‘Leastways, come the spring you’ll have your own veg. But you can count on us for the rest.’
‘You must let us pay.’
‘We’ll see.’
Since she’d been back, Florence had wasted no time in digging up a small section of the garden where she’d now sown mainly leafy crops, including cabbages and spinach, plus onions, radishes, turnips, and broad beans. It would provide for them in the early spring. She didn’t dwell on whether she’d still be living there by then, or even when winter came, or whether she would, in fact, have to go back to Claudette before that.
As Gladys chattered on about the weather and the need for Jack to buy some laying hens, Florence began to sweep the floor. Being at the cottage, with a garden and a kitchen, and Jack to cook for, reminded her of home and helped to make this new life less strange.
‘I’ve written to my sisters again,’ she told Gladys.
‘Heard from them, have you?’
Florence shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
She didn’t mention that although she’d told Hélène and Élise she was staying in Jack’s house temporarily, she had implied that Jack was rarely there. Well, it was more or less true, and yet she’d felt the acidic taste of guilt on her tongue again. She knew Hélène would be looking for mentions of Jack. Just then, Florence heard the front door open and both she and Gladys looked up.
‘Must be Jack home a day early,’ Florence said with a grin, wiping her hands on her floury apron and straightening her hair a little.
She’d been lonely without Jack these last two weeks. She’d always had her sisters close by, had never spent much time totally on her own, so had never thought about feeling afraid to be alone. Not just about the things that went bump in the night, but the inexplicable fear that somehow hid beneath your surface armour. She’d been careful not to make a fuss when Jack left, certain that he wouldn’t appreciate a woman who made a scene about every little inconvenience, but shehadmissed him terribly and had been secretly counting down the days until his return.
She opened the door to the hall, ready to greet him. But it wasn’t Jack. Florence blinked in surprise to see a tall, well-groomed, blonde woman standing there, wearing an immaculate pale blue suit. It was similar in style to the simple utility clothing most women sported, with padded shoulders, nipped-in waist, and a hem that fell just below the knee, yet this woman looked so much more stylish. The fabric seemed expensive and, somehow, she was betterpresented than anyone else Florence had seen in a long time. And she was standing there, nonchalantly swinging a bunch of keys, with a suitcase at her feet.
The world hung still and then suddenly, before Florence could understand what was happening, it moved too quickly.
‘Oh,’ the woman said, her thinly pencilled brows raised. ‘I didn’t know Johnny had hired a housekeeper. Or are you the cleaner?’
‘Johnny?’ Florence repeated.
‘Jonathan Jackson. He owns the house. Who are you?’
‘I’m Florence. I’m staying here. I thought this was Jack’s house.’
The woman laughed. ‘Well, I just told you that. Some people call him Jackie. I never have.’
‘And you are?’ Florence asked, aware of a layer of discomfort already threatening to darken her day.
‘Belinda Jackson, of course, his wife.’
They were both motionless as Florence stared in disbelief, unable to find any words for this. Of course Jack wasn’t married, he’d have said. Wouldn’t he? Could this woman, with her finely chiselled cheekbones, be telling the truth? Mystified, Florence became aware first of shock and then a deeply unsettling feeling of betrayal. She glared at the woman, this Belinda. Why should she believe her?
Belinda was still standing in the hall with an increasingly impatient look on her face. ‘God, I need a drink,’ she said.
Florence blinked rapidly. ‘Um. I can make you a cup of tea if you like. It’s already brewed.’
Belinda laughed. ‘Darling. I need something a lot stronger than tea. Don’t worry, I can help myself. I know where the booze is kept.’
At that moment, Gladys popped her head round the door. ‘Wasn’t expecting to see you here again,’ she said, her face grim. ‘Jackie know you were coming, did he?’
Belinda looked down her nose at the woman. ‘Hardly any of your business is it, dear?’ she said, with sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘dear’.
Gladys bristled but didn’t reply.
‘Well, I’ll just pop my case up to the guest room,’ Belinda added.
‘But I’m in there,’ Florence said, aghast.
Belinda looked surprised. ‘Oh, not sharing his bed then? When you said you weren’t the cleaner, I thought you must be Johnny’s latest floozy. So, he’s not got round to that yet. Funny. He was always rather a fast worker.’
