Never Alone (2 page)

Aiden shifts in his seat, moves away slightly. Basil jumps up, then heads over to his food bowl in case something might have fallen into it since the last time he checked. ‘It felt like the right time. I was thinking of doing some freelance work for now, until I find something permanent.’

‘I’m being nosy, sorry.’

‘Not at all. It’s a valid question. What’s it like living here? Do you have good internet coverage?’

‘I’ve got broadband. The wireless even works in the cottage, but the signal’s not as strong. You might want to get your own router.’

‘I could work from home,’ he says.

Sarah’s heart beats faster again.
He said ‘home’. He thinks this place is home.
‘Absolutely.’

‘What’s the village like?’

‘It’s great – lovely friendly people. It’s got a few shops, coffee shops and tea rooms, a post office, a Chinese, a chippy, but I steer clear of that one. The pubs are nice. The restaurant in one of them is particularly good, but you have to book. There’s a new village hall, lots of things going on… events… you know.’

He considers this, drinking his tea. At last he puts down his mug. ‘If you don’t like the idea of commitment, we can dispense with a contract. But I’ll pay you eight hundred a month, with a month in advance as a deposit. If you need me to leave, you can give me, say, a week’s notice. How does that sound?’

‘But we’re friends,’ she protests.

‘It doesn’t mean we can’t have a professional understanding over this particular issue. And I’m afraid I’m going to insist on it.’

He’s so serious that she finds herself breaking into a smile. ‘Are you really?’

‘Yes.’

And she gives up. ‘All right, then.’

He offers her his hand to shake, and the deal is done. Her heart is beating hard enough, she thinks, for him to hear it.
Eight hundred a month.

He smiles, finishes his tea. Then looks up at her from under his brows. ‘You’re sure this is a good idea?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

He doesn’t answer. She has a horrible feeling it’s because he knows quite clearly how obsessed she is.

‘I promise I won’t trash the place, or have noisy parties without inviting you,’ he says.

‘And I promise I won’t ask you to fix the septic tank,’ she replies. His hand is warm, his grip firm.

So it begins. 

When the tea is finished, she offers to show you the rest of the house. You accept. You need to see it, to picture where she lives, sleeps, works. How she spends her days. More than that, you need a way to keep the conversation going. You hadn’t expected this to be quite so awkward.

Sarah leads the way from the large kitchen into a living room that’s half the size, with a big corner sofa unit that’s looking threadbare under the white cotton throws. The throws have been put there for your benefit, you realise, as one of the dogs makes a leap for the corner seat that has an indentation in it exactly to his dimensions. She shouts at him to get down, which he does, looking confused. She has a small television in the corner and a large bookcase covering one wall. You like this proportion and what it tells you about her.

As well as the living room, there is a garden room and a conservatory. A downstairs loo and shower, a utility room with the back door leading off it.

‘The cottage has got a washing machine,’ she says. ‘But if you need to dry things you can always bring them in here.’

‘Thanks,’ you say, trying to picture yourself coming in here with a laundry basket when she’s not here. Or when she is.

‘The door’s usually unlocked,’ she says.

You give her a questioning look.

‘I’ve never worried about it. I don’t think anyone locks their doors round here.’

She leads the way up the narrow staircase to the first floor. You are distracted from the close-up view of her arse in those tight jeans by the original artworks on the walls. They are her illustrations for
The Candy Cotton Piglet
, her first and most successful book. She won awards for the series that followed. The illustrations look so much brighter than the books themselves, and you tell her this.

‘You think?’ she calls, from the landing. ‘I don’t think I even look at them any more.’

You join her upstairs. The house is set into a hillside and is clearly old, with sloping floors and low ceilings. She shows you two of the five bedrooms, one of them still obviously belonging to the absent daughter, Kitty, who must be at university. What about the son, Louis? There doesn’t seem to be much left of his room. He went away to study, then you seem to remember he dropped out after a year. The same year that Jim died. You wonder what happened after that.

‘How are the kids?’ you ask.

‘They’re fine,’ she says. ‘Kitty is doing well. She should be coming home for a visit soon; you’ll get to meet her.’

‘Where’s she studying?’

‘Manchester. She’s doing civil engineering.’

‘And Louis?’

‘This is the bathroom,’ she says, standing to one side.

It’s clear from her wide smile that she’s particularly proud of this room, and it is very nice. A roll-top bath stands in front of the window, down two steps. There’s a shower too, and oak beams. The bath is in front of the window and there aren’t any curtains.

‘Bit public, isn’t it?’ you say, before you think about it.

She laughs. ‘Nobody around for miles,’ she says. ‘And if there were, I don’t think they’d be interested.’

You want to disagree but you’ve seen the flush that’s creeping across her cheeks and you know she’s embarrassed
herself, so you restrict your response to a polite smile. Besides, she’s given up on the tour. ‘There are another three bedrooms,’ she says casually. One of them will be the master bedroom – hers alone now, you think – but she has no need to show that off.

‘Where do you work?’ you ask.

‘I’ve got a studio behind the garage. Jim used it as a workshop, but I had some skylights put in and I took it over. I’ll show you another time.’

She heads back downstairs. After a moment, in which you look down the narrow hallway to a door at the end, slightly open, you follow.

‘When are you going to move in?’ she asks.

‘Straight away,’ you say. ‘If that’s not too cheeky.’

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘The place is yours now.’

You head out to the car. She doesn’t offer to help and you’re glad to be on your own again. You drive the Focus back up towards the cottage, which has its own parking space next to the front door. The boot is full: two suitcases, a holdall and a suit-carrier. You unlock the door of the cottage again and enter, this time with a proprietorial air. You collect the luggage from the car and leave it in the hallway, closing the door behind you and standing for a moment, listening to the quiet.

At last: you can breathe.

Nobody knows where you are. Nobody, except Sarah. You are safe here, thanks to her.

Her generosity is astonishing. Perhaps even alarming. But then, she has this cottage and you can understand her reluctance to have a stranger live in it. You’re just surprised that she’s willing to let you take it over, since you’re practically a stranger too. And it is a great space, exactly what you need: a large open-plan living room with a kitchen area at one end; big patio doors that show off a view down into
the valley, with nothing but fields, sheep and dry stone walls for the next two or three miles. The furniture is modern and functional, which must be deliberate. Everything is white and clean, all blond wood and natural fabrics. The bedroom is surprisingly spacious, with a double bed, an iron bedframe. She’s even made up the bed, with a dove-grey duvet cover and pillowcases. A small pile of towels sits at an oblique angle on the end of the bed. They look brand new. The bathroom is small and there isn’t room for a bath, just a shower. You don’t mind. A pot plant sits on the windowsill, the depth of which gives you an idea of the thickness of the exterior walls. The plant is green enough to be made of plastic, but, when you investigate, it’s real; the compost is slightly damp. You’ll have to remember to keep it watered; you don’t want to kill it.

Your watch says it’s half-past twelve, although you’re not hungry. You barely slept last night, and you’re too tired to eat. It would be easy to go to bed now, you think, looking at the iron bedstead that looks so comfortable, but if you do that you won’t sleep tonight. You have to stay awake until bedtime. Before that, there are many things you could be doing.

You spend an hour unpacking. Suits, shirts on hangers in the wardrobe. Toiletries into the bathroom. The bed calls you again.

You head back outside, leaving the door unlocked. Better get used to it, you tell yourself. One of the dogs barks as you walk across the yard towards the main house. It’s an excellent warning, of course. You knock on the front door.

‘You don’t need to knock,’ she says, opening the door. ‘You can come straight in.’

‘No, really,’ you say. ‘I can’t just walk in.’

She’s smiling, amused. ‘Everyone else does.’

‘I’m going to go and get some provisions,’ you say. ‘Where’s the nearest supermarket?’

‘There’s a Co-op in town. In the square – you can’t miss it. If you want to do a big shop you’ll have to go to Thirsk.’

‘The Co-op sounds fine. Do you need anything?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘If you need anything for the cottage – or if there’s anything in there you don’t want – just let me know. I keep the bed made up, but you might prefer to have your own sheets… I don’t know.’

‘It’s great,’ you say.

There’s a pause then, because you’re looking at her, and you lose your train of thought. In your defence, the tiredness of the long drive and everything that preceded it is overwhelming. Your eyes have glazed a little, remembering something from a lifetime ago.

‘My friend Sophie is having a bit of a get-together tomorrow night,’ Sarah is saying. ‘You’re welcome to join us. It’s just in the Royal Oak, in town.’

‘Oh,’ you say. Caught out. ‘That sounds nice. Thanks.’

‘Only, you know, if you’re not busy. See how you feel.’

‘Thanks,’ you say again. ‘You’ve been really kind.’

She smiles and you head back up towards the car.
A bit of a get-together
, you think. It sounded like a casual invitation, and to anyone else it might have seemed she’d felt obliged to ask you, now you’re here. But you’re not anyone else. You’re good at reading people. You know that, however dismissively it was phrased, Sarah really wants you to go. It’s warm in the car and you open the windows as you indicate to turn into the lane. You start to think about what to wear, what to bring. Who Sophie is, and what Sarah’s friends might be like, how they will react to you. And what might happen afterwards.

In your back pocket, your mobile phone vibrates. You check the number and smile before answering. Three calls, already? It looks as if you’re going to be busy.

Aiden offers to drive, so that Sarah can have a drink.

It’s a very casual offer, but by the time they have crossed the yard to his car, got in and buckled up, Sarah’s cheeks are burning and she has such a surge of emotion that she thinks she might actually cry. He didn’t mean anything by it, she tells herself, cross at her reaction. She’s not even sure if he knows all the details of Jim’s accident; he wasn’t in the country when it happened. He sent flowers, a card with a really kind letter inside it, his memories of Jim – but all he knows, all he really knows, is that there was a car crash and Jim died after six months without ever fully regaining consciousness. He doesn’t know what caused it.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he says. ‘Is everything okay?’

She can’t bring herself to look across to him. They are halfway down the hill, the headlights illuminating the hedgerows either side of the lane. ‘It’s nothing,’ she says, then adds brightly, ‘You’ll like Sophie, everyone does. And George is all right too; he comes across as a bit of an arrogant arse but he’s OK when you get to know him. He’s an MP. Not ours, though. You need to turn left at the bottom.’

He knows, of course, where the square is. Already she is wishing she hadn’t suggested this. She loves Sophie, she is her best friend – really her only friend – but the socialising thing, it’s awkward. She never quite feels comfortable. As soon as she gets out of the house, no matter how much she’s looked forward to it, she instantly wants to go home again.

‘How have you been getting on?’ she asks, to change the subject. ‘The cottage, I mean. Have you got everything you need?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s great. Very… quiet.’

This makes her laugh. ‘What about your job?’

‘I need to make some new contacts up here, but yes – that’s looking good.’

‘What is it you do again?’

There is a pause while he waits to turn into the car park and she thinks maybe he wasn’t listening, but then he says, ‘It’s like a therapy business. Setting up franchises, that kind of thing. Facilitation.’

The car stops and he turns off the engine. Turns to look at her.

‘I’ll tell you all about it another time,’ he says. ‘You look absolutely beautiful.’

The sudden compliment takes her by surprise and chokes her. Nobody has told her that for a long, long time. Only Sophie, but then Sophie thinks everyone’s
gorgeous, darling,
and it’s not the same. Not the same at all.

As they walk across to the pub, Sarah fights the emotion back down again.
It’s hormones
, she tells herself.
Get a grip!
Aiden holds the door for her and she goes inside, into the warm pub with its low ceiling and uneven carpeted floor, and there is Sophie in a black dress that shows off her long legs, and she is smiling and elegant.

‘Sarah, darling! And this must be…’

‘Aiden Beck. Pleased to meet you.’

She kisses him on both cheeks, managing to give Sarah a quick wink as she does so. Sophie introduces George, who is already, by the look of his ruddy complexion and enthusiastic handshake, well refreshed. Becca is there, with Daniel. Laura and Marlie, Paul and Amy, Ian and Diana. Sarah says hello to the ones who catch her eye.

Aiden goes to the bar.

‘He’s a bit gorgeous, isn’t he?’ Sophie says in a loud whisper. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘I’ve hardly seen him,’ Sarah says. ‘He only moved in yesterday. He’s been busy, sorting things out.’

And Sarah has been avoiding him – not intentionally; it’s just that she doesn’t have anything in particular to say. She doesn’t want to harass the poor man. She doesn’t want to give off the impression that she’s lonely. She isn’t; she has the dogs, and Sophie, and her work. And Aiden is an old friend, nothing more.

A small voice inside reminds her that he just told her she was beautiful, less than five minutes ago. It felt like a very personal thing for him to say, after so many years. She wonders if he actually meant it, or if he says it to every woman he’s friends with.