The Love Letter (15 page)

She felt the drying sweat turn icy cold against her skin, yet a hot little flame leapt in her heart and groin. Her fingers shook as she read other messages.

Kelly had emailed again late the previous night, begging her to respond:
Gordon is in a complete state. I’m so sorry to put pressure on, but I could really use your help. He is pretty paranoid (please never tell him I said that
–
he tells me an overactive imagination is a part of the job spec). He seems to think there’s an unfair compromise taking place.

Conrad had sent a very dry
Sleep well?

Daisy, alerted to the missed calls, apologised by text for juggling
wailing babies and work until too late to respond in voice and asked:
Whassup? Don’t tell me I poisoned you at lunch yesterday? Only saw the sell by date on the Brie afterwards. Sorry! You have Nico’s bag, BTW; take care of Beekey. Seen Francis yet? Xx

Yelping, Legs looked at the small duffel bag she had thus far believed to contain her Browns weekend wardrobe, artfully rolled to avoid creases, along with her make-up, wash-things and phone charger. Instead, it was topped by a much-washed fluffy parrot, beneath which languished several pairs of very small Y-fronts and socks, a pair of
Dr Who
pyjamas and lots of practical separates suited to a ten-year-old boy, all neatly starched and folded by Ros, some items of which Legs recognised from the garden washing line that she had already pilfered once.

With a wail, she kicked the car door to vent her anger, making it swing backwards like a starting gate before it dropped down on its rusty hinges with an ominous clank. When Legs pushed it closed again, it hung down like a broken wing and she found it would no longer shut or lock, however much she lifted and heaved. Perhaps Gordon was right; her car was hexed. She sensed fate was trying to tell her something.

‘Behave like a child, dress like a child?’ she suggested out loud.

Determined to stay in control, she sat on the bonnet to pull off her wet trainers and socks, then composed her very grown up and responsible replies, firstly to Francis:
Yes to lunch. Am on a sardine, citrus and boiled pulse diet. Gives one terribly bad breath, but the movements are worth it. Need to talk; not sure plan such a good idea. Pax. x

Off it flew, followed by her response to Kelly:
Gordon is lucky to have you. Please don’t worry. I will not compromise him in any way. Compromising myself goes with the territory, but you’ll know all about that. He will get what he wants and is assured of my total discretion. You are an utter pro. We both are.

Then she addressed Conrad:
I slept in the car, which is red. According to Gordon that’s a bad thing. But frankly it’s better than sleeping under the same roof as my mother and her secret lover of more
than ten years, or my ex-fiancé and his nest of red-headed festival vipers. If you want your star to appear here, then I must get into bed with them all. This is hell. Please rescue me. L xxx

That should get his attention, she thought murderously, dashing a final reply to Daisy, unable to hold back from total honesty with the one whose opinion she trusted most:
Don’t know what to think or do. Still feel in love, like the past year hasn’t happened. Am I mad? Is it guilt? Mum and Hector shacked up together hardly registers compared to this, but know it’s all wrong. Help! I blame the Brie and Beekey.

Satisfied, she lay back on the bonnet and soaked in the sun, feeling the salt crystallise on her skin.

It was only when replies started coming back that she began to panic.

Daisy, no doubt texting as she spooned breakfast into toddlers, apologised for the poisoned lunch, and said she was unaware of the sardine diet:
sounds delicious, but I have strange cravings. Are you sure you’re not pregnant? Call me any time x

Legs chewed a nail anxiously, realising that she must have sent the message intended for Francis to her friend by mistake; she hoped it was just an isolated error but then Conrad replied applauding her professionalism:
Utter pros, unutterable prose: we can read between the lines. Keep up the good work. ILY.
He had clearly been sent the message she thought she’d sent to Kelly.

Eyebrows and heartbeat shooting up, she read Francis’s text:
Darling Legs, your honesty is deeply touching. Not sure we have Brie, but fatted calf and amnesty await. F. (P.s.What is Beekey?)

Just as an email from Kelly pinged through and she read the first line,
Gordon will know about this. You must not prostitute yourself for
—, her phone battery ran out of charge.

She let out a wail. She must have sent every message to the wrong recipient.

Breathless with worry, Legs pulled everything out of the car, but the charger wasn’t there. It was in the weekend bag that Nico now
had at Inkpot Farm; a poor substitute for Beekey. She slumped down in defeat, realising she couldn’t even double-check exactly which message had gone to whom. But it was pretty obvious she’d screwed up big time.

For that moment, she didn’t care what was going on between her parents. She needed her mother, and caffeine – not necessarily in that order.

The front door to Spywood Cottage was unlocked and bassoon music hooted from the main bedroom, where its inhabitants were clearly still tucked up together in the long summer morning sleep-in.

Legs fell gratefully upon the kettle and made herself a sweet, milky coffee as strong as methadone.

There were fresh croissants in the breadbin, but she still felt too sick to eat. Instead, abandoning any noble intentions to stay off-puttingly filthy, she nipped into the downstairs bathroom and sat in the bath, cranking up the ancient hand-held shower mixer to a lukewarm splutter – its maximum output as she knew from long experience – and washed away the layers of cold sweat, sea salt and shame.

Lucy and Hector were both in the kitchen when she reappeared. Neither betrayed any surprise to find her there. Both were respectably dressed in faded summer linens, sitting at opposite ends of the table, sharing breakfast like two old friends after an early dog walk.

But while Lucy couldn’t meet her younger daughter’s eyes, Hector’s gaze was challenging – as bright blue as his only son’s, and with ten times the confidence.

‘Your mother and I are very much in love.’

Legs choked on her coffee, dragging wet tendrils of hair from her watering eyes as she blinked at him. Honest anger was always her first defence. ‘Don’t you think it might have been wise to talk to your children about this before moving in together?’

‘Perhaps,’ he nodded, ‘but I believe in spontaneity in all things, from music to love.’ He reached across and took Lucy’s hand in his, a giant lobster claw enfolding a soft anemone.

‘You had secret lunches for over a decade,’ Legs flashed. ‘That’s hardly spontaneous!’

‘I would never have stood in the way of Francis’s happiness,’ he retaliated with characteristic sharpness, hippy turned harpy, ‘but then you blew it. Life is too short for second chances, and a decade is a long time to wait for true love. That’s why he is now with pretty young Kizzy, and your mother and I can declare our feelings openly at last.’ He stretched across and kissed mute, blushing Lucy full on the lips.

Legs burst into tears, an uncomfortable night’s sleep and too much exercise mixing toxically with coffee and the display of tenderness.

Still her mother wouldn’t look at her.

‘Hector, would you give us ten minutes alone?’ Lucy managed to mutter.

Stepping out into the woods with his bassoon, Hector was hardly an inconspicuous presence as he paced around the cottage perimeter playing Telemann.

‘Dad is devastated,’ Legs cried, anger rising alongside the bassoon arpeggios.

‘You’ve spoken with him?’ Lucy gasped, unprepared for such directness after her long sabbatical in the woods, as naked truths and naked hideaways clashed.

Legs backed down a little, not wanting to shout her way out of the opportunity to talk. ‘You know Dad. He won’t say anything, but he’s obviously in pieces.’

Lucy looked surprised. ‘I was rather under the impression that he relished the time out.’

At this moment Hector appeared at the window, tooted his way through a couple of arpeggios as he checked mother and daughter were faring OK, then wandered out of sight again.

‘Do you really love Hector?’ Legs inclined her head towards the music in the woods.

‘I’ve always thought him the most amazing man I have ever met.’ Lucy clasped her shaking hands together in front of her and raised her eyes, making Legs blanch as they blazed with tormented honesty. ‘It’s been the longest of longings, so getting what’s been desired for so long is quite overwhelming. We are both terribly infatuated.’

Legs remembered feeling like that about Francis once, but now her passion was muddled up with remorse and nostalgia. It felt all wrong to make believe not make love, she realised. However much she hated what was going on within her family, it was no excuse to inflict more hurt. She was determined to tell him that staging a comeback was simply not an option.

Beyond its formal griffin and unicorn entrance gates and high stone walls, tucked behind veils of oak woods, sculptured yew and rhododendron hedges, kitchen gardens, rose borders, geometric parterres and a lopsided topiary maze, Farcombe Hall was a bullish slab of pewter-grey Elizabethan stone honed into a castellated mansion by an eighteenth-century makeover. The flinty walls beneath crenellated towers and roofs were softened by festoons of red Virginia creeper on its southern and western sides, and its arched windows wore the pretty brown eyeliner of dressed stonework, but there was no denying its tough, rebellious face, especially the north elevation which gazed out to sea with battered, bare-cheeked gall, a mighty ship-head to the Farcombe Peninsula that had defied brutal North Devon storms for four centuries.

This was the face that watched Legs as she climbed up from the wooded cliffs, through the sheep-grazed parkland towards the formal gardens beyond the ha-ha.

She was waging a moral war with her conscience, which had told her she should make no effort whatsoever, and her vanity
which had forced her to redeem her tear-puffed eyes with a lick of mascara and to tease out the blonde hair that had dried into a horrible rat-tails helmet while she was having her heart to heart with her mother. But she’d deliberately and forcibly dressed down in blue cotton crops that bagged unflatteringly around her bum, deck shoes and a creased white shirt, which was all she could salvage from her combined car cast-offs and her nephew’s weekend bag.

Legs had been quite tempted to walk up the tunnel from the cove and burst into Farcombe Hall via the cellars, but she doubted Francis would see the joke, and it might just finish off neurotic Poppy, who was convinced a ghost of a drowned child haunted the sea passage. Now she was grateful for the sun on her skin as she cut left through the parkland to meet up with the rear wall of the churchyard, trailing her left hand along the black cast-iron spikes embedded there, which she and Daisy as macabre children had convinced themselves had once been dotted with the heads of smugglers, highwaymen and traitors.

Francis was waiting in the cloistered rear courtyard, dressed in navy chinos, deck shoes and a white shirt. They looked ridiculously cloned, right down to the zipped fleeces tied around their shoulders in case the wind picked up.

Legs hastily removed hers and tied it around her waist, which made her bum look even bigger.

‘Thank you for coming.’ He stooped to kiss her on the cheek, and all the delicious fizzy, squeezing sensations coursed back through her unscrupulous body.

‘You smell lovely.’ Francis breathed in deeply at her throat, making her skin almost melt. ‘Is that a new scent?’

Legs bit her tongue to stop herself pointing out that it was his father’s Douro Eau de Portugal which she’d nicked from the Spywood bathroom earlier.

He stepped back reluctantly. ‘The others are waiting in the palm house.’

‘Let’s go.’ Taking a firm grip on herself, Legs marched inside
with rather more gusto than she’d intended so that she strode along the cloisters and in through the door like an eager tour guide.

This part of the house, forming the rear half of the east wing, had been fashioned like a Moorish palace and was heavy with Moroccan arches, mosaic work, gold relief and vast, intricately carved marble fireplaces. At one time, Hector had covered the huge expanse of blue and white tiled floors with exotic cushions and rugs – Legs seemed to recall a buffalo hide in one corner, a zebra in another – creating an opulent chill-out zone for house guests to gather during the festival, when the hall was inevitably filled with bohemians and academics who thronged into the ancient stone-columned rooms like endangered species gathering around a watering hole.

Now, the rugs had all gone and Poppy’s sculptures dotted the floor, distorted fibreglass, stone and bronze blobs that were one part Henry Moore to five parts giant amoeba. She had produced so many over the years – and sold so few – that they were crammed all over the house and garden, even in the guest bathrooms and downstairs loos.

There were no fewer than eight in the conservatory – including one the size of a small hatchback – but thankfully the room (which the Protheroes always grandly referred to as the ‘palm house’) was the size of a car showroom and could accommodate dozens of Poppy originals without appearing crowded.