by Rebecca Tope
‘Well, come about twelve. Do you remember where I live?’
‘Not exactly.’
Valerie Innes explained, and Thea made a few notes. Cool and objective was still ringing in her ears. She’d thought herself to be almost hysterical at times during that particular adventure. Not to mention losing her heart to the detective conducting the investigations. There had been nothing at all cool about that.
She made no mention of the appointment to Drew. Partly, it slipped a long way down her list of priorities almost as soon as she put the phone down, and partly she hoped to surprise him with new business. Her role in the operation was still far from well defined, and there were times when she felt more of a dead weight than an active participant.
The entry in her diary ensured that she was prompt when Friday arrived. Driving into Frampton Mansell again was a strange experience. She even passed the property that she had taken charge of for a week or so, although everything there had changed in the past few years. One of the barns had been demolished, and where there had been a paddock full of poultry, with a small pond for the ducks, now there was a paved area with young trees encircling it. Thea stopped the car for a closer look, remembering moments of high emotion that had occurred on this very spot. Not a hint of them now, of course. New people, new lifestyle, and not a trace of the family that had lived there before.
Valerie’s house was close by – a beautiful, large stone house set on rising ground – but was not at all familiar. The details of all that had taken place between them had become hazy over time, with so many subsequent dramas pushing it to the back of her mind. She had no idea of the impression she might have left on the woman, causing her to renew the contact now.
The door was opened with considerable energy, moments after her knock. ‘Good timing!’ Valerie congratulated her. ‘Your hair’s different, but I’d have known you anywhere.’
‘You too,’ lied Thea. She found she could hardly remember Mrs Innes at all. She was the mother of three sons and had a loud voice. Nothing else came to her.
‘Have a drink. Gin. Martini. I might even have some sherry. Take your pick.’
‘Better not,’ said Thea, thinking of her driving licence. She looked around the house, wondering what had become of the husband she was sure she remembered. ‘Is your husband here? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name.’
‘We split up. Actually, it was falling apart before all that trouble. We were just waiting for the right moment.’ Her voice had a choked quality that cast doubt on the airy words.
‘I’m sorry. Have you got anyone here now? What about your boys?’
‘They all moved out. It was horrible. Within three months the whole family had dispersed. I’m rattling around on my own, and I hate it.’ She shivered. ‘I’m one of those people who has to be with somebody – you know? Someone to greet me in the morning.’
‘Get a dog,’ Thea said thoughtlessly. ‘They’re great for greeting.’
‘I loathe dogs. They smell and they chew things. We did have a cat, if you remember …’
Oh yes, Thea did remember the cat. A Siamese that shared its favours amongst various village residents. ‘Jeremy was upset when it died,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t really yours, was it?’
‘Never mind the cat,’ snapped Valerie impatiently and slightly confusingly. ‘I didn’t ask you here to talk about that. It’s people I’m concerned with.’
Thea waited, wishing she had been offered a soft drink or a bowl of nuts. She had nothing to do with her hands, and there was some awkwardness developing between the two of them.
‘Sorry. I’m not making much sense, I know. Let me go and dress the salad and we can talk over the meal. It’s nothing special, but I love having somebody to eat with me. I’m really grateful to you for coming.’
Again, Thea just smiled and said nothing. It was beginning to look as if she’d been wrong in assuming there might be a funeral in the offing. It felt more as if she’d been some distance down a list of possible confidants for a woman who struck her as rather low on friends. There was to be an outpouring of some sort by a lonely individual badly in need of advice.
Flickering memories of the time in Frampton Mansell were returning: the conflict over plans to restore the abandoned canal; her sister Jocelyn’s presence; a woman called Cecilia and another called Fran – or something like that. It had been horrible at times. Worse than that – much of it had been frightening and upsetting. But mostly she remembered Phil Hollis and how sweet she had thought him in those early days.
Valerie had only been in the kitchen a minute or two before she called, ‘Will you come through now? It’s all ready.’
‘That was quick,’ she said, following the call. A spread including smoked salmon, French bread, a perfectly arranged salad with slices of avocado, olives and cucumber, was laid out on the big table.
‘I hope you’re okay eating in here? The dining room’s a bit formal. I hardly ever use it now. It’ll be dusty, probably, as well.’
‘It looks fantastic.’ Thea found she was actually salivating at the sight of the food. It would have graced a professional cookbook with no difficulty.
‘It’s therapy for me. I enjoy it enormously.’
‘Well, I’m honoured. I don’t often get anything like this.’ Snatched makeshift meals were the norm in the Slocombe household, with Drew often called to the phone, the children wanting to be somewhere else and Thea ashamed of her poor cooking skills.
They each loaded a plate and began to eat. Then Valerie asked, ‘So what went wrong between you and the police detective, then?’
The question shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Hadn’t she been full of thoughts about Phil already? And yet it was so far from what she had expected that she was paralysed for a moment, in mid chew. ‘Oh! It’s hard to explain,’ she managed. It occurred to her that she had never precisely summarised it for herself. She felt a degree of shame at the way she had behaved, along with relief that Drew had come along to teach her how a relationship could flourish in the right conditions. ‘We never properly understood each other, I suppose,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t know what I wanted. It was probably too soon after my husband’s death.’
She noticed that Valerie had an avid, almost hungry look on her face, as if her words were of immense importance. ‘And you do know now? What you want, I mean.’
‘It’s different.’ She was not going to be drawn into talking about her new marriage. The way women habitually disclosed intimate details to each other had always repelled her. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m sorry. It must seem a bit odd. It’s just that you always seemed so sure of yourself, and clever at getting out of corners.’ She must have caught sight of the alarm on Thea’s face. ‘Don’t worry – I’m not asking for advice. Not really. I know what I have to do.’ Tears began to gather, which only increased the apprehension that Thea was feeling. ‘I’ve been trying to come to terms with it for six months now, you see. And it doesn’t get easier. Not much, anyway.’
‘Did somebody die?’ Why else would this conversation be happening?
‘No, no. Although it did feel like that. I’ve been grieving as if he’d died, I suppose.’
‘He?’
‘His name’s Paul. He lived here with me for over a year, after my marriage ended. It was wonderful. We were so happy. So in love. I never knew it could be like that.’
‘He greeted you every morning.’ She was unable to conceal the hint of scepticism. There was something uncomfortable about a woman in her fifties talking about being in love.
Valerie laughed. ‘The mornings were glorious,’ she claimed. ‘He was always in such a wonderful mood, first thing.’
‘Incredible,’ Thea murmured. And obviously, it must have been incredible – or at least unsustainable – because Paul had gone, for whatever reason. She loaded her fork with salmon and waited for the sad story to come. How had she walked into this, she wondered. Wasn’t she well known for the diff
iculty she had when it came to showing proper sympathy? Well, no, she supposed there was no way Valerie could know this about her. Something was being asked of her, and she ought to earn this lavish lunch by providing it.
‘He was so sweet. But that wasn’t the whole story.’ Valerie’s mouth drooped, but the tears had drained away, to Thea’s relief. In the months with Drew, she had been cried on by people in the most extreme distress. People who had been widowed, or lost a beloved parent. And Drew had persuaded her that sympathy was not what they wanted from her. Simple acceptance was more than enough.
‘Whatever you do, don’t tell them it’ll all be okay,’ he warned her. ‘Because it won’t.’
At first she had been nervous of this approach, but it had worked miraculously well. The sense of liberation had overflowed onto the mourners, who had found themselves able not only to voice their sadness, but also to admit to relief and even occasional gladness. Not every death was a tragedy, Thea discovered.
But Valerie Innes was laying claim to some quite other kind of attention. ‘Oh?’ said Thea faintly. ‘What happened?’
‘It was just as if he was two different people. One was so loving and kind; the other was a real mess. That side of him made him tell lies to me. You see, he was starting up a new business …’
Uh-oh, thought Thea. Here it comes. She could predict the next part of the story, simply by a casual acquaintance with the many documentaries, consumer programmes, stories, plays that repeated it endlessly, with only minor variations.
‘He swindled you,’ she said.
‘No, no. I wouldn’t put it like that. He didn’t mean to hurt me. He always believed it was money well invested. But everything went wrong and he didn’t dare admit to me how badly it was going. In the end, of course, he had to. I didn’t have a penny left to give him. I’m going to have to sell this house and find a full-time job. At my age!’ The tears returned, and a few slid down her face.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Oxford. He’s got some work and a tiny little flat in Headington. I still speak to him. But I couldn’t go on living with him, could I? Not after that.’
‘You should have put the police onto him,’ said Thea. ‘He must have taken you for a soft touch, right from the start.’
‘How can you say that?’ Rage erupted without warning. Valerie dropped her fork and pushed back her chair. ‘You don’t have any idea what he’s like.’ Both hands were shaking, and her lips were drawn back in a snarl.
‘You’re right,’ said Thea, certain for a second that she was about to be slapped or pushed backwards onto the floor. She put up her own hands as a defence. ‘Of course you’re right,’ she repeated cravenly. ‘I didn’t mean it. Calm down, for heaven’s sake.’
The woman stood there, breathing heavily. Then, ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You caught me on a raw nerve. Nobody else has said anything like that. If you knew him, you’d understand it wasn’t done deliberately. He’s just unlucky, that’s all.’
‘Okay.’ Irritation was simmering inside her now. Why was she here in the first place? What purpose was she supposed to be serving? She took a bite of bread and a sip of the apple juice that had appeared in a glass jug. ‘So what happens now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Selling the house. Getting a job. Have you got any plans?’
‘Not really. We bought this when I was pregnant with Jeremy. Twenty-two years ago. It’s awful to think of starting again in a new place.’
‘But it is yours, is it? I mean, what about your husband? Doesn’t he get a share?’
‘That’s the problem. I have to split it with him if I sell. It’ll leave me with enough for some hovel in Cirencester or Gloucester with no garden or garage.’
‘That’s dreadful.’ Finally Thea experienced a genuine pang of sympathy. The current house had a large garden and handsome double garage. ‘Although Cirencester’s not so bad.’ She realised that Valerie was still defending the rotten Paul, despite the catastrophic effect he’d had on her life. ‘The people there are really nice.’
‘I’m sure they are.’ The tone was bitter. ‘I’m sure I’ll be a great success on the checkout at Tesco, as well.’
Thea was tired of being lost for words. It was an unusual state for her and she did not like it. Something was being asked of her and she was fairly sure she was failing to provide it. If she wasn’t so afraid of being punched in the face, she might well say what she really thought.
And then Valerie said it for her. ‘You think I brought all this on myself, don’t you? That’s what people always think. The homeless only have themselves to blame. Bankruptcy is just punishment for greed. Bad health is the result of smoking or drinking or eating the wrong things. I’m in this mess because I’m a lousy judge of character.’
‘Well …’ said Thea. ‘Not exactly.’ And yet it was partly true – her view of the world did have some elements that chimed with Valerie’s accusation. Her father had embraced the philosophy of Sartre in his youth, and a doctrine that might be seen as somewhat heartless had still coloured a lot of his thinking in the years when his children were forming their own values. The whole family took it as a basic premise that people made their own luck.
‘People like you are so smug.’
Again the accusation was not entirely wrong. Determinedly, Thea spread pâté on her bread and slowly consumed it, absorbing the insult along with the food, and trying to process it calmly. She swallowed, and said, ‘What do you want me to say? Why did you invite me here?’
‘I told you. I wanted your advice as to what I should do. Stupid of me, I see that now. You’re all right, so everyone else can go to hell.’
Thea reminded herself that Valerie had said she wanted advice, when she phoned originally. And then, ten minutes earlier, she had contradicted herself, saying she wasn’t looking for that at all. And when did anybody listen to advice anyway, Thea thought crossly. Surely there must have been a friend or relative a year ago who’d told Valerie not to give her bloodsucker boyfriend any more money?
‘My advice, such as it is, comes much too late,’ she said. ‘And it’s probably just stating the obvious. Salvage what you can. Cut your losses and learn from your mistakes. Clichés, I’m afraid.’
‘Smug clichés at that.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Have you put money into this burial business, then? Can you be certain your new husband isn’t going to bleed you dry and lie to you about it into the bargain? Here you are, an independent widow, with a nice house somewhere, ripe for the picking. Don’t tell me you haven’t sunk all your capital into his scheme, without a second thought. Did you draw up a prenuptial contract? Of course not. Could you survive if the whole enterprise collapsed, leaving nothing but massive debts? I doubt it. So what gives you the right to be so disgustingly superior about it?’
It was humiliatingly clever. Every response she could think of sounded hollow and self-deceiving in her own ears. She could feel an overwhelming urge to stand up and stab Valerie with her fork. ‘Touché,’ she said with a painful smile. ‘All I can say is that Drew never asked me to put money in. And I just know he wouldn’t lie to me. Sounds feeble, doesn’t it?’
‘You met him – what? Two years ago? The same as me and Paul, more or less. Long enough, most people would say, to be sure they were trustworthy. Too long for a deliberate swindle, anyway. He hasn’t made enough out of me to warrant that much time spent on it. You’re saying he never loved me, never saw me as anything but a source of cash. Think about that – how do you think that feels?’
‘Terrible,’ Thea acknowledged. The realisations were making her feel sick. She had trusted Drew the first day she met him, even though he was under suspicion as a murderer at the time. On paper, he was probably a worse prospect than Valerie’s Paul. And nothing anybody could say would change that trust. The nausea arose from the insight into other people’s situations. These people had felt as she would feel if Drew now turned into a swindling monster.
Valerie had loved Paul – no doubt still did. Her anguish must be beyond bearing, now that he had so wantonly destroyed her.
‘But he feels terrible as well. And knowing that only makes it all worse. He’s lost all his self-respect. He’s just crawled away into a hole, and can’t see any future for himself.’
Well at least that fitted with an existentialist view of the world, Thea thought. ‘Serves him right,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t want him to get away with it, would you?’
Valerie’s eyes glittered with angry tears.
‘Sometimes I just want to kill him,’ she admitted. ‘And other times I want to call him back and live with him again, even if he does lie to me all the time.’
‘I’d just want to kill him,’ said Thea. ‘I could probably work out a way of doing it without getting caught, as well.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘That’s not what you wanted my advice for, then?’
Their voices had both become light and jokey, Thea’s especially. She had come close to numerous murders since embarking on her career as a house-sitter, and while fully aware that it was not a matter for jokes, her experience had revealed a degree of dark humour associated with it.
‘I could never kill anyone,’ said Valerie with great solemnity.
‘I expect you could, in the right conditions. They do say revenge is sweet.’
‘He didn’t do it deliberately. He got caught in a spiral of bad luck and desperation.’
‘So why throw him out?’
‘We couldn’t bear to look at each other any more,’ said Valerie miserably. ‘It was all too horribly spoilt.’
The lunch trailed to a conclusion with neither woman saying very much. Valerie produced coffee, and Thea looked at her watch, making much of the need to get home for the children. No questions were asked or future plans discussed. Back at Broad Campden, she watched herself closely. Was she smug? Did she take Drew for granted, after only a few months of marriage? When he came in from visiting an old lady whose husband had just died, she gave him an elaborate hug.