Simply Heaven (49 page)

‘Mmm,’ says Rufus. I know what he’s thinking:
Oh God, maybe Mummy was right and I’ve got myself mixed up with a crazy wife. Maybe she was right: I don’t know anything about her, really. Perhaps I’ve married the first Mrs Rochester
…

I hit another wall of grief.
Maybe if I’d been better, if I’d been a better person, then Andy would still be alive and we’d be living out our anonymous lives somewhere by the sea, and I’d never have known that Rufus existed
.

‘It’s true, Rufus,’ I say, hopelessly.

He’s formulating words. Turns the corner on to the Bourton village road and says: ‘Darling, it’s not that I don’t believe you …’

‘But,’ I say.

His lips form a miserable little grimace that confirms my remark, that he tries to hide from me by turning his head slightly away. And eventually: ‘Well, darling, are you
sure
you’re feeling OK?’

‘You know I’m not. I’ve told you. It’s hardly something I’ve tried to hide. But Rufus, that doesn’t mean I’m not the full quid.’

‘Oh God, no, darling, I never said that. Did I? I’d never think it, either, but I …’ He’s having real trouble working out what to say.

As the grief subsides, I am hit instead by a wave of resentment. Damnit, Rufus. You’re meant to be on my side, remember?

‘Darling, are you sure you don’t want to … maybe talk to someone?’

‘No! No, I don’t! Why would I? Are you trying to say there’s something wrong with me?’

‘I’d – sweetheart,’ he picks his words with the care of a libel lawyer. I feel sick again. Sick and afraid, ‘you’re so unhappy, and I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like I’ve hardly been able to reach you at all in the last few weeks. It’s like you’ve … gone inside somewhere and put up a wall to stop me getting in. I don’t know what to do, and it’s breaking my heart.’

My eyes fill with tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m so, so sorry. Rufus, I don’t mean to. I – I’ve got so much to work out, and, feeling weird as well, I just …’

I can’t speak any more. Hang my head down and let the tears slide down my face. How did it go so wrong? What is happening to me?

Rufus pulls the car over at the top of the drive. Pulls on the parking brake.

‘I know,’ he says. ‘That’s why I’m wondering … you know … if it would be helpful …’

‘Rufus, the car was
gone
. I’m not making it up.’

Again the resentment.
Believe me, damnit. This is
me
you’re talking to
.

He sighs. Takes my hand, but not as my lover: more the way I’ve sometimes seen him take his grandmother’s. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want us to fall apart like this. ‘I believe you,’ he says, and for a moment my heart leaps. ‘But, Melody, you must see … there’s something missing. A link somewhere.’

‘Maybe,’ I start, then think: no, Mel, don’t start talking about someone moving it. Don’t add paranoia to the list of your eccentricities. ‘Maybe it was one of those negative hallucinations. That you read about sometimes.’

He is kind in his response. I don’t think he’s humouring me: more that he’s grasping at straws himself. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘You
have
been very tired.’

‘I don’t sleep much.’

‘I know.’

I drop my face into my hands. ‘Please, Rufus. Just give me a chance, eh? I don’t – please. I’m not ready for the funny farm just yet.’

Thank God, he reaches out and folds me in his arms. ‘I never said that. Oh, darling.’

I realise that his face is wet as well.

‘I’ll do better,’ he promises. ‘I’ve been useless to you. I know, darling. I should be supporting you, and all I do is … I’m so wrapped up in the problems here. I’m so sorry. I swear I’ll do better. I love you so much.’

We stay there, huddled together like refugee children, at the top of the drive, till the surveyor’s car pulls in behind us.

The bedroom door opens. Mary, and Edmund, and some guy I don’t recognise. He looks a bit like Patrick Macnee, post
Avengers
. Sort of smooth and slightly pleased with himself; the sort of guy who’ll flirt with the lay-deez and privately think them all fools for letting him do it. I don’t like him: on sight, I don’t like him. Don’t trust him. Pull the bedclothes up to my chin.

Rufus looks up. ‘Oh, thanks, Anthony. I’m so sorry to drag you away.’

‘No trouble at all, dear boy. I was only downstairs, after all.’

I look at their faces. Unreadable. What’s he done? Who is this guy? ‘What is this?’ I ask suspiciously.

Mary employs her most sugary voice. ‘Melody, dear, Anthony is a doctor.’

‘What?’

‘And old family friend,’ adds Anthony in the sort of studied Bedside Manner tones that give me the heebie-jeebies.

A chill down my spine. He’s not believed me. He’s pretended to, to get me back here, and all this time …

‘I don’t need a doctor.’

He gives me a white coat smile and advances on the bed. ‘Your parents thought it might help if you spoke to me,’ he says.

‘They’re not my parents.’

‘Just a figure of speech, dear girl.’

Don’t you
dare
Dear Girl me. I glare at Rufus. ‘And you’re in on this as well?’

Rufus gives a hopeless shrug. Looks down at the bedcover.

‘Collecting your pieces of silver later, then?’

Rufus looks away, but not before I catch his stricken expression. But you know what? I don’t care. He’s betrayed me. Talked out of school. He’s a Judas and he needs to know it.

The doctor is already taking my pulse. Gives me an arch, knowing little smile that makes me want to punch him. ‘So what happened this morning, Melody?’

I think fast. I’m on a bit of a cleft stick here. If I refuse to talk to this man, it will only be racked up against me in the future.

‘OK. I’ll talk to you. But if this is going to be a consultation I don’t want to have it in public.’

Mary and Edmund shift.

‘I’m serious,’ I say.

‘Fair enough,’ says Anthony.

‘We’ll be just outside,’ says Mary indulgently.

‘I’ll bet,’ I say aggressively.

They leave.

I look at Rufus.

‘What, me too?’

‘Yes, Judas, you too.’

He has the grace to look abashed. Almost says something, changes his mind. ‘I’ll be outside too.’

I don’t even look at him as he leaves the room, I feel so betrayed.

The door closes. Anthony gives me a soothing smile. ‘So,’ he begins, ‘how
are
you?’

I’m pretty snappish with him. ‘First things first,’ I say. ‘If I’m going to have a consultation with you, I might as well at least know your surname.’

‘Certainly,’ he says calmly. ‘It’s McFarland.’

‘And you’re a doctor specialising in what, precisely?’

‘Oh, just a GP. I have Mrs Wattestone under my care.’

‘Right. So they’ve got Beatrice’s tame quack in to get me carted off to the bin, then.’

He finishes with my wrist. ‘Oh, I’d say that was probably a little extreme.’

‘Still. Gathering data, no doubt.’ Even as I say it, I realise that I probably sound disturbingly paranoid. It’s the sort of thing the Princess of Wales used to put in letters to her butlers. ‘Look, I’m OK,’ I say palliatively.

‘But you’ve had … an incident?’ It’s a pointed question.

‘I wouldn’t say it qualified as an “incident”.’

‘And how long,’ he continues as if I’d never spoken, ‘have you been having these experiences?’

‘I what?’

That’s a bit like that old ‘have you stopped beating your wife’ question. The question itself establishes the supposition as fact, and any denials are just going to sound like attempts at evasion.

I try anyway. ‘Never. Until I came to this house.’

‘Interesting. So you feel it has something to do with the house, then?’

‘No. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t related to some of the people in it.’

Oh, boy. This isn’t going my way. I can see him assuming all sorts.

‘Really?’ is all he says.

I heave a sigh. ‘Don’t try hoary old therapy tricks on me. Listen: I know perfectly well that there are people here who don’t want
me
to be here, and I wouldn’t put much past them.’

I have to stop. I have to stop now. I’m digging my own grave faster than David Blaine. I sound like a raving lunatic, of course I do. As long as you’ve already been primed to think that I probably am one.

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t. You don’t see at all. You
think
you see, but you don’t.’

I can see he’s gearing up to asking me if I play with my faeces.

‘Look, it’s pretty easy to make someone look as though they’re unbalanced,’ I say. ‘Seriously. All it takes is a few words in the right ear and a couple of stage-managed incidents.’

‘Ah. There have been incidents?’

‘Yes. Yes there have.’

‘Would you like to tell me about them?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘I see. And how am I supposed to judge if you won’t tell me?’

I think about that one. ‘OK,’ I say. And I tell him about the missing jewellery, the perambulating documents, the car and the night I came home from London. And while I speak, I can tell that I’m sounding mumblier with each passing second.

‘Mmm.’ He looks like he’s doing some thinking. ‘Mmm. Interesting.’

‘So you see?’

‘Yes,’ he says, and I think he sees something completely other than what I’ve tried to show him. ‘Tell me. Have you been sleeping?’

‘Of course not. Would you expect me to?’

He doesn’t answer that. Instead he counters with a question of his own. ‘And would you like it if I could help you with that?’

The thought, I have to say, is deeply attractive. I think the chances of me sleeping tonight are pretty much zero. ‘You’d do that?’

‘If you like.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think it would do you some good. I could write you out a prescription, if you like.’

I look at him uncertainly. ‘Prescription for what?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, meaning that he does but wants to make me feel like it’s my decision. ‘I was thinking perhaps a course of diazepam might help.’

‘Valium?’

‘That’s a brand name, yes.’

I suppress a swearword. Valium. That was the drug of choice for miserable alky housewives when I was growing up. The ones whose doctors wanted to keep them docile.

‘Do you seriously think I need something like that?’

‘It’s up to you. But if you’re having trouble sleeping …’

‘And being a nuisance with my imaginary friends.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s what you’re thinking, though.’

The soothing smile comes back on to his face. ‘You’re under stress,’ he says. ‘A lot of people find they help when they’re stressed. You could try them for a while, and then we could review the situation.’

There’s a tap at the door and Nessa puts her head round.

‘Hi, love,’ she says. ‘Can I come in?’

I force myself to sit up. God, I must look a sight. I’ve been here crying under the covers for a good hour, and even my hair is encrusted with salt. I do a big snort, fill my mouth with snot and tears, swallow.

‘Been sent to check up on me?’

‘Naah. Private consultation. I’ll leave you alone if you want.’

‘No. Come in.’

She advances, perches on the edge of the bed. Feels my forehead. ‘So what is all this?’

‘Oh, Nessa,’ I manage before the tears come again.

‘Oh, love,’ she says, her voice all nurse and her face all friend. ‘Come here. You need a hug.’ Feeling her solid body against mine, I’m like a child. Wail like a child while she rubs my back.

‘They all think I’m mad. All of them. Even Rufus.’

‘No they don’t. No they don’t. Shhh. Tell me what happened? Tilly’s been very worried about you. We both have.’

I tell her. While she listens, she holds my wrist, looks at her watch, puts her hand on my forehead again.

‘Well, your temperature’s up a tad, I’d say. Mind if I stick this in your mouth?’

I lift my tongue out to receive the thermometer from her top pocket.

‘Moo fink ver migh’ be fumfin wrong wiv me?’

‘Naah. Nothing much. Although there will be if I forgot to wash that thermometer after I took it out of Beatrice’s backside.’

The thermometer shoots across the counterpane.

‘There,’ she says. ‘You can still have a laugh. Not dying yet, anyway.’

I give her an experimental snuffle.

‘I don’t really take her temperature that way.’ She picks up the thermometer and shoves it back in my mouth. ‘Just fantasise about it. I like to think of ways I could torture the old bat. It stops me doing it for real. Sometimes when I’m feeding her her slop I fantasise I’ve laced it with Ex-lax. Yes, that’s better,’ she says approvingly as she watches my reaction to this statement. ‘Jesus, it’s cold in here. No wonder you don’t sleep.’

‘Rufus does.’ I feel the prick of tears as I remember the look on his face when I spat the Judas accusation at him.

She seems not to notice. ‘Rufus grew up this way. He’s like a hamster. Goes into hibernation every night. You, in the meantime, are used to sleeping in the buff under a single sheet. You need to buy some thick jammies and a beanie hat. Not very bridal, I grant you, but he’s the one who wants to live in this hellhole, and I’d say any type of bride was sexier than a dead one.’

She goes quiet for a moment, lips moving as she counts under her breath. ‘Tell you what, your circulation’s a tad sluggish. Not so far as to be worrying, but … are you sure you’re not taking any sedatives or anything?’

I shake my head. ‘I bought some St John’s Wort at the chemist’s today, but I don’t suppose it will have had time to do anything at all.’

‘No. Takes at least a couple of weeks for that stuff to kick in.’ She takes the thermometer out, gives it a squint. ‘And your temperature’s up by half a degree. Again. Not such a lot, but …’ she shrugs. ‘I’ll keep an eye on you. Have you been eating?’

It’s my turn to shrug. ‘And throwing it back up again.’

‘Well, that’s not much of a surprise. If I had to eat those pheasants,
I’d
throw them up.’