Well Groomed (27 page)

‘Can I call the forge again?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’ Penny shrugged, having finally tucked all her entry forms into envelopes and settled back with Gus and the snoring dogs to watch Sigourney Weaver running around with a flame gun.

Niall wandered out to use the phone in the chilly, darkened study, but simply got Tash’s voice on the machine again. He waited through to the beep and asked her to pick up the phone several times, but it was obvious she wasn’t there. Dropping the phone back into the cradle, he stooped to the floor to pat Wally, who had followed him through – ever the one to suck up to a new arrival. In the silent gloom, he could just hear them talking about him in hushed voices in the kitchen.

Niall slumped against the desk, numbly letting Wally’s warm tongue lap against his cold, stubbled cheeks. Sober now, he recalled only too vividly how Tash’s despotic father had baited her in front of her entire family and he had just lolled around silently and stupidly in the background, neither defending her nor really caring to take in what was happening, so swamped was he in his own self-pity and self-doubt. He suddenly, rather manically, wondered if she was seeking comfort from someone else right now. His stomach seethed at the thought.

He buried his face in his hands and listened to the sound of the news drumming its way on to the screen in the kitchen as Alien took a break for light relief with Trevor McDonald and the latest on Eastern Europe.

‘You okay?’ Zoe’s soft voice pervaded the room at far closer range.

She hovered by the door, about to turn on the light, but changed her mind and looked at him worriedly through the gloom. Wally, his loyalty divided, crawled on his belly halfway to her and then lay there like a stretched-out frog, chin resting on his forepaws, the whites of his brown eyes gleaming up at her in the dark.

‘Well, it wouldn’t take a genius to answer that now, would it?’ Niall’s voice was muffled by his hands before he pulled himself together, ran his fingers back through his dirty hair and looked up at her sadly.

‘Want another coffee?’

He shook his head. ‘Where the hell d’you think she’s got to, Zoe?’

She shrugged. ‘My guess is that clapped-out old banger of Ted’s has croaked somewhere between here and Worcestershire and the poor darling is hanging around garages and exhaust centres sorting it out – or fighting her way back here via BR which, as you know, could take till next week.’

Niall nodded, only half seeming to believe it.

‘You two had a row?’ Zoe asked cautiously.

Niall rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and cocked his head thoughtfully. ‘Not a row exactly, no.’ He bit his lip. ‘But I think I let her down badly today.’

Zoe was silent for a few moments, waiting for him to offer more information, which he didn’t. She wanted to ask him to talk to her about it, certain that he had a lot he wanted to get off his chest right now, but she didn’t feel it was her place. She didn’t know him that well, or feel particularly impartial and objective where he was concerned – especially when it came to Tash. As one of Tash’s confidantes, she would feel simply awful if he told her something which compromised their friendship, something which she felt she had to keep secret.

Niall was still silent, staring into the corner of the room. In the dim light from the hall, Zoe could see how pale and hollow his cheeks were, and the tight, knotted tension in the muscles of his jaw.

She started to back away.

‘Do you think Tash would ever be unfaithful, Zoe?’ he suddenly asked.

‘Tash?’ Zoe almost laughed, just stopping herself in time. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m fucking serious!’ He looked up at her sharply, his voice very low and utterly chilly. ‘I wouldn’t be asking you if I wasn’t serious.’

Zoe flinched. It was the first time she had ever known the congenial, almost comically easy-going Niall to be angry and the transition from domestic pet to untamed predator was so total, it unnerved her.

‘No, she never would,’ she said, her voice shaking slightly. ‘Never – I promise you, Niall.’

‘You covering for her?’ he snapped, his eyes narrowed as they squinted up at her through the shadows.

‘No!’

‘Sure.’ He looked away dismissively. ‘Cover her face; mine lies dazzle.’

When Tash finally let herself into the forge, it was in complete darkness apart from the red half-light of dying embers in the fire. She knew that Niall was inside because the post that she had been in too much of a hurry to pick up that morning was no longer underfoot, and the place smelled wonderfully of burning logs and coffee, but he made no move to greet her. As she closed the door quietly behind her, she was also aware that there was a strange stillness because Beetroot was still at the farm, not wriggling around her feet to welcome her.

‘Niall?’ She groped for the light switch but, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, spotted his shape slumped in the tattiest armchair just before she hit it.

‘Niall?’ She tip-toed through the dim room, now hearing his low, steady breathing.

He was fast asleep, a three-quarters empty bottle of John Power beside him. He must have bought it from the Olive Branch, she realised – Niall was forever complaining that it was the only Irish whiskey they stocked, although Ange did try to buy in a bottle of Bushmills whenever he knew that Niall was visiting.

When a few gentle nudges failed to rouse him, Tash threw the spare duvet over him, put up the fire-guard and crept upstairs alone.

Niall finally rose at midday – six hours after Tash had woken. He was still craggy with sleepiness and complaining loudly of a monumental hangover, but he didn’t chew her out immediately for rushing away from the christening as she had anticipated. Instead he made coffee, moaned about the mess and, putting on two of Tash’s jumpers which were hanging on the rail above the Rayburn, set about lighting a fire.

Tash hovered awkwardly in the tiny kitchen recess, wondering whether she should set to doing something loving and wifely like heating up croissants and squeezing oranges. But she had neither the enthusiasm nor the ingredients. In a fit of Flab-busters zest, she had packed the fridge with nothing but cottage cheese and salad. Somehow she had a feeling that Niall’s hangover was compatible with neither.

When the fire was at last smoking into the tiny room like Bet Gilroy at the breakfast table of the Rovers Return, Niall retreated to the desk in the corner by the garden window and squared up to a pile of post as high as the table lamp. He had barely spoken a word to her and now he bore a look of such studied, angry concentration that the silence ached on.

Unable to bear the tension any longer, and guiltily aware that it was she who should really break it with an apology, Tash grabbed her purse and fled out of the door to the village shop.

It wasn’t a wise move. Denise Angelo, the svelte, giggling landlady of the Olive Branch, was in there chatting to Godfrey Pelham, the gay ex soapstar who ran the little post office stores in his retirement as though it was Harrods Food Hall, with row upon row of exotic muesli, sun-dried tomatoes, olive purée and Parma ham, but no Spam or Heinz in sight.

‘Tash darling!’ He fell upon her excitedly. ‘I hear your gorgeous chap is in the village again.
Quelle
excitement – will you be having lunch in the pub?’

‘I doubt it.’ Tash scrunched up her face apologetically and picked up a basket.

‘I quite understand,’ Godfrey soothed happily. ‘Still in bed, is he? Bet you’ve just popped in for some biscuits to keep your energy levels up.’

‘Something like that.’ Tash threw some Hobnobs into her basket to keep him happy.

‘Niall popped into the pub last night,’ Denise told her conspiratorially, as though she was a private detective imparting vital information. ‘He looked awfully tired. Said you were too whacked to come out for a drink.’

‘He’s been working very hard on location.’ Tash smiled weakly and headed for the breakfast cereals section which was tucked away from sight behind the upright fridge display.

‘Ah, yes, location work is always the most draining!’ Godfrey sympathised knowingly. ‘All that hanging around in the cold, no decent canteen, desperately early starts – ghastly! I loathed it.’

‘Good job you hardly did any then.’ Denise giggled. ‘Most of your scenes took place at that hospital canteen that wobbled when the door opened, didn’t they?’

Godfrey sniffed sulkily. ‘Well, of course, Niall does more work on seventy-five mil than I ever did.’

‘Is that his fee these days!’ Denise gasped in awe.

‘It’s a technical term,’ Godfrey said witheringly. ‘Isn’t it, Tash sweetie?’

She was too busy reading the sugar content on a box of muesli to take this in.

When she re-emerged from behind the fridge, Godfrey and Denise were exchanging ‘rude little madam’ looks which they instantly changed to expressions of delighted rapture as Tash headed towards the fruit display.

‘You two named the day yet, have you?’ Denise simpered.

She looked up vaguely. ‘It’s Sunday, I think.’

Denise gave her an odd look before realising the mistake. She sensibly didn’t pursue the matter further.

‘Well, I must be getting back to the pub – we’re booked out.’ She cleared her throat. ‘And Ange will be going spare without his pepper.’ She rattled a bag of pepper corns at Tash to emphasise her point. ‘Six ounces here for the price of a pound at the wholesaler’s,’ she tutted, stalking out.

‘Blame the local Tesco’s superstore!’ Godfrey yelled after her huffily before turning his full attention on Tash for some second-hand industry gossip.

Tash couldn’t be bothered with his bitchy, slightly derisive interest right now. She paid for the few things in her basket and wandered up to the farm to collect Beetroot, who was ecstatic to see her.

‘Have you and Niall patched things up?’ Zoe asked hopefully when she arrived.

Tash shrugged.

‘Go back there and talk to him, huh?’ Zoe squeezed her arm. ‘He was in a terrible state last night – seemed to have convinced himself you were having an affair or something.’

‘You’re joking?’

She shook her head seriously. ‘Get back there, Tash, and
talk
to him. He’s so desperately insecure right now.’

Tash bolted back to the forge as though starting from blocks and burst in through the door.

‘The car conked out – it took ages to get it towed and all the pay phones were . . .’ she started to gabble before she realised that Niall was on the phone speaking in a hushed voice.

He hung up the moment he saw her, almost seeming to jump out of his skin with fright.

‘Sorry,’ Tash panted, grinning happily. ‘You didn’t need to do that – I’d have shut up.’

He grinned awkwardly. ‘It was only Bob, so it was, you did me a favour. What were you saying?’

‘Sorry, basically.’ She bit her lip. ‘For dashing off without an explanation yesterday and then not trying hard enough to get through – I honestly thought I’d be back here hours before I made it.’

‘I’m sorry too.’ He stood up and walked towards her, arms outstretched. ‘For getting drunk and not standing up for you. Truth is, your family frighten me a little.’

‘Me too.’ Tash went into his arms, trying to ignore Beetroot growling jealously below. ‘D’you still want to get hitched into the French mob?’

‘Sure do.’ He kissed her neck very gently, aware that his stubble was scratching her. ‘Now, how can I persuade you to come up to Scotland next weekend?’

Tash sighed. ‘I’m competing in Gloucestershire.’

‘Afterwards?’

She wasn’t keen, but she knew he would be hurt if she told him so. She found film sets terrifying, most of all because he did so little to help her out when she visited him there, simply assuming she’d love everyone in the cast as much as he did even though she’d never met them before. ‘I’ll see what Penny and Gus say.’

‘Well, I’ll ask them now, shall I?’ Niall bounced back to the phone, suddenly as excited as Tigger told he was going on a picnic.

Tash paced around as he phoned the farm, inwardly groaning when Gus answered, not Zoe.

Moments later, Niall was doing enthusiastic thumbs up signs at Tash while at the same time apologising to Gus for being a bit off form the night before.

‘Well, that’s settled.’ He grinned as he hung up. ‘You can drive straight up to Scotland after the trials. Gus says he’ll be glad to give us a break together.’

‘What exactly will I drive up in?’ Tash asked worriedly, her heart sinking at the thought of all those intimidating film types. She doubted Ted would lend her his Renault again.

‘Ah, well, I’m going to buy you a car tomorrow morning.’ Niall gripped her hand and started to lead her upstairs. ‘Which only gives us about twelve hours in bed.’

Following him up, Tash started to laugh. He was just impossible to resist sometimes.

‘I said I didn’t want you to buy me a car, Niall,’ she protested rather half-heartedly as he pulled her into the bedroom.

‘Ah, but I insist.’ He gave her a mock-serious look. ‘I’m going to get you a little run-around so that you no longer give me the run-around.’

TASH WAS OVER TWENTY minutes late for her next Flab-busters session. The drive there was a nightmare.

Niall had an impossibly impractical and romantic taste in cars. This did not involve souped-up boy-racers, classic Bentleys or little sports numbers straight out of The Avengers; his taste was far too subtle and eccentric for that. He had a vision of Tash behind the wheel of one car, and one car only – a sixties Citroën DS
décapotable
. Huge, angular and waspish, Tash’s new motor was considered by those in the know to be a classic design icon. Most people, however – including Tash – thought it an ugly, noisy eyesore.

She had seen the car before in movies – Jean-Paul Belmondo had smouldered behind the wheel of one during an off-beat French road movie which Niall was particularly keen on (he had made her stay up until the early hours a year before to catch it on Channel 4).