Bad Friends (30 page)

But, right or wrong, I hardly slept that night. For the first time since I’d been coming to Pendarlin alone, I felt nervous in the cottage. I could hardly bear to admit this new fear to myself, so I didn’t. After my showdown with Charlie I rattled round the kitchen noisily, baking a cake. I didn’t need to weigh the flour or sugar because I knew it all instinctively – only this time something went wrong and I burnt the top. Sadly I chucked the charred sponge away and went to bed with a cup of camomile tea, leaving the radio on quietly beside me, flicking through Nigel Slater’s new book until eventually I drifted off with the light on. But I never fell into that sleep so deep you wake refreshed. Instead I skated on the surface of a host of nightmares that kept me waking in the shadows, wishing fervently it was dawn.

The phone rang in the kitchen as I was boiling the kettle the next morning, and I failed to stifle my yawn as I answered.

‘Malvolio’s broken his bloody leg. He got a bit carried away in the yellow stocking scene and forgot the stage is only about six-foot bloody long. I think he thought it was the National, not a two-bit pub platform.’

I couldn’t help laughing at the image.

‘It’s not funny, babe.’ Seb’s tone was plaintive. ‘He hasn’t walked since, and we’ve got to cancel the first night. We’re going to have to cancel the whole bloody run if Jonah can’t learn his lines over
the weekend. The good news is, I can come down and look after you.’

Was it good news? Pouring the steaming water onto the teabag, I watched it turn a murky brown. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’ The teabag sank.

‘I’ll get the train, I think. It’ll be quicker. Can you collect me from –’

‘Seb,’ I interrupted softly, ‘I don’t want to be rude. I’d love to see you, I really would. It’s just –’ I watched a spider outside the window wrapping a ladybird in a silken shroud.

‘What?’

I said it very fast before I changed my mind. ‘I think I need to be on my own this weekend.’

There was a long pause. ‘Seb?’ I said eventually, and I was on the verge of pretending I had been joking.

‘Yeah, sorry, Maggie. I’m still here.’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to see you,’ I said quickly, and that was true, it was very tempting, especially after my haunted sleep. But I was running away from the truth, I knew that now. Running from the terrible void that splitting with Alex had caused in me; the emptiness I hadn’t really dealt with yet.

‘I’d love to. It’s just – I’ve been in a really bad place, and I need to sort it out before I rush into anything. Do you understand?’ I asked hopefully. Why should he, after all.

‘Yes, Maggie, I do actually. I do understand. You’ve been so on edge, I’m not surprised.’

I felt a rush of relief. ‘Oh God, Seb, I’m so glad. It’s just – it wouldn’t be fair to get you all the way down here when I feel like this. I need to clear my head first.’

‘It’s fine, honestly.’

‘Really?’

‘Listen, babe, relax. I’ll still be here when you get back.’

He was such a nice man. I needed a nice man, but I needed him in about a year’s time. I sat heavily on a kitchen chair. ‘Thank
you, Seb. You’re lovely, really. I’m just a bit of a headcase right now. I’ll cook you dinner when I’m back in London, next week. Is that okay?’

‘Course it is,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ll look forward to it. And Maggie –’ He paused.

‘Yes?’

‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’

There was one thing left to do before I could lay all the spectres to rest, but I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it. I cleaned the cottage windows vigorously with vinegar and newspaper like Gar used to, prevaricating until eventually I summoned the courage to ring DI Fox. His colleague at the station told me Fox was out of town on ‘business’, and that Alex had been cautioned but was no longer in custody. I took a deep breath and rang Alex: he didn’t answer. I left him a short message saying I’d like to speak to him and then I bundled Digby into the back of the car and drove to Port Isaac to buy some fish for supper.

It was a glorious winter’s day, the kind that makes your cheeks go cold but your heart feel glad, and Digby and I tramped round the headland to Port Gaverne, over the green-black rocks that looked deceptively soft, like fuzzy-felt. In the pub by the tiny beach I had a crab sandwich and half a cider, sitting in the window in the showy December sun that gave out no heat. The sea was so still and blue I might have draped it round me like a length of silk.

Feeling almost revived, we tramped back again to pick up my turbot from Dennis Knight’s fish shop on the quay, and Digby got very excited at the lobsters waving their mournful tentacles at him through the glass and barked until I grabbed him by the collar and drove us home.

I was startled to see a patrol car outside Pendarlin. A smiling policewoman got out of the driver’s side and said she’d just left me a note to call her: was this the phone I’d reported lost? And she had my mobile phone in her hand, a little muddy but none
the worse for wear. She popped it into my hand and I thanked her very much. And then she got back in her car and slid her window down as I was retrieving the fish from the back seat.

‘Take care, my love, won’t you?’ She started the ignition. ‘Nice flowers, by the way,’ she said, pulling off.

And I looked at the front of the house where she’d jerked her thumb, and there, on the doorstep, was a bunch of flowers. A bunch of my worst nightmare: lilies.

As I staggered through into the kitchen with my bags of shopping the phone rang again.

‘You wanted to talk?’ His voice was so quiet I could hardly hear him.

‘Alex.’ My mind went blank. ‘Where are you?’

‘In Bristol. Looking at the old theatre. They want a refurb and –’

‘Why did you do it?’ I gathered my thoughts. ‘You swore it wasn’t –’

‘It
wasn’t
me, Maggie,’ Alex said vehemently. ‘I don’t care what you say, or what that Fox bloke says, I haven’t been stalking you, I swear.’

‘Did you just send me more flowers?’ I demanded. ‘Down here, today? Horrible lilies that you know I hate.’

‘Never, Maggie. I’ve never sent you lilies. I did –’ He cleared his throat. ‘I did send you some flowers at your dad’s the other day.’

‘Really?’ I could hardly believe that. ‘So why did you have that mobile then? If it wasn’t you, why did you have the phone that I got those bloody texts from?’

‘I found it,’ he muttered.

‘You must know how utterly lame that sounds.’ I was scathing.

I almost felt his shrug down the phone. ‘Maybe it does, but it’s true. It wasn’t me, you have to believe me. Someone must have planted it.’

‘What do you mean, planted? This isn’t
Starsky and Hutch
,
you know, Alex. It’s real life.’ Though I wasn’t sure about that either.

‘It was in that box of stuff I picked up from the flat, Maggie, I swear. Fully charged and working. I thought it was yours. I mean, for all I know –’ He paused.

‘What?’

‘
You
put it there.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘Are you? If it wasn’t you, Mag, then someone means you no good.’

‘Well, I know that much, thanks, Alex. Of course it wasn’t bloody me.’

‘I thought you might –’

‘What?’

‘Be trying to, you know, punish me. Set me up.’

‘Why would I do that?’ To my dismay I found I was crying, silent tears slipping down my face, emotions buzzing round my head like angry hornets. I breathed a long, juddery sigh.

‘Why would I set you up? I love you, Alex.’

‘Loved.’

‘Love, loved, whatever. I’m not going to set you up. I’m more worried about what
you’re
trying to do to me.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Maggie,’ he howled, ‘I can’t come anywhere near you anyway. They’re talking about restraining orders now.’

There was a long silence broken only by Digby worrying at the lamb bone I’d chucked him earlier. ‘Alex,’ I whispered eventually, ‘I’m frightened. I don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Well, go home then,’ he said roughly. ‘Or are you with that bloke? He’ll look after you, won’t he?’

‘No.’ I stared out of the window at the darkening afternoon. Digby’s ears suddenly pricked up; he growled at a ghost. ‘Ssh, silly. No, I’m on my own.’

‘That’s a bit stupid, isn’t it?’

‘I just need some headspace. Headspace for a headcase.’ I was glad to hear Alex insisting it wasn’t him; but I was confused and scared, desperate to know who was after me – and underlying it all there was a terrible yearning sadness. Then I had a thought that hurled me out of my nostalgia.

‘Talking of headcases, how come you were wining and dining Fay the other day?’

He snorted. ‘Wining and dining? Hardly. I had a coffee with her. She said she had something to tell me.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. She banged on about being famous and friendship, what a good friend you’ve been to her, and then halfway through her cappuccino her phone rang and she had to go. And that was that.’

I bit my lip. ‘Did you fancy her?’

‘You do sound a bit mad, actually, Mag. You want to –’

I jumped as someone tapped on the back door. ‘God, who’s that?’ I couldn’t see anyone through the frosted glass.

‘Who
is
that?’ Alex sounded worried.

‘I don’t know. Val, maybe. I’d better go. I’ll –’
I’ll what? Run
screaming back into your arms?
‘I’ll talk to you sometime.’

‘Mag –’

This time I was sure the knock was at the front door. There was nothing left to say anyway, so I put the phone down and strode up the hall, plucking the door back to find no one there. Naked wisteria twigs tapped the glass like fossilised antennae; a breeze shivered through the trees and the few tenacious leaves left trembled gently. Digby shot out between my feet but I called him back uneasily, locking the doors before drawing every set of curtains in the cottage. I struggled with the broken blind in the kitchen for a bit, peering out into the gloom, wishing now that I’d had it fixed when I’d meant to. Tomorrow I’d go back to Greenwich, safely home to my father.

I tried to ring Bel, but God alone knew what time it was in Australia and she didn’t answer. I had a long bath and then lit the fire, and made some potato puree to go with the turbot, though I really wasn’t hungry. I took the plate into the sitting room and pushed the food around in front of a rerun of
Parkinson
until he introduced a simpering Renee to join the indomitable Billy Connolly. I pulled a face and put some Bach on instead, opening the bottle of wine I’d been trying to resist. I lay on the sofa nursing my glass, pondering my strange new life, until the final movement jogged to a close.

As I went to change the CD the muslin cloth caught on the belt of my jeans and slithered down from the piano. I untangled myself, and then, on a whim, I pulled the whole thing off, the swirling dust cloud making me cough. I ran a finger across the polished oak of the lid and then tentatively I opened it and, still standing there, played a note, and then one more. The wisteria tapped against the windowpane again as, slowly, very slowly, I sat down on the stool, and my fingers were cold and stiff but I slid up a scale and down again, and then I started to play. Instinctively I played Debussy’s
Clair de Lune
, and at first I was rusty, hitting the wrong notes as my fingers slowly unfurled after all these years, like they’d been clamped in tight cat claws – but after a while I began to feel like I’d never stopped.

The lights went off. My right hand shot out inadvertently in shock and hit the high keys as my gasp reverberated round the room – a gasp that sounded like the sea being sucked over shingle. And then it was silent and utterly dark as the piano notes died slowly.

I jumped up and rushed to the light-switch, kicking the wine bottle over and standing on Digby’s paw in the process so that he yelped piteously. The switch clicked back and forth ineffectually and I was trying to think, to think calmly about where the bloody fusebox was, when the lights flickered and came back on. I laughed shakily.

‘I think I’m losing it,’ I informed Digby weakly, but he just stared up at me with reproving eyes, before licking his sore paw sorrowfully. I thought for a second and then I rushed down the hall to the kitchen, grabbing the phone to see if Val had had a power-cut – I’d ask if I could go over there anyway. There was no dial tone. I shook the receiver a few times in growing disbelief – but there was no sign of life at all. The phone line was dead.

Frantically I looked around for my mobile: I’d plugged it in to charge, only I couldn’t for the life of me remember where, and then all the lights flickered, flickered and went out again. It was entirely dark now. A sob of terror pushed its way out of me a bit like in that crashing coach. I called Digby in a hoarse kind of whisper because I was suddenly quite sure we weren’t alone; and then I thought I heard a car door slam. It was probably over by the pub: I should go there too, I needed to get to people. Groping along the worktop, finally I found the drawer where the torch should be and actually there it was, the torch. My fingers were so clammy they kept sliding off the switch, but eventually I slid it on and for once it was working, thank God. And then there was a noise outside and I peered out of the kitchen window – and my heart stood still as if it might never beat again.

Silhouetted in the silvery moonlight but shrouded by the bowing trees, a tall figure was walking across the drive. Then the moon slid behind a cloud again and the shape was lost.

I dove back into the kitchen’s darkness, although the man had been walking away from me. I waited for a second until I could breathe a little more calmly. Flicking the feeble beam around the room, I finally spied my mobile on the breadbin. Snatching it from its socket, I grabbed my car-keys from the hook.

I opened the back door cautiously but by now there were only shadows dancing under the moon, which was full and squat over the far hill. Inching towards my car, Digby suddenly hurtled
between my feet and disappeared across the lawn, barking ecstatically at the stars.