“What on earth possessed you? A hundred pounds? For that little scrap?” I tried to ignore the fact that he looked damn near as appealing as the kitten. “What if I move to Devon?”
He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Take it. Call it recompense for screwing up your life.”
“But you haven’t.”
“Telling you about Ma and Alasdair doesn’t count?” He lowered his voice. “And you spilling it all to me—tell me that doesn’t count as screwing up your life.”
I lowered my voice too, although Florence could be heard at a great distance, outside, encouraging the kitten to appreciate the joys of nature in an unnaturally high-pitched voice. “I chose to tell you though. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Does he know? This Leo guy? Does he know about Florence? About all the crap? What you’ve been through?” I couldn’t speak. Shook my head. As gentle as he’d been with the kitten, Piers brushed my hair away from my face and looked into my eyes. “Then I think it kinda counts,” he said softly.
“Piers.” I stepped away. “Don’t be nice to me, I think I might cry.”
He smiled. “Just saved one life already tonight, I’m up for another. Bring it on.”
To my shame, just for a second, the urge to feel the pressure of his embrace almost overwhelmed me, but I swallowed firmly and the feelings died back. “Thanks, but no. The kitten, I mean, he’s lovely and everything—”
Grainger circled back towards us and sniffed the toe of Piers’s boot with evident interest. “Just doing what I thought was right, Ally. That’s all.” Unconcerned now, Piers was munching another biscuit.
“But I can’t look after—I mean I’ll have to get a litter tray, and special kitten food and—oh bugger, you’re going to tell me you’ve already got them, aren’t you?”
“In the hallway.” Piers gestured with the edge of the biscuit. “Just call me Mr. Prepared.”
Florence re-entered, chirruping and peeping like a massed rank of bats, the kitten perched high on her shoulder, blinking enigmatically. As soon as he saw me, he trod gently down her arm and took a tiny, wobbly leap to land squarely in the middle of my chest with his tiny pin-claws grasping me securely. His miniscule chest throbbed with purrs.
“Isn’t love wonderful?” Piers said dryly.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Grainger gave Caspar a thorough inspection, sniffed him all over including the insides of his ears and sat down to wash his own face whilst watching the kitten out of the corner of his eye with a slightly desperate expression.
“I think Grainger knows the kitten was designed to be a replacement.” I ripped into pizza, letting greasy gobbets of cheese ripple down my hand. “He’s probably taking it as a portent of his demise, like a kind of cat-banshee. So, are you going out tonight to celebrate your success?”
“Yeah, well. Some of the girls said we might meet up somewhere in town, go round a bit. You know.” Florrie avoided looking at me.
“Not drinking, I hope? You’re still only sixteen, all of you. I know how much trouble it’s possible to get into when you’ve been drinking. You do things. Things you wouldn’t even consider if you were sober.”
“Oh, don’t worry so much, Mum. I’m not going to get pregnant or anything. I’m not that stupid!”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean that.” She seemed to consider stomping out of the room for a moment but relented. “Sorry.” Florence had definitely improved beyond measure since she’d come back from London, a few months ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about dropping an insult like that, and certainly she wouldn’t have apologised. “But, Mum, were you drunk when you got pregnant with me?”
Past and present, fact and fiction merged there in my mind for a moment. “Your father and I had really only just started going out when I found out, so I can’t be sure.”
“You could have had an abortion?”
Being in London had certainly given Florrie a well-rounded view of things. She’d never asked that question before. “I didn’t want to.”
Not wholly true. But I’d thought maybe a baby would be what Flick needed to calm him down. Restrict his wildness a bit. And after I’d found out that curbing his excesses was the last thing he had in mind, I’d simply left it too late.
“But why not? You gave up everything, your education. All of it, just to have me.”
“I wanted to have you. Your father was, I thought, the love of my life.”
Her real father. Flick. Gorgeous bastard that he’d been.
“Where did Piers go?” Florrie was obviously bored with the subject.
“Out to get another pizza, I think.”
“Bugger. I was going to ask him to pick me up from town later. Oh well. I’m off to get ready.”
Florrie danced out, leaving me with the remnants of our celebratory pizzas and two animals both trying to pretend they were the only cat in the world. I absent-mindedly gave the ring another tug of desperation, this time it slid effortlessly off, lubricated with the sweat of greasy cheese from the pizza. It was about the only thing I hadn’t already tried.
As it came off I was overwhelmed with relief, and felt instantly guilty, but not quite guilty enough to put it back on. I laid the ring down on the carpet and looked at it. It had reassumed its air of innocence, no longer weighing on my finger and my mind so heavily. But still. Leo wanted me.
As though he sensed my doubts, Grainger got up and poked me affectionately in the eye with his nose. Then he and Caspar wobbled around each other for a moment before they both sat back down. Honour had evidently been satisfied.
I went to pick the ring up and put it on the table, but it wasn’t there. I swivelled around where I’d sat on the floor beside the sofa and peered underneath, into the fluff-encrusted depths. Nothing. With increasing desperation, I crawled around on all fours slapping at the mat like a deranged carpet-fitter, but there was not so much as a glint of sapphire, a hint of diamonds.
“Mum? What are you doing?”
“You don’t think we could have a poltergeist, do you?” I patted on. “My ring’s completely vanished.”
Florrie had emerged from her room, wearing a kind of throw-over dress which looked as though her aim hadn’t been particularly good. “Even a poltergeist would have better taste than to hang round here. It’s probably rolled under the sofa.”
“Can you give me a hand to lift it up?”
Florence looked down at herself. “In this? Joking, right?” There was a bang at the front door and Piers made another of his decorative entries. Florence positively leaped at him. “Can you pick me up tonight, ’bout elevenish? I’ll ring when I’m ready? Pretty please? Oh, and Mum needs a hand with the sofa.”
“Jeez, Flo, ever heard of buses? Yeah, okay. Enjoy.”
We watched her leave, then Piers turned to me. “Hand with the sofa?”
“To lift it up.”
I paused briefly to appreciate his muscles being brought into play, but there was no ring under the sofa. Caspar used the opportunity to dive underneath and chase fluffballs. Grainger was curled on the carpet looking pathetic.
“Do you think he’s really better?” I asked. “Maybe it was more than a stroke. Only he looks so thin and scraggy… Maybe he’s got a tapeworm.”
“Hey, thin and scraggy never did me any harm.” Piers raked his hair, stretching out his back, and I fought my eyeballs for control. “Anyway, what is tapeworm? Sounds kinda cute.”
“Cute? Yuk. What did you take to bed when you were little, a liver fluke?”
“Nah. Weren’t allowed toys. I was a weekly boarder. Little school near Boston.”
“You hated it that much?”
“It shows, huh?” Piers gathered Caspar up and hauled him onto his lap, his velvet trousers gathered gobbets of pale fur, but he didn’t seem to care. “Moving to England was the best thing Ma ever did, far as I was concerned. Okay, I had to go to a prissy school where they made us wear hats, but, hey, I got to go home nights
. How ’bout you?”
“Day school. Private though, Dad insisted. He was only something fairly minor in local government, but he and Mum found the money from somewhere. And I had music lessons and dance and tennis coaching.”
“You hated it that much?”
“It shows?” I gave him a rueful smile and began stroking Grainger’s slightly dull fur. “Dear old Dad had it dead set in his mind that I was going to be something successful. Kind of a good job that they died before I proved them wrong, wasn’t it?”
There was a moment of silence. Piers gave my arm a quick rub of sympathy. “Hey, you got Flo, and she’s not so bad, is she?”
“I suppose.”
“What did you want to be?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. When you were a kid?”
I looked at him. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Hey, you’re looking at the guy who wanted to be the first Olympic gold medallist for the Down Stairs Tea Tray slalom. I’m in no position to laugh!”
“I wanted—really?”
“What can I say? I was a cute kid. Now, you?”
“I wanted to be a writer. Children’s books, preferably. Stories about elves and magic and I knew you’d laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. Trust me. I think it’s real sad that you haven’t got to do that yet. But you will, one day.”
“Yes, one day. Maybe.” I sighed. “I don’t exactly come across as a dynamic go-getter, do I?”
Piers had an odd look on his face, a kind of inward-seeing expression. “Life’s tough, yeah? Have to adjust to not always getting what we want.” He came and sat down beside me on the sofa, and leaned over to stroke Grainger, who took this dual approach to cat petting as no more than his proper entitlement. He wasn’t going to let us off the hook for sending him into exile any time soon.
“You’re well adjusted though, aren’t you?”
“On the surface. But inside I’m a mass of torment.” He clasped his hands dramatically to his chest and flung his head back. Unfortunately he had misjudged the distance between the sofa and the wall and cracked his skull, giving me the chance to appreciate truly bilingual swearing. Grainger stirred, obviously annoyed.
“D’you reckon he’s got it?” Piers eyed the tabby suspiciously, one hand held to the back of his head as though he feared it might come off.
“I’m beginning to. But I daren’t pick him up. I’ve got work in the morning. I don’t want to go in looking like something a practising taxidermist has had a go at. Besides, he feels really—”
“Sticky? Mangy?”
“I was going to say fragile.”
“Okay.” Piers dived on Grainger and lifted him suddenly off the floor. Finding himself with paws dangling Grainger froze for a moment then hung limply like an unconvincing handbag. Exactly where Grainger had been, sat my ring.
“The little bastard.” I picked up the ring and resisted any urge to give it a place of safety on my finger again.
“He’s got a right to comment, I guess.” We stood side by side and looked at the ring twinkling away on my palm. “What are you going to do, Alys? Say yeah to the guy? Or kick free?”
“He says he loves me, Piers. It would give me something beyond this place and work. I mean, I’ll miss Jace, and Simon and God help me, I’ll even miss you. But really why am I staying here?”
Piers looked as though he was about to speak, running both hands through his hair and dropping his gaze from mine. When he brought his fingers forward there was blood on his hand and a bit more multicultural profanity was brought into play.
“Hang on I’ll get some Savlon to put on it.”
Piers sat heavily next to where Grainger was now coiled, one lip curled in disgust at his recent treatment. “So? What are you going to do?” Piers called after me as I went into the kitchen in search of my first aid kit, consisting of a tube of antiseptic cream, two Harry Potter plasters and a bandage, which I suspected had once belonged to Dylan-the-horse.
“I’m going to go down. I think Leo and I need to talk.” Slowly, trying to be gentle I tipped my finger with white antiseptic and moved his hair away so that I could see the wound. His hair was silken and there was something very intimate about the whole scene.
“Yeah? That doesn’t sound like you’re loved-up with the guy. What you going to talk about? Ow. That bloody hurts.”
“I need to tell him things. All the stuff about reading his poetry and about Florrie and Alasdair, and yes, maybe even the stuff about Flick.” Piers tilted his head back and met my eye. “I owe it to him, Piers. I can’t build another relationship on deceit. I won’t.”
“Well, they say confession is good for the soul.” Piers wouldn’t let me look away. “Did you feel good when you confessed to me, Ally? Did it make you feel clean and shiny and like it was the right time to start something?”
“Talking to you, it made me realise what I did wasn’t so bad. I was only a bit older than Florence is now. He’ll understand.” I tried not to notice the pleading tone in my voice. “Yes. He’ll understand,” I said it again, injecting a bit more confidence this time.
I was about to screw the top back on the tube when Piers grabbed my hand and made me jump.
“Do you love him?” His grip was tight, his rings dug into my skin. He stood up and faced me, and for a moment I was slightly afraid. “Well, Alys? Do you?” He was so pale that I wondered if the bash on the head had concussed him. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his eyes dark.
“Are you trying to make me cry again?” I tried to check the catch in my voice. “If you are, please don’t.”
“I don’t make you cry, Alys, the situation does. I’m just trying to make you see the bigger picture here. Do you love this guy? Honest now, truth or dare.”
“Dare, then.” I was almost whispering.
“I dare you.” Now Piers had lowered his voice too. “I dare you to tell me you love this Leo. Cos, y’see, I don’t think you can. I think you’re looking at spending the rest of your life with a guy you don’t even fucking like.”
“That’s not true.”
“Reckon?” He was moving closer. This was no longer my almost-stepson. It was some shadowy stranger, his face virtually touching mine, his hands cupping my shoulders, and I couldn’t pull away. “Ally, I don’t think you know what love is.”
“Does it matter?” My voice came out breathy.
“Yeah.” His tone matched mine. “I think it does.”
I could feel his breath on my lips, his hair drifting against the side of my neck. Couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. Didn’t know what was coming, and a part of me didn’t care.
Suddenly a sound came from behind me. A choking, gasping noise that turned out to be the sound of Caspar sicking up a furball down the back of the stereo. The intensity lifted and Piers stepped away.
“Shit, look at the time. I’d better go. Supposed to be tying up with Ma and Alasdair for some kinda family powwow, and I’ll have to be back for Flo.” Was it my imagination, or was Piers avoiding looking at me? It was rather hard to tell, because I was definitely avoiding looking at him.
“What happened to going to the cinema with Sarah?” I had a perfect excuse for having my back to him. I was trying to scrape cat sick off my favourite CDs.
“Er, we—we split up today, so.”
A warm flood of relief suffused me. He’d split up with Sarah, obviously feeling low. It hadn’t been me causing all the touchy-feely stuff we’d narrowly avoided, it had been him. “Oh, that’s a shame.”
“Look, umm, gotta go. Catch you later?”
“I’m sure. Oh, and Piers—”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
A pause. “Alys.” I looked up now, met his gaze. Held it. “Nah. See ya.”
I watched him from the window as he strode down the pavement towards the untidily parked Porsche, those red boots making him look like something out of The Wizard of Oz. Only someone with a huge amount of style could
carry off boots like those, and Piers certainly had a huge amount of style. Huge amount of lots of things evidently.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I found a taxi driver willing to concede the existence of Charlton Hawsell Stud and arrived just as darkness was beginning to fall. Devon was still baked in the ongoing heat wave, a light toast-brown coloured the whole countryside and the house rose from its seared surroundings in a glorious honey-coloured mound, like a soufflé served on burnt chips.
The encroaching night gave the whole place a slightly sinister air. Walking from the heat outside into the insulated coolness, I felt as though I were walking into a ghost story. I didn’t call out but moved through the house in a kind of daze until I came to the kitchen. Leo was in there. I could hear his voice filtered through the solid oak of the panelled door, deep, insistent, but I couldn’t hear the words. Slowly I turned the handle and eased the door open, cautious in case his misogynistic terriers were still on the premises. I pushed my face through the opening and looked inside.
There stood the predictable scene of domestic squalor, unwashed plates on the table, a newspaper spread across the worktop, and, at the far side of the room, Leo. He had his back to me, telephone pressed against his ear and was writing furiously on a notepad. I put my overnight bag on the floor out in the passageway and tiptoed across the room. As I got closer to him, my heart began to beat faster. He looked fantastically dishevelled in his navy blue jodhpurs and white shirt, hair awry as though he’d hurried in from the yard. Just as I got close enough to touch him, he gave a final “mmm, call you tomorrow” down the phone and laid it back on the side, turning round to find me pressed almost full length against him.
“Buggering hell.” Leo staggered back a step, dislodging a mug half full of tea which had been resting precariously on the top of a chair back, which fell and smashed at our feet. “Alys? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” I said, rather downhearted at his less-than effusive greeting, stirring spilled china with my foot. “I thought we needed some time to talk.”
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