Twenty-eight
As the first pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, Fiona dawdled along the beach, trying to clear her head after yet another sleepless night.
Her footsteps were soft, barely disturbing the quiet.
She moved closer to the water’s edge, where the waves lapped lazily at the shore.
There was a pleasant woody fragrance, which she attributed to a mixture of decaying autumn leaves and driftwood, but it didn’t soothe her nerves.
She needed to come up with a plan. She had failed her exam for a second time, but in the cold light of the Devon morning, she recognized that might be the least of her problems. Fiona had debts.
She was unemployed and accused of theft.
She shuddered, recalling Ru’s expression upon seeing the half bottle of Krug that night.
A picture of pure disgust. Fiona hugged her lavender coat closer – Ru’s last gift – wishing it was his arms embracing her instead.
As a newly crowned member of the elite CMS, she believed she would have convinced him of her innocence. Now, he wouldn’t want anything to do with her; but he would want his money back.
What on earth could she do? If only she had spent all of her spare time studying, not playing amateur detective.
After she’d discovered the wine theft and started meeting Ru, she’d hardly looked at her books.
That exam had been her ticket to a secure future, and she had squandered her chance.
She’d pretended it was to solve the crime, but she knew deep down it had been because she’d wanted to spend time with Ru – the man who could once have been her husband, but now, through her own fault, would never be.
His last bitter words to her – How could you?
That is pure evil – seemed to echo across the deserted beach, settling like an overaged vintage, left stale and undrunk.
In the distance, the sky was awash with shades of muted pinks and greys, while the sea reflected the dim, waking light of the sun, casting a silver sheen over the water.
It was a gorgeous sight and lifted Fiona’s spirits.
She gave herself a talking to. Things were not that bleak.
Even if Rose reported her, the police would probably not arrest her.
She knew she was innocent and there was only circumstantial evidence to implicate her.
Kim had only reported seeing Fiona near the cellar: that was not grounds for arrest.
Rose would encourage the team not to gossip; she wouldn’t want the scandal. And even if someone did talk, the Smuggler’s Inn was in rural North Devon. Rumours wouldn’t travel far. She could resurface in a big city like Manchester or Glasgow, start again as a junior sommelier and work her way up.
Why had Rose refused to let Fiona explain?
Her boss had trusted her with the cellar lock code, yet somehow now believed that someone who’d supervised her children’s homework was a thief.
And Ru – he’d accepted her guilt without question, washing his hands of her completely.
How could he be so superficial? He knew her, had even loved her once, yet Ru wasn’t curious about Fiona’s side of the story.
She picked up a pebble and tossed it, trying to make it skim across the water, but it sank, taking her optimism with it.
What if Kim gave a false statement, claiming she had actually witnessed Fiona stealing wine?
If she also shared the fact that Ru and Fiona had been meeting secretly in Ru’s flat, which was true, their previous relationship would be discovered and then perhaps the whole of Kim’s story would be believed.
If it was, the bottle of Champagne might tip the weight of circumstantial evidence against Fiona.
And if they charged her, Ru would be affected too. She couldn’t risk that.
There was only one solution. Fiona must persuade Rose that she was innocent before she left Brambleton.
Then she should follow Josh’s example: find a modest job far away, leave this behind.
Put Ru behind her too. Except she couldn’t work out how to achieve that and couldn’t think of anyone to ask for help.
The person she had turned to for advice over the past three years had always been Ru, and he wouldn’t help her now.
A brick had been hurled into their relationship, shattering it like glass, scattering their romance into pieces too sharp to pick up.
Out at sea, the silhouettes of small fishing boats bobbed on the horizon, their shapes blurry in the misty dawn.
She could see the faint movements of the fishermen, casting their nets into the sea as they began their day’s work, their figures outlined against the soft glow of the morning sky.
The scene felt timeless, a daily rhythm of toil and nature that carried on, oblivious to the changing seasons.
Fiona stopped, watching them in quiet reverie, her breath hanging like smoke in the icy air as she listened to the distant sounds of the waves mingling with the faint hum of boat engines.
She needed to get her own life back in rhythm.
Fiona rubbed her hands down her face, trying to summon her energy. She owed money to Ru, and to Ivy, and without that final qualification, she had no prospect of earning much. She should give that exam one more try, but the thought of studying filled her with dread.
She dragged herself back up through the village, let herself into the cottage and sat cross-legged on the faded bedspread.
An hour later, and although her books lay scattered around her, she had yet to open one.
Outside, the golden leaves swirled in the autumn breeze, their vibrant colours glowing against the overcast sky.
The distant sound of a woodpecker echoed from somewhere in the trees.
It resembled a scene from a storybook, but the sting of yesterday’s failure was a gaping wound.
By mid-morning, unable to concentrate on wine, and needing to keep her mind occupied, Fiona stripped her bed, then Ivy’s.
In the bathroom, she grabbed the laundry basket and dumped the soiled linen on the floor.
She heard her aunt’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by her calling out in surprise: ‘Fiona, you’re back. ’
‘Thought I’d put some washing on,’ Fiona said, concentrating on separating the darks from the whites.
Ivy leaned round the bathroom door. Her face was pale and drawn, and she looked exhausted, as if she had slept little more than Fiona in the last few nights.
‘I’ve been so worried. Why did you switch your phone off?’
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, realizing her phone had been switched off for four days.
She had no intention of changing that. There was no one she wanted to contact, and there were several people she didn’t want to contact her.
Like Rose, George or the police. ‘I left you a note. You knew where I was.’
‘But why didn’t you say goodbye before you left, or hello when you got home? And why is your phone switched off?’
Feeling herself well up, Fiona screwed up her eyes; her aunt walked into the room, holding her arms wide and Fiona crumpled into them sobbing. Ivy stroked her hair. ‘What’s happened, love?’
Struggling to stem her tears, Fiona sniffed.
She took a breath, stepped away, then explained the real reason she had gone to London, and that she’d failed her exam.
All the while the tears fell. When she finished, she wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, then across her mouth, tasting the salty tears, a reminder of her failure to identify that blasted Sancerre wine.
Ivy spoke gently, concern etched on her face, ‘Do you want me to call Rose and let her know you’re not well enough for work today?’
Fiona stifled a laugh. ‘No,’ she spluttered. ‘No need. I’ve been fired. Accused of theft. Somebody set me up.’
Ivy swayed, clutching at the doorframe. ‘Who would do something as wicked as that?’ she gasped.
Fiona wanted to name the culprit, but although certain who it was, she had no proof it was Kim.
Blinking back the tears, she told herself to do something.
She couldn’t collapse in a heap of misery.
She picked up the pile of whites, tying the ends of a sheet round the bundle, then stumbled past Ivy and down the stairs, hearing her aunt thumping her way down behind her.
She hurled the linen into the washing machine and snapped the door shut. ‘Why would anyone want you to take the blame, and how did they do it?’ asked Ivy.
While stabbing at the dial to choose a cycle, Fiona told her aunt about the bottle of Krug. When Ivy didn’t respond, Fiona spun around. Her aunt was chewing her lip, clutching at the cross at her neck.
‘Ivy, if you know something ... please, I beg you, help me!’
‘All I can say is ...’ Ivy heaved a sigh. ‘Someone has a problem.’
‘Who?’
Ivy clutched at her cross again.
‘Who?’
‘I never break a confidence.’ Listening to those words, Fiona recalled Ivy saying how Kim had been upset after being interviewed and that she had taken her for a coffee and a chat.
Had Kim confided in Ivy, confessed some secret?
Maybe Kim was the thief. Fiona had read about wealthy people shoplifting for the thrill of the crime.
Had Kim done this as a dare and planted the evidence against Fiona, not just to remove her from the ‘love playing field’ but to deflect suspicion away from herself?
Fiona’s heart started pounding, and she raised her voice, ‘It’s Kim, isn’t it? ’
Ivy dropped her gaze. ‘I think you should talk to Rose. I’ll come with you if you like. She may be more receptive after a few days reflecting on this. She must know you’re not a thief.’
Hearing the comforting sound of water gurgling into the washing machine behind her, Fiona shook her head. ‘I’m going upstairs to study.’