The Mysterious Miss Mayhew (22 page)

CHAPTER 32

If Tom had been acting in a film about a magazine, the day when it got put to bed would have been depicted as a dramatic race against time. And as he and Liz finally solved a terrible last-minute hitch, an office-wide cheer would have greeted the file winging its way to the printer.

In reality, most of the last-minute problems usually got sorted out during the marathon session the night before, where everyone worked late and ate takeaways. It was only Tom, Liz and Felix, just before lunch, giving the magazine the traditional last once-over. They rarely found anything wrong – although, famously, Liz had once picked up a typo – ‘Mr Rossiter, a keen strumpet player …’

Today there were no such hiccups. July’s magazine was sent off without any fanfare and now, as far as the writers and creative staff were concerned, it was August’s edition that they were thinking about.

Thinking about, but perhaps not acting on – after working flat out the day before, there was a tradition of
having a very long lunch and then sloping off early and Tom tended to turn a blind eye to it.

He wasn’t turning a blind eye to Fran though, and when he saw her get up and with her bag swinging from one hand leave the office, he waited a few minutes and went out too. He ‘bumped’ into her in the market square. Was she going home? No, just for lunch.

Well, in that case, could she spare an hour, just to discuss what the likelihood of her doing some more work for them would be? Possibly over a drink and a spot of food?

In the pub garden, they sat in the shade and discussed some of Felix’s ideas and she said they were interesting, but could she wait until after the weekend before she made a decision?

Tom wished she would take off her sunglasses, because they hid too much of her face. He had to settle for guessing what expression there was in her eyes as he watched her talk and drink and eat, and as he did, he felt sad that they couldn’t be doing this as a couple. That he couldn’t just lean across, whisper in her ear and then they would get up and leave and end up in a bed somewhere.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ Fran suddenly said and did take off her sunglasses. There was a sideways glance at him that stirred up even more thoughts of being in a bedroom with her, tangled up in each other and the bedding.

‘Only if I can ask you some too. Afterwards.’ He knew he’d used his flirting voice, although when it had last had an outing he couldn’t remember.

‘Didn’t you ask me enough at my interview?’ She grinned. ‘Almost as many as Hattie asked when I was babysitting.’

‘Ah, but she’s an expert, I’m just an amateur. And it wasn’t an interview.’

Fran was still grinning, so he grinned back and it felt to him like some kind of connection had been made.

‘It’s just …’ Fran was toying with the stem of her wine glass, ‘well, tell me to mind my own business, but I can’t stop thinking about your brother. In the cemetery. How upset he was. And … Natalie did tell me that he and Kath have had a very hard time with …’ Fran looked at him for help.

‘Having a baby?’ he said.

Fran winced. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I’m glad Natalie did tell me, what with the way I’m capable of putting my foot in things. So … I suppose what I really want to know is, has anything happened? Is Kath OK?’

‘She’s fine,’ he said, ‘it’s all going well … but …’

‘It’s all right, Tom.’ Fran moved her hand from the wine glass to put it over his. ‘Please don’t go on. It’s wrong of me to stick my nose into your business like this. Let’s talk about something else.’

A group of people passed by them to go to a table further up the garden. Her hand felt soft and warm on the back of his. Suddenly he was telling her everything.

He told her about the babies that Kath and Rob had lost before they’d gone to full term and about Rob’s panic attacks – one of which she’d witnessed in the cemetery – and his fears that not only would something go wrong, but that he’d be a terrible father. He told her that the thing that Rob was really worried about was letting Kath down.

Fran listened to it all with a sweet, grave expression. ‘So sad,’ she said when he had finished. ‘I suppose Kath’s very nervous about everything and relies on Rob for—’

‘No. She’s an exceptionally strong person. Picks herself up and goes for it. Never complains. You’d like her.’

Fran gave him a slow smile that made the hook work its way a little deeper into his heart.

‘I’m sure I would,’ she said and then seemed to remember her hand was on his and moved it back to the wine glass. He tried not to show how sad he felt about that.

‘So if Kath is so strong …’ Fran seemed to be thinking it through as she spoke, ‘I would think that all Rob has to do is not give her anything else to worry about?’

‘That’s exactly what I keep telling him.’

‘You do?’ she said and seemed happy that they had both
had the same thought. He felt that connection between them deepen, only to be jolted out of it when she added, suddenly serious, ‘You’re not afraid he’s going to bolt, are you?’

‘Oh God. I hadn’t even thought of that. Rob? No.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. My tactless gene kicking in again. It’s just … Well, some men do.’ She sat back in her seat and screwed up her eyes.

‘Rob won’t bolt,’ Tom said again, more definitely. ‘He might give himself a heart attack, but he’d have it holding Kath’s hand.’

She nodded, looking at a spot on the table. ‘You’re a good brother, Tom. He’s lucky to have you.’

‘Well, it might seem like that at the moment, but I’m actually the one who’s lucky to have him. And Kath. And Joan – that’s my mother. I wouldn’t have coped without all of them.’

He didn’t feel self-conscious unloading that.

‘And Hattie’s own mother …?’ Fran asked, delicately.

‘Decided she preferred her job,’ he said, not ready yet to extend his urge to tell the whole truth of every aspect of his life. ‘She’s in fashion and travels a lot. We keep in touch by phone and Skype. And we meet up. It works. Now … my turn to ask some questions.’

‘Fire away,’ Fran said and drained her glass.

‘OK. You told Hattie that you’d lived all over the place?’

Fran nodded. ‘Yes, Italy, France, America. My mother liked to travel.’

‘Must have been disruptive? I mean, not just on the schooling front.’

Fran shrugged. ‘Well, she settled down when I was about twelve. We stayed in one place then.’ Fran pulled a face. ‘More’s the pity.’

‘The island?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the religious community you mentioned?’

She did a quick look around to see who might be nearby, before leaning in towards him. He leaned forward too, glad of the excuse. She licked her lips.

‘It was more of a sect than a community, Tom. Sharing everything, if you get my drift. No boundaries, no heating, home-grown food, weaving our own clothes.’ He saw her swallow hard. ‘My mother loved it, but it got too much for me … I couldn’t take the intensity … So I stole a rowing boat one evening and escaped – I spent days drifting before I was picked up by a fishing trawler. Just as well, I was down to my last piece of whale blubber and dry biscuit.’

‘You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?’ he said.

He had never heard anyone hoot with laughter, but that was the only way to describe the sound that came out of
Fran’s mouth. It should have put him off, but he found he was laughing too.

‘Oh, Tom. Your face.’ She shook her head. ‘Priceless. I’m afraid the truth is less picturesque. The religious community was a very sedate collection of retired Church of England clergymen, academics, a smattering of monks and one or two Buddhists. They spent their time either contemplating God or offering guidance to those who came to the island for retreats. My mother was the housekeeper and cook.’

She was studying his reaction. ‘You look a bit disappointed. I’m sorry. Apart from all the travel, I’ve had a very mundane life.’ She picked up the glass and tipped it up again, obviously having forgotten she’d already finished her drink.

‘And your mother …’

Tom didn’t know how to finish the question and he wished he hadn’t asked it because Fran twisted her mouth and put down the glass.

‘Died at Christmas time,’ she said in a flat tone.

Well done, Tom … way to kill a good atmosphere
.

‘I’m sorry, Fran,’ he said and would have reached out for her hand if she had not, at that moment, put them both in her lap.

‘That’s all right,’ she said, simply. ‘It’s just been hard … you know. There was just her and me for so long—’

‘You’ve no other family?’

Fran wrinkled up her nose before saying, ‘Yes. But we’ve never been close. Still … no good wallowing.’ She reached out for her sunglasses. ‘We should probably go, do you think? Liz will be sending out a search party. We’ve had our hour.’

They walked back through the village and he wanted to apologise for the questions and for lowering her mood. But most of all he wanted to put his arms round her.

They passed the place where she had been parked when she shut her jumper in the boot and he remembered how spiky they had been with each other then, yet now, if she gave him the smallest sign, he would kiss her and not give a damn what anyone thought.

Had the question about Steph been a sign? The nice comment about how good a brother he was?

Before they went upstairs again, she stopped in front of the window of the art gallery.

‘Do you know who owns it?’ she asked. When he said it was Mrs Mawson, she replied, ‘Oh, I didn’t realise. The whole building?’

‘Are you hoping they might stock some of your sculptures?’

‘Well, possibly. It was just an idea.’

Was that another sign? One that meant she might be staying in the area?

He asked her straight out about her plans and she said, ‘This place is really growing on me, Tom. And the people.’

He was sure her gaze stayed with him for a beat too long, but it was so hard to tell with those sunglasses on. It was all he could do not to take her hand and hold it to his lips.

*

They had barely been back ten minutes when he called her into his office and handed her the phone.

‘Someone would like to speak to you,’ he said.

He watched her face as she put the phone to her ear and listened. It was Mrs Mawson, and he guessed she was telling Fran all the things that she’d just told him in an uncharacteristically effusive tone – ‘Such original work. My father would have been very proud that his tradition of excellence was continuing.’

He’d sent her a hard copy of the main features as he always did, just out of courtesy. She never usually made any comment at all.

Tom had expected Fran to simply look pleased, but her expression was one of unguarded happiness. He almost had to look away, it seemed so raw.

‘Thank you … very kind.’ she said at intervals and then,
‘Goodbye. Goodbye.’ before she handed him the phone and with a little closed-lips smile went back to her desk.

*

Tom was upstairs talking to Felix, but he couldn’t get his mind off those signs. Or how bereft Fran had looked when talking about her mother. He remembered her sad smile that evening when she watched Natalie and Hattie throwing chocolate beans at each other. The way Fran had dabbed his leg with the cotton wool.

Suddenly he didn’t give a stuff about the reasons why she was so wrong for him. All those doubts were sideshows compared to that connection he felt running between them. He was certain she felt it too.

I’m going to offer her a lift home and ask her out. There were signs, definite signs
.

Once the words had come into his head, he couldn’t rest until he’d talked to her. Having to stand there and finish his conversation with Felix was torture, but he managed it. And then he was walking towards the door leading to the stairs, feeling light on his feet, and as he pushed it open, he glanced down the stairwell. Fran and Jamie were a flight below him, standing on the landing just outside the main-office door. Their heads were close together and Fran had one of her hands on Jamie’s shoulder. It looked as if
they were ready to dance. Fran was talking softly and Jamie was nodding.

The intimacy between them was obvious.

This was the reason why Fran might stay in the area. It was nothing to do with Tom, but to do with the man whose copy she’d rewritten.

Tom remembered all those looks Fran had lavished on Jamie – the ones he’d chosen to conveniently forget in the onrush of his own desire for her.

He stepped back through the door, feeling as if he was witnessing something intensely private.

An older man on the outside looking in.

CHAPTER 33

Saturday 7 June

1) Tom is affected by stress like a sailing ship is affected by the wind. Yesterday, with the magazine put to bed, he transformed into
kind
Tom again.
Open
Tom.

2) Sunglasses are very good for hiding behind. Almost as good as untruths. Or should that be half-truths?

3) I don’t know much about fashion, other than that most of it seems designed to make you discontented with:

A. Your body.

B. Your income.

This ignorance, I suppose, makes me ill-equipped to comment on a woman who chooses it over her family. My mother used to say, ‘Do not judge others, lest you be judged yourself.’ But really, things over people? 1½ marks out of 3,000 – that’s my judgement.

4) Tom is a hopeless liar. If you’re going to say, ‘It works’,
then you should make sure your face is telling the same story as your mouth.

5) I’d like to meet Kath, she sounds … this is going to look patronising to anyone who reads it … courageous. The kind of courage that is just about clinging on and refusing to give up. I nearly had to put my sunglasses on again when Tom was telling me about her and Rob and the babies. I wish, too, that I believed in Something as my mother did, so I could pray that all will be right with this one. ‘It’s the furthest they’ve ever got,’ Natalie said when she told me. Of course the tragic effect of Natalie’s words was ruined by her adding, ‘Whereas my mother, she’s popping them out left, right and centre.’ I said I wasn’t sure about the left and right bit.