‘You saw him?’ Diane repeated, blankly.
‘And it was horrible thinking that he was having an affair – I mean, what was I supposed to do? Tell you and betray him? Or be quiet and betray you? I felt such a cow. But Dad wants me to come home and, like, see him, so we can all be together again, the three of us. I’m taking indefinite unpaid leave. Dad says he’ll pay my fare. Isn’t that cool? I’m so glad that you and Dad are OK. I’ve been feeling so bad, thinking that he had a girlfriend. I felt so bad about you.’
‘Did you?’ said Diane, shaken by the enormity of Bryony having known. Even if she hadn’t known what she’d thought she’d known, she’d kept a huge secret. No wonder she’d been keen to get far, far away from home.
‘I thought you guys were going to split up, I couldn’t bear it. It was horrible.’
After a moment, Diane heard herself say, ‘I can see how it was for you.’ That was Parent’s Disease again – sympathising with your child even when the same set of circumstances were so much worse for you. But she shoved the hurt to one side. Bryony was coming home.Bryony was coming home!
And she was thrilled that Diane and Gareth weren’t going to split up.
Oh.
Chapter Fourteen
The wind thrashed her ponytail as she locked the car in the car park near Peterborough Cathedral. Diane wasn’t going to see Gareth today. She’d sent him a text message, feeling, as she laboriously worked through thetxt talkguide helpfully supplied with her phone, that she was finally in the twenty-first century.
Will nt b able 2 visit u 2day, have 2 c Rowan. C u l8r.
No kisses, noLove Diane. She felt neither kissy nor lovey. Every fresh revelation forced her old feelings for her husband through the mincer. And now he’d manoeuvred to bring Bryony home, which – obviously – was wonderful, because, ever since Bryony left for the steamy heat of Brazil, Diane had carried an ache around that was both hollow and heavy. But she was under no illusions that he’d done it to ease Diane’s aches. Or even his own, although he missed Bryony, too.
No, he’d done it to make it more difficult for Diane to leave him.
And he wouldn’t want Diane to leave him in case she took half of his stash with her.
Bryony, a forgiving little soul, had been moved by her dad’s crocodile tears and intrigued by acquiring a grandfather and assorted other relatives. But it wasn’t quite the same for Diane.
She set out for Rowan’s shop in Rivergate Arcade, crossing at the lights into that segment of Bridge Street with a hundred other people.
Rowan Chater bought her garments for his idiosyncratic little shop, on what seemed a whimsical basis and with an air of doing her a kindness. She detested his condescension but income was income, so she’d put together a small collection of five pairs of decorated canvas trousers and ten colourful tops for the coming autumn season.
In the shop, Rowan, perched on a wooden stool behind the counter, was talking to an over made-up woman with a small child. ‘Oh, hullo,’ he drawled unenthusiastically, when he noticed Diane.
‘Hi.’ She gave what she hoped was a confident smile, hating having to hover with the heavy garments while he took his time nattering.
When woman and child finally left, Rowan gave a tiny sigh. Short stubble defined his jaw and head; he had seal-like eyes and a misleadingly sweet smile that he rarely bestowed upon Diane. His effete speech reminded her a little of Bryony, the way he emphasised at least one word in a sentence and used a final upward intonation as if statements were questions. ‘Shall I have a look?’ he suggested with the air of doing his good deed for the day.
Silently, slowly, he turned over each item. Diane ran her eyes over the racks, the torso mannequins, the garments hanging sideways with broomsticks through the sleeves.
None of her work, boasting the little label in the neck withDRJembroidered in turquoise on a bright yellow ground, was currently displayed in the shop. She tried a bit of casual self-promotion. ‘The last batch all sold, did it?’
He turned another garment. ‘In the end.’
She subsided. She didn’t want to ferret for details only to find that he’d had to slash the price to get her stuff off his hands.
‘Mm,’ he conceded. ‘Good colour choices, anyway.’ He always seemed to have to cast about for some detail to praise. He folded back the final garment – a bronze linen tunic embroidered with a goldfish, bubbles rising in the form of clear washers. Sighed. Raised his eyebrows. Tapped his fingertips on the counter.
Diane held her breath.
‘Yes, OK,’ he agreed, eventually. ‘I can usually put a “Hand made” label on them and make them go. Send me an invoice.’ He wrote a figure on the back of a brown paper bag. He always did that, as if it might invoke bad luck to speak money aloud. It was exactly the same price per garment as the last lot. And several prior to that.
Diane bit down on her disappointment and the urge to point out the 70% mark up he put on the garments. The important thing was that Rowan was already writing a cheque.
‘Overheads are escalating,’ he mentioned, conversationally.
‘Mine, too.’ Perhaps she could find an outlet where the proprietor didn’t make her feel as if she ought to be so damned bloody grateful all the time. Cambridge, maybe? There was money, there.
To cheer herself up she found a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. It came in a glass cup with not enough sprinkles but she settled at a table near the window to savour it as she watched the people milling along Bridge Street.
