The Little B & B at Cove End. Linda Mitchelmore

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СКАЧАТЬ any hope of repair when the car had caught fire after Mark had been pulled free by the fire crew. Stuff in the boot had been saved, but not all the things on the back seat, the paintings amongst it. Cara often wondered where those other paintings of Seth Jago’s might be, but in a strange way she was glad they hadn’t become victims of Mark’s fatal accident, because they’d vanished from Cove End a long time before that.

      Tell me, Rosie,’ Cara said as she sipped the tea her friend had made her, ‘is the whole village talking about me?’

      ‘Well, yes. Of course they are. Not as much as when Mark died because that was a shock to everyone I expect, but you’re probably still good gossip fodder.’ Rosie’s reply was swift and honest. ‘You’re only thirty-nine. You’re a widow. They’re sad for you, that’s all.’

      Cara studied Rosie’s face as she spoke, trying to see lies in her friend’s eyes, the way she’d known there were lies in Mark’s eyes every time he’d said he hadn’t gambled that day, nor the day before, and that he wouldn’t gamble tomorrow. Whenever she’d challenged him, demanding to know where her silver, or her paintings, or her household goods had gone, Mark always said he’d replace everything just as soon as he’d won enough on the next throw of the dice. Always the next throw of the dice would sort everything. Except it never did. It was all lies, lies, lies. But Rosie’s eyes were wide and clear as they focused on Cara’s almost royal blue ones.

      ‘But they know?’

      ‘I think some of them do, yes. When a man starts selling his own household goods down the pub, people are going to know something’s up. Andy Povey at the Beachcomber has a pretty good idea what Mark was up to because he bought Mark’s watch off him. Amongst other things, no doubt.’

      ‘Oh great. The pub landlord knows so now the whole village knows.’

      Cara never went in the village pub, so at least she’d been saved from any knowing glances, and she felt oddly glad of that now.

      ‘Not necessarily. A pub landlord’s a bit like a priest at confessional but without the divine right to dish out Hail Marys. I expect with Andy, most of what he hears goes in one ear and out the other. He’s a good bloke.’

      ‘Did Andy tell you he knew about Mark?’ Cara had to know. She was no shrinking violet, but now she’d need nerves of steel to walk down the street if Andy had told all his customers.

      ‘He had a quiet word with me in Sainsbury’s. Because he knows we’ve been friends forever, you and me.’

      ‘In Sainsbury’s? With the world and his wife listening in?’

      ‘I’m not going to answer that,’ Rosie said. ‘I can do discreet, you know. As can Andy Povey when he sees a need.’

      ‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ Cara said. ‘I don’t know how you’ve put up with my outbursts at times.’

      ‘Because I’m a saint,’ Rosie laughed. Then she looked serious. ‘No, I’m no saint, as you know. But you are my dearest friend, and I am Mae’s godmother, and I care about you both. And I would, quite literally, give an arm for you not to be in this situation, but we both know that can’t happen.’

      Cara nodded.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘for being there for me.’

      ‘No worries. Now, if you don’t need me to give you more advice on how to bring up your teenage daughter, I’d better buzz. I’ve got two eyebrow tints, a leg wax, then two Brazilians followed by a manicure on the books. And a thirty-minute drive to my salon, so …’

      Rosie had hit on the idea of opening her salon on Sunday evenings for women and girls who worked nine to five and couldn’t make weekday or daytime appointments, and who – perhaps – didn’t want to cut into their weekend time off by going to a beauty salon on a Saturday when they could be shopping or out with their mates. It was really taking off. But if she was honest, Cara was missing Rosie’s company; needing it now more than ever. The first six months after Mark’s death had been a mad scramble to sort the legal aspects that result from a sudden death, and Cara had got through it on automatic pilot almost. Then came the year of ‘firsts’ followed by a time of mourning for the good times she and Mark had shared, and a feeling of loss that they would now not have a future.

      ‘No, I’m fine,’ Cara said, feeling anything but. ‘You go. I need to sort out bed linen and crockery and so on. Then I’ve got to think of something to send to the paper about putting in an ad for the B&B. With this art festival coming up, I can’t fail to get guests, can I?’

      Cara took a deep breath. And I’ve got to try not to worry about Mae being with Josh Maynard and whether he is pushing Mae into having underage sex, and work out how many rooms I will need to fill to pay the rates and the supermarket and for Mae to go to Paris with her school in September, she thought. Her head was a maelstrom of random thoughts, and she was starting to get a headache between her eyes.

      ‘It’s hardly St Ives here,’ Rosie said. ‘I mean, Larracombe? Two pubs, one church, a harbour that holds about a dozen boats, two gift shops and a handful of cottages. And a half hour drive to a decent supermarket. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s all over the village that some famous painter is coming. I mean, now this house is denuded of paintings, do you really want an art festival thrown in your face?’

      ‘I need the money,’ Cara said quietly. Just as soon as she was alone she’d ring the number on the bottom of the flyer and register. ‘And I thought you were in a hurry to go.’

      Rosie laughed.

      ‘Bugger off, you mean,’ she said. Rosie reached for her bag, rifling through it for her keys. ‘But think about it, eh? I wouldn’t want you to have any more pain – emotionally that is – than you already have.’

      ‘I have thought about it,’ Cara told her. She glanced at the darker patches on the kitchen wall where her beloved paintings had been, knowing the walls in every other room in the house looked the same. ‘Anyway, how hard can cooking bacon and eggs and a few rounds of toast be?’

      Rosie had found her keys and jangled them at Cara.

      ‘For me, my love, it would be akin to penal servitude – a fate worse than death. Oh God, sorry. I didn’t mean death as in Mark, you know. I meant death as in the worst possible thing that could happen to a person and …’

      ‘Stop! You’re digging yourself in deeper. You’ll need a sparrow’s crane to get you out if you carry on. Go!’ Cara laughed, feeling the ripple of the laugh ease her pain, and the tightness in her chest, just a little. Even the headachey worry lines between her eyes were smoothing out a little. She reached out and held onto her friend’s hands, and for a moment the two women’s eyes locked before Cara looked away, afraid that Rosie would notice Cara was hiding lies of her own. Because what she hadn’t told anybody – not Rosie, the coroner, the police, or Mark’s parents was that as well as all her paintings, Mark had also taken most of his clothes and his computer because Cara, unable to put up with Mark’s gambling any more, had asked him to leave.

      And would the guilt of that ever leave her? What if Mae were to even suspect that of her? What then?

       Chapter Two

      ‘Great, СКАЧАТЬ