by Georgia Hill
Gabe winced. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but he’d had to know. He’d had to push at it.
‘Good going, Gabriel boy,’ he muttered, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. Jeez! Jealousy was a terrible thing. The knowledge that Tim had been staying with Rachel had been like having an itchy scab – and picking at it. And he was still no nearer knowing the truth about Rachel and that smooth bastard Neil Fitch. At least he’d cleared up one mystery: Tim was no threat. Best keep the knowledge that he was gay from Kev. Although he’d admitted to liking him, Kev wasn’t known for his liberal views.
Last night here was the only place he’d felt like being. He thought he and Rachel were getting on better. Getting closer. It had felt right being on the sofa. Peaceful. And he’d needed a sanctuary. His father accusing him of not being committed to the family firm still rankled. If he ever had the chance to discuss it with Rachel, he knew she would understand. Would know about the need to create something overriding anything else. And that included putting in a kitchen at the Hallidays’.
He looked to the resolutely closed door of the sitting room and made himself promise to tell Rachel, as soon as possible, that Kev had only been in Borstal for a bit of joy-riding. ‘Might put her mind at ease,’ he said to his toolbox and, picking it up, made his way upstairs.
Chapter 24
Rachel knew she’d made a huge mistake as soon as Neil collected her in his car.
‘We’ll stop on the way, shall we, for a spot of lunch? I’ve researched a good place,’ he said, with an important grin.
Poor man. He was condemned by that opening statement. It made Rachel realise just what it was that irritated her most about him. He was prematurely middle-aged. All his fussing over not drinking too much, getting an early night, making sure he trained properly. It made him so dull. Rachel knew she was being completely unfair; he was probably some girl’s ideal man. Just not hers.
She bit her lip and handed him her overnight bag. He made a great fuss of stashing it in the boot and then came round to open the passenger door for her. His good manners just made Rachel feel even worse.
The weekend went as Rachel expected. When she and Neil arrived, there was already a crowd of tipsy golf-club types milling around the half-packed-up house. Paula gave her daughter an unusually warm hug, but there was no time to talk. Inevitably, though, she made a huge fuss over Neil. Then there was a crushingly embarrassing moment when Neil and Rachel were shown to the double-bedded guest room, only resolved when Rachel said she’d camp out in her old bedroom.
As the afternoon wore on, even more people arrived and spilled out into the garden. Too many people and too much alcohol. The party became ever more drunken and Rachel, never easy with the social scene her parents enjoyed, slunk out into the garden, leaving Neil discussing property prices with her father.
Her mother had made it abundantly clear he was earmarked for a son-in-law. ‘So suitable, darling,’ she whispered into Rachel’s ear, as she clung on to her daughter’s arm. ‘You know we just want to see you happy, settled. And I think he could be the man for you!’ Rachel didn’t bother to protest. It didn’t seem the right time.
Dodging around a giggling couple who were heading for the hot tub, she made her way to the far end of the garden and her long-forgotten childhood swing. Sitting on it and sipping wine, she watched the partying from a safe distance.
She missed the inky blackness above Herefordshire. Here, the sky was a light-polluted dirty orange. She couldn’t see a single star. The soundtrack to everything was the relentless hum of the M25. No owls hooting, no screech of a hunting vixen. Even the air smelled different. She was glad she’d come, though. To do something which made her parents happy.
Neil made his way through to her. She admired his side-step from an over-amorous friend of her mother’s. He seemed to be taking everything in his stride and was accepting the situation with his normal good grace and faultless manners. Rachel felt a surge of gratitude towards him.
‘I’m so sorry about all this,’ she said, when he reached her and gestured to the drunken middle-aged golfers who were playing a rowdy game of ‘pass the keys’. Rachel winced as one of the women shrieked and tried to fish the keys out of her cleavage.
Neil perched himself gingerly on an upturned wheelbarrow and looked about him. He raised one black brow. ‘They certainly know how to have a good time.’ Then, just as Rachel thought he might be about to say something pompous again, he produced a bottle of white from under his jacket. He clinked glasses with her and grinned. ‘Might as well join in!’
Rachel smiled back. He was making it all so easy for her. He’d batted off her mother, had a long conversation with Tristan, giving Rachel the chance to talk to her father before he got too drunk to make sense and had been, in every way possible, the perfect guest.
She tried to picture Gabe in the same situation and couldn’t. Gabriel Llewellyn simply didn’t fit into this middle-class, middle-aged suburban revelry. But then, neither did she. She never had. She was confident the relationship with her parents would improve at some point in the future. She just had to grit her teeth and get through now.
Rachel counted the hours; it was eleven-thirty. Possibly they could escape by ten in the morning. Any earlier and her parents wouldn’t be up. With any luck, she could say goodbye over their first coffee and cigarette of the day.
Portugal wasn’t a million miles away and she promised herself she’d visit. And build more bridges.
She bit down on a sudden giggle. Bringing Neil, who was so eminently suitable and good-looking, was the most conformist thing she’d ever done. If her parents went off to their new life thinking their daughter was settling down, she was glad. She just hoped Neil didn’t have the same impression.
‘And I’m so sorry for all the fuss my mother made about the rooms,’ she said to him, as he poured her another glass of wine.
‘Oh, please, don’t worry about that. It was an easy mistake to make, putting us in the same bedroom. Now we’ve found somewhere a little quieter to sit,’ Neil said, ‘you can tell me what you found that was so fascinating in Hetty’s journal.’
Rachel’s gratitude burgeoned. ‘I’d really like that,’ she said and, looking into his handsome face, realised it was true. She launched into a summary of the latest instalment of Hetty’s story.
On their return to Clematis Cottage, on yet another sublime day, Rachel saw Gabe’s Toyota parked under the chestnut tree. Her heart sank. She’d hoped to say a polite goodbye to Neil and slip back into some work. She needed to catch up with a deadline.
Last night Neil had listened to her ramblings about Hetty, Edward and Richard in a polite and attentive silence, but she was sure he wasn’t particularly interested. It was just another manifestation of his good manners. Rachel was frustrated. Apart from Gabe, no one seemed as enthralled as she was in the journal and she was beginning to have doubts as to whether an illustrated version would find a market.
And now, on this gloriously sunny Sunday afternoon, the last thing she needed was a standoff between Neil and Gabe.
She opened the car door as soon as Neil had switched off the ignition. Before getting out, she turned to him. ‘Thanks so much for coming with me. I really appreciated the company. And thanks so much for driving, Neil, I don’t think my Fiat would have survived that journey!’
‘No problem, Rachel. I enjoyed it.’
She gave him a querying look. ‘It surely can’t have been much fun having to put up with drunken strangers all weekend?’
He grinned. ‘Yes, truly. I like being with you, Rachel. You must have realised that by now.’ He reached out a hand and took hers. ‘I’d like to…I’d like to see more of you.’
Rachel panicked. She should have known, should have realised Neil would read more into the weekend than was meant. And it was hardly unexpected. He’d given off enough signals. She’d just been selfish and ignored them.
‘Look, I’ve really got to go,’ she began. ‘
I’ve got a deadline to meet and I ought to check on Gabe. Not sure what he’s working on.’
Without giving him the chance to respond, she slid out of the car, wrenched open the boot door and grabbed her overnight bag. ‘Thanks again, Neil. See you!’
Racing up the path and finding the front door open, she hurried inside. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. The house welcomed her with its calm and cool and she felt it settle around her. She closed her eyes. Peace.
‘Back then?’ Gabe was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, the inevitable length of wiring in his hand.
‘Yes.’
‘Had a good time?’
Rachel nodded warily. ‘You know, there’s nothing between Neil and me,’ she blurted out, not knowing why it was so important that Gabe should understand.
‘Oh, right,’ he said, ‘that why everyone is talking about you two?’
The village can gossip all it likes, but it’s the truth. He gave me a lift, that’s all.’
‘And spent the weekend? Met your parents?’ Gabe raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘You know how that looks.’
‘Well, go on then and book the bloody church.’ Rachel snapped and picked up her bag. ‘Yes,’ she said wildly, ‘we’re violently in love and planning a spring wedding!’ She stomped to the bottom of the stairs. ‘And Stan’s going to be bridesmaid. He’ll wear his string vest. So tell that to the village gossip machine as well. See what they can make of that!’
She ran upstairs, her shoes making an impossible racket on the uncarpeted wood. Slamming shut the bedroom door, she flung herself on the bed. This would never happen in London. She could have slept with nineteen men on one night and no one would have given a monkey’s. No one cared enough. She sat up and pushed the hair from her eyes. That was the difference. Here people cared.
She looked towards the door. Did Gabe care? And how did she feel about him? He was younger than she was – by some way. He was so different to her in many ways: hadn’t travelled, hadn’t made the most of all the potential she knew he had. He could even be called ‘unsophisticated’. But he was kind and generous, sensitive and loyal. And hot. A memory of him shirtless made lust curl within her. He was as unsuitable as Neil was suitable. So why did Gabe make her heart race when Neil sent her to sleep? Guilt crowded in. She’d been so unfair to Neil and needed to explain to him that they’d never be more than friends. And she needed to do it soon.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in.’ She looked up as Gabe entered. His hair was as untidy as ever. There was a rip across one of the legs of his jeans, exposing a length of smooth, brown skin and he had dust smeared liberally across his jaw. He couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the man who had just dropped her off. But he was utterly gorgeous.
‘Tea?’ He held out a steaming mug to her.
‘Thank you.’ She sipped. ‘I don’t have to explain anything to you,’ she muttered, keeping her eyes on the mug.
‘Nothing at all,’ Gabe replied, his voice expressionless.
She met his eyes. ‘So why do I feel I have to?’
Gabe shrugged. ‘Beats me,’ he said and, after giving her a shuttered look, left.
Chapter 25
In the dying embers of her thirtieth birthday, Rachel caught the last train from Paddington. It had been a good day. A meeting with Freda had resulted in a new commission and it had been followed by a boozy late lunch with Tim and Jyoti.
Catching up with Jyoti had been a joy. She’d radiated happiness and had been full of news about the upcoming wedding. Rachel made a valiant effort to understand her friend’s motives for marrying and had given up in the face of Jyoti’s newly found contentment. Kamal met them at the end of the meal and he was charming. Rachel saw them onto a number thirty-eight bus with tears in her eyes. She couldn’t believe her best friend was getting married without the magical spark she’d need herself, but it seemed to be working for Jyoti.
Tim had been his usual self and had flirted outrageously with all the waiters. His present, a blow-up ‘perfect boyfriend’ was stowed (now deflated) in her bag. She’d let him off as he’d also bought her a digital camera.
By the time she got out at Hereford station, it was dark. She stood on the platform for a moment, enjoying the cool July night air. The city had made her feel clammy, with a sweaty grime lodged under her nails and in her skin. It would be good to get home. It was the first time she’d thought of her little dusty, half-finished cottage as home. She felt her shoulders sink back down to their more normal position and, closing her eyes, raised her face to the indigo sky and breathed. There was a hint of rain in the air and she felt cleaner, refreshed.
The train behind her geared up and heaved itself out of the station and she made her way to the exit. Finding her car marooned in a deserted car park, she drove into the city in search of a shop. She was out of milk and, strangely, instead of her normal coffee, she craved tea.
Cruising through the shuttered centre she realised it was a faint hope – nothing seemed open apart from the pubs. Stamping on the memory of the ‘Eight ‘Til Late’ that had been just around the corner from her London flat, she concentrated on driving through her tiredness.
Knots of teenagers gathered around each brightly lit oasis of alcoholic promise. At ten o’clock, the youth of Hereford were just beginning their night out and made Rachel feel old in her longing for her bed and a mug of tea. She slowed for the traffic lights on the Commercial Road and locked her door from the inside as she saw a particularly large and raucous group pushing and shoving good-naturedly in the queue for the nightclub. The lights turned red, so Rachel stopped and looked over at the crowd. Then she saw him.
Gabe.
He was more formally dressed than she’d ever seen him, in a white shirt and black trousers. She watched him curiously. He was laughing and joking, slightly apart from the rougher elements of the crowd. Then Rachel caught her breath. A girl detached herself from the queue. Her flame-coloured hair marked her out instantly as Dawn, the barmaid from the Plough. She gazed adoringly at Gabe, hanging onto his arm, making her feelings obvious.
If Rachel was in any doubt about her own feelings for Gabe, the reaction she had now made it abundantly clear. The pain of the jealousy shooting through her was primeval.
This just wouldn’t do, couldn’t happen. She couldn’t let herself fall for a man barely into his twenties – and who was her handyman! What would Tim say? Rachel forced herself to grin; she knew precisely what Tim would say. The car behind Rachel’s hooted and she jumped. The lights had gone green. Flustered, she stalled the engine and the car behind hooted again. Looking in her rear-view mirror she saw the driver make an obscene gesture. In her panic to move off she couldn’t see if Gabe had responded to the girl.
Miserable and milk-less she turned for home, refusing to dwell on the dull ache setting up residence inside her.
Mike and his friend Brian turned up the following day, to begin the rewiring in earnest, but without Gabe. Rachel longed to ask where he was, but managed to restrain herself. His private life was his own business, after all, and, after what she’d said to him, she could hardly pry into his. She busied herself with preparation for her next commission: a series of watercolour illustrations for a new edition of fairy tales. She wouldn’t begin it before finishing the flower pictures, but needed to get some notes down while ideas were fresh in her head. It was a big job and she was grateful to get it; the house was drinking money. And besides, it was all she could concentrate on. Gabe insisted on occupying her thoughts.
Relentlessly.
‘How could I have fallen for him?’ she muttered to herself, wincing at sounds of the drill coming from upstairs. A frisson of something like laughter rippled around the sitting room. ‘You may well laugh,’ Rachel said to Hetty, ‘but he’s not at all the right man.’ The laughter dulled to a feeling of sympathy. Rachel leaned back in her work chair and stared blankly out of the window, for once the view forgotten.
&n
bsp; Gabe had been brilliant, she admitted. He’d turned up on evenings and weekends, had gone well beyond what was expected of him. He was very easy company; sometimes they’d sat on the front step without talking for hours. She found him peaceful to be around and missed him when he wasn’t. She liked his sense of humour, his quiet ability to get on with the job in hand. She heard a chuckle. ‘And alright, yes, Hetty, he’s pretty hot in those tight jeans.’ She felt Hetty approve.
‘But he’s younger.’ The lasciviousness toned down into sympathy. ‘And we have nothing in common.’ Rachel pursed her lips. ‘He drives me mad with his constant tea- drinking, I don’t think he’s ever been further than Hereford and he reads a tabloid!’ A wave of uncertainty washed over her. ‘Okay, I know that makes me a snob, but don’t you need some things in common to make a relationship with?’ Rachel rubbed at her temples. ‘Am I really having a conversation with a ghost?’ She felt laughter in the room again. ‘And what do I mean by having a relationship with Gabe? I don’t even know how he feels about me!’ There was a thud of a door shutting above her. ‘I know what Tim would say. Shag him and get it out of your system.’
At the sound of Mike clattering down the stairs, any ghost or spirit or remnant of Hetty fled, leaving a cold emptiness behind.
Rachel saw Mike and Brian out at six and went upstairs to run a bath. She needed to unknot the tension in her shoulders caused by a long and fruitless stint at the drawing board. Frowning at the idea of Gabe’s possible relationship with Dawn, she swirled a dollop of Jo Malone bath oil into the water. As the sandalwood and ginger aroma rose in the steam, she inhaled greedily. It was her birthday present from Jyoti. Rachel muttered a prayer. She hoped her friend would be happy.
Turning on the radio, she found Radio Three. Whatever workmen she had in her house always seemed obsessed with Radio Two and she was forever re-tuning it. Getting into the hot water, she lay back and sighed with pleasure. Closing her eyes she let herself drift off with Sibelius.