Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (39 page)

‘Well, it’s ten grand below the asking price, I’m afraid, but we might get them up a little. It’s that couple I showed round, you remember ...’

‘The ones who were so critical about the oven?’

‘That’s it - and the footpath. Like I told you, people often make comments like that when they’re interested. The good news is, they’re not part of a chain. They’re in rented accommodation at the moment, with money in the bank.’

Sarah caught the hesitation in his voice, and prompted him to continue. ‘And?’

‘The bad news is, there’s a three day deadline on the offer.’

‘What? How does that work?’

It means the offer’s only on the table until Monday evening. After that they withdraw it. They claim they’ve seen another property almost as good. How true that is, I can’t tell ...’

‘You say you think they might go up a little?’

She could almost feel the man shrugging his shoulders. ‘A couple of grand, maybe. No more. It all depends how quickly you want to sell. If you hang on until April, May, you could probably do better. But then you could easily be in a chain, and not complete till next year. Whereas these people are in a hurry. There aren’t many buyers around in January.’

‘No, I imagine not. Let me think about this, will you, Mr Marlow? I’ll get back to you tomorrow.’

It was hard to concentrate after that. She put down the phone and returned to the file of bank statements, but had to give up with only half of it finished. She got on her motorbike and rode home through the freezing winter wind. As the house came in sight she saw it with new eyes. Not a home, but an asset; something that could be sold and broken up. Half for her, half for Bob. Was that what she wanted?

What I want, she thought, is someone to talk to. Someone who can share this problem and give me helpful advice. As it happens, that’s all arranged.

Michael had flown home from his skiing holiday on Monday, and they had arranged to meet today. She’d suggested several restaurants, but for some reason he’d acted picky - he’d eaten too often at one with clients, he didn’t like the waiters at another, he thought they used too much pepper at a third - until she cried out in exasperation.

‘What’s the matter with you, Michael? You’re as fussy as an old woman!’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been eating out all week, I guess I’m tired of it. But I’ve got an idea.’

Something in his voice told her he was playing a game.

‘All right. What is it?’

‘Listen, you like home cooking, don’t you? Why don’t I prepare us a meal?’

‘You?’

‘Sure, why not? I did a cooking course once, didn’t I tell you? One of my minor accomplishments.’

If I go to his house, she thought, that means I’ll go to bed with him. At least that’s what he thinks, that’s what this is all about. Is that what I want? She prevaricated.

‘Sounds risky, Michael. You know how critical I am.’

‘I’ll treat it as a challenge.’

She thought rapidly, trying to decide. Part of her longed to go to bed with him again. The sight of his naked body, the feel of him inside her - she thought of it regularly, daydreaming sometimes in court. But that was also a reason for
not
doing it. Especially not now, with this important case starting next week. She was still not fully prepared. Another night like that one in Cambridge could lead to her acting in court like some dizzy blonde - stumbling over facts, missing vital arguments, struggling to focus on today’s trial rather than the excitements of the weekend.

In short,
losing control
.

Ever since her first early mistake with Kevin, Sarah’s life had been about keeping control. It was a flaw in her character as well as a strength, but it was what defined her. It didn’t mean she was afraid to take risks; she had taken plenty of those. But she wasn’t foolhardy. She balanced the benefits against the dangers before deciding. And if the balance came down in favour of caution, she chose caution. Usually.

It was the wise thing to do, after all.

Over Christmas and New Year, she had thought about Michael Parker quite often. There was a lot to like about him, she decided. He was tall, handsome, he made her laugh. He was good in bed, or at least he had been that night. Not as passionate as Kevin, but more exciting than Bob. So that was good. And he was wealthy, a successful businessman. That was good too.

But there were other things about his character that worried her. For a start, he could be moody - quite frighteningly so. She remembered that time on the roof of the windmill, when she’d thought he might jump. That had been weird. Afterwards, he had been quite silent; she had never had a proper explanation. There was some secret there, perhaps, buried deep.

She wondered how much she could trust him.

‘What’s the matter?’ His voice broke in on her thoughts. ‘Don’t you believe me? I haven’t poisoned anyone yet, you know.’

It was a light comment, but he was offended, she could tell. And it’s a nice offer, in its way. It’s not as though I have many male friends.

There’s a risk in playing safe as well. I could lose him and regret that too.

After all, you only live once. And we’re adults. I can always say no.

‘All right then,’ she said. ‘You’re on. I’ll expect cordon bleu standard, mind you.’

It was cold on the Kawasaki, riding out to the windmill, and twice she nearly lost her way in the dark. But it was exhilarating too, with the hint of adventure. Riding down the bumpy track through the woods, she came round a corner and saw the tower with its four great sails, starkly silhouetted against the starlight. Michael’s black BMW was parked near it on the grass. Lights of distant houses twinkled from the valley far below. As she parked the bike and took off her helmet, a chilly breeze blustered around her face. She shivered, thinking how lonely it was.

Then the door of the mill opened, throwing a warm glow across the grass, and Michael stepped out. He greeted her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. She followed him into the sudden warmth of the kitchen. It had progressed, she saw, since her last visit. The cardboard packing and dust had gone from the floor, which shone as though it had been recently mopped. There were framed photos of old windmills on the wall, and an open bottle of wine on the worktop beside the hob where something was steaming. The room smelt of warm bread. There was a small table set for two under the window, with flowers in the middle, which hadn’t been there before.

‘I thought we’d eat in here, since there’s only the two of us,’ he said. ‘Easier to talk while I’m cooking, and I won’t have to carry everything upstairs.’

‘Fine.’ She smiled, feeling her cheeks flush with the sudden warmth of the room after the chill of the night air outside. ‘Is there somewhere I can change?’

‘Of course. Through there.’

Sarah went through to the bathroom to peel off her leather motorbike jacket, trousers and boots. She’d brought shoes and a dress with her in a bag. The bathroom was finished now too: the walls were fully tiled, there was a loo, basin, and elaborate shiny shower cabinet. She spent a few moments checking her make-up in the mirror, which had spotlights set artfully around it like those in a theatre dressing room. She smiled cautiously at her reflection. Not a bad face, she told herself firmly - a few more wrinkles than I’d thought, perhaps, and a little flushed from the wind on the ride, but still, with a touch of lipstick and something around the eyes, like that ... I shouldn’t scare him too much.

Anyway, it’s only a dinner invitation, that’s all. No big deal.

She went out into the kitchen and sat on a chair, sipping a glass of wine which Michael poured for her. He was wearing an apron over his jeans and shirt, but even so he’d got flour in his hair. She smiled as she watched him. It was a long time since a man had cooked for her. He took some hot rolls out of the oven and passed one over to her.

He seemed more nervous than she had expected. Perhaps it was the stress of cooking. The rolls were perfect, crunchy and brown on the outside, soft and melting inside, and he’d made little fancy patterned dabs of butter to go with them. But then there was a panic over a cheese soufflé, which collapsed as he put it on the table. He shoved it back in the oven again, and turned the heat up high, which failed totally. In a matter of minutes it turned brown, hard and flat. Michael’s brow darkened. He was speechless with frustration.

Sarah laughed. ‘No one’s perfect,’ she said. ‘I think you’re brave for even trying. I’ve never made a soufflé in my life.’

‘I have. That was my piece de resistance.’

‘Well, it’s suffered an internal revolution. Maybe we can cut it up and eat it as crisps.’ She picked up a knife and approached the dish.

‘No!’
Michael snatched it out of her way, nearly burning his hands in the process. ‘It’s a failure, that’s all - I’ll trash it.’ He scooped it angrily into the bin.

‘Sorry,’ Sarah said softly, stepping back. ‘It doesn’t matter, Michael, really.’

‘It does to me.’ For a moment he stood with his back to her, staring out of the window. She could see his reflection in the darkness of the window. But the double glazing blurred it oddly, as if she were looking at one face superimposed on another. The expression on the combined face was unclear, misshapen, like a painting by Picasso. It looked like a grimace, a snarl - then he turned and she saw it was a smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I just wanted everything to be perfect.’

‘This is real life,’ she said. ‘It never is.’

‘Well.’ He drew a deep breath, and made a conscious effort to ease the tension in his shoulders. ‘Let’s hope I can grill a steak, at least. I thought I’d add some Stilton for flavour. And peppers and onions.’

‘It sounds fine,’ Sarah said. ‘Just what I need.’

‘Good. That’s what I hoped.’ His eyes met hers and she thought yes, that’s not the only need of mine he hopes to meet. But his tantrum just now had scared her slightly; the image of that scowl in the window upset her. How much did she truly know about this man, how much was hidden? She remembered that moment on the little balcony above. Did she really want to stay in this lonely tower all night? She shifted in her seat uneasily.

I can always say no, she told herself firmly. Get on the bike and leave.

Whether he likes it or not.

He busied himself with steak, onions, peppers, mushrooms, spinach and potatoes, and his mood began to lighten. He told her tales of his skiing holiday. He had successfully completed a black run - the hardest - for the first time ever, he said, at severe danger to life and limb. After which, flushed with euphoria, he had promptly fallen, and slid all the way down on his bottom on a red run, headfirst. Sarah laughed, appreciating the joke at his own expense. She began to relax, and told him about Emily, and the skiing lessons she’d had in Birmingham.

‘That should help,’ he agreed. ‘Gentle slopes and lots of practice. You should try it. There’s a place like that in Castleford. I could take you.’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I might break my leg.’

‘You’d be fine. You managed the skating okay, remember?’

She remembered. That had been a good evening. Fun, exciting, just what she needed. Apart from that unfortunate meeting with Terry Bateson.

‘Where’s your daughter going?’

‘Umm - it’s on the tip of my tongue. Morvine, that’s it. Somewhere near Geneva.’

‘I know it. Good place for beginners. Easy slopes and lots of night life. She’ll love it.’

He served the steak. It was perfect - medium rare, just as she liked it, and garnished with a sprinkling of Stilton cheese melted on top. The mushrooms were good too - unusual ones, hot and garnished in butter, with interesting flavours which she wasn’t used to. The spinach, onions and potatoes were all exactly right.

‘Michael, this is wonderful.’ She lifted her glass. ‘You are a chef after all.’

He beamed with pleasure. ‘Told you I could do it. I get some things right at least.’

‘Congratulations. I may even come again.’

‘I hope you do.’ Once again their eyes met, and she thought, careful, Sarah, let’s not go overboard just yet. But it was fun, nonetheless, to be sitting at a candlelit table eating a meal cooked for her by a handsome man. Not a common situation in her life. Bob had seldom attempted any cooking beyond spaghetti or baked beans, and her own efforts were never as good as this. Perhaps, if this relationship did develop, she would eat like this more often.

‘What about your daughter, Sandra?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen her since Christmas?’

‘No,’ he shook his head shortly. ‘Just one phone call, that’s all. She has her own life.’

‘Oh. Well, I have some family news.’

‘What’s that?’

‘My son’s girlfriend, Lorraine, is three months pregnant.’

‘Good lord! Is she going to keep it?’

‘Of course.’ Sarah frowned, shocked by the question. ‘She’s eighteen, he’s twenty one. They’re very proud. I’m going to be a grandmother!’

‘Well, congratulations!’ He laughed, raised his wineglass; then shook his head wonderingly. ‘You? A grandmother? You’re only a schoolgirl yourself.’

‘Old enough to have been divorced twice,’ she pointed out, pleased nonetheless with the compliment. ‘Or at least I soon will be.’

‘True.’ He leaned forward, cradling his wineglass in both hands. ‘How’s that going?’

‘In the hands of the lawyers. You know how slow we are.’ She shrugged. ‘But the house sale, that’s making progress. Or it will, if I accept the offer by Monday.’ She told him about this evening’s phone call, and asked his advice.

‘Well, if your agent’s any good he ought to get their offer up a little,’ he said cautiously. ‘But then it depends what you want to do. As he said, you could hang on for a higher price.’

‘But that would take months, wouldn’t it? And half of the money goes to Bob anyway.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked, clearing away their plates.

‘I’m tempted to accept,’ she said slowly. ‘It looks like the answer to my prayers, really. A chance to sell quickly, cut the knot and move on.’

‘Wise move. Burn your bridges, start a new life.’

‘That’s the idea.’
I’ve already started,
Sarah thought.
That’s why I’m here. Isn’t it?