Starting Over (20 page)

Whisky before lunch, two wines with, champagne in the afternoon, beer for variety before the evening session. That must be why, when she turned to Ratty, Tess’s face went as red as if she’d stuck her head in the whispering coal fire. ‘But you wouldn’t want to, would you?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I mean ... We’re not, romantic or anything. You’ve never suggested –’

‘I have.’ He sipped his beer, he watched the programme; he glanced at her and away.

What was that expression in his eyes? She could
almost
believe him serious. If she didn’t know him better, anyway. ‘Have what?’

‘Suggested.’

‘You weren’t serious!’

‘Wasn’t I?’

Infuriated with his stupid calm monotone as if discussing the work on some old car, she shifted crossly. ‘So what if we spend time together? Relationships between the sexes don’t need to be sexual, do they?’ And if he wanted to say something about that he should come out and say it. ‘I don’t even know why you’d want to!’ she grumbled, meaning ‘I don’t know why you’d want to alter the status quo.’

He turned on a leer, said gently, as if enlightening a fool, ‘Because you’re a gorgeous, sexy woman.’

So outrageous, his expression so lewd, she began to laugh. ‘You idiot!’

‘I must be.’ He turned back to the television.

Angel never knew when to leave well alone. ‘You’re not telling me you’re happy with just a friendship?’

‘Oh, shut up.’ Tess fidgeted irritably, hung up on a reply. If she said no, it would sound as if she was making a pass at Ratty. He’d probably take her up on it, in his casual way, and nothing would ever be the same again. Couple of weeks of bed, till Ratty fancied someone fresh, as he always did. Yes, two weeks seemed his average. Gone would be the companionable outings, the discussions about Pennybun, the warmth, the respect for her work. ‘It’s a great friendship, I value it,’ she said weakly. ‘It doesn’t mean Ratty can’t go on as before.’

Ratty stirred again. ‘Then why do I feel I’m being unfaithful if I take someone else to bed?’

She felt her face stiffen, the way it did when she was desperate not to show her thoughts. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

‘I try not to.’

It was an unsatisfactory conversation, ambiguous and unsettling, not leading anywhere but with the potential to undermine something she couldn’t name. She saw Angel open her mouth, face animated as if about to burst out with some secret, saw Pete shush her, pull her onto his lap, kiss, whisper.

The programme ended, Pete flipped through the on-screen menu, Ratty became absorbed in
Classic Car
. And when Tess yawned a strained half-hour later and decided she was going, he prepared to walk her home. As usual.

‘Come on, you gorgeous, sexy woman, where’s your coat?’

‘Stay if you want,’ she muttered, searching for her gloves, compelled to question what had previously been simply accepted.

‘I would, if I wanted.’

It wasn’t very Christmassy outdoors. No snow, no visit from Jack Frost to transform the village into a silvery picture, just peevish gusts to carry chill mist into their faces.
Amber street
lamps wore haloes and reflected on glistening pavements. Tess could feel her hair scrunching damply into candyfloss around her face.

‘So.’ At her gate he hunkered into his jacket. ‘Still friends?’

‘’Course.’ What else was on offer? She wished he’d be specific.

No, she didn’t. Everything was great as it was, wasn’t it? Great friends, life was easy, no risks, no emotional demands. And if she had to squash down her sexuality when it awoke, she could cope; her libido could cartwheel about her dreams without consequence. Reality brought tranquillity and she could live without passion. Probably. For a while, anyway. Though sometimes, just sometimes, she looked at a young fit guy – like Ratty – and knew she was still fully functioning.

It seemed only casual curiosity when he suggested, ‘Still hot for Olly?’

She looked away as if thinking carefully, not wanting him to see into her eyes. ‘Not hot.’

‘Do you wish things had been different? That he’d never pulled back from the marriage?’

Smoothing her hair down, she shrugged. ‘How can I say? Things aren’t different. It’s difficult to stay in love with someone who starts acting like a shit.’

‘So there’s nothing stopping you hooking up with someone else? A hypothetical someone?’

‘But why should I?’ The words were out before she could consider them. She crunched her toes up in her boots, shivering. ‘I mean, I’m OK as I am. I’d have to be really sure before I started out with someone new, and what could make me sure? If I knew a hypothetical someone well enough and would really hate to be without him ...’

‘Don’t you want sex? Or maybe there’s an arrangement you keep private?’

‘There isn’t.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I can live without it.’

‘I can’t. Goodnight, gorgeous, sexy woman.’

Uneasily, Tess laughed.

So, like friends do, they had a running gag, a gentle joke to carry with them up to The Three Fishes the next evening.

‘When are you going to pay this gorgeous, sexy woman for the picture?’ Ratty demanded of Harry Tubb, red-faced, sauntering landlord, who could spend all evening leaning on one side of the bar mirroring his regulars leaning on the other. The interior of the pub was warm, humming with chatter and laughter and smelling strongly of beer. Tess’s painting of the pub hung above the roaring fire.

Unmoved, Harry watched his barman ring a sale into the till and give change. ‘Don’t worry, duck, she’ll get her money.’

‘By the end of the month?’

‘
Leave it
!’ Tess muttered, not enjoying this discussion in front of the whole pub.

‘She’ll get her money.’ Irritation flickered across Harry’s florid face and he pushed back the wave of hair that had been left marooned as his hairline receded. Regulars referred to the single serpentine lock as ‘The Sperm’. He smiled at Tess. His teeth sloped backwards into his mouth and she didn’t like his smile, turned-in, turned-down, like a shark.

Ratty let the subject drop as Lester strolled in, brushing rain from his waxed jacket. ‘Gin and tonic?’ he asked his father.

‘If you twist my arm.’ Lester smiled at Tess, hung his jacket up near the door. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Tess smiled. ‘And to you.’ Soon, Ratty and his father were deep in conversation about Pennybun Cottage and the work that was required, until Lester spotted friends across the room and wandered off to join in a game of solo whist. Ratty was soon arguing with Garry from
Port Road
as to whether Audi had the edge over BMW and the evening sidled comfortably by in the beery, noisy warmth.

At last orders, Ratty closed his mouth around the last drops of bitter, passed Tess her coat, then unhooked the yet-to-be-paid-for picture from the wall.

Tess stared.

Ratty raised his voice, grinning crookedly, as he did when being his awkwardest. ‘We’ll bring it back when you’re ready to settle the bill, Harry, all right?’

Harry’s red face darkened as his eyes rested on ‘his’ picture tucked under Ratty’s arm. And, as the mellow clientele began to shout ‘Pay the woman, Harry!’, his mouth narrowed into a turned-down slit. ‘Don’t worry, here it is!’ He snatched notes from the till, ‘The Sperm’ jiggling hectically.

Well-used tens and twenties were slapped down truculently by Harry Tubb, intercepted and counted gleefully by Ratty and finally pressed into Tess’s palm.

Ratty rehung the picture, extending his hand behind him to assist Tess through the crowd that had developed behind the bar stools, saying, ‘C’mon, gorgeous.’

‘And Merry Christmas to Harry!’ she hissed.

Ratty just laughed. ‘He’ll be OK. Don’t suppose you could follow me to Bettsbrough tomorrow and bring me back? I’ve got a Lotus Europa, now with new brake drums, to deliver to an owner freshly returned from Christmas with the in-laws. It would save asking Pete or Jos when they’re on holiday.’

Outside, Tess closed her jacket against the December drizzle. ‘Can do. I need to visit the art supplies shop in Bettsbrough, anyway.’ Her Christmas duties had ended when she sent her mother a Marks & Spencer voucher and her father book tokens. She was content to idle her way through the useful elapse between Christmas and New Year with errands and jaunts.

The owner of the Lotus proved to be Graham Poole, accountant, son of friends of Lester and Elisabeth Arnott-Rattenbury. His house, on the outskirts of Bettsbrough, was called
The Old New Inn
because it used to be a pub.

‘Isn’t she a darling?’ cried Graham, uncombed and creased in having-a-day-off cords and fleece shirt, running his hand across the Lotus’s roof.

‘If you like a car without rear vision,’ Ratty ribbed.

‘Nonsense, won’t hear a word against my Lotus! Come and have a cuppa, I’ll write you a cheque.’

So Tess obligingly lined the Freelander up, about twice the height, behind the Lotus Europa with its gold coach lines, and followed the two men into a tiny corner conservatory, facing the courtyard. At least, whilst Ratty explained to Graham when best to do an oil change and scribbled the address of a firm in
Mansfield
who undertook nickel and chromium plating, she could gaze through French doors and admire the rockery and the gabled lines of the old stables. It was preferable to facing Graham, who laughed bad breath into the small room and answered every remark with, ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ eyes beaming from behind dirty little specs. Like Lucasta had and Lester did, he addressed Ratty as Miles.

Tess wondered whether he cleaned himself up for his office. Or were there clients desirous of an unwashed accountant with filmy teeth and hair that parted at the back? Maybe pig farmers appreciated a money person they felt at ease with in their work clothes?

Whilst Ratty drew Graham a wiring diagram and offered to get hold of a new loom for him, Tess waited patiently, watching an old black Labrador lie on his back in a slice of winter sunshine by the bronze-look water feature. Customers were customers and this was one of Ratty’s.

But oh, to be floating among the myriad, gorgeous colours of the oil pastels and watercolours, enjoying the papery smell of the art supplies shop!

And surely, when she’d made such superhuman efforts not to look at her watch, Ratty could just take his cheque and go, now he was at the handshaking stage? But no. Outside, Ratty stopped on the modern-day substitute for proper cobbles. ‘Graham, is a computer kept at home but used for the business an allowable expense? Or would the taxman claim duality of purpose?’

She sighed, but prepared for another wait.

Graham laughed halitosis over them, probably remembering gleefully Ratty dropping out of accountancy; he rubbed his chin and rebuked, ‘After free advice, Miles?’

Tess’s brain clicked abruptly back into the conversation. She smiled sweetly. ‘Does professional advice always have to be paid for, Graham?’

He smiled smugly. ‘’Fraid so.’

Words thrust themselves well in front of brain activity. ‘So you’ll expect an invoice for the hour and twenty minutes
Miles
has just spent advising
you
! Don’t look so shocked, I expect his hourly rate is well below what you covetous bastards charge!’

Silent, on the way to the pay-and-display in town, she checked the road to the left, daring a glance at Ratty who was gazing uncooperatively out of the window.

‘I’ll apologise to him if you want me to!’ she sighed when she’d reversed into a parking space. ‘I shouldn’t piss off your customers –’

Ratty turned to her, grinning brilliantly. ‘
Don’t
spoil it! You were right! People are always doing that to me, usually accountants or solicitors, gits who charge you just for picking up your file. You were fantastic, standing up for me like that.’ Her jaw slackened with surprise and was mashed against his jacket as he squashed her into a jubilant hug. ‘And you know what? I
am
going to bill the bastard!’

A celebratory lager, then she finally got her anticipated treat of selecting pens, pencils, pads in three sizes, acrylic paints, a rainbow of watercolours and soft, new sable brushes, all rustling in paper bags in the back as they drove home.

Ratty was ready to line up another jaunt. ‘By the way, I’m going to pick up some bits from
Oxford
next week, if you want to come?’

She was quite positive. ‘No.’

‘I could drop you at your parents’ house, see the guy, pick you up?’

‘No.’

She felt rather than saw his shrug. She added, ‘They’re not talking to me.’

He nodded. ‘That Jenna stunt of Olly’s?’

She changed down and edged the Freelander over to let a clodded tractor, the big-wheeled kind, between herself and the hedge. ‘I phoned my father about giving Olly my address and swore at him. He took offence. My mother was “shocked and disappointed” – at me, I presume, it might’ve been Dad or Olly, she didn’t say.

‘Since I was sixteen I seem to have been battling them over something – the right to grow up, maybe. God knows what they’d have done if I’d actually been difficult. All that for someone who never got in a fix! Or hardly ever.’ She didn’t mention disappearing during her A levels. She had, after all, come back. ‘When I was ill I kind of fell back into their clutches and they’re reluctant to let me go again.