Читать книгу He Will Find You - Diane Jeffrey - Страница 12

~

This can’t be it, I think, my heart sinking as I see it for the very first time. I pull in to the side of the country lane. Resting my arms over the steering wheel, I lean forwards and study the house through the windscreen. Even from this distance it appears austere. Isolated. Built in cold, dark grey stone, the building dominates the valley from the top of a steep gravel driveway. It is prison-like with its barred sash windows. It must be at least five times the size of the two-bedroom semi my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – and I bought as our first home ten years ago in Minehead.

I look to the right, observing the lush green grass speckled black and white with sheep, and beyond that the blue-brown water of Lake Grasmere. I’m struck by how incongruous this residence seems against the surrounding countryside. This isn’t the right place. But a quick glance at the black and white chequered flag on the satnav screen confirms that I have arrived at my destination. Even so, I remain hopeful that the right house might be situated a few metres further along the road until I see the slate sign on the wooden gate. The Old Vicarage.

I can’t quite believe it. It has taken me nearly eight hours to drive all this way, but I’m here at last. The Old Vicarage, my new home. I’ve left everything and everyone I know; I’ve left my whole life behind in Somerset. Here I am, moving to a region I’ve never visited, into a house I haven’t laid eyes on before. This is the start of a new existence for me. It should be exciting, but I feel so scared. Butterflies are hurtling around in my stomach. It’s only to be expected, I suppose. This is such a monumental change.

As I get out of the car to open the gate, I notice a mailbox. To my surprise, my name is on it. He has handwritten it on a scrap of white paper and stuck it next to his own name, engraved on the rectangular metal plate. It must have rained since it was added because the ink has run slightly where the Sellotape has come away. I can still make out my name, though. KAITLYN BEST. But even that is about to change.

There is a cattle grid and I’m careful walking over it as I push the gate open. I have to get out of the car again to close the gate once I’ve driven through it. It’s only then that I realise how cold it is outside this evening. Even as I shiver, I can’t help but admire the view of the fields and the lake. The daylight is fading fast now, but the scene is breathtaking. I could get used to this place.

But then I turn around and see the house again. It’s late Georgian, although it makes me think of a Gothic castle. It’s been in his family for years, this place, and I know he loves it. Telling myself it’s probably more welcoming inside, I drive up to the house.

I use the heavy knocker to bang on the front door. I wait for several seconds, but there’s no sign of anyone moving inside. I step down from the porch and pace up and down in front of the house, looking around me and pushing my hands into my coat pockets for warmth. Creeper covers part of the wall. I imagine in any other season it must look beautiful and detract from the drab colour of the stone, but at this time of the year the web of spindly branches looks dead and bare. There’s a light on upstairs. He must be here. I’ll try again and then I’ll text him.

Am I making a terrible mistake? I wonder, not for the first time. My dad and my elder sister both tried to talk me out of coming here. After all, I’ve only seen this man once in the past twenty years. I step forwards again and go to grab the knocker, but then I spot a metal handle hanging down to my right and so I pull on it instead. I hear a loud chime sound inside the house. Seconds later, the door opens and he’s standing there. Alexander Riley. My heart beats madly. He’s smiling and it warms me through. Any doubts I had evaporate as I look up into his handsome face.

‘Katie,’ he says, sweeping me into his arms and squeezing me so tightly I can hardly breathe. He smells amazing. ‘Come in. Welcome.’ He releases me, takes my hand and leads me into the house. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ He doesn’t pause for me to answer. ‘I hope your drive wasn’t too long,’ he gushes as we walk side by side through the entrance hall, away from a huge pine staircase leading upstairs.

‘Here’s the sitting room. Go on through and I’ll bring you some tea.’ He pushes me gently into a spacious room to the left with high ceilings and a log fire burning at the end of it. ‘I’ll bring your stuff in from the car later. I’m so glad you’re finally here.’ And with that, he disappears.

I stand with my back to the fire for a couple of minutes, admiring the built-in bookshelves. Many of them have books on them, but there’s more than enough space for some of my paperbacks when I bring up the boxes I’ve stored at my dad’s house.

Feeling exhausted after the journey, I sink into an armchair. I look out of a sash window at the other end of the room. This one has thin wooden bars, too, in keeping with the Georgian period, no doubt. They’re supposed to be decorative, I imagine, but I find them disturbing. The windowpanes are black now; night has fallen quickly.

Alex soon comes back carrying a tray with sandwiches, biscuits, a teapot and two mugs. He puts it down on the coffee table. Then he walks over to the sideboard and pours himself a Scotch. Holding the glass in one hand, he puts his arm around me from behind my armchair and, stroking my breasts and then my tummy, he plants a kiss on the top of my head. Then he bends over the coffee table, and from a little bowl on the tray he takes two ice cubes, which chink as he drops them into the amber liquid. He drags a heavy armchair nearer to mine and sits down.

I watch him as he does all this, his blue eyes bright with excitement. Tall with dark curly hair, he’s very good-looking. I know he has an incredible, muscular body under those jeans and that sweater. When he smiles, dimples appear in his cheeks. He has an aquiline nose. His sideburns are way too long, but I find this endearing. His face has the healthy glow – even in winter – of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. I have so many photos of him – I’ve kept all the photos he sent me in his emails – but none of them really do him justice.

‘I’m finding it hard to believe we’re finally together,’ he says, picking up the teapot and swirling it around. Then he pours tea into a mug that already has a little milk in it. ‘Do you take sugar?’ he asks.

It seems strange, this question, when we know each other so well. At school, I hardly talked to him. I fancied him like mad, but I kept that a secret from everyone, especially him. Both my sisters had more to do with him than I did back then. But since we reconnected about seven months ago – initially thanks to Facebook – we’ve exchanged hundreds and hundreds of emails and phone calls. We’ve spent hours and hours chatting on FaceTime.

We’ve talked about our respective families in detail. I’ve never met Alex’s children, but he has told me all about them so I feel as if I have. I know that Alex’s favourite dish is shepherd’s pie and that his favourite dessert is tiramisu. I could tell you his place of birth, his date of birth, his hobbies and interests and his tastes in music. I know so much about his education and career that I could probably write his CV.

He read Wuthering Heights when I told him it was the best book I’d ever read and he watched The Piano because I told him I loved that film. Once, he sent me a purple silk scarf and another time, I received a pink T-shirt because these are my favourite colours. He knows I adore roses and lilies and he has had bouquets delivered to both my place of work and home. He knows I hate take-offs and landings on planes. He’s familiar with my deepest fears and darkest secrets. He could even describe my sexual fantasies.

But he has no idea how I drink my tea. I do take sugar, usually, but I can see that Alex hasn’t put any on the tray, so I shake my head.

Alex talks non-stop when he gets excited – I know this from our numerous phone calls – and he babbles away as we eat. He says that tomorrow we’ll visit Grasmere. He mentions a famous gingerbread shop, which he says is open almost every day of the year. And he promises to show me William Wordsworth’s house and his grave.

I love the idea that this Romantic poet, whose works I studied at school, links my old home to my new home. I’ve come from Somerset to the Lake District; William Wordsworth did the opposite. He moved from Cumbria to the village of Nether Stowey, which is only about fifty miles from Porlock, where I grew up. And slightly closer to Minehead, where I lived until this morning. Eventually, Wordsworth returned to his roots. He was homesick. I hope I won’t be.

I have that familiar nervous feeling in my tummy as I wonder again if I’ve made the right decision coming here. But it’s a bit late to be asking myself that question now. The rain starts to beat down all of a sudden and Alex gets up to pull the thick curtains across the two sets of bay windows. Before sitting back down in his chair, he kisses my cheek, and once again I’m reassured and content.

We chat for ages, although Alex does most of the talking. Even though it can’t be that late, I yawn. Alex immediately leaps up and clears away the tray. Then he insists that I stay by the fire while he brings in my things. I protest and get up to help, but he won’t hear of it.

‘You lost a lot of blood,’ he says. ‘You’re not to take any more risks.’

It wasn’t a lot, really, but I’m not going to argue.

The car is packed to the hilt with boxes, suitcases and bags, and it takes him about forty minutes. I feel a bit bad about letting him lug in all my stuff by himself, but I really don’t want to go out in the rain. I’ve had a long drive and it’s all too easy to persuade myself I’m only doing what I’ve been told. So, closing my eyes, I enjoy the heat emanating from the fire.

When he has finished, Alex comes back into the sitting room, combing his wet hair with the fingers of one hand and holding his other hand out to me. He pulls me out of my chair and leads the way upstairs. He has left the boxes and bags in the entrance hall, which he calls ‘the vestibule’, but he has brought my cases upstairs to the master bedroom, which is similar in size to the entire ground floor of the house I’ve just moved out of in Somerset.

It’s cold up here and I’m almost reluctant to take off my clothes. After taking a shower to warm myself up a bit, I climb into bed naked, next to Alex, who is waiting for me. He makes love to me with just the right mixture of passion and tenderness. This is only the second time I’ve been to bed with him and I’m surprised at how natural it feels.

He falls asleep with his arms around me. At first, I relax and breathe in time with him, but after a while he starts to snore. I’m cold again and I begin to shiver. I slip out of his embrace and get out of bed. I manage to feel my way to the en suite bathroom and I turn on the light in there. Leaving the door open just enough to see what I’m doing, but hopefully not so much that the light will wake up Alex, I move silently across the carpeted floor of the bedroom to the suitcase that contains my nightwear. I look over my shoulder as I unzip the case, but he doesn’t stir.

When I climb back into bed a minute or two later, I’m snug in my fleece pyjamas, but I’m wide awake. I can’t get comfortable. The bed is lumpy and the quilt is tucked in tight around my feet, which I hate. For a while, I toss and turn.

After a few minutes, I realise I’ve disturbed Alex because he turns over and asks, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Sorry,’ I whisper, feeling a pang of guilt for waking him. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Night, princess,’ he says into my ear as he rolls towards me and puts his arms around me.

I lie still even though I can feel a spring digging into my lower back. Reminded of the story of The Princess and The Pea, I smile wanly in the darkness. Alex’s body is like a hot water bottle against me and now I’m sweating slightly. Listening to the rain outside, I wait for sleep to come. It’s a long wait.

~

The phone rings, waking me up with a start. It takes me a second or two to remember where I am. By the time I’m fully awake, the ringing has stopped.

I’ve been dreaming about Louisa, but I can’t remember the details. I reach out for Alex, but he’s not there. I get out of bed, stretch and walk over to my suitcase to find my slippers and dressing gown. I wonder if he could be in the bathroom, but I don’t hear any water running. I open the door anyway and peep inside. Just as I thought, he’s not in here. I freshen up a bit, and then I make my way downstairs to find him.

‘Alex?’ I call out.

I go into the sitting room, where the fire was crackling last night. It’s chilly in here this morning, and I wrap my dressing gown around me and knot the belt.

‘Alex?’

I walk down the hallway and peep into the kitchen. He’s not in here, either. There’s a strong smell of coffee, which makes me feel queasy even as my tummy rumbles.

As I’m hunting in the cupboards for teabags and a mug, I catch sight of the note. He has written a message on a Post-it and left it next to the kettle.

Gone training. Back in a bit.

Make yourself at home.

Mi casa es tu casa.

Alexxx.

I’m disappointed, of course I am. But it was nice of him not to wake me. He has left out some bread, butter and jam on the worktop.

As I wait for the kettle to boil, I look out of the window at a large tree in the back garden – I remember Alex telling me there was a damson tree, so this must be it. Its trunk is leaning at an angle that seems to defy gravity, but perhaps it’s the visual effect created by the grassy slope. Not far from the tree, there’s a swing set, and behind that, a thick wood.

The window bars give me the unnerving impression that I’m being kept prisoner. The rain is lashing down outside and the sky threatens to keep this up for a while. I don’t expect we’ll be wandering around Grasmere today after all.

The toast pops up and startles me, and this is followed by the telephone ringing again. I’m tempted not to bother answering, but then I think it might be Alex trying to get hold of me. I haven’t turned my mobile on yet, I realise, so he would have to use the landline. I run out into the hall, where the sound is coming from, find the phone and pick up the handset.

‘Hello?’

There’s no answer.

‘Hello?’ I say again.

Still no answer.

‘Alex, is that you?’

I wait for a second, but then there’s a beep as if the caller has hung up. I dial 1471. I think I’d recognise Alex’s mobile number if it was him. But the last caller’s number is withheld. Shrugging, I go back into the kitchen to eat my breakfast.

Sitting at the long wooden table, I feel a bit lost and very alone. To shake off that sensation, I picture Alex and me feeding our children at this table one day. I see myself making cakes with my stepdaughters, whose mother has finally forgiven Alex – for whatever it is she thinks he’s done – and let them come to stay with us. I close my eyes and inhale, imagining the mouth-watering smells wafting towards me from the oven and almost hearing the girls’ laughter.

I’ve always wanted lots of children. At least four. Ideally, two boys then two girls. Having kids was a dream that didn’t come true for me with Kevin. It wasn’t for want of trying. It was the overriding desire to have a baby that killed the passion in our relationship and made it go stale. Looking back, I think it was over long before I left. Or perhaps I’m just telling myself that so I don’t feel so bad about walking out on him.

Alex still isn’t back when I’ve showered and got dressed, so I decide to explore the house. On the ground floor, there are several rooms I haven’t seen yet. There’s another lounge, which also has an open fire, and opposite it, a study. It has alcove built-in wooden cupboards and when I open them, I see they’re empty.

As I discover my new home, I keep mentally comparing it with the house Kevin and I lived in, which we’ve just put on the market. The upstairs bathroom in Minehead would easily fit into either the laundry room or the cloakroom in the Old Vicarage.

Coming back through the hallway, just outside the kitchen, I notice a door near the staircase. I turn the handle, but it’s locked. Briefly, I hunt around for a key – on the wall, in the cupboard under the stairs – but then I leave it. I realise the door probably leads to a cellar and I don’t want to go down there anyway. I walk on towards the staircase.

Upstairs, there are five bedrooms altogether. Ours is the only one with an en suite bathroom, but there is another bathroom and a separate loo along the landing.

Although the views are better from the master bedroom – you can see Lake Grasmere – I prefer the bedroom at the back of the house, which, like the kitchen below, looks out onto the garden. It’s smaller and cosier, with some sort of period fire grate and surround. The walls are painted a warm peach colour, but I notice there are no pictures on them, and it strikes me that I’ve seen no paintings or photos – not even of Alex’s daughters – anywhere in the house.

While I ponder this, I push the last door open wider and step inside. Decorated in pink and lilac, it is a large room with two single beds. Fairies fly around on wall stickers and a giant stuffed cuddly dog lies on a multicoloured rug on the floor.

This must be Poppy and Violet’s bedroom. Then a thought pushes its way into my head. Alex’s daughters would be too old now for fairies and teddies. Alex’s wife walked out on him five years ago and the girls are in their teens now. He said he hadn’t seen them for a year. Surely if they’d come to visit a year ago, they wouldn’t have wanted to sleep in such a childish environment. They would probably each want their own space at their age anyway.

Briefly, this puzzles me. But then I reason with myself. Alex didn’t say the girls had ever come to stay with him before his ex-wife cut off all contact. Maybe they haven’t slept at the Old Vicarage since his wife – ex-wife now – left him. That would explain it.

Sitting down on one of the beds, I run my hand over the hearts on the quilt cover. Quite unexpectedly, a chill runs down my spine. I scan the room. It’s beautifully decorated. There are toys, games and children’s books everywhere. And yet, there’s something I don’t like about it. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. The sense that someone was very unhappy in here? No, that’s not it. Scared more than unhappy. In danger, even. As if something bad once happened in here.

I laugh at my silliness. I’ve always had an overactive imagination. Julie would have taken it seriously, though. My elder sister is into feng shui and mental wellness. She’s reluctant to set foot in Dad’s house now on the pretext that it has had negative energy and bad vibes since Mum died. I’ll have to invite Julie to stay with us at the Old Vicarage. She’ll have the chi flowing, or whatever it is you need to do, in no time.

I decide to start unpacking. Maybe when I’ve tidied away all my things, I’ll feel at home in this house.

Mi casa es tu casa.

Hopefully Alex will be home soon. That will help, too.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life, I say to myself. A completely different life to the one I’ve had until now.