A Place in the Country (19 page)

Fifteen minutes later, bulky skirt settled around her, big white plastic handbag slung by its strap over her shoulder—there was nowhere to put it down and a big bag like that, on her knee, would have drawn attention and suspicions of cheating. She wished she could cheat here but even for a clever woman like her that was impossible. Besides, tonight she was not Gayle Lee Chen. She was some plain, anonymous, overweight, older woman, who gained no notice or respect from her fellow players, or from the croupier, and especially not from men. Ms. Chen no longer existed. She was just another lonely frump, lured to the casino and probably about to lose her life savings on a few turns of the wheel.

She checked the piles of chips in front of her fellow gamblers, assessed the odds and her luck and pushed a stack of five hundred forward.

“Nineteen. Black,” she said, in a voice that had suddenly acquired a strong Cantonese lilt quite different from her usual educated Mandarin, because a country woman of her class would speak the language of her own district.

The croupier spun the wheel. It whirred and clattered. “Nineteen black,” he intoned in that special croupier-monotony-speak. He shoved a pile of chips toward Gayle and she collected them. Her hands were innocent of nail polish and silk wraps and rings. They were a working woman's hands.

She played nineteen black a second time. It was her number. It had always done well for her. She saw no reason to change now.

It came up again. This time she collected her winnings and moved on, pushing through the crowd, still oblivious to the shrieks and gurgles and trills and the rattle of coins from the slots, heading for the pai gow table.

It was quieter in there, just the smooth slither of cards across the green baize tables and the clatter of ice in the complimentary drinks being served by young women wearing short skirts and tall heels with the smell of cologne coming from the high rollers and the sweat of fear from the losers. Pai gow was a Chinese game of stealth and bluff, of manipulation and bravado. Gayle had all of those qualities. This was a high-stakes game. She needed to win big. She was playing for her life.

*   *   *

Five hours passed.
Her luck was holding but it was time to take a break, change tables. She would gamble all night but now she needed a drink and some food. First though, she took her chips to the office window and cashed them in. She asked for an electronic check rather than cash, which she immediately had transferred to a secret account in Hong Kong.

Then she went and sat alone in a booth in the steakhouse where she ordered a fillet steak and a martini. They did not have the Tanqueray gin she had learned to like with James, and she had to make do with Bombay, with a drop of French vermouth and a twist of lemon peel. It went down well and she ordered a second before the steak had even arrived. When it came, perfectly cooked, she toyed absently with it, nibbled at the salad, and drank a third martini, which for her, was very unusual. She was thinking about her winnings. It was still not enough to get her out of the mess. The gangsters whose money she had been laundering for years, investing through James and others like him, had finally caught on to her. Like all classic Ponzi schemes it was a house of cards, and now it collapsed. The walls were closing in on her, as they had on James. But poor James had had no way out, and maybe she did.

Toward dawn she collected her winnings and with a polite bow, departed the still crowded pai gow table and walked again through the now half-empty casino to the office where she cashed in her chips and had the money deposited electronically to her anonymous account in Hong Kong. Up in her room, exhausted, she kicked off the painful ugly shoes, so flat they made her calves ache, then, before she took the longed-for shower, she transferred all her winnings, plus more currency, from her Hong Kong account to that of her client in Beijing. That should keep him quiet for a while.

She was smiling as she took her shower. Her naked body was smooth, and meticulously waxed—there was not a hair on her arms or her legs, or anywhere else on Gayle Lee Chen. She was herself again. She missed James though. It was a great pity he'd had to die.

 

chapter 46

On her way
to the barn Caroline couldn't help sneaking a glance at the Thompson Manor. Not that she expected to see Jim, nevertheless there was always that little schoolgirl-crush feeling she couldn't get past. Even though he was too young for her she wondered if Issy—
Isabel
—felt like that, sometimes. And anyhow what had happened to Lysander? He had not been mentioned since the party that Issy had told her was a gigantic dud and full of “old” people, “at least twenty.” Where did that leave poor old Mom? Caroline asked herself with a grin.

When she pulled into her own freshly graveled drive though and saw Jim's giant white pickup parked alongside Georgki's old Hummer, she got that schoolgirl-crush feeling again; a little bit breathless, a touch flushed. Hot under the collar in fact. She checked herself in the mirror. She
had
put on lip balm but she had not thought to powder her nose and her hair looked flat … okay, so she would have to do … Anyhow, she had no right to be feeling like this about Jim Thompson after only one date, and that not even alone. Except after, in his studio, when he had given her the beautiful box.

The upstairs windows were open and she could see her bedroom curtains—cheap white cotton held up with metal rings that clattered when she closed them—fluttering in the just-up wind that brought with it a scent of grass and cows, and night-blooming jasmine that, oddly, flowered during the day, as well as the flat, cool scent of the river. She hadn't had time to order umbrellas and tables for her terrace yet. In fact her restaurant was no farther along than the planning stage and her brilliant ideas.

She climbed out of the Land Rover and pulled her short cotton skirt primly down. “Hi,” she called.

“Hi yourself.” Jim appeared in the doorway, smiling anxiously at her. “Hope you don't mind we ‘broke in,'” he added. “Georgki still has a key and we needed to
gain access,
as the cops say.”

“I don't know what the cops say, but I love surprises.”

She leaned in to kiss him. He smelled good, of wood shavings and a citrusy aftershave. She must find out, buy him some for Christmas …
my God she was already thinking of Christmas, and all they'd had was one rather impersonal date.

Georgki came out to greet her and she kissed his cheek too.

He said, “Now is okay to come in. Is ready.”

She was told to close her eyes then taken by the hand and led forward. She could tell they were walking into the big empty room that was to be her restaurant.

“Open eyes. Look now,” Georgki said, dramatically.

She did, and thought how pretty it looked with the sunlight streaming in.

“At the ceiling,” Jim directed, and she looked up.

A cream canvas “sail” stretched from wall to wall. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “It's wonderful.” She had been right, it brought a feeling of intimacy to the big room. With the French doors standing open and the cool smell of the river, and the “sail” fluttering gently in the breeze, it was outdoors brought indoors, old with new, water and stone.

“I'm in a dream,” she said, turning to smile at them. “It's my brilliant idea come true, thanks to you. It's wonderful.”

“Thanks God you like it.” Georgki crossed himself. He was in one of his more reflective moods. “I want for you to be happy,” he said. “Sad times is over now. Right?”

“Right.” Caroline hoped so anyhow. “After all, what else can go wrong?”

Jim said, “I was concerned about you, what with all the rumors going around.”

“What rumors?” Did everybody know her business?

“You might as well know people have been talking. About maybe there was some kind of … well, y'know, rumors about your husband being killed. Sorry,” he added quickly. “I didn't want you to be the last to know. And anyway, Georgki and I got the sail together, we thought maybe this would bring a bit of happiness back into your life, get you back on track.”

So “everybody” knew her business. “Everybody” talked about it. “Everybody” was concerned for her. She was part of the village, one of them.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she said. “I'm on track now. It's just wonderful. Beautiful. I shall put up a brass plaque saying Jim and Georgki did this.” She had to get back to the pub. “Drinks are on me tonight,” she said, kissing them goodbye. “And anyhow,” she whispered in Jim's ear, “I owe you a dinner. My treat, this time.”

“Sorry,” he said, and she felt her face drop. “I can't make it tonight. I'll call you later, though,” he said as he waved her goodbye.

 

chapter 47

A few days later,
the rains came back to Upper Amberley. Gutters overflowed and water swirled down the streets, carrying the usual detritus of discarded soda cans, plastic bags, and Styrofoam cups, slamming up against the walls in ugly little piles. Caroline had already swept the front of the pub twice, getting soaked in the process, even though she'd put a plastic bag over her head to protect her hair. She needn't have bothered; some people's hair frizzed in humidity; hers simply flattened out.

Now she had taken over bar-duty from Maggie and Jesus who were still in the back courtyard attempting to staunch the flow heading toward the kitchen door. Thunder made the glasses behind the bar rattle, while lightning lit the sky like Guy-Fawkes-Night fireworks, only without the bonfires and the lovely hot potatoes baked in the scarlet ashes. Sarah was on cooking duty though they were not expecting a crowd, not in this weather. Caroline thought anyone with any sense would stay home, light the fire, and turn on the telly. Of course there were two or three old faithfuls, the domino players who had been there the night Caroline and Issy had arrived in a rainstorm just like this one, and old Laddie Rice whose Border collie, Frisky, still showed no signs of living up to his name, and who anyhow was currently hiding under the table, scared witless—if he had any—by the thunder.

Soft-hearted Caroline scooted back into the kitchen, grabbed a piece of ham from the fridge, came back out, walked over to where Laddie sat nodding over his beer. She got down on her knees and coaxed Frisky out from under with the treat. The dog woofed it up in a split second and Laddie suddenly came back to life and ordered another half, which Caroline pulled, letting the foam subside before she carried it over to his table.

Back behind the bar she leaned on the counter, suddenly lonesome. She took out her phone and checked for messages. Nothing. At least Issy could have called to say hi, and so could Cassie. And what about Jim Thompson anyway? Who she had invited out to dinner and who, so far, had not gotten back to her. Not a word from him. Not one fuckin' peep! It could make a girl paranoid! She thought of the canvas “sail” soaring over her empty restaurant and told herself that instead of just
waiting
for him to call she should be more assertive, take charge. Trouble was she'd never really been a take-charge sort of woman. It was time she changed; she had put his number on speed dial. She heard it ring, then the click as it went into message mode. She decided it was better not to leave a message because it would look like she was chasing him, and remembered Maggie telling her to “get pushy.” Was that only a few weeks ago? So much had happened since then, time seemed to have disappeared. The pub door swung open and she glanced up, smiling a welcome.

A young woman in an expensive Burberry trench coat was standing by the door. Her blond hair was wet, her blue eyes had a look of panic in them.

Caroline said, “Come on in and take off that wet coat. I'll get you a towel and we've got a good hot chicken soup brewing on the Aga. That and a glass of wine, or a brandy, will straighten you out, I'll bet.”

The woman said nothing, just stood there, water dripping around her feet.

Caroline hurried to throw another log on the fire, poking at the embers to get it to flame, standing back as it roared into life. “There you are,” she said with a cheerful smile. “That'll take the chill off you.”

The woman seemed to come suddenly to life and walked over to her. “I'm Melanie Morton,” she said.

“Welcome.” Caroline shook her hand. It was freezing. “Quick, let me have your coat.” She slid the Burberry off her shoulders. “It's a terrible night,” she said, pulling a chair closer to the fire. “Now, what can I get you, Miss Morton?”

“You don't understand,” the girl said, still standing rooted to the spot.
“I am Melanie Morton.”

Caroline eyed her warily. Something was wrong. “Right, Melanie,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. I am Caroline.”

“I know who you are.”

Caroline was surprised but she supposed everybody did, around here anyway, though she had not seen this woman before. And she still had not sat down, nor made any attempt to dry herself with the bar-cloth Caroline now handed her.

“I'm James's lover,” she said.

“Oh my God!”
Caroline was the one who sat down, quite suddenly.
James's lover.
She wondered what she was supposed to do. Say, glad to meet you. Come on in, have a drink on me … let me nourish you with my home-cooked soup while you've been fucking my husband for years …

“Six years,” Melanie told her, as though reading her mind.

“The bastard,” Caroline said, stunned.

“Oh, yes…” Melanie Morton's voice was a breathy Marilyn Monroe whisper. “He was such a bastard, but you see I couldn't leave him even though I knew he was married and I was doing wrong. I was a nicely brought-up Catholic girl, and I knew you were not supposed to go with married men, but I couldn't resist him.”

“Seems like nobody could,” Caroline said. She went back behind the bar and poured herself a shot of brandy. She drank it in one gulp, choked, made a face, then poured a second glass for James's second mistress. Well anyway, the second one she knew about. Who knew, with James, there might be half a dozen. Some of whom, like this one, might just show up at the pub and expect her to explain James to them, or look after them. What was she doing here, anyway? The mistress seeking out the wife so she could confess her sins? Or maybe she was here simply to twist the knife in the wound.