Exposure

  “Hi. Could I speak to Claude, please?”

  “What? No. There’s no Claude here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I’m quite sure. Who is this?”

  “Sorry to bother you. I must have misdialled.”

  The man rang off.

  Helene was left with the dial tone buzzing in her ear.

  She replaced the receiver thoughtfully. That voice had sounded very familiar. But how could it be?

  She shook her head. Her frazzled brain was playing tricks on her. It couldn’t possibly be…

  She went back to bed, her body tingling and her mind alert and restless. She forced herself to lie in bed, her eyes staring drily at the ceiling until dawn filtered through the curtains. Then, beaten, she slept.

  Chapter 3

  When her mobile chirruped gently at 7.30am, the short sleep had been enough to leave her feeling tolerably refreshed. Years of training, she reasoned. Or possibly just years of years.

  Having no cat to let out, she poured some muesli and dried fruit into a bowl. But before she could soak the mixture in milk, she changed her mind, put the unappealing rabbit food back in the cardboard packet and rebelliously grilled some streaky bacon.

  When the meat was comfortably wedged between two pieces of toast and drenched with ketchup, Helene dragged one of her precious dining room chairs outside and enjoyed the warmth of the morning sun that streamed into her tiny courtyard garden. The scent of dog roses, so carefully tended by Mr Jenkin, began to have a somnolent effect.

  She tried to imagine what it would be like to do this every day. What would it be like to feel the infinite peace that the cottage brought to her? Why had she spent so many years running away from it, chasing the next big story, driven, ambitious? What was so appealing about a life lived on aeroplanes and in second-rate hotels, when she could have this? She sensed that the cottage could give her contentment without obligation, pleasure without complacency.

  Her phone trilled softly: You have messages.

  It was from Frank: “Contract on your email. Sign by return. Exclusive, Mac’s orders. F.”

  Her shoulders hunched irritably.

  Ok, so one last blast. Better make it a good one.

  She dressed carefully: good jeans, walking shoes (not boots), checked-shirt over a white Tee, day pack with raincoat, water, and Chanel sunglasses. In an overnight bag, she put spare clothes, a dress with heels and her phone charger. Be prepared.

  The Explorer map, still spread over the dining table, was last.

  Almost last.

  She was just about to leave the cottage when she remembered the contract. She hesitated for a second, hand hovering over the door latch. Then she went back inside, fired up the computer, grateful her village had at last been blessed with broadband, and printed out the contract. She signed it, stuffed it in an envelope and took it with her. There was no point hunting for stamps: the maid hadn’t been around lately.

  Although it was still early, the dog walkers and old folks were already up and about. Probably church-goers, too. Helene was glad she’d got away early: the locals were so used to her cottage being unused that they felt no compunction in parking across her drive, blocking her in. Then with smiles and apologies they’d release her after the service, on the rare occasions their paths crossed.

  She left the small, dusty village with mixed feelings. Nevertheless, it was pleasant driving along the main road and letting the little car rattle up the dual carriageway: she was in no particular hurry. The pub she was heading for wouldn’t open much before 11.30am and she had only a small amount of walking to do beforehand. She decided to check out Tregurrian first, then freewheel into the slightly less small hamlet of Trevarrian.

  It was a warm day but with a cooling breeziness typical of coastal areas – and one of the things that she cherished after too many searing summers reporting on desert despots, living with salt tablets and sunstroke.

  After an hour’s driving, she stopped the car at the top of a dirt track, and parked on a dry, yellowing verge. She climbed out of the car and simply stood. The view was breathtaking. She gazed at the horizon, half hypnotised, soaking it up, drinking it in thirstily. Why would anyone want to live anywhere else? The pale, sandy beach wrapped around an arc of velvety blue granite cliffs, punctuating and enclosing the scene.

  Locking her car, she walked loosely down the hill, swinging her arms, towards the uneven collection of buildings. There were a few pretty cottages, some 60’s developments and a tidy caravan park, already lively with children playing and families packing for a day at the beach below. There didn’t appear to be any smart holiday homes; nothing that she imagined the man would be staying in with his expensive girlfriend. She knew it was dangerous to make assumptions but it was all she had to go on. That and instinct born of years of listening to her gut.

  There was no footpath to Trevarrian, which confirmed her prejudice of there being no love lost between the two hamlets. Instead she walked along the coastal road, standing with her back pressed to the granite hedges to let the occasional car pass. The small fields were turning golden with wheat, promising an early harvest, and the air was soft. She felt a sense of well-being that was at odds with her current assignment – if it could be called that. She felt uneasy, remembering the contract stuffed into her day pack.

  Trevarrian was larger and clearly more successful than its near neighbour. As well as the usual mix of cottages and newer houses, it boasted a corner shop, rather extravagantly entitled a ‘country larder’, as well as the pub and yet another caravan park. There were also some promising-looking, larger cottages. There was bound to be someone in this village who worked as a cleaner. They always knew everything about the places that they cleaned. One displayed one’s peccadilloes to the cleaner at one’s peril.

  It didn’t take long to stroll around the village, but all the same Helene was glad to find that the pub was open for business. Instead of taking a table outside, jaunty with a sun umbrella advertising Pimms, she headed into the dimly lit nether regions. Although she would have preferred an outside table for herself, the people who could tell her what she needed to know would be inside.

  Hunched over the bar was the usual selection of regulars: old men and unemployed builders sipping their stout or Betty Stoggs, a local brew that smelt of hay and summer fruit, with just a hint of treacle… or so the advertisements declared.

  She smiled politely, waiting to be noticed. No point coming over like an impatient, time-is-money DFL (down from London) tourist today.

  The barmaid was efficient, pouring her a frothy shandy and explaining the specials on the lunch menu: risotto for the vegetarians, sausage and mash with onion gravy for the more discerning.

  She could see the men were taken aback and slightly alarmed when she leaned against the bar, apparently disposed to chat.

  The boldest of them turned his back pointedly but Helene was able to muster more than sufficient charm to have him reluctantly turn back towards her and even to chuckle throatily at some of her gentle jokes about in-comers, in which she included herself.

  “I suppose you must get a lot of tourists here,” she said, finally herding the conversation in a more fruitful direction, “or maybe it’s mostly second-home owners around here?”

  The oldest man screwed up his face and grunted. Helene suspected he had been going to spit but then restrained himself in view of the company he was currently keeping.

  “Argh. Useless lot,” he said. “Taking homes from locals, houses empty three-quarters of the year. It’s no good for anyone. It’s killing the place. But they don’t think of that. Them bankers’ bonuses are a scandal.”

  There was a lot of head-nodding at this.

  “What do you call a hundred bankers chained to the bottom of the sea?” said the ginger one, pausing for an attempt at comic timing. “A good start!”

  Helene laughed appreciatively.

  “It’s such a shame,” she said, drawing the conversation bac
k towards a useful line of enquiry. “I’d love to live somewhere like this... if I could afford to. I’ve always wanted to live in a small village and become part of the community. I think that’s so important, don’t you, to take part and do something?”

  Yes, yes. They all nodded in agreement although Helene suspected the three of them had done nothing more useful for the local community than keep the pub in business since the no-smoking ban had come in. Which was heroic of them, really. Times were tough for beaten up pubs with dated decor, although she had to admit the shandy was better than she’d expected. At least, the lemonade wasn’t flat, and the wine menu looked promising. Perhaps that was the presence of the caravan park. Perhaps not.

  “Do you have many second homes here?”

  “Argh. More than our fair share and that’s the truth.”

  “Are they all new people? I remember meeting someone once who told me that they’d been going to the same cottage for thirty years. I always thought that sounded so lovely.”

  “Don’t really know any of ‘em,” said the older man.

  The others shook their heads.

  Helene was disappointed and sipped her shandy wondering how to frame her next question.

  “Except for the Colonel, o’ course,” said the third one dreamily.

  The others nodded.

  “The Colonel?” said Helene, in an encouraging tone.

  “Yas, his family ‘as been coming y’ere since I was a lad,” said the older man, whom Helene judged to be about 70, although you couldn’t always tell with these seadog types.

  “Does he still come?” said Helene.

  “Naw. Dead these ten years. The wife comes now and again. She’s alright, Mrs Colonel. Never speaks down to us. Not like her daughter. Flighty piece. Time she got married. She pretends she’s still 30 but I’ve known her since she was a chile vean an’ I’m telling you there’s no change from 40 there.”

  The men smirked and Helene smiled politely, not allowing the irritation to show.

  “So she owns the cottage now, does she?” she said, still conversationally.

  “Argh. With that brother of hers. He’s not so bad, tho’ we don’t be seeing him that often. Not like missy. Her and her fancy man. Now there’s a story.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yas. Summat funny about that fella.”

  “Oo’s that then, Alf?”

  “You know,” said the older man, “that long drink o’ water what she’s been mucking about with. You must ‘a seen him: talks a lot ‘bout hisself. Been in y’ere a couple o’ times. Was in last night coming the big I Am.”

  Helene was pretty sure she’d hit the jackpot and discovered what she wanted to know. Even better, the barmaid had timed it perfectly and arrived with her sausage and mash so Helene was obliged to leave her new friends and take a table in the corner.

  The sausages were meaty, locally shot, and just seasoned enough. The mash was creamy and the gravy excellent. This place was full of surprises. Helene gave her plate the attention it deserved, keeping an ear open for anything else concerning the Colonel’s daughter and her unlikely boyfriend.

  She learned that their house was called ‘Balaclava’ and was one of the older cottages in the village. Not only that, the cleaner, someone named as ‘Avril’ had reported that the Colonel’s daughter never rose before 11am and that a scandalously large number of champagne bottles had been seen in the recycling bin. Oh, and that missy never did any cooking but her male guest, the ‘toy boy’, had been seen with an apron on in the kitchen.

  There was then a lengthy discussion about whether or not it was manly – or ‘nancy’ as the three so delicately phrased it – to cook. After some disagreement they concluded that it was alright if you were a) as rich as Gordon Ramsay, or b) nearly Cornish like Rick Stein.

  “He’s not a bad bloke, just a bit fond o’ his own voice,” said the older man in conclusion.

  At least you’ve got something in common then, thought Helene darkly.

  “Talk ‘o the devil,” muttered Ginger.

  Helene’s heart skipped a beat and she looked up as casually as possible.

  It was him. There was no mistake.

  The same lanky frame that she remembered from the train, but today he was wearing fawn chinos with a pale blue shirt that matched his eyes. He looked like an older version of Prince William but with more hair.

  “Top of the morning, Clive. Another day in paradise!”

  His voice was the same light tenor.

  “Argh. Mornin’.”

  “I’ve got another one for you: What’s the difference between a dead cat on the motorway and a dead banker on the motorway? [Pause] There are skid marks around the cat!”

  Helene looked at Ginger who had just enough grace to blush slightly.

  The man leaned easily against the bar, adopting the air of one who belonged, a hail fellow well met.

  He caught Helene’s eye and smiled.

  “Ah! Ladies present: we’d better keep it clean, chaps.”

  Then he spoke directly to Helene.

  “I hope that little joke didn’t offend you.”

  “Not at all,” said Helene smiling back. “I don’t have a cat.”

  For just a second the man was caught out but he rallied quickly and Helene recognised the spark of challenge in his eyes.

  The barmaid poured him a glass of red wine and he raised his glass to her: one, nil.

  Helene raised her nearly empty shandy glass in reply.

  He walked boldly towards her: the challenge had been accepted.

  “Ah, I see you’ve been enjoying the bangers and mash. Susan really knows how to spoil us.” He nodded towards the beaming barmaid. “And I see your glass is empty: may I buy you another?”

  “Thank you,” said Helene, “but I generally buy my own drinks until I know someone.”

  He bowed slightly.

  “Then let this time be one of the exceptions. Another shandy?”

  Helene smiled: “I’d love a mineral water. I’m driving later. Sparkling, please.”

  Ginger sat with his mouth hanging open: he’d obviously never seen such smooth moves from his bar seat before. Helene had to agree the man was good. She’d have to be careful.

  He returned with her drink and his own large glass of Merlot, then sat down, assuming his purchase of her drink had also purchased her company for the time it would take her to finish the fizzy water.

  A small part of Helene was tempted to use the water to cool his assumptions. Her younger self might have acted on the temptation but she had other fish to fry and more bait to lay.

  “Do you live around here?”

  Helene opened the bowling.

  “It’ll be home for a few weeks,” he batted back easily. “You’re visiting, I take it.”

  “Yes, I’m walking the coast path. It’s a gorgeous part of the world.”

  “It’s odd,” he said, looking directly into her eyes, “but I have the most peculiar feeling that we’ve met before.”

  He batted straight to the boundary.

  Helene felt her heart beat a little faster, but she raised an ironic eyebrow.

  “No-one has ever said that to me before!”

  He smiled.

  “No really. But you’re right: I can imagine how that sounds – I mean, you hardly know me. In fact, let me introduce myself: Charles Paget, at your service.”

  “Helene La Borde.”

  They shook hands. His grip was firm, the skin warm and dry.

  “Well, Helene La Borde, have we met before?”

  Helene shook her head and kept smiling even though the expression had just frozen on her face.

  He kept looking at her. She kept talking.

  “I suppose it’s possible but I doubt it: I have a pretty good memory for faces.”

  He smiled back. “What a coincidence, so do I. And your face does seem familiar.”

  Helene began to feel uncomfortable. He was keeping her on the hook – letting her wrigg
le.

  “Well, I spend most of my time in London...” she said hesitantly.

  “Another coincidence. So do I.”

  He beamed at her.

  Helene was annoyed that she’d let him take charge of the conversation. She tried to claw it back.

  “I think one of the gentlemen at the bar said you owned a cottage in the village.”

  He nodded, not bothering to correct her.

  “Yah, ‘Balacalva’. It’s up at the top of the hill.”

  “That’s an interesting name for a house, especially down here.”

  “Hmm. I think it used to be called ‘Waterloo’ but it was changed 150 years ago. A modernising feature.”

  Helene acknowledged the witticism.

  “Well, I’m so glad it hasn’t been updated further or you could be living in a house called ‘Helmand’.”

  He smiled enigmatically.

  Helene wasn’t sure if he’d understood her joke and not found it funny, or simply missed the reference. Either way she was on the back foot – again. This guy was good.

  The silence held as Helene sipped her water, gazing out of the window, her colour rising slowly.

  “I’m going to guess that you’re a writer,” he said at length, leaning back, a slight smile twisting his lips.

  Helene was startled.

  “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and stretched his arms across the back of the window seat.

  “You have a way with words and you look – creative.”

  Helene decided to try for the boundary.

  “My turn: you don’t look like a banker. And you’re definitely not a farmer. I’d say you were ...a soldier. No, wait, an ex-soldier. Am I right?”

  He leaned forward and looked her in the eyes, speaking softly.

  “And I’m going to guess you’re a journalist. Am I right?”

  She held his gaze, then nodded.

  “Some say so.”

  He leaned back again.

  “But I’m on holiday,” said Helene, trying to look relaxed.

  He smiled seductively.

  “Me, too. Another coincidence. People will talk.”

  “I’ve noticed that. And when they do talk, what do people usually say about you?”