An easy pause settles, then he says, ‘So, just another week to go? With Alice I mean?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘D’you have another job lined up? She mentioned she booked you through an agency. D’you always do this kind of work?’
‘Erm, I’m not sure what I’m doing next,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I don’t have any plans...’
He looks at me curiously across the table. Isowant to tell him, just to be honest and not squirming inwardly, as I am now. It doesn’t seem right or fair when he’s being so hospitable.
Why did I even start this? Why didn’t I admit to Alice, right at the start, that I wasn’t who she thought I was? Perhaps she’d have said, ‘Well, never mind. The other Kate hasn’t turned up so why not just come anyway?’ Then there’d be no deceit. As it is, I can feel something happening between Fergus and me – the beginnings of a friendship, of course that’s all it is.Get a grip on yourself, Kate!And I can’t confess now. He’s so open and straightforward. And he’d think I’m despicable or mad and I like him too much to risk that.
The realisation hits me. This is crazy. I can’t have feelings for someone, not so soon after leaving home. I’m forty-nine years old and I left Vince two weeks ago. Fergus is just being friendly and hospitable, I tell myself firmly. But then I catch his glance, and there’s a weight to the silence between us. I can tell he’s curious about me.
‘It all happened pretty quickly,’ I start. As you know, ‘I’d just left my husband, and then this job came up at just the right time . . .’
His expression settles into one of concern. ‘That can’t have been easy.’
‘No. No, it wasn’t. I hadn’t planned it at all...’ Now I wish I’d said yes to wine. But as I start to explain how things were with Vince and me, it feels okay to share it with this kind, attentive man, in his kitchen with sunshine streaming in, and a single knitted bootee lying on the floor by the fridge. I tell him about the move from London to Shugbury, and how I’d had to leave my museum job. I tell him about Vince being a comedian, and how I’d been working for him, and even about Vince’s book-in-progress that I still wonder, occasionally, if he’s managed to finish.
‘I’ve heard of him. Haven’t seen him though,’ Fergus adds, almost apologetically. ‘I’m a bit out of the loop. I mean, even before Finn, the shop’s been an all-consuming monster. There’s literally been no time for anything else in my life.’ Does he mean girlfriends? I get the distinct impression that there’s been no one since his wife died.
He forks in some tagliatelle and I sense my shoulders relaxing.
‘You love it, though?’ I suggest. ‘The shop, I mean?’
‘Oh yes, of course. I couldn’t do it otherwise. It’s hardly a route to riches and things have a been a bit perilous sometimes. But whenever I’ve thought of selling up, things have picked up – and I’ve thought, okay. Just one more year. So we keep going...’
‘I’m so glad you have,’ I say.
He smiles, and it’s so warm and genuine it seems to squeeze my heart. ‘Oh, me too. So, was it a case of wanting to be somewhere far from home? Is that why you took the job at Osprey House?’
‘Kind of,’ I say. Isn’t that true really? That’s precisely why I hadn’t jumped off that train at Euston.
‘I think it’s very brave of you,’ he adds.
I rest my fork in my now-empty bowl. ‘That’s what Alice said too. I’m not sure if it is.’
Fergus gets up and clears our plates. ‘I’m sorry. It’s probably the last thing you want to talk about. I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘You weren’t at all,’ I say quickly. ‘Istarted it...’
‘No, I thinkIdid...’
We catch each other’s eyes and laugh at the absurdity of our conversation. What would it be like, I find myself wondering, to just be my honest, open self with him? Instead of nurturing a secret that I wish I could share? ‘It’s just been a bit... complicated,’ I add.
‘I can imagine.’ Fergus starts to wash up, brushing off my offer to do it: ‘Hey, you’re my guest!’ Then he makes a quick call, checking in with his daughter – ‘Be along in a minute. Everything okay?’ – and we set off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The festival is in full swing already. A band is playing on stage, and people of all ages are milling around the riverside area, from the elderly to excitable children, in the golden afternoon sun. There’s face-painting, a bouncy castleanda home-baking stall, although no towering red velvet sponge as far as I can see. We head for the bar, where I insist on buying our beers after Fergus cooked me lunch, and then find ourselves a spot to watch the folk band on stage.
Judging by the crowd’s enthusiasm, they are local favourites. Aromas from a pizza stall waft over us, and soon we’re joined by Bea’s former housekeeper, Morag, and Rory and the gardening team and clusters of others who I’m introduced to. I try to remember names but there are so many, it’s impossible. Instead, I relax and let myself be pulled into the music and lively but laid-back atmosphere.
It seems as if Fergus knowseveryonehere. As he introduces me to yet more friends and neighbours, it reminds me of the museum crowd and how we’d go out to celebrate on the flimsiest excuse. I’ve missedpeopleso much. Real, warm people, who don’t make assumptions about the kind of person I am. And today I don’t have to worry about dodging around why I ended up here. I’m just Kate who’s come up from the south to help clear out Osprey House.
‘Shame you’re not here for longer,’ Morag remarks, clutching a slice of pizza and a beer. ‘Alice too. It’s so nice to see a bit of life back in that old house.’
‘Itisa shame,’ Fergus says, as we find ourselves alone again. ‘You’ve fitted right in here, haven’t you?’
