Tara (32 page)

'Is this Simon the actor I met?'

Tara looked at her grandmother and in that moment hated her – for her age, her wrinkles, her sarcasm and her prying.

'What's it got to do with you?' Tara rushed forwards snatching up her things and shoving them back into her bag. 'How could you go through my private things?'

'It's a good job I did, isn't it?' Gran pursed her lips the way she always did when she thought she was in the right. 'He's old enough to be your father! You'd better tell me what he means by "my sexy little schoolgirl"! Are you pregnant, Tara? Is that why you got so upset yesterday when you couldn't find that letter?'

'Leave me alone!' Tara screamed out. 'No wonder Mum ran away from you! You want to know everything, to control everyone, and you don't care how you do it. I hate you!'

'Well, that's nice after all I've done for you!' Gran rose from the bed, hand raised as if she were going to strike Tara. She was formidable when she was angry, but Tara wasn't going to be brow-beaten.

'Don't you lay one finger on me,' Tara warned her, backing away. 'I'm not like Mum. I'll hit you back.'

The smell of fish wafting up the stairs now had a different tang. Gran momentarily paused, sniffed the air, then looked back at Tara, her face like stone.

'I'll deal with you in a moment,' she said. 'That fish is burning.'

Tara waited till she'd gone downstairs, then she quickly ran to her grandmother's room.

'She must have had that letter,' Tara muttered, scanning the dressing table with its silver-backed hair brushes, the big carved bed, the bedside cabinets and even the bookcase.

It was clear to Tara now. Gran found that letter and there was something in it which put the wind up her. Perhaps Mum was in on it, too. Was that why she suggested going to Wells today, to give Gran time to search for more evidence? Maybe Simon had said something about the photographs! What if he enclosed one?

She couldn't see it. In panic she fled back to her room, her heart thumping. She wasn't going to stay here to be punished; she would run away to London now.

A car came into the yard as she grabbed some clothes and stuffed them into a rucksack. She could hear Greg Masterton's voice through the open window.

'How are you, Mrs Randall? What's that awful smell?' He sounded as if he was holding his nose. 'Where's Amy today? Or is that her you're cooking?'

Any other time Tara would have laughed. Greg Masterton always made jokes about Mabel being a witch, but today it was too near the truth. Hastily she tore off her school uniform and pulled on jeans and a shirt.

Greg had obviously come to see Amy, but now he was politely setting off towards the lower meadow with Gran as if to see something. It was a golden opportunity. If she ran for it now she could be well away from the village before Gran even realised she'd gone.

The contents of her money box went into her purse, Simon's notes, her address book, make-up and hairbrush into her handbag, and she was ready. As she got down to the hall she heard her grandmother's voice back in the yard. She was offering Greg a drink and telling him Amy would be back on the five o'clock bus.

Tara looked round in alarm. It was no good trying the front door, it had too many bolts. But just as she heard her Gran's feet on the metal scraper by the back door, she noticed the sitting-room window was wide open! She was out of it faster than a hare with the hounds behind it, across the front lawn, down the little brick path and on to the road.

The school play, her mother, everything was forgotten as she tore up the road, her rucksack bumping up and down on her shoulder.

The High Street was deserted, the shops closed for lunch. Mr Hewish was just going in the Pelican but he didn't notice her as she scooted up the road and round the corner by the sweet shop, towards the Bristol Road. She had gone about two hundred yards when she heard a lorry coming up behind her, and it was pure impulse that made her put her thumb out.

The squeal of brakes surprised her, she hadn't actually expected it to stop. But she ran up to the lorry and looked up at the man in the cab. He was middle-aged, with a fat, jolly face, and he looked fatherly.

'Where to, love?' he asked in a Birmingham accent.

'Bristol?' she asked hopefully.

'Hop in.' He grinned cheerfully. 'I hope you know the way, because I'm lost.'

She didn't admit she was running away, pretending that she'd simply missed the bus. He'd just emptied his load of fertiliser out at a farm and the noise of the empty tipper truck drowned any real conversation. She wondered how long it would be before Gran realised she'd run away. Would Greg drive down to the station to try to head her off?

'Would it be easy to get a lift all the way to London?' she asked the man. 'I think I've missed the train, too.'

'Sure,' he said. 'I usually have a cuppa at a transport cafe. I'll get you a lift on from there.'

It was after seven when she finally found her way to Godolphin Road in Shepherd's Bush, and her heart sank into her plimsolls.

Her first real glimpse of London when she was dropped off at Hammersmith had excited her; the noise, traffic, shops and coffee bars had been so thrilling. But Shepherd's Bush was every bit as seedy as Whitechapel had been, and this particular road was awful. Tree-lined it might be, but the leaves were heavy with dust and overflowing dustbins stood outside almost every dilapidated house. A smell of drains and pungent curry filled her nostrils, a group of black children played in the gutter and further down an old wino was sitting on a wall drinking from a bottle.

Adam Faith's 'What do you want if you don't want money?' blasted out from a house with broken windows. Next door a couple of blowsy women sat on the steps gossiping. They broke off to stare as she walked past. She had expected grandeur; modern blocks of flats, or at least elegant townhouses. Not to be plunged back into her childhood.

Number twenty-seven was marginally better. The steps up to the blue front door were clear of litter and the net curtains were clean, even if the stonework was crumbling.

There were three bells, but none for Wainwright. Tara stabbed at the bottom one, crossing her fingers. She heard the bell in the distance, but no-one answered it.

She tried the next one, marked 'Nichols'. A wave of panic washed over her. It hadn't occurred to her that he might be out, or even away for a while. What would she do if there was no reply? She couldn't get home even if she wanted to, and where would she sleep?

But she could hear footsteps now. Fierce hope ran through her, she patted her hair, ran a finger over her teeth and wished she'd thought to put on something prettier than jeans. The door was opened by a vaguely oriental-looking young man with slanting eyes and jet black hair. He was slimmer and shorter than her, and wore a pink shirt and white jeans.

'I'm sorry to trouble you,' she said. 'I'm looking for Simon Wainwright. His name isn't on any of the bells.'

'That's because he doesn't live here.' The man had an affected way of speaking, he flared his dainty nostrils and looked cross.

'But he gave me this address.' Tara's heart began to thud.

'Well, he stays here.' The man spoke very deliberately, as if he was thinking about each word. 'It just isn't his place. Anyway, he's out now.'

'Of course, the show!' It hadn't occurred to her before, but he must work every night. 'Oh dear, I forgot about his job.'

The man sighed deeply. He didn't speak for a moment or two, just looked at her as if he wished he could shut the door in her face.

'Can I wait for him here?' Tara asked weakly. 'I haven't anywhere else to go.'

He looked her up and down and his lip curled.

'You can come up to my place for a while. I'll try to get hold of him, but if I can't you'll have to go. He doesn't always stay here, you see.'

Despite feeling faintly relieved when the man led her to his flat, Tara felt there was something odd going on here. Could this be another girlfriend's place? What if Simon was married?

The young man led her into a big room at the back of the house on the first floor. It was a bedsitter, the kitchen section was partially concealed by shelves housing a collection of old medicine bottles. The room had a gay, arty feel about it.

'I'll just go and use the phone,' he said, picking up a bunch of keys. 'Sit down.'

Tara watched him as he went out. He went up the stairs again and she could hear him unlocking a door. Moments later she heard a low murmur of conversation, then the sound of the phone being put down and the door relocked.

'I've left a message for him to ring,' the man said on his return, crossing the room to switch on the TV without looking at her. Tara sensed he didn't want to talk, in fact resented her presence.

'I'm sorry if I'm a nuisance,' she said softly. She wondered if she dared ask why he held the keys, why she couldn't go and wait in there and, indeed, who actually did own the flat.

He looked round from the television and gave her a cold, long stare, but said nothing.

It seemed that she waited hours, through
Take your Pick
then a documentary about seals. Tara sat stiffly on the only proper chair while the young man sat on his bed watching the screen intently. She was hungry and thirsty, but he didn't even offer a cup of tea.

Just after nine, the front door opening downstairs in the hall made the man leap up.

'I'll just see who that is!' He implied that she was to stay where she was.

The moment Tara heard Simon's deep voice she ran out on to the landing and looked down.

In the past few weeks she'd often wondered whether he really was as handsome as she remembered. But that first glimpse confirmed she hadn't exaggerated anything.

He looked up as the young man hastily explained something and, instead of the expected gasp of delight at seeing her, his expression made Tara's blood freeze in her veins. His lips were straight and disapproving, brown eyes cold.

'What on earth made you come?' he snapped at her. Worse still, he wasn't alone. By his side was a sleek black-haired woman in her forties, wearing a smart cream outfit.

'I'm sorry.' Tara could feel tears pricking her eyes. 'I lost your letter ...' She tailed off, aware that both the young man and the woman were staring at her contemptuously. 'Can I speak to you on your own?'

There was a kind of conspiratorial nodding between the three of them, then Simon came up, took her arm and led her up a further flight of stairs.

'I'm sorry, Simon. I shouldn't have come,' she blurted out, following it with a garbled resume of all the events since she lost his letter. 'I don't mean to be a nuisance. I was going to come to London anyway. I'll find a job and a flat.'

There was no attempt at a smile, no hasty reassurance.

'I explained myself when I wrote.' He drew her into a huge room covering the top floor of the house. 'I said I'd be glad to see you if you came to London, but this flat isn't mine and therefore I couldn't put you up here.'

The events of the long day, his lack of warmth and the presence of that woman were all too much, and the tears Tara had tried so hard to hold back finally flowed.

'I'll go,' she sniffed. 'Just give me a moment or two to think about it.'

She wanted to throw herself into his arms, tell him what agony the separation had been. But his eyes were showing irritation, not love.

'Don't be silly,' he said briskly, walking away from her and opening a window. 'You can stay here tonight, but we'll have to make some other arrangement tomorrow.'

He said something about going down to see the woman, who was a business associate, suggested she made herself some tea and he'd be back.

Tara wanted to lie down and sob. All these weeks she'd thought of nothing but seeing Simon again and now it seemed she'd mis-read everything. He'd made no attempt to kiss her, and he hadn't even tried to comfort her when she cried. Who was that woman? And why was the other man so hostile?

She looked around the room and her eyes were drawn to a photograph of a child lying loose on the desk, a seven-by-five black and white print on top of a file. It showed a naked boy of about ten caught squealing in the spray from a garden hose. He was blond, very pretty for a boy, and she wondered if he was Simon's son. Tara picked it up thoughtfully. Maybe that was why he was so odd – he was married with children and he didn't want anyone to find out he'd had an affair with a sixteen-year-old!

Opening the file wasn't even a real act of curiosity, it was just there, but as she opened the stiff blue cover she got a shock. It was full of pictures of naked boys, some, like the loose one, taken in a garden, some in the bath and shower, others on beds or couches. Sounds of feet on the stairs made her shut the file quickly and move away.

Simon disarmed her by coming through the door smiling, his arms held out for her.

'Come and give me a kiss! I'm sorry I wasn't more welcoming, but I had a lot on my mind.'

He looked like her Simon again, his eyes warm. But she was still smarting from the embarrassing rebuff.

'Where's that lady gone?' Tara asked cautiously.

'Home. That's Alice Kennedy, who runs my agency. I had a chat with her, explained the circumstances and she's gone now.'

'Agency?' She didn't remember him mentioning a business.

'Child actors.' He frowned, waving his hand as if that wasn't important. 'Quentin downstairs works for me, too. I hope he wasn't rude to you, he can be a bit hostile when he feels threatened.'

'Threatened?' She knew she sounded like a parrot, but she was so confused.

'He's nervous of girls, especially ones as pretty as you. He thinks he might lose his job.'

It only took a few kisses, a cup of tea and a beef sandwich for Tara to get over her qualms. Simon explained that he ran a theatrical agency, specialising in children. Alice Kennedy worked from here, and this flat was owned by another partner. He said he'd recently moved out of one flat, which was why he'd taken a break in Somerset. Since then, because he hadn't managed to find a permanent home, he was sleeping here.

'Does that explain why you can't stay with me?' he asked. 'You see, I'm responsible for many children. If the parents of one of them should see me with you, they just might think the worst. You do understand?'