with her. If Madeleine left any of Lily’s behind they’ll have grown mould by now. Go on, do your stuff. You never know, she might surprise you.”
It was only afterwards, when I found a mirror in the bathroom, that I realized how dreadful I looked. My T-shirt and long flimsy skirt did me no favours at all, clinging as they did to every angular bone and showing how skinny I was. My eyes had dark rings round them, my hair looked as if it had been doused in Brylcreem and my face was covered in blotches. I’d have taken myself for a depressed mental case, so it wasn’t surprising that Jess and Peter both showed concern when they saw me.
I must have looked angry, too, because Jess’s first instinct was to apologize when she came through the baize door and found me beside the table in the hall. “I’m sorry,” she said after a small hesitation. “I just wanted to let you know that we’re in the kitchen.”
“Right.”
She nodded to the mobile, which I’d retrieved from the Mini’s bonnet and still held in my hand. “If you’re looking for a signal there isn’t one, I’m afraid. It’s the same in my house. I can get one in the attic but that’s about it. We’re too low down the valley.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “The landline works if that’s any help. I’ve checked it. There’s a cordless phone beside the fridge.”
“Right.”
My one-word answers seemed to disconcert her and she stared at the floor. Not knowing her, I assumed she expected gratitude for her intervention, and it was only later that I discovered how much she relied on other people to make conversation. Peter blamed her introverted nature, but I always felt there was a level of arrogance in it as well. She was above the common courtesy of small talk, and it was left to others to struggle with her silences.
We were rescued by Peter, who appeared out of the corridor behind her and advanced on me with a smile on his face. “Hi, there,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’m Peter Coleman. Welcome to Winterbourne Barton. I gather Jess’s dogs gave you a bit of a fright.”
I tried to step back but his fingers had already swallowed mine. “Marianne Curran,” I said, eyes widening as my skin crawled under his.
He released me immediately and stood aside to gesture me towards the corridor. “I can’t get it into Jess’s head that the average person doesn’t appreciate being slobbered over by those ugly great brutes. Their bark’s a lot worse than their bite, of course—rather like their mistress.” His eyes lit with ironic humour as he ignored Jess’s glare and shepherded me towards the kitchen. “How far have you driven? If you’ve come from London, you must be exhausted…”
He sat me at the table and kept up an innocuous monologue until I relaxed enough to answer, although I was guarded in what I said, giving half truths rather than outright lies. I told him I’d been born and brought up on a farm in Zimbabwe, that I’d fled with my parents to London when our neighbour was murdered in a racist attack and that I’d rented Barton House for six months to write a book. I expected to be quizzed on details but Peter appeared entirely indifferent to what type of book I was planning or whether I’d written one before. Nor did he visit the reasons for my panic attack.
Jess took no part in the conversation but stood by the door to the scullery, chewing at her bottom lip. She wouldn’t look at either of us and I did wonder if she had a soft spot for Peter and was angry that he was giving his attention to me. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere and I wished the pair of them would go. I’d like to have told Jess she had nothing to worry about—a tactile doctor with perceptive eyes was of no interest to me at all—but I didn’t, of course.
Instead, I searched for a form of dismissal that wouldn’t sound too rude when Peter said in a warning tone: “Don’t even think about leaving, Jess. You’re the
It was only afterwards, when I found a mirror in the bathroom, that I realized how dreadful I looked. My T-shirt and long flimsy skirt did me no favours at all, clinging as they did to every angular bone and showing how skinny I was. My eyes had dark rings round them, my hair looked as if it had been doused in Brylcreem and my face was covered in blotches. I’d have taken myself for a depressed mental case, so it wasn’t surprising that Jess and Peter both showed concern when they saw me.
I must have looked angry, too, because Jess’s first instinct was to apologize when she came through the baize door and found me beside the table in the hall. “I’m sorry,” she said after a small hesitation. “I just wanted to let you know that we’re in the kitchen.”
“Right.”
She nodded to the mobile, which I’d retrieved from the Mini’s bonnet and still held in my hand. “If you’re looking for a signal there isn’t one, I’m afraid. It’s the same in my house. I can get one in the attic but that’s about it. We’re too low down the valley.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “The landline works if that’s any help. I’ve checked it. There’s a cordless phone beside the fridge.”
“Right.”
My one-word answers seemed to disconcert her and she stared at the floor. Not knowing her, I assumed she expected gratitude for her intervention, and it was only later that I discovered how much she relied on other people to make conversation. Peter blamed her introverted nature, but I always felt there was a level of arrogance in it as well. She was above the common courtesy of small talk, and it was left to others to struggle with her silences.
We were rescued by Peter, who appeared out of the corridor behind her and advanced on me with a smile on his face. “Hi, there,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’m Peter Coleman. Welcome to Winterbourne Barton. I gather Jess’s dogs gave you a bit of a fright.”
I tried to step back but his fingers had already swallowed mine. “Marianne Curran,” I said, eyes widening as my skin crawled under his.
He released me immediately and stood aside to gesture me towards the corridor. “I can’t get it into Jess’s head that the average person doesn’t appreciate being slobbered over by those ugly great brutes. Their bark’s a lot worse than their bite, of course—rather like their mistress.” His eyes lit with ironic humour as he ignored Jess’s glare and shepherded me towards the kitchen. “How far have you driven? If you’ve come from London, you must be exhausted…”
He sat me at the table and kept up an innocuous monologue until I relaxed enough to answer, although I was guarded in what I said, giving half truths rather than outright lies. I told him I’d been born and brought up on a farm in Zimbabwe, that I’d fled with my parents to London when our neighbour was murdered in a racist attack and that I’d rented Barton House for six months to write a book. I expected to be quizzed on details but Peter appeared entirely indifferent to what type of book I was planning or whether I’d written one before. Nor did he visit the reasons for my panic attack.
Jess took no part in the conversation but stood by the door to the scullery, chewing at her bottom lip. She wouldn’t look at either of us and I did wonder if she had a soft spot for Peter and was angry that he was giving his attention to me. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere and I wished the pair of them would go. I’d like to have told Jess she had nothing to worry about—a tactile doctor with perceptive eyes was of no interest to me at all—but I didn’t, of course.
Instead, I searched for a form of dismissal that wouldn’t sound too rude when Peter said in a warning tone: “Don’t even think about leaving, Jess. You’re the
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