A Winter Flame (19 page)

‘You okay?’ asked Alison, seeing a dark shadow pass her friend’s face.

‘Yep,’ replied Eve, over-brightly.

Alison nodded ‘good’, but she wasn’t fooled. Oh, how she wished she could reach into Eve and pull out that black sadness that had taken root in her friend’s heart. When
they were at school together, Eve was the last person that Alison would ever have thought would lose the joy in her soul. Crazy, giggling, funny Eve – the essence of her choked by unspent
grief. Jonathan wouldn’t have wanted to find her like this – it would have hurt him so much to see Eve’s once shiny green eyes as dull as algae on a forgotten pond.

‘Bit of light reading?’ Eve picked up a huge tome on the work surface:
The Secrets of the Six Wives of Henry VIII.
It wasn’t so much a book as a lethal weapon.

‘It’s very good,’ nodded Alison. ‘And actually it is a
very
light read considering the length of it. I’m halfway through Jane Seymour.’

‘Ah, the love of his life.’

‘Well, you say that, but the book makes the point that they weren’t really long enough together for the rot to set in. The author’s theory is that if she hadn’t died
after childbirth, her head might have ended up on the reject pile as well. I still maintain that Anne Boleyn was the love of his life. Janey just happened to push out a male sprog and then pop off
before all the euphoria had worn thin.’ Alison took another long slug of Gaviscon and sighed with relief.

‘We’ll never know how right or wrong that theory is,’ said Eve, convinced the book was talking tosh. ‘Where’s Phoebe? In her bedroom?’

‘She’s gone out to her friend Elsie’s house for tea,’ replied Alison. ‘She’s due back any time, actually. I wish she’d hurry up, I think it’s
going to snow.’

‘Elsie? Is that an old lady or one of those old names doing a comeback?’ Eve laughed.

‘It’s one of those old names
trying
to do a comeback,’ chuckled Alison. ‘Except it doesn’t quite work, does it? Like Edna or Ernest. Some names are meant to
have a renaissance, but a lot most definitely aren’t. Anyway, please don’t get me on the subject of names. I’m up to here with names.’ And she tapped her forehead with the
side of her index finger. ‘Elisabeth, my mother-in-law, thinks we should name the new baby something singular and Greek. She’s been reading this stupid book that intimates if you name
your child after an ancient god, that child will inherit the qualities of that deity. Rupert has been less than helpful, actually fooling her into believing that Poseidon is on our list of
possibles. He can be so naughty.’

Eve laughed. Rupert sounded as if he had dropped out of a posh tree with a mouth full of plums, but in reality he had no airs and graces about him at all. His mother, however, was a different
kettle of fish. Alison had regaled Eve with enough stories about Elisabeth Derby-Tinker (Rupert had dropped the double-barrel) for her to write a book. Eve had only met the woman once at
Alison’s wedding – and that was enough to last a lifetime. She was the perfect woman to give redheads a bad name. But awful old bag as she was, she still wasn’t in the running to
compete with Pat Ferrell.

‘I’m terrified Phoebe will turn out just like Elisabeth one day,’ said Alison with a shudder. ‘I have nightmares about it.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Eve. ‘Phoebe has you and Rupert to make sure that never happens. It’s such a shame she wasn’t here. We have a baby reindeer that
hasn’t got a name and I was hoping she would help me with that.’

‘Oh, she’d love to do that,’ said Alison.

‘None of us can agree on anything,’ said Eve. ‘We named the other one more or less on the spot – Blizzard – but his brother remains without one.’

‘Call him Poseidon,’ tutted Alison, breaking open a packet of butter biscuits and tipping them onto a plate. ‘Try these, they’re gorgeous. I’ve had such a craving
for them through my pregnancy. Spread with Nutella.’

‘Do you remember when we first discovered the joy of Nutella?’ smiled Eve. ‘When we went to that horrible camp in the third year. It had no hot water in the showers, but at
least they had Nutella to spread on the toast for breakfast.’

‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten all about that God-awful place.’ Alison chuckled at the newly awakened memory.

‘Forgotten? Blocked out more like. You had the bunk above me and I was crying because I wanted to go home.’ And it must have been bad if I wanted to go home, Eve added to herself.
‘We got told off for talking in the night.’

‘Wasn’t it then that we planned to go and live in America when we left school?’

‘Yes. New York.’

‘We never did manage to get there even on holiday, did we?’ Alison sighed. ‘I don’t know, all those plans you make which you think are set in cement, and really they
dissolve when the wind changes.’ Then she burst into tears.

‘What in God’s name . . .’ Eve sprang from her seat to put her arms around her friend.

‘Sorry. Hormones,’ laughed Alison. ‘I sometimes worry that I was a crap friend, meeting Rupert so young and not doing all those things we said we were going to do
together.’

‘That is so ridiculous I could slap you,’ said Eve, ripping off some kitchen roll and passing it to Alison to dab her eyes with.

‘I feel like I let you down.’

‘Alison Tinker. If you are telling me that you feel guilty that you’re happy, you’re in big trouble.’

‘That’s what I do feel.’ A fresh wave of tears spurted out of Alison’s eyes.

‘Oy, have you noticed that I’m not doing so bad. You’re talking to the owner of a multi-million-pound theme park.’

‘Oh, Eve,’ said Alison, not saying what was obvious to them both – that money didn’t keep you warm at night. And she so wanted Eve to be as warm at night as she was.

‘Moving on from your very silly crying episode,’ Eve nudged her friend, ‘have you thought of any names at all for the baby?’

‘I like Jack,’ said Alison, sniffing her tears away. ‘Pure and simple – Jack. One of those names which never goes out of fashion. Why did you wrinkle up your nose
then?’

‘Sorry,’ Eve apologized. ‘You’re right, Jack is timeless. It’s just a bit too like Jacques for my liking. My nose tends to automatically go into spasm whenever I
hear anything like that word.’ And my head starts to throb and my lip starts to curl, she added to herself.

Alison laughed. ‘I’d love to meet this Jacques of yours.’ She carried on, despite the fact that Eve lifted up her finger to intimate that this ‘Jacques’ was most
definitely not ‘hers’. ‘He really has got your goat, hasn’t he?’

‘He’s a charlatan,’ said Eve. ‘I’m convinced of that more than ever since . . .’ Then she stopped.

‘Since what?’

Eve didn’t answer.

‘Since what?’ Alison repeated with redhead force. ‘Go on.’ She studied Eve’s guilty expression. She had known her too long not to sense that there had been mischief
afoot. ‘What have you done, Eve? Tell me now.’

‘I know it was wrong,’ began Eve. ‘But I had to.’

‘Had to what?’ Alison’s hand stilled on the biscuits.

‘He left his keys in the office and I drove off and went into his house,’ Eve confessed in one breath.

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘Bloody hell, Eve,’ said Alison horrified. ‘What on earth made you do that?’

‘Gut instinct,’ said Eve. ‘Something isn’t right about that man and I’m glad I did it now, after what I found.’

‘Which was what?’ Alison leaned forward waiting for Eve’s big revelation.

‘He’s got Stanley’s military medal.

‘And?’

‘A dress.’

Even as she was saying it, Eve realized it all sounded a bit weak.

‘A dress?’ Alison said, very unimpressed as she reached for another biscuit.

‘A dress for a female soldier was hanging up in his wardrobe. Don’t you think that’s weird? A very big dress as well.’

‘Are you insinuating he’s also a transvestite?’ said Alison, shaking her head with disbelief.

‘I don’t know. But it’s a possibility, if he’s into dressing up. He might enjoy getting in touch with his feminine side and wearing female clothes, like that big
cage-fighter on
Big Brother
did. Then again, I didn’t see any women’s knickers in his drawers . . .’

Alison held up her hand to stem her friend’s flow. ‘Whoa, whoa, Eve. What do you think you were doing? How would you feel if he’d gone snooping through your knicker
drawer?’

Eve tried not to think about that, because she’d have had him arrested. But this was no time for double standards.

‘I had to, Ali. I didn’t do all this for no reason. He’s obsessed with the military. He had uniforms in his wardrobe and drawers of medals and caps and stuff. And eight years
ago there was a con man in the area who went by the name Major Jack Glasshoughton. He specialized in targeting pensioners. I found the story on the internet on an old
Weekly Bugle
site. It
all adds up, don’t you think?’

Alison laughed. ‘What I think is that your Aunt Evelyn must have known that Jacques was into military memorabilia and that’s why she gave him Stanley’s medal. Have you thought
of that very simple but plausible possibility? As for the newspaper story . . . how old did you say it was? And when did the
Weekly Bugle
get their facts right? That’s why they were
closed down.’

Oh, don’t you start, thought Eve. Alison was as bad as Violet, refusing to see that there was more to the man than met the eye.

‘Explain the dress, then.’

‘Well,’ began Alison, ‘I presume it’s part of his collection of memorabilia. Was it the only uniform he had?’

‘No, he had some men’s ones as well.’

‘There you go, then.’

‘Explain this, then.’ Eve prepared to give her
coup de foudre.
‘He’s under a doctor at the hospital. A psychiatrist.’ And she gave a smug grin that she was
immediately a little ashamed of. Especially as Alison gave her a look of disapproval that wounded her.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I found an appointment card.’

Alison shook her head. ‘Oh, Eve. That’s taking snooping a bit too far.’

‘Not if he’s a nutter it isn’t,’ Eve defended herself.

‘And what if he’s just depressed or something like that?’

Boom. Eve remembered – too late – that Alison had a tremendous bout of postnatal depression after giving birth to Phoebe and had seen a psychiatrist as part of her recovery. She
wanted Alison’s vintage oak flooring to split and swallow her up. It was time to change the subject – and fast.

‘Anyway,’ Eve waved away that conversation and prepared to start another, ‘can I borrow Phoebe at the weekend to come and check the place out and meet Santa?’

‘Oh, can I, Mummy?’

A small voice came from behind the door.

‘Phoebe?’ called Alison. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

‘I’ve just hanged up my coat,’ said Phoebe. ‘Can I go to the winter park? Please please please?’

‘She’s going through a nosey phase, just in case you’re wondering why I’m asking,’ Alison whispered to Eve, leaning right over so Phoebe wouldn’t hear that.
‘You should have taken her with you to Jacques’ house.’

‘I will next time,’ replied Eve, quickly adding, ‘Joke,’ as she noticed Alison’s finger start to wag.

‘Please, please, please, Mummy.’

‘Well, if you are very good from now until the weekend, I am sure Auntie Eve will take you to Winterworld.’

Phoebe burst into the room and threw herself on Eve. ‘I’ll think of loads of reindeer names before then,’ she said. And Eve tried to recall how far back in the conversation
reindeer had occurred, which would determine how much Phoebe May Tinker had overheard.

In the wee small hours, Violet lay awake staring at the ceiling, hoping her sniffing back the tears did not awaken Pav. He had pulled her to bed that evening with more urgency
than she could ever remember. They had fallen onto the sheets, undressing each other and kissing madly, and Violet had savoured the feeling of his hardness pressing against her. His lips travelled
all over her body and her orgasm was one born out of relief as much as excitement, but when Pav tried to make love to her he couldn’t.

‘It’s fine,’ she said, holding him, knowing that it wasn’t good at all. He was twenty-five, she thought. Why would a twenty-five-year-old man fail to keep his
erection?

There was something on his mind, she knew. Or someone. Had he whisked her upstairs hoping to convince himself that he still wanted her, but his body wouldn’t be fooled? And in those cold,
dark hours before dawn, Violet listened to the sound of him sleeping and wondered who was there with him in his dreams.

Anyone watching Eve as she stood at the fence and watched Holly grazing, being followed by little Blizzard and his tiny nameless sibling, would have said, ‘She looks a
contented woman. One at peace with herself. No one could smile like that, if they weren’t pre-disposed to happiness.’

And for a few moments, watching the ridiculously gauche creamy-white calves balancing awkwardly on their long pin legs, Eve forgot the world outside their little bubble. Flakes of snow began to
drift down on her head, so perfect that Eve wondered if they were really coming from the skies. As she looked up, she heard a trio of triumphant ‘Yeah’s.

‘At pissing last,’ said a Welsh voice from high up a Christmas tree.

‘Language, Dai,’ said another voice from the ground. ‘The boss is over there.’