Summer at the Lake (5 page)

Now, as he poured himself a second cup of coffee from the cafetière, he contemplated the day ahead.

At twelve o’clock Jesse was coming to collect her things. As originally planned, he was getting the hell out. He’d decided he wasn’t going to put himself through the painful experience of witnessing her stripping the house of her presence, or of trying to persuade her that she should reconsider. Frankly he didn’t trust himself not to say or do something less than dignified. With only a week since being officially dumped, it was too soon for him to behave normally around her – whatever normally was supposed to be in the circumstances.

From his chair in the Victorian-style conservatory he’d had added on to the house, he looked back towards the kitchen and where there was now a blank space on the wall above the whitewashed sideboard. A week ago the space had been filled with a large framed photograph of him and Jesse. It had been taken on holiday in the Maldives last January, the pair of them looking tanned and happy – Jesse, perfectly toned in a barely there bikini, he, less toned, in swimming shorts. During the week he had removed the picture from the wall, unable to cope with what now seemed to be mocking smiles on self-satisfied faces. He had gathered up the rest of the displayed photographs that charted their relationship and put them on the bed in the spare room. If Jesse wanted the photos, she was welcome to take them. Somehow he doubted she would.

Staring at that empty space on the wall, he was suddenly filled with an angry urge to empty the kitchen cupboards of all Jesse’s herbal and green teas and health foods and supplements – the ginseng, the evening primrose oil, the ginkgo biloba, the milled organic flaxseed, the goji. He wanted to sweep it all into a bin liner along with her superfoods cookery bible and then do the same in the bathroom, clearing the shelves of all trace of her expensive beauty products. But he steeled himself to resist the urge. He didn’t want to give Jesse any reason to accuse him of petty vindictiveness.

So better all round if he made himself scarce today and allowed her to go about her business as she saw fit. He would rather be deemed a coward for avoiding her than run the risk of reducing himself to any unedifying behaviour he would later regret. A man has his pride, after all.

His breakfast finished, he tidied the place up, taking care to empty the rubbish bin in the kitchen, thereby removing all takeaway evidence from last night – a dumped boyfriend cosying up with a takeaway was just too much of a cliché.

He’d called in at the Bangladeshi restaurant on his way home last night after firstly stopping off in Church Close and then Latimer Street, where, to their mutual surprise, it turned out that the property he’d just bought was next door to Miss Silcox’s house. What were the odds?

‘I imagine you’ll be turning the house into flats,’ Miss Silcox had said to him, when he’d got out of the car and had gone round to the passenger side to assist her. She had already extracted from him what he did for a living.

Not prepared to disclose his plans, not when she would probably have the news spread to the entire neighbourhood by breakfast, he had merely said, ‘I’ve yet to decide what to do with the property.’

In the dark he had escorted her up the steps to her house and stayed with her until she had removed her gloves in order to locate her keys from her crocodile handbag. With the door open, she turned to look up at him. ‘Goodnight, Mr Strong,’ she said. ‘Despite the rather unfortunate nature of our meeting, I’ve enjoyed making your acquaintance. Thank you again for giving up your Friday evening, especially as I’m sure you had other plans for it. I wish you well with whatever you have in mind for next door. Goodnight.’

For all the finality of her words, he had known they would not be the last she exchanged with him. Back behind the wheel of his car, deciding to put off stumbling around in the dark to inspect his purchase, he’d driven the short distance to North Parade. Plans, he’d thought. No, he’d had nothing planned for the evening. Just an evening of sitting at home brooding in front of the telly.

Determined not to succumb to any brooding this morning, he came to a swift decision: seeing as he’d missed his chance to view his new house last night, he would go and take a look now.

He was in his car, the heater on, when he made a further decision and one that took him by surprise.

With the cake box placed for safekeeping on the front passenger seat, he headed for Church Close.

His rational self told him he had nothing to apologise for, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling he might have given a poor impression of himself last night. If there was one thing he abhorred in others it was a belligerent manner, or worse, a lack of manners, and the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced he had displayed both of these characteristics last night. Put it down to his pride, but he felt duty bound to put the record straight to both Miss Silcox and Floriana Day.

Whenever he thought of the latter, he pictured her lying helplessly on the ground, the blood trickling down her face from under her beanie hat, which was skewed and partially covering one of her eyes. As gently as he could, he had carefully removed it so she could see better, and more importantly so he could see what kind of damage was going on underneath. His behaviour had been fine then, it was later when he had not exactly excelled. He’d probably come across as stand-offish in comparison to Miss Silcox who had been thoroughly effusive with her willingness to help. At the time he had thought her a meddlesome old dear getting her kicks by being caught up in somebody else’s drama. And dragging him along in her wake.

It was her comment about hoping somebody would do the same for her if she were in an accident that had given him cause to rethink. Her kind help, for that was what it was, had put his behaviour under the microscope and found it severely wanting. Yes, he’d done what was expected of him at the scene of what the police officer had called ‘a failed to stop accident’, but he had perhaps viewed it as no more than his duty, and his duty done, he had wanted to be on his way. But how would he feel if, for instance, his father was involved in an incident like that? Wouldn’t he appreciate, on his father’s behalf, the kind of help Miss Silcox had been so quick to offer?

So he was on a mission to make good his reputation and, if he were scrupulously honest, to ease his conscience. He just hoped the recipient of his gift would welcome it and that she wasn’t like Jesse, permanently on a diet.

Jesse had hotly disputed that she was ever on a diet – ‘I just like to watch what I eat,’ she would say. Which meant no cakes, except for special occasions. Bacon butties were a no-go as well. Along with chocolate, crisps, pizzas, sausages and potatoes. Basically anything with a calorific content greater than a rice cracker was considered toxic. Of course, there was no getting away from how spectacular Jesse looked as a consequence of all the working out she did and the ‘watching’ of what she ate.

He knocked on the door of 10a Church Close. It was a quarter to twelve, which he hoped was late enough not to disrupt a lie-in but early enough not to coincide with lunchtime. Although it was highly likely that following last night’s accident, the occupant’s normal Saturday morning routine, if indeed she had one, would have been cast aside.

Still in her vintage rose pyjamas with a slouchy cardie in place of a dressing gown, Floriana put down the book she’d been trying to read, and went to answer the door, being careful not to slip on the tiled hall floor in her chunky-knit socks. She wondered if it was the police community support officer back with a question he’d forgotten to ask her earlier. It had been a follow-up visit, he’d explained, a: to check her statement and b: to see if she had remembered anything else that might be useful. She hadn’t. And that bothered her. She hated knowing that there was period of time, if only a few seconds or maybe minutes, that had been taken from her.

‘Oh,’ she said, when she saw who it was. He looked different to how she remembered him. Maybe that was because yesterday he had been wearing a suit and a smart black overcoat. See, she told herself, there’s nothing seriously wrong with your memory, you just need the right stimulus. Today Mr Strong was Mr Casual, wearing jeans with a navy-blue jacket under which was a grey sweater and a navy-blue scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

‘I hope it’s not a bad time to call,’ he said, ‘I just wanted to check that you were all right. And I’ve brought you’ – he held out a white box decorated with a Christmassy red and green ribbon – ‘some cakes which I thought might help to make you feel better. How are you?’

Surprised and touched, she said, ‘You know the phrase “hit by a truck”? Well, that pretty much covers it. But at the mention of cake, I suddenly feel a whole lot better.’ Despite knowing she looked ghastly, she added, ‘Would you like to come in?’

His hands still holding out the box, he hesitated. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’ His gaze dropped from her face to her cardigan and pyjamas, just as the policeman’s had.

‘If it would help, I could get dressed,’ she replied. She had no intention of doing so, but she didn’t want him to rush off, she wanted to thank him properly for what he and Miss Silcox had done for her. ‘I don’t know the precise contents of that box,’ she went on, ‘but if left alone I might eat the lot in one sitting, something I’m more than capable of doing. So, please, Mr Strong, you have to save me from myself. And apart from that, given my fragile state, if you keep me arguing on the doorstep a moment longer, I’m likely to die of cold, which would be a shame after coming so close to meeting my demise last night.’

He gave her a quick sidelong smile. ‘Put like that it would be churlish and irresponsible of me to abandon you to your worst excesses. And please, call me Adam.’

‘In return you must call me Floriana,’ she said, while closing the door. ‘There, we’ve now been properly introduced.’

‘We did that last night, actually.’

‘True, but I prefer my introductions to be done when I’m not spreadeagled on the tarmac.’

Taking possession of the cake box, she offered to make them a drink.

‘A better idea would be for me to make it for you,’ he said, ‘given your
fragile state
.’

‘Under normal circumstances, I would wrestle you to the floor rather than agree to such an outrageous suggestion, but frankly I don’t have the strength today. Nor do I have the energy to go upstairs and get dressed. Do you think you could just avert your eyes to save our mutual blushes?’

He gave a small nod of his head. ‘Have no fear, my eyes will be averted at all times.’

The matter settled, his coat and scarf hung up, Floriana perched on a stool at the small breakfast bar and watched her Good Samaritan go about the business of making coffee in her minuscule kitchen. Everything about 10a Church Close was minuscule; it was the smallest house in the street and looked as if it had been forced to hold its breath so it could be squeezed into place between its larger neighbours. A cottage with a sash window to the left of the front door and a window above, it was very much a two-up two-down affair – sitting room and kitchen downstairs and a bedroom with a bathroom upstairs. The original brickwork had been rendered many years ago and was painted white. She called it The Toy House.

Pouring boiling water into two mugs, and as if picking up on her thoughts, her helpful guest said, ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Since August. I’d been renting before on the Iffley Road.’

He raised the carton of milk with an enquiring glance.

‘Please.’

‘It’s a nice property,’ he said, now looking out at the small paved back garden where there was a bird table, a couple of old wooden chairs and a dilapidated shed and not much else. Her plan, when she got around to it, was to buy a pretty table and chair set and put up fairy lights to illuminate the garden. ‘And in a good area,’ he continued. ‘A very good area. Are you renting?’

‘No, it’s mine,’ she said. ‘And have I remembered correctly, did you mention in the car last night to Miss Silcox that you’re some kind of property developer?’

‘Perfectly remembered. So go on, get it out of your system.’

‘Get what out of my system?’

‘That you think people like me in Oxford are the lowest of the low, that I’m the scourge of a fine and beautiful city destroying its architectural heritage. And don’t forget that I’m just another scamming buy-to-let landlord swindling the poor to fill my gold-lined pockets.’

‘And are you?’

‘No. As a landlord I take my responsibilities very seriously.’

‘Phew, that’s a relief. I’d hate to think I was keeping such poor company.’

He smiled. ‘It turns out I’ve just bought a house next door to Miss Silcox – a scary coincidence, wouldn’t you say? Do you want to drink your coffee here?’

‘No, it’s more comfortable in the other room.’

He followed behind her carrying the tray of mugs, plates and cakes. After she’d cleared away a basket of knitting, he placed the tray on the coffee table and waited for her to sit on the sofa before opting for the armchair to her right. In keeping with the size of the house, all the furniture was smaller than average and the armchair, which she had bought from a second-hand shop on the Cowley Road and only recently finished reupholstering, was far too small for him and she could see he immediately regretted his choice. ‘The sofa might be better for you if you’d prefer,’ she said.

‘No, no, this is fine.’

Her aching sore face twitched with a smile at his polite stoicism and she remembered how calm and reassuring he had been last night and how he had kept her talking and covered her with his coat. Ironically he was exactly the kind of person you’d want in an emergency. Miss Silcox had described him as ‘chivalrous’ and he was certainly living up to that description by coming here.

‘I’m glad you called round,’ she said, after she’d reached for her mug of coffee, ‘and not just because you came bearing gifts, but because I wanted to thank you for all that you did last night. I think I may not have expressed my gratitude as well as I should have. I’m sorry if I came across as bolshie and ungrateful.’