The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) (3 page)

A week after she’d disappeared into the April night, Maddy sent a text to say she would be round on Monday morning. She still had a key, so she would collect her stuff while Adam was at work.

It would be better that way.

When he’d got home that evening, it was clear that she had been and gone. She’d done a thorough job. She must have hired a lorry. Or got Daddy to come and help her out.

Maddy and her daddy, who was something big in finance – Adam had never met the guy, so didn’t really know, perhaps he was a gangster or a banker or maybe he was both, there didn’t seem to be a lot of difference nowadays – were very, very close.

So close, in fact, that Daddy’s girl had never had to have a job. She was a free spirit and a champion of the poor and the oppressed. She was into anything and everything to do with saving Amazonian tribes, endangered Madagascan lemurs, orang-utans, white rhinoceroses, humpback whales. She went to every festival and joined in every ecological protest she could find.

Meeting her at Glastonbury last summer – Gwennie and Jules had nagged and bossed him into going to the country’s longest-running, biggest music festival, saying he was getting middle-aged before his time and needed to chill out – Adam had been hypnotised by the golden vision that was Maddy.

He’d spent the weekend in a happy daze and Jules had said he was a head case. A bird was just a bird, Jules had insisted, whichever way you looked at it, and this one talked a load of pseudo-scientific, complimentary-therapeutic eco-toss.

But Adam hadn’t cared. He hadn’t risen or responded to his best friend’s jeers and mockery because he’d known that this was what he wanted, what he had been seeking all his life.

He was in love.

Now, looking round his room, he could not see anything of Maddy’s. No books, no magazines, no clothes, no shoes, no make-up. None of the clutter she usually left lying around.

She’d put her door key on the windowsill.

She definitely wasn’t coming back.

He knew he should be glad, that this meant he could start again, that he could delete her from the hard drive of his mind, empty the recycle bin and tell himself she’d been an apparition, just a dream.

The disloyal thought that Maddy was indeed an eco-tosser, rather than an eco-warrior, crossed his mind again. She liked the thought of saving tribes and pandas, certainly. But could she do without her styling products, without a fix of Topshop or Miss Selfridge once or even several times a week?

He went to have a shower, and that was when he saw it, lying on the bathroom floor. A fat, pink Velcro roller, the sort she’d used to give her hair some bounce.

He stooped to pick it up.

The scent of her was subtle, but definitely there, and some strands of dark brown hair were caught on the pink web.

He’d thought he might be getting over it – that it wouldn’t go on hurting, stabbing him forever, that he would be able to convince himself that Maddy was a lazy, selfish hypocrite.

But talking to himself made no damn difference.

As he held the roller, something twisted deep inside him and made him wince in pain. Something broke, and he was almost sure it was his heart.

‘Excuse me?’ said the man.

Tess had gone to source some Georgian glass, so Cat was in the office on her own, catching up on paperwork and setting up a complicated spreadsheet, when the customer came in.

While she was at work and chasing stock or updating accounts or sorting out the payroll, she found she could forget about the wedding competition. She could forget that Jack had disappeared. Or almost forget – she could blank it from her mind for half an hour or so, before the misery came flooding back.

‘Excuse me,’ said the man again, and she could hear he sounded well hacked off.

‘Give me just one moment, please?’ She keyed in three more entries, saved the data and then looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she continued. ‘I was in the middle of doing something and I didn’t want to stop.’

‘So I see.’ The man shook his wet hair and Cat was suddenly reminded of a collie which had been out in the rain. ‘Only it says Reception on the door,’ he went on crossly. ‘So I assume you must be the receptionist? But if it’s too much trouble to talk to a prospective customer …’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Cat replied, in the soothing, dealing-with-a-sarcastic-bastard voice she always used for awkward visitors to the salvage yard.

It had been tipping down all day. The man was soaked – his navy coat was sodden, his jeans were splashed with dirt churned up by traffic, and his straight, dark hair stuck to his head like a bedraggled blackbird’s wings. Where was the sun they had been promised? The crystal balls had clearly been malfunctioning and they’d got the forecast wrong again. But, thought Cat, why does this so-and-so feel he has the right to take his temper out on me?

‘We don’t have a receptionist as such,’ she told him calmly. ‘I meet and greet, but I do other things as well. Did we know you were coming?’

‘I rang this morning at about eleven o’clock. I spoke to somebody called Tess. I made an appointment to see a Mr Chapman at four o’clock today.’

Cat glanced at the diary on her desk.

‘You must be Mr Lawley, then?’

‘I’m Adam Lawley, yes.’

‘I’m Cat Aston, Barry Chapman’s office manager.’ Cat held out her hand, and Adam Lawley shook it. Somewhat reluctantly, she thought, but the shake itself was strong and firm. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lawley, but Barry isn’t here. His wife is having a baby any moment, and half an hour ago he got a call—’

‘I’ve had a wasted journey, then?’

‘Let’s hope not, Mr Lawley.’

‘You can help me?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Cat replied. Tess had left a note to say what Mr Lawley wanted – roof tiles made of genuine Cotswold stone, and nothing else would do, he wasn’t interested in reproduction. ‘You need some Cotswold tiles, is that right?’

Mr Lawley shrugged, but then he muttered something which Cat took for agreement.

She found a set of keys. ‘Let me get a couple of umbrellas, then I’ll take you out into the yard.’

Adam followed the receptionist who wasn’t the receptionist into the office lobby. Now he was embarrassed. She’d been so kind and courteous, and he knew he’d been very mean himself.

These days, however, he couldn’t seem to help it.

But he had to help it.

He had to sort his life out and he had to do it soon. He must stop being such a miserable sod. Otherwise, he’d soon have no friends left. Gwennie and Jules were being very patient, but he secretly suspected they were sick and tired of having someone always dripping round the place.

Dripping, right – why hadn’t he driven to the salvage yard? It wasn’t as if he had the time to walk. Or to catch pneumonia. He had far too much to do to take a day off work, let alone a week.

But he’d found that walking seemed to dull the pain a bit.

‘You press the little button,’ said the girl.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘This one has a spring.’ She was holding out a telescopic black umbrella and looking at him as if she thought he had escaped from somewhere and was possibly quite dangerous as well. She was hanging on to the big golfing umbrella with the vicious silver spike, at any rate. ‘Mr Lawley?’

‘Thank you.’

Adam took the black umbrella. Then he followed the girl into the yard, wondering what rubbish she was going to try to sell him, if she knew a genuine Cotswold tile from a modern concrete fake, if she and the boss of this place were a pair of opportunist crooks or genuine themselves.

He didn’t trust anybody nowadays.

I’m doing fine, thought Cat, as they went out into the rain.

I’m operating normally, not daydreaming or fretting. I’m in control again.

Adam Lawley seemed to know exactly what he wanted, which made a pleasant change, because apart from dealers most people calling at the yard were looking for something vaguely interesting to be a focal point in a back garden – a concrete cast of Paolo and Francesca, a copy of that Belgian boy or David, an oriental Buddha, a Hindu god or goddess, an Egyptian head.

Or they were doing up their dream Victorian home and wanted cast iron fireplaces, old ceramic tiles or stripped pine doors. Chapman’s Architectural Salvage did its best to find them something suitable. Barry might not stock it, but he usually knew where he could source it.

Cat led Adam through the yard, past various sheds where Barry kept the valuable stuff and things which wouldn’t benefit from getting soaking wet, to where the many different kinds of roof tiles were stacked on wooden pallets.

‘Okay, Mr Lawley, these are what we’ve got,’ she said, and pointed to a pallet on his left. ‘All genuine Cotswold stone and there are three hundred of them here. If they’re what you want, but we don’t have enough of them, we can very probably find some more.’

‘I’ll need about five hundred, and I’ll need them quickly, so could you find them soon?’

‘It shouldn’t be a problem,’ Cat replied.

Barry had impressed on Cat and Tess that whatever the customer said he wanted, they should always tell him they could find it, because nine times out of ten they would – eventually.

‘Where are you working?’ Cat enquired, thinking there’s no call for Cotswold stone in Walthamstow. Or anywhere in London, come to that. Barry had expected to sell these old stone roof tiles to the National Trust or to English Heritage, and that was why he’d bought them in the first place.

‘At Redland Manor,’ Adam said. ‘It’s a Grade I listed Elizabethan house in Gloucestershire.’

‘What are you doing in Walthamstow?’

‘I’m involved with restoration and rebuilding projects all over the country, but I’m based in London,’ Adam Lawley said, in a what-business-is-it-of-yours-then voice. He picked up one damp, lichen-crusted tile. He weighed it in his hands and then he grimaced at it critically. ‘I’ve seen some terrible old fakes of Cotswold tiles,’ he said to Cat. ‘But these look like the genuine article.’

‘That’s because they are the genuine article,’ said Cat. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting we would try—’

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Adam Lawley interrupted, and he fixed Cat with a don’t-get-clever-with-me stare. ‘But a lot of salvage merchants try to pass off modern stuff as old. They often buy up concrete roof tiles from the 1960s, paint them with a porridge of compost and sour milk so they start growing lichen, then try to fool the punters and often they succeed. Where did you get these?’

‘I think they were on a dower house near Bourton-on-the-Water. I’ll have to check the book and then I can tell you definitely.’

‘I’ll take them anyway, that’s if the price is right. What do you want for them?’

‘We can discuss a price. But if you need another couple of hundred, why don’t you let us source them, and then we’ll offer you an all-in deal? I think you’ll find we’re quite competitive.’

‘You’re authorised to do this, are you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Cat.

‘Only I don’t have time to mess about, and if you need to ask your boss—’

‘Mr Lawley, do you want these tiles?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Very well, let’s sort it out today.’ Cat turned to go back through the yard. ‘Come into the office, get dried off and have a coffee while I do the paperwork,’ she added. ‘By the way, where did you park? Barry should have told you we have some visitors’ spaces round the side.’

‘I didn’t drive,’ said Adam. ‘I walked here from Camden. But I didn’t realise it would be such a way.’

‘My goodness, it’s no wonder you’re so wet.’

Adam merely shrugged, so Cat stopped trying to have a conversation. Once she’d made his coffee, she set up an account, glancing up to ask him questions, then repeating them, because he seemed more interested in staring through the window at the rain.

He looked a sight, she thought. He’d shaved with a blunt chisel, his hair looked like he’d hacked at it himself and his boots were scuffed and down at heel. His workman’s donkey jacket was fraying at the cuffs and a leather patch was coming loose.

How old, she speculated – thirty, thirty-five? No grey in his black hair, no laughter lines, but maybe that was not surprising if he didn’t laugh?

She wondered what he’d look like if he smiled, but somehow couldn’t see it happening.

Adam did his best to drink the coffee. It was decent stuff, not instant rubbish, and it was strong and hot. But, like everything he ate and drank these days, it tasted bloody awful, and he had to force it down.

‘May we have your e-mail, Mr Lawley?’ asked the girl.

‘My what?’ asked Adam.

‘Your e-mail, do you have one?’ The girl – to his dismay, he had forgotten what she was called – was clearly trying to be polite and pleasant to this idiot. ‘Mr Lawley?’

‘It’s [email protected].’

‘Thank you,’ said the girl.

‘I’m sorry to be so vacant,’ Adam added, doing his best to sound as if he meant it. ‘But I’m very busy at the moment. I’ve got a lot of work stuff on my mind.’

‘You do look tired.’ The girl smiled sympathetically, and Adam saw she had a very sweet, good-natured face and gorgeous jade-green eyes. ‘You probably need a good night’s sleep.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ said Adam, who had hardly slept at all since Maddy left and was sure he’d never have a good night’s sleep again.

‘We haven’t done business with you in the past, so I’ll need a deposit,’ said the girl as she tapped on her keyboard. ‘What about a hundred pounds – would that be acceptable to you?’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Adam rummaged in the inside pocket of his jacket and then in all the pockets of his jeans. ‘I don’t seem to have my cards,’ he said.

‘We do take cash,’ Cat told him.

‘I should have just about enough.’ Adam started going through his pockets once again, pulling out some tenners, fivers, half a dozen coins, more tenners and then two more fivers, until he had managed to assemble eighty-seven pounds. He put the money on Cat’s desk. ‘I usually carry more than this, but I—’

‘Why don’t you give me eighty now?’ Cat wrote out a receipt. ‘Then you can pay the balance on delivery. I’d better let you get off home,’ she added. She handed him a couple of business cards. ‘One’s Barry’s and one’s mine,’ she told him. ‘Do you have a card?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter – just give me your mobile number. Then we’ll call you when we’ve found your tiles. We ought to be in touch some time next week, if not before.’

‘Thank you,’ Adam said. He turned his collar up and then slouched off into the rain.

As Cat locked up, she thought about the man. What a miserable so-and-so! Then she thought of Jack, who was always laughing, joking, fooling round and making her laugh, too.

Who could Jack be laughing, joking, fooling round with now? She’d give almost anything to hear one of his awful jokes again.

He’d always told her she was too damn serious. She seriously needed to lighten up a bit. If she was as grumpy as the man she’d met this afternoon, perhaps it was no wonder Jack had left? Memo to myself, she thought – whatever I feel like inside, put on a happy face.

She rummaged in her bag and found her mobile.

‘Hi, Tess,’ she began. ‘What are you doing this evening? Do you want to go and see a film? Yeah, let’s make it something funny. Something that will cheer me up a bit. I’ve just spent the past half an hour with a guy from Doom and Gloom R Us.’