‘There are a lot more bookshelves in the other rooms, but otherwise there isn’t a great deal of stuff. My gardening equipment is all out in that old shed, but I think I’ll have to replace it before it falls down.’
‘I hope you’ve moved into one of the bigger bedrooms too, now that you’ve bought the house. I’m sure Ma doesn’t expect you to save the best one just for her. Or my old room would be fine if you redecorated it.’
‘Actually, I rather like the turret, especially now I’ve got my own bed in there, even if it does take up most of the floor space. The other was a bit short and narrow. Nice bedlinen, though.’
I reddened. ‘Was it? I expect I just used the first clean set to come to hand.’
‘I thought I might leave the girlie décor in your old room. Don’t you think Stella might like it if she comes to stay?’
‘Well, Rosie does, although she says it’s over the top. Is your daughter likely to come? Have you heard from her again?’
‘Yes, we’ve been exchanging more emails. She wants to know all sorts of things about me from right back before I met her mum, so I think she’s catching up on all the years we’ve missed. She liked the pictures of the cottage, so I think she will come and see me, probably in June when she’s back staying with her grandparents again.’
‘I hope she does,’ I said sympathetically.
‘Your daughter, Rosie, is quite a character,’ he commented, rather admiringly. ‘Did she enjoy surfing with her father?’
‘Er—yes,’ I said, then swallowed the last mouthful of champagne and rose hastily to my feet. ‘Look, I must go—I’m expecting a call from my husband.’
Gabe got up too. ‘Right. And you still intend going out to the Caribbean to see him?’
‘Of course!’ I said, surprised.
‘So what Rosie said about you breaking up with him and marrying her real dad was just—’
‘Wishful thinking,’ I said quickly. ‘She’s never really got on with Mal, unfortunately. They’re chalk and cheese. Mal can’t wait to see me again.’
I think I was trying to convince myself as well as him, but I’m not sure the sincerity rang true enough for either of us.
‘Petite Lisette,’ he said at the door, but I was armed and ready for him.
‘Hemisphaerica.’
He frowned. ‘Haven’t we had that one?’
‘No, and it’s growing wild up the glen, so it obviously does well round here. I hope you do too,’ I added neatly, and walked off feeling quite pleased with myself.
I feel wonderful on food combining, and my head seems so clear too, so my work is going very well. I’m about to send enough Alphawoman strips off to the magazine to keep them going until I get back from Grand Cayman, my rose and hen calendar illustrations are mounting up, and I’ve had all kinds of ideas for cartoons.
Tom has sent me one or two more as well, but they are definitely getting odder, especially now I know about his weird domestic arrangements and can see them in a new light. I haven’t acknowledged them.
The only downside to food combining is that I haven’t lost a great deal of weight. Practically none, if I’m honest. Could this possibly be because I am combining chips, chocolate, butter and cream? I can even have chip butties, on white buttered bread—and I do, all the time.
I have been out and about a bit too: up to Plas Gwyn to talk over the rose garden with Gabe, and admire the stone bench Rhodri and Nia found at an architectural salvage yard, and down to the Druid’s Rest to meet the three of them in the evening. Our trio seems to have just naturally become a quartet, but Gabe at least stops me feeling like a gooseberry, since Nia and Rhodri are definitely adrift on the sea of love.
How odd that we should love each other like brother and sisters all these years, and then for that to change into something more! And all they seem to talk about lately is Plas Gwyn…though, mind you, most of what Gabe and I say to each other concerns roses.
Mal has sent me the most enormous shopping list of things to take out with me.
I’m sure he must have been getting bulletins on my friendship with Gabe, but has not said anything about it—unless he has fallen out with the Wevills.
I certainly wasn’t about to rock the boat by mentioning it, but I did ask him if he still wanted me to buy a special dress for the holiday, which I thought might kind of gauge how he was feeling towards me.
‘Of course I do, darling. Get something pretty.’
‘All right. And I’ve got your shopping list, but it’s going to cost a fortune!’
‘Then use the credit card. That’s what it’s for,’ he said, slightly impatiently.
‘Are you looking forward to seeing me, Mal? It’s not long now, is it?’
There was an imperative female voice in the background. ‘Look, something’s come up and I’ve got to go. Talk to you later—’bye!’
Somehow I felt unsettled rather than reassured by this conversation…and where on earth did I put the guilt card? Must search for it! Also for my sarong and flip-flops, which I haven’t seen since last summer.
Eureka! I discovered the sarong behind the sack of Happyhen in the utility room. I must have rested a pile of clean laundry on top of it at some time and it slithered down behind.
The guilt card was in the cutlery drawer under the cake forks. I usually eat my cake fast, using both hands, which accounts for my not having seen it before.
Having now found the wherewithal to pay for it, I had another look at the truly horrendous list of things Mal wants me to take out. This includes all the copies of Small Boats Monthly that have arrived in his absence, three large bottles of his favourite mouthwash, aftershave and a small fortune’s worth of toiletries, pills and potions from Boots the Chemists. I am also instructed to buy a huge bottle of duty-free sherry for Mrs M., whose only tipple this is, en route.
Must check my baggage allowance again. And will bottles of mouthwash explode in the hold? Or the aftershave?
* * *
‘Well, my love, you’ll never guess where I’ve been,’ Ma said perkily down the phone.
‘Probably not—tell me, it’ll save time.’ I propped myself against the wall, resigned to a long conversation.
‘Visiting that village where you said the Wevills used to live!’
I stood up straighter. ‘You have? Why?’
‘ To snoop. And do you know, they had poison-pen letters there, as well. And they stopped after the Wevills moved away.’
‘They did? Good heavens, that looks a bit—’
‘I told you it was them!’ she interrupted triumphantly. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d let you know.’
‘But what are we going to do about it, Ma? I mean, presumably you haven’t got any proof?’
‘Only circumstantial, so I’ve sent an anonymous letter to the police, telling them. It’s up to them now to make the right connections and put a stop to it.’
‘Ma!’ I protested, but I could see she’d thoroughly enjoyed her Miss Marple act.
‘Is dear Gabriel settled in? When I last spoke to him on the phone he said how kind you’d been, taking him a cake and making him feel welcome. I’m coming down soon and he’s going to show me his plans for extending the cottage a bit at the side, if he can get planning permission. Another bathroom and bedroom, I think, with a study underneath.’
‘I thought he wasn’t going to change anything!’
‘Fran, of course he’s going to update the cottage a bit, that’s part of the reason I wanted to sell it! I’m sure he’ll love the place, you’ll see, and anything he does will only improve it. Now, what about you? Are you still intending to go out to see Mal?’
‘Of course!’ I said firmly. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Hmm,’ she said, unconvinced. But then, she was never in favour of him going out there and leaving me in the first place. ‘I worry about you, Frannie.’
‘There’s no need to worry about me. Honestly, everything’s fine.’
‘You’ve just started hummi
ng Bob Marley, my love,’ she pointed out. ‘“No Woman, No Cry”. Not a good sign in my book!’
I have spent the day in the nearest city and am exhausted.
I hate clothes shopping—that’s partly why I make my own tops and wear jeans most of the time. And after all that there wasn’t much that looked good on someone the approximate shape of a dumpling, so in the end I decided to make do with what I already have, i.e., the aged cotton trousers, loose shirts, ancient faded sundresses and flat sandals I wear for gardening.
But I did finally discover that special dress in a small but desperately expensive shop. It’s in cream linen and magically makes me look taller and much thinner. You wouldn’t believe the price! I had to use my newly discovered guilt card for the first time, which was fortunately stowed away in my bag for safety, and as I signed my name I felt like a thief and had this urge to shout, ‘I confess, I have no money to pay for it!’
But then, I suppose Mal will be the one actually paying for it in the end, and he did tell me to buy something smart.
It was addictive: on the way back to the car I bought a new swimsuit with control panels (I wish it could control my eating habits), and a pair of strappy sandals with high heels to go with my new linen dress. The guilt card took another hammering, and it just goes to show how easily I could get into the habit of spending money I haven’t got. But at least the sandals will mean I won’t look quite such a roly-poly little thing at the ceremony…so long as we’re not standing on soft sand, that is.
I’m getting so jittery as the day I fly out rushes towards me. Part of me thinks Mal and I will fall into each other’s arms and everything will be wonderful, but the other part is gibbering with nerves in the back room.
And desperate last-ditch measures are called for: it will have to be the cabbage soup diet…
I was woken at some unearthly hour of the night by loud hammering at my door, and staggered down thinking the worst, as you do when that kind of thing happens. Rosie? Ma? My heart was thumping with fear as I opened the door to find…Tom.
He beamed at me. ‘Hi, Fran! I was passing and I couldn’t resist dropping by. Can I come in?’
I goggled at him. ‘Come in? No, you can’t come in! Do you have any idea what time of night it is?’
He looked at his watch. ‘Morning, just. Come on, Fran—I’d really like to talk to you,’ he wheedled. ‘Haven’t you had all my notes and stuff? I can’t stop thinking about you, and all the way up here—’
‘Tom,’ I interrupted, raising my voice, ‘I’m a married woman—and you’re a married man, come to that—and I’m not inviting you into my house at this time of the night, morning, whatever it is!’
He stared at me, brows knit. Then his face cleared. ‘I see—Rosie must have told you Clara and I still live together. But it’s an open marriage, and yours sounds pretty shaky, so how about we discuss getting together? You’d really like Clara! And don’t you think we were always meant for each other, Fran?’ he asked winningly, reaching out for me.
‘For goodness’ sake, Tom!’ I exclaimed, stepping back. ‘Will you go away? I don’t know why you think my marriage is on the rocks, but it’s fine, absolutely fine. I’m very happy and I have absolutely no intention of having any sort of relationship with anyone else, including you!
‘But—’
‘But nothing, Tom! Obviously you haven’t read what I’ve written to you, or listened to what I’ve just said. There is nothing going on between us. I wish you well—but I wish you well in Cornwall or somewhere other than here. Got it?’
He seemed taken aback, all the blond sunniness extinguished. Then he ventured hopefully, ‘So, I could just come in for a cuppa and a quiet chat like an old friend then, instead?’
‘Absolutely not. Now, good night!’
‘Shame!’ he said with a sudden grin. ‘You look very fetching in that robe.’
I tugged the lapels a bit closer together.
‘Well, let me know if you change your mind or things don’t work out. You might find yourself out there in the Caribbean thinking of me.’
‘I don’t think so, Tom!’
Unabashed by my rejection, he turned and gave me a sort of half-salute as he walked down the drive, and being still half-woman, half-zombie I waved back, which is not a good idea if you haven’t found the belt of your dressing gown yet. And especially not if Gabe Weston is just passing in his big flashy car, slows down and cops an eyeful before you pull yourself—and your dressing gown—together.
Quick as thought I stepped back and slammed the door shut, leaning on it, heart thudding.
That must have looked really dodgy. I’d have to explain to him what happened and—
But hold on—nothing happened! And why should I try to explain something that I didn’t do when, even if I did, it is none of his business?
‘Because you don’t want him to think you’re a complete slut?’ a little voice in my head said helpfully just as I was on the point of finally falling asleep again.
I was meeting the others at the pub tonight, but when I arrived Nia said Gabe had already been in but had had to go out somewhere. He’d also seemed in one of his darker moods.
It couldn’t be because of last night, could it? I mean, why should he care? And how dare he jump to the wrong conclusions without even asking me what happened?
At least Rhodri and Nia believed me—but then, they are true friends. Nia is looking after the hens and roses in my absence, which I feel guilty about, since she is working so hard both at her pottery and helping Rhodri, but there isn’t anyone else. Carrie is not a hen person.
It’s been several days now, and I haven’t seen Gabe at all. I think he’s avoiding me, and I’m certainly not going looking for him. It’s strange how I miss talking to him, though…and I’d found some more old roses to toss at him.
Still, I have more pressing problems: although I have managed to lose half a stone from sheer desperation (and I wouldn’t recommend the cabbage soup diet to anyone who has friends and wants to keep them), that only makes me more or less what I was when Mal went away.
I just hope that after all this time he won’t remember, or be so pleased to see me that he doesn’t notice. On the other hand, he may have seen so much of Alison that he’s started to think it’s normal to have all your bones sticking out and boobs like two fried eggs.
I’ve done my best with what I’ve got, anyway: I’m buffed, defuzzed and exfoliated. Carrie has trimmed my hair to just below shoulder length, and camomile shampoo has taken the winter’s dinginess out of it, but unfortunately not the pinkness, though with all these fluorescent wash-in colours people use these days, it doesn’t stand out like it used to do. My eyelashes and eyebrows are freshly tinted and I’ve been soaking my hands in bowls of washing-up liquid to try to get half the garden out of them.
That’s it: this is as good as it’s going to get.
I’m almost organised…I think.
I’ve decided to travel in a pale blue Gap T-shirt and matching sweatshirt with jeans, and a light jacket. I can peel layers off when I get on the plane.
I’ve stuffed my comfortably shabby summer clothes into a huge yellow suitcase with a wonky wheel (one of Ma’s cast-offs), added my expensive linen dress, wrapped carefully in tissue paper, and found my dark glasses. I wish now I’d washed the sarong instead of just shaking the dust off, since it smells of Happyhen, but I suppose I can do it when I get there.
There is no way I am putting potentially exploding minty mouthwash in with my lovely new dress, it will have to go in my hand luggage.
Rosie phoned me in a last-minute panic about my going, and to cheer her (and me) I told her some interesting snippets about Grand Cayman that I’d gleaned, like the average dress size in the Caribbean being a sixteen. I hope that’s USA size sixteen.
‘And there’s a botanical garden that looks lovely, with blue iguanas,’ I said. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing that.’
Rosie said she loved all wildlife
except Mal, though on second thoughts he was tame to the point of comatose, so didn’t count, but seemed a little comforted by the time she rang off.
I do wish I’d studied the information earlier, though, because I’ve suddenly realised just how hot it is going to be on Grand Cayman, and I don’t think even my summer clothes are going to do. And also I don’t cope with heat terribly well, being allergic to the sun and practically all suncreams.
But it’s too late to worry about any of that now—tomorrow’s the day.
I rang around to say my goodbyes, which took longer than I expected, so that it was late when I took my car out to fill with petrol for the drive to Manchester airport tomorrow.
As I was driving back the radio started to go slower and slower, and the windscreen wipers and the headlights started to fade—and by the time I rolled to a stop in my drive the poor little thing was as dead as a dodo.
Perfect timing.
I knew Rhodri or Nia would have driven me to the airport, but I didn’t want to ask them when they are working so hard (and hopefully playing hard too), so I had to ring round and find a taxi to take me early in the morning instead. It’s going to cost a fortune, so thank goodness I didn’t change all my money into US dollars!
As you can imagine, I couldn’t sleep for worrying about whether the taxi would turn up or not, and even when it did I must have checked that I had my tickets and passport five times before we were even out of the village.
It was quite a cool night, unless I was chilly from nerves, so I was glad of the sweatshirt under my light jacket. I could simply carry my outer layers when I got there, and my sandals and sunglasses were in my hand luggage, together with the damned mouthwash and aftershave—and I was sure the bag was overweight.
I dolorously droned out that song about leavin’ on a jet plane as the taxi drove through the endless dark, deserted roads, and after a while the taxi driver turned the radio on, loud.
I was convinced I’d forgotten something vital, like saying goodbye to the hens.
Sowing Secrets Page 26