Staverton (20 page)

Satsuki rounded on me as soon as we entered the ladies’ toilets. “How long have you known Michael?” she asked, raising one well-plucked eyebrow.

“Since we were children,” I said. “I was at school with his sister.”

Satsuki nodded and opened her mouth again, presumably to ask another question, but I didn’t give her the chance and dashed inside a cubicle, shutting the door firmly behind me. I took my time, hoping she’d be gone when I came out.

No such luck.

When I exited the cubicle, I saw her standing in front of the mirror, applying red lipstick. As I turned on the tap to wash my hands, she said, “Michael seemed very happy to see you.”

“Um, I suppose.”

I hit the soap dispenser too hard, and the liquid soap shot out, leaving a slimy, gooey mess on the front of my dress. “Oh, no.”

I looked around for some paper towels to clean up the mess, but there weren’t any. Only large hot air driers fixed to the wall.

I made my way back to the toilet cubicle and grabbed a length of toilet roll. As I tried to wipe the soap away, the tissue started to break up, leaving little white fragments behind on the black material of my dress.

“Damn it,” I muttered and threw the screwed-up tissue in the rubbish bin. I would just have to hold my wrap in front of me to hide the mess.

I looked up at Satsuki, who was regarding me with amusement. I had evidently eased her concern that I might be a threat.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” she said. “You can hardly notice it.”

I knew the concert would be starting again soon, so I gave up and moved towards the exit. Satsuki followed me.

“How long have you and Michael been together?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“It’s still early days,” Satsuki said, giving me a catlike smile. “I work for him at his gallery.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling more cheerful. “So you’re not together...”

“Things are... progressing,” she said.

I walked through the door and held it open behind me for Satsuki. Progressing was an odd word choice, but I knew what she meant. She was warning me off, telling me Michael was taken.

When we walked back to the lobby, most of the crowd had ebbed away. The concert was about to restart, but Michael and Jake lingered near the bar and Angela and Lawrence had joined them.

I cursed under my breath. I had really hoped to avoid Lawrence tonight. He made me feel like a scared child.

I clutched my wrap in front of me, trying to hide the soap mark on my dress.

“Lucy, darling!” Angela swooped forward to kiss my cheek, flooding me with the scent of Chanel No. 5.

As Angela chatted away, I did my best to smile and answer her questions politely, but all the time I could feel Lawrence’s cold eyes on me. It was ridiculous after all these years, but I couldn’t help it.

“Lucy,” Michael said. “We’re all going to have a late supper after the concert. You should join us, with your date of course.” Michael frowned and scanned the lobby. “Did you come with someone?”

I wished the floor would swallow me. “No. Actually, I mean, I was supposed to be coming with someone, but he had to work,” I stammered. “He works really hard. He was very disappointed he couldn’t come, but he works so hard...” I was babbling. Everyone was staring at me. “Thank you for the invitation, but I need to go straight home after the concert. I better get back to my seat, before the second half.”

After we exchanged awkward goodbyes, I rushed back to my seat, with my cheeks burning. I tried to put Michael and Satsuki out of my mind. He was gorgeous, so of course he would have a gorgeous girlfriend to match. I had to put this silly schoolgirl crush behind me and move on. I would graduate soon, and I had a whole life ahead of me. One that didn’t involve Michael or his family.

***

Life after university didn’t go quite to plan. I graduated, in front of a cheering Freddie and Bess, with a 2.I, and I thought it was only a matter of time until a job managing an art gallery fell in my lap. But it didn’t.

The first job I managed to get was in an antiques shop, and I told myself it was suitable because it did actually sell art. The little old man who ran it was a bit creepy, and had a cat he dressed up in little outfits. My boss would say things like, “No, I don’t think Mr. Rupert would like that.”

At first, I assumed he was talking about a person, perhaps his business partner, but no. It turned out Mr. Rupert was the cat. I didn’t stay there long.

My next job was at a small museum in Edinburgh, acting as a guide. I imagined myself showing fascinated tourists around the exhibits, perhaps getting tips on the side. Instead, I ended up showing groups of school children around the museum, who were even more bored than I was, and who threw polo mints and screwed-up paper at my back. I didn’t last long there either.

My third job lasted longer than the previous two put together. Not that I liked it. Far from it. I thought perhaps I stayed because I had given up hope, and at least it paid the rent and my student loan. And the manager promoted me within a month. Although, that said more about the rest of the staff than it did about me.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly the end of my shift, and I couldn’t wait to get home and put my feet up. The neon sign above the counter that read “Nancy’s American Diner” was flickering and giving me a headache.

“Hey, Lucy. Do you want to come for a drink after the shift?” asked Claire, a pretty eighteen-year-old, who still managed to burn the burgers, despite working at the diner for over a year.

“I can’t tonight,” I said and looked out into the dining area. “There are only a few customers left. I think we can probably close up soon.”

As I spoke the door opened and a group of four people came in. Typical.

“I guess you spoke too soon. Do you want me to serve them?” Claire asked.

I couldn’t answer. I stood rooted to the floor with my mouth gaping open. Out of the four new customers, I recognized two: Caroline and Michael.

“Lucy!” Caroline strode up to me, looking incredibly pleased with herself. She leaned across the counter, pulled me forward, and kissed my cheek. “I’m only back for a couple of days, but I had to come and visit.”

“You could have come to see me when I wasn’t at work,” I said.

The other couple, who came in with Caroline and Michael, stared around at the diner. They were probably more used to tea at the Ritz.

I turned to Claire. “I’m going to take a ten-minute break, can you cover?”

Claire nodded, and I walked to the nearest booth and gestured for them all to sit. Caroline looked great, dressed in a tight top, jeans and knee-length boots. I didn’t even dare to look at Michael. I knew I looked awful in my horrendous red and white, polyester uniform. I started to sweat and felt the fabric stick to my back.

“So,” Caroline leaned forward across the table and took my hands in hers. “How have you been?”

“Okay, pretty good.” I kept my gaze on the table. “They made me deputy manager.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Now they’d think this was the pinnacle of my career ambitions.

I pulled my hands away from Caroline and sneaked a look at Michael. He looked good, tanned, obviously recently back from yet another foreign trip. Maybe Spain this time. Caroline had mentioned something about Spain, but I couldn’t remember. I’d lost track of all the holidays.

He looked around the diner, at the shiny metal rails, the red and white striped décor, then looked at me and said, “Don’t think much of the art work.”

His eyes were soft, and from the tone of his voice, I knew he was teasing, but I wanted to slap him. And Caroline. And their stupid friends.

Did Caroline really think I wouldn’t mind them all turning up like this? I should never have told Caroline where I was working.

I stared at the ketchup holder on the table in front of me, as though the fake tomato was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“This is Tina and Bryce,” Caroline said and nodded at the other couple.

“Oh, hello,” I said.

Bryce nodded, and Tina gave a flick of her hair, then they went back to pointing at things and laughing at the menu.

“We were planning a night out, starting with dinner. Can you come? My treat,” Michael said.

His treat. Obviously because I couldn’t afford the place they were planning to visit.

“Yeah, we’re getting some proper food,” Tina laughed and put down the menu.

I shuffled along the seat and got up out of the booth. “I’d love to, but I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Caroline said. “Why?”

“I’ve got to close up this place and –”

“Can’t you get one of them to do it.” Caroline peered around me at Claire who was wiping down the counter.

“No. I can’t. It’s my job,” I said, with more pride than I felt. “And beside I have plans. I made them weeks ago. So I can’t come, sorry.”

“Oh well, never mind,” Tina said, inching out of the booth, with Bryce behind her.

“Maybe next time?” Michael said.

One day. Next time. The story of my life, I thought.

After they left, I went through to the kitchen, telling Claire I needed to check the fryers, but really I just didn’t want the rest of the diner to see the stupid tears in my eyes. Once I calmed down, I took a cloth and the disinfectant spray through to the seating area, to clean up.

There on the table where Caroline and Michael had been sitting was a crisp, clean twenty pound note. I picked it up and scrunched it up in my hand. How dare they? The patronising...

“Are you all right?” Claire asked, walking toward me with a mop in her hand. “I need to wash this bit under the table then we’re done.”

I nodded and handed her the money. “They left you a tip,” I said and went to get the keys.

Chapter 28

That night may have been the most humiliating moment in my life so far, but at least it motivated me to do something. I’d gone straight home after work, stripped off my sweaty work uniform and had a long soak in the bath. Feeling slightly more human, I started to work on my new CV, and surfed the internet for jobs in galleries, jobs in museums, jobs even vaguely related to art.

And it worked. Six months later, I sat in Beaufort’s Gallery just off Dundas Street in Edinburgh.

I shared a lovely little office out the back, with my boss, who so far seemed perfectly normal and didn’t have a cat called Mr. Rupert.

The area at the front of the shop for displaying art work was small, but I tried to use the space effectively, drawing the customers in. I arranged the paintings so the customer had to walk around the gallery in a spiral. That way the customers got to see every painting, one at a time, rather than being overwhelmed by everything at once.

A month or so after I started working at the gallery, we held an exhibit for a local artist, and a photograph of me smiling proudly beside the artist made the papers. Although the exhibit was very good, the huge amount of media interest was actually because one of the tabloids discovered the artist was having an affair with a television celebrity. It even made the nationals.

I lived in a small one-bedroom flat above the gallery, so getting to work in the morning was a breeze. We didn’t open until ten, but I liked to get downstairs a little before that, to set up a pot of coffee and check through the mail.

As I reached down to gather up the post, a brightly coloured postcard caught my attention. I smiled and turned the card over to read the back. It was from Caroline.

I didn’t know much about concert tours, but I was pretty sure Caroline had cracked it. I had seen reviews in the music press for London, Paris and New York.

A Spanish lady adorned the front of this postcard, and on the back Caroline had scrawled: Madrid is fab! Having a blast! I smiled and pinned the postcard to the cork-board in my office, along with the others. I did e-mail Caroline now and then, but rarely got a reply because her concert tour was so hectic.

I shuffled through the rest of the mail. Mostly fliers and a couple of bills. A blue envelope caught my attention because it was handwritten and addressed to me, rather than the gallery.

I tore open the envelope and pulled out the handwritten letter. I read the first two lines, then froze. An icy chill ran along my spine.

The letter was from Malcolm Rutherford, Gwen’s husband.

I placed it flat on the desk in front of me. Why on earth would he be writing to me? I stared at the letter for a minute while I collected my thoughts. Should I read it? Perhaps I should throw it in the bin and pretend I never received it.

A glance at my watch told me it was almost nine-thirty, my boss would be here soon, and this letter was something I wanted to keep to myself. I grabbed the letter and ran upstairs, back to my flat. I could read it there without being disturbed.

When I finished reading, I picked up my mobile phone. I needed to cancel my plans for tonight.

Chapter 29

There was only one person I could talk to about the letter. Freddie.

The morning at the gallery dragged. I couldn’t help thinking about Gwen, her swaying walk, her red lips and the way men seemed to gravitate to her. I didn’t mind remembering her like that. Those memories were far better than the nightmares I’d had in the weeks after the murder. Better than remembering her on the floor of the study, dark blood congealed in her hair.

We had a delivery of new paintings at lunchtime that I needed to sort through and organize, but my mind was on Malcolm’s letter and memories of Staverton, and I kept making mistakes. After the third mislabelled canvas, my boss asked if I was feeling okay. After the fifth, she suggested I leave early.

The train journey from Edinburgh, followed by the bus to Eversleigh wore down my patience. I had forgotten how terrible the public transport was around here. I’d wanted to surprise Freddie. It seemed a good idea at the time, but now as I dragged my small case behind me along the main high street, I regretted not calling him from the station.

At the base of the hill, I paused to catch my breath, looking up at the cloudless, blue sky. Someone had recently cut their grass, and the soft, sweet scent mingled with the salty smell of the sea. The usual biting wind had died away to a gentle breeze. It was the perfect day for a leisurely stroll. But not so perfect for tackling the steep hill up to Freddie’s cottage.