Now and Then Friends (4 page)

Claire took the beans and bread to the counter and waited while the man rang them up silently.

“Three pounds and fifty-four pence,” he told her, and his voice was exactly what Claire would have expected. Gruff, gravelly, and without a shred of warmth. She fumbled in the pockets of her coat for the money, hating that her fingers actually trembled. She was such a
mouse
. But she'd been one for a long time.

“There you are.” She laid the coins on the counter and then gathered her items, clutching them to her chest as she blurted, “Are you . . . ? Are you still looking for help?”

The man gave her a flat stare. “Maybe.”

Not the most encouraging of responses, but since she'd drummed up the courage—or the foolishness—to ask about the job, she thought she might as well continue. “It's just I'm looking for work.”

“Haven't seen you here before.”

“I've been away. In Portugal. But I'm back now, for . . . for a while.”

“And how long is a while?”

“I'm . . . I'm not sure.”

“I'm looking for someone who can commit,” he stated, and handed her a penny in change.

“I see.” Claire took the penny, nearly dropping the beans in the process, and then turned to leave.

She was so busy trying to manage her purchases and closing the door without it slamming again that she nearly collided with a woman coming into the shop.

“Oh, my fault, my fault,” the woman exclaimed, and caught the tin of beans that was slipping out of Claire's grasp.

“Sorry,” Claire said, and looked up to see the woman—about her age, with frizzing, sandy hair and an open, friendly expression—scrutinizing her.

“I don't think I know you.”

“I'm Claire. Claire West. I've just . . . moved back into the village.”

“That explains it, then. I've been living here since August, more or less. Lucy Bagshaw.” She stuck out a hand, and Claire attempted to shake it, transferring the tin of beans to her other hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Moved back, you said? You lived here before?”

“I grew up here.” Now that she'd said more than a few words, Lucy's American accent was recognizable. “You obviously didn't,” Claire ventured, and Lucy grinned.

“Nope, although I actually am British, if you can believe it. I know I don't sound it. I moved here from Boston. I live down at Tarn House, the bed-and-breakfast? With my sister, Juliet.”

“Right.” Claire hadn't heard of either.

“Well, I'm sure we'll run into each other again. I work at the primary school, teaching art. It's only part-time, but it's a start.”

“Right,” Claire said again.

Lucy gave a goodbye sort of nod and started to move past Claire before turning around suddenly. “You ought to come out with us some evening,” she said. “We go to the pub quiz on a Thursday evening. Have you ever been? Of course, you probably know loads of people, but if you don't . . .”

“I don't really know anyone anymore,” Claire admitted, and Lucy
touched her arm, a spontaneous, friendly gesture that made Claire feel oddly moved.

“Then come out with us. We're down one anyway, because Juliet's going somewhere with Peter. He's taking her out to a fancy restaurant somewhere in Keswick. Do you know Peter Lanford? Sheep farmer?” Claire shook her head. “Anyway, the quiz is tomorrow night, seven thirty at the Hangman's Noose. You will come?”

“I . . .” Claire shrugged, overwhelmed by the exuberant force of Lucy Bagshaw's personality. “Sure. Thanks for the invite.”

“Good. That's settled, then.” Lucy headed into the shop, and Claire watched her go, bemused and yet grateful for the American's overwhelming friendliness. God knew she could use a friend.

The pub quiz was the highlight of Rachel's week. For an hour she escaped the stifling confines of her house, dressed up, drank wine, and got to feel smart. Four ways to win.

She hummed under her breath as she put on mascara and wondered if her new magenta sweater was too clingy. There was trying and then there was trying too hard. She definitely didn't want to be in the latter camp, but she liked looking nice, and Rob Telford had been giving her the eye the other week, if she wasn't mistaken.

She hadn't dated much in the last ten years—a few fumbled attempts hardly counted—and she wasn't sure she wanted to date Rob Telford. But she wouldn't mind flirting a little tonight. She could use the distraction. She'd been in a bad mood since yesterday, when Claire West had waltzed back into Hartley-by-the-Sea.

Although, actually, Claire wasn't the waltzing type. Mincing, perhaps. Or maybe tiptoeing. But the fact remained she was here, and it made a lot of old, hard memories resurface. Memories that didn't directly have to do with Claire, but hurt all the same. The loneliness and isolation and pure desperation of the years after her mother's accident. The struggle to hold on to her dreams, and then watching them all scatter.

But she wasn't going to think about any of that tonight. She was going to flirt and drink wine and maybe even win the pub quiz for once.

“What are you smiling about?”

Rachel met Meghan's speculative gaze in the mirror. “Nothing.”

“You seem in a good mood,” Meghan remarked, and came to sit down on the edge of Rachel's bed, bouncing lightly on the mattress. “And you're wearing a tight sweater that shows off your boobs. Who's that for?”

Rachel pressed her lips together and concentrated on her mascara. “I like to look nice,” she said. “And I'm in a good mood because I'm going out for a change.”

“For a change? You go out every Thursday.”

“Can we not do this, Meghan?”

“Do what?”

Rachel slipped the mascara wand back into the tube with more force than needed and was rewarded with a smear of black across her fingers. “This. This bickering. I'm not in the mood.”

“You call this bickering? Clearly you don't remember our childhood.”

“Actually, I do. I remember you being monumentally lazy, eating crisps and watching telly while I did all the bloody work. Oh, wait. Nothing's changed.”

Her sister simply raised her eyebrows and gave her a gratingly familiar catlike smile. “Ouch. That's harsh, even for you.”

“Sorry,” Rachel muttered. “I'm just . . . tense.”

“Why?”

Rachel knew she couldn't tell Meghan about Claire. She couldn't even articulate it to herself, and in any case, she and Meghan never talked about that time. They'd both drawn a line across it, kept their heads down and soldiered on. “Where's Nathan?” she asked as she grabbed a tissue and scrubbed at her fingers.

“I put him to bed early. He was tired from playgroup.”

Meghan and Nathan shared the biggest bedroom in their three-bedroom terraced house. Lily had had the little box room, but a year ago Rachel had taken it and given Lily the other double, so she had room for a desk. Now Rachel squeezed past Meghan and reached for her coat. With her bed and bureau crammed in the six-by-six space, there was barely room to breathe. There certainly wasn't room for both her and Meghan to be in there comfortably. Sharing the same house was bad enough.

“I need to go,” she said pointedly. “I don't want to be late.”

“Have fun,” Meghan trilled.

“Make sure Lily does her homework.”

“You doubt me?”

“Don't forget to check on Mum, either.” When it came to Meghan, Rachel couldn't help but give instructions. She'd been bossing her sister around since she was twelve and Meghan was eight, when she'd stepped up and taken over from their mother, while Meghan had come home late from school and hidden in her room and their father had done his best to find work.

“I
will
, Rachel,” Meghan answered, and for once she actually sounded impatient rather than breezy.

Rachel hesitated, caught between wanting to escape and needing to stay, to make sure everything was under control. Finally she relented. “Okay, then,” she said. “Thanks.”

She was at the front door when she heard her mother call from her bedroom.

“Rachel? Love?”

Slowly Rachel turned around and cracked open the door to the dining room; her father had turned it into a bedroom for her mother more than ten years ago, when stairs had become too difficult for her to manage on a regular basis.

“Hey, Mum.” Rachel stood in the doorway, trying not to breathe in the stale smell of sickness and cigarette smoke that permeated the
air. Her mother had refused to quit her pack-a-day habit despite the doctor's repeated urgings. She claimed it was one of the few comforts left her, which Rachel could reluctantly understand.

Now Janice Campbell sat propped up in bed, a couple of pillows behind her back, her face puffy from prescription pills and gray with pain. “Sweetheart,” she said, and sank back into the pillows with a wheezy sigh.

They stared at each other for a moment, both of them helpless in their silence, because what was there to say? Janice never left the house. Rachel didn't do anything but work. They'd never had much in common to begin with; Rachel had been a determined Daddy's girl ever since she was small, wearing dungarees and a flat cap, avidly watching her dad work a lathe.

Joss Campbell had been a carpenter by trade, although he'd never been employed regularly. He'd supplemented his income with stints on the dole and shifts at various restaurants and shops. When he'd been younger he'd wanted to study architecture, but he'd told Rachel university hadn't been for the likes of him. He'd promised it would be for her. Too bad he'd reneged on that one, along with a dozen others. Like in sickness and in health.

To make up for the silence now, Rachel busied herself as she always did. She plumped her mother's pillows and then poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, which Janice probably wouldn't drink. She rearranged the bottles of prescription painkillers her mother had been on for fifteen years and aligned the box of tissues so the bottles and box made a right angle. Finally, having run out of ways to look and feel useful, she stepped back.

“You're going out?” Janice asked, wheezing, and Rachel nodded.

“It's Thursday. Pub quiz.”

“Right.” Rachel shifted where she stood and then glanced down at her top; maybe it really was too clingy. “You look nice, love.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

Her mother gave a grimace that Rachel suspected was meant to be a playful smile. “You wearing that for someone special?”

“No. I just wanted to look nice.” Rachel pulled at her sweater and then took a step towards the door. “Sorry. I should go. I don't want to be late.”

“Of course, love. You have a good time. I know how hard you work.” Janice plucked at the bedcover with plump fingers. “Everything's all right, isn't it, Rach?” she asked.

Rachel tensed, one hand on the doorknob. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“It's only that you've seemed a bit distracted these last few days.”

“Distracted? Not really.” She managed a smile. “Not more than usual.”

“Okay, then.” Janice smiled, and suppressing the uncomfortable pang of guilt she always felt at leaving her mother stranded in her bed, Rachel left the room.

Outside the sun was just starting to set, and Rachel could feel a gathering chill in the air. She dug her hands into the pockets of her coat and hurried down the street towards the Hangman's Noose.

As soon as she entered the pub, the warmth and noise fell over her like a comforting blanket. She smiled and nodded to several people already clustered around the small tables and shouldered her way to the long bar of scarred oak, propping her elbows on its surface as she gazed up at Rob Telford.

He was pulling pints with practiced ease, and his gaze flicked to Rachel's sweater for a millisecond before returning to her face. “What can I get you, Rach?”

“Don't you know my order yet?” Rachel answered with a flirty smile, and she saw surprise flicker in his eyes. She didn't usually flirt with Rob, or with anyone, and her question had probably come out a bit aggressively. She was definitely out of practice with this kind of thing. Then Rob gave a slow smile in response. Maybe she could do this, after all. Rob wasn't a bad-looking bloke, with dark hair and a slightly gap-toothed smile. He'd been a tearaway in school, but he'd settled down since taking over the pub.

“Lucy's already ordered your table a bottle of red,” he said as he pushed two foaming pints of ale across the bar to a stony-faced sheep farmer in a flat cap and mud-splattered dungarees. “You're late.”

“Not that late.” Rachel glanced towards the table in the corner that had always belonged to her team. She, Juliet and Lucy Bagshaw, and Abby Rhodes from the beach café had been coming every Thursday for the quiz for nearly six months now. They hadn't won yet, but they'd come close. And more importantly, they'd all had a laugh.

She could see Lucy's cloud of frizzy hair above the crowds, and as she caught sight of Rachel, Lucy waved enthusiastically, gesturing to the bottle of wine already on the table.

“Looks like you've got an extra at your table tonight,” Rob remarked.

“An extra?”

He nodded towards the table in the corner. “Lucy's one for picking up strays, isn't she? Although that was your brief, back in school.”

Rachel stiffened. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Rob pulled another pint. “Claire West,” he said, and feeling as if she'd swallowed a stone, Rachel turned back to look at the table in the corner and saw what she'd missed before: Claire West seated next to Lucy.