Torn (44 page)

Jessica kept her eyes firmly shut despite being aware that he had leant closer towards her. She didn't answer; the apparent storybook coincidence of their lives, backgrounds, ages, and education was not lost on her. She had considered it often before and found it too pat, too laughably predictable to take seriously. Never one to do what was expected of her she found James' suitability as a future partner almost claustrophobic. But the future was a long way away.

‘Jess.' The day was balmy. She could smell the cut grass, hear the chirruping birds, distant happy voices and the occasional, strangulated quack from a duck against the background lap of the river. A warm and tasty mouth connected with hers. Why push him away and spoil this delightful moment?

She only opened her eyes when he pulled back from the kiss. He was still leaning over her, his weight on his forearms, hands linked above her head. His slightly long, unruly hair hung forward, shadowing his dark face.

‘You didn't answer.'

‘I've forgotten the question.'

‘It wasn't really a question.'

‘Well then …?'

‘I commented on the symmetry of our situations. I wanted your thoughts – that is, if you have any on the subject?'

‘Symmetry on its own is not a good enough basis for a relationship.'

‘Plus mutual attraction?'

She shook her head. From an expression of soft-eyed doting, James had begun to frown.

‘There speaks someone who's had countless relationships.'

‘I didn't count. That doesn't make them countless. And they weren't relationships. They were usually just sex.'

His frown transmuted into a pantomime leer. ‘If that's all that's on offer I can do “just sex”‘

‘I know. I was there, remember. But it's not on offer. I am
trying
to move on. Just because I don't want to endlessly apologise for my past doesn't mean I plan to endlessly replay it. And at least, when I did it, it was because I wanted to. It was never a commercial transaction.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Those overnight stays of yours, in London. You allowed yourself to be picked up. Your words. I inferred hookers.'

‘I preferred it that way.' He sighed and rolled back onto the grass beside her, and stared up at the dappled blue through the overhang of a tree. ‘Answers a need but commits you to nothing.'

‘Exactly!'

‘But doesn't it leave you with a bad taste?'

‘Depends what you've been doing.'

He flinched. ‘Oh, for God's sake, Jess!'

‘It still gets to you, doesn't it, that I enjoy sex? And that was when I was a free agent. I saw no reason to deny that side of my nature.'

‘Look,' he said, after an apparent tussle with himself. ‘I know the arguments. When I was a lad I lived a free, sexually active life.'

‘Which even included Imogen, I understand?'

‘Did she tell you that?'

‘Why? Are you disputing it?'

‘Not at all. If she says we did, we probably did. I just don't remember. Anyway, I sowed my wild oats. Then I grew up, got married. I believe in fidelity within marriage.'

‘So do I, and I wasn't even married to Sean!'

‘And I accept, theoretically, that outside of a committed relationship, what's sauce for the goose ought to be sauce for the gander. I'm not the dinosaur you seem to think I am. But …'

‘But what?'

He pushed up onto an elbow and stared down at her, his expression troubled.

‘I meant it, you know. I wasn't just spinning a line when I said I'd fallen in love. That's the problem. It's why we're here. Why I'm still trying to woo you.' He stroked his fingers across her brow then down her cheek to the point of her chin. ‘I love you, Jess. That's why I find the thought of you behaving promiscuously so fucking hard to handle!'

‘I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry it hurts you. But I had to be honest. I couldn't allow you to continue to think I was someone other than I really am?'

‘There's such a thing as too much honesty! You believe in hitting me round the head with it. Think I may have preferred to continue with my misapprehensions.' There was a protracted silence before he spoke again. ‘What will you teach?'

‘Pardon?'

‘I'm returning to the previous topic.'

‘Oh. Children, I thought.'

‘Ho ho. I meant subject … age group?'

‘I did a Maths degree and was aiming for secondary level, originally. Maths is important but recently I've been thinking, too many kids arrive at secondary school without the basic skills in reading and writing. And by then it's almost too late. They, of course, are the ones who'll have to duck and dive, even play truant, to avoid being found out. And they're the ones most likely to become involved in anti-social behaviour, drugs and crime at worst, or at best, are the people whose adult lives will be blighted by fear of exposure. The able kids, the ones from supportive backgrounds, will always be fine. I want to help those who are slipping through the net. I can't start a proper course till the new year because Rory is only doing half days at school to begin with but I've been thinking about special needs teaching … something along those lines.'

‘That's very commendable.'

‘I don't need to be commended. I'm going to do it because I want to. Incidentally, is there a good book shop in Oxford?'

He laughed. ‘Of course. Blackwells.'

‘Good. I've been doing some research on the internet. Before we go home there are a few books I want to get on dyslexia.'

James' next comment was unconnected, or if there was a connection he didn't reveal the chain of thought.

‘Don't know what prompted him, but Daniel took himself off into town the other day and had his eyes tested. Apparently they're fine.'

They'd parted amicably enough, but since that day in Oxford a couple of weeks had passed during which she'd heard nothing from James Warwick. The new school term was fast approaching and Jessica took her son to Cheltenham where they bought his school uniform. The all-important new backpack had been one of his birthday gifts, along with a lunch box, a set of felt-tip pens, and a pencil case complete with pencils, sharpener, rubber, and ruler.

‘I wish I was going to the same school as Sasha,' he grumbled for the umpteenth time. The reality that they would now be going their separate ways had only recently come home to him.

‘I'm sorry, darling. You know how that happened. We chose a school before you and Sasha became such friends.' Apart from me not believing in private education, Jess thought. ‘It was the one you liked best, and lots of your other friends from Cherubs are going there. Toby and Jordan and Rufus?'

‘I didn't see the school Sasha is going to! I'd have liked that one the best of all.'

Sasha's name had been down for the small private school since before her mother died. It was the same school which Serena had gone to before moving on to the Ladies' College. Sasha was undoubtedly being groomed to follow in her mother's footsteps. But post sixteen, A-levels followed by further education, preferably Oxford, would be her father's favoured route for her, rather than leaving school for a career as a model.

Jess had asked him why he was so set on the Ladies' College when there were several outstanding state schools in the area. He said he couldn't have lived with himself if he hadn't done his absolute best for his child. And best, in his terms, apparently meant spending money on her education. She supposed it was natural for him to think like that; it was the way he had been brought up and educated after all.

Whether the independent route would prove best for Sasha was unknowable, but the choice looked unjustifiable if he was in financial trouble. Was it really just a case of keeping up appearances?

‘You can still be friends with Sasha. She can still come to tea with you, or you can go there and see Bluebell and Kit and Eeyore.'

‘And ride Violent.'

‘You'll still be able to ride Violet, I'm sure, and see the chickens and ducks.'

‘And the bees.'

‘And the bees.' But despite her attempt to make the shopping trip exciting Rory grew increasingly grumpy. He hated trying on clothes and there'd been a lot of that today; his bottom lip protruded sulkily.

‘And you'll make
new
friends,' she said brightly.

‘I don't want new friends.'

‘How about a Knickerbocker glory, before we go home?'

Life was undoubtedly about to change for all of them. Some of the changes could be anticipated, but others? Though she resisted talk of love she'd still enjoyed the outings with James, and their warming friendship – even the occasional kiss. And she'd had no worries about Gilda's reliability as a regular babysitter, or her appropriateness as temporary guardian for Rory. But now the kids were about to start at separate schools, several miles distant from each other, the ease of these arrangements was about to be lost for good. How would they manage? Sasha, too, would be making new friends and the natural divide between girls and boys would become more marked. Might this be the beginning of the end of their association with the Warwick family? And what of Danny?

Her mood which already seemed on a downward spiral plunged another few feet. Why? Was it just this crossroads they'd arrived at? So much was about to change – the children starting school, the by-pass decision coming ever closer, moving house, or starting college in the new year – wasn't it natural to feel apprehensive, even despondent? Jess watched Rory toy with a ridiculous confection of layered pink and white ice-cream, glacéd fruit, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream. The café hadn't actually had Knickerbocker glory on the menu, but this was a near approximation of what she remembered eating in her own childhood. But no more than three spoonfuls had made their way into his mouth. Now he looked pale and crestfallen.

‘What's the matter, sweetheart? Don't you like it after all?'

‘Mummy.' His voice was plaintive, shot through with very real disappointment. ‘It makes me feel sick.'

‘Oh, darling, I'm sorry. What a shame!' That was the trouble with life. It was unpredictable. No matter how much you planned, you could never be certain what was around the next corner. And when you did achieve what you thought was your heart's desire it was too often a disillusioning experience. Could be a smidgen of good news for me in there somewhere, she thought gloomily. I don't know what I want. I've not the faintest idea what will make me happy. So how can I be let down?

When they got back to the house the men in yellow fluorescent jerkins were in the fields again. This time there were more of them with their clipboards and theodolites and mobile phones. A line of vehicles were parked in the lane.

Jessica called the district council from the kitchen. After refusing a zillion mechanised options she hung on to be re-routed to a call centre. No answers were forthcoming and she phoned the county council. Following a similar dispiriting roundabout she was eventually told central government was to blame. It was gone five by the time she managed to find a number for the Highways Agency; there was no human available to answer her query and she was advised to call again tomorrow.

Jess berated herself for her torpor. Since moving into this cottage a year ago she'd been living in a kind of trance. It was about time she made a bloody decision. The sale of her Greenwich flat was not the obstacle. Whether next week, next month, or next year, it would happen. The finances to move on were available to her now; she could not continue to use lack of progress on the flat sale as an excuse for inaction. She dragged her laptop across the kitchen table towards her, straightened her back, and typed ‘property search' into Google.

A loud knock at the door interrupted her. It couldn't be Tubs. He rarely performed his party piece these days since a cat flap had been installed into the lean-to at the back. Even when he did jump up to the front door he'd only ever achieved an irritated rattle. Cat flap or no, he hadn't been in today. She'd already noticed the food she'd put down for him this morning was untouched.

As she walked through to the front of the house she considered then discounted various other possible visitors. The imperative double clack on the knocker was not James' style either, and it was the wrong time of day for one of his unannounced social calls. Propped on his elbows, Rory was lying on the rug between the sofa and the cold wood burner, around him lay the broken-up wooden sections of his Brio railway track and train. Though the TV was switched on the volume was down. Rory's ears were plugged into his MP3 player. On the rug immediately in front of him, a rainbow of coloured felt-tip pens were splayed beside a pad of paper, its top sheet already well covered with his drawings of spacemen and cowboys. And they say the male of the species can't multi-task, she thought as she walked past him to the front door. He was far too preoccupied to notice.

By the time her hand was on the handle she'd decided the caller was going to be one of the surveyors. For a moment or two, after opening the front door, this was what she continued to think, despite the evidence of her eyes failing to corroborate the theory. The man was not wearing a fluorescent jacket but a straight cut, black leather jacket. Because he was looking over at the fields opposite, her first sight of him was of the back of his head. There was something about his stance, his height and build, and more particularly his curly auburn hair, which began to grow in familiarity. He turned back to face her. Rooted speechless to the spot Jessica stared at the man.

‘What's going on over there?' he said, conversationally. ‘Looks serious.'

With recognition came a swamping flood of anger, washing away the nightmare paralysis which gripped her. But the icy breath of fear came too, lifting the hairs all over her body, loosening and shifting in her bowel.