Paradise Fields (24 page)

‘You see,' she finished, ‘we really needed the meadows, to raise funds year after year. We need the river frontage too, so we can get the children onto the boat.'

Abraham didn't quite tap the side of his nose and nod, but nearly. ‘You leave it to me,' he said. ‘Don't forget in my proposal the kids can still get down to the river.' He finished his tea with a practised slurp. ‘But you check the deeds of the hospice and find out exactly who controls what. And, if I may suggest, see who stands to gain from what.'

Nel set off in the direction of the ice-cream maker, thinking hard about what Abraham had said about the deeds. She'd spent long enough in his company to be confident that he was an honest man, and his offer to re-roof the hospice told her that his heart was definitely in the right place. Of course he stood to make money out of it, but making money wasn't actually a sin. Making money out of disadvantaged people definitely was: old people, or children with life-threatening illnesses.

She changed her mind about the ice cream. She turned her car in a field gateway and went back towards town. She wanted to do what she had done
so much of when she first came to live here: she headed for the hospice.

She was lucky, a small boy wanted to be read to, and so Nel had an excuse to make herself and him comfy on the flop cushions, a pile of books beside them. Being with children always put life in perspective, because you couldn't pretend with children, you just had to be yourself. Nor did you have to wonder about their motivation. If they wanted a story, they wanted a story, and Nel was only too happy to oblige. When her own children were little, she would quite often find that they had fallen asleep while they were being read to, but she'd carry on and finish the story anyway. There was very little scope for doing different voices in adult fiction.

When the little boy got bored with having
The Cat in the Hat
acted out for him, and went off to do something else, Nel heaved herself to her feet and went into the office.

‘Karen,' she said, trying to sound like her usual, casual self, and actually feeling like a spy, ‘I don't suppose I could have a look at the deeds, could I? There's something I want to check up on about this building plan.' It was all perfectly true, but it felt like a tarradiddle.

‘I don't think they're here actually, Nel,' said Karen, opening the filing cabinet and rummaging through folders. ‘I think Christopher's got them. He took them home to check up on them himself.'

‘Oh well, I expect he's had the same thoughts as I had. This alternative building idea could be really good for us.'

‘Why don't you go and see him at home? He'll
probably have the deeds handy, as he only took them a couple of days ago.' Karen laughed. ‘He might be playing golf, of course. He's been really keen on it lately. Would you like me to ring him now, and see if he's there?'

‘No, don't bother. I'll just call on the off chance. I can ring him later to make an appointment if he's not there.'

Christopher Mowbray was there, but the deeds weren't. Nel was not surprised, not now, when she was almost certain he was up to something. He probably had had a copy for ages, and had just taken the ones in the hospice so no one could examine them. ‘Oh no,' explained Chris, unusually affable. ‘I lent them to a friend. He's into local history and wanted to see them.' Nel could hardly object. The deeds weren't her responsibility, and they would probably be of interest to local historians. ‘Why don't you come into the sitting room and have a sherry?'

‘That would be lovely,' she said.

Christopher Mowbray's sitting room was, Nel couldn't help noticing, the epitome of a new house: what she'd been expecting from Abraham, the builder, and not found. It had the diamond-pane secondary glazing, the fireplace made out of reconstituted Cotswold stone, the nooks filled with Capodimonte figurines. It also had a sound system which took up an entire wall, but no books. It smelt of some toxic chemical that made it feel very clean but somehow institutional. Nel remembered he was divorced and wondered if she was wise to have sat on the sofa where he could sit next to her.

Rather than reveal her own concerns, the moment she
had the Tío Pepe in her hand, Nel said, ‘So, tell me, what are your thoughts about the building on the meadowland? You do agree that getting Abraham to do it would be the best thing for the hospice?'

He sat down beside her, making the leather seat sag, so she inevitably slid towards him. ‘Actually, Nel, I have to disagree. I don't think Abraham – is that his surname or his Christian name, by the way?'

‘I don't know. Everyone just calls him Abraham.'

‘Whatever. But I don't think Abraham's going to be able to come up with a plan that is remotely attractive to the Hunstantons. He's an old man. He's not into all the new technology. No, I think Gideon Freebody's plans are the ones the hospice should back.'

‘But why, when Abraham thinks he might be able to keep river access for us? I know we'll still be losing the fields, but being able to get to the boat would be better than nothing. Would that mean that the hospice would be safe?'

Chris Mowbray shook his head and Nel took a sip of sherry, which she didn't like very much, and shifted away from him a little. She hated the space between her and another person being wrong, either too far or too near. Christopher Mowbray was definitely too near. ‘Small beer, I'm afraid. It would be much better for the hospice to support the bigger plan.'

‘But why?'

Nel edged away some more. She wasn't in the habit of thinking of herself as the sort of woman men made passes at, but even she couldn't misinterpret the signals she was getting now.

‘I'm afraid, Nel' – he put his hand on her knee. She could imagine it leaving a greasy stain on her trousers
– ‘there are some things I'm not at liberty to tell you. But take it from me, Gideon Freebody's are the ones.'

‘This sounds very suspicious, Christopher!' Nel laughed, not remotely amused.

‘I know it must sound like that, but really, it's for the hospice.' He leant forward confidentially and she realised he had bad breath. ‘We might get a brand-new hospice building out of it. What would you say about that?'

On the face of it, it was very hard not to be thrilled with the notion, but Nel mistrusted it with every cell in her body. She knew now that Viv had been right, twice. ‘Well, of course, it could be brilliant. You'd have to take it to the committee. My concern would be what would happen to the hospice while the new one is being built. And should we be making decisions like this while we're without a director? Surely the new person should have a say in such a major change.'

‘Oh, don't worry about that, Nel. I'm sure we could sort something out. And I think it would be easier to get a new director if we had a new building.'

Internally, Nel groaned. She took another sip of sherry. ‘Do you think so? Well—'

With perfect timing, the telephone rang, giving Nel precious moments to think of what to say, and how to get herself out of there without causing offence. While he might be extremely offensive to her, Nel couldn't afford to offend him back.

Christopher had turned his back to her and was speaking softly into the receiver. ‘How nice to hear from you. Dinner? When? That would be lovely. Tell me, is – your husband there? I'd like to set up a date for some golf.'

Christopher might have been talking quietly, but his interlocutor certainly wasn't. The tones were muffled, certainly, but obviously female – and American. Kerry Anne?

By the time Christopher Mowbray was off the phone, Nel had escaped from the slippery clutches of the sofa and was on her feet, on target for the door.

‘
IT'S NO GOOD.
I'll have to cancel. I've got a spot.' Nel had been thinking all day of excuses why she couldn't go out with Jake. She had been driving all over the county researching potential stallholders, almost praying to break down in the Forest of Dean.

‘Put some toothpaste on it and cover it up with make-up,' said Fleur, quite brutally, Nel thought.

‘Really? Does that work?'

‘It's supposed to. I read—'

‘No, don't tell me, you read it in a magazine.' Nel peered into the mirror. ‘Do you ever read anything except magazines?'

‘Only on aeroplanes and the beach. Oh, and school stuff. It's not like you to get spots, Mum.'

‘It's my hormones. I must be due for my period, which is a pain but I suppose at least it means I'm not pregnant.' The word was out of her mouth before she knew she was thinking it. Oh God, I'm no good at this! You obviously have to practise to be a scarlet woman on the sly.

‘Mum!' Fleur was horrified and amused. ‘How could you possibly be pregnant? Unless you've slept with Simon and not told us.'

‘It's just an expression,' Nel said, blushing so hard her spot disappeared. ‘A habit, sort of. I mean, aren't
you always relieved when your period comes?'

‘Not really.' Fleur investigated an old mascara stick. ‘I'm on the pill. I know I'm not pregnant.'

Fleur's calmness should have been a relief to Nel, but instead, it seemed to point up her own panic. For although she had taken the morning-after pill, she wouldn't be sure it had worked until nature confirmed it. ‘And I'm a celibate old bat, so I know I'm not too!' said Nel. ‘But I've still got a bloody great spot on my chin,' she added, to deflect the subject a little.

‘It's a tiny spot and I'll lend you my concealer. Put it on after the toothpaste. Now I must go and get ready myself. I'm meeting Jamie at the station.'

‘You're sure you don't want me to pick him up? I don't mind being late, or even cancelling.'

‘If you cancel, Mother, I will never speak to you again! And no, we'll walk up, or take a taxi. It's a shame he's getting down here so late.'

‘Well, at least it means you can check that I look all right. And you really look. The boys just say I look lovely without their eyes ever leaving the television screen. Mind you, your father used to do that, too. Except when he'd ask me if I was wearing whatever it was I had on when it was too late to change.'

‘Sometimes you make Dad sound less than perfect.' Fleur sounded a little indignant.

Nel laughed. ‘Sweetheart! You don't fall in love with people because they're perfect! One of the signs is that you can see all their faults, perfectly well, and yet you still think they're the best thing ever.'

‘Are you in love with Simon?'

Nel sighed. ‘Probably not. But I am very fond of him.'

‘You never get in such a state getting ready to go out with him.'

‘That's because we were just friends for ages. He'd seen me looking terrible before we were an item.'

‘Did you tell him you were going out with Jake tonight?'

‘Sort of.' She had told Simon she had arranged a meeting with the solicitor to discuss the plans. She hadn't told him the exact circumstances. In his turn, he had told her he'd seen said solicitor in a restaurant with Kerry Anne. While it could have been perfectly innocent, the thought was like having a stone in one's shoe. No matter how often you tried to shake your foot, the stone was always painfully digging in.

‘What do you mean you sort of told him you were going out with Jake?'

‘I thought you had to go and get ready. You still have to decide exactly which pair of black trousers you are going to wear with which little strappy top.'

‘Huh! You're as bad! Your bedroom looks like a jumble sale! Clothes all over the bed! Although I do think you look nice. Those trousers are very flattering and the jacket is heaven.'

Nel hugged her daughter, wishing for a moment Fleur was still a little girl, and she was still a mother who thought only of her children. She was still a mother of course, nothing could alter that, but her thoughts had strayed somewhat.

‘It took me ages to get the dog hairs off it. But thank you for liking it.'

‘Any time. Can I borrow your eye-shadow?'

Jake arrived to collect her fifteen minutes late. Nel was just beginning to think she could relax in front of the television, and then pounce on Fleur and Jamie when they arrived, when the doorbell rang.

‘I'm so sorry I'm late. I got held up in traffic. It's hell on the M4 on a Friday night.' He kissed her cheek. ‘You look stunning.'

‘You mean you drove down from London to go out with me?' Nel was blushing, both from his compliment and the fact that his kiss, chaste as it was, had made her heart pound. ‘You should have cancelled and stayed in town. The traffic wouldn't be so bad tomorrow.'

‘But I didn't want to cancel. If we took a rain check, God knows when I would have got you to agree to go out with me. It was hard enough this time. Shall we go?' Jake was, by this time, stroking all three dogs simultaneously.

‘I'll just get my coat.' Nel felt like a girl on her first date. She wished she'd had a glass of wine or something first, to settle her nerves. When Fleur had suggested it, Nel had felt she needed a clear head. Also, when she was nervous, wine tended to turn her face rather red.

‘Goodbye, girls,' said Jake solemnly. ‘I'll look after your mistress for you.'

The word mistress made Nel flinch, but she trusted Jake wouldn't have noticed. He took her arm and ushered her to his car and opened the door. While she was sitting waiting for him to go round and get in his side, she reminded herself of what Catherine had said. He'd been responsible for turning old people onto the street; she mustn't trust him.

The car smelt of leather and his aftershave. It had a dashboard with enough instruments for an aeroplane. It was heavy, and shiny, with a walnut fascia, and was quite unlike the cars Nel was used to. It could have been bought with money made out of turning those old people onto the street, she thought, and then reminded herself that that was only gossip. But he's still a smooth operator, her lecture went on, you may not be a girl any more, but you're still from the country, and terribly naïve. You're not equipped to go out with slick men from the city, who can seduce a woman just by touching her arm. Guilt flooded over her. What was she doing, going out with Jake, when she was more or less committed to Simon?