The hall seemed quiet when she went in, with the heating on full blast and a strong smell of stew in the air. Tavish wriggled free and trotted down the hallway towards the day room; since there was no passing Zimmer frame traffic, Anna let him go to find Mr Quentin while she signed the checking-in book.
‘Anna?’
Joyce hurried over, her face already set in a warning Bad News mask, one finger raised to her lips. Anna peered more closely and saw that Joyce’s cheeks were slippery with tears and her small eyes were red. Joyce wasn’t a weeper; she was normally bracingly pragmatic.
‘Joyce? Are you all right?’ she asked, touching her arm.
‘Oh, I’m a bit cut up, to be honest. It’s poor Mr Quentin.’ She fished a hanky out of her sleeve and wiped under her lower lashes. ‘He passed away about an hour ago. He was all ready for you, too, in his usual chair. Couldn’t wait to see you and the little laddie. Kept asking when you were coming. If we’d got the Bonio ready for the dog. Then he closed his eyes – for a quick nap, he said, before his story – and . . .’ Her voice cracked. ‘Didn’t wake up.’
‘Oh no.’ Anna’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no.’
‘To be honest with you, he’d been poorly for a while. His heart.’ Joyce patted her own bolster-like chest, covering a multitude of diagnoses. ‘Dr Harper didn’t think he needed to go into hospital, but he did warn us that Cyril might go suddenly.’
There was a keening noise from the sitting room and Anna dashed down the hallway. What she saw made the lump in her throat swell.
Tavish had jumped up into Mr Quentin’s winged chair and was circling frantically, trying to pick up a smell from the cushions, all the while making a low, heartbreaking sound in his throat while his tail wagged from side to side, swishing at the cushions with slow thumps.
The other residents were watching him in silence, some pressing hankies to their crumpled faces, but not one shooing him off his master’s chair.
Anna rushed in and picked him up but he scrambled out of her arms and returned to the chair, circling and sniffing and whining, and all she could do was watch him.
He’d known. Somehow Tavish had known before they did.
Anna sank into the seat next to him and cried out the storm of tears that had been building inside her for days. Some for Mr Quentin, but most of them for the display of simple, unconditional devotion playing out in front of her.
She couldn’t help feeling she’d lost something too – with Phil, with Michelle, with her own dreams – but she didn’t want to think about exactly what it was.
Michelle called in to the bookshop at half past four, as usual, and found Anna and Becca sitting by the fireplace in the back room with Tavish. He was curled up on Anna’s knee and for a split second, what with their red eyes and his still shape, Michelle thought the little dog had died. Her heart thumped with shock.
‘Is he OK?’ she asked, dropping her bag in the doorway and hurrying through, forgetting that the shop was still open, and that she and Anna were barely talking beyond basic civilities.
‘Mr Quentin’s died,’ sniffed Anna. ‘This morning, just before we got there. Poor Tavish was so upset. He ran off and found his body in the bedroom, and then he was howling so much I rang Rachel and she got George the vet, her husband, to come out and give him a tranquilliser.’
She blew her nose on one of the expensive tissues from the basket on the counter. She and Becca had gone through two packets of them, going by the screwed-up pile around them. ‘I nearly made him give me one too. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘And is he all right now?’ Michelle bent and stroked Tavish’s ears, but he didn’t respond. The fine hairs on the tips of his ears that were always such a clear indication of his mood were lifeless.
She hadn’t realised till then how much she’d learned to read into his grumpy body language, or how subtle Tavish could be in communicating his feelings. Or how much she would miss his imperious presence around her house if he suddenly wasn’t there.
Don’t die, little man, she thought fiercely. I’ve got chicken in the fridge for you. And salmon. And you can sleep on my bed, if it makes you feel better.
‘George said if he made it through the next few days he’d probably be OK, but he’s an old dog and sometimes they can just go when their owners do.’ Anna wiped her face. ‘It’s like that awful book. Greyfriars Bobby.’
‘I hate that book,’ said Becca suddenly. ‘Gran read that to me and Chloe once when she was babysitting and we cried for days. I still can’t get the image of that poor dog waiting on his master’s grave out of my head . . . Oh, Anna, you’ve started me off again,’ she added as more tears filled her eyes.
Anna tried to brush her own away with a joke. ‘Evelyn read you that? Typical. So sensitive.’
‘Before you ask, I haven’t read it,’ said Michelle. ‘And now I don’t want to.’
Becca got up and Michelle spotted a small but definite baby bump under her long-sleeved T-shirt. It gave her a start. Time was really passing.
She turned to Anna, wanting to say something, but she didn’t know what. There was a painful blank in her brain where the right words should have been – she had no idea what broodiness felt like – and Anna’s face was defensive. Michelle realised she was too scared to say anything, to gentle Anna who’d always been there with the right words for her.
‘Anna, now Michelle’s here, I might go,’ said Becca. ‘This is going to sound really sad, but I want to take Pongo out for a walk.’
‘You go,’ said Michelle. ‘Take Owen with you too – he’s next door.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ said Anna stiffly. ‘Shouldn’t he be working?’
‘Pongo’s strong,’ said Michelle. ‘You’ve got to be careful. And Owen needs to learn about routines. And responsibilities. And picking up poo. Start him with the dog. He’s got five months to get used to the smell.’
Anna didn’t say anything. She started picking up the used tissues.
Becca gave Michelle a sad smile, a ‘You tried’ smile, and left them alone.
‘Anna,’ Michelle started, but Anna wasn’t interested.
‘I’ve got a few books to sell,’ she said. ‘While the shop’s still open.’
The day passed so slowly that Michelle wondered if the clocks had stopped a few times, and she left the shop at six fifteen, not even bothering to tidy up.
Back home she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down on the sofa with Tavish. By eight o’clock, she still hadn’t moved. He’d fallen asleep properly, and seemed so comfortable that she couldn’t bear to move him, even though her left leg had started to prickle with pins and needles. Her hand moved automatically along his back, stroking him more for her own comfort than his, feeling the slow up and down of his breathing.
Michelle knew she should be getting on with her to-do list for the week but sadness was pressing down on her, trapping her on the sofa like a steel rollercoaster bar. The things Anna said had wounded her in a way Harvey had never managed to do. They went round in her head, sharpened by Anna’s hurt eyes. Did she really think she’d kept her at arm’s length so she could be judgemental? How could she be judgemental when Anna’s life was so warm and welcoming, everything Michelle would have loved to have, if only she’d been lucky enough?
Michelle wasn’t a weeper, like Anna, but her whole body ached with a loneliness that made her want to finish the bottle and start another. If she fell out with Anna, then she had no one. Being alone and celibate was wearing and depressing, but being without the only real friend she’d had since school . . . She wasn’t sure she could bear it.
When the doorbell rang, both she and Tavish jumped, and Michelle limped to the door to answer it.
Rory was standing on the step, his coat turned up at the collar, his nose a bit red at the tip. He didn’t grin as normal when he saw her, and he lifted his shoulders without taking his hands out of his pockets. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello. Did I miss an arrange
ment? You’re not meant to be collecting Tavish today, are you?’
‘No. I just thought I’d pop round. For a coffee and a chat.’ Rory raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I should have called to make an appointment but I assumed you’d be here. Let me in, it’s freezing.’
‘A phone call would have done.’ Michelle opened the door and found herself wishing she’d bothered to get changed. She was still in her work clothes – a black pencil skirt now covered in dog hairs, and a shirt that was a tiny bit drooly where Tavish’s head had been resting against her arm.
‘Sad news about Cyril, isn’t it?’ said Rory, bending down to tickle Tavish’s beardy chin. ‘I’m really going to miss him. Still, he’s left a very complicated will so I reckon he’ll get the last laugh on us all.’
‘Complicated how?’
Rory strolled into the kitchen, without taking off his shoes. He did his usual thing of picking things up to inspect them, then putting them down in a slightly different place. ‘It’s a real Agatha Christie one, with individual bequests and bits and pieces going everywhere. He used to love writing his will. Redid it every few years, apparently.’
‘Oh.’ Michelle started spooning coffee into a cafetière and then changed her mind and opened the fridge. ‘Wine all right?’
‘Perfect.’ Rory sat down next to Tavish and let him clamber onto his knee. ‘Of course Cyril’s death is going to affect you more than most, isn’t it?’
‘In what way?’ Michelle knew exactly what he was getting at but wanted him to say it.
‘You don’t have to stick to his year-of-books clause. Although, to be fair, it’s a good job Cyril wasn’t popping in to check on you. Good job I wasn’t holding you to it, either. But then I know when to compromise.’
Rory was looking at her, a challenge in his grey eyes, and she knew he meant the slow creep of bedlinen. She guessed he’d spoken to Anna. They’d probably had one of their ‘woe is me’ conversations about her and her Philistine ways.
The serenity of her sitting room gave way to a crackling tension; Rory’s voice was polite, but she could tell that beneath it was genuine annoyance.
‘Don’t beat about the bush,’ she said stiffly, handing him the glass. They could talk about this like adults, or more to the point, like solicitor and tenant, if that was how he wanted it. ‘If it’s been bothering you so much, why didn’t you say something?’
‘Because technically, I suppose you’re not breaking the letter of agreement, but in a bigger sense, I guess I’m just disappointed.’
‘Disappointed?’ Michelle repeated. ‘Who the hell are you to be disappointed?’
She’d met a lot of men with nerve in her days selling cars, but not one like Rory. Not one powered with turbo-charged self-righteousness the way he was. He ignored the temper in her voice and replied earnestly.
‘If you’re going to lose Longhampton’s one point of warmth and intelligence then at least put something more interesting in there than more of your awful sexless bedding. Anna deserves better, for one. It’s insulting, after all she’s done. Bloody scatter cushions.’
Michelle’s hackles rose. Being lectured about sexless beds by a man with a light sabre on his wall? She wished she hadn’t given him the glass of wine. It would have been nice to pour it over him.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.
‘What’s the point? What are you giving the town with scatter cushions? I honestly thought you were committed to making the place work, the amount of time you and Anna spent getting it right. I guess I thought it meant something to you, the way it means something to me. And Anna. And the other regular customers.’
Michelle gave herself a moment to control the surge of furious adrenalin running through her body, but found she couldn’t. It was too personal.
‘Do you have any idea how smug and ignorant you sound?’ she demanded. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you what I sell in that shop. The day I take business advice from a small town solicitor who doesn’t even own his own flat is the day I know I’ve really run out of ideas.’
That seemed to hit a nerve. He put his glass down on the coffee table, deliberately ignoring the coaster.
‘And I suppose you’ll be wanting to hand Tavish over to me now he’s not needed?’ he said, deliberately provoking her.
Michelle narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s below the belt.’
‘Really? It’s fine for you to make mean comments. I’d be happy to have him. I expect the hairs have been driving you mad. And you don’t need the tie, do you? The big scary emotional tie that stops you flying around the country collecting more meaningless stuff.’
‘How dare you?’ she started, but Rory hadn’t finished.
‘I mean, you could sell anything. Why not sell something that means something? Something that matters?’
‘Like stories?’
‘Books matter. They’re an inspiration, an escape. Something bigger than we are . . .’
‘Like stories. Great. That’s really meaningful, isn’t it?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Escapism. Wow. Because that really helps people. I might as well open an off-licence. Hey, get drunk and in the morning have all your problems to deal with plus a hangover. What is the difference between peddling people some totally unreal version of life, and selling them drugs?’
There was a distant voice in Michelle’s head arguing back even as she was speaking, but she ignored it. Even the way Rory was looking at her – those grey eyes scrutinising her face as if he could read something in it, his foot wagging agitatedly where he’d crossed it over one long leg – even that was winding her up. He felt too masculine, too messy, too unpredictable in her house and she wanted him out, out, as soon as possible. But not in the same way she wanted Harvey out. She wasn’t scared of Rory. She was just infuriated by him.
He opened his mouth to argue back, then stopped and wiped his face with one hand.
‘Why are you so hard to help?’ he demanded from behind it.
Michelle flinched. ‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’ He peered out from between his fingers. The eyes were still fierce, but not hostile. ‘I’ve known some control freaks in my time – I’m a property lawyer, for God’s sake – but I’ve never know anyone so defensive.’
‘You don’t know me at all,’ said Michelle.
‘I do.’ Rory threw a hand out, gesturing at the sitting room. ‘Look at this place. You’ve got a beautiful house with absolutely no personality. No photographs, no art, no books, nothing that tells me anything about you. And that tells me everything! You don’t want anyone to know you. You just want them to admire your taste. And those are two very different things.’
‘That is such bollocks,’ scoffed Michelle. ‘You’re not on Judge John Deed now, you know.’
‘No, it’s not bollocks. You’ve got a shop full of beautiful, meaningless clutter that encourages women with nothing in their lives to clutter up their own houses with more nothing. I mean, scatter cushions.’
Rory picked up a satin pin-tucked scatter cushion from the sofa and dangled it sarcastically in front of her.
‘What is this for? Other than to arrange on your sofa?’
‘It’s to support your back,’ said Michelle.
Rory tossed it on the floor, not letting his eyes drop from her face.
‘Oh, very clever,’ said Michelle.
He picked up another one, looked at her challengingly, and dropped it too.
‘You want me to pick it up,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to.’
Rory dropped the third cushion on the floor, and Michelle had to steel herself not to pick it up, but then he cast his eyes around the room until they fell on the flat bowl of shells on the coffee table.
They were a selection of cockle shells, butter-yellow cowries, tiny curly conches that Michelle had spent ages methodically arranging into size order, so they formed stripes of colour, order superimposed onto their natural randomness. Owen had asked her what the point of arranging them like that had been
and she hadn’t been able to come up with a reason; it had taken her mind off thinking about Harvey and her wasted youth, was the real answer.
‘Like these,’ said Rory. ‘They’re shells. They’re meant to be scattered on a beach, not lined up in order of preference. Their charm is random and you’ve—’
‘Don’t,’ said Michelle, knowing what he was about to do.
‘Why not? Doesn’t make them less lovely. If they were jumbled I’d think, hey, what an interesting souvenir from a holiday. I wonder where she went. I must ask her.’ Rory held her gaze and Michelle felt a shiver of something inside her that sent the hairs on the back of her arms right up.
Again, keeping his eyes locked on hers, he reached out a hand and pushed his fingers into the shells, extending them until the lines began to jumble and blur. All that obsessive compulsion undone in one sweep of his pianist’s hand. Then he flexed his fingers so they ran back through the shells, making them hush against the bowl. There was something curiously sensual about the movement and Michelle’s stomach fluttered.
Then Rory went to tip the bowl over altogether and her resolve snapped.
‘No,’ she said, lunging forward to stop him emptying it onto the carpet.
She grabbed his arm, her fingers locking around his wrist, and he grabbed hers, to stop her falling onto the glass coffee table. The force of her movement nearly sent her into his lap and they both froze. Although they were only touching by his hand on her wrist, and hers round his, the connection felt much more intimate. The moment wobbled on a knife-edge.
Their mouths were very close together, and Michelle could taste Rory’s breath. Her heart was thumping so fast it was making her want to pant, but she held her breath, desperate not to let him think she was panting with unbridled desire like some kind of Jilly Cooper stablegirl.
But the truth was that her insides seemed to have turned to fire, and her knees weren’t much better. Blood was charging around her system as if released for the first time in years. She wanted to pant, because she really was breathless, but she kept on holding her breath, worried now about what Rory was tasting.