Thicker Than Water (2 page)

‘That’s nonsense!’ Tina said sharply, though she knew it to be true.

‘When he came back and asked me to marry him, I thought he’d realized it was me he wanted after all.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I should have known it was too good to be true.’ She brushed back a strand of hair, and Tina saw, with a lurch of the heart, that she was no longer wearing her ring. Would James be insensitive enough to give it to Abigail?

‘Don’t do yourself down,’ she said fiercely. ‘You’ve had plenty of other chances; Steve Barker, for one, has been after you for years. You’re an attractive woman, don’t you forget it, and just because my idiot brother is messing you about doesn’t alter the fact.’

‘What did he tell you – about her?’

Tina pressed down the plunger with more force than was warranted. ‘Very little. He doesn’t seem to know much himself, other than that she’s beautiful and no doubt sexy. She was attending an interior design course, but her background sounds very vague and she never mentioned her family.’ Tina hesitated. ‘She’s coming over this weekend. James wants us to meet her.’

Sylvie looked up sharply. ‘And will you?’

‘Not on your life.’ Tina put two mugs on the table and brought over the cafetière. ‘I phoned Ma earlier. I thought I ought to warn them, but there was no reply, and it wasn’t news I could leave on the answerphone. They’ll hit the roof when they hear about it.’

‘I haven’t told my parents yet. Only Grace knows, since she happened to be there. I keep hoping it’s all a mistake, that he’ll phone any minute and say it’s not true. God, Tina, it was only a week ago that we went to the cinema, and I spent the night at his flat. I was bracing myself for
five days
without him, not realizing it would be for ever.’

And, her voice breaking at last, she covered her face with both hands and began to cry.

Abigail turned on to the M40 and forced herself to concentrate on her driving – a difficult feat when her mind was in turmoil and the life she’d constructed so carefully was about to be turned upside down. Having learned from a young age that love led to loss and heartbreak, she’d resolved never to lay herself open to it, and until now, she’d succeeded.

There’d been relationships, of course, some lasting a year or two, but her emotions hadn’t been engaged, and as soon as marriage was proposed – as it invariably was – she’d ended the affair. Nor did she accept guilt; having made her position clear from the outset, she couldn’t be blamed if her partners believed they could change her mind.

But in James Markham she’d met her Waterloo, and over the last week had been drawn helplessly into a maelstrom of the very emotions she’d sworn to avoid. A part of her still had difficulty accepting this, yet the very fact that she was driving along this unfamiliar road to meet him, was proof enough.

It had started so innocuously, too; eye contact down the length of the hotel bar, his strolling over to enquire if by any chance she was enrolled on his course. Nothing momentous; such conversations were taking place all over the hotel, as attendees sought out others on the same syllabus, scheduled to start the next day.

From the first, though, there had been danger signals which she’d ignored at her peril, certain she’d remain in control as she always had. Not this time. They’d dined together at a corner table, over which they talked about their jobs, their interests, their views on current affairs. She learned that he worked in IT, lived in the Cotswolds, and had recently spent two years in the States. What he didn’t tell her until later that night, after they’d made love, was that he was engaged to be married. And by then it was already too late; lying beside him on the rumpled bed, she had known beyond doubt that, engagement or not, there was no way she could give him up.

On the second night, he had asked her to marry him.

And the irony, she thought now, was that she’d not intended to stay in the hotel. Living in London, she could have attended daily, but the course organizer had persuaded her otherwise, pointing out that she’d meld better with the group than if she returned home each evening. Incredible to think that if she hadn’t acquiesced, the odds were that she’d never have met James.

She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. A quarter to three. They’d agreed she should postpone her arrival until the afternoon, giving him time to break the news to his fiancée. Abigail felt a passing wave of sympathy for the girl, whoever she was. James had said little about her, and she’d not asked, thankful that at least they weren’t living together.

The road stretched ahead of her, with little to hold her interest, and her thoughts began to wander. It was a blessing, she reflected, that, working from home, she could do so as easily in Inchampton as in Pimlico. James had told her that though his flat wasn’t large, the loft had been converted at some stage, and while he used it only for storage, it could easily be made into a comfortable work room, the additional windows offering plenty of light. The possibility of moving to somewhere larger didn’t appear to be an option.

The CD ended and she inserted another, though she must be nearly there. Excitement began to build in her, anticipation at seeing James, and the prospect of their being alone together for twenty-four hours. Her turn-off was signalled, and as she left the motorway, she fumbled for the directions he’d given her and spread them out on the steering wheel. Then, as instructed, she switched on her hands-free mobile.

He picked up immediately. ‘Abigail?’

‘Hi. Just to let you know I’ve left the motorway.’

‘Great. You should be here in fifteen minutes. Pull into the pub car park I told you about – the White Bull. I’ll meet you there.’

Abigail followed the signs along quieter, narrower roads, lined by farms and cottages built of the local honey-coloured stone, with fields stretching on either side where cows and sheep grazed. She’d known Inchampton was a market town, but she’d not expected its surroundings to be quite so bucolic. A culture shock indeed, after the frenetic life she was used to.

And here, on her right, was the White Bull public house. She turned into the gateway, following directions to the car park behind the building. And there, leaning against the wall, James awaited her. She switched off the engine, and as their eyes met through the windscreen, was aware of a sudden awkward shyness. Then he was opening the door, helping her out, and enfolding her in his arms.

‘I wasn’t entirely sure you’d come,’ he said against her hair.

‘Why was that?’

‘Once back home, it all seemed like a dream.’

‘I know; I felt the same.’ She searched his face. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’

‘Do you have to ask?’

‘And your fiancée? How did she take it?’

His face sobered. ‘I think stunned is the word, but I didn’t hang around. Still –’ he straightened his shoulders – ‘the job’s done, so let’s forget it. Now, I’ll get in the car with you, and show you where to leave it. There’s no parking on the square, but we have an access road behind, with parking bays. They’re supposed to be for delivery vehicles, but a blind eye is turned for residents.’

‘I’m not a resident – yet.’

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘You soon will be.’

Under his direction, she drove out of the pub car park and turned right to continue into town. It was more built-up now, houses, a filling station and a parade of shops lining the road. Then, ahead of her, it widened into a square, and just before they reached it, James indicated a turning to the right, and she obediently slipped into it. The access road was narrow and cobbled, but as he’d said, parking bays lined it on both sides, most of them empty this Saturday afternoon.

‘Go in this one,’ James instructed, ‘next to my car. It’s almost directly behind the flat, but there’s no rear access, so we have to go round the front.’

He took her case from the boot, and they walked together in the warm autumn sunshine round the corner and into the market square. It was an attractive setting, with a small open-sided building in the centre, topped with a clock. Scattered around it, market stallholders were engaged in packing up and reloading their vans, while a few last-minute shoppers poked among the remaining wares. A selection of interesting-looking buildings surrounded the square; several accommodated shops, one was a pub, and a tall, gabled building looked like the Town Hall.

‘This is the oldest part,’ James said, with proprietary pride. ‘As you can see, there’s a T-junction at the far side. The right-hand leg leads to the new shopping centre, cinema, supermarket, and so on, and the left to the church, railway and bus stations. The town’s expanded a lot in the last few years, but thankfully the planners tried to harmonize with the original buildings.’

He stopped in front of a smartly painted door with a brass knocker, sandwiched between what looked like an office, closed for the weekend, and a bakery-cum-café, from which enticing aromas emanated.

James, turning the key in the lock, saw her appreciative sniff, and grinned. ‘That’s where my breakfast comes from – croissants, hot rolls, warm bread, even Danish if you can stomach it.’

‘My breakfast consists of yogurt and black coffee,’ Abigail told him.

‘What’s the betting I’ll convert you? Now, welcome to Markham Towers.’

He flung open the door, which gave on to a flight of linoleumed stairs, and stood back for her to enter. She went slowly up them, and, emerging from the stairwell, found herself on a small landing. The door to her left stood open, displaying a wide room flooded with sunshine, through the windows of which lay a panorama of the square they’d just left.

James deposited her case on the landing and took her elbow. ‘In you go.’

Abigail, allowing herself to be led forward, looked about her with pleasure. The floor was polished wood, adorned with a couple of vibrantly coloured rugs, the walls pale and for the most part bare, but a striking abstract over the fireplace echoed the rugs’ vivid shades. Sofa and armchairs were in soft, honey leather, and on a low table was a tray bearing two champagne flutes. The general ambience was of comfort and welcome.

James was watching her anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s – great. Just great.’

He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Really? I’ve been wondering how my humble abode would appeal to an interior designer.’

She laughed. ‘Now you know. And what a fabulous view.’

She walked to the window, noting that beyond the busy little town lay encircling hills, gilded now by the late afternoon sun.

James followed her, slipping an arm round her waist. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I often stand here, just people-watching. I love being the centre of things – a residue, perhaps, of two years in New York.’ His arm tightened. ‘Oh, Abigail, it’s so wonderful to have you here.’

She turned her head to him, surrendering to his searching kiss before giving a little laugh. ‘We’re right in front of the window, remember! You might not be the only one who people-watches!’

‘True! Come on, I’ll show the rest of my domain. It’s just two large rooms, this and the bedroom, and what estate agents call “the usual offices” – a minute galley-kitchen, which I confess I use as little as possible, and an en suite off the bedroom.’

‘You mentioned a loft conversion?’ Abigail said tentatively.

‘That’s right.’ He gestured at a trap door in the hall ceiling. ‘We’ll have to organize some sort of ladder if you want to use it; I just stand on a chair and haul myself up.’

The bedroom décor was similarly understated, and Abigail, noting the large and comfortable-looking bed, felt a shaft of jealousy as she pictured James there with his fiancée. This, too, was a new emotion, and not one she relished.

‘There’s champagne in the fridge,’ he said. ‘It’s a little early, perhaps, but this is a special occasion.’

‘Never too early for champagne!’

He retrieved the bottle en route to the living room. Yes, she thought; once that loft ladder is in place, I could happily live here. There was a satisfying pop as the cork was removed, and James poured the foaming liquid into the flutes.

‘Here’s to us, my darling,’ he said, handing her one. ‘For ever and ever, amen!’

‘Amen!’ she echoed, and, holding each other’s eyes, they drank.

And in the same minute a buzzer sounded in the hall, making them both jump.

James swore. ‘Who the devil can that be?’ He left the room and Abigail, the glass still in her hand, felt a frisson of unease. Could the jilted fiancée, recovering from being ‘stunned’, have arrived to make a scene?

‘Yes?’ James said abruptly into the entry phone.