The Story of Us (12 page)

‘And you,' he responded with a smile that did an anatomically improbable thing with my stomach. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you had time to join me for a bite to eat.' He glanced at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist. ‘What time is your break?'

‘We don't usually stop for lunch,' I explained sadly. ‘As it's only the two of us, we tend to just work through.'

‘No, we don't,' corrected Monique, deciding now was the moment to join in the conversation. I couldn't actually call her a liar out loud, but the look on my face screamed it as though from a megaphone. She blinked mildly back at me. ‘All of the employees must now take a one-hour lunch break – it is something the unions require.' Oh. My. God. Could she be even the
slightest
bit less obvious?

‘Really?' I asked. ‘Strange that I didn't know this, considering the only employees here are you and me, and neither of us belong to a union.'

Monique made a highly distinctive French noise which was somewhere between a dismissive spit and a cough. ‘You cannot argue with the unions.'

I shook my head at her bald-faced interference. I'd always known she disapproved of my relationship with Richard, but openly encouraging me to go to lunch with another man was something new. However, she had left me with no option but to accept Jack's invitation. ‘I'll just get my jacket,' I said, disappearing into the back room. By the time I emerged, Monique was busy serving a new customer, so thankfully could add no further meddling to the situation.

Jack held open the door for me, and the moment we were outside I turned to him in apology. ‘I am
truly
sorry about that. Monique can be quite opinionated at times.'

‘She
does
seem to be quite a character,' Jack admitted with a grin. ‘Have you worked there for long?'

‘Since I was sixteen,' I replied, ‘on and off.' He looked puzzled. ‘It's a long story.'

‘Then you will have to speak fast,' he advised, ‘because I hear the union is only giving you an hour for lunch.'

We walked past a parade of shops before Jack gently asked, ‘So how have things been with you, Emma?' I bit my lip on the automatic ‘Fine'
rejoinder that I seemed to give to everyone who asked me that question these days. His golden brown eyes held me prisoner, and I knew instinctively that I couldn't lie to him; he'd see through me in an instant.

‘Hard. It's been hard. And painful. Some days are better than others…' My voice trailed away and he smiled gently, reaching for my hand and squeezing it briefly. I knew then that he saw through my protective shield as though it wasn't even there.

‘Let's make this one of those then, shall we?' he suggested gently, and my heart gave a ridiculous skip and skittered weirdly within my chest. ‘So, where do you recommend we go for lunch?' His abrupt return to the mundane was a welcome relief. ‘Is there somewhere here in town? If not, my car's just around the corner.'

I glanced up and down the high street. There were several places where we could eat. But it was a small town, and people loved to gossip, and even though I had nothing at all to hide, I still didn't want to be the object of idle speculation. Speculation that could easily get back to Richard and hurt him.

‘There's a nice pub about five minutes' drive away. The ploughmans there are delicious,' I suggested.

‘I have absolutely no idea what you just said, but as long as it doesn't involve me eating some poor farm worker, then let's go.'

‘So is your thriller going to be set in Hallingford?' I asked, as we wove along the narrow country lanes. Jack handled the large car skilfully, pulling up on to the bank to allow a tractor to pass.

‘Not specifically, but getting a feel for the area will definitely help.'

‘Well, I've lived here for most of my life, so if there's anything you want to know, you can always ask. About the area, I mean, not my life.' I was babbling again and I could hear the nerves in my voice, even if he couldn't. Why had I agreed to have lunch with him if it was making me feel so guilty? I think I knew the answer to that, and it was largely tied up with how Richard would react if he knew where I was right now. Perhaps a better question to have asked was why was
Jack
here? What was his reason for seeking me out?

Jack took his hand briefly from the wheel and clasped mine, which was nervously plucking some invisible piece of lint from my dress. I visibly jumped at his touch. What was the matter with me?

‘Relax, Emma. We're not doing anything wrong here,' he said, surprising me, as usual, by being able to read me like an open book. ‘We're just a couple of friends having lunch, that's all.'

His words seemed to be patently underscoring that he had someone special in his life, someone important. Well that was good, because I had one of those too.

‘Oh, I know that,' I assured him, because I really didn't want him to think I'd read more into this invitation than there was. ‘I think Monique's meddling just got me a little rattled. I guess she's more against Richard and me as a couple than she's ever let on.'

‘Interesting,' Jack mused, negotiating the large hire car into a minute parking space at the pub with great accomplishment. ‘You really
will
have to talk fast today to tell me everything.'

In the end we scarcely touched on any topic that crossed the borderline into personal territory, or the tragedy on the night we'd met. Perhaps I could even tell Richard about this meeting, knowing I'd not said or done anything that would cause him a moment's worry. That was how everything appeared on the surface, at least. On a separate lower level, I was experiencing some pretty unsettling sensations that I knew I couldn't share with him. Like the way the skin on my back had burned like fire as Jack steered me through the crowded bar. Or how my heart began to beat faster when he studied my face as I spoke, or how something warm lit up inside me when he laughed at some small quip or joke I had made.

I had just finished recounting some crazy and embarrassing story about Monique, and Jack was still laughing as he leaned across the table for his drink and his hand brushed mine. That was the moment when the crowded pub and the noise of its patrons faded away, and for just a second it felt as though the air itself had been sucked out of the room, in the way a raging fire can draw oxygen from a space. His eyes met mine and suddenly there was no laughter. He looked as shocked as I was. Fire was a good analogy here, as was heat. They were both present in abundance, and playing with them was dangerous, only a fool didn't know that.

I was the first to speak. ‘Well, it's getting late. I really should be getting back, or they'll kick me out of that union… or something.'

He gave a smile of understanding, and I know he too had felt something, and knew why I was running away before I was scorched. ‘Let's get you back then.'

In the mirror of the ladies', I saw the flush on my cheeks and the dilated pupils in my eyes. There was no point in denying the unexpectedly powerful connection I felt with Jack, but I was certain it was just a natural by-product of the intense situation when we'd first met, and because he'd saved my life. It was unique and extreme, and it was really dangerous and stupid to confuse it with any other type of attraction. There were probably books written on the subject, about how your whole life and perspective changes after a near-death experience. And when a total stranger puts their life in jeopardy to save yours, that has to forge some kind of intense bond between the two of you, doesn't it? I resolved to check it out on the internet as soon as I got back to the shop.

Jack pulled up directly outside the bookshop, leaving no awkward or ambiguous privacy to say goodbye. As I turned to release my seat belt, I noticed two large carrier bags on the back seat of his car, each bearing a logo from Monique's competitors in town. Without asking permission, I reached over and pulled them both into the front. Jack said nothing to stop me, but his face bore a small wincing expression as though he was preparing for a blow. I pulled out a book from the first bag and instantly recognised it as the exact same one I had sold him just over an hour ago. I reached into the second bag and withdrew its contents, the same book. I said nothing; I let my cocked head and raised eyebrows do the talking.

‘Well, who knew there were going to be
three
bookshops in a town this small?' he eventually supplied. I felt a smile starting to unfurl and bit down on my lip to stop it.

‘And the books?'

‘Ah well, I actually
did
want that particular volume about the lakes. So when they told me in the first shop that you didn't work there, I thought the least I could do was buy the book from them.'

‘And the second shop?'

‘Likewise,' he said, with a small guilty grin.

It was no use. There was no way I could get that smile under control. ‘And you never thought to ask for a
different
book, in shop number two or three?'

He looked even more shamefaced at that one. ‘That
would
have made more sense,' he conceded, ‘it just didn't occur to me. Lack of imagination, I guess.'

‘That's got to be a major disadvantage in your profession,' I lamented, releasing my seat belt and getting out of the car. I could still hear him laughing as he pulled away from the kerb.

The tea in the cup beside me had grown cold. There were now several unattractive dark splotches floating on its surface. I wasn't usually so easily distracted.

I thought about going downstairs to make a fresh one, but the kitchen of my family home was already full to bursting with our visiting guests and relatives. Besides, was anyone supposed to see me until the church ceremony? I couldn't remember the etiquette. I put the cup back down on my bedside table. There would be more than enough to eat and drink at the hotel reception. The caterers had come highly recommended and the menu they had suggested for today was perfect. That, at least, had been one less thing we had had to plan.

I had a fleeting moment of panic when I glanced at the clock and then an even greater one when I turned back to my dressing table mirror. My hand flew to my throat and I gasped, because suddenly it wasn't my own familiar image staring back at me, but that of a much older woman, her face softly lined, her skin no longer firm and smooth. There were grooves fanning from the edges of her eyes and time had scored etch marks beside her mouth, which was open in shocked surprise. It was my mother. I was so startled by the vision of her that I actually turned and looked over my shoulder to see if she was standing behind me. But the room, of course, was empty.

I looked back into the glass and reached out my hand to its surface, my fingers longing to trace the shape of her face, the sweep of her hair, still rich in colour, but when I made contact with the mirror she disappeared, and I was back there in her place.

I knew that something was wrong as soon as I pulled into my parents' drive that evening. And if the front door flung wide open, despite the pelting rain, wasn't enough of an alert, then hearing my father's frantic shouts as I raced towards the house confirmed it.

I opened the driver's door almost before the handbrake was fully engaged, and although I knew I was moving at speed, everything seemed slowed down and dreamlike. The illusion shattered as my dad burst through the front door like a charging bull. His hair was dishevelled and wet, so I knew his search had already extended beyond the interior of the house. His eyes were what scared me though; wild and desperate, as though he was already tumbling down into a steep well of panic. I tried to force myself to breathe calmly and evenly, but it wasn't easy. Panic is as infectious as the plague, and just as deadly.

‘What's wrong?' I asked, grabbing hold of both of his arms and forcing him to stop his headlong charge back into the rain, to look at me. It was a stupid question. I knew exactly what was wrong, so hastily amended it. ‘How long has she been missing?' He shook his head so hard that little droplets of rain showered down from his hair. ‘I don't know. Fifteen minutes… twenty… maybe even longer. Oh God, I just don't know.'

‘Calm down, Dad. Breathe. Just tell me what happened.'

‘It's all my fault. She was fast asleep in the armchair, she nodded off during her programme, you know how she does?' I nodded, impatient to cut through the details that would do nothing to help us find her. ‘I had a couple of letters that needed to catch the post. And she was so soundly asleep that it seemed a shame to wake her to come with me, so I just thought, it's only five minutes to the post box, I'll be back before she knows I've even gone. But then I bumped into that Debbie woman from the chemist, and you know how she likes to talk… and then, when I got back here the door was wide open…'

‘It's all right, Dad. We'll find her. We always do.'
Until
,
of course, the time comes when we don't
, a voice whispered in my head. ‘Have you searched the house?'

‘Yes.'

‘Every room?' He gave me a withering look. ‘Sorry. Of course you have. All right, we'll split up. You take the street and then if you don't find her there, try the path that leads down to the forest for that walk she likes, okay?'

He pulled himself together with a visible effort. ‘I'm sorry, Emma.'

I gave him a quick hard hug. ‘It's not your fault, Dad. You know that. You can't watch her twenty-four/seven. It's just not possible.' There was a granite-like determined glint in his eyes, which I knew meant he totally refuted my words, but now was neither the time nor the place to rehash the argument we'd been having on and off for almost all of the last year.