Flights of Angels (3 page)

Kristen had done her best to make the place their own, insisting, point blank, that he got rid of the collection of lace doilies which made it look as if it had been snowing indoors, and the musty-smelling antimacassars which haunted the sofa and chairs.

Several trips to the local charity shops, and a few tins of Country Cream later, and Cabin Cottage had looked like a completely new place. But it was still too small to start a family in, Kristen mused as she walked back up the steps into town. Not that Jimmy had any plans of that sort. He’d never once mentioned marriage, no matter how many hints Kristen dropped. He’d been bitten very badly the first time round and had no intention of inflicting further injuries on himself, despite their two years of domestic bliss together. Still, there was always tomorrow, Kristen thought, ever the optimist.

When she got back, Jimmy had managed to set the table, but they were forced to step over his project in the middle of the floor.

‘What are you making?’ she asked.

‘The shop wants more of those yachts I made last year.’

Kristen nodded. She supposed she should be glad that he had something to keep him occupied during the low season. Come high season, she hardly ever saw him as he owned one of the pleasure trip boats down in the harbour. The money wasn’t brilliant, but Jimmy never wanted more out of life than an occasional pint and a packet of cigars.

‘You’re quiet,’ he said, his mouth crammed with fat chips.

Kristen nodded, aware that she was usually full of office gossip.

‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.

‘It’s Claudie.’

‘Oh.’

Kristen knew it was a phrase that had been bandied around so often during the last few months that it was as familiar as what’s for tea? or move that bloody saw from the front room, will you?

‘She’s been acting very strangely lately.’

‘Isn’t she meant to?’ Jimmy asked.

‘Yes. But this is a different strange. She’s become - well,’ Kristen hesitated, ‘odd.’

Jimmy picked up his fish and bit into it. Kristen watched him for a moment, awaiting his response, expecting some words of wisdom at any moment. But they didn’t come.

‘Well?’ she prompted. ‘What do you think we should do?’

Jimmy looked up from his wrapper. ‘Eat our chips before they get cold.’

Kristen tried not to mind Jimmy’s response, but she did wish he’d listen to her more.

What many people didn’t realise was that friends suffered too when someone died. Claudie just wasn’t the girl she used to be, and Kristen missed her so much that it sometimes hurt. She missed the warm-hearted, honest advice Claudie would give her when she needed to share her problems. Right now, though, it wouldn’t be fair to burden Claudie with her niggling worries about Jimmy. It wasn’t the done thing, was it? Look, I know your husband died, but can’t you give me some advice about where my own relationship is going? No, Kristen had to be the shoulder for Claudie, and where did that leave her to turn?

She couldn’t help but miss the old Claudie. The girl who’d made her laugh by dancing round the harbour imitating Ginger Rogers when she’d had one too many. The girl who hid cream cakes in the stationery cupboard until the bosses were safely ensconced in a meeting. What had become of her? Where had she gone? And would she ever come back again?

Kristen sighed as she squirted tomato ketchup over her chips because she knew it wasn’t just Luke who’d been lost. It was Claudie too.

Claudie lay back in a lavender-scented froth of warm bubbles. She’d gone a bit over the top with the lavender in York, buying candles, bubble bath, soap, and a tiny bottle of essential oil. She’d potted her cutting from Dr Lynton, but determined to buy her own complete plant for her kitchen windowsill as soon as she could.

She was tired. York always left her feeling drained, but lavender was meant to be good for fatigue, as well as a whole host of other complaints. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the way that Luke used to shout through the bathroom door at her if she was more than half an hour.

‘I don’t want my wife drowning!’ he’d call, poking his head round the door with a cheeky wink. She’d thought about it too. It would be so easy to slip under the foamy world into oblivion.

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, her skin covered in tiny goosebumps. It was that strange sensation again: the feeling of being watched which she’d experienced at work. She sat upright and looked round the tiny bathroom as if she half-expected to see somebody there.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered. But there was nobody there. Of course there wasn’t.

She sighed, and sank back down until her shoulders were dressed in bubbles again. She must try and relax. Perhaps she hadn’t added enough essential oil to her bath.

She was just about to reach for the little glass bottle when she saw her. And there was no mistaking this time.

For there, dancing between the shampoo and the loofah, was a perfect tiny, diamond-bright girl.

Simon Hart was not in a good mood. After an hour and a half of two-finger typing, he sat back in his threadbare office chair to proof-read his work. Then, just as he thought he’d got things sorted out, his computer had crashed. He hadn’t saved his work, of course.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had just been one of those days. Trouble was, it was turning out to be one of those years. It was all very convenient to blame everything that went wrong in his life on Felicity Maddox, but it wouldn’t be a complete overstatement.

October was when the trouble had begun. He’d known something had been wrong with Felicity for some time because she’d been acting strangely. Not that that was terribly unusual for Felicity, but this was different. She seemed restless and hostile.

For almost two years, they’d shared a house on the edge of town, far removed from the picturesque cottages surrounding the harbour. But it was cheap and convenient. Trouble was, Felicity, belying her name, wasn’t happy with it.

‘When are we going to move?’ she’d moan every couple of days. ‘I hate this dump!’ Simon hated it too, but he was doing his best to make it as a self-employed website designer, so couldn’t possibly think about upgrading something as frivolous as living quarters. There was no cash. Except for the emergency rations in their joint account.

‘Just be patient. We’ll get there,’ he always promised with a smile and a kiss. But his words would always fall on deaf ears.

And so, the circle of discontent continued until, one day in July, he’d come home to an empty house. And an empty bank account. Felicity Maddox had done a runner with the rations.

There was nothing Simon could do about it except get over it and start again.

Six months later, he was still getting over it, and it didn’t help that he couldn’t type or couldn’t spell.

He switched the computer off, not bothering to reboot it. Stretching his arms out in front of him, he sighed heavily. He’d have to start it all again. Later. First, he’d have a cup of tea.

He walked through to the kitchen, grimacing at the intestinal debris from his take-away the night before. He had to get himself sorted out. He opened the cupboard and took out a white mug with a lip-shaped chip before shuffling towards the tea canister. Opening it up, he delved inside, his fingers scraping the metal bottom. He’d run out of teabags.

He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and, in doing so, caught sight of the clock. It was ten past eight and he should have been at Kristen’s over an hour ago.

‘God - Simon! You look terrible!’ Kristen gasped half an hour later, ruffling his hair affectionately as he stepped into her kitchen.

‘Thanks,’ he said, letting her kiss him.

‘Are you all right?’

He ran his fingers through his curly fair hair and sighed by way of an answer.

‘Oh dear,’ Kristen said. ‘Have you eaten?’

He shook his head.

‘How about shepherd’s pie?’

‘Hey! How come I didn’t get shepherd’s pie?’ Jimmy called from the living room.

‘’Cause you got fish and chips!’ Kristen yelled back.

‘I don’t want to put you out,’ Simon said, his belly rumbling loudly at the mere mention of food.

‘Don’t be silly. Here,’ she said, pulling a can of Jimmy’s lager out of the fridge. ‘Go through and sit down. If you can find room.’

Simon took a swig from his can and wandered through to the living room. He liked Cabin Cottage but could never quite work out how two people lived in such a tiny place and still got on so well with each other. He and Felicity had shared a large, three- bedroomed semi and still managed to get on each other’s nerves. Kristen and Jimmy were lucky.

‘Hi, Jim,’ he said, stepping carefully into the living room which looked like Whitby Harbour in miniature. ‘How’s the ship-building going?’

Jimmy looked up from his home on the carpet and grinned. ‘Marvellous.’ He beckoned to Simon who got down on all fours to examine the latest masterpiece.

‘I don’t know how you do it. I just wouldn’t have the patience to work on something so small,’ Simon confessed, turning the miniature boat around in his hand, admiring each tiny detail.

‘Well, I couldn’t do your job,’ Jimmy said, resting on his thick denimed haunches. ‘It would drive me mad being sat in front of a computer all day.’

‘It’s great,’ Simon defended. ‘When it goes right.’

Jimmy nodded as if he understood. ‘Like everything else in life.’

Simon gave the briefest of smiles and handed the boat back to Jimmy.

‘God - look at you two on the carpet!’ Kristen said as she entered the room, looking at the two men in her life. ‘Just like a pair of kids!’

‘Well, that was a complete waste of a lager and shepherd’s pie,’ Jimmy said after Simon had left, putting his arms round Kristen’s waist and pulling her towards him.

‘What do you mean?’ Kristen frowned.

‘We didn’t get a word out of him. I’ve known budgies that talk more than him. I don’t know why you bother.’

‘Oh, it’s just his way.’

‘You know what your problem is?’

‘What?’

‘You care too much.’

‘Is that so bad?’ she asked, eyes widening.

‘It is when it makes you unhappy,’ he said, ruffling her hair with his thick fingers.

‘I’m not unhappy.’

‘No?’ Jimmy didn’t sound convinced. ‘Then what?’

‘Thoughtful?’

‘Is that what you call it?’ he pursed his lips. ‘You take on too many problems which don’t belong to you. If it isn’t Claudie, it’s Simon.’

‘They’re going through a rough time at the moment-’

‘That doesn’t mean you have to as well.’

‘Doesn’t it? I thought that’s what friends were for.’

Jimmy raised a gentle hand and pushed back a strand of red hair which had fallen across her face. ‘You know, I could put my foot down. I mean, what man in his right mind lets his partner see an ex-boyfriend on a regular basis?’

‘There’s nothing going on between Simon and me. Nothing ever did. He’s a friend! Anyway, we only went out a couple of times.’

‘A couple?’

‘Well, a couple of months, and it was years ago.’

‘Not that many,’ Jimmy said sounding unnaturally sulky.

‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy?’ Kristen teased.

‘No. But you shouldn’t get so involved in his problems. He’s a grown man. Let him sort them out for himself.’

Kristen sighed. In her heart of hearts she knew he was right. She couldn’t fight Simon’s battles for him. Or Claudie’s for that matter.

‘I need you too, you know,’ Jimmy added.

Kristen tutted good-naturedly. ‘You’ve never needed anyone in your entire life.’

‘No?’ he pulled her towards him again. ‘What’s this then?’

She giggled. ‘You know what I mean.’

His eyes twinkled softly and suggestively in the lamplight before blurring into darkness as she closed her eyes to kiss him.

When Simon got back home, he paused for a moment in the hallway, resting his head on the cool wood of the stair banister. It was so quiet. He hadn’t quite got used to being greeted by silence when he came home. He didn’t like it. Despite his rather isolating job, Simon was a gregarious person by nature, and just didn’t feel right living on his own, and he always felt it acutely after a visit to Kristen and Jimmy’s.

As much as he knew Kristen hadn’t been the girl for him, he still couldn’t help feeling a little bit envious of Jimmy. Did he realise how lucky he was to have her there? To have someone to holler to when you got home. Someone to share a meal with, a bath with, a bed with. God, he sometimes even missed the things that had really grated on him, like the lipstick-rimmed cups left by the sink, and the rows of wet tights which would hang like strangled snakes over the bath.

He switched the front room light on and winced as the sixty-watt bulb blinded him. When Felicity had left, she’d remembered that the chintzy light shade was hers. She’d also remembered to empty the cupboards of her collection of pots and pans, fleeced the under-the-stairs cupboard of items worth more than ten pounds, and had even managed to get up into the loft in spite her fear of ladders. In fact, the only thing that she’d left of hers had been Pumpkin.

Simon walked over to the little glass bowl and sprinkled some food on top of the water and watched as Pumpkin rose eagerly to the surface. Poor little mite, he thought. Won at a local fair, Felicity had been thrilled with Simon’s skill with the hoop for all of ten minutes. Then, as soon as her make-up had demanded a retouch, she’d flung her fish in a bag towards Simon and disappeared into the ladies’ loos. She hadn’t bothered with the goldfish after that.

She hadn’t even bothered to give him a name but, peering into his bowl one day, had announced that he looked like a mini pumpkin floating around. The name had stuck.

Simon wiggled a finger above the water. It was a useless pet really. You couldn’t pick it up, couldn’t stroke it, couldn’t take it for a walk, and he always felt self-conscious when he spoke to it, as if somebody was secretly filming him.

‘All right, mate?’ he said, stooping to look into the beady, non-communicative eyes. ‘Had a shit day too?’

Simon’s eyes glanced round the glass bowl. With its one small ornamental bridge, it was even barer than his front room. He once again determined to buy a deluxe tank with all the trimmings. He might not be able to live in the lap of luxury, but he’d make damn sure Pumpkin would. Perhaps he’d even buy him a companion to while away the watery hours.