by Grace Lowrie
I insisted on paying for our drinks and sandwiches to thank Bridget for all the trouble she’d gone to on my behalf. She argued that searching the archives was her job and her passion, but I wanted her to know I appreciated it anyway. We sat across a table in the busy café, and while we ate she seemed content to do most of the talking again; feeding me anecdotes about the various things she had discovered in the archives since working there. As she chatted and laughed and flicked her hair with her fingers, there was no denying her appeal; she was friendly, smart, down-to-earth, and talkative, without being brash or loud. Bridget was the sort of person I could care about; date; settle down with, and this was the perfect opportunity to ask her out. But somehow, I still couldn’t summon up the words. As we stood up to leave, I thanked her again for the information she’d found and she waved it off with a smile.
‘Liam, forgive me if this is too forward, but I was wondering if you’d like to go for a drink sometime...?’ She held my eye with confidence as I tried out various awkward excuses in my mind, but they all sounded weak and cowardly.
‘I’d like that. How about Saturday evening?’
By the time we parted I had a firm date lined up with a desirable woman. So why didn’t I feel more excited?
The one word answer sprang up in my thoughts making me feel guilty before I could stop it; the three syllables lingering on my tongue: ‘Melody’. A wet vision of her swam into my mind’s eye, accompanying the sound of her name, and I swallowed in response as if tasting something forbidden and delicious, and cursed under my breath.
Between the Library and the tube station I checked my mobile, dismayed and concerned to see I had no less than fifteen missed calls from Olly. Taking a deep breath, I called him back.
‘Dude, thank fuck! Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling and calling...’
‘What’s the matter, Olly?’
‘It’s Lester – he’s had an accident and Maire’s doing her nut – can you come to the hospital...?’
Chapter Eighteen
With Cornelia’s diamond tiara perched on my head, I sat beneath the willow tree in the rain, and poked at an ugly blister on my foot. Last week I’d spent a stuffy forty-eight hours holed up in the nursery. Liam had mentioned he’d be away for a day in London, and I wanted to avoid another run in with Mrs Daly; I was so furious, I was afraid of what I might do to her. Liam had said his visit would be brief; that he was hoping to learn something about the history of the garden, whatever that meant. But that was five days ago and he still hadn’t come back.
A duck paddled out of the rushes, gliding across the pitted surface of the lake at an unconcerned pace. I watched as it neared, before chucking a cold sausage roll in its direction, narrowly missing its head. It paddled away again, with an apathetic quack, while my miserable offering sank without trace.
Until now I’d been happy with my uniquely solitary lifestyle. I was used to it. As a child I simply made up imaginary friends to keep me company, and they were infinitely preferable to the real people I occasionally came into contact with. Gregory had always refused to have a television set in the house. I’d discovered a stack of movie DVDs from his student days in a box in the attic, which I surreptitiously viewed on my computer. But those violent glimpses of society aside, I didn’t really understand what I was missing. By the time he’d hooked me up with limited access to the internet, I’d grown fond of my quiet way of life, my own space and my privacy.
As I got older I ventured into town every now and then – mainly out of mild curiosity. But it usually turned out to be a frustrating and highly disappointing experience, and I was always glad to get home again. If I craved escape I simply cycled around the grounds on my bike – before the paths became too overgrown to do so.
No, as far as I could see there was a certain amount of weakness involved in interacting with lots of other people – constant compromises, criticism and, ultimately, betrayal. I preferred to be strong, independent and free to please only myself most of the time.
And then along came Liam. Damn him.
Where the hell was he? Was it the weather keeping him away? There had been heavy rain and even a thunderstorm since he’d been gone, but I’d seen him work in the rain before. Was he deliberately avoiding me?
At the weekend I’d gone out on my trusty green bicycle; racing up and down the deserted streets of Wildham at night, cloaked in darkness and enjoying the wind in my hair and the sense of freedom it evoked. I was safe on my bike in the early hours of the morning – there was no-one around and I pedalled too fast for anyone to catch me. I’d hoped I might spot Liam’s van and thereby discover where he lived, but apparently there were hundreds of vans in Wildham and I didn’t manage to find one bearing his name.
In my mind I replayed our first swimming lesson over and over again, searching for clues to his disappearance. Had I made a mistake; a faux pas; a social blunder? Or had I simply made such a fool of myself that he was reluctant to face me? What if it was worse than that; what if he was sick or injured or dead? I couldn’t contemplate that last one – it induced a painful sensation behind my ribs.
Had Mrs Daly said something to him? But no, that didn’t make sense – it was me she was trying to blackmail, and if she warned Liam off she’d not get a penny. She was away on a fortnight’s holiday at the moment, which at least gave me time to work out how to deal with her.
What little I earned by proofreading went straight into an online account. I usually spent my wage on books and music, and I’d recently blown a load on second-hand clothing. There wasn’t much left; certainly not enough to satisfy that greedy, manipulative cow. Each week I used Gregory’s credit card details to order groceries, toiletries, and general household items from an online supermarket, but he kept a close eye on his statements and regularly perused the itemised delivery list to monitor my spending. I didn’t have the actual card to enable me to withdraw funds from a cash-point, and anyway, Gregory would simply cancel the card if I abused it by purchasing anything non-essential. So where was I going to get a load of cash from?
Of course, Gregory had a safe hidden in his wardrobe, which was probably full of money. I’d never seen inside it, or managed to get it unlocked, but it was a while since I’d tried, so maybe it was worth another look. I should be doing that right now, instead of moping around the grounds in Liam’s ginormous wellies and Cornelia’s finest crown – it wasn’t making me feel any better.
I just wanted my rugged landscaper to return. I didn’t care if I’d already made a fool of myself. If he appeared right now I wouldn’t hold back; I’d throw my arms around him and never let him go. I’d jot down anything he wanted me to; reply to any question; write whole paragraphs, letters, entire essays if he wanted me to – anything to encourage him to stay.
I’d always been content to be alone, but that was no longer true; not now that I’d met Liam Hunt. Now I was lonely.
Chapter Nineteen
As I was parking the van, the huge front door was flung open from inside. Melody stood there on the threshold, dwarfed by the architecture and barefoot in a short, blue summer dress, a long string of pearls, and with what looked like a peacock feather stuck in her hair. But the huge smile on her face slipped dramatically as she registered that I was not alone.
‘Morning!’ Olly yelled cheerfully through the open passenger window as I switched off the ignition.
Melody’s grim expression adequately conveyed her annoyance, even before she slammed the door shut with an almighty bang.
‘She’s as friendly as ever,’ Olly said, hopping out and loudly whistling a tune as he began unloading tools from the back. I sighed.
The last few days had been exhausting. On Wednesday, Lester had lost his balance at the top of a ladder and almost cut his own leg off with an electric hedge trimmer. Thankfully he hadn’t fallen very far and he’d missed his femoral artery, thereby narrowly avoiding bleeding to death. The hospital had made a good job of stitching him up, but it was a deep lacera
tion, he’d suffered nerve and ligament damage, and it would be at least two months before he stood any chance of playing rugby again.
I’d spent the remainder of that week supervising my brother’s garden maintenance crew in the pouring rain, while he lay on his sofa at home, and drove poor Maire up the wall with his complaining.
Now, against all medical advice, he was back at work; hobbling about on crutches and complaining. But as a thank you, and in recognition of my efforts, I’d been bestowed with Olly’s questionable company and assistance for a few days. The rain had dried up, the sun was shining, and I was looking forward to catching up on a few of the two-man jobs that needed doing at Wildham Hall. And I had to admit, to myself if no-one else, I’d been looking forward to seeing Melody again.
She was an enigma – the woman piqued my interest like nothing and no-one else on earth, and was never far from my thoughts. I had a suspicion I’d even started dreaming about her in my sleep. The last time I’d seen her she’d finally told me her name and I was hoping to learn more about her. That was until today. If the thunderous look on her face this morning was anything to go by, I’d blown it, big time.
Together, Olly and I embarked on the arduous task of repairing the many miles of hoggin path that snaked their way around the estate; weeding them, reinstating the edges where they had disintegrated, filling pot holes with hardcore, and resurfacing the bald patches with a fresh mix of gravel, sand and clay. Olly did most of the donkey work; shovelling and depositing barrowfuls of material into position, while I did most of the heavy pounding – using a thick plank of wood and a sledgehammer to compact and bind the repairs. It provided a good physical workout and the sun beat down on our backs as we settled into a steady working rhythm.
‘Hey, didn’t you go on a date at the weekend?’ Olly piped up, pausing, shovel in hand.
I rolled my eyes. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I overheard Maire telling Lester.’
‘Oh. Great.’
‘So? Who is she and how did it go?’
‘It’s not really any of your business, Olly.’
‘Aw come on, don’t be like that. Her name’s Bridget, right? And she ’s a friend of Maire’s...?’
‘You obviously have big ears as well as a big mouth.’
‘So, is she hot? What’s she like?’ It would seem that not even my most glowering scowl was going to deter Olly today.
‘You’re too nosey for your own good,’ I muttered, still labouring in the hope that he would drop it. I had indeed met Bridget in town for a few drinks on Saturday night – we had a perfectly pleasant evening and even exchanged a brief kiss goodnight before her bus pulled up – but I wasn’t about to discuss it with Olly.
‘Does she look anything like Renée Zellweger?’
I sighed and paused, wiping the sweat from my brow, leaning on the handle of the sledgehammer and breathing hard. ‘Who?’
‘Y’know, from Bridget Jones’s Diary...’
‘Oh, I see. Maybe, a bit...’
‘Yeah, I knew it – she’s hot.’
I shook my head, bemused by Olly’s logic as I repositioned the gravel board, widened my stance, and wrapped my hands around the sledgehammer again.
‘So, are you seeing her again? You’re going on another date, right...?’
‘Get back to work, Olly.’
As the week wore on, I learned to tune out Olly’s prying questions and we made good headway around the estate. But the stretch of path along the stream and down by the lake had been so badly damaged by flooding that it required complete relaying. To make the job easier I rented a vibrating roller from the local hire shop, and let Olly take turns steering the heavy machinery across the newly laid surface. Our progress was clear to see, which helped make it all worthwhile, but while Olly jabbered on about everything from drinking games to The Smurfs, Melody stayed away.
And I missed her.
By Friday afternoon every inch of the snaking paths leading around the grounds had been restored. I left Olly to sweep the last completed section and load the van with tools, while I returned those that we’d borrowed to their rightful place in the stables. On my way back I passed a back door to the house which was propped wide open, as if in invitation. I hesitated. Was it an invitation or was someone simply airing the house? I hadn’t seen the cleaner in days, or Gregory Sinclair, or Melody come to that; she’d made a neat job of avoiding me all week.
The door was on the north side of the house and opened into a shadowy flagstone-floored interior. I knocked and called out hello, but there was no response from within. Ducking my head and stepping inside, I wiped my dusty boots on the mat and rapped my knuckles on the door again; harder and louder this time. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could make out several large sinks and a couple of industrial-sized laundry machines, but a male voice drew my attention through another open door, on the far side of the room.
Was that Sinclair? Had he come home for the weekend? Perhaps I could talk to him about my findings from the library. The second doorway led onto a large, open space with a partially glazed roof and several other doors leading off it. But I hesitated again before stepping out of the shadows and into the light-filled hallway. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Perhaps I should go back around to the front door and ring the bell.
As I was about to turn away Melody appeared at the far end of the hall, making my chest tighten and my blood pulse loudly in my ears. She resembled a fairy, wearing a pink floaty dress which had wing-like sleeves, but which only just covered her bottom, and a matching pink scarf tied around her hair. I observed in stunned silence as she flounced across the room closely pursued by Sinclair.
‘Don’t walk away from me while I’m speaking to you!’ He grabbed her upper arm, halting her mid-step and swinging her round to face him. ‘Why are you dressed like this, if not to welcome me home? You must have known it would provoke a reaction...’
Melody had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her expression, but her shoulders were rigid with tension. It was discomfiting trespassing upon such a private scene, but I couldn’t leave, or even move, without drawing attention and potentially landing both Melody and myself in trouble. So I lurked motionless in the shadows, praying I wouldn’t be discovered.
‘I know you must be lonely,’ said Sinclair, his voice softening as he peered into her face. ‘I am too. If you’ll only let me in; let me get close to you...’ Melody squirmed out of his grasp and for a moment, as she backed away from him, his eyes seemed to crawl all over her body with lascivious intent, making me nauseated. The next moment Melody was gone; she’d disappeared through a doorway, leaving Sinclair behind. He made no attempt at chasing her, but sighed heavily and shook his head, pausing only to adjust the front of his trousers with one hand before turning on his heel and walking back the way he’d come.
A disproportional sense of despair descended like a black fog in my mind as I quietly retreated back outside. No decent man would look at his daughter, his sister or even his niece, like that – Gregory and Melody must be husband and wife.
In a daze I returned to the van, climbed into the driver’s seat beside Olly and started the engine while he enthused about his plans for the weekend. Carefully reversing around Sinclair’s gleaming Mercedes, and avoiding the worst potholes, I coaxed the van into the dark tunnel of driveway, and out of sight of the Gothic hall. But as I drove away, the gnawing pain and discomfort in my chest confirmed what I’d long suspected and ignored: I was falling for her – Melody – a married woman and my client’s wife. God help me, I was in trouble.
Chapter Twenty
It was still dark when Gregory got up and made preparations to leave for the airport. I waited in a window seat, wrapped up in Cornelia’s silk dressing gown, admiring the sun as it rose above the horizon. The robe was apricot with a delicate oriental motif, and for a transient moment I perfectly matched the optimistic glow of the sky at daybreak.
Once he’d gone I strolled into his bedroom,
removed a section of wood panelling from inside the wardrobe, and inspected the safe. Mrs Daly would be back from her holiday in two days and I was running out of time to find a means of buying her silence. The steel strongbox was a newer version to the one I remembered, but still basic by modern standards with a standard keypad and an LED display requiring a six-digit code. I tried all the obvious dates first – our birthdays; Gregory’s, Cornelia’s and my own; the date of their wedding and that of her untimely death, but all to no avail. With a buzz of fresh inspiration I tried the month and year that Wildham Hall was completed, but again with no luck. A quick search of the rest of his sparse bedroom yielded no new ideas. Time to move on.
The study was part library, with one whole wall, from floor to ceiling, taken up by old books; all of which I’d read or at least leafed through. The rest of the room served as an office, so I rifled through the desk for clues. Sitting cross-legged in Gregory’s swivel chair, I was regarded from above by a large stag’s head mounted on the wall. Ignoring the unfortunate animal’s bleak stare, I spun slowly round and round while scanning endless customs invoices and dreary sales reports on my lap.
Gregory worked in the import/export business – high-end, one-off decorative ornaments and antiques; procuring them for peanuts abroad and then selling them at highly inflated prices in specialist showrooms. Evidently interior designers, home stylists and celebrities were prepared to pay top dollar for the pieces he found. Of course it was Cornelia who’d started the business; she had the instinctive eye and had trained his. Gregory once confided that the two of them used to do the travelling and buying together, and that Cornelia referred to it as ‘treasure hunting’. She liked to discover new diamonds in the rough, rescue them and elevate them to glamour status by re-homing them in the residences of the rich and famous. I couldn’t see the appeal at all.
Eventually I grew dizzy and bored. Having checked every draw and file and found no new dates or numbers to try, I climbed back upstairs to Cornelia’s bedroom, leaving a trail of toast crumbs behind me.