‘Gosh no, go ahead. I know what you businessmen are like…’ But Henry had left the kitchen, my response left hanging in the air.
I wondered, idly, what George was up to this minute. Had he been able to persuade Mina that the fabulous farmhouse and barn he’d so fallen in love with out towards the Pennines could be renovated so that she would be more than happy to finally marry George and settle down with him and his hens and bees? It occurred to me – now that we were supposedly mates – I should message him and ask how he was doing with it all. After all, he had asked me to go along with him to view the place. Wanted my opinion. But then I couldn’t see Mina – from the little I knew of her – being overly appreciative of another woman loving the place in which she’d so little interest.
‘Food’s ready in five,’ I called to anyone listening. Lola and Ruby seemed to have disappeared again and I waited another ten minutes, taking in every aspect – and feeling envious – of this beautiful kitchen. Having said that, it was, for all its expensive décor, fittings and equipment somewhat soulless, a bit like a show home that people go round before buying the identical house on a new modern estate. I’d have added a few prints, some family photos of Lola, Mum and my sisters as well as a stack of well-thumbed cookery books.
I dithered, wondering if I should make my way up to where I thought I remembered Ruby’s bedroom to be, but worried I’d bump into Henry (or Lola!) and be seen as aright nosy parker, having a good gawp round the house. I dithered a bit more, went over to the kitchen window to see if I could see Henry. The beautiful spring weather we’d been gifted over the past week or so appeared to have finally broken, drops of rain appearing on the window and a stiff breeze determinedly taking off what remained of the cherry blossom. Dark, ominous clouds were rolling their way across the sky like a procession of determined grey armoured tanks, and I made my way to the main door to get a better look at what was going on weatherwise, turning several locks and pulling back bolts. Henry was not only security conscious, but had obviously left the house through another exit.
Outside, the rain was now coming down in absolute stair rods, and I could hear non-stop barking behind the tall metal gate I’d encountered on my first visit when I was looking for Lola. Presumably the huge dogs Lola had told me about. Where were the Pomeranians then? Were they kept behind the gate as well, rather than having free rein of the house as most lap dogs of their ilk did? Maybe the woman who’d been living with Henry – the woman Lola said wasn’t Ruby’s real mum – had come back for her dogs when she’d perhaps returned for the rest of her things. How was Henry feeling about this woman of his leaving? Was it a relief she’d hopped it? Was it a permanent parting of the ways or justa slamming the door and going back to her mum’stype of exit in order to bring Henry CB to heel? Like the Pomeranians, from what I recalled, hadn’t learnt to do? Henry had not mentioned this woman when he’d asked me about my own marriage which, I supposed, in polite society was what usually followed. Mind you, I’d not asked him, had I? Had I just been talking non-stop about myself, The White House, my failed marriage as well as Dean and his damned rubber wetsuit?
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car racing at speed up the second of the two drives. (How many people had two drives, for heaven’s sake?) Henry still hadn’t returned from his phone call. I did hope the car wasn’t being driven by this ex of Henry’s who, heaven forbid, didn’t perhaps realise shewasan ex. I could really do without some gorgeous, slinky woman (well, she would be, wouldn’t she?) shouting she was ‘home, darling,’ only to find me in situ in the kitchen with only the mac and cheese for company, my daughter firmly ensconced in one of her bedrooms with her step-daughter.
I screwed up my eyes against the driving rain, trying to see who it was getting out of the car. A man by the look of it, and he looked familiar. I recognised that totally bald head as well as the logo on the back of his hoody: my old games teacher, Carole Traynor’s husband, Rob. Was Carole with him?
All ready to shout, ‘Yoo-hoo, Carole!’ I peered across the drive once more, squinting through the rain to see if she was about to get out of the car as well, but Rob appeared to be by himself. What on earth was he doinghere?
The second gate inched open, and Rob got back into his car, drove through it and disappeared into the gathering dusk, the gate closing silently behind him.
And then, just as I was considering that Henry must have some connection with Upper Merton Cricket and Hockey Club, another car drove up at speed, this time the gate opening automatically for the driver. Someone with access to the gate code obviously. I peered across the drive again. I’d know that car anywhere, particularly as it was involved in Blane Higson’s terrible fatal accident.
It was George Sattar’s.
30
Henry reappeared behind me as I stood on the step of the front entrance trying to work out why these people, who I knew separately under different circumstances, had suddenly come together under the one roof. It was a bit like when you wake from a dream, marvelling at how snot-nosed Anthony Taylor from junior school had, for some strange reason, been in a dream with Fred Jackson, the village fishmonger, who daily shouted out his wares of ’ake, ’addock and ’alibut from his market stall, but was now also joined by Nigel Farage and Mother Teresa.
‘Oh!’ I jumped slightly as Henry put out a hand, returning me to the hall before ushering me back towards the kitchen. ‘You’re very wet,’ I went on as he closed the door and shot the bolts and locks once more.
‘We never use this door,’ he said. ‘Always use the side door or the kitchen bifold.’ He indicated the bank of glass he’d obviously just reappeared through. ‘There’s a problem with damp making that heavy oak door stick,’ he explained. ‘This smells wonderful,’ he went on, crossing the floor to the oven where the macaroni cheese was bubbling merrily. ‘Are we ready to eat? Have the girls laid the table?’
I nodded. ‘You’ve had visitors while you were outside in the garden at the back,’ I said. ‘A couple of cars came up the drive at the front.’
‘My gardener.’ Henry smiled.
‘Gosh, he must be keen. In this weather and at’ – I looked at the clock – ‘eight at night?’
‘Dropping off some plants, I guess. It’s a big garden – he and his mate do tend to spend a lot of time here.’
‘I thought I recognised him.’
‘Oh?’ Henry stared at me.
‘Rob? Rob Traynor?’
‘That’s right.’ Henry moved to find plates before going to the bottom of the stairs to call the girls down for supper. ‘How do you know Rob?’
‘From Upper Merton Hockey Club.’
‘Oh, of course, Rob’s down there a lot, isn’t he? He’s always trying to get me to play cricket. I used to play a bit in my misspent youth, but I’m much more into golf these days.’
‘Ah, right!’ I grinned. ‘Small world.’
‘Small village. I’m beginning to realise that.’
‘You’ve not been here long then, Henry?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Almost a year. My ex, Ruby and I left London last summer. I wanted to get out of the rat race…’
‘Like Fabian?’ I smiled.
