11 The Teashop on the Corner (26 page)

‘Didn’t put
them
together did you?’ Will winked as he pointed towards the apology for a bouquet.

‘I did not,’ said Carla with mock fierceness. Will chuckled. He could see Carla quite easily as a florist; he couldn’t picture her in a bank, sitting in front of a computer
though. ‘How come you’re not a florist any more then?’

Carla took out a towel from the drawer and used it to wipe her hair and dab at her face. She hadn’t checked but she bet her mascara had run and she was standing there talking to her lodger
with a face like Pierrot.

‘The lady I worked for retired. And there don’t seem to be any vacancies in that line of work so I’ve had to diversify.’

‘Ah, that’s a real shame. Did you work for her a long time?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘You must know your stuff.’ He looked impressed.

‘I do,’ said Carla proudly.

‘You should set up on your own. Be a shame to waste all that experience.’

Carla gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Me? With my own shop? I wouldn’t know how to start.’

‘I’d like to say that working for yourself is the best job in the world, but I’m not sure I’m that qualified any longer.’ Will gave a little laugh of his own.

‘You’ve worked for yourself then?’ asked Carla, not getting his joke.

‘Most of my adult life. Built up my business then lost the lot by putting all my eggs in one basket. Lost the house, lost the fancy car, lost the wife. Now I have nothing left to lose
except my honour. Even lost my ability to climb a ladder.’

Carla’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘I’ve become scared of heights.’ There, he had admitted it to someone else besides Nicole. He surprised himself with the ease with which he confessed it. It didn’t feel
half as embarrassing saying it to Carla as it had to his wife.

‘God, that’s awful,’ said Carla. ‘I’m presuming it’s a symptom of anxiety. If so, it’s probably a temporary thing. Sortable, if that’s a
word.’

‘You think?’ He remembered Nicole’s reaction, which had been very different. She had ridiculed him.
You’re losing money hand over fist and now you’ve lost your
nerve. What’s next? Because let’s face it, you haven’t that much left to lose have you? You’re a fucking joke, Will Linton.

‘Are you going to see a doctor about it?’ asked Carla. Nicole hadn’t suggested that, obvious as it might have been. She had flounced off and refused to talk about it, and he
had been embarrassed enough to not bring it up again either.

‘I thought it might go away by itself, but it hasn’t. I keep testing myself to see if my mojo has come back. Even went into B&Q the other day and started climbing their ladders.
God knows what the security guards watching the CCTV must have thought.’

Carla put her hand over her mouth to still the laughter.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you, just the way you’re saying it.’

Will grinned too. ‘Couldn’t make it up, could you? Ain’t life a bag of laughs sometimes.’

‘You’re telling me,’ said Carla. ‘I’m the widow of a man I was never married to.’

‘Eh?’

No one could have been more amazed than Carla to find herself launching into the tale of Martin and the funeral and Julie Pride so easily, to reassure her lodger that it wasn’t only for
him that things were screwed up. There was a certain comfort to be had in knowing that even on life’s scrapheap, there was good company to be found.

*

She’s working late again, thought Shaun. He could see her through the teashop window, wrapping a parcel. He considered that she might be looking out of the window and
thinking that he was working late and wondered if she was working late for the same reason he was: that he didn’t want to go home because there was nothing there for him.

Home for Shaun was a large, heavily gabled house at the end of a lane between Higher Hoppleton and Maltstone. Gothic in appearance, it had been empty for years, run down, neglected, forgotten; a
project only for the insane to take on, which was where he came in. It was yet another house he wanted to put roots down into, another house big enough for a family – for some reason he
always picked family-sized houses. Shaun McCarthy was a master builder, there was nothing in the building trade that he couldn’t lend his hand to. He could put a roof on, dig out a cellar,
rebuild walls, construct staircases . . . but he couldn’t make a house into a home. Fallstones was a perfect mix of the old classic and new practical. He had stripped it of everything but the
original features worth saving and, where needed, had matched in cornices and ceiling roses and made them look as if they had been there since day one. Architecturally it was stunning, but it still
felt cold, cavernous, empty inside. There was no feeling that Fallstones had ever been lived in, even though local reputation was that it was haunted by an old lady who had died there over a
hundred years ago. The atmosphere in every room was that of the Dead Sea, as if nothing could live in it. Not even spectres.

Shaun McCarthy was an expert at taking the run down, the unwanted, the forgotten and crafting it into something fresh, beautiful, wanted. He could do it easily with buildings, but not with his
own life.

*

Carla had just got to the part of the story about taking the keys to Julie Pride when her hand flew to her mouth to stem the words rushing out.

‘I am so sorry,’ she said, realising how long she had been talking for. ‘I don’t know why I’m boring you with all this.’

‘I’m not bored at all,’ said Will, getting up and bringing a wine glass to the table. ‘Go on then, I will have one with you.’

‘Help yourself,’ Carla invited.

‘Thanks.’ Will tipped the bottle into his glass after he had filled up Carla’s. ‘You know, I’m strangely comforted by the fact that there are other people at a
stage in their lives when they should be sorted but find they have to start all over again. There must be a lot of us about.’ He looked straight into her eyes and she saw how grey and warm
his were. Nice eyes, kind eyes.

‘True,’ said Carla, feeling a blush creep over her cheeks. Will Linton was too easy to chat to. She couldn’t imagine sitting in her kitchen talking to Rex Parkinson like
this.

‘Like I said, you ain’t boring me,’ he repeated, sensing she hadn’t believed him when he said it the first time. ‘If anything, I’m fascinated. It’s like
the plot of a film. You should write it all down and make a book out of it.’

‘Not me,’ laughed Carla. ‘I love reading them, but I’ve never been interested in writing. And if I read this one, I’d abandon it for being too
far-fetched.’

‘Listen,’ coughed Will. ‘I was going to treat myself to fish and chips tonight. How about I get two lots and you can tell me the rest of the story?’

‘Oh,’ said Carla, about to say that she was all right thanks, but somehow the words metamorphosed in her throat. ‘That sounds nice. Although that’s really all I have to
tell.’

‘Well, you can eat instead of talking, then. Or you can make something up,’ he smiled. He has a nice smile, thought Carla. White, even teeth, full bottom lip. The word
sexy
slipped into her head but she batted it away. She didn’t want to go down that route, thinking about this man that she hadn’t known two minutes having a sexy smile.

‘I’ll get me coat,’ said Will. ‘My treat.’

‘Well, I’ll butter some bread in that case.’ Carla jumped up. ‘And put the kettle on. You have to have tea, bread and butter with fish and chips. And lots of salt and
vinegar.’

It’s Nicole’s birthday today, thought Will, as he took his waxed coat down from the peg and noticed the date on the calendar next to it. Last year he was on a sunny beach in Bali
with her, this year he was having fish and chips with his landlady. His money troubles had been just starting to become uncontrollable. His head had been full of worry as he stared out across the
blue sea and wished he hadn’t blown so much cash on the holiday. Nicole was oblivious to everything but the sun and the opulence. The only night he’d slept properly was the night he got
blasted on two of the bottles of ridiculously expensive champagne that Nicole had ordered, and even then he woke up worrying how much his hangover had cost.

And yet he was sleeping like a log in Dundealin in his new cheap bed. There was still a lot of paperwork to sort out from the loss of his business and the sale of all his assets but now he could
see the distant glow of a lighthouse, guiding him to security.

Despite the rain, despite the lack of champagne, despite the absence of his trophy spendthrift wife, at the moment Will Linton really didn’t feel that a fish and chip supper with a pretty,
kind lady such as Carla was a comedown from his past life. His comforts were small, but by God they felt good.

The next morning Carla was aware that she was walking around Little Kipping Stores with a big fat smile on her face, a lovely residue from the evening she had spent in
Dundealin with Will, a bottle of wine, a pot of tea and two lots of fish and chips. Talking with him and eating together in the convivial kitchen as outside, the rain had lashed at the window, had
lifted her spirits unbelievably. They’d talked some more about Martin and Nicole and they’d laughed. Carla would never have thought she could find any humour in her situation, but Will
Linton had located it like a heat-seeking missile. Will’s take on Mavis Marple, the vicar with the Louis Spence voice and two rival wives both brandishing red roses had her belly-laughing.
Then he started taking a comedic view of his own story – telling her everything from walking in to find his house stripped of its contents, including the box of Christmas baubles, to storming
over to greedy Nicole’s parents’ house and being chased up the staircase by her blubbery dad. It had been the sort of evening both of them needed. She had gone to bed delighted that
Will Linton was her lodger.

As Carla turned into the bread aisle, she saw a familiar figure studying loaves.

‘Fancy meeting you here,’ said Carla, deliberately nudging her trolley gently into Molly’s.

‘Oh, hello dear,’ said Molly. ‘Where were you on Tuesday? We did miss you. Harvey and Pavitar got far too animated discussing
Howard’s End
.’ Carla burst
out laughing which in turn made Molly chuckle. ‘If you know what I mean,’ Molly added. ‘It’s Bram Stoker day next Tuesday. You will be coming, I hope?’

‘I shall,’ replied Carla adamantly. ‘Alas I had some temporary work last week. In a bank.’

‘Sounds fun,’ said Molly, flatly, whilst raising her eyebrows.

‘Oh, it was fabulous,’ nodded Carla in mock agreement. ‘Harvey okay?’

‘He seems very well, touch wood, thank you. Though I’m not quite sure if these literary discussions are good for him. He isn’t a great lover of E. M. Forster, though it appears
Pavitar is, very much so. We could have done with a referee at one point.’

‘I’m sure they’re very good for him,’ smiled Carla.

‘Maybe in moderation, but Pavitar was as defensive over the writer’s plot devices as Harvey was scathing. It wasn’t pretty.’ She shook her head and sighed.

‘They didn’t really fall out, did they?’

‘Oh no, Carla. Normal service was resumed as soon as the cake was served up. The moment of truce was a welcome one on that day.’

Carla shrugged. ‘I’m so sorry I missed it, though I don’t think I would have been able to contribute much. I’ve only ever seen
A Room with a View
on the TV and I
could have taken it or left it, to be honest.’

‘Like me then, on the fence on this one,’ smiled Molly.

She looks lovely today, thought Carla. Molly was wearing a pale blue dress with a green cardigan resting on her shoulders. Her eyes were dark blue and shining.

‘Harvey is watching a cricket match. I have absolutely no interest in the game,’ said Molly, waving the sport away with her long elegant hand. ‘I thought I’d use the time
to stock up on a few things, not that we need anything really except a loaf of bread.’

‘I just nipped out for some cat food and milk,’ said Carla. ‘Shall we go for a coffee at the Teashop on the Corner? Do you have time?’

‘Oh I’d like that very much,’ replied Molly with delight. ‘I’ll pay for these and meet you up there.’

Leni and Ryan were restocking the cabinets when Carla walked in.

‘Oh good morning,’ beamed Leni. ‘You were much missed last week. I nearly had to phone the army.’

‘I’ve just met Molly in the supermarket and she was telling me,’ laughed Carla. ‘She’ll be here in a moment. We thought we’d have a coffee
together.’

‘Lovely to see you. You weren’t ill, were you?’

Bless
, thought Carla. It was nice to have people concerned about her.

‘No, I was doing some temp work. Data entry.’

Leni pulled a face. Even Ryan pulled a face.

‘Yep, it was that good,’ nodded Carla. ‘Don’t let me stop you, I’ll wait for Molly,’ she added, seeing Leni about to rise from her knees.

‘We’ve just had some beautiful poetry-themed things delivered,’ said Leni, resuming her kneeling place. ‘Cufflinks, wallets, ties, notebooks, address books, desk
calendars. I’ve been thinking how very handsome Lord Byron was. Ryan, would you be a love and fetch me the Stanley knife from the back room please?’

‘Bit of a bugg . . . bad boy with the ladies,’ replied Carla, correcting herself mid-sentence. She waited for Ryan to be out of earshot then said quietly, ‘Still, I would,
wouldn’t you?’

Leni chuckled. ‘He was rather gorgeous, if his portraits do him justice.’

‘Prefer Keats’ stuff,’ said Ryan, coming back holding the knife.

‘Oh, do you now?’ Leni winked at Carla. ‘And which is your favourite of the Keats poems?’

‘“The Pot of Basil”,’ replied Ryan without having to think. ‘There’s some dodgy lines in it but it stuck in my mind.’

Then Molly walked in and brought a blast of warm sunshiney air in with her.

‘Hello Molly,’ greeted Leni, now standing up. ‘Ryan’s just been telling us that his favourite poem by Keats is “The Pot of Basil”. Have you heard of
it?’

‘It’s the one where the woman plants her dead lover’s head in a pot and grows herbs in it,’ Ryan grinned.