The Witness: A Novel (55 page)

He had left the makings for tea on the counter in the kitchen—how thoughtful. He was generous, too. He had brought her parents a blue jasperware bicentennial plate depicting Paul Revere’s ride. “The British are coming!” she had teased. He had given her something, too: a musical jewelry box with flower designs in the royal blue exterior and two velvet-lined compartments inside.

She took her tea with her and surveyed the living and dining rooms. Like the flat upstairs, all the rooms had wainscoting separating wallpapered and painted walls, but Colin’s flat looked larger, perhaps because there were two bedrooms instead of three and the background color was ivory instead of beige. Watercolor paintings and several photographs which looked custom framed hugged his walls. Had Colin taken them? She put her empty tea cup in the sink.

She decided to peek in his bedroom. He’d told her to make herself at home, but his flat didn’t feel familiar enough to be home. Could she and Colin make it a home? There were a number of photos on his chest of drawers, and she thought she could guess who most of the people were—Colin’s parents with Colin and his sister when they were children; Colin’s sister and her husband with their two youngsters. Colin looked like his dad—tall, with strong features and blue eyes. And there was a picture of her, with her good side to the camera. She looked happy. When had that been taken? Before Christmas, when she’d wanted a snapshot to send her family? Colin had had it all this time? He also had an old roll-top desk in one corner, a little battered but still handsome. Had it belonged to his father? He had a computer, but the screen was
dark. There hadn’t been a computer in the witness protection flat.

Having noted everything else in his room, she could no longer ignore the large bed. She sat down on the edge and fingered the blue spread. He loved her, he said. Would he make love to her in this bed? Did she want it to happen? She knew so little about him. Did he eat breakfast? What were his favorite foods? Did he shower in the morning or at night? Did he exercise? How did he spend his spare time, if he had any? Did policemen have hobbies? Would her body disappoint him? Did she belong here?

She went back into the living room. She remembered the leather sofa and armchairs. The weather was not cold enough to need the fireplace—too bad. The bookshelves contained lots of science fiction titles and some nonfiction ones, a smattering of history, art, and the classics. His CD collection revealed an eclectic taste in music.

She made herself a sandwich and ate in the dining room while thumbing through one of the art books. There were so many museums in London—some of the paintings she saw might be exhibited here. Would Colin have time for such things?

She washed her dishes and put them away. It was a strange feeling, being completely alone. She hadn’t had a cup of tea by herself, much less a meal, in months. The witness protection arrangement had been unusual, but the initial awkwardness of living with three policemen had been replaced with a closeness she hadn’t anticipated. She’d been nurtured by that group of men. Was Walter Will right? Had Danny, Brian, and Simon been chosen by God to teach her to trust men again? Even Hunt? If so, God had a sense of humor.

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S
he had just put the phone down when she heard Colin’s key in the lock. She hurried to meet him, but if he hadn’t smiled, she wouldn’t have been able to hug him, he looked so official in his dark suit and tie. He changed clothes and took her out for Chinese food, to the same restaurant he’d used when buying takeaway food for the protection team.

“I called the guys today,” she told him. “I wanted to congratulate Danny. He said that his injury—since it was followed by a citation—multiplied his chances with the girls, so it was all worth it! Brian’s going to come by tomorrow to give me some recipes, and Simon wanted to know where I was. When I told him London, he invited me to lunch on Thursday. It was good to talk to them.”

“Even Hunt?” Colin asked with a smile.

“Well—no. I didn’t call him yet.”

After a short walk back to the flat, she welcomed Colin’s kisses but felt a little shy still. How do you date someone you’re already living with? When does the date end? She leaned against him. “You have a photo of me.”

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“It was taken from the right angle.”

He realised she was talking about more than the snapshot. “There are no wrong angles, Jen.” He pushed her hair back. “I want to see your face, your whole face.” He traced the scar with his fingers.

“When I close my eyes, I pretend that you can’t see it,” she whispered.

“Then keep your eyes closed.” He kissed her mouth, then the smooth skin on her throat.

She watched his fingers play with the buttons on her blouse.

“Jenny, seeing you excites me.” Her lacey bra did not hide the skin beneath. He touched the curve of her breast not covered by the bra. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she said. She could hardly breathe.

He reached behind her, unhooked her bra, and pushed it aside. “You’re beautiful, Jen. I love you.” He caressed her bare skin, first with his hands and then with his mouth.

She was tingling in places he was not even touching. She wanted—she wanted—but when he put his hand on the waistband of her slacks, she gasped.

“Jen?”

“I’m not ready,” she said.

He had hoped she was.

J
enny woke up relaxed, stretching her arms and legs and remembering Colin’s loving restraint. She was glad she had slept as long as she had—less time to wait for him to come home. And Simon was taking her to lunch today. That would help the time to pass, too.

He arrived well before noon, but she was ready. They walked down to the Finchley Road tube station, and she told him how much she missed everybody.

“You’re the first witness to want the coppers to come back,” he commented.

“I know it’s crazy,” she laughed, “but I miss the camaraderie. At least in protection, when there was nothing to do, there was always someone to do nothing with.”

They left the tube at the Baker Street Station and climbed up the steps to Marylebone Road. He guided her down Nottingham Place past the hotel where she’d stayed when she first came to London and over to the High Street. “Where are we going, Simon?” she asked, trying to quell the rising tide of dread in her stomach.

“Trust me, love.”

Oh, God, they were heading toward Oxford Street. Her feet were heavy. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He put his arm around her. “Love, I’m doing this
for
you. Let’s go.”

Toddlers with short pudgy legs passed them by, their mothers not hurrying them. Finally they turned the corner, and Selfridge’s was on her right, the bus stop just ahead on her left. She clung to him, too terrified to be embarrassed. Breathe, she told herself. Simon is here. I’m not alone.

“Look about, love. It’s just a place. They’re just people.” His arm was firm around her waist. “Don’t you remember? It’s not the same beach.”

“I really hate your beaches,” she declared.

He had hated some of them, too. “Tell me what you see, Jenny.”

Her name, but not The Voice. “Lots of people, in a hurry. Lots of cars. A bus pulling up. A policeman.” He was young, like Danny, but with Hunt’s jug ears.

“Everything all right, sir?”

She looked at the constable’s concerned face and realized that everything was. It wasn’t Monday, September 14, it was a warm day in June and she was standing on a busy sidewalk next to two policemen. She wasn’t wearing fall clothes she’d never see again, she had on khaki slacks and a cotton blouse. “Afraid of Selfridge’s,” Simon answered.

“Afraid of the prices, more likely,” the constable quipped.

She laughed and relaxed her grip on Simon. “My credit card’s not afraid,” she said.

“Good luck to you, sir,” the constable smiled as he moved on.

“Ready to go in?” Simon asked.

Over lunch in Selfridge’s, she told him about her Houston trip, how right he had been about the things you left not being the same when you returned. She told him about the doctors and about her mother’s reaction to seeing her scarred skin. “I guess that’s what most people would do—feel shock, then pity.” She paused. “Simon, are they that bad? I’ve gotten so used to them, I forget that other people aren’t.” He was quiet for so long that she began to regret her question, and she swallowed hard. “Are they so bad you can’t figure out how to tell me?”

His eyes rested on her face. “Just the opposite. I’ve never known you without them, so to me they’re just part of who you are, like your brown eyes or the little bump below your left knee.” He looked away briefly.

“Or the scar on your thigh,” she said slowly. “I remember when I saw it, I respected you. It didn’t put me off at all.”

“When did you get that bump on your knee?” he asked in a lighter tone.

“I fell off my bicycle,” she smiled, “when I was ten. I was going too fast on a turn and lost control. The bike flew out from under me.”

They’d finished their meal. “Come on then,” he said. They made their way to the Bond Street tube and finally back to Colin’s flat in Hampstead. “I’m proud of you for today, love. Shall I ring you next week?”

“If you promise to take me somewhere dull.”

Nowhere in her company was dull.

She locked the door behind him and went to change her blouse. She felt tired, but alive. With Simon’s help, she had slain a dragon.

C
olin was wonderful. He’d promised her an old-fashioned courtship, and he had kept his word. He took her to a different restaurant every night and held her hand as they walked the Hampstead streets. Their physical relationship had escalated, but not completely, because he switched from passion to affection if he sensed any hesitation on her part. Her regard for him was deepening, as was her desire. Now they were on their way to Kent so she could meet his mother. He drove his black Audi fast, slowing only slightly when the roads became narrower and the vegetation hugged the winding lanes. There were rolling hills dissected by wooded areas with deer signs nearby and horses and sheep in the distance.

The interior of the car was dark, and as the light outside faded, Jenny felt as if she and Colin were encased in a little bubble. It was intimate, the two of them closed off from the rest of the world. She remembered how her parents had reacted when she came home and wondered what sort of a welcome she would receive from Colin’s mother. “What does your mother know about me?” she asked.

“That you were the Scott witness,” he replied. “That a team of coppers protected you. That we all came to love you, but I’m the luckiest of the lot.”

“Did she like your wife?”

“My ex-wife.”

“But did your mother like her?”

He glanced over at her. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would be concerned about making a good impression. “Oh, Jen, we were young, too young to know we didn’t want the same things in life. You’ll be fine. It’s not much farther now.”

He slowed and turned down a long, wide drive. The house was large, three storeys, with ivy climbing the red brick walls, a softer creamier red than the houses in Hampstead. A stone walkway extended from the drive to the front entry. He turned off the motor.

The woman who approached them looked blonde in the halo of light from the front door. She gave her son a quick hug, then held out her hand to Jenny as Colin rounded the bonnet and opened the car door. Her
hair was brushed back and gathered loosely in a barrette at the nape of her neck. Some strands had broken free, but she wasn’t bothered by them. Her focus was on Jenny. “I am indebted to you,” she said, putting her arm around Jenny’s waist. “You’ve brought my son home! How ever did you accomplish that? Colin, I’m putting Jenny in the Rose Room. It’s one of the few on the first floor with a private bath,” she explained. “We’ll let him fuss with the baggage, and you can practice calling me Joanne.”

She led Jenny up a wide staircase and into a spacious room with a walnut desk, a dressing table with a vase of fresh flowers on the glass top, and a wardrobe, painted yellow to match the duvet with the embroidered roses. “Colin’s room is just down the corridor on the left. When you’ve freshened up, won’t you join us in the drawing room for a bit of cheese and fruit? It’s on the ground floor. Down the stairs and to the right.”

When Jenny closed the door, she spied a small silk bag hanging on the inside doorknob. Curious, she removed the ribbon that held it closed. There were small soaps, miniature lotions and creams, and tiny sachets, everything with a light floral fragrance. She opened her suitcase, hanging several things in the wardrobe, and then opened the roll-top desk. A small envelope with her name on it contained a note of welcome.

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W
hen Jenny woke in the morning, she reflected that if her first night in Kent had gone well, all the credit belonged to Colin’s mother. Joanne had offered her a glass of wine to accompany the snack, explaining that she had learnt early in her husband’s foreign service to serve alcohol with every official meal, to make any
faux pas
less noticeable. “I made all the mistakes in the book, culinary and conversational, but somehow Cameron was successful in spite of me.”

Jenny had laughed and requested a second glass “for insurance,” and the ice had been broken. The experienced hostess had made it easy.

She hadn’t noticed the bay window in her bedroom the night before, but now the sun was shining through it, giving an amber cast to the floral shapes etched in it. “No alarm clocks here,” Joanne had said. “Agnes, my cook, doesn’t do breakfast. I do—so just follow the smell of burnt toast when you’re ready and we’ll be there.”

Following their morning cups of tea, Joanne gave her a tour of the house. Jenny lost count of the number of rooms—sitting rooms with high ceilings and wide windows as well as a drawing room, a library with a marble fireplace, a kitchen with an adjoining breakfast room, a formal dining room, and a conservatory—and that was just the ground floor. Adult bedrooms and baths occupied the first floor, and children’s spaces were above that. Grand in size, the house was, however, not grand in décor. The Sinclairs’ years abroad yielded a blend of cultures,
a tapestry here, an interesting rug there, or a piece of pottery too individual to have sprung from an English bone china designer. “Most countries had a speciality,” Joanne said. “Some diplomatic wives could even decipher your postings from your furnishings. I’ll let Colin show you the grounds.”