Running Away

by Rosina Lesley

  Catherine looked up at his broad back. I always hoped I’d never see you, she thought, and then wondered if it was true.

  ‘Same here,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose we would, in the normal course of events.’

  ‘You come back to Sussex, don’t you?’ James turned back and sat down.

  ‘Yes, but only now and then, to visit a couple of old friends.’ And avoid others, she added silently.

  ‘Have you made new ones?’ His tone immediately informed her of his real meaning.

  ‘A few,’ she answered non-committally. ‘No one special. I’ve made several acquaintances here though. I feel really attached to this place. Perhaps because my grandmother lived here all her life.’

  ‘Had you been before, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve been spending holidays here since I was tiny. First with my parents, then we came on our own so that they could go off together. I’m almost a local.’

  ‘Strange we never met.’ James wasn’t looking at her. ‘I’ve been coming to visit my uncle on and off since I was about 12. Where did your grandmother live?’

  Catherine stared in surprise. ‘I thought you realised. I was standing outside when we met this afternoon. I took it for granted that you realised I lived in Garth Cottage.’

  ‘What?’ His eyes flew up to meet hers. ‘Garth Cottage?’

  ‘Yes. Why, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ James closed his eyes, briefly, a pained expression crossing his face.

  ‘James,’ Catherine said crossly. ‘What’s the matter? What are you talking about?’

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, his familiar wry smile twisting his lips. ‘I’m talking about Garth Cottage. It’s part of the Hall estate. That’s where I was going to live.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  ‘But I live in Garth Cottage,’ gasped Catherine finally, struggling to get the words out.

  James leant forward and took her unresisting hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cat. But surely you knew that your grandmother only rented the cottage? That you would merely be a tenant – if, that is, she had the right to sign it over to you?’

  Catherine paused long enough to remember mention of a “peppercorn rent” and something about being allowed to hand on the tenancy only once when she had been to see the solicitors. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘But what rights does that give you? And I’m sure the Hall wasn’t mentioned.’

  ‘No, I expect if you heard a name it was Andrew Hamilton – my uncle. And as to rights – very few, I imagine.’ James sighed and drained his brandy glass, lifting a hand to the barman as he did so. ‘I think we need another drink, don’t you?’

  Catherine noticed with surprise that her own glass was empty and handed it to the young barman for a refill.

  ‘Now.’ James leant back in his chair and clasped his hands in front of him. ‘I was given to understand that Garth Cottage was occupied by an old lady who had recently died, and that as there was no known heir, the cottage would revert to the estate. Now it appears there was an heir – you – so things are somewhat different. I can’t think what Andrew’s solicitors were doing when they looked into this.’ James sighed, rather impatiently, Catherine thought, and she lifted her chin defiantly.

  ‘I’ll look into it first thing in the morning,’ she said loftily. ‘And meanwhile, I’m sure you’re very comfortable here.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but not as comfortable as I would be in your cottage.’ James’s eyes gleamed over the rim of his topped-up glass. Catherine spluttered into her own.

  ‘James Grant, stop that,’ she gasped, coughing.

  ‘I was merely saying I would be more comfortable in somewhere of my own than in one of the suites here, particularly as they aren’t yet renovated.’ James looked at her from under his brows.

  Catherine returned the look suspiciously.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, come and look. I’ll give you a guided tour if you like.’ James pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘No, I’ll take your word for it,’ said Catherine hastily.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Cat, I’m not going to force my attentions on you. I just thought you would like to see the hotel and hear my plans for it.’

  ‘I didn’t think–’ Catherine stopped, confused. Damn the man. Why did he make her feel like a gauche 15 year old? ‘Thank you,’ she said getting to her feet with what dignity she could muster. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Good.’ He bared white teeth in a familiar wolfish grin. ‘And perhaps you could give me your opinions on some of the colour schemes?’

  This time preceding him, Catherine reflected on this suggestion as they left the bar. Give opinions, yes, but have James Grant follow them? Not on your life.

  Most of the Hall, it appeared, was still in the same faded state as the entrance hall. James had been able to make a start on the bar because it involved no structural alterations, merely a comparatively fast decorating job.

  ‘Most of the work will be done during the winter season, naturally,’ James explained, leading the way down an impressively wide corridor on the first floor. ‘Normally, I would want the club to remain open for 12 months of the year, but I may have to close down for a couple of months, say in January and February. I’ll have the pool done before then, of course.’

  ‘Pool?’ questioned Catherine, hurrying to keep up.

  ‘Swimming pool. Under the bar terrace. At the moment it’s all storerooms, but I’ve had the surveyor’s report and we can turn it into a full-sized indoor swimming pool – with sauna and all the other bits and pieces – with very little trouble. Because we’re built into the hillside, you see.’

  Catherine wasn’t sure she did see, but certainly wasn’t going to admit it.

  The rooms and suites had TVs – obviously a recent addition – and telephones, but not all of them had en-suite facilities – something that was essential in this day and age, James assured her. His room did, he added, but to Catherine’s relief, did not offer to show her. In fact, the tour was completed very quickly and in a most businesslike fashion, Catherine had to admit as they finished up back in the foyer.

  ‘Well, I can’t say I have anything to offer,’ she said. ‘I know nothing about decor or hotels. You seem to have it all well under control.’

  ‘If I need a woman’s point of view I’ll come and ask you, though, shall I?’ He smiled. ‘And, incidentally, you said you’d retired down here. You can’t mean that. What do you live on? Building society employees don’t make enough to retire before they’re 30, do they?’

  Repressing an urge to tell him to mind his own business, Catherine smiled aloofly back. ‘I do something else, now,’ she said, dismissively and held out a hand. ‘Well, goodbye, James. Thank you for showing me round, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve spoken to my solicitors.’

  ‘And not before.’ James took her hand in a cool, firm clasp, and she looked down to see the fine dark hairs that ran up beneath the white shirt cuff. Quickly, she withdrew her own hand and nodded briskly.

  ‘Goodbye – and thanks again,’ she said and almost ran out of the foyer and into the darkness.

  Luckily, the lights from the hotel illuminated the slope down to the road, or she would have come to grief in her headlong flight and she recalled too late his request for her opinion. Next time I see him, she thought grimly, I’ll tell him he needs lights and steps to his entrance.

  The road itself was lit by intermittent lamps partially obscured by vegetation from cottage gardens, but giving enough light for the few holidaymakers to find their way to the pub or back to their holiday homes. The lane led down towards the small, curving bay, with its stone jetty and rock pools beloved of generations of tourists, but Catherine turned right when she reached the end of the lane, up towards Garth Cottage and the church, passing two or three groups of people out for a mid-evening stroll. Lucky people, she thought enviously. No problems, just what to do next this evenin
g – go to bed, or go for a drink, or play cards – and what had she got to look forward to? The rest of the evening on her own, wondering whether her new-found life and independence was suddenly to be upset – and by James Grant, of all people.

  Letting herself into the cottage, which had absorbed the warmth of the August day and felt almost uncomfortably hot, Catherine regretted, not for the first time, the impulse that had led her to throw up her safe, secure job to stay down here, alone, and pursue her long-kept dream of being a writer. Felicity had encouraged her sister, partly, no doubt, because she had liked the idea of being a young woman living on her own in comfortable circumstances, and partly through a misplaced sense of guilt that Catherine had devoted so much of her young life to her. Felicity was actually older now, at 19, than her sister had been when their father died and with the selfishness of youth, was amazed at Catherine for giving up her life to cope with a young sister at the age of 17.

  And now, here I am, thought Catherine, on my own, in this beautiful cottage, my sister self supporting, able to do what I want with my life – and what happens? The one man in the whole world who ever got through to me, the one man in the world that I couldn’t have, because he was married already, turns up and threatens to overthrow the whole lot. She shook her head, and laughed out loud. No, that was being too dramatic for words. Threatened to upset her peace of mind, that was more like it. On his own, it would appear, at least temporarily. That was why he would want the cottage, so that Diana could move down with him if he intended staying. Catherine moved abruptly, shaking off memories. And if Diana came, there was no way she could stay, and yet she hadn’t even asked him how Diana was, let alone whether she would be moving down. Catherine sighed and went to the kitchen to see if there was any wine left. In the morning, she would telephone the solicitors, and then she would review the situation. Until then, she would try not to think about it. She went and turned on her computer.

  Chapter Two

  CATHERINE AWOKE, AS USUAL, to birdsong. It seemed incredibly bright for early morning, and, struggling onto one elbow to look at her alarm clock, she was astonished to find it was after ten o’clock. For a split second, she wondered why she had slept so late, then remembered. To her surprise and horror, instead of an immediate dampening of her spirits, she felt an upsurge of adrenaline, almost as though she was actually pleased about James Grant’s reappearance in her life. In fact, as she drew the curtains and pushed open the window, she realised she felt truly alive for the first time in months. Leaning on the windowsill and breathing in the varied aromas of morning garden and sea, she decided it must be because she actually had something to do, perhaps even someone to spar with, to enliven an existence which had tended to become bland of late, to say the least.

  Last night, she had sat up finishing a short story for a magazine, and when she still felt restless and unsettled, had begun to work on the novel that she had started when she first arrived to look after her grandmother, but which frequently got put aside in favour of the bread-and-butter work. She had started sending stories to magazines some years previously, and after the usual crop of rejections, began to sell the odd one or two, until finally, she was selling enough to make leaving the building society and moving down here a viable proposition. She smiled ruefully to herself, remembering her reluctance to tell James what she was doing when he asked, acknowledging that she was still very wary of telling people that she was a writer. Somehow, short stories for women’s magazines didn’t convince most people that you could actually write, and Catherine, like many others before her, had learnt to dissemble.

  However, she reminded herself sharply, it would be as well to remember that James Grant represented the possible end to her idyllic lifestyle in this peaceful backwater. Not only was he still, she had to admit, a very definite threat to her peace of mind, but it looked very much as if he might be able to turn her out of Garth Cottage.

  Funny, that, she thought, as she waited for the kettle to boil. Whoever would have thought that James Grant would have got himself so involved with her life? Not that it was his fault, she supposed, pouring boiling water into a mug, but fancy the Hall owning Garth Cottage. The name had always led her to imagine that it was, or had been, part of the church estate, and, though she was aware that her grandmother rented the cottage, the arrangement was of such long standing that she had assumed she could take over the tenancy with no difficulty. Dimly, through the fog of grief which had surrounded her visit to the solicitor, she realised that he had possibly been warning her of this eventuality, but as she had heard nothing further she had allowed herself to forget all about it.

  ‘And that’ll teach you, my girl,’ she told herself, carrying her tea out into the garden. ‘And you, an ex assistant branch manager of a building society. You should have known better.’

  Nevertheless, she knew she would have to ring the solicitor this morning and find out just what the position was, for her own sake. James would no doubt be doing the same with his own – or his uncle’s – solicitors and tearing them off a strip. If they had been his they would never have been allowed to overlook such a matter in the first place, she was sure. She sighed, and leant back in the deckchair, gazing up at the cherry tree. James had always been forceful, domineering, even, except ... She shook her head to clear it, but the pictures wouldn’t go away and eventually, she gave in, reliving the events that had sent her scurrying away from Sussex, her resentful sister in tow. That had been a lovely summer too ...

  They had lived there all their lives, Catherine and Felicity. Their parents were schoolteachers, both teaching in the area, and after their mother died when Catherine was 12, their father had no difficulty finding willing helpers to cope with his two daughters. Neither, for that matter, had Catherine, when their father, too, died, and though not easy, their life had continued on a fairly even keel, except that Catherine hadn’t gone to college, but had stayed at home to look after Felicity. They belonged to the tennis club and the amateur dramatic society, they were often guests at the golf club and the cricket club, Catherine worked at a branch of a large building society in a nearby town; they were safe, secure and they knew everyone. Including James and Diana Grant. They were both older than Catherine; Diana had been in the sixth form at school when Catherine was in the first, but, as so often happens, the gap had narrowed as they grew older, and now they were not infrequently in company together – rehearsing for the local pantomime, drinks at the tennis club on Sundays, even at parties, occasionally. And Catherine had always been very aware of the tall, dark man whose eyes she found so disturbing, those same eyes which seemed to lock with hers so frequently. She had a schoolgirl crush on him which developed when he was very kind to them both after their father died, but that somehow became transmuted into something else. Catherine had boyfriends, so eventually, did Felicity. And then one hot summer, three years ago, the village had put on a pageant to mark the 500th anniversary of the local Priory.

  Everybody had been involved, including Catherine and James. And they argued. Every time a point came up for discussion, neither could see the other’s point of view. James took to baiting Catherine delightedly and Catherine felt helplessly naive under his sophisticated teasing. Diana Grant was never there, and more and more, James and Catherine were thrown into one another’s company, until, inevitably, one hot night when they had been erecting scenery around the Priory walls, they had been alone and James had kissed her. Catherine could still remember that first kiss and how different it had been from anything else she had experienced. How far things might have progressed that night, she never knew, for they were interrupted, and after that, she was careful not to be alone with him again, but she could not stop her eyes following him, or her heart leaping every time she saw him. Then he sought her out and offered to take her home, again after a pageant rehearsal, and this time, no one interrupted them. Somehow, Catherine had kept her head, and got out of the car before too much damage had been done – physically, at least – but mentally
, she knew she would never be the same.

  Over the next few weeks, she avoided him as far as possible, and when Felicity had accepted a place at college in Kingston, she suggested that they move nearer the college if she could get a transfer. Which she did, surprisingly easily. Nobody at home had been surprised; they all felt it was time she spread her wings, although Felicity had been slightly annoyed that she couldn’t go and live in digs on her own and would no longer have the family home to return to. If anybody was surprised, it was Catherine herself. She told herself repeatedly that all that had happened was a married man taking an interest in a younger woman, there had only been a few kisses and what was she running away from? But she knew, deep inside, that it was more than that. James wanted an affair, and she had fallen for him so deeply that she could no longer trust herself not to give in to his unique form of persuasion. His kisses, the muttered, disjointed, almost agonised words, his hands on her body, all of these kindled embers deep inside that no one else could light, that she knew she could never resist – and so, they had to leave.

  It had taken a long time to forget him, but Catherine thought she had done it. Now, lying in the deckchair in the garden of Garth Cottage years later, she realised that she hadn’t. Which, she told herself, sitting up straight and draining her mug, made it all the more imperative that this situation was sorted out immediately so that contact between them was minimised. But you don’t want that, whispered a treacherous little voice inside her head. You want to see him as much as possible, especially as his wife isn’t with him.

  ‘All the more reason for avoiding him,’ Catherine said out loud, and then hoped that no one was passing the garden wall on the other side. Still, she thought, the village already thinks I’m a bit peculiar, so talking to myself won’t make any difference. She headed inside to make the all-important phone call.

  ‘Mr Smith? Oh, it’s Catherine Long here, Henrietta Long’s granddaughter.’