Caught in the Act (24 page)

Carol stared at her, trying not to let her brain go galloping off to try to work out what sort of way that might mean. ‘Which leaves you and Adie where exactly?'

Jan waved her away. ‘I'll tell you later. Go and have a shower. You look absolutely terrible.'

‘How kind of you to notice,' Carol growled, dragging on her dressing gown.

She tiptoed past the still sleeping Fiona and
headed into the bathroom. Dog-eared and bleary-eyed she stared grimly into the mirror above the sink; Jan was bang on. It was going to take a lot of heavy-duty moisturising and concealer stick to make those bags come good.

When Carol finally got downstairs most of the frying was over; just the smell lingered like a great greasy veil, taking her backwards and forwards between nausea and hunger.

Gareth wasn't at breakfast, which was a blessing. Hopefully her face would have decrinkled after a couple of glasses of water, a few mugs of tea and a slice or two of cold bald bare toast, which was all her stomach was prepared to agree to.

Upstairs Callista Haze woke with a start, wondering where on earth she was. Morning sun was streaming in through the window and she had the most terrible headache. She winced and closed her eyes, trying to think back to the night before. And then Callista heard a noise. It was the noise of someone whistling cheerily, followed by sounds of someone making tea.

Making tea? Callista stiffened; she knew exactly where she was now and what that
sound was. It was George Bearman making tea, and he was making it for both of them.

Callista groaned and buried her head in the pillow. It was important that she kept her eyes shut and aped sleep for as long as possible. Maybe George would take the hint, do the gentlemanly thing and head downstairs for breakfast whilst she made a discreet exit.

This was not how things were supposed to have turned out. A little nightcap—that's what George had said as they had climbed the bloody wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Just a nip or two of brandy, a toast to things past and his glorious untried future, and out there on the landing she had finally agreed, suckered in by his hangdog expression and some last remnants of guilt.

After all, it was their last night together. Had he said that or had she? The likelihood was that they would never ever see each other again. Bloody man. She should have known better.

Once they were in his room, George had switched on the electric fire and the bedside lamp, suggested she would be more comfortable on the narrow bed, sitting with her back against the wall. While she got cosy he had found her a glass and poured them a hefty measure of brandy each.

Callista vaguely recalled George moving a little closer and then closer still, remembered him slipping his arm around her shoulders, and then all of a sudden she had looked up at him and wondered why it was exactly that she was resisting him all weekend.

She screwed her eyes tight shut against the memory. Not that it did much good. It was all there in her mind.

They went back a long way after all—was what he had said. Her and George. Oh God, yes, a long long way—and then he had kissed her. And when she hadn't protested he had kissed her some more and with that her resolve had vanished, not—it had to be said, all at once. But over quite a lot more brandy and considerably more conversation—the gist of which now escaped her—Callista began to remember why it was she had been so attracted to George Bearman in the first place. She winced as the images flooded back in glorious Technicolor. Oh yes, they were all there, not terribly pretty but very graphic.

Damn, damn, damn.

‘Here we are, my dear,' George said.

She peered at him over the rim of the duvet.

‘Tea, milk, no sugar—strong, warm but not
bitter. Rather like you, eh?' George said with a wry grin.

Callista smiled weakly at his joke, for once her demeanour at odds with her tea. She sat up, making sure that their eyes didn't quite meet and ensuring that she pulled the bedclothes right up to her neck. He had pale blue paisley pyjama bottoms on and a baggy grey T-shirt that, oddly enough, was quite sexy. Damn him.

‘George,' Callista began hastily, in case he thought a rematch might be in order. ‘About last night—'

George waved her into silence. ‘It's all right, I know,' he said, slipping back alongside her in the narrow institutional single bed. Never was a bed more constructed to dissuade a body from lewd thoughts. It was almost perverse in its austerity. Callista tried very hard not to let any part of her sleep-warmed body touch his, but it was impossible.

He handed her a cup of tea. ‘I'm terribly sorry,' he said.

‘Sorry?' she said quizzically.

‘Yes, sorry. I realise now that I should have listened to you. You were absolutely right. All those years I've clung on to a dream, an
unreality. It was quite obviously ridiculous and last night proved it to me.'

Callista reddened with embarrassment and indignation. ‘George, that re ally is the most horrible thing to say,' she hissed through gritted teeth.

He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, no, please don't take offence, my dear. It isn't meant to sound in the least ungallant—quite the reverse, in fact. You truly are an extraordinarily beautiful woman and you always were, but you're not my woman, are you? You were, however, my fantasy. At first, thinking about you and what it might be like if circumstances had turned out differently was something that sustained me in a bad marriage. And then later, as things got worse between Judy and me, that fantasy was what kept me from facing up to what was re ally going on in my life and the things that were wrong. Thoughts of you kept me sane but they also kept me where I was.

‘Last night, being with you made me realise just how very much I have missed. All those years wasted—not just for me but for Judy too. We could both have had half a lifetime with someone who loved us and who we re ally loved,
if only I had been brave enough, bold enough to take that first step. I envy you your wonderful Laurence and your daughters and your dog and your little place in France, Callista, I re ally, truly do. And what makes it worse is that it could have been me you had it with.'

Callista stared up at him, tears in her eyes.

He leaned forward and kissed her very gently on the forehead. ‘You re ally are a most extraordinary woman, Callista, and that man of yours should be very proud of you.' He smiled. ‘I was a fool to ever let you go.'

Too slow to hold it back, Callista felt a single tear roll down her cheek. ‘Oh, George,' she said gently, ‘you re ally must get yourself sorted out and find someone to love.'

He nodded. ‘I know. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. I think we may have already missed breakfast. We've got so much to get through this morning. Would you like the first shower?'

Callista shook her head. ‘It's very kind but I think it would be far better if I went back to my room.'

He nodded. ‘Would you like me to check that it's all clear?'

She smiled. ‘Yes, I would, but first of all I'd like you to pass me my clothes.'

George smiled. ‘Of course,' he said, ‘and I promise not to look.'

‘OK, everybody, that was great. Shall we move on to the final scenes on the battlefield?' said Mr Bearman, clapping his hands to get everyone's attention. ‘And see if we can work the sword fight in around the dialogue. Gareth, you've come out through the gates of Dunsinane Castle to meet your fate. Remember part of you still believes that you are invincible—even if other things have fallen apart, surely that part of the prophecy cannot be messed with. So if you and Adrian would like to take it from where Macduff comes across Macbeth?' He shifted to the side of the stage to make way for the two of them.

Gareth nodded. Both he and Adie were wearing cloaks and carrying swords, and they truly looked the part. Gareth was all together heavier-set, dark and swarthy. Carol noticed that he hadn't shaved. It suited him. Meanwhile, Adie was all blond and heroic.

At the back of the stage Adie was still practising the routine he and Gareth had worked
out on the lawn during tea on the previous day, cutting and thrusting and swinging, counting under his breath as he did so.

‘If I could have your attention, Adrian, please…' said Mr Bearman. Adie nodded and headed down stage. ‘Right. If you're ready, can we go from Macduff's speech, “I have no words—/My voice is in my sword:”?'

There was a nod of consensus and a fraction of a second later Adie lifted his sword for the first great thrust.

‘God, this is going to be good,' said Netty under her breath.

Carol watched them from the back of the hall, watched the two of them lunge and parry, swords swinging back and forth. It must be hard to fight and read but it seemed as if the words were still all in there, still fresh, still remembered after all these years.

Netty was right. It looked stunning. Adie pressed forward, Gareth defended and then pushed back against him. And then there was the big, big speech. Macbeth believed he was invulnerable because he had been told by the witches that he could not be killed, by anyone born of woman. There was a silent, meaty pause, a fantastic theatrical moment and then
Macduff, triumphant, tells Macbeth that he, Macduff—wasn't born but was from his mother's womb untimely ripped.

Even after all these years Carol shivered as Adie began to speak. It was such a powerful speech and Adie was brilliant as the avenging angel. Finally Macbeth, knowing that he faces certain death, strides forward to meet his fate. Magnificent. No one could fail to be moved by the lines, the sentiment of the flawed king or Gareth's bleak but passionate delivery. It looked and sounded amazing. In fact, so good that as the scene ended there was a great surge of spontaneous applause.

‘That was wonderful. Although I hate to try and improve the damned good, there are just one or two points. Adrian, just make sure you haven't got your back to the audience and Gareth, if you could make sure you don't step too far across. I want the fight to be centre stage. Let's just run through it one more time,' said Mr Bearman, waving them into action.

Carol sighed. Once was maybe enough for such stirring stuff. Adie stepped back to take up his starting position and as he did, stepped back onto the hem of his cloak, and just as he
had done on the lawn the previous afternoon, fell over, but this time lurched sideways.

‘Shit,' grumbled the avenging angel, now down flat on his arse on the stage. Gareth offered him a hand up.

‘You OK?' Gareth asked.

Adie nodded, allowing himself to be pulled up, and then resumed his starting position, limping a little. ‘I think I'll live,' he said ruefully, rubbing his leg.

‘Right, we'll just get this nailed and then we'll take five for a breather and cup of tea. It's going re ally well,' said Mr Bearman brightly, heading back to his seat.

‘It's taken years off him doing this,' Diana said under her breath. ‘He looked bloody terrible when he first showed up on Friday, and now look at him, leaping around like a bluearsed fly.'

Carol lifted an eyebrow. ‘You're re ally going to have to clean up your language before you go home to Hedley.'

Diana giggled. ‘Bugger off. Come on, you heard what the man said, let's go take five.'

Meanwhile, Leonora, with Raf's help, was busy strapping Patrick and baby Maisie into the back
of Raf's car, alongside Jake and Ollie and Jasmine, who looked as though she had had a rough night too.

‘So,' said Raf, when they were all secure and happy, ‘have you got everything you need, have you now?' The back of the people carrier was full of bags and nappies and buggies. Amazing how such tiny creatures needed so many things.

Leonora nodded, feeling exhausted before the trip had even begun. ‘I think so.'

Raf smiled, his big brown eyes as warm and soft as toffee. ‘That's grand. In that case we'll be off then.'

Leonora looked at him; he struck her as as kind and good a man as any woman could wish for. If Carol truly thought that Gareth was a better option then she was a fool.

‘Now is everybody all right? Is everybody happy?' No one answered. Raf's smiled didn't falter, instead he helped Leonora aboard and handed her her seatbelt. ‘Maybe not the most appropriate question in the world but my experience is that at times like this, there is only re ally one answer…'

Leonora paused expectantly, waiting for some great outpouring of Celtic wisdom and insight.

Instead Raf pulled a rake of CDs out of a
case on his lap. ‘We'll slap some country and western on the CD player and sing along to Johnny and Willie and Dolly. Let me tell you, no one has it rougher or tougher and there is certainly no one does it better. Now what do you fancy? Bluegrass, some Nashville, or how about a little Cajun country? Name your poison.'

Leonora stared at him in amazement and then began to laugh. ‘You're serious, aren't you?'

‘Oh by God, yes. Never more so,' said Raf, as if a country-and-western cure was the most normal thing in the world.

In the back Jasmine giggled. ‘Is he for real?' she said to Jake, who sighed heavily.

‘Yes, unfortunately he is, and in my experience it doesn't get any better than this,' he said wearily. ‘He may look like a grown-up on the outside but it's only a very thin outer coating—and he sings as well, which is so embarrassing. He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.'

Raf looked hurt. ‘How can you possibly say that? I've got a grand voice, me. It's in my blood. It's my heritage.' He held up a disc triumphantly. ‘I've got a new John Lee Hooker album, if you're interested.'

Nobody said a word.

In the back Patrick started to sing his own very mangled interpretation of ‘The Wheels on the Bus'.

‘There we are,' said Raf with a great big grin. ‘There's at least one of you keen on the singing.' And with that he fired up the engine and they pulled away.