‘Uh.’ He closed his eyes. His breathing deepened.
Sliding her hand from his, she turned to the scarred locker beside the bed and opened the drawer. Beside a handful of change lay his wallet, black and soft with use. She’d bought it several years ago at John Lewis’s one drizzly, dank December morning, £24.99, as a Christmas gift. He’d said one from the market would’ve done just as well, £4.99 or even less, but she’d argued that this would last longer.
She’d never had it in her hands since the day she gave it to him; they respected one another’s private space so far as things like wallets were concerned. Gareth was particular that way. But now, defiantly, she flipped open the snap. Her purse was housing mainly moths and she’d need money to get home.
Cards in the card sleeves, including one Bryony had sent with her contact details in Brazil. Lonely in the note slots, a twenty-pound note and a five.
She fingered the leather thoughtfully. Its substance suggested further paperwork in there somewhere. Her fingertips found the smooth oval tag of the zip to the inner compartment and she ran it gently along the top edge,ZZZzzz.
The inner compartment was full of twenties.
She almost dropped the wallet in shock. Heart picking up, fingers stiff and trembling, she counted. Twenty.Twenty twenties! She stared at the lightly mauve notes, unable to remember the last time she’d held twenty twenties. A fortune. She’d almost exhausted the housekeeping for the week and there might be all kinds of incidental expenses for her to meet while Gareth was in hospital. And why should Gareth squirrel away dosh, when things were squeaky tight at home?
Slowly, she slipped out two notes and dropped the wallet back in the drawer.
Twenty twenties. Eighteen twenties, now.
After a moment, she picked up the wallet again and extracted another three twenties. Then five more. That was fair. Halvies.
She jumped to see that Gareth’s eyes had opened. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Her voice emerged matter-of-factly, as if she were the type of wife who routinely rooted through her husband’s personal possessions.
Gareth said, ‘Uh,’ again, moving his head and then sucking in his breath in pain. She could almost hear the protests he was too ill to make.
She licked her lips. ‘You’d better sleep.’ The unfamiliar substance of two hundred pounds clutched in her hand, she crossed the room slowly, waiting for objections and reprimands to bound after her like maddened cats. But Gareth said nothing. Two hundred pounds. The notes felt soft and thick, coated with the prints of all the fingers they’d passed through, fingers perhaps more used to holding a wedge of notes than hers were. Two. Hundred. Pounds. She’d never suspected robbing her husband would be so empowering. Fun, in fact.
The door shushed as she opened it and clunked softly closed behind her. She let out her breath.
In the corridor, James was pacing, glancing at his watch. Lines of fatigued grooved his face. ‘I thought you must still be here. I waited to run you home.’
She rubbed her temples, her mind still on the blast of Gareth’s outrage that had never come. ‘But I live way out in the country.’ Her eyes went to Tamzin, who was propped against the wall, eyes huge with weariness.
‘Purtenon St. Paul. I know it.’ He pressed a flat chrome button and the lift doors opened.
She didn’t want him to take her home, didn’t want to have to be grateful, to satisfy his obviously over-developed protective streak by needing his help. Proudly, she flourished the stack of twenties. ‘Don’t worry, I just raided Gareth’s wallet for taxi fare.’
James stepped back to allow her into the lift, Tamzin drifting in beside her. The doors breezed shut and they stood in the small space for a few silent seconds until the doors opened again in the foyer where a cleaning crew were buffing the floor. Through the main doors, the night they stepped into was cool and fresh. And damn! The taxi rank was empty. Diane tutted. She’d been looking forward to putting some of her ill-gotten gains to frivolous use.
Gareth so disliked frivolity.
She turned back. ‘I’ll ask at reception for the number of a cab company.’
James groaned, rubbing a square hand over his hair. ‘Please, Diane. It’s nearly morning and you’ve had a shock and I can relax if I know you’ve made it home. Let’s not bicker about it. Just get in the fu – in the car.’
Diane glared up at James. His gaze met hers. She hesitated. He looked really tired yet – judging by the obstinate set of his mouth – was apparently unwilling to abandon her, a woman he’d never met until tonight – a fairly awkward and ungrateful woman he’d never met until tonight. She found herself looking at his mouth, as she examined the thought and wondered what she had to prove by refusing his kind offer.
‘Give in,’ Tamzin advised. ‘It’s easier in the long run.’
Tamzin didn’t like riding in the back of the car but insisting that Diane sit in the front beside her father was the sort of courtesy her parents had drummed into their kids.
The sky was just thinking about turning silver and pearly. She could sit in the middle of the back seat and watch it, occasionally letting her gaze slide over to the still figure of Diane Jenner.
Uncle Gareth’s wife! How strange was that? For two years they’d referred to her as ‘Mrs Rochester’, the unbalanced wife that Uncle Gareth hid away and cared for so heroically.
Diane was well unusual, with a gaze to read your soul and an impressive ability to resist doing anything she didn’t wish to do. She certainly wasn’t suffering from any nervous, emotional or phobic difficulty so far as Tamzin could see. And Tamzin would know, because of Her Condition.
So, either Diane had made amegarecovery ... or Uncle Gareth had been telling porkies.
Mega recoveries were rare. So. Uncle Gareth hadn’t wanted them to meet his wife. That was totally pants.
