Hidden Cottage (48 page)

‘It was wrong what I did; I fully acknowledge that. I should never have involved Owen in my unhappiness.’

‘Not wrong to have cheated on me, then?’ he responded, his mouth twisting into an ugly line, his eyes narrowed.

She looked at him, this man who was her husband, and tried to feel something for him. Some glimmer of affection. Or at least understanding. But she couldn’t.

‘We’ll talk when I get back,’ she said, picking up her keys from the worktop.

He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I have to drive to the airport, to pick up Jensen and the others.’

Jeff listened to the sound of the back door slamming. Mia never slammed doors. She didn’t go in for storming out of rooms either. She was always quietly composed. It was one of the things that he used to love about her, wondering what was going on beneath the surface.

In this instance, he knew exactly what she was thinking. She despised him. He’d seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice.

It was her shameless indifference to what she’d done that got to him, and it was that that had stopped him from telling her the truth about Monte Carlo. All he’d needed from her was some real contrition for what she’d done and he would have been honest with her. But her manner, the way she’d gone on the attack and criticized him, had incensed and silenced him.

When he’d walked back from The Hidden Cottage in the fading light he had intended to share with her his own confession, if only because he was scared that Owen wouldn’t be able to stop himself from blurting it out the first opportunity he got. Better that it came from him, he’d reasoned, than a gloating Owen Fletcher. He’d planned to use it to his advantage, to maintain that they were quits: they’d both done something wrong, and now they could put it behind them. Except he wasn’t really sure that he could. What Mia had done was far worse. She’d had an affair. Nobody has an affair by accident; it’s a calculated step. Whereas he’d drunk more than he should have and had made a simple error of judgement.

He looked at the glass in his hand and, deciding he’d had enough to drink, he put it down. He heard Owen’s voice in his head describing him as having been out of his mind. He reckoned he must have been. Nothing else could explain what had happened. First the violence, then the total loss of control when he’d broken down and cried. He pictured himself lying on the grass and crying like he’d never cried before. Even as a child he’d never bawled like that. He hoped he never did again. Just thinking about the pain of it, and the humiliation of being seen in that state, made the blood pound in his head and his hands begin to shake. He changed his mind about the whisky and picked up the glass in front of him and drank from it deeply.

Out of his mind
.

Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything about begging Daisy’s forgiveness for that regrettable night in Monte Carlo. It was a complete blank to him. He must have done it or how else would Owen have known about it?

Something he didn’t entirely understand had happened to him this afternoon. After all these months of not crying for Daisy, a switch had been flicked inside him and finally it had all erupted from him in an agonizing, unstoppable force. Only last weekend he had wondered if he was in some sort of limbo of delayed shock; now he had his answer.

Darkness had fallen and as he stared at his reflection in the window, he wondered what would happen next. Right now, he didn’t have the energy to figure it out. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was crawl upstairs and sleep.

Mia had deliberately left early so that she had time to stop off at The Hidden Cottage; she needed to hear from Owen what had gone on. She also wanted to apologize. This should never have happened. She should have kept away from him the moment she recognized that there was a mutual attraction between them.

In the brightness from the security light that had flashed on, she parked behind Owen’s Jaguar. Out of her car she saw to her horror that an axe had been driven into the bonnet of the E-Type. Shards of glass lay on the ground where the headlights had been smashed.
What have you done, Jeff?

Alarmed, she made her way round to the back of the house. She knocked on the door and waited for a response.

Nothing.

She tried the handle and, taking a deep breath, pushed the door open. She called to Owen.

Again, no response.

Straining her eyes in the dark, she went inside. ‘Owen,’ she called again, at the same time fumbling for a light switch, ‘it’s me, Mia.’

She found the switch. A quick look around downstairs established that Owen wasn’t there. Still calling his name and with her unease growing, she went up the stairs. She was on the landing when she heard him.

‘Mia, is that you?’

Relief flooded through her at the sound of his voice.

She found him in his bedroom, lying on the bed. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said, raising his head from the pillow. ‘I was stripping wallpaper. Do you mind if I don’t put the light on? I’ve got a hell of a headache.’

She carefully made her way round a stepladder and stood at the side of the bed. Even in the dim light, she could see that he was suffering from more than just a headache. Shocked, she said, ‘What happened? Please don’t say Jeff did this.’

‘Erm . . . well, yes, we had a bit of a scuffle.’

‘A scuffle,’ she repeated under her breath. ‘He told me he’d been here after he’d heard about us, but . . . but never did I think he’d do
this
to you.’

‘It’s OK. It probably looks worse than it really is.’

She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Owen, it’s not OK; you need to see a doctor.’

‘I’d rather not. Self-diagnosis says I have a bog-standard case of concussion – headache and nausea with a bit of dizziness and some flashing stars thrown in just to jazz things up.’

‘How could he? I thought maybe a punch or two, but this,’ she looked at the congealed blood on the side of Owen’s head and his gruesomely swollen hand, ‘this is awful.’

‘He was angry. He’d just discovered I’d been having an affair with his wife.’

‘That’s no excuse. I swear I’ll never forgive him. Oh, Owen, I’m so very sorry. It’s all my fault. I should never have dragged you in to my problems.’

‘You hardly dragged me.’

‘I still think you should see a doctor. Why don’t you let me take you to A and E?’

‘I’ll be fine. Really. If I see a doctor I’ll be asked what happened and I haven’t the energy to lie convincingly. I think it’s best the fewer people who know the truth, the better. And I really can’t face four hours of queuing in A and E.’

‘All right,’ she agreed reluctantly, ‘but let me at least take a good look at you, just to put my mind at rest. Where do you hurt most?’

‘Difficult to say; there isn’t a bit of me that doesn’t hurt. Your husband was very thorough when he kicked the shit out of me.’

‘He
kicked
you?’

‘Like a football. He was very angry.’

She reeled at his words and reining in her revulsion for Jeff, she insisted that Owen close his eyes so that she could put the bedside lamp on and examine him properly. ‘I need to undress you,’ she said.

He smiled weakly. ‘You promise not to take advantage of me?’

She smiled back at him and after switching on the lamp, she asked him to sit up so she could remove his shirt. What she saw horrified her and she covered her mouth to stifle a small cry. His back, shoulders, chest and stomach were covered in red and purple livid bruises. How could Jeff have committed such an act of barbarism? She bit her lip and then inspected the side of Owen’s head and found a ragged gash about two inches long.

‘How’s it looking?’ he asked.

‘I’m no expert, but I think you should have stitches.’

‘Could you just clean it up for me? There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom cabinet you could use.’

When she returned to the bedroom, having been downstairs to find a bowl to put hot water in, he was out of bed. He had taken his jeans off and was standing in front of the mirror looking at the bruises, which also covered his legs. ‘Bit of a mess, aren’t I?’ he remarked with a grimace.

In a rush of sickened disbelief, she said, ‘Only a monster could have beaten you like that.’

‘Not a monster, just a very angry man who hadn’t yet dealt with his grief. Or his guilt.’

She put the bowl on the bedside table, along with the first-aid kit. She opened it and took out some cotton wool balls. Dipping one into the water, she said, ‘Sit down and let me clean that cut on your head.’ She worked steadily and as gently as she could, not wanting to hurt him.

When she was happy the wound on his head was as clean as she could make it, she cut away some hair and applied a dressing. Next she turned her attention to the rest of him. ‘What did Jeff do to your hand?’ she asked, appalled at how swollen and bruised his fingers were.

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘What if something’s broken?’

‘Almost certainly there is. If I straighten them, can you just try bandaging the fingers?’

She shook her head. ‘Owen, I have to take you to hospital.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine.’

She did as he wanted and when she’d finished, she said, ‘I can’t be with a man who’s capable of such violence.’

‘Good call, I’d say.’ He suddenly looked and sounded very sleepy, almost a little drunk and he swayed towards her.

She looked into his eyes and saw that they were glassy. She knew it wasn’t a good sign.

She went across to the chest of drawers and found a clean T-shirt for him. Very carefully she pulled it over his head, then manoeuvred his arms into the sleeves. His eyes were closed as she gently nudged him back against the pillows. Pulling the duvet up and unable to resist it, she kissed him lightly on the forehead. He sighed. ‘That was nice,’ he said sleepily. She then stroked the side of his face until his breathing fell into a steady rhythm and he slept.

She laid a hand gently on his shoulder and considered what she should do next. She couldn’t possibly leave Owen alone, but she had to get to Heathrow for Jensen.

There was only one person she could ask to help. Downstairs she found her mobile in her bag, and called Muriel. Without asking why, Muriel said she’d be there in ten minutes.

Back in Owen’s bedroom, Mia tidied away the first-aid kit, tipped the water down the sink in the bathroom and then just as she was putting the bowl back by the side of the bed in case Owen was sick, he turned onto his side and his eyelids flickered open. ‘It must have been a horrible shock for you hearing what Jeff did in Monte Carlo,’ he said drowsily.

She knelt on the floor beside him. ‘What’s that?’

‘The women he was with.’

‘What women?’

Owen’s eyelids closed; he was drifting back to sleep.

‘Owen,’ she pressed. ‘Tell me. What women?’

He came to again. ‘You know, about the two call girls Jeff was with the night Daisy died. He told you, didn’t he? I told him he had to be honest with you.’

She wouldn’t have believed that her opinion of Jeff could sink any lower, but it just had. ‘No, he didn’t tell me that,’ she murmured. ‘It must have slipped his mind.’

From downstairs she heard knocking. Thank God for Muriel, she thought grimly.

Owen woke with the distinct feeling that someone was in the room with him.

Remembering that Mia had been there with him earlier, he opened his eyes expectantly. Facing the wardrobe, he saw that no one was there. Turning over towards the window, in the light cast from the lamp, he saw a familiar figure sitting in a chair some three feet away.

‘Ah, the patient awakes. Another five minutes and I was under orders to prod you.’

‘Muriel. What the devil are you doing here?’

She put down the mug she was drinking from. ‘Mia had to go to Heathrow to collect Jensen and co and I’ve been called in to be your very own Florence Nightingale. How are you feeling? Any nausea? If the answer’s yes and you’re going to be sick, you must give me fair warning so I can exit stage left at speed.’

He sat up gingerly. ‘You’re quite safe, I don’t feel at all sick.’

‘And the head? Still got a thumping headache?’

‘Less so than before.’

‘Excellent.’ She got up from the chair and came towards him. ‘I’ve also been told to check on the state of your eyes.’ She peered at him closely. ‘Mmm . . . magnificent come-to-bed eyes and not the least bit glassy.’

‘Back off, Muriel, you’re scaring me.’

‘And you, young man, have got yourself in a lot of trouble from what I hear. There’s another cuppa in the pot. Shall I pour one for you and you can tell me all about it?’

He nodded and watched her go over to the chest of drawers where there was a tray of tea things. ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

She looked at her watch. ‘Twenty past eight.’ She removed the bowl on the bedside table and replaced it with a mug of strong tea. ‘Mia was adamant that you mustn’t sleep for too long, she wanted to be sure that you weren’t going to conk out on us.’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

‘Good. Now let me get settled and you can tell me all. Mia gave me the barest details, but you can fill in the blanks for me.’

He reached for his mug and flinched as a sharp pain shot through his ribcage. ‘Are you sure you can’t fill them in for yourself?’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine that you haven’t got your finger fully on the pulse.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I’m an idle gossiper.’

‘Not at all. I just know that very little gets past you, Muriel. You knew about us, didn’t you?’

‘I guessed the night of my dinner party that you were both attracted to each other.’

‘What gave us away?’

‘There was a moment when you looked at each other and I swear sparks flew across the table. And there was me trying to fix you up with Georgina. You quite spoilt my plans for you both.’

‘I’m sorry. Did Georgina guess that night as well?’

‘Are you kidding? Georgina was too sloshed to know how many legs and arms she was in possession of, never mind pick up on any subtle nuances around the table.’

‘Or not so subtle, as it proved to be. Why didn’t you say something to me or Mia?’