Out of Step (5 page)

‘Amazing, isn’t it? If I’d been desperate to sell, I’m sure no one would have looked at the place, but since I really do not want to, it goes and sells just like that. Sod’s law!’

‘But why are you selling it, if you don’t want to?’

‘Doesn’t make sense, does it? I suppose you could call it
force majeure
. My wife’s solicitors have been getting heavy.’

‘Oh …’ Nell’s voice broke.

‘You all right? You sound upset.’

‘Sorry,’ Nell sniffed. ‘It’s just that it’s exactly what I’ve always wanted. If only I’d
known
it was on the market…’

‘What a shame. I’d no idea you were looking for somewhere.’

‘D’you think…? No, forget it.’

‘No, go on.’

‘Well, I wondered if I could come and have one last look round, before it goes, but you’re probably fed up with people gawping…’ She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.

‘Not at all. Of course you can. Come tonight. I’ve got a good bottle of red. We could hold a wake together.’

‘Right then,’ Elly said on the telephone. ‘Tell me
all
. What did he say to you, and what did you say to him, and what
happened?’

Nell smiled, remembering the game she used to play with her great-aunts, with strips of paper that you wrote on, folded over, and passed round at each stage, so that your stories became hopelessly garbled.

‘Miss Painter,’
she began,
‘met Mr Numbercruncher,
in Paradise.
She said to him, “Please take the extra ten pounds back.”
He said to her, “I suppose you could always try gazumping.”
And the consequence was – they agreed about divorce.’

‘And I suppose you wouldn’t care to translate that gobbledegook?’ Elly asked crossly.

‘Consequences. You remember? Oh, never mind,’ Nell said. ‘Actually we talked about his wife quite a bit. She sounds dreadful. That’s what I meant about agreeing. It seems to me he’s got no choice but to get divorced, but he’s worried about the effect it might have on the children. He says they’re pretty disturbed already.’

‘So, what’s wrong with her?’ Elly asked, ever alert for gossip.

‘Oh, she’s totally neurotic; spends far too much money; keeps on being ill; won’t do any cooking; has no sense of humour… Need I say more?’

‘So why did he marry her in the first place?’

‘She’s good-looking. He showed me a photo of her. She’s got blonde hair, and a little belted-in waist. I think she was a TV presenter briefly, some years ago. Anyway, he says she made a dead set at him, and he was dazzled.’

‘Does he know why? I mean, they sound an unlikely couple.’

‘Apparently she thought she wanted a docile house-husband but then she got bored with country life, and him, it seems.’

‘I hope you didn’t spend the entire evening talking about his marital problems.’

‘Not all of it, no.’

‘And so? D’you
like
him?’ Elly was getting impatient.

‘Oh yes, he’s a nice enough bloke, and I think he’s had a raw deal, but I really went to see the cottage. It’s lovely upstairs, you know, all sloping ceilings and beams, and doors with old-fashioned thumb latches. He’s heart-broken at having to sell it, and I can well understand why.’

‘He wasn’t exactly in romantic mood then?’

‘Do shut up, Elly,’ Nell said firmly. ‘You’ve got a one-track mind.’

‘I’m not the only one, it seems. Sibyl says you weren’t back in the shop until three o’clock last Wednesday afternoon!’

‘That was the lunch hour I found out about Bottom Cottage,’ Nell said. ‘I was so upset, still am. Sibyl was brilliant. I can’t imagine any other employer being so tolerant.’

‘You’re right,’ Elly agreed. ‘She’s lovely is my ma, which is more than I can say for my husband. Got to go, Nell. I can hear Paul yelling at someone, probably one of the boys. I think I’ll have to intercede. Lovely talking to you. Christmas as usual, yes? Lots of love.’

‘And to you too. ‘Bye.’ Nell put the phone down reflectively. She felt unsettled. She worried about Elly and
Paul’s marriage, but didn’t know how to help. She was reluctant to go to them again for Christmas, but shrank from saying no. She wanted to talk some more to Rob Hayhoe (and less superficially if possible next time) but couldn’t think of a plausible excuse to ring him.

She didn’t want to do nothing either, but she couldn’t decide what
to
do. It’s absurd, she thought. It’s Sunday. I’m not answerable to anyone. I can please myself, so why am I so wretched? My life isn’t going anywhere. I wish I had some purpose. I don’t like being so free somehow; it’s too selfish an existence. I want to be needed, to matter to someone. I used to get a sense of achievement from my painting, but even that seems too impersonal these days.

These feelings of uneasy discontent stayed with her right through the month. The shop was busy with people buying artist’s materials for Christmas presents. The charity cards and the wrapping paper, which Sibyl was experimenting with for the first time, were going well. Nell took money, and gave out change and information. Customers asked her advice about brushes, or the merits of acrylics over watercolours, and some seemed surprised when she knew the answers. Sibyl worked away beside her, pushing up the large blue-framed glasses on her nose, and the odd grey hairs that had escaped from her loose bun, with automatic gestures that made her dangly earrings quiver, and caused the floaty scarf at her neck to slip round at a rakish angle, as if she were some chiffon-clad Biggles.

Yes, they did take Visa. No, they didn’t stock candles. Yes, they did do a smaller size sketch pad. No, they didn’t do framing, but they could recommend someone who did…

‘What about Christmas?’ Sibyl asked, when the after-lunch lull permitted. ‘Will you come to us again?’

‘Would you be very offended if I didn’t?’ Nell asked cautiously.

Sibyl shook her head and gave Nell’s arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve been getting the feeling that you need some space to reassess things,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Nell nodded and let out a long sigh.

‘You please yourself,’ Sibyl said comfortingly. ‘I’ll explain to Elly and the others. And if you change your mind, you know where we are.’

Nell bent and kissed her plump cheek. ‘Thank you. You’re a true friend.’

The afternoon shoppers came in a reassuringly steady stream. The painting-by-numbers books, which Nell had scorned, were selling briskly. She wrapped pencils, pens, stencils, rubbers. She repacked an easel into its box and stuck it up with tape. She advised on palette knives. She took back a leaking tube of prussian blue oil paint, and replaced it with an undamaged one. She wiped her fingers on a couple of tissues.

‘What kind of paints would you recommend for a five-year-old?’ a man asked her.

Nell looked up, startled. ‘Oh … it’s you. Are they for Josh?’

‘Hello, Nell. Yes, they are. I didn’t know you worked here.’

‘Let me show you what we’ve got,’ she said, leading the way to the display cabinet. Rob followed her.

‘There are these poster colours,’ Nell said. ‘They’re nontoxic and they wash off clothes easily.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘We’ve got some lovely paper to wrap them in too.’ She indicated it.

‘Fine. I’ll take a sheet of that as well, thanks.’

There was no opportunity to talk at all. Other customers pressed round, eager to be served. Nell was conscious of an unexpected opportunity slipping away.

‘Well, Happy Christmas then,’ she said lamely as she handed him his bag of goods.

‘Thanks, but I doubt very much if it will be,’ he said as he turned to go. ‘It’s the Mad Cow’s turn this year,’ and with that, he left.

‘Whatever did he mean?’ Sibyl asked, eyebrows aloft.

‘I
think
he was talking about his children spending Christmas with their mother,’ Nell said, looking down at the till drawer and dropping silver into the correct compartments.

‘That was
him
, was it not?’

‘Yes.’ Nell met her gaze. ‘And I think
was
is now the operative word.’

Nell had never felt her lack of status before. For her, being a shop assistant had always been as valid a way of earning a living as being a lawyer, and a good deal less parasitic. But how did it compare with being a TV presenter (or an accountant, come to that)? And had she been right in getting the distinct impression that Rob had been disappointed to find her serving behind the counter at ARTFUL
^L
?

If he’s a snob, she thought, then I don’t want to know. But maybe I should give him one final chance … Yes definitely. Christmas this year could be an opportunity for experimentation, instead of a season of enforced jollity and other people’s family tensions. It was an attractive prospect. Nell thought about it, lying in a deep foamy bath with bubbles popping behind her ears, and a flannel strategically covering her emergent breasts to keep them warm as well.

What would her practical mother have done in similar circumstances? Easy. She would have ignored the Christmas aspect, as being too difficult to do as meals-on-wheels, and would instead have assembled a deliciously nutritious casserole which could easily be transported, and an elegant tart or cakey pud with custard in a jam jar, and she would have taken it all – including tablecloth and
napkins – over to Rob’s house on Christmas Day to save the poor man from having to spend it miserably alone.

Nell’s mum had believed in nurturing her man, devoting herself to him, and taking second place without question, even to the extent of darning his socks. Nell certainly wasn’t going to go that far, but she was going to go. The question was, what should she take with her? She sat up and reached for the shampoo, squeezing out a dollop and rubbing it in with enthusiasm. An idea had occurred to her of how she could show off her culinary skills without being thought too mumsy. She had her pride, after all.

Late on Christmas morning, Rob awoke without any feelings of anticipation. He had decided to treat it like any other day, maybe even catch up on some work, the better to ignore it altogether. He tried not to think about Josh and Rosie, and what they might be doing, but couldn’t help wondering whether Cassie would take the trouble to cook properly for them. She must surely make an effort today. Much better not to know. He hadn’t bothered much for himself at all, just buying a little cut-price smoked salmon at the last minute.

He could tell the stove hadn’t stayed on overnight the moment he stepped shivering into the kitchen. There were frost flowers on the
inside
of the windows. Damn thing! He riddled it out, emptied its overflowing ash tray, stuffed kindling and a firelighter inside, struck a match and relit it, adding logs from the basket as it caught. Trickles of smoke escaped round the edges of the hotplate and through the small expansion holes. The chimney was probably all tarred up again and in need of cleaning out. It would draw better once it warmed up, especially in this wind. It sounded rough outside. Rob put the flat-bottomed kettle on to heat up. It was only half full, but it would be some time before he got his mainstay: the first
mug of tea of the day. He stamped about a bit to get warm.

An hour later, as he was beginning to thaw out, and whilst eating fried bacon and eggs for breakfast, he told himself firmly that there were obvious disadvantages to living at Bottom Cottage, and he should consider himself lucky that by next Christmas he might well be somewhere centrally heated and comfortable. But where? He was clearly going to have to rent a place. There wouldn’t be enough money left over to buy another house. It wasn’t much of a prospect. He finished the last mouthful, wrapped both palms around his hot mug, and sighed.

The bang on the door made him jump. He hadn’t heard the car outside, and he’d had his back to the front window. Through the condensation he now saw a patch of blue, and a shaft of hope pierced him unexpectedly. He opened the door, and there she was.

‘Hello,’ Nell said. ‘I hope this isn’t a bad moment.’ She was carrying a large basket, and looked determined.

‘On the contrary. Come in.’

The wind was roaring into the cottage, but she hesitated. ‘I thought you might have family staying. Maybe your father …?’

‘No. Bert’s had a better offer this year.’

‘I thought he was called Malachy?’

‘That’s his second name. His first is Cuthbert.’

Nell appeared to be suppressing a giggle.

‘Feel free to laugh,’ Rob said. ‘We all do. Come on in then, if you’re coming. I can’t afford to lose any more of my hard-won heat.’

Nell allowed herself to be ushered inside. ‘So, Happy Christmas,’ she said, putting her basket down on the table and going to warm her hands at the stove.

Rob smiled. ‘It is now.’

Nell had almost lost her nerve, and hesitated at the top of Rob’s lane. Visiting someone uninvited on Christmas Day
was a decidedly eccentric thing to do. That’s good, she thought, driving firmly downhill. I don’t want him to think I’m ordinary. At the bottom, she was relieved to find only the usual Land Rover and no other cars, and Rob’s expression when he came to the door was entirely reassuring.

His kitchen smelt attractively of bacon and wood-smoke. He had clearly only just finished breakfast. ‘Tea?’ he suggested. ‘Coffee?’

‘Coffee would be good. Thanks.’ She took off her coat and sat down at the table, resting her chin on her palms and looking over the basket at him.

‘So,’ Rob said, putting a steaming mug down beside her, ‘most people are nailed down and dutiful on this particular day. How did you escape?’

‘Special dispensation.’ Nell was giving nothing away.

‘And can you stay for lunch? I’m afraid it’s only sandwiches, although they are smoked salmon.’

‘You’re sure you haven’t anything else on?’

‘I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, you don’t have to go anywhere, or do anything special?’

‘I hadn’t planned anything, no. What’s in the basket?’

‘Take a look.’

Rob pulled it towards him and untucked the cloth from the top. ‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘Do you always carry a pheasant about your person?’