Love-40

by Anna Cheska

  ‘One-track mind,’ jeered Stunt. ‘Who’d be interested in you?’

  Gareth peered back at him through his thick black-framed glasses. ‘If there’s girls on the other side, we need some too.’ He spoke very slowly. ‘Nerd brain.’

  ‘Look who’s –’

  ‘Excellent point,’ chimed in Liam, to whom trading insults signified a loss of team spirit. He turned his back on Estelle and Rossi without acknowledging them. What did he care? ‘D’you know any girls who can play?’ This was tricky. Far too many girls, in his experience, didn’t take up sport until they wanted to lose weight or keep fit – and that often didn’t happen till they were nearly forty.

  ‘Diane Parker’s a rocket,’ said Tiger.

  ‘Yeah, but does she play tennis?’

  ‘She does it against the school wall.’

  This time it was a chorus. ‘Yeah, but does she play tennis?’

  Liam waited for the laughter to die down. ‘Ask her, will you?’ He addressed this to Gareth. He was the natural leader – if anyone could sort it, Gazza could. ‘And if she wants to play, get her to bring a friend or two.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  At this point, Erica Raddle bustled into the clubhouse, doing a double-take and shooting Liam a look along the lines of – these rough specimens belong in the youth club if you please. She pointed to the door that led through to the other side of the bar and the social room. From here, Liam could see a load of kids clustered round the pool table, and another four pounding the table football machine.

  And the toffee-nosed old cow wanted to take it all away from them. Liam pulled a face at her back as she peered over Deirdre’s shoulder and started pontificating. Chairperson? You’d think she owned the place. Deirdre, he could see, was busily putting gold-coloured leaflets into envelopes. Deirdre was always busily doing something.

  ‘We’ll be next door,’ Gazza said to Liam. ‘Same time next week with girls?’

  ‘And plenty of practice in between,’ Liam confirmed. Because God, if they were going to beat what the tennis club had to offer, they’d have to go some, however much they wanted it.

  As the kids dispersed, he looked over towards Estelle’s table. It was empty. No Rossi. No Estelle. They must have made a pretty rapid departure once his back was turned.

  Liam left his beer untouched on the counter and hot-footed it out of there. As he passed Deirdre and Erica he caught a snatch of conversation.

  ‘I’d like to lose the “chestnut”,’ Erica was saying. ‘Grove Lodge has a far more appropriate ring to it.’

  Liam turned to stare at them, but they ignored him.

  ‘Grove Lodge Tennis Club,’ echoed Deirdre. ‘What a marvellous idea.’

  * * *

  Michael turned to trudge wearily back to the cottage. It was getting dark. He’d never find her now.

  At first he thought he was imagining the bleating behind him – the imagination could play such cruel tricks. Then he heard it again and spun round.

  ‘Hester!’ He tried to grab her collar but she dodged, apparently content – now that he was travelling in a homeward direction – to trot along next to him.

  When they got to the garden gate, she submitted to the leash, and he tied her up, the relief so overwhelming he almost kissed her.

  Instead, he knelt down in front of her. ‘I take you out,’ he said, wagging an admonitory finger, ‘and this is how you repay me.’

  Hester bent her head back, Michael relented and chucked her under the chin and the next thing he knew was contact, a blast of pain, a sensation of spinning and the awareness that he’d been somersaulted backwards on to the lawn behind.

  ‘Christ!’ Michael glared at her, but Hester merely continued munching the lawn.

  He staggered inside, clutching his head.

  ‘You were a long time.’ Suzi was in the kitchen. And eyeing him strangely. Her eyes were all kind of squinty and her mouth screwed up – almost as if she were trying not to laugh, or cry. ‘Are you OK?’ she added.

  Michael let go of his head. ‘Yeah, I gave her a good runaround.’

  ‘Did you let her off the leash?’ Suzi poured some wine into two glasses.

  ‘Hmm? Yeah, mmm.’ He took the glass she offered him and downed it in one.

  Suzi was watching him closely. ‘I bet you were dead worried when she didn’t come back,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘What?’ Had she seen them? No, impossible. Michael thought fast. ‘No, I knew she wouldn’t go far.’ He tried to sound as if he knew what he was talking about. He hated Suzi thinking that he was a bungling idiot.

  ‘Because of the herding instinct?’ Suzi asked.

  ‘The herding instinct. Yeah, right.’ What the bloody hell was that when it was at home?

  Suzi began chopping onions. ‘Goats do like to go their own way,’ she said. The knife sliced into the white flesh. ‘And you are the herd, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Michael echoed. Chop, chop, went the knife. Oh, so he was the herd, he should have realised that.

  ‘The herd often splits into smaller groups,’ Suzi was saying. ‘But when you turn around, back they come with you.’ She swept the onion to one side of the chopping board with the knife.

  Michael hated know-alls. ‘And I suppose you thought I wasn’t aware of that?’ Without waiting for a reply, he shot her a baleful glare and walked out of the room.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he heard her call after him.

  But it was only when he was out of sight that he clutched his head once more. Thank God she hadn’t seen the head-butt, he thought. His credibility rating would have sunk down to zero.

  Chapter 9

  The man who had walked through the open door of Secrets In The Attic strode up to Suzi and placed a business card on the counter in front of her.

  She looked up – way up, he was a giant of six feet and the rest – into grey-green eyes, registered a short fiery beard and shock of improbably copper-red hair and promptly looked down again.

  JOSH WILLIS, ANTIQUE FURNITURE AND RESTORATION, she read. Suzi thought of Stan and Terry. LOWEST PRICES PAID, their latest advert in the local Pridehaven Gazette had read. THERE IS NO COMPETITION. What she did not need in the shop, Suzi thought, was another antique dealer, especially one that looked like Little John from Sherwood Forest.

  ‘Yes?’ She glanced up again, keeping her voice clipped and frosty, though the amused look in the grey-green eyes made her want to smile back at him. His hair, she realised, was actually the colour of the leaves of one of her acer trees in the back garden of the riverbank cottage, though his eyebrows were a much lighter copper – like sand. And he had a carefully crumpled look about him – he was wearing a linen shirt, trousers and jacket, not matching, but blending into an interesting three-tone effect. A very crumpled three-tone effect.

  ‘An unusual place you’ve got here.’ He looked around and Suzi followed his gaze as if seeing it for the first time. Yes, it was unusual – now.

  They had built on the sunflower theme (‘now that you’ve done it, we may as well go with it,’ Suzi had said to Estelle, when they’d finally managed to clean all the yellow paint off the window display and the Chesterfield) by filling a couple of huge vases with bright, fresh flowers, and replacing the dingy Victorian prints that had hung on the walls, with Van Goghs and Cézannes. From the ceiling floated dream-catchers, crystals, and mobiles made of driftwood and seashells, shifting their hips in the breeze coming from the open door.

  The antique furniture had been moved to the sides of the shop floor, leaving room for a purple, fluorescent green and orange rug that screamed alternative rather than tradition. And the antique jewellery was now displayed on modern carousels, with mirrors inset. More mirrors adorned the walls, of all shapes and sizes, some old, some new, reflecting the light and giving the shop a contemporary and airy feel that was, OK, totally out of keeping with an antique shop, as Suzi was aware.

  The signwriter Estelle had apparently calle
d whilst under the influence of alcohol – or possibly schizophrenia, Suzi thought privately – had re-vamped the outside of the shop. To the passing pedestrian, Secrets In The Attic might have been expected to sell flowers, kitchen equipment or trendy gifts. What daisies, sunflowers and bluebells dotted amongst the yellow lettering did not say, Suzi knew, was antiques. And to reinforce all this, the door was left open, the windchimes sang and there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. They’d gone further than feng shui. This was total overhaul.

  ‘Antique shops don’t have to be musty places,’ Suzi said to the interloper.

  ‘Oh, I’m not criticising.’ He grinned again, a cat’s grin that spread across his face. ‘It’s er … refreshing.’

  And this time Suzi grinned back. Refreshing, hit the mark. She wouldn’t give Estelle the satisfaction of knowing it, but she rather liked the new look herself. It was a lot more pleasant to work in, for a start. ‘You’ve got a shop yourself, I take it?’ she asked. Hopefully he wasn’t about to take over the baker’s on the other side of them. Sandwiched between The Bargain Basement and a man like this, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

  ‘No. I buy and sell as I go along. Mostly abroad,’ he told her. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I thought we might find some mutual benefit.’

  ‘Oh?’ Despite the fact that she knew she should be cautious – in the world in which Suzi and Estelle now moved, the word ‘dealer’ was often regarded as euphemism for ‘crook’ – and despite the fact that it wasn’t so long since Michael had moved into the riverbank cottage, Suzi felt a flush of interest. Not yet excitement, but borderline, she admitted to herself, gripping the edge of the counter and feeling another twinge of the guilt that seemed to have become a dear old friend and companion. What exactly did ‘mutual benefit’ mean?

  Oddly enough, she and Michael had hardly made love since he’d moved in, and Suzi was beginning to wonder if this was how it would be. She was also wondering – since he hadn’t mentioned it – if he’d given any thought to the length of his stay. He had been no trouble, he had fallen over himself to fit in, though that in itself didn’t seem as if it should be necessary, Suzi thought, feeling guilty again.

  And maybe he was right, she’d told herself rather often lately, maybe their relationship had been due for a change. Maybe this was what they needed to bring a new depth to it. So why, she wondered, did it feel so wrong?

  ‘Are you free for lunch?’ Josh Willis asked.

  Suzi had half thought about nipping back to the cottage, maybe taking Samson and Delilah out for a quick walk along the river. But Michael was there, she remembered with a further stab of … yes-there-it-was-again.

  ‘I am as it happens.’

  ‘Great. Shall I come back at one?’ He pushed the card closer towards her. His hands – like the rest of him – were large, his fingernails clean and cut straight across, no rings, no frills.

  ‘OK.’

  He left with a nod and a wave and a step that was confident and knew exactly where it was going. Unlike me, Suzi thought. Unlike me.

  She picked up the card. Josh Willis …

  * * *

  Estelle had crossed the River Pride and was walking in the woods to the west, tracing a familiar path that began with beech trees and grew darker as it wound away from the river, close to the brooding yews. Suzi was in the shop today, though Estelle would go in later, she decided, and tell her about her new idea. It was more difficult than she’d imagined, sharing a business partnership, even with a woman she respected and cared for, like Suzi. Estelle supposed she simply had this urge to move onwards, alone, just to see if she could do it.

  But at least it gave her free time. And in that free time she so often found herself drawn here, as if she had a bungee rope tied round her waist and attached to the woods, she thought wryly. Too often, perhaps, she was drawn here.

  She was flattered that Nick had sought her out, arranged to meet her for a drink at CG’s and taken her to his mother’s home, even if it was only to take a look at Shelagh Rossi’s jewellery. He had been attentive, courteous and surprisingly fun to be with, she’d found. Best of all had been the moment when Liam had walked into the clubhouse – Estelle couldn’t have manufactured it better if she’d tried. And didn’t it serve him right? Amanda Lake – hah!

  Shelagh Rossi was a lovely lady – she had shown Estelle round the house on the hill that she’d shared with her Italian husband, Nick’s father, who had died five years before. And in the high-ceilinged bedroom with Italianate furnishings, she had laid all her jewellery out on the the calico bedspread of the canopied four-poster. There were some beautiful pieces, and much of it went beyond Estelle’s knowledge of the subject, she realised. She’d have to do a bit more research if she was going to give a professional valuation.

  ‘That’s fine, my dear,’ Shelagh Rossi replied, when she told her this. ‘But unfortunately, it’s not just a valuation I’m considering.’

  Estelle couldn’t fail to see the glance exchanged between mother and son. But they were living in a striking Gothic Victorian mansion set in five acres of landscaped grounds. Surely she didn’t need to sell her jewellery?

  A shrug from Nick seemed to persuade Shelagh to go on. ‘I understand that an auction might be best for certain pieces,’ she said, picking up a brooch – the ruby in the shape of a swan was set in gold filigree. ‘I’m asking you to act as an agent, my dear. I like you. And I’m sure we can rely on total client confidentiality.’

  Estelle had agreed, arranged to return three days later when she had done more research, with the view of taking some of the pieces to Sotheby’s. And she had managed to stop herself asking questions. It wasn’t any business of hers, she told herself, why Shelagh Rossi was selling. She should be grateful for the work, glad that Nick and his mother felt her sufficiently trustworthy and knowledgeable.

  But it had made her think. She had gone back to the flat above Secrets In The Attic and taken out the box that contained her own jewellery – the pearls left to her by Auntie Mo, and her mother’s rings. One diamond solitaire – Estelle put it on the third finger of her left hand, turned her palm so that the light reflected from the stone. And one huge sapphire set in platinum. She placed this on her little finger. She loved this ring, loved the depth of blueness in the stone, the colour of her mother’s eyes in the photograph Estelle kept by her bedside, the photograph taken – so Auntie Mo had told her – just before her mother’s death. Her mother’s smile was enigmatic, almost as if she had known. And on her finger this very ring.

  Jewellery … Every woman loved jewellery – even Suzi, who tended to scorn anything girlie. A tantalising mix of the old and the new, a precious gift from generation to generation. A token of love.

  Estelle had slipped her mother’s rings from her fingers, compared her own band of jade and silver, the tiny moss agate she wore on her little finger. Antique and modern. And most women appreciated both. She couldn’t help thinking that Secrets In The Attic was not taking full advantage.

  * * *

  At a quarter to one, Suzi peered into the mirror above the wash-basin in Secrets In The Attic’s tiny loo. The mirror was old – it made her look like an antique, giving her reflection a brownish tinge more dirt than suntan, she thought, sucking in her cheeks and wishing she’d bothered with eye make-up this morning. She rarely did. Mornings were a rush of cleaning up the cottage – just enough so she could face it when she walked back in at the end of the day – feeding the animals, a slice of toast on the hoof, a quick wash and out into the world. How women found time for early morning eyeliner, liquid foundation and blow-drys, Suzi had no idea. Those women were obviously far more organised than she.

  By five to one she had tidied the shop, put the cash away in the safe, turned the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ and suddenly, there he was looming in the doorway, as crumpled and three-tone as before.

  ‘Hi.’ Suzi wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d drawn a bow and arrow and gone for the b
ull’s-eye of the nearest dream-catcher right there and then.

  ‘Pub lunch do you?’

  Finding her voice temporarily out of action, she nodded agreement and he led the way, striding along West Street towards the Bull Hotel, so that Suzi had to half-run every few paces to keep up with him. But she didn’t mind. It was a lovely spring day, the breeze was warm on her cheeks and there seemed to be a scent of promise in the fresh sea air as they reached the grand old Bull Hotel, situated by the bridge and the old water mill of the River Pride.

  They made their way inside. Suzi came here occasionally – the Bull was an anachronism really, boasting flocked wallpaper, pink and grey pastel carpeting and even an old-fashioned powder room complete with dressing-table, box of tissues, hand lotion and padded chair.

  The bar, with its gleaming pumps, glasses and bottles stacked high against a backdrop of mirrors, looked as out of place as it would have in an Edwardian sitting room. Even odder, Suzi decided, looking at the blackboard menu, was the notion that The Bull Hotel would provide pasta, curry or surf ’n’ turf. Beef and dumplings followed by a pudding of spotted dick would, she thought, have been more appropriate.

  ‘In what way,’ she asked him when her mushrooms in garlic sauce with ciabatta bread and Italian leaves had been placed in front of her, ‘did you think we could benefit each other?’

  Josh Willis attacked his steak as if he meant it. ‘I could shift some of your more unsaleable items for you,’ he said. ‘There’s a decent market in Germany for a lot of the stuff that’s out of favour here right now.’

  Suzi considered this. It sounded reasonable enough. ‘So how does it work?’ she asked. ‘Do you take commission on what you sell?’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t afford to cart stuff over there and maybe back again for someone else’s profit. I’d buy from you – whatever pieces I think I can get rid of.’ He paused mid-munch and speared a piece of meat.