Laying the Ghost (21 page)

Nell sipped her tea, which was still too hot, and scalded her tongue. Then she picked up the envelope and slid her finger under the edge, carefully opening it, savouring the moment. There was only one page – he hadn’t written a lot. She smiled at the sight of his writing. It wasn’t quite as it used to be but was smaller, more cramped, somehow. And strangely, it had a very wide left-hand margin, as if he
needed
the space for something else, an afterthought maybe? A drawing, even? But as she read, her smile vanished, the heart-pounding increased and the excited anticipation evaporated instantly.

Nell – After all this time there is no point us having any contact. I don’t know how you found me but I consider that you have invaded my privacy in an unwelcome and unacceptable way. If you do so again I shall feel obliged to take legal action. Patrick (Sanders)

The shock of these formal, hostile words was searing and sharp. Nell dropped the sheet of paper on to the far side of the table and felt clammy and sick. He couldn’t have said that, not Patrick. Not even after all that had happened, surely. How vile, how spiteful was that? Nell looked across at the paper and read the words again, as if this time they’d say something different, contain at least one tiny hint of warmth. Nothing. Carefully, she put the letter back in its envelope and opened the dresser drawer, pulling out her box of Patrick’s correspondence from the happier times so long ago. This couldn’t be him, it just couldn’t … She took out the top one, written when he was twenty-three and in Wales painting a bacchanalian scene on a restaurant wall near Caernarfon. The writing wasn’t the same, but was too similar for her to have any doubts that this lovely, loving Patrick was the same as this
bitter,
spiteful Patrick. How deliberately vicious this was – and for what? What could he possibly get out of knowing how hurt she would be?

Trembling and with tears flowing, Nell picked up the phone and tapped out Kate’s number, only to remember that this was one of her work days and she would be sitting behind the reception desk at the Richmond Hill Medical Practice, far too busy to give any attention to a distraught friend. Nell put the phone down and it rang immediately. Ridiculously, her heart scudded again, her overcharged brain somehow thinking surely this must be Patrick, telling her he’d got it all wrong, that he’d been writing to someone else and got confused. She picked it up and mumbled a barely coherent greeting.

‘Nell? It’s Steve. Um … are you all right?’

Steve? Oh Lordy, she thought, what does he want now? More lock-fitting? She wanted to tell him to go away, or actually not to say anything at all, just hang up.

‘Yeah. I’m fine,’ she told him, as abruptly as possible without actually telling him where to get off.

‘You don’t sound it. You sound … really miserable. Is it anything I can help with?’

Nell sniffed, and made a supreme effort not to sob down the phone at him. He sounded so kind, so concerned. Sympathy was making her feel worse, if that was possible.

‘No, not really, Steve, but thanks for offering. It’s … I
just
had some sad news, something a bit unexpected, that’s all.’ (‘All?’ Right.)

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Look, I only called up to tell you next week’s class had to be rescheduled for Thursday, not Tuesday but … I’m not far away, I don’t suppose … would you like to come out for lunch with me? Say no if you’d rather not; I’ll understand. But it might cheer you up.’

Nell looked at Patrick’s letter, still lying on the table. She didn’t much want to share house space with it, although she knew she couldn’t yet throw it away, if ever.

‘I’m not very hungry,’ she told him. ‘But … it’s a really sweet thought and actually, yes, it would be good to get out for a bit. I don’t want to be too long, though. I’ve got work to do and I want to be here when Mimi gets back.’

‘Oh, that’s OK, no worries – how about just a quick bite round at the Italian on the high street? Would that be all right? If you want to tell me what’s wrong, fine. If not, we’ll talk about absolutely anything else. See you in ten minutes? Deal?’

‘Deal. And thanks,’ she told him.

Nell had had one glass of Prosecco while looking through the menu and had drunk it down fast in an attempt to feel more like a normal human, then with her
penne amatriciana
she had had a glass of red wine which was a lot larger than she’d thought it would be, and now the
waiter
was offering her a refill to the glass of sweet, sticky limoncello that she’d had with her espresso. Steve had turned out to be welcome therapy, entertaining her with stories about his detective days (a dawn raid on a convent, incompetent cocaine dealers cut off by the tide on a Thames island), and never once questioning, however obliquely, whatever it was that had made her so tearful on the phone. He didn’t even, she acknowledged with gratitude, do that careful, treading-on-eggshells thing that most people would, didn’t once say, ‘I won’t ask …’ or make any clumsily curious attempt to get her to confide. She was grateful for his tact and his lack of intrusiveness.

‘Steve, thanks so much for this. I’ve really enjoyed it,’ she told him as she sipped the oversweet liqueur. She feared for her tooth enamel, but it was irresistible: sharp yet syrupy at the same time, probably highly potent but for once, so what? After the shock she’d had that morning, she deserved a few hours of irresponsible escape.

‘For what, that sticky drink?’ he laughed.

‘For the lunch, for thinking of asking me!’ she said. ‘It was almost like—’ She stopped abruptly, oh she’d so nearly blown it. She’d almost said, ‘like a proper date’. That wouldn’t have been a generous thing to say. Maybe he thought of it like that, though. She hoped not – she’d insist on paying her share, make sure he knew she understood this was just a friends thing. Her head felt a bit muddled. She wouldn’t be putting paint to paper this
afternoon,
that was for sure. Workwise, the day was clearly a write-off. It was probably just as well – if she started thinking about Patrick again she’d be too shaky to paint.

‘“Almost like a real date” was what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’ Steve looked at her, amusement in those knowing blue eyes. She smiled nervously, acknowledging how truly he’d spoken.

‘So if it’s nearly like a date, would you
nearly
consider coming back to mine for … well, some more coffee, maybe? It isn’t far.’

‘Only if you’ve only
nearly
got honourable inten— no, I mean
dishonourable
intentions towards me,’ Nell told him, half-hearing herself as if from a distance.

‘
What the hell are you saying here?
’ an inner voice – a spoilsport guardian angel – asked her. The angel bossily accused her of flirting, told her to go home immediately, drink tea, sober up and think about what to cook Mimi for supper. Nell, in her head, slapped the angel and told her to sod off, and, what seemed like minutes later, found herself in Steve’s second-floor apartment, in a new and classy block close to the river, nestled into a creamy leather sofa with her shoes off and her feet curled beneath her. She felt comfortably woozy, and while Steve was in the kitchen making peppermint tea, had been close to falling asleep. Now she reached across to pick up her cup from the leather-padded surface of the table in front of her.

‘That’s a very strange piece of furniture,’ she commented. It had a black leather top and bars all around it instead of legs. It reminded her of prison windows.

‘It’s a sort of puppy cage,’ he told her, showing her a door at one end that opened. ‘And no, I haven’t got a dog.’

‘Well no, you wouldn’t, in a flat, I suppose. Unless,’ she giggled, ‘you could have one of those handbag ones, but then you wouldn’t need a cage for it. It would fit in a cat basket …’ She could hear herself, rattling on pointlessly. The angel chimed in again, telling her to stop right now, it was time to go home. This time she listened.

‘Steve, I should go – this has been lovely. Exactly what I needed, thanks so much. I should be able to pick up a cab on the high street.’ She stood up, swaying slightly. Steve was quick – he caught hold of her and steadied her.

‘I’ll drive you back. I can’t have you wandering the streets.’

Oh God, he thought she was as drunk as a skunk. It crossed Nell’s mind that she really hadn’t drunk that much – sure, she wouldn’t have been safe or legal to drive, but it shouldn’t have affected her that much. It must be down to the Patrick thing. Stress.

‘That’s really sweet of you,’ she said. ‘But … before I go you must show me what security arrangements you’ve got here. I’m so hoping to find that all the stuff you teach us doesn’t actually apply to you. I bet you haven’t really got a spyhole on your bedroom door!’ The angel tried
to
tell her something else here … but she waved it away.

Steve took her hand and led her into the corridor, then into a large, dark-walled bedroom, pointing out the Banham lock, a bolt and the spyhole.

‘Man colours,’ Nell commented, looking at the deep magenta walls, the chocolate bed-coverings, plum suede cushions. ‘Not sure about that leather headboard.’

‘Oh thanks! I bring you here to show you my locks – which you have to admit makes a change from etchings – and you diss my decor!’

‘Well … it looks weird. How unusual to have those studs round it. And what are those metal D-rings for? Are they to hang your police-issue torch collection from? Or handcuffs? Oh … you’ve actually got some! How amazing … are those police-issue too?’

For there were a set of them, scarily real, sitting on the table beside the bed, exactly where you’d normally expect to find an alarm clock and a book. Well, she thought, he must have loads of things like that … being an ex-detective.

Steve pulled her hand and led her back into the hallway. Nell, caught off balance, felt her elbow painfully nudging a cupboard door which swung open, revealing a row of hooks on the door’s inside from which hung an array of truncheons, black leather whips (arranged in size order), a riding crop and a selection of silky ropes. The display reminded her of her late father’s shed in which
he’d
hung all his hammers and chisels so neatly, and in a similarly grouped size-order pattern.

‘Oh! How … um … tidy,’ Nell giggled.

‘
Out of here. Now
,’ ordered the angel.

‘Mum … wake up! Why are you asleep? Sorry I’m late, we had play rehearsal and my mobile needs charging so I couldn’t call. What are you doing? Are you ill or something?’

Nell opened her eyes and saw Mimi standing over her, looking puzzled. ‘Mum? You look
well
weird. Kind of messy. Have you got a headache?’

Something told Nell that ‘messy’ wasn’t a look Mimi approved of. She was surely right. Nell sat up on the sofa and smoothed her crumpled skirt down. Her foot, which had been underneath her, had gone numb. ‘Mimi? Oh God, it’s nearly dark. What time is it?’

‘Six o’clock. Are we having proper food tonight? I’m starving.’

Nell yawned. Mimi’s guess was right – she
did
have a headache. A blinder. Bits of the day began to reassemble themselves in her slowly waking brain. The wine. The handcuffs. The leather gadgets. Then Patrick’s letter. Its arrival seemed an awfully long, long time ago.

Nell’s mouth felt parched. She got up and followed Mimi into the kitchen to get some water. Even from the back, Nell could sense the expression of deep disapproval
on
her daughter’s face. Mothers weren’t supposed to be found asleep on the sofa, headachy, hungover and dishevelled.

‘I’ll see what’s in the fridge,’ she told Mimi. ‘There’s a lot of leftover chicken – I’ll do a risotto. Fancy that?’

‘S’pose so. I suppose that in your state I should be glad you can cook anything at all. You’re
drunk
.’

‘No. I’m not, actually,’ Nell corrected her, running her hands through her tangled hair. God, she must look like death. She certainly felt like it. ‘I
was
drunk. A bit. Now I’m just mightily hungover.’

‘Oh – and that’s better, is it? Some kind of big improvement?’

‘I didn’t say it was better,’ Nell told her as she took a pack of rice out of the cupboard. ‘It’s just more accurate. I went out for lunch with … a friend. It’s no big deal. I haven’t been sitting around here on my own drinking, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘No. I wasn’t worried.’ Mimi yawned, picking up the pile of unopened mail that Nell had abandoned. Patrick’s letter was safely stashed in the box with his others. Nell didn’t think she’d be looking at it again any time soon. Perhaps it was time to throw out the whole lot of them. Alex would have said that was long overdue. She almost felt like phoning him, telling him that the Patrick book that he’d said would always be an open one had slammed shut, very very hard.

‘Anything interesting in the post?’ Mimi said, flicking through the envelopes.

‘No.’ Nell washed her hands, then started chopping an onion. ‘Nothing important.’

12

Midnight Rambler

(Rolling Stones)

‘CAN YOU GET
out of the house extra early one day soon?’ Joel asked Mimi as they sat on the bench outside Tesco Metro before school.

‘I suppose.’ Mimi pulled a face. ‘But that would also mean getting
up
, early. I’m not very good at that.’

She could do it perfectly easily, especially now it was light quite early. If he’d asked her in January, it might have been different. It would have been a test: do I love him enough to leave my lovely warm bed when it’s not even light?

All the same, she was savouring the look of wanting on Joel’s face. She loved it that he asked her to do things like this. It was like having a secret life. And she deserved one. Why should her parents be the ones in this family who
did
stupid, immature things? That was what teenagers were for, surely. Your dad shouldn’t take off to live with some
girl
. You shouldn’t have to be finding the Nurofen for your own mum’s hangover and
in the middle of the day
, for heaven’s sake, or worrying about whether she was going out with really odd men. Mimi didn’t like Steve. He looked at her funny.