It's Raining Men (33 page)

‘I wanted to be. I thought it was just teething problems – you know, two single people learning to live together and having to adjust their boundaries and things.’ Except James
didn’t adjust anything in her favour; with a little perspective and distance she could see how little he had actually done to help her. ‘That’s why I didn’t say anything. I
thought everything would turn out okay in the end. Then when I found him in bed with—’ She shook her head in disgust.

‘Do you know the woman?’ asked May.

‘She’s called Tianne Lee. She’s some sort of new hot-shot lawyer.’

Clare thought for a moment. ‘Tianne Lee as in Tina Anne Lee?’

Lara snapped her head up. ‘That’s her. Don’t tell me you know her.’

‘Oh, I know her all right. And no, she is not a hot-shot lawyer,’ said Clare with conviction. ‘My department have had nightmare dealings with the firm she works for –
Spinner and Proctor. Tianne Lee: long curly hair, chipmunk cheeks, fat legs, wonky eye.’

‘She sounds lovely, Lars,’ said May. ‘No wonder you’re upset.’

‘You actually know her?’ Lara asked.

‘Yes, I know exactly who she is and, trust me, she isn’t half as smart as she thinks she is. Bart Forbes-Philips – one of the barristers we use – ate her alive in court
last month. She might very well swish her girly hair about and waggle her bum when she walks but her reputation is all smoke and mirrors. Or piss and wind, as my dad used to say.’

Lara chuckled. ‘You’re just saying that to make me feel better.’ Then she huffed at herself. ‘God, what a baby I am, revelling in the fact that you think my nemesis has
fat legs, chipmunk cheeks, a wonky eye and is rubbish at her job.’

‘I’m relishing it as well,’ said May, ‘and I don’t even know her. God, I love a good bitch.’

‘Oh, I could bitch well into the early hours about her. She’s a horrible thing.’ Clare shuddered. ‘And I know at least two married men that she’s been bonking. From
what you’ve said in the past about Miriam being self-absorbed, I’d say they were from a very similar mould. Except that Miriam is very good at her job and Tianne just thinks she is.
I’d also say that if he’s done that to you, darling, they’re very welcome to each other. What a pair of bastards. Tianne, you see, doesn’t let anyone get too close to her in
case they find out that she’s got no substance to her. She keeps men on the edge – prick-teasing, flirting, charming them, only ever showing them her good side, playing them off against
each other – power games. And you know men, they want what they can’t have. She’s hardly relationship material.’

‘James’s kids loved her.’

‘I bet you anything that if Tianne moved in they’d be regaling her with tales of how crap her chicken nuggets were next to yours. And as far as the boss thing goes, you don’t
have to put up with any of that groping nonsense.’

‘It’s not just his wandering hands. He treats me like I’m an inferior species. And it isn’t just me; he’s like that with all the women in the department.’
Lara sighed. ‘And however far we think we’ve come in the workplace, my days would be numbered if I complained.’

May nodded. It was all true. There were ways and means of getting rid of people who kicked up inconvenient fusses. Tribunals were less about justice than about which barrister was more
persuasive.

‘I can’t believe you kept all this to yourself without saying a word,’ said May.

‘We don’t have time to talk, do we?’ said Lara. ‘We work and then go home and say, “Oh, I must ring blah-blah and catch up,” but we’re too tired or
we’ve got even more work to do or men to pander to.’

‘Well, that’s going to change.’ May raised her hand and slapped the sofa firmly, then she laughed at herself. Here she was telling off Lara when she was an even worse culprit.
So it was time to come clean.
Here goes.
‘Oh, and whilst we’re having a soul-purge, I’m not with Michael any more. And I wasn’t brave enough to tell you before
because I thought I’d lose your friendship if I did.’

‘Oh, May, why would that happen?’ said Lara.

‘You haven’t heard what I did yet . . .’ And May proceeded to tell it all: meeting ‘married’ Michael, bonking ‘married’ Michael, finding out
‘married’ Michael was not actually married after all. Mentally, she’d had an affair with someone else’s husband; physically she’d had an affair with a lying, cheating
twat. When she had finished, she took a long breath and waited for her audience to tell her what a low-life she was.

And she waited.

‘Say it, then,’ she prompted. ‘Tell me that I’m a disgrace to womenkind and you hate me.’ May’s eyes were brimming with tears as her friends remained
silent.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Lara.

May waited for the onslaught.

‘I can’t believe men like that exist in real life. I thought
Jeremy Kyle
guests were all actors.’

‘You must hate me,’ said May. ‘I hate myself.’

‘Why the chuff would we hate you?’ tutted Lara. ‘I hate
him
. What a horrible, cruel thing to do to someone. You shouldn’t be punishing yourself, in any case; you
should be punishing him. With a big stick up the arse – one that has a burning spike on the end.’ She thought of Gene Hathersage overhearing her say that and realizing that she
absolutely was not a posh southerner.

‘I did a terrible thing,’ said May. ‘Whatever you say, I believed I was sleeping with a married man.’

‘Yes, but you weren’t,’ Clare argued furiously. She started pacing up and down as if she were the award-winning barrister Bart Forbes-Philips. ‘You were manipulated and
used and outmanoeuvred. He took advantage of your caring nature. What a dick. God, you two really can pick them.’

May smiled, overcome with warm relief. She felt so much lighter for confessing her secret to them.

Lara shook her head. ‘At least one of us is happy. Clare, you and the lovely Lud are our beacons of light. Don’t ever let us down.’

Clare smiled but stayed silent.

Joan took the back path down to the church. She hated this damned village with its poky little houses and old-fashioned shops. They ought to rename the place ‘God’s
Mistake’. Could Ren Dullem have more boring, dismal name?

She took a detour to the twelve graves to double-check that she hadn’t missed any details, but she hadn’t. She took more photos then decided that she would try to charm the vicar and
ask him for more information, if he was inside. It was Sunday afternoon, though, and he was probably having his lunch. She crossed her fingers as she walked into the church.

Luck was on her side when she pushed open the door in the large Gothic arch and felt a rush of cool air swim towards her. A rather portly man in a voluminous cassock was sitting at the other end
of the church, polishing candlesticks. He waved, then, as she approached, she saw his welcoming smile power down to fifty per cent. He’s just realized I’m not a dull’un from
Dullem, thought Joan with an inner smirk.

‘Good afternoon, Reverend,’ she said. ‘We haven’t met. I’m Joan Hawk. I work for Lord Carlton.’

‘Ah,’ said the reverend, extending a hand, welcoming but still cautious. ‘Very nice to meet you. I am Reverend Acaster, if you didn’t already know. Welcome to the church
of St Andrew the Apostle.’

‘It’s a beautiful building,’ said Joan, revolving a full three hundred and sixty degrees to take it all in. It was, too – very ornate with a stunning stained-glass window
of a fishing boat, rays of sunshine pouring down onto it as men lifted up a net teeming with fish. The rows of pews were polished to a high shine and the old embroidered prayer cushions hanging in
front of each seat replicated the boat and fishermen theme of the window. St Andrew – patron saint of fishermen, of course, thought Joan.

‘I’m enquiring where the parish records for the twentieth century might be,’ said Joan.

‘For what reason, may I ask?’ asked the reverend. His sharp grey eyes were blinking rapidly. He’s rattled, thought Joan. Now what was in those records that he might not want
anyone to see?
Softly, softly, Jo
, she warned herself.

‘I thought I might draw a family tree for Lord Carlton’s birthday in October,’ said Joan. ‘He’s been so very kind to me and there’s a space on the wall in his
study where it would fit perfectly.’

She saw the reverend let go of his breath with a gust of relief that brought a trill of laughter in its wake.

‘That’s a very thoughtful present,’ he said. ‘Alas, the parish records are all kept at Carlton Hall.’

‘Well, would you believe it?’ Joan smiled, charming the reverend. ‘I’ll ask Gladys if she’ll point me in the right direction. I presumed they’d be
here.’

‘There’s no storage space. Unless you count the crypt, but the damp air down there isn’t conducive to keeping valuable historical papers.’

‘Of course. And am I right in thinking that the Carlton family members are down there in the church crypt? I didn’t notice a family tomb when I was taking a walk around the graveyard
recently. I thought I’d start collecting information for my family tree that way but it wasn’t very successful.’

‘Yes, the Carltons are all safe below our feet. And one day Edwin will lie at the side of his beloved Mary there too, though not soon, I hope.’

‘Oh, me too.’ Joan nodded vigorously. ‘And it will be very sad that he is the last of his line.’

‘Very,’ said the reverend with a loaded sigh.

‘Anyway, thank you so much for all your help,’ said Joan. ‘I wish I’d come to you first. I’d have saved myself a few wild-goose chases.’

‘Pleasure.’ The old man went back to polishing the candlestick.

‘Oh.’ Joan turned round as if this was an afterthought. ‘I saw a grave that looked as if it had been dug outside the church grounds. Seymour Acaster, I think the name was. Why
was that? It interested me because my father’s name is Seymour.’

‘No, it was always part of the churchyard. The ground shifts over the years and the fence moves.’

He was lying, she knew. The question was why. She was definitely onto something here; she was absolutely sure of it. She wanted to ask if Seymour was married but she knew the reverend
wouldn’t tell her anything. She decided it might be best to put him totally off any scent he might have caught a whiff of.

‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t had this great idea.’ She smiled, tossing her long chocolate-brown hair back over her shoulder. ‘History was never my forte and I
don’t particularly like walking around graveyards. Maybe I’ll buy him a book instead. Pretend I never asked about the Carltons.’

She saw the reverend’s shoulders relax again as the tension in them eased. He believed her. ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ he said with a gentle chuckle.

‘Reverend, thank you again.’ Joan waved and walked back down the aisle.

Outside she took another long look at Seymour’s grave.
Beloved husband of R
. There was no R Acaster buried near, as all the other wives of the
Fratres A Mare
set were.
Could R still be alive? Joan made a quick calculation in her head. She would be very old if she were.

She left the churchyard smiling to herself and wondering where those old parish records might be hiding in the house, but knowing that wherever they were, she would find them.

That afternoon, just as the old clock on the wall was bonging out three mellow rings, there was a knock on the door. Clare opened it to find the bulk of Gene Hathersage
standing outside holding a carrier bag and a tool box. ‘There’s comfrey leaves and flour in there,’ he said, handing over the bag. ‘Smash them up together with a little
water until you have a paste and then make a poultice with them. For . . .’ He waved his finger at Lara in the background. ‘For her ankle.’

‘Would you like to come in?’ said Clare, making her best effort to be friendly now that he had been kind to her friend. Thanks to Lara’s ankle incident she was determined to
show him that they were all on a new footing. ‘I’ve just brewed up.’

He seemed to hum and haw for a few moments before deciding that he would. Once inside he nodded to Lara. ‘All right there?’

‘Alive if not kicking,’ said Lara, adding softly, ‘Did you manage to . . . get done what you were going to do?’

‘Yes. He’s all tucked up now.’ He coughed and turned to Clare so swiftly that she almost poured his cup of tea over him.

‘There’s milk and sugar on the table, Mr Hathersage,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

He spooned sugar and stirred some milk into his cup and then took a long drink from it.

‘You won’t be getting any more nocturnal visits from my uncle,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to see him and told him off. He’ll break his neck. Those silly shoes he
likes have absolutely no grip on the soles.’

Lara snorted back a giggle. ‘He sounds a hoot.’

‘He’s spent too much time on his own,’ said Gene. ‘He should have found himself a wife and family.’

Is that what you want too?
Lara asked him in her head. Why wasn’t Gene married? He was quite handsome in a wild sort of way and almost genial when he tried. She watched him
drinking; his large fingers made the cup look tiny. With his mad hair and black eyes, big strong shoulders and working jeans he was the polar opposite of the highly groomed James. She had a sudden
vision of the big broad chest that must lie underneath his checked shirt, and had to snap her eyes away when she realized that she was appraising him a little bit too much.

Gene took two more mouthfuls of tea and then emptied the rest into the sink.

‘That was good, thanks. Anyway I’ll get on now. I’ll be done in five minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ May said, giving him her most pleasant smile, also showing that a line had been drawn and arms had been downed.

‘You need a new poultice before you go to bed.’ Gene threw the words at Lara, not giving her a chance to thank him before he exited the cottage.

‘Ooh, Lara, I think you’ve pulled,’ half whispered, half mimed May with a wink. ‘He deffo has a soft spot for you.’

‘Not even remotely funny,’ said Lara, listening to Gene’s heavy boots climbing up on the roof. ‘Even if Mr Hathersage happened to be George Clooney under that beard and
hair, I’m staying away from men. For ever. I’m going to join a convent and stop shaving my legs.’