It's Raining Men

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Nightcap?’ asked Clare, closing the door softly on the sleeping May. ‘I have a bottle of wine in my suitcase.’

  ‘I’d love one. I’ll get the glasses,’ replied Lara, making a halfhearted attempt to rise from the fat comfy sofa.

  ‘Stay there, I’ll get them.’

  As Lara waited, she glanced around her at the room. It wasn’t exactly equipped with the newest of items: the TV was old, with a small screen and an enormous depth to the back, and the coffee table and bookcase had seen better days. But it was homely and not once since she arrived had Lara wished she had brought her laptop. She’d thought doing nothing would drive her up the wall after a few hours – she couldn’t remember the last time she had done nothing and not felt that it was a complete waste of time. But, sitting there, she thought she could pick up her Kindle, snuggle back into the plump cushions and read into the small hours of the night, ignoring the dictates of the clock that she should go to bed/get up/eat lunch.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Clare, proffering a full glass of red wine.

  ‘Thanks, love.’

  ‘Don’t get excited, it’s not exactly a Château Petrus.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less if it was Château Um Bongo, just let me at it,’ said Lara, as her hands closed greedily around it.

  Clare plonked herself in the big armchair, which seemed to mould to her shape.

  ‘God, this is nice. Wish May were okay and having a glass with us.’

  ‘I’m expecting us all to fall down with some dreaded lurgy. That’s what usually happens when people stop working and relax. Allegedly.’ Lara, of course, wouldn’t know about that at first hand, because she never took the time to stop working and relax.

  ‘Don’t say that, Lars.’ Though Clare knew it was true. Still, being full of bugs in bed would be miles better than being behind her desk at Blackwoods and Margoyles. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy what she did – and she was more than honoured to be asked to join the partners – but she would have even less time for other things she really enjoyed doing. She barely had space in her diary to see her friends or a man, if she ever found another one. She wished she could split herself in two and one half of her could do justice to her promotion, make her parents proud, be at the office number-crunching twenty-four-seven. And the other half could stay at home, buy a cat, a dog and a house rabbit, cook, write a recipe book, make cushions, have babies. Tomorrow’s secret adventure would do her good and take away from all the turmoil that was going on in her head.

  ‘Have you managed to find a signal to ring Ludwig to say you’re having a disastrous time?’

  ‘I’m not having a disastrous time and, yes, of course I have,’ said Clare, lying about the phone call. ‘If you want to borrow my phone to ring James . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine.’ Lara flapped her hand. ‘He’s abroad on business until Tuesday and so I said I wouldn’t get in touch with him before then.’ Then she took a long sip of wine to douse any tail fumes of the untruth that might be still lingering in her throat.

  ‘Has he gone anywhere fabulous?’

  ‘Spain.’ Uncomfortable with lying to her friend, Lara changed the subject. ‘So, going for another swim in your cave tomorrow now you’ve bought a torch?’

  Clare smiled back. ‘I most certainly am. If you and May don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. This is a holiday to unwind. I never thought we’d be glued to each other all day every day. It’s just great to be near you, if that doesn’t sound too soppy.’ And it was true. She was certainly glad she hadn’t cancelled this holiday to stay with James.

  ‘I don’t know where all my friends have disappeared to over the years,’ sighed Clare. ‘I remember being best buddies with Beth Lofthouse and Fi Ballatyne at school and knowing that we’d always be in each other’s lives. Then they met men. Fi had a baby and moved to Canada and Beth went all weird and converted to tree worshipping. I haven’t heard from either of them in ten years and yet once we were as close as sisters. We went to Ibiza together when we were twenty-one and had the maddest time.’

  Lara nodded. ‘Carol Brady and Hannah Craddock were my bezzies. Carol started messing about at school, got dropped from the top set and ended up palling about with the girls in her new class who hung around with bad lads and smoked. She dropped me like a hot brick – I was gutted. She ended up getting pregnant at fifteen. I saw her a couple of years ago and she walked past me in the street, even though I knew that she knew who I was. I was quite upset about it actually. She looked old and rough and a bit scruffy.’

  ‘And your friend Hannah?’ Clare prompted.

  ‘I was her bridesmaid ten years ago. She was a solicitor but jacked in her job as soon as she got married, had three babies in quick succession and ended up with a new set of friends who had time to go to coffee mornings and push prams around the park. We just drifted apart. Our friendship obviously wasn’t as strong as we thought; it couldn’t survive all the changes.’

  Clare took a long sip of wine. ‘I miss having lots of female company, you know, just sitting with a glass of wine, like this; not rushing, just talking is lovely. I miss taking time to smell the roses, don’t you, Lars? I’ve forgotten what it’s like to stop.’

  ‘Yep, I know what you mean exactly.’

  ‘And on that note, Lars, I’m off to bed.’ Clare stood up to go.

  ‘Well, I’m going to sit here and read,’ said Lara. ‘You’re not throwing that half glass away, are you? G’is it here.’

  Clare laughed. ‘Your Barnsley accent’s come right back.’ She put her glass down next to Lara’s on the coffee table. ‘Fill yer boots, lass. Nighty night.’

  ‘Night, Salty,’ said Lara, taking the throw from the back of the chair and wrapping it around her so she was extra snug. She settled down to read and took a long glug of the wine. A little bubble of bliss pinged in her head. She could get too used to this if she weren’t careful.

  In bed, Clare switched off her bedside light, closed her eyes and visualized herself in a floaty dress walking through a wood, the sun picking out motes flying in the air, the ground smooth underfoot and full of violet bluebells. In the distance was Val Hathersage spreading a blanket on the ground, setting two champagne glasses on it, pulling plates out of a basket. Then he saw her and came running towards her and she didn’t have enough time to say hello because he pushed her against a tree and began kissing her, furiously, hungrily. His hands, at first gallantly on her waist, strayed upwards to her breasts and she gasped as he fondled her and his lips sank to her neck nipping it with exquisite force. Then she felt his fingers pulling up her dress, stroking her thighs, slipping into her silk knickers, tantalizingly soft as they found what they were looking for and circled, tickled, rubbed until the feeling shuddered through her body and she screamed out his name wantonly, whoreishly, as she asked him to do all manner of things to her, on the blanket, in the bluebells, risking discovery.

  She felt as if, tomorrow, she would be diving into life at last and it would be the same feeling as diving into the lagoon.

  Chapter 32

  Gladys walked into the study, immediately saw Joan seated at the desk reading the huge familiar ledgers, and, with a heaving bosom and a pinched mouth, she retreated and marched up the stairs to find Edwin Carlton. She discovered him in the upper corridor where he was straightening a picture of his father Gilbert – the one who had started it all. The picture had tipped itself to the side overnight. Gladys was one hundred per cent convinced it was an omen.

  ‘Sir, I need you to come immediately and see what’s happening downstairs.’ She wouldn’t have dared, even after all these years, but she was itching to grab his sleeve and pull him at a rate of knots into the study.

  ‘What is it, Gladys? Have we been invaded by aliens?’ He seemed amused. He was wearing that stupid smile again, the one he had acquired of late. It was part of that spring-in-the-step lightness that usually accompanied a spring in the heart. Gladys wasn’t daft – she’d been in lov
e a few times herself and wasn’t too old to recognize the signs of someone in the early stages of being besotted.

  ‘Joan is looking through the ledgers,’ whispered Gladys through clenched teeth, after a cursory check behind her that no one was eavesdropping.

  ‘I know,’ said Edwin. ‘I asked her to.’

  Gladys’s eyes sprang open so far her eyeballs were in danger of pinging out of their sockets.

  ‘You can’t let her see those,’ she said, concentrating a shout into a hiss.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Edwin, displaying impatience in his voice. ‘I need help. The accounts are a mess and the succession of little old ladies you’ve brought in to assist me over the years, Gladys, have given me many a sleepless night.’

  ‘But what about Lawrence?’ Gladys’s anger was changing now to desperation.

  ‘He’s eighty-two now, Gladys. Blind in one eye and the other isn’t much better. As an accountant his sight is a required commodity, I would have thought.’

  ‘His junior—’

  ‘Has left,’ Edwin interrupted. ‘Who can blame him? We can’t keep the young men here any more. It’s not fair to try, Gladys. It’s just a matter of time. The world is shrinking as we breathe. There are no women here, the village is dying.’

  Gladys opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. What Edwin was saying was true. The end was nigh. Gladys dropped her head into her hands. She hadn’t sobbed since she became a widow twenty years ago, but she was dangerously close to it now. She felt Edwin’s arm slide around her shoulder. It was the first time he had comforted her, the first time he had needed to.

  ‘There’s nothing in the books but names and lots of numbers, Gladys. The estate is in trouble, my dear. A fresh pair of eyes on things can’t do any more harm than Lawrence has done in the past few years. I’m afraid he made some bad decisions for us, investment-wise. Poor chap, not as on the ball as he was in his younger days. He’s struggled on too long, as we all have.’

  Taking advantage of the drop in his guard, Gladys turned her mouth as near as she could to Edwin’s ear.

  ‘I don’t trust Mrs Hawk, it has to be said. No one knows of her in Wellem.’

  ‘Wellem is much bigger and far more spread out than Ren Dullem so the residents wouldn’t all know each other,’ said Edwin, dropping his arm away from Gladys. ‘And, as she herself said, Mrs Hawk was only a small child when she left.’

  Gladys knew that whatever she said, Edwin would have a stronger counter-argument, but she couldn’t stop the warning slipping from her lips: ‘Be careful. All those years will mean nothing if it comes out.’

  ‘I know, Gladys, but you don’t have to worry,’ he replied stiffly. ‘Enough now. Remember our recent conversation? I won’t have discord in this house.’

  Edwin turned from her and back to nudging the painting into its proper place.

  Gladys wiped her eyes and returned to her duties downstairs whilst thinking that any warning Gilbert Carlton might have been giving out by tilting his portrait on the wall was long overdue. If he’d only stuck to dry land that day, none of it would ever have happened.

  Chapter 33

  Clare didn’t get up until half-past ten. She found Lara fast asleep on the sofa wrapped up in the throw and looking snugger than the proverbial bug. She checked on May, who wanted to stay in bed and sleep. Her headache was gone but she felt washed out. Clare brought her some fresh iced water and then went into the bathroom to prepare herself for her picnic with Val. She couldn’t have been more excited had she been sixteen and on her first date with the school sports hero. She bathed, shaved her legs and underarms, washed her hair, put on her best pushup bra and nice knickers. She applied just enough make-up to look fresh and understated.

  She didn’t have a floaty dress as she had worn in her fantasy, but she had a nice summery cream skirt with small blue flowers on it and a matching blue T-shirt which showed off her generous bust very nicely. She hadn’t brought any perfume with her so she nipped into Lara’s room to steal a squirt or two of her Rain, giving herself a light spray on her hair, behind her ears and up her T-shirt, but not on her neck in case Val Hathersage gave it any attention with his lips.

  Clare studied herself in the huge mirror in Lara’s room. This was the most reckless she had been ever. Then again, what was she doing wrong? She was single and merely going for an innocent picnic in the woods. But if everything was so innocent, why were there butterflies leaping about in her stomach and flittering their wings around her nether regions?

  At ten to twelve she slipped quietly out of the house and took a very, very slow walk down the hill. She didn’t want to appear too keen. She practised looking casual and laid-back even though her heart was thundering in her chest. When she checked her watch she saw that it was now eight minutes to twelve – had her watch stopped? She idled outside Gene Hathersage’s drive for a moment and studied the view that he had from the windows in his gable end. Ren Dullem, despite having a totally rubbish name, was a beautiful spot. At least it would have been had the sun been able to cut through those weird clouds that looked as solid as dumplings. She imagined how the whole sea might sparkle if the skies cleared, like the water in the lagoon. She intended to swim in there later and climb the second staircase to see where it led.

  There was no sign of anyone coming up or down the road at twelve. She walked further down the hill, looking in the windows of the row of abandoned cottages, wiling away another five minutes. Then she strolled slowly up the hill again, checked in the woods – no one was there. She walked down the hill again, her excitement segueing into annoyance. Ludwig would have cut off his own legs rather than be late for a date.

  Ah, but this isn’t Ludwig and that’s why you are here, said her subconscious, wagging its finger at her. You are now playing a different ball game, lady.

  After the fourth time of wandering up and down the hill, Clare huffed loudly and her stride picked up pace. She was going back to Well Cottage. Val Hathersage could go to hell. She walked past the woods without even a glance.

  ‘Hey, you, witch lady,’ called a voice from behind her. She twisted round to see a man with fair waves of hair and a lopsided grin. He was holding a Tesco carrier bag in one hand. He made no apology for his lateness as he fell into stride with Clare and together they silently walked into the heart of the wood.

  Chapter 34

  Joan cross-referenced the rough notes she had made so far with the mighty ledger on the desk. However many times she looked at the figures, they didn’t tell her what could be going on. The Carlton estate had apparently been financially supporting the whole of the village like some private benefits office since 1928. At first glance it appeared that everyone in Ren Dullem had been blackmailing the Carltons and extorting money from them. It had started with Gilbert Carlton and was still going on with his son, Edwin. Some ridiculous financial investments had whittled away at the estate capital, causing it to be only a small fraction of what it once was, and yet payments were still haemorrhaging out of bank accounts.

  The door creaked open and Edwin made a smiling appearance with a china cup of tea which he set down beside Joan, on its saucer.

  ‘Just as you like it, my dear,’ he said.

  She could smell the infatuation on him, mingled with a heavy application of old-man cologne. Had no one told him that stuff stank?

  ‘You smell nice,’ she said, giving him her best practised smile.

  ‘Oh, do I? Thank you. Alas I’ll never be as fragrant as you, dear lady.’

  Joan released her best tinkly laugh. Edwin’s wife looked down on them from the artwork on the wall and Joan could have sworn she looked more disapproving than usual. Joan now wore her hair in soft curls and tucked behind her right ear, in the same style as Mary Carlton.

  ‘Edwin, I don’t understand what all these costs to the estate are.’ Joan tapped the pile of ledgers with her pen.

  ‘Oh, they aren’t important,’ he said, dismissing them with one wave of his han
d. ‘I just need you to double-check that they are all still being paid by the bank and the balance sheets are correct.’

  ‘But what are they for?’

  ‘Just costs.’ Edwin nodded. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Why would you pay—’

  There was a knock on the door followed swiftly by the entry of Gladys. It was she who should have been called Hawk, thought Joan. She hovered constantly around her these days. And gone was the smiling trust; she knew that Gladys detested her presence in Carlton Hall.

  Tough.

  ‘Patrick has arrived to cut your hair, sir.’

  ‘Has he? It doesn’t need doing, does it? You shouldn’t have booked him so soon after the last cut, Gladys.’

  ‘I didn’t. You did.’ Gladys felt a twinge of panic. Edwin was becoming more and more forgetful these days. Senility was a pattern in the Carlton men; but none of the others had a Joan Hawk in their presence to take advantage of it.

  ‘Oh, did I? Just tell him that I’ll be along in a moment, Gladys, would you, please?’

  Gladys didn’t rush to leave and Joan smirked. The housekeeper really didn’t like her being alone with Edwin and it seemed to have something to do with these ledgers. Joan’s radar began to twitch and flash and she felt a kick of excitement in her veins. If Gladys didn’t want her reading those ledgers, there must be a reason.

  ‘Edwin, how would you like me to cook you dinner this evening in the cottage?’ said Joan, when the door at last closed behind Gladys. ‘To say thank you for being so kind to me.’

  ‘Oh my dear, you don’t have to do that,’ said Edwin.

  ‘No, I don’t have to,’ said Joan, ‘but I’d like to. I do an excellent chicken casserole.’

  Edwin clapped his hands together. ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Really?’ But Joan already knew it was his favourite. She had done her homework.