Читать книгу Freya North 3-Book Collection: Secrets, Chances, Rumours - Freya North - Страница 32

Joe didn't hear his phone the first time. He was on site, with trucks coming in convoys and an irate foreman jabbering at him fifty to the dozen. Joe's French was quite good as long as he was given time to translate what was said and formulate the appropriate reply. It didn't help that the man was from the Ivory Coast and his accent was different, more twangy, yelling and gesticulating at breakneck speed. Joe beckoned him into the site office, offered him a seat and tea. He took off his hard hat and motioned for the man to do the same. Being bareheaded and sharing a cup of tea, albeit in a prefab office but with the door closed, created a more genial atmosphere between them and when the latter took off his helmet, he let go of his aggression too; allowed himself a sigh and a stretch and a moment or two just to hold the mug and blow meditatively. Joe noticed how he held it genteelly, as if it was bone china. The ritual of taking tea provided both men with respite from their dispute, until their mugs were empty at least. He offered the man another cup, which was gratefully accepted. Joe found him pleasant to trade details with and they bantered amicably about their home countries and the French until an insistent buzzing in Joe's pocket interrupted them. He took out his phone and glanced at it. A voicemail. Six missed calls. Joe assumed half would be from the UK office, one was probably Nathalie confirming their dinner arrangement, another could well be from Belgium – he'd sent a message saying he'd be a day or so late. He scrolled to the missed numbers only to find all six were from the house, from home.

Filling the kettle, Joe tucked the phone under his chin and dialled his voicemail. What could be so important it warranted six calls successively from Tess? Had she found a new job already? Suddenly he found himself hoping not. He couldn't deny the tiny knot of tension hitting him between the shoulder blades as connection to his message service was made. He glanced at his watch. Nearly lunch-time here. An hour earlier in Saltburn. And suddenly Tess's voice in a tone he'd not yet heard. Not the temper in which she'd seethed at him. Not the shy voice of when she hovered outside the study, or the soft sing-song tones reserved for Em. There was none of the chattiness he'd been able to elicit after a glass of wine, or the playful indignation she employed to respond to his teasing. And it wasn't the comedy voice with which she communicated with his dog. She sounded panicked, half sobbing, and all she said was, Joe, please call me, as soon as you can.

‘There is a problem – in the UK – at my home. Do you mind?’ Joe replenished the man's tea who gave him a sympathetic look, pressing his own phone to his chest in support before leaving. Joe dialled Saltburn. If Tess didn't answer in her daftly formal trademark way, he'd know that something was seriously amiss.

It was ringing.

There was a clatter.

‘Joe?’

‘Yes – it's me. I'm sorry – I've only just picked up your message. Is everything OK?’

There was silence.

‘Tess?’

‘Joe.’

‘Yes, Tess. What's up?’ He had no idea how to decipher the pause that followed. Usually, he never noticed if he was in one country calling another. But the distance today was palpable. ‘Are you crying? Tess?’

‘It's Wolf.’

Joe went stone cold. Not Wolf. Let the house be on fucking fire – anything – but not Wolf. He was going to have to ask – God, he feared it but he had to – and quickly. ‘Is he dead?’

Tess was clearing her nose, it sounded like static on the line. ‘No. But he might not pull through. He was hit.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘At the vet's. He's having an operation – they're going to try.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don't know. I found him – at the side of the road.’

She was sobbing and her unabashed emotion both touched and frustrated him because he really needed details, facts, however hard. He needed them so he could feel some control and to judge how to react. It was as if his emotional capacity was pressed up against a dam of emergency common sense. He assessed he was in a different country on a Saturday lunch-time. There was nothing he could do this minute, this afternoon and probably not for the next few days either.

‘OK,’ he said.

Tess didn't sound OK at all.

‘Are you OK, Tess?’

She sounded distraught. ‘You should have seen him, Joe. Poor Wolfy, poor little guy.’

Suddenly a swell of tenderness swept up and over that dam of Joe's. He thought of his dog, of Tess, of her affection for Wolf, of his affection for her and for his dog. And he thought, who but Tess could call a thunking old hound like Wolf little guy? But she was right; it was a pertinent distillation.

‘I'll try and come back,’ he told her, ‘as soon as I can.’

‘Joe – don't,’ Tess said. ‘The vet – she said she'd call. And I said, should I call you and she said, yes, she thought I should but she said – she said she really didn't know. So she said just to wait in for her call.’

‘Will you phone me as soon as you've spoken to her?’

‘Of course I will.’

Out of the window, Joe could see the man, still holding his mug of tea, still having time off his gripe. He was about to say goodbye when he stopped for a moment.

‘But are you OK, Tess?’

She took a while to respond.

‘Poor Wolf,’ she said. ‘You should have seen him, Joe, you should have seen him.’

Joe was walking across the town square, late for supper with Nathalie, when Tess finally phoned him. He'd tried her a couple of times during the afternoon; both times she'd hurried him away, saying, I thought you were the vet, go away, I need to keep the line clear. He had checked his phone regularly, simultaneously relieved yet also perturbed at no missed calls, trying to chivvy himself that no news could potentially be good news. How did Tess know where the vet was, he wondered, not knowing if the number was in the scrappy notebook by the phone. How did it happen? Why didn't they stop, the bastards? How could you not know if you hit a dog like Wolf? Such thoughts underscored his day like the constant threat of inclement weather.

Actually, it was a fine evening, when late April masquerades as mid-May and dusk decides to fall a whole lot later than yesterday. He'd showered at the apartment; his phone on the edge of the sink, angular and black and masculine alongside the feminine scatter of Nathalie's cosmetics. She wears too much make-up, really, Joe thought, sniffing a lipstick. She over-eggs the pudding sometimes, Joe thought, unscrewing the mascara wand and thinking, how the fuck do women let bristles like that so near their eyeballs. He thought how every time he'd stayed here, she'd always been the first one up, off to the bathroom to paint what she believed to be the prettiest picture for Joe. But he had seen her barefaced and thought it was a pity she'd never believe him if he told her that makeup masked a little of her beauty. In his eyes, at least.

Come on, phone me.

Summer was tangibly close because in the square the old boys were settled at outdoor tables, playing cards or chess or chequers, with bottles of pastis to hand. Women were wearing their cardigans loose around their shoulders and there were bare legs where, even a week ago, there had been boots and tights. He entered the restaurant, shaking hands with the proprietor and going over to the table to Nathalie.

‘You are late, Joe.’

‘I've had a day of it.’

‘Of what?’

‘It's an expression. How was your day?’

‘It was good – but it is not good that you work on Saturday, no?’

‘It's not good, tell me about it.’ Joe drained his glass of beer. ‘And the men aren't happy – but we can't leave the materials because they will set. We've broken the back of it. Perhaps I won't go in on Monday.’

Nathalie raised an eyebrow lasciviously and chinked glasses before calling for fresh drinks. No sooner had they arrived, than Joe's phone went and he leapt from the table to rush outside.

He never usually answers it if it goes out of hours, Nathalie thought. Or he takes the call with a roll of his eyes and only half an ear. She looked outside, he was pacing, his head bowed, biting his thumb, listening intently. So maybe this isn't work, thought Nathalie.

‘He's going to be OK, Joe.’ Tess sounded triumphant and exhausted.

‘Halle-fucking-lujah,’ Joe said.

‘They could save his leg – but not his tail. He broke two ribs but his jaw didn't need pinning and his back is fine. He had to have lots of stitches and the vet said he looks worse than the injuries are – on account of having to shave his fur here and there.’

Joe listened.

‘I can collect him – perhaps as soon as the day after tomorrow, would you believe. He just needs to be nursed and kept quiet.’

Joe listened.

‘I can't tell you how horrible it's been.’

‘I'm sorry I wasn't there.’

‘I'm glad you weren't,’ Tess said and he could tell from her tone she wasn't being remotely objectionable. ‘You're his master,’ she said. ‘I wouldn't want you seeing your boy like that.’

‘He's lucky to have you,’ Joe said. And then he thought about it. ‘Thank God you were there.’ And he thought about it some more. Then he didn't think, he just spoke. ‘Thank you for being there.’ Pause. ‘Stay put, Tess,’ he said. ‘Don't go.’

She thought about that as she replaced the receiver. Where else would I be, Joe?

Nathalie was pouting.

‘He's going to be OK.’

‘Who is?’

‘Oh – I didn't tell you. My dog was run over – they thought he wasn't going to make it. But he is. That was the call.’

‘I am pleased for you and for your dog,’ said Nathalie, who'd seen a picture of Wolf and had wondered why English people so often ignore basic tenets of taste by choosing things so overtly vulgar. She'd only been to England once – long before she'd met Joe. The hairstyles of elderly ladies, the apparel of teenagers, the types of dogs, the combinations on menus, the men who worked as builders – they were all guilty of the same crime: the cult of the vulgar. ‘You were speaking to the vet, just now?’ She checked her watch and raised an eyebrow. The English and their pets.

Joe was engrossed in his fish soup; the relief of the good news had unleashed his appetite which he had neglected all day. He glanced across at Nathalie who was regarding him levelly.

‘No, it wasn't the vet – it was Tess.’

Her expression didn't change and he now noticed a haughty pinch to her lips, which he didn't like. ‘You spoke to her,’ Joe said, ‘when you phoned the house.’

‘She is your –?’

‘She was my house-sitter,’ Joe said.

‘Was? This is the past tense? She is no longer?’

Joe spooned soup. ‘I don't know.’

‘But she is still there, at the house?’

He didn't bother to nod. Obviously she's still at the house – she phoned me about my injured dog.

‘You are fucking her?’

Joe had learned not to be startled by Nathalie's bluntness so he didn't rise to it. He didn't like her tone or the implication and her jealousy was as unbecoming as it was flattering. So calm and controlled and cold, compared to Tess's uncontained indignation. Nathalie's eyes burned dark with possessiveness; Tess's cheeks had simply turned puce.

Should he answer? Could he be bothered? Couldn't he just enjoy the meal and drink to Wolf's good health? The soup was wonderful but he fancied more rouille and he looked around for the waiter.

‘You are fucking this woman Tess?’

Joe looked at her. He could easily take his mind off the stress of the day by playing Nathalie. But he didn't want to. ‘Actually I'm not, Nathalie.’

She didn't look as though she believed him.

‘I don't know what you are pushing for,’ he said.

She shrugged sulkily. And after the meal and a bottle of wine at her apartment, she fucked his brains out.

Before Joe went to sleep, as Nathalie trailed her fingertips over his biceps, his chest, she propped herself up on her arm, her other shoulder back a little to display her breasts to their best advantage and she asked him again.

‘If she is no longer your house-sitter, what is she still doing at your house?’

Joe thought about it. He thought how, whenever he thought of his house, Tess populated whichever room sprang to mind. She hadn't found a new job, had she? He had asked her not to go, to stay. What was she doing right now? Pottering around, shifting his things from room to room, shunting his furniture from here to there? Making toast in the kitchen? Checking on her baby? Sanding, painting, tidying? Writing labels for jam jars? Other nights, quite possibly any combination of the above. But he thought she was most likely tonight to be mourning the huge space Wolf's absence would have created.

‘She lives there.’

Nathalie asked him again if he was fucking Tess.

He pretended to be asleep because he really couldn't be bothered to validate her question with even a one-word answer.