Want to Know a Secret? (37 page)

The doors to the bathroom and the other rooms were wide open, showing empty rooms. But the door to Bryony’s room stood only a little ajar, and through the gap Diane could see Gareth sitting on Bryony’s bed, his back to the door, hunched over something in his lap. She hesitated.

With a mew of distress Bryony thrust past her, hurling the door back on its hinges. ‘Dad, how could you go through my things?’

Gareth’s head flew up, his face pulled wide with horror. One of his crutches lay across the duvet, the other was propped against the wall. The large drawer beneath Bryony’s bed was open next to his feet. A black leather box was open inside the drawer.

And Gareth’s lap glistened with the jewellery that had belonged to Diane’s mother and grandmother.

Beside him sat a blue canvas money belt, the one he took on holiday to keep their spending money safe. Several pieces of jewellery could be seen through its gaping mouth.

Bryony swayed on her feet. Diane guided her hurriedly into the pink basketwork chair. ‘Sit down, sweetie.’ All they needed was Bryony fainting.

Gareth’s hunted gaze flicked from daughter to wife. He cleared his throat and looked down at the brooches and chains laid out neatly across his legs like bizarre decorations. ‘I –’ He cleared his throat again.

In slow motion, Bryony stooped awkwardly for the box and held it out. Like a naughty child, Gareth put everything back. First the pieces from his lap: gold, silver, diamonds, emeralds, jet, amber; then from the pocket of the belt. Bryony checked inside. ‘Is that everything? Or do I have to frisk you?’ Her voice trembled.

Gareth nodded. ‘Everything.’ He picked up his crutches and threaded them onto his arms. Then he sat, silent, staring at the carpet, caught red-handed and stuck for an explanation.

Gradually, colour began to return to Bryony’s face. Her eyes glittered and Diane recognised anger. She was glad. Anger would serve Bryony better than shock and horror.

‘Mum, do you think Uncle Freddy will put these things back in his safe for me?’

‘I’m sure he will.’

‘Good. I’ll go over there now.’

‘I’ll come with you. Probably better if you’re not alone.’

Gareth turned quickly. ‘Bryony, darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been looking without asking but …’ He scrabbled for words. ‘I was only looking. The stuff in my belt – you don’t think I was going to take it, do you? No.’ He halted, licked his lips. ‘I was just going to get it valued.’

Bryony shook her head, her eyes as big as pansies. ‘Don’t expect me to believe your crap. Who needs a father like you? Not me – in case you were wondering.’ She turned her agonised eyes to Diane. ‘I mean that, by the way.’ Bryony made it from the room before she began to sob.

Diane hovered, not knowing who was the more devastated, Bryony or Gareth.

For herself, she was shocked. The implications of Gareth’s latest perfidy were almost too huge for her to dare to believe and she felt as if, for once, the light at the end of the tunnel could be daylight, rather than an oncoming train.

‘Why do you have to be so greedy?’ she whispered. ‘Why couldn’t you be satisfied with everything you already have? We’ll talk more, later, but I want you to move out of here in the next few days. You can live in your cottage. I don’t want your money and if you go without a fuss I won’t ask for any.’

‘How can I? I can’t live alone,’ he answered, gruffly. He flicked a glance her way. His eyes were … what? Not hurt. Worried? Probably, a bit. But angry, too; annoyed with himself for being careless.

‘Well,’ she said, preparing to follow her daughter. ‘Whether or not you can live alone, I think it’s time we lived apart. Maybe you could go live with your dad for a while, he could use the company. Or you could hire a nurse. Spend some of the dosh on yourself – you seem to be able to do that OK.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

Diane’s footsteps pattered down the stairs and her receding voice called after their daughter, ‘Bryony, I’m so sorry ...’

Painfully, heart thumping, Gareth laboured to his feet. Found his balance with his crutches. Punting himself out of the room and across the landing he could still hear Diane’s voice, then Bryony’s, high and tearful. His heart gave a massive squeeze.

‘Bryony?’ He sagged against the doorjamb of what used to be his and Diane’s room but was now his, leg and hip throbbing.

He blinked fiercely. Bryony had looked at him with such pain and repugnance in her eyes. ‘Bryony!’ he shouted hoarsely over the banisters. ‘Bryony!’

But there was no pause to show that Bryony was listening. Her voice ran on in her sweet, over-emphatic way. High and rapid with emotion. Then Diane’s again, lower, soothing.

He heard the back door open. And shut, snipping the voices off mid-sentence.

With a heave, he lurched and limped to the window to watch Bryony and Diane heading for Bryony’s baby blue KA, a real girly car, as cute as his daughter. Bryony throwing her hands around, talking, talking. Diane, skirt swinging as she walked, resting a calming hand on Bryony’s shoulder. Bryony pointing her key unit at the car, a flash from the indicator lights as it unlocked. Both women climbing in.

The car was small enough to turn in the lane. The engine note climbed. Then they were gone.

After a minute, he backed away from the window. Dropping his crutches to the carpeted floor he lowered himself onto the bed, swung his legs around in stages and then inched up the mattress until he could lie with his head on the pillow. He wouldn’t go downstairs yet. The stairs were murder without help. It had been painful to get up here on his own without Diane to hold his crutches and steady him as he went up one step at a time on his backside. Going down on his backside was a proper bastard, his healing limbs shrieked whenever he tried to use them to haul himself forward.

Tears pricked suddenly. He hadn’t cried since his mother had died. And then it had been only one hot, fat tear as the coffin was lowered into the ground. What would Wendy have had to say about all this caper?

Closing his eyes, he tried to hear her voice.
Look after ...
Look after your brothers. Look after yourself.
Look after your family …
Shame melted him into the bed, spreading itself over his limbs and weighing him down. He shifted, uncomfortably. He would’ve been on the wrong end of one of Wendy’s tongue lashings for this because he hadn’t looked after his daughter.

Not like Wendy, who had looked after him until it had become time for him to look after her.

She wouldn’t have minded that he hadn’t looked after Diane. Wendy had never been fortunate enough to find a man who put her first, so why would she want it for Diane? Women had to be strong and look out for themselves. That way they’d never be disappointed.

He’d often seen Diane disappointed.

But Diane was strong, in her quiet way. Damned woman, you could push her and push her and she’d bend to your will, but you could only ever bend her so far. She’d never break – just suddenly rebound and slap you in the mush. And it stung.

He knew better than to expect her to calm down and retract her decision. Yes, she was angry but anger wasn’t driving her. She would be as composed and positive about leaving him as she had been about marrying him. If Diane in a temper was a comet, she was just about as likely to change course. He might as well resign himself to moving out or, he was quite convinced, she’d make it her business to take as much of his money as she possibly could, even if she didn’t want it. Bloody woman.
Bloody
woman.

Bryony would be different. He could work on her, in a while; get her to see that he’d been stupid, not dishonest. Bryony would forgive him in the end.

His painkillers were downstairs. Shit. He settled his bad arm gingerly on his chest and the good one over his eyes to block the light. The sun had muscled through the clouds to glare into his window, making him sweaty and uncomfortable. He didn’t feel like putting himself through the pain of getting up to close the curtains. His hip throbbed. Daggers shot through his leg.

That fucking helicopter. It had taken everything from him. Valerie, Diane and, at present, Bryony; he’d lost them all as a result of the crash.
Chadda-chadda-chadda
, how that noise used to excite him! Sitting in the left-hand seat with Valerie in the right doing the hocus pocus of the pre-flight check before flinging that whirly bird up into the sky. It had been brilliant. Racing their shadow over trees and fields, houses and roads, chatting through the headsets. He didn’t suppose he’d ever get into a helicopter again and feel the vibration shaking through him as they sat on the ground waiting for clearance.

There was so much still to heal. Bones that had thickened, joints that would never move as they had.

And Valerie had gone.

The helicopter that she loved so much had snuffed her out.

He missed her. He’d known her for such a short time, but she was in the compartment in his heart marked
Family
, just like Ivan and Melvyn.

He felt in his pocket for his mobile. In his phone book he hesitated over
Ivan
, then scrolled past.
Melvyn
. He hesitated longer. He thought of his brothers, each living in a nice little semi full of family. He tried to envisage himself moving in for a while, just until he was well. Being looked after by a sister-in-law.

Being stuck in the house all day with a sister-in-law.

His sisters-in-law were OK, as brothers’ wives go. But not bright, not snappy, not interesting company.

He scrolled down once more.
STM
. His thumb hovered over the green button. He missed Stella. He let himself think for several moments about Stella’s soft little hands stroking his clunky, painful limbs. He really missed her.

He pressed the button. ‘Oh God, Stella! I miss you.’

And her voice, breathy and sexy, surprised, incredulous. ‘
Gareth.
’

Two hours later he was swinging himself down his garden path with Stella wobbling beside him in shoes that sank into the grass. ‘Can you cope with getting into the car? I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re really leaving home. I had to pretend to my boss I felt ill, to get away.’

The car journey – in another titchy girly vehicle – was a bit teeth-gritting, even worse than getting back downstairs had been. But he’d taken his Tramadol and they were making the pain fuzzy at the edges.

Stella was taking him to her flat for now. He’d arrange the move into the cottage from there. Stella’s apartment block had a lift, there were no stairs at all. Bliss.

He couldn’t perform in bed, of course. Not perform as such. But it was a treat to let Stella take him out of his clothes and swing his legs into the bed. She shucked off her own kit so that he could admire her generous little body for the first time in months, then lay down beside him, running deliciously smooth hands over his hurts. ‘Poor you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Poor, poor, Gareth. You’re still bruised. And I don’t think your face is entirely right yet, is it? Oh my
God
, is that where that thing went into your hip? Eeouw! You’ve had so much pain, darling.’

They spent the rest of the day in bed. Dear Stella, she realised he wasn’t up to sexual acrobatics, not yet. But she did one or two very nice things for him. Including making him egg, bacon and chips.

Finally, he was ready for her to switch off the bedroom television and the light and give him a bit of space so that he could sleep.

‘When I’m a bit better,’ he said, drowsily, deciding that the settling-down-together glow was a good time to broach a fresh start. ‘I’ll move back into the cottage. Will you come, too, darling? Live with me full time?’

Stella stopped stroking his bad leg. ‘Live with you at the cottage?’

‘We could be happy there. It would be fantastic if every day was like this one.’

Stella removed her hand. She inched away. ‘Fantastic for you, maybe. I don’t need a job. And certainly not as a housekeeper.’

He laughed, without opening his eyes. Stella had a great sense of humour. ‘I’m not offering you a job as my housekeeper. I think a little more of you than that.’

Still, she kept her distance. ‘So we’re going to get married.’ Her voice was flat.

In the darkness, his eyes flew open. He tried to answer as though she hadn’t just frightened him to death. ‘Not unless you’ve completely changed your tune about all that “marriage is a prison for women” stuff. We’ll live together in the cottage. It’s what everyone does these days. Marriage – who needs it?’

Stella rolled further over to her side of the bed. It was a big bed, king size, plenty of space. ‘But prisoners always know where they are and what’s what, don’t they? I have changed my tune because I need that kind of security. I’m suddenly in the mood for commitment. I’m not going to live with you, Gareth, so that I can look after you for free and you can chuck me next time it’s expedient.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ he began, alarmed.

‘No? Not bloody much. I’m up to your caper, Gareth Jenner.
This
is my home and this is where I’m going to live, no-one to look after me and no-one to look after. And I’ve got to go to work tomorrow so you’ll have to watch the telly.’