‘You bastard.’
He bowed in acknowledgement as though I had paid him a compliment.
When Tim returned Sarah was with him. The car crunched to a halt on the gravel outside the villa as I was descending the stairs from my room in search of a cup of coffee. I had had no lunch and my head was aching violently. I stopped dead as the ornate doors swung open and they appeared on the threshold. Sarah was laughing as the soft jacket thrown across her shoulders caught on the elaborate arrangement of flowers in the hall and a spray of stephanotis fell to the floor. Tim looked at me intently for a moment. The anger which had shadowed his face as he caught sight of me was replaced by concern. ‘Sweetheart, are you all right?’
I glanced at the dining room door which stood open. Beyond it Simon was still in his study. ‘Come to the cottage,’ I whispered. ‘I must see you alone.’
Sarah was watching me. I saw a slight sneer flicker across her lips. ‘Go on, Tim. I shall speak to Simon. I know exactly what this is all about. He tried it once with me.’ She kissed her fingertips and laid them quickly on his lips. Then she went through the door and closed it behind her.
In the cool of the cottage Tim held me for a long time before he would let me speak. Then slowly he pushed me away, holding me at arm’s length. ‘I was only sketching her, you know. It never crossed my mind she was trying to make Davina jealous.’
His eyes held mine steadily and I knew that I believed him.
‘And Davina? Did she have any reason to be jealous?’ I asked softly.
‘What do you think?’ He was holding me tightly again and his lips on mine were urgent and demanding. It was a long time before I remembered my excuse for bringing him back to the villa.
‘He said if I told anyone he’d see you never got another commission, Tim,’ I whispered when I had finished telling him what had happened.
Tim laughed softly and the sound sent a shiver up my spine. ‘I think I’m prepared to risk that,’ he said.
Half an hour later I was packing when the door of our room burst open. It was Simon and his face was puce. ‘Get up,’ he said roughly and he bent to pull me from the bed where I was sitting. ‘You silly bitch. You thought I didn’t mean it? You thought you could double cross me, is that it?’ He yelled at me. I heard a door open in the distance and I guessed it was Davina’s.
‘What do you mean?’ I pulled away from him angrily. ‘Take your filthy hands off me!’
‘Simon, let her go!’ It was Davina in the doorway. Her voice had risen to a scream.
‘You told Sarah. She’s just confronted me with my plans downstairs. She thinks I’m going to cut her in.’ He gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘I told her to go and screw herself.’
I wrenched my hand free. ‘You’re mad. I haven’t told Sarah anything. I haven’t spoken to her. She must have guessed.’
‘I don’t care how she knew,’ his face was ugly. ‘But there’s nothing she can do. No one can, because it’s too late and my plans are always foolproof.’ He turned to look at his wife, then swung back to me. ‘If you want to stop your sister going to jail you are going to do as I say for the next few hours. That is all I ask.’
Davina and I stared at each other. Her face was white and pleading.
I subsided onto the bed. ‘What do you want me to do?’
He lifted my bag off the side table and wrenched it open to look inside. Then he threw it in my lap. ‘Get downstairs and wait for me in the car,’ he said.
In the hall the spray of fragrant white flowers still lay on the Bokhara rug where Sarah’s jacket had flicked it. I bent and picked it up then I went out and climbed into the blue Alfa Romeo which stood outside.
He took the hairpin bends of the mountain road with screaming tyres as we swooped down towards Florence. The glare off the white road reflected through the windscreen and I closed my eyes.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked wearily.
‘England.’ He did not look at me.
My eyes had flown open. ‘England!’
He chuckled suddenly. ‘I told Davina that if anyone wanted to see you alive again they had better keep very quiet about what they know.’ He glanced up at the driving mirror and smiled at himself. ‘You could say, cognata mia, that I am using you as a kind of hostage.’
A wave of nausea swept over me and I felt myself clinging to the sides of the seat. The palms of my hands were clammy with fear.
‘You’re going to kill me?’ I whispered in disbelief.
‘Of course not. I don’t want a murder charge hanging over me, Celia. I’m not that much of a fool. But they don’t know that do they!’ He laughed out loud. ‘And I know you will behave because of what will happen to your sister – and your beloved husband – if you don’t. You are merely an insurance policy, my dear. I have a plane waiting at San Giusto and like any good tourist you carry your passport in your handbag. So we should have no more problems.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re kidnapping me!’
‘You are hardly a kid,’ the scorn in his voice flicked at me and I flinched. He was right. I was no kid, and I understood perfectly that I had no choice but to do everything he said.
The Learjet was waiting on the tarmac near the terminal buildings, a beautiful glittering bird, poised for take off. Within twenty minutes we were cleared and in the sky.
I remember little of that flight. Europe lay beneath a haze of thin cloud which flattened the countries below into a tableau of white. I did not know when we crossed the Alps; I did not know when we crossed the Channel, but suddenly we were losing altitude and Simon himself took the controls from his pilot as we began to circle southern England. Gatwick was wet and glistening beneath a summer shower and very crowded, but Simon took my arm and guided me through the formalities with the minimum of fuss. Then we were in the chauffeur-driven maroon BMW swooping down the lush green lanes of Sussex.
Two cars were parked outside his Queen Anne mansion, an XJ6 and a sleek Rolls and he chuckled when he saw them. ‘You see, I don’t even have to go to London. They are here to meet me. You will excuse me, Celia, for half an hour or so, I know,’ he said as he handed me out into the soft mist of the rain. This business won’t take long.’ He showed me into a pretty drawing room, furnished in pale greens and greys – Davina’s favourite colours. ‘Sit down. Help yourself to a drink,’ and he was gone. This time I poured myself half a tumbler of Scotch.
There was nothing I could do. Outside the window the rain lent the countryside the smell of sweet grass and bruised velvet roses; somewhere a blackbird was singing undaunted. The house itself was very quiet.
Later I heard the cars leave. I did not move. I was too weary. When Simon appeared he was smiling. ‘Celia. What about some food? Forbes has left steaks and champagne in the fridge.’
I followed him into the gleaming kitchen.
‘How long do you intend keeping me here?’ I asked. The house was quite empty, I discovered; his staff lived in cottages on the estate.
‘Not long. You’ll find a spare room that’s comfortable – and I assure you I shan’t bother you.’ He eased the cork expertly out of the bottle and caught the bubbles. ‘I find sex greatly overrated as a field sport.’ He handed me a glass. ‘Unlike so many of your contemporaries.’
I ate the steak and sipped a little of the champagne and then excused myself. Climbing the stairs slowly to the pretty chintzy bedroom which had been allotted to me, I kicked off my sandals and fell, fully dressed, onto the bed. It was barely half past nine.
Below me in his study Simon sat alone in the dusk with his telephones and his Telex and a new bottle of Scotch.
I was awakened by the sound of shouting. Somewhere a door banged and there was a rush of feet. I sat up disorientated for a moment, then I ran to the door and looked out. It was pitch dark in the body of the house but I could hear the sound of shouting, muffled now, from downstairs and barefoot I ran down towards Simon’s study.
Tim and Nigel were in the study with Simon and a
ll three men were shouting.
‘Tim? Oh Tim!’ I ran to him and fell into his arms.
‘Are you all right, Celia? Don’t worry, the police are on their way.’ I heard him reassuring me as his hug closed over me.
Nigel was grinning. ‘I bought some air tickets when I went down to Florence yesterday,’ he said good humouredly. ‘I was hoping I could talk you into eloping with me, Celia. But I found myself eloping with this reprobate instead!’ He punched Tim on the arm and both men laughed.
I stared from one to the other bewildered. ‘Davina told you where I’d gone?’
‘She told us everything,’ said Tim grimly, ‘including Simon’s nasty little threat and Nigel here persuaded Jocelyn to fill in the rest. There was quite a show-down after you left.’
Simon broke in. ‘You’re too late, Armitage. If you’ve called the police it’s too late to stop the deal. And it is Davina who will suffer if anyone does. And you. I’ll break you for this. Ask your wife. I’ll see you never sell so much as a flying duck to go on somebody’s wall!’
Nigel turned to him slowly. ‘Shut up, Simon, old boy,’ he said tolerantly. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ll see to it that Tim does all right. I do have a certain influence, you know. If you remember, that is the reason why you bother to know me at all.’ His tone dropped in heavy sarcasm. Then he turned back to us. ‘Now you two, I want you to get going. Take yourselves off to a motel or somewhere for the rest of the night. Borrow his car, he won’t mind, and Uncle Nigel will take care of things here.’
Only when we had been driving for about half an hour did Tim tell me what had really happened. Jocelyn had convinced them that there was nothing they could do about Simon’s activities. Davina was implicated too far and Simon too clever, so they had not called the police. Simon’s only punishment would be a few hours’ sweating until he realized that he had got away with it. Men like Simon always win.
‘Davina’s leaving him and I’ve told her she can come to us, Celia, do you mind?’ Tim’s hand groped for mine on the seat beside me. There was a long pause as we both peered through the windscreen wipers at the road ahead. I could feel the tears pricking at my eyes. ‘I didn’t sleep with her you know,’ he said at last. ‘You do believe that, don’t you? It’s you I love, and always will.’
I believed him.
The motel we found was small and shabby and the most beautiful place on earth. We were soaked from running from the BMW into the chalet and we had no luggage save my handbag with my passport, and we were both deliriously happy.
Trade Reunions
Jackie looked at her watch and then at the phone. Another half hour and Sue would be home from the cinema to relieve her, unless Bob and Phil were back by then. She glanced at the message pad. Two addresses so far this evening. Not bad, considering how hard it was raining!
The twenty-four-hour plumbing service had been her brother Phil’s idea when she had joined the firm. The only rule was that she didn’t go out on night jobs alone, which was fair enough by her. Instead she took it in turns to mind the phone with Sue.
She drained the dregs of her coffee and looked regretfully at the paperback on the table, finished twenty minutes before. If only it had lasted the evening because there was nothing worth watching on the box and if she made any more coffee she would begin to look like a Beautifully Blended Bean …
She took the phone call with her usual slight sinking feeling. Nightcallers were always dodgy: on the defensive for ringing late; or desperate; sometimes hysterical; sometimes downright abusive as if it were her fault; almost never what you would call routine. She picked up her pencil and waited.
And for the first time in her short career as a plumber it happened. The customer the other end of the line was someone she knew. She kept her voice carefully impersonal as she repeated his name and address.
‘Someone will be there within half an hour, Mr Peters,’ she said reassuringly.
She was smiling as she hung up and tore the page off the pad, folding it into her jeans pocket and when Sue appeared she was ready to leave.
‘Only the two calls tonight, Sue,’ she said happily. ‘And the boys should be back soon, so I’ll be on my way. I’m exhausted.’ And she was out of the house and into her mini van before Sue could delay her another minute.
Stamford Avenue was much as she remembered it, quiet, respectable, really rather pleasant houses, not all that far from the school where John Peters and she had been sixth formers together. Number 35 was different though. Shabbier, not quite so imposing – or had it seemed so marvellous then because she had always seen it through rose-coloured spectacles?
Stupid, to feel her heart thumping again after all this time, just at the sight of his house. It wasn’t after all as if she had even given him a thought in ages.
She pushed the gate and heard it squeak slightly on its hinges. Then she rang the door bell.
He was obviously waiting for the ring for the door opened almost at once. ‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘come in quick!’ Then his mouth dropped open. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was expecting the plumber …’
She was used to it. Her bag of tools and the flat tweed cap she wore over her long chestnut hair usually convinced people in the end though. She walked on. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m the plumber. Now, where did it happen?’
She kept her face straight with difficulty. He was wearing jeans rolled up to the knees and his feet were bare – and obviously wet. He looked distraught.
‘Upstairs in the bedroom. I was nailing down the carpet and one went through this pipe under the board.’
‘Have you turned off the water?’
He had not recognized her yet. And why should he? After all it was what, five years, and the light in the hall wasn’t too good. She realized suddenly that there was no furniture. Just a ladder and some paint cans.
He was staring at her, but not with recognition or adoration. Just plain horror. ‘I didn’t think,’ he said. ‘I was trying to seal it off with towels …’
They found the main stop cock reasonably fast – not fast enough, she noticed sadly, to prevent a nasty brown stain appearing on the immaculately decorated ceiling of one of the rooms, but if a man didn’t know where his own stop cock was then really she could not wonder if his house came to rack and ruin.
She followed him up the stairs.
The bedroom was a shambles. He had at least rolled the carpet back and torn up the boards. But the cavity beneath was full of soggy towels. Shaking her head she began to pull them out and pile them in a dirty revolting heap beside her on the floor.
‘Nice new installation,’ she commented critically. ‘Been doing the house up I see.’ She opened her bag and brought out the blow lamp and some spare lengths of copper pipe. Then she glanced up at him under her cap. Some stray wisps of hair had escaped and hung around her ears. He was staring at her.
‘Jackie?’ he said at last. ‘I don’t believe it!’
She grinned. ‘You’d better. For the first time in your life you need me, John Peters.’
‘But you went to university. You were going to teach …’
She made a face. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you that teaching jobs are hard to find?’ she said, rummaging in her bag. ‘You’ll probably find lots of plumbers with English degrees these days. I did an apprenticeship and went into partnership with my brother.’ She laid out her tools in a neat line. ‘Do you live here with your parents?’ she went on.
He seated himself on the end of the bed, still staring at her. ‘No. They’ve retired down to Bournemouth. I’m buying the house off them. I teach at the old school now …’ He looked down, suddenly abashed. ‘Pure luck I got the job I expect …’
He had asked her out for the first time in the spring term of that last year at school. There’s an exhibition I’d like to see at the Hayward Gallery. I thought we might go up by train and have a meal afterwards,’ he had said. He was quite the best looking boy in the school then;
tall, broad-shouldered, with a shock of fair hair and was considered by the girls of the top forms the supreme catch of the season.
Jackie was stunned by the invitation. Quiet and shy by nature she would never have dared so much as hope. She did not realize then the impact her coppery hair and green eyes could have on the opposite sex. Her eyes were nearly always fixed on her thumbed copies of Keats and Chaucer, so to raise them and find the smiling figure of John Peters standing before her was a considerable shock.
The day in London was a success. She had adored the exhibition and forgetting her shyness had blossomed under his attention. By the time they were ordering the horsd’oeuvres she was madly in love.
Her work suffered of course, but not a lot. Being in love can help with the art of unravelling Keats or the sonnets of Shakespeare. Only John didn’t see it that way. She was fun and a good doubles partner at tennis. That much he did not dispute. She was the right person to take to the cricket club dance at the end of term and fitted well with his old red MG but she did not particularly inspire his work; he was studying pure maths and physics.
He never asked her to his home. She knew where it was because once or twice she had quite by chance, of course, walked the dog down Stamford Avenue. That was how she knew the immaculate front garden with the row of standard roses and the shiny blue front gate.
To celebrate the end of A levels they had gone together on a picnic in the MG. He had prepared the food, in a real hamper; chicken, salad, wine, and they had stopped by the edge of the river and spread their rug on the bank. The water was cool and gentle against her toes.
‘Where will you go if you don’t get into Cambridge?’ she asked him, lying back lazily, her arm across her eyes to keep out the sunlight.
‘Cambridge,’ he replied.
‘You’re pretty confident,’ she retorted. Her own first choice was Bristol, a million miles away from Cambridge.
‘There’s always the vacations,’ he said softly, for the first time since she had known him, reading her mind.