Bartholomew 02 - How to Marry a Ghost (33 page)

As for me, I could hardly wait to get back to the cabin and start planning my future life there—except when I walked in and saw the appalling mess Tommy had managed to reduce the place to, I almost changed my mind.

It had taken him less than twenty-four hours to cover the entire floor area with his stuff. What could only be described as sheer dread crawled all over my body when I looked in his suitcase and saw the terrifying amount of junk he had brought with him.

“Tommy, what’s this?” I asked, plucking a small brown jar from amongst his briefs.

“Marmite.”

“I can see it’s Marmite.” A salty yeast extract spread that Tommy liked to smear on toast. I studied the label. “This jar contains approx 62 servings.” Which meant approx twelve in Tommy’s case, he spread it so thickly. “I’m familiar with Marmite but what I want to know is why you packed it in your suitcase.”

“Someone said they don’t have it in America.”

And he couldn’t live without it.

“But, Tommy, they do have toothpaste.” I pointed to an industrial-size tube protruding from a pouch.

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“Wasn’t sure if they had Macleans,” he mumbled. By now he wasn’t looking at me and no wonder. He had packed at least six months’ supply.

He promised to leave everything in the suitcase because, as he could very well see, the cabin did not have sufficient storage to accommodate my stuff, let alone his. But every couple of hours he would feel the need to retrieve something from the very bottom and this would necessitate ferocious burrowing until he found it, resulting, inevitably, in most of the upper items in the case being deposited around the room.What infuriated me most of all was that this burrowing took place as I was trying to fill him in on the details of the murders of Sean Marriott and Bettina.And then, just as I was about to speculate on the possible suspect, and ask him what he thought, he sat back on his haunches and looked at me.

“But why are you still fretting about all this stuff? It’s not like you’re going to be involved anymore. Shotgun Marriott’s toast as far as you’re concerned. No more book, right? Get over him.”

I ignored the slight edge to this last remark.
Get over him
. To my surprise, the memory of my moment with Shotgun had not lingered. If anything I was having a much harder time letting go of his book than his kiss.The disk that I had placed beside my laptop had gone and the realization that Shotgun must have pocketed it without telling me really stung. Maybe he had done it while we were kissing to distract me, the rat! And as for being able to walk away from the murders, what on earth was Tommy thinking?

What he was thinking became abundantly clear as soon as he heard about the Phillionaire’s will.

“Well, that’s fantastic. That really is fantastic. What a great bloke.What a sweet thing for him to do. He must have really got the point of you, Lee. Look at that beach, you couldn’t ask for a

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better neck of the woods to shack up in, could you, Lee? Perfect place for you to write your books and stuff and it’s safe as houses.

You’re not going to tell me you’re frightened of seagulls, are you?

Bloody fantastic, eh?”

“Fantastic,” I agreed, “and no, I’m not frightened of seagulls.

I’d be amazed if they committed the murders that took place only five minutes’ walk up the beach from here.”

But Tommy was undaunted. “But I’m here now. I’ll protect you. Not sure where we’ll put my mum when she comes to stay, but I’m sure we’ll find somewhere. Can’t wait to tell her. She’s never been to America. I’ve only been once before, for that matter. Can’t remember much, mind you.”

“That’s because you only came for the weekend when you were eighteen.You told me you came with Shagger and the two of you were blind drunk the entire time. I’m surprised you even remember going.”

“Shagger sends his love, by the way. He’s got a new girlfriend.

She’s got hair down to her bum and she’s Czechoslovakian.”

“I thought Shagger’s girlfriends were all inflatable.”

“Same thing,” said Tommy and I was amazed. Normally I was never allowed to utter the slightest criticism of Shagger, who had been Tommy’s best mate since he was about two. Occasionally,
very
occasionally, when I had the flu and couldn’t get my head around anything more substantial, I entertained myself by trying to imagine what Tommy and Shagger talked about when they were on their own. Apart from football, that is. In all the years I had known Tommy I had never heard Shagger say anything more demanding than “All right, are you?” or “Sun’s coming out.” But, as Tommy never failed to point out, Shagger didn’t have a mali-cious bone in his body and that was the main thing. Or a sober one, was my response but I kept it to myself.

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“No, I mean she doesn’t speak English and nor could the inflatables.”

“I don’t know how you’re going to fit yourself in here let alone anyone else.” I pointed to his paunch. “If you want to move in with me, you’re going to have to lose weight. No more Marmite.What have you been living on since I left?”

“Turkey Twizzlers,” he said cheerfully, “and I’ve brought some with me. They must be in here somewhere.” He started burrowing again until I leaned over and gently closed the lid of the suitcase. “Oh,” he said and looked at me in slight reproach for a second. Then he bounced back. “So what’s it like in winter?”

“I doubt I’ll ever find out,” I said. I hadn’t actually got as far as working out what use I was going to make of the cabin from now on. But I was beginning to get the distinct feeling that Tommy thought we were going to move here lock, stock, and barrel.

Quit London. Set up home—and office—together in a tiny beach retreat, and act as if nothing had happened. And the very thought of it terrified me.

What was the matter with me? Only a few weeks ago I had been miserable because Tommy had pulled the plug on our im-pending marriage. Now here he was seemingly ready to re-ignite the relationship and I was the one getting ready to balk.

“Why’s that?” he asked. “Where are you going in the winter?”

“Well, it all depends where we find work,” I said, silently con-gratulating myself on both answering his question and evading it.

“Tommy, I really am sorry about you losing your job.Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Oh, it really wasn’t an issue. It was high time I moved on.

They did me a favor actually. I was totally ready to do something else, totally ready.” Now he was the one being evasive.

“Like what?”

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“Like coming to be with you in America and getting a job.

What sort of work can you pick up easily round here?”

“Fishing maybe. Cooking, waiting tables. Bar work. Real estate, landscaping, construction.You’re not exactly fit,Tommy. I’m telling you, the men I see round here are unbelievably strong. I saw the guy who came to pick up the garbage at the Old Stone Market and I realized the true meaning of the phrase ‘single-handedly.’ He emptied two garbage cans and lugged three hefty bags to his truck with one hand while talking all the while on his cell phone.”

“Who says I want to collect garbage?” Tommy shook his head at me. “But I’d make a terrific landscaper.”

“A window box in the middle of London with a geranium that died because you didn’t stop watering it for twenty-four hours does not exactly constitute landscaping, Tommy.”

“So maybe I’m a bit green about the gills instead of the thumbs. Don’t start nagging, I’ll find something.You’ll see. And I may not be as fit as I once was but what makes you think I’m not strong?” And he wrapped his arms around me and lifted me bodily off the ground.

I had to admit it felt good. I could always be reassured by the sheer bulk of Tommy’s body but there were moments when I wondered what it would be like to inhabit his world. A strange thing for someone’s partner of eight years to speculate on maybe, but we were so different I never ceased to marvel at his insou-ciant attitude to life.Tommy’s world was like a child’s, constantly reduced to simple things. His biggest problems in life appeared to be Chelsea losing on a Saturday afternoon, and running out of Marmite. In a nutshell, he was rarely anxious.

Anxious was my natural state of mind. Or fretful, as Tommy called it. “Don’t fret,” were probably the two words he had used most in my presence during our eight years together. Or rather

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not
together, living at opposite ends of London while I refused to commit to marriage. Until it was too late.

The difference between Tommy and me was that he woke up every morning anticipating a carefree day whereas I opened my eyes and immediately started counting imaginary problems.

“What would I do if I didn’t have problems?” I had asked Franny only the other day. “I guess you’d have issues instead,” she’d replied with a wry smile that showed she was beginning to get my number. And she was right. I
created
problems. Right now, I could feel the anxiety as to how I was going to deal with letting go of Shotgun’s book rising to the surface—not how quickly would I find another job although that would undoubtedly materialize at a later stage. Nor did I seem to be worrying about the abrupt severance of my relationship with Shotgun. I liked Shotgun, admired him even. He was charming and it was a genuine charm, not put on for my benefit. And for a split second I had found him physically appealing. But there was also something creepy about the way he holed himself up in his reconstituted moorland castle.

However romantic it appeared from the outside, there was a gloom that pervaded the interior and I suspected it was perpetu-ated by Shotgun himself—and for good reason.Yet I sensed that there had been an undercurrent of sadness permeating Shotgun’s life long before the death of his son. And although I’d never met him, I felt sorry for Sean. Now I was forced to distance myself from life at Mallaby I began to understand why he had retreated to a room above the stables and escaped to Manhattan whenever he could.

No, what was beginning to bug me was that my work on the book was being cut off before I was ready. I hated unfinished business and where Shotgun’s book was concerned I felt totally un-fulfilled. It wasn’t my fault but I felt I had failed. He had ended it but I couldn’t understand why and I knew that until I discovered

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who had killed Sean Marriott and Bettina, my assignment would not be completed and I wouldn’t be able to go on to another job, no matter what Genevieve came up with.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that like Bettina before me, I was determined to write Shotgun’s book whether he was involved or not.

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B UT HOW COULD I EVEN THINK OF WRITING A book with Tommy constantly under my feet? That was the question that presented itself time and again over the next few days as I picked up various items of clothing off the floor and attacked the piles of washing up he left in the sink. At night, he always managed to redeem himself by holding me in his arms and gently stroking my hair as if I were an agitated dog until I relaxed.

It had always been like this. He seemed to know just how to drive me to distraction and then wait until my resistance was low enough that he could totally disarm me.

Just as I was at my wit’s end the problem resolved itself in a way I would never have envisaged.Tommy and Rufus became instant best friends. They were introduced—on the beach where we ran into him and Franny—and within minutes they had disappeared together.

“It’s a bit like we’re their mothers and we’ve brought them together for a playdate,” said Franny. “Now we can relax because they’re going to play well together and we won’t have to entertain them.”

I didn’t say anything for a second. I was too busy wondering if that was how Franny felt most of the time—like Rufus’s mother.

And if Rufus might somehow be more comfortable with people older than himself because Tommy had to be at least fifteen years

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older than he. But the friendship between them developed so fast I began to wonder if I ought to call Shagger and warn him that he had competition. Over the next couple of days Rufus appeared to take Tommy to every bar on the East End as well as to a Mets game at Shea Stadium, clamming in the bay, and windsurfing.

When there was talk of skydiving farther up the island, I put my foot down.

“I doubt there’s a parachute that will hold you up,” I told Tommy. He glared at me but I could tell he was relieved about the skydiving ban. Frankly I was amazed that he’d got it together to go windsurfing.

But the unlikely bond between them developed beyond the personal to a professional relationship.

“Rufus is hiring me as his mate,” Tommy announced one day,

“heavy lifting and that wherever he’s working. See, I told you I’d find a job.”

When he proudly presented himself the next morning in a pair of rather snug shorts and a brand-new tool belt strapped around his hips, the maternal instinct Franny had alluded to washed over me in waves. He had a baseball cap perched jauntily on his head and a pair of strapping work boots on his feet and he could hardly contain his excitement. As I made him a couple of rounds of Marmite sandwiches and packed them in the lunch box with the Stars and Stripes on it that he’d picked up at the hard-ware store, I felt like a mother preparing to send her son off for his first day at school.

“Just remember,Tommy, you may be strong but Rufus is in far better shape than you,” I warned him. “Be aware of your limits.

Don’t do anything stupid and land yourself in the hospital. We neither of us have health insurance over here.”

But in fact the only stupid thing he did was to take his T-shirt off and allow his pale flabby skin to get disgustingly sunburned so