again. The whole area was covered in egg, toast and coffee. Now it really did look like the scene of childhood crimes. ‘It will have to be cleaned,’ Lucy said.
‘I can’t do it now,’ he admitted. ‘Meting out your punishment was very hard work. What was his first name?’
‘Who?’
‘Bloody Tchaikovsky.’
‘Fred.’
‘Ah.’
‘Came from Pontefract. His mam and dad invented Pontefract cakes. He ran a chip shop and composed in his spare time.’
David nodded sagely. ‘I thought he worked in Russia?’
‘He did. He was in possession of a very long baton. He could fry cod with one hand, and crack nuts with the other.’
‘Eh?’
‘Nutcracker Suite. Very talented man. Sugar plum fairy.’
‘Was he?’
‘Oh, yes. Great disappointment to his parents. It was illegal in those days, and he could have ended up on that treadmill with poor old Oscar Wilde. “To whom might we bequeath us Pontefract cakes?” his father and mother asked. Simple folk – hence the poor grammar.’
‘Very sad.’
‘Yes, I thought so, too.’
They sat for a while contemplating the tragic fate of the grandchildless makers of liquorice circles. ‘Chopin was Fred.’ David smiled. ‘He was a Pole.’
‘So he wouldn’t need a baton?’
He shrugged. ‘No, but I was concentrating on his Minute Waltz. I think I could manage that one. I mean, why should I hang about making life good for you? A minute sounds just about right to me.’
The fight resumed. Throughout all the silliness, Lucy came to understand what real happiness was. While complaining of tiredness, she felt more alive than she had in years. And it was all because of this wonderful man who had built a tree house for her and in loving memory of Diane.
He ironed the skirt she had worn last night. He was a good ironer. Then he brushed dried egg from her hair, snipping out just one strand where the mess had set like concrete. This precious piece was placed inside his grandfather’s hunter, an item he always carried in a pocket because it kept good time and didn’t need a battery. ‘You’ll do,’ was his expressed final judgement.
She had no intention of sallying in the direction of Alderley Edge with a man in a plastic apron, and she said so. He took her upstairs, flung open a wardrobe door and shouted, ‘Ta-dah.’
‘Heavens above,’ Lucy declared.
‘And I needed no help. But no way was I going to pay Alderley Edge prices. This is my casual and oil-free collection courtesy of Marks and Spencer, Debenham, and a catalogue entitled Man of the Moment.’ He showed her the magazine. ‘This is the underwear section, and please note that I bought no Y-fronts, baggy or otherwise. You may also agree with me that every one of those models has at least one pair of socks stuffed into the underwear.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Do I need to be? Hey! You’re blushing.’
‘Did you take Viagra?’
‘No. And you are still pink.’
‘Get dressed,’ she commanded before leaving the room. Downstairs, she sat grinning like the Cheshire cat. Bugger. They were going to Cheshire. But she continued to smile, because she had done the right thing. Keeping him at arms’ length – well, not quite, but waiting until now – had been a necessity. David could love one hundred per cent, and nothing less would do for him. At last, he had allowed poor Anne to rest.
He entered the room wearing dark trousers, a polo-necked white sweater and a collarless jacket. Circular glasses tinted blue completed the illusion. All right, he did look a bit like John Lennon. Holding a tennis racquet as substitute for a guitar, he began to murder ‘Sergeant Pepper’.
‘Cease immediately.’
He stopped and shrugged. ‘Well, I thought I’d remind you that you’ve come as close as possible to sleeping with John Lennon.’
‘For three hours.’
‘Whatever. Many people have told me I look like him.’
‘They’re right. But that has nothing to do with why I love you. Now, naff off and find something sensible to wear. Dressed like that, you’d be mugged by WAGS in Cheshire, because they’re too daft to remember that John’s dead. Stop messing about.’
‘But I enjoy messing— OK, I’m going.’
Lucy closed her eyes. If this man became any more lovable, she would surely die. She could scarcely bear to think about his wilderness years. She’d had her children, but David had depended for sanity on his work. He was loving life again, because he was loving her.
He came back, this time dressed sensibly but casually in shades of brown.
‘I can’t go on like this,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have to live with you, David. I can manage Tchaikovsky or Chopin – I love classical music and the tree house and the fights and all of it. But I can’t manage being away from you.’
He ignored the urge to hug her, because he didn’t want to crush her white blouse. Today, she needed to be crisp. ‘A solution will be found, madam. Now, we have to go. The dog’s gone next door. He has abandoned us to our fate.’
‘Sensible animal.’
‘Dreading it?’
‘Oh, hell. I wish I could just leave it alone, because it’s none of my business, but Trish Styles is on her own, no kids, just Alan and her money to keep her warm. Glenys will meet us there. She’s going to Manchester Crown Court with an affidavit or something.’ She puffed out
her cheeks and blew. ‘That’s supposed to get rid of tension.’
‘I wish you’d told me that last night. I was bloody terrified when you turned up. That’s why I pretended to be asleep. You thought I was confident, huh? Well, I wasn’t.’ He led the way out. ‘I could have puffed and blown into your ear all night instead. We could have been very relaxed by now.’
He opened the door for her. ‘I’ll be outside the café in my car. Any trouble from Mrs Styles, come and get me. I’ll blow in her ear instead.’
Mrs Styles was in a bad way. He’d gone. And she was running, sweating, screaming in a five-hundred-pound suit. This house was a ridiculous size. She’d checked every room upstairs, but he could be in any of a dozen wardrobes. Or in the roof. His things were still here, but he wasn’t. No note. She removed the good shoes and pulled on her wellies. Howie had bought them for her – they were yellow and covered in red flowers.
For the first time in months, she walked across the land at the rear of Styles. Alan had taken a liking to the llama, but he wasn’t with Damien. In the sheds, she moved wood and boxes, called his name, wept a million tears. Then, on her way back to the house, she saw what he had done. A primitive noose dangled from the bough of a tree. Beneath it, an old garden seat waited to be used as a launching pad by a man who clearly intended to take his own life. And hers. Why? She pulled down the rope and carried it with her back to the house.
She didn’t want to live without Alan. He was more than just a partner, he was a piece of continuity, a man who had cared about Howie, who had been there for Trish in her darkest hour. ‘Why?’ she screamed. He wasn’t drinking. He’d been all right until lately, but he’d gone miserable and quiet, and he wanted to die.
She sat on the kitchen sofa and tried to collect her thoughts. Her head was a mess, as was her hair. Mascara stung her eyes, and mud clung to the skirt of a suit that had been a treasured outfit. That woman would be waiting for her down at the Boule Miche. She was a lawyer. Perhaps she’d have some idea of what needed doing in this impossible situation.
But she didn’t want to talk to anyone. He would come back, even if it was just to hang himself. So lawyers could go to hell in a handcart, because she loved Alan, and she would look after him just as she’d looked after Howie. God, she hated this bloody house. She was alone in a blinking mausoleum. A thought struck. Had Alan gone to get drunk before killing himself? Was he intending to die because he couldn’t carry on without his whisky? He knew she wouldn’t live with a drunk, because she’d been very clear on that score.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 31