‘I know,’ Catherine said. ‘It was a good opportunity, wasn’t it?’ The minute she had said this, she could have bitten her tongue out for ruining the precarious calm between them.
‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’ James’s voice was angry, his body taut, close to her in the darkness.
‘Nothing. I shouldn’t have said it.’ Catherine tried to turn away, but was stopped by an imperious hand on her arm.
‘You’re dead right you shouldn’t. I suppose I was taking advantage of the situation, was I?’ He sounded furious. ‘I suppose I engineered the whole thing, right down to you crying? In order to have my wicked way with you?’ He made a disgusted sound in his throat. ‘Well, don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need unwilling bedfellows any more than I need non-paying tenants.’ And with this parting shot, he flung away from her back towards Gardener’s Cottage.
Deprived of answering him with all the fury he had turned on her, Catherine slammed open the gate and rushed up the path to the door.
It took her a good ten minutes of striding round the ground floor of the cottage before she was calm enough to even try to sort out her chaotic thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she went into the kitchen and put on the kettle.
So, James didn’t want non-paying tenants, did he? Well, that was all right with her. First thing in the morning, she would go and see Andrew Hamilton and ask him for an inventory of the contents of the cottage, so that she could arrange removal of all her grandmother’s effects. Then, she would pack and go home to Felicity.
Hard on the heels of these laudable intentions came the inevitable reaction. Now that she knew she would have to leave Garth Cottage, it became infinitely more desirable, and the realisation that she would never again be able to come back to the village, so long regarded as her other home – loved even more than the town in which she had grown up – threatened yet another bout of tears. Savagely, she rubbed a hand across her eyes and swallowed hard. How dare James Grant hound her out of yet another home? She had lost every member of her close family except Felicity and now she was going to lose this too. It really was too much. She slopped water into a mug and added instant coffee, burning her mouth as she tried to drink it too quickly.
And on top of all this, came the unbidden thought as she returned to the living room, was James himself. Kissing her, reviving all those dormant feelings that she thought she had conquered, leaving her realising that he was still the only man she had ever really wanted.
The bir ds didn’t so much wake her the next morning, as repeatedly re-awaken her. Sleep had come in fits and starts, and so stealthily that she didn’t even realise she had drifted into it, most of the time. Then, each time, her mind had taken over and reworked last night’s events and added them on to the events of the past, like some almighty till-roll of history. Finally, at something past seven o’clock, she gave up, got up and went downstairs.
In tune with her mood, the weather had changed and rain dripped dispiritedly from branches of willow and lilac. Catherine was surprised to discover, as she stood with her mug of tea clasped like a talisman to her breast, gazing out on the sodden garden, that her anger of the previous night had disappeared, leaving in its wake a flat, despairing acceptance. An ache of a proportion she had never yet known, even after the death of her parents and grandmother, argued something more than distress for Henrietta’s history, or even sadness that she should have to leave Garth Cottage and the village and she resolutely refused to investigate it, shaking off the lethargy induced by it and the sleepless night to begin the arduous task of clearing her desk, and trying to sort manuscripts, notebooks and the other detritus of the writer.
When the telephone rang, she jumped, but answered it automatically, her mind elsewhere. The voice at the other end soon brought her back to reality.
‘Cat? Are you all right?’
Catherine froze, one hand gripping the receiver until her knuckles went white, the other crushing a handful of paper into an unrecognisable mass.
‘Cat – I’m sorry.’ James’s voice sounded hoarse, as though he had been shouting. ‘I shouldn’t have said it. Any of it. You were upset – I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right.’ Catherine was surprised at her controlled tone. ‘I’m going anyway.’ Damn. She hadn’t meant to say that. She had meant him to find out after she’d gone.
‘Going?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Where? Why?’
‘I’m going home. I don’t ...’ She had been going to say ‘Belong here’, but that wasn’t true – she did.
‘Home? Surbiton? Why? You heard what Andrew said.’
‘Yes, and I heard what you said. I’ll ask Andrew for an inventory of his possessions in the cottage. Meanwhile, I’ll pack and be gone by this evening.’
‘Cat, you will do no such thing. I’m coming over.’
‘James, don’t. Please don’t. I don’t want to see you. Ever,’ she added, in case he misunderstood.
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘D– did you hear me?’ she asked nervously.
‘I heard you.’ The voice was distant, flat. ‘I can only repeat that I’m sorry. I’ll tell Andrew to expect your call.’ The line went dead.
Catherine stood staring at the receiver as though it might explode into sudden life. That was it then. The very end. No more open ends, no more might be. The very end. Slowly, she replaced the receiver and sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands.
For the second time in 24 hours, she faced the door of Gardener’s Cottage, both hands clasping her handbag, still annoyed with herself for not realising that she hadn’t Andrew’s telephone number and would have to actually confront him. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.
‘Catherine.’ There was no doubting the pleasure in Andrew’s face as he opened the door.
‘He llo, Andrew.’ Catherine eyed him warily.
‘My dear girl. I thought James had completely alienated us both. Do come in.’
Catherine followed him into his living room, where his easel had been moved to catch the maximum light.
‘I’ll just cover this and we’ll have some coffee.’ Andrew was tearing off clingfilm to cover his palette. ‘Sit down, sit down, or will you come into the kitchen with me? Shall we have instant or the real stuff?’
Catherine smiled and followed him into the kitchen. ‘Instant will be fine, Andrew, thank you.’
‘Good, good.’ He bustled around, filling the kettle, taking out thin porcelain cups. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘First. ’ Catherine hoisted herself onto a kitchen stool and stood her bag on the counter. ‘I want to apologise for rushing off last night.’
‘Oh, my dear. Think nothing of it. I quite understood. I was just annoyed with myself for upsetting you. I should have told you the story gradually, not just come out with it like that. But James said you needed to know about the cottage.’
‘Yes, that’s true, I did, but–’ Catherine got no further.
‘You see, the trouble is, that events take place over a period of years and you don’t realise how much they mean when they’re all stuck together.’ He looked at her shrewdly. ‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine sighed. ‘It’s like reading a book. The writer leaves out all the boring days and years in between and just tells you about the exciting bits, so that you get a steady stream of interest and excitement. That’s what you gave me last night.’
‘Exactly. What a clever girl you are.’ Andrew’s old blue eyes beamed on her as he handed her a steaming cup.
‘But I have to leave.’ Catherine took the cup.
‘What?’ His voice was suddenly quavery, and she realised just how old he was.
‘I’m sorry, Andrew. But it was inevitable. I can’t stay in the cottage you loaned Henrietta. It was nothing to do with me, and I have a perfectly good home to go to. It was just a bonus, being able to – to stay there,’ she amended, having been going to say ‘write t
here’. Andrew, obviously an artist manqué, would never let her go if she said that.
But Andrew was shrewder than she thought.
‘It’s not that, is it?’ He pulled up another stool and, with slightly more difficulty than she had, hoisted himself up.
‘It’s my nephew. Isn’t it?’
Catherine stared at him, unable to say anything, feeling colour stain her cheeks.
‘He came back here last night in a terrible temper about something. I expect it was you. Not that you deliberately annoyed him, I’m sure.’
Catherine looked down at her coffee and wondered what to say.
‘No, I expect he annoyed you and he was angry with himself. But you mustn’t let that drive you away.’
‘I wouldn’t.’ Catherine looked up and hoped she was telling the truth. ‘But I can’t stay. I really can’t. I came to ask you for an inventory of the things in the cottage that are yours, so that I can organise the removal.’
‘Catherine. You can’t mean it?’ Andrew looked really distressed. ‘That’s my last link with Henrietta. I really will have failed her if you go.’
‘No, Andrew.’ Catherine reached across and grasped his hand. ‘You never failed her. You did everything you could. You even divorced your wife, and I know how awful that must have been in those days. And remember, she was happy for the last 30 years, here with you.’
‘How do you know that, Catherine? She never told you, did she?’ Andrew patted her hand. ‘Don’t try to make me feel better.’
‘I’m not. I’m trying to make me feel better, if you must know.’ Catherine grinned, wryly.
‘Then stay. I want you to, and I’m sure James does.’ Andrew smiled, wistfully.
And that’s just why I won’t, thought Catherine. Aloud, she said, ‘No, Andrew, I can’t. I must go back to Felicity.’
‘Why? I thought she was working? She’s grown up now, Catherine. She doesn’t need you like she used to.’
Catherine sighed. ‘I know, but I still have to go. Please, Andrew. Let’s be friends, keep in touch for Henrietta’s sake, but please, let me go.’
Andrew looked at her for a long moment, then gave her hand a final pat.
‘All right, my dear. I know that my nephew is at the back of this, and I can’t say anything about that – it isn’t my place, but I’ll do what you ask. Not that I think there was much in that cottage before Henrietta came, so I expect that the entire contents belongs to you. If you organise a removal lorry I’ll make sure they have access, then you needn’t come back at all if you don’t want to.’
Catherine smiled at him in relief. ‘Thank you, Andrew.’
He smiled back, ruefully. ‘I expect I shall get into trouble from James about this, but never mind.’ He climbed down from his stool and picked up his coffee cup. ‘And now, would you like to see my paintings?’
Catherine left an hour later, having inspected Andrew’s paintings, including an oil and a watercolour of her grandmother, both done in the last ten years of her life. Andrew would never be a great painter, but both of those portraits were executed with such love that Catherine had found her throat closed with tears yet again.
For the rest of the day she packed. At lunchtime, she phoned Felicity at her office and was only marginally surprised that her sister was not overwhelmed by the prospect of her return. At Felicity’s insistence, she agreed to delay her return until the following day, realising that if Graham, the current boyfriend, was due to turn up that evening, the presence of an older sister might be somewhat inhibiting. It made her feel very old and yet, somehow, callow, inexperienced, as she realised that she had never indulged in the relationships that came so easily to her sister. Perhaps if she had, she would have been able to deal better with James.
It was almost seven o’clock when she sat down with a hastily thrown together sandwich and a glass of wine, feeling dusty and hot, surrounded by cardboard boxes and polythene bags. She had barely taken a bite of the sandwich and a mouthful of wine when she heard a sharp knock at the door. Filled with foreboding, she went slowly to open it.
James stood on the doorstep, his back to the door, hands thrust deep into the pockets of the dark grey suit. Catherine’s heart leapt into her mouth, then settled into an accelerated beat that had her shaking, her colour already high as he turned to face her.
‘Andrew tells me you’re leaving,’ he said without preamble.
‘I told you that this morning,’ Catherine replied equally abruptly.
‘Bloody hell.’ James suddenly pushed her ahead of him into the hall, slamming the door behind him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Me?’ said Catherine. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I don’t bloody well know,’ roared James, reaching for her. Catherine just had time to register that she had never seen James like this, before his arms were around her, his mouth on hers and then all thought ceased.
How long it was until she realised that they were no longer in the hall she didn’t know. She became aware that they were in the living room and James was impatiently kicking the table with her sandwich and wine out of the way, and struggled, but he merely held both her arms behind her back while he cleared a space for them on the sofa. Incredulous, Catherine pulled back and looked up into the shuttered face before succumbing once more to the insistent demands of her body. His lips and tongue took possession of her mouth, his hands crept to her breasts, under the thin T-shirt, freed her from the confines of lace and nylon, his fingers insistent on her nipples. Her own hands, taking the initiative, slid down to the large muscled thighs, back up to pull him closer in to her body and under the grey flannel and fine cotton to feel the smooth, warm skin of his back. She felt the caught breath in his throat and the surge against her as he swept her legs up off the floor and onto the sofa, then his mouth against her breast and the swirling, aching sensation inside that she hadn’t felt for years.
Then, suddenly, she was pulling away from him.
‘James, no.’ Her voice was a thin thread, but it was enough to stop him as his hand rested on the belt of her jeans.
‘What?’ His gaze was unfocus ed as he lifted his head.
‘No, James,’ Catherine repeated more firmly, struggling to sit up under his dead weight.
For a split second, she thought he would ignore her, continue his assault on her senses and her body, but after a moment, he too, sat up, burying his head in his hands.
Catherine sat, growing colder, trying to make sense out of what had happened. She didn’t dare speak to the silent man beside her, his head still in his hands, his breathing gradually returning to normal – besides, she didn’t know what to say to him.
Eventually, James raised his head.
‘Well, now you really have got a reason to get out, haven’t you.’ His voice was still ragged, as though he’d been running hard, but he was in control.
Catherine paused before answering, aware that she was treading a tightrope.
‘I always had,’ she said finally. ‘This doesn’t change anything.’
James laughed without amusement. ‘Oh, doesn’t it?’
‘Not for me. The situation between you and I has always been the same.’ Catherine stood up and surreptitiously straightened her clothing.
‘Oh, I can believe that. It always has for me too.’ James lifted his head, the steely grey eyes flashing cold fire at her.
Catherine stood looking down at him, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks. Eventually, he stood up, still holding her gaze.
‘You’re a coward, Catherine Long.’ He spoke conversationally, as though they had merely been discussing a point of ethics, or the stock market.
‘You always have been. You have never once tried to find out what is behind people’s actions, you always take things at face value and judge by commonplace standards. Henrietta knew how you would judge her, did you think about that? She knew she couldn’t tell you about her life. And because of that, you have lost a place to live, not t
o mention the disappointment you have caused a man whom you should love, a man whom Henrietta loved.’
And what about you? Catherine wanted to yell at him. What have I done to you? What have you done to me? And to Diana? What about her? And what about my life? With no men, no one to love because I’m still in love with you?
Luckily, at that point, James turned and with uncharacteristic clumsiness, made his way to the door. Catherine was still standing, turned to stone by the sofa, when he turned at the front door.
‘I hope one day you find a man worthy of you, Cat. A man who is above reproach, who doesn’t make you surrender those parts of yourself you don’t want to be seen, the parts that swim to the surface whenever I touch you, that drive both of us mad. I hope you can be happy, Cat. I’m sure you can. I’m sure that this is merely an interlude in your well-ordered life and come next week you will have forgotten it. Just remember that maybe Andrew and I won’t be able to say the same.’
And then the house was quiet, even the hum of the refrigerator a disturbance of the silence that surrounded Catherine, a silence that reverberated with the revelation that had come upon her so suddenly and with such magnitude. She was in love with him. She found she was still gazing at the front door when the clock chimed once. It was half past seven. Less than half an hour since James had burst in, and, irrevocably, departed.
Chapter Four
CATHERINE SURVEYED THE CHAOS that had overtaken her well-ordered suburban home and sighed, looking ruefully into her sister’s limpid blue gaze.
‘So what do you propose to do about all this?’ she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
‘Tidy it up?’ suggested Felicity winningly, pushing a lock of unbelievable blonde hair back from her face. ‘I know, and I’m sorry, Cat. It’s just, I’ve been working and then there’s Graham ...’
‘Don’t call me Cat,’ said Catherine automatically, pushing a pile of magazines aside to sit down.
‘What?’ Felicity halted like a startled fawn and peered short-sightedly down at her sister.
‘Oh, nothing. I just don’t like it. Sorry.’ Catherine leant her head back against the sofa wearily.
Running Away Page 5