For dangerous implements? Anyway, you could eat off any surface in Miranda’s kitchen, including the floor.
Still, what with the dessert, some cheese and wine, and spicy snacks and nuts for nibbles, it promised to be a memorably filling and indigestible repast.
As I draped the glitzy Formica table with a length of sari material and set out my white crockery and white-handled cutlery, I wistfully thought of the reclaimed timber table I’d glimpsed at the craft centre. I couldn’t part with my Formica table now, but I could move it into another room.
Phinny watched with interest, occasionally surreptitiously scratching at the healing gash on her long skull.
She followed me while I perfunctorily tidied up the house, and lit the fake log-effect fire in the living room, which made it look surprisingly cosy once I’d switched off the central light, which didn’t yet have a shade on it.
Funny how you stop noticing things like that after a bit, but I wrote ‘light shade’ down on a piece of paper before I forgot it. Then I put snacks out in mismatching Chinese and Japanese bowls on the coffee table and went back to the kitchen, firmly closing the door to keep the cat off the nibbles.
Everything was ready, except me. I was still wearing my thobe, which although comfortable and beautiful was also a bit shabby from years of use. And already there was someone at the door: Nye, bearing a bottle of wine and a little round disc of goat’s cheese.
He wore a fine, fleecy, faded blue sweatshirt and jeans that were for once unbesmirched by clay, and with them a winning smile.
‘Nye – come in. I’m not quite ready yet, but—’
‘I’m early. Is there something I can do to help?’
‘No, it’s all organized, thanks.’ I remembered my unbrushed hair and grubby feet. ‘But perhaps you’d like to open the wine while I go and change?’
‘Why bother? You look beautiful in that robe thing,’ he said, putting down his burdens and coming a step or two closer with a disturbing glint in his eyes.
‘This? It’s just something I work in,’ I said, hastily backing towards the door. ‘Excuse me – won’t be a minute. But if you could just let the others in if they come before I’m down?’
‘Others?’ His voice followed me plaintively up the stairs. ‘I thought it was just Miranda?’
‘And Gil.’
In ten minutes I was washed, brushed, braided, dressed in loose top and velvet trousers, and in my right mind, just in time to greet Miranda and Gil, who arrived together.
Gil, predictably, presented me with a box of after-dinner mints, but Miranda brought nothing with her except an air of abstraction, which was unlike her. Bringing nothing, I mean, not the air of abstraction; anyone married to Chris would be wearing one of those.
They all watched me put the risotto on to simmer, then we carried our drinks through into the living room, where Gil eyed the furnishings with a slightly startled expression. I wasn’t surprised – there isn’t a floral pattern in the whole house.
Nye dished out wine and passed bowls as though he lived here, and since he seemed to be as insidious as the cat, he may soon just move in without me ever having made a conscious decision on the matter, and I’d be putting his feeding dish down with Phinny’s.
He looked up, caught my eye and grinned as if he’d read my mind, handed me my glass, and disposed himself gracefully next to me on the lounger.
‘Miranda has lost her husband,’ he informed me.
‘What do you mean: hasn’t he gone back to London? And anyway, Miranda, I thought you wanted to lose him?’
‘I d-didn’t want to live with him any more, b-but I assumed he’d gone straight b-back to London on Sunday, and now he seems to have vanished!’
‘But he stayed with me last night, didn’t you know?’ Gil said, pausing from mechanically stuffing handfuls of Bombay mix into his mouth. ‘On the sofa, because I haven’t got a spare room. He’d gone very early this morning – just left a note.’
‘No!’ said Miranda. ‘D-did he say where he’d b-been?’
‘Holed up in some hotel on a bender, from the look of him,’ Gil said. ‘He wasn’t the most welcome visitor, I can tell you, but I didn’t feel I could turn him away in that state . . . and actually, once he’d had something to eat he was quite good company. I told him about trying to trace Dorinda’s movements through her computer journal and he offered to help . . . In fact, when I went to bed he was still trying different passwords and he said he’d wake me up if he found it. But he didn’t.’
‘He’s good with computers and he’s always got his laptop with him,’ Miranda said, ‘b-but I suppose passwords are quite d-difficult things to crack, if you d-don’t know the person who put them in.’
‘He’s very interested in ancient burial sites, too, isn’t he?’ Gil said, and we all stared at him, surprised.
‘While I’m prepared to believe that Chris has the right kind of twisty little mind for solving computer puzzles,’ I said, ‘I simply can’t imagine him showing an avid interest in Gower bone caves.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gil mumbled through a mouthful of Bombay mix, ‘he was particularly fascinated when I told him that finding a new bone cave would be as important to Welsh archaeology as the discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb had been to Egypt – a positive treasure trove.’
I thought that might be just a slight exaggeration, but it explained things for Miranda anyway. ‘That’s it then, Gil. He knows nothing about archaeology or history, b-but when you said treasure he probably pictured caves full of golden artefacts.’
‘I don’t think even Chris could be that stupid, could he?’ I asked. ‘But anyway, we’re digressing from the main issue: if he didn’t go straight down to London, where is he now?’
‘He d-didn’t turn up at the studios, b-because they rang to ask where he was,’ Miranda said. ‘So then I phoned the house and got the cleaner, and she said there’d b-been no sign of him since last Friday, when he came down here.’
‘Perhaps he went on another bender?’ I suggested.
‘B-but he’d never miss filming a show. No, something must have happened to him – an accident? Or perhaps he was so upset . . .’
‘. . . that after a night on Gil’s sofa he crept out at dawn to throw himself remorsefully off the cliff?’ I said. ‘No way. The Chrises of this world don’t kill themselves.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ admitted Miranda. ‘And strangely, I find I d-don’t much care except in a curious sort of way: not now I know he d-doesn’t love the real me. Nowadays he can’t see b-beyond the fat.’
‘I thought you’d just had a little tiff,’ Gil said, open-mouthed. ‘And I’m sure he doesn’t mind if you’ve put a bit of weight on – you’re still as pretty as when we were at school together,’ he said staunchly, and Miranda went pink.
There was no denying that she did look pretty – especially since she’d started wearing real clothes, as opposed to sofa covers.
Gil followed me into the kitchen, ostensibly to help, but really to pour out his initial delvings into Dorinda’s Diary: An Everyday Tale of Country Folk.
I made sympathetic noises while stirring and seasoning the risotto and removing warm plates from the oven.
‘. . . the code was actually very, very simple – it just takes time to translate – and it had just got interesting when the power went off, Sappho, that’s the frustrating thing! There’s a list of cliff locations, showing the areas she’s searched and when. But it doesn’t feel right, reading her private journal when she clearly didn’t want me to, only . . . I do need to find out what happened to her: she may have had an accident. Do you think she’s dead?’
‘I don’t really know, but after all this time you have to consider the possibility, Gil. Now, would you call the others in for me? And try not to think about it any more tonight.’
Chapter 31
Automatic Writing
‘That wasn’t fish fingers,’ Nye remarked later.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,
but I never said you were going to get fish fingers, I only asked if you liked them.’
‘Delicious!’ Gil said, like the sleepy Dormouse.
‘But easy: I didn’t even know what we were going to eat at five.’
‘There’s risotto and risotto,’ Miranda said. ‘Yours was perfect.’
‘So was the dessert and you made that. I didn’t know you had a sneaky little sideline in cakes for Llyn’s shop.’
‘It’s not a regular thing, just if ever I’ve got a b-big b-batch of something then I take them d-down, and I wanted to try these Greek things. They’re nice, aren’t they? I’d love to go to Greece and collect recipes, and see people cooking authentic food.’
‘There’s no reason you shouldn’t,’ I said, surprised. ‘You could come with me to Bob and Vivi’s later this year – I’m teaching only two weeks this time, and they’d love to have you. Lefkada is a very nice island.’
Phinny enlivened the proceedings at this point by sicking up Bombay Mix, which I hadn’t even noticed her eating, but there wasn’t much and Nye dealt with it in a practical manner. He had his uses.
We lolled about, pleasantly replete and drinking coffee, until at last Miranda said she’d better go: ‘In case there’s any word ab-bout what’s happened to Chris.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. He’s probably holed up at a hotel somewhere in a sulk,’ I said, because it would be just like him to do that, thinking it would frighten Miranda into taking him back with open arms.
‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ offered Gil, and Miranda didn’t decline: they always seemed quite comfortable together, though I couldn’t tell if that was mutual attraction or just having known each other since toddler group.
Still, both having mislaid their spouses (and long may they remain so) should make a bond.
‘What about you, Nye? Do you want a lift?’ asked Gil.
‘No, thanks, I’ll walk back again. I feel like stretching my legs. But I’ll just give Sappho a hand to clear up the coffee things, first.’
When I came back from seeing Gil and Miranda off, the coffee cups had vanished, but Nye hadn’t. He was stretched comfortably full length on the recliner, arms behind his head, watching me from under long, gold-tipped eyelashes.
‘You can’t have washed up already,’ I said coldly.
‘I haven’t, I left them in the sink; that was just a cunning ruse to stay for a few minutes. I wanted to be sure you were safe if Dave decided to come round for one last try . . . unless you’d like me to stay tonight in case?’
In case of what, I wondered? That I have another mad bout of Hormones Behaving Badly and jump on him?
‘No, thanks,’ I said primly. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘In that case, unless you’d care to join me on this surprisingly comfortable contraption, I’ll take myself off.’
I gave him a chilly look and he smiled again with annoying equanimity and unfolded his long frame.
‘Lock up behind me, and I’ve stuck my number up above the phone. Ring me any time you want to.’
I nearly said, ‘Want to what?’ but self-control, as usual, came to my aid. ‘I’m going to have an outside light fitted,’ I said, ‘so you don’t need to worry. Mu’s talked me into it.’
‘I’m glad someone can persuade you into doing things.’ Something seemed to amuse him for his mobile mouth tilted again into that beguiling grin. ‘I like Mu.’
‘Well, so do I but—’
‘And you can tell her next time you speak to her that I’m taking her advice – but only up to a point.’
‘What advice?’ I demanded suspiciously.
‘It’s a secret between me, Mu and the cat.’
He put on his jacket while I eyed him in some frustration. ‘I don’t believe she gave you any advice. About what, anyway?’
‘Instinct versus strategy,’ he said, stepping out into the clear, star-spangled night. ‘But she might not have got it all right.’
And with that he planted a warm kiss on my lips and strode off into the night.
I slammed the door with unnecessary violence and shot home the bolts as his long, light tread went away beyond the barn.
After that I felt keyed up and full of energy. Ideas suddenly filled my mind to the brim and spilled over, and I knew I had to get them down now, this minute, before I forgot them.
Quickly I cleared away the last traces of the party, poured a slug of dark rum, and settled down in my old robe for what proved to be an epic session of Vengeane.
Tonight the story just told itself, like automatic writing . . . or automatic dictating. The characters jostled and bickered inside my head for their turn to talk.
Stopping only to change tapes or snatch a drink, I let the story unfold itself, though some time before dawn, in passing, I took the phone off the hook: no one was interrupting the flow, no matter how long it took me.
Even after I brought it to a surprising – to me anyway – conclusion, and the tape whirred emptily on and on, I was still thinking how the next and final book would develop . . .
So I put my notes for that on tape too, and then suddenly somehow it was the next evening, and I was stiff, tired, light-headed and elated . . . and someone was hammering on the door so hard they were liable to knock it flat and walk over the remains like a drawbridge.
In a sudden trance of weariness I trudged through the kitchen past a baleful, unfed cat and unlocked the door, but it was wrenched from my hands before I could turn the handle. Nye pounced, growling, and shook me. I went limp.
‘You’re all right! You’re all right, Sappho!’ he cried with relief.
‘I’m more than all right, I’m blissfully happy, but very tired. Stop shaking me – what’s the matter with you?’
‘What’s the matter? Do you know what time it is? I’ve been trying to ring you all day, and when I couldn’t, and Miranda hadn’t seen you either, I got really worried.’
‘I took the phone off the hook so I wouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘But you must have realized I’d think something had happened to you?’
‘No – why should you? I’m perfectly safe and I just had to finish the book while I was in the mood – and I have!’
Glorious, glorious thought!
I yawned suddenly and hugely. ‘Sorry – I’m not used to people being concerned about me. What time is it?’
‘Seven in the evening. I’d have been here hours ago if I hadn’t had an appointment with someone coming from London. How long have you been working?’
‘Since you left last night. I’m starving, and so is poor Phinny.’
‘All night?’
The front door was still open, and at this point something pale and rectangular on the doorstep caught my eye . . . something vaguely coffin-shaped.
‘What’s that?’ I said. ‘Did you bring it?’
‘What? No, it was there when I got here – some kind of box.’
I bent and picked it up. ‘Looks like another offering from Dave.’
He stared at it. ‘Not in a bloody coffin!’
‘He did once or twice before he started using Fantasy Flowers, but the shock value wore off after the first.’
‘Give it to me, I’ll open it,’ he demanded.
I was too weak to grapple for it, and anyway I wasn’t very interested in another ghastly surprise, so I watched as he cautiously lifted the lid. A skittish breeze caught it and sent it flying, together with a layer of tissue paper.
Nye went rigid, for inside the box lay the pathetic remains of a skinned animal – a headless, cat-sized animal . . .
I whirled, but Phinny was still giving me a disgusted stare from the door.
‘It’s all right, Sappho, it’s not a cat, I think; it looks more like a rabbit.’
I forced myself to look again, more closely. ‘You’re right, and a bloodless, ready-to-cook rabbit, at that. Could you tip it in the bin? There’s a bag in there already.’
Somehow, I didn’t think Bunny in a Box would b
e the next new Fantasy Flowers line . . .
Nye did as I asked, and then tied up the bag before putting the lid on again.
I led the way back in and closed the door. ‘Do you think that was a threat to the cat, or a threat to me?’ Suddenly my knees went shaky and my head seemed to be bobbing lightly away up there on its own, like a balloon.
Nye guided me into a chair. ‘For goodness’ sake sit down. You’re shocked, exhausted and hungry. I’ll make you something to eat.’
‘Feed Phinny first. She must be starving, though I see she’s eaten the remains of the risotto out of the pan.’
So he did, and then whipped me up an omelette. He looked terribly domestic doing it: if I’d seen him in a catalogue I’d have ordered one in Extra Large.
He has broad, square shoulders and long, long legs, though his platinum hair looked as if he’d rubbed clay through it in a fit of temper or something, which he probably had.
Generally you couldn’t say he has a hairstyle – his hair just naturally covers his head in the most perfect way: easy. But that night he looked like a punk platinum hedgehog with badger streaks put in for effect.
The way he couldn’t give a damn about how he looks is oddly endearing, and of course he’d still look sexy in a clay-sack toga and woad, though the effect would be unintentional.
Unlike Dave, who is more Armani than Accidental.
‘You know,’ I said, when I’d eaten the perfect omelette, ‘tonight’s Box of Delights is more Dave’s type of thing than stoning a cat: a nasty but bloodless gesture. I really don’t think you need to worry about him. He’s never actually done any harm, that I know.’
‘He phoned me up earlier today, and his threats were a bit on the lurid side: that’s why I was so worried about you,’ Nye said. ‘As soon as I’d finished my business I rushed over here.’
‘Oh, Nye, I hope I haven’t lost you a sale,’ I said guiltily.
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