by Hazel Osmond
‘Alex, I’m sorry.’ She was as gentle as possible. ‘I don’t have the same feelings for you, and if we keep going out to places together, I’m afraid it looks as if I’m leading you on.’ She intended to pull her hand from his after that, but the command did not appear to travel from her brain, so she stumbled on. ‘You’re the last person I want to hurt. Not after you’ve been such a very kind friend.’ She saw his face undergo a subtle change with the word ‘friend’ as though she’d insulted him, but still he held her hand. She was very afraid that if they sat any longer like this she would sugar-coat things.
‘My feelings haven’t changed since we were at school,’ he said, his gaze lingering on her. ‘I’ve only ever wanted to look after you. Protect you. I know this is difficult for you, Jennifer, coming to terms with how your life has changed. But the people who really love you don’t care. We still love you, just want to keep you safe.’
She couldn’t put into words why that made her feel so trapped.
‘And … don’t take this the wrong way –’ he gave her fingers a hearty squeeze – ‘but the Drama Club, Finlay, even Cressida, they’re not helping by reminding you of what you’ve lost and can’t have back. Whereas,’ he lifted her hand to his mouth and gave it a kiss, ‘you can get “us” back.’
She didn’t know if it was that kiss or the way he was talking about Cress and Finlay that gave her the strength to get her hand away from his.
‘Alex,’ she said forcefully, ‘I know you have deep feelings for me, but I can’t return them. It’s not just about now, it’s about the future too – we want different things.’ She waved aside his attempt to interrupt. ‘I know that what I intended to do with my life isn’t going to happen, but that isn’t a good enough reason for me to cling to you.’
She undid her seat belt and tried to gauge from his face how he felt about what she had said. No clue. She got out of the car and was closing the door when he leaned across and pushed it back open.
‘Give it a few more months, Jennifer,’ he said, ‘I can wait.’
Had all her words simply slid off him as if he were coated in Teflon? The cheery wave he gave her before he drove off did not suggest a man who was now driving his crushed spirit back home.
She went into the house, thankful that there was no sign of her mother, and as she reached her bedroom her mobile rang.
‘Jen?’ Cressida’s tone was urgent. ‘How did it go? Can’t stay long – had to throw a prima-donna to come off the set, they’re all running round like headless chickens trying to wrap it up by tomorrow. So, Alex?’
‘Felt like I was kicking him in the teeth.’
‘You wouldn’t know how to be brutal. I should give you lessons.’
‘He thinks I’ve just got to come to terms with everything and when I do, I’ll realise I want him. Says he wants to keep me safe.’
There was an impatient noise from the phone.
‘Listen to me, Jen. Don’t get sidetracked here. Yes, he’s been great since the accident. But remember how he used to sulk when you had Youth Theatre? That time he didn’t want you to be in the play that was going to Edinburgh. He’s always tried to keep you to himself.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Oh damn, look, I’m going to have to go, there’s someone here tapping their watch. Very bloody subtle. But you’ve done the right thing, Jen. There’s a part of you Alex just can’t fathom, never has. Hold on to that.’
Lying in bed afterwards, Jennifer thought how weird it was that Alex believed he was the only one who understood her properly, whereas in reality it was Cress. She had been spot on about there being a part of her Alex couldn’t fathom; the part of her that needed something ‘other’. Acting had given her that. When it went well, she felt like she was flying.
She turned over and got comfortable. So, with acting gone, what was she waiting for? In all honesty she didn’t know, but there had to be some way of moving forward again, didn’t there? Of shaking off this feeling that everything had ground to a halt on that slip road back in Manchester. If she couldn’t believe that she might as well give up now.
She expected to lie awake for a long time feeling guilty about Alex, but she was already more or less asleep when her mother came in and as she always did, kissed her pointedly, lovingly, on the scarred side of her face.
CHAPTER 8
‘All right, time to meet the locals,’ Mack said, with the kind of grim expression that only a man who had slept dressed in all his clothes in a clammy bed, missed out on supper and breakfast and washed in cold water could muster.
Brindley didn’t look any better in daylight. Everything around it was either green, green or more bloody green. Except for the brown mud and the bare trees. Oh, and if he really peered into the distance, it looked as if there was snow on some of the hills. The silence made his ears hurt and the cold was finishing off all the other bits. He had spectacularly, among his purchases, forgotten to buy gloves.
He remembered the day when he had failed to get Gabi to put on her mittens. Well, he wasn’t that guy here. He wasn’t doing ‘nice’ until Gabi and the rest of them were safe.
He walked over the road, across a muddy piece of grass and ended up in front of ‘H. Schofield. General Stores’. There were the usual postcards to be found in any shop window, although he was slightly worried that the ones for stump removals might refer to limbs.
As he pushed open the door, a bell pinged and he had a moment to register how neat and well stocked the shelves were before a woman shot out from behind a bead curtain as though she had starting blocks back there.
‘Hello, you,’ she said.
Mack was good at reading the clues people gave out without even knowing: the style and age of shoes and watches; the amount of eye contact; an accent that slipped under alcohol; even the Pantone reference of a tan. What Mack saw was a woman in her forties in a tabard that showed a lot of flesh, nails that were painted, a well made-up face and hair that was coloured. Her clothes weren’t cheap, but they were too tight and short for her figure. He clocked the way she looked at him: a quick up-and-down and then a return linger over his thighs and groin.
All of that said she was a game girl, a woman who’d lived a bit and wasn’t planning on putting on her slippers and drinking her cocoa just yet. He noted the open gossip magazine on the counter and wondered if she might be a good source of gossip herself.
‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ he said, offering his hand. She took it with a widening smile. ‘I’m—’
‘Matt Harper, come to stay over at the Villas.’ Her eyes had a mischievous sheen. ‘Yes, I know, pet. Good journey yesterday, was it? Well, don’t suppose it would worry you if it wasn’t, what with being a travel writer, like.’
So, nosy, game girl who likes you to know she’s well informed. Careful, Mack.
He clocked her wedding ring. ‘You’re well informed, Mrs … Mrs?’
‘Sonia,’ she twinkled back at him. ‘Not Mrs Sonia, just Sonia.’ Her eyes did another quick tour of his groin. ‘I didn’t know you’d be this young.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise. I like them young. So, heard you got off the King’s Cross train. That a connection? Or did you start in London?’ She tilted her head slightly. ‘Recognise the accent, just can’t quite place it.’
Mack admired her questioning technique and normally would have strung her along, but he didn’t want to give the impression he was hiding anything.
‘I come from Bristol.’
‘Ah, West Country. You’ve not got much of a burr.’
‘Can ’ave if Oi want,’ he replied before feeling that was a bit too flirty and throttling back to studiously businesslike. ‘So, I’ll need one or two things.’
He saw her dip forward in an extravagant, cleavage-revealing way to haul a cardboard box on to the counter. It was filled with an assortment of packets, jars and tins.
‘Bread, coffee, tea,’ she said, lifting up the items to show him, ‘some eggs and
bacon and a couple of tins of beans. I put in low-fat spread rather than butter, but I can swap it if you like, and a couple of pints of milk. We have a milkman delivers to the village, so if you want him to include you, let me know.’ She looked over the things in the box. ‘And there’s matches of course, washing-up liquid, cleaning stuff, some pasta and a jar of pasta sauce.’ There was a flash of amusement in those eyes again. ‘Nice soft toilet rolls too.’
‘Wow.’ Mack was genuinely surprised. ‘How did you know what I wanted?’
‘Not much I don’t know about round here.’
Yeah, I’m starting to understand that.
‘Well, that’s just brilliant.’ Was he being too gushing? ‘Now, about the fire—’
He was interrupted by the door opening, and a man of about sixty walked in as though his feet were hurting. Following him was a much younger man, probably only in his late twenties. The eyes in his handsome face were startlingly green, and with his trendy padded jacket open, it was possible to see that his T-shirt was tight across his substantial, toned chest. Mack saw Sonia’s smile.
Ah, her husband and son. Husband’s a bit old for her.
‘How did you get on, Hal?’ Sonia said to the older man.
‘Oh all right, did a good job. Got out the corns.’ He sounded as though the ‘r’s were rolling around on the back of his tongue.
‘Go and have a rest then.’ Sonia touched his arm lightly, and he headed for the bead curtain. The instant he had gone, something happened to the atmosphere in the shop. The young man stepped towards Sonia, and it was a wonder Mack wasn’t scorched by the sexual charge between the two of them. Her ‘Hello’ was deep with meaning, all of it dirty.
‘Hello,’ the young man replied, the foreign accent obvious even in that one word.
Oooh no, definitely not mother and son … although it is the country …
Sonia reached behind her, located a chocolate bar by touch alone, and placed it in the young man’s hand, not once taking her gaze from his face.
The young man, with a quick look towards the beaded curtain, put the chocolate bar in his pocket, patted it suggestively and left.
Well, well. Here was me thinking I’d come to Nothings-happeningville. Perhaps her husband is the old one, because those two are definitely having it off and they don’t want the older one to know. File that away.
Sonia made absolutely no comment about the men; it was as though Mack had dreamed the incident.
‘You were going to ask me about the fires?’ she said. ‘I dropped a couple of bags of coal and some firelighters into the bunker in your back yard. If you prefer logs, I can arrange that too. Must be cold over there.’ She frowned. ‘That guy who rents it out is a slob.’
‘How much do I owe you?’ he said taking out his wallet.
‘Open an account if you like. I know where to find you if I need to.’
Mack decided that Matt Harper would look a bit nervous about the double entendre in that sentence. He put his wallet down on the counter and lifted up the box.
‘Can’t interest you in any shampoo for that lovely thick hair?’ she said as she came round the counter. ‘Toothpaste, toothbrush?’
‘Thank you, no. Brought them with me.’ He moved towards the door.
‘Disposable razor?’ She followed him.
‘No, brought that too.’
She had her hand on the door handle.
‘Condoms?’
He had to swallow down a laugh. ‘No. No … um … don’t think my girlfriend would approve.’
‘Ah, all the best ones are taken. Still, if you get lucky …’
He brought out his nervous-rabbit impression. ‘Uh … yes, well … and, about my girlfriend, I need to—’
‘Down by the bench, come out of your front door, turn left and keep walking, it’s on the brow of the hill. Only mobile reception in the village.’
He must have looked dumbstruck because she said, smugly, ‘Told you, I know everything around here.’
She had opened the door for him, but then abruptly closed it and led him by the box over to a noticeboard wedged between two of the cold cabinets. ‘Nearly forgot, Jen told me to point this out to you.’
She was tapping a poster with the headline: ‘Twelfth Night’ on it and he must have appeared as if he was casually reading it, whereas like a heat-seeking missile he had locked on to the words, ‘Meeting’, ‘The Roman Sentry’, ‘Thursday’ and ‘Brindley and Yarfield Drama Club’.
‘Get yourself there,’ she said, looking at him under her lashes. ‘I can see you in a nice pair of tights and they’re always desperate for young men to act. Just ask for Jen. Lovely is Jen.’
He was afraid that Sonia’s expression was the kind people normally had on their faces when they said a woman had a ‘nice personality’.
‘Well, I could,’ he said in a ‘slightly doubtful but prepared to be persuaded’ tone. ‘This pub, the Roman Sentry, it’s—’
‘Yarfield, the next village. Not sure why they’ve always called it the Brindley and Yarfield Drama Club, nothing ever happens here. The Drama Club hold all their meetings in the pub in Yarfield and perform in the big village hall down there too. It’s about three miles away.’
‘Just a stroll then,’ he beamed.
Jeez, three sodding miles.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, heading back to the door. She opened it for him, and he slowly walked away.
It was only seconds before he heard the ping of the bell as the door of the shop was opened again.
‘You forgot your wallet,’ she called, running after him to stuff it into one of the front pockets of his jeans.
‘I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on,’ he said with a laugh and ignored the way her hand lingered before she withdrew it.
Back inside the cottage he put his shopping away and struggled with the bags of coal and then with the fires in the front room and bedroom, eventually managing to produce a lot of smoke and not much heat. He left them flickering pathetically while he followed Sonia’s directions to the bench. Still no signal. He walked around it (‘In memory of Peter H. I. Clarke. Not just sitting: Contemplating’). Still nothing. He held the phone up high in his freezing hand and the bars on the screen immediately pulsed into life. ‘Sorry, Pete,’ he said, climbing up on the bench and punching in Tess’s number. He was relieved she wasn’t in because he wasn’t sure he could carry off the lie that everything was fine. He left a message saying he’d ring back soon and told her his address, which actually belonged to another empty property the Third Party owned way over the other side of Northumberland.
Reluctantly he got out O’Dowd’s phone.
‘Anything to report?’ O’Dowd said when he answered.
Mack looked around before speaking, but he didn’t really know why. He hadn’t seen anybody all morning and there wasn’t much passing traffic.
‘Everything’s either green or brown or dead. The shop’s run by a sex-starved Miss Marple; the curtains in the next door cottage twitch whenever I walk out of my front door and—’
‘I meant about our Jen.’
‘Seeing her tonight, some Drama-Club meeting in a pub, next village. But listen, Miss Marple said they’re always looking for young men to act. What do I do about that? Prancing about on stage, it’s not exactly low profile.’
‘You’re not in the West End, Dame Judi. Do what they want, whatever gets you closest to Jennifer. If you can stay backstage, fine, if you can’t, tough. Besides, if you pull your finger out, you’ll be gone before long – Cressida starts filming The Unfeeling with Randy Rory next week and my guts tell me it’s all going to kick off then. Now get lost.’
Back in the cottage he wasn’t surprised to see that the fire in the front room had died in his absence. He went and got the duvet, noticing that the bedroom fire had extinguished itself too, and wrapped himself up to lie on the smelly sofa.
Everything about the cottage depressed him, from the way you could only get enough h
ot water for a bath that barely covered your legs, to the dark-wood wardrobes in the bedrooms that looked like coffins. It felt like the kind of place lots of people had died in, and when he looked at the lumpy single bed in the spare room with its crocheted cover, he wondered whether one of the bodies was still in there.
At least that would explain the smell.
By the time he laced up his walking boots that evening, he had worked himself up into a nasty stew of bitterness and when he arrived outside the Roman Sentry in Yarfield he wanted to punch something or someone. Preferably a northerner, or failing that, O’Dowd.
It hadn’t just been three miles through enemy territory; it had been three miles and then another foot-chewing extra half-mile. He was sure he had blisters coming.
He’d felt horribly exposed walking through all that green, sure that out there in the dark there had been something, or more likely lots of somethings watching him. If the torch went out would they move in for the kill? His heart had been permanently thudding at every rustle in the long grass, every weird cry from God knew what. Once, the torch beam had picked out two horrible shining eyes by a fence and he’d yelped and stumbled on to his hands and knees. When he’d retrieved the torch there had been an indignant baa and a sheep had peeled away into the darkness. Not far from the pub, something white had come out of the sky towards him before veering away. He was convinced it had been a vulture.
His hands were frozen, but his body was sweaty from walking in his jumper, fleece and cagoule with his bandana wrapped round the lower half of his face. Fantastic, now everyone’s first impression of him would be of a cold-handed, sweaty, smelly, wild-eyed nutter.
He reached out for the handle on the pub door, his determination to get the job done the strongest it had been since O’Dowd had blackmailed him into doing it. If he had to be especially sly or even hard-hearted, so be it. Get the job done and bugger off back home.
He stuck a hearty, slightly gung-ho expression on his face and walked into a large room with sepia views of the countryside on the whitewashed walls and a healthier fire in the grate than the ones he’d managed to get going. A group of men sitting round a table turned to stare at him.