Starting Over (30 page)

‘If he slapped you, why on earth didn’t you tell me?’

Impatient at the interruption, she snapped back round to James. But saw something in his eyes, unhappiness, a flicker of guilt, to make her pause, make her voice reasonable, rueful. ‘You’d have said something like, “He must have had his reasons”
.
’

James was silent. He stared into the fireplace. Until he was ready for a sudden, cold, vicious about-turn. ‘I think I’m going to have to see him.’

‘Chop his head off,’ agreed Ratty, encouragingly.

‘For God’s sake!’ She freed her hands from Ratty, who was turning each of her rings around to inspect the patterns, and gripped her father’s arm instead, speaking slowly, calmly, emphatically. ‘I don’t want you to.
Don’t
act on my behalf, unasked and unwanted. Stay out of it, OK?’ She softened her expression and her voice. ‘If it makes you feel any better, Ratty’s already evened up the score a bit. Right? Stay out.’

‘I am your father.’

Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘Too late! When I needed that, you were ambivalent. When I craved sympathy, you divided yours with Olly. But I’ve found my own way. Just ... just remember I’m an adult. Respect me. Maybe we’ll get along. I’d like that.’

He wasn’t surprised when, as soon as Jos went out on the breakdown, Pete appeared at his side. ‘Unexpected day off, yesterday.’

Spanner in his hand, Ratty tightened a series of bolts, beginning the round again, methodical, measured. ‘You know how it is. One of those days when I just couldn’t seem to get out of bed.’

Pete laughed, clapped him on the shoulder. ‘So it all worked out?’

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m
shaking
, it worked out so well.’ He returned to each bolt for a final time, that last crucial check.

‘I had to physically restrain Angel from ringing, she was gagging to know what happened!’

Straightening, Ratty finally let Pete meet his eyes. ‘I’m glad she didn’t.’

‘So ... no complaints?’

‘None.’ Ratty let the pause develop. He knew his grin was smug.

‘Everything you wanted?’

‘Sure.’

‘Rats! C’mon, share! Was it worth the wait?’

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Christ, it was! She’s wonderful, she’s fantastic, we’re fantastic together. I just can’t get enough of her.
Yessss
, it was worth the wait!’

Pete went back to the distributor on the bench, chuckling. ‘I’ve never seen you like this before.’

‘Never been like it before. The real thing’s just ... amazing!’

Amazing that he should admit it, too, he who’d played the field at Olympic level, careful never to get too tied up, cynical about his best bets, ruthless when he got tired.

And now it was him surfing this tidal wave of passion after such a frustrating wait. Nobody, not even Pete, knew quite how bad it’d been, waiting for Tess to realise she loved him. How he’d struggled to give her space, how it went against his character to admit to himself that he,
he
, having finally bestowed his love, must machinate like mad for reciprocation.

How he’d held it together he didn’t know, when she’d persistently slid her eyes away and pretended not to feel the spark. The torture of the near-miss after the Spring Ball; how he hadn’t gone out and laid everything in sight, he, who thought sex had been invented especially for him. And whenever she laughed off the idea of romance, how he’d prevented himself from flaring up and shaking sense into her.

But he’d done it. Coolly played himself into being a winner and now his prize was this wonderful, magnificent love, this desirous lover. This gorgeous, sexy woman, the hang-on-tight, never-known-anything-like-it sex.

It had been worth it, yes, it had. But nobody realised how desperate he’d been; how frantically he’d had to hope.

The phone was greasy from a thousand oily hands when he lifted it from the bench where Pete had left it. Astounding that James Riddell should phone the garage. What the hell? ‘Yep?’

‘Is Tess all right?’

‘Fine.’ He listened to James’s hollow breathing.

‘As her father, I feel I ought to ... Her mother and I love her very much.’

He raised his eyebrows, searched for a response. ‘I’m sure.’

A scratching, fidgeting noise, as if James was scribbling whilst he chose his words. ‘I feel I’ve let her down.’

Ratty let the pause stretch itself, because what could he say to contradict that?

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yep.’

‘I want ... I’m ringing ...’

Ratty looked at the clock on the garage wall whilst he waited for James to order his words. What would Tess be doing at 2.33 p.m. on the first Tuesday they’d been together? Working? He pictured her bending close to her paper, wielding a delicate brush or making feathery strokes with a pencil. Would her mind be on him? Perhaps on their lovemaking, new and fresh and consuming. And exhausting. Or walking? Maybe with Angel, Jenna and Toby, maybe through the village, maybe they’d call in.

Or she could be out in her beloved Freelander. He wasn’t, to be honest, wild about driving with her. It unnerved him when she was distracted by the magic colours of a deep lilac bush lit by horizontal sun against a leaden sky; he could see exactly how she’d arrived in his life by smashing into his truck.

Maybe he’d phone her in a few minutes. Just for the chance of hearing her voice. Whisper, ‘
Hullo Princess, I love you
.’

He switched his attention back to James, who was blowing out a long sigh. ‘If you and Tess are, um, together now, I want you to ...’ He listened unhelpfully to another hesitation. ‘We want her to be happy.’

‘So do I.’

‘We don’t want her to have more trouble.’

‘Neither do I.’

Another pause. ‘D’you think things will work out between you?’

‘Yes.’

James laughed uneasily. ‘That’s uncompromising!’

‘I am.’

‘Young man, you’re making this very difficult!’

Through the door he noticed the trees were budding again and the birds were busy. He returned to the conversation. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t suppose you want me to comment on your behaviour? I certainly don’t want you to comment on mine. I accept you love Tess, if you want reassurance, I love Tess, and I’ll be good to her.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’

‘We’re going to be good together. Don’t concern yourself.’

She still did it, made to turn in at Honeybun Cottage. Had actually pulled up in the wrong drive on occasions, then remembered that she’d moved to Pennybun and giggled aloud before reversing into the lane to drive fifty yards to the next gate. Next door. They lived next door, in freshly plastered rooms, colours they’d chosen together, a mixture of her furniture and Ratty’s.

Honeybun could be rented out, earn its keep like Ratty’s properties, when she got round to it, when she adjusted herself to letting it go and finally moved the last of her things from Honeybun to Pennybun. When she was used to living at Pennybun, had finished grumbling, ‘It does my head in! Everything’s back to front here.’

‘You’ll cope.’ He’d grin, catch her, snatch her close, making her yelp at his suddenness. Kiss her, hands pushing past elastic, flicking open buttons. ‘It can’t be that difficult to sort out a mere five rooms.’

‘But,’ she tipped her head back as his hand pulled gently at the length of her hair, shivering when the scratchiness of his stubble nuzzled the delicate skin of her neck, ‘they’re five
back-to-front
rooms.’

‘Tess Through the Looking Glass.’

‘That’s exactly how it feels.’

It did feel odd in Pennybun, turning left to the stairs from the kitchen instead of right, or arriving in the bathroom instead of her peaceful blue-painted workroom. It didn’t yet feel like home.

Through the kitchen door that opened the other way, then she put the kettle on the range – where the stairs should be – shouting, ‘Ratty?’ Just in case he might already be home. The tiny wood-framed sofa in the corner beckoned. She dropped into its familiar comfort, clutching hot chocolate. There wasn’t room for a sofa in the kitchen really but Ratty insisted a chair wasn’t enough. Where she might sit he wanted room to squash in.

McLaren laughed down at her from one wall, young Lucasta smouldered from another.

They lived together. Ratty and Tess. Just the two of them at Pennybun.

A beatific existence of exploring each other, shut off from the rest of the world whenever they wanted. Or out together, supplying the wine for Angel’s terrific meals, babysitting, borrowing the children occasionally. No ties to stop them attending a hill climb, camping out at the Cambridge Folk Festival, mixing with the petrolheads at the grand prix, walking hand in hand up the road to The Three Fishes. They even visited each set of parents, occasionally, and, once, risked both sets together at a meal in a restaurant by the river.

But best was being here, the two of them, at Pennybun.

She felt as if she’d recovered after flu. Ratty had cured her, woken every nerve end, wooed her into delicious, watery-legged libidinous intimacy. Whenever he reached for her she was ready and whenever she reached for him ... Joy to be a partner instead of a puppet.

She checked her watch, he wouldn’t be long. Shedding his overalls at the door, trying to hug her without contact with his half-cleaned hands, talking about this Ford Anglia Super and that Wolseley, drawing her up the stairs with his conversation, to be there whilst he showered. Towelling black curls, one step, two step, all damp and hot from the shower, scooping her up for a proper, minutes-long embrace. ‘Kiss me,’ he’d whisper into her neck. Tell her how he’d been thinking about her, melt her with his hot breath, gentle hands, urgent lips.

How often they made love, then, when he’d been those eight or nine hours away from her. How often he smooched her over to the bed in their green-and-gold bedroom, swung her feet up and dropped down beside her into the depths of the duvet. ‘I love you, sexy woman.’

Home soon.

If she sat there dreaming much longer, wondering what was going to happen, unfold, change, he’d be home.

Disappointingly, he phoned instead. ‘I’ve got to take the wrecker to Oundle. Tubb’s in trouble with his Daimler Sovereign.’

‘It’s a nice run to Oundle,’ she remarked hopefully.

‘Squashed in with Harry Tubb?’

Sweaty. Funny smile. No, maybe not. She liked stone-built Oundle, if not for Harry Tubb they could have snatched a bar meal somewhere, been alone in the darkness of the cab of the wrecker to drive home. She could have told him.

And by the time he did stroll in, hanging up his keys, Guy had turned up, and Ratty just kissed her and said easily, ‘Dinner guest?’ Which meant Guy felt invited to stay, desultorily washing salad whilst Tess made spaghetti carbonara.

Then Guy lingered, talked on and on about that holiday in Munich when he and Tess had walked the tall streets among the statues and monuments, supported the German way of setting out benches and tables at every gathering and calling it a Fest. Did she remember applauding the gold-painted mime beneath the Glockenspiel? Standing on the very steps where Hitler gave the Munich Address, attempting a polka in a bierkeller, swaying to drinking songs they didn’t understand? And remember that man who’d refused to say ‘Prost!’ with Tess because, to counterbalance prodigious amounts of alcohol, she had water in her
Maßkrug
!

They’d lost their way and taken directions from a German Scotsman in a swirling kilt. James had exploded down the phone because Tess rang home drunk at 4 a.m.

Guy had had to borrow money. ‘I don’t know what happened to mine.’

‘You spent it!’

Guy nodded as if the idea hadn’t previously occurred. ‘Probably.’

Then Guy got round to asking Ratty whether he’d be interested in a TR7 going up for sale. Tess loaded the dishwasher whilst they concluded that Ratty wasn’t interested unless it was black and gold, a good seller. But he wouldn’t want to pay a lot.

She tuned it out. Ratty got on with everyone, when he chose. He’d offer unstinting hospitality because Guy was her cousin. As long as Guy behaved, he was welcome. If he displayed any of his occasional tendencies to use her, Ratty would turn on him like an unpredictable Alsatian.

It was wonderful to have someone sticking up for her and she never ceased to appreciate it. And it was nice to see Guy. But she wished he’d go.

‘I thought he’d never leave!’

‘Certainly made himself at home. Did he ask for money?’

‘Not this time. He wanted you to buy that car.’

‘P’raps he’ll get a drink out of it if he sells it. Are you ever coming to bed tonight?’

‘In a minute.’ She shook her hair from its clasp.

‘Here, Princess.’ He held out his hand for the hairbrush. He never tired of sitting behind her, brushing until her hair lay like rose gold down to her waist. Then pulling her down beside him, letting the hair slither through his fingers, pulling her against him.