Love-40 (5 page)

She watched Terry rip at the tarpaulin. Some joker started a slow hand-clap and one of their neighbours' wives (she hadn't yet worked out which was which) appeared in the doorway wearing a crimson-lipsticked smile and clutching a tray of wilting vol-au-vents.

‘What about being happy?' Estelle demanded.

Suzi thought of Michael. Were they happy? They had fun, though yesterday he'd seemed a little uptight. Most of the time she enjoyed Michael, a bit like she enjoyed her animals and her plants and even the antique shop. But happy? ‘I dunno.' She hadn't really given it much thought. But was that a good sign – or a bad one?

The two of them watched as the blind was slowly drawn from the window of the shop next door.

‘Bloody hell,' Estelle said.

‘Stan and Terry's Bargain Basement?' Suzi peered to look at the sign-writing. ‘Fabulous old furniture, silly prices?' Under this lettering was scrawled,
HOUSE CLEARANCES WANTED, EVERYTHING VALUED, COME AND VISIT THE FAIREST DEALERS IN TOWN.
And a phone number. Fairest dealers in town? Good God. Suzi clutched Estelle's arm. The shop next door was selling second-hand furniture. Stan and Terry were not rather sweet or rather odd. They were rivals.

‘And I made them a bloody chocolate cake,' Estelle breathed.

As they watched, Terry, big, bluff and a bit too friendly for Suzi's taste, opened the door and waved the small crowd of people inside. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and even from this distance, Suzi could see his gold medallion nestling in a forest of white chest hair. Yuck. Stan was there too – thin, dark and undeniably rat-like in appearance – handing out glasses of wine. It wasn't hard for Suzi to imagine a long tail whipping …

‘At nine o'clock in the morning?' she muttered.

‘I wouldn't mind a glass.' Estelle stepped on to the pavement. ‘You hold the fort, Suzi.' She looked kind of angry and Suzi felt a twinge of anxiety. ‘I'm going to take a dekko.'

Chapter 4

Michael Ashby felt pretty darn good as he swung his battered Ford Granada on to the main road and headed for Dorchester. He'd sent the letter. Another week nearer … Michael's shoulders tensed. OK, maybe he should have talked things over with Suzi first, but there had never seemed a right time. And he'd always believed in acting on impulse. That way you got to be the guy giving the girl the flowers. OK, he had to admit that acting on impulse had caused him problems in the past – his failed business was evidence enough of that. But what the hell, Michael was a firm believer in grabbing the moment, obeying your instincts, believing that something was right.

He accelerated, pushed a tape into the deck – some of the old stuff, soft and easy, The Eagles, nice mix, nice melody … And felt himself relax again. He liked this time of day, early evening, the air fresh but still, the sky pale grey and waiting for night-time velvet. On the road.

And no wonder there hadn't seemed a right time. Last weekend he'd barely had a look-in with all that hoo-hah about Liam and Estelle. Michael frowned as a white BMW overtook the Granada, gliding past with hardly a murmur. One day, he told himself.

He shook his head, hummed a few bars of ‘Lyin' Eyes', one of the songs in his repertoire. Always went down well with women that one, something in the lyrics, he supposed. Yeah – if he had his way, Suzi's darling brother and the gorgeous Estelle would sort out their own problems, not expect Suzi to act as referee, counsellor, mediator and the rest.

‘Lyin' Eyes' slid into ‘James Dean'. Michael liked this one. You could do a fair bit of leaping around with it and he enjoyed a bit of leaping around when he was performing. Got the blood pumping, helped his nerves and the audience thought they were getting more for their money.

Michael speeded up at the dual carriageway. The BMW was out of sight – it would be. But what did he care? So long as he got to Suzi eventually. They hadn't talked much on the phone during the week – they never did, as if the geographical distance produced an emotional one too. But this weekend would be different.

Michael slowed to take the roundabout. He had it all planned. Tonight they'd go out for a beer, discuss how he was feeling about Saturday's gig. Not nervous exactly, but apprehensive.

He drummed his fingernails on the steering wheel as The Eagles hit the intro of ‘Peaceful, Easy Feeling'. Who wouldn't be? It had been a while since his brief romance with pub singing, and he'd never sung in Suzi's home territory. He hadn't even planned it – he'd just happened to mention to the landlord at the Bear and Bottle that he sang and played the guitar, that he used to do gigs, and the next thing was, the guy had asked him for a tape.

The following weekend,
he
had approached Michael (Michael was pleased about that – he didn't want to look desperate for the work) and asked him to do a couple of sets in the pub. The date had been fixed and Bingo … ‘Peaceful, Easy Feeling'. Michael sang. The date was tomorrow night.

It felt good. It felt like a turning point. It was never too late, he decided, for a change of direction, for a taste of success. And after the gig, Michael promised himself, easing into the outside lane, when he was flushed with the high of performance adrenalin and when Suzi was proud of him and smiling and – hopefully – eager to get him into bed (Michael knew only too well what a turn-on it was for women to be going home with a musician at the end of a performance. Otherwise – why would there be groupies?) he would tell Suzi about the letter, tell her what he'd decided.

It made him excited just thinking of it, and he realised he'd almost hit the ton. Reluctantly, he eased his foot from the accelerator. Him and Suzi, what a great combination. What a great girl.

What would she be wearing tonight? Michael allowed himself a moment of weakness, considering this. Something slinky and sexy perhaps? A black silky dress that would cling to her small slender body? Or a red skirt with side slits that …

Whoa. He stopped himself right there. Thoughts like that were for the weekdays when Suzi wasn't around. He'd be seeing her in an hour. And whatever she was wearing, he just knew this weekend was going to be hot.

*   *   *

Tenderly, Suzi watered the seedlings in her greenhouse. Tomorrow she'd pot them on, two to each peat container. She brushed soil from her fingers. She knew from experience that the seeds would take off, especially with all this unexpected March sunshine. Though it was late afternoon, it was still warm in the greenhouse, protected as it was from the sea breeze that she knew would bare its teeth at her as soon as she slid open the door.

Suzi inspected the seedlings with a critical eye. ‘Don't forget to grow,' she warned them. She was aiming for a bumper crop this summer – tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes, peppers; she'd be freezing ratatouille by the bucketful with any luck.

In the corner, tabby cat Treacle stretched out in the bag of straw destined to lift the strawberries away from the earth in a few months' time. Suzi rubbed his neck to make him purr, allowed him to nuzzle into her wrist. She glanced at her watch. At six-thirty, she promised herself, she would go inside, pour herself a glass of white wine, put some Bryan Ferry on the CD player. Mmmm. Chill out.

And tonight she wouldn't cook – she wasn't in domestic goddess mood, she was more
Ground Force
or maybe
Gardeners' Question Time,
since she was hardly a Charlie Dimmock. And she wouldn't dress up. Not that she did very often – she didn't have the wardrobe for it and she preferred to be comfortable, if she were honest. As for Michael – he never minded what she wore. She'd just wallow in a deep bath with a few drops of ginger oil and maybe another glass of wine to refresh the parts that needed it most. And then throw on whatever fell out of the wardrobe first when she opened the door. She chuckled. What the hell …

She'd wait for Michael to arrive and they'd order a take-away – Indian maybe. Chicken passanda. The aroma of cream, coconut, mild spices seemed to drift into the greenhouse to tease her.

Yes, a bit of a ‘chill' was what they needed, Suzi decided, whisking a spiky strand of dark hair from her brow and kissing the tuft of fur just above Treacle's nose. Because it took Suzi an hour or two in Michael's company before she could unwind enough to feel close to him again. Not that she was complaining, she thought, re-filling her water spray and misting the next batch of cherry tomato seedlings. It was just the way things were.

Beyond the greenhouse she could see her small flock of buxom and matronly Buff Orpington hens, foraging in their run, looking for food. And Charles the randy cockerel strutting his stuff, encircling them, casual but confident, letting them know who was boss. Suzi smiled. She liked the chain that ran between her kitchen, her garden and the hens. The flock gobbled up her veggie waste, the vegetables in her kitchen garden thrived on chicken manure. And then there were those delicious eggs …

She stretched into a back bend that eased her aching muscles. The week had been even crazier than usual – what with Estelle cleaning and clearing the debris from the flat above, hardly even stopping to eat, looking more dusty and manic with each day that passed, and the revelation of Stan and Terry's Bargain Basement. She and Estelle had maintained a huffy superior silence on the subject, but she wasn't sure who they were fooling. Stan and Terry's place was full of customers, theirs empty. So what price superiority when you had a living to make?

Suzi arranged the seedlings on the slatted shelf of the greenhouse. In the event, she'd barely had the time to think of Michael, let alone miss him. She paused, seed tray in hand. And realised that she liked it that way. But wasn't that terrible? How was it that years of living alone had made her so independent, so selfish of her own time, her own space? Was she irredeemable? Was she a hopeless case? Was she destined to be a gardening spinster, her animals and her plants substitutes for a man, children; items of life that were supposed to be more desirable?

‘Suze!' The voice was faint.

Suzi replaced the last tray, straightened up and watched Liam as he picked his way across the soggy lawn of her riverbank garden. At his feet were Samson and Delilah, the two rescue dogs that had hated each other on sight when Suzi had acquired them and who were now inseparable.

As Suzi watched, Liam bent to pet Samson, big, black and ugly but solid and dependable as a rock. Delilah, in contrast, was a tiny cream Jack Russell lookalike – though something indefinable had been added and the temper was missing. Delilah hadn't snapped at an ankle since Suzi had taken her in. But she was still running scared – you could read it in her brown eyes and couldn't help but wonder about her past. Suzi watched her now, trotting along in Samson's shadow. Samson was a whole lot of dog to hide behind.

‘I thought I'd find you out here,' Liam yelled through the greenhouse door. He must have come along the riverside path, she realised. He had a canvas bag slung across one shoulder, and in his free hand he held a bottle of wine, carried loosely by the neck. Two sure signs, Suzi knew, that he planned to stay awhile. She felt Bryan Ferry and her bath drifting sadly away from her.

She slid open the door. ‘She's moved out then?' As predicted, the sea breeze almost blew her breath away. A gaggle of gulls flapped overhead, screeching and cawing to the wind.

‘I know it's pathetic.' Liam was not a big man but he leaned so heavily against the side of the greenhouse that Suzi couldn't help feeling twitchy about the glass. ‘I should go out and get drunk, or stay in alone, write a few poems and have a good bawl, I suppose.'

‘Not necessarily.' Suzi braced herself for another mini-tornado – ah, she thought, the pleasures of living by the sea – stepped out of the greenhouse and pulled the door to, leaving a cat-sized gap for Treacle, should he eventually summon enough energy to move.

‘But the flat seems so bloody empty…'

‘That'll be the day.' Suzi pictured the organised chaos that characterised Liam's living space.

‘I don't want to be alone,' Liam said sulkily. He had flung his bag down on the grass and it was proving to be of interest, not just to the two dogs, but also to Hester the goat, who had strained her leash just as far as it would go and had already managed a decent masticate on the strap. ‘I need to talk to someone,' Liam went on. ‘To you, Suze.'

Despite herself, Suzi remembered Estelle's words. It's always
his
needs, she had said. ‘Perhaps you should be talking to Estelle,' she countered, kicking the bag out of Hester's reach.

Seemingly unaware of the wet strap, Liam picked it up and followed her as she made her way back inside the cottage. Hopeful of food, Samson and Delilah trotted alongside and by the back door they were joined by Castor the white cat, who jumped elegantly down from the fence to beat them all to it.

‘She doesn't want to talk to me,' Liam grumbled. ‘Not very adult of her, is it? She says she wants space, for God's sake. Space. I ask you.' He began rooting for a corkscrew. ‘Anyway – how come you're on her side all of a sudden?'

‘Am I?' Suzi considered this as she prepared food for the animals. Actually, she didn't want to take sides. She was in a difficult position and she'd far rather not get involved at all. She ladled food into bowls.

‘So what d'you reckon she does want?' Liam grumbled.

Suzi considered this. What did most women want? Money? A good sex life? Security? Someone who wanted to cuddle them especially when they had their period? ‘Maybe Estelle wants to get married,' she suggested.

Liam stared at her. ‘Is that what she said?'

‘No…' In fact Estelle had said nothing of the kind. But wasn't it about time? Wasn't that what people did?

Suzi warmed to her theme. ‘Maybe she wants children,' she went on.