The Cornish Guest House (21 page)

‘It’s not true!’ Rosie said hotly when the pair had finished. ‘I’ve met Mark and he’s really nice. And I’ve never seen the mum drunk. Tim would have told me, they’re really close.’

Loveday made a cross sign across her chest. ‘God’s honest truth. The court case about Mark was in the papers – you can look it up.’

‘Well, you can’t blame Tim for something his brother did,’ Rosie went on, teary now. She fixed on her mother, eyes blazing. ‘You don’t blame me for what my dad did to us, do you? And maybe it’s all just rumours anyway. I don’t believe any of it. You shouldn’t judge people till you’ve met them.’

They were a dejected pair as they said goodbye to Loveday and headed back to Bag End in silence, the evening ruined. As soon as they got in, Rosie marched upstairs as fast as she could on her wonky leg and banged her bedroom door shut. She’d never done that before and Liz was left alone.

Rosie was right about not judging people, she thought as she sat, miserably, waiting for Robert’s return. They hadn’t been judged by the villagers when they’d arrived all those years ago in their ancient car with scarcely a pot plant to their name, they’d been welcomed with open arms. But, still, alcoholism and crime? She couldn’t ignore the warning. She mightn’t be able to stop Rosie from talking to Tim at school, but it was in her power to forbid their weekend activities and, harsh as it might seem, that was what she’d have to do.

*

‘Wasson, me cock?’

Jesse grinned at Loveday, who glanced at him through half-closed eyes before turning back to the TV screen. It was gone midnight and she’d had several more Bacardi and Cokes with Nathan and the gang, who’d joined her after Liz and Rosie had left. She’d given them a blow-by-blow account of her meal at the Theatre Royal and the deferential waiter; they’d been very impressed.

‘Yeeuch! You’re all sweaty,’ she declared, pushing Jesse away when he tried to pounce on her. ‘Go and have a shower.’

He backed off and went to fetch a glass of water, calling from next door, ‘You’d be sweaty if you’d been in the kitchen all night.’ But she didn’t reply.

He peeled off his shirt and flung it on the kitchen floor by the washing machine before re-joining her. It usually worked; the minute Loveday caught sight of his surfer’s six-pack she was putty in his hands. He waited for something, some small sign of appreciation, but none came. Unusual. He tried another tack.

‘Had a good evening?’ He yawned loudly, stretching his arms above his head so that she could take advantage of his biceps. ‘We were really busy. Full house. My salmon soufflé went down a treat.’

She continued to stare at the TV, though you could tell she wasn’t really watching.

He was puzzled now and scratched his head. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘Nope.’ She looked as if she had a bad smell under her nose.

Muttering under his breath, he sloped off to wash and when he’d finished, Loveday was in bed, eyes firmly shut, the pink duvet pulled tight under her chin. Something was definitely up.

‘What is it, babe?’ he asked, climbing in beside her. His limbs were aching and he’d been thinking about her all the way home, hoping that she might give him one of her sensational massages. It seemed that he wouldn’t get an answer but then she sat up, propping herself on her elbows.

‘I hate it when you say that.’

‘What?’ He couldn’t think what she was talking about.

‘Wasson,’ she replied. ‘It’s so…’ She frowned, searching for the right word. ‘So
common
. It makes you sound like a Cornish yokel with a piece of straw sticking out of your mouth.’

Jesse roared with laughter. ‘I am a Cornish yokel – and proud of it, me ’ansum!’

She huffed and turned to face the wall.

‘Anyway,’ he said, rolling her over again and pulling tight so that she couldn’t wriggle away, ‘what’s brought this on, my lover? I never heard you make no complaints about my Cornish voice before.’ He was deliberately exaggerating now.

‘
Any
complaints,’ Loveday corrected. He was squeezing hard and she was gasping for air. ‘Not
no
complaints, that’s ungrammatical.’

‘Ooh, gone all hoity-toity, have we?’ Jesse tickled her in the ribs, making her squeal. ‘Madam at The Stables been giving you lessons in talking posh, has she?’

‘Don’t!’ Loveday gasped, struggling to push him off, but he only clamped tighter, like a boa constrictor, and tickled harder. ‘I can’t bear it!’

‘Do you still hate my Cornish accent, then?’ he teased. ‘I won’t stop till you take it back.’

‘I love it! I do! Mercy!’

At last he let her go and Loveday sighed with relief. She was all hot and sweaty herself now. Of course, after that it was hard to resist the smell of his smooth man-skin, his firmness beneath her fingertips, his blond curls, still damp from the shower. The light from the streetlamp outside filtered through the curtains, illuminating his face and body, and at moments like this she always thought that he resembled one of the Greek heroes in a storybook that her teacher had read to the class when she’d been a child, about Perseus and Jason, Theseus and Hercules. She’d loved those stories with a passion, and could remember the colourful pictures as if it were yesterday.

‘Sexy beast,’ he said, kissing her forehead, her nose, her mouth. ‘I could gobble you up.’ He made a growling sound like a wild animal.

‘Stop it!’ She giggled then, putting on her best upper-class drawl to wind him up, ‘I had lunch at the Theatre Royal today.’

She wanted to tell him about the teriyaki salmon, the coffee and chocolates, the polite waiter; to be honest, she wanted to impress him like the others in the pub earlier. Instead, though, Jesse pulled away and looked at her seriously.

‘Babe?’

She wondered what was coming next.

‘You didn’t mean it, did you? About the way I sound?’

‘’Course not.’ But images of Luke had seeped into her mind – his smile, the perfectly ironed cuffs of his expensive shirt, the gold watch on his wrist. ‘I just think…’

‘What?’

‘It would be nice if you didn’t act the clown all the time. I mean, the way you lark around and make crude jokes, and that chain around your neck. It’s not very sophisticated. You should try wearing a smart shirt sometimes. A suit, even.’

‘I don’t need a suit. I don’t have that sort of work. You never complained about my clothes before.’

‘It just occurred to me, that’s all. Men look good in nice shirts and cufflinks, that sort of thing.’

‘Men like Luke.’ The name danced in the air between them like a leaf on the wind.

She hesitated. ‘He never swears or farts and he opens doors for you; he’s a real gentleman.’

‘God, Loveday.’ Jesse pushed her off and moved to the opposite side of the bed, creating a cold, hard space between them. ‘Since when have you cared about all that stuff? If you want a bloody gentleman you’ll have to go and find one.’

She knew that he was waiting for her to apologise, to make up to him, but she wouldn’t. Instead, she lay there for some time, pretending to sleep, tuned in to the ticking of his over-active brain.

She wasn’t being unreasonable, was she, wanting him to dress a bit smarter, act more classy? After today she’d decided that she, too, needed to upgrade her wardrobe, and had resolved to go into Plymouth at the weekend to buy new gear.

The truth was, she’d felt a bit self-conscious in her tight blouse and skirt at the restaurant and had wished that she’d had a jacket with her and wasn’t wearing so many earrings. None of the other women had big hoops like hers, or hair shaved up both sides, come to that. Perhaps it was time to grow it out.

Luke had looked so suave and handsome, all the women fancied him, you could tell. And he kept saying she had a very good telephone manner. ‘You’re going be brilliant at the job, I can see.’

Jesse moaned quietly, having dropped off at last. He must have been exhausted after his long day. She was knackered, too, as a matter of fact, but felt restless, maddeningly wide awake.

No, she thought, turning over to find a more comfortable position, she couldn’t pretend that things hadn’t changed now she’d started the new job, and Jesse needed to understand. She was moving on, making something of herself, whereas half the time he still acted like a big kid.

Luke, on the other hand, well, he was a different matter. Luke was refined and successful, practically perfect, as far as she could see. What’s more, he’d chosen
her
above all the other girls in the village when he could have had the pick of the lot. She hugged her arms around her, feeling very special, and couldn’t seem to get him out of her head all night long.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that your bank card has been cloned and an attempt has been made to use it fraudulently.’

Doris gasped. ‘Oh!’

It was a fine, sunny March morning and she’d been enjoying watching ‘Homes Under The Hammer’. Instinctively, she rose from her chair in front of the TV and peered out of the net curtains of her tiny bungalow, as if expecting to find a stranger lurking in the front garden.

‘Fortunately, the card wasn’t accepted,’ the policeman explained.

Doris plonked back in the chair. Her hands were trembling so much that she nearly dropped the phone.

‘Are they watching me?’ she whispered, scanning the four corners of the room, listening for noises upstairs. She wanted to scream, only she knew that would make it worse. She wanted to summon her neighbour, Sheila, immediately, preferably Sheila’s husband, too. Doris felt alone and really frightened.

‘Don’t be anxious,’ the policeman said. ‘You’re quite safe. They won’t come anywhere near your home.’ He had a gentle voice, warm and kind, very polite, and she felt herself relax a little.

‘Nothing’s been stolen from you and we think we might know who the culprits are. We’re hoping to make some arrests soon.’

His words reassured her but, still, she was worried about her pension. Sheila usually drove her to the bank on Tuesdays to withdraw her money for the week; Doris couldn’t get there by bus, not with her dodgy hips. She needed every penny to pay for the gas and electric, not to mention food, the phone bill. She couldn’t do without her pension. It was a struggle to get by as it was.

And what about that twelve thousand pounds? Her chest tightened. Sheila had always said she should transfer it to a special savings account, where she’d get more interest, but she didn’t want that; she liked to be able to see it all there, in one place. It had taken a lifetime to build up. What if she needed a new boiler or roof? What if there was a leak in the pipes and she had to get the plumbers in?

‘What c-can I d-do,’ she stammered, ‘to stop them?’ She was imagining them right now, trying to use her cloned card somewhere else. They might pinch the lot.

‘I’m going to give you a helpline number,’ the policeman said. ‘They’ll be able to cancel the card for you, and transfer your money to a safe account while we complete the investigation. Do you have a pen and paper?’

Doris wrote the number down very carefully before hanging up and redialling. It was a nice young woman with a Cornish accent who answered, ever so sympathetic.

‘It’s rubbish, isn’t it?’ she tutted down the line. ‘You’re the third lady who’s contacted us this afternoon.’

The pleasant young woman took Doris’s bank details, card details, pin number and so on, and said that she’d transfer the cash for her straight away.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ she promised. ‘Now, you’ve had an awful shock. I should go and make yourself a cup of tea.’

Sheila popped by shortly after, with a couple of leeks and some Brussels sprouts from her husband’s allotment, and rang 999 as soon as she heard the news. Sheila had lots to do; her son was supposed to be coming for supper and she wanted to tidy up and make a macaroni cheese, but she couldn’t leave Doris. The poor woman was in a terrible state.

The police told Sheila that someone would be there soon to take a statement, a local officer. ‘Can you stay with her tonight? She shouldn’t be left, not with the fright she’s had.’

Sheila glanced at Doris, who was blowing her nose. She was all alone since her husband had passed away. No children, no relatives close by. Pale pink scalp poked through her sparse white hair, and her neck was so thin it looked as if it might snap in the wind.

Sheila sighed, half wishing that she’d never called in with those damned Brussels, she’d been looking forward to catching up with her son. But what else could she do? She’d known Doris for as long as she could remember, some thirty years, probably, since they’d moved in next door.

‘Yes,’ she replied, giving Doris a reassuring smile, ‘I’ll stay.’

*

Loveday sat back in her swingy office chair and gave herself a mental pat on the back. She’d done it again! That poor old lady had sounded so worried. Who wouldn’t be, thinking their life savings were about to be stolen? But she’d managed to put Doris at her ease and her money was safe. Job well done.

Ahmed strolled in with a can of Fanta for her; he knew the way to her heart. ‘How did it go?’ he asked casually. He was a small man in his late thirties, clean-shaven and slim, with a penchant for sharp jackets and carefully ironed shirts, very well spoken. He had a family somewhere, like the bloke who’d gone away because his wife was ill, but Loveday hadn’t met them.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t be better. I transferred twelve thousand. She was so relieved.’

Ahmed grinned and ruffled her hair. ‘Good girl. You’re doing the public a real service, you know. You should be very proud of yourself.’ His praise warmed her through.

There were four of them in the office – her, Ahmed, Sam and Luke, though he came and went as he had numerous meetings to attend. She didn’t mind that it was all men, because everyone was so friendly and easy to talk to. They each had their own room on the top floor of a small office block in a business park just outside Plymouth city centre, and they were known as Henry Mount Financial Services, or HM for short, though in reality they were nothing of the sort. There was a firm of architects below, but she hardly saw them.