Starting Over (26 page)

And anyway, despite initial misgivings, she enjoyed helping, had begun to understand Angel’s pleasure in community activity, the kiddies racing round and getting in the way, the giggles. The alliance.

So she agreed meekly with Carola’s suggestions that she help erect and decorate the stalls on Saturday morning, man the door on Saturday afternoon when it was all (hopefully) happening, be early – so Carola had one less thing to worry about – in the evening when she was, of course, presenting the first prize for the raffle.

Angel was the next to find her a job to do. ‘Any chance you could babysit on Thursday evening, Tess?’

Toby and Jenna, bless them, were a comfort. Tess loved entertaining them. Babysitting was fun: crazy bath time, a pyjama’d wrestle, a bedtime story (or eight). ‘’Course. Going somewhere nice?’ She peered down from the stage where Carola had insisted she stand to ‘get the feel of it’. Actually, she didn’t like the feel of it at all. Too high, too exposed.

‘A meal at The Pheasant.’ Angel looked unenthusiastic, though normally she’d be wild to dress up for the expensive and over-booked restaurant.

‘Posh! What have you done to deserve that?’

‘It’s a bribe,’ Angel shifted uneasily. ‘I have to do something unspeakable – pretend to like something I don’t.’

Tess rolled her eyes. ‘Wish
I
had a sex life like that!’

Angel giggled. Then stopped, suddenly.

Ratty looked up as Angel rocked the buggy and swung Toby’s hand, gazing down
Main Road
as Tess disappeared in the direction of Honeybun Cottage. ‘She agreed to babysit on Thursday,’ she said. It was obvious where Angel’s sympathies lay.

He commiserated. ‘Hell, isn’t it?’

Angel switched her baleful gaze to him. He was her husband’s best friend and employer, her children loved him, she probably cared for him best in the world apart from Pete and the kids. But she covered Toby’s ears to declare, ‘You’re a shit, Ratty. You could’ve done things differently. You better be right.’

He stared down at the coked-up spark plugs in his oily hands. ‘Yes, I better had.’

Angel sniffed and covered Toby’s ears once more. ‘You know she’s been seeing that ultra-arse, Olly?’

‘I saw them together.’

‘He’s promised never to slap her again. He’d better not.’

Ratty looked up and met her eyes. ‘I don’t think he will.’

Angel tugged the buggy round, angrily. ‘You realise she might sleep with him again?’

Silence.

‘He’s bad for her. I’ll bet you didn’t think he’d be back on the scene, did you?’

Ratty rolled the spark plug from one hand to another. ‘No. They’re not sleeping together, are they?’

‘They might be.’ Angel glared for several seconds, then softened. ‘OK, they’re not. She says that’d be far too far, far too fast.’

Ratty sighed. ‘Well. She’s got a lot of sense.’

Tess wouldn’t have agreed to babysit if she’d known. OK, she’d have had to agree, but at least she
would’ve
known. It wouldn’t have been such a shock. Or she could have pretended to be ill, with something horrible, like shingles. In fact, shingles would’ve been nicer.

She’d been lounging on the grey sitting-room carpet, drawing on a magic slate, watching Jenna wiping Toby’s drawings half done, laughing at Toby’s outrage, chatting as Pete waited patiently for Angel to appear. When, from upstairs, Angel yelled, ‘They’re here!’

And Ratty waltzed in, hand in hand with a radiant
Franca
.

Tess’s flabbergasted eyes met his, were held to their brilliance until he looked away. Hair trimmed, he must’ve wet shaved to subdue his customary stubble to that degree of smoothness. Pretty powerful.

Behind him hovered Jos and new girlfriend Miranda, a shy dab with oval glasses and an Indian print skirt.

Franca
broke the silence in her really excellent English, complimenting Tess on her kindness in babysitting whilst everyone else went out.

‘Always the bridesmaid and never the bride,’ Tess muttered, then forced a big smile to show it was a joke. Very still, she lay on the rug with the children, dowdy in old jeans whilst Franca looked
stunning
in tall black boots under a long black skirt split to her thighs, dawn-pink angora jumper clinging in a way that, Tess thought despairingly, must make every man long to touch.

They left in a flurry of phone numbers, reminders, instructions, thanks and, probably, sighs of relief. Tess lay back on the carpet and glared at the ceiling. ‘Well, if that doesn’t just about take the shitty biscuit.’

Toby clamped a gleeful hand to his mouth. ‘
Tess
, you said ...!’

‘Bi’cuit?’ asked Jenna, looking expectantly towards the kitchen.

Tess sprang up, fuelled by anger and anguish, half blind in her own glistening hot-eyed world. ‘Why not? Biscuit for Toby, biscuit for Jenna! But none for Tess because she said a bad word! OK?’

‘
Yeah ..
.’

She relieved her frustration by stamping into the kitchen, jarring her legs against the unyielding stone floors and the children stamped happily after, swinging arms and waggling behinds.

The adults returned late, replete, well-oiled, over-relaxed. The children had been in bed for hours. Grabbing her book, unwilling to be caught staring into space, Tess met
Franca
’s smouldering gaze with a carefully casual smile. She was too slow to stop Angel making her a cup of coffee and had to sip and blow rapidly, wanting escape.

Ratty was quiet. Maybe he was the designated driver, the only one sober. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked her twice. He chose an armchair and, when
Franca
prowled across to sit on the arm, exchanged a peculiar look with her, hesitating before taking her hand. Maybe they’d had a row. Good.

‘Shall I walk you home?’ He jumped up when Tess zipped herself into her jacket.

‘No!’ Too loud. More softly, ‘Thanks. I can manage.’ She left them, silent, behind her.

In the morning she did something she thought she’d never do again. She rang Olly.

‘Hi. I thought I’d just try your direct line, as you gave me the number.’

He sounded pleased to hear her voice. ‘I was thinking about you, you must be telepathic.’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’ She heard a few keystrokes from a keyboard, and the big-office hum in the background, wondered what it was like to work in the same building as several hundred others, how much space must be given over to canteens and restrooms, how many people Olly now knew to shout hullo to. ‘What were you thinking about me?’

More keystrokes. As Olly was speaking on his company line when that company was paying him to do something more productive, she really ought not be irritated that he was obviously not giving her his entire attention. The keystrokes paused. ‘I was wondering if you fancied coming down this weekend?’

‘Back to
London
?’ Olly lived in
North London
now, had to tube into work. She tried to picture him rocking down the Northern Line every morning, strap-hanging. ‘I’m busy on Saturday.’

‘Sunday?’

Something inside her recoiled. ‘No, I can’t really be bothered, just for the day.’

‘Then stay longer.’

The old feeling washed over her, frustration and impotence that she had to remind him. ‘
I have to work
!’

He drew in his breath. ‘Yeah, sorry. The new me needs a lot of reminding, doesn’t he?’

She laughed. Olly wasn’t all bad. ‘Maybe some other time,’ she said.

‘Or maybe I’ll whiz up to see you,’ he said, unconvincingly.

The next day, too doleful to achieve much real work in the hour or two before she was due at the village hall, she went on with the painting on her workroom wall.

Morning glory trumpets, proudly open on the earlier lengths of creeper, now became withered blooms like empty socks.

Above the window overlooking Pennybun she painted a heart, a faithful technical representation: left ventricle, right ventricle, left and right atrium, pulmonary trunk, vena cava. On the blue background the colours darkened, making the heart look dead and disused as she painted the creeper choking it. Strangled by winding stems and dead flowers.

Basic, callow. A portrait of her feelings.

She stood back and assessed her dark work. ‘You’re sad, you are, plastering the wall with your most mediocre stuff. Sad woman. Can’t get to grips with what you want, not prepared to risk your emotions like anybody else.’

At least today would be busy and full. Decorating stalls, manning the door, dismantling stalls, rearranging them for the evening dance. Raffle drawn at nine, the final prize her picture. She must mount the stage to present it to the winner, make light-hearted remarks and smile for the photographer as she flourished a signature across the corner. Then she could go home.

A busy morning became a long one. Tess and Hubert took pairs of stepladders around the hall, festooning roses across the stall tops under the sponsors’ signs. The Three Fishes. MAR Motors. A. & G. Crowther.

On automatic pilot, Tess tried to ignore Carola dashing about with fanatical eyes and a handful of lists, discourage Toby, Jenna and friends from climbing the steps behind her, act normally with Angel and wield a staple gun on the navy and white skirts at the front of the stalls.

It was stupid, childish, to feel excluded because her friends had gone out with
Franca
. And naïve to have assumed that her friendship with Ratty would continue forever unchanged. Obviously their special friendship had suffered the instant he found somebody more special still. If she’d wanted more, she should’ve ...? Done something or other, anyway. Taken a chance. Taken him up on one of his casual smutty suggestions, returned his kiss, been first to clasp hands. Allowed herself to react to him instead of suppressing her libido until it surfaced only at night in vivid, spectacular, erotic dreams.

Tack, pin, fetch, carry, sweep, dust, until lunchtime finally arrived, and they broke until one thirty.

Through the kitchen door she shucked out of her jacket and picked up a letter from the mat. The handwriting was familiar. Showing a rare sensitivity in realising e-mail from him might not be welcome, Olly had sent a clipping from the
Evening Standard
about Kitty and some client who’d won an award. And on a fold of paper, written, ‘Thought you might like this. Hope you’re OK.’ She was staring at it, acknowledging sinkingly that Olly was making an unlikely amount of effort, when Ratty tapped and strolled in.

Familiar in his soft fleece jacket, his jaw was shadowed because he only shaved when he felt like it. Under his arm was a bottle wrapped in a crisp white cloth. ‘I wish you’d let me see you home the other night. I wanted to know you got here all right.’

‘You were with
Franca
.’

‘
Franca
wouldn’t mind.’ He looked out of the window, putting his bottle down on the sill. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ He nodded at the letter.

‘Olly.’ She threw the envelope at the bin. It missed.

He pulled a face. ‘I hope he’s behaving? How’s it going at the village hall? Anyone quarrelled with Carola and stormed out yet? Were you going to offer me coffee?’

‘Yes. OK. Nobody. Yes, OK.’

So they sat across the table, as they used to, talking about the Feast.

‘You’re doing your famous local artist bit, tonight?’

‘Carola would throw herself under a bus if I backed out. She thinks her idea’s wonderful.’

‘It is.’ He ate an apple, she watched the square whiteness of his teeth crunching through the rosy peel and into the flesh. Then he glanced at his watch and got up. Sod. ‘Don’t mind if I leave this in your fridge, do you, Princess?’ He opened the fridge door, slid the wrapped bottle onto a shelf, winked at her and grinned his most brilliant, lascivious grin. ‘Special plans tonight.’

Gone. So. Special plans. Too busy to nip home to unload a bottle of – she opened the fridge door and peeked – champagne. Moët. She wondered when he anticipated retrieving it. The old, easy ways were still there, but obviously his priorities had altered.

She sighed. Climbed the stairs to shower slowly, brush and plait her hair, slide into a blue dress because Carola thought jeans were for gardening. Time up. She had to go and take twenty pences and smile as if she was enjoying herself because everyone had put in so much that she couldn’t let them down.

Tomorrow, maybe, she’d stay in bed all day. Or camp in front of the television with assorted chocolate bars. Or get forgetful-drunk. And she’d surf the Net and get a last-minute deal, because now would be a good time to take a couple of weeks out. Somewhere that was already hot, a blue sea, a blond beach, walks along cliffs. She could almost taste the sea on the breeze already. The freedom.

But, today, she had to get on with the Feast.

Tess took money as quickly as people could push through the door and the village hall filled and filled. The stalls looked cheery and pretty. Table-toppers did brisk business with old china and unloved CDs, outgrown toys and books, the corn-dolly lady put on a lovely display, Angel did makeovers. At the counter that would become a bar later, Hubert, Grace, Ida and Rose dispensed tea and coffee in proper cups. A team of teenagers constantly ferried in trays of clean cups and saucers, disappearing reloaded with dirty ones. In the corner by the tea stand Ratty perched on a stool and played acoustic guitar whilst
Franca
drank coffee close by.