Runaway Wife (4 page)

“Yes, actually, I do. I don’t like boys,” Maddie told her, not that Jenny heard her as she bustled off, already intent on her mission.

As a result, Rose, who after more than a decade of marriage to a doctor, had become accustomed to wearing nice
skirts, sensible tops, always dresses and never trousers, found herself sporting a pair of low-rise jeans with a rip at the knee, jeans that would have exposed the lower half of her stomach if she had not managed to find a longish black T-shirt to cover it, one with a slash neck that sloped off one shoulder. Rose wasn’t old—she was only thirty-one—and she knew plenty of women of around her age who dressed like Haleigh obviously did and didn’t give it a second thought. And she knew some—for example, her friend Shona—who dressed like a fifteen-year-old with questionable morals.

Rose had always been conservative, though, at least since she stopped being simply Rose and started being a wife, not long after her eighteenth birthday. Richard was always very insistent that she should take care not to attract the wrong sort of attention, telling her that as his wife she had a certain standing in the community, that there would be certain expectations. And Rose, whose teenage years had been chaotic and confusing, had been not only happy, but grateful to comply. Marrying Richard had been like stepping out of the glaring heat into a deep cool pool of calm. Rose didn’t even own a pair of jeans, let alone hipster ones, and it came as quite a shock to her to find that unless she was completely delusional—which, considering where she was and why, was entirely possible—nineteen-year-old Haleigh’s clothes rather suited her.

Sweeping her long, smooth curtain of hair over one shoulder, Rose turned round to find Maddie on the bed regarding her, clearly not entirely satisfied with the boy’s jeans that she had been given but somewhat mollified by a very tiny pink Las Vegas T-shirt that Rose had found in the pile of Haleigh’s clothes. On Haleigh the skimpy article surely had to reveal more than was appropriate, but on Maddie it came to just above her knees and had just enough glitter on it to make the
boy’s jeans bearable. As soon as she had her bearings she’d find the nearest town and buy them some more clothes, other than the few bits of underwear she’d managed to scoop up under her arm as they left, but for now these hand-me-downs would have to do.

“What do you think?” Rose asked her, smiling, smoothing the T-shirt down over her slender hips. Maddie looked thoughtful.

“Daddy wouldn’t like it,” she said.

“No, I know.” Rose turned back to the mirror, pulling at the neck until both of her shoulders were covered, if only briefly. “But Daddy’s not here.”

“Mummy?” Rose met her daughter’s eyes in the reflection. “Does Daddy still like me?”

Biting her lip, Rose swirled to engulf Maddie in a hug that the child instinctively resisted, her body tensing, just as it always did when anyone touched her.

“Of course he likes you. He loves you, darling,” Rose told her, kissing Maddie’s screwed-up face. “You’re the apple of his eye, you know that.”

“I don’t think I do,” Maddie said. “Why would anyone want an apple in their eye? It would hurt.”

“What I mean is, whatever has happened between Daddy and me, it’s not to do with you. It’s not because of you. Daddy loves you.”

Maddie turned her face from Rose, her lips pressed together in a thin pale line. It was clear that she found it hard to reconcile what she’d witnessed, what had happened, with Rose’s version of events, and Rose had no idea how to fix that, only that she was certain she didn’t want Maddie to blame herself.

“He didn’t act like it, did he, though?” Maddie said.
“Before . . . when . . . and when we got in the car and came here. He was very, very angry.”

“I know,” Rose said, stroking Maddie’s heavy fringe back from her face. “But that wasn’t because of you, it was me. It was because of something
I
had done.”

“What did you do?” Maddie asked her.

“It’s not important,” Rose said. “All that is important is that you remember that Daddy loves
you
.”

“Do we . . . will we have to go back? If we don’t go back, Daddy will be cross again,” Maddie persisted.

Rose considered another lie, but only for a moment. “I don’t want to see Daddy for a while.”

“What shall we do instead?” Maddie asked, her voice ragged with anxiety. “I want to see him. This Saturday we are supposed to go swimming at two forty-five. And on Sunday we have lunch at one o’clock. Chicken and potatoes, and I always have the breast with no skin. The last time I saw Daddy, he was angry. What if he’s still angry?”

“I know, darling, I know,” Rose said, watching Maddie’s taut expression. “Well, you and I can go swimming somewhere near here, I’m sure. And we’ll go to a pub for lunch. They are bound to have chicken. I’ll take the skin off for you.”

“But that isn’t what we do!” Maddie protested anxiously. “We go swimming at home and you cook chicken. You know how I like it, without the gravy touching.”

“Maddie, listen,” Rose said gently, crouching down next to her frightened daughter, keeping her hands carefully folded to her own body so as not to panic her further. “Just for now things will be a little bit different. But it will be OK, you’ll see. I’ll protect you. I know it’s hard, I know you don’t like things to be different. But trust me, I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“That’s what Daddy said,” Maddie muttered. “He lied.”

“I’ve been thinking.” Jenny appeared at the door without any warning and beckoned to Maddie. Rose wondered irritatedly how long she had been standing outside. “You are right, madam, what
is
the point of a doll’s house that no one plays with? My great-grandfather made it, you know, in his spare time for his daughters. I used to play and play with it when I was a girl, but other than Haleigh my lot never showed any interest, so I had my Brian make me a display case for it so that I didn’t have to dust it every day. Would you like to play with it this morning, while Mummy is out and about? I can open it up just for you.”

“Thank you but—” Rose was about to explain to Jenny that Maddie did not like to be left with strangers, but her daughter cut across her.

“Yes, thank you, I would,” she said, the model of good manners.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Rose asked her a little warily.

“Yes,” Maddie said confidently. “I really like miniature things, don’t I, Mummy? And I would like to do something that isn’t thinking about home.”

“Are you sure?” Rose asked Jenny. “I mean, babysitting’s outside your remit, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Jenny said, making it clear how very kind she was being, before her expression softened a little. “But, well, I haven’t seen my grandsons for getting on for a year. Haleigh’s on the other side of the world and can’t even be bothered to email. And I don’t know what is going on with you two, but I don’t like to see a child look as lost as that one. It’ll be nice for me to spend a bit of time with a little ’un. And when you get back, you can tell me all about how it went and when you are going to see your dad and what you are going to say to him.”

Rose smiled. She found Jenny’s motivation of sheer nosiness much easier to accept than her sudden gesture of kindness, although she had to concede Jenny
was
being kind, and she obviously did worry about Maddie, caught in the middle of some drama she could only guess at.

“I will be fine, Mummy, with the miniature things,” Maddie assured her. “I don’t want to go. I’m not sure I will like it.”

“Well, OK,” Rose said, wondering if she would ever understand her daughter. “I will just be down the road. If you need me you can call me . . .” Rose thought of her mobile phone, which lay dormant in her pocket. She really had no desire to switch it back on, to see the number of calls from Richard that she had missed, listen to his messages, or read his texts. He would be angry with her, that much was a given, and everything that had happened to drive her out of the door, that would be her fault, he’d be adamant about that. The trouble was, Rose thought, there was a good chance he might be right.

“Love,” Jenny said, brushing her concerns away, “the pub’s five minutes down the road. If I need you, I’ll phone Ted and he can give you a shout.”

“Ted?” Rose had visions of some ancient local who was permanently situated in the corner of the bar, slowly sipping a pint of real ale and stuffing his pipe.

“My middle one. He’s a live-in barman over there—not a proper job, but he likes it. Keeps him in beer money while he works on being a rock star. One day he’ll grow up and realize life isn’t about having fun, although God knows his father never has.”

“Ted.” Rose smiled. “I’ll look out for him.”

“Oh, you won’t have to,” Jenny said, pursing her lips and looking Rose up and down in her new get-up. “He’ll find you like a shot.”

•  •  •

The Bull was quiet when Rose pushed her way in through the door. A traditional pub with flagstone flooring, ancient-looking furnishings, and walls still stained with nicotine, it was almost empty at midday except for a couple of hikers and an old lady sitting in the corner sipping beer from a bottle. Just as Jenny had told her, another reproduction of John Jacobs’s painting of Millthwaite hung over the impressive stone mantelpiece that surrounded a cold grate, and a young man, possibly Ted, was leaning over the bar, examining a magazine.

“Ted?” Rose approached the bar, smiling uncertainly.

Ted looked up, grinning wickedly. “Rose! I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”

“How did you . . . ?”

“Mum texted me that you were on your way,” he told her warmly. “I’m to try and listen in on your conversation and find out what you want with Albie. Don’t worry, I don’t care what you’re doing here, unless you are planning to ask me out for a drink, in which case the answer is yes, day after tomorrow is my night off, although I am gigging, but you can come and be my groupie.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rose half spluttered, half laughed, uncertain if he was teasing her or not.

“Sorry,” Ted said, smiling ruefully. “I was trying to be funny. I do play in a band, though, that much is true. And there’s a live music night on. If you’ve got nothing on you should come down and check me out. Once a girl’s seen me sing, she’s powerless to resist my charms.”

Rose blinked at him.

“Trying to be funny again,” Ted said. “And failing again.”

Ted was indeed quite charming to look at. In his early twenties and brimming with confidence, he had Jenny’s coppery brown hair, which he wore with a long fringe that
flopped into his brown eyes, and a swagger that he shouldered as confidently as his pristine white shirt, which was unbuttoned down to at least the middle of his chest.

“Well, as I am very far from being a girl, I think I’ll turn down your invite, as friendly as it was,” Rose said, unable to hide her amusement. “And you are quite funny, although probably not in the way that you intended.”

“Ouch!” Ted grinned, holding his hands over his heart. “OK, I can take rejection. For now. But for the record, you look like a girl to me, Rose. So, you want to see Albie, right?”

“Yes, please,” Rose said, her heart rate picking up as she looked around her. Unconsciously her fingers closed around the phone in her jeans pocket. Richard might be trying to phone her now; he might be trying to find out where she’d gone, if she’d told anyone. He’d be so angry, so frustrated that she wasn’t within his reach, so furious that he’d lost control of the situation, and of her. And, oddly, it gave Rose a sense of real discomfort knowing that she was somewhere in the world where Richard could not reach her. He’d been there every day of her life since she was eighteen years old. And yet now here she was, standing in this pub, hundreds of miles away from her husband, hoping to make contact with the only man she had ever met in her life, albeit fleetingly, who’d made her feel . . . so much.

“Nice to meet you, Rose.” Albie, who was an athletic-looking man in his late middle age, and not at all what Rose expected from a village landlord, extended his hand across the bar.

“Did Jenny text you too?” Rose smiled, taking his hand.

“She’s not been this excited since Mrs. Harkness’s au pair got knocked up by Mr. Harkness,” Albie told her with a wry smile. “Poor old Jenny, she lives for news in a place where almost nothing ever happens.”

“Except to you,” Rose said. “An art dealer walks in off the street and gives you ten thousand pounds?”

“Well, he didn’t give it to me. He got my painting in return, which was worth a lot more than ten grand.”

“Were you upset,” Rose asked him, “when you heard how much he sold it for?”

Albie shook his head, “Frasier—that’s the dealer—called me up when it sold. Gave me another five, a finder’s fee. He offered, I never asked for it. And I thought, well, you can’t say fairer than that, can you?”

Rose’s heart leapt at the sound of Frasier’s name so casually dropped into the conversation. She attempted to collect herself.

“No . . . so do you have his number, Frasier’s? His contact details, I mean.”

“I do.” Albie nodded, crossing his arms.

“Well, she wants you to give it her, you old fool,” Ted said, rolling his eyes at Rose.

“Oh, right, of course. Wait there a minute, love.”

Albie had to duck to make it under the low threshold that led to whatever room lay beyond the bar.

“So what’s this Frasier got that I haven’t?” Ted said casually, leaning a little closer to Rose. “You know, apart from tons of money and a flash car. Oh, and hair that looks like it gets done in a salon, darling.”

“You know him?” Rose asked, intrigued.

“He comes in,” Ted said with a shrug. “Listen, I’ve seen him and I’ve seen me, and I’m thinking if you want a holiday romance, then I’m your best bet. I’m younger, I’ve got more stamina, you see.”

“You’re hilarious.” Rose laughed, finding it easy to warm to the young man who seemed intent on mischief, his eyes dancing with suppressed laughter. “Life around here must be
very dull if you have to throw yourself at old ladies like me. Or is that how you get extra tips?”