Starting Over Read online

  ‘Vrumm, vrumm, Northampton, Pederbowough,’ intoned Toby.

  With deliberate movements Angel wiped down every work surface, washing out the cloth beneath the running tap. Surfaces finished, she began on the cupboard doors. ‘She could come to see me,’ she hedged.

  Ratty snorted. ‘This is Tess we’re talking about. Since Olly dumped her she thinks rejection is her bag. So she’s hidden away, stewing. As far as she’s concerned you hate her deeply, which means we all do. You, Pete, me, Jos, all Middledip. If it gets too bad you’ll see her house on the market, you just watch.’

  Angel smirked. ‘Ha! That’ll stuff your plans, won’t it?’ She began on another door.

  He rubbed his chin. Gazed out of the window. Examined his motives. Was he meddling out of a genuine desire to heal the needless rift between Tess and Angel? Or was it just too uncomfortable to have the discord interfere with his measured, foxy pursuit?

  He stood up abruptly. He didn’t need to explain his motives to anyone. ‘When you’ve got a cogent argument that she acted stupidly, remember to share it with me.’ He pushed his chair in and heard Toby tut as the car transporter shed its load again. ‘I’ll be interested. Because it looked to me as if she was put in an impossible situation. And rescued it.’

  He wondered if she was even going to let him in, the way she stood back, returning his gaze speculatively through the newly glazed back door. He waved a reassuring hand. ‘Hi, only me.’ After a moment, she unbolted the door and let him through it.

  ‘Isn’t it about time you grew up?’ he asked, gently. Her hair was loose. It needed brushing. He tugged it gently, forcing her eyes round to his. It felt good, her hair.

  ‘Don’t you think you owe Angel and Pete an apology? It’s up to you to be big about this. I know you couldn’t foresee what was going to happen but I think you ought to speak to Angel.’

  She snatched her hair back. ‘She didn’t look as if she wanted to hear!’

  He dragged out a kitchen chair and dropped into it. ‘So – what? Shop in Bettsbrough instead of Gwen Crowther’s in case you run into each other? Become a hermit? And do I get a coffee or shall I just die quietly of thirst?’

  She threw instant into mugs, took milk from the fridge. Her voice small. ‘She was so furious.’

  ‘Can you blame her? It was terrifying!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But you can’t pluck up the courage to make up?’

  Back to him as she poured the scalding water, she shook her head vehemently, making her hair jig.

  They drank silently. Tess avoided lifting her face; Ratty watched the top of her head and reached the bottom of his cup, out of ideas. ‘Oh well,’ he sniped, abandoning the empty cup. ‘If you decide to sell Honeybun, will you give me first refusal? Lucasta’s left me Pennybun, owning both properties might be an advantage.’

  Sidetracked, Tess whistled. ‘Has she? What does the son from Mill Hill feel about that?’

  ‘Hopping mad. She’s left him most of the contents, aside from minor bequests. But she left most of her liquid funds to a donkey sanctuary and left the property to yours truly!’

  ‘Bless her.’ She almost smiled. ‘She obviously thinks more about the donkeys than Derry. But she appreciated you, you were good to her.’

  He replied gruffly. ‘Don’t go spreading stuff like that around. Bad for my image.’ Walking through the door without closing it behind him, he shouted back, ‘But you’re a disappointment!’

  Rotten Row; a medley of brick and stone. Some time in the last century fresh bricks had built up the part between dormer windows where thatch had once dipped between and the existing tiles had been added.

  Off the kerb, then back on it, she looked up and down the road then back at Rotten Row. Picked out what, precisely, belonged to Pete and Angel’s property, once two. Sitting room two windows, dining room, window on the stairs, Toby’s room, two windows in Pete and Angel’s room. One stained door with thick black iron strapping, a ring to twist instead of a handle. She turned away; maybe she’d just walk on up Port Road today. Hesitated, and turned back.

  The stained door crashed open suddenly and Angel stood in the opening, hands on hips, hair in bunches, which made her look thirteen. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t be so wet! Either come in or go and throw yourself under a bus but don’t skulk about out there like a muddy dog!’

  In the kitchen where she’d sat fancying herself part of the family so often, they hugged. ‘I’m so sorr––’

  ‘No!’ Angel snipped her off.

  ‘But –!’

  ‘No. It’s all over.’

  Tess hugged Angel harder, beaming. ‘I feel as though elephants have dismounted from my shoulders!’

  ‘Hi. Only me.’ A dark, wet evening, he shifted foot to foot outside the kitchen door, shoulders hunched. When she opened the door he bent forward into the warmth, dripping coldly onto her quarry tiles, and kissed her. ‘Well done.’ Turned and went back into the night.

  He’d gone, and her lips were still wet from his rainy kiss when she touched her mouth with her fingertips.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘You’re a gorgeous, sexy woman.’

  It was Christmas in the sitting room at Rotten Row, the first time he said it. After the children had finally gone to bed, hugging their best new toys, the adults had collapsed among rags of wrapping paper and half-dishes of nuts to watch Christmas shows and eat what they’d already had plenty of. The fire danced, smelling sooty and woody, redolent of the season.

  Jos left to ‘meet some people’.

  And Angel, lounging on the floor between Pete’s feet, shot Ratty a look of mischief. ‘Not going with Jos?’

  Ratty sank lower as if too comfortable to move, and grunted.

  ‘Slowing down, Rats?’

  ‘Must be.’

  Pete and Angel laughed and looked at one another. Ratty looked at the television. Tess looked at everyone else. ‘What’s funny?’

  Angel leaned over and tapped Ratty’s knee to make him look. ‘You know what? You and Tess might as well be married.’

  ‘What?’ As Tess’s mouth opened her eyebrows flew up in her hair.

  ‘You two. Don’t pretend! Round here, the pub or Honeybun, every evening together, these days.’

  ‘Not every!’ Tess disclaimed hotly.

  Ratty’s concentration remained on the set and his can of Ruddles County, as if the discussion had nothing to do with him.

  ‘Nearly every. You babysit, in comes Ratty, and here you’ll both be when we come home. If I ring Ratty in the evening and he’s not home, I find him at Honeybun. If you have a meal with us he stays, instead of leaving after the brandy to go tarting about the nightclubs!’

  Tess scoffed, ‘Rubbish!’ Gulped two steadying mouthfuls of wine.

  ‘He plays with your hair, for Christ’s sake! Him and his Rapunzel complex. Plays with your hair! Doesn’t he?’ Angel appealed to Pete.

  ‘Sure. Another beer, Ratty?’

  Tess felt Ratty gently disengage his hand from the ends of her hair as he reached for the new can.

  ‘Bet he bought you a Christmas present.’

  Tess rolled her eyes as if the question was too stupid to answer. Beneath her jumper, the delicate silvery star on a chain around her neck felt suddenly heavy. Riveting suddenly hot eyes on the television, she sniffed. ‘You’re just overtired with horrendous cooking and dealing with excited kids and going mental at the thought of doing it all again for the in-laws tomorrow! Take your frustrations out on someone else.’ Angel’s needling had begun a couple of days ago when Ratty invited them all for supper and Tess, unwary of his seasonal speciality, got squiffy on whisky-soaked mince pies drowned in hot Advocat and Ratty had had to cart her home.

  ‘Leave her alone, Angel,’ Pete said, gently.

  Maybe recognising that she’d gone far enough but determined to have the last word, Angel muttered, ‘Just like a married couple. And thanks for reminding me about the in-laws, by th
e way.’ She cast A Look at Pete, who grinned, winked and blew her a kiss.

  Turning slightly from his corner of the sofa, Ratty joined the conversation. ‘Anyway, we’re not like a married couple. We don’t have sex.’

  Whisky before lunch, two wines with, champagne in the afternoon, beer for variety before the evening session. That must be why, when she turned to Ratty, Tess’s face went as red as if she’d stuck her head in the whispering coal fire. ‘But you wouldn’t want to, would you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, I mean ... We’re not, romantic or anything. You’ve never suggested –’

  ‘I have.’ He sipped his beer, he watched the programme; he glanced at her and away.

  What was that expression in his eyes? She could almost believe him serious. If she didn’t know him better, anyway. ‘Have what?’

  ‘Suggested.’

  ‘You weren’t serious!’

  ‘Wasn’t I?’

  Infuriated with his stupid calm monotone as if discussing the work on some old car, she shifted crossly. ‘So what if we spend time together? Relationships between the sexes don’t need to be sexual, do they?’ And if he wanted to say something about that he should come out and say it. ‘I don’t even know why you’d want to!’ she grumbled, meaning ‘I don’t know why you’d want to alter the status quo.’

  He turned on a leer, said gently, as if enlightening a fool, ‘Because you’re a gorgeous, sexy woman.’

  So outrageous, his expression so lewd, she began to laugh. ‘You idiot!’

  ‘I must be.’ He turned back to the television.

  Angel never knew when to leave well alone. ‘You’re not telling me you’re happy with just a friendship?’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’ Tess fidgeted irritably, hung up on a reply. If she said no, it would sound as if she was making a pass at Ratty. He’d probably take her up on it, in his casual way, and nothing would ever be the same again. Couple of weeks of bed, till Ratty fancied someone fresh, as he always did. Yes, two weeks seemed his average. Gone would be the companionable outings, the discussions about Pennybun, the warmth, the respect for her work. ‘It’s a great friendship, I value it,’ she said weakly. ‘It doesn’t mean Ratty can’t go on as before.’

  Ratty stirred again. ‘Then why do I feel I’m being unfaithful if I take someone else to bed?’

  She felt her face stiffen, the way it did when she was desperate not to show her thoughts. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘I try not to.’

  It was an unsatisfactory conversation, ambiguous and unsettling, not leading anywhere but with the potential to undermine something she couldn’t name. She saw Angel open her mouth, face animated as if about to burst out with some secret, saw Pete shush her, pull her onto his lap, kiss, whisper.

  The programme ended, Pete flipped through the on-screen menu, Ratty became absorbed in Classic Car. And when Tess yawned a strained half-hour later and decided she was going, he prepared to walk her home. As usual.

  ‘Come on, you gorgeous, sexy woman, where’s your coat?’

  ‘Stay if you want,’ she muttered, searching for her gloves, compelled to question what had previously been simply accepted.

  ‘I would, if I wanted.’

  It wasn’t very Christmassy outdoors. No snow, no visit from Jack Frost to transform the village into a silvery picture, just peevish gusts to carry chill mist into their faces. Amber street lamps wore haloes and reflected on glistening pavements. Tess could feel her hair scrunching damply into candyfloss around her face.

  ‘So.’ At her gate he hunkered into his jacket. ‘Still friends?’

  ‘’Course.’ What else was on offer? She wished he’d be specific.

  No, she didn’t. Everything was great as it was, wasn’t it? Great friends, life was easy, no risks, no emotional demands. And if she had to squash down her sexuality when it awoke, she could cope; her libido could cartwheel about her dreams without consequence. Reality brought tranquillity and she could live without passion. Probably. For a while, anyway. Though sometimes, just sometimes, she looked at a young fit guy – like Ratty – and knew she was still fully functioning.

  It seemed only casual curiosity when he suggested, ‘Still hot for Olly?’

  She looked away as if thinking carefully, not wanting him to see into her eyes. ‘Not hot.’

  ‘Do you wish things had been different? That he’d never pulled back from the marriage?’

  Smoothing her hair down, she shrugged. ‘How can I say? Things aren’t different. It’s difficult to stay in love with someone who starts acting like a shit.’

  ‘So there’s nothing stopping you hooking up with someone else? A hypothetical someone?’

  ‘But why should I?’ The words were out before she could consider them. She crunched her toes up in her boots, shivering. ‘I mean, I’m OK as I am. I’d have to be really sure before I started out with someone new, and what could make me sure? If I knew a hypothetical someone well enough and would really hate to be without him ...’

  ‘Don’t you want sex? Or maybe there’s an arrangement you keep private?’

  ‘There isn’t.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I can live without it.’

  ‘I can’t. Goodnight, gorgeous, sexy woman.’

  Uneasily, Tess laughed.

  So, like friends do, they had a running gag, a gentle joke to carry with them up to The Three Fishes the next evening.

  ‘When are you going to pay this gorgeous, sexy woman for the picture?’ Ratty demanded of Harry Tubb, red-faced, sauntering landlord, who could spend all evening leaning on one side of the bar mirroring his regulars leaning on the other. The interior of the pub was warm, humming with chatter and laughter and smelling strongly of beer. Tess’s painting of the pub hung above the roaring fire.

  Unmoved, Harry watched his barman ring a sale into the till and give change. ‘Don’t worry, duck, she’ll get her money.’

  ‘By the end of the month?’

  ‘Leave it!’ Tess muttered, not enjoying this discussion in front of the whole pub.

  ‘She’ll get her money.’ Irritation flickered across Harry’s florid face and he pushed back the wave of hair that had been left marooned as his hairline receded. Regulars referred to the single serpentine lock as ‘The Sperm’. He smiled at Tess. His teeth sloped backwards into his mouth and she didn’t like his smile, turned-in, turned-down, like a shark.

  Ratty let the subject drop as Lester strolled in, brushing rain from his waxed jacket. ‘Gin and tonic?’ he asked his father.

  ‘If you twist my arm.’ Lester smiled at Tess, hung his jacket up near the door. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Tess smiled. ‘And to you.’ Soon, Ratty and his father were deep in conversation about Pennybun Cottage and the work that was required, until Lester spotted friends across the room and wandered off to join in a game of solo whist. Ratty was soon arguing with Garry from Port Road as to whether Audi had the edge over BMW and the evening sidled comfortably by in the beery, noisy warmth.

  At last orders, Ratty closed his mouth around the last drops of bitter, passed Tess her coat, then unhooked the yet-to-be-paid-for picture from the wall.

  Tess stared.

  Ratty raised his voice, grinning crookedly, as he did when being his awkwardest. ‘We’ll bring it back when you’re ready to settle the bill, Harry, all right?’

  Harry’s red face darkened as his eyes rested on ‘his’ picture tucked under Ratty’s arm. And, as the mellow clientele began to shout ‘Pay the woman, Harry!’, his mouth narrowed into a turned-down slit. ‘Don’t worry, here it is!’ He snatched notes from the till, ‘The Sperm’ jiggling hectically.

  Well-used tens and twenties were slapped down truculently by Harry Tubb, intercepted and counted gleefully by Ratty and finally pressed into Tess’s palm.

  Ratty rehung the picture, extending his hand behind him to assist Tess through the crowd that had developed behind the bar stools, saying, ‘C’mon, gorgeous.’

  ‘And Merry Chris
tmas to Harry!’ she hissed.

  Ratty just laughed. ‘He’ll be OK. Don’t suppose you could follow me to Bettsbrough tomorrow and bring me back? I’ve got a Lotus Europa, now with new brake drums, to deliver to an owner freshly returned from Christmas with the in-laws. It would save asking Pete or Jos when they’re on holiday.’

  Outside, Tess closed her jacket against the December drizzle. ‘Can do. I need to visit the art supplies shop in Bettsbrough, anyway.’ Her Christmas duties had ended when she sent her mother a Marks & Spencer voucher and her father book tokens. She was content to idle her way through the useful elapse between Christmas and New Year with errands and jaunts.

  The owner of the Lotus proved to be Graham Poole, accountant, son of friends of Lester and Elisabeth Arnott-Rattenbury. His house, on the outskirts of Bettsbrough, was called The Old New Inn because it used to be a pub.

  ‘Isn’t she a darling?’ cried Graham, uncombed and creased in having-a-day-off cords and fleece shirt, running his hand across the Lotus’s roof.

  ‘If you like a car without rear vision,’ Ratty ribbed.

  ‘Nonsense, won’t hear a word against my Lotus! Come and have a cuppa, I’ll write you a cheque.’

  So Tess obligingly lined the Freelander up, about twice the height, behind the Lotus Europa with its gold coach lines, and followed the two men into a tiny corner conservatory, facing the courtyard. At least, whilst Ratty explained to Graham when best to do an oil change and scribbled the address of a firm in Mansfield who undertook nickel and chromium plating, she could gaze through French doors and admire the rockery and the gabled lines of the old stables. It was preferable to facing Graham, who laughed bad breath into the small room and answered every remark with, ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ eyes beaming from behind dirty little specs. Like Lucasta had and Lester did, he addressed Ratty as Miles.

  Tess wondered whether he cleaned himself up for his office. Or were there clients desirous of an unwashed accountant with filmy teeth and hair that parted at the back? Maybe pig farmers appreciated a money person they felt at ease with in their work clothes?