Someone to Watch Over Me (28 page)

‘I'm not sure, but I don't think so. He said something about being locked up and a strange smell … I'm sorry this is so vague. I'm sure it's not helping you. The reason I phoned is that he was so very insistent that he needed you to know, he said he needed you to help.'

‘What does he want me to do?' asked Carrie, her voice breaking.

‘I don't know, Carrie,' said Simon. ‘I promise I'll tell you as soon as I know any more. I can't always hear him that clearly.'

‘Will you ring me again?' asked Carrie.

‘I will. I really hope I haven't upset you too much,' he replied.

When she got to the shop Carrie was grateful for Jen's chatter. She badly needed to be distracted from hearing Charlie's words, which were turning round and round in her head. Fully restored to her former ebullient self, Jen was full of news and plans. Apparently Tom was expected to be in hospital for at least another week until the doctors were sure that he had recovered sufficiently to spend the rest of his convalescence at home. He had concussion, extensive bruising, various grazes and scrapes and a broken arm, but this hadn't stopped him and Jen starting to plan what was clearly going to be the wedding of the century. In fact, Jen was taking further advantage of the fact he was not yet quite the full quid to push through some of her more extravagant suggestions. She was pretty sure he wouldn't have agreed to swans on stilts if he hadn't been a little under par.

Carrie was amused to see that Jen had acquired a velvet-covered ring binder from
Trove
and had drawn up lists for everything and then colour coded them. She had been transformed in a short space of time from someone who used to mock the weddings of friends to bridezilla extraordinaire, given to examining at length the relative merits of chiffon ribbon over satin. The very woman who used to claim that buffets and bubble machines were the work of the devil had now drawn up a list of possible wedding venues within a ten-mile radius of Cambridge and was systematically working through them all, giving them a star rating system in the process. Carrie didn't want to curtail her exuberance by talking about what Simon had told her about Charlie, so she kept it to herself. Jen had had the most terrible few days and she deserved a break from misery.

‘Looks like I'm going to be alone in the Fantasy Retirement Home, after all,' said Carrie, who was ironing some silk playsuits that had arrived in boxes and were too crumpled to display, while Jen leaned on the shop counter, too absorbed in a magazine spread of wedding party favours to answer.

‘I don't really care. All the more Sobranies for me,' Carrie said.

‘What?' said Jen, looking up sharply. Dazzled though she might be by the sight of a feature on a hundred and one ways of decorating wedding tables, she wasn't so distracted that she missed the clanger of a clue Carrie had just lobbed at her.

‘Has something happened with Damian?'

‘I told him last night that it was over,' said Carrie.

‘What made you do that?' asked Jen. ‘I thought you said it was going well between you.'

‘I don't know. It's complicated. It was something to do with how you were with Tom at the hospital. And also the fact he didn't really want to talk about the medium stuff – it reminded me of how we were when Charlie first went. I don't know. A lot of things really. He asked me to marry him again and that kind of forced my hand.'

‘OH MY GOD … We could have had a double wedding!' said Jen, convincing Carrie, if she needed any further convincing, that her friend had truly gone over to the dark side.

Carrie hung the pink and blue suits on padded hangers, placing ribbon-trimmed over-the-knee socks and pale blue suede t-bars on the floor underneath the rail. The playsuits were strictly for the under twenty-fives, but there were some twenties-style drop-waisted dresses in dark green with a pattern of acorns and leaves in a lighter green, and some in cream with a pattern of dark brown curled-up cats. These, teamed with some soft, woollen tights in vivid purples and blues would suit the customers who felt that their playsuit days were over. Although Carrie wouldn't put it past her mother to try and squeeze herself into one. The woman was becoming more skittish by the day. It really was time to ask what her plans were; she couldn't stay with Carrie forever.

‘I can't imagine you wanting to share your day of glory with anyone else, and besides, it was never going to happen,' said Carrie, casting a critical eye over her efforts.

‘Does this mean that Peter Fletcher with his romantic, troubled brow is back in with a chance?' said Jen slyly.

‘No. Definitely not. Although …' Carrie trailed off.

‘What?' demanded Jen. ‘Tell me.'

‘Don't go blowing it out of all proportion, but there might be someone else …'

‘Who?' said Jen, turning astonished, round eyes at Carrie. ‘You never said anything about anyone else.'

‘Just because we run a shop together, doesn't mean I'm contractually obliged to tell you every detail of my life.'

‘Yes, but this isn't just a minor detail is it?' said Jen indignantly.

‘Do you remember me mentioning Oliver Gladhill?' said Carrie.

‘What? The bloke with a high opinion of himself? The serial shagger?' said Jen.

‘Yes.'

‘I thought you said you couldn't stand the sight of him.'

‘Well, we went out the other day and he wasn't at all how I expected him to be.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘He was really nice. Listened … you know … and seemed to understand when I told him things …'

‘Let's get this right in my head. The last and only time you have mentioned this bloke to me, you said he had different women coming out of his house at all hours and that he had shifty eyes. Now, he's suddenly Claire Rayner reincarnated …'

‘I don't know. I just thought he was nice. That's all. He has a way of talking about things that makes sense,' said Carrie, adding bold gemstone pendants to the dresses and standing back to judge the effect.

Just then the shop doorbell sounded and Oliver came in. Carrie was so surprised to see the subject of their discussion suddenly in front of her that she turned round too abruptly and knocked over a basket of enamelled brooches. After an undignified scrabble on the ground and helped by both Jen and Oliver, the basket was put back in its place by the till and Carrie turned a flushed face to her friend.

‘Jen, this is Oliver Gladhill. Oliver, this is Jen,' she said only too aware that Jen had turned on the full force of her scrutiny and was inspecting Oliver from top to toe. Her eyes lingered particularly on his shoes. Oliver, although somewhat taken aback by the gimlet looks that Jen had fastened on him, was gratified to see Carrie's reaction to his arrival in the shop. She really did have the most beautiful skin, particularly when she was a little flustered as she was now. Her gaze was as clear and direct under those dark brows as he remembered it.

‘Nice to meet you,' said Oliver, shaking Jen's hand and giving her the full benefit of his charmingly lopsided smile.

‘I came in to find out if you were doing anything tomorrow, Carrie. I wondered if you might like to come out to the reserve with me. You mentioned you would be interested to see the work?'

Carrie was tempted to tell the cocky bugger to piss off. She was still smarting from the humiliation of having practically thrown herself at him and been rejected. All that guff about wanting her to be sure; she clearly just wasn't blonde enough.

‘I'd like that,' she heard herself say, to her surprise. ‘All I had planned for tomorrow was food shopping and cleaning the house.'

‘Great. I'll knock on your door at around one. Dress warm and waterproof.' And, after giving both the women another of his devastating smiles, he went out.

‘Handsome and knows it,' said Jen. ‘Also, his shoes are just too trustworthy to be trusted. It's like he has read some manual and found out what women like.'

‘I know,' said Carrie. ‘That's what I've been saying to myself too.'

‘Very nice smile though,' said Jen grudgingly and returned to her magazine.

‘It might be useful,' said Carrie, ‘if certain parties put aside wedding plans just for a moment and helped me to put price labels on these dresses.'

‘I'll just make us some tea first,' said Jen, ‘and perhaps I'll just nip next door for a packet of Jaffa cakes, and then you can give me your initial ideas for wedding dresses. I've been thinking pale green, off the shoulder.
A Midsummer Night's Dream
kind of vibe.'

‘It'll be
Midsomer Murders
if you don't stop talking crap,' said Carrie. ‘Pale green will make you look anaemic and I've told you before that off-the-shoulder dresses don't make you look like Jennifer Beal in
Flashdance
, they just make you look dishevelled. I'm thinking along the lines of something quite structured. Perhaps some lace. Elegant.'

Jen rolled her eyes and went to put the kettle on.

Molly felt Max waken, and then stiffen in her arms as they heard the key turning in the lock. The door swung open and Rupert came into the room, shutting and locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket. He was carrying a small holdall and was dressed in the clothes he used to wear when he went out fishing; his weatherproof anorak and trousers. Molly stood up, her legs stiff with the cold and the position she had been forced to keep for the last few hours in order not to wake Max. Rupert stood looking at them from the other side of the room.

‘Rupert, Max isn't well. He's cold. His asthma is getting bad. Please let us out,' pleaded Molly.

Rupert didn't reply. He came towards her and she couldn't stop herself from shrinking back against the wall. As he stood over her she felt an immediate and quick revulsion. He smelt of alcohol and of something rotten and musty, like a wet towel that had been left at the bottom of a swimming bag. He had a red, sore patch on the side of his face, as if he had been rubbing at his skin repeatedly.

‘Daddy, I'm hungry,' said Max and he started coughing and couldn't seem to stop. Molly crouched down beside him and stroked him on the back.

‘You can see. He really isn't very well, Rupert. Even if you don't let me go, take Max. Take him to Kate's or the hospital,' said Molly.

‘Your friend came round yesterday evening,' said Rupert. His voice sounded calm, the tone light and conversational. ‘I told her you and Max had taken a little trip away. I said that Max hadn't been very well and that you had taken him off to recuperate. Silly bitch wanted the address of where you were staying …'

‘What did you tell her?' asked Molly, wanting him to keep talking since then there might be more chance of him seeing how ill Max was.

‘I told her you had gone to a hotel in Norfolk. I said I had written it down somewhere but didn't know the name off the top of my head. She waited for me to go and get it, but I pretended to forget.' Rupert looked suddenly crafty. ‘I think I fooled her. I'm not going back to the house anyway.'

He put the holdall on the floor and unzipped it.

‘I brought you both a little present.' He pulled out something covered in newspaper and unwrapped it carefully, holding a snake-like creature up for their inspection. It was olive coloured and wet looking and hung straight down from his fist as if it was pouring from his hand.

‘Only the third eel I have ever caught. Quite a catch, considering it isn't even the season.'

He placed the eel on the floor in front of Max, who shuddered and averted his eyes. Rupert returned to his bag and this time took out a bottle of water, which he put down on the floor next to the eel.

‘No plates, I'm afraid,' said Rupert and patted Max on the head. ‘You'll just have to make a picnic of it, eh? A little adventure.' Max flinched away from him and in response Rupert grabbed hold of him by the front of his sweater and pulled him upwards so that his feet were barely touching the ground.

‘Don't, Rupert. Please don't,' said Molly desperately, moving towards her son.

‘She's turned you against me hasn't she?'

Max shook his head and Rupert released him so suddenly that he fell back down onto the floor and banged his head. He cried out in protest and pain.

The sound seemed to stop Rupert in his tracks. He raised his head for a moment as if scenting the air and then looked about him in bewilderment. He seemed to have forgotten what he was supposed to be doing. He swayed slightly on the balls of his feet and then sat down with his back to the wall as if suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. Although he appeared to be looking straight at Molly, his eyes were unfocused and empty. He began rubbing at the raw patch of his face so hard that he scraped his skin with his fingernails and drew blood.

Molly got up and walked slowly towards him. She thought that if she moved smoothly and quietly she might avoid startling him out of his strange reverie. If she was very careful she might even be able to get into the pocket of his coat. She placed her hand on his shoulder but he didn't acknowledge the gesture in any way. He continued to stare straight ahead and continued to worry away at his wounded face. Emboldened by this, she crouched down beside him. It took a real effort of will for her to put her arm around him since her instinct was screaming at her to get as far away from him as she possibly could. She spoke gently as if to a small child or frightened animal.

‘I don't think you are feeling very well yourself,' she said, stroking his shoulder. ‘Shall we just try and get you back to the house?'

She manoeuvred her arm so that it was just resting over the pocket of his anorak. She tried to remember if it had a Velcro fastening or not. She attempted to keep her breathing even, her voice low and soothing, the words repetitive.