Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
T he following morning, Laura eyed the number of patty tins waiting on the kitchen table while Holly flopped a vast lump of pastry around the mixing bowl. A jar of mincemeat stood ready, with a spoon stuck in it.
‘I hope you aren’t making too many pies,’ Laura said. ‘I put dozens in the freezer the other day.’
Holly looked suspiciously at her. ‘Round lids?’
‘Stars.’
Holly smiled approvingly. ‘Making pastry’s therapeutic. I need therapy after pumping out all those essays.’
Laura swerved around Holly and switched the kettle on again. She was chain-drinking coffee, which wasn’t healthy, but she seemed to be having trouble concentrating at the moment.
‘I could do cheese straws as well?’
‘Yes, do. Yours are always better than mine.’
‘This is true,’ Holly said. A cloud of flour rose as she slapped the pastry onto the board.
Laura’s phone rang. She picked it up from the windowsill.
‘I have to talk to you,’ Emily said. She sounded as if she’d been running.
‘Go on then, I’m listening.’
‘No, not now. In person. Can you come to mine, around twelve? I should be home by then.’
‘Yes, if you like… Em, are you all right? Has something happened? You sound funny.’
‘I’m fine. I’ll explain all when I see you. Oh, and don’t bring the car.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because you’re going to need a drink.’
Laura gripped the arms of the chair and stared across Emily’s living room, not at Emily, but past her, towards the window. But she wasn’t seeing anything except a muzzy square of white light. All this time, and she hadn’t a clue that the man she was seeing – had fallen in love with – was actually somebody quite different. Somebody who, at the time of the incident on the country road, had thought only of himself and not of what – or who – he might have hit. Somebody who had not accepted any blame, nor shown remorse. He’d even had the effrontery to come back to Charnley Acre after his sojourn in Gloucestershire and carry on regardless. Carry on, in fact, as if he owned the place, which was how he behaved sometimes, only she’d seen that as confidence, not arrogance.
Spencer must have known Clayton still lived in the village, or he could have found out, yet he was prepared to risk causing him more pain just because it suited him to return to the area.
‘He even changed his name,’ she said, looking at Emily. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Why would you? He must have taken a chance that nobody in Charnley Acre apart from Clayton would remember that far back and recognise him as being involved in the case. Or maybe he just didn’t care.’
Laura felt the swell of tears in her throat, but they wouldn’t come. It might have been better if they had, but she was too shocked, too angry, to release them. She thought about Clayton. Every time he saw Spencer it must remind him of the tragedy – not that he could forget. He could so easily have told her the whole story but he hadn’t because he knew what it would do to her. Clayton cared about her; she could no longer ignore that, and neither could she go on pretending his feelings weren’t reciprocated.
Emily went quietly to the kitchen and came back with two gin and tonics, clinking with ice. She put one into Laura’s hand. She sipped it, sipped some more. It slid down like liquid fire.
‘Heavens, how much gin have you put in this?’
‘It’s medicinal.’ Emily returned to her chair. ‘I’ll make us some pasta to soak it up in a minute.’
‘I might’ve agreed for us to live together, had he asked. I was tempted,’ Laura said. ‘Knowing what I know now, I think that was going to be Spencer’s party surprise, not a proposal.’
‘Yep, getting married would’ve been a trifle awkward with him living under an assumed name,’ Emily said.
‘God, yes. On the other hand, perhaps he’d already got that part worked out.’
‘That’s why I had to tell you now, before the party. I didn’t want to spoil your Christmas and I’m really sorry if I have, but you see why it couldn’t wait.’
Laura flapped a hand. ‘You did right to tell me and I’ll be fine. I’m made of tougher stuff than Spencer gives me credit for, that I do know.’
Wilf padded into the room and settled down contentedly beside Emily’s chair. She reached down and fondled the old dog’s ears.
They sat in contemplative silence for a while, until Emily looked up at Laura and said, ‘What’re you going to do?’
‘Do?’ Laura was surprised by the question. She hadn’t thought that far. ‘I’ll confront him, of course. I’ll tell him what I know and then I’ll show him the door.’
It felt strangely liberating to be saying that. Sad, too, though, at what had been lost. She had loved Spencer, and probably a tiny bit of her still did. Or rather, she’d loved the man she’d thought he was. Maybe he’d loved her too, in his own way.
And then there was Clayton. What about him? Should she talk to him, too, and tell him she knew the story? She couldn’t decide that now. It was all too raw, too unnerving. One step at a time.