‘So . . . should we go back?’ I say.
He picks up a smooth pebble and strokes it with his thumb. ‘To Fettermore?’
His thumbs, his fingers, are strong. His hands always have a just-washed, wholesome glow about them.
‘Well we’re done here, aren’t we?’ I turn in the direction of the car. More of a flounce really, if I’m honest.
His voice follows me, and I hear the jingle of keys. ‘I’m going to stay a bit longer. Feel free to sit in the car if you like.’
When I risk a glance, he’s laughing at me. I can either complete the full flounce manoeuvre, or I can stand and fight. Battle can take many forms. I let myself smile, feeling the numbness crack around the edges.
‘I actually have a sort-of picnic in my bag.’ I tug the shoulder strap. ‘Well, lemonade and biscuits.’
He catches up with me and brushes past, closer than he needs to be. It’s a very big beach, after all. ‘Sort-of picnics are the best kind. And flour-based confectionary? Sold. Come on then, let’s find a good place.’
I take a deep breath and follow him.
Mac
‘I’m sorry – the mill isn’t open to the public.’ I brandish the big key in his face and march him out.
‘I haven’t come to see the mill,’ he declares. ‘I’ve come to see Lucie. Sorry, we haven’t actually met. I’m Reuben. You must be Mrs Muir?’
I look him up and down, noting the walking stick, the slight hunch to his demeanour. He’s a good-looking lad, but there are lines in his face that shouldn’t be there. I recognise pain when I see it. Beyond him, a grey car lurks where the blue car had been. Something whirrs and clicks in my brain. I stare at the car. I think about the crash in old man Clark’s cow pasture. I think about Reuben’s accident, the same day. I snap my attention back to him. He’s got a definite attitude, coming here asking for Lucie. I turn back to the door to hide my thoughts.
‘It’s Doctor Muir, actually, and Lucie isn’t here.’ It takes me a moment or two to lock up; the timber has swollen with the damp mist and I have to wrestle with it. It buys me some time. When I turn back to Reuben he’s checking his smartphone. ‘Jane not with you then? Your girlfriend?’
He glances up with impatience. ‘No. Is Lucie around, then?’
‘No she isn’t. She’s out for the afternoon. On a date.’
I watch his face for a flicker and there it is. A wince, just as surely as he’d stepped awkwardly on the gammy leg.
‘When will she be back?’
‘I’ve simply no idea.’ I no longer want to have any truck with this man, but he follows me as I head towards the lane. ‘Looks to me like you should be at home recuperating. With Jane.’
‘It’s been a long haul,’ he concedes. ‘I’m a work in progress.’
Ah yes, any writer knows how troublesome those can be.
‘Right. I’ll tell her you called,’ I say, in what I hope is a dismissive fashion. Maybe he’ll just get in his car and go.
‘I think I’ll just wait.’ He fixes me with a look that says try and stop me.
‘As you wish.’
Damn him to hell. Why is he back now, making waves? No good can come of this.
Lucie
‘Just drop me off at the cafe,’ I’d said to him. ‘There’s no need to take me home.’ As if the short stretch of road from the village to the mill would suddenly invite new depths of familiarity.
‘It’s fine,’ he’d replied. ‘Another mile won’t make any difference.’
I’d thought that was a bit cryptic, but then I suspect that Arthur has hidden and unexplored depths. Something fleeting and treacherous rises up inside me. As the car bumps down the track to the cottage, I gather my things together: the sticky lemonade, the half-eaten packet of biscuits. I brush crumbs from Mac’s jotter and stow it more carefully in a side pocket, making a mental note to ask her straight out why she’s stalling with this when I want so badly to know the ending.
‘Strange car,’ Arthur mutters. I look up as we slow to a halt beside it. Pale grey in colour, some kind of Toyota, with a number plate I don’t recognise. ‘Looks like you’ve got visitors.’
‘I’m not expecting any.’ I pull the bag closer to me like a shield. ‘That’s not my parents’ car, or Jane’s . . .’
Then I see him, loitering beside the cottage. Reuben. He’s checking his phone, and I wonder if he’s been texting me. Today has been the first day in all these months that I haven’t been obsessively checking my mobile. My stomach clenches like a fist.
‘Ah.’ Arthur has seen him too. The car rolls forward an inch, as if he isn’t quite sure what to do. ‘Are you going to be ok?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ My voice sounds tight, remote. I release my seatbelt.
‘I just mean . . .’ Arthur sighs and slips the car into gear as I open the door. ‘Let me know how it goes.’
I’m out of the car, half-scared to attract Reuben’s attention. To Arthur I must seem detached, cold, but inside my heart is beating fiercely and my hand is shaking on the door handle.
‘I’ll be fine.’ I slam the door in Arthur’s face, and then turn and walk up the steps to meet Reuben.
Once again, Reuben is standing in my kitchen.
He looks tired, and the way his eyes kindle when he catches sight of me . . . well, that seems to be missing. There’s an absence, somehow, as if the real Reuben is still in the hospital and this is a pared-down version. The first awkward greeting, and the usual faff when you’re unlocking the door and ushering in an unexpected visitor, has diverted my thoughts. But now, as I lay my keys down on the table and really look at him . . . now, I’m remembering that last time, when it was supposed to be over and we’d kissed and ended up in bed together. The possibility is still there, floating round our heads like pollen, waiting to land.
Reuben’s once easy smile is flawed. I can see the pain in his eyes, and it pulls on my heart like a magnet. Don’t go there. Don’t hug him. Don’t touch him. Instead I ask him about his leg, about his new car and what it was like to drive, after the accident.
‘Pretty scary, at first,’ he says. ‘This is the furthest I’ve been, since.’
‘That road . . . that must have been difficult.’
He nods. No trace of the old bravado grin. My hand comes to rest on my abdomen, which feels all tense and knotted.
‘Are you back at work?’
‘Not yet. We’re discussing a phased return. I’ll be office-based for a while, obviously.’
He raises the walking stick a fraction and lets it drop back onto the flagstones with a sharp rap. I rush to pull out a chair.
‘Here, sit down. What am I thinking. Do you want a coffee?’
‘No coffee. No, thank you. Your boss, she’s a bit frosty, isn’t she? Does she know about us?’
‘Do you think she does?’ Suddenly breathless, I slump down into the chair beside him. ‘I thought she might have figured it out. She’s writing this story about two sisters and I keep thinking she’s playing games with me, pointing the finger. It’s like she’s saying this is you. This is what you’re doing to your sister.’
‘So what? It’s none of her business, miserable old cow.’ Reuben dismisses it all with a sneer that makes me angry.
‘You just don’t get it! How guilty I feel! Have you any idea what will happen if Jane finds out?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘What? She’s not –’
‘No!’ Again he pushes my fears aside. ‘It’s just . . . Jane and me, we haven’t been getting along. Has she been in touch?’ He’s staring at his trainers and my eyes take in the soft wave of his hair. No. Suddenly he looks up. His eyes are shiny, moist.
I shake my head. The knot in my belly tightens. ‘Not lately. We don’t confide in each other much.’
He rubs both hands over his face, his hair. ‘We’re in trouble. I think she suspects.’
‘What? I knew it.’ We’re facing each other, our eyes level. There is no hidi
ng place for this cold dread. ‘About us?’
He shrugs. ‘No . . . not us specifically. She’s suspicious, though. Asking questions. I caught her reading my messages once. Things haven’t been right since the accident.’
‘Since the accident?’ I repeat. I’m thinking of all the months before that, the yearning glances, the secret meetings. ‘Things haven’t been right for a long time, or you wouldn’t have been sleeping with me.’
He looks shocked. ‘I still loved her.’
‘So where did that ever leave me?’ My fingers are twisting together in my lap.
‘You’re special to me.’ He reaches out and grasps my hand. The skin-on-skin contact is a shock and I pull away.
‘Special?’ The word comes out like a pistol shot. ‘That’s a patronising word. That’s the sort of thing you say to kids on their birthday. “You’re special, so you’re going to get a special present.” Don’t do me any favours, Reuben.’
‘Stop.’ He bangs his hand down on the table, stares at the cherries on the oilcloth. Cherry trifle. Does he even remember that tiny detail? ‘I didn’t come here to argue about who loves who the most –’
‘No, you came here to find out if I’ll keep your secret – our secret. If I’ll lie to my sister if she asks me.’
He opens his mouth, and I wait to hear what he has to say, wait to hear him tell me I’m wrong, but he remains silent.
‘Don’t worry, Reuben,’ I continue. ‘I have no intention of hurting Jane any more than I already have. I won’t tell her.’
He nods. ‘The thing is, even if she doesn’t find out, even if she never has any evidence, she knows there’s something . . .’ He sighs. ‘I just want to know, if Jane and I split up . . .’
I think I know what’s coming next. My heart is banging against my ribs, and there’s only one question in my mind. Will he end it, or will Jane? But I already know the answer. Reuben will never have the courage of his convictions. He’s never loved me enough to make the break, to put me first. Even now, he’s just making sure he has somewhere to run to if the shit really hits the fan.
‘Lucie.’ He turns a little, to look at me full on, but he doesn’t try and touch me again. ‘Lucie, I’ve missed you. I had to come and see you. Do you think . . . do you think we could make a go of this?’
I can’t meet his gaze. I get to my feet and I can feel his eyes on me as I pace over to the Aga. I make a great play of folding a tea towel that’s already folded.
‘All these months you’ve ignored me.’
‘I was trying to get over you. It didn’t work.’
He sounds so weary, but I can’t let myself buy into it or I’ll be lost. Yeah, it’s been exhausting, hasn’t it, my love? All the subterfuge, the heightened emotion? The rollercoaster ride to nowhere. My inner knot loosens.
‘Can I ask you this . . .?’ I can hear my heart pumping in my ears. ‘Are you going to end it with Jane?’
He tries to bat the question away, but it’s the most important question I’ve ever asked. Will you make that decision?
He shrugs. ‘It’s up to Jane, isn’t it?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s her call.’ He is a schoolboy hauled up in front of the head. ‘She thinks I’ve been cheating – no evidence, of course – but imagine if I end it with her and then start up with you. It’d be too obvious. No, it has to be her decision, and then we can sell our relationship to her later. You were comforting me after she broke my heart, something like that.’
I am momentarily speechless. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Reuben? This is just a game, isn’t it? A game you’re good at. That’s why you do it.’
He starts to protest. I move closer to him, so close I can feel the heat of him, catch a hint of the Reuben smell that’s in my DNA. I wonder if I can trust my voice. I have to say this. I have to say it and I have to mean it. He will always be my sister’s boyfriend. He will always be the person who was willing to cheat.
‘No, Reuben.’ I squeeze his shoulder, very gently. ‘You’re not the person I thought you were. I did this to my sister because I fell in love with you, not because I wanted to hurt her. It would kill her, if she knew. It would kill her if I got together with you now or at any time in the future. And worst of all, you didn’t choose me. You couldn’t even make that decision.’
Mac
Bella returns to the castle alone. Elspeth is missing. Men and hounds are sent out, but the hunt turns up nothing. Of the younger sister, there is no sign. Their father’s fury dashes the walls of the keep like the east wind in winter, but it is just as futile. Bella is shocked and mute and no one can say for certain what the truth is.
In time, the young Lord Musgrave recovers enough to put in a bid for the older sister. Bella accepts without enthusiasm. She rarely leaves her room now; every whiff of the outdoors reminds her of Elspeth, and her resentment has withered on the vine, to be replaced by a deep, dark guilt she cannot shake off. It plods at her heels like Faithful, the old hound. The wedding is arranged by her mother, who can barely focus through lack of sleep. Her face is shadowed by grief and the preparations are muted. The flowers that deck the great hall are past their best and the wedding wine tastes like vinegar. No one has thought about music.
I can’t settle into the story. I’m thinking of Reuben, of his unexpected appearance. Lucie is with him now. All those clues . . . they all fit together now. The strange man with Lucie, the car crash, the girl’s obvious distress. It all fits.
I put down my pen and get up from the desk, kneading my neck muscles as I make my way over to the study window. Outside, the grounds are looking a bit forlorn, and I make a mental inventory: grass needs cutting; must find a reliable man to cut said grass; buy bedding plants. Pansies, probably. Yes, you can depend on a pansy to gladden the heart. My heavy sigh mists the glass, and I press my palm to that unreliable organ. My heart. It’s skittering about still, which is probably a good thing. At least it’s still beating.
I’ll get Lucie to plant up the pansies. Maybe she’ll have a view on what we can do with the garden. She generally has a view on most things. I realise I’ve been allowing myself to lean on her, but now I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. My little exchange with Reuben has put a different colour on things. I thought I could trust her, but now? The girl’s been sleeping with her sister’s boyfriend!
Had Reuben been hovering under the pergola like a bad penny? If he hadn’t shown up, Lucie might have invited Arthur in, made him a meal. It could have been the start of something, but the prospect now fills me with dread. Is that what I want for my son? Do I want him to go through all the misery that Anna Madigan put me through?
For weeks now I’ve had some instinct that I’ve been missing something. Call it intuition, but I felt it deep within my bones, that familiar feeling of the truth finally coming to light. And back there, at the mill, it all clicked into place.
Reuben’s reappearance is a red flag – a huge one.
Now it makes perfect sense: Lucie’s black moods, the way she moons about the house like some kind of gothic heroine. And the poem . . .
The poem must have been about him! Her sister’s boyfriend. My brief flare of triumph at my own detective work is quickly doused. How could she? Her own sister?
No wonder all these old memories are haunting me. I thought I’d long since ground them to dust, but they’re always there, just out of sight. There must have been signs, clues, which I chose to ignore. Perhaps if we’d communicated more, Jim and I. If I’d looked up from my notes once in a while, if . . . I sigh heavily, and then anger suddenly floods through me, fire in my veins. Lucie cannot be allowed to wreck her sister’s life, as Anna Madigan wrecked mine. Maybe it’s not too late. I get stiffly to my feet and call to the dogs.
I’m waiting for him on the road. The dogs have scattered, apart from Jethro, who is watching me nervously, because he hates roads and this is the one thing I keep warning them not to do. The grey car eases into sight, carefully avoiding the potholes
on the track from the mill. Pity Reuben wasn’t so cautious that last time he left, he could have saved everyone a lot of bother. Better still, he should have made a proper job of things. I imagine Reuben lying in the wreckage, life extinct, and a smile plays around my lips. I’m still smiling as I step out in front of his car.
He brakes abruptly. I can’t see his expression for the light striping the spotless windscreen, but his window purrs down and, hands stuffed in pockets, I amble around to the driver’s side.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
His irritation is raw, aggravated by whatever exchange he’s had with Lucie. Hopefully she’s given him his marching orders. Enjoying the height advantage, I stare him out for a heartbeat or two. He looks very uncomfortable, fists white on the steering wheel. The new-car smell steals up to meet me.
‘Nice car,’ I say. ‘You’re obviously not short of a bob or two.’
‘Do you actually want something?’
He revs the engine a little, just to make a point, but I won’t be hurried. My fingers make contact with something in my right-hand pocket. Paper, folded into a thick wedge.
‘I’m on to you. I want you to leave Lucie alone. You think you can roll up here, disrupting all our lives –’
‘It’s none of your damn business what we do!’
His tone wipes the humour from my face. I lean in, grip the car door. ‘It’s my business if you’re having it away in my cottage! Under my nose! You have no idea of the hurt you’ve caused. The pain, the heartache . . .’
He mutters something and jabs at a button. The window begins to nudge at my palms.
‘No! I haven’t finished with you yet, you scoundrel!’
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