Starting Over Page 10

  Bloody Ratty. Although his precious car world revered his capabilities, however you wrapped it up he was only a second-hand car dealer.

  And just look at all his women; he changed them as often as he changed his jeans. Oftener. An endless queue summoned by black curls and a spark of blue eyes to take their turn on the relationship carousel, and each, inevitably, watching him move on to a fresh horse.

  Traffic slid on under the bridge, lorry-lorry-van-car, car-car-lorry, car transporter.

  He sometimes talked to her in a way she didn’t like. He got his own way far too much, possessing a lethal dose of loveable rogue. Not that he was always loveable.

  ‘Your face might stick like that, all cross and hissy.’ His amused voice broke into her daydream.

  She started, unable to prevent a guilty flush. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here and why you’d ask me. What help am I, what purpose do I serve? I’m not even sure you like me!’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ He began to lead her back to the long-vehicle park. ‘But I didn’t at first.’ Strapped in, he changed the radio station, searched out mints from the glove compartment and expanded his explanation. ‘You ran into my truck and then glared round my garage. But you’re better for the knowing, I like the way you help Angel sometimes, it’s generous. I like your conversation and sense of humour when you relax. What’s the name of that lizard-man?’

  ‘Farny.’

  ‘I don’t like the way you look at me as if waiting for me to turn into Farny.’

  He drove. She thought. Deliberated and fumed. Finally, she challenged. ‘You didn’t like the way I glared round your garage?’

  He nodded and sucked his mint, noisily. ‘As if it was a den of thieves waiting to rip you off.’

  She shrugged, sliding down in the seat. ‘When I was a student I had loads of trouble with cars, getting stuck miles from home. I’d have to find someone to sort it, sick as I wrote the cheque because it would mean letters from the bank, then, afterwards, someone would always, always, tell me I’d been stung, that I should never go to strange garages because they’ll charge what they like!’

  ‘Surely your folks helped you out, financially?’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ She thought about her parents’ brand of aid. ‘With strings attached. “We’ll help you this time, darling, but you must sell the car, it’s just a worry. Wait until you have a good job when you’ll be able to manage properly.” It became my philosophy to cope alone at all costs, dig myself out of holes I fell into – usually making myself even more trouble. Then, just as I was going through the palaver of interviews and trying to get an agent, my grandmother died and left me some capital. Was Dad mad when he found out she hadn’t stipulated that he manage it for me!’ She chuckled. ‘I always thought Grandma considered me too dreamy, she was so switched on and decisive, but she left me quite a bit. Anyway, at least it bought me a decent car that started when I turned the ignition key.’

  The motorway traffic had thickened, every variety of vehicle charging along the moving tapestry. Ratty drove with relaxed concentration. Tess remembered Olly’s contrasting style of tailgating, swerving out to overtake, flashing his headlights in the outside lane and unleashing a volley of two-fingered salutes.

  ‘And anyway,’ she backtracked, ‘don’t you just tolerate me because I’m friends with Angel?’

  He snorted, checked his mirrors, flicked the indicator, changed lanes. ‘I never tolerate anybody for such stupid reasons.’

  Miles and miles, constant engine noise, small movements of his head as he continually checked his mirrors, square fingers tapping along to the radio. Mechanic’s hands with the grey graining which defied any scrubbing.

  ‘Anyway,’ he remarked, ages later, when she thought the subject buried, ‘I always like pretty girls.’

  She ignored a little starburst of pleasure in her chest and made a rude noise. ‘Truckler!’

  He put on an exaggerated, gripped-by-lust groan. ‘Especially when they have long, long lovely hair.’

  She laughed, gathering a bunch of hers to run it up and down his forearm.

  He shuddered theatrically and flicked challenging eyes to hers. ‘And a gorgeous, sexy body ...’

  ‘Don’t be predictable.’ She pretended she didn’t want to know if that meant he thought she had a gorgeous, sexy body.

  The vehicles surging around them roared on endlessly. He sang now and then with the radio, a deep and gravelly voice it was difficult to tire of. Crawling between walls of lorries to enter a contraflow, he pushed the map book her way. ‘Can you look which junction I need for the M5?’

  She began to flip pages. ‘Where are we heading?’

  ‘Combe Martin, North Devon.’

  Miles and miles. She studied the map. ‘Motorways merge. Eventually you need the A391 to Barnstaple ...’

  ‘Not Barnstaple, it’s a traffic disaster area, the coast road’s better.’

  Roadworks near the M4 junction, then heavy traffic as they passed Bristol. ‘I’m starving, let’s get lunch.’ Ratty rode the slip road off the motorway and within minutes had found a pub.

  The lounge bar was full of dark wood beams and small tables. As she ate a toasted sandwich dripping with melted cheese, Tess studied the print on her place mat. ‘John Constable’s The Haywain.’

  Ratty grunted.

  ‘I wonder whether pub place mats will have reproductions of Winder or Slider two centuries after my lifetime.’

  ‘That would be interesting.’ Ratty smiled at the waitress as she brought two steaming apple turnovers. ‘Are you pissed off with me for charging in on the fraught moment with your ex?’ He chased flaky pastry round the plate with a fingertip and his eyes waited for a reply.

  She raised her eyebrows, bit her lip. If she knew how she felt, she could probably tell him. ‘No-o-o,’ she admitted.

  ‘But you’d rather I’d kept out?’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t seen it happen.’ And, actually, that he hadn’t reminded her, now. Why did he have to spoil her lunch? Leaving trouble behind her was more her style. She ate her apple turnover as if thinking of something more important.

  He slapped the table, making her jump. ‘’Course! How stupid of me!’

  She examined his expression – irritated – and took a miniature bite of turnover.

  He lowered his voice, leaning forward so that only she could hear. ‘Maybe it’s how you get your jollies, you two? Perhaps you like the rough stuff?’ His smile was hard, eyes glittering. ‘In which case, I apologise for butting in.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ From the gazes swinging their way, she’d spoken too loudly. It was her turn to smack the dark wood table, making her plate jump. ‘I do not like being slapped!’

  His hands leapt, strong and warm, trapping hers. ‘Good. Don’t stand for it!’

  She snatched back her hands. She didn’t want the remains of her turnover, didn’t want another drink and didn’t want coffee.

  Back to the van, she didn’t want to talk. She slammed the door and swung her hair into a curtain between them, wishing he’d just start the damned engine, turn up the radio and get the whole horrible trip over.

  She could feel his gaze, hear his breathing turn to a sigh as his hand collected the veil of hair and went on to turn her face to his. He thumbed away a frustrated tear, his voice suddenly gruffly gentle. ‘So you hated it.’

  Jerkily, she nodded. ‘It made me feel ... weak and put in my place, exposed, humiliated! And you watched.’

  His eyes glowed with compassion. ‘That’s what made me so angry. And the – the righteousness on his face, the strategic way he hit you to get his own way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man really hit a woman before and no one could have stood there and just let him. He’s a big guy, there’s no excuse for him. Of course, you might argue that my reaction makes me no better than him and all that politically correct stuff.’

  She sniffed. ‘I’ve no objection, in principle, to Olly getting a taste of his own medicine. I just did
n’t ask for your help.’

  He sighed. ‘Call it a returned favour. You drew me a great Nigel. I sorted out someone too big for you to handle. It wasn’t the first time?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s happened once or twice.’ Then, honestly, ‘Three times. He’s always sorry.’

  He swore. ‘You don’t deserve that. Believe me. Believe in yourself.’ Starting the engine, he checked his mirrors before pulling away.

  She searched for a tissue. ‘He’ll hate you. He’s proud of his wonderful looks.’

  The van gained speed, moved into the middle lane. ‘You must’ve made quite a couple.’ He leant forward to shrug apologies that he had no room to two girl hitch-hikers thumbing hopefully from the edge of the slip road.

  So that only left pacific, quiet hours until they were undulating along by the rocks of the North Devon coastline where hedges, sliced perpendicular by the traffic, made them a tunnel.

  ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’ Slowing at each left turn, he was looking out for landmarks. ‘Just a story to sell to the woman, Mrs Partridge – there’s the pink and black pub.’ He swung the wheel. ‘Her husband’s run off so she’s selling this E-Type he’d stripped down. I won’t get a nice price if I let on that I’m in the business, so it’s better if I present myself as any old enthusiast. And if the more enthusiastic I get, the less interested you are, my darling girlfriend, she might become more anxious to sell. Here we are. If you’d be as indifferent as possible that’d be great.’

  ‘I think I can manage that.’ There didn’t seem any harm in it, even if, for a heartbeat, she’d thought he meant the girlfriend bit. Ridiculous.

  The Jaguar E-Type was charmless as far as Tess was concerned but she caught the gleam in Ratty’s eye as he gazed down the long, nosy bonnet. Wheels off, lights blind, the car rested on blocks, boxes of bits surrounding it, and what should’ve been paintwork was undercoat or rust preventative. Mrs Partridge was stridently eager to make a killing, spinning tales of all the interest the E-Type was exciting.

  Ratty listened politely.

  In her uninterested girlfriend role, Tess answered his artificially ardent longing with indifferent murmurs, folding her arms and tossing her hair. But she was taken aback when he took the charade so far as to grab her hand and drag her on a tour of the remains of the car. She sniffed, ‘I can think of much better things to do with the money,’ and reclaimed her hand.

  Mrs Partridge’s eyes narrowed, obviously seeing a fly in her ointment.

  Arms folded, Tess concentrated on looking bored whilst Ratty made an investigation of the boxes and the car’s underside, and even, after several attempts and a few adjustments, coaxed a barking response from the engine. Wiping his hands, he slid his arms around Tess, making her jump, and breathed in her ear, ‘Stamp back to the van as though you’re completely fed up.’

  ‘Right!’ Snatching away his hands, which had dropped casually to her bottom, she sent him a poisonous glare before flouncing away.

  The old E-Type Jaguar, once probably someone’s sexy, growly pride and joy, merited a long, longing last scrutiny. The bright work was OK, the rot fairly tolerable though new sills were inevitable. He leant on the nearside wing. ‘Not looking too hopeful,’ he warned Mrs Partridge, gazing plaintively towards Tess, po-faced in the van’s passenger seat. ‘How fixed are you on your price?’

  He made it a very gentle haggle, stroking the car, pacing around it, convincing her she’d sell if the price dropped enough. She looked torn between a sale and greed.

  Oh well, back to the van to consider her ‘last word’, promising to phone, sliding a pretend-conciliatory arm around Tess. He kissed her cheek. ‘Be as huffy as you like!’ When she twitched away pettishly, he shook a mournful head. Once out of sight down the lane he shouted jubilantly and squeezed her knee. ‘Great stuff! You were brilliant!’

  And he’d liked the lover-like opportunities to touch, could still feel the sweet melons of her buttocks so briefly in his hands.

  Enjoying his own cleverness, he pretended not to notice her silence as he continued on the coast road, singing, to where he’d left the trailer.

  Chapter Eleven

  Down by the sea the swirling breeze teased Tess’s hair into a dancing mass.

  Ratty made a comic performance of fighting off the flying locks. ‘You’re a Gorgon!’

  Tess got the giggles. There was something carefree about hopping about the bronzy rocks at the side of the sand, peering into pools, slipping on seaweed; mossy green the most treacherous, bulky brown ribbons unsportingly hiding pockets of seawater ready to soak careless feet. ‘If I turn you to stone, here, nobody will notice. It’s like a lunar landscape.’ She breathed in lungfuls of the briny air, turning her face to the blue sky.

  Ratty seemed to have forgotten all about the E-Type Jaguar he’d come all this way to see. He’d brought her to Combe Martin for cream tea and ice cream and was now behaving as if their only purpose in Devon was to enjoy exploring the foreshore and the tide had gone especially for them. His chosen path was taking them over mini-chasms awash with the swirling sea, adventurous but accessible to the energetic.

  A giant leap carried him across what looked, to Tess, like a ravine. She halted. ‘I think I’ll go round.’

  He turned, grinning, eyes just the same colour as the choppy sea. ‘Don’t be a wuss! Jump it!’

  At her feet, the sea swirled and sucked. ‘It’s too wide.’ She eyed the sawtooth rocks.

  He held out encouraging arms. ‘Come on, jump. Don’t be a scaredy cat!’

  Three seconds and a huge shriek later, Tess was groaning from the bottom of the fissure and Ratty, sprawled on the rocks above, was scrabbling to grasp her arms. ‘Don’t!’ she squeaked, teeth gritted and eyes tight in agony.

  He hesitated. ‘What have you hurt?’

  ‘Ribs. Shoulder.’ The sea was icy up to her waist and tears seeped around her eyelids. She sloshed and limped to a place where she could shamble out between the rocky sides and onto the sand, catching her breath at every movement.

  ‘Hold onto me.’

  She accepted Ratty’s help, his arm strong around her waist as she limped slowly up the beach towards the elevated road. One side of her body blazed with pain.

  His eyes were dull with concern. ‘I’m so sorry. When you landed you kicked my foot out from under me –’

  ‘I know,’ she agreed, tightly.

  ‘You took a hell of a tumble onto those rocks. I’ll get you to casualty.’

  She gasped in pain. ‘For Chrissake ...! I don’t like hospitals. Just get me somewhere I can rest.’ It had been his fault. Mainly. Maybe. Or, at least, it hadn’t been hers! Yes, OK, her foot had skidded on seaweed and bowled his leg out from underneath him. But he had said, ‘Jump!’

  ‘You’re really hurt, those rocks are sharp –’

  She yelped as she tried to lift her foot for the first rocky step.

  ‘Let me carry you –’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Gently, then. We’ll try this guest house.’ It seemed like only minutes until he had booked them into a white building with a swooping red tile roof and crooked gutters and they were in her room, Ratty helping her from her torn and bloody shirt, while she tried to keep herself decent with a thin bath towel. The guest house was hardly the Ritz. The carpet was threadbare in places and the old-fashioned wallpaper had faded, but the room was clean and homely.

  ‘Your jeans are soaked.’

  ‘The sea was wet,’ she ground out, pushing his helpful hands away from her ripped and ruined, sodden, chafing jeans – the only pair she had with her. ‘You’d better try and get me something else to wear, while I shower.’

  ‘Unless you want me to help wash any grit out?’

  ‘Just fuck off, Ratty!’ She hobbled into the bathroom and slammed the door, relieved to see that the shower was a simple electric job that gave hot water at a prod of a button and, as she let the warm stream play on her grazes, she sagged against the acrylic sides of the cu
bicle, alternately shivering with shock and swearing at the stinging water.

  In the morning, she was so stiff she groaned aloud as she crawled from her bed. Black, brown, plum bruises were scored with jammy-red grazes from her fall into the rocks’ claws.

  She’d slept badly in the unfamiliar bedroom, her injuries aching and throbbing, every movement chafing her scratches into fresh smarting.

  Wincing at the speckled mirror, she inspected her uncomfortably puffed flesh, then eased gingerly into a clean T-shirt and pulled on one-handed the short-shorts that were, apparently, Ratty’s idea of seaside wear.

  His rap on the door came at just the worst, testing moment, making her snarl, ‘What?’ Her shoulder pounded with every motion and tears stood in her eyes; feverish flushes rippled over her with each fresh drag of pain.

  His smile faded. ‘Shit, you look grim. I should’ve taken you to hospital.’

  She shook her head and attempted clumsily to fasten the metal button at the waist of the hard new denim, left-handed. She failed and had to accept his help, his hot fingers brushing the soft, intimate flesh of her stomach.

  Stiffly, she reached for her hairbrush. He took it. ‘Let me.’

  OK, she’d let him. As long as he was gentle, avoided the scalding throb of her shoulder, she’d let him do that small service. It was soothing, in fact, and in his silence she composed herself.

  And when he’d finished and pulled gently at the fabric at her neck to inspect the pounding wound, insisting, ‘I’m taking you to hospital,’ she easily had the strength to snap, ‘No, you’re not, not unless I collapse from lack of food! Let’s get breakfast before we starve.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘I’ll phone Mrs Partridge again, see if she’s thought of a new best price.’

  Tess glanced up. She was beginning to feel marginally better over eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and two enormous mugs of hot tea. The dining room looked as if it had been furnished via house clearance, but the full English breakfast was to die for. ‘Your negotiations didn’t seem encouraging, yesterday. I was hoping to soon head home. Mrs Partridge didn’t seem to be prepared to give the car away.’