‘No. Rags is fine.’
‘There’s homemade soup for lunch – and fish that Matt caught early this morning. Geraldine’s made the vinaigrette dressing for the salad.’
‘I can’t cope with lunch just yet; I need a bit of fresh air. Does the headland end in cliffs? Are there walks there?’
‘There are no cliffs – which is a good thing because I won’t have to worry about the children who are coming to stay falling over the edge of them. You can walk for miles, though. The coastal footpath runs right across the headland. And if you want really dramatic cliffs, Kynance Cove is only ten minutes away by car. Turn left at the main road and just keep driving. You’ll soon come to signposts for Lizard Point and Kynance Cove.’
Kiki made no response and, looking across at her as she poured soup from the pan into the tureen, Primmie said perceptively, ‘If you want to borrow my car, you can.’
‘Thanks.’ Kiki drained her coffee mug and put it down on the table. ‘I’ll do that, then. See you all later.’
Minutes later she was bumping down the track in Primmie’s Vauxhall Corsa, Rags’s untidy bulk in the passenger seat beside her. He hadn’t been a companion she’d intended having, but the minute she’d stepped from the house he’d careered across to her, and when she’d opened the Vauxhall’s door he’d been inside the car even before she was.
The expedition she was making was only a recce, but as she turned left into the narrow main road it occurred to her that, when she made her final expedition, she was going to have to go to great lengths to make sure Rags wasn’t with her. She didn‘t want him scrambling down the cliff face trying to reach her after she’d jumped, or, even worse, simply leaping off the top of the cliff with her.
She chewed the corner of her lip. When she’d left London, she hadn’t had a shadow’s doubt about what it was she was going to do – or why she would be doing it. Now, though, things no longer seemed quite so clear-cut. Somehow, almost without her being aware of it, her mood had shifted.
Primmie, of course, was partially responsible. Primmie had always been sunshine and light, and still was. It rubbed off. She’d actually found herself wishing she’d got up a bit earlier so that she would have had the appetite for the lunch Primmie had prepared. There’d been the smell of bread to go with the soup and she hadn’t had homemade bread since … when? She couldn’t remember. Never, probably.
She also hadn’t woken up with a hangover, which was a rare change. Though she’d seen the red light years ago where all drugs but weed were concerned, alcohol had always been a prop she’d never even tried to do without – and alcohol was something she obviously needed to get back into suicide mode. One thing she was sure of, there wouldn’t be enough of it at Ruthven. Primmie might have had a bottle of Bell’s and some red wine in the house, but it was a certainty that where the whisky was concerned Primmie bought it a bottle at a time – and not all that often.
Instead of the countryside being as bleak as it had been on Bodmin Moor, the road out to Lizard Point ran between fields that had once been full of corn and that now, the corn cut, were a stubble-fired, faded yellow. Other fields had cattle in them and every now and again there were strings of small, squat, whitewashed cottages, their gardens bright with white marguerites and brilliant blue agapanthus.
She pressed the button for the passenger-seat window, opening it low so that Rags could stick his head out. It was a beautiful day, with hardly a hint that it was no longer high summer. Occasionally there were clusters of trees at either side of the road, their branches interweaving so that she would find herself driving through dappled groves of light.
It certainly wasn’t a day for committing suicide – or even for contemplating it.
High above Kynance Cove she parked in the National Trust car park and, having no interest in the cove itself, didn’t bother walking down to it. Instead, Rags at her heels, she set off along the top of the cliffs, the tough grass springy beneath her feet.
The cliffs weren’t as she had imagined they would be. They were high, certainly, and the drop was steep, but the cliff face shelved outwards from its lip, not inwards. In throwing herself off it, she would be at great risk not of instant death, but of agonizing injuries as she bounced off first one rocky protuberance and then another.
Standing as near to the cliff edge as, with Rags, she felt it was safe to go, it occurred to her that the only way she could have drummed up the nerve to throw herself over the edge was if she’d driven down to Kynance the night the idea had first entered her head. Then, anaesthetized by alcohol and in pitch blackness, she would simply have taken a running jump and that would have been that. Now, though …? Now, as she stood, staring down at the ribbon of sand at the cliff’s foot, it no longer seemed such an easy, obvious option.
For the first time it occurred to her to wonder who would find her body. The beaches and coves of Cornwall were popular destinations for families with children and, though not unduly caring about children, she certainly didn’t want one to live with nightmares because of her. And then there was the question of who would identify her. When she didn’t return to Ruthven, Primmie would report her missing to the police. And it would be Primmie who would be asked to identify her.
She’d gone through life not giving a damn about anyone but herself, but she couldn’t do that to Primmie.
As if reading her thoughts, Rags tugged at the sleeve of her leather jacket, trying to get her to move backwards, away from the cliff edge.
Suddenly, his doing so struck her as being eminently sensible. She had, after all, things to do. If she was going to stay with Primmie in Cornwall – and it went without saying that she was – then she needed to get herself other clothes apart from the ones she was standing up in. With luck, Calleloe would have a charity shop.
And Rags needed a trim and a bath.
Putting all thoughts of suicide on hold, she stepped away from the cliff, beginning to walk back over the grass towards the car park. Before she found a charity shop, she needed to find a dog-grooming parlour. Geraldine could be as rude as she liked to her, but she wasn’t going to have her being rude about Rags. When Rags returned to Ruthven, he was going to look like an entrant for Crufts.
Artemis drove nervously into Calleloe. The streets were so narrow and steep she didn’t know how cars were managing to pass each other and she was so tired that driving had long ago ceased to be either effortless or automatic. When she’d disembarked from the MS Caronia, ten hours earlier, she’d had faint hopes that the nightmare of the last few weeks would be at an end; that Rupert would have ended his affair with the Serena creature and that she and Rupert could continue with their marriage as if the word divorce had never been mentioned.
Finding Serena installed in her home, in her bed, had put an end to her pipe dream. She still couldn’t quite grasp that Rupert could have been so uncaring of her feelings as to desecrate the one place that had always meant more to her than anything else: her home.
Only the beautiful Georgian rectory wasn’t her home any longer. How could it be, with every room reeking of Serena’s presence? And, worst of all, when everyone knew about it. And people did know, a distressed telephone call from the car to Olwyn had left her in no doubt of it.
‘Rupert told everyone that you’d walked out on him, tired of his philandering, and that Serena had moved in. The general attitude was that he was acting a bit precipitately, but as his affair with Serena has been common knowledge for yonks, no one was overly surprised,’ Olwyn had said, full of concern for her. ‘What are you going to do now? Hole up in a hotel until your solicitor thrashes things out on your behalf? Or would you prefer to come and stay with me?’
It had been a kind offer, but if she’d gone to stay with Olwyn, everyone she and Rupert knew would be aware of it. It was a humiliation she couldn’t even contemplate enduring.
Even worse had been the next two telephone calls she had made.
‘I know it’s grim, Mother, but it isn’t the end of the
world,’ Sholto had said, unfazed at the news. ‘Dad may have dug his heels in over the house, but he isn’t going to be mean with the divorce settlement. Everything will work out OK in the end. You’re better off being able to look around for something that will really suit you. Perhaps a swish flat in London or a house on the coast.’
That he’d thought her concerns were primarily financial had incensed her. Her father was a millionaire. If she’d wanted a swish flat in London, or a house on the coast, she could have had one – or both – any time she’d wanted.
‘And Serena’s a brick,’ he had added. ‘She won’t make waves. Not now she’s got her own way over the house.’
That Sholto had met her – that he was quite obviously approving of her – was a betrayal so great she’d thought her heart was going to give out.
Not wanting to hear another word from him, she’d severed the connection and had only then taken on board the fact that Rupert was insistent on keeping their home not because he felt fiercely about doing so, but because Serena wanted him to.
Almost apoplectic with distress, she’d speed-dialled Orlando’s number.
‘Have you met her, too?’ she’d demanded hysterically, seconds later. ‘Aren’t either of you appalled at your father’s behaviour? We’ve been married for thirty-two years and he leaves me for a … for a …’ she’d been sobbing so hard she could hardly get the words out, ‘‘… for an oversexed tart and neither of you are up in arms about it!’
‘Lady Serena Campbell-Thynne can hardly be described as a “tart”, Mother,’ Orlando had said, sounding vaguely amused. ‘And of course I’m pretty appalled at what has happened – as is Sholto. But it’s been on the cards for years and Dad stuck by you all the time we were children …’
He’d made it sound as if Rupert deserved a medal for having done so.
Distraught at not getting the response she’d needed, she’d severed her connection to him, too, and then, still crying, she’d put her car into gear and driven away, having absolutely no idea where she was driving to.
It was only when, on the outskirts of Bath, she’d seen the signs for the M5 that she’d known where it was she was going. She was going to Cornwall. She was going to find Primmie – Primmie, whom she should never have lost. Primmie, who had always been the very best friend in the world to her.
At the bottom of the hill she was driving down were a harbour, a small car park and, wedged between a general store and a greengrocer’s, a post office. She breathed a sigh of relief. In a place as small as Calleloe, she would probably have to go no further to find out where Ruthven was.
‘You can have my ticket,’ a young girl said to her as she squeezed her way into the tiny car park. ‘I’m just leaving and there’s still half an hour on it.’
It was a kindness that, in her overwrought condition, had her on the verge of tears again.
Appalled at how near to a complete breakdown she was, determined that she was not going to ever cry again, she parked her car. It was four thirty, she’d just driven all the way from Gloucestershire and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast aboard the MS Caronia. Telling herself that it was no wonder she was in a fragile, jittery condition, she changed out of her driving shoes into her high heels and began walking back to the foot of Calleloe’s precipitous main street, intent on going first to the post office and then into the nearest tea shop.
Outside a sophisticated-looking art gallery she paused before crossing the road, disorientated at the number of tourists thronging the area round the harbour. It was almost as if it were August, not September. There was a small ice-cream stall and another stall selling picture postcards and holiday souvenirs, both of them doing a roaring trade.
With seagulls screaming above her head, she moved forwards to cross the road – and left her right shoe behind. Tottering in an ungainly fashion, she tried to retrieve the shoe, but its stiletto heel was wedged in a crack in the pavement. A couple of mothers, pushing prams, awkwardly circumnavigated her.
‘You’ll find it easier if you step out of the other shoe as well, dear,’ an elderly woman said helpfully. ‘If you don’t, you’re going to fall over.’
With senseless panic bubbling up in her throat, Artemis did as the woman suggested. The pavement struck cold through her stockinged feet. As she bent almost double to tug at her shoe she felt unutterably undignified and, aware of the figure she must be cutting from behind, scorchingly embarrassed.
At last, with a suddenness that unbalanced her, the shoe came away in her hand, minus its heel.
It was the last straw.
Unable to think further than that her marriage was over; that her sons were unsympathetic; that she’d never felt more lonely or lost in her life and that she was going to have to either limp back to her car with one shoe on and the other off or wearing no shoes at all, she did what she had just vowed she would never do again.
She leaned her back against the plate-glass window, covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
Hugo Arnott dropped the Sotheby’s catalogue he had been studying, his concern immediate. He had registered Artemis’s presence when, outside his art gallery, she had paused in order to cross the street. Blonde, statuesque, beautifully dressed ladies of a certain age were not the norm on the streets of Calleloe.
Always immaculately suited himself, to see someone as impeccably groomed and beautifully dressed as the woman in floral silk who had emerged from the car park had been, for him, a treat of the highest order. For a brief second he had felt himself to be in Rome or Milan; to be in a city where women still gave thought and care to their clothes and where formality in dress wasn’t an anachronism, but something to be aspired to.
Then had come the heel incident.
His temptation had been immediately to go out and offer assistance and only the prospect of her taking offence had deterred him. He still hadn’t quite recovered from a recent experience in London when, on a crowded tube train, he had risen to his feet to offer his seat to a young woman. ‘No, thank you, Grandad,’ she had said rudely, rejecting his offer. ‘My legs aren’t so old that I can’t still stand on them.’
There had been sniggers from everyone within hearing and, though he didn’t for one moment think a mature lady, dressed as the one outside his gallery was-dressed, would react to his offer of assistance in a similar manner, once bitten was twice shy.
Then she’d tugged her shoe free, wrenching it from its heel as she did so. As she reeled back against the window of his gallery, her hands to her face, he hesitated no longer. He sprang to his feet and, as fast as his rather corpulent bulk would allow him to, made for the door.
‘Can I be of assistance, ma’am?’
The American voice was a rich, deep baritone and through her tears Artemis saw a bear of a man, dressed in an expensively tailored pale grey suit and with a pink carnation in his buttonhole.
She tried to speak, failed, and vainly shook her head, the tears continuing to stream heedlessly down her face.
Taking no notice of what was obviously meant to be a ‘no’and not a ‘yes’, Hugo withdrew a spotlessly white Irish linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it into her hands.
Artemis took it gratefully. ‘I’m sorry …’ she said incoherently, quite unable to regain control now that she had so completely lost it. ‘It’s just that … that my shoe heel is wedged …’
As a reason for such a torrent of tears it wasn’t remotely adequate, and knowing it only made her more unable than ever to stop crying.
With deepening concern, Hugo gently took hold of her arm. ‘Would you care to step inside and sit down for a few minutes while I try to get your shoe heel free? There’s a cobblers thirty yards or so away. It may be possible to have your shoe mended.’
Artemis nodded, wanting nothing more than to be no longer in full view of so many curious passers-by.
With his free hand Hugo scooped up her shoes and, with his other hand still beneath her arm, ushered her into the galler
y.
To Artemis, it was like stepping into an oasis of calm. The carpet beneath her stockinged feet was deep-piled and rose pink. Oil paintings and watercolours in gold frames hung against walls that were covered in pearl-grey watered silk. Bach played softly. The chair he led her to was a nineteenth-century replica – or perhaps even an original – French giltwood arm chair.
She sank down on it gratefully, regaining control of her breathing, fighting for control of her tears.
‘A cup of tea is called for, I think.’ Hugo hadn’t lived in England for the past three years without becoming aware that tea was the acceptable palliative in every kind of crisis.
‘Thank you.’ He was being so kind she could not bear the thought he might think she was in a state of collapse over something and nothing. ‘It isn’t the shoe,’ she said, mopping her tears with his handkerchief. ‘It’s … my husband’s just asked for a divorce and I’ve come to Calleloe to stay with a friend … though I’m not sure exactly where Primmie lives … and …’
As he looked down at the top of her head, he saw that her hair was naturally blond, as pale as barley in September, and then she lifted her tear-ravaged face to his. Looking into eyes that were a true china-blue, he registered the lift to his heart the word ‘divorce’ had occasioned, decided he would mull over all it might mean a little later, at his leisure, and said, ‘Primmie? There can only be one Primmie and she lives a mere ten-minutes’car ride away.’
As she gasped in relief, he beamed down at her. ‘And she’s obviously having quite a reunion party. My buddy Matt tells me there are already two other old friends staying with her. Kiki Lane, who used to be quite a popular singer in America some years ago, and an extremely glamorous, Ferrari-driving lady by the name of Geraldine.’
‘Kiki and Geraldine are here? In Calleloe? With Primmie?’
The Four of Us Page 35