The First Time I Saw Your Face (15 page)

‘It did?’

‘When you weren’t whirling about, your stance was very good, lots of grace,’ Jennifer chipped in. ‘And although you tended to grab at the lines, every now and then you gave them space, got the rhythm just right, stressed the important words.’ She darted a twinkling look at him. ‘Marjorie would have been proud of you.’

Marjorie can go stick her head in a bucket.

‘We know why you did it, Matt,’ Finlay said.

‘You do?’

‘Of course, you don’t want to put the other men’s noses out of joint by landing a plum part. We’re right, aren’t we?’

No, I’m a scum-sucking bastard who wants to remain anonymous.

‘There’s no fooling you two, is there?’ he said, like a little boy who’d been caught out. He fully expected to be zapped by a bolt of lightening from that graveyard.

‘Don’t you worry about the men, we’ll get them sorted.’ Finlay stood up and held out his hand. ‘The part’s yours. Welcome on board.’

Now the relief at not being outed as a journalist crashed up against the realisation that he was going to have to be in this play.

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

He stood up and shook Finlay’s hand and got a smile from Jennifer that made him look away sharply, not because of what it did to her scarring, but because of the warmth. It was too … shaming. And then he was out the door with the words, ‘First rehearsal, Wednesday, at seven thirty,’ following him.

He was still wobbly when he got outside and found Doug waiting for him. Out of the jaws of defeat he had snatched a little victory and earned some brownie points. But it had been close.

‘How did it go?’ Doug asked, and when Mack told him, the slap on the back he delivered reverberated down Mack’s spine. ‘That’s worth a celebration. And you know what? I got the part of Antonio the sea captain, and you and me are best mates in the play aren’t we? How about we get in character in the pub? You can hoy a few pints down yer neck and I’ll give you a lift home afterwards.’

Mack looked at his watch and thought of all those hours ahead of him in the cottage. ‘Why not?’ he said.

The next time Mack looked at his watch he was surprised to see it was 11 p.m.

‘Call it a night?’ Doug asked, finishing off his orange juice and Mack nodded, although a third pint would have been just the thing to take the edge off returning to Chez Rathole.

Despite knowing that he shouldn’t, he was warming to Doug. They’d had a good couple of games of pool and Doug’s easy way of chatting and his self-deprecating
humour had smoothed away any fears Mack had about constantly being on his guard. When the conversation veered his way, it was no problem to steer it back to Doug.

Mack had assumed that Doug, with those rough hands and that rough accent, was some kind of labourer, but not long into the evening he’d said he ‘did things with metal’ and when Mack had said, ‘What, like a blacksmith?’ Doug had looked shy and said, ‘Nah, like a sculptor. I do commissions mainly. Museums, banks, art galleries, councils. Just done one for the square ootside the Sage Music Centre. Big bugger, that one. “Art Ascending” it’s called; flock of larks that changes into a load of minims and crochets. Play on words about that Vaughan Williams piece, of course,’ he added matter-of-factly.

My God and I had you down as an idiot.

‘Something up?’ Doug asked.

‘Just in awe. That’s some skill.’

‘Nah, get away. ’S just titting around with fire and metal. Not like writing, that’s a real skill.’

Mack wanted to ask further questions, but as they were putting their empty glasses on the bar a woman came into the pub and everything about Doug suddenly looked folded in on itself, and he did a little spasmy thing with his arm and knocked over one of the glasses.

‘Hi, Doug,’ the woman called, and Doug made a grunty noise and then coughed and snot came down his nose. He wiped it with the back of his hand and in the process managed to knock over the other glass.

Mack took a good look at the woman. Bit older than
him, he guessed, with long auburn hair. She had a healthy, fresh look about her and was dressed as though she’d just come from some kind of exercise class. There were six or seven plaited cotton bracelets on one wrist. Mack thought her face was kind of familiar. She gave Doug a final wave and went to join a group of people sitting near the door.

‘Oh Man,’ Doug said, ‘oh Man, oh Man, oh Man.’ His eyes were closed as if he was in pain and then Mack remembered where he’d seen the woman: delivering the post. He’d watched her take a parcel into Sonia’s.

Vibrators probably.

‘She’s the postwoman, isn’t she, drives a van?’

Doug nodded and managed to get out the word, ‘Pat.’

It was Mack’s turn to blow snot out of his nose and he had to pretend he had something irritating his throat.

‘I need to leave,’ Doug said. ‘Now.’ He prised himself away from the bar and on his journey out managed to stumble by Pat’s table and then push the door instead of pulling it.

‘Is there a problem with you and Pat?’ Mack asked when they had driven some way in silence. Doug said nothing and continued to throttle the steering wheel so Mack wittered on about his trip to Hadrian’s Wall, lying about how impressed he’d been by the scope and stark beauty. He borrowed phrases from Finlay and the guide books to make his love of the Wall sound more believable and edited out the long bus ride and the way the wind had whipped and sliced at him as he’d walked.

All he got back was a heavy sigh and a ‘goodnight’, as
Doug dropped him outside Brindley Villas. Mack watched him drive off.

So … what have you learned so far? Sonia at the shop may have a young lover and there’s something fishy about her relationship with her sister in the library; Doug’s in torment over the lady postman; the guy wearing my jumper in the library has the hots for Jennifer; Lisa will give me a good seeing-to if I ask her and possibly organise my finances at the same time; Finlay may be mad and Jennifer used to drink and drive.

Just an everyday story of country folk.

CHAPTER 13

Jennifer woke to the sound of a pig grunting and in her drowsy state took a while to register that there weren’t any pigs on the farm. The noise was coming from her handbag.

‘Sorry, Cress,’ she said when she had retrieved her mobile, ‘I didn’t realise it was you at first, you sounded like a pig.’

‘Charming. Remind me to get some more elocution lessons.’

‘Danny’s been messing with the ringtone. He’s working his way through farmyard animals.’

‘Ah, Danny. Doesn’t change. How’s the Amazon?’

Jennifer glanced towards the bedroom door. ‘Cress, stop being bitchy. Bryony is fine. So, eight o’clock here, you’re up late. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m returning your call, birdbrain. The one you left, when was it, Thursday night your time? Sorry, life’s been hectic, couldn’t get back to you before now.’

Jennifer paused. After that first meeting she had rung
Cress, desperate to vent about Matt Harper’s inability to hide what he thought. Cress was the only person who combined the two things Jennifer had needed right then: the ability to sympathise, plus an inability to do anything about it. Tell anyone closer to home and they’d be up in arms and then up the road to Matt Harper’s cottage.

Now she wasn’t sure what to say to Cress.

‘How was the wrap party?’ she asked, playing for time.

‘Wonderful. Fabby hotel, “Sunset Tower”. Behaved myself beautifully. Schmoozed everyone and did not drink, snort, inhale or inject anything. Was a complete lady, then gave my PR people and the studio’s PR people a cheery goodnight, waved graciously at the photographers outside the hotel and my driver took me home.’

‘Where you curled up in bed with a milky drink, of course?’

‘Ah, how well you know me. I sneaked out to Jo’s house, you know, that nice Canadian girl I told you about, where we were joined by several like-minded members of the cast and proceeded to get completely, dance-on-the-tables drunk and re-enact
Toy Story 3
.’

‘Re-enact?’

‘Had it on the DVD player, sound down.’

‘And you were?’

‘Barbie, plus Slinky Dog and for a time, Mrs Potato Head.’

‘For a time?’

‘Something happened to the DVD player and it stopped working. Well, actually someone was sick on it. Well, specifically, me.’

Jennifer leaned back against the pillows and laughed. ‘Poor you.’

‘Oh, don’t feel sorry for me, feel sorry for that DVD player.’ Jennifer heard a yawn. ‘Anyway, got to go and pack for New Mexico when I can be arsed. Flying out tomorrow. So … tell me about Finlay’s big plans.’

When Jennifer didn’t speak immediately, Cress was on it like a dog.

‘Jen, has something happened?’

‘The play’s all cast. Lisa is Viola; Jocelyn’s Olivia. Neale’s going to have a hissy fit because he’s got Malvolio instead of the Duke. And … and a new guy has joined us. He’s here for a few months researching a book on walking in Northumberland.’

‘Sounds a real page-turner. So what’s he like: pubic-hair beard with an unhealthy interest in Lycra and real ale?’

‘Bad clothes, certainly, and get this, brogues, Cressida, real, old-fashioned brogues.’

‘Lovely. And?’

‘Well to cut a long story short, he didn’t have a very good reaction to my face when he saw me at the meeting … no, don’t interrupt, Cress, I’m not imagining it, he didn’t, and then he apologised. Came to the library to do it. He was very honest and very direct.’

In the silence that followed, Jennifer could almost hear Cress’s brain working things out. ‘Jen,’ she said, ‘you know how your voice does that little lilt when you’re being evasive …’

‘No it doesn’t,’ Jennifer said and immediately heard it herself.

‘You’re hesitating to tell me something else, aren’t you, sweetie?’ Cressida’s tone softened further. ‘Is it because you think I’ll immediately start firing questions at you that you haven’t worked out how to answer yet?’

There it was; the reason why Cress, despite the miles between them, was the only person who understood her.

‘How about I promise, hand on heart, not to ask you anything and just listen?’

Jennifer looked around her bedroom and wondered why this was so hard. She felt like a secretive schoolgirl about to reveal a crush. Over the years she’d woken up in quite a few different beds with quite a few different men; she knew all the names for all the bits of their bodies and what you could do with them. She was a grown woman. She focused on a point on her wall just above her desk and just below a watercolour of a beach.

‘He’s called Matt Harper, Cress. He’s young. He dresses like he’s walked into a nerd’s washing line, but he’s sex on a stick.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘He’s got these really expressive brown eyes. And brown hair too that’s usually mussed up.’ She looked at the wall again. ‘Rugged good-looking rather than smoothly handsome, if that makes sense. Kind of intelligent face.’

‘Tall? Muscled? Lean?’

‘You said you wouldn’t ask questions.’

‘Well, it’s like listening to paint dry.’

‘He’s my height and … lithe … daft word. From all that walking, I suppose. Good legs, Cress.’

‘Good bum too, I’ll bet. You always had an eye for those.’

‘Oh. Yes. Indeeeeeed.’ As they both laughed, Jennifer remembered a strip of photos lying around in a box somewhere of her and Cress in a photo booth in Newcastle when she was about thirteen. They’d been giggling about some boy they both fancied.

‘So, pretty hot, then?’

‘Lisa was practically sitting on his lap.’

‘Lisa’s sat on a lot of things.’

‘When I first saw him I thought he looked a bit like a pirate—’

‘What? Syphilitic and with an eyepatch and a hook?’

‘No, idiot. Like he just needed an earring to be a bit, naughty, you know. But then he’s also slightly dorkish, not in a trainspotter way, just very enthusiastic about everything. And considerate too – he stuffed up his audition on purpose because he didn’t want to put the other men’s noises out of joint.’

‘Heathen! Doesn’t he know the most important rule of acting is to kick the competition to the floor? So … let me see … he’ll be playing Sebastian, I guess, whether he wants to or not? That’s Lisa scuppered: tell her Viola can’t shag her own brother.’

The thought of Lisa doing anything to Matt Harper made Jennifer stop before saying, ‘He seems a bit detached at times, as if there’s something disturbing him and he can’t quite hide it.’

There was a groan from Cressida. ‘Oh no, not a tortured soul with brown eyes, they’re soooooo hard to resist. He sounds almost too good to be true. Where did you say he came from?’

Jennifer didn’t miss the change in Cressida’s tone. ‘I’ve checked him out already, Cress. Don’t worry. He’s written two little books on the West Country. Lives in Bristol now.’

‘OK … OK, as long as you’ve looked him up, done a bit of digging. So … you fancy him and I’m guessing that’s disturbing for you as that hasn’t happened since the accident.’

Jennifer nodded.

‘Jen, if you’re nodding you have to tell me.’

‘Yes.’

When Cressida spoke again, Jennifer sensed she was going carefully, like a person carrying a large piece of delicate china over a pebbly beach. ‘Jen … about this Matt Harper … will you promise me something?’

Jennifer started to slide under the duvet.

‘Will you promise me that you won’t decide, right from the start, that he’s not going to be interested in you? Don’t let the fact that you’re unsettled morph into you somehow feeling … inadequate.’ Jennifer had almost heard the big breath Cress had taken before saying that last word, the word that had got the piece of delicate china safely over the pebbles.

Easier said than done, Cress.

‘Promise me, Jen?’ Cress repeated.

‘I promise … but, Cress, it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s got a girlfriend.’

‘They can fall off their perches.’

And then men normally trade up.

‘All right, I promise, O Wise One, not to write the script for this beforehand. I will lust after him and see what happens.’