Falling for You

by Jill Mansell

  Damn, damn. It was too soon for Kate to be back from the Angel, which meant it had to be Oliver. Far too humiliated to face him, Estelle prayed it was only a flying visit home and that in a matter of minutes he’d be off again. Gazing wildly around, she realized that hiding under the bed wasn’t an option—the gap between the base and floor was less than six inches, which was completely hopeless with a bottom like hers. Plus she’d drip blood all over the carpet.

  Hearing movement downstairs and panicking, Estelle pulled open the door of the wardrobe and plunged in. The door wouldn’t close completely, thanks to the absence of a handle on the inside. But that was OK. She didn’t want to be trapped in total darkness. Breathing heavily, squashed like a sardine between a musty overcoat and one of her own ancient taffeta ball gowns, Estelle listened to the sound of footsteps on the stairs and prayed she wouldn’t sneeze.

  * * *

  Bloody dog, bloody animal, Oliver raged as he squelched up the staircase. How was he supposed to have known that Norris could swim? They’d been walking alongside the River Ash when Norris had suddenly spotted a mallard and taken a flying leap into the water. Oliver had experienced no more than a mild jolt of alarm, but the next moment, struggling to free himself from a tangle of underwater reeds, Norris had started yelping and scrabbling in a genuinely help-I’m-drowning kind of way. In a complete panic, Oliver had promptly slithered down the steep river bank into the water. Revolting—and disgustingly cold, compared to his own heated pool—but at least he was only in up to his thighs.

  That was until he had waded across to heroically rescue Norris, whereupon the bloody animal, wriggling and splashing, had freed his legs from the weeds and launched himself at Oliver, knocking him off his feet.

  Spluttering, gasping, and spitting out fronds of weed, Oliver had come up for air just in time to see Norris, sleek as a seal, swimming effortlessly past him with something that looked suspiciously like a smirk on his face.

  Trudging back up Gypsy Lane, trailing the contents of the River Ash in his wake, hadn’t been Oliver’s finest hour. Norris, trotting along ahead of him, had begun wagging his stumpy tail as they reached the house and Oliver had lost patience with him. Shooing Norris through the side gate into the backyard, he had let himself in through the front door and made his way upstairs.

  With the shower running, Oliver had already stripped off his wet muddy clothes when the doorbell began to ring. Heaving a sigh of annoyance but incapable of not answering the door—what if the bell carried on ringing?—he wrapped himself in a toweling robe and padded downstairs.

  “Yes?” Oliver brusquely demanded of the man on the doorstep. On the driveway behind him stood a taxi with the engine still running.

  “Uh…I’m back.”

  “What?”

  “OK,” said the man, clearly discomfited. “Could you just tell your wife I’m back?”

  Oliver frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m here to pick up your wife.”

  “My wife isn’t here. There’s no one else in this house. I’m sorry, but there’s been some kind of mistake. You’ve got the wrong address.”

  Oliver waited for the taxi driver to turn and leave, but the man was giving him a decidedly odd look.

  “I dropped your wife at this house half an hour ago,” he told Oliver. “She said she was here to pick up a load of her stuff and that she’d need a hand carrying it out to the cab. This is where I left her.” His eyes narrowing, he said, “She’s definitely expecting me.”

  It was Oliver’s turn to be taken aback. Why was the man sounding so suspicious?

  “My wife?” He double-checked. “Blondish? Plumpish? About this tall?”

  “That’s the one. Disappeared into thin air, has she?”

  Could Estelle be here and he hadn’t even realized? Bemused, Oliver said, “Hang on. I’ll see if she’s around,” and closed the front door.

  There was no sign of Estelle downstairs. Upstairs, it wasn’t until he rounded the corner of the L-shaped master bedroom and spotted the bulging black trash bags that Oliver realized the taxi driver hadn’t been hallucinating. Calling out Estelle’s name a few times and getting no response, it occurred to him that if she had come back to Ashcombe, she may well have popped over to visit Marcella.

  Downstairs once more, he yanked open the front door.

  “You’re right. My wife was here,” said Oliver. “But she’s gone now. Look, she might not be back for a while, so I wouldn’t bother waiting if I were you. When she needs one, we’ll call another cab.”

  The man didn’t leave. He backed away a couple of steps, his gaze flickering over Oliver’s toweling robe, bare feet, and wet hair.

  “What’s going on here, mate? Your wife asked me to come back for her. Look, is everything all right?”

  All right? For crying out loud, his life was in pieces. How could everything possibly be all right?

  But Oliver knew he wanted the man to go, so he shook his head and said wearily, “Don’t worry, everything’s just fine.”

  Clearly unconvinced, the taxi driver said, “Look, mate. Has something…happened?”

  Upstairs, Estelle could bear it no longer. The taxi driver, it was blindingly obvious, thought that Oliver had murdered her in a fit of rage and was taking a shower to wash away the evidence. If she didn’t show herself, the man would be on the phone to the police in a flash.

  Creeping along the landing, cupping the side of her head so as not to leave a trail of blood, Estelle reached the top of the staircase. Her heart lurched at the sight of Oliver, standing in the front doorway with his back to her. Clearing her throat, she called out, “It’s OK. I’m not dead,” and saw Oliver spin around in disbelief.

  Chapter 51

  Astounded, Oliver said, “Estelle?”

  The taxi driver looked pretty taken aback too. Squinting up at Estelle through the gloom, he said, “Jesus, what happened to you?”

  Pulling her shirt collar to one side, Estelle saw that while she’d been squashed away in the wardrobe, a fair amount of blood had trickled down her neck and soaked into the shoulder of her white shirt. No wonder the taxi driver sounded so horrified—she must look like something out of a horror film.

  Unable to bring herself to look at Oliver, Estelle said, “I fell and hit my head. It’s really not that bad. Look, if you could come up and give me a hand with my stuff, that’d be great. As soon as everything’s loaded into the taxi, we can be off.”

  “Did he do that to you?” demanded the taxi driver.

  “Of course I didn’t bloody do it to her.” Oliver spoke through clenched teeth. “I didn’t even know she was here. You heard me calling her name—”

  “Shhh,” said Estelle, because Oliver was raising his voice. “He didn’t do it, I promise,” she told the taxi driver. “Now, can we get my things into the cab?”

  “No,” said Oliver.

  “Please, I just want to go.” Estelle wondered why she couldn’t get anything right, not even leaving her husband.

  “We need to talk,” Oliver told her.

  “She doesn’t want to talk, mate.” The taxi driver wasn’t taking his eyes off Oliver for a second. He was on his guard, should Oliver suddenly produce a machete from the pocket of his robe.

  “Talk about what?” Estelle’s eyes filled with tears, something she’d dreaded happening. “What a complete and utter idiot I’ve been? Thanks, but I already know that.”

  Oliver shook his head. “Please. We need to do this properly, without an audience. Just tell him to leave, will you?”

  Estelle hesitated at the top of the stairs.

  “Go on,” said Oliver.

  “Look, love, shouldn’t you be getting that head of yours seen to? Needs a few stitches, if you ask me.”

  Checking her scalp again, Estelle encountered a fair amount of stickiness
but scarcely any fresh blood. The last thing she felt like doing was spending the next six hours in casualty waiting for some overworked, sleep-deprived doctor to sew her up.

  “It’s OK,” she told the taxi driver. “You can go.”

  He looked up at Estelle. “Sure?”

  Estelle nodded. “Sure.”

  “OK.” With a shrug, the taxi driver said, “That’ll be sixty-five quid, then.”

  When Oliver had paid him and the cab had disappeared from view, Estelle ventured down the stairs.

  “I’ll make a cup of tea, if that’s all right.” Finding it hard to meet Oliver’s gaze, she headed for the kitchen.

  “Here. Sit down.” While the kettle was coming to the boil, Oliver pulled out one of the carver chairs. “Let me take a look at that cut.”

  Reluctantly Estelle did as she was told. She felt Oliver gently exploring her scalp with his fingers and wanted to cry.

  “How much does it hurt?” asked Oliver.

  You mean compared with finding out my husband has another child? Hardly at all, thought Estelle. She shrugged and said, “I’m OK.”

  “It’s not deep. No need for stitches. So where were you hiding?”

  “In the wardrobe, in the spare room.” She’d probably smeared blood all over the taffeta ball gown and Oliver’s old overcoat. It had been a tight fit in there. “You’ve got mud on your leg.”

  “Fell in the river,” said Oliver, “trying to rescue Norris. I could picture the headlines,” he went on. “Dog drowns, negligent businessman responsible.”

  “He jumped in and started splashing and yelping,” Estelle guessed. “The reeds tickle his tummy. He loves it.” She paused, watching steam billow from the kettle. “How’s Tiff?”

  The kettle clicked off and Oliver dropped tea bags into the pot. Carefully he said, “Doing well. Making a fantastic recovery.”

  Estelle nodded, relieved. “I thought you’d be at the hospital.”

  “No. They don’t need me there.” He paused. “How’s Will?”

  Tit for tat, thought Estelle.

  “Sorry!” Oliver blurted out. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. None of my business. I’m just sorry about…everything. The whole lot,” he said tiredly. “God, what a mess.”

  Estelle was speechless. She’d never heard him sound so defeated. Finally she said in a small voice, “Yes.”

  He massaged the back of his neck. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Didn’t you?” What the hell, thought Estelle, the worst had already happened. Feeling suddenly reckless she said, “Sure about that?”

  “You were never supposed to find out. There’s nothing going on between Juliet and myself.” Oliver shook his head. “I just wanted to see my son growing up.”

  Estelle swallowed as the old ache of longing came back. She and Oliver had tried so hard for another child of their own, but it had never happened. Anyway, that was irrelevant now.

  “I’m not talking about Tiff.” Her eyes were bright, her tone accusatory. “I’m talking about the way you endlessly criticize me, tell me my clothes don’t suit me, sneer at the novels I read, complain that my roast potatoes aren’t crispy enough. Those are the things that hurt, Oliver. Being treated like a second-class citizen is what hurts.”

  This outburst was greeted with a stunned silence. She was able to see Oliver mentally checking off each item on the list.

  “Do I?” he said at last, clearly shaken. “Is that what I do? My God, I’ve never even thought about it before. I suppose I have done all those things.”

  “Trust me. You have.”

  “And Will was the one who pointed it out to you,” said Oliver.

  “I suppose.” Estelle was reluctant to give Will Gifford credit for anything. “But we were in a rut long before he came along. He just brought it all out into the open.”

  “And that’s why you ran to him.”

  Oh God, she had run, practically the length of platform four at Paddington station. Wincing at the memory of having thrown herself ecstatically into Will’s arms, Estelle swallowed hard and forced herself to nod.

  “At least we aren’t in a rut now. This is the opposite of a rut,” Oliver said wearily. “I don’t blame you for getting out. Maybe Will’s what you need.”

  Hadn’t he read the papers?

  Dry-mouthed, Estelle said, “I’m not with Will anymore.”

  Physically, Oliver didn’t react.

  “No? Where are you staying?”

  “Cheltenham.” She may as well tell him; damn it, he was going to be the one settling the Amex bill. “In a hotel at the moment. But I’ve been looking at apartments to rent.”

  “Apartments?”

  “Well, just the one.” Despite doing her best to sound flippant, Estelle heard her voice crack. Her twenty-seven-year marriage was over, she’d made a complete fool of herself with a younger man, and now she was searching for somewhere to live. Waving her arms helplessly, she floundered on, “It’s, you know, a chance to rethink my life, make new friends… I thought I might, um, get a job…”

  “Or you could stay here,” said Oliver.

  Had he really said that?

  Estelle’s eyes filled with tears. “What?”

  “OK, maybe stay isn’t the right word, seeing as you’ve already left. But you could come back,” Oliver said hesitantly, “and we could try again. I never wanted to lose you. Maybe I didn’t always show it, and I know I’ve taken you for granted, but I do love you.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve learned my lesson. If you come back, I’ll treat you so much better. No more being critical. I’ll cut down on my hours. We can go away more often, spend a lot more time together. You wouldn’t regret it. I—”

  “How many others have there been?” Estelle said abruptly. “Women, mistresses—other ones like Juliet?”

  “None. That’s the truth.” Oliver shook his head vigorously, then groaned. “Oh God, I know what you’re thinking, that that’s just another lie. But I swear there haven’t been any others.”

  Estelle paused, then shook her head. “It’s no good. We can’t, Oliver. Too much has happened.”

  “We can!” There was an edge of desperation in his voice. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you. I’ll do anything you say!”

  “But—”

  “Do you want me to retire? Give up work completely? I’ll do it.” Oliver nodded, as if work was already nothing but a distant memory.

  “Oliver. You love your job.”

  “Not as much as I love you.” His eyes began to glisten and instinctively he half turned away, unaccustomed to revealing this much of himself. Rubbing his face with his hands, he said desperately, “Estelle, you mean everything in the world to me.”

  “Oh God.” She was trembling now. This was Oliver as she’d never heard him before. “But how could I come back here? Everyone in Ashcombe knows what’s happened. They’d be laughing at me behind my—”

  “They wouldn’t.” Vehemently Oliver shook his head. “Everyone loves you—this is where your friends are—but if you don’t want to stay here, fine. We’ll sell this place and move.”

  “Move?” Heavens, Dauncey House meant the world to Oliver. “Move where?”

  “Wherever you like. Anywhere in the world.”

  In a daze, Estelle said, “You’d do that?”

  “Anything.”

  Estelle looked at him. Finally she nodded and said in a voice she barely recognized, “OK.”

  “OK what?”

  “I’ll come back. We don’t have to move. We’ll start again.”

  Oliver was gazing at her, his expression incredulous. “You really want to?”

  “Of course I want to. You’re my husband.” She managed a watery smile as a great wave of relief swept over her. “You made a mistake; I made a mistake. Some peopl
e never make mistakes, but we did. And we’re both sorry. That’s allowed, isn’t it? If I forgive you and you forgive me, we can try again—oh, Oliver, I love you too…”

  This time Estelle couldn’t control the tears, because they weren’t only rolling down her own face. Sobbing and laughing at the same time, she jumped up from her chair and fell into Oliver’s comfortingly familiar arms. He was still wet and muddy from the river, wearing his dark blue toweling robe, and damp haired. Thanks to the rapidly drying blood, the hair on one side of her head was a mass of spiky bits and matted chunks. But when you’d been married for twenty-seven years, Estelle joyfully discovered, it really didn’t matter how ridiculous you might look. After twenty-seven years, all that counted was what was going on in your heart.

  Chapter 52

  “Right, that’s sorted then,” Nuala announced. “The three of us, tonight, nine o’clock, Trash.”

  Nuala had been wittering on for ages. Having tuned out long ago, Maddy came to with a start.

  “Hmm? What was that?”

  “Honestly, you don’t deserve a friend like me.” With exaggerated patience, Nuala finished pricing the last few bottles of Tuscan olive oil. “I’m organizing your social life, cheering you up, stopping us all ending up like this.”

  “What?” Now Maddy was definitely lost.

  “Extra-virgin.” Bossily Nuala tapped the label on the rectangular bottle in her hand. “I mean, let’s face it, when was the last time any of us saw any action? It’s not natural! We’re young and in our prime! Which is why we should be going out to celebrate and have a bloody good night. It’s also about time you cheered up,” she told Maddy. “The best way to get over a man is to find a better one, and Trash is the place to do it. Just nod and say, ‘Yes, Nuala.’”

  Oh dear, had she really been that grumpy? Maddy experienced a spasm of guilt. Poor Nuala was doing her best. She was lucky to have her around. At this rate, she was in danger of ending up a right Nellie No-Friends.