THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Nel was driving back from visiting a woman who made particularly unpleasant homespun bags, which Nel had resolved not to have anywhere near her market, however well the producer complied with the regulations, when she found herself near the pub where Jake had taken her to dinner.
Although she spent her whole time warning herself off him, she decided to indulge herself with a little sentimental detour. After all, in the years to come, it might be the little memories of their brief times together which would keep her going through the dark days and nights.
There were roadworks just by the pub, and while she waited at the temporary traffic lights she had a good opportunity to inspect the car park. She remembered him finding somewhere to park so she wouldn’t have to step in a puddle. So thoughtful.
Then she saw his car. He was there! Her heart jumped and she half considered turning into the pub and finding him. She could make some excuse; if he was busy with clients she needn’t speak to him, she could simply ask directions or use the loo and leave. Suddenly her need to see him again was overpowering. She was just looking in her rear-view mirror and regretting that the awkward entrance and the roadworks meant it would be better to go on to the next roundabout than to try and negotiate her way into the car park from here, when he came out. He was with Kerry Anne.
‘Don’t panic,’ she told herself, perspiration already forming at her hairline and down her back. ‘Pierce will appear at any moment. It’s just a business lunch, but maybe it’d be better not to go in.’
The traffic lights were still red. Now she urged them to change so she wouldn’t be tormented by the sight of Kerry Anne and Jake together. She couldn’t stop watching them. She saw him walk with Kerry Anne to another car – her car, apparently. So they hadn’t come together. Was that significant? And where was Pierce?
Of course it must be just business. But three things arrived simultaneously in her mind and collided with bitter precision: the image of Kerry Anne flirting with Jake the first time Nel met her in his office; Simon’s voice coolly telling her he had seen Jake and Kerry Anne having lunch; and the memory of the American voice on the telephone at Chris Mowbray’s house.
Kerry Anne. Jake. Chris. Chris who was so keen on Gideon Freebody’s plans. Jake who seemed so keen on Kerry Anne, who wanted to make as much money as possible out of her husband’s inheritance. As the Hunstantons’ solicitor, Jake was in a very good position to persuade Pierce and Kerry Anne that selling the land to Gideon Freebody was the best thing to do. If they sold to Abraham, or let Abraham develop the site, Gideon Freebody would get nothing. And if Jake was in league with Gideon Freebody, that would be the last thing he’d want.
Nel suddenly began to really sweat. She felt sick, and her head swam as if she was physically ill. Oh God, I am so stupid! She wanted to cry, not the sentimental tears which slipped out of the corners of her eyes several times a day, but the kind of racking, heart-tearing sobbing she hadn’t done for a long time. Jake was making up to her, had seduced her, even, because she was the most engaged person on the board of the hospice. The other committee members, except of course Vivian, tended to follow Chris Mowbray’s lead. Chris must have been confident he could steer them towards Freebody, but not her. Jake had been primed to keep her quiet, so she wouldn’t make waves.
Maybe she did always see the good in people, but she was not entirely stupid, she knew a rat when she saw one, knew when she’d been stitched up. She wiped her forehead in an agony of remorse and despair. For a moment, she felt she’d despoiled Mark’s memory and their happy years together, allowing her senses to cloud her brain like that. She rubbed the space between her eyes with her finger fiercely, as if trying to erase what she had done.
Kerry Anne was now searching in her bag for keys. Jake took them from her and opened her car door. She turned to him, stood on her tiptoes and put her arms round his neck, pulling his head down so she could reach.
The car behind her alerted her to the fact that the light had gone green. He hooted, loudly, and stuck his head out of the window and shouted. She put the car in first gear and moved off, unable to see Jake’s reaction. It was terrible, not knowing if he had responded to that tender, affectionate gesture.
But whether he did or not, this confirmed it. There was definitely something going on between Jake and Kerry Anne. She’d been mad to pretend to herself that there wasn’t. Now she’d seen it, with her own eyes.
In some strange way it was a relief to know the worst. Her thoughts and dreams were all despoiled by the sight of that tall man leaning down to kiss a tiny, pretty, greedy woman, but at least she knew. She was out of her misery. She bit her lip to stop herself crying. If she cried she’d have to pull over and do it properly and she wanted to get home. Out of one’s misery. Such a strange expression. What it really meant, in this case, was that she was tipped so deeply into her misery that she may never claw her way out of it.
Fleur was at home when Nel got there. ‘Hi, Mum, cup of tea?’
‘Actually, darling, I think I need something stronger. Have we got any whisky? Burrow about behind the cornflakes and see what you come up with.’
Nel went into the sitting room and hauled the nearest spaniel onto her knee. There was nothing like a spaniel on your tummy for instant comfort. But at that moment it would take a whole Crufts’ worth of spaniels to make a dent in her despair. Still, it was good to have Fleur to talk to, to be normal in front of.
‘Simon rang,’ called Fleur from the kitchen. ‘I’ve found some. How do you like it?’
‘In a glass. Very simple. What did Simon say?’
‘Nothing much. He just wants you to ring him back.’
Nel groaned, more loudly than she’d intended. Recently even the thought of Simon made her feel as if she was pre-menstrual, edgy and irritated. Now she doubted if she could even be polite to him. Fleur came into the sitting room and handed Nel a glass. ‘Don’t you want to ring him back, then?’
‘Golly, this is huge. No, don’t take it away! I’ll manage. I will call him back, but not now. I’ve had such a strange day. I think I’ll ring Viv in a minute.’ Nel didn’t know if it was so she could tell Viv ‘I told you so’ or for a good bitch about life, men and Kerry Anne. Probably both.
‘Well, Simon’s got a newspaper cutting or something which he says might be useful for the anti-building campaign.’
Nel relaxed as the first sip of whisky reached her stomach. ‘That’s odd. I thought he knew the building was inevitable.’
‘Mum! Surely not! Those are our fields!’
‘I didn’t know you cared! And no, they’re not our fields, they belong to the Hunstantons, and they’re putting houses on them.’ Without the glimmer of hope that she had Jake in her life, this fact was even more unpalatable than ever. ‘Now our project is to convince the Hunstantons to use our nice friendly builder, and not someone who apparently gives the ugly face of capitalism a bad name.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Fleur perched on the arm of the sofa, holding a glass of water.
‘There are two builders. One will re-roof the hospice for the cost of the materials and the other will put dozens of rabbit hutches up and leave us no river frontage.’
‘Rabbit hutches would be quite sweet. I like rabbits.’
‘Fleur!’
‘It’s all right. I know what you mean really.’
Nel sighed and closed her eyes. ‘And if that wasn’t bad enough, what I also suspect might happen is that we might lose the hospice building too. I’ve a horrid feeling that our chairman is planning to sell it to the builder – the bloated plutocrat one, not the nice one.’
Fleur nodded wisely. ‘Tricky.’
Nel managed a weak smile. ‘Which explains why I’ve turned to strong drink, and why I want to see Viv.’ It wasn’t the real reason, but she didn’t want Fleur to know that.
Fleur had lost interest. ‘I’m starving. Why don’t you ask Viv round for a Balti? You could order it and she could pick it up. Save you cooking.’
Nel laughed, in spite of feeling so depressed. ‘I thought you might like to knock us up a light, low-fat meal, full of free radicals and anti-oxidants?’
Fleur shook her head. ‘I do pasta or pasta, nothing complicated.’
‘Ooh! What with one thing or another, I don’t think I told you! I met the most heavenly chef last week!’ It was good to talk to Fleur about normal things. ‘He’s going to cook for the farmers’ market. So sweet! He might even inspire you to lift a wooden spoon from time to time.’
‘Mum! You’re not thinking of having a toy boy, are you?’
‘Of course not! As if!’ said Nel, wondering how much younger a man had to be to qualify as such, and deciding Jake was far too dangerous to be thought of as a toy. She sighed again. Oh for the feel of his arms round her, just once more. This was all so painful. She gulped her whisky, so Fleur wouldn’t hear her groan again.
Despairing of ever getting anything to eat, Fleur got up. ‘Shall I get the phone and you can ring Viv? A girl could die of hunger round here.’
‘You’re very expensive to keep, you know, Fleur.’
Fleur grinned. ‘Yes, but I’m worth it.’
Viv agreed to come, told Fleur what she wanted and Nel left the comfort of the sofa to attack the kitchen. The prospect of a girly evening with Viv and Fleur penetrated her misery a little. She had, after all, been perfectly happy before she met Jake. There was no earthly reason to think she couldn’t go back to being happy. The phone rang while Nel was making preparations for the Balti, spreading sheets of newspaper over the plasticised tablecloth, so it wouldn’t get stained with turmeric-coloured ghee. She took the plates out of the oven before she answered it. It would be Simon, ringing back, and her heart clenched with guilt for not having invited him to join them.
It was Jake.
Her mouth became instantly dry. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ How could she even pretend to talk normally to him?
‘Who were you expecting?’
‘Simon.’
‘Oh, I see.’
With an effort, she sucked some saliva into her mouth so she could speak. Supposing he’d seen her looking at him in the car park? It would be so humiliating. ‘I really should have phoned you to thank you for dinner . . .’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘I haven’t got your phone number.’
He laughed. ‘That would explain it. Shall I give it to you?’
‘Well, no, don’t bother. I can thank you now, while you’re on. Thank you so much for dinner the other evening. I really enjoyed myself. I hope you got my email about it.’ Her voice sounded flat and artificial and she hoped he wouldn’t hear. The last thing she wanted was for him to know how much pain he had caused her.
‘Well, I’m glad about that. What are you doing now?’
‘Viv’s coming round with a Balti. We’re going to discuss the hospice.’
‘Oh, can I come?’
How many women did he need at one time? Kerry Anne at lunchtime – and it must have been a long lunch – her and Viv and Fleur this evening. ‘No. It’s girls only. And people who care about the hospice only.’
‘I care about the hospice.’
But not quite as much as he cared about Kerry Anne. ‘Not enough, otherwise you wouldn’t encourage people to build on the land.’
‘I’m not encouraging anyone, I’m just facilitating something which is bound to happen.’
‘Call it what you like, you’re still the enemy as far as the hospice is concerned.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that it was only the Hunstantons he was facilitating, and not Gideon Freebody. Now that she was calmer, she had remembered his curious hints at dinner about the plans, and was very confused.
‘So I won’t come round, then?’
‘Please don’t.’ Why didn’t she – couldn’t she – say ‘no’ firmly, and mean it? Why did she still want to see him, in spite of everything? ‘Viv and I really have got work to do. The Balti is just to please Fleur.’
‘Are you having onion bahjis?’
‘I expect so, Fleur ordered it.’ Although the conversation was really over and he might be the most devious, pernicious slug on the planet, she wanted to go on hearing his voice.
‘I love bahjis.’
‘Do you?’
‘Nel, are you all right? You sound a bit odd?’
‘Do I? I expect I’m just tired.’
‘You were tired the other night, but you didn’t sound like you do now.’
‘Different sort of tiredness perhaps. Anyway, I’ve got to go now. Goodbye.’
‘Mum! Was that Jake on the phone? Why were you so funny with him?’
‘Like I said, I’m tired.’ She turned away so Fleur wouldn’t see that she was also close to tears.
She’d always known in her heart that Jake wouldn’t give her a second glance if someone young and lovely came along. Now she’d had proof of it with her own eyes. And she’d lost her senses so completely, she’d gone to bed with him. Despair closed over her. She could imagine Chris Mowbray, the Hunstantons, Gideon Freebody, discussing the matter.
‘She’s the troublemaker,’ Chris would have said. ‘Take her to bed, Jake, get her eating out of your hand. She’s over forty, she’s a widow, she’ll be grateful. You’ll only have to do it once. It’ll be worth it to keep her out of our hair . . .’ The pain was like acid on her soul, that she, a fine, upstanding pillar of the community, mother to all the world, should have let herself be made love to (there was a shorter, harsher expression she couldn’t bring herself even to think) by someone who was using her for his own purposes.
She would have poured herself more whisky, only Fleur was looking at her strangely and she didn’t have time to drown her sorrows just then.
Viv arrived at that moment, laden with leaking plastic carrier bags, so she couldn’t get even more depressed. She’d have to wait until Fleur had gone to bed before she could confide in Viv, to tell her what she’d seen. And even the relentlessly positive Viv would find it hard to say something positive about that.
While Viv was getting past the dogs, who loved her a lot and so made it a time-consuming exercise, Nel had time to consider that even if he hadn’t seduced her to keep her sweet and biddable, he was a very bright, attractive man, and his attention span was probably not very long when it came to women. He had probably suffered from Attention Deficit Disorder as a child. She couldn’t expect to hold his interest for more than a few weeks. And she knew that feeling like that was nothing to do with her being over forty and a widow.
Over several thousand calories and several poppadoms, Nel and Viv discussed the hospice, Nel leaving out any reference to Jake. ‘I can’t say I’m very hopeful about things at the moment,’ said Nel, aware that Viv was looking at her intently and feeling obliged to give her a reason for her despondency that Fleur would accept. ‘I mean Christopher and the Hunstantons and Gideon Hardy and Willis, whatever his name is, are all in cahoots. I bet they know who owns that strip of land and have got it all sewn up. Do you want tea, or would you like another lager?’
‘Tea, please—’ Viv stopped as the doorbell rang. ‘Expecting anyone, Nel?’
‘If that’s Jake,’ said Nel crossly, tripping over the dogs in an attempt to get to the door, heart pounding in a pathetically girlish way, ‘I’ll kill him.’
‘Why should it be?’ called Viv. ‘Have you been holding out on me?’
‘Oh, hello, Simon,’ said Nel. ‘Was I expecting you? Did Fleur forget to give me a message?’ She knew this was unfair. Fleur never forgot to give messages. (The boys frequently did.)
Simon shook his head. ‘No, I just came round to give you another list of farmers out of the Yellow Pages who might be interested in becoming stallholders. People I couldn’t get through to before. And also . . .’ he paused. ‘I thought you might be interested in this.’ He waved a sheet of paper at her. ‘I got it off the Internet.’
‘Well, thank you very much for all the contacts, Simon. That’s really kind. It must have taken you hours. You’d better come in.’ She tacked on a smile of welcome, several seconds too late, and felt mean. He’d done all that work for her on Saturday and now, and she didn’t even feel grateful, let alone behave gratefully. And Simon only wanted her for herself, not for anything else. ‘Viv’s here. We’re just having a Balti and talking over hospice stuff.’
Simon came into the kitchen. Although he tried, he couldn’t disguise his expression of disgust as he regarded the confusion of foil dishes, dirty plates, plastic bags exuding finely chopped lettuce and onion, broken poppadoms and bottles of lager.
‘Hi, Simon,’ said Vivian. ‘Come in and get a plate, there’s loads here.’
‘No, thank you, I’ve eaten. I just came round to show Nel this. And you, I suppose.’
Nel took it between finger and thumb, but still managed to get ghee on it. ‘Sit down, Simon, do,’ she said.
It was a copy of an article from a local paper. She read it quickly. It was a report of a court case in which a builder and a solicitor were cleared of illegally demolishing a large old peoples’ home so a housing estate could be built on the site. Nel couldn’t bear to read every word; the gist was bad enough. Jake Demerand wasn’t named, but there was a picture of him leaving court. It was blurry, but unmistakable.
‘Let’s have a look.’ Vivian took it from her. ‘It looks like Jake. Still. He got off.’
‘I just thought Nel should see it,’ said Simon. ‘It could help her anti-building campaign.’
‘It’s not just Nel’s campaign, Simon. All the hospice committee are against the building,’ said Vivian. ‘Our entire major fundraising goes on on that site. And we need waterfront access.’
‘I think I’ll make tea,’ said Nel, wanting to get the subject off Jake and the hospice. ‘Did I tell you? I met the most divine chef for the farmers’ market the other day. He’ll be perfect. And a wonderful chef, too.’
‘You should watch out, Simon,’ said Fleur. ‘I think Mum may be planning to get a toy boy.’
‘Think of it!’ said Vivian. ‘A man who’s good in bed and cooks! There can’t be a better combination.’
Simon shifted uneasily in his chair. Nel sighed. Vivian was too raunchy for Simon, and she was sure Viv did it on purpose. She could behave perfectly well, but when Simon was there, she always went out of her way to be shocking. Could she possibly ally herself to a man who didn’t get on with her best friend? She couldn’t do without her friend, that was for sure; no man on earth would be worth that.
‘You don’t know he’s good in bed,’ said Fleur, causing Simon even more embarrassment.
‘Well, you might have to train him up a bit,’ said Vivian. ‘Give him a few pointers. But all that youthful energy, wow! And then some delicious little snack. Sounds perfect.’
‘I’ll give you his address,’ said Nel, wishing she was in the mood for this sort of conversation. ‘Now let’s get back to the hospice.’ She drained a bottle of lager, aware that Simon hated women who drank out of bottles. She wasn’t that keen on it herself, in fact, but she had run out of glasses. ‘What we’re aiming for now, Simon, is to convince the Hunstantons to go with Abraham’s plan, which will get the hospice re-roofed, and not Gideon Whatsits’, which by all accounts will be dreadful.’
Simon shook his head knowingly, making Nel feel more irritable than ever. ‘I’ve been playing golf with Chris Mowbray lately, and he thinks the Hunstantons will be better off with the bigger builder.’
‘Well, let’s hope they’re not taking their advice from him!’ said Vivian briskly.
‘They could do worse. He knows a lot about business investment.’
‘So if you’re all pally-pally with Chris Mowbray,’ persisted Viv, ‘why are you telling us stuff you think might stop the building?’
‘Tea, anyone?’ said Nel. She hated conflict at the best of times and now, when her heart was disintegrating, her threshold for it was lower than ever. She knew Viv didn’t trust Simon.
Simon glanced at Nel. ‘I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.’
It was to do with Jake, realised Nel. It’s his way of telling me he’s a swine. Well, thank you, Simon, but I’d worked that out for myself.
‘Did anyone else want tea, or is it just me?’
‘I’ll have a Women’s Tea,’ said Vivian, ‘if you’ve got any. I need something powerful. I’d be on the whisky if I wasn’t driving.’
‘I’m not drinking that witches’ brew you and Viv seem so fond of, but I’ll have a cup of coffee. Instant is fine.’
‘Oh, good,’ murmured Nel to herself, ‘because that’s all there is. Fleur?’ she said louder. ‘Want anything made out of hot water?’
‘No, thanks, Mum, I’ll stick to lager.’
‘Isn’t it a school night?’ asked Simon. No one took any notice. ‘You mustn’t mind too much about the building. People need homes, Nel.’
‘I know that. And people are going to get homes. It’s just the right ones we want,’ said Nel, dunking tea bags, badly wanting to go upstairs and have a good cry. ‘So why, if we all accept that Paradise Fields are going to be built on, are you dishing the dirt on Jake Demerand?’ She hadn’t meant to say that. It was probably the whisky making her say things she would regret.
‘He’s just a bit too much of a smooth operator for my liking. I was telling Kerry Anne . . .’
‘What?’ demanded Vivian. ‘What were you telling Kerry Anne?’
‘That Demerand might not be the best solicitor for them.’
‘I’m a bit confused,’ said Fleur.
‘Serves you right for drinking lager on a school night,’ said Viv.
Fleur ignored her godmother. ‘You come round here with something off the web for Mum, to help her with the campaign, and then tell her you think the Hunstantons have got the wrong solicitor. Surely that’s a good thing, if she doesn’t want a housing estate on Paradise Fields.’
Simon laughed. ‘That wasn’t quite what I meant, Fleur. The fields have had planning permission for years. There’s no way you can stop that now.’
Fleur was enjoying arguing with Simon when no one could legitimately stop her. ‘I’m sure we could if we tried hard enough. Dug ourselves in, like Boggy, or whatever his name is.’ She retrieved Simon’s bit of paper from the aloo gobi. ‘Now, how can this help us?’
‘I don’t think it can,’ said Nel, passing out mugs. ‘If we prove to the Hunstantons that their solicitor was involved in a dodgy deal, they’ll just get another solicitor—’
‘And the next one might not be quite so attractive,’ put in Vivian, unhelpfully.
‘—so it won’t make any difference,’ Nel finished.
‘The problem is, we none of us know what the Hunstantons are likely to do,’ said Vivian, sipping her tea. ‘We none of us know them, really.’
‘Chris does,’ said Simon. ‘He’s getting to know them. I reckon he’ll talk them into making the right decision.’
‘Right as far as you’re concerned,’ said Fleur. ‘I suppose being an estate agent, you’re bound to want more houses to sell.’
Nel frowned at her. Being a free spirit was one thing, being rude another.
‘Well, I don’t think we should be discussing what is basically hospice business outside the committee,’ said Vivian, who would usually have been willing to discuss anything, anywhere, if the gossip was juicy.
‘Quite right,’ said Nel, beginning to gather up the detritus of the meal. She wanted everyone out of her house so she could think.
They all seemed to start talking at once. Nel tuned out of the argument, too downcast to know what she felt about anything just now.
‘Tired, Nel?’ asked Simon a little later.
Viv and Fleur were stacking the dishwasher and Nel had gone into the sitting room, ostensibly to gather up any mugs and glasses, but in fact to get a bit of peace. Nel wasn’t really pleased to have been followed, but she didn’t have the energy to stop Simon taking her into his arms.
‘A bit,’ she mumbled into his jacket. ‘I’ve had a really busy day.’ She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.
‘Let me make it better,’ he breathed and made as if to kiss her.
She convulsed in his arms and moved her mouth out of reach. Not today; she couldn’t cope with his lovemaking today. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. I’m not in the mood.’
‘I just thought we ought to be thinking about our future, with Fleur nearly off your hands . . .’
She disengaged herself. She didn’t like him talking about Fleur as if she was some sticky substance to be removed with a special cleaning product.
‘I’m sorry,’ he went on, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’ve rushed you. You need more time to think. But I want you to know my feelings for you. When all this hospice business is over, I’ll take you away somewhere, for the weekend, and remind you of . . .’
‘Of what? What will you remind me of?’
He laughed, to show her he knew he was being teased and didn’t mind. ‘I’ll remind you that you’re a woman, with womanly needs.’
Nel retreated a few steps and sat down on the sofa. ‘Womanly needs’ sounded like sanitary protection or vaginal deodorant. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being awfully unresponsive. I suppose I’m too taken up with the hospice and the farmers’ market to think about anything else.’
Viv came in. ‘It’s all a bit better in there now, so I’ll push off and leave you two lovebirds to watch the news together.’
Nel got up quickly. ‘But I haven’t paid you for the Balti!’
‘My treat. Don’t bother, honestly.’
‘No, really.’ Nel pushed Viv towards the door. ‘I’ll get my bag. I’ve got things I must talk to you about,’ she added when they were out of Simon’s earshot.
‘What is it?’ asked Vivian in a stage whisper.
‘Oh, just something I saw. It’s probably not important . . .’
‘It’s obviously important to you. Come over tomorrow and talk about it.’
‘You’re not doing anything to the bees, are you? I don’t need any extra stress.’
‘No! I’ll just be at home. I haven’t got any appointments until the afternoon. Now you go and get cosy with Simon on the sofa.’
‘You never used to encourage me to do that.’
‘I now know that you’re out of danger. Anyone who’s slept with Jake is not likely to lower her standards to Simon.’
‘Viv! I’ll be around at about nine. I’ve got a whole list of calls to make later, but I’ll have to take the dogs out first.’
When Nel went back into the sitting room, Simon was ensconced on the sofa, doing as Viv had implied he would be, watching the news. He patted the seat next to him. ‘Come and sit down. It’s cosy sitting here, watching television.’
Nel didn’t much like the news. She found it distressing and she couldn’t do anything about it. It was why her television viewing tended to be what other people considered rubbish, and her life full of helping others.
She sat by Simon and closed her eyes, allowing his arm to go round her shoulders, even though it meant she couldn’t sit comfortably.
‘This is nice,’ said Simon. ‘I could get used to this. You and me, together, in front of the television in a companionable way. After all, we’re too old for passion, don’t you think?’
Nel closed her eyes. Perhaps she was too old for passion. Perhaps passion was unhealthy for the over-forties. Perhaps she’d better just let Simon move in and forget about Jake. Irritatingly, a tear forced its way past her tightly closed lids. She sniffed.