Marriage and Other Games (50 page)

BOOK: Marriage and Other Games

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As he left the churchyard, a man fell into step beside him. He looked up, brow furrowed.

Kirk.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Fitch growled.

‘Listen, mate,’ Kirk said urgently. ‘I know I’m the last person you want to see. And I’m not going to make any trouble. There’s just something I think you should know.’

Fitch tensed his fists. What was the bastard going to come out with? Some fucking plot twist worthy of a Martina Cole novel? Was he after money?

‘She was coming back to you.’

Fitch wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

‘What?’

Kirk sighed, and passed a hand over his face. He looked terrible. Gaunt and red-eyed, not the smug picture of rude health that Fitch remembered.

‘We’d been out to dinner. She told me it was all over. That she wanted to make a go of it with you.’ There was a slight crack in his voice, and Fitch realised that he was struggling to hold it together. ‘She did love you, you know. And the girls. Me and her, it was just one of them things. Chemistry, you know. It was never going to last . . .’ He trailed off, clearly choked. ‘I’m sorry if . . .’

He turned away, and Fitch watched him put the crook of his elbow to his eyes, to staunch the tears.

‘You’re all right.’ Fitch put a hand on his arm.

‘I wasn’t going to come,’ Kirk spoke in a rush, suddenly defiant. ‘But she’d have wanted you to know.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fitch. ‘I appreciate it.’

And he did. It must have taken a lot for Kirk to drive down here and approach him. He needn’t have told him anything, could have kept Hayley’s secret to himself for ever more.

‘I know I wasn’t always as good to her as I could have been,’ Kirk was saying. ‘And I’m sorry for that. Really sorry . . .’

Tears were streaming down his face now, unstaunched, and his shoulders began to heave. Fitch watched in disbelief as this huge brute of a man sobbed, understandably reluctant to console him but moved nevertheless.

‘I better go,’ choked Kirk eventually through his tears.

Fitch held out his hand.

‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, that anodyne blokey phrase that said everything and nothing.

And the two of them shook hands, Hayley’s husband and her lover, united in their grief and their disbelief as the rain fell relentlessly on.

In the Trout, Norman had done them all proud, serving big mugs of cream-topped hot chocolate fortified with brandy. Plentiful trays of food were passed around all afternoon and into the evening as the residents of Withybrook came together to remember one of their own, telling tales that grew increasingly bawdy as the drink flowed. Fitch had stood on the sidelines, not sure of his role, especially in the light of Kirk’s revelation.

The news had stunned him. His mind was whirling. Hayley had been coming back to him. How did that make him feel? He didn’t know. All he did know was it made her death even more futile, more tragic. And the knowledge didn’t stop him asking himself what he could have done differently. He would never stop asking himself that.

At nine o’clock the band struck up, and the music and dancing began. Fitch had to admit that it was a fitting tribute to his wife. She would have been there in the middle of it all, the party girl, flitting from man to man. For a moment he imagined her amidst the mêlée, her flashing eyes, her smile. That come-hither look she gave everyone she came into contact with, the look that promised so much.

And in that moment, he knew. Even if she had come back, he would never have been able to trust her. Not really. He would always be afraid that she would be seeking the next thrill, because she thrived on drama and controversy. And he wondered if her telling Kirk she was coming back was just another one of her games, a ploy for more attention. He knew it was awful, thinking about her like that when she wasn’t here to defend herself, but he doubted he would have believed her if she was.

At ten, Fitch swallowed down a final brandy and slipped away. His in-laws would be fine. They had their extended family around them. They didn’t need him for support.

Inside, the house was quiet. He looked into the kitchen. On the work surface, he saw a large painting. He took a sharp breath in. It was a picture of Hayley, remarkable in its likeness. She was smiling, wearing her jeans and a blue flowery shirt that she was always fond of. Charlotte must have drawn it, he realised, with some input from the girls. One of them had written ‘Mummy’ in spidery black writing underneath. He touched the surface in wonder. The paint was still wet. He drew his hand away, not wanting to spoil it.

He looked in the living room, but it was empty, then crept up the stairs. The girls’ bedroom was empty too. He felt slightly anxious. Perhaps they had gone back to Charlotte’s house?

He found the three of them in his bed, Jade and Amber under the duvet, Charlotte on top between them, fast asleep with a copy of Dr Seuss in her hand. They must have asked to sleep in there; they had taken to sharing his bed since Hayley’s death and how could he refuse them?

He reached out and touched Charlotte gently on the leg to wake her. She woke immediately, then smiled when she saw him. She scooted to the bottom of the bed, careful not to wake the girls. He put a finger to his lips, indicating that she should follow him downstairs.

He took off his jacket in the living room, throwing it onto the back of the sofa, then sitting down with a sigh, stretching himself out.

‘How did it go?’ Charlotte asked.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK . . .’ He put his head back and shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted. He had got through the day on adrenalin, he realised.

‘I’ll make some tea.’

He nodded, managing a smile. ‘Tea would be great. How were the girls?’

‘They were . . . amazing. We did a picture - for them to remember.’

‘I saw. It’s fantastic. Thank you . . .’

He didn’t know how to express his appreciation. He’d tell her tomorrow. How he’d never have been able to get through it without her . . .

When Charlotte came back with the tea, Fitch was fast asleep. She gazed at him, his dark lashes resting on his cheeks, all the stress and worry gone. She swallowed. She was supposed to be leaving Withybrook at the end of the week. She’d booked a fortnight in Portugal, hoping for some sun and relaxation while she decided what to do next with her life. But how could she leave this little family, just when they needed her? She wasn’t flattering herself. At least, she didn’t think so. They needed someone around to take their mind off things, to do the mundane things that they couldn’t put their mind to, provide a distraction . . .

She decided she’d call Sebastian in the morning. See if his offer still stood. She could stay on for another couple of months while the house was on the market. Even if it sold tomorrow, it would be a while before contracts were exchanged. Yes, she decided. That was the right thing to do. It would give her something to get her teeth into, and she could keep an eye on Fitch. Just while he got himself back on his feet.

She sat on the sofa next to him. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he must have been through over the past few days. She picked up his hand, and kissed the back of his fingers gently, one by one. He opened his eyes. She stopped, feeling incredibly foolish. He gave her a small, sleepy smile. She held his gaze, then bent her head to kiss the last finger. His smile widened, and he gave her hand the tiniest squeeze in return. Then his eyes closed, as if his lashes were unbearably heavy, and he fell back to sleep.

She sat, holding his hand, happy just to watch him until he woke again.