Part 10 (1/2)

On the way home, undiluted misery got the better of me. What were we doing here, I wondered with rising panic. Where were my friends? Where were Jess and Teresa? And once the boys had started school, what then? They'd make friends, but what about me? Well, then I'd meet all the lovely mums, I thought staunchly. Have coffee. Shop. That sort of thing, except - no, I was going to work! I wiped my damp forehead, confused. But if I couldn't find work, would I be happy having coffee? Perhaps I would. Perhaps I could join the PTA, be on a committee - a committeeeeee! I nearly drove into a hedge. Christ, that way madness lay, and speaking of madness, I came to a sudden halt in a country lane. Stared up at the signpost.

'Why have we stopped?' asked Ben, who was map-reading rather efficiently in the back, as he had done on the way over. 'It's straight on here'

'Yes, I know, it's just . . I licked my lips, then suddenly, onan impulse, reversed back a bit, swung the wheel left, and shot off down a tiny lane.

'No! No, Mum, this is totally, totally wrong! That road back there was the way to Granny's house. You should have just gone straight on' Ben turned around, gazing back at the junction.

'Are you sure? I thought this might be quicker. Oh well, never mind, I'm pretty sure we can get back to that road this way. This lane sort of loops' I was beadily scrutinising the signs at every junction now. 'We'll just go back through the villages, that's all, go the pretty route.'

'But this is miles out of our way and you're wrong, the road doesn't loop at all.' Ben frowned down at the map.

I breathed deeply and gripped the wheel, wis.h.i.+ng he wasn't so flaming smart. He was supposed to be dyslexic, for G.o.d's sake. Why couldn't he behave like any other educationally challenged child, instead of navigating like a demon?

'So we'll be discerning tourists,' I said gaily. 'I wonder where this little road goes?'

'It goes to Bartwood actually,' he said sulkily. 'Followed by Hexham'

'Really?' I breathed. 'Hexham.' Oh G.o.d, I needed to say it. I rolled it around in my mouth, savouring it. And that lovely little Hex bit at the beginning which sounded so like ... Mmmm. Lovely. Yes, Charlie Fletcher territory. And I needed my fix. Needed to breathe again.

'D'you know, you're quite right' I feigned surprise. 'This is Bartwood, and if we go on just a little bit further, down here ...' There was a stony silence in the back as we cruised along. 'Here we are, in Hexham.'

I sat up and peered over the wheel excitedly. We purred slowly through a pretty village, complete with Dirty Duck pub, and a village green beside it. I glanced feverishly from left to right, scanning the names on the gates. Apple Tree House, Tudor Cottage, no...

'Why are we going so slowly?' demanded Ben.

'I'm hungry, can we get some sweets?' whined Max.

'We could, my love, although there doesn't appear to be a shop. There is a church though.'

'That's no good.'

'So Church Farm,' I muttered under my breath, 'must be somewhere down ... bingo.'

Right next to the church, of course. I slowed right down. Stared. It was a long, low, ancient-looking farmhouse, seventeenth century perhaps, whitewashed and beamed, and with what looked like a carefully tended garden at the back and a duck pond at the side. In front was the obligatory crunchy gravel drive, and surrounding the whole thing, a white picket fence. Comfortable, but not grand and imposing, and utterly, utterly, charming. I gave a groan of pleasure.

'Lovely,' I breathed, coming to a stop on the opposite side of the road. I gazed out of my window. 'Absolutely lovely.' 'What is?' asked Ben.

'This village,' I said brightly. 'Don't you think it's pretty?' Ben shrugged. Looked around. 'It's all right. Why have we stopped?'

'Oh, because I have to post a letter, darling.'

Handy. Very handy, I thought, spotting the red box across the road, and right by the picket fence. I wondered if he was here. It was amazing how good it felt to be close to himagain, how, just knowing that he spent time here, lived here, sent the blood racing round the old arteries, arteries which ten minutes ago, I could quite cheerfully have slashed. But not now. Now my heart was beating right down to my fingertips, banging away like a bongo drum. I felt alive again, I felt - oops! h.e.l.lo, the front door was opening. A young woman was coming out.

'Mu-mmmy!' from the back.

'Just a minute,' I hissed, ducking my head down. 'Shoes have come undone,' I mumbled from somewhere around the pedals.

I raised my head an inch, and peered. Yes, a young woman in a denim dress, clutching a purse, with long, blonde swinging hair was turning back to talk to someone in the doorway, who - s.h.i.+t! It was him. He was here! I watched, frozen with guilt and fascination as he put an arm round her shoulder giving her a quick squeeze, before she turned and went down the drive to her car. I couldn't keep them both in view, and torn between looking at him or her, settled for him.

He was looking lovely, of course; brown and broad-shouldered, his dark hair tousled, in a navy blue T-s.h.i.+rt and chinos, one hand up supporting the door frame as he watched her get in the car. I couldn't see much of her now, and she had her back to me anyway, but I'd seen enough to know that she was slim, blonde, and attractive, with that long sheet of s.h.i.+ny hair. She started the engine, then stuck her head out.

'Do we need anything else?'

'You could get a few beers,' called Charlie. 'And we're running a bit short of milk.'

She nodded, then neatly reversed, and negotiated the gravel drive, turning in a circle, and driving towards me. I instantly shot my head down again.

'I thought you said you wanted to post a letter?' said Ben. 'Yes, yes I do. It's just these laces . .

'Mum, you've got espadrilles on. Where is this letter?'

I sat up and reached for my bag, realising Charlie was still in the doorway, and that now she'd gone, was looking rather curiously at our car. Probably wondering who on earth was sitting opposite his house in this empty village street for no apparent reason.

'Quick Ben, here.' I reached in my bag and shoved a letter in his hand. 'Run across and post it, quick.'

He stared. 'But it's already got a postmark. You need a new stamp, Mum'

'Never mind, never mind, just put it in.'

'This is an old gas bill, Mum. Addressed to you. This won't go anywhere'

'Just post it, Ben, post it!'

G.o.d, Charlie was really peering at us now, shading his eyes against the sun to see. I went hot. We had to have a reason for being here, in case he spotted the car later, knew I'd been lurking. He mustn't recognise me either, or think, Gosh, how odd, I used to see her in London, and now here she is, right outside my house.

'It's open too, Mum. This is just an old letter you've had in your bag. It won't get there.'

I took a deep breath. ”Course it will. It's such a big bill they'll pay at the other end, they'll be so delighted to get the cheque.'

'But it's to you,' he insisted. 'Not to them.'

'JUST POST THE SODDING THING, BEN, OR I'LL SODDING WELL KILL YOU!'

There was a deathly hush. After a moment Ben slid out of the car. He walked across the road, posted the letter and silently, got back in again. We sped off down the road at speed, just as Charlie had started to take his first step, out of his porch, down the drive towards us.

There was a horrible silence. Even Max was stunned. 'Sorry, darling,' I croaked finally, wiping my brow which was dripping. 'Really sorry.'

'You swore at me,' he said in a small voice.

'Said sodding,' added Max importantly. 'Twice'

'I know, I know, but you know Ben, sometimes grown-ups do have to - well. Let off steam'

'And you deliberately posted an old letter just to give the postman more work,' he said coldly. 'I'm ashamed of you. You're corrupt'

He turned defiantly to stare out of the window. I groaned inwardly. Yes, well, I was ashamed of myself too. Thirty-two years old and stalking a man with two small children in the back of the car. Christ. And I'd sworn I wouldn't do it. Said never again, but oh G.o.d, it was so compulsive! He was so compulsive. And it gave me such a rush. Gave me a dream, a vision, albeit a totally inappropriate one and so out of reach. I mean, I'd even seen her now, his wife - and I knew, deep in my soul and without a shadow of a doubt, that it was his wife. Wasn't a friend, wasn't the nanny, I didn't need further and better particulars - but even that little blow to morale didn't stop me, didn't dampen my resolve. What was it about the man? And would it get worse? I wondered. Would I end up with a secret little room dedicated to him? A room that could only be accessed by pus.h.i.+ng through a false bookcase or something, and which the police would find one day, after I'd boiled up bunnies and pushed his wife off the top of a multi-storey car park - a room they'd wander round, lips pursed, gazing at the gallery of photos of him I'd plastered all over the walls? 'Look at this, sir,' grimly, 'and this' A stony-faced sergeant showing his DI how I'd stuck a profile of me against one of Charlie, lips locked in a pa.s.sionate snog. And then a m.u.f.fled cry from below. Someone finding the trapdoor. And the headlines the next morning; MOTHER OF TWO ARRESTED FOR LOCKING MARRIED MAN IN CELLAR FOR TWO WEEKS.

Or even - quick rewind to where I hadn't gone quite so insane and was just prowling round villages posting old gas bills MOTHER OF TWO ARRESTED FOR BADGERING HAPPILY MARRIED MAN.