Hearts and Diamonds (2 page)

A fork clattered across the table as he thrust, thrust, thrust, his eyes gleaming with their purpose. She held on to his shoulders, crossed her ankles behind his back and pulled herself into him in rhythm. The pace was bruising and intense and soon they were both gasping, feeling the heat of the warm summer morning mingle with their exertions to bead sweat on their brows.

No amount of perspiration would deter Jason, though. When it came to sex, he was single-minded. There would be no deviation from his course. She would get shagged ragged and that was that.

‘Feeling it, babe?’ he groaned. ‘Want it, do you?’

‘I want it, give it to me.’

She was burning up, her throat dry, her bottom sticking to the Corian, but nothing beat the feeling of him, large and thick in her narrow channel, owning it, taking possession of her.

They came in a burst of slapping hands and pinches and growls, Jason sunk as deep as he could get inside her and straining to go still deeper, not that it was possible.

‘Fuck, that took it out of me,’ he panted, kissing her hard. ‘But you could get it all over again.’

After all the LA sophistication and veneer, his simple animal passion was the best tonic there could be. It had revived her, made her see life in colour and depth again, something she hadn’t done since the early days of her relationship with Deano Diamond. She hadn’t had a bruised back or a sore bottom or a raw smart between her legs in fifteen years, but she was certainly making up for it now.

‘This kitchen table is going to break my spine,’ she moaned, only now realising how ill-suited it was to frantic sex. ‘Next time bring a cushion down, eh?’

He withdrew slowly, grabbing a handful of kitchen roll to mop up the mess he’d made of her.

‘That was a bit more spontaneous than I’d planned,’ he said, sheepish now for reasons that were slowly dawning on her.

‘Well, by definition,’ she said, a little sharply, trying to struggle up to her elbows. ‘But you mean . . .?’

‘Didn’t think to bring the rubbers down, babe. Is it . . . OK?’

‘OK?’ She sat up, wincing.

He stood against her, wrapping her in his arms, rubbing her poor back and shoulder blades with an expert touch.

‘You know . . .’

‘I won’t get pregnant, if that’s what you mean. I have the implant.’ She stopped, a stray little pang piercing her from nowhere. She had been going to have it removed, a year ago. She and Deano had discussed having children. She had felt ready. And then she realised that he was too far gone in his addictions and had given up on the idea. It still hurt, even now that they were over and she was with this phenomenon of sex and creative talent.

‘Right. But, even though I haven’t slept with anyone but Mia in seven years, well . . . There were things she wasn’t telling me, and . . . I suppose I ought to . . .’

‘Get tested?’ Jenna screwed her face up in his robe. She didn’t want to think about this. It was too horrible, too real. She’d earned a bit of holiday fantasy time. How dare the mundanities of life intrude on it like this?

‘Just to be safe,’ he said, cradling her head and stroking her hair.

‘Oh, that’s weird,’ she said, looking up at him.

‘What is?’

‘You being the responsible, sensible adult one. I thought that was my role.’

‘Why did you think that? What have you done that’s been sensible since you got here?’

She felt stung, but then she saw the justice of his words. She’d behaved like a cross between a hormonal teenager and a bad amateur detective ever since setting foot in Bledburn.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us an appointment. At a
private
clinic.’ They rested, lulled for a few minutes, in each other’s embrace before she spoke again. ‘Jason.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you think it’ll change us? Being “out”? Public?’

‘It’ll be different. But we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to, or see anyone we don’t want to. We can stay tucked up here as long as we like, can’t we?’

She could hear the trace of anxiety in his words, though. He didn’t want the secret idyll to end either.

She put a hand to his cheek. It was stubbly, and the stubble was growing out into a fuzzy beard. It felt soft, the hairs bending into her palm.

‘Are you going to finish your paintings? In the attic?’

‘I suppose. I thought you wanted me to sort out the garden.’

‘I want you to do what you want to do.’

‘Stay in bed forever then?’ he said, his lips seeking hers and finding them.

The embrace was broken by the buzz of Jenna’s phone. This was the phone she used for people she actually wanted to talk to – only half a dozen people were allowed access – so she sighed and fished it out of her robe pocket.

‘Oh,’ she said, looking at the caller display. She went out of the back kitchen doors and stood on the warmed stone of the patio, putting the phone to her ear.

‘Tabitha? Hi. You’ve caught me at breakfast.’

‘Have I? It’s half past ten, you know. I’ve been at work for nearly three hours.’

‘Well, things have been a bit intense round here lately. I’ve got a lot of rest to catch up on.’

‘Quite.’ There was a pointed pause, then Tabitha continued, ‘Did you see the feature in
The
Times
?’

‘Oh God! Yes. Yes, I did.’

It was like rewinding the last few days, past the discovery of the bones, past Jason’s release from his wrongful arrest, past all the work it had taken to get him out of prison, past Jason’s desperate last stand on the parapet of the house and the police arriving at her door. She could almost see the officers walking backwards down her path, getting into their cars and reversing up the road, blue lights flashing.

And before all that . . . the article in
The
Times
, which had been about to cause an almighty row between her and Jason, but was pre-empted by all the other stuff.

‘I thought I’d hear from you,’ said Tabitha.

‘You would have done. But things got very hectic around about then. Tabitha, why did you talk to the press about him? You knew we wanted to keep things quiet.’

‘I know you
said
you did, but, darling, you have the potential new star of the art world on your hands. Why would you really want to keep quiet about that? I didn’t think you could possibly mean it.’

‘I did mean it! And he was furious.’

‘Was he? I take it the mystery artist was this chap all the fuss was about? The one you were hiding in your home?’

‘Jason Watson. Yes. It was him. And we still haven’t discussed this . . .’

‘Well, you’re going to have to. I’ve had the most enormous amount of interest on the back of that article. An absolute deluge. Buyers, agents, experts, all clamouring to know who he is and get access to his work. I can’t fend them off much longer.’

‘Oh God, really?’

‘Absolutely. You must bring him down to London, darling. Everybody’s dying to meet him.’

Jenna took the phone from her ear, needing to take a few breaths. Just as soon as one furore died down, it seemed that several more barged in to take its place. If it was too much for her, how on earth would Jason take it? The dream of a quiet summer spent alternately renovating the house and making love began to fade.

‘Look, I’ll talk to him,’ she said. ‘But that’s all I can promise. He wasn’t wild about the idea when I first broached it . . . but then, some of the reasons for that no longer exist.’

‘Legal reasons,’ said Tabitha, with a kind of gloating glee. ‘You couldn’t ask for a better launch for an artist. Really, what a story. He’s famous before he’s even exhibited. Marvellous.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Jenna repeated. ‘It’ll be his decision. And please – no more press until you hear from me, or I’ll be approaching another gallery.’

‘Darling!’ Tabitha sounded stunned. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘I’m serious. This isn’t my client – not yet. I can’t make him do anything. But I’ll work on it. Anything that destroys the delicate balance of our relationship isn’t going to help, though – and that includes more publicity. So keep a lid on it.’

‘I’ll be silent as the grave. You can rely on me.’

‘I hope I can. I’ll be in touch.’

She pressed the end call button and wandered down over the patio, past the police-taped cellar opening and away from all the horrible thoughts it called to her mind. This morning, she wanted to be in the weeds, smelling their pungent, milky aroma, feeling the strengthening warmth of the sun on her bare legs and feet.

She was standing among the dandelions and cow parsley, suddenly feeling her lack of breakfast and morning coffee, when a pair of hands landed on her shoulders.

She jumped.

‘I didn’t hear you creeping up on me. Don’t do that. This house isn’t the place for surprises. It’s got too many of its own.’

‘Horrors, more like. Harville House of Horror. Who was that on the phone?’

She leant her head back into his chest.

‘Jason, I need to talk to you.’

‘
WHY WOULD I
want to do that? Mingling with a load of poncey bastards who’ll look down on me? Fuck it. No thanks.’

Jenna sighed. This was exactly the reaction she’d been expecting.

‘Why would they look down on you? They’ll see your work. They won’t look down on
that
, believe me.’

‘Then why do I have to be there at all? Just stick a few paintings up on the wall and put the wedge in my bank account when some twat with more money than sense buys ’em. Everyone’s happy.’

‘No, everyone isn’t happy. Tabitha won’t be happy and the gallery visitors won’t be happy. They want to know the artist.’

‘Do they ’eck. They don’t want to know me. Nobody ever has done, so why would they start now?’

‘Jason.’ Jenna tried to keep the edge of impatience out of her voice. ‘Get that chip off your shoulder and start living your life. You aren’t the feral youth from the estate any more. You are a grown man with an exceptional talent, and the potential to build an international career and reputation. So stop being such a mardy arse.’

He smirked at the local epithet.

‘Mardy arse yerself,’ he said.

‘All I’m asking,’ she said, more calmly, ‘is for you to come down to London and meet Tabitha. No press previews, no champagne receptions, no nothing unless you want it. Just a meeting.’

He tugged at a dandelion root, pulling it clear of the ground. Jenna watched as he gazed contemplatively at its fluffy head then blew on it, sending the seeds afloat on the warm air.

‘I’ve never been to London,’ he said.

‘What, never?’ Jenna knew, of course, that Bledburn had a high proportion of people who had never left the county. Some had never left the town. It still surprised her, though.

‘Never. There was a school trip once, to some gallery. The Tate, I think. But Mum couldn’t afford it.’ He threw the dandelion stalk aside. ‘Apparently Kieran Manning set off the sprinkler system. I wish I’d seen that.’

‘Well, you can go to the Tate. And every gallery in town, if you like. Don’t set off the sprinklers though.’

‘Could do with ’em today.’ He looked up at the sky where the sun was boiling away already, only halfway up to its zenith. ‘OK. I’ll come to London. No guarantees, though. But I’ll listen to what your mate has to say, at least.’

‘That’s all I ask.’

She laid her head on his shoulder and they stood together, held in each other’s arms, swaying gently among the waist-high weeds, until the familiar intrusion of a helicopter sent them back indoors.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Jenna shouted at it from the patio door. ‘The police have all gone. Go and pick on some other Z lister.’

‘You aren’t a Z lister,’ said Jason, laughing and pulling her inside. ‘You’re a lot nearer the beginning of the alphabet, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know. All this controversy is keeping my name in the papers, but that isn’t what I wanted. I wanted
peace
.’

‘You should have bought a desert island instead of this place. Couldn’t you do that? Go on. Buy somewhere nice and hot in the middle of the sea and I’ll come and be your Robinson Crusoe. Sleep in a hammock and live on coconuts. Reckon I could handle that.’

‘It’s a nice thought, but . . .’

She sighed as her ‘important contacts’ phone rang again. This time it was the police.

Jason watched her, his head on one side, as she nodded and made non-committal noises into it. Halfway through, he got bored and started tinkering with the cafetière, making a fresh pot after the burnt offering.

‘Not your mate again?’

‘No, it was the police.’

He always tensed when she mentioned the police – she supposed it was hardly surprising, after what he had been through.

‘It’s all right, they aren’t after you.’

‘Good,’ he said, giving her a wry smile. ‘I always get that feeling, you know, that they’re going to get me for something else, something I don’t even know about. I can’t shake it. I don’t feel as if it’s over yet.’

‘They’ve got the right people this time. You’re in the clear. Anyway, it wasn’t about that. It was about the bones in the cellar. The forensic anthropologist had a look at them.’

‘And?’

‘Human, female, older than twenty but younger than forty, no obvious cause of death, probably died somewhere around the end of the nineteenth century.’

‘Right.’ Jason shrugged and shook his head. ‘Poor cow,’ he said. ‘So, what are they going to do?’

‘Nothing. I mean, what can they do? They can’t go around looking into centuries-old cases, can they? They’ll just shut up the cellar again and do . . . whatever it is they do . . . with the bones.’

‘Shouldn’t they have a decent burial? After being hidden down there all these years.’

‘What’s her name, though? How can you have a funeral for an anonymous skeleton?’

‘We could try and find out,’ he suggested. ‘Bet Harville would know something about it. It’s probably some great grandma of his.’

‘No, the forensic people said she’d never given birth.’

‘Probably one of their maids. Them Harvilles probably treated them like dirt and chucked their bodies into the cellar once they’d worked ’em to death.’