‘What bloody party? Don’t you think you should invite me first?’ I said.
‘Sorry, darling, I forgot to tell you, but strike while the iron’s hot, eh? We were at the golf club and got talking. He sounded very pleased indeed. Friendly, wanted to bring some champagne. That’s the sort of party guest I like.’
Ian held out an arm, I went to kiss him and then put the milk into the fridge.
‘Well, Jess is nice. We’ve had lunch quite a few times—’
‘You didn’t tell me!’
‘You didn’t ask. You’ve been so wrapped up in work recently. She’s fun. A bit loud, very friendly, lots of flashy jewellery, but Greg’s a bit of a sleaze ball, isn’t he?’
Ian’s head came up, indignant. ‘He’s not! Why would you say that?’
‘Too much aftershave, gold man bracelet.’
‘No, he’s not, Lottie. He could be very important to us right at this minute if only you realised it. He’s just bought one of those huge hybrids. A Mitsubishi something. I pretended I wanted to know about mpg. I went and looked it up in What Car.’ He gave me a look filled with meaning. ‘He must be loaded. He’s sold his business in Spain for a fair old sum by the sounds of it and he’s looking to invest in property development over here. We could do very well out of him. If he wanted us to shove in a couple of the new Windermere kitchens I was telling you about it would be a godsend. He’s blue-sky thinking.’
‘Huh?’
This was not the sort of thing Ian usually said.
‘He’s thinking outside the box.’
And nor was that. It seemed Greg was having quite an influence already.
Ian opened another email and began to read it.
‘What box?’ I said, wondering if he knew.
Ian didn’t answer for a moment. He stabbed at the keys of his laptop and frowned.
‘Look, I’ll explain another time. I need to fire off a few emails this morning. There’s been a bit of a hiccup.’
‘Oh, not work?’
‘Isn’t it always?’ Ian pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be in the study.’
I looked at the clock, which incorrectly said twenty-seven minutes past eight. I couldn’t reach it and I’d been waiting for Ian to get it down and change the battery for weeks.
‘Give me half an hour and I’ll sort out some lunch,’ I said.
I looked over at him. He looked rather pale and a thin film of sweat gleamed on his upper lip.
‘Are you OK, darling?’
‘Yes, yes fine.’
He didn’t look fine.
‘What’s the matter?’
He hesitated in the doorway, tapping his phone against his thigh.
‘Nothing, nothing. Bloody hell, you do go on sometimes.’
Well, that wasn’t fair.
He went off towards his study and I heard him close the door behind him.
I made some vegetable soup and heated up some pitta bread to go with the hummus in the fridge – always Ian’s favourite lunch. I heard him go off upstairs after a few minutes and then heard the rumble of the pump as he turned on the water in the wet room. I went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Usually he sang in the shower, snatches of ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ if he was feeling particularly cheerful. Today there was silence.
I went back to stirring the soup and flicked another, pointless look at the clock. Perhaps I should get the stepladder out and change the battery myself?
Ian came down after a few minutes, dressed in chinos and a dazzlingly white polo shirt. He wasn’t going into work then. His hair was wet and rumpled from the shower, showing up the thinning bald spot he was usually so careful to disguise. His face was grim. He went to stand at the sink, looking out across the frosty garden.
I bit back the obvious question; what was the matter? I knew it would provoke an outburst of some sort. It must be something to do with his company. I knew business had been bad over the last few months with the economic downturn. These days, not many people seemed to want the hand-built kitchens Ian’s firm provided.
‘Lunch is ready, darling, come and sit down. We were busy in the practice this morning. Nothing too interesting but…’
Ian turned on his heel and stamped past me. ‘Oh for God’s sake. I don’t want any fucking lunch, I’m going out.’
He grabbed his coat from the hallstand and slung it on, one arm struggling down a sleeve.
I followed him into the hallway. ‘Honestly, who rattled the bars of your cage?’
Ian patted his pockets for his car keys and didn’t answer.
‘Why not have something to eat first? It wouldn’t take a minute,’ I said.
‘I’ve got things to do.’
I put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, I can tell something’s wrong. What’s the matter, darling? Can I help?’
He shook me off. ‘No, you fucking can’t help.’
‘Ian! There must be—’
‘Just shut up, Lottie,’ he yelled.
‘Don’t be so bloody rude!’
‘Leave me alone. This isn’t anything you can help with; you’ve done enough already. Spending like it’s going out of fashion. Holidays. New car. Shoes. God knows how many handbags. Grow up! What did you think would happen?’
‘What?’ I staggered back in astonishment. This was not like Ian at all.
‘And it’s me that has to sort it all out, isn’t it? You just carry on blithely, arranging expensive parties, frittering away.’
‘Hang on a minute. You’re the one who wants this party, not me!’
He threw me a furious look and slammed the front door behind him so the air between us shuddered.
‘And I’ve only got seven handbags!’ I shouted after him. ‘And one of those is a fake!’
I went into the living room and watched him through the window as he unlocked his car, dropped his keys on the drive, picked them up and threw his briefcase into the passenger seat before driving off in a spray of gravel. He turned left out of the drive – he definitely wasn’t going to work. I stood watching the road, wondering if he would come back but he didn’t.
I went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table, leafing through a pile of catalogues. I’d seen a lovely pair of suede boots in one of them, perhaps if Ian was starting to complain about my spending I’d better not buy them. I sat leafing through some others until I realised an hour had passed and Ian still wasn’t back. I went back to look out of the window, worrying, biting my nails, wondering what had happened. What had I done to provoke this sort of reaction? Everything had been all right until…until he got that email. Some business problem. Of course. I’m a lot of things and one of them is nosey.
I went into his study, my bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the new carpet he had insisted he needed, in case he was going to take business contacts in there for a drink or something. The room was stuffy and dark, the curtains nearly closed. I drew them back and let the sunlight in. Dust motes spun in the warm air. I opened a window, letting in the cold afternoon to freshen up the atmosphere.
On his desk were piles of paperwork. Estimates, delivery notes, all fastened together with big bulldog clips. His massive iMac computer was turned off and there was a yellow Post-it note stuck on the side; Bentham Tuesday 11.30. It meant nothing to me. The printer stood silent in the corner. The bin was filled with shredded paper.
Feeling rather uncomfortable, I sidled up to the wire in-tray and casually leafed through the contents. Notes from customers, queries about delivery dates, a few photographs of a kitchen Ian’s firm had recently installed. I opened a couple of the drawers but there was nothing other than a bundle of red Lovell Kitchens pens, paperclips in a china dish, a ball of elastic bands.
I thought about looking through the filing cabinet and went to open the top drawer, but it was locked and there was no key. I wondered why and I began to feel the first shivers of unease. He was hiding something from me; I knew he was. But why? He always told me everything. Confided in me when he was
worried about something, came home to share his successes with me first.
The front door banged and I gave a guilty start. Ian was back. I went out into the hallway to see him shrugging off his coat.
‘What are you doing in my study?’ he said. ‘You know I don’t like anyone interfering with my stuff. Poking about.’
I bit down my temper. ‘I’m not poking about.’ I wished I had thought to bring a duster and some polish with me as cover. ‘I do live here, you know. I was just tidying up. I opened the window, it was hot and stuffy in there.’
He went into the study and looked around as though he might have been burgled. He took the Post-it note from the computer screen, screwed it up and threw it into the wastebasket. Then he closed the window and turned to me.
‘Lunch?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’
He hurried off to the kitchen and I’m afraid I stuck my tongue out at his retreating back. We sat down at the kitchen table and I passed him a pottery bowl filled with soup.
‘Nice,’ he said after a few mouthfuls. He reached for some pitta bread and dunked it into the hummus.
‘Are you OK?’ I said.
Ian looked up, surprised, ‘Of course,’ he said.
He carried on eating, his spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl, setting my teeth on edge. I winced.
‘So have you thought any more about the food for the party?’ he said.
‘No, not really, I rather thought you had gone off the whole thing.’
‘Not at all, I’m looking forward to it,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘You do have some funny ideas.’
I was confused. An hour ago he had stormed out, berating me for my profligacy, now he was behaving as though nothing had happened.
‘I saw Steve when I was out; you know, bald Steve from the granite place. I bumped into him on the industrial estate. I’ve asked him to our party. I think he might come, although he did mention something about having visitors. You knew he and his wife had split up, didn’t you? I think the young brunette he was with might have something to do with it. Very naughty-looking little thing.’ Ian chuckled.
I couldn’t let it drop. ‘So why did you go off like the hounds of hell were after you an hour ago?’
‘Oh nothing at all, just a misunderstanding,’ Ian said, scooping up the hummus with a sweep of the last pitta, ‘all sorted out now.’
I got up to put some more in the toaster. ‘You’re sure?’
Ian sighed and smiled up at me. He put an arm around my waist and pulled me in against him. ‘You’re such a worrier, Lottie. Everything is fine. So, any plans for this afternoon?’
‘No, not really; I suppose I should get the ironing done,’ I said without any enthusiasm.
‘Well I know what I’m going to do, I’m going to put a new battery in that darned clock.’ He finished his soup and dropped the spoon into the bowl with a clatter. ‘I’ve been meaning to do it. Didn’t you realise it’s been stuck at eight thirty for weeks?’
‘Yes, of course I did. I asked you to sort it out ages ago. I can’t reach it.’
‘I don’t remember that. Anyway, there’s a tall man here now, little lady, I’ll fix it.’
I stood up and began to clear the table while he whistled ‘Edelweiss’ and rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a new battery.
Everything seemed fine again. His mood swings were becoming very hard to predict. In the following weeks, of course, it would become all too obvious what the matter was.
CHAPTER 3
Aquilegia – resolution, determination, anxiety
My brief foray into Bramford St Michael’s village shop that afternoon had sadly not uncovered a little known haven of locally produced delights, but a dingy place with half empty shelves and a freezer that needed defrosting. I liberated three packets of savoury curried rice, a sliced loaf reduced to 25p, some cheese slices, long-life milk, and an exhausted-looking Cornish pasty. Presiding over it all was an elderly woman with wild, white hair who watched me warily as though I was going to pull out a shotgun. She counted out my change with slow fingers and grave suspicion in her face.
‘I’m so pleased you’re still open,’ I said rather gushingly, wondering if I could loosen her up a bit with my devastating charm, ‘isn’t this a lovely village. So pretty.’
‘…and one makes five and five is ten,’ she said, not to be swayed from her task.
‘Well, I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure,’ I said with another bright smile.
‘Yes, mebbe we will,’ she said in a tone that suggested she’d heard that before.
The village straggled along the river valley, beginning with some modern-looking houses where a few children were leaping about on a trampoline in the garden, and then some older cob cottages, their thatch green with moss. There was a pub, The Agricultural Arms, still with a string of fairy lights outside, left over from Christmas. Beyond that was the church; everything but the tower hidden behind some dense rhododendron bushes.
I drove back up the hill to Holly Cottage feeling even more isolated. Below me the streetlights in the village began to come on and I sat in the car for a few minutes and watched lights appearing in the cottages below me. I went indoors, shivering a bit with the cold and the unfamiliar solitude.
I suddenly remembered that awful night. Ian nursing a large whiskey under the pool of light cast by the standard lamp in our sitting room. He had looked up at me with mournful eyes.
‘What?’
Oh God. That was the moment. If only he had said something else.
If he had apologised or cried or begged me to forgive him, things might have been different. If he had come up with some pathetic excuse, told me he had been a fool. If he had taken me in his arms and told me that he loved me. That he would never again hurt me.
I had waited for a moment, willing him to say something else, something kind. The seconds ticked past and he didn’t say anything. The little instant was gone. My temper flared again.
‘What. Is that all you can say? What?’
‘Well what am I supposed to say? With everyone looking at me as though…as though…’
‘As though you’re a lying, deceitful bastard? Well should that be a surprise to you? Perhaps it’s because you are a lying deceitful bastard!’
‘Oh don’t start, Lottie,’ he’d said wearily. ‘I’m not in the mood just at the moment.’
‘Well nor am I, funnily enough!’
‘Look, we’re not even married, are we? I asked you to marry me years ago and you didn’t want to.’
‘And you knew perfectly well why that was! And what the hell has that got to do with it? Just because we’re not married? What about our commitment to each other? What about bloody fucking common decency?’
I went into the dingy little kitchen of Holly Cottage and flicked on the kettle. There was no point going over it again and again. It wouldn’t change things. I had to move on now, look to the future, do the job Jess had given me; repay her friendship in the best way I could.
I hoovered up the pasty straight from the wrapper, reasoning it would decrease the washing up and also the possibility of contamination in the mould- and grime-ridden kitchen. Wandering around, licking the slick of grease from my teeth, I investigated the cupboards, relieved to see that although they were dirty they were good quality and could soon be revived by some attention from me and a soapy cloth.
In the cupboard under the stairs I found a vacuum cleaner, its collection bag strained to bursting point. There was also a fairly comprehensive collection of cleaning materials, something that the previous tenants had not thought worth taking. Or using, let’s be frank. I pulled out several bottles of cleaning spray, some crisp dusters and cloths, and a new mop and bucket and felt a rather peculiar thrill of excitement. Perhaps I was losing the plot. I arranged these treasures on the kitchen table (blue Formica, in a retro, cute way, not a this-table-is-really-old way). Tomorrow I would stop being so negative. I would get a good night’s sleep and make a start on
revamping Holly Cottage.
That first night I sat in front of the fire in my warmest coat, gloves and Ugg boots, watching the flames lick around the logs. There was no TV and mine hadn’t arrived yet, but that wasn’t much of a loss as far as I was concerned. Ian had indulged in the most expensive satellite-viewing package and for years nearly ninety pounds had gone out of our account every month and still most nights his parrot-cry had been ‘there’s nothing on worth watching!’ This was a statement with which I couldn’t argue.
There was only so much sport, Top Gear and Man v Food I could bear to watch. When Ian discovered re-runs of The Professionals, I abandoned hope and went back to my fledgling writing career. My concentration span didn’t seem up to a full-length novel any more so I’d turned to writing short stories. I’d been reasonably successful too, won a couple of competitions, and although my total earnings were barely into three figures, it was something I enjoyed.
We had also spent hundreds of pounds every month on the gym I occasionally used although I was more likely to be found in the bistro with a white wine spritzer than on the treadmill with a bottle of water. Then there was Ian’s membership of the Golf and Country Club where he had a pewter tankard behind the bar and the steward would greet him with, ‘Usual, is it, Mr Lovell?’ every time we went there. Ian loved that.
It had been a mild winter so far but after a few hours with all the windows open the house was freezing, hence the coat and gloves. The room still held its faintly fishy smell courtesy of Mr Webster’s leaving present, but at least with the fire going it was bearable. I sighed, and then, rather approving of the sound, sighed a few more times.
I suppose I might have stayed there all evening sighing and feeling sorry for myself except I was still hungry. I got up and shuffled to the kitchen, my Ugg boots finding the going decidedly sticky underfoot.
I heated up some soup and ate a packet of crisps (leek and potato and cheese and onion respectively, so three of my five a day) and then I went upstairs, fumbling with the light switches, trying to work out which one worked which bulb, wishing I had thought earlier to make up the bed. There were two bedrooms, one with a big window at the front and the other with windows at the front and back of the house. I chose the bigger bedroom for no other reason than I preferred the wallpaper. It was pale blue and cream, tiny flowers with flecks of gold at the centre. I had brought some sheets and a duvet with me. Some of my possessions were stashed in my car, the rest were going to arrive when Greg had a spare hour to drive them over in his van. I hadn’t really wanted to bring too much of my stuff into the house until I had cleaned it. That had been one of my better decisions.
The Summer of Second Chances Page 3