‘Soup, please.’ It was the plainest thing on the menu.
‘Beer, cider or house wine, which comes in the varieties known as “red” or “white”?’
‘Just water, thanks.’ April had not touched alcohol for five years. It was not that she was worried she might become dependent; it was more that it took the edge off, mellowed things, and April had vowed that her new life would have no softeners, no buffers, no means to hide.
Across the table, Edward Gill was closer to her than he had been in his office. He had the kind of face that had probably looked the same for years — boyish, smooth and fresh — and was only now, like a carefully stored apple, beginning to line. It was the kind of face that might stay as it was until he died, or it might do the opposite and slide swiftly into the wrinkles and wattles of old age.
Whereas her slide had already begun.
A flash of fuchsia pink lipstick, a yellow dress. April blinked them away.
The woman from behind the bar placed two plates in front of them. Edward Gill’s plate was full, the pie proud and golden in the middle of mash and sautéed greens. April tried not to inhale the savoury, buttery steam.
‘Call me Falstaff and roll me home,’ said Edward, ‘larding the earth as I go.’
He poked the pie crust with his fork, but did not eat.
‘I feel like a bit of a fraud,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I know quite a lot about you, and it seems impolite not to confess that.’
‘Did the private individual spill the beans?’
‘The who? Oh, I see. Yes, he did. What did he look like? I rather pictured Peter Lorre in The Maltese Falcon. Small and shifty.’
‘More Sydney Greenstreet,’ said April. ‘Large. Untidy.’
Edward Gill’s fork now hovered above his greens. ‘He told me about your son. I am so very sorry.’
So sorry for your loss. The phrase and all its variations she had heard countless times, from now faceless, nameless people. After a while, with much effort, April had reduced its effect on her to that of empty words of courtesy, like ‘Nice to see you’ or ‘Have a good day’. But it had been years now since she’d last heard it, last prepared for it, and in that time it had refreshed itself, become plump again with meaning, and today hit April like a kick to the back.
The drill came back to her as if she were remembering the instructions for CPR. First, you must breathe in, regain control. Then you must deflect, turn the conversation away from you, and back on them.
April breathed in.
‘He told me about you, too,’ she said. ‘I know your age, the extent of your property portfolio and your marital status.’
Edward Gill smiled, not at all offended.
‘Not exactly a shock that last one, I imagine,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ April blinked. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t twigged.’
‘Actually, I’m leading you astray. My marital status has nothing to do my sexuality.’
‘Can’t commit?’
‘More a lack of — well, just an all-round lack, really,’ said Edward. ‘My last partner had more specific complaints, a long, clearly itemised list, in fact. But that’s what it boiled down to in the end.’
‘I’m sorry.’
April knew how hard broken relationships could be, even when it was you who’d done the breaking.
Edward’s face showed mild embarrassment mixed with irritation.
‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘It’s the usual boring story of physical attraction being unable to compensate for fundamental incompatibility. Nothing special.’
‘How long were you together?’
‘Only three years.’
‘That’s long enough.’
‘In truth, it should have been over much earlier, except that I made the mistake of purchasing more than one old property and allowing my ex to take on the renovations as a project. He was so busy pointing and rendering and the like that he failed to notice we had nothing in common until he’d cleaned the last drop of Farrow and Ball from his brush.’
‘Were you not involved in the renovations? I thought you sounded very knowledgeable before, about old architecture.’
‘My involvement was a large part of the problem. I provided the architectural and stylistic guidance and he provided all the labour. That may not sound equitable, but it worked for us. We were a team. Until such time as we had no more projects to unite us.’
‘But you’ve kept the properties?’
Edward smiled thinly.
‘I may be lacking in many areas, but I’m not a fool. Those renovations almost doubled the houses’ value. I can now have my pick of tenants, all prepared to pay exorbitant sums, even by London standards.’
It occurred to April that she’d not had a proper conversation with anyone apart from Jenny for some years. Intentionally — she had no wish to connect. Jenny was the exception because Jenny could be trusted to keep any knowledge of April to herself. And she was never offended if April chose not to answer her questions, was quite happy to let April drink tea in silence if she preferred. Jenny had been an undemanding companion.
But this man was not Jenny. There was a steeliness about him. It had underlined his letter and now it spiked through his outward padding of self-deprecation and soft English courtesy. Edward Gill was indeed no fool, and April was wary of venturing deeper into conversation with him. But Edward Gill was no wizard king, either; he had no magic powers that could compel her to do anything against her will.
‘Why did you come to Kingsfield?’ she asked.
‘For the reason you suspect,’ he said. ‘I ran away. London is large but the circles one moves in tend not to be. I felt too many eyes upon me and I did not like it. I found out about this practice and I made an offer. My predecessor may have had his qualms but he was eager to retire, and he did not want to leave his clients in the lurch. Plus the only other offer had come from a solicitor whose offices were next door to the dog track in Romford.’
‘And do you like it here?’
‘I’ve met some interesting people,’ said Edward. ‘Occasionally, the work also becomes interesting. I have to admit to a small burst of actual excitement when the private individual, as he will now be forever known, telephoned to say he’d found you. And I’m most certainly intrigued to see how this story will now unfold.’
He raised a politely encouraging eyebrow. April felt momentary guilt that she would have to disappoint him. But there was no alternative.
‘I want to sell it,’ she said. ‘I’d like to put it on the market right away.’
Disappointed he was, though good manners forbade him from showing it for more than a moment. He swirled the last of the wine around in his glass, but did not drink. Instead, he regarded April in a way she found less than comfortable. She sensed he was forming a lawyerly argument in his head, and she readied herself for what might well be a battle.
‘Forgive me if this sounds impertinent,’ he said, ‘but the short time you’ve taken to make that decision suggests to me that you had no other in mind. Would that be fair?’
‘It would.’
‘Then — and you’ll have to forgive me a second time — why on earth did you come all this way? A phone call or letter would have been quicker, and considerably cheaper.’
April felt her face redden. She had no explanation, or at least none that didn’t make her sound mentally awry. But Edward was unlikely to let her get away with only a shrug of the shoulders.
‘I wanted to see it,’ she said. ‘Just once. In the flesh.’
‘To be absolutely sure?’
‘No, I was sure, but … I didn’t want to keep thinking about it. Didn’t want it to live on in my head.’ She offered an apologetic glance. ‘I know that sounds a bit odd.’
‘Not at all,’ said Edward. ‘The stories we tell ourselves are powerful. If they weren’t, there’d be no such thing as superstition. Possibly no such thing as religion, either.’
The barmaid came to clear the plates, and ask if they wanted
coffee or dessert, which they did not. April, welcoming the interruption, hoped the end of lunch would bring an end to the conversation also.
It was not to be.
‘I must say, I thought you looked rather at home in Kit’s cottage,’ said Edward. ‘You could consider subdividing the land. Of course, you’d need to build a driveway, which isn’t cheap, but—’
‘No!’
The man in the Barbour was staring at her over the top of his newspaper. April lowered her voice.
‘No, I don’t want to do that. I have a home already. I need to go back to it.’
‘I can’t guarantee a quick sale,’ said Edward. ‘Or a decent price, for that matter.’
April breathed in. ‘That’s fine. The money is not important.’
Edward tapped his fingers on the table. Whatever line of argument he was forming now, April decided she would forestall. Firmly. Unequivocally.
‘I want to sell the whole estate,’ she said. ‘That’s the end of it.’
The tapping ceased. Edward nodded, slowly.
‘Understood,’ he said. ‘While you’re here, though,’ he added, ‘there is someone I would very much like you to meet.’
‘Oh, no,’ April demurred. ‘I really don’t—’
‘She’s invited us both to tea,’ said Edward. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon at three.’
CHAPTER 5
late February
The woman in the doorway had white hair piled up in a thick, loose bun, a phone clamped between her shoulder and her ear, and a wooden spoon in the hand she’d not used to open the door.
‘I do not give a tinker’s cuss what Tilly thinks,’ she was saying, as she ushered them in. She closed the door and waved the wooden spoon at them, to chivvy them down the hallway into the kitchen.
‘Our local library has a waiting list a mile long for Fifty Shades of Grey, and well-thumbed Mills and Boon are one of our consistent earners at the village fair. We are surrounded by pillars of the community with a pash for filthy books, Dilly. A local writer is — hell! My sauce is catching—’
She rushed up to a large pot on the Aga, and stirred it. The room filled with the warmth of cooked apples and a hint of allspice. April could not remember when she’d last smelled anything that good.
‘Saved by a tooth skin,’ she continued into the phone. ‘Of course Bramleys, what else? The woman is the perfect speaker for next month’s meeting, Dilly. Tilly’s a silly prig. Besides, she’s also the local curtain-hanger. No, not Tilly, you fool, the smut peddler! She’s been in everyone’s house, so I can only imagine she has something incriminatingly grubby on all of us. Where do you think she gets her ideas?’
She thrust a spoon of sauced apples at Edward’s face. ‘Does it need more sugar?’
He took a tiny, reluctant taste. ‘Possibly.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’ But she was talking to the phone. ‘Tilly can stay at home and fantasise about being in a clinch with the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Of course she’s keen on him! She hasn’t complained once that his name is Justin!’
A heaped tablespoon of sugar went into the pot.
‘No, I can’t. I have t’ai chi. Yes, that’s all in hand. Pigeon. Yes, I know. I must go, I have visitors. Edward. No, the other one. No, not that one, either. I’d forgotten all about him. Yes, definitely. Pigeon. Yes, I know. Goodbye.’
She dropped the phone onto the bench by the Aga, shifted the pot of apple sauce off the element and quickly tasted it.
‘Too sweet. Never mind. I’ll fob it off on the neighbours.’ She wiped her hands on a tea towel that April recognised as a much-faded souvenir of the Sydney Olympic Games, and bent forward to let Edward kiss her on both cheeks. ‘How are you, my dear?’
‘Enlightened,’ said Edward. ‘I now know Dilly is as silly as Tilly, and someone is having an affair with someone else called Pigeon.’
‘You do talk a lot of nonsense, don’t you?’
‘It’s a gift.’ Edward touched April’s shoulder to bring her forward. ‘Sunny, may I introduce April Turner. April, this is Sunny, Lady Day.’
‘Oh, don’t be so terrifyingly formal, Edward.’ The woman stuck out her hand. ‘Call me Sunny. You’re the Potts girl, I gather?’
‘Well …’
‘April is heir to the Potts estate, but she is not a Potts.’
‘I’m a bit Potts, obviously,’ said April. ‘Hence the inheritance.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ said Sunny. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Edward. ‘And cake.’
‘I have shortbread, which you can take or leave.’
‘Tea and shortbread. Excellent.’
‘Would you like some help?’ said April.
She was waved away impatiently, in the direction of a small dining table at the far end of the kitchen. ‘If Fatso is sleeping there,’ Sunny called after them, ‘evict him.’
‘Not her husband,’ Edward whispered. ‘Sir Peregrine died nearly ten years ago.’
Fatso turned out to be a large Burmese cat the colour of a cinnamon stick, curled up asleep on one of the chairs.
‘I daren’t touch him,’ said Edward. ‘It would be safer to plunge my hand into a working waste disposal unit.’
Since entering the house — a large cottage, really — April had tried not to look around too much. She had very nearly refused to come in at all, because as soon as Edward’s Alvis had pulled up outside, April had felt her heart clutch. This was it, her perfect house, the one she’d pieced together from pictures in magazines, collaged in a scrapbook that she’d begun when she’d married Ben’s father. Pictures of the same brick and flint exterior clad in the winter-bare vines of wisteria and rose, the same bright white window frames and cornflower-blue front door, the same stone birdbath and clusters of terracotta pots filled with frost-hardy herbs. The same soft light that glowed around it like a halo.
This was the inspiration for the house she and Ben’s father had intended to create. April had seen how their new family home’s overgrown garden could be brought back, the old plum and apple trees given space to fruit, the japonica and crab apple, too, terraces built, one for a bench seat, a spot beside the scented viburnum for a birdbath. The nasty seventies-brown interior would be repainted in duck-egg blue and primrose and white. They would buy old furniture, strip it and paint it, or cover it with coloured throws. Nothing would match, but everything would go together. It would be beautiful.
Ben’s birth had put most plans on hold; there simply was no spare time. And afterwards — April assumed that Ben’s father would have thrown the scrapbook away. She, herself, had refused to give it another thought until Edward led her to the blue front door of Sunny’s home, and the arrow-jolt of recognition pinned her to the Alvis’s front seat.
Edward noticed. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Why am I here?’ April asked the question of herself as much as of Edward.
‘I thought it might interest you to meet someone who knew Empyrean in its heyday.’
April recognised the unmistakable signs of ulterior motive.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘So they can talk me into keeping it?’
Edward smiled, unapologetically. ‘I’m as transparent as a well-filleted fish, aren’t I?’
‘Who is this someone, anyway?’ April began to search for excuses. ‘They must be ancient. Are they compos? Or all doddery and dotty?’
‘Well, why don’t you come and find out?’
He meant it, albeit jokingly, as a challenge, but he had no idea, thought April, how much of a challenge it was for her. He had no idea how hard it would be for her to enter this house. This house — and she’d known it before she’d stepped through the front door — belonged to the world she’d left behind, the one that contained joy and pleasure and love. To go inside would be like sailing between the Sirens, and April could hardly ask Edward to tie her to the mast.
Edward tapped a light tattoo on the steering wheel. Time to make a decision.
; Surely, after this long, April thought, she should be able to handle a test like this? It could even be good for her, make her stronger, prove she had the grit to stay the course.
‘Fine,’ April had said to Edward. ‘Let’s have tea. But I’m warning you that nothing your friend can say to me will make a jot of difference.’
Sitting at Sunny’s table, April regretted sounding arrogant. In her experience, there was no better way to tempt Fate. Or provoke Fate into tempting you.
Sunny’s house was just as perfect on the inside. April had tried not to look around, but, short of sitting there with her eyes closed, ignoring her surroundings was nigh on impossible. Gold-grey flagstones, soft-looking through wear, paved the floor in the hallway and kitchen. The kitchen and the space where they were sitting had obviously been two rooms knocked together into one, now light and airy. The kitchen walls were a blue-white, with broad white tiles behind a cherry-red Aga. Pots, kitchen implements and bound sprigs of dried thyme hung off a rack suspended from the white-painted beams. An old tea trolley with elegant curved legs was stacked with baking bowls and cake tins. A tall wooden cupboard held crockery and glassware. The table at which they sat was covered by a pink and white chintz-pattern floral cloth, on it a blue glass bud vase with a sprig of startlingly purple berries, a china robin, and a willow-pattern sugar bowl with a souvenir teaspoon from Pisa.
It occurred to April that Sunny’s cottage was not her idea of a house that belonged to someone titled. No paintings of horses or gun-dogs, no heavy antique furniture, no animal heads or shooting sticks in the hallway. April wondered if Sunny’s style had only come to the fore after her husband’s death. Or perhaps Sir Peregrine had resigned himself to feminine surroundings, all his sporting prints and stag heads banished to his study.
There were good pieces here, though — the watercolour of a young girl, the heavy silver frames around the photographs, the enamelled carriage clock beside them on the glass-fronted sideboard, the gilt-edged dinnerware stacked inside. April knew that a title in Britain did not guarantee wealth, unless one was a business tycoon or a rock star. Sunny, Lady Day, was certainly comfortably off, April decided, but not rich.
The Hiding Places Page 5