Starting Over (13 page)

Pete drew a pleasing oval around an advertisement for a Karmann Ghia.

Ratty squinted over his shoulder. ‘We’ve only just rebuilt a Karmann, let’s do something different.’

Pete sighed, scribbled his oval out again. ‘He really clipped her one, did he?’

‘Certainly did. Hand print like a starfish on her face.’

Shaking his head, turning the page, Pete whistled disapproval. ‘That’s seriously uncool. Seriously. Smacking a woman like that.’ He pushed his hair back and tried to catch the light on a dark, grainy photograph of what purported to be an accident-prone Porsche. ‘Big guy, that Olly.’

Ratty grinned. ‘These annoying, smooth guys with desk jobs. Pushover. And I was really cross.’ He’d also taken full advantage of the surprise element, erupting into the room in a shower of broken glass. God he’d been angry. Furious. Raging. Was it Olly’s contemptuous blow or Tess’s humiliation? Something had exploded him into the room without feeling his feet meeting ground, lit the flashes behind his eyes. And flung the hard, maddened punch into Olly’s unprepared stomach, brought the knee up into Olly’s face as he doubled over, given weight to the final, satisfying, ignominious boot against the buttocks that sent Olly sprawling.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been leaning against the wall outside the door where he could both watch and listen. Nor waded in uninvited. But he’d swung the odds in Tess’s favour.

Pete tapped the page. ‘How about a BMW Isetta?’

‘No, no more bubble cars. Little bastards.’

‘Low mileage, though.’

Ratty grunted. ‘You wouldn’t think people would be so proud of not going far.’ He settled back comfortably into his chair. The beer had taken over where the wine had left off.

‘What was Jos doing?’ Pete ran his finger down a column of photos of vehicles for sale.

‘Sitting on the wall, looking pugnacious. Until Olly took off and Tess began to sob, then he decided he had a headache and left.’

‘And you kissed Tess better?’

Ratty stopped twisting to read the magazine, tipping his head back to relax his neck. ‘She wasn’t interested in sympathy. Well, not after the first five seconds of crying all over my shirt. Look.’ He picked at a rusty smear where blood from the corner of her mouth had mixed with her tears. ‘Christ, did she suddenly get enraged, ungrateful woman. Bastard Olly, bastard men, bastard this, that. Then it’s “
Just leave me, Ratty! Go away
!” – she’s always telling me to go away. So here I am, an unsung hero.’ He wondered about another beer. But had to get up early in the morning to see the remains of an E-Type Jaguar in
North Devon
he hoped to get for silly money. Probably better not. ‘Coffee?’

‘Sure.’ Pete tossed the magazine on a pile and wandered towards the kettle.

Ratty sent after him, ‘D’you think she
knew
how she looked today in those cut-off denims and the white vest?’

The chuckle from the kitchen told him that Pete had certainly noticed.

‘She should wear her hair loose like that always. And her shirts that tight.’

‘Why don’t you just go for it – here, not much milk left, sorry, better keep enough for the kids or I’ll get scalped – is it that impossible to ask her out?’

‘Mmmm.’ Ratty blew his coffee. ‘I think she’d refuse. Her feminine instincts would alert her, y’know, “
It’s a man! It’s a man! Remember, men hurt
!” I’m still thinking, if I’m around for her, it’ll kind of just ... happen.’

‘You must be dynamite in bed, Rats, if you think it’ll happen without her realising! Oh hiya, Toby-boy, can’t you sleep?’

‘Daddy,’ Toby droned drearily, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand and scratching his pyjama’d tummy with the other. ‘Daddy, I sicked again. Watty, I sicked in bed.’

‘There’s something gross on his cheek,’ Ratty pointed out.

‘I see it.’ Pete sighed, abandoning his coffee and reaching out gingerly to his little boy. ‘And there’s another on his neck.’

‘Looks like bloody chickenpox.’ Pete’s apologetic voice, from the phone. ‘Fat blisters and a temperature. He’s crying for his mum, so ...’

Tess’s voice was still quivering with fury. She had to concentrate to speak to Pete civilly. ‘Of course, I’ll tell her.’

Angel excused herself helplessly. ‘I’ll have to go, Tess.’

‘’Course!’

‘I feel dreadful leaving you, after Olly ...’

Tess shook her head, hiding her face behind a sheet of hair. ‘Don’t fret, I’m all over it now! Early night, double whisky, I’ll be cured.’

Late into her early night, she lay wide-eyed and naked beneath a single sheet. Olly. He remained dazzling; did she still want him? Or might she have, if he hadn’t slapped her? What if he’d brought roses, smiled his sexiest, asked to begin again, tried to kiss, instead of hurt her? It might’ve been nice to find out.

The ringing of the bedside phone jumped her out of her preoccupation. ‘Fancy a trip to the seaside?’ Ratty demanded, without preamble. ‘I’m seeing an E-Type in
Devon
tomorrow, and if Pete comes now Toby’s sick, it’ll leave Angel with her hands full.’

Propped on her elbow in the dark, she thrust back her hair and deliberated. Wasn’t she busy, chewing over the scene with Olly, beating herself up over the way trouble had come courting? Didn’t she have wallowing and dissecting to do?

‘Tess?’

Did she want to be cooped up in a car with the witness to her humiliation, for a long day because
Devon
was a hell of a way?

Maybe she’d better leave Middledip so Olly couldn’t find her again, so she didn’t have to face people who were now aware that Olly thought she was supposed to put up with slaps. Olly-rage blossomed fresh in her chest. And, if she went, this time she wouldn’t even tell James where she was going.

Or should she stay in spite of Olly? Or maybe he wouldn’t always behave so hideously ...?

‘
Tess
!’

No, she didn’t think she wanted to visit the seaside. ‘Take Jos.’

Ratty slid into impatience, anything to do with his business paramount, to his mind. ‘Yes, obviously, except he’s got it too!’

Tess let herself be diverted. ‘Really? Poor old Jos, chickenpox at his age won’t be funny.’

‘Poor, poor old Jos, poor Toby, I’m dead sorry for them. But I’ve made arrangements to see this car tomorrow!’

‘Can’t you go alone?’

He made a considering noise. ‘It always goes better with two to work the vendor. Someone to be dubious, baulk at the price, hate the colour. Anyway, I might need a co-driver, it’s a long way and I could do with this favour, Tess.’

And I owe you one, she supplied silently. Although I didn’t invite you into my quarrel and as well as worrying about after the ball, and you helping deal with my bleeding, I’m cringing that you saw me get a slapping. And if something
did
happen after the ball, why don’t you say?

Maybe leaving would be best, away, far away from everyone. Up a mountain, behind a large gate, with a moat, and big, toothy dogs.

‘Please?’

‘Oh ... all right!’ She’d tired of the argument before it’d really begun. One day; one day couldn’t be that bad.

‘Great, thanks! Early start, I’ll be there at five. And, by the way, bring a toothbrush and change of knickers in case we have to stay over.’ And he’d gone.

‘Be there at five’? ‘In case we need to stay over’? She slammed the phone back into the rest so hard that it jumped out again. ‘Bloody Ratty! He tucked that in at the end, didn’t he? Sodding arrogant self-absorbed shitty
men
!’

Tess, asleep when Ratty banged the door with an impatient fist, stumbled down the twisted staircase.

He strode in through the patched-up door. ‘Forget to set your alarm?’

She pulled her towelling robe tighter and trudged back up the staircase. ‘Went back to sleep.’ After lying awake for hours.

He called after her, ‘Sugar in your coffee?’ Minutes later he opened her bedroom door, making her leap for a shirt and, with head averted, thrust the coffee mug into the room. ‘Here.’

She snatched the mug, refusing to thank him. What the hell did he think he was doing, barging in like that? And not even
trying
to sneak a look.

‘Five minutes,’ he suggested briskly.

Despite her aggravation, she’d taken his advice and packed a few things the night before; so by pouring most of the coffee away she was ready in time, dropping breathlessly into the kitchen clutching her hairbrush.

‘Great.’ He walked out to the van that was waiting with the trailer hooked up behind it, leaving her to lock up and scramble after him, scolding herself for letting him rush her. Why commit herself at all to this tedious trip to see a tiresome old car?

The van began to move even as she felt for the seat belt. ‘Here we go,’ he said, trundling into
Main Road
. It was the last he spoke for some time. Smoothly he took them through Bettsbrough to the dual carriageway and onto the M6.

Gazing away from him, she brushed her hair slowly until it streamed, bright in the morning sun, over her right shoulder. Damn, she’d forgotten a band for it. No, nothing in her bag, nor her pockets, her hair would just have to remain loose and probably be a sodding nuisance. One of these days she’d just get Angel to chop the whole messy mop off. She smiled to herself. Unlikely ...

How nice it was this early morning to be able to see over the hedges from an empty road, the early sunshine making pink and apricot beauty of even the rawness of the new housing estate they passed. She wondered dreamily about those houses. At just after six, would the occupants of those roofed boxes be awake? Did they like it that their house replicated the one next door in its brand-newness, its immature garden?

She considered, in contrast, the satisfying age of everything at Honeybun, the wild little garden of pot marigolds, holly and birch, the conifers that she didn’t snip into shape because her father always clipped his so formally, too tight for her taste ...

Then they were swinging off the M6 and into a service station, the radio told her it was 7.30 and she realised she must have dozed off over her thoughts. Surreptitiously, she checked her T-shirt for dribble.

‘Breakfast!’ Ratty slid out of the cab and stretched.

The restaurant perched on the bridge over the motorway. Ratty ate silently. Tess finished first, fidgeting and gazing through the window at the traffic disappearing in three lines either way beneath them. Why had she let herself be persuaded – no, ordered – to come? Why did she wait cooperatively for what was coming next? Perhaps Ratty would even deign to begin a conversation soon and no doubt she’d respond to his new mood and they’d be friendly again.

Bloody Ratty. Although his precious car world revered his capabilities, however you wrapped it up he was only a second-hand car dealer.

And just look at all his women; he changed them as often as he changed his jeans. Oftener. An endless queue summoned by black curls and a spark of blue eyes to take their turn on the relationship carousel, and each, inevitably, watching him move on to a fresh horse.

Traffic slid on under the bridge, lorry-lorry-van-car, car-car-lorry, car transporter.

He sometimes talked to her in a way she didn’t like. He got his own way far too much, possessing a lethal dose of loveable rogue. Not that he was always loveable.

‘Your face might stick like that, all cross and hissy.’ His amused voice broke into her daydream.

She started, unable to prevent a guilty flush. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here and why you’d ask me. What help am I, what purpose do I serve? I’m not even sure you like me!’

‘Oh, I do.’ He began to lead her back to the long-vehicle park. ‘But I didn’t at first.’ Strapped in, he changed the radio station, searched out mints from the glove compartment and expanded his explanation. ‘You ran into my truck and then glared round my garage. But you’re better for the knowing, I like the way you help Angel sometimes, it’s generous. I like your conversation and sense of humour when you relax. What’s the name of that lizard-man?’

‘Farny.’

‘I don’t like the way you look at me as if waiting for me to turn into Farny.’

He drove. She thought. Deliberated and fumed. Finally, she challenged. ‘You didn’t like the way I
glared round your garage
?’

He nodded and sucked his mint, noisily. ‘As if it was a den of thieves waiting to rip you off.’

She shrugged, sliding down in the seat. ‘When I was a student I had loads of trouble with cars, getting stuck miles from home. I’d have to find someone to sort it, sick as I wrote the cheque because it would mean letters from the bank, then, afterwards, someone would always,
always
, tell me I’d been stung, that I should never go to strange garages because they’ll charge what they like!’

‘Surely your folks helped you out, financially?’

‘Oh yeah!’ She thought about her parents’ brand of aid. ‘With strings attached. “
We’ll help you this time, darling, but you must sell the car, it’s just a worry. Wait until you have a good job when you’ll be able to manage properly
.” It became my philosophy to cope alone at all costs, dig myself out of holes I fell into – usually making myself even more trouble. Then, just as I was going through the palaver of interviews and trying to get an agent, my grandmother died and left me some capital. Was Dad mad when he found out she hadn’t stipulated that he manage it for me!’ She chuckled. ‘I always thought Grandma considered me too dreamy, she was so switched on and decisive, but she left me quite a bit. Anyway, at least it bought me a decent car that started when I turned the ignition key.’