CHAPTER EIGHT
MATT PUTS HIS phone in his pocket and continues to stare through the small panes of glass in the office door at Catriona, who sits motionless at the corner table by the window. As usual she is wearing black, emphasizing the pallor of her skin, her hair sliced into shining angles. He’s not surprised that Liv calls her ‘Cat’. There’s something concentrated about that stillness, rather like a cat at a mouse-hole waiting for its prey. He is briefly regretful that he wasn’t more chatty with Liv, but Catriona’s entrance, her swift look round, almost hypnotized him. He wasn’t expecting her to return so soon and he’s confused by his reaction.
Way back, Liv explained to him her family’s connection with Cat’s. Matt was puzzled by the way she’d turn up unexpectedly at the bistro, never texting or phoning, with that secret smile as if she were hoping to catch them on the back foot.
‘She’s always been like that,’ Liv told him, ‘and so was her mother. Angela used to turn up at Trescairn and walk in as if she had some kind of rights. I noticed it, as a child, but it was later Mum told me that Angela and my dad had a thing going until Mum came along and then he chucked her. I don’t think Angela ever got over it. She’d drop hints that she’d seen Dad at the base or at a party and always with a little smile as if there was something still between them, even though she was married to Martin by then. The submarine was running out of Faslane and Mum very rarely got up there from Cornwall, so she didn’t know what was going on. I think Mum felt a bit guilty and was sorry for Angela to begin with, but after a while it got really bad and Mum and Dad used to row about it. One time Angela set it up to look as if Dad had spent the night with her when Martin was at sea and made sure that the whole base found out, and someone told Mum. Eventually Martin left Angela and Cat, moved to Washington and married again. Cat’s just carrying on the vendetta. She was a tiresome child, always teasing Charlie and Zack, breaking our toys and making trouble. I think she feels as if we were responsible for her dad leaving her and she’s still looking for ways to pay us back.’
Matt feels uncomfortable. After all, it was all a long time ago. Yet he doesn’t want Liv to know that Cat was here yesterday, or that she is back this evening. Why not? Why not some light remark: ‘You’ll never guess who came in yesterday lunchtime?’ Simply by not telling Liv it seems that he is already complicit in the game that Catriona is playing and, knowing Liv’s dislike of her, it’s a kind of betrayal.
Matt frowns. He’s behaving like an idiot. He loves Liv and his children, yet this woman is able to have an effect on him. He is excited, looking forward to the battle of wits, aware that she finds him attractive, which is always a turn-on.
It’s nothing, he tells himself. It’s not important. It has nothing to do with my relationship with Liv.
It’s just a foolish bit of harmless fun with a woman who isn’t concerned with domestic detail, with children and their routines. It reminds him of student days, of earlier love affairs, and there is a nostalgic pull to the past when he was young and free. There can be no danger here.
Part of him knows this isn’t true but another part knows that he will go along with it anyway because it’s silly not to; he’d look a fool, as if he’s under the cosh. He steps back from the door, hands in his pockets, debating. He’ll go out and look really surprised when he sees her: not delighted or anything, almost quizzical. A ‘What are you doing here again so soon?’ kind of expression.
There’s live music on Saturday nights so there won’t be a chance for any kind of a tête-à-tête and maybe she won’t stay around too long. Still he hesitates, wondering how to play it, suddenly wishing that Liv was here. The thought irritates him, as if he is a kid and can’t handle this on his own. Abruptly he opens the office door and goes into the bar.
Catriona knows very well that he is watching her though she doesn’t look directly at the office door. Out of the corner of her eye she can see his shadow behind the lighted glass panes, sees how still he stands, indecisive and unsure how to proceed. She laughs silently to herself. It’s so easy to unnerve people, to get them on the defensive: so easy to manipulate and control. It doesn’t take a psychologist to realize that Matt is tired with the daily requirement to juggle all the aspects of his demanding life and that he feels resentful sometimes, stale and undervalued. He is ready for novelty, admiration, fun.
Catriona knows, however, that she must tread warily. Matt is no pushover. She’s planned her campaign but is aware that she must be flexible. She chuckles again, that silent, inward laugh. Let the game begin.
Matt comes out of the office. He glances casually around the bar and, when he sees her, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise – but she is not deceived. She doesn’t move or wave a greeting but waits for him to come to her, which after a moment of indecision he does, albeit reluctantly, as if he is unable to resist her will.
She waits until he is towering over her and then she smiles up at him. Her smile is warm, open, even affectionate – after all, she has known him for years – and she notes his slight surprise. She has caught him off guard with her apparent lack of guile, with this display of genuine, simple friendliness.
‘Hi,’ he says, still slightly awkward. ‘To what do we owe such a swift return? Don’t tell me it was the charcuterie board?’
She laughs, as he means her to, and she sees his gratified pleasure at her ready response.
‘Only partly,’ she tells him. ‘Actually, it’s odd at the cottage without my old mum there. I never thought I’d feel it quite so much but, to tell you the truth, I’ve got a bit depressed clearing stuff out. So many memories. And, well …’ She shrugs, makes a little face.
Though she is not looking at him she is aware of his quick response, his instinctive gesture of sympathy. This is almost too easy.
‘Sounds a bit crazy, Matt, but I thought I’d come here for supper. See a familiar face. You know?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Matt says quickly. ‘But it’s a bit of a drive back, isn’t it?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s not very far, but actually I’ve booked into a little hotel round the corner. I knew I’d need a drink so I decided that it would be silly to drive back to Rock afterwards. The cottage is a bit bleak. I don’t want to think about it all for a bit. I know it sounds feeble but …’ Another shrug. ‘I miss her, it’s as simple as that.’
‘Of course you do. And look, let me get you that drink. What do you fancy?’
If only you knew, she thinks. But you’re not ready for that just yet.
Out loud she says, ‘If you’ve got a Sauvi Blanc …?’
‘Of course. Big glass? Medium?’
‘Better be a medium.’ She slips him a little smile, grateful but with just a hint of mischief. ‘It might be a long evening.’
He smiles back and goes to fetch her wine. She watches him walk away: game on.
Who knew, thinks Matt, that she could be so vulnerable? It’s hard for her, losing her mum.
He thinks for a moment of his own mother, a shadowy figure who died when he was hardly three. He can’t really remember her, although his grandmother talked about her to him so that his vague childish memories are inevitably meshed with received wisdom, anecdotes, photographs. His bond with his grandmother was a close one. He’d been happy at the house in Bristol where she’d taken them to live with her whilst Baz recovered from his grief and shock at losing both his wife and his baby son. Matt doesn’t remember Benedict either, but Baz has always been a vital presence in his life: supporting, encouraging, giving him a sense of security, especially after his grandmother died when he was at university. He’d missed her terribly, but Baz was always there for him.
The thought of Baz dying is not to be contemplated and Matt thrusts it away, feeling even more sympathetic towards Catriona. It must be hard to be clearing out all her mother’s belongings with nobody to help her. He remembers what Liv told him about Catriona’s father remarrying quite quickly after the divorce and that he has a second younger family out in t
he States. Even Liv, thinks Matt, would feel sorry for Catriona in this situation. He wonders briefly which hotel she’s staying at, whether it would be kind to offer to escort her back, and feels a sense of relief that he’s closed their little town house for this time while Liv’s away. At least he won’t need to offer any kind of hospitality. It’s more convenient for him to use the small flat here, up on the second floor, which was Liv’s home way back before they were married when they were getting The Place up and running. Sometimes it’s been let out to a member of staff but presently it’s empty and Matt is quite happy there, on the premises, ready to get up and go as soon as he wakes up.
He carries Catriona’s glass of wine to her, along with the menu, and sets them down on the table.
‘Tell me when you’re ready to order,’ he says.
‘It’s a bit early,’ she says. ‘But I shall enjoy my drink and look at the menu. Thank you. I suppose you can’t join me?’
He shakes his head, makes a regretful face. ‘I wish I could but there’s too much to do. Saturday is our busiest night of the week.’
If he’s honest he’s rather relieved to have this excuse. He’s not quite sure how to play it now and it lets him off the hook. Meanwhile he’ll make sure she’s looked after and he’ll find time here and there for a chat. The bar is filling up, the guitarist appears and waves to him, and Matt raises his hand, smiles, gives Catriona a rueful ‘You see how it is’ kind of shrug and hurries away.
She sips her wine and studies the menu, quite content: she knows just how to play her hand. She watches the punters, the staff hurrying about, efficient, courteous; Matt here, there, everywhere, in control. Presently she orders her supper. As she sits in her corner enjoying her position as onlooker she becomes aware of four small paintings on the whitewashed stone wall beside her. As she studies them she sees that they all have a similar theme: the street market. She recognizes them: Oxford, Covent Garden, the Portobello Road, Greenwich. There are the traders, the stalls with flapping canvas, the shoppers. It seems an unusual theme. Catriona turns her head to look at the painting closest to her. She notices two boys, one tall and fair, the other dark and stocky, sketched in beside the market trader. The dark boy engages the stall-holder with speech and gestures whilst the taller, fairer boy slips his hand into the man’s capacious apron pocket. It’s a kind of Artful Dodger moment and Catriona smiles at the clever brush strokes. They evoke speed, deception, a chuckle behind the hand.
Before she can read the name of the artist a waitress arrives to take her order and she makes her choice, agrees to a second glass of wine and glances about for Matt. And here he is, smiling, asking if everything is to her liking.
She nods. ‘Gosh, you’re busy, aren’t you? You’ll be glad of a day off tomorrow.’
She notices the exact moment that he senses the trap, looks wary, and raises her eyebrows. ‘You are closed on Sundays, aren’t you?’
Matt shakes his head.
‘Only in the morning. We open for dinner,’ he says.
‘Damn. You see, I had an idea,’ she says, leaning forward very slightly, intimately. ‘I was wondering if I could indent for your help.’
‘Help?’
His caution makes her want to smile but she puts on a little pensive, anxious face.
‘There’s stuff at the cottage I need to sort out but I can’t lift some of it. Boxes and things. I don’t really want to ask a stranger, you know, pay for someone to come in. And I don’t know anyone locally. I need to take stuff to the tip. I just wondered if you felt you could possibly give me a hand. I know it’s a bit much …’
‘No, no, it isn’t. Of course not. I suppose I could manage a few hours in the morning.’
She can see that he regrets his hesitation; he’s feeling he was a tad churlish.
‘Oh, that would be wonderful.’ She nearly clasps her hands together but feels that would be a step too far in the gratitude stakes. Instead she just slightly shakes her head as if overcome by his kindness. ‘I could drive us down early tomorrow morning if that suited you.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he says. ‘Or I could drive … Look, let’s sort the details out later.’
One of the staff is hovering, trying to attract his attention, and Matt nods to him, smiles at Catriona and heads off to the bar. She sits back in her chair, full of satisfaction at the way her plan has worked, and tries to decide whether it would be best to let him drive her to Rock. Either way it will mean a return trip to Truro, to bring him back or to fetch her car. She imagines Liv’s face, wonders if Matt will tell her, and wants to burst out laughing.
Her supper arrives and she begins to eat hungrily.
CHAPTER NINE
Sunday
NOBODY IS QUITE the same on the day after the party as they were before. Even the twins have been oddly affected by the kite-flying. It’s one thing to read about a magical happening and quite another to witness it: to watch the kite suddenly take flight, hovering, ducking, soaring, in the blue air. When they waken they are still coming to terms with their reaction, puzzled by their longing to experience the magic, fearing that it might fail.
They are glad to go sailing with Baz after lunch, sitting quietly, watching the sail fill with wind so that they are carried over the water almost as if by the same magic that gave life to the kite. Dimly they begin to see a connection, to make some sort of sense of it. They sit close together, communing silently, feeling happier.
Baz glances at them affectionately: funny little beggars.
‘The kite seems to have unsettled them,’ Liv said after breakfast. ‘They’ve been very quiet. I think they believe you’re some kind of magician.’
‘I am,’ answered Baz at once. ‘I can make things happen. Believe it.’
Liv began to laugh. ‘I do. Wizard of Oz, that’s you!’
Nevertheless, he senses that Liv is not quite her usual cheerful self either. She was a bit quiet during the supper party, a tad preoccupied. He can think of no reason why she should be in any way upset. It was good to see her with Sofia, having fun with someone of her own age. He always feels slightly guilty that all his friends are rather old for Liv, though she gets on remarkably well with them. She and Sofia really hit it off together; same age, same interests.
Baz repeats this to himself several times, trying not to allow his own reaction to Sofia to take a hold. Yet he can’t quite forget that quick beat of his heart when he first saw her, and the way she caught his glance across the room; the little shock, like the flare of a match struck suddenly in darkness.
‘Oh, give it a break,’ Baz mutters to himself, cross at his foolishness. He sees the breeze coming, cat’s-paws dimpling the sea’s surface, and calls, ‘Ready about!’
The twins duck obediently as the boom swings and the dinghy goes about and sails onward.
Liv watches them from the beach, Jenks sitting alertly beside her. She knows he is anxious for them, unhappy when Baz and the twins are out of his reach in that different element, and she stretches a hand down to smooth his head. His ears flatten gratefully, he thumps his tail on the sand, but still he stares at the small craft, willing it to come back to the shore.
Liv is thinking about Matt, about the preoccupation in his voice when she spoke to him after the prosecco but before supper. It wasn’t his busy voice, which is quick, slightly impatient, a ‘can’t this wait?’ kind of voice. This was an utterly detached voice, his attention focused totally away from her. Some intuitive sense tells her that this is something to be anxious about, that something very unusual was happening. She tries to reassure herself, to remember the conversation properly, but even recalling it she just knows that there was something important. Today, so far, his phone has been switched off. She slightly hoped that he might make the two-hour journey up from Truro to see them today, but he’d have to be away again promptly after lunch and it would be good for him, instead, to have a bit of a lie-in, to relax, rather than join the traffic heading out of Cornwall with the holidaymakers on the
ir way home upcountry. If all goes well, he’ll have a day off later in the week and will be able to stay the night. Even so, she can’t help hoping that he might suggest it.
Liv tries to concentrate on other things. She and Sofia have exchanged phone numbers and made a plan to meet up, have a coffee in Kingsbridge or lunch at the Beachhouse at South Milton a few miles along the coast. She likes Sofia, there was an instant connection, and she seemed in good spirits. Liv had been ready for someone who might be depressed, difficult to communicate with, but Sofia was fun, almost surprisingly so. Impulsively Liv decides to text her, invite her to tea and maybe another kite-flying session. She ought to check with Baz but she can see no reason why Baz should object. He’d seemed very pleased at their rapport.
Liv goes back to the house to find her phone, leaving Jenks on watch.
Sofia reads the text, puts her phone down and taps her lips with her forefinger, trying to decide what to do. She is shocked by the uprush of spirits at the prospect of seeing Baz again. That is her first reaction, and she sits on the edge of her bed trying to pull herself together. Her laptop is beside her – she’s been filling in a job application for a post at a nursery school – but she pushes it aside and rereads Liv’s brief text.
‘Hi Sofia. Come for tea and some kite-flying? Liv’
Foolishly she wonders if Baz has suggested it, hopes that he has, but anyway she’d like to see Liv and the twins again. Sofia gets up and stares at herself in the mirror, twisting her mane of hair back from her face, gazing critically at her face with its scattering of freckles and green eyes. Deliberately she thinks about Rob, calling up particular memories, and waits for the familiar tide of sadness and despair. Oddly, it’s not Rob she sees in her mind’s eye but small Seb: running to meet her, waving goodbye at nursery, begging for one more bedtime story. Abruptly she turns away, grabs her phone and goes downstairs.
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