The Mistake I Made (20 page)

So now, on Tuesday morning, without Wayne’s prying eyes, I was able to do something I would not ordinarily do, and that was to cancel the afternoon patients. I moved them around and slotted them in elsewhere, giving the vague excuse of a ‘hospital appointment’. Patients tended to be too worried you might have something sinister wrong with you to pry, so they rearranged without complaint. And should the worst happen, should Wayne return while I was out, my excuse would be that I was at the hospital for ‘a head X-ray’, which ought to keep him quiet.

Scott had rented a cottage on the north-eastern shore of Coniston Water for the next three weeks – paid for in cash so no one could track it. His plan had been to take it for the whole of the summer, but he was told by the letting agent that a family from Bristol had booked for mid-August.

Coniston lies due west of Windermere, the lake itself is a lot quieter, and the cottage was accessed either directly from the water or from a private lane. I suspected the owners had run a little short of money after fixing the place up for renting, as the lane needed attention. Presently, it was just two gravel tracks, with rough grass in between, which caught on the undercarriage of the car. I could just about make it through in the Jeep and Scott was able to negotiate it well enough in the Range Rover, but a standard saloon would have to park in the lay-by off the road and its passengers arrive on foot.

I assumed this was one of the reasons Scott chose it.

We could stay there undisturbed, invisible to the occasional car which came along this side of the lake. Of course, the main attraction was that we could come and go as we pleased. It was a hideaway. In fact, once he’d organized the booking, Scott chided himself for not thinking of it earlier. Why waste time in hotels, where there was the risk of discovery, when he could simply take a place like this?

The advantage for me was it was only five miles and a twelve-minute drive from my house. I could slip out of work, get the car ferry across Windermere, have sex with Scott for the afternoon, be there to pick George up
and
have tea on the table, all before five thirty.

And be fifteen hundred pounds better off.

At one fifty p.m. I made my way along the track. It was bordered not by the usual dry stone wall but by thick hedgerow. From my elevated driving position, I could see over the tops to the flat floor of the distinctive U-shaped valley beyond, carved out by a glacier in the last ice age. At the end of the track, Scott’s Range Rover was reverse parked neatly to the side of the wood store. With the sun reflecting off his windscreen, I didn’t realize he was in the front seat, and he startled me by climbing out of the car unexpectedly.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wanted to wait out here for you.’

‘You needn’t have.’

‘I thought we could go in together. I thought it might be nice.’

‘What, and pretend like we’re a real couple, on our holidays?’

He seemed hurt. ‘Something like that,’ he said quietly.

Inside, the cottage was pretty, but had been finished in a rush. The light switches were spotted with emulsion and parts of the skirting boards didn’t quite run together correctly. There was a note on the table to say an electrician would be in the following morning to fix the shower in the main bathroom. Sorry for the inconvenience, it said.

‘Quaint,’ I said to Scott, as I wandered from room to room.

‘It’s shoddy,’ he replied. ‘I’m glad I didn’t take it for the whole summer. I’ll look for something better.’

We stood looking out of the French doors. Beyond was the lake, flat and calm as glass and reflecting the trees on the opposite bank. Along with the other stretches of water that make up the Lake District, Coniston has a speed limit of 10 miles per hour. For a long time Windermere had no such limit, and the shoreline had a perpetual oily iridescence from spilled diesel. Early-morning walks would be spoiled by tossers in wetsuits revving their jet-skis loudly. I wasn’t sorry about the introduction of the speed ban, though many were. Including Scott. He’d had to sell his powerboat.

Aware of the time, I turned to Scott and began to kiss him.

Pushing my hips forward into his, I slipped the tip of my tongue inside his mouth.

I could feel resistance.

Unsure how to play it, I started to unbutton my tunic, but he reached out. ‘Don’t,’ he said flatly, ‘you’re behaving like a prostitute.’

I let my arms fall to my side and looked at him. ‘What exactly do you want me to do, Scott?’ I asked. ‘We haven’t got much time. I assumed you’d want to—’

‘Get cracking?’

His voice was laced with sarcasm. His expression hard.

I pulled away. Fastened up my buttons.

‘Would you rather we didn’t do this today?’ I asked.

‘I just don’t want to fuck as soon as we walk through the door,’ he said.

‘Apologies,’ I said, irritated, ‘but last time you did. Last time that’s exactly what you wanted us to do.’

He swallowed, and we stood in silence. It was the first time we’d had a heated exchange, and neither of us knew quite how to act.

‘Hey,’ he said after a moment, touching my cheek with his fingertips. ‘Don’t get upset. I don’t know what I want. I know I want you, but I don’t want it to feel like you’re only here for the money.’

What to say to that?

‘I couldn’t do this with just anyone,’ I began, intending to smooth things over. Massage his ego a little.

‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have made you feel that way. Let’s go upstairs.’

I managed a weak smile. As we climbed the stairs he told me he wanted to watch me undress slowly while he waited naked on the bed.

With reference to my physio uniform, he said, ‘You can be nurse.’

I undressed as he requested and he asked me to lie down. ‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered, then proceeded to kiss me tenderly, starting at my ankles. When I went to respond, he said, ‘No, don’t.’

He made love to me that afternoon with such affection, such devotion, that I really should have realized the extent of his feeling.

But I didn’t. I was a fool.

Or maybe I just simply chose to ignore it.

23

‘WHERE
ARE
YOU?’
asked Petra crossly. ‘I’m outside your treatment room, holding a cheese-and-tomato quiche, and that guy Gary says you’ve gone to the hospital. What are you doing at the hospital?’

‘Can Gary hear you?’ I replied, sitting up quickly and sliding to the edge of the bed away from Scott.

‘No.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think so. He’s back in his room.’

I exhaled. ‘I’m skiving,’ I said.

‘Oh, that’s a relief … I thought you were ill—’

‘Petra!’ I warned, before she blurted out anything more.

‘Yes, yes, sorry.’ She stopped speaking, and I heard her heels move across the floor. ‘I’m outside now,’ she said a moment later. ‘He can’t hear me. Why are you skiving?’

‘Because I can. Wayne’s not there to watch my every move, so I thought I’d give myself the afternoon off.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Coming from someone who hasn’t worked full time in over fifteen years.’

‘You’re counting, I see. Anyway,’ she said, ‘what am I supposed to do with this quiche?’

‘Will it keep until tomorrow?’

‘Should do.’

‘Okay, pop it in the fridge.’

‘What fridge?’

‘In the kitchen, at the back of the clinic. You’ll have to close your eyes when you open it, ’cause it’s pretty grubby. No one cleans it. Stick a note on the top saying ‘Hands off’ or Gary will help himself. I’ll take it home tomorrow instead.’

‘All right. Where are you now? You’re not at home.’

‘I am.’

‘So you’ve gone and got carpets all of a sudden, have you? Speaking to you, it usually sounds like you’re inside a shipping container. All tinny from the lack of soft furnishings.’

‘I’m in bed.’

‘In the afternoon?’

‘Yes, Petra. In the afternoon. People do that, you know.’

‘Oh,’ she said, genuinely surprised.

Petra often had a puritanical view of resting. She was suspicious of anyone who rested without a valid medical reason and thought people who slept late were wasting the day.

‘So, thanks for the quiche,’ I said lamely, trying to bring her back on track.

‘Not a problem,’ she replied, and she rushed me off the phone at that point, because she had a text and couldn’t access it while continuing to speak to me.

I turned around. Scott had his arm thrown across his face.

‘You lie so easily,’ he said, his voice heavy with post-coital sleepiness.

The following morning, Wednesday, I arrived at work early. As I’d rearranged a patient from the previous afternoon to come in at eight, I dropped George at breakfast club – unlike after-school club, you don’t need to book in advance. I was twenty minutes into the session when I heard voices in reception. I popped my head out to investigate, expecting to see a patient wanting to make an appointment, or else buy some of Wayne’s pointless health-food supplements.

But it was a couple. And an ill-matched couple at that.

Seeing me at the door, she stood first. She was around forty, medium build, wearing a grey, smart, two-buttoned suit, with black piping around the lapel. Beneath, she wore a round-necked T-shirt which had the white-white newness of a first wear. Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck and she wore little make-up.

There was something immediately familiar about her – an old patient perhaps? I decided not, because though her expression was pleasant, eager almost, she didn’t regard me in a way that expected recognition.

The man was older and bordered on scruffy. He was short, rounding and wore yesterday’s shirt, which was heavily creased. He had a moustache that needed trimming.

‘Hello. Sorry to bother you,’ the woman said. ‘I’m DS Joanne Aspinall and this is my colleague DS Ron Quigley. We were hoping to speak to a Mr Geddes.’

‘Wayne Geddes is not here.’

‘Any idea where he is?’

‘I’ve not, I’m afraid.’

‘When did you last see him?’

This caught me unawares.

‘I … I’m so sorry,’ I stammered, ‘but I’m actually in the middle of a treatment session right now. Would we be able to do this later?’

‘Sure,’ said DS Aspinall.

‘I may be some time.’

She smiled. ‘No rush. It’s a quiet day at the office, so to speak. We’re happy to wait as long as it takes.’

I closed the door.

As long as
what
takes?

This was the last thing I needed. The police – and not just the police, but CID – sniffing around. What on earth did they want with Wayne? Had he reneged on our deal and told HQ it was me who took that money? Had they now passed the matter on to the police? Christ.

I needed to buy some time to get my thoughts straight. Work out what to say to them.

As it was, I didn’t have a great deal left to do with regards to the patient I was working on, but I dawdled. I pretended there was an area of the rear deltoid that could be contributing to the patient’s problem and spent an inordinate amount of time breaking down the tissue, mobilizing the scapula, all quite unnecessary.

When I could delay no more I finished up and told the patient I’d meet her at reception.

The detectives seemed very at home. They had none of the anxiousness apparent in the faces of patients as they waited. – waited, knowing they were about to experience some degree of pain. There wasn’t a week went by without someone making reference to ‘physio-terrorists’, and I’d smile as though hearing the term for the first time. The two detectives slouched happily, though, shoulders relaxed, knees dropped slightly apart, as if watching television with a beer.

After I’d scheduled another appointment and bid the patient goodbye, the two detectives approached the desk. I closed the bookings page on the screen and told them I would be with them shortly.

‘We’ll just loiter here until you’re ready,’ the man said.

‘Loitering without intent,’ I answered, and he tried to smile.

Eventually, I told them I was free and asked what I could help them with.

Faces serious, they showed me their warrant cards and I laughed nervously at the formality. It seemed extraneous and silly, like when the waiter pours a little wine for tasting, and you have to go through the rigmarole of saying that it’s acceptable.
Very nice, thank you. Please pour the rest.

‘We are trying to ascertain the whereabouts of Wayne Geddes,’ DS Aspinall began. ‘Any information you can provide us with would be very welcome.’

‘I don’t know where Wayne is,’ I replied.

‘Is it normal for him to be absent from work?’

‘It’s out of character.’

They both nodded thoughtfully and DS Aspinall withdrew a notebook and pencilled something illegible in it.

As she wrote, I turned my face towards DS Quigley. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’

‘Preliminary inquiries,’ he answered.

‘Inquiries into what?’ I asked.

He made a face as though he wasn’t at liberty to say right now.

‘So you say it’s out of character for Mr Geddes not to be at work for … how many days, is it?’ DS Aspinall asked.

‘If he doesn’t come in today this will be the third’

‘He would usually be here by now, would he?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘He arrives early.’

‘To open up?’

‘Yes, but we’ve all got a set of keys, just in case he’s down at HQ, or overseeing another clinic.’

I couldn’t believe I’d actually used Wayne’s term of ‘HQ’.

‘And when did you say you last saw him again?’ she asked.

I hesitated.

‘It would have been Friday afternoon, after work,’ I lied.

‘How did he seem to you?’ she asked.

I thought of Wayne in that moment. Wayne giving me the ultimatum. Wayne threatening to go to the police if I didn’t acquiesce, if I didn’t give in to his demands.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said.

‘Did he seem worried? Agitated?’

‘Not especially.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘I’m not sure I remember. Work. The coming weekend. Our plans.’