Love-40 (24 page)

Nick took the few strides necessary across the thick white pile of the carpet, to reach his mother's wing-back chair. ‘You may not
need
your diamond choker, Mother,' he said, standing in front of her, demanding her attention. ‘But you've always enjoyed wearing it, getting it out of your jewellery box, touching it, admiring it, hmmm?'

He was confronting his mother, yes, but Estelle noted the gentleness in his voice as he spoke, the affection evident in his eyes as he looked at her. But Shelagh, Estelle observed, would not look back at him.

‘True,' she conceded at last. ‘But a diamond choker around a scraggy old neck isn't quite the thing.' She smiled at Estelle. ‘Wouldn't you say so, my dear?'

Estelle wasn't sure she wanted to get involved in this moment of discord. She could advise on value, but hardly whether or not it was beneficial to sell the family treasures. And as for scraggy, though Shelagh was in her late sixties, she remained an elegant woman. She was slim and held herself upright, her hair was white but still luxuriant and cut in a flattering, modern style, and her eyes were almost as blue as her son's.

‘It is beautiful,' Estelle said, turning the choker to catch the light. ‘And I can see Nick's point. If you're fond of the piece, it does seem a shame to sell it.'

Shelagh shot her a sharp glance. ‘Are you saying you don't wish to dispose of it for me, my dear? Because I could always –'

‘Of course I'm not.' She shouldn't let her emotions interfere with the professional requirements of the job, Estelle reminded herself. She could earn a hefty commission from this sale, and the reasons behind the selling should not be her concern. ‘I'm more than happy to help,' she said. ‘If you're sure.'

Nick took a step towards her and rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘Rather you than anyone else,' he said. ‘But it's the white elephant we should be selling.'

Ignoring him, Shelagh added milk from a tiny jug and passed Estelle her tea.

Estelle took it. ‘White elephant?'

‘He means the house.'

Of course, Nick had already told her that the house was eating up all the money his father had left them, most of what Nick earned and now apparently, the proceeds of the sale of his mother's jewellery too. But … Estelle's gaze drifted up to the ornate, corniced ceiling. The creamy plasterwork was chipped, but the ceiling, adorned with cherubs, trumpets and bunches of grapes, was still impressive in its grandeur. Yes, she could see why Shelagh didn't want to sell up. It was quite something.

‘He should have more respect for his father's memory,' Shelagh went on conversationally. ‘This place is all we have left of him, you know.'

‘I do have respect.' The dainty cup looked ridiculous in Nick's large brown hand. He could crush it so easily, Estelle thought. And come to that, he could force his mother to sell up if he wanted to. Without his help, surely she would never be able to stay here. The guy had loyalty then, too. He must have, to stand by and watch his earnings being swallowed up by something he didn't even want.

Estelle had to admit that since meeting his mother, her opinion of Nick Rossi had changed. He wasn't just your typical arrogant, athletic, tennis club hunk. Far from it. He was a caring and generous man. As well as being drop dead gorgeous, of course.

‘And I shall stay put for as long as I'm able,' Shelagh said.

Subject closed. Estelle wondered how many times in the past they'd had the same discussion. Each time, Shelagh would probably dig her heels in deeper and each time, Nick would become more frustrated. And how long would it be before she gave in? When the last piece of jewellery had been sold to provide an amp or two more of electricity to seep its heat through draughty windows and doors, another gardener to keep borders weeded, hedges clipped, trees pruned? Estelle felt sorry for them both. But Shelagh Rossi, she knew, would have to give in eventually.

GIVE IN TO THE INEVITABLE
– that's what the note had said. Estelle could still picture the words, had to stop herself from pulling the note from her rucksack. Black capitals scrawled on a sheet of pink notepaper. Pink, for heaven's sake …
LEAVE BEFORE YOU HAVE TO.

Estelle had stared at the words for some moments before taking in their meaning. At first she'd thought it was some bizarre flyer – addressed to
The Occupier,
from an estate agent or sales team, perhaps.
Give in to the inevitable – buy a MUST HAVE 100% secure burglar alarm for your shop.

But it wasn't that, of course, because it was handwritten not typed and though the envelope was blank, Estelle knew it was intended for Secrets In The Attic, for her. And it was a threat. Another threat? The anger had surged through her.
LEAVE BEFORE YOU HAVE TO.
And it surged through her now, just thinking about it.

She hadn't told Suzi yet. She hadn't even told her about the puncture, or the ‘For Sale' notice on her car – just a prank perhaps, kids having a laugh. She was still telling herself that, not thinking of Stan and Terry and their not-so-veiled threats. The phone number of the shop was easy enough to find and her phone in the flat merely an extension.

But now she'd been sent this note, she would tell her everything, Estelle decided, placing her empty cup on the table in front of her and smiling at Shelagh Rossi. She must complete her business here and then go back to the shop. Yes, she would tell Suzi, because not only was Estelle angry, now, she was also beginning to get scared.

*   *   *

Suzi was walking along the riverbank path, wrapped in a big blue beach towel, on her way back to the cottage, when she saw Estelle coming towards her. She noted her friend's expression of relief when she spotted her and waved, though not without a twinge of anxiety. They saw one another every day – so why had Estelle come visiting?

‘I thought you were out,' Estelle said.

‘I was.' The sea had been cold but bracing. Lately, Suzi had been using it as a stress reliever after work – the chill of the waves helped her forget that since coming back from Germany, Josh Willis had barely bothered to get in touch. Suzi shivered.

The fact that he'd sent her a postcard had appeared significant at first. Though now when she looked at that card, it seemed both brief and impersonal. Apart that is, from the mention of open spaces and freedom, something they'd spoken of that day on Charmouth cliff, something that had seemed to mean a lot to him. But who could tell?

Still, the physical exertion of swimming against the tide made her too tired to worry – about herself and Michael, about the shop, about Liam and Estelle. And about whatever Josh had or hadn't done, damn it.

‘Can we talk?' Estelle seemed even more restless than usual.

Suzi frowned. As she'd suspected – more problems. She held the gate open for her friend ‘You can shout at me while I take a shower,' she told her. ‘And open a bottle of wine. Now tell me what's up.'

By the time Estelle had explained about the puncture, the ‘For Sale' sign, the little chats with Stan and Terry, and Suzi had seen the note Estelle carried in her rucksack – and made it wet, incidentally – they'd almost finished the bottle.

‘I suppose that kind of thing happens to cars when they're parked on the main road,' Suzi said doubtfully.

‘What, in Pridehaven?'

‘Well, why not?' Why not, because it was a sleepy seaside town more like a village where people were friendly and didn't vandalise one another's cars, that's why not. ‘We're very close to The Seagull,' Suzi added, trying to reassure her. The pub next door to The Bargain Basement was always full of kids who didn't look old enough to be there, while the sound of rap and hip hop thumped rather than drifted their way from six until late every night. The pub, Suzi reflected, thinking of her noisy flying neighbours, was aptly named.

‘They're not shifting us, whoever they are,' Estelle said, squaring her shoulders and glaring at Suzi as though she were responsible. ‘Are they, Suze?'

And Suzi, though she wasn't sure that she shared Estelle's dedication to antiques, agreed with her. ‘So what should we do?'

She towelled her hair with more aggression than was strictly necessary. It wasn't easy, was it, to cope? To run a business and make a living, not to mention handle all this kind of stuff. ‘Go to the police?' She almost suggested they ask Liam's advice but one look at Estelle's face persuaded her that this was a bad idea. Perhaps the concert at the Arts Centre might rectify that particular situation. At any rate, she thought, it was worth a try.

‘We can't prove anything,' Estelle reminded her. She looked thoughtful. ‘But the thing that bothers me the most…'

‘Yes?'

‘Is how on earth did Terry know what a financial mess we were in?'

*   *   *

He wouldn't have, would he? The more Suzi thought about it after Estelle had gone, the more she couldn't say for sure. Who else was a common denominator? Who else knew their problems and knew Stan and Terry?

She thought of the one brief telephone conversation they'd had since his return. His,
Hi. How's tricks?
had been perfectly light and casual, as if Suzi were merely some vague acquaintance, which of course, she reminded herself, was exactly what she was.

‘I'm fine,' she'd told him. Though she didn't feel it. She felt helpless and strangely at odds with herself these days, as though she were a spectator of her own life.

‘And how's business?' he had asked her.

‘That's fine too,' she had replied, maintaining the light tone that she hoped matched his. Only, why had he wanted to know?

They had finalised the details for the roadshow. And that was that.

Would he have told Terry how badly they were doing? She had no idea. One lunch, one breakfast, one walk, one car boot sale, didn't add up to much. Oh, yes, and one postcard. The truth was – if Suzi were honest with herself – she hardly knew the man.

Chapter 18

‘They don't show you this sort of stuff on the TV,' Estelle muttered to Suzi. ‘The antiques roadshow lot have valuable attics.'

The three of them were in Secrets seated behind two trestle tables, facing the open door of the shop. During the afternoon various people had wandered in, listened to Josh and Estelle's advice and wandered out again. Though what all this was doing for the business, Suzi wasn't quite sure.

‘Yeah. This is more car boot sale than valuable attic.' Suzi watched Josh break the news to the owner of yet another chipped 70s dinner service that they were not holding the find of the century in their hands and that actually, the floral plates and bowls, pretty though they were, were worthless. As was most of the other stuff that had passed through their doors – ply coffee tables, cracked glass vases, old photographs, broken toys, tacky jewellery … you name it, they'd seen it today. And no, she didn't want to dwell on the thought of car boot sales.

‘Go on then,' the owner of the dinner service challenged Josh, polishing one of the plates with the sleeve of his threadbare jumper. ‘How much would you give me for 'em – tell me straight.'

‘I'm sorry.' And he did look sorry, Suzi noted, wondering about Josh's acting abilities. ‘Dinner services like this one are not a particular interest of ours.' He pulled up the sleeves of his crumpled linen jacket and leaned forwards, his elbows on the table.

Suzi noted the ‘ours'. Josh Willis appeared to have become a partner. She pushed this thought from her mind the second it crept there.

‘You could try next door,' put in Estelle, earning a quick flash of the cat's grin from Josh. ‘They'll buy anything.'

The dinner service man looked across at her sharply, but Estelle's expression was as innocent as Josh's, and the man merely gathered up his treasures and left the shop. The song of the wind-chimes seemed to follow him out of the doorway.

‘Coffee?' suggested Suzi, feeling redundant. Out of the three of them, there was no doubt who was the least knowledgeable about antiques. And it wasn't just that. All morning she'd been torn between wanting to talk to Josh and wanting to keep out of his way. And she hadn't managed either. She had merely hovered, while he sat there larger than life. Larger.

‘Could murder a cup,' he told her cheerfully.

‘Me too,' echoed Estelle, leaning closer to him to point out something in the
Miller's Guide.

Fine. Whatever. Suzi hurried away to the tiny kitchenette. She'd made up her mind to be cool, so it was all to the better if Estelle and Josh were hitting it off. Apart from what Josh had or hadn't done … It was madness. She, Suzi, was living with another man and she was far too sane to be carried into the realms of fantasy by some Little John lookalike in a crumpled linen suit, who had happened to take her to a car boot sale … She filled the kettle. And to lunch … Spooned instant coffee into two mugs, dropped a green tea bag into another. And for a walk on the hills … Damn it.

She waited for the kettle to boil, cut herself off from the banter going down in the shop. It was ridiculous to imagine that she'd missed him.

Suzi took the drinks back in, recognising the tight grey perm of Mrs Barnaby, who wore a facial expression to match.

‘My nephew, Nigel,' she was saying in introduction to Estelle, who had, Suzi knew, seen a fair bit of her until Stan and Terry had come along and bought all the pieces Estelle had made offers for. Mrs B. had been conspicuously absent from Secrets In The Attic ever since.

‘I couldn't resist bringing this in,' she said, as Nigel put the table he was carrying down in front of them. ‘Hoped you'd let bygones be bygones, dear. My selling to them next door, I mean.'

Estelle shrugged. ‘No hard feelings on my part, Mrs Barnaby. That's business. You're entitled to sell to whoever you like.' She moved closer to the table and stroked the grain of it with a fingertip. ‘Ebony?' she asked Josh.