Hens Reunited (24 page)

She went quickly past him before he could reply and darted through to the living room where she got down on all fours and began gathering raspberries as if fruit-picking in a field. They were soggy and battered now, staining the old carpet with scarlet juice. Bloody hell! She was so clumsy! Her wine had seeped into her rug too, so that would stink of alcohol now for the rest of its days and . . .

‘Everything all right?’

Oh, great. There was Dom in the room – and there
she
was, bottom in the air, trying to gather the last few runaway raspberries from under the sofa. She straightened up, accidentally putting her hand on a stray berry and squishing it, feeling mortified that he’d caught her in such a position. What would he think? Knowing his Casanova ways, he’d probably take it as some kind of come-on.

‘Fine,’ she said, forcing a smile and trying to ignore the pulped fruit between her fingers. She picked up her glass and the bag of carpet-hairy raspberries and bustled out to the kitchen. Sod worrying about becoming a lush. She definitely needed a top-up now. ‘Do have a seat,’ she called through, rinsing the scarlet juice from her hand and sloshing wine into her glass.
Can anything else go wrong?
she wondered, rolling her eyes and feeling flustered. Maybe she’d fall over when she went back into the living room and splash her drink in his face. Oh, and land in his lap or something equally embarrassing. Or maybe . . .

A sudden cool breeze whipped through the window and she glanced outside. And then, all at once, the rain started to pour – pattering down like silver needles, noisy and rushing, spattering the dusty patio slabs. A jagged scribble of light flashed in the sky and she found herself counting beats, waiting for the rumble of thunder.

One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .

There it went – a low, warning growl in the distance. She shivered with pleasure. She’d always liked thunderstorms – there was something so primitive and dramatic about them.

She returned to the living room and pushed open the small cottage windows to let in the fresh air. Water was already running down the panes, dripping from the wooden frame. ‘I love the smell of rain,’ she told Dom conversationally and then cursed herself for sounding like a flake. ‘I mean,’ she added, trying to explain, ‘I mean, I like the way the plants smell when they’ve been rained on. And the earth. You know.’

Worse and worse. She wanted to giggle suddenly at the stupid things that were coming out of her mouth. Dom would be out of the house in a flash, storm or no storm, if she kept up such a stream of inane wittering. ‘Anyway.’ She tried to pull herself together. Being giggly might be construed as flirtatious, and that would never do. ‘Anyway,’ she repeated feebly, not knowing what else to say.

He took up the cue, thankfully. ‘Anyway, yes,’ he said as she sat on the sofa, taking a demure sip of wine so as to shut herself up. ‘I came here to make peace. This village is a small place and . . .’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, frankly, Christ knows I’ve got enough enemies already here so . . . it would be a shame for us not to get on, seeing as we’re almost neighbours and are going to be bumping into each other everywhere.’

Alice stiffened at the mention of his enemies – was he referring to Natasha and Cathy? – and she was just trying to think of something suitably cool and dismissive when he added, rather disarmingly, ‘I love the smell of rain too.’

She narrowed her eyes. Was he teasing her?

‘It’s great, that freshness you get from the soil, I mean,’ he said. He waved his hands expressively when he spoke, she noticed. ‘So pure and earthy. They should bottle it – I’d wear it.’

Oh, of course. He was a farmhand or something, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he? God, Alice had drunk far too much for one day, her thoughts were starting to slur into one another.

He was looking at her oddly and she felt alarmed. Had she just said that out loud, the bit about him being a farmhand?

‘So . . .’ he said, his voice earnest and steady. ‘I know you were angry because you thought I’d been gossiping about you, but I swear I hadn’t. I’m not like that – in fact, that’s why I left the village in the first place, because I couldn’t stand everyone talking about everyone else’s business.’ He shook his head. ‘It still does my head in, to be honest, but you know, sometimes you have to put up with it, don’t you? Anyway. What do you think? Can we be friends?’

She felt slightly as if he’d taken the wind from her sails with this information. And there she’d been, wrongly accusing him of rumour-mongering about her, too, all but shrieking at him in the lane. Good one, Alice. How to win friends and influence people – not. Then her thoughts slid to Cathy. ‘Well,’ she said, stalling for an answer. How was she going to explain this to her? Sorry, Cath, but I’ve only gone and chummed up with your ex, you know, that git who left you holding the baby . . . She frowned. ‘The thing is, Dom, I’m friends with Cathy, so . . .’

‘Oh!’ His eyebrows shot up into that mop of hair. ‘Oh, I didn’t realize you’d met her.’

No, I bet you didn’t, she felt like retorting. She put her nose in the air, trying to carry off her best Narnia queen impression. She hadn’t been married to an actor for four and a half years without picking up a few tricks herself. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘She’s really nice. And so . . .’ This wasn’t easy. Was it a bit teenage of her to say no, she couldn’t be friends with him because he’d upset her new mate?

Well . . . possibly. Probably. But . . .

‘Yeah, she’s fab, isn’t she?’ he said warmly. ‘And Joe is such a cutie. Oh well, that’s good, then – you’re getting to know people round here.’

She eyed him suspiciously. Did the man have no guilt, no conscience? How could he sit there and say Joe was cute when he’d all but abandoned the little tot? The wine made her impulsive all of a sudden. ‘Don’t you think you should sort things out with her, then? Help her a bit more? It must be really tough for her being on her own.’

He seemed baffled at the remark. ‘Well – that’s why I came back to the village,’ he said slowly. He was staring at her in a defensive sort of way. ‘I know it’s hard for her and I’m helping out as much as I can but . . . well, you know . . .’

She waited for him to finish but he left the words hanging in the air. Then he scratched his head and said, ‘You’ve lost me, Alice. I’m not sure what you’re getting at. You’re looking all accusatory and I don’t know why.’

‘Look,’ Alice said. Sod it, she might as well just come out with it now. ‘I don’t want to upset Cathy – especially after what happened today with Natasha. It’s not like I’m taking sides but – oh well, all right, then. I
am
taking sides. Us single mums have to show a bit of solidarity. And I don’t know what happened between you two but until you’ve sorted it out . . .’

‘What happened between me and Natasha?’ He still looked somewhat bewildered.

‘No! Between you and Cathy!’ Did she have to spell it out to him?

He stared at her, a small frown creasing his forehead. And then his expression changed, like a light being switched on, and he smiled. ‘Nothing’s happened between me and Cathy,’ he said slowly. ‘Apart from that time she grassed me up to our mum about scrumping apples from Mr Daley’s orchards and I pushed her in the river. But somehow I doubt that’s what you’re referring to?’

Now it was Alice’s turn to stare.
Our mum?
Did that mean . . . ? ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Did you just say . . . ?’

He nodded. ‘Cathy’s my sister,’ he said. ‘You thought I was her traitorous ex, didn’t you?’ He laughed, his eyes twinkling. ‘You thought I was Joe’s dad.’

‘Well, he does look like you!’ Alice burst out, her cheeks flaming. Oh help. What had she done? What an idiot! She put her head in her hands. ‘So you’re his uncle . . . oh God! Sorry. I just thought . . .’ She shook her head. Why was she so stupid? She could hardly look at him. ‘Well, now I feel a
complete
pillock. I’m so embarrassed. Aaarrrgh.’

‘Oh, don’t be,’ Dom said, grinning. ‘I think it’s funny.’

She bit her lip. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve got that straight, anyway,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘And I’m sorry I got it all wrong.’ She managed to look him in the eye again. ‘Does the offer of being friends still stand, or are you about to make a run for it, now you’ve found out what a nutter I am?’

He laughed and pretended to consider the question. ‘Let’s drink to friendship,’ he said after a few moments.

‘I’ll second that,’ she agreed. She got up to clink glasses with him and he caught her eye as she did so. Not just caught it – held it, his gaze locking hers. Something about the way he was looking at her so meaningfully made her catch her breath. The atmosphere seemed to change; tension thickened between them.

‘Cheers,’ she said, feeling flustered.

‘Cheers,’ he echoed, smiling. He touched his glass gently to hers and the chinking sound seemed to break the spell.

She stepped back as if released from an enchantment. Lightning flashed again, and thunder boomed a split second later. Rain was pouring down now and wind swirled in the chimney breast.

‘I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while,’ she said, glancing outside to where large marshy puddles were forming in the grass. The words sounded like a bad line from a film and she blushed again.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well . . . if that’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for any more gossip in the pub . . .’

She wrinkled her nose at his words. A strange tingly sensation had been stirred up inside her and she felt reckless all of a sudden. ‘Who cares about the pub?’ she said. ‘More wine?’

Chapter Thirteen

Promises

Still Tuesday, 17 June 2008

Katie was not having a good day. Alfie Stewart, one of her problem Year 10s, had been lippy and aggressive throughout the entire double lesson that morning. Usually she had him on a very tight rein, not letting him get away with a single word out of line. Usually she was more than a match for his oafish comments and rudeness, and could put him in his place with well-practised ease.

But today he seemed to sense she was struggling. Today he’d got right under her skin, drawling too-loud comments about her hair, her outfit, even the way her arse jiggled slightly as she was writing up a series of equations on the board. And today, she just didn’t have the wherewithal to stop him in his tracks with the curtness he deserved. She’d snapped at him for his remarks but her face had reddened at the class’s giggles – and from that moment on, she was undone. He had the upper hand and she, for once, was on the losing side. God, she felt like wringing his fat, unwashed neck. The bell for break-time could not peal fast enough and she let out her breath in a gust of relief when it finally did.

At lunchtime she tried to make notes for the parents’ evening later that day in the staffroom, but her thoughts kept returning to Steve, and the empty house. She hadn’t been able to help a tiny spark of hope when she went back that morning to pick up her school things. She’d opened the door and called his name, only to hear it echo through the stillness. Nobody home.

For all the bravado she’d felt last night as she and Laura made their way through cocktail after cocktail, now she just felt hollow. She tried Steve’s mobile for the millionth time, but it went straight to voicemail, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave a message. She felt great remorse for the way she’d behaved with Laura too – like a pair of silly schoolgirls, encouraging those blokes who were only in it for a leg-over. What if Steve had seen her? She could imagine the hurt and disappointment shining from his eyes, the disapproval at her giggling and flirting with Gary and Barry, or whatever their names were.

‘This is what you call a bad day,’ she muttered to herself as the lunch bell rang, signalling a return to the classrooms. ‘Nine hours to go, then I’ll be in bed, and it’ll all be over.’

Annie French, one of the PE teachers, overheard and gave her a wink. ‘One of those, eh?’ she said, patting her on the back. ‘Think yourself lucky. I’ve got the Year 8s for athletics all afternoon. Let’s hope one of them manages to impale themselves on a javelin.’

That afternoon, it was Katie’s final lesson with her Year 11s before they were due to take their Maths GCSE the following week. She wanted to cover the bases one last time, instil in them all the knowledge and problem-solving skills they’d need for the exam, and fire them up with abundant confidence. She was evangelical about education being the one big salvation for all kids, especially those who, like her, hadn’t had parental support. But were they interested? Were they heck. Unfortunately, the summer heat was glaring through the windows over their greasy teenage heads, sending them into a sluggish, somnolent state. As the lesson ended, Katie wished them the best of luck in the exam but couldn’t help a queasiness on their collective behalf. Even her brightest pupils had stalled on some of the revision questions – subjects she’d hoped they would know off pat by now.

Let’s hope it’s raining on exam day
, she said to herself as they jostled out, a few of them remembering to say goodbye Miss and thank her.
Otherwise we’ll all be roasted.

Sometimes she wondered why she bothered. She’d had those kids for five years – had seen them enter the school as nervous Year 7s, wide-eyed and relatively attitude-free, and watched them erupt into hormonal, leggy youths, taller than her, some of them. All those homework books she’d marked, all those lessons she’d planned for them. She’d done her best, but was it enough? ‘Over to you, guys,’ she’d said helplessly at the end of the lesson. ‘Try your hardest in the exam, and make me proud, yeah?’

She sighed again, as the classroom door swung shut after the last student. ‘Don’t let me down,’ she said into the warm, chalky air.

Now then. One hour to go before the first parents were due to arrive. She had to do some serious cramming if she was to get through this evening without too many cock-ups.

Four thirty. Show-time! The school hall looked like a rehearsal for next week’s GCSEs, set out as it was with rows and rows of small tables, a teacher at each one, with two empty parent seats before them. Katie looked to her left where her friend Liz, head of art, sat fiddling with a paper clip, a resigned look on her face. ‘Who’ve you got first, then?’ Katie asked in a stage whisper, conscious that the initial consultations were due any moment.