Читать книгу From Italy With Love - Jules Wake - Страница 7

‘You happy to close up?’ asked Gemma, the other librarian, as if it was an unusual occurrence. Leighton Buzzard Library had been dead for the last half hour.

Laurie nodded. Thank God, today was almost over. From the moment the alarm clock had gone off this morning, set for exactly 6.30 a.m. so Robert had time to make both packed lunches before he caught the train into London, she’d found herself checking the clock almost hourly. The damn long-hand seemed to be on a go-slow. The day just wasn’t right. She couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong. It just felt wrong. And as for what ‘it’ was, she had no bloody clue.

Served her right for drinking all that wine yesterday. Her spirits had been well and truly dampened. Alcohol did that, didn’t it? And she wasn’t used to it. Drinking more in one afternoon than you did in an entire month was bound to have an effect.

She stacked the last of the books on the trolley. Oh stuff it, just this once sorting the thrillers from the romance and Sci-Fi could wait until morning. In fact Gemma could do it. Time she pulled rank, she was the senior librarian, after all and Gemma needed reminding that librarians are well-read, not well-informed on celebrity gossip. And didn’t that make Laurie sound a dried-up old stick. Part of her wondered whether maybe Gemma had got it right; the magazines seemed to be a stronger draw than books in the library these days. Other people’s lifestyles proving more exciting than their own. Even Gemma’s life seemed a lot more exciting than hers.

What was the matter with her today?

She had a job, home of her own, a live-in boyfriend and her health. She was being ungrateful and stupid. Security, stability … you knew where you were with them. For a moment she wondered if she was trying to convince herself just a little too hard.

OK, so they didn’t lead the most exciting life, her mouth turned down in disgust, they didn’t lead an exciting life full stop, but then excitement wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Loads of people would kill for that type of security. She thought of her mother and then tried hard not to. She’d left Laurie’s dad in her quest for excitement and had found fulfilment in fast cars, rich husbands, glitzy parties, designer clothes and visits to one exotic location after another. Quite what her mother had ever seen in Dad in the first place was a mystery. There were poles apart but he had clearly adored her at one point.

A tap on the window was an unwelcome reminder she should have switched out the lights and locked up.

‘Hello dear, I know it’s late but can I just …’

Laurie wasn’t supposed to stay open after six. ‘Go on, quickly.’

Mrs Wright slipped into the door and headed straight down to the crime section. ‘You are a dear,’ she called over her shoulder.

Laurie might as well start re-homing the books on the trolley.

Luckily Mrs Wright found something straight away.

‘Thanks love, you’re a lifesaver.’

Laurie smiled. The widow inhaled books like other people took in air. Her taste in gruesome killers obviously provided the escape from killing loneliness.

Rattling around on your own in a house when someone had died was so hard.

The ring of her mobile coincided with the click of the door when Mrs Wright finally left. Robert.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi, you still at work?’

‘Just leaving. I’ll be a while. I’ll heat up that shepherd’s pie for you when I get back.’

‘I’m already home. Actually, I thought I’d take you out to dinner.’ Robert sounded very pleased with himself.

‘Why, have you had a promotion or something?’

‘Does there have to be reason? I just thought you might like to be spoilt for a change.’

‘That would be lovely. Thank you. I’m on my way.’ If she got a wiggle on she could just catch the next bus.

See, she was just being a miserable old harpy. She had nothing to moan about. Her life was pretty good.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Not that she did know how it was supposed to happen but this felt pedestrian, as if she’d been short-changed.

The candle on the table danced, casting shadows on the red damask tablecloth as Robert pushed the box across the table towards her.

Her heart sank, leaden to the very pit of her stomach. The waiter loitering with a bottle of champagne looked on expectant.

‘I know we said that we were fine as we are but …’ he shrugged, ‘we don’t have to have a big wedding. That would be a waste of money. I thought we could be spontaneous … just book the registry office next week. They’ve got a slot on Monday at lunch time. How romantic would that be? Spur of the moment!’

Robert’s face lit up with the thought. With a quiver of disappointment, she realised he felt genuinely excited by the idea.

Smiling took effort – she could feel the tautness of every muscle in her face. Robert had pushed the box right across the table, to sit centre stage in her place-setting like a dainty dish she needed to tuck into.

It sat there like an unexploded bomb that she was expected to diffuse. She didn’t dare look at him, but she could tell, as he leant forward, his body language shouting eagerly, that he wanted her to open the box.

Her hands shook as she lifted them above the table.

‘Aw … you don’t need to be nervous. It’s not the Rockefeller. Just a token really. We don’t need to waste our money on symbols. We know what’s important.’

Of course he was right. Having values. Being loyal. Maintaining integrity. Honesty. Unselfishness. They were the important things. Real love was based on friendship, stability and trust, not giddy emotion. She pushed away the thought of her mother, currently madly in love with husband number three.

Her fingers touched the box and she opened it. The ring, an emerald with a diamond chip on either side, was pretty. Really pretty. A lovely engagement ring and only a miserable, ungrateful, shallow cow would have even thought they would have preferred a sapphire.

She looked up at Robert. He beamed.

‘Like it?

‘It’s … lovely.’

Even as she blinked back tears, one escaped making a lonely trail down her cheek.

‘So, what do you say? Monday?’ He grinned hopefully, mistaking her tears for something else.

Numb, she stared at him. ‘Monday? What, this Monday?’ Frantically she tried to think was she was doing on Monday.

‘Yeah. Twelve-fifteen.’ He pulled the crinkly great-isn’t-it face, as if chivvying along her enthusiasm.

‘But … but I’ve got work.’

‘Come on, Laurie. They won’t notice if you take an extra half an hour … and if they do, just tell them where you’ve been. That lot will think it’s so romantic … just like one of those Mills & Boons.’

‘I … I … This is all so …’ She sounded even more clichéd than him.

‘Not really.’ Robert had that let’s be reasonable face on now, ‘We’ve been living together for a while now. It’s the next logical step isn’t it? We’re not getting any younger. We’ve got a house. We’ve no mortgage. We’ve both got steady jobs. Why not?’

She frowned. Actually, her house and her ‘no mortgage’.

They’d not been going out that long when Robert moved in pointing out it didn’t make sense paying bills on two separate homes. He’d been such a rock when her dad died so unexpectedly, leaving her so stricken and lonely she was incapable of deciding anything.

A nagging headache gnawed her right temple as she stared down at the ring. She didn’t like green, never ever wore it. Her school uniform had been bottle green, enough to put anyone off.

This wasn’t what she’d thought getting engaged would be like.

Was she crazy? Most girls dreamed of this? A steady, reliable man who didn’t watch endless football, didn’t spend money foolishly, did his share of the cooking and was a dab hand with the washing machine. Even came to Sainsbury’s every Friday with her. Dependable, reliable, trustworthy.

Someone who wouldn’t up and leave her behind.

So it wasn’t the most romantic of proposals, but they weren’t like that were they? She’d had a few serious boyfriends over the years and Robert was the only one she’d lived with but still she couldn’t quite bring herself to say yes. This didn’t feel right but how could she articulate it without upsetting him? As excuses went it was pretty rubbish.

‘I … I don’t know Robert. It doesn’t feel right. The timing. Maybe because Uncle Miles …’

It was as good an excuse as any. Death in the family.

Robert gave her one of his tender smiles reaching for her hand. ‘Poor Laurie. I do understand.’

Had she ever noticed before how his lips looked slightly crooked when he did that? ‘I thought this might help. Losing family, it’s hard but we can start our own family. You and me. Have children. Our own little unit.’

Children! Plural. Was he serious? They’d never even discussed it. Having babies was big and grown up. Even though she’d just turned thirty and the old biological clock should be ticking, you had to be really, really sure before you had children. Before you had one, let alone two. If you split up … she deliberately shut out the memories. She wasn’t prepared to go there. It was a long time ago and she was over it. All grown up now … well nearly. Just not grown up enough for children. Did she even want any? Adults did so many terrible things to children.

No, she wasn’t ready and on a purely practical note − she glanced at Robert − what if they ended up with his nose? Long and a bit bulbous on the end.

Horrified by the unexpected thought, she stared at him. Where had that come from and when had she turned into such a cow? It was time to get a grip and stop being an idiot. She was nothing like her mother. This was just a silly, minor panic-attack.

Squeezing his hand, she took the ring out of the box, offering it to him. As he slid it onto her finger, he pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed each finger one by one very gently, his lips whispering across each knuckle.

It was a lovely gesture, even the waiter looked misty-eyed. Pushing her shoulders back, she ignored the small leaden lump nestling in her stomach and gave Robert a brilliant smile and asked, ‘Are you going to pour me a glass of champagne then?’

‘Stop it, that’s ticklish,’ she scrunched her neck up to her ear to try and stop Robert’s kisses.

They stumbled through the front door and he pulled her to him. ‘Bed, Mrs Evans-to-be?’

Mrs Evans! That was his mother, domineering, opinionated and disapproving of Laurie. Oh God, she’d be family!

His hands made a quick cold foray up under her shirt.

‘Oooh,’ she squeaked, pushing them away before they could hit their target. ‘You’re freezing.’

‘Let’s go upstairs and warm them up,’ he suggested rubbing his hands together, waggling his eyebrows lasciviously.

She fended him off again and pushed herself off the wall towards the kitchen. Everything seemed a bit wobbly. Lovely wobbly from the champagne. And not so lovely wobbly. Something nagged at her. Worry that she’d not done the right thing. The wine was discombobulating her brain, a whole bottle of champagne on a week night wasn’t conducive to straight-thinking, she needed to sink a few glasses of water otherwise her head would be in serious trouble in the morning.

Robert had already disappeared halfway up the stairs.

Staggering into the kitchen, she yanked open the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a pint glass, filled it to the brim and forced herself to drink the whole lot.

The room swam around and the lights bounced off the kettle which seemed to be moving up and down by itself. The evening had disappeared into a big blur, although she could feel the ring encircling her middle finger. Too big for her engagement finger, but Robert had wanted her to wear it. Guilt warred with confusion. Had she really agreed to get married on Monday?

It seemed so sudden and so out of character for Robert.

The dizziness increased and clutching a second pint of water to her chest she slumped into one of the wooden chairs at the scarred table. The fruit bowl in the middle was empty of fruit as always but there was a white envelope propped in it.

Miss L Browne. A proper letter. You didn’t get those very often these days.

From the wrinkled back of the re-sealable envelope she guessed with slight irritation, Robert had already opened it.

Peeling the letter out of the envelope, she looked at the smart headed paper. Solicitors. Sadness misted over her like a rain cloud bearing drizzle. Uncle Miles.

Dear Miss Browne

Further to your uncle’s recent death, we would be grateful if you could call Mr R Leversedge to arrange a convenient appointment to discuss the contents of Mr Miles Walford-Cook’s last will and testament.

She turned the letter over, as if expecting something on the back of it, like a clue as to why she’d been summoned. A nagging thought hovered at the back of her brain, like smoke curling out of reach.

She had no expectation from Uncle Miles. He had all his ex-wives to look after. Besides he was cross with her. Her mouth crumpled and she shut her eyes. Had been cross with her. Was probably still cross with her. Fancifully she glanced upwards. Yes, definitely would still be cross.

With a sudden smile, she thought of his irate face, faded gingery eyebrows scrunched up over rheumy eyes that still had the power to intimidate most people. Now she understood why he’d been so blinking stubborn. Regret lanced through her and her breath hitched. If only he’d told her he was dying.

Stupid old bugger. With a hurried swipe, she rubbed the tear from her face. And now it all made sense. Not so much his sudden desire that she go visit her mother, which of course had fallen on deaf ears, but his guilty admission.

Laurie let out a small mirthless laugh. She thought his guilt completely misplaced but hadn’t been able to reassure him. He’d probably left her some small bequest. It would be nice to have a keepsake from him. But she certainly didn’t expect or deserve anything else. Despite what he thought, it hadn’t been his fault.

If anything she owed him; he’d offered a haven every holiday when home was too unbearable before her parents finally called time on their battlefield of a marriage. After that the visits to her uncle and Merryview had stopped. It had been awkward, Dad refusing to see his former best friend, his ex-wife’s brother and Laurie hadn’t liked to leave Dad on his own. Hadn’t she also felt Miles could have done more to stop his sister misbehaving?

As she tapped the letter against her hand wondering what it might be, the kitchen spotlights sparkled in the stones on her new ring. And insight as sharp as the refraction of the light, struck home.

She looked down at the letter, the envelope and then back at the ring. And then frowned at herself for even thinking it.