At first it seemed she’d twist away but then she gave a tut and allowed herself to be towed past her husband’s room and through the two cream doors that led to the comparative privacy of the stairwell.
She dragged her hand free as the doors swung shut behind them. Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed – had she been crying? – and she was pale and unsmiling. He made to pull her up against him but her coldness hit him like a truck.
‘I’m sorry that I didn’t ring you.’ He prepared to explain what had happened, what had been happening, since the night in the back of his Merc. The night that had sustained him ever since.
Her eyebrows rose a fraction, as if she hadn’t, until now, noticed whether he’d rung or not. ‘I expect you’ve been busy.’ She sounded remote and polite and she let her hand lie flaccid in his.
He tried to connect with her eyes, to make her understand. ‘Tamzin had a really bad week. She’s hardly slept and neither have I. I didn’t want to call you when I felt so –’
‘No explanation necessary.’ Diane removed her hand without letting him capture her gaze and turned back to the door, head high but hectic colour telling him that she might be pretending like hell to be cool but, inside, she was fighting mad.
Even as he shot out an arm to halt her, he cursed himself. All wrong, James. Wrong time (too late), wrong place (Gareth and Valerie in nearby rooms). Obviously she wouldn’t want to talk about their recent sexual congress here at the top of the stairs with nurses passing the other side of the doors. But he tried to inject into his voice the familiarity there had been between them. ‘About that night –’
She paused. Her voice was light. ‘It’s all right, I know the score.’ She ducked his arm and shoved open the door.
‘Diane! I should have –’
‘We shouldn’t have, more to the point. It was stupid and it was wrong.’
‘It wasn’t! It couldn’t be more right.’ Aghast, he watched her stalk off, her dress swinging against her bare legs.
He should have rung. Even if Tamzin had yanked him as taut as a violin string with her methods of expressing the deep melancholy that had sucked her into its scary embrace.
The ugly and frightening scores on her arm had been such a disappointment, after her recent good patch, that black moods had swum over him. He’d coped, he always did, but he hadn’t wanted to taint his next conversation with Diane with the misery that permeated him so thoroughly.
Sometimes he could only deal with things by compartmentalising. And so he’d tucked away the wonderful episode, to be brought out later and enjoyed.
With hindsight, one quick call to explain would’ve been a good plan ...
He shouldn’t have presumed upon Diane’s understanding, when he hadn’t offered her anything to understand.
Chapter Eleven
It was a lovely place. Old red brick and bright white render with a tall chimney and a corner plot hedged in with glossy green privet. Highly desirable in today’s market; so quirky and pretty it was an estate agent’s dream.Mature property on the edge of sought-after Whittlesey … many original features, herringbone brickwork, latticed windows, decorative roof tiles …
The lawn was cut and edged, the shrubs trimmed. Diane wondered at the prideful rage that had caused Wendy to turn down such a sweetheart of a house and whether she’d often thought of it when she lived at Brightside or in even more grisly accommodation.
Principles. Harsh masters.
Inside, the cottage was a delight. The brand new leather suite in the sitting room could scarcely be compared with the balding green velour at home, which would’ve been laughed at by the sexy little stereo, wide-screen television and cream wool carpet that looked so elegant with the gold slubbed-silk curtains and red-tiled hearth gleaming with polish. Upstairs, she made the power shower in the bathroom whoosh into life and bounced on the king-sized bed, its mattress a foot deep, and looked out over a reedy brook to fields of sheep.
She opened every wardrobe and drawer and poked through the contents.
Thoughtfully, she wandered back down to admire the kitchen, fitted with 1920s’ style painted cabinets and enamelled appliances. She helped herself to biscuits and tea and settled down at the oak table.
In silence, she drank an entire teapot, four cups – she had to visit the luxurious black-and-white tiled bathroom – and ate half a packet of chunky Marks & Spencer cookies. The kitchen’s colour scheme of cream and lemon with accents of forest green pleased her, all set off by the dried-blood red of the quarry tiles.
Even the china she was snacking from was tasteful, creamware with a pierced pattern edge.
As she ate, savouring the yummy chocolate chips in the cookies, she mulled over everything she’d observed in the delightful cottage. And so wasn’t totally surprised to hear the front door open.
Shoulders aching with tension, she listened to somebody humming and rustling in the hall. Then the door swung open and a woman swirled in.
‘Stella!’ Stella: Ivan’s sister-in-law, who Gareth had so often roundly stigmatised.
The small blonde squawked in shock, her hand flying to her throat. ‘Diane. You’re not supposed to be here.’
Diane suppressed her desire to drum her fists on the table. ‘No, I’m not, am I? I’m not to know about this place, or Gareth’s money, or his father or his sister or his nieces. And, now, it seems, not about you. Sit down, Stella. I’ll make you some tea.’
