The First Time I Saw Your Face (11 page)

‘Everything’s either green or brown or dead. The shop’s run by a sex-starved Miss Marple; the curtains in the next door cottage twitch whenever I walk out of my front door and—’

‘I meant about our Jen.’

‘Seeing her tonight, some Drama-Club meeting in a pub, next village. But listen, Miss Marple said they’re always looking for young men to act. What do I do about that? Prancing about on stage, it’s not exactly low profile.’

‘You’re not in the West End, Dame Judi. Do what they want, whatever gets you closest to Jennifer. If you can stay backstage, fine, if you can’t, tough. Besides, if you pull
your finger out, you’ll be gone before long – Cressida starts filming
The Unfeeling
with Randy Rory next week and my guts tell me it’s all going to kick off then. Now get lost.’

Back in the cottage he wasn’t surprised to see that the fire in the front room had died in his absence. He went and got the duvet, noticing that the bedroom fire had extinguished itself too, and wrapped himself up to lie on the smelly sofa.

Everything about the cottage depressed him, from the way you could only get enough hot water for a bath that barely covered your legs, to the dark-wood wardrobes in the bedrooms that looked like coffins. It felt like the kind of place lots of people had died in, and when he looked at the lumpy single bed in the spare room with its crocheted cover, he wondered whether one of the bodies was still in there.

At least that would explain the smell.

By the time he laced up his walking boots that evening, he had worked himself up into a nasty stew of bitterness and when he arrived outside the Roman Sentry in Yarfield he wanted to punch something or someone. Preferably a northerner, or failing that, O’Dowd.

It hadn’t just been three miles through enemy territory; it had been three miles and then another foot-chewing extra half-mile. He was sure he had blisters coming.

He’d felt horribly exposed walking through all that green, sure that out there in the dark there had been something, or more likely lots of somethings watching
him. If the torch went out would they move in for the kill? His heart had been permanently thudding at every rustle in the long grass, every weird cry from God knew what. Once, the torch beam had picked out two horrible shining eyes by a fence and he’d yelped and stumbled on to his hands and knees. When he’d retrieved the torch there had been an indignant baa and a sheep had peeled away into the darkness. Not far from the pub, something white had come out of the sky towards him before veering away. He was convinced it had been a vulture.

His hands were frozen, but his body was sweaty from walking in his jumper, fleece and cagoule with his bandana wrapped round the lower half of his face. Fantastic, now everyone’s first impression of him would be of a cold-handed, sweaty, smelly, wild-eyed nutter.

He reached out for the handle on the pub door, his determination to get the job done the strongest it had been since O’Dowd had blackmailed him into doing it. If he had to be especially sly or even hard-hearted, so be it. Get the job done and bugger off back home.

He stuck a hearty, slightly gung-ho expression on his face and walked into a large room with sepia views of the countryside on the whitewashed walls and a healthier fire in the grate than the ones he’d managed to get going. A group of men sitting round a table turned to stare at him.

‘You here for the Drama-Club meeting?’ the barman called and Mack heard one of the men at the table tut.

When Mack admitted he was, the barman said, ‘They’re out back. Sonia said you’d be coming. Get you a drink?’

Despite desperately wanting a vodka and tonic, he bought Matt Harper a pint of something called ‘Sheep’s Tackle’ and headed towards an archway at the back of the room, aware that the surge of adrenalin now roaring around his body was taking his mind off his sore heels. He glanced at his watch. Only five past seven, she might not be here yet.

Under the arch he went and had to conclude that no, she definitely wasn’t here yet, unless she was an old lady of about eighty dressed in a lilac suit, one of two men or a full-sized snooker table jammed up against the far wall.

The man facing him with a pinched little face and a turned-down mouth had given him an unfriendly look when he’d walked in, but the other bloke, the one with his back to him, had turned and smiled. His eyebrows were so thick and dark, Mack had thought for an instant that he had black masking tape stuck on his face, and those, along with his short, closely cropped hair, should have made him look threatening. Instead the open face and that broad smile suggested a child’s drawing of a big, friendly clown without the make-up.

‘Are you him,’ the pinched-looking man said, ‘the writer guy from Brindley?’

‘Yes, yes I am. Matt Harper, pleased to meet you.’

‘Sonia said you were young.’ The man reached out for the glass of red wine in front of him and sipped it as if he was swallowing down vinegar.

Before Mack could apologise for his age, the friendly-looking
clown stood up, ‘Hey, give o’er, Neale, divvn’t start all that.’

Mack wasn’t sure the guy was talking English, but as he was coming towards him with his hand out he guessed he was introducing himself. It was the roughest hand Mack had ever held, like the coarsest sandpaper. ‘I’m Doug,’ the guy said, ‘this here is Neale and this is Marjorie.’ The woman inclined her head graciously.

‘Divvn’t be hard on Neale,’ Doug said, letting go of Mack’s hand, ‘he’s just papping himself that you’ll muscle him oot.’

Mack must have looked confused or deaf because Marjorie leaned forward.

‘Doug is from Ashington originally,’ she said as if that was explanation enough.

‘Aye, I’ll gan more slowly,’ Doug nodded. ‘Forgot you were a southerner. Sit down.’

Mack sat down, taking a sip of his beer to give himself a little breathing space.

OK, nobody here to worry about – happy idiot, old woman and sulky saddo.

As if he’d heard his opinion of him, Neale said, quite aggressively, ‘I suppose you’ve done lots of acting?’

‘No,’ Mack lied, having done quite a bit of acting at school and a lot more as a journalist. ‘And I’m not looking for a part in your play. Just happy to help backstage out of the limelight. Never done this kind of thing before, but it seemed a good way to meet people. It can get a bit lonely, you know, walking, writing and living alone.’

Had that last sentiment been a bit too much? Well, that was Matt Harper for you: earnest and enthusiastic.

Neale looked sadly at his wineglass. ‘You might not want to act, but when Finlay sees how young you are …’

‘The important thing with Shakespeare,’ Marjorie butted in, ‘is speaking the verse properly. So few people can. Clear enunciation, feel the rhythm, don’t gabble. Feel, feel, feel.’

‘Aye, Marjorie, you’re not wrong,’ Doug said earnestly, but he winked surreptitiously at Mack.

At least the happy idiot looked like a bit of fun, even though his inability to speak English might be something of a barrier.

‘Many more to come?’ Mack asked, taking his cagoule off and bundling it up so that the Ordnance-Survey map in the inside pocket was visible.

‘Oh aye, standing room only when they all get here.’

Mack took a sip of his drink and moved his stool a little so that he had a view of the archway: always better to see the target before it saw you. Two middle-aged men appeared. The one in a suit had very little hair; the other had a lot of it, ginger and tied back in a ponytail.

Ah, something office-based and ageing hippy.

They were introduced as Gerry and Steve and after shaking hands they commented on how young he was.

‘Says he hasn’t done any acting,’ Neale got in morosely before Mack could speak.

‘That won’t matter when Finlay sees him,’ ginger-haired Steve said, and both men went and sat on a different table and started to discuss him in low voices.

So, not making any enemies and just fitting in. That’s going well.

‘They’ll get o’er it,’ Doug said with a little laugh, ‘divvn’t sweat.’

‘Oh Doug.’ Marjorie had a pained expression on her powdered face.

Doug grinned. ‘Apologies. I meant, divvn’t perspire.’

Mack hid his smile at that and took off his fleece, trying to ignore the whiff of his own sweat. He placed his glasses on the table.

‘Nice jumper,’ Doug said.

A few more men arrived, all older than him and all shook his hand warily. ‘Sodding Hell,’ a particularly dissolute-looking guy called Angus said, ‘you’re no more than a baby.’

After that, women started to arrive and with each one Mack felt his heart speed and then slow as it became obvious it was not Jennifer. Doug kept up a stream of introductions: ‘This is Susan, she’s our stage manager’, ‘Here’s Lydia and Wendy, they’re Costumes’, ‘Say hello to Pamela’.

Mack gave up trying to remember names as it got closer and closer to half past seven and he felt more and more jittery. A young woman walked through the arch and his anticipation peaked and then fell away as Doug said, ‘This is Jocelyn.’ The woman slid her gaze over him, and Mack decided that he didn’t much care for her. Despite her vitality and shiny, bouncy hair, there was something mean-looking about her face.

‘Jesus,’ she said, plonking her bag down on a table, ‘you’ll have this lot booking in for Botox.’ She finished off with a snide little laugh and just on the edge of his vision he saw Doug make an irritated movement of his head.

Right, so, you don’t like her either.

‘I hear,’ Jocelyn said, ‘that you’re from Bristol. And what is it you’re writing? Something about Northumberland?’

Answering that was easy, he’d rehearsed it enough. People nodded as they listened, and he waited for the next, inevitable question about whether he’d written any other books.

‘Yes, about walking … in Dorset and North Somerset.’

Jocelyn smirked. ‘How many did you sell, three, four?’

There was that irritated movement from Doug again.

Another little rush of people came in before a woman walked under the arch whom Mack sincerely hoped was Jennifer. With everything pushed up and pert, her tiny waist accentuated by a wide belt, she was gorgeous. Ripe, one might even say. Her brown, shoulder-length hair was silky, her mouth was a pillowy pout and she had those big eyes you could swim in; naked if you were lucky. He was beginning to regret that he had made up a girlfriend.

Even her walk had a seductive air to it, a little wiggle that did lovely things to her tight top.

Doug caught his look. ‘This is Lisa,’ he said.

Mack wondered whether if he put his glasses on he would look like a sexy swot.

Lisa gave him a slow, loaded smile. ‘Hello, Matt. You’re
the writer, aren’t you? Got any pencils you need sharpening?’

‘Right,’ Doug said abruptly. ‘You want to give me a hand at the bar, Matt?’

‘Word of warning,’ Doug said when they were ordering the drinks, ‘you want to watch that Lisa. She’s a bit of a man-eater.’

Yesssssssss
.

Doug’s masking-tape eyebrows met his hairline. ‘She’s had a go at most of the men in the group and last year some of Finlay’s sixth-formers came to help backstage, and it was carnage.’ Doug handed the barman some money. ‘I mean, divvn’t get me wrong, she’s a smashing lass. Really good accountant, canny actress, just has a lay ’em and leave ’em attitude, you know?’

What a wasted opportunity.

‘I see.’ He tried to look Matt Harper’s brand of shocked.

‘Aye, well, thought I better warn you seeing as Sonia said you had a lass. Been gannin’ out long?’

‘Couple of years,’ Mack said hoping he’d managed to sound happy about it. ‘And thanks for the warning, but I don’t think Lisa would be interested in me.’

‘You’ve got a pulse and your own teeth,’ Doug said, pocketing his change and handing Mack two pints of beer to carry, ‘she’ll definitely be interested.’

Mack returned to the back room with something of a spring in his step and under Doug’s direction got the drinks to the right people before deciding that the pint he’d drunk earlier was now pressing on his bladder.

‘Just going to the bathroom,’ he said loudly, pleased at how that had come out slightly old-fashioned. Still no sign of Jennifer or this Finlay bloke, but they couldn’t be long; it was after half past and there was, as Doug had said, now standing room only. Passing Lisa, he gave her a smile, aiming for something that looked encouraging without being promiscuous. He was spoken for, after all. That made him laugh to himself in the toilets and he had to remind himself to focus.

Remember who you’re meant to be. Stop getting distracted by the lovely Lisa. You’re here for Jennifer. She’s the target.

He arrived back in the bar to find two new people had arrived, and from the knot of people gathered around them, he guessed they must be Finlay and Jennifer. He felt his stomach tighten and his mouth go dry, but in some weird way, he was looking forward to getting started.

Bring it on.

‘This is Matt,’ Doug said, spotting him. ‘Matt, this is Finlay.’ The lanky man by Doug’s side came towards him, his hand outstretched and beaming as if Mack was his long-lost relative, but Mack wasn’t sure later whether he did ever shake Finlay’s hand because as he reached forward he saw the woman with the blonde hair turn to look at him and his mind registered the lovely posture and the beautiful high cheekbones before the reason why there had been no picture of her in O’Dowd’s briefing file became horribly clear.

He stared at the scar on the right-hand side of her face running in a jagged line from the corner of her eye to
the corner of her mouth, branching out at a couple of points mid-cheek to form tributaries that disappeared under her hair at ear level. Where it touched the corner of her eye it made the upper eyelid droop a little.

His first thought was that whatever had happened to her, she was lucky not to have lost that eye.

His second one was crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.

CHAPTER 9

Jennifer saw the look of disgust in the new guy’s eyes before he could hide it and turned away immediately, head down. She took a deep breath in and let it out, and by then Finlay had taken charge, pumping the guy’s hand up and down and saying how marvellous it was to see him.