Paradise Fields (37 page)

He saw her, and shrugged very slightly, and made the tiniest gesture towards a smile. Then he opened his car door, got in and started the engine.

Nel's own car was going by the time he drove away.

She went to see Simon at his office. She couldn't wait until six o'clock, and besides, she didn't want the visit to be remotely social.

‘I'm afraid Simon's not back from lunch yet,' said a girl Nel did know, but now couldn't remember the name of.

‘I'll wait. He hasn't got an appointment immediately after lunch, has he?'

The girl checked. ‘No.'

‘Is it all right if I wait in his office, then? I've got some papers to look at.'

‘Yes, I'm sure that will be fine.'

Simon was surprised to see her, and, as far as Nel could tell, not wholly pleased.

‘Nel, what brings you into the office? You're not putting your house on the market, are you?'

‘No. And I'm not interested in selling the garden for building land, either.'

‘Oh.'

‘There was a hospice committee meeting today. You knew that. You probably also knew the subject of my garden would come up.'

‘I had no idea—'

‘You had absolutely no right to enquire about my house, my land, on my behalf, without my permission.'

‘Now calm down. I know I should have told you what I was doing, but you'd have had a fit!'

‘Yes!'

‘And I thought you ought to have the facts. We are practically engaged. It's my job to do these things for you.'

‘No, it's not! And we're not practically engaged! It's
not your job to do anything for me, unless I specifically ask you to, and then it's a favour, not a job!'

‘Nelly, there's no need to get so worked up—'

‘This is not worked up! This is calm and reflective! I've had time to think things over while I was waiting for you!'

‘For God's sake—'

‘And one of the things I thought was, there is no earthly point in you finding things out for me if you don't pass on the information! I had to put up with being called a Nimby by a crooked builder before I knew what was going on. You made such a fool of me, Simon.'

‘Sweetheart! Nel! Darling, it's not like that! Really, it's not. I made enquiries because I'm in a position to. Information is power! The more you know, the better you can make decisions!' He manoeuvred her onto a chair and handed her a glass of water. ‘Just think about it; when the building has gone ahead, are you sure you'll still want to live where you do now?'

As she'd already asked herself this question, Nel didn't hesitate. ‘Yes. There'd be no reason to move. I'll just plant trees down the end and screen off the houses.'

‘And lose all your winter sunshine?'

‘Would I? Oh well, I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I'm not selling, Simon.'

‘Fine. It's your decision. But if you did decide to sell, wouldn't it be better if you could put it on the market at a price which reflected that valuable bit of land you've got?'

‘In theory. I suppose.'

‘So I've done nothing wrong, then. I've only made some enquiries and found out some facts for you. As I did when I went through the
Yellow Pages
looking up farmers.'

Nel sipped the water. It was tepid, and now, so was her argument. ‘You have been really helpful about that, Simon. I do appreciate it.'

‘So you're not annoyed with me for making enquiries, then?'

‘I do wish you hadn't. It was embarrassing for me at that meeting, being called a Nimby and not really knowing why.'

‘You'd have got upset if I'd told you about it beforehand.'

‘Well, yes, I would have, but only with you there. I wouldn't have got upset in front of a whole lot of strangers.'

‘How did the meeting go?'

‘It was hell! I feel as if I've been on the rack.'

Simon ignored her anguish. ‘So, what was decided?'

Nel sighed. ‘Well, it went to a casting vote. Obviously Chris wanted Gideon Freebody's plans, but Jake Demerand said that we couldn't take a vote on such an important issue without all the committee being there.'

‘For God's sake! What is it to him!'

This seemed a bit of an overreaction, but as her own reactions to Jake were distinctly irrational, she didn't comment. ‘He was just advising. Anyway, we reached a compromise.'

‘What compromise? Did you agree to sell the building or not?'

‘No! We're going to sell the chunks of land.'

‘What chunks of land?'

‘The ransom strip. You did know about the ransom strip? Simon, I thought you knew everything!' The sarcasm in her voice was so slight he didn't notice.

‘Tell me!'

‘There's a bit of land that Sir Gerald bequeathed to the hospice. It's vital access for Gideon Freebody's plan. Without it, he can't build. We're going to divide it into plots so it would be difficult to sell. There'd be so many legal costs, buying each one individually, it wouldn't be worth it. And then, most people would refuse to sell. It's why they've bought them, after all, to save the hospice.'

‘Oh.' Simon seemed genuinely shocked. Nel couldn't help wondering why. Part of her realised he probably had some financial link with Gideon Freebody. She put it out of her mind; time enough later to chew on that.

She went on. ‘The only trouble is, we have to sell all the plots by the first of April. I think that's a significant date for the planning permission or something, although no one said anything about it out loud. I don't think Chris Mowbray thinks we can do it.'

‘Frankly, nor do I!'

‘We're determined to. We're having a big fundraising event on the first anyway. We're doing a farmers' market, too. Give everyone new to it a dry run, sort of.'

‘Nel, is this sensible?'

‘Well, obviously the weather might be terrible, but we haven't got time to wait until summer.'

‘No! I mean trying to hang onto the ransom strip! You'll never do it!'

Why was Simon so definite about this?

‘Wouldn't it be better to sell it, and buy land and build a new hospice? Think how long it's taken you to find a new director. It would be much easier if you had a shiny new building to offer him.'

Nel was getting tired of this argument. ‘Not necessarily! It's just possible that a new director might like
lots of lovely high-ceilinged rooms with period detail! I know the offices are a bit cramped, but if the hospice had a bit of money to play with, it could convert the stables or something.'

‘I don't know why you're so set on keeping that old building.'

‘Well, you should do by now, Simon! We've known each other long enough! I have a fondness for elegant old houses. Besides,' she paused, not quite sure how to put her next point, ‘I feel a bit worried about what would happen to the money if we did sell.'

‘What could possibly happen to it?'

‘Without a director, and a chairman of the committee who's definitely dodgy—'

‘Chris Mowbray's all right! I play golf with him.'

‘He's not all right. He's slimy. And I'm worried that if there's a large chunk of money, lying around in some account or other, waiting for us to find another plot and get a building plan organised, it just might leach away into people's pockets. And you can never build a new house for the money you could get an old house for. I've seen enough programmes on television about it.'

‘The hospice could buy another old house, then.'

‘But why should it? Why should it lose all its connections with the area, when it's ideally sited where it is now? It wouldn't make sense.'

Simon hesitated, as if Nel was slightly better informed than he'd thought she'd be – depended on her being, even. ‘Well, say what you like, Chris Mowbray's an honest bloke! And Gideon Freebody's got a good reputation . . .'

‘Has he, Simon? I thought you looked up that item in the newspaper on the Net, and showed it to me, to
tell me that Gideon Freebody didn't have a good reputation.' She paused. Simon had gone rather red in the face. ‘Or did you show me that to tell me that Jake Demerand was crooked?'

‘I meant it all for the best!'

‘I'm sure you did, Simon. Just whose best, is what we need to consider!'

She left his office, leaving him trying to explain, but unable to find the words.

She drove home, tired and disheartened. She should have felt victorious; the hospice was safe for the time being. All she had to do now was get her son down from university and divide the land into plots for her. She also needed to find a solicitor to make it all legal.

Even if there was nothing personal between them, Jake was out of the question. He was working for the opposition. Pierce Hunstanton must be furious that his option of selling to Gideon Freebody had been taken away, by her, in particular. Both Gideon Freebody and Chris Mowbray must be pretty fed up with her as well. Not usually given to such thoughts, Nel suddenly wondered if they might take it out on her in some way. Kidnap Fleur, send in the heavies, fire-bomb her house? Or, at least, put a brick through her windows? She wished that things between her and Simon were OK. If they were friends, she could just ask him to come and stay for a few days until her irrational fears subsided. As things were, if she even mentioned that she was worried about having upset Gideon Freebody, he'd just lecture her about keeping her nose out of things she didn't understand and make her talk the committee back round into selling the building.

When she finally parked the car and came into the house she saw that someone had put a note through her door. She picked it up and put it in her pocket while she greeted the dogs. When at last they'd agreed that it really was her, and they hadn't been abandoned for ever, she retrieved it.

It said:
If you need a good solicitor
. . . There followed a name and number.
Best, Jake
.

She carried the note through to the kitchen, holding it to her. She was grateful for the name, and would use it without hesitation, but at that moment, she felt more grateful for a few words on a scrap of paper – from Jake.

Even his handwriting was somehow sexy. Slightly old-fashioned, very black, angled. She read the note again. What did ‘Best' mean? Could she possibly divine from those four letters that he had not slept with her for devious reasons? That he didn't just think of her as over forty, a widow and grateful?

She put the note on the dresser, tucked between a couple of her favourite antique jugs, and then filled the kettle.

Jake had gone a little way towards proving he was one of the good guys. He'd given her the tip about looking at the will, stuck up for her at the meeting. And giving her the name of a solicitor meant he was good, too. He knew she'd need one, and to save her time, he'd provided the name of one. That was at least three big ticks for Jake.

She put a Women's Tea bag in a mug. And what of Simon? Could she tolerate such behaviour? Should she regard his enquiring about the value of her garden as helpful, or horribly intrusive?

It was hard not to think of it as intrusive. He may have been a friend for a good while, and helped her out many times, but ever since Mark died she'd been an independent woman, and she'd made her own decisions. Could she tolerate a man in her life making them for her?

She thought about the wonderful aquamarine ring that was hidden upstairs. She hadn't put it in her jewellery box in case Fleur found it. Was losing her independence worth a gorgeous ring? No. Hell, she could save up her money and buy her own rings. She'd finish with Simon, in fact, probably all men, and carry on life as before, independent and happy, with her children about her.

She sipped the tea. It was very hot and peppery and it gave her courage. It was, she and Viv had decided, the tea-equivalent of neat whisky. What about when her children weren't about her? In about five minutes, the way the time went. Would she be happy to be on her own then?

Another sip, another answer: better to be on her own, and lonely, than to sacrifice her independence for one who might not be worth it. It was sad about Simon. She'd known him a long time, had trusted him and even depended on him in small ways. But recently he'd revealed himself as someone she didn't quite recognise, who played golf with influential people; who did things behind her back; took, she realised now, too much interest in her house. Was his plan to marry her for her property? Would he have been so fond, so attentive if she'd lived in a modern semi, with a garden there was no possible opportunity to build on?

It was a very lowering thought. No one wanted her
unless there was something else with the package: influence on an important committee, a house with a valuable garden.

No. The last gulp of Women's Tea held the solution. Lonely widowhood was the answer. It was a pity this conclusion didn't make her dance with joy.

Villette put her paws up, and Nel heaved her onto her lap. There were lots of compensations to being alone. It wasn't only sexual love that made one happy. Apart from her children, there were gardens, decorating, her animals. There would be grandchildren one day, not too soon, she hoped, but all these things would bring contentment, and the sort of everyday happiness which made the world function. One day she would become the sort of woman whose most pressing problem would be deciding whether to decorate her hall in Farrow & Ball or Colefax & Fowler. Thousands of happy, contented women lived without sex. She had done so herself for years. She could do it again.

‘Maybe I'll turn into an eccentric dog-breeder,' she said to Villette, who sighed, sounding tired. ‘And just turn the dog hairs into a decorative effect.'

‘So, Mum, this plot is approximately a hundred metres long and ten metres wide?' Sam, down from university, wanted to go and find some old friends, but he was having to give his mother a course in basic maths first.