Chapter Fifteen
Well, she’d certainly mucked up, big time. Vicky felt as if she was dragging her heart with her like a lead weight as she walked up the hill. Tom wasn’t married. If it wasn’t for her stupid pride she could have just asked Debbie or someone, and resolved it in seconds.
Instead she had been so hostile to him when he had kissed her — which had had exactly the result she had intended. It had pushed him away, made damn sure that she had killed off any interest he may have had in her.
And she had the feeling that he didn’t give second chances.
But it was probably just as well, she told herself firmly. Even though she had got it wrong about him being married, she doubted that he was looking for anything more than a casual fling — a ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement. Which wasn’t her thing.
And if she did let herself succumb to temptation, it would be beyond awkward afterwards, living so close to him.
Oh, dammit — she had known from the start that it would be stupid to let herself indulge in fantasies about him. But it was just too easy to let herself dwell on the way he had kissed her. The way his strong arms had held her, the way the subtle male scent of his skin had drugged her mind...
“Vicky!”
She glanced around as she heard someone call her name. Bez came bouncing out of the shop.
“We heard about Kate’s picture. We’ve got one too — of my granny. Do you think it would be worth anything?”
Vicky blinked, startled. “I don’t know — I haven’t heard anything back from the auction house yet. But it might be.”
“Can you wait a tick? I’ll go and fetch it.”
“Of course.”
Vicky followed her into the shop, smiling to herself. How many more of those drawings were there in the village? If they were valuable, it could be quite a bonanza.
Brenda greeted her with a wide smile. “Oh, that old picture! She’s been so excited about it — I just hope she won’t be disappointed.”
Bez hurried out from the back of the shop with the picture in its frame. “Here. Is it the same?” Her eyes were bright and eager. “It’s got the rabbit ears — there.”
Vicky studied the sketch. “Yes — I’m pretty sure it’s by the same artist. They’ve all got that weird thing he did with the hair. Do you want to sell it?”
Bez glanced at her mother. Brenda shrugged. “We might as well — it’s been away in a cupboard for years. To be honest, I don’t like it that much. And besides, I could do with the money — it’ll help pay your university fees. I thought once about taking it along to one of those telly programmes where they value things for you, but I didn’t have the time.”
“That’s a good idea,” Vicky agreed. “If I don’t get a reply from any of the auction houses I might try that.”
“I’ve been looking him up online.” Bez was bubbling with enthusiasm. “I’m going to do some research on him — it’ll be a chance to practise my Spanish. Then I’m going to interview any of the old people in the village who might remember him, like Arthur, and make a blog. If that’s all right?”
“Of course.”
“Très bien. Can I have a copy of the picture you took of the painting? That should be the main bit of it. And the other pictures, so I can put them up too? How amazing is it, to have had a famous artist living right here in Sturcombe?”
She danced away with the picture, disappearing through into the back room. Brenda laughed dryly. “I think someone must have stolen my daughter and replaced her with a different one. I’m getting French and Spanish, morning, noon and night — I’ll be speaking it myself soon! And she’s really excited about this university thing — especially the idea of spending a year abroad as part of her course. I’m not sure, but I suppose it’ll be all right.”
“Don’t worry — she’ll be fine. I’m so glad that she’s really into it.”
“Thank you. I know you keep insisting that you didn’t do anything, but you really did help. And you were right — I’ve backed off the nagging, and that seems to have worked too.”
“I’m glad. She’s going to have to work hard to get good grades, but this idea of researching Juan-Jorge Conejero could give her an extra boost.”
“It’s really quite exciting, isn’t it?” Brenda was almost girlish. “Even if it’s not worth much, it’s fun to know that a famous painter did a drawing of my mum.”
“It is,” Vicky agreed. That was a good way of looking at it. ‘Sensible’ her mother would say. But in this instance, she was probably right.
* * *
The workroom was perfect. Vicky sat in her office chair and admired the length of light-oak kitchen worktop that she had laid on top of a cupboard and drawer unit to give her plenty of room to spread out.
Her new desktop computer had been delivered and took pride of place. A pretty china pot she had found in one of the kitchen cupboards held pens and pencils, another was for paper clips, and a flourishing peace lily stood at the end of the desk.
To her left she had set up her printer, and to the right a three-tier paper tray. And on the wall in front of her she had fixed a cork board to pin up the pictures she had collected of the people and places that were going to feature in her book.
Smiling to herself she trailed her fingers lightly over the keyboard, then opened the file she had transferred from her laptop. She had sketched out the first four chapters, and had an outline for the rest.
Opening a new document, she began to type.
Lady Cecily had quarrelled with Lord William and now she was trying to convince herself that she didn’t care a fig for him. But there were rumours that the Earl of Warwick was scheming to get the deposed King Henry released from the Tower of London, and restore him to the throne. It was vital to learn more of his plans...
The buzz of the phone cut across her train of thought. She cursed it mildly, ready to ignore it — until she saw the number. Her heart thumped as she scrambled to open the call.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Marston. It’s Clive Loughton from Cottesmore’s.”
“Oh, yes — hello, Mr Loughton.” She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Thank you for sending me those pictures. They do indeed appear to be by Conejero, but I’d need to see them to form a firm opinion. Could you bring them up to me, do you think?”
“Of course.” She spoke quite calmly, but inside she felt like dancing around the room.
“Would Friday be convenient? Or is that too short notice?”
“Oh... no — yes. Friday would be fine.”
“Excellent. Shall we say two o’clock?”
“Yes, of course.” And breathe. “That would be fine.”
“You’ll be able to park outside — I’ll arrange for Reception to give you a permit. I look forward to meeting you.”
“Yes . . . thank you . . .”
“Until Friday then. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye . . .”
She closed the call and put the phone down beside the computer. She hadn’t really let herself believe that anything would come of that approach to the auction house. But now...
She wasn’t going to let herself get her hopes up too high. Sensible — she could almost hear her mother’s voice. Although as Brenda had said, it really was quite exciting.
And at least it was something to take her mind off her neighbour.
* * *
“I think I’m still in shock.” Vicky laughed unsteadily. “He said to set the reserve at two million pounds! When he told me, I thought I was dreaming.”
“I’m not surprised.” Debbie looked equally stunned. “Come on, have a cup of coffee and tell us all about it. Was it very grand, the auction place?”
“Very grand.” Vicky waited at the counter while Debbie poured her coffee. “All pale-grey walls and thick carpets, and swish chandeliers. The auction room itself is pretty impressive — it reminded me a bit of the lecture halls at uni, except the seats looked a lot more comfortable.”
Debbie brought her coffee, and one for herself, and leaned on the counter, her eyes bright with excitement. It was early yet, and the café wasn’t very busy.
“The auctioneer, Clive Loughton, was very nice. He was very interested to hear about Aunt Molly. Apparently she and Juan were part of an artists’ colony in a small town several miles up the coast from Barcelona. He painted several portraits of her, and so did some of the others. Some of them were nudes!”
“Wow!” Debbie’s eyes danced. “She really did live an incredible life.”
“She certainly did. I’d like to write her biography one day.”
“What did he say about your portrait?”
“He was pretty confident that it’s genuine, but he’s going to get in a second expert to definitely authenticate it — and the sketches. If that goes okay, he’ll put them all in the next available auction of contemporary art.”
“Two million pounds!” Debbie breathed, awed. “What will you do with the money?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if it will make that much — it’s an auction, so it’s anybody’s guess. It depends on how much interest there still is in him — he’s been dead for over forty years. People could have forgotten about him.”
“But artists often make more money after they’re dead,” Debbie pointed out. “Like pop stars. You could go on a world cruise.”
Vicky laughed, shaking her head. “Oh no — I don’t think I’m the world cruise type.”
“You’ll think of something. It’s so exciting... Oh, hi, Tom — your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
Vicky felt a shiver of heat run over her skin at the sound of that familiar voice — it was like standing too close to a high-voltage electrode. She took a sip of her coffee to avoid looking up at him.
“Vicky’s just been telling me about her trip to London.”
“Oh?” The polite interest was shaved down to the thinnest veneer over ice-cold steel.
“She took an old painting that Molly left to be valued.” Debbie babbled on innocently. “And they said it could be worth two million pounds!”
Vicky caught the sardonic glance he slanted down at her. “Congratulations.”
“Did he say whether the charcoal sketches would fetch anything?” Debbie asked.
“He thought maybe a few thousand each.”
“Alice at the pub has one too, and she’d like to sell it.” Debbie had bagged up two pasties and handed them over to Tom. “Though I suppose if there are a lot of them, you wouldn’t get so much for each one.”
“Not necessarily.” Tom tapped his card on the reader. “Being sold as a group might make them worth more.”
Debbie’s eyes were bright. “Do you think so?”
“It’s possible. Thanks for these, Debs — cheerio. Goodbye, Vicky.”
“Mmm.” That was as much as she could manage to say. You could have cut the hostility with one of Debbie’s cake slices.
“Bye, Tom.” As the door closed behind him, Debbie leaned over the counter to speak softly to Vicky. “Have you had a row with him?”
“What?” She tried to laugh. “Of course not.”
“Because he looks at you that way — you know, the way men do when they’re interested. And you like him, don’t you?”
“Oh, he’s good-looking, I grant you that.” She tried for a note of casual dismissal, but she knew the wobble in her voice gave her away. “But he’s really not my type. Though I don’t suppose that’ll bother him — I expect he’s got half the women between here and Bristol after him.”
“Well, yes . . . at least, he used to. But since last year . . .”
“What?” She didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t help herself.
Debbie hesitated — she looked as if she was wishing she hadn’t mentioned anything. “He was engaged — to an actress. Nyree Donovan. She was really gorgeous — red hair, and a fabulous figure. She’s been on the telly a couple of times.”
“An actress?” Vicky felt as if her smile was cemented in place. “How did he meet her?”
“She was down here filming a part in that detective series — you know, the one with that guy who was in EastEnders.”
Vicky thought back, but she couldn’t remember whether she’d ever seen it. She could probably look it up on the internet — if she was feeling really masochistic. “What happened?” she asked.
Her friend’s gentle face darkened. “Just a month before the wedding she got offered a part in some American soap series — Mandate, I think it was called, about politicians and all their shenanigans.”
“And she went for it?” Well, that would explain why he had been so contemptuous when he had thought she was just a city girl who couldn’t wait to cash in on her inheritance and hightail it back to London as soon as possible.
“She was off the next day — just like that! Tom must have been pretty cut up about it,” Debbie mused. “Though he’s never said anything. But he’s hardly dated anyone since.”
“Oh . . .”
At that moment there was a rush of customers, so Vicky finished her coffee and waved Debbie a cheerful goodbye, making her escape before she gave herself away.
So — a stunning actress who had broken his heart. Whom he still carried a torch for, if he had rarely dated since then. Which in a way made him almost as inaccessible as if he had been married.
She walked slowly up the hill — she didn’t want to risk catching up with Tom. At Brenda’s shop, she popped in to pick up some milk and a newspaper. Brenda was as excited as Debbie over the news about the sketches.
“It’ll certainly help pay Beth’s university fees. Thank you so much for what you’ve done.”
Vicky smiled. “We don’t know yet how much it might sell for, if at all,” she warned. “Best keep your fingers crossed.”
“I will — both hands!” She chuckled as she held them up. “What about Arthur — is he going to sell his?”
Vicky shook her head. “I spoke to his son about it, and he said to let him keep it. He’s arranged to send money to pay for the carer. He’s coming over to visit as soon as his doctor gives him the all-clear to fly.”
“That’s good.” She waved aside Vicky’s card as she went to pay. “On the house.”
Vicky laughed. “You won’t stay in business long that way!”
“It’s today’s special offer.” Brenda smiled awkwardly. “To be honest, I’ve been feeling a bit guilty about Arthur. He’s lived just round the corner from us all my life, and I hadn’t thought he might need a bit more help.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it — he’s very independent. You should have heard how he grumbled about having a carer. It was only when his son insisted that he gave in.” Vicky tucked her shopping into her bag. “Well, goodbye then.”
“Goodbye — see you soon.”
* * *
“Donna said she’d swap the Friday with me.”
Vicky smiled to herself. Lisa had warned her that arranging the staff shifts could be the most complicated part of her new job. “That’s okay, Kerry — I’ll switch the rota around.”
“Thanks. Oh, by the way, the Donaldsons in room twenty-four asked for a seven o’clock wake-up tomorrow — they’re going to drive down to the Eden Project, and want to make a full day of it.”
“Okay — I expect they’ll want an early breakfast too...”
“Hi.” A light tap on the door, and Lisa appeared, a tiny pink bundle in a baby-sling on her chest. “Can I come in?”
“Of course!” Vicky laughed. “It’s still your office. And you’ve brought the baby.”
Lisa’s face was warm with maternal pride. “Do you want to hold her?”
“Can I?”
“Even Ollie says it’s quite safe. Kyra — meet your Auntie Vicky.” She lifted the baby out of the sling and laid her carefully in Vicky’s arms.
“Oh, she’s gorgeous.” Vicky gazed down at the delicate pink face topped by a curl of dark hair, then dipped her head and sniffed. “Mmm — that baby smell.”
“I know. I could just eat her!”
“How old is she now — five days?”
“Six. She arrived a week early, the little minx — and she’s just as impatient for everything now she’s here.”
“How’s Noah been with her?”
“He’s great.” Lisa smiled fondly. “Every little noise she makes he goes running to check she’s okay.”
“That’s lovely. He’ll make a brilliant big brother. Cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please. Stay there — I’ll get it.”
Vicky laughed. “You know where everything is. I hope you don’t mind me using your coffee-maker?”
“Of course not.” She poured two mugs, adding cream, and brought them over to the desk. “So how’s everything going?” she asked as she sat down.
“Not too bad.” Vicky shifted the sleeping baby so that she could pick up her mug. “I don’t think I’m making too much of a mess.”
“I’m sure you’re not. How does it compare to being an estate agent?”
“It’s quite similar, in a way — trying to make sure the guests get the perfect holiday, and trying to help people find their perfect property. But the walk home’s a lot nicer.”
Lisa’s eyes danced. “I’m sure it is. I’ve visited London a few times, but I don’t think I’d want to live there. It’s too big — I find it a bit overwhelming, with all the buildings and the traffic.”
Vicky nodded agreement. “It can be overwhelming. Though there are a lot of green spaces — more than you’d think. But nothing can beat having a beach on your doorstep.”
“Absolutely!”
They sat chatting for a while as little Kyra slept contentedly, her tiny fingers curled around Vicky’s thumb.
“Feeling broody?” Lisa teased.
“What? No!” Vicky laughed, though it sounded a little forced to her own ears. A baby? With Jeremy, it had been out of the question — a baby wouldn’t have suited his lifestyle. But with Tom... oh, don’t be stupid. “I mean... one day, of course... maybe... but not yet. Not for a while yet.” Again that edgy laugh. “Anyway, it’s usual to have a partner or something first.”
“Or something?”
“Well, someone who can fix the car and do the gardening would come in handy.”
“It would. Mine could remove an appendix, but can’t fix a dripping tap.”
“Ah, well — at least he’d come in useful if you had appendicitis.”
“And he’s a whizz at changing nappies.”
“Clincher!”
* * *
“Goodnight, Vicky. See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Pete.” Vicky smiled at the night manager as she crossed the reception hall. “See you tomorrow.”
A soft breeze was rustling the leaves overhead as she strolled up the hill. She liked every time of day here — the early mornings with the lambent glow of the rising sun, the heat of noon with the sky and the sea a jewel-bright sapphire.
But this time of the evening was special. The sun was drifting down towards the horizon, the sky in the east was darkening to a soft cobalt blue. The bees and butterflies had retired for the night, but an owl was hooting softly from the trees.
As she turned into the lane, she was surprised to see Tom emerging from the small patch of woodland beside the cottage. He was carrying a torch and a shovel, and his brow was creased in a worried frown.
She hesitated. There had been so many times over the past couple of weeks when she had wanted to walk up to the farm, quite casually, just to say ‘hi’ and see if it might lead anywhere, but she hadn’t had the courage.
But she was going to have to speak to him now.
“Is there something wrong?”
He glanced up, seeming startled to see her. “Have you seen Rufus?”
“No. I’ve just come from work.”
“He’s been missing for two days.” His voice was tense with anxiety. “He’s never been gone for this long before.”
“Oh...” His genuine concern for the little dog broke through her reserve. “Wait — I’ll just drop my bag and change out of my work clothes, then I’ll come and help you look.”
His smile was brief, distracted. “Thank you.”
As she hurried up the lane to the cottage she peered from side to side, hoping to spot a small bundle of brown-and-white fur. But there was no sign of him, no scrabble of small paws.
She let herself into the kitchen and raced up the stairs, stripping off her business suit and grabbing a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater, throwing them on at top speed. Without stopping to brush her hair she ran back down the stairs.
Tom had walked a little further down the lane to the junction with Church Road.
“Where have you looked already?” she asked as she caught up to him.
“Up the lane and along the top road.” He pointed up past the farmhouse. “All the way down to the caravan park. And along here up as far as the main road. I... suppose I should look along there, but I’m afraid that... with all the traffic... speeding...”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. “Has he ever gone up there before?”
“No. But if he caught a scent, or was chasing a rabbit or a squirrel...”
“Okay. Let’s go and look.”
“Thanks.”
The strain around his eyes made her long to reach out to him, but she held back. It had all got so complicated, and now wasn’t the moment to sort it out. They needed to find Rufus.
They walked up to the busy main road and along it for a good distance in each direction, one on each side, checking the hedges for any gaps that a small dog could wriggle through, calling his name.
It was a mixture of relief and disappointment when they found nothing.
“How about the cricket ground?” Vicky asked. “Have you looked there?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay — let’s try it. And the golf course.”
“Thanks — I really appreciate your help.”
“No problem.”
“Here.” He smiled crookedly as he handed her half a dozen dog biscuits. “A little bribery usually works with him.”
“Right.” Her heart creased in sympathy for him, as well as her own concern for the lively little terrier. “We’ll find him.”
She could only hope that she was right as they hurried down the hill to the cricket ground. He loved that dog — it must be awful to have him missing for so long, not knowing what had happened to him, imagining all sorts of dreadful outcomes.
The sun was sinking below the horizon, leaving its memory in streaks of gold and magenta across the darkening sky. They scoured the narrow lane leading to the cricket ground, and all round the ground itself, calling to Rufus, peering under every hedge and thicket, listening for any bark or squeak.
Nothing.
The golf course was just as disappointing. Set on the long green swathe on the rising ground behind the hotel, the view was stunning. All along the Esplanade, the swags of coloured lights shone like a jewelled necklace. Beyond the houses around the bay, the hills were fading into shadow as the indigo cloak of night spread over the sky.
But Vicky barely spared it a glance. There were so many places a small dog could have got himself stuck — trees and bushes all around the perimeter and in clumps between the fairways.
They didn’t speak much as they worked their way around the edge of the course. Vicky could feel the sharp sting of tears in her eyes — the grim possibility that Rufus may never be found was beginning to sink in.
It was harder to search in the dark. Tom’s torch had a powerful beam, penetrating the tangled undergrowth of brambles and goosegrass and bindweed, but it cast confusing shadows that made it difficult to be sure what was there.
Vicky was almost ready to admit defeat when she bent to pull aside a long thorny runner of bramble... and caught her breath.
“Tom — here.” A small tuft of fur was caught on the prickles.
He hurried over and shone the torch on the ground. It was slightly damp beneath the thatch of weeds, and imprinted in the mud was a small but very distinct pawprint.
“It could be just a cat, or a badger...”
Tom shook his head, pulling more of the undergrowth aside and shining the torch down. Among the tangle of roots, there was a hole. A hole just big enough to lure a small dog.
“Here, hold the torch.” He thrust it into her hand and bent to drag the weeds aside, calling to the dog. “Rufus? Hey, boy.”
As they listened intently there was the faintest sound... It could have been a bird. Then it came again...
“Rufus!”
Vicky aimed the beam carefully at the hole as Tom knelt and reached into it, stretching his arm down as far as he could.
“Is he there?”
“Yes. I can just touch him, but he’s stuck.” He drew back. “Pass me the shovel.”
She tried not to let her gaze be distracted by the powerful movement of the hard muscles beneath his T-shirt as he stabbed the shovel into the earth around the hole, widening it. As he reached his arm into it again, she heard a distinct squeak.
He grunted, and pulled slowly back — and to Vicky’s delight a small bundle of muddy fur appeared. With a whimper the little dog scrambled into Tom’s arms, huddling against his chest and managing to lift a weary head to lick his chin.
At last Vicky could breathe. “Oh, thank God.”
Tom was kneeling on the ground, hugging the dog, and she could see his shoulders shaking as he buried his face in the muddy fur. He was crying.
She waited in silence until at last he rose to his feet.
“Stupid mutt.” His voice was a little huskier than usual. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
Vicky laughed. “I don’t suppose he’ll be doing that again in a hurry.” She stroked a finger round the little dog’s ear. He turned his head to gaze at her with eyes that lacked their usual sparkle, then snuggled against Tom’s chest again. “Poor little mite — he must be starving.”
“Yes. But he’d better not have his usual dinner — it’d be too much for his stomach, after eating nothing for so long. It could make him ill.”
“I could do him some scrambled egg?” she offered.
He smiled, and reached out to take her hand. “That would be perfect.”