Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
C layton threw tea bags into two mugs, or tried to. Both missed their target the first time. Laura’s proximity in his small kitchen was having an unsettling effect on him. At least, he assumed that’s what it was. Up at Spindlewood, her home territory, it was different. But having her here, in his home, was fostering the same kind of intimacy as there was that morning in the Ginger Cat. He wondered if Laura had also noticed it then and whether she was aware of it now. But when he turned round, having finally succeeded in producing two passable mugs of tea, he saw only composure. She’d taken off her hat along with her coat, and her hair was all mussed up on top. He liked that.
‘Take this through, shall we? It’s cosier in there.’
He led the way to the living room and invited her to sit on the sofa, in front of the log burner. Passing Laura her tea, he rustled the Sunday paper he’d been reading onto the floor and sat down at the other end of the sofa.
‘Sorry, I’ve haven’t got a coffee table. Put it on the floor when you’re done.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, immediately curling her hands round the mug.
‘It’s turned cold out.’
‘Yes.’ She took a few sips. ‘Lovely, just what I needed. I’ll just have this, then we’ll be out from under your feet.’
‘No need. I wasn’t doing much. He looks settled, anyway.’ He nodded towards the dog, who’d stretched himself out on the rug in front of the fire, his head resting on his paws. ‘He’s not yours, is he?’
‘He’s Emily’s. My friend. Wilf gets to hang out with me if she’s going to be gone for any length of time. Or I get to hang out with him, one or t’other.’
Laura laughed; it was a little high-pitched. She wasn’t quite as composed as she was making out, then. For some reason, Clayton felt pleased about that.
‘I love your house,’ she said, glancing about. ‘It’s very homely.’
‘Thanks. It was a wreck when I bought it, but I think it was worth the trouble.’
‘Certainly was. Like Spindlewood. I don’t know how we managed to stop the whole lot collapsing in a pile of rubble, but we did. Now all I have to do is keep it upright and weatherproof, which hasn’t been so easy since… Well, there you go.’ She shrugged, and gave a tight little smile.
She’d been going to say, since her husband died. Clayton half-wished she had. It might have signposted the way to deeper conversations, about real, meaningful things. Things he hadn’t realised he wanted to talk about, until now.
‘It must take a lot of upkeep, a house of that size and age.’ He turned to look at her. ‘If you’re ever stuck, I could do a few jobs for you. I learned one heck of a lot about DIY when I was doing up this place. Had to. Couldn’t afford to get people in. Except for the replastering in the front bedroom and that had to be done by an expert if I didn’t want to wake up to the Rocky Mountains every morning.’
Laura seemed a bit startled. He hadn’t meant to imply that she couldn’t afford to get people in either – he hoped she hadn’t taken it that way. His offer was sincere, though. It would give him pleasure to help her, in any way he could, and Spindlewood was a stunner of a house. It deserved all the care and attention it could get. He doubted that Marcus – Spencer, whatever – would be getting his lily-white hands dirty any time soon. Supposing she let the man move in with her, though? She wouldn’t have any worries like that then, would she? He would pay his team of tradesmen to come and sort the house out. Perhaps that’s what she was thinking, too. The idea rolled a wave of depression over Clayton.
Laura was smiling now. ‘Thanks, that’s very kind. I’ll be fine, though. I can bang the odd nail in when I have to.’
And a lot more, besides, Clayton thought. ‘I’m sure you can,’ he said. ‘It’s having the time, isn’t it?’
She nodded. Her mind wasn’t on the house now, he was certain of it; a faraway look had crept into those beautiful blue-grey eyes.
And then she was back in the moment, putting her mug down on the floor in a deliberate fashion, as if she’d just come to a decision. ‘Clayton, who’s that in the photo?’
She glanced up at the framed photo on top of the bookshelf.
‘My younger sister, Louise. She died in a road accident. It’ll be five years, Christmas Eve.’
Laura nodded. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She seemed unsurprised. Perhaps she already knew. She wasn’t about to smother him with sympathy, he could see that by her expression, and boy, was he glad about that. His mind went into overdrive before he could stop it.
Ask me how she died. No, please don’t ask me how she died. Yes, ASK ME!
His heart seemed about to force its way out of his chest. Was this the moment, the moment when he shattered Laura’s illusions about her boyfriend forever more? The moment he rescued her? Oh, how he wished he could be the one to do that. She was so very lovely, far too good for that man. Every minute he spent with her enhanced that.
Laura was looking at him closely, her face full of concern. ‘Clayton, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked about the photo. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
He smiled, or as near as. ‘You haven’t. I’m fine. Louise lived here for quite some time. She’s still a part of Mistletoe Cottage and I’m glad you asked.’
He went on to tell Laura about Louise’s job as a physiotherapist, how she’d moved to Sussex after their parents had both died, which had suited him, too – having his sister for company had helped take the sting out of his recent break-up. He talked about Louise’s photography, and her zest for life, adding colourful little details about her, inconsequential things he hadn’t thought about in a while.
As he talked about Louise’s life, so the desperate need to talk about her death began slowly to recede. Laura listened quietly, her face alight with genuine interest, and again Clayton thought how strong she was, and how he could well take a leaf out of her book – the whole damn book, in fact. But whether she was strong enough to deal with the unpalatable truth about Spencer, especially if it came from him, was another matter. He didn’t know her well enough to make that kind of judgement.
‘Louise sounds lovely,’ Laura said.
‘She was.’
‘This must be a difficult time of year for you.’
Clayton leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He glanced up at the photo, then down at Wilf, spread-eagled on the rug. He didn’t look at Laura. ‘I ignore it as far as I can. The whole Christmas thing. It’s easiest to pretend it isn’t happening.’
For a few moments, the only sound was the crackle of wood in the burner and the dog’s soft snoring. Then Laura spoke again, her voice quiet.
‘Is it easiest, though, in the long run?’
‘I haven’t got a clue. I haven’t tried it any other way.’
Laura nodded, and gazed pensively into the fire. She might have been thinking it was time he made some changes, took a chance and see where it led him; if he had to guess what was going through her mind, that would be the favourite. But what was right for others wasn’t necessarily right for him.
Laura stretched out a foot and gently nudged the dog’s side. ‘Come on sleepy-head. Time for home.’
Wilf opened one eye, then in one bound he was up on the sofa, oozing his long body between Clayton and Laura, and nuzzling Laura’s neck.
She fondled Wilf’s ear. ‘Soppy old thing.’
Clayton reached out to stroke the dog’s neck at the same moment that Laura’s hand moved down. Their hands met, just for a moment, but long enough for Clayton to feel the warmth of Laura’s fingers brushing his and the resulting electrical zing. And in that same moment, their eyes locked.
‘Laura…’
But she was up, fastening the dog’s lead to his harness, hurrying out of the room.
Out in the hall, she swiped her coat from the hook, shrugged into it and rammed on the woolly hat. ‘Thank you for the tea.’
Clayton opened the door for her. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow, yes.’
She was gone.