‘Thank you, but I’m fine,’ she said, because she was, of courseshe was. It really had been nothing – entirely her own silly fault –walking in the sun with Larson, her sun hat forgotten at home. Was it any wonder she’d suddenly come over all faint on her return? She remembered that horrible dizzy feeling, the blobs of violet and green blotching out her vision.
The offer from Tiffany to drive her to Ingleby Barwick library wasn’t one she’d have accepted in the normal way of things – the prospect of making conversation for the fifty-minute drive – or rather making conversation without referring to the row with Justin that left her with an engrained weariness. However, Tiffany had been so matter-of-fact – it really wasn’t any trouble, she’d welcome a run-out, they’d be inside an air-conditioned car – it’d been hard to refuse. Plus, Tiffany had been strongly supported in this scheme by a concerned Rod.
‘It’s forty-three point two degrees in Cambridge,’ he’d kept saying.
So what?Pat wanted to sayThis isn’t Cambridge, it’s Thirsk– but the bleariness had been too all-consuming.
‘Anyway, why exactly do you want to go and see this life guru?’ Rod’s tone had made it clear he equated ‘this life guru’ with one of her episodes ofThe Real Housewives of Tampa Bay. ‘Surely it can wait?’
There’d been a panicky concern in her husband’s eyes, which she’d found rather unsettling.
Honestly! She hadn’t fainted – just stumbled a bit … Throughout this Tiff had said nothing, merely handed her a large glass of iced water and Pat had wearily realised if she were to stand any chance of making it to Stockton to check out Son Masters, the girl’s offer was one she needed to accept.
Contrary to her fears, the journey had proved to be fine – more than fine. After Tiffany had fed the postcode of Ingleby Barwick library into the satnav, she’d put on Classic FM leaving Pat free to close her eyes, caressed by the gentle waft of the air-conditioning and the strains of Medleys for a Summer Day (Sponsored by Specsavers).
‘About ten minutes, Pat.’ Tiffany’s voice roused Pat from what she realised had been another shallow doze.
‘It really is very good of you to drive,’ said Pat.
‘No problem.’ Tiff frowned as she slowed for a right-hand turn into one of the estates. ‘So – this Son Masters we’re going to hear.’ There was a bright curiosity in her voice.
‘Yes.’ Pat felt a resurgence of the muzziness.What should she say?
‘He’s a sort of life coach,’ she began rather lamely. Was she going to have to fabricate some story about redefining her life goals or some such? She really didn’t have the energy. However, for the second time that day a conversation she was expecting was not to happen.
‘Would this,’ said Tiffany-Jane carefully, ‘be anything to do with reasons someone might kill someone?’ At that moment a large leisure centre loomed before them, glowing a dull blue in the sunlight. ‘This looks like the place!’
‘Ingleby Barwick library?’ said Pat. Was this the right place? She’d been expecting a low pleasant building, perhaps surrounded by flowers, not this glass-and-steel edifice.
‘The library is part of the leisure centre,’ said Tiff, neatly negotiating the car into a parking space. ‘Anyway.’ She turned to face Pat. ‘What is it exactly you need to find out from this Son Masters?’
Pat sighed. ‘It’s complicated,’ she started but stopped herself.
Actually, it didn’t have to be very complicated at all. Suddenly by far the simplest and the best option was the truth. Briefly she outlined the story of the demise of Nev Hilton, Pity Me school and Davey Fletcher. Once again, Tiffany listened well, nodding a few times but not interrupting.
‘And you think Son Masters might be something to do with this woman who came to this Nev’s house?’ she said when Pat had finished.
‘Davey died in a car crash the day before the Ofsted reportcame out. People are saying he only drove off in a blizzard because he was in a state about it all. I want to see what Son thinks.’
Tiffany-Jane nodded, opened the car door and let the warmth of the afternoon heat roll in. ‘And this yellow line down the wall?’ she said, ‘Where doesthatcome in?’
Pat shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘I just feel like it’s all closing in on me – and I think,Just calm yourself down, you silly sausage.’ The bald man with the enormous damp patches under his arms shook his head in bewildered self-disgust.
‘Step four point three,’ said Son Masters mildly. ‘Step back andlook.’
The man nodded. ‘That’s why your plan isbob on!’ he said enthusiastically.
‘So many people feel … y’know, um … a bit of a failure.’ Son Masters’ slightly high, nasal voice was pleasant enough without being in any way stirring. ‘But these feelings – failure, embarrassment, fear even – they’re these like invisiblehandcuffs– um, holding us back, y’know.’
Pat shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair, her sweat cold in the small of her back. Surely handcuffs were more for restraining than holding back?
‘But with my simple five-point plan – sorry,six-point plan – you can, y’know, free yourself up and crush it – professionally and personally!’
Son Masters smiled amiably at the half-dozen or so people sitting in the Stephenson room of Ingleby Barwick library. He didn’t sound much like someone delivering a life-changing message. With his slight drawl, prominent front teeth and general laid-back demeanour he was reminding Pat irresistibly of Dylan the Rabbit fromThe Magic Roundabout. She glanced at Tiffany, trying to gauge what she thought of all this. The younger woman was sitting, slightly inclined forward, eyes wide,smile bright as though this were the most amazing thing she’d ever heard.
‘Okay, so that’s about everything I’ve got to say,’ said Son Masters, biting back a yawn. ‘Has anybody, like, got any questions? I will be signing books afterwards if anyone wants to ask me anything or chat about something.’
