Love & Freedom (13 page)

‘It’s three years, now,’ Sophie explained, sadly, collecting the cloths and dropping them into a smaller bucket of bleach and cold water. She brightened. ‘But when me and Kirsty moved into the flat, we took Tucker’s place in the tearoom. So we all work together and live together.’

Honor smiled, wondering if Ru ever felt swamped by oestrogen. ‘Wow. You and Tucker really were
 
… relationshippy,’ Honor tried out the word self-consciously, ‘if he left you the Teapot, Robina.’

‘It’s a bloody big responsibility,’ she grumbled, setting to with the mop as if she could clean the Teapot off the face of the earth if she rubbed hard enough. ‘A business is worse than a small child. It always needs attention.’

Sophie gazed at her friend reproachfully, her hair beginning to escape its net. ‘I think it was fabulous of Tucker to leave it to you. You’ve got no mortgage and me and Kirsty pay rent to you, on top of the profit that the tearoom makes.’

‘But there’s always plenty to pay out and it’s a pain when I want to go away.’ Robina stabbed the mop in the steaming water then trod on the gizmo that squeezed the water out. ‘I’ve missed the Isle of Wight Festival, Download and Glastonbury, this
summer–’

‘Isle of Wight and Download festivals are on at the same time so you couldn’t have gone to both, anyway.’ Sophie dug her hands into her apron pocket as if digging in her heels.

‘–
and
,’ flared Robina obstinately, ‘I’m missing Latitude right this minute!’ She threw the mop on the floor, ripped off her apron and stamped out of the front door, leaving the ‘closed’ sign swinging behind her.

Sophie made a face. ‘I don’t think she’ll get to the Global Gathering, either,’ she whispered, as if Robina might be lurking in earshot. ‘Because Kirsty usually keeps the Teapot open while we’re away – Kirsty doesn’t “do” festivals, so she’s quite happy to stay here. But the Global Gathering’s only two weeks from now.’

‘You’re talking about music festivals, right?’

Sophie picked up the mop, rinsed it and gave it a squeeze. ‘That’s right. Kirsty isn’t going to be well enough.’

‘And you can’t stay behind, to look after the shop?’

Sophie propped the mop in the corner and hung up Robina’s apron. ‘Robina and me go together,’ she said, firmly. ‘And Little Ru, of course, but he often goes all sulky, so he’s no company.’

Honor pulled off her own apron. ‘Was Robina fixated on Martyn Mayfair when Tucker was alive?’

Sophie shook her head, freeing more of her hair to dance around her head. ‘Oh no, she and Tucker were cool. Robina was happier with him than with anyone and he took care of her and loved her. She didn’t get hooked on Martyn Mayfair until after Tucker died. Then she developed a bit of a crush on him.’

Thinking back to Robina’s storm of grief on seeing Martyn’s picture on the bus, Honor murmured, ‘Some crush.’

When Honor finally stepped outside, the traffic had eased and the gulls were exchanging heartbroken cries. It was much later than she’d expected to finish work and she could smell something delicious. Despite the coffee cake, her stomach rumbled as she looked around to identify the source.

And there it was, right across the street, a glowing blue
Fish ’n Chips
sign flashing in a window running with condensation. Her mouth watered. English chips had always been a huge favourite with her and Jess and Zach. Somehow tastier than American fries – although soggier, also –
fish ’n chips
couldn’t be good for her but, right that instant, they were what she wanted most in the world. In moments she’d joined the patient queue that curled around the steamy interior where great fat fryers sizzled and a hot cabinet of golden battered fish and round crinkly pies sat above.

She ordered her fish and chips ‘open’ and watched the frying guy shake salt and vinegar over them, then set off to walk home, eating as she went. Very English. Especially the vinegar. Frankly? That was weird. But when in England, one should do as the English do.

She broke off a steaming hot battered morsel of fish and popped it in her mouth, hollowing her cheeks and puffing to try to make it cool enough to chew, glancing in shop windows and thinking how freaky Robina was about Martyn. And his picture sliding past Honor’s astonished eyes on the side of that bus – wow. That had been something.

Nearing the Starboard Walk shops she glanced up at Martyn Mayfair’s front door planted in the flint wall high above the street, with its access stairway, like a fire escape, cutting diagonally across the building to where the cars parked to the side of and behind the shops.

‘You freak!’ The words cut the evening air, making Honor jump. The voice continued more quietly, so that Honor couldn’t make out the words. But the tone was as hissy as a rat. Soundlessly, she crept around the shrubs that divided the small parking area from the road. It was Frog she saw first, more distinctly as she drew nearer. ‘Thing is, freak, you’re beginning to get on my nerves.’ Honor took another step.

Then saw Rufus.

The Tadpoles had him, spread-eagled against a wall.

Chapter Twelve

Only Rufus’s eyes moved, desperately seeking escape. His green striped shirt was torn and hanging off one shoulder. His eyes kept coming back to Frog. Eyes full of fury and fear. And, worst of all, to Honor, resignation. He was steeling himself for whatever bad thing was coming and, judging from the way that the grinning Tadpoles had their ankles hooked around Ru’s to spread his legs, what was coming probably involved a hefty kick where it really hurt.

From her position, Honor could see that beneath his baseball cap, Frog’s face shone with the incomprehensible pleasure of the bully. ‘And what do I do to people who get on my nerves, freak?’ Frog’s voice dropped. ‘I teach them not to do it any more.’

Honor’s stomach churned and she suddenly lost all desire for the fish and chips in her hand, so fragrantly mouthwateringly delicious seconds before. A long chip lay greasily across the top of the packet, glistening with salt. She extracted it and wiped it around the excess salt that had collected in the corners of the wrapping paper.

Two strides away, Frog was still winding himself up for attack.

Anger engulfing good sense, Honor moved forward. The expressions on the Tadpole’s faces changed to astonishment as she stepped up beside and behind Frog but, before they could warn their leader, Honor reached around and jabbed the pointy corner of the salt-laden chip into Frog’s eye, halting his nasty rhetoric mid-flow. ‘So, frea-
eek
! Fucking hell!’ Frog threw his hands up to his face, spinning instinctively to face his attacker, though both eyes were scrunching as he scrubbed at them furiously. ‘What the
fuck
?’ As he hopped back, Honor, following grimly, reached up and posted her steaming battered fish down the V-neck of his T-shirt.

Frog yelped in a whole new octave. ‘Ow, ow-OW! That’s fucking hot!’ He beat blindly at his T-shirt and fish began to slither in smashed handfuls out of the bottom of the shirt and into the slung-low waistband of his jeans. ‘Shit!’ he howled, delving into his waistband to prevent hot fish from encroaching further.

Satisfied that Frog was safely occupied removing salt from his eyes and fish from his shorts, Honor turned her attention to the Tadpoles. Like most sidekicks, their bravado depended on their ringleader. Now that he was temporarily incapacitated their grins had turned to idiotic dismay. Utilising all the advantages of surprise, Honor stalked towards them with what she hoped was the manic light of battle in her eye, digging her fingers into her remaining chips. ‘Let him go, morons.’

Like children caught with their fingers in the cookie jar, they jumped back and whipped their hands behind their backs.

Ru pushed free. ‘Watch out for Frog.’

Honor swung around to see Frog advancing. Realising, with a heart sink, that the first instant of surprise had gone and that she’d put herself right in the middle of Frog and the Tadpoles, she lifted her bag of chips threateningly. ‘Hold it, fuckhead.’

He scraped to an uncertain halt. But his eyes narrowed. ‘What do you think you’re going to do with a bag of soggy chips, Yankee Doodle?’ He reached out and swatted the bedraggled remains of her meal from her hand.

‘That’s enough,’ rapped a voice from above their heads.

With a flood of relief Honor watched the tall figure of Martyn Mayfair jog gently down his metal staircase. His eyes were fixed on Frog. ‘Wind your neck in,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve tried to rough one younger kid up three-to-one and instead you’ve been made to look stupid by a titchy woman armed with a bag of chips. So piss off.’

‘I’m not titchy,’ Honor protested.

The Tadpoles began to shuffle towards the street, as if hoping Martyn wouldn’t spot them. Frog glared, but was obviously inhibited by no longer dealing mob-handed with someone smaller and younger than himself in a quiet corner where nobody could see.

‘Freak!’ he spat, viciously, in Ru’s direction, ramming his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turning to follow his fast-disappearing buddies.

‘Wait!’ Honor’s voice rang out before she’d realised she was going to speak. ‘Apologise to Rufus!’

‘
What
?’ He swung around, wearing an expression of ludicrous astonishment.

‘I said, apologise to Rufus,’ she repeated, weakly.

Martyn’s mouth twitched but he said, ‘You heard the lady. Apologise to Rufus.’

‘Get stuffed,’ said Frog, instead. And, with a final flip of his fingers in Ru’s direction, disappeared around the corner of the nearest shop, like an angry bear.

‘You may have pushed a little too hard with the apology,’ Martyn observed.

‘I hope I haven’t made things worse,’ she said, anxiously, to Ru, who was staring at her, clearly bemused.

‘Dunno,’ he said. Then added, honestly, ‘Probably.’

‘Oh, crap.’ She felt a sinking sense of shame. ‘Are you OK?’

He rubbed his shoulder where his shirt was torn but nodded. His huge dark eyes, so like his mother’s above his high cheekbones, were unfathomable. ‘Thanks.’ He flicked a shy, awkward glance at Martyn. ‘Thanks,’ he repeated.

Martyn dismissed him with a nod, then frowned down at Honor, as if wondering what the hell to do with her. ‘I’m cooking pasta. You’d better come and have some in place of your fish and chips. It’ll give the neighbourhood thugs time to clear the area. You didn’t exactly diffuse the situation.’

‘I didn’t know how to.’ Anxiety was squirming unpleasantly, now that the heat of anger had cooled. ‘If I’d called the cops Ru would have been black and blue by the time they arrived.’

‘It’s really tough to defeat a pack,’ he agreed, turning and beginning back up the metal stairs, his shoes making a
tung, tung, tung
noise on the treads. ‘They’re hyenas, opportunistic pack hunters, skulking in the bush until they can isolate vulnerable prey.’

Honor began up the stairway behind him. But halted as she realised that Ru was just watching.

At the door, Martyn looked back, frowning to see Honor only a few steps up the stairs. His gaze switched to Ru and he sighed. ‘You’d better come, too.’

And when Honor set off again,
tung, tung, tung,
she could hear the echoes of Ru’s footfalls behind her.

‘Wow,’ she breathed, when she stepped in through the black-painted door.

She could see clear through the apartment from the wooden floor and cream walls of the entrance lobby, past a stainless steel kitchen area lit, it seemed, by twenty concealed lights and divided from the living area with a wide expanse of polished silvery black granite, over the cream carpeted lounge area to four French doors in the end wall. A long way off.

It was huge. The apartment extended over the entire block of shops at Starboard Walk.

And a couple of doors and a black-painted spiral stairway leading from the entrance way indicated that there was more to be seen.

‘This is quite a place,’ she observed inadequately. In a rush, she remembered about Martyn not being just Martyn but being Martyn Mayfair the Model. She kicked off her tennis shoes before stepping on to the carpet.

Martyn was busy throwing handfuls of penne pasta into bubbling hot water and combining tinned tomatoes in a pan with a jar of sauce – no doubt to make it stretch to serve three. She took one of the tall chrome stools on the other side of the counter, checking that there were no studs or zippers on her jeans to damage the butter-soft black leather seat. Beside her, Ru silently followed suit.

Whenever Martyn flicked a glance at Ru, Ru dropped his eyes. Most of Martyn’s glances were actually glowers, so Honor wasn’t too surprised Ru was abashed.

Martyn moved economically around his – clearly expensive – kitchen and Ru looked like a piece of trash someone had forgotten to take out, shirt ripped, a dirty graze on his arm and his hair hiding his face as he stared down at the silver-black granite counter as if it were showing a brand new movie. Honor’s usual effortless flow of conversation dried up. Feeling almost
 
… yes,
shy
of Martyn; Martyn as he really was. All she could think about was that she’d seen him in his skivvies. Like a god up there on the side of the bus, so perfect and at ease with his perfection that he could allow his image to be blown many times life-size and flaunted before the public.