Torn (40 page)

‘Look, I hold no brief for the bloke. But relationships are complex. It's too easy, if you just hear one side of a story, to apportion blame.'

‘You think he was blameless?'

‘Christ, Sheila! How on earth should I know? I wasn't there! I'm just saying you shouldn't accept one person's take on a story, a person, in this instance, who's dead and who can't be interrogated, and deny the possibility of any other construction on the same events.'

‘So, what does James say happened? He's obviously got to you, won you over to his side.'

‘Why have you got to see this as sides? The accident was mentioned but he didn't give me a blow-by-blow account of the lead up. At the time I'm sure he was devastated. He certainly didn't talk about fault.'

‘I'll bet he didn't talk about fault! And what about the rest of your day? Did he make a pass?'

‘I really don't want to get into that kind of detail.'

‘So he did, but you don't want to admit it. I knew he would. You're a likely prospect for him, a woman with money. You could just about save his bacon.'

‘I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.'

‘He's lining you up in his sights.'

‘What? You're talking in riddles, Sheila!'

‘He might appear wealthy and glamorous but … Just don't get taken in. He probably needs you more than you need him.'

‘That's ridiculous. Can you either explain what you mean or get off the subject?'

‘I'm not a gossip. You're the one involved with the wretched man. Ask him.'

‘I'm not involved!'

‘Yet.'

This wasn't the first time there'd been hints. Jessica had paid little attention, thinking it was a joke when James gave her the cheque for the party expenses, saying he hoped it wouldn't bounce. Could it be true that he was hard up? If so, it explained his retrenchment plans and the multitude of other interests he juggled. And it threw a different light on Gilda's attempt at matchmaking. It was not the first time that Jessica had to wonder if the man in her life was more interested in her money than he was in her.

At least she was sure Danny had no such motive. She glanced across to where he sat but could barely see him; he was submerged beneath black velvet and leather. Briefly she heard his throaty laugh, the half-hearted injunction to ‘get off', then silence. It looked as if the intention of the woman in his shawl was to excavate his tonsils; the other waited her turn. Jess could scarcely credit how upset she was at this display. It almost felt like a smack in the face, an answer to the question she hadn't asked, “See! Of course you haven't hurt me!” Sheila turned to see what Jess was staring at. There was both disdain and satisfaction in her smile.

‘Young Danny boy seems to be having fun! Tacky or what?'

Jessica looked away. It was true, he didn't resemble the lost and heartbroken soul Owen had implied. But wasn't that a good thing? She wanted him to move on, find another girlfriend, be happy, didn't she? And yet the prospect of sitting here, a witness to Danny's seduction, was unappealing.

‘Would you like to come back to my place for a pizza?' Jess suggested.

‘You've been very quiet since the pub,' Sheila commented, as they cleared away their plates. By now Jessica would have preferred to be on her own.

‘I was just wondering about James. What you said about him.'

‘
Did
you sleep with him?'

Jess sighed. ‘I don't know why you're so fascinated.'

‘I don't get off on hearing about my friends' sexual exploits with men, if that's what you think.'

‘You keep coming round to the same question.' She might have added, ‘You're obsessed', one of Danny's favourite expressions. They'd got up from the kitchen table and Jessica picked up the kettle to fill it.

‘It's only because I care about you. I can't bear to think of you, like that, with any man, but particularly him. The idea is repugnant to me. You're so lovely, Jess, so special, don't waste yourself on men.' Sheila's hand was on her shoulder, then on the bowed arch of her neck as she put the kettle down. Jessica turned back to face her, disconcerted to find herself backed up between the work-top and the dresser.

‘Sheila!' Jess attempted a dismissive, “this is a joke, isn't it?” laugh.

‘What's the matter? You like women? A woman can give you so much more than a man can. It's the supreme relationship. No invasion, no domination, just mutuality, give and give … no take.'

‘I don't know where you've got the idea I might be up for this.'

‘You've no need of another man in your life! You've got Rory and you say you don't want another child. Let me show you what it can be like.' Her face was moving closer. One of Jessica's hands still gripped the handle of the kettle, her other was splayed against Sheila's shoulder, a feeble barrier against her encroaching presence. Tubs chose this moment to run into the kitchen and make a bid for some food of his own. He insinuated his way between their ankles, mewing.

Jessica arched back, but her head came up against the doors of the dresser. The kitchen was small; the table and chair partially closed off the only other route out of this corner. Short of hitting the woman with the kettle, or engaging in some kind of unseemly wrestling match and treading on Tubs in the process, there was nowhere to go. Sheila took hold of her face. She was an attractive woman, even though the grey re-growth along her parting was evident at this close range. But attractiveness or otherwise was not the point, Jess thought desperately. The problem was that she was a woman. Jessica allowed the kiss for no more than a second or two then turned her face sideways, and pushed Sheila back.

‘No, Sheila!'

‘I'm sorry, Jess! I'm so impetuous! I never meant it to happen, not like this. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I chose the wrong moment. Please? I'm sorry, Jess!'

Jessica broke free; Tubs had to do some speedy side-stepping to avoid her feet.

‘There is no right moment. I'm not that way inclined.'

‘But it doesn't have to depend on inclination! Any woman can find pleasure and reward in it. You've just got to try! I didn't know I was a lesbian until I was into my thirties and was turned on by another woman. It's a revelation, Jess. It's what women were made for!'

‘It's not, Sheila. Not this woman, anyway. I don't have any prejudice about others' sexuality, but I've no personal interest in that kind of experiment.'

‘Please? Give me a chance. I know I can persuade you. Just let yourself switch off from the assumptions and preconceptions you have about sex.' Her eyes were enlarged, pleading, glittering with emotion.

‘I'm sorry, but you've got to accept that I mean what I say.'

Sheila's eyes fell. She turned abruptly, hiding her face.

‘No. I'm the one who's sorry, but I couldn't resist. Oh, Christ! I've blown it now, haven't I?'

‘You have if you're just after me for my supposed money!' Jessica hoped to make Sheila laugh, but she was unsuccessful.

‘You won't want to be friends now.' This again! Just lately Jess felt she was on some nightmare carousel. The vista might change, but at every few turns a vertiginous sense of déjà-vu swamped her, turning her stomach over and threatening to pitch her to the ground.

‘Don't be daft. Friends but not lovers. Life is already too complicated by my inability to control my heterosexual urges. Don't think I could cope with fancying my own sex as well!'

Sheila's sense of humour had completely deserted her. ‘You
did
have sex with him, didn't you?'

An image of the man came back to Jess then. Only moments before orgasm she recalled the drugged look in his eyes, how his head arched back, mouth open, sucking in air as if starved of oxygen. She recalled the salty taste of his skin, and how bruised her mouth had felt after those avid kisses.

‘‘Course I did. Didn't mean to. Seems I have zilch willpower.'

From then on, at least once a week, and as often as not twice, James Warwick would call in at Weavers cottage. Occasionally he would drop off Sasha at the nursery and if Jess hadn't arrived yet, would wait for her and drive her home, as he'd done that first time. On other days he just turned up out of the blue. Sometimes he would give a reason why he'd come over to her side of Spine Hill – he needed to look at a particular fence, make sure a low-lying piece of land was not getting too boggy, or check the number of cattle in one of the fields he rented out – but often he would offer no reason. He would just knock on her front door, ask if there was any chance of a cup of tea, and stay for anything between ten and forty minutes. If Sasha came to play it was growing more likely that it would be James, rather than his mother, who came to collect her.

Jessica could not easily push from her mind Sheila's suggestion that he was in financial difficulty. Other than asking him outright, how could she find out? Anyway, there was no overt evidence that he was romancing her. Sometimes, when she wasn't looking, a kind of spooky frisson between her shoulder blades suggested the dark beam of his eyes was focused upon her. But this could just be her overactive imagination. If they stayed off any subject likely to prove contentious – hunting, health and safety, travellers, gender politics – she found she enjoyed his company and looked forward to seeing him.

Then he began to ask her out occasionally – “just for a drink” – to a good pub he knew, in this village or that. If the weather was fine, he might phone her during the morning and suggest lunch. He would choose a place with a good garden and a children's menu, and they would pick up Rory and Sasha after nursery school. The children adored these outings. And Jessica enjoyed the simple comfort of being with a man she felt relaxed with, a man who, while they were out together, unquestioningly took on shared care and responsibility for her son, as she did for his daughter. They almost felt like a family.

But it was evening excursions that quickly became the most regular feature of each week. And Gilda made it easy – always offering to have Rory to stay the night. Had it all been made too easy? Might she be lulled into a new pattern of living, which grew ever more comfortable and familiar, then find it impossible to break free? But there would be time enough in the future for analysis; just for the moment she was enjoying herself. The older the pub the better; beams and flagstones were a plus point, add in an inglenook fireplace – aromatic logs, smouldering gently – and she was in heaven. And increasingly these visits to local pubs became less local and began to include food.

‘Name's Warwick. I'm sorry, we're a little late,' James said to the barman, as they arrived. ‘We've been shearing,' he added in explanation to Jessica. As it was a warm evening they took their drinks and the menus outside to the front of the pub where, set amongst flower-filled tubs, there were rustic benches and tables.

‘Do you do the shearing yourselves?' Jess asked, after they'd sat down. The pub was situated in the centre of the small village where the main street widened to form a turning circle with a roofed memorial bench at its hub. Two other streets connected here but the main road seemed to stop a few yards further on at some high ornamental gates, which stood open.

‘Dan mainly. I just help. So now we've a pile of fleeces but no prospect of earning anything much from them. It's crazy.'

‘So why bother to shear the sheep at all?'

‘Cleans them up, helps prevent heat stress in the ewes as the weather warms up, and it's a preventive measure against fly strike. If it's left thick, flies will lay their eggs in the fleece and they hatch out into maggots.'

Jessica had picked up the menu, but put it down again unread.

‘You did want to eat? I'm not being presumptuous, am I?' he asked.

‘It's fine. I'm hungry. It was just … the maggots!'

‘Sorry. Fact of life for a sheep farmer.'

‘So, what's next in your calendar?'

‘Depends on the weather. If the forecast is good for a stretch of several days we'll take advantage and get on with hay making.'

‘If not?'

‘Spraying the lambs against fly strike.'

‘Urgh! Do you want to put me off my food totally! You don't usually book,' she said, changing the subject.

‘The food is very good here. Thought I'd better not take a chance.'

How good was good? Not for the first time Jess wondered about his financial situation. They usually shared the cost when they were out with the children, but so far, when they'd eaten in the evening, James had picked up the tab. If the food was so special he'd had to book on a Wednesday …? Jessica picked up the menu again. No more than a glance was enough.

‘Let tonight be my treat then,' she suggested.

‘No. I chose the place. I booked the table. I don't expect you to pay.'

‘I know you don't expect it. I'm just saying it's not fair. I'm not badly off, I can pay my way.'

‘No.'

‘James … Jay, you're being ridiculous. At least let's go halves?'

He shook his head and pointed upwards. ‘Look. Bats.' It had not been a spectacularly fine day, but the cloud had now dissolved. The bats darted jaggedly across the clear sky. The scent of orange blossom from a nearby garden momentarily threaded the warm air then vanished.

‘Oh, yes!' Jess said, breathing in. ‘This is lovely, but then so is everywhere you bring me.'

‘It's a beautiful part of the country. I'm … we're very fortunate to be living here.'

‘Jay, I don't want to offend you but –'

‘If you keep going on about paying half you will.'

‘But, you know I can afford to?'

‘What about my masculine pride?'

‘What about the fact we're only supposed to be friends? This is beginning to feel more like dating.'