Читать книгу Keeping Mum - Kate Lawson - Страница 7

‘Excuse me, Miss, Miss?’

Cass glanced up from her book and looked at the man framed in the shop doorway.

‘I was wondering if you could help me? Is that record player in the window Chippendale?’

The guy was six two, maybe six three, tanned, with great teeth and an Armani jacket worn dressed down over good jeans and a black tee shirt. He had just the hint of a transatlantic twang somewhere in his voice. He had shoulders broad enough to make a grown woman weep and the biggest brownest eyes. If he were a spaniel, women would arm-wrestle each other to take him home.

Cass closed her book and nodded, ‘Uh-huh, it most certainly is, and you see that cocktail cabinet in the back there? The cream one with the stainless-steel knobs?’ She pointed off into the shadows, between a bentwood hat stand and the little painted pine chiffonier that she’d sold earlier in the day.

The man looked around. ‘Which? Oh right—oh yes, that’s very nice.’

‘Hepplewhite. Genuine George III,’ she said.

‘No?’ said the man, extending the oooo sound to express his incredulity. ‘My god, really? I’d imagine they are just so hard to find.’

‘In that kind of condition,’ Cass said, ‘rare as hen’s teeth.’

‘Oh my god this is just too wonderful. Do you take credit cards? Do you think we can maybe do a deal on the two pieces?’

‘There’s been a lot of interest in them.’

‘I’d imagine there has been. What’s your best price?’

Cass considered for a few moments. ‘Give me your best shot…’

‘You’re a hard woman, Cass.’

Cass broke into a broad grin. ‘So Rocco, how’s life treating you?’

He didn’t answer, instead making a lunge for the biscuit tin, which initially Cass mistook for an attempt at hugging.

‘Are those Fox’s Cream Crunch?’ he asked.

Cass whisked the tin away an instant before he could grab it. ‘Still not quite fast enough, eh? Never mind, maybe another time. What are you doing out here in the boondocks anyway?’

‘Come on, you’re a legend. Cass’s place—great gear, reasonable prices, you’ve always got such lovely things.’ He paused. ‘Actually I’m on the lookout for Christmas presents for your mother.’ He started patting himself down. ‘You want me to tell you how many shopping days we got left? The PalmPilot your mum bought me last year has got this feature—’

Cass shook her head. ‘No, it would so only depress me,’ she said. ‘I’m never organised.’

‘Maybe I could get your mum to buy you one—’ Rocco began.

‘No,’ snapped Cass more forcefully as Rocco continued, ‘I adore those repro radios and turntables you’ve got in the window. Nice chaise by the way,’ he tipped a nod towards the dark green brocade number she had recently finished re-upholstering, which was also currently sitting in the shop’s bay window. ‘That won’t be there very long.’

Cass smiled. ‘I’ve already had a couple of decent offers.’

Rocco grinned mischievously. ‘Really? And you’re still here selling tut—I’d have been long gone by now, if I were you.’

‘What and leave all this behind?’ she said, heavy on irony. ‘Besides one man’s old tut is another man’s design classic. Talking of which, how is my mother?’

He grinned. ‘Gorgeous as ever. Did you get the postcard from Madeira?’

Cass nodded. ‘Uh-huh, and Rome—and where else was it you went?’

‘I could email you the full itinerary if you like.’

Cass laughed, ‘What, when I’ve already had the postcards. Anyway, what is it you’re looking for?’

‘Peace on earth and goodwill to all men?’ Rocco suggested, as he thumbed through the pile of antique greetings cards she had arranged in a basket on the desk.

‘And besides that?’

‘I’m on the hunt for a couple of bedside cabinets, art deco, 1930s. Walnut veneer would be good. Your mother is such a slave driver…’

Not rising to the bait, Cass said, ‘I might be able to help.’

‘You’ve got bedside cabinets?’

‘Might have.’

Rocco’s eyes lit up.

Cass grinned. ‘You’d never make a poker player.’

‘What are they like?’

‘Nice actually, cylindrical, still got both shelves. You mind the shop, I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

‘Jacko not in today?’

‘No,’ said Cass. ‘He hates the cold. He keeps telling me he’s not getting any younger. He’s hanging on till I find someone else, but he can only do the odd hour here and there…. So if you know anyone wants a part-time job…’

Rocco held up his hands in surrender.

Cass laughed. ‘Not you—that wasn’t an offer.’

‘Thank god. Working for your mother is hard enough. Have you got the cabinets here?’

‘No, but there are some pictures on the computer. Take a look. They should be in the file marked “stock, warehouse”. Under bedside cabinets?’

‘Bit obvious—I think I’d rather look in the one marked this year’s diary,’ Rocco called after her as Cass made her way into the back of the shop.

Cass laughed. ‘Knock yourself out, Rocco. My social highlights at the moment are dental appointments, haircuts and choir stuff.’

‘I was hoping there’d be a few stars in the margin. How are the boys?’

‘Last time I heard from them they were fine. Joe was hungover and Daniel was in debt, but that’s university for you.’

‘So okay then? Will they be home for Christmas?’

Cass laughed. ‘It’s obvious you’ve never had kids Rocco. I’m their mother, I’ll be the last one to find out.’

Cass went back to making the tea, wondering how it was that her mother had ended up with a guy like Rocco and she was all on her own. Life was strange at times. She could hear him fiddling about, tapping on the keyboard and then he said, ‘Oh they’re nice. Are those the original handles?’

‘Yup, and they’re not bad, few nicks and dents and there’s been a repair to the veneer, just general wear and tear really. Overall they’re not bad for their age.’

‘We are still talking about bedside cabinets here, are we?’ he asked. Cass could hear the humour in his voice.

Rocco and Cass went back a long, long way, to the dim distant days when Rocco had been her boss, and Cass had been married to Neil, and Rocco hadn’t been married to her mother, Nita.

Cass had introduced them at a cheese and wine party at the local college where she’d been teaching interior design part-time. Rocco had been her head of department, Nita had been happy but lonely, and Cass had got Rocco down as gay.

Cass had assumed they would get on, but she hadn’t assumed they would get on quite so well as they did. Twelve years on, and Rocco and Nita were still getting on well. The fact he was around fifteen years younger and fit as a butcher’s whippet seemed to present no problems at all to either of them.

Cass brought in a tray of tea and the biscuits. ‘So, what are you up to?’

‘At the moment? Work-wise we’ve got some corporate stuff and we’ve just taken on a complete makeover for some media type, art deco mad, hence the cabinets. She’s bought one of the apartments in Vancouver House.’

‘Down on the old wharf?’

‘S’right. Cold Harbour. You’d have thought the marketing guys would have come up with something a little cheerier—Cold Harbour. I mean, what does that sound like?’

Cass grinned. ‘Nice conversion, though. I remember the days when it was full of junkies and rats down there.’

‘Cynics might say it still is, they’re just driving Porsches and Beamers these days. How about you? You busy?’

‘Ish—why, have you got something for me?’

Rocco grinned. ‘Might have, there’s a nice little job in Cambridge coming up in the New Year that I thought might be right up your street.’ He glanced at the computer screen. ‘And the cabinets are cute.’

‘They certainly are. As I said, very nice.’

‘Presumably that means you’ll be doubling the price if I say I’m really interested?’

Cass grinned. ‘What else are family for? I’m sure we can do a deal…So, how’s Mum?’

Rocco took the mug of tea she handed him. ‘Fine form, although she’s still trying to persuade me that we should sell up and buy a fucking barge. I’ve told her I get seasick in the bath but she won’t have it. Anyway, we’re going over to Amsterdam to look at a Tjalk some time soon. And before you ask, it’s some kind of huge bloody canal boat. She’s arranged for us to go sailing with these two gay guys who own it. She’s thinking “party”. I’m thinking Kwells. How about you?’

‘Nothing so exciting. Choir trip in few weeks, which should be fun—we’re going to Cyprus. Oh and we’ve got a concert-cum-dress rehearsal before we leave. Can I put you and Mum down for a couple of tickets?’

‘Don’t see why not. And how’s what’s-his-name?’

‘Gone but not forgotten.’

‘What was his name, help me out here?’

Cass shrugged. ‘No idea, he came, he went—you know what men are like.’

‘You’re making it up,’ said Rocco, helping himself out of the biscuit tin. ‘Oh—oh, wait—it’s on the tip of my tongue. Jack, Sam—’

‘Gareth.’

‘That’s it,’ he said, with a mouth full of crumbs. ‘I thought you were quite keen?’

Cass dunked a custard cream. ‘Which just confirms what kind of judge of character I am. Bottom line? Once the initial lust had cooled down, it took me about two days to work out that we had nothing in common. Worse, he was picky and undermining. He was always making little jokes about my weight or my hair and stuff, and then when we were out spent most of his time ogling other women…And then he got blind drunk at Lucy’s wedding—you know Lucy, from across the road? Makes silver jewellery? Anyway, he tried to pick a fight with the best man and he kept calling his ex-wife a brainless muppet, and I just knew that one day that brainless muppet would be me.’

‘So you jumped ship?’

Cass nodded. ‘I most certainly did.’

‘And how did he take it?’

‘Well, he was hurt and then he was weepy and then he was angry. And then a couple of weeks later I was talking to a mutual acquaintance and sure enough, I’m the muppet now.’

Rocco pulled a sympathetic face, no mean feat with a mouthful of custard cream. ‘Not in my book. Anyone else on the horizon?’

Cass laughed. ‘What is this, Mastermind? No, there is no one on the horizon at this particular moment. But to be honest, at the moment I’m that not fussed.’

Rocco looked horrified. ‘What do you mean not that fussed? You’re fit, you’re gorgeous, talented, great company…’ He grinned. ‘Your mother worries about you. How am I doing?’

‘So far, so good. Maybe I should get you to write my lonely hearts ad. The problem is, Neil’s a hard act to follow. I keep picking idiots.’

‘Is that all?’ said Rocco. ‘Realistically, if you kiss enough frogs one of them is bound to turn into a prince. It’s purely a numbers thing.’

Cass sighed. ‘To be honest, Rocco, I’m all frogged out.’

He looked pained. ‘How about coming to Amsterdam with us?’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of room. You’d be doing me a favour. Your mother can play at pirates with the beautifully buffed Hans and Bruno while we go shopping or do the markets and the museums. It’d be fun.’

Cass laughed. ‘With two poofs, my mum and her toy boy? I don’t think my ego could take it.’

‘In that case, how about coming round to supper instead? We could talk about this job in Cambridge—your mum’ll cook you something yummy. Nita would love to see you, and we’ll go through our list, see if we can’t fit you up with someone.’

Cass fixed him with a stare.

‘What?’ he protested. ‘I owe you one.’

Cass laughed. ‘My mother doesn’t count—and besides, I’ve been on some of your blind dates before. I don’t want anyone over sixty, and no one without teeth need apply.’

‘Harry was a good bloke.’

‘He was sixty-eight.’

‘He was kind.’

‘He had dentures that clicked.’

‘You can be so picky. He was loaded. What about Fabian?’

‘Anyone who left their wife the previous evening is right out. Okay?’

‘Be fair—we didn’t know about that.’

‘He cried all the way through dinner.’

Rocco shrugged. ‘Maybe it was your mother’s cooking—who knows? I promise you that this new man is gorgeous.’

‘You’ve already picked me one out?’

‘Your mother always says it’s good to have something tucked away for a rainy day—and besides, she’s worried about you.’

‘So what’s new?’

‘Well, the one she’s got in mind is bright, the right size, right age, requisite number of teeth. Say yes, you know your mum’s dying to take you on a guided tour of the new kitchen—did I tell you we’ve got to have the roof off the bloody house now? Anyway, she’ll cook and while she’s in there griddling and steaming away I’ll show off, get horribly drunk and make a complete fool of myself. Remember last Christmas? It’ll be just like that, only with less advocaat.’

Cass laughed. ‘How could anyone possibly resist an invitation like that?’

Rocco grinned. ‘How’s Saturday night sound? Nita’s threatening to drag me off to see some peculiar foreign film with subtitles and bicycle baskets full of sardines.’

Cass hesitated. Rocco pulled his puppy face.

‘You’d be doing me a favour—honestly. And we could go with the fish theme for supper. There’s this great stall on the Saturday market we’ve just discovered, I could pick something up first thing—your mother does this amazing thing with halibut and Gruyère?’

Cass pulled a face. ‘Do I want to hear about this?’

‘And you could dig something or pull something up out of your allotment, something trendy and seasonal and Gordon Ramsay for the resident chef. Now how about you go and fish these cabinets out of storage, and while you’re gone I’ll mind the shop and ring your mum to let her know about Saturday. Oh, and I’ll get her to email you the brief over for the job in Cambridge.’

Cass sighed; it sounded like a done deal.

Wanting to pour oil on troubled waters, Cass tried ringing Fiona when she’d finished work, but got the answer machine. She had a feeling that Fiona was probably there listening, screening the calls. Whether Fiona was right or wrong about Andy playing away, Cass decided to be careful what she said in case he picked up the message. The last thing she wanted to do was add fuel to the fire, real or imaginary.

Cass sighed. She felt guilty about Fiona walking out. Although it had to be said that Fee had a talent for making her feel bad. When they were thirteen it had been because Mr Elliot—their art teacher, six feet tall and gorgeous—had told Cass that she was very talented, at fifteen because Cass had thrashed Fee in the mocks, and at sixteen because she had been the first one to get her hands on Justin Green, if Cass remembered rightly. Cass getting married, having two sons and being happy—even if it hadn’t lasted that long—had been the ultimate insult, and Cass had an odd sense that Fee had never quite forgiven her for any of it. When Fiona had walked back into her life, Cass had hoped they could start over; after all, they were grown-ups. Unfortunately two years on it was increasingly obvious that actually only one of them had made it through to adulthood.

So, after the beep Cass said, ‘Hi Fiona, hope you’re well. Be great to hear from you if you’ve got a minute. See you at choir on Tuesday if not,’ making a real effort to sound warm and cheery.

A few mornings later, Cass heard a phone ringing somewhere in the darkness. Dragged from sleep and a complicated dream about Amsterdam, rats and a blonde wig, she felt around by the bed, found the handset, pressed a button and mumbled, ‘Hello, who is it?’

‘Oh hi Cass, it’s me.’ The voice belonged to someone wide awake and unnaturally cheerful. ‘I’d got you down as an early bird, I thought you’d be up and about by now.’

‘Rocco, it’s the middle of the night.’

‘No, it’s not,’ he said defensively.

Cass peered at the bedside clock. ‘No, you’re right. It’s worse than the middle of the night, it’s six o’clock in the morning. What on earth are you doing ringing me at six in the bloody morning? I don’t open the shop until ten—I lie in. Like heads of state.’ She paused. Rocco said nothing, at which point Cass’s imagination fired up and filled in the gaps. ‘Oh god, is everything all right. What’s happened? Is Mum okay? Are you all right?’

‘It’s about the fish.’

‘Fish? What fish? Oh for god’s sake, Rocco, you’re doing too many drugs. Go back to bed and sleep it off. I’ll call you later.’

‘No, no listen, I’m serious. We’ve got to drive down to pick up the people from next door from Heathrow this morning, I’d totally forgotten about it. You are still on for tonight, aren’t you?’

‘As far as I’m concerned it still is the night.’

‘Just listen to me and stop whining, will you? Could you nip down to the market and pick up the halibut for tonight? Four nice steaks and some prawns? Problem is, if you’re not there early it all goes.’

Cass, totally awake now, groaned and rolled out of bed. ‘Halibut?’

‘Uh-huh, halibut and a pint of prawns. Only you really need to be there first thing when they open or it will all be gone. I’m not joking.’

‘What constitutes first thing?’

‘Half seven, eight—if you leave it any later—’ he began.

‘It’s all gone. I got that the first time round, Rocco,’ growled Cass. As she pulled on her dressing gown, phone tucked up between ear and shoulder, Cass couldn’t help wondering who these people were who got out of bed at the crack of dawn to rush out and buy bloody halibut. ‘Can’t I nip in and get a bag of frozen fish from the supermarket? You know, if I don’t make it to the market in time?’

There was a little pause and then Rocco said, ‘Cass, you are such a philistine. And no, you can’t, we need fresh. I’ve already got the Gruyère.’

‘Well, good for you. What if the fish has all gone by the time I get there?’

There was another longer weighty pause. ‘Then you didn’t hear me right…’

‘Okay, okay, I’m getting up now. You’re such a bully.’

‘Wait till you taste it, Nita does this—’

‘Rocco, shut up, go and pick up your neighbours and leave me in peace.’

‘Before eight.’

‘Bugger off.’

Which was why at around seven forty-five, two mugs of tea and a short, sharp shower later, Cass found herself walking up the High Lane into town, wrapped up against the rain, with Buster tugging at the lead, amazed that he was out that early and desperate to wee up every lamppost by way of celebration. Early or not, it was a very grim morning.

Cass could think of innumerable other places she would rather be, although she did remind herself all this was for a purpose. Her mother’s cooking was truly sublime, the apartment she shared with Rocco was breathtaking and, when they were on form, Rocco and Nita were the best company you could wish for. Rocco also found her work. The clients for their interior design business always paid top dollar, Cambridge was almost local and Cass needed the money.

So maybe it was worth it, Cass decided, sticking her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and hunkering down against horizontal drizzle. Buster didn’t seem to mind. He wagged and sniffed and panted cheerfully, rooting out discarded kebab innards, greasy pencil sharp-enings of cold meat, curled up in the gutter. Whoever said it was a dog’s life?

Cass turned the corner into Market Street and down past the Corn Exchange.

Rocco was right; it might be early but the market was already teeming with life. Most of the stalls were open and trading hard, with just a few latecomers still putting their stock out. Ready or not, everyone was open for business, including the parade of cafes and bars around the edge of the square. Every stall was lit, fighting off the gloom, and there was the smell of fried onions, fresh coffee and bacon hanging in the damp morning air.

‘Nice dog, missus,’ said a man laden down with bags as he hurried past clutching a bacon roll. It was a sad state of affairs when your dog got more compliments than you did, thought Cass grimly. Buster, meanwhile, tracked the man’s progress with an accuracy worthy of NASA, while the man headed between the stalls, all shopped out.

‘Maybe we’ll get one of those on the way home,’ said Cass conversationally. The dog wagged his tail.

The punters were four deep at the fish stall in the next aisle. Behind the spotless white counter, two middle-aged ladies were working the queue with a deft touch and a nifty line in helpful hints and off-the-cuff recipes. In front of the counter the broad chiller cabinet was full of the most amazing things—scallops, smoked haddock and rock, Nile perch, red mullet, unnamed things with fins and dark glassy eyes, mussels and lobsters glittering like bizarre jewels—all snuggled down amongst great drifts of diamond-like crushed ice, their hard edges a contrast to the soft flesh of the peeled pink prawns and cockles and shrimps, moist and shiny under the bright overhead lights.

Cass took her place in line and settled down to the slow shuffle towards the front, letting her mind idle over what wine to pick up from the offie at the bottom of the road, and whether she should just take along a big pan of homemade carrot and coriander soup to Nita’s instead of taking vegetables. All this and half a dozen other thoughts were percolating randomly through her head as Cass looked around, just passing the time. As she idly gazed across the faces of the people at the stalls, she caught sight of Fiona’s live-in boyfriend, Andy.

She’d seen him once or twice at concerts, although barely ever spoken to him despite Fiona’s sporadic insistence that they should all get together for a meal sometime. He was loping across the road towards the market, dressed in a battered leather jacket, and he was smiling. Instinctively Cass looked in the direction he was looking, scanning the little groups of people, trying to pick out who he might be smiling at, wondering if it might be Fiona—and then Cass saw that it wasn’t Fiona.

Picking out the recipient of the smile gave her an odd feeling, a little shiver that made Cass feel uneasy. Andy was smiling at a girl, a girl who smiled right back in a way that said she was more than pleased to see him. She waved and hurried towards him, all smiles.

‘Hi,’ the girl mouthed. ‘How are you?’

As Andy and the young girl embraced and then held each other at arms’ length, looking each other up and down, a million and one thoughts tumbled through Cass’s head. First of all, she tried to tell herself it could be anyone, that it was silly to jump to conclusions. She could be a friend, a work colleague, god it could even be his sister—but there was another, stronger voice that was busy telling her that Fiona was right. Andy was seeing someone else. Someone significant, someone he was keeping away from Fiona, someone who he cared enough about to come out to meet first thing in the morning—in the rain.

As Cass watched, the girl tipped her head up towards him and Andy kissed her on the cheek. Tenderly. And then he smiled. As he pulled away, Andy scanned the faces of the people around them, left and right. Everything about the way he moved suggested that he didn’t want to be seen, not here, not now, not with this girl. Cass and Andy’s gaze met for a split second and Cass felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as they made a connection. A nanosecond later and it was over, as Andy guided the girl between the stalls, away from the early morning shoppers.

The girl was small and blonde and slim, and very, very beautiful. She was in her early twenties, wearing a ginger wool jacket and a mustard coloured scarf. The outfit looked bold and stylish and youthful and for an instant Cass’s heart ached, as if the breath was being pressed out of her chest.

Cass and Fiona were beautiful in the way that women over thirty are beautiful; they were women who had learned what suited them and how to wear clothes well, and what lipstick works with what and how to make the best of what nature gave you—but this girl, this girl had that other thing, the thing that only happens when you are young, the thing that means throwing on whatever you find on the floor from the night before, the thing that lets you scrape you hair up into a topknot with tendrils tumbling out and that still lets you end up looking gorgeous and stylish and desirable. Whatever it was, that youthful thing, the girl with whom Andy was currently walking across the market square, had it in spades.

Cass couldn’t take her eyes off them. The pair of them drew her like a magnet. Their body language was a peculiar mixture of familiarity and reticence—maybe they were afraid of being seen, maybe Andy was afraid of looking silly with someone so young, maybe the girl wasn’t sure of him or quite what to do. Whatever it was, it was obvious to even the most casual observer that they were together. Cass kept on staring. There was an instant when the girl tried to slip her arm through his. Andy artfully avoided it. Cass was mesmerised.

‘S’cuse me, can I help you?’ said a voice from somewhere behind her.

It took Cass a few seconds to realise the question was being directed at her, and even longer for her to get her thoughts back on track. ‘Oh I’m so sorry. I’d like some—some…’ Her mouth worked up and down. The word was somewhere there in the back of her head; it was just a case of finding it.

The woman smiled her encouragement.

‘I’d like some fish,’ said Cass, trying to buy herself some time.

The woman nodded. ‘Righty-oh. Well, you’ve come to the right place, love. What do you fancy? We’ve got some smashing cod or then there’s Nile perch, nice bit of tuna, or red snapper if you fancy something a little bit more exotic…’ She managed to make it sound like a night in a lap-dancing club, but Cass couldn’t quite tear her mind away from Andy and the girl, which must have shown on her face.

‘Would you like me to give you a bit more time?’ the woman said. ‘Maybe you’d just like to take a little look and I’ll come back to you?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Cass. ‘I’d like…’ What the hell was it she wanted? Cass’s brain rolled over and played dead. She looked up in desperation. Behind her the queue was getting restless.

‘It begins with H…’ she said miserably. ‘And it goes early, which is why I’m here. I was sent by my mother’s husband, my stepfather, although he’s a lot younger so I don’t call him that…’ Cass cringed: her brain might be dead but her mouth was alive and kicking and just kept on going.

‘And he sent you to buy a fish that begins with H?’ The woman said helpfully, as if playing I-Spy was something she did on a regular basis.

Cass nodded.

‘Haddock?’ suggested the woman. She managed to make it sound like an insult.

Cass shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t haddock.’

‘You sure? Only it’s not dyed, and we do sell a lot of it—and we’ve got some lovely thick fillets. That’s very popular. Smoked. That always goes real quick on a Saturday.’

‘Or there’s hake? Or what about herring?’ suggested the other woman who was working behind the counter, as she plopped a couple of nice plaice fillets onto the scale. ‘Have you got any idea what he was going to do with it?’

Someone in the queue behind Cass made a fairly graphic suggestion. Cass began to sweat, Buster began to whimper. Just exactly how many fish were there that began with H?

‘Huss?’

Cass shook her head again.

‘How about halibut?’

‘Halibut,’ Cass said, with a genuine sense of relief. ‘That’s it. I’d like some halibut. Please.’

‘Righty-oh, we’ve got a bit left; it always goes early, you know.’

Cass nodded. ‘So I’ve been told. Have you got four nice pieces, please?’

‘Certainly have,’ said the woman, holding out a snow-white piece of fish towards her. ‘Four like that?’

Cass nodded. ‘That will be great. And a pint of prawns please,’ she said, although try as she might to concentrate on the fish, Cass’s mind kept being pulled back towards Andy and the young woman. She couldn’t see them now, but she guessed where they would be heading. They would be in Sam’s Place.

Above the market square, the town clock was just chiming the hour. It was eight o’clock. Wasn’t that what the note Fiona found had said, ‘Saturday eight o’clock?’ The only difference was that Fiona had assumed it was eight o’clock in the evening, not eight o’clock on a cold wet windy early autumn morning.

Walking home, Cass mulled over what she should do. Should she ring Fiona and tell her? Fiona had asked for her help. Or was it one of those things best left alone? Cass hunched against the wind, Buster tucking in behind, slipstreaming out of the weather.

Fiona didn’t take bad news well. Cass could remember the time when she’d seen Peter Bailey—the boy whose children Fiona planned to bear when they were both about fifteen—in town with Alison Wickham. They had been holding hands. When Cass had told her, Fiona had accused Cass of lying and then of being jealous and, finally, when the two of them had caught Mr Bailey and Ms Wickham in a sweaty clinch behind the groundsman’s hut after double games, of gloating—immediately before she sent Cass to Coventry.

The bottom line was that what went on between Fiona and Andy was none of her business. Even though they were friends, asked her conscience? Especially because they were friends, countered Cass. And even if Cass had known about the girl before Fiona came round, her advice would have been that Fiona and Andy needed to talk about what was going on between themselves first, before they involved anyone else, particularly if that anyone else was likely to get mashed in the middle.

Cass sighed. The halibut weighed heavy as an albatross, the drizzle finally broke loose into a full-scale downpour, and even Buster was keen to beat a retreat as they hurried home.

As she slid the key into the shop doorway, Cass decided that the best course of action really was to say nothing. Maybe seeing Andy and the girl together was just a coincidence, or completely innocent. Maybe Fiona coming round had planted a seed in her imagination; maybe she had imagined the little buzz between Andy and the girl. Maybe Fiona and Andy had already sorted it out, talked it through, made everything right. Maybe today was the day that Andy was going to tell the little blonde that it was over for good. If she said anything, Cass might put her foot right in it and break something that wasn’t broken or cracked, something that was nine parts mended.

Who was she kidding? Cass sighed, wondering who’d died and made her Claire Rayner.

Meanwhile in an alcove in the back of Sam’s Place, at one of the smallest tables, furthest away from the large plate-glass windows, Andy watched as Amelia’s fingers knitted tightly around a tall thin mug of hot chocolate. She was hunched over it, apparently frozen, blowing away the steam as well as warming her hands, occasionally glancing up at him from under those long, perfectly mascara-ed lashes. She was wearing pink fingerless gloves.

The bar at Sam’s Place had an old colonial feel to it, with an overhead fan, lots of dark wood, ochre-coloured rag-rolled plaster and rattan furniture arranged around a central bar, and at this time of the morning it was practically empty. The guys from the market were over in the Nag’s Head if they wanted a beer and at Bennie’s on the corner or one of the stalls if they wanted coffee, tea or bacon butties. Behind the servery, a couple of staff were busy fiddling with the coffee machine; other than Andy and Amelia, their only other customer was an elderly man reading his newspaper and drinking coffee. He hadn’t looked up since the two of them had walked in.

‘You look rough,’ Amelia said, blowing over the top of the mug.

Andy, who hadn’t been sure exactly which way this conversation was going to go, smiled. ‘Well, thanks for that. I’d like to return the compliment but you look great.’

She had the good grace to blush. Last time they’d met Amelia had cried and shouted and stormed off, because he couldn’t think of anything to say that could help her with the pain, so he’d said nothing and been left standing in the middle of the beach at Holkham on his own, with people staring at him.

When he had got back to the car, Andy had had to make sure there was no sand in his shoes in case Fiona found it. He’d showered as soon as he got home, rinsing the fine grit from his hair, feeling it rasp under his fingertips as he rubbed in shampoo, although in the pocket of his leather jacket he still had a little white shell Amelia had given him.

‘You know, Andy, I could learn to really love you,’ Amelia had said, as she pressed it into his hand, before all the crying and the shouting and the running away had started.

Andy looked across the table at her now; she was watching his face intently. ‘So, how are things going?’

Amelia shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘So…?’ He waited for a second.

Amelia looked up at him from under long, mascara-covered lashes. ‘I know that you said not to ring you at home, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve missed you,’ she said, pausing as if trying to gauge his mood. ‘I was worried that you might not come.’ And as she spoke, Amelia began to spoon whipped cream, dusted with chocolate, into her mouth. ‘I wanted us to talk.’

Andy had ordered an espresso; the coffee was as hot as it was bitter and left an unpleasant residue over his tongue and teeth.

‘I can’t stay very long,’ he said, glancing round, tipping his wrist to indicate his watch and time passing, hoping to create some sense of urgency that would persuade her to come to the point.

Over the last few months he’d discovered that Amelia wasn’t very good at getting to the point. She preferred to meander through unrelated backwaters, telling Andy silly things or exciting things or secret things, sometimes things that he would rather not know, sometimes things that took his breath away. When they first met he’d thought it was charming and amusing, but now he found it frustrating, and he felt bad for feeling that about her. She was beautiful and young and every time they met he promised himself that he wouldn’t be bewitched or sidetracked by those things.

‘I can’t be long,’ he pressed.

Amelia nodded, scooping up more whipped cream. There was a tiny blob of it on her chin and he fought the temptation to lean across and wipe it away.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, still watching his face. ‘I know, you have to get back to Fiona. Who are you trying to fool here, Andy? We both know you’re not happy with her. You don’t have to be a genius to work it out. It’s not like you have got any kids or anything. Why don’t you just say something—or just leave? For god’s sake, it’s not rocket science. Start over…’ She stared at him, waiting for a reply. ‘You’re not happy, are you?’

Andy opened his mouth to say something but there were no words there. What could he say?

‘Why don’t you just tell her straight about me, about us?’ she asked. ‘Get it over and done with.’

Andy wasn’t sure what the answer was, and so said nothing. He felt at a loss for not having the right answer, or any kind of answer, come to that. This wasn’t the kind of man he was. The trouble was that, since meeting Amelia, it seemed to be the man he had become—meeting her had changed him forever.

Amelia took his silence for some kind of tacit agreement. ‘Why don’t you leave her, Andy? You know you want to.’

He winced, wishing that he’d never told Amelia that he was unhappy. My girlfriend doesn’t understand me was hardly the most original line he’d ever come up with, and completely stupid really, particularly as Amelia would never have noticed how unhappy he was if he hadn’t told her. She was far too self-obsessed to notice what was going on in anyone’s life but her own.

Across the table, Amelia licked her lips and then rootled through her handbag so that she could check them in a little mirror, adding more gloss from a clear glittery tube, smoothing away the fleck of cream. She ran a finger over her eyebrows, first one and then the other, and Andy noticed as he always did what beautiful hands she had; those long fingers with French-manicured nails. Her component parts constantly caught his attention and enchanted him. She caught him looking at her and smiled slyly. ‘So why don’t you just leave her?’ she asked.

Andy pushed his hands back through his hair; he had no idea now why he had even mentioned it to her. Confession and complaining had never really been his style. But then again he had never lied to Fiona before, nor gone behind her back. This was such a mess.

‘Look Amelia, it’s good to see you, but if there is something you want to say—I mean—I really have got to get back.’

Amelia’s mouth tightened into a little moue of displeasure. ‘I thought that we could talk. I haven’t seen you all week…’

‘Well, we can talk,’ said Andy, hoping that she wasn’t planning to make a scene like the one on the beach. ‘Just not for long. I did say I couldn’t be long today.’ And then he made himself be quiet, because he didn’t want to promise her that they would meet again soon and talk then, because she would want to know where and when and for how long, and her demands made him increasingly uncomfortable. He’d only met her this morning because he was afraid that if he held her off for too long she might turn up at their house, or ring when he wasn’t home. She was unpredictable and she made him uneasy.

Meeting her had shaken his life to the core. Fiona wasn’t the only person that he really should deal with.

And, even as he was thinking it, Amelia looked up at him, her chin resting on her knuckles, and Andy could see how vulnerable she was, how lost, and hated himself for trying to hold her at arms’ length and for being afraid of her. Of course she was right, he really should tell Fiona. About her. About them. About how much he loved her.

‘I’m listening, just tell me what you want to say,’ Andy said, leaning forwards across the table, craning closer so that he could catch every word, his voice soft with compassion.

‘I’m pregnant,’ Amelia said.