Hidden Cottage (29 page)
Funnily enough there had been no sign of Putin since two days ago, when Owen had invited Mia to come and see the newly built summerhouse. The last sighting Owen had had of the stroppy bird had been when he’d said goodbye to Mia at the gap in the hedge before she’d hurried back to Medlar House. Putin had given Owen a look of scorching disdain and then hustled off into the bushes, his head down as if he couldn’t bring himself to pass comment. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Owen had muttered at the bird.
The look Putin shot back at him seemed to say,
Not yet you haven’t
.
Owen had always considered himself to be a man of principle, but that conviction was in serious jeopardy now. He could pretend all he wanted that he respected the fact that Mia was married, but he knew that the slightest encouragement from her and he’d have an affair with her. He’d do it in a blink of an eye and, what was more, he’d claim there was nothing wrong.
Man of principle? Man of straw more like it.
And as if to prove how weak he was, he gave in to the need he’d experienced ever since she’d left on Monday to speak to her again.
He’d already added her landline number to his list of contacts and so he scrolled through and tapped her name. Listening to the ringing sound in his ear, imagining it echoing round Medlar House, it dawned on him what time it was and he hastily terminated the call. It was too late to bother Mia.
Was he bothering her?
Would telling her how much he’d enjoyed her company on Monday constitute bothering? Come off it, he told himself; she would see right through that in an instant.
But then he thought how much more of a bother it would be for her to hear the telephone ring and not reach it in time, for her to be left wondering who it was, to worry that it was one of the children in trouble.
He rang her number again, determining that he had to put her mind at rest that it was only him. But the second he heard the ringing tone, he doubted the wisdom of what he was doing. What if somebody else at Medlar House answered the phone? What if Jeff had arrived home unexpectedly?
OK, he told himself, he should hang up. His was one of those infuriatingly withheld numbers, so no one would know that it was him calling. End of problem.
‘Hello,’ said a cautious voice in his ear. Cautious
and
worried. And hushed.
‘It’s only me,’ he said, his voice emulating her hushed tone.
‘Did you try calling a few seconds ago?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I suddenly realized how late it was. Is it too late to talk? Did I wake you?’
‘No, I was just in the bathroom.’
‘You sound tired.’
‘Well, it is
quite
late.’
‘No, I don’t mean that kind of tired. I mean anxious-tired.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’m not going anywhere; tell me. Unless . . . unless I’m being a nuisance and you’d rather go to bed.’
‘That’s all right, I’m in bed now.’
He bit back a smart alec reply, kept his mind focused on the tension in her voice. Not her body. Definitely not her body. Or what she might or might not be wearing. Was she a silk nightdress sort of woman? Or did she prefer a cotton T-shirt? Or maybe she slept naked?
‘Are you still there?’
He swallowed. ‘Yes, still here.’ He looked out at the garden, stared up at the stars shining brightly in the dark night sky. ‘So tell me what’s been going on at Medlar House to make you sound so tense.’
‘It’s poor Eliza. It turns out that the man she was seeing was playing away from home; he’s married with two small children. He’s been lying to her the whole time. She’s absolutely devastated. I’ve never seen her like this before.’
‘The no-good bastard.’
‘Quite.’
And there we have it, Owen told himself. That’s the reality of an affair. People get hurt. They get badly hurt.
In Brussels it was an oppressively muggy evening. With the air-conditioning on, and stripped down to his boxers and a T-shirt, Jeff was propped up in bed talking to Mia on the phone.
It had been a long week, nothing but meetings and hassle; tomorrow was Friday and he was looking forward to going home. Or rather he
had
been looking forward to going home for a quiet and relaxing weekend until Mia had told him about Eliza having some kind of breakdown over that boyfriend of hers; apparently he’d been leading her a merry old dance. Men were crafty devils when they wanted to be. And he should know – he’d played a few tricks in his time.
Having heard quite enough about Eliza, he said, ‘Mia, she’ll get over it.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘What else can I say? Or do you expect me to track the man down and give him an old-fashioned thrashing? Is that what you want? Because if that would help, if you really think it would make Eliza feel better, just say the word and I’ll do it.’
Pointing the remote control at the television screen, Jeff changed the channel. The company paid the rent on this apartment, but whoever the owner was, he had tricked it out very much as a fantasy bachelor pad. Which, if Jeff was honest, was what had attracted him to it. Why not? Mia had made it plain she didn’t want to move to Brussels with him, so why shouldn’t he indulge himself in something she would never condone, such as a fifty-four-inch flatscreen television in the open-plan living area, as well as the same sized one here in the bedroom on the wall opposite the bed, which gave him access to as many channels as there were grains of sand in the Sahara desert. On the ceiling above the bed was a mirror and at the foot of the bed there was a drinks cabinet that slid up and down at the touch of a button on a separate remote control, and which also controlled the air-conditioning and the blinds at the windows. Many a night he’d lain here in this large empty bed and pondered what activities previous occupants had got up to.
Down on the street below, he heard a car horn blaring and in his ear he heard his wife say, ‘It would just be nice if you showed that you cared.’
He rolled his eyes and dragged a hand across his face. ‘Of course I care,’ he said. ‘But realistically what can any parent do?’ He wished now he hadn’t rung home. What was the point when all he got was an earful of narky criticism? And always,
always
it was something to do with the children. Were they ever going to grow up and live their own lives? Although, while he hated the idea, this much he’d say for Daisy: at least she had the guts to think about doing something on her own.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘when I was Eliza’s age I wasn’t running home to my mother just because some relationship hadn’t worked out.’
‘No,’ came back Mia’s voice. ‘You’d dumped me and your son and were doubtless shagging for England!’
Shocked at her outburst, Jeff opened his mouth to retaliate and then shut it. No, he told himself, don’t go there. But what the hell had brought that on from Mia? Why was she so damned touchy all of a sudden? ‘Why are we arguing?’ he asked. ‘I see little enough of you as it is and now I can’t even phone you without getting a bucketload of grief. Can’t you sort Eliza out on your own? I mean, it’s not as if you told me this when it happened. You knew all this about Eliza on Monday evening; it’s now Thursday. I’m always last to hear anything these days.’
‘I tried ringing you several times but all I got was your voicemail.’
‘I’ve been busy. You have no idea what my life is like here, just how many bloody balls I’m juggling with. And then you throw in another, telling me that Eliza’s upset and somehow expect me to wave a magic wand and make it all better. I’m good, Mia, but I’m not Superman. And since when has Eliza ever asked me for help?’
‘She doesn’t ask anyone for help. That’s her trouble. This is the first time in her life that she’s found herself out of her depth and she can’t handle it. It’s completely unknown territory for her.’
Jeff picked up the other remote control and watched the drinks cabinet slide into view a few inches from his feet. ‘Sad fact of life,’ he said into the phone, ‘Eliza’s going to have to learn how to roll with the punches, and the sooner she learns that the better. She needs to toughen up. I can’t make things like this go away for her.’
There was a lengthy silence and for a moment he thought perhaps the line had gone dead. ‘Mia,’ he said, ‘are you still there?’
‘It would be different if it was Daisy,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t be saying she has to toughen up, would you? You’d be threatening all sorts on someone who’d treated her as badly as this Greg has treated Eliza.’
He inhaled deeply and shifted down the bed to help himself to the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he kept there along with a couple of glasses. ‘Daisy’s different,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘She’s more sensitive. Besides which, I’m the one she’s always turned to. That’s the way it’s always been. You had Jensen and Eliza and I had Daisy.’ As soon as the words were out, he waited for Mia to fire back with –
And look what a fine job you’ve done with Daisy, she’s not even talking to you!
He’d decided that when he was at home, at the weekend, he would ring Daisy. What was more, he would arrange to go and see her in Luton. He’d apologize face to face and he’d even be nice to Scott. He’d do everything that was expected of him. He might not like her decision to go to Australia and marry this man, but he knew that if he was to have any chance of making things right with Daisy, he had to pretend to give her his blessing. Then in all probability, when she realized she didn’t have a fight on her hands, the appeal of Scott and the life he was offering her would wear off. Deny a person what they want and they want it all the more. Hand it to them on a plate and suddenly they don’t want it any more. Basic stuff, really.
‘But that’s not how families should be,’ Mia said, surprising him that she hadn’t said what he’d expected her to. ‘Normal parents don’t differentiate between their children; they love them equally and treat them equally.’
Surreptitiously unscrewing the top of the Jack Daniel’s bottle, he said, ‘It’s not about treating them equally; it’s about treating them according to their individual needs. Now, Mia, for two seconds can you forget about the children and let me tell you why I’ve called?’ And with a bit of luck, he thought, it would take the edge off her bad mood. ‘We’ve been invited to Monte Carlo. A slap-up all-expenses-paid jolly. A German client is having a company jamboree and a few of us from Rieke Hirzel, the chosen few,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘have been invited, plus partners.’
‘When?’
‘It’s a bit short notice: July 9th and 10th.’
‘Hmm . . . those dates ring a bell for some reason. Yes, I know what it is, it’s when I’ve got the—’
‘Whatever is booked, unbook it,’ he interrupted her. ‘I guarantee this will be much more fun.’ Then realizing he’d made another gaffe, that this last remark wouldn’t improve Mia’s current mood, he hastily said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Usual time. And please, Mia, can we have the house to ourselves? No kids. For once I want a weekend when I have you entirely to myself. I miss you.’ He waited for her to say she missed him, but she didn’t.
Muriel’s dinner parties were legendary and not for the fainthearted.
While she would be the first to say that she was a terrible cook, what she lacked in culinary expertise she more than made up for with her ebullient hosting skills and generous hand when it came to anything poured from a bottle with an alcohol content. Her generosity with aperitifs, dinner and dessert wines, port and a little something to ease the digestion ensured – unless you were the designated driver and therefore could abstain with total impunity – that rarely did a guest leave with all their senses fully functioning. But as her guests usually arrived on foot they could, on the whole, look forward to a lost morning the following day.
Mia had long since learnt to pace herself and on this occasion she was making doubly sure that she didn’t drink too much, worried that if she did she might reach a tipping point and lose her temper with Jeff. Since he’d arrived home last night and she’d told him in bed that Muriel, very much as a spur-of-the-moment suggestion, had invited them to dinner, thereby denying him the peaceful Saturday evening he’d wanted, he’d been in a childishly sulky mood, made worse when she had said Georgina and Owen had also been invited. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he’d muttered bad-temperedly, ‘Muriel’s trying to play Cupid and wants us to play along, does she?’
‘Something like that,’ Mia had said noncommittally, switching off the lamp on her bedside table and hoping to bring an end to the conversation.
Annoyingly Jeff had had other ideas and had gone on at length about Georgina being a fool to get involved with Owen Fletcher. ‘I mean, what is the fascination with the man?’ he’d asked. ‘Every time I go into Parr’s, Wendy is all over him like a rash and Muriel’s just as bad. I’m surprised she isn’t trying to snag him for herself instead of encouraging Georgina to go after him.’
Adding insult to injury, Mia had told Jeff this morning at breakfast that she wouldn’t be going to Monte Carlo with him as she had a photographer for a women’s magazine coming to take some pictures for an article on small businesses run by women for women. The arrangement had been made more than a month ago and she was actually quite excited about Mia’s Hats featuring in the magazine. She had no intention of cancelling or postponing the photographer for the sake of a couple of days spent in the company of a crowd of high-spirited strangers, albeit in the south of France. She’d been on enough of these corporate all-expenses-paid trips to know that there was only so much small talk she could make to a roomful of boisterous, self-satisfied men and their overdressed – or underdressed – wives and partners.
‘Now then!’ Muriel boomed as she herded them into her dining room. ‘Owen, you go on my left and Georgina, yes, you go next to Owen. Jeff, I want you on my right where I can keep an eye on you and enlist your help as and when required. So that leaves you, Mia, to sit between your good husband and Georgina. Sorry, nothing I can do about the girl/boy thing; we’re a man short. Story of my life,’ she added with a hearty bark of uninhibited laughter, the product of two colossal gin and tonics already consumed. She clapped her hands. ‘Righty-ho, sort yourselves out. I need to attend to my witch’s cauldron in the kitchen or there’ll be no starter.’