Now and Then Friends (10 page)

And yet she'd been the one to turn away from Rachel, even if Rachel had let her. Sighing, she chucked the empty foil container into the bin and went back into the shop. Ancient history. Half-forgotten memories. She doubted she and Rachel could be friends again now.

At three fifteen the shop, which had been empty for the last hour, filled with children from the primary school, all of them squealing and squabbling over the rack of sweets. Dan had asked her to make sure none of the children pocketed a sweet, which had seemed cynical to Claire until she'd seen just that. She'd tapped the boy tentatively on the shoulder, and he'd scowled at her before shoving it back on the rack, making Claire feel both vindicated and a little guilty, as if she'd been the one to do something wrong.

The children lined up at the till, snapping gum and grabbing cans of soda from the refrigerated section, while Claire stayed out of the way. She never did well in crowds; the background noise made it nearly impossible for her to hear anything. A crowd of children seemed even more intimidating than one of adults; children could be so blunt, so cuttingly direct. They hadn't yet learned to have a filter.

“Oy.
Oy.
” Too late she realized Dan was shouting at her.

“Oh, sorry! Yes?”

He called something to her, but she couldn't make it out over the chattering children, and so she shook her head helplessly. Scowling, Dan stalked across the shop to the rear storeroom, where he hauled out an enormous box of Haribo sweet ten-pence bags. “I'm not paying you to stand about,” he grumbled as he headed back to the till, and Claire mumbled another apology.

Finally the children trickled out, and at Dan's instruction Claire started restocking the much-depleted sweet rack. Then at quarter to four Lucy Bagshaw breezed in, giving Dan a cheery hello, to which he
actually cracked a smile. Claire was counting the minutes until she could go home.

“Claire!” Lucy's voice rang out cheerfully. “So Dan took you on, after all. I knew he would.” She threw a playful look at Dan, who did not acknowledge it.

Claire could only wonder at Lucy's indefatigable cheer. Did not even Dan Trenton's surly stare put a dent in her mood?

Lucy grabbed the local paper and slapped it on the counter before turning to look at Claire. “Pub quiz tomorrow night?”

“Oh, um. Didn't your fourth person come back? Juliet . . . ?” She plucked the name out of her memory and Lucy's smile faltered only slightly.

“Well, ye-es, but Juliet could make up another table with Peter and some others.” She nibbled her lip in frowning thought, and Claire took the obvious opening.

“No, no, it's fine. I'm not much of a pub quiz person, actually. Neither pub nor quiz, and as for both together . . .” She let out an uncertain laugh. Had she even made a joke?

“Well, if you're sure,” Lucy said, and Claire thought she sounded a little relieved.

“Honestly, I'm fine. After today I think I'll just go home and have a long soak in a huge bubble bath.” Which sounded heavenly.

“When do you end your shift?”

“At four. I think.” Claire glanced at Dan for confirmation and he gave a terse nod. “And back tomorrow at eight?” she added, making it a question. Although why she wanted to come back, Claire didn't even know. Another eight hours of stacking tins and smearing ink, all with Dan Trenton silently glowering at her.

“Don't be late this time,” Dan said.

“Why don't you stop by Tarn House for a cup of tea when you're finished here?” Lucy suggested. “It's the white house with the black door, down at the end of the street, near the station. But you must know it.”
She let out a laugh. “I keep forgetting you're from here. You're far less of an offcomer than I am.”

Offcomer
. Claire had always hated that word, how unfriendly it sounded. “Actually,” she said, “I'm not sure I am. But yes, okay. Thanks for the offer. I'd love a cup of tea.”

Which wasn't strictly true. She'd love to go home and run a bath and stay in it for hours, hiding from the world. But it was hard, if not completely impossible, to say no to Lucy Bagshaw.

“Great!” Lucy gave a smile and nod of satisfaction, as if she'd managed everything just as she'd intended. “I'll see you in a bit, then.” She took her paper and fluttered her fingers at Dan. “Bye, Dan.”

“Bye,” Dan answered, and put her change in the till.

“So you're friendly with at least one person in this village,” Claire said before she could think better of it. Eight hours of surly silence had taken its toll.

Dan gave her his usual stare. “That's about right.”

“Are you from here?” Claire asked. “Or are you an offcomer like Lucy?”

“Offcomer,” Dan answered, and Claire couldn't say she was surprised.

Rachel stared at Andrew West standing on her doorstep and said the first thing that came into her head. “Oh no. Not you.”

“May I come in?”

She really, really did not want Andrew West in her house. Not with the burned sausages on the stove top and Lily's music blasting and her mother groaning faintly from the downstairs bedroom. Plus she was pretty sure Meghan's underthings, including several lacy thongs, were draped over the radiator in the sitting room to dry.

“Okay,” Rachel said after a moment, without any grace. She stepped aside so he could enter.

Andrew ducked his head to avoid the low stone lintel and then stood in the tiny hallway, cluttered with shoes and discarded hats and scarves and a whole lot of LEGOs.

Rachel picked up a woolly beanie that always seemed to be lying on the floor even though no one ever wore it and hung it on one of the coat hooks. “Come into the kitchen,” she said. “I'm just burning our tea.”

Andrew followed her into the kitchen, which was little bigger than the hall, his quiet gaze taking in everything Rachel never wanted someone like him to see. The peeling linoleum, the ancient cooker and wheezing fridge, the dripping tap and the burned sausages, their greasy smell hanging in the air and clinging to her skin.

Nathan looked up from his coloring book, his expression turning alert at the sight of a stranger.

“Hello,” Andrew said to Nathan, and then he shoved his hands in the pockets of his parka, clearly ill at ease, which gave Rachel a twist of savage amusement. Let him be a little uncomfortable in her domain. Let him see how close and constricting her life was. Fine. It would be worse for him than for her. Maybe.

“I'm not sure why you're here.” She banged a pot on the stove and reached for a bag of peas from the freezer. Unfortunately she hadn't realized it was open and as she jerked it out of the freezer, peas sprayed across the kitchen floor like tiny green bullets.

“Oops, Ray-Ray,” Nathan said, looking pleased by the mess.

Rachel sighed and pushed the peas into a pile with her foot. “Never mind, Nathan. I'll clean them up later.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Claire,” Andrew said. “But if you're busy . . .”

Rachel arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you think I'm busy?” she said as she poured the rest of the peas into the pan. “Why on earth would you think that?”

Andrew neither apologized nor rose to the bait. “I can come back later.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

Nathan's face crumpled a bit. Clearly he was sensing the hostility. Rachel took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. She didn't want Nathan dissolving into tears, and frankly, she shouldn't care what Andrew West thought of anything. Being so openly aggressive showed him she did.

“Sorry. I'm not actually trying to be rude. But is it important? Because I have a lot going on at the moment. As I told you before.”

“Actually, it is,” Andrew said. “I wouldn't have come here otherwise. I can tell you have a lot going on, Rachel.”

The quietly spoken words deflated her a bit. “Right, then.” No doubt
he wanted to tell the details of Claire's sob story. And a tiny, mean little part of her wanted to hear them. “We can talk, but not here.” She was fighting the urge to push Andrew out of her house before he saw any more of her sad little life. She'd thought she could take it, but now she didn't think she could. “Let me sort things here and then we can talk outside, okay?”

“It's bucketing down at the moment,” Andrew pointed out. “How about I buy you a drink at the pub?”

Which would be the closest thing she'd had to a date in more than five years. “Not the pub,” Rachel said. She couldn't bear everyone's speculative gazes when she came into the Hangman's Noose with Andrew, the good-natured but uncomfortably pointed ribbing she'd get. “Let's go somewhere else.”

“Raymond's?” he suggested, which was the classy bistro that had opened in the old train station a handful of years ago. Rachel had never been inside.

“Can you go there just for a drink?”

Andrew gave her a look of polite disbelief. “Of course you can.”

And of course he would know these things. “Fine,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”

She ran upstairs and begged Lily to put Nathan to bed, and then checked on her mother, who had thankfully fallen into a doze.

“Damn, the prescription,” she said aloud, and Andrew, who was waiting in the hall, answered politely, “Can I help?”

“No. I just . . .” She fished her mobile out of her bag and scrolled through her contacts for the number of the out-of-hours pharmacy. “We'd better make this quick,” she told him. “I have to drive into Whitehaven to pick up my mother's prescription.”

“Why don't I drive you? We can just as easily have a drink in Whitehaven as in Hartley-by-the-Sea. Raymond's is overrated, anyway.”

“Oh, is it?” Her mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. “All right, then. Let's go into Whitehaven.”

She grabbed her jacket, and they walked in silence to his car, parked down the street by the post office shop. Andrew nodded towards the shuttered windows. “Claire took a job there. Today was her first day.”

“She said she was looking for a job,” Rachel answered as Andrew pressed a button on his key ring to unlock a navy blue Lexus. “Glad she found one.”

“Yes, although I don't know how long she'll last. She came home today absolutely knackered. Stacking newspapers isn't really her thing.”

“Is it anyone's?” Rachel countered. “Most people have a job to make money.”

“Personal fulfillment is important too.”

“Must be nice for some,” Rachel answered, and then, annoyed she'd reverted to being snippy again, she turned her face towards the window.

“Yes,” Andrew agreed after a moment. He'd started the car and pulled away from the curb, driving up the steep hill that led to the A-road. “Not everyone can afford to work in a job they enjoy, I do realize.”

“Well-done.” The words slipped out before she could suppress them.

Andrew didn't respond for a moment. “You really have a chip on your shoulder, don't you?” he finally remarked mildly.

Rachel turned to face him. “A
chip
on my shoulder?”

“About money. Or privilege. Whatever.” He shrugged, the movement so dismissive Rachel wanted to slap him.

“Yes, I suppose I do have a chip on my shoulder,” she said, her voice rising. “A bloody great Grand Canyon. But it's easy for you, isn't it?”

“Maybe from where you're standing,” Andrew answered. “Yes. I can see that things aren't easy for you. Like you said, you have a lot going on.”

Rachel didn't answer. She'd wanted him to stay smug and condescending, because then she could feel justified in being angry. Instead she felt petty and mean.

“Do you enjoy your job?” Andrew asked. “Housecleaning?”

With effort she kept herself from a snippy retort. “I enjoy some things. Providing for my family—”

“The money aside, though,” Andrew interjected. “Do you enjoy the work?”

“Cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors? No, can't say I do.” Rachel paused, thinking of Iris Fairley's conspiratorial grin when she'd slipped her a custard cream. “I like the people,” she admitted. “Helping them, and I don't mean just by cleaning their houses.”

“How, then?”

She shrugged. “I give people the odd cup of tea, a chance to talk to someone. It's like free therapy for some, I suppose.”

Andrew was silent, and too late Rachel realized where he'd so neatly led her—right to helping Claire.

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked before he made the obvious suggestion.

“How about the Harborside?”

It was a swanky bar on the harbor that was another place Rachel had never been to. “Sure,” she said with a shrug. “Sounds good.”

They didn't speak for the rest of the three-mile drive into Whitehaven. Andrew parked the car in the lot by the harbor, and as Rachel stepped out into the damp evening—the rain had stopped, at least—she felt a sudden pinprick of excitement at the prospect of going to a nice place with a fairly attractive man. Even if it was Andrew West.

She glanced at him, his navy blue parka zipped up although she could see the collar of a dark green fleece underneath. He wore dark chinos, ridiculously pressed, and hiking boots. The outdoor version of preppy.

But no matter what his clothes, it was turning into a nice evening, the clouds scudding across a deep violet sky and moonlight glimmering on the placid sea. Rachel stood for a moment, breathing in the
fresh, still-damp air, enjoying the simple fact that she wasn't in her kitchen cutting sausages into Nathan-sized bites.

“Shall we?” Andrew asked, and with his hand on the small of her back, he guided her towards the bar's entrance.

It was a classy place, a far cry from the crowded pubs on King Street, which stank of old beer and sweat with the TV blaring football at all hours of the day, farmers and shift workers lined up at the counter, heads hung low over their second or third pints.

The Harborside had big velvet armchairs and sofas and low tables of dark, polished wood. The only sound was the murmuring of voices and the occasional clink of crystal, with a background of soft piano music.

“I didn't know places like this existed in Whitehaven,” Rachel quipped, and then wished she hadn't. She'd sounded a little too awed.

“It's nice enough,” Andrew agreed as he shrugged out of his parka. Rachel took off her coat and, unable to hang it on the back of her armchair, she stuffed it underneath.

“What can I get you?”

“A glass of red, please.” She watched as Andrew headed for the bar, utterly at ease while she was sitting on the edge of her enormous chair, her hands folded primly in her lap. She wanted to enjoy this, even if she was with Andrew West, but she felt too tightly wired. Then she remembered she still needed to call in the prescription, and so she did that while Andrew got their drinks, slipping her phone into her bag as he brought back a fishbowl-sized glass of wine for her and a half-pint of lager for himself. No self-respecting male acquaintance of Rachel's would ever order half a pint, yet Andrew hardly seemed like the type of bloke to go in for a drinking contest.

“Cheers,” she said, and took a sip of the wine, which was velvety smooth and tasted better than any bottle of plonk she'd ever picked up at Tesco.

Andrew sipped his own lager before setting it on the table between
them. “I'm sorry for bringing you out here like this. I know you're busy.”

“It's not every day I get to drink wine in a classy bar,” Rachel answered. Two sips of wine and she was already starting to feel mellow, but maybe it was the atmosphere. She leaned her head back against the velvet armchair and glanced at Andrew; he was staring at his hands, frowning in thought.

“What do you do, exactly?” she asked. She didn't want to talk about Claire just yet.

“I'm a civil engineer.”

“Impressive. You go to uni for that?” Of course he had, but she wanted to hear it anyway.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Cambridge.” He looked slightly discomfited, and Rachel smiled.

“I think I've heard of it.”

He smiled back, self-consciously, but at least he'd recognized she was joking. She almost wanted to tell him that she'd had a scholarship place at Durham, that she'd gone there for all of two weeks. Thankfully she resisted that temptation.

“And an MA too, I suppose?”

He nodded. “Also at Cambridge.”

“PhD?”

“Same.”

Seven or eight years of advanced education, then. She refused to give in to the petty impulse to feel jealous. “So why are you back in Hartley-by-the-Sea?”

“I have a couple days before my next project starts, down near Manchester. And I wanted to see Claire.”

They were already back to Claire. So much for chitchat. “So why are you so worried about her?” Rachel asked.

Andrew didn't answer for a moment. “As you know, she's been
through a difficult time,” he said finally. “But there's more to it than just her breaking up with her fiancé. I'm not even sure they are broken up, permanently, but . . .” He sighed. “Claire should tell you herself what's going on—”

“Claire and I really don't have that kind of relationship,” Rachel cut him off. “We were friends when we were children. Before last week I hadn't seen her since her graduation party, and then only because I helped with the catering.”

Andrew looked up from his study of his drink. “Even so. I don't see any other friends queuing up, do you?”

“Claire had plenty of friends in primary.” Rachel spoke matter-of-factly. “She was the most popular girl in Year Six, and as far as I could tell, she kept that status at Wyndham.”