Chapter Eleven
It was a lovely place. Old red brick and bright white render with a tall chimney and a corner plot hedged in with glossy green privet. Highly desirable in today’s market; so quirky and pretty it was an estate agent’s dream. Mature property on the edge of sought-after Whittlesey . . . many original features, herringbone brickwork, latticed windows, decorative roof tiles . . .
The lawn was cut and edged, the shrubs trimmed. Diane wondered at the prideful rage that had caused Wendy to turn down such a sweetheart of a house and whether she’d often thought of it when she lived at Brightside or in even more grisly accommodation.
Principles. Harsh masters.
Inside, the cottage was a delight. The brand new leather suite in the sitting room could scarcely be compared with the balding green velour at home, which would’ve been laughed at by the sexy little stereo, wide-screen television and cream wool carpet that looked so elegant with the gold slubbed-silk curtains and red-tiled hearth gleaming with polish. Upstairs, she made the power shower in the bathroom whoosh into life and bounced on the king-sized bed, its mattress a foot deep, and looked out over a reedy brook to fields of sheep.
She opened every wardrobe and drawer and poked through the contents.
Thoughtfully, she wandered back down to admire the kitchen, fitted with 1920s’ style painted cabinets and enamelled appliances. She helped herself to biscuits and tea and settled down at the oak table.
In silence, she drank an entire teapot, four cups — she had to visit the luxurious black-and-white tiled bathroom — and ate half a packet of chunky Marks Stella, who’d pretended to be Diane’s friend. Nobody was reliable.
Not even herself.
And not James. Not James.