Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell (2 page)

In the middle of the boardroom table was a large leather boot. The managing director, Mr Piercy, began right away. ‘Now, Mrs Raisin, that boot on the table is our Cotswold Way model. We want to promote it. Mr Hardy, our advertising manager, suggests we should get one of the rambling groups and kit them out.’

‘Won’t do,’ said Agatha immediately. ‘Round here, people think of ramblers as hairy militant types. How much is a pair of boots?’

‘Ninety-nine pounds and ninety-nine pee.’

‘That’s quite expensive for the youth market and it’s the young who go for boots like that.’

‘We’ve done our costing and we can’t bring down our price.’

‘What about television advertising?’

‘We’re a small company,’ said Mr Piercy. ‘We want a simple launch and then the boot will sell on its merits.’

‘In other words,’ said Agatha brutally, ‘you can’t afford to pay for much hype.’

‘We can afford a certain amount but not nationwide coverage.’

Agatha thought hard. Then she said, ‘There’s a new group in Gloucester called Stepping Out. Heard of them?’

Heads were shaken all round.

‘I saw a documentary about them on
Midlands Today
,’ said Agatha. ‘They’re an up-and-coming pop group – three boys, three girls – all clean-cut, good image. They recently had a record that was number sixty-two in the charts, but they’re being tipped for stardom. If we could get them fast, kit them out in the boots, get them to write a song about rambling – they write their own songs – and give a concert, you might catch them just before they become famous. Then your boots will be associated with success.’

The advertising manager spoke. ‘How do you know about this group, Mrs Raisin?’

‘It’s a hobby,’ said Agatha. ‘I automatically look out for who I think is going to be famous. I’m always right.’

They thrashed her idea around, Agatha bulldozing them when they seemed tempted to reject it. In the back of her mind, she wished she were working for a large company and not this hick outfit, as she privately damned it. Something to really impress James. But James was not going to be impressed by anything she did, she thought sadly.

They finally decided to accept Agatha’s scheme. ‘Just one thing, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mr Piercy. ‘Your name was given to us as Mrs Lacey.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Don’t you use it?’

‘No, I’ve used the name Raisin in business for years. Easier to keep it.’

‘Very well, Mrs Raisin. Would you like an office here?’

‘No, I’ll work from home. I’ll try to set up something with the pop group and arrange to meet you tomorrow.’

Agatha drove back to Carsely feeling exhilarated. But as her car wound down to the village under a green archway of trees, her mood darkened. She let herself into her own cottage where she still kept her business papers and computer. She had logged the name of the pop group and their manager into her computer, a sort of public relations reflex. She then went to a stack of telephone directories. She selected the Gloucester directory and began to look up the manager’s name, Harry Best. There were several H. Bests listed. She settled down to phone them all. One of the H. Bests turned out to be the father of the manager she was looking for. He gave her Harry Best’s number and she dialled that. She crisply outlined her plan for publicizing the Cotswold Way boot.

‘I dunno,’ said Harry Best in that estuary-English accent that Agatha found so depressing. ‘We’re hot stuff. Cost you a lot.’

Agatha took a deep breath. ‘This needs to be discussed face to face,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m coming over to Gloucester. Give me your address.’

He gave her a Churchdown address. Church-down is actually outside Gloucester. As Agatha drove off again, past James’s cottage, past the white blur of his face at the window, she reflected she would not be back in time for dinner. A good wife would phone and say she was going to be late.

‘But I am no longer a good wife,’ said Agatha out loud, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

The traffic was heavy and there were not only road-works on the A40 to contend with but various lethargic men driving tractors at ten miles per hour. By the time she found Harry’s address, she was feeling weak and disheartened. She longed to chuck it all up and return to James, try to conciliate him, try to make the marriage from hell work somehow. But a weedy, balding man with what was left of his hair worn in a ponytail was standing outside a shabby villa waiting for her.

Agatha studied him as she approached. He had those little half-moon glasses perched on a beaky nose which drooped over a small pursed mouth. She judged him to be nearly forty and he was wearing that clinging-on-to-youth outfit of cowboy boots, jeans, and a black leather jacket.

Mr Harry Best was as little impressed with Agatha as she was with him. He saw a stocky woman with shiny brown hair worn in a French pleat. Her round face had a good mouth and a neat nose, but her eyes were wary, brown and bearlike.

‘I’m Agatha Raisin.’ Agatha gave one of his limp, clammy hands a firm shake. ‘May we go inside to discuss business?’

‘Sure. Follow me.’

The room into which he led her showed signs of hasty and not thorough house-cleaning. A wastepaper basket was bulging with empty Coke cans. Under a cushion on an armchair Agatha could see a pile of newspapers and magazines which had been thrust underneath to hide them.

Agatha got down to business. She outlined the promotion, the idea of writing a song to go with the new boots and then they haggled over price. He tried to drive the price up by saying if the group advertised something, people would think they were unsuccessful. Agatha pointed out that many successful pop stars had appeared on advertisements. ‘What about Michael Jackson?’ she asked crisply.

Harry Best began to visibly weaken under her onslaught. Agatha reminded him of his grandmother, a forceful woman who had terrified his early childhood. At last, the deal was struck. The one good thing he felt he had got out of Agatha was that she agreed to hire a rehearsal hall for the group, as they were shortly to be evicted from the friend’s garage they were using.

When Agatha finally left, it was dark and late and she was hungry. She stopped at a pub on the road home and had a simple meal and a glass of water. Now to deal with James.

Residents of Carsely, walking their dogs along Lilac Lane where Agatha and James had their cottages, were to describe later how they had heard Agatha shouting, and then the sound of breaking china. James had decided to put his foot down. Agatha was told in no uncertain terms that she had to give up this stupid job and start trying to behave like a married woman.

If he had been angry at that point, Agatha might, just might have capitulated. But it was the calm scorn in his voice that got to her. He looked pained, as if she were giving him another headache. She had never thought of herself before as a china-smashing woman, but the row took place in the kitchen and so Agatha swept a whole shelf of dishes to the floor and danced with rage on the shards.

‘You disgust me,’ said James quietly. And then he had walked out, leaving Agatha red-faced, panting, and totally demoralized.

Wearily, she packed up her belongings and carried them next door to her own cottage. She went back and cleaned up the mess of broken china, boxed it up, and left it out for the rubbish collection. She counted out the same number of plates she had broken from the supply in her own cottage and placed them on James’s kitchen shelf. Then she called to her cats who followed her next door, their raised fur only just beginning to settle after the fright they had received from their mistress’s noisy scene. Once in her own house, Agatha forced herself to relax. She would apologize to James for the broken china.

Next day she was kept busy – reporting to the shoe company, hiring a rehearsal hall and meeting the pop group. Agatha had dealt with pop groups before and found Stepping Out refreshingly pleasant. The group consisted of three young men and three girls. All were in their late teens. They had a clean-cut, happy look. Agatha felt she was on a winner. She plunged into work, but always at the back of her mind was a black cloud of misery. If only she could confide in someone – but no one,
no one
, must know that Agatha Raisin’s marriage was a failure.

Several times she thought about phoning James, to clear the air, to apologize. But each time she held back. How on earth could he be so old-fashioned? And yet, and yet, she thought weakly, she had made a dreadful scene, had broken his china, behaved like a fish-wife. Why did people still blame fish-wives for violence and bad language? she wondered. What fish-wives, anyway? Probably from the old days of Billingsgate fish market.

Harry Best studied her. She was quite a girl, he thought. Look at the way she had set to and helped load the equipment into the rehearsal room. Look at the way she had established a rapport with the young people. She wasn’t nearly as hard-boiled as he had first imagined. In fact, he thought, there were times when she looked almost on the edge of tears. Funny woman.

Agatha was sorry when the long day was over. Two of the young men were already working on a sort of rambling pop song. ‘Don’t be scared of being old-fashioned,’ Agatha had urged. ‘Make it sound like something cheery – something people will want to whistle as they walk along a country road.’

When she drove back to Carsely, she braced herself for a confrontation with James. But when she let herself into his cottage – she never thought of it as
their
home – it was to find it dark and silent. With a beating heart, she ran up to the bedroom and checked the closet. All James’s clothes were still there.

She sat down on the bed and wondered what to do. Where would James be? Probably in the pub.

Perhaps it might be an idea to follow him there. He could hardly make a scene in front of the villagers, thought Agatha, forgetting that she was the one who usually made the scenes.

She went to her own cottage and changed into a blond silk trouser-suit and wrapped a deep-bronze lamb’s-wool stole about her shoulders, then walked slowly along to the pub. She would be breezy, cheerful, as if nothing had happened.

Somehow, the fact of taking some action brightened her immensely as she strode along the lane under the heavy blossom of the lilac trees which gave it its name. Agatha’s great weakness was that not for one minute would she admit to herself that she was afraid of James. She would admit to being afraid of losing him, but to being actually scared of him was something that Agatha, who had laminated her soul over the years with layers of hardness, could not even begin to contemplate. Nor would she realize that love had made the unacceptable almost acceptable – the put-downs, the scorn, the silences, the lack of easy, friendly affection.

She walked into the Red Lion with a smile on her face.

Her smile faded.

James was sitting at a corner table by the log fire, laughing and smiling at a slim, blonde-haired woman whom Agatha recognized as Melissa Sheppard. As she watched, Melissa leaned forward and squeezed James’s hand.

As Miss Simms, secretary of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, was to describe it later, Agatha Raisin went ‘ape-shit’. Sour jealousy rose like bile in her throat. In seconds, the misery she had endured flashed across her mind. She strode across and confronted the startled Melissa. ‘Leave my husband alone, you trollop.’

Melissa rose and grabbed her handbag and sidled around Agatha and made for the door. Agatha leaned across the table. ‘You bastard,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll kill you and that philandering bitch!’

James rose, his face dark with anger. He seized her wrists. ‘Stop making a scene,’ he hissed.

Agatha broke free of his grip, picked up his half tankard of beer and poured it over his head and then turned and ran out. She ran all the way to her cottage, stumbling over the cobbles. Once safely inside her own cottage, she sat down in her kitchen and cried and cried.

Then she went upstairs and carefully washed her face in cold water and put on fresh make-up. James would call to continue the row and she wanted to be armoured against him.

The doorbell rang. Agatha gave a pat to her hair, squared her shoulders and marched down the stairs.

‘Now, see here . . .’ she began as she opened the door. But it was not James who stood there but her old friend, Sir Charles Fraith.

‘I called next door but James told me you were here,’ said Charles. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Why not?’ said Agatha bleakly, and walked back into the cottage, leaving him to follow her.

‘What’s up?’ asked Charles, following her into the kitchen. ‘Don’t tell me the marriage has broken up already.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Agatha. ‘We’re divinely happy. Would you like a drink?’

‘Whisky, if you’ve got it.’

Agatha was torn between telling him to leave in case James came and yet wanting him to stay in case James did not. She led the way into the sitting-room, lit the fire which she had set earlier, poured him a generous measure of malt whisky and then one for herself.

Charles sat down on the sofa and surveyed Agatha, who had slumped into an armchair opposite him.

‘Been crying?’

‘No. I mean, yes. I cut myself.’

‘Where?’

‘What d’you mean, where?’

‘Aggie, cut the crap. This act of being a happily married woman must be killing you.’

She looked at him in silence. He sat there in her sitting-room where he had sat so many times before, neat, groomed, well-tailored, as self-contained as a cat.

Agatha gave a weary shrug. ‘Okay, you may as well have it. The marriage is a disaster.’

‘I won’t say I told you so.’

‘Don’t you dare.’

‘I suppose the problem is that James is just being bachelor James and wants his usual lifestyle and you are getting in the way with your rotten cooking and your nasty cigarettes. Criticized your clothes yet?’

‘Never stops. How did you know?’

‘It is a well-known fact that stuffy men, once they are married to the object of their desire, start to criticize the very style of dressing that attracted them in the first place. I bet he told you not to wear high heels and that your make-up was too heavy.’