Читать книгу One Christmas Morning, One Summer’s Afternoon: 2 short stories - Тилли Бэгшоу - Страница 11

November turned to December, and one of the coldest winters Fittlescombe had seen in a decade. Every morning, village children ran to their bedroom windows, hoping for the much-anticipated snow. Instead they saw a landscape frozen solid, sparkling white with frost like a newly glittered Christmas card. The days were short but dazzlingly bright, a pale winter sun lighting up a cloudless, crisp, sapphire-blue sky. And at night the deep winter blackness was lit by a carpet of stars so perfectly clear it was like sleeping beneath the ceiling of one’s own, private planetarium.

For Laura Tiverton, it was the vivid colours of the countryside that most lifted her spirits. The holly leaves and pine trees seemed almost to glow green against the frosted white background of the frozen chalk hills. Berries and robins’ breasts seemed redder and the sky bluer than she could ever remember them. In the mornings, Laura would try to write by the fire, but the idyllic view outside her study window never failed to distract her, calling to her like a lover, tempting her from her work. Of course, the fact that she had a real lover probably had a lot to do with her revived spirits. Although still not officially an item (he wasn’t technically divorced yet), she and Daniel now spoke to each other daily and Daniel had spent all but one weekend since their first night together holed up with Laura at Briar Cottage. They made love, went for long walks and talked a lot about writing – Daniel’s writing, mostly. He’d recently finished another quite brilliant play, a comedy, that he was in the process of editing and that would soon be making its West End debut. Laura, meanwhile, had a half-written teleplay full of plot holes gathering dust on her PC. If it was slightly soul-crushing, sleeping with someone so very obviously more talented and successful than she was, the excitement of being in a relationship again more than made up for it. Laura told herself that she would knuckle down to work properly after Christmas, once the Nativity play was over.

With only three weeks to go, play rehearsals were now every afternoon. From one till three, Laura worked with the St Hilda’s Primary School children, whose carols and poems would make up the first part of the performance. And, between three and six, the adults came to rehearse, with different actors called on different days to work around people’s various job schedules.

Last weekend, Laura had been forced to call a daytime rehearsal on Sunday after church, thanks to so many people missing their weekday slots. Daniel had been a good sport and come along to help, but Gabe Baxter had been so incredibly rude – doing mincing impressions of Daniel whenever his back was turned and flat-out ignoring his stage directions – that Laura had vowed never to bring Daniel again.

‘Do you have to be such a prick all the time?’ she said when she confronted Gabe angrily the next day. Generally, she had adopted a policy of ignoring her tormentor, hoping that eventually Gabe would tire of harassing her and find another sport to amuse himself with. So far, sadly, he showed no signs.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said laconically, not looking up from his newspaper.

‘Give me that.’ To Gabe’s amazement, Laura snatched the paper out of his hand. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. What is your problem with Daniel?’

‘I don’t have a problem with Daniel. Other than the fact that he’s got bugger all to do with this play and should keep his nose out of it.’

‘Oh, grow up!’ snapped Laura. ‘He was trying to help.’

‘Well he failed, then, didn’t he? It’s bad enough having you as a director, never mind your stuck-up, “I’m a big-shot West End playwright” boyfriend showing up to get his ego massaged.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk about egos,’ Laura shot back. ‘And what, exactly, is so wrong with having me as your director?’

‘Never mind,’ grumbled Gabe.

‘Actually, I do mind. Your attitude is affecting the rest of the cast; it’s affecting everybody. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t direct this play, other than the fact that you don’t like me.’

‘You’re an outsider,’ said Gabe, snatching back his newspaper. ‘All right? You rent a cottage for a few poxy months and you think that makes you Queen of bloody Fittlescombe.’

It was so breathtakingly childish, Laura almost laughed. But one look at Gabe’s face made her change her mind.

‘I don’t think I’m Queen of anything,’ she said. ‘Harry Hotham asked for a volunteer and I obliged.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’re very obliging to Mr Hotham,’ Gabe taunted.

Ignoring the innuendo, Laura said, ‘You should know I don’t bully easily, Mr Baxter. I have no intention of stepping aside just to appease your prejudices.’

‘D’you use big words like that in bed with Danny Boy? I’ll bet that’s what gets him off. “Oh baby, say it again! Get out your thesaurus, you know I love it.”’

‘You’re pathetic,’ Laura said contemptuously.

‘And you’re blind. He’s a fake and a poseur. You don’t need an Oxford degree to see that, love. Now are we gonna rehearse or not? Because I’ve got a farm to run.’

* * *

It was a Friday morning, two weeks before Christmas, and the village was alive with excitement. Fittlescombe’s festive celebrations had been condensed this year into a single long weekend, with the Furlings Hunt Ball on the Friday night, the Nativity play on the Saturday afternoon of Christmas Eve and Christmas itself falling on a Sunday. Everyone from the postman to the vicar had a part to play, and the sense of goodwill and village camaraderie was contagious.

When Laura stopped into the paper shop for her morning copy of The Times, the talk was all of the hunt ball.

‘Mrs Worsley was in here the other morning ordering place cards for the dinner. There’s going to be over three hundred guests this year. Three hundred!’

‘Did you hear that Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s thrown over her duke for a footballer? He plays for Chelsea apparently.’

‘Poor Mr Flint-Hamilton.’

‘Thank goodness his wife’s not alive to see it.’

‘You’ll never guess who Lucy Norton saw in the chemist’s last Thursday. Keira Thingummy-bob.’

‘Who?’

‘You know. The pouty one from Love Actually. Banoffee pie? The annoying one.’

‘Keira Knightley?’

‘That’s it. Apparently she’s rented Bartley Mill Barn for a month! She’s coming to the ball for sure, and she’s bound to bring all her Hollywood friends. You don’t rent a barn that big unless you’ve got guests.’

Laura half tuned into the gossip as she waited in the queue. What with being so busy with the play, and all the excitement over Daniel, she’d barely thought about the hunt ball. Her invitation included a ‘plus one’, but the ball was the night before Christmas Eve, and she worried it might look too pushy to ask Daniel to an event on Christmas weekend. He had children, after all, and would doubtless want to spend the holiday with them. Besides, nothing had been said about Christmas plans. He and Laura had only been together (if you could call it that) for a month.

Still, it was a smart event. I’ll need something to wear, thought Laura. She was going up to London that night to see Daniel. It was his birthday and he’d asked her up to town for dinner and a show, which she took as a positive sign. Perhaps she could squeeze in some shopping while she was there and look for a dress. That way, the subject of the Furlings Hunt Ball would come up naturally.

‘That’s a pound.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The Times.’ Mrs Preedy, the shopkeeper, smiled at Laura kindly. ‘It’s a pound. You’re miles away, aren’t you?’

‘Sorry.’ Laura fumbled in her purse for the coin.

‘No need to apologize, my love. If I were your age and spending every day rehearsing with Gabe Baxter, I’d spend a lot of time daydreaming too!’

The women behind Laura in the queue all laughed loudly. It was infuriating the way that three-quarters of the village seemed to view Gabe as Fittlescombe’s answer to Ryan Reynolds. No wonder the man’s ego was so big.

Blushing, Laura paid for her paper. ‘Believe me, Mrs Preedy, Gabriel Baxter couldn’t be further from my mind.’

‘Whatever you say, love.’ The shopkeeper winked. ‘Whatever you say.’

* * *

Rehearsals that afternoon went better than expected. The schoolchildren did a first run-through of their candlelit procession from the school to the church, where the play itself would take place. Laura had confidently expected at least one child’s hair to catch fire, à la Michael Jackson, but in fact everything went smoothly. Better yet, the reception infants had finally learned the words to all three versus of ‘We Three Kings’, and had sung something loosely approximating to a tune.

‘It’s coming together, isn’t it?’ Laura said excitedly to Harry Hotham, who seemed almost as amazed as she was that his pupils had made such strides. Wearing a beautifully cut wool suit with a yellow silk cravat, his greying hair slicked back, St Hilda’s headmaster had clearly made an effort this afternoon. He reminded Laura of a 1950s English film star – David Niven, perhaps. She prayed his smart get-up wasn’t for her benefit.

‘All thanks to you, my dear.’ Harry smiled wolfishly. ‘Now listen, what are your plans this weekend? Can I tempt you to dinner in Chichester? There’s a new chef at Chez Henri who’s supposed to be the best on the South Coast.’

‘I’m afraid I have plans.’ Laura struggled to hide her relief. ‘I’m going up to London tonight to stay with, er, a friend.’

‘Ah. The playwright. Smart, isn’t it? Lucky fellow,’ Harry Hotham said amiably. There was no such thing as a secret in Fittlescombe. ‘Still, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.’

At home with your wife? Laura felt like saying. But she held her tongue. After all, she was hardly in a position to judge people for having affairs, not after the wreckage she’d caused by dating John Bingham.

The adults’ rehearsal went equally well. Lisa James was sick, no doubt exhausted by Gabe Baxter’s insatiable demands, so Laura had to stand in as Mary, reading all Lisa’s lines. She’d naturally assumed that Gabe would capitalize on this turn of events and play her up even more than usual. In fact, he was remarkably subdued; a little distant, perhaps, but he made it through the shepherds’ scene without a single snide aside or smart-alec remark at Laura’s expense. He’d even learned his lines.

‘I’m impressed,’ Laura told him when they broke for tea and hot mince pies, a Nativity play rehearsal ritual. ‘If you’re that good on the night, we’ll bring the house down.’

‘I’m always that good on the night.’ He fixed her with the moss-green eyes that had so captivated the rest of Fittlescombe’s womenfolk. Laura felt suddenly naked.

‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit hard on you.’

‘If?’ Laura spluttered.

Gabe frowned. ‘I’m apologizing. Don’t interrupt.’

‘Sorry. Go on.’

‘Actually, that’s it. If you want we could have a drink tonight, bury the hatchet and all that.’

Laura looked at him suspiciously. Was this some sort of setup? Some sort of joke? He seemed sincere. The awkward shuffle of the feet, the clumsy way with words. Daniel was a master of communication, firing off witticisms and insights like a champion archer shooting arrows. Gabe Baxter was the opposite, a farmer from the top of his blond head to the soles of his muddy work boots. He certainly wasn’t stupid. The annoying truth was that he’d run rings around Laura ever since they’d started this play; he was an expert manipulator. But Gabe was a man’s man. Verbal communication was not his strong suit.

Laura decided she might as well meet him halfway. ‘That would have been lovely, but I’m afraid I can’t tonight. I’m going up to London later for the weekend.’

Gabe’s face instantly darkened. ‘To see Daniel, I suppose.’ He spat out the name like a mouthful of rotten meat.

‘Yes, to see Daniel.’ Laura stiffened. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing.’ Gabe turned away, helping himself to another two mince pies and mumbling ‘none o’ my business’ through a mouthful of crumbs.

Laura was so frustrated she could have hit something, preferably Gabe’s broad back, now turned towards her beneath his thick, hole-ridden Aran sweater.

‘If you must know, it’s Daniel’s birthday,’ she found herself explaining, unnecessarily. ‘We’re going to dinner and a show and I’m going to go shopping for a dress for the Furlings Hunt Ball.’

For some reason this got Gabe’s attention. ‘You’re going to the ball?’

‘Of course.’

‘With him?’

‘Probably,’ said Laura. ‘What do you care, anyway?’

‘Oh, I don’t care,’ Gabe said nastily, his olive branch of a few minutes ago now apparently withdrawn. ‘Not in the least. I’m sure you and Daniel will have a lovely time shopping in Harvey Nicks.’ He mocked Laura’s accent with ruthless accuracy, laughing as he walked away to join the shepherds on the other side of the room.

Counting to ten to stop herself from screaming, by the time Laura got to eight her mobile rang. Seeing Daniel’s name flash up on the screen, she felt her spirits lift. Fuck Gabe Baxter and his childish mind games. What do I care what he thinks?

‘Hi,’ she answered happily. ‘I’m just finishing up here. I should definitely make the six thirty train.’

* * *

From across the room, Gabe watched out of the corner of his eye as Laura took the phone call. From her smile, and the way she cupped the phone, turning away like a child with a precious new toy they don’t want to share, he knew at once who must be calling.

He was angry, at himself more than anything. Ever since they were kids, Laura Tiverton had had the power to unnerve him, to throw him off stride. He’d envied her so much then, with her beautiful house and her happy family and her perfect, Enid Blyton-esque existence. Gabe’s parents had divorced acrimoniously when he was eight. The summers that Laura had found so idyllic and perfect, Gabe remembered as times of ingrained domestic misery, of shouting and crying and plate throwing. He was out on his bike all day because he couldn’t bear to go home. Against the backdrop of his own, crumbling family, Laura Tiverton’s happiness had felt like a personal affront.

And now she was back, beautiful and successful and independent, swooping into Fittlescombe and taking over like a swan returning to lord it over all the ugly ducklings of her childhood. Simply being around her made Gabe feel like a helpless eight-year-old boy again, or at least reminded him of a time that he had spent the last twenty years trying to forget. He knew he was being a dick to Laura, and he didn’t like himself for it. But the impulse was too strong to resist. Ever since that prick Daniel Smart had come onto the scene, it had been getting stronger. Gabe distrusted Daniel deeply and instinctively. Everything about him – from his floppy hair, to his smug, entitled manner, to his metrosexual, trendy clothes – reeked of fakery. The fact that Laura couldn’t see it, that she so obviously thought the sun shone out of the guy’s arse, kept Gabe awake at night. He resented Laura for that, too.

‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to work?’ Arthur McGovern, the sweet old man who ran McGovern’s Garage in the village and who had played a shepherd in every Fittlescombe Nativity play since 1988, tapped Laura on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to nag you, but I promised my wife I’d take her to the pictures in Chichester at six, so I can’t be late tonight.’

‘Of course, Arthur, my fault. Let’s get to it.’

As they walked back to the stage, Gabe noticed the change in Laura’s face. Her happiness of a few moments ago had vanished like snow on a warm spring day.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Laura snapped. She was growing mightily tired of Gabe’s hot-and-cold treatment. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

* * *

The rest of the rehearsal seemed to go on for ever, but at last Laura made it to the sanctuary of her car. Turning the key, she blasted up the heat to full and turned on a CD on Carols from King’s, hoping the soothing choirboys’ voices would ease her frazzled nerves.

They didn’t. Disappointment and frustration hit her like a double punch to the stomach. Daniel had cancelled. He’d been very sweet about it. Something had come up with one of his sons, the school had asked for a meeting, and he had to go.

‘Couldn’t we meet afterwards? Or tomorrow, at least?’ Laura had asked, hating herself for sounding so needy. But surely a teacher meeting couldn’t take up an entire weekend?

‘I wish I could, angel, believe me. But Rachel wants us to have lunch on Saturday to talk everything through. Apparently, Milo’s grades have fallen through the floor since we split and she’s worried about him. I have to show willing, especially with the final divorce hearing right after Christmas. If I don’t, she’s bound to paint me as a crappy parent in front of the judge. Divorce is so petty and political, you have no idea.’

He was right, of course. Naturally, his son must come first. But Laura still felt robbed. It bothered her how much the prospect of spending this weekend alone, and not with Daniel, depressed her. She’d vowed never to depend on a man for happiness again, and yet here she was, depending away, as if all the pain of last year had never happened.

Deciding to take the back way to Briar Cottage, she turned left up Lovett’s Lane, which took her directly past Furlings. The house was a Queen Anne gem, one of the finest examples of eighteenth-century architecture in the country. In perfectly square red brick, its façade almost completely covered with wisteria, Furlings managed to combine grand, stately-home proportions with quite unparalleled prettiness. The symmetry of the original sash windows – facing onto formal gardens famous for their topiary, as well as for a two-hundred-year-old maze – was softened by the rolling parkland that surrounded the house on the other three sides. Tonight, lit from within and with its chimneys cheerfully smoking, the house looked as warm and inviting as any fairytale castle. Suddenly Laura realized just how badly she wanted to have Daniel as her date for the Christmas Hunt Ball, to play Prince Charming to her Cinderella. What was the point in spending money she didn’t have on a beautiful dress if no one who mattered was going to be there to see it?

Just as she had this thought, there was an ominous splutter from the Fiat’s ancient engine and the car quite suddenly lost all power. Thankfully, Lovett’s Lane was deserted, and Laura was able to glide to a stately halt on the grass verge. But without headlights, and with nothing but a crescent moon and the distant lights of Furlings to guide her, she could barely see more than ten feet in any direction. Worse still, she’d left her coat back at the church hall, and was woefully underdressed for the December chill in jeans and a thin Uniqlo sweater. Pulling her mobile phone out of her bag, she saw that it was completely dead.

‘Fuck!’ she shouted out loud, getting out of the car and stamping her foot in anger on the frozen ground like a thwarted child. Could today possibly get any worse? The walk home to Briar Cottage from here was about thirty minutes in daylight, but at night and without a torch she was afraid she might not make it all. She could walk up Furlings’s drive and knock on the door, but she barely knew the Flint-Hamiltons, and this was an annoyance rather than emergency. The third option was to walk back to the village and ask for help there. Hugging herself for warmth and rubbing her hands together against the cold, she began to trudge down the hill.

After only about a hundred yards, she saw headlights coming her way. Thank God. Standing in the middle of the road, she flagged the car down.

‘Bit late for a walk isn’t it?’ Gabe drawled, rolling down the window of his Land Rover. It looked warm and luxurious inside. Coldplay were playing on the stereo, and a smell of new leather wafted out into the crisp night air. ‘I thought you were going to London.’

‘Change of plans,’ said Laura through gritted teeth. Gritted, chattering teeth. ‘My car just gave up the ghost.’

‘Uh huh,’ said Gabe. Was he smiling? Bastard. ‘I expect you’d like a lift home then, would you?’

Laura nodded grudgingly. Why, why, why did it have to be him? Of all the people who could have driven past. She tried the passenger door but it was locked.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me nicely?’ said Gabe. He was clearly enjoying himself.

Laura bit her tongue. If she played along she’d be home in the warm in five minutes, as opposed to being stuck out here for the next hour. ‘May I have a lift?’ She smiled sarcastically.

‘Please,’ said Gabe. ‘Go on. It won’t kill you.’

‘May I have a lift … please?’ said Laura.

With a click, the door unlocked. ‘Hop in.’

‘So,’ said Gabe, as she fastened her seatbelt. ‘Mr Perfect stood you up, did he? Got a better offer?’

Laura watched his arrogant features break into a grin and felt suffused with loathing. Why was he such an utter, utter dick? And why could nobody else in Fittlescombe see it? OK, so he was handsome in a rough-and-ready, farmhand sort of a way. But it hardly made up for his fatally flawed character, his rudeness, his vindictive streak masked as humour.

‘He had a meeting about his son,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was last-minute and it couldn’t be helped.’

‘And you buy that, do you?’ Gabe asked casually, not taking his eyes off the road.

‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ Folding her arms, Laura stared out of the window in silence.

Gabe responded by turning up the music, ejecting Coldplay and tuning into Radio 1. Some awful teen band were playing, one of those Christmas songs with synthesized sleigh bells and cheesy lyrics about snowflakes and children’s wishes. Gabe hummed along tunelessly, strumming the steering wheel in time to the music until at last they arrived at Briar Cottage.

‘I’ll walk you inside.’

‘No, thank you. I’m fine,’ said Laura.

‘I wasn’t asking,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s not gonna be my fault when they find you on your doorstep tomorrow morning, dead from hypothermia because you’ve forgotten your key.’

The garden path was treacherously icy. In her flimsy loafers, Laura found herself slipping all over the place. Throwing her arms out wildly to try to get her balance, she ended up leaning on Gabe, whose work boots gripped the ice like crampons. Halfway to the door, without asking, he scooped her up under one arm as if she were a stepladder or a Nativity play prop, depositing her on the front step like a Christmas parcel. Blushing furiously, as much from anger as embarrassment, Laura jammed her key in the lock so hard she almost snapped it.

‘You might want to invest in some boots,’ said Gabe as the door swung open and she practically fell inside. ‘And an AA membership. Next time I might not be driving by.’

‘Oh no! What on earth would I do then?’ Laura said waspishly.

Gabe scowled. ‘You might be a bit more grateful.’

‘And you might be a bit more—’

‘What? A bit more what?’

He stepped forward, so he stood just inches away from Laura, his broad shoulders filling the narrow cottage doorway like a marauding Viking warrior. It was a challenge, and Laura’s cue to step back, but something kept her rooted to the spot. For a few seconds words failed her. They remained locked in standoff.

‘Never mind,’ she said eventually. ‘To be honest with you, Gabe, I’m cold and I’m tired and I would like to go to bed.’

‘Fine. Goodnight.’ Gabe turned to go, a look of cold thunder on his face. Ungrateful cow.

Just as Laura was about to close the door behind him, resisting with some difficulty the urge to slam it, Gabe suddenly changed his mind. Turning around he said bluntly, ‘He’s lying, you know. Daniel. He’s using you.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Laura practically screamed with exasperation. ‘Using me? Using me for what? Daniel’s an amazing, talented, phenomenally successful playwright with a flat on Pelham Crescent and God knows how many millions in the bank. I’m an unknown, ex-television writer with a defunct Fiat Punto, a fat dog and an arsehole on my doorstep who I’m going to be forced to work with every fucking day between now and Christmas Eve and whose sole purpose in life seems to be to make my life hell! What could Daniel Smart possibly, possibly want from me?’

For a moment Gabe just stared at her. He’d never seen Laura lose her rag quite so comprehensively before. Her cheeks were flushed apple red, a combination of her high emotion and the biting cold, and her mass of dark curls had escaped their elastic band and fell to her shoulders in a gloriously tangled cascade. The overall effect was disturbingly sexy, but Gabe pushed the thought aside.

‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,’ he said coldly. Stalking off down the path, he heard the cottage door slam loudly behind him. Serve her right if it falls off its hinges in the night and she freezes to death. Stupid, stubborn woman.

* * *

Laura slumped down on the sofa, shaking like a leaf. There were too many emotions to process at once: disappointment, anger, frustration. And something else, underlying all of them, something that she didn’t want to admit to. A tiny, poisonous seed of doubt had found its way into her heart, planted by Gabe Baxter and his malicious insinuations.

Had Daniel told her the truth?

She could think of no particular reason why he should lie. And Gabe’s motivation was so obviously jealousy – he couldn’t stand the fact that Daniel was more successful than he was. Gabe Baxter might be a big fish in Fittlescombe. But in the real world he was a humble farmer, while Daniel was a bona fide theatrical star. Even so, once planted, the doubt was there. Laura resented Gabe for that with a passion that brought her close to tears. Everything seemed to bring her close to tears these days.

Sensing her mistress’s unhappiness, Peggy shuffled along the sofa and inserted her wrinkled, piglike face under Laura’s arm. Laura stroked her smooth fur gratefully. ‘Looks like it’ll just be you and me for Christmas, old girl.’ Was it weird to put up Christmas decorations that only you and your dog would see? ‘Perhaps we’ll do Christmas lunch at The Fox,’ Laura mused out loud. ‘That’s a bit less tragic than turkey for one, don’t you think?’

The phone made both Laura and Peggy jump. After the miscarriage and her months of deep depression, Laura’s London friends had all stopped calling. A ringing phone these days meant her mother, or Harry Hotham calling about the play, or just occasionally—

‘It’s Daniel.’

Just the sound of his voice was like a shot of pure happiness in the arm.

‘Look I’m about to go into this school thing. But I wanted to call and say I really miss you. I’m gutted about this weekend, I really am.’

‘Me too,’ said Laura, exhaling with relief. The seed that Gabe had planted was already beginning to wither.

‘And I was wondering – do say if you think this is too forward, or you’re not ready – but I thought maybe the two of us should spend Christmas together.’