Just Say Yes (11 page)

Checking that the program was some innocuous wildlife documentary and not news, current affairs, or
Jerry Springer
, she turned down the sound and returned to the kitchen. Through the window, she saw Fiona throw down the ax and gather up some wood in her arms. Lucy was at the back door in a moment, holding it open.

“That was hard work. I hope we’ve got some bloody firelighters. I mean, I meant to ask the maintenance guys to make sure we’ve got some but—”

“Bit short notice?”

“A bit. They said they’d arrange for the cottage to be cleaned and make the beds up, which was good of them. Mrs. Sennen, the housekeeper, is very good at that sort of thing.”

“Fi, I can’t just mope around here like this. Can I do anything to help? You look worn out after all the driving.”

“Thanks!”

“You know what I mean.”

“OK, you’re right, I’m knackered. Why don’t you make a decent cup of tea while I get this fire going.”

“Coming up.”

Minutes later, Lucy was carrying two steaming mugs into the sitting room as Fiona set a match to a neat pyramid of wood, newspaper, and firelighters. She glanced up at Lucy, her eyes bright. “You know, I’d make a brilliant pyromaniac,” she said wistfully, watching the blue and orange flames curling round the wood. “Shame I’m not getting any younger; most pyromaniacs are under sixteen, you know.” She pushed herself to her feet with a groan.

“You’re not even thirty-five yet, Fiona. Still time to set the world on fire.”

Fiona flopped down in a chair with a sigh, took a sip of the tea, then pulled a face.

“That bad?” said Lucy.

“The tea’s fine. I just remembered the gin’s still in the trunk of the car,” groaned Fiona, already halfway to her feet.

“I’ll get it.”

Fiona looked doubtful. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Absolutely. If I can’t manage to get outside to the car, then there’s no hope for me, is there? I’ll end up hiding here, surrounded by decaying rubbish with all my meals delivered by the local takeout.”

“Which is four miles away.”

“Four!”

“Yup. There’s a post office in the village and a pub, but that’s it. Nearest form of civilization is in Porthstow, down the coast. If you can call three thousand private school kids, tourists, and surfers civilized.”

“Hand over the keys,” said Lucy. “I really need a drink after that.”

Fiona dug in her pocket and held out a bunch of keys. “Thanks, Luce.”

Lucy was struck by a pang of guilt at her friend’s weary face. If it wasn’t for Fiona, she might still have been trapped inside her flat in London, scared to answer the door or even open the curtains in case a photographer was waiting to get a shot of her, preferably looking nasty, which wouldn’t have been difficult considering the state she’d been in recently.

The sun had slipped below the horizon now and a few stars were already pricking the indigo sky. The light from the porch windows spilled out as far as the Land Rover. Her breath misted the air as she unlocked the 4x4’s rear door and tugged it open. There was a faint smell of wild thyme in the air. Behind her, she knew, was the narrow lane that led to the cottage and the woods. Apart from the wind, she suddenly realized that all else was silent.
Almost
silent. A faint hoot from behind the cottage made her jump. She was, finally, ready to believe that there really was no one lying in wait with a long-range lens. The tailgate light glowed reassuringly and she quickly spotted the neck of a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.

“Hey!”

Her head jerked up and her heart took off at warp speed as a voice emerged from the darkness.

“Luce, can you manage the wine as well—in the Waitrose bag.”

As Lucy’s pulse returned to normal, she shook her head and smiled in relief. She really had been getting paranoid.

Later, as they were sitting in front of the fire, Lucy could almost believe that she and Fiona were just here having a girly weekend. The fire smelled tangy and sweet, reminding her of the early days at home. After her dad had finally left, her mum had had a gas fire installed because it was so much easier for a woman on her own.

“Stinks a bit, doesn’t it?” said Fiona, waving her glass in the direction of the hearth. “But I love it.”

Lucy could feel the warmth against her cheeks. “It’s great.”

Fiona gave a tiny burp. “Well, excuse me, but I need the little girl’s room then I’ll get us a top-up. God, I hope there’s loo roll in the cabinet otherwise it’s the magazine rack.”

“I don’t fancy ending up with
Horse
and
Hound
printed on my bum,” said Lucy with an unexpected giggle.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I don’t know.”

By the time Fiona had returned from the Land Rover with a second bottle of wine, Lucy wasn’t laughing anymore. It was probably the effect of the wine, it might have been tiredness, but she realized she was crying.

“Tissue?” said Fi, holding out a box.

“It’s the wine,” said Lucy. “And the gin. And I’m tired. That’s all.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Actually, no. No, it’s not the wine. It’s just that I can’t help wondering—I can’t help thinking… I’ve caused so much trouble, I’ve hurt Nick and his family so much.”

“You did what you thought was right, Lucy. Marriage is too big a commitment to be taken lightly. You have to believe that you did the right thing for him and for yourself.”

She had believed it, had been so certain she was doing the right thing, but now, for the first time, that resolve was softening like melting icing on a cake. She wiped her eyes.

“But Fiona, what if I was wrong? Wouldn’t it have been so much easier if I’d just said yes?”

Easier but not right. That had been Lucy’s first thought as she’d woken up the next morning in the boxroom of Creekside Cottage to rain drumming on the roof and wind lashing the creeper against the panes.

She was almost sure saying no to Nick had been the right thing to do for his sake as well as hers. As for fleeing the aftermath by running off to Cornwall, well, it was only for a month until the heat died down. She’d soon be back home, back to… well, back to whatever. She didn’t want to think about that right now.

In the morning light, she saw her cell phone lying on the rickety table by the bed and wondered if she should try and contact Nick again or whether it was better to give him some space. Or was that a cop-out?

She didn’t know what to do. Whichever way she jumped was wrong.

She listened for the sound of Fiona moving about but it was becoming difficult to hear anything above the noise of the gathering storm. At least nothing was leaking yet. Above her a patch of damp was visible on the sloping ceiling and a cobweb nestled between the beams. The room had a faint odor that reminded her of her gran’s place when she’d been little. Mothballs, maybe, but did moths actually have balls, she wondered.

Although it was only eight thirty, she was surprised Fiona hadn’t been woken up by Hengist. Perhaps they’d already gone out for a walk or maybe the heavy night and long drive had finally knocked them both out. Right now, being knocked out for a couple of weeks would be a huge relief, rather than having to face up to what had happened.

Deciding that she needed a coffee, Lucy pulled a fleece over her camisole top and knickers and ventured out. The wooden boards felt strangely comforting under her bare feet as she padded out onto the landing. The stairs creaked as she made her way downstairs, through the tiny hallway, and into the kitchen. There was still no sound from Fiona’s room and she now knew why. Propped up against the coffee jar was a note:

Luce,

Hope your hangover isn’t too bad. Mine’s a bitch but worth it. Gone with The Hound to semi-civilization a.k.a. Porthstow, to try and track down some Lucozade Sport and a wireless card for the laptop and/or email my agent from the local library if it hasn’t been closed for sheep dipping or whatever. I’ll be back by lunchtime with more supplies and possibly Pinot Grigio. I may be some time…

Hugs

Fi x

P.S. I’m expecting the proofs of
Wax Murderer
from my publisher. Post usually arrives around ten-ish so can you sign for them?

Lucy glanced out of the window at the gray sky and dripping bushes. She could barely see the end of the garden, the rain was hammering down so fiercely. Fiona was going to get soaked. Then again, there was an upside. It would have to be a very determined reporter—and a very wet one—who would track her down to Creekside Cottage.

The coffee was black and bitter but she found a left-over doughnut they’d bought at a garage en route to the cottage. Back upstairs, armed with a yellowing copy of the
Porthstow
Mercury
, Lucy had just sunk her teeth into the doughnut when she heard the noise. Even above the deluge, the banging was loud and clear. She froze, a large bite of sugar and jam melting in her mouth. There was no way she was answering. They’d soon get bored and go away.

The hammering started again.

The boxroom overlooked the back of the house so Lucy couldn’t check who it was. Then she remembered Fiona’s note. Well, it was a bit early, but you might expect a few surprises down here. Doughnut abandoned, Lucy walked back down the creaky stairs. Through the bottle glass in the door, she could see the postman’s dark jacket. His hood was pulled right over his head and she didn’t blame him, poor man. He must be drenched.

Pulling open the door, she gave him an encouraging smile, then her face fell. She could clearly see the camera poking out from under his coat.

“Bugger off,” she said, starting to close the door.

“I’m sorry?” said the man.

“I said bugger off.”

“Right. I suppose that’s fairly clear, if verging on the blunt side.”

Lucy was unrepentant. “Yes, well, I don’t like to be rude but you lot have driven me to it. How’s this, then? Bugger off,
please
.”

Rain dripped off his hood and thunder rumbled overhead. He looked absolutely freezing and despite the hood, his face was spattered with moisture and mud. Lucy suppressed a giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

She snorted in derision. “You are. Your outfit. Did you honestly think I’d be fooled by that getup? You haven’t even made an effort, have you?” She was really warming up now and she had nothing to lose, not even her knickers. Let him plaster her all over his paper if he wanted to. “And by the way,” she said. “Your Cornish accent’s rubbish.”

“Maybe that’s because I was born in Peckham, but I suppose you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“No? You don’t say? Gee, I’d never have guessed. Shame your lens is showing.”

The man glanced down at the camera. “Ah. This. Doing a spot of bird-watching.”

Lucy snorted. “Can’t you think of anything more original than that?”

“No, because it’s true.”

“Yes. Of course it is. I suppose you collect stamps and hang round restored railways noting down engine numbers. I bet you even volunteer at the local youth club.”

“Well, now you come to mention it…”

“Somehow, I think not.”

He pulled his hood off and Lucy did a double take. He didn’t look like any of the photographers or reporters who’d hung about outside her flat. It wasn’t an unpleasant face—in fact, he was startlingly good looking, all razor cheekbones and cool blue eyes. But the
Prison
Break
buzz cut gave him such a hard, uncompromising edge that she felt her bravado rapidly ebbing away. What if he wasn’t a paparazzo? What if he’d escaped from somewhere? Wasn’t there a jail on Exmoor—or was that Dartmoor?

Tiny beads of rainwater glistened in his thick eyelashes. He attempted a smile which managed to make him seem more threatening than ever. “So, are you going to be sensible and let me in, or are you going to make me stand out here in the rain all day?”

She curled a lip in what she hoped was defiance. “I think, on balance, I’m going to be stupid and let you get wet.”

Then she slammed the door on him and locked it.

***

After his encounter with the mad girl who’d moved into Creekside Cottage, Josh headed to the club to help Sara out with a novice windsurfing course. Even before he got there to find no one had turned up, he’d known it would be a washout. Only a nutcase, or him, would want to go out on a day like this. Now he and Sara were watching the rain and wind whipping up whitecaps on the estuary and Josh had made the mistake of mentioning what had happened.

“She did
what
?” said Sara.

“Slammed the door in my face,” said Josh, scrolling through the weather reports on Windguru.com.

“And this is Fiona?”

“No, this is the friend.”

“Doesn’t sound very friendly. What does she look like?”