“OK,” she said slowly, looking as if she might say more, and was about to, but by then I’d turned my back on her and was halfway down the steps—halfway across the gravel, putting distance between us, already with my seat belt on in the car, glancing back at her, a diminutive figure standing uncertainly in her housecoat on the top step, looking rather temporary, as if she might come down.
Without giving her a chance to, I sped away in a spray of dust and gravel, hurtling down the front drive, my precious booty beside me.
Oh, no, Vera, I thought—watching her in my rearview mirror as she shaded her eyes on the steps, watching me go—you shouldn’t be handing over your employer’s precious possessions. That’s a foolish thing to do, very foolish indeed.
The village, in truth, was not that tiny. It sprawled down back streets and up cul-de-sacs, diving off into strips of new development that seemed to go on for ever, and I knew I hadn’t given myself nearly as simple a task as I’d pretended to Vera. I drove around for a bit without spotting so much as a hint of Eleanor’s dark green Range Rover. Damn. Just when my blood was up, just when I knew I was in the mood to finally confront her, to tell her to take her thieving hands off my husband, to tell her I knew exactly what she’d been doing in London, and with whom, and now she was no flaming where to be found.
And then I saw it. Turning down a lane I’d originally dismissed as being so unmade up it was surely just a farm track, I saw there was a row of cottages at the end, and outside one of them, Eleanor’s four-wheel drive.
Which cottage was it outside, though, I thought wildly as I rattled down the track and parked at the end of a line of cars? I got out. This one—I ran lightly across to the most obvious cottage, number nine—or the one next door? Or was she, in fact, installed at one much further along, but had had to park on the end, like me, because there wasn’t a space? There were quite a few houses here; was I going to knock on every single door, like Wee Willie Winkie, until I found her? And if I did find her, was I going to drag her out by the hair and confront her on the doorstep, in front of lots of prying eyes? My courage momentarily deserted me, then—yes, I decided. I would. I’d come this far, I was damn well going to see it through.
Blood storming through my veins, I marched up to number nine and leaned on the bell. A huge, barrel-chested man in a skimpy white T-shirt, his arms covered in faded army tattoos, swung back the door in irritation. He loomed over me as a football match blared from the television behind him.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, er, I’m sorry. I’m looking for a friend of mine, Eleanor Latimer. She’s visiting someone who lives in one of these cottages, but she clearly isn’t—”
“Never ’eard of her,” he growled, slamming the door in my face and going back to his game.
The lady at number ten was slightly more helpful. She listened, plump arms tightly folded in her yellow dressing gown, occasionally scratching a heavily veined leg. Then she rubbed her cheek thoughtfully.
“Well now, that could be number twelve, two doors away,” she said at length. “It certainly wouldn’t be number eleven ’cos old Mrs. Greenway lives there, but…yeah, try number twelve.”
I thanked her profusely and hurried away.
Number twelve, in fact, looked far more promising. It was a sweet, whitewashed number with roses round the door and pots on the step: something of a feminine effort had been made. I rang the bell but there was no answer. I rang again—still no response. And yet…I stood on tiptoes and peered through the small pane of glass in the front door. If I wasn’t very much mistaken, that was Eleanor’s Puffa jacket thrown casually on that chair. I recognised the distinctive tartan lining. She wasn’t coming to the door, though, was she? And neither was her friend. I rang again. No, because presumably, I thought with a jolt, they’d already spotted me from the front-room window: spotted me ringing all the bells in the street, and maybe Eleanor had seen my determined stance, recognised the cut of my jib, as it were, and said nervously, “Don’t answer it, Milly. I have a feeling I know what this is about.” And then they’d both slipped down the hallway into the kitchen, taking their bottle of Sancerre with them, where they were hiding even now, fighting their giggles, spluttering into their hands. Oh, were they, I thought, incensed. I squatted down and pushed open the letter box. James Blunt drifted through from the hi-fi.
“Eleanor!” I screamed. “Eleanor Latimer, I know you’re in there! Open the door this instant!”
I put my ear to the letter box. Heard voices. Muffled voices, and then a giggle. My eyes bulged. My blood boiled. I put my mouth to the vent again.
“ELEANOR LATIMER! COME OUT, YOU TWO-TIMING HUSBAND-SNATCHING HUSSY! YOU SLACK-MORALLED JEZEBEL, YOU—oh!”
I shrieked as the door flew open. Shot forwards on to my knees. To save myself from sprawling flat on the doormat, I threw out both hands—and clutched at a pair of feet. Large, bare, hairy feet, which I gripped hard. As flesh met flesh I screamed again and let go. As I rocked back on my haunches, a dark green dressing gown flapped in my face. My eyes travelled up it…and I found myself looking into the unmistakable features of—Daniel Hunter, Rufus’s headmaster.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Oh—Omigod!”
“Mrs. Cameron!” He stared down at me on his doormat, astonished.
“Imogen,” I mumbled stupidly, through force of habit, blushing madly and pulling myself up hand over hand by the doorframe. Behind him I saw Eleanor, at the top of the stairs, glance over the banisters, also in a dressing gown.
“Shit!” She shot back into the shadows as our eyes met, and in that instant, as I looked back at Daniel Hunter’s face, I understood everything. My mouth fell open.
“Good grief…you mean…?”
My eyes flitted up again as Eleanor reappeared on the landing. She’d whipped the dressing gown off and was pulling on some jeans, simultaneously tugging a jumper over her head.
“Wait there!” she ordered fiercely.
“Er, yes. You’d better come in.” Daniel scratched his head sheepishly and stood back to let me pass.
“Oh—no, no!” I shook my head wildly, the palms of my hands up. “I—I’m terribly sorry, I’ve made a mistake. I didn’t realise…” I backed away rapidly, hands outstretched. “You—you carry on as you were. I mean—as it were…”
“Imogen, wait!” Eleanor came hurtling down the stairs as I backed frantically down the path, horribly aware that quite a few neighbours had not only come to their windows, but were now in their front gardens, ostensibly watering bedding plants—Yellow Dressing Gown—or putting notes out for the milkman—Tattooed Man—but actually watching wide-eyed, and waiting on tenterhooks for the “two-timing husband-stealing hussy, the slack-moralled Jezebel” to appear.
Eleanor didn’t disappoint them.
“Don’t go,” Daniel implored her, reaching out to catch her arm as she made to dash past him down the path. As he held on to her sleeve and swung her round to face him, I saw the naked entreaty in his eyes. So did Yellow Dressing Gown. She dropped her plastic watering can. Tattooed Man’s fag was hanging from his lower lip. As street theatre went, it had a lot going for it.
“I’ll be back,” Eleanor promised in a low voice, and I saw the tenderness in her eyes as she removed his hand from her arm. “But I need to explain, Daniel. I need to talk to Imogen. I must!”
“You don’t need to explain!” I squeaked, embarrassed beyond belief now, squirming for England, crouching low as I backed through the gate, but also—also stupendously joyous. Not my husband. Not Alex. Daniel Hunter—oh, deep deep joy. “Honestly, it couldn’t matter less!”
“It does, because listen,” Eleanor hastened after me. “He was married, you’re quite right, but it was all over years ago and he’s divorced—or practically divorced—I promise!” Her hazel eyes pleaded with me as she took my arm and hustled me towards the cars. “Come on, we’ll go for a drink. I’ll explain.”
“Oh!” I stopped in my tracks. “You mean—what I
yelled through the letterbox!” God, I must have sounded like a marriage watchdog unit, checking up on all adulterers: Come out, you filthy philanderers, we know you’re in there! All I needed was a foghorn. “Oh, no, I don’t mind if he’s married, couldn’t give a monkey’s, just so long as he’s not married to me!”
“What?” She gaped, and now it was her turn to stop still in the street. I was aware of Yellow Dressing Gown and Tattooed Man walking hypnotically to their front gates to listen, keen not to miss a word, all inhibitions gone now. I hurried to my car, flinging the passenger door open for her as I ran round.
“Come on, we’ll take mine. No, I’m just so happy it’s not my husband, not Alex!”
I couldn’t stop the joyous smile that was spreading over my face as I flopped into the driving seat and turned the ignition. Oh, thank you, God. Thank you! I shut my eyes tight and clenched my fists. Yes!
“You mean…” she got in slowly beside me, “you thought me and Alex…?”
“Yes, and now you’re not, and—oh, Eleanor, for heaven’s sake, go back and have a lovely time! I’m really sorry I’ve spoiled your evening, please go back and—and do whatever you were going to do—bonk for Britain, cover yourselves in golden syrup, lick it all off, hang sticky and naked from the chandeliers—have one on me!”
“Me and Alex!” she gasped, hanging on to the upholstery as we shot off down the road, away from the delighted eyes of the neighbours, who were still, no doubt, digesting the golden syrup scenario.
“Yes, but you and Daniel Hunter—oh, Eleanor, that’s so different. Honestly, I couldn’t give two hoots, and I feel dreadful about dragging you away!”
“And I feel dreadful about Piers,” she said firmly. “And obviously I need to explain.”
“Oh no, you—”
“Oh yes, I do!”
We drove in silence for a minute, my mind racing, but my heart so light.
“We’ll go here,” she said eventually, pointing her finger as we approached the edge of the village, with Molly’s wine bar on the corner. She plucked her handbag from the floor where I’d stowed it.
“Yes, well, obviously there’s Piers to consider,” I said as soberly as I could as I parked outside, “and—and that’s terribly difficult, obviously, but honestly, none of my business, Eleanor.” It was no good, I was euphoric, and I couldn’t care less who she was cuckolding, particularly Piers, actually. Stuck up git, serve him jolly well right. “But I dare say he’ll get over it,” I said cheerily as I got out and slammed the door.
She shot me a startled look as we hastened into the wine bar.
“He doesn’t know. No one knows!”
She sat down heavily at a table just inside the door by the window, almost as if her legs wouldn’t take her any further. I slid in opposite her.
“And listen, Imogen, it’s really important he doesn’t find out, OK?” She leaned across the table. “At least, not from anyone but me. Can I count on you?”
Her face was pale in the gloom, and she looked at me beseechingly, her fists clenched. I thought how ghastly she looked, so drawn, haunted almost.
“Of course you can!” I assured her, waving jauntily at a waiter. Molly didn’t seem to be around. “Golly, you can always count on me, I’m the soul of discretion. What shall we have—a bottle?” I felt like celebrating.
“Just a Perrier for me, but, Imogen, please say you won’t breathe a word.”
“I won’t,” I assured her, beaming. I ordered the drinks, feeling sorry for her as she sat back, slumped and defeated in her chair. She looked all in. I watched as she nervously twisted a beer mat in her hands, just managing myself to resist doing a little jig under the table. Eleanor and Daniel. Who would have thought?
“God, I didn’t even think you liked each other,” I blurted out when the waiter had gone. “In fact, when I rang him from London about Rufus coming to his school and mentioned your name, he was positively rude about you. Said your dogs were a menace!”
“I know,” she gave a twisted smile. “We…slightly planned that. I told him to be off hand about me. Didn’t want you smelling a rat when you came down here. We have to be so careful.” She glanced about furtively as if someone might be listening, spies everywhere, lurking behind newspapers in raincoats.
“Has it been going on long?” I asked. It seemed as if she wanted to talk about it.
She nodded. “Three years.”
“Three years!” That brought me up short. I was shocked. And quite impressed too. That was a pretty long extra-marital relationship to have managed to have kept from the rest of the world.
“But—what about the neighbours in his road? Surely they see you going in and out?” Well, they would now, I thought guiltily, now I’d spread it loud and clear throughout the village.
“Oh, that’s not his house. It belongs to a friend of mine in London, Milly Tempest. She uses it at weekends but she’s in Spain at the moment so she asked if I’d keep on eye on things, although she probably has no idea what I’m actually doing there.” She blushed. “No, that was a rather daring first, for us, to be so close to home. We usually meet at the flat in London, but obviously, with the school to run, that’s tricky for Daniel. Sometimes we go to his house but it’s all a bit risky, being close by, so it’s really just snatched, occasional moments. Precious moments.” She looked up from her beer mat. “I love him,” she said simply, and her eyes filled.
I nodded. “Yes. I can see that.”
We were silent a moment as the waiter arrived with our drinks. I wondered about the mechanics of it all; how it had started. How she and Daniel, people with very different lives, let’s face it, had come across one another. He wasn’t exactly in her social milieu…
“I met him when he first took over the primary school,” she said when the waiter had departed, reading my thoughts. “I wanted Theo to go there, thought he’d thrive in a cosy village school. I also thought it would integrate us into the community a bit more, make it a bit less Us and Them. Piers wouldn’t hear of it, of course. He wanted Theo to go to Shelgrove like the others, but I went to see it, anyway. Daniel showed me round. After I’d spent an hour or so with him, strolling round the playground, peering into fish tanks, I went home and found I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He had such soft kind eyes…”
I nodded. Yes, I remembered feeling much the same. Those eyes were a killer. I blushed as I remembered the flowers. Hoped he hadn’t mentioned it to her.
“Anyway, I made some pathetic excuse about wanting to go back for a second look and he showed me round again, but…looking back, I think we both knew it was strange to be wanting to see the science block again, fondling Bunsen burners for the second time…” She smiled. “Anyway, he walked me back to my car, and by some lucky chance one of the tyres was flat. He changed it for me and I passed him the tools in the sunshine and we chatted, and by then, it was well into the lunch hour and he suggested a sandwich in the pub. I’m afraid I leaped at it.” She looked sideways out of the window. “I felt…very isolated, at the time.” She glanced back at me. “Marriage can be like that, you know.”
I nodded, remembering that I’d thought that too. But not now. Oh God, no, not now.
“He is…very different to Piers,” I ventured.
She smiled sadly. “Yes. And I know what you’re thinking. How can I have fallen for two such different people? How come I was ever with Piers in the first place?” She dredged up a sigh that seemed to come right from the soles of her expensive loafers.
“Where shall I begin, with Piers? By citing mitigating circumstances, and saying I’d just broken up with a serious boyfriend when I met him? That I was feeling raw and unloved and very definitely on the rebound? That I bumped into someone I thought was strong and protective but turned out to be dull and arrogant? Or shall I tell you that when he drove me out from London in his convertible Aston Martin and we cruised up the long drive to Stockley I fell for his beautiful house, the rolling acres, the whole lady of the manor bit?”<
br />
She met my eye. “Partly true. I don’t believe Jane Austen’s heroines are so very different to us, actually. And if I’m honest, I think it was a little of both. Added to which, all my friends were getting married, I was twenty-eight years old, and suddenly, had gone from being quite a catch—a girl lots of men would like to be seen with—to being horribly available. Suddenly, all those men were with younger girls.” She took a slug of her drink. “I met and married Piers within three months.”
I nodded, eyes narrowed. “And was one of those men Alex?”
She sighed. “Yes, Alex had been a boyfriend. He asked me to marry him once, actually, but I said no.” She shrugged. “Anyway, he married Tilly.”
I caught my breath. Right. I hadn’t known that. That he’d asked her to marry him.
“So…when did you realise you’d made a mistake?”
“With Piers? Oh, very early on. But I was too proud to admit it. Too proud to do anything about it.” She struggled with the truth. “There’s nothing terribly wrong with Piers, Imogen. He’s just…a bit dull, that’s all.” She made a despairing gesture with her hands. “Naïvely, I thought children would help—who doesn’t in an unhappy marriage? So I had four. Safety in numbers, I thought.” She smiled ruefully. “After Theo was born I realised there was no point having five. It wasn’t diluting my husband.” She looked up. “That’s when I had an affair with Alex.”
I nodded, wondering when she’d get to that. “Tilly’s husband,” I said firmly.
“Yes.” She sighed. “And I’m not proud of it. Not proud at all. And I know it doesn’t redeem me to tell you that he was unhappy too, and that we just sort of fell into it, two old friends with problems who got together in his lunch hour to chat, in bars, in restaurants…which led to hotels…” She trailed off. “It was pain relief for me, and,” she puckered her brow, in an effort to remember, “sort of an exorcism for him, I think. Getting me out of his system. The one who’d turned him down. But the moment he knew of your feelings for him, it dwindled between the two of us. You were too much for me. Far too much competition.”
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