Love-40 (15 page)

She hesitated, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She'd deal with it in the morning, maybe ask Liam if she could borrow the footpump to get enough air in it to make it round to the garage.

Liam … Could they talk?

Why not? Estelle made her way along West Street towards Pride Square, pulling her jacket closer around her. They were both adults – allegedly. And Liam, whatever else, was not telepathic. If he was as confused as Suzi seemed to think he was, if he was anywhere near as depressed as Suzi said he was, then he deserved some explanation.

Estelle felt a pang of … what? Love? Humanity? Friendship? Whatever, it was enough to make her stop at the off-licence to buy a bottle of wine. Liam was too disorganised to have any in the flat, and it would save them from going out somewhere too public for proper talking. The wine would be a peace offering, of sorts, she decided, and conversation was always easier after a glass or two.

She took her change and the brown and gold carrier bag and set off down North Street. Not that she had any intention of going back to him – she would make that clear from the outset. She would merely tell him – in a calm and reasonable way – that although she still cared for him, would always care for him, she was tired of being second best to whatever might momentarily catch hold of his passions, tired of waiting for Liam to give her some time, tired of being taken for granted, tired of running scared, half-waiting for him to leave.

It would help him, she decided, groaning as the first drops of rain fell on her head and stained her vivid pink sarong, in any future relationships with the opposite sex. When the time came, of course. She pushed this thought away, quickly, before it could spoil her mood, this strange sense of optimism.

But why not? Because she was getting there, wasn't she? She was managing on her own, creating a space to live in that was hers, thinking up new ideas that reinforced her independence as well as hopefully helping the future of Secrets In The Attic. And she was doing it without Liam. That was important. She'd never managed alone before.

She got to the big Victorian terrace, rang the doorbell and waited. No answer. ‘Damn.' Estelle couldn't believe that after all this planning, he wasn't even here. And now it was bucketing down, and she hadn't brought her umbrella. She was bare-legged, wearing her roman sandals, the pink sarong, a T-shirt and a thin jacket. She must be mad – it was still only May and this was England, after all. She shivered as the wet carrier bag from the off-licence brushed insinuatingly across her bare flesh. ‘Bugger it.'

She had a choice, she realised. She could go in, shelter from the rain, pour herself a glass of wine and wait for him. And why not? She had her key, a lot of her stuff was still in the flat, and she was pretty sure he wouldn't mind. Or she could give up, go back to her new flat above the shop, leave it till another night.

No contest. It wasn't in Estelle's nature to give up, so she delved in her multi-coloured rucksack for the key to the outside door, let herself in, and shook off the worst of the rain. If she went back to the flat above the shop she might never summon up the courage to come here again, and the chance would be wasted, the chance to put things right.

She would wait for him inside, she decided. She had the wine, didn't she? He would come home tired, cold and wet and she would surprise him. She smiled at the thought, curiously excited at the prospect of seeing him again – her love, her Liam, the only man she'd ever wanted. No, she wouldn't go back to him. Not yet anyway. But talking – they could still do that, couldn't they?

Chapter 11

The following day, Suzi noticed that Estelle was being very heavy-handed with some rather delicate china.

‘Have you seen Liam?' she asked her, thinking of the Arts Centre tickets.

‘You could say that,' Estelle replied.

‘And did you talk?' Something, Suzi realised, was wrong here. She was no mathematician, but surely three and three didn't make four and a half?

‘We did not.'

There was also a certain something in Estelle's expression that reminded Suzi that redheads had notorious tempers. As teenagers, Estelle and Liam had fought tooth and nail, but over the years, Estelle, at least, had calmed down. However, she didn't seem too calm right now. Suzi winced as another piece of china shuddered from its impact with the table top.

‘Any particular reason why not?' Suzi asked, half-wishing she hadn't brought the subject up.

‘Let's just say,' said Estelle, ‘that the first part begins with an A and ends with an A and the second part is something I'd like to throw her into.'

Suzi frowned. She wasn't sure she was up to anagrams at this time in the morning.

Estelle muttered something as she went out the back.

‘What was that?' Suzi asked, thinking she'd misheard.

‘I said, he's a cheating bastard,' Estelle repeated. ‘And you can tell him that from me.'

Hmmm. So far, Suzi reflected, the matchmaking didn't seem to be going too well.

*   *   *

Michael fed Samson, Delilah, Castor and Treacle, picked up the local paper from the doormat and sat down with a cup of strong coffee at Suzi's kitchen table to confront the situations vacant columns.

He realised, of course, that it had been naive of him to expect to live from the profits of gigs alone, when he had no established circuit, no record of performances, and when he was in competition with other artists who were tried, tested and came from Dorset. He realised too that he should have looked for a day job to tide him over, that he had no right to sponge off Suzi and that at this moment in time he felt like a spare fart.

But the fact was – despite what he'd told Suzi about applying for jobs – Michael didn't want one. This was an obvious disadvantage when it came to job-hunting. But he simply wasn't interested in a run of the mill job. He was fed up with being bossed by little men with big egos, to whom time-keeping was a religion – especially hard to take when he'd spent so long working for himself. And now? He didn't want his life to be like that, damn it. He wanted to sing, he wanted to be creative for a change, he wanted to be free. ‘Really free, really free,' he mumbled, recalling some punk hit from the 70s.

Consequently, he half-heartedly ringed a couple of ads with red felt-tip – mainly for Suzi's benefit when she looked at the paper later – but when he picked up the phone, it was the number of The Hardy Arms in Dorchester that he punch-dialled. He'd left a tape there yesterday, the landlord had been friendly enough, and if he could tell Suzi he had some more work when she walked in through the door … well, surely that would ease the tension between them? And unfortunately he was not talking sexual tension here – resolved or otherwise. He was talking cut-the-atmosphere-with-a-bloodied-knife type tension.

But, no, the landlord told him, he hadn't had a chance to listen to it yet.
I'll call you …

Michael was despondent when he put down the phone. Now, even if the landlord decided Michael had talent, he would also have him labelled as a needy man.

Samson came over and rested his jaw on Michael's knee in sympathy. Michael rubbed his ears and the dog slobbered gently over his jeans. Shit, another pair for the wash, thought Michael. He should do all that himself, but he hadn't got round to it yet, had no idea where Suzi kept such things as washing powder or ironing board. ‘What d'you want, boy?' He looked into Samson's big brown eyes. ‘A walk?'

Samson's tail shot into action. ‘A walk it is then.' Better, at any rate, than staring into space. And a hell of a lot easier than walking a goat. Michael sighed as he got to his feet. He had expected to feel at home here, to fit effortlessly in with Suzi's routine, to be appreciated for what he brought to the household.

But, come to think of it, what did he bring to the household? Michael picked up his cup and washed it out in the sink. He had no money left to make much of a financial contribution, he seemed to have temporarily misplaced his sense of humour, he got pissed off whenever Liam came round – in fact, he felt like a bloody lodger. Worse than that, the whole balance of their relationship had changed. He felt Suzi was merely putting up with him, treating him as a duty not a pleasure, relegating him somehow to the role of another mouth to feed, another pet to look after. He was aware that he'd said he'd look for somewhere else – but surely Suzi hadn't really meant that? Surely she was happy to have him around? Otherwise, he thought, what was the bloody point?

Samson was getting excited, snuffling and letting out the odd gruff bark. Even Delilah had picked up on it. She was whimpering and had moved to the door, bright eyes expectant, tail a-wag. The least I can do, Michael thought, is walk the bloody dogs.

He reached up to pluck their leads from the hook on the wall, and as he did so, spied some orange tickets sticking provocatively out of an envelope, poked between a jar of cinnamon sticks and dried chilli on the top shelf of the open kitchen cupboard. He stared at the envelope for a moment. Clearly, it was Suzi's property, but she hadn't said anything about going to a play or a concert. Maybe she'd forgotten to mention it, he decided, shooting a surreptitious look at Castor, who was perching on the window-sill, apparently intent on cleaning her paws but also sending the occasional superior glance his way. And if Suzi had forgotten to mention it …

He dangled the leads in the air, thus provoking another yelp of frustration from Samson … then he should find out for himself what they were for. Check the dates and so on in case they missed whatever it was. Suzi was so scatty. He shouldn't let any tickets she'd bought go to waste.

No sooner had lengthy justification been arrived at, than Michael reached up in one swift movement, extracted the orange tickets from the white envelope and read the top one.
IN CONCERT AT THE ARTS CENTRE
, he read,
THE BLUES SISTERS
, followed by the date – and they hadn't missed it.

Bloody great! Michael flipped the tickets into the air. He loved the Blues Sisters, Suzi knew that … So obviously it was intended as a surprise … for his birthday maybe – a bit early, but that was hardly her fault, she wasn't responsible for the band's itinerary.

His spirits lifted as he opened the back door of the tiny cottage and whistled to the dogs, who bounded and sprang respectively over the step and into the back garden. Hester pulled at her rope (no way, José, thought Michael) the hens scattered with matronly clucks of disapproval and Michael set off at a fast pace for the riverbank, pouting his lips, doing his Marc Bolan impression and singing ‘Hot love'.

*   *   *

Estelle wondered what on earth had possessed her to agree to this.

Erica Raddle had asked her and Liam months ago to ‘help out' at the under-9s tennis tournament. These under-9s being the kind of under-9s (from good breeding stock, tennis-playing families) that Erica no doubt hoped would become (Chestnut) Grove Tennis Club's future. ‘It means so much to them,' she'd said. ‘They may be young, but they care desperately.'

In Estelle's opinion it was the parents who were the desperate ones, knowing perhaps that little Fenella or Nathan would very likely give up the sport when they reached their ninth birthday, in favour of discos, roller-blading or just hanging out. Knowing it might be their little darling's only claim to fame, their one-minute wonder, their opportunity for a picture in the local rag. So it was no surprise, Estelle supposed, glancing at the small figures dotted about on the green hard courts (no one trusted them on grass) that they took it seriously. This wasn't a game. This was war.

On court were Christabel Archer and Daisy-Jane Maddison. Both could serve over-arm, which was a plus. Both could hit the ball if it happened to come near them (which it usually did, since under-9s hadn't yet grasped the fact that the idea was to return the ball out of their opponent's reach) but neither was prepared to run.

This too was par for the course, Estelle thought, wincing as Daisy-Jane's female parent shrieked, ‘Run, Daisy-Jane, run!' far too close for ear-comfort.

‘Thirty all,' said Estelle, picking up an orange transition ball and throwing it to Christabel, since these young players also apparently believed that tennis stars in the making should not have to do such menial tasks for themselves.

‘Thirty all?' she heard from behind her. ‘Are you sure?'

Estelle spun round to glare briefly at Erica Raddle. She really wasn't in the mood for grandmotherly input. ‘Yes,' she said, with more aggression than was perhaps strictly necessary. But who could blame her for being aggressive – after what she'd been through? First Liam and then her car.

She turned her attention back to the battleground. ‘Ready, girls?' And fixed a smile of encouragement on to her face. Be encouraging at all times, they had been told. Positive reinforcement retains enthusiasm, develops self-esteem, sends out the right signals.

‘Jolly good,' Estelle said vaguely to no one in particular. ‘Off we go then.' She almost added a ‘Tally-ho', but decided that this would be going too far.

Daisy-Jane was blowing her nose loudly as Christabel served into the body. She dodged at the last minute, the ball clipped her shoulder and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Take two,' said Estelle briskly. She felt rather than heard Erica's snort of disgust from behind her. And she didn't care. She wasn't in the mood to care. All right, so it was a lovely day and the sun was shining (in her eyes); all right, so she was somewhere she loved to be. But even the charm of Chestnut Grove Tennis Club couldn't lift her mood today. This morning she had got her car to the local garage, only to be told by a cheerful mechanic that the puncture was in the wall of the tyre and she'd have to fork out for a new one.

He was very helpful, felt the need to explain everything in tedious detail and even showed her the air bubbles.