Starting Over (3 page)

‘Tea? Coffee?  Sometimes you younger ones prefer ...?’ Lucasta swung open a spindly-legged black japanned cabinet, exhibiting a fine selection of bottled lagers and alcopops.

Tess grinned to see club-trendy booze where she’d expect sherry. ‘Tea’s fine.’ She flicked a glance at her watch. She hadn’t meant to get involved in a tea ceremony. If she’d thought at all, it was that she’d offer quick thanks for the doorstep gifts and go home.

To do what? Wander round in circles achieving very little? Maybe think about a card illustration but not begin it? She gazed at the dull sheen elegance of a
Liberty
pewter tea set complete with raffia handles. She must start work. Over the past year she’d lost the habit.

Along with the tea in tiny cups of eggshell china, Lucasta produced crudités and cheese dip, chips of carrot, celery and red pepper. One old lady who’d broken away from petticoat tails, evidently.

And she admitted happily to being the doorstep-gift giver. ‘Just to make you welcome, dear. Are you meeting people?’

‘Not really.’

‘I said to Miles that the young lady had moved into Honeybun. Do try the peppers, I grew them, Miles watered them for me. Or do you prefer biscuits? I always worry that they clog the heart.’

Tess let Lucasta shoulder the bulk of the conversational burden as she munched and sipped, Lucasta lifting the pot in both knobbly knuckled hands, wincing, to refill the dinky cups. ‘Are you feeling better? And is your vehicle mended now?’

Oh God. A nosy neighbour.

She fidgeted. She didn’t need to be overseen, explanations expected, she shouldn’t have come. How long before she could slink away? ‘Not yet.’

‘Miles said, when I asked if he’d met you, he said your motor needed to go for repair.’ From Lucasta’s twinkle, it seemed likely that she knew how the Freelander had come to grief.

‘Miles?’

‘Miles Rattenbury. It’s so nice, don’t you think, people restoring those old cars? Come from all over to MAR Motors so Miles can sort their precious MGAs or Cadillacs.’

Ah. The old American cars on the forecourt, the ageing Jaguar. ‘So he specialises in old cars?’

‘Old cars, fast cars, funny cars. It’s where the money is, Miles says. Fascinated by anything with an engine when he was young, always hanging round Carlysle’s place to have a go with the tractor or mess around with someone’s car.’ Lucasta waved a matchstick of carrot. ‘Making a complete nuisance of himself whenever he could get into the paddock at Silverstone.

‘His parents, Lester and Elisabeth, they would’ve liked him to follow Lester into law, perhaps, or accountancy. But no.’ She tipped out the final few bronze drops from the teapot.

‘And Miles did a year of an accountancy course but he hated it, dear.
Hated
it. Used to come home and be simply miserable when it was time to go back. So one day, he didn’t.’

Crunching celery, Tess considered. Miles Rattenbury; Ratty, sarcastic grumpy guts. But her impressions were shifting slightly. Strip away the tattoos, the sleeve-discarded T-shirts and the oil stains and the well-spoken, educated son of a solicitor began to come into focus.

The anniversary clock on the china cabinet rang the hour softly. Interrupting herself, Lucasta reached for an ivory box and took out a tablet. ‘Mustn’t forget.’ The last draught from her tiny cup. ‘Stupid thing. Getting old.’

Before she’d realised she was going to, Tess said, ‘I had to take tablets for ages ...’ An uncontrolled bleed, that’s what the hospital had called it, that terrifying, consciousness-sapping deluge of blood. She waited for a stream of questions but Lucasta just tutted sympathetically.

‘Horrible for you.’ A frail-boned hand bestowed a momentary, butterfly touch. Then Lucasta launched into a dry monologue about the trials of growing old. ‘It’s such a bore! I was quite lively, in my day, but I need to write everything down, nowadays.’ She flipped open a floral-covered pad of lists and notes in gorgeous script. ‘I don’t know where I’d be without my notebook. Look here, “
put chicken in oven by 10.30 a.m.”
.
How silly can you get?’ More pages. ‘And here, debating whether to move to sheltered accommodation.’ A sudden creaking laugh over a page split into ‘plus’ and ‘minus’ columns.

Tess looked, waiting politely for when she could make her excuses.

Lucasta smiled, skin as soft as rose petals, eyes faded to nearly grey, smiled gently. ‘I’ve rattled on! I won’t keep you.’

On her feet like a dog hearing its lead clinking, Tess paused at the front door. In the interests of graciousness, she ought to offer something in return for the little gifts. ‘You know where I am if you need anything.’

Lucasta creaked another laugh, tapping her stick. ‘Miles keeps an eye, though I’ve
told
him there’s no obligation. I’m used to looking after myself, my husband and I kept separate establishments.’

Wrong-footed, Tess managed only, ‘Really?’

Grey-blue eyes gazed across the garden. ‘It’s what we did in those days. Live apart, remain married. Pointless. Wasting our lives.’ Another touch of the fragile hand. ‘At least there’s Miles.’

Tess escaped, wondering what Miles Rattenbury had to do with anything.

And then, as she walked the few yards home, there he was, black curls swinging across his forehead, turning into the lane. A raised hand, perfunctory. She returned the smallest possible wave and bobbed through her own gate.

Workroom. To kid herself that she was doing some work she opened two new files, side by side, on her Mac. The first headed
Every Day
, the second
Overall.
Under
Every Day
she began a list, just like Lucasta’s:
work, correspondence, walk, shopping, read.

Moving to
Overall
she typed:
be positive, stop looking back, relax, phone home sometimes, go out, give in to the Curse when you have to, don’t eat sugar, don’t buy a television, get on with your life.

Back to
Every Day
:
eat sensibly.

A burst of energy, another new file,
To Do.
A quick glance around the workroom.
Roughs for book jacket, ideas for two new wolf drawings.

Back to
Overall
, and
finance.
Royalty cheques had come in whilst she’d been ill. Funds were accumulating. Grandmother leaving her capital had helped start the ball rolling; James’s dealings had improved her position. And, of course, she was successful. She sometimes forgot that.

Under all three headings she added,
SURVIVE WITHOUT OLLY!

With the lists stuck up on the wall, she got down, finally, to sorting the boxes, pads, portfolios and spilling folders.

At bedtime she wrote
begun
by
roughs
, and ticked
phone home
.

‘Did you realise ...?’

Tess woke from her dreaming study of the rippling countryside’s geometric browns and late dusty yellows and greens. Shook her head to clear the image of the baby that never was, that had never focused or grasped puffs of air with starfish hands. Never cried. Never fed. Never been a warm weight in her arms.

The baby that had quit her body and, minuscule and unformed as it had been, left an awful, gaping hollow in its place.

The man, striding up the hill in waxed jacket and green gumboots, glared from under a mop of brown floppy hair. Tess rose, warily. He didn’t seem too pleased to see her.

‘You’ve left the footpath.’

‘Oh, I’m sorr––’

‘I’ll have to ask you to leave. My father thinks all walkers are hell-bent on ignorant destruction.’

She flushed. The morning’s sketches had eaten the day until she’d dashed out to grab a last slice of autumn daylight. She’d so enjoyed the walk, the wind whisking her spirits, that she’d forgotten that large bits of countryside belonged to people.

Embarrassed, she turned to battle through the long grass up the hill. Then, realising the entrance into the copse lay to the right, changed direction. Or did it? She changed again. Halted.

Then the man was at her side, brown eyes kinder. ‘I’ve startled you. But we’ve had such a packet of trouble recently, my father gets so infuriated! We’ve had travellers on the land, crops spoilt, place turned into a furniture dump.’

He had an attractive smile. Tentatively, smoothing stray hanks of hair back behind her ears, Tess tried out her own smile in response. ‘I didn’t mean to trespass.’ Watched, with satisfaction, his eyes become interested. Nice eyes, too.

He seemed now to be recovering his manners. ‘Let me walk you a little way.’ He led her towards an opening that Tess now recognised quite plainly as the way home. ‘Are you visiting the village? Oh,
you’re
the new one from Honeybun!’

By the time they’d stumped back along the uneven footpath, pace slowing as conversation quickened, and he’d delivered her to the edge of the village, she was laughing and chatting as if they were old friends. She’d learnt that his family, the Carlysles, owned the estate, and that he, Simeon, helped with the management, ‘mainly by keeping out of everyone’s way’. He let his arm brush against hers as they walked, and made shameless use of his terrific smile.

And, somehow, she found herself agreeing to let him take her to the bonfire night on the estate later in the week. ‘All the village’ll be there, beer and hot dogs, great night.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Must go! Pick you up at six on the fifth?’

Marching up
Port Road
and
Cross Street
, Tess assessed Simeon Carlysle. Pleasantly friendly compared to Miles Rattenbury, he’d liked her, had been aware of her body, she’d caught him peeking. When she’d glanced back as she walked away, he’d been staring after her. Balm to her flattened ego.

He seemed harmless. Having a Seriously Nice Man interested in her would cheer her up a bit.

Absorbed in these thoughts, she stopped abruptly when she reached the bronze stone and slate roof of the village pub, The Three Fishes. She’d managed to turn the wrong way up
Main Road
.

But the pub looked inviting. Tubs of ivy, lights shining into the dusk, the sound of a guitar.
In you go, then.
Mmmm ... is it a good idea?
Yes, no one’s going to bite you
!

Initially, the buzz of after-work drinkers seemed welcoming enough. Someone was playing the guitar and singing a song that she’d heard Sting sing. But, as she stepped resolutely into the front-room atmosphere, she saw that it was Ratty, cradling the guitar, perched on a stool with his back to the bar. When he saw her, he stopped singing. The buzz halted as sharply.

Every head turned.
It’s a bad idea.

She froze.
Smile! Order a drink, nod at the men from the garage.
The sudden silence had not been – could not be – planned to make her feel like an intruder.

But ... Spinning suddenly, she ducked her head and blundered back through the door, hands clammy, heart bumping. She wasn’t ready, yet.

‘You’re not having a good day, are you?’ Tess studied the house spider as it floated, despairing legs spread, in her bleach-laced floor-washing water. ‘Drowning and poisoned. I wonder which will kill you?’

‘D’you generally talk to buckets?’

Tess jumped. The young mum she’d seen in the shop with the buggy was hovering by the open door, enquiring eyes smiling.

Carefully, Tess scooped up the casualty. ‘I’m counselling a dying spider.’

The intruder grinned like a pixie. ‘Kind of you. A big dog hasn’t come in here, has he? Springer?’ She dangled an empty collar.

Tess wiped damp hands. ‘Don’t think so.’

Rapid remarks carried the visitor into the room. ‘We haven’t met properly. You know Pete Sissins, from Ratty’s garage? We’re married, I’m Angel. Stupid name, isn’t it – Mrs Sissins. Missississins. Mustn’t be long, I’ve parked the children at your gate.’ A backward step, a peep to check. ‘It’s Ratty’s wretched dog, anyway, whenever he’s at an auction good old Angel gets stupid dog McLaren to mind, McLaren the escape artist. As if I haven’t got enough with two tiny kids!’

‘Absolutely.’ Tess wiped her hands again, wondering whether to invite Angel to stay. Or to offer to help find the dog.

But a fresh subject was already on Angel’s lips. ‘I want the kids to sleep so they won’t be grizzly this evening. Simeon says he’s invited you to the bonfire bash?’

Tess nodded, unsurprised that Angel and Simeon knew each other. Such was village life.

A laughing-faced springer appeared casually at the door, head on one side, much like Angel. ‘
Here’s
McLaren, look!’ Angel lunged with the collar. ‘Don’t put your dirty paws on the nice lady’s floor!’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘He’s like his master, never knows when he’s not welcome.’ Angel laughed, the comfortable laugh exchanged between friends. Tess felt a warmth awakening in response.