by Karen Clarke
I’d half expected to find him in front of the TV, maybe wrapped in a blanket, a pile of scrunched-up tissues beside him, but the living room was in darkness. I glanced at the table where we’d eaten dinner, the vase of flowers still there. Had it really only been a few nights ago that Charlie had told Ryan to ignore Nicole’s call and I’d asked him about ‘his’ children? It was hard to believe how much had happened in the short space of time since.
And now he was flying back to England.
Fighting an urge to run all the way to the airport and… what? Wish him luck? Beg him to stay? Wrestle him to the floor and clamp my mouth to his? I checked the kitchen area, in case Frank had collapsed by the cooker, and jumped when I heard a sound from upstairs, like the whine of a drill.
I moved to the bottom of the stairs and glanced up. There was light slicing from under one of the doors off the landing, and I was about to call out when I heard something else. Music. A faint, but familiar salsa beat drifting from the bedroom.
Twenty-Four
My heart dropped as I imagined Frank in bed, a buxom woman stroking his forehead – or something else – thinking the coast was clear because Dolly wasn’t around. Unless she’d come home early. But there was no sign of her; no coat, no bag, no shoes in the entrance. No sense of her in the house.
I wondered whether to creep out, go back to the café and pretend I hadn’t been here, then remembered Charlie. Surely Frank wouldn’t have a woman on the premises when his stepson (that sounded weird) was in the spare room asleep. Unless it was Charlie up there with a female. No. His short-term flings were a thing of the past now that he’d met Elle, and he would hardly bring someone here, even if he wasn’t unwell.
And where did the drill fit in? It was going again in quick bursts, and when it stopped there was a groan, followed by a thump on the floor as though something heavy had been dropped. Ruling out a female presence, I risked a hesitant, ‘Frank?’ My voice sounded too weedy, so I tried again, ‘FRANK!’
There was another thud and some muffled cursing, then the music went off and the light on the landing grew brighter as the bedroom door flew open. Frank appeared at the top of the stairs, his hair awry, one of his red braces flopping over his trousers. Thank God he was fully-clothed.
‘Nina!’ He snapped on the overhead light, looking like he’d seen a statue come to life. ‘What are you doing here?’
His words immediately made me think of Ryan – again. Everything seemed to circle back to him. ‘I came to see how you are.’ I climbed the next few stairs, pausing when Frank stepped back as if I was primed to attack.
‘That’s very kind of you.’ He smoothed his hair down in a nervy gesture as though remembering his manners. ‘I’m feeling much better, thank you.’
I tried to look past him. ‘I thought I heard a drill.’
‘Oh, that.’ He shot a look into the bedroom and seemed to make up his mind about something. ‘I thought I’d finish Dolly’s walk-in wardrobe as a surprise.’
‘That’s great.’ I climbed another couple of steps. He must be feeling better if he’d been busy with his drill. ‘Can I have a look?’ I told myself I wasn’t double-checking that there wasn’t a woman in the room, and felt a rush of relief when Frank nodded and said, ‘Come on then.’
Despite a slight air of resignation, I could tell he’d been dying for an excuse to show off his handiwork. ‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble getting the doors on,’ he explained as I joined him on the landing. He had dust on the knees of his trousers and a bruise on his forearm. ‘It’s really a two-man job.’
‘I suppose Charlie’s not up to helping.’ I looked at the closed door on my left, surprised the noise hadn’t brought him out to see what was happening, but he’d always been a deep sleeper.
Frank was shaking his head. ‘He’s got it pretty bad,’ he said, and I was pierced with guilt for having doubted that Charlie was really ill. He was too straightforward to make up something like that. ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a hand?’
Frank sounded so hopeful I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. ‘Sure,’ I said, following him into the bedroom, which was decorated in typical Dolly fashion: blush pink walls, grass-green accessories, French-style furniture and lavishly framed photos scattered along the surfaces. There was one of her and Frank in a salsa clinch, and an unposed shot of their wedding day, Dolly in her powder-blue dress, her head thrown back in laughter as Frank smiled alongside her, smart in his stone-coloured suit.
There were several photographs of Augustine at various ages, and I found myself scanning her face for clues to her feelings, as if I’m in love with another man might be written in her eyes, but she looked the same as she always did in pictures: not quite smiling, but with an air of contentment that suggested she was happy with her lot.
There were some of Charlie and Elle in various settings, glowing with newly discovered feelings, and one of Charlie as a boy, leaping to head a football, and I was touched to see a photo of Ben and me as children with gappy grins, and one of Mum in her pre-farm days, wearing a figure-hugging dress, ankle bracelet and four-inch heels, her silky hair glinting with highlights. Back then, she used to steal Dolly’s boyfriends (according to Dolly), until she met Dad at a barn dance she’d been dragged to by a friend who knew his brother and instantly fell in love (according to Dad).
There was a smell of new wood in the room, and a door lying flat on the plush cream carpet where it had fallen. As Frank bent to pick it up, I peered inside the wardrobe, which was really more of a walk-in cupboard with two rows of railings for Dolly’s clothes. Frank had fitted downlighters and plenty of shoe shelves, which Dolly would struggle to fill unless she developed a serious passion for footwear. ‘There’s a cupboard for your aunt’s handbags,’ Frank said, with touching enthusiasm. ‘And I’m making his and her drawers for our belts and gloves.’
I wondered how many belts and gloves they had (or needed), then spotted several belts coiled like snakes on one of the shelves and a row of the sort of black leather gloves that TV killers wore to murder people. I made a mental note to tell Ryan about them – perhaps he could work a scene into his book – then remembered it was unlikely I’d ever see him again.
‘You’ve done a good job,’ I said, putting my bag on the floor to help Frank shift the door. ‘Dolly will love it.’
He looked pleased, his healthy colour deepening. There was no sign that he had a cold – if anything, he looked fighting fit. ‘Where will you put your clothes?’
‘Oh, I’ve got a couple of drawers in the chest over there, and I only need half a rail for my suits.’
I hid a smile as we manoeuvred the door into place, and as Frank sank down on one knee, I could easily imagine him proposing to Dolly, which he’d apparently done on their fourth date, after their first salsa lesson. He retrieved his screwdriver and I braced my shoulders and in a few minutes the door was where it should be. He opened and closed it a couple of times, nodding his satisfaction when it closed with a pleasing click. ‘I think that’s it,’ he said. ‘A coat of paint, and that’s your aunt’s Christmas gift sorted.’
‘You shouldn’t really be doing this when you’ve just been ill,’ I said as he began to gather his tools.
He paused for a fraction, then nodded too vigorously. ‘I enjoy doing things. I’m like Dolly in that way, I can’t be doing with sitting around.’
‘Yes, but when you’re ill, you’re supposed to take it easy.’
His movements had sped up, as if he wanted to fast-forward the next few minutes and find me gone. ‘I’m good at fighting infections.’ He hoisted his braces into place. ‘And your aunt took good care of me yesterday, which helped.’
‘Were you really ill, Frank?’
He breathed in deeply and then let it out with a sigh: ‘No.’ I was surprised by how quickly he caved, but admired his honesty. ‘Your aunt has very firm ideas about some things.’
‘Romance things?’
He pulled out his shirt tail and
polished one of his screwdriver handles with great attention to detail. ‘I knew straight away she was the one for me, and after my wife died, I didn’t think I’d ever love anyone again.’
My throat tightened. ‘That’s lovely, Frank, but—’
‘She’s always right.’ He gave me a direct look. ‘About love.’
‘Sorry?’
‘She knew that Charlie and Elle were meant to be together from the get-go.’
I wanted to argue that if it had been meant – as Dolly had said to me about Scott – it would have happened anyway, but from everything Mum had told me after the wedding, Dolly had played a big part in Charlie and Elle getting together. ‘Did she invent your flu virus as an excuse to spend the day here, so Ryan and I had to run the café together?’
He levelled his gaze to mine. ‘Yes.’
‘And was she ill herself?’
‘No, she doesn’t get ill.’
‘But she looked feverish.’
‘She said she put her face in the dishwasher so that it would turn red.’
Wow. ‘And has she been setting us up dog walking and furniture moving, hoping that Ryan and I would bond?’
He nodded.
‘You’d make a great informer, Frank,’ I said. ‘MI5 should snap you up.’
‘I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t already know, love.’ His expression was sympathetic. ‘Hasn’t it worked out?’
I thought about saying it had – in a way – but that in a twist of fate, whatever had begun to grow between Ryan and me had been snatched away. ‘No,’ I said, and felt bad when the smile that had started to brighten his face dropped away. ‘His ex turned up and spent the night, and they’ve flown back to England today.’
‘They have?’ He sounded surprised. Dolly couldn’t have got around to relaying this latest development.
‘So, I’m afraid her efforts were wasted.’
‘Nothing’s ever wasted, love.’ I thought about landfill and plastic in the ocean, and all the time I’d wasted doing personality quizzes online when the gallery was quiet, to find out which Disney animal would be my perfect pet (young Simba from The Lion King), and which TV character I resembled (Bart Simpson, worryingly), but guessed Frank wasn’t talking about the environment or my old work habits. ‘There’s something to be learnt from every experience,’ he said, and I tried to appreciate that he was trying to help. ‘I’m sorry if you feel we deceived you.’
I wished Frank had always been my uncle. ‘You did deceive me.’ I cracked a smile to show there were no hard feelings. ‘But I’m glad you’re not really ill.’
‘Your aunt didn’t know what to do with herself when she got back here.’ He swept a hand over the dressing table and checked it for dust. ‘She had a pair of binoculars on the café at one point, checking it hadn’t caught fire.’
‘It’s like her second child,’ I said. ‘Talking of children, I can’t believe that cousin of mine is still sleeping.’
‘He is?’ Frank shot me a look of concerned surprise, as if he’d forgotten that Charlie was in the house.
‘I might just go and check on him.’ I crossed the landing, glimpsing a busy mosaic of blue and white in the bathroom, and lightly knocked on his door.
‘Chuck, are you OK?’ I pressed my ear to the frame, but couldn’t hear any sounds of him stirring inside.
‘What are you doing?’
I turned to see Frank watching with a puzzled stare, his tool bag in his hand.
‘I know I shouldn’t wake him, but he’s been out for hours,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’
‘That room’s empty.’ He came closer, slippers padding softly on the carpet. ‘We haven’t got round to doing up that room yet. There isn’t even a bed in there.’
‘So, he slept on the sofa?’ Poor Charlie. He must be longing to be back in his own bed. ‘When did he leave?’ And where has he been all day?
‘About half nine, I suppose.’
‘This morning?’ I frowned.
‘Last night.’
‘Last night?’
Frank looked taken aback by my tone. ‘He said he was going to spend the night at his friend Natalie’s house on the rue de Forages.’ His eyebrows pinched together. ‘Your aunt told him to take the day off today, because he’d got a terrible sore throat, and he said he’d make sure he got a good night’s sleep there.’
I’d clearly only got half the story from Dolly – either that, or our wires had become crossed. ‘I just assumed he was here,’ I said, thoughts racing. When Charlie had sent his message the night before, I’d suspected he was in on Dolly’s plan and was staying at the cottage to leave Ryan and me alone. Why not just say he was spending the night at Natalie’s house, because he was feeling unwell? Maybe he’d known we’d feel bad if he admitted there wasn’t a bed for him at his mum’s and would have insisted he come home. ‘He’s not answering his phone,’ I said, returning to the bedroom to fetch my bag.
‘Maybe he’s back at the café. I’ll give Dolly a call.’
I followed Frank downstairs and waited while he found his phone, unease circling in the pit of my stomach. I still hadn’t eaten and my insides felt hollow.
‘He’s not there,’ he said moments later, a note of worry in his voice. ‘She hasn’t heard from him all day.’
My heart began to race. ‘Is there a landline at Natalie’s house?’
‘I don’t know, but Dolly will have the number if there is, so let me—’
‘It’s fine, I’ll go round there now,’ I interrupted. ‘Do you know what number the house is?’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s a few streets away from the café, next door to Dolly’s friend Marie Girard, who runs a guest house. We went there for dinner the last time Natalie was over with her parents. Her father’s a retired police officer, very funny, and Marie’s a wonderful cook, though not as good as your aunt, of course, but—’
‘Frank!’
‘Sorry, sorry, it’s number twenty-one. Shall I come with you?’ He was reaching for his coat.
‘No, it’s OK.’ I already had the front door open, cold air snaking in. ‘I’ll call Dolly from there.’
‘I’m sure Charlie’s fine, but let me know,’ Frank said, and the doubt in his voice echoed the one in my head, telling me to hurry, and I didn’t look back as I left.
Twenty-Five
The air was cold and clear, the navy sky scattered with darker clouds, and snow flattened underfoot as I hurried round the harbour, the lights from surrounding buildings guiding my way. The café was still open, the Christmas tree in the window like a guiding light, and I imagined Dolly trying to call Charlie, telling herself she was being overprotective, that he was a grown man who didn’t need his mum checking up on him. Who was I kidding? She’d be desperate to close the café and look for him herself – then I remembered it was Margot’s book launch this evening, and she’d be preparing for that.
I tried to speed up, but there were icy patches where the snow had started to melt and then frozen as the temperature dropped. I’d be no good to anyone if I fell and broke my ankle.
I imagined Charlie in the grip of a fever, staggering, delirious, out into Natalie’s garden and getting hypothermia. Was it possible to have a fever and hypothermia, or would one cancel the other out?
I checked the street names on each corner, and stumbled across the rue des Forages at the end of a long row of whitewashed houses, their shuttered windows and doors a stark contrast to the snow. Most of the shutters were closed, giving the impression of sleeping eyes, but light spilled from a few, brightening the road outside. There were a couple of parked cars, roofs piled with snow, and I guessed one must be Charlie’s.
Approaching, I saw his practical estate car parked halfway between number twenty-one and the house next to it, which must be the guest house Frank had mentioned. I hurried closer, stiff-legged to stop myself sliding, wishing I’d left my bag of shopping behind; my fingers felt frozen around the handles. T
he house shutters were open, but I couldn’t see any light inside, and my heart bumped up a gear as I rapped my knuckles hard on the front door and waited a few seconds.
Nothing.
‘Charlie!’ I pounded the door with my fist.
No answer, or any sign of movement from inside. Maybe he wasn’t here. I moved to the window and pressed my forehead against the icy glass as I attempted to peer inside but the room was in darkness, no sliver of light filtering in from anywhere.
I took my phone from my pocket, remembering I could use it as a torch, swearing when my fumbling fingers brought up a photo of Steven the seagull. For God’s sake.
I finally found the light and angled the beam so I could see the room, which now had an eerie, haunted house appearance. I was reminded of a film I’d seen with Anna called Paranormal Activity and half expected to hear a whooshing sound and a figure to move past the window.
I swung the phone around, heart jumping when I spotted an open paper and a tumbler of half-drunk liquid on a low table in front of the sofa. Charlie had definitely been here at some point. I slowly moved the beam, which picked out his boots on the floor, one tipped on its side as though he’d kicked them off prior to sitting down. He was still here, he had to be. His car was outside and had clearly been there overnight, so where else could he have gone? Had he self-medicated on whisky and drunk himself into a stupor? It was hard to imagine, but I should hammer on the door once more, in case he was so deeply asleep he hadn’t heard it the first two times.
As I moved my phone, the glare snagged on a set of glowing eyes on the staircase and a scream, bigger than any I’d experienced before, attempted to fly out of my mouth. It got trapped in my throat and I could only stare, open-mouthed with terror.
The eyes moved, and a familiar, fuzzy-edged cat-shape emerged, a paw lifted in readiness for grooming. Delphine. ‘What the hell?’ I muttered through chattering teeth, my heart slowing to a gallop. Maybe the cat was staging a protest at her owner’s liaison with Gérard by running away. Or, she’d gone looking for her new love, Ryan, and ended up here.