Chapter twenty
There was another memory waiting in the box when I next called into Rosemount, and suspecting what I now suspected, I couldn’t even wait to get home before reading it. And when I did, it made me ache with sadness.
The story this time was about the sudden, unhappy end of the relationship, and although I’d been expecting something along those lines, I sat for a moment, utterly hollowed out.
I’d known there couldn’t be a happy ending, but I hadn’t expected to feel so bereft by the abrupt stop to such an adventure.
It had finished too soon. I needed to know what happened next, for the writer, at least.
I looked up at the big house in front of me.
Behind one of those windows was someone who’d been young and full of fizz and dazzle, a sixties teen who’d kicked off the limitations of their rural life in the noise and lights of the city, someone who’d fallen completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with a woman who’d felt the same way, sharing that exhilaration of being young and free – yet she’d ended it with clear eyes, stepped back into her old life, and never told a soul.
Who was it? And why? Did he know Martine was widowed and lonely? Was he hoping I’d tell her and engineer some sort of reunion? Was I the only person who could do that – or was I the last person who should get involved? And did she know he was there?
My curiosity was tinged with real unease.
I’d had similar qualms when I spotted suspicious hotel bills in clients’ accounts, or cash payments that set off alarm bells.
I always adhered to strict professional codes, but I couldn’t not notice.
Or stop my imagination whirring. Another reason I wasn’t sorry not to have face-to-face meetings anymore.
I’d nearly asked Lewis when I’d bumped into him that afternoon – I had to hand it to him, he managed to be here, there and everywhere, despite the size of the place.
But something he said reminded me that he didn’t really know Martine, and the Henderson family, not the way I did.
And even if I’d wanted to share it with Martine, I couldn’t: I’d come in from walking Tomsk on Monday to find a stack of local history books, a vintage brooch and a bottle of wine on my step, with a note saying, Cara and family have taken me to Bath for a ‘minibreak’. Back Thursday night. Fondest, Martine.
So I was left to stew for the week. At least I had my Sunday-morning coffee date with Fraser to obsess about instead.
Fraser texted on Friday to ask if I was still OK for Sunday, and did I have anywhere in particular I’d like to meet?
I’d thought carefully about this. It was always easier to discuss personal things while moving with both parties facing forward (on a walk, in a car, though not necessarily on a plane), so I suggested Fraser joined me and Tomsk for our Sunday walk before coffee.
In a painstakingly casual text, I mentioned the town trail that I’d found: along the heritage canal walk, through the colourful flowerbeds of the park, and down the high street, ending up at the Wild Dog Café where I’d pretend to enjoy a black coffee.
Fraser agreed that that would be a plan, and on Sunday morning I was waiting by the front gate at the bottom of Martine’s steps, butterflies cycloning in my chest, having already taken Tomsk on a quick pre-walk to minimise excited pulling.
Tomsk and I, despite the pre-walk, were both unrecognisably groomed.
I’d got up early to run through the beauty routine that I hadn’t bothered with in months (years), while Tomsk also had a thorough bath and comb-out the night before.
He kept tilting his big head in confusion, as if he couldn’t work out where the pleasant smell was coming from, and more worryingly, where his own oily-biscuit whiff had gone.
I was two minutes early; Fraser was on time but still apologised for being late.
Maybe he was, by a cyber-critical nanosecond.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting!’ he said, closing the front door behind him.
‘Had to convince Mum that the internet still works if I leave the house. I think she thinks I’ve got a key to it, or something. ’
I smiled, but knowing Martine a bit better now, I wasn’t sure that was entirely true. It sounded like she might even be winding Fraser up.
He paused when he reached me, as if he wasn’t sure where we were in terms of greeting. After a moment’s hesitation, we did an awkward cheek kiss and a half. (‘Hi . . . mwah . . . oh, OK, ha-ha, we’re doing two? OK, mwah . . .’)
It was a bit cringe, but our mutual embarrassment broke the ice, and we set off easily enough.
Tomsk gave us plenty of questions and answers to get conversation started – the rescue that he’d come from, did it bother me that I knew nothing about his past, why did I choose him, etc.
I loved talking about Tomsk, although I edited out the part where I drove there to collect him in a zombie state after our break-up, and instead reminded Fraser about the dog show Martine had judged for Four Oaks Rescue, the reason I was following it in the first place.
‘The dog show! God, I’d forgotten all about that,’ he said. ‘That was the one where Mum got huffy and refused to award the Prettiest Bitch prize because she said it was demeaning?’
Martine had insisted they scrap it in favour of a Cleverest Trick prize instead. Which I had forgotten too, but now thought was quite cool.
I smiled at nothing, out of sheer happiness.
It was a perfect Longhampton Sunday: the sky was as blue as a Wedgwood plate, the park was in full bloom, there were no squirrels on the footpath to show up my inadequate training skills, and as the conversation meandered from dogs to Longhampton to the party last weekend, we naturally ended up talking about Rosemount.
‘So I hear Mum’s got you volunteering up at the retirement home?’ Fraser shook his head. ‘You can say no to her. She’s not your mum.’
‘Ah, it’s OK, I’ve enjoyed it.’ The universe was doing me a favour for once, and an outside table at the Wild Dog Café came free as we strolled up; Fraser grabbed it for us.
‘Some of the stories I’ve heard have really put things in perspective – I can hardly make a fuss about having to wait a few weeks to move when I’m talking to someone whose family home was flattened in the war.
Or who didn’t have an inside loo until they got married. ’
That came out a bit mealy-mouthed, but it was true. More than once, my interviewees had asked about my work, and I’d been too embarrassed to say I was too anxious about my weight to go back to the office full-time. I mean, it sounded mad.
Fraser nodded. ‘So what is the situation with your new place? Have you got a date yet?’
‘Yup, I spoke to the agent yesterday, and she confirmed I can move in a month from now. This is the agent who mis-let the original flat,’ I added, because if I was honest, I didn’t mind if a month became two months, not if Fraser was going to be dropping into his mother’s, ‘so I’m not taking it as gospel, ha-ha! I might be around for a while yet.’
‘Good!’ He studied the menu, but my heart skipped. ‘Good, good.’
Good!
‘So what’s the best story you’ve heard so far?’ he asked, signalling to a passing waitress.
I told him about Nigel Callaghan standing on the Berlin Wall next to David Hasselhoff and refusing to recognise him, much to the Hoff’s irritation, and then ordered myself a black coffee. I couldn’t eat; my stomach was full of lightness.
‘There isn’t a single person who doesn’t have at least one good story,’ I told him. ‘Even the ones who think they’ve done nothing, there’s always something. They just don’t see it for what it is.’
‘Are you allowed to contradict them?’ Fraser asked. ‘Like, if they tell you they met JFK and you’re pretty sure JFK never came to Much Didley, are you allowed to say, “Seriously, Betty”?’
I laughed. ‘No. We just write it down. But it’s funny how couples rarely remember things exactly the same way. I sometimes think we should interview them separately and see if anything matches up.’ I gave him a flirty look over the rim of my coffee cup. ‘Do you remember how we first met?’
‘Ah, now you’re testing me! Of course I remember. It was that stag night. And you were on a hen night.’
Yes!
‘And you were dressed as?’ I prompted.
His avocado toast arrived and Fraser played for time. ‘Um . . . Oh God, I should know this. I remember there were knee socks involved. Britney Spears?’
‘Try again.’
Fraser furrowed his brow, then said, ‘The Spice Girls. A Spice Girl.’
‘Yes!’
‘And you spent the whole night arguing about the bill with the barman, because they’d added it up wrong!’
I frowned. ‘Did I?’
He nodded, amused. ‘You got a calculator out of your bag. I remember thinking, Who carries a calculator in their bag? And you said, “Accountants are never off duty”. Which I thought was very funny, if a bit tragic.’
Wow. He remembered that? ‘And yet you still called me!’ My voice sounded mildly strangled. ‘I honestly have no recollection of that whatsoever.’
‘Ah, well. Long time ago. Ten years. A decade ago, Beth! Different life.’ He cut his toast in half. ‘The last few years, well . . . Dad dying was a real reminder that we’re the parent generation now, not “the young people” anymore. Time to grow up.’
I bit my lip; the insensitivity of that was a bit of a scratch on the lovely mood, for a couple of reasons.
One, OK, so Mum had died before we’d met, but had Fraser forgotten I’d had that revelation while I was barely out of higher education?
And two, don’t talk to me about being the parent generation, when we broke up because you weren’t ready to be one.
But maybe Fraser was keen to talk about how he’d changed since we last saw each other for a reason, so I took a deep breath and launched into it. ‘And are you any nearer that yourself?’
‘Nearer what, sorry?’