The Four of Us (42 page)

Five minutes later, when she rang the number of Artemis's Gloucestershire home, there were no shrieks of any kind. ‘Mrs Gower no longer lives at this address,' a young woman said in-differently.

‘Oh dear. I'm sorry for having troubled you. Do you perhaps have Mr and Mrs Gower's present address and telephone number?'

‘This
is
Mr Gower's present address and telephone number,' the young woman said again, and this time, if a voice could have a smirk in it, hers had. ‘Mrs Gower no longer lives here, though. She moved out three weeks ago.'

‘And you don't have a telephone number for her?'

‘No. Why should I?' The connection was smartly severed.

Primmie stood, eyebrows raised, the telephone receiver still in her hand.

‘Trouble?' Geraldine asked.

‘It would seem so.' She put the telephone receiver back on its rest. ‘Artemis has moved out and another woman, who sounds to be very young, has moved in – and says she has no number for Artemis.'

Geraldine gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Rupert ditching Artemis was bound to happen eventually. I'm only surprised it didn't happen within months of their marriage.'

‘It would have been easier for her if it had happened then.' Primmie's eyes were troubled. ‘Having your husband leave you after thirty-two years must be horrendous. I can't see Artemis coping well in such a situation, can you?'

‘No. Under the circumstances, I think we're duty bound to find her. A phone call this evening, to Rupert, is called for. He might not want to admit to having a contact number for her, but he must have and, if he doesn't, his solicitor will no doubt have one. If he doesn't, we'll hire a private detective.'

Primmie's eyes widened. ‘A private detective will cost a lot of money, Geraldine.'

‘So?' Geraldine gave a wicked wink. ‘I have stacks of money, Primmie. Oodles and oodles of it. Which is why I mentioned the patio, because if you'd like one, you shall have one – and any other repairs or renovations that Ruthven needs.'

‘But you can't do that, Geraldine! We're all getting older, and whatever money you have you'll need for yourself, for your future.'

Geraldine was just about to take a deep breath and tell her that she didn't have a future – or not a very long one, when the noise of a vehicle, approaching down the track towards Ruthven's gates, halted her.

Primmie raised a hand to her eyes, squinting into the hot morning sunlight. ‘It's Matt,' she said with pleasure.

Geraldine watched with interest as a small, extremely battered truck pulled up behind her Ferrari. Ever since she'd arrived, Primmie's conversation had been peppered with Matt's name and it was obvious that he had become a very important part of her life. Was he worthy of being so important to Primmie, though? That was what she, Geraldine, wanted to know and, with her wealth of experience where men were concerned, it was something she was totally confident of assessing.

Blissfully unaware of the kind of scrutiny he was under, Matt, unable to gain access to the track leading to Ruthven because of the Ferrari blocking the gates, jumped out from behind the wheel of the truck and, after circling the Ferrari in stunned admiration, began walking towards the house.

Even from a distance, Geraldine was approving of what she saw. A strong-looking man, he didn't move as if he was in his early sixties, he moved like a man who had always been active and still was. Though not very tall, he was well built, with thick hair shot through with silver. He wasn't wearing elderly clothes, either, which was, as far as she was concerned, another point in his favour. His navy fisherman's jersey was ageless, as were the jeans he was wearing with it.

There was no direct access to the front of Ruthven from the track and as he followed it round into the cobbled yard at the rear, he waved across to them and then disappeared out of sight.

‘Do you need to let him in?' she asked, as Primmie made no sign of moving.

Primmie shook her head. ‘No. The side door is off the latch – and even if it weren't it wouldn't matter. Matt has a key.'

‘
Has
he?' Geraldine raised beautifully shaped sleek eyebrows high.

Primmie blushed rosily. ‘It's easiest,' she said demurely. ‘And he spends a lot of time here.'

Geraldine would have liked to explore the subject further but, with Matt about to join them at any moment, put her curiosity on hold.

There came the sound of his walking through the house and then he stepped out of the front door, a few yards away from them, and she saw that her first impressions had been correct. Matt Trevose was a very handsome man. His eyes were a warm amber-brown, his skin hard-tanned by constant exposure to the elements.

‘I'm sorry, Primmie,' he said, walking towards them. ‘I didn't realize you had company. I thought the Ferrari had been parked by a tourist.'

Before Geraldine could apologize for blocking the gates, Primmie jumped to her feet and, slipping her hand into Matt's, said eagerly, ‘Matt, I want you to meet one of my dearest,
dearest
old friends, Geraldine Grant. Geraldine, Matt Trevose.'

Aware that, if the way Primmie had slipped her hand into Matt's was anything to go by, Primmie and Matt were more than dearest friends, Geraldine rose to her feet.

‘I'm very pleased to meet you, Matt,' she said truthfully, shaking his proffered hand.

‘It's nice to meet you, too.' Matt gave her his easy smile. ‘Primmie's mentioned your name lots of times when talking about her school days.'

‘Geraldine is going to be staying with me for a little while, Matt. Hopefully for several weeks – and, if I'm lucky, even longer. We're just about to go down to the cove. Would you like to come with us?'

‘I'm sorry, Primmie. I can't. I'm taking some tourists out for a day's sailing. I called in here on the way to let you know that Dave Clegg, over at St Keverne, has a goat he'd like to offload. It's a nanny and I wondered if you were interested.'

Primmie didn't hesitate. ‘I'm interested. So interested I'll drive over there this morning with Geraldine.'

Vastly amused, Geraldine fought her fatigue. She was about to go and inspect a goat. It was an activity as far removed from her sophisticated lifestyle in Paris as anything she could imagine. Summoning all the reserves of her energy, she said, ‘We are only going to look at this animal, aren't we?'

‘Yes, that's all we can do until I sort out where I'm going to house it.' Primmie beamed sunnily across at her, hardly able to believe that the two of them were doing things together just as they had done when they were girls. ‘And can we go in your car, Geraldine? When we pull up at Dave Clegg's in a Ferrari his eyes are going to pop out of his head!'

Kiki headed out on the M4 towards Bristol, staying firmly in the outside lane, pushing the Fiat to its top speed and keeping it there, no matter how the engine protested. All she had with her was one bag and her laptop and she was uncaring of the rest of her worldly goods. Her prized record collection had been sold off for drug money, in the years before she'd cleaned up her act where drugs were concerned. As for everything else – when her landlord finally got round to entering her flat to find out where the hell she was and why the rent wasn't being paid, he was welcome to whatever he found.

She rode hard on the tail of a family saloon, forcing it over into the middle lane. Little Richard's ‘Lucille'was now belting out from her souped-up speakers. It had been recorded in 1957, when she was six years old. She'd loved it then, and she loved it now.

As junction 17 came and went, she reflected darkly that the whole thing wrong with her life had been her having been born just too late to be a performer of the kind of music that held her heart. Brenda Lee, whose songs she never tired of, had recorded her biggest hit, ‘Sweet Nothin's', in 1960. Jerry Lee Lewis's heyday had been almost entirely pre-1963. She hadn't first strutted her stuff on stage until 1966, when she'd sung Saturday nights at the Two Zeds. After that, by the time she'd been professional and Francis had been managing her, it had been the early '70s and original rock and roll had already become nostalgia rock.

As signs came up for the M5 and the West Country, she finally began changing lanes. From the '70s on she'd ridden every new wave there had been, enjoying some high spots and a whole long litany of staying-in-the-business-only-by-the-skin-of-her-teeth lows. The trouble was, success as a rock star wasn't simply down to how good a performer you were. There were lots of sensational performers. What mattered was who heard you, when – and what they were in a position to do about it.

For mega-fame, luck was needed as well. Barrow loads of it. And luck – the right person handling her career at the right time and with the right backing group and the right songs – was something she'd never had.

Now on the M5, she pressed her foot on the accelerator as far down as it would go. As far as her career was concerned, she'd been humiliated for the last time. The sound of The Stones had long since replaced Little Richard. With ‘Little Red Rooster'blasting her eardrums, she left junction 18 behind her and bowled along towards junction 19.

Ten miles short of it, the Fiat's protesting engine gave a high-pitched wail and the car began losing speed. Within another half a mile it was crawling and within three quarters of an hour, as she pulled over on to the hard shoulder, it ground to a stop.

With the bonnet up and indicator lights flashing, she stared, clueless, into the engine. There could be no question of phoning the AA on her mobile, because she never did sensible things like belonging to the AA, and using the emergency phone to summon a tow truck seemed pointless. She'd be charged for doing so and would then have to pay for garage repairs, which might take days.

She slammed the bonnet shut, aware that it had started to rain. In high dudgeon, she yanked the nearside rear door open and dragged the laptop and her zip-up bag from the seat. Then she stood by the car and began thumbing a lift.

Within seconds, a truck driver pulled off the motorway on to the hard shoulder in front of her Fiat. With rain now plastering her hair to her head, Kiki ran towards it. The driver leaned across a large, unkempt-looking dog and threw the passenger seat door open for her. She tossed her bag up to him and, the laptop under her arm, hoisted herself nimbly up to squeeze into the seat beside the dog.

‘Where d'you want to get to?

‘Cornwall.'

He rolled a cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘You're in luck. I'm going to Penzance. What part of Cornwall d'you want?'

‘The Lizard.'

‘I'll let you off at Helston. Don't mind the dog. Just shove him out of the way.'

Kiki was tempted to ask where on earth she could shove the dog to, but, as it was obvious there wasn't anywhere, shifted herself over so that there was more room for her and it.

The dog licked her face appreciatively.

‘What kind of a dog is he?' she asked as the driver settled on a steady eighty miles per hour and they thundered on through heavy rain towards Exeter. ‘Is he a sheepdog?'

‘Dunno. My missus bought him as a guard dog, but he's soddin' useless, neither use nor ornament.'

Kiki looked at the dog. The dog looked at her. Or she thought it was looking at her. It's hair was such a matted, bedraggled tangle it was hard to be sure.

The fug of engine fumes, damp dog and cigarette smoke was so unpleasant she closed her eyes, deciding that the best way of surviving the journey was to sleep through it.

When she woke, the dog's head was on her shoulder.

‘We're crossing Bodmin Moor,' the driver said glumly. ‘I hate Cornwall. It never does anythin'here but soddin'piss it down.'

Helston was presumably either on the Lizard or very near to it. From there she'd have to hitch a lift to Calleloe and then, in Calleloe, make enquiries as to where, exactly, Ruthven was.

The dog farted. It wasn't pleasant in the confines of the cab.

‘Phaugh!' its owner said, winding down his window and letting rain in. ‘Bleedin'animal! I'd sell him if I could get anything for him.'

The dog, unaware of the offence he was causing, continued to loll against Kiki as if they were bosom pals.

Before a huge roundabout just outside Helston the truck driver pulled over to the side of the road, coming to a halt with his engine still running. ‘That's the road you need for the Lizard,' he said, nodding in the direction of the roundabout's first exit. ‘From here to Lizard Point is only about eight miles, so you can't be far from where you want to be.'

‘Ta.' She eased herself away from the dog, yanked open the door, threw her bag to the ground and jumped after it.

The dog followed her.

The truck driver smartly slammed the door shut so there could be no question of the dog leaping back in again. As he put the truck into gear again, he was grinning, showing yellowed teeth.

‘You can have him,' he yelled to her as he began pulling away. ‘I don't soddin'want him.'

The dog sat by her side, looking up at her. ‘I don't suppose you want him, either,' she said, hoisting the strap of her bag up and over her shoulder. ‘Come on. Nothing's going to stop for us on a roundabout. Let's drag ourselves a few yards down the first exit – and when we do get a lift, don't fart. Got it?'

The dog wagged its tail. Feeling curiously energized, Kiki began walking. It was still raining, but she wasn't particularly bothered. England was a country of dog lovers. Someone would stop and give the two of them a lift – and Primmie would take the dog in. Even though it was over thirty years since she'd seen Primmie, she didn't have a second's doubt on that score.

Primmie regarded the tethered nanny goat doubtfully.

The nanny goat stared stonily back at her with yellow eyes.