A Walk in the Park (24 page)

“I can't help thinking this isn't doing you any good. Wouldn't you say it was kind of counterproductive?”

“Stop nagging me,” said Don. “Just get on with it.”

Lara sighed and set about untangling the leads and wires; honestly, his fingers were trembling even as he struggled to remove the silver cuff link from his crisp white cuff. But Don was on an anxiety-generated health kick and there was no stopping him. He'd bought himself a DIY blood-pressure monitoring machine and he was determined to use it. Twice a day, every day. Even though the prospect of having his blood pressure measured caused him to hyperventilate with fear and trepidation.

He'd also bought a cholesterol-testing kit and had to hype himself up each morning in order to jab the tiny needle into his thumb and measure the levels in the resultant bead of blood.

The first three times they'd done it, he'd almost fainted.

“Right.” Don had managed to roll up his sleeve. “Put the thing round my arm.”

They were in the office behind the shop. Lara did the honors and began pumping air into the blood pressure cuff. “OK, don't breathe so fast. Think calming thoughts. Just close your eyes and relax…”

Not that it helped. Don failed to do so and the result was the same as yesterday. As was the cholesterol test, although on the plus side at least this time he didn't turn pale green.

“I listened to my Paul McKenna tape twice last night,” he complained. “All the way through. Why does it work for everyone else but me?”

It was a vicious circle. Having succumbed to anxiety attacks, each failed attempt to reduce the anxiety just made the situation worse. Nor did Don's diet help. He loved butter and cream and couldn't get to grips with salad at all. His attempts at healthy eating were pitiful; in his mind, listening to Paul McKenna's soothing tones would counteract the diabolical eating habits.

Needless to say, it wasn't having the desired effect.

“Did you have your bran flakes for breakfast?” said Lara.

Don looked petulant. “What are you, my nursemaid?”

Which meant he'd had bacon and eggs.

“Just trying to help.” It was tempting to remind him that if he had a cardiac arrest and keeled over in the shop, she was the one who'd have to give him mouth to mouth. But that probably wouldn't contribute much toward his state of serenity.

“If you want to help,” Don said glumly, “you could come over to my place, break into next door, and steal their drumsticks.”

“Oh dear. Still bad?”

“Worse.”

Poor Don. Until a few months ago his neighbor had been a sweet little old lady in her eighties. Peace had reigned and he'd taken it entirely for granted. Then she'd died and the house had been sold to a family who'd moved in six weeks ago.

They were charming people, friendly people, two parents, three teenagers, and a dog. Unfortunately for Don, they were also the noisiest neighbors on the planet and blithely unaware of it. From six in the morning there was door-slamming, stair-stomping, music-playing, TV-blaring, dog-barking, and banter. The teenage son had a drum kit, the daughters dreamed of
X
Factor
stardom and liked to sing at the top of their voices, and between them they were driving Don insane. He'd tried a few times now to reason with them and they'd been hugely apologetic, promising to keep the noise down. But within hours the level had slid back up, simply because they genuinely didn't realize how much of a racket they made during the course of their normal daily life.

“If you really can't stand it,” said Lara, “you'll have to move.”

“I know.” He was mournful. “But it's my house, it's where I grew up. I've always been happy there.”

The doorbell rang while Don finished fitting the silver cuff link back into his shirt cuff. Lara went through to the shop and buzzed open the door to let the customer in.

“Morning!” The woman was middle-aged, slender, lightly tanned, and wearing a pale blue raincoat over a gray wool dress. “Brrr, it's chilly out there! Now, where's my ticket?” She began rummaging in the side pockets of her shoulder bag. “I'm here to pick up my ring. My name's Betsy Barrowman… oh hello, Mr. Temple, there you are! Haven't seen you for a while!”

Barrowman. Oh God, this was the wife of the sweating man in the too-tight suit. Mr. Cubic Zirconium Bastard-Barrowman.

“Mrs. Barrowman,” said Don. “You're looking
very
well. Been away?”

“I have, I have! I took my darling mum to the west coast of Ireland… we stayed in a wonderful cottage in Galway and had the best time. Even the weather was perfect. I just got back last night,” Betsy explained. “That's why I haven't been in sooner to collect the ring.” She waggled her thin fingers at them. “My hand's felt so naked without it!”

“It must have done. Lara, could you get Mrs. Barrowman's ring out of the safe?”

“Ah, that's better.” Betsy Barrowman actually heaved a sigh of relief as she slipped the ring back onto her finger. “I don't feel naked anymore!”

The truth was begging to come out. But Don had already issued a stern warning. Lara visualized her mouth being sealed with electrical tape, meters of it being wrapped round and round her head. It was like being a doctor or a priest, he'd explained; you might discover unpalatable facts about a person but your job entailed keeping quiet about them.

“And it's been cleaned up too. Lovely!” Betsy was admiring the way the ring flashed, catching the light. Ironically, if the original stone had contained flaws, flecks of carbon, she would have known this wasn't her diamond. But the very fact that it had been close to flawless made it virtually impossible to tell.

“Thanks so much.” Betsy reached for her purse. “Now, how much do I owe you?”

Don waved the credit card away. “Nothing. Your husband paid when he brought it in.”

“Did he? Ah, that's so thoughtful.” Betsy's smile was fond. “He's wonderful like that. It was Gerald who saw that the claws were getting worn and needed fixing… I wouldn't have even noticed.”

“
Zheeeeeeeessssssshhh.
” The moment the door closed behind Betsy Barrowman, Lara let out a noise like the valve being released on a pressure cooker. The smell of Betsy's light flowery perfume still hung in the air; it was
exactly
the kind of innocent scent worn by a wife blithely unaware that her husband was up to no good.

“I know, I know.” Evidently no longer giving Gerald the benefit of the doubt, Don sat down heavily on one of the mulberry and blue striped velvet chairs.

“I wanted to tell her!”

“But you can't. It isn't our place.”

“She should know the truth,” Lara wailed.

“You don't know that she wants to. How would you feel if you told her and she was so distraught she committed suicide?” Don's hair quivered as he shook his head. “Either way, she's not going to be delighted.”

Which was true enough. Lara said, “Are you OK?” because he was looking pale and dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“It's all the stress. Take my pulse.” Don held out his hand like a dog wanting to shake a paw. “It's all over the place, going like crazy. Look, I know you want to interfere but promise me you won't. Otherwise I'll have that to worry about too.”

“Oh but—”

“And if I die, you'll be out of a job.” This time he was kind of joking, kind of not.

His pulse was horribly rapid, like an old-fashioned train rattling over tracks. Also, he had a point. Lara gave up and patted the back of his hand. “OK, I promise.”

Lara wanted to burst with the thrill of it all. After a month away in New York and Toronto, James Agnew had been as good as his word. He'd booked a room at the Ellison and driven down to Bath for the weekend. And now it was Saturday lunchtime and here they all were, together in the house he'd bought for her mother because he loved her so much.

Gigi and James had hit it off from the word go. It was fascinating to watch them together, interacting as easily as if they'd always known each other, just as a grandfather and grandchild should interact. She was proud of Gigi, so sparky and funny and bright, and oddly proud too that her mother had been adored by someone as charming and urbane as James Agnew.

The clock chimed out in the hall and Gigi, on the sofa, unfolded her legs from under her.

“I feel like Cinderella. I have to go to work now.”

“Hey, doesn't matter.” James rose to his feet too. “We'll see you later. I've booked a table for eight o'clock in the hotel restaurant. You, me, and your mum and dad.”

“Yay, can't wait. Did I tell you Dad's bringing along some special wine? From the year I was born.” Gigi wrinkled her nose. “So let's hope it isn't all gross and manky.”

“And we still have tomorrow as well. By Sunday night you'll be sick of me.” He gave her a good-bye hug.

“No, we won't. Mum, if you two are off out now anyway, can I have a lift to the bus stop?”

***

Once Gigi had been dropped, they headed over to Bradford on Avon in James's midnight-blue Mercedes. The sun came out and white clouds scudded across an autumn-blue sky.

“This is bringing back memories,” said James as they drove down the narrow winding street that led into the center of town. “The shops are different but the rest's exactly the same.”

“Oh look!” Lara pointed, entranced, to a pair of swans gliding down the river.

“And see over there?” Having crossed the town bridge, James slowed and indicated a tiny row of shops. “There used to be a bakery where that hair salon is now. Your mum loved fresh cream éclairs with coffee icing so I'd buy her one as a treat.”

Lara smiled. “I remember coffee éclairs. They were her favorites.”

James turned left, then right, then left again. He pulled up in a narrow street and nodded at a tall house divided into flats. “And that's where you lived before you moved to Arlington Road. The top flat with the narrow rickety stairs and all the mold and damp. It's been smartened up now. There used to be holes in the roof and a big crack going down the side of the house.”

“Until you rescued us.” There was a lump in Lara's throat; life was full of what-ifs. It was weird to think that if he hadn't, she might have carried on getting ill. Who was to say the next bout of pneumonia wouldn't have been fatal?

“Hey, cheer up.” James clicked the indicator and drew away from the curb; when they reached the end of the street, he turned left. “Fun bit next.”

He was right. The last time she'd paid a visit to Bingham Close had been six weeks ago and it had been a wet gloomy day. This one was brighter, sunnier, happier all round. Would they get a welcome to match?

Luckily, she hadn't set her heart on it.

***

“Who are you? What do you want?” As before, the unwelcoming older sister answered the door of number 32.

“Hello there, I'm looking for Janice.” James flashed her his most charming smile. “Are you Joan? Janice used to work for me years ago. She talked about you all the time! How do you do? My name's James Agnew.”

Was Joan stunned? Lurking to the left of James, just out of sight, Lara watched him seize Joan's hand, warmly shake it and say, “Is Janice here?”

“Um, yes, she is. Do come in…”

“Thank you so much. It's been a long time.” Reaching out, he pulled Lara into view. “Come along, darling, let's say hello to Janice.”

“
You
again.” Joan stiffened, her eyes instantly flinty.

“Oh, now don't be like that, Joan.” James's tone was soothing as he entered the house with Lara at his side.

“But—”

“Janice wanted the hairbrush back.” Lara patted her handbag. “And guess what?” she added brightly, suddenly channeling Maury Povitch. “We've got those all-important DNA results!”

Ensconced in her armchair in the sitting room, Janice's pale eyes bulged at the sight of them. She'd never looked more toad-like.

Except most toads didn't wear gloopy mascara and tended not to flush a dull shade of maroon.

“Hello, Janice,” James said cheerily. “Just a flying visit. How are you?”

“I… I…” It was like watching a toad go
ribbett-ribbett
.

“Excellent. Anyway, Lara has something for you.”

“I do.” Unzipping her shoulder bag, Lara pulled out the old-fashioned man's hairbrush, wrapped up in transparent plastic. “There you go.”

“Lara came to visit me before the DNA results came back from the lab,” James continued. “I was able to explain to her that she couldn't possibly be my daughter because nothing of that nature ever happened between Barbara and myself. Barbara was never unfaithful to Charles.”

“The results arrived the next day.” Lara produced an envelope from her bag and handed it, along with the wrapped-up hairbrush, over to Janice. “Charles was my father all along.”

Janice's upper lip was slick with perspiration as she opened the envelope and scanned the letter inside.

“Anyway, thought you'd like to know. And meeting Lara has been a delight.” Turning to include Joan in the conversation, James said, “I gather we have you to thank for that, even if you didn't mean to let the cat out of the bag.”

“She tricked me into saying it,” Joan stonily replied.

“Well, we're truly grateful.” He rested his arm around Lara's shoulders. “It's a real shame we can't be related, but we're going to make do with being the best of friends instead.”

“Sometimes,” said Lara, “friends are better than relatives.”

“So that's it.” James addressed his silent ex-secretary. “We just wanted to drop by and let you know the results, so now we'll be off. Don't worry, we won't be back.” Turning to leave he said genially, “Bye,” then winked at prune-faced Joan. “And thanks again, you were a tremendous help. Lara would never have been able to find me without you.”

***

“I think you've forgotten where it is,” said Lara.

They'd been walking arm in arm through mounds of dry fallen leaves, meandering this way and that along the pathways of Royal Victoria Park. She turned to look at James. “You can't remember which tree you carved those initials in.”

“I can, I know exactly where it is. I'm just enjoying the walk and the sunshine. Not to mention the company.” His eyes twinkled. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away.”

“You and Flynn. What's going to happen?”

Sometimes, like now, unexpectedly hearing Flynn's name made her skin go zingy. All the more reason to keep herself under control. “We're just going to stay friends,” said Lara.

“Really? Nothing more?”

“He's Gigi's dad. I don't want to risk spoiling anything. It's better if we don't get involved.”

“You could be fantastically happy together.”

“Or we might not.” Surely he was able to understand? “It could all go horribly wrong.”

“And you aren't prepared to take that chance.” He gave her one of those annoying that's-fascinating looks.

“No, I'm not.” Lara felt herself getting defensive. “What's wrong with that?”

“It just interests me that you're going for the safe option. I've heard this kind of argument before, remember.” His expression softened. “You're more like your mother than you think.”

Lara hesitated; normally such a comparison would be a huge thrill. In this instance though, she wasn't so sure. Changing the subject, she exclaimed, “Ooh, conkers!”

And there they were, dozens of them, nestled inside their split-open cases beneath the horse chestnut trees. Within minutes they'd collected up some of the best specimens.

“Aren't they just wonderful?” James took the one she handed him, glossy and fat and with a waxen feel to its skin. “They never stop being amazing.”

“When a man is tired of conkers, he's tired of life,” said Lara, breaking open another case. “And this one's got twins inside! Look at them, how sweet is that? They're nestled together like puppies… ooh, careful…”

Had he spotted an even more perfect conker on the ground? But why was he trying to drag her down with him? The next moment she heard a guttural sound and realized he wasn't reaching, he was falling. Bracing herself, she did her best to hold him up and discovered it was impossible. James was too big, too heavy…

“
Ggrrrhhhggghh…
” He groaned again and clutched his head, scattering leaves and conkers as he crumpled to the ground. His face was gray and contorted with pain; was that why he couldn't speak?

“Oh God, it's OK, don't worry, I'll get an ambulance… you'll be fine… HELP!” Glancing up for a terror-stricken split second, Lara saw a jogger in the distance, heading toward her. “HELP US PLEASE. Can someone dial 911?”

“Gnhnnurggh…” James was gazing helplessly up at her but his eyelids were starting to close. Oh God, please don't let this be happening. She loosened his tie and rolled him on his side into the recovery position.

“What's wrong with him?” A blonde woman in her twenties with a toddler in a stroller had reached them.

“I don't know… maybe a stroke… can you help me?”

The blonde looked alarmed. “Oh Lord, but I wouldn't know what to do. Shall I call 911?”

“Yes!” Lara's voice rose as terror launched her into overdrive. “James, can you hear me? It's all right, we'll get you to the hospital… oh please, can you tell me what hurts…?”

But James wasn't able to reply. His eyes were closed now; he was unconscious. Fumbling for a pulse, she was—horror of horrors—unable to find one. His chest was utterly still.

Oh
please, no no no.

“Hello, we need an ambulance please… um, this old guy's kind of fallen down in the park… oh, um, Victoria Park in Bath, I don't know which bit, we're not too far from one of those monument thingies…”

The jogger reached them as Lara finished hauling James over onto his back and pushing his jacket clear of his chest. “Need a hand? I'm a doctor.”

“Oh, thank God. He just collapsed, he's not b-breathing, I can't find a pulse,” stammered Lara. “Can you check?”

Within seconds the jogger nodded to confirm she was right. “Let's get going. If you're OK with the chest compressions, I'll do the mouth to mouth.”

“Yes… tell them it's the Marlborough Lane entrance,” Lara shouted at the blonde on the phone.

“Is he dead, miss?” Two young boys on skateboards had arrived.

“No, he's not dead. Could you go to the Marlborough Lane entrance and tell the ambulance driver where to find us? Thanks.” As the boys scooted off to do as she asked, Lara knelt beside James. Keeping her arms straight and her fingers laced together, she press-press-pressed down onto his sternum then leaned back on her heels while the doctor tipped James's head back to ensure a clear airway and breathed air into his lungs.

“Good. You're doing well.” His voice was reassuring. “Done this before?”

“Only on plastic dummies.”
Press
press
press.

“Is this your father?”

There was that question again. Lara shook her head. “No, he's not my dad.”

They carried on working away. It was like being trapped in a disaster movie with no director around to call cut. How could it be happening? This was meant to be one of the best days of her life. When was James going to open his eyes, sit himself up, and say, “Dear me, so sorry about that, how embarrassing…”

“We told the ambulance people where you are.” The skateboarding boys were back, out of breath, and exhilarated by their involvement in the drama. “They're coming now!”