Starting Over (27 page)

A constant stream of people chattered past, shoving coins into the plastic box that was Tess’s till, bringing in the smell of fresh air and making her wish she was out there, tramping about the lanes.

‘Been roped in?’

Meeting the calm grey-green gaze of Elisabeth Arnott-Rattenbury, Tess tried to look as if she hadn’t been looking at Ratty. ‘You know how it is.’

‘You’re being kept busy.’ All the Arnott-Rattenburys spoke the same nice, accentless English.

‘It’s slowing down now, but they’re still coming.’ She shook back her pigtail and delved in her box for change. Elisabeth moved aside to let a family pay.

Tess glanced at her. ‘Ratty ... Miles is playing.’

‘Yes, I see him.’ Elisabeth smiled.

Tess watched her make her way to where Ratty was making music on a beautifully inlaid twelve-string guitar, throw coins into his guitar case. Ratty laughed and challenged her; she pantomimed exasperation and shook her purse upside down, to show that it was empty.

Tess took her eyes away to take more door money, and suddenly Elisabeth was back with a china cup of tea. ‘You must be parched.’

Once she thought about it, she was. ‘Well, thanks,’ she muttered, easing a back pleated from standing so long, resting her behind on the table edge, wishing someone could turn the volume down on all the exclamations and laughter that seemed to fill the old stone hall up to its wooden rafters. ‘That’s lovely.’

Elisabeth lifted her own cup. ‘Do you know whether Cassie and Christopher Carlysle have been, yet?’

‘Been and gone I’m afraid.’

Elisabeth smiled. ‘Good. I can relax. Are your parents coming today?’

Good God, she hoped not. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘No moral support required when you do the raffle prize, tonight?’

Tess took sixty pence from a woman with two kids. ‘I can manage.’ Relations weren’t that warm, yet, though Tess had at least rung home.

Elisabeth looked around. ‘I see my son is doing his own thing, as usual.’

‘He plays well.’ Tess thought of Ratty playing in the sunshine in the garden at Rotten Row or Honeybun. Singing in the rattling van pulling the stripped-down E-Type back from
Devon
.

Elisabeth sipped. ‘He’s not a bad sort.’

‘’Course not,’ she agreed cautiously.

‘Has his own ways. His own way of getting people to fall in with his plans. Circuitous ways. Rather than negotiate, he navigates himself into the position he wants.’ She sighed. ‘I wish he’d make things simpler for himself. But, that’s Miles.’

Elisabeth ran a long-fingered hand over neat hair, watched her son play, curled around the guitar, left hand sliding over the frets. ‘Look at his precious cars. His results in business studies were so good Lester and I felt it was the obvious way to go, accountancy or something, and Miles agreed, yes, it was only sensible. Applied to the right places and off he went.

‘Instead of saying, “But it’s not what I want, I want to do something else,” he went along with us till he could change it. Then turned up one day saying he’d finished with the course. He’d been buying cars, doing them up and selling at a profit in the holidays and evenings. He’d accrued enough capital to strike out full-time, and rented a “place” – a shack really.

‘I can see him now, standing there so pugnaciously. Showing us that he’d made it happen. Lester doesn’t react very well to Miles in that mood. He was hurt at the way Miles had gone about things. Lester tends to withdraw when he’s hurt, which Miles calls disapproval. Pity it couldn’t have been different.’ Elisabeth’s cup was empty.

Tess took it absently, brow creased in thought. ‘He’s his own person, you have to take him or leave him.’

Elisabeth looked at her curiously. ‘Take him or leave him,’ she agreed. Then, ‘Your picture is very good. Miles said your talent shone out.’

Her face went hot with pleasure. ‘Flattery!’

‘He never flatters. He feels things strongly, passionately, there’s no one I’d rather have in my corner. But Miles does not flatter.’

Tess stared after her.

The day got longer and drearier. The hall was slow to empty, leaving little time to dismantle the stalls and relocate the decorations for the dance. Through the middle of their muddle the DJ and his mate trucked all their stuff, and calls of ‘Where’s this going?’ were overlaid with ‘
One
-two,
one
-two,’ through speakers the size of fridges.

Chilly from standing in the draught from the door, Tess dashed home for another shower, Carola calling after her, ‘Dress up – make us look important!’

There was a message on the answering machine from Olly. ‘Just ringing to see you’re all right,’ he said.

‘I’m sodding busy,’ she snipped, hurling her clothes at the laundry basket in her bedroom and watching them bounce off, supposing bad-temperedly that she’d have to wash her hair. The shower was hot, ran into her eyes, making them boil. Just like tears.

Life wasn’t always kind. Although she felt strained from making an effort all day, now she had to go back and do it again, when all she wanted was to crawl in bed and just lie.

And there was the back door again, rap-rap, probably Ratty wanting his champagne back for his specially planned night. Damn, blast and bugger him. Bastard. Maybe she should phone Olly back. Get him lined up to go somewhere tomorrow, away from the village.

But it was Angel who peered back at Tess through the glass. ‘I’ve come to do your hair!’

Tess opened the door. ‘Do my ...? I don’t need –’

‘Carola wants her star to be just right!’

Angel chivvied her upstairs, bullied her into a short black skirt and a gold-shot lace top which made her hair blaze. ‘Got to make the effort, it’s for the village!’

With Angel that bright and bouncy, Tess gave in. It wasn’t worth the energy she’d expend arguing, so she slumped on her stool and submitted her hair to being blow-dried.

‘I’m putting it up,’ she said ungraciously.

‘Oh no, you don’t want ...’

‘
Up
!
’ Silly tears pricked. Must be overtired. Yes, all tomorrow in bed.

Silently, Angel swept Tess’s hair up on the back of her head, Tess felt the spike slide through the curved black barrette. Felt the cool spray of lacquer on her nape. ‘No need to get upset,’ Angel said, giving her a quick hug from behind.

The hall looked good and sounded better as Tess stepped back through the door. Gently rotating lights, crêpe, velvet bows around the bar where the optics twinkled and glasses were stacked, businesslike, tray on tray.

‘Now, you look
marvellous
,’ Carola encouraged. ‘Your piccie’s on its easel up on the stage, look! Nothing to do but circulate and enjoy yourself until raffle time. After that,’ she gusted out a sigh and clasped her forehead, ‘we can
all
relax and get sozzled.’

Tess felt suddenly small over the way she was dragging her feet. Carola worked like a horse to keep the hall up to its wonderful standard, full of energy and ideas, expecting no thanks, accepting others’ excuses.

Right, she’d give Carola her all these last couple of hours, circulating, buying people drinks and generally doing what she could to make jolly. She’d do her piece at the raffle with huge smiles and twinkles, make a great impression.

Then
she’d go home to bed.

As if reading her mind, Pete and Angel dragged her off to start the dancing, Jos cornered her to meet his dear, shy Miranda properly, and soon the hall was jumping and she was tripping over people, whisked from conversation with Tubb from the pub to chat to Lester Arnott-Rattenbury, attractive silver hair alight beneath the lights. Hubert introduced her to the vicar, Grace wanted her to meet her mother, Gwen Crowther asked her to sign a card for Carola. ‘It’s one of yours, duck!’

Almost everyone in the locality turned up. Christopher Carlysle asked her to dance, using the opportunity to badger, ‘I wish you’d tell me what went on with Simeon.’

‘I don’t think I will,’ she called, over the music. She didn’t need reminding. There was Simeon, in fact, beer in one hand, some poor female in the other, his face red and movements loose, already. She looked away.

And if her gaze kept drifting to the door as the hall filled up, nobody would’ve noticed, what with dancing and chatting and having such a good time.

It was inevitable that
Franca
would shimmy in, gorgeous in a shiny pink skirt and top. Tess turned to the barman, not wanting to see Ratty follow.

She didn’t get a second to eat any of the bits of pizza or sausages on sticks, never seemed to finish a drink before putting it down and losing it, but at least that way the first part of the evening was quick and painless. Fairly, anyway.

She was glad to leave the stage.

It was over.

They’d put on a very creditable performance, she and Carola, getting the clutching-ticket-stubs audience tiptoeing to see who’d won the whisky and who a cut-and-blow-dry. Carola, clutching the crêpe-covered box of patiently folded tickets, laughing replies to the catcalls of ‘Shake ’em up!’, called on Tess to present her picture of an industrious animal kingdom to a shiny-looking estate agent from Bankside.

Tess flourished a signature in the corner with her fountain pen, and posed for the papers. ‘Congratulations!’ she beamed brightly at the estate agent for the benefit of the scruffy, spotty local photographer.

Then it was three cheers for Carola and all her hard work, Carola holding onto Tess’s hand whilst she thanked everybody for their support and hoped they’d all have a marvellous evening. ‘And now, ladies and gents, this is our first “slowie”. Gents, if you never get up to dance again this evening,
please
lead the lady in your life onto the floor for this one!’

Grin stuck on, eyes hurting from looking the wrong way into the lights, Tess finally freed herself and made for the wooden-treaded steps at the front of the stage.

It was over. Now she could melt away. Go home. Hibernate.

But, as she reached solid ground, a warm, square hand slid into hers and an arm scooped her in the direction of the dance floor. ‘Dance with me, Princess?’

Accepting the hands on her waist, automatically resting hers on Ratty’s broad shoulders, she looked up at him. He smiled. Pulled her close.

‘This is supposed to be the dance for wives and girlfriends! Where’s
Franca
?’ she whispered.

His eyes were fixed on hers. ‘Dancing, with Darrel.’ He nodded to where
Franca
was wrapped around a dark man. ‘Her husband.’

‘Husband? I didn’t know –’

‘I know.’ He kissed her temple, a gentle feather-light kiss that brought thoughts of the Ball sharply to mind. One of these days she’d ask him ...

The dance floor was so crowded that it was only possible to shuffle, cocooned by other warm bodies, and enjoy the heady mingling of perfumes. Her mind churned:
Franca
had a husband, and that husband was right here. And Ratty was engrossed in – and, she presumed from the indications, very physical with –
Franca
.

Oh, right. She sighed, examining a little spiral of disappointment inside herself. ‘I’m your cover, so that Darrel doesn’t suspect?’

He balanced his forehead on hers for a moment. ‘Absolutely
not.
’

Hmm. Oh well, not her problem. For whatever reason here she was, here they
were, and it felt good, for the first time in weeks her heart lifted. It felt so
nice
to be drawn against the heat of Ratty’s hard-muscled body as they danced; she’d almost forgotten how it felt to feel a man’s heart pulsing against her through his shirt, to breathe his aftershave, move in his rhythm.

The dance ended too soon. The music changed to happy-boppy party stuff and Ratty, voice very deep, breath very hot on the side of her head, said, ‘Can we talk?’

She allowed herself to be towed through the dancers and across the foyer into the tiny office where there was a window seat, an armchair, three shelves, an old school desk with a typist’s chair, a mop and a bucket. He closed the door behind them and leant against it.

Legs aching, she looked around for somewhere to sit. But the armchair looked dusty and the window seat full of splinters and she’d feel just too ridiculous perched on a typist’s chair. ‘Funny place for a chat.’

He smiled his long, lazy, quirky smile. ‘You could run away from my place or throw me out of Honeybun. Here, you’ll have to listen.’ He paused. ‘The prospect of this conversation’s been buzzing round in my head all day.’

His voice was gentle. Her hands were somehow trapped in his, his thumbs slightly rough in her palms. At the open collar of his black polo shirt one crisp, black curl moved as he spoke. She fixed her eyes to it, and the way his throat rose. Slid her gaze upwards to his lips as they moved; and she
was
listening, she was, but her untidy thoughts were skittering up their own route.
Franca
was married and not, evidently, separated. Not, therefore, such a cut-and-dried issue as she’d assumed their affair to be.
Franca
had no prior claim.