The Summer House Page 14

  ‘I suppose there’s no alternative,’ she’d said icily. ‘I’ll go and look at it tomorrow morning, then. I suppose you’ve already seen it. You’d better leave his telephone number.’

  She’d seen his look of disappointment, known that he’d hoped that they’d go together to look at the barn, but he’d said nothing more and she’d got up from the table and banged about in the kitchen, clearing up the supper and feeling angry and frustrated. She’d known she was being unreasonable and expecting too much. After all, Jules had never been a particularly oversensitive man; he was down-to-earth, practical and quite tough. Not like Nick, for instance, who was much gentler, much more aware of people’s sensibilities.

  Now, thinking about Nick, remembering how much she’d longed for him when he’d been with her yesterday, Im felt a scalding twinge of guilt. She looked again at Jules’ recumbent form, hesitated, half lifted a hand towards him. At the same moment there was a high imperious cry; then another one: Rosie was awake. Im pushed back the quilt and slid quietly and quickly out of bed.

  Jules waited until the door had closed behind her, then he turned on to his back, took a deep breath, and stretched. He’d grown adept at feigning sleep, hating those moments when they’d lie side by side, stiff as a pair of skittles, each locked into silence with the stretch of icy sheet between them. The fact was that he simply didn’t know what to do. He absolutely refused to put himself totally in the wrong, though, and beg forgiveness for something that wasn’t his fault. After all, they both knew that Bossington was too far away from the practice to make it a sensible place to live, and he wasn’t going to grovel about it: she knew all about the pressures of the job. He expected Im to behave like an adult and accept her disappointment. Anyway, now that Matt was going to buy it – oh, the triumphant way she’d announced that Matt was going to keep the dear old Summer House in the family, as if Matt were the only person to understand how important that was – she’d be able to go over as often as she wanted to. And when he’d said as much, imagining that she’d be pleased, she’d stared at him as if he were a monster. ‘Thanks,’ she’d said. Sarcastic and contemptuous. Just that: ‘Thanks.’

  He resented this suggestion that he was some kind of unfeeling moron. In fact, on the few occasions when he’d attempted to break the impasse she’d absolutely rejected him: refused to meet him halfway. And now there was this nonsense about the barn, and the way she was insisting on going alone to see it. Well, he’d look a fool, that was all. Billy Webster would wonder what the hell was going on, and it meant a phone call to try to make out that Im could manage to come over this morning but that he’d be too busy to come with her; something like that. He didn’t want Billy suspecting that there was anything wrong and he hoped to God that Im was nice to Billy and his wife. It was damned embarrassing, and too bad of Im to put him into this position.

  Jules lay for a moment, seething with impotence and unhappiness. He glanced at the bedside clock, threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom.

  Nick phoned about half an hour after Jules had left the cottage, hardly speaking and much earlier than usual.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Im, guessing that Nick was alone. She wiped Rosie’s face clumsily with the cloth in her left hand. ‘Keep still, Rosie. I should have said that this was a tad early for you to be out.’

  ‘I’m walking Pud,’ he told her. He sounded amused. ‘I’d no idea how useful it is to have a dog. He’s a wonderful excuse for an early walk and a bit of privacy. I was wondering whether we could meet up for coffee. Or lunch?’

  ‘It’s a bit tricky. Hang on, I’m just getting something to keep Rosie amused. Here you are, darling, here’s Bab and your rabbit book. Sorry, Nick. Listen. I’m going over to Simonsbath to see a barn that we might rent. Jules is pretty sure that the farmer or his wife will be around but he’s going to double-check and then phone me. I want to go this morning if I can. We’ve simply got to make a decision.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said at once. ‘It’ll be fun. Why not?’

  She hesitated, terribly tempted. ‘I don’t think we should,’ she said reluctantly at last. ‘It’s very near the practice, and it’s possible that Jules might turn up unannounced. It would be … well, it would be embarrassing.’

  ‘OK.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘But we could meet somewhere afterwards, couldn’t we?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She was flustered; trying to collect the breakfast plates one-handed. ‘What’s Matt doing this morning? I mean, won’t they all be a bit surprised that you’re going off on your own?’

  ‘He and Lottie are going to see some old chum. A writer who lives over near Dulverton. I was invited but I don’t really know whoever it is so I cried off, and Dad’s got things to do in the garden. I think Matt’s getting nervous about this girl Annabel who’s coming down on Sunday. Dad and Lottie are wondering whether he’s really serious about her, hoping that this time she might be the one. That kind of thing. They aren’t pressuring him but I think they want to know how to behave towards her; whether she’s extra-special. Of course, Matt is insisting that she’s just a friend, like he always does.’

  ‘Well, we’d all like to meet the girl that Matt could really fall for,’ Imogen agreed. ‘But he seems completely incapable of finding one that he can commit to. You and Matt and I never really had any good role models when it came to happy marriages, did we?’

  ‘Well, you seemed to have managed it,’ he answered lightly. ‘How is Jules?’

  The question pulled her up short and reignited all her grievances. ‘Grumpy,’ she answered. ‘He’s in Eeyore mode.’

  Nick laughed. ‘Poor darling. I couldn’t sympathize more. Perhaps he and Alice should get together. We’ll find them a nice damp corner in Hundred Acre Wood and build them a little wooden house and they can grump about together at Pooh Corner. Come on, Im. What about lunch in Lynmouth?’

  ‘I have to think about Rosie,’ she said uncertainly, watching her daughter crooning over the battered pages of the little book, Bab clutched lovingly against her chest. ‘It’s not always easy in pubs. Some don’t allow children, except in dreary family rooms, and she’s a nightmare in a restaurant. I have to fit around her lunchtime too, you see.’

  ‘I’ll bring a picnic,’ he said instantly. ‘Fantastic. You bring something for Rosie and I’ll manage our lunch and we’ll eat it in your car. Is it a deal? Pick a place.’

  She began to laugh; her spirits rose at the prospect and the black cloud of her misery drew back a little: ‘It’s a deal,’ she agreed. ‘What about up on Brendon Common? There’s that car park in a kind of quarry under Shilstone Hill. You know where I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I know. About one-ish?’

  ‘No, earlier than that. Rosie will be wanting her lunch soon after twelve. I’m hoping to get over to this barn fairly early but I expect it will mean having coffee and a chat with Mr Webster or his wife. I just hope it’s as good as Jules says it is, that’s all. We’ve left it so late but that’s my fault really. I suppose that, knowing that we could go to the High House if we were really stuck, kind of took the pressure off. And now Matt’s saying we could camp at the Summer House if we want to.’

  ‘But you’d hate that, wouldn’t you?’ He sounded concerned. ‘I mean, it would be like really rubbing it in, I should think.’

  She warmed to him afresh for his intuition: ‘It would,’ she agreed. ‘Keep your fingers crossed that the barn is good. And luckily it would be furnished. We’ve never had our own place yet and I wouldn’t want to buy furniture until I buy the house it’s going into. We’ve got a few bits and pieces that Milo’s stored for us but nothing serious. Anyway, I’ll let you know later what it’s like. And if I’m a bit late, or something goes wrong—’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he told her, ‘for as long as it takes. See you later, Im.’

  She switched her mobile off, flustered and confused. How could there be anything wrong with having a picnic with Nick; after all, he was practically Ros
ie’s uncle? Yet she knew that she wouldn’t tell Jules about it. She wondered if Nick would tell Matt and Lottie where he was going – and knew deep down that he wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Venetia arrived early for lunch on Sunday: too early. She knew it but simply couldn’t resist. There was nothing worse, she told herself, than getting ready and then sitting about, glancing at the clock, waiting to go; and, anyway, this new girl of Matt’s was arriving and she wanted to be there so as to see it all. So much happened just at those first moments of introductions and she didn’t want to miss a minute of it. How she loved the bustle and excitement of new people: of watching their reactions, of sizing them up.

  ‘She’s not a girlfriend,’ Lottie had said when she’d phoned to say that Annabel would be there. ‘We’ve asked him and he’s been very firm about it. Just one of his publishing friends. You know what I mean, Venetia.’

  Of course she knew what she meant. Darling Lottie was warning her not to put her foot in it. In fact she suspected that Lottie was hoping that she might cry off; insist that she mustn’t intrude on their family party.

  ‘Of course I know, sweetie,’ she’d answered instead. ‘What fun. I can’t wait to meet her.’

  So now she sat close to the wood-burner, gin and tonic at hand, chatting easily to Nick whilst Lottie laid the table in the breakfast room and Milo appeared from time to time fresh from his preparations in the kitchen.

  ‘And don’t eat all the nibblies,’ he told them. ‘Leave some for Matt and Annabel.’

  Behind his back Venetia pulled down the corners of her mouth and made big eyes at Nick, inviting complicity.

  He grinned back at her. ‘We’re all dying to meet Annabel,’ he said. ‘She and Matt should be here any minute.’

  ‘An odd time to arrive from London,’ observed Venetia. ‘Lunchtime on Sunday.’

  ‘Yesterday was her parents’ wedding anniversary. One of those important ones that she couldn’t miss. So she’s come dashing down this morning on the train and has to go back tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Quite long enough to discover whether we like her or not,’ she said, pinching another small handful of crisps; they were simply so delicious she couldn’t resist. She never bought them for herself: too tempting. ‘I always know straight away, don’t you?’

  Nick looked thoughtful. ‘No, not really,’ he said at last. ‘I often think I do but then I’m usually wrong. I’m not a very good judge of character, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s because you always expect people to be nice,’ she told him. ‘You want to like them. It’s a great mistake to look for the good in people. So disappointing. Much better to believe the worst and then if something good does appear it’s such a pleasant surprise, d’you see?’

  He burst out laughing and she laughed with him. ‘You are such a cynic,’ he said. ‘You’re nearly as bad as my mother.’

  She bit back the answer that sprang to her lips – ‘Your mother isn’t a cynic she’s just a bad-tempered cow’ – and scooped up a few olives, keeping an eye open lest Milo should suddenly reappear.

  ‘It’s a pity that Im and Jules couldn’t be here too,’ she said. ‘A real family party.’

  Nick didn’t reply and she glanced at him; he was biting his lip, frowning a little, and she sat up straighter, wondering if there had been some kind of row that she hadn’t heard about yet.

  ‘Rather overwhelming for Annabel, wouldn’t you say?’ Lottie had come out of the breakfast room and now she sat down beside Nick. ‘I should think we’ll be quite daunting enough as it is for the poor girl. I think I’ll have that drink now, Nick. Yes, gin and tonic would be good, thanks. Are any of your lot down for Easter, Venetia?’

  Milo reappeared before she had a chance to answer, which was a relief, because it was a bit embarrassing to admit to the fact that neither of her sons and their families had been down for a very long time. Of course, her house was tiny and it was a problem trying to fit them all in – but still …

  The sound of an engine, car doors slamming, saved her from having to answer, and Matt was coming in, leading the way, followed by a very small dark girl who smiled sweetly as Nick and Lottie got up to greet them.

  Venetia watched, not moving yet. The girl was quite pretty, she decided, though she’d never admired that tiny, dark-haired, simpering type. She disliked undersized women: too much like small dogs that were always treated as if they were sweet little puppies instead of the snappy, full-grown adults that they really were. She noted that Annabel was already playing the girlish part with Milo, bridling slightly and looking shy, whilst trying to keep Pud at bay by edging him away with her foot. And now Nick was exerting his charm, bending slightly from his great height, and Venetia wanted to laugh out loud at Annabel’s expression that subtly acknowledged his attractiveness whilst hinting that she was already committed elsewhere otherwise she might be interested. Nick was looking flattered – a wonderful example of his lack of judgement of character – and asking about her journey. Annabel was answering, giving Pud another unobserved shove with her foot, taking a glass of wine from Matt and sending him a quick little glance that implied she was just the tiniest bit overwhelmed and needed his protection. He, however, didn’t pick up the subtle signal.

  Venetia took a deep, satisfying breath. One thing was certain: Annabel wouldn’t do for Matt. She knew though, now, exactly how she would deal with her.

  She saw that Lottie was watching her. Her lips were curved in a half-smile but her eyes were slightly narrowed as if she were warning Venetia to behave herself. Venetia beamed back at her – of course, darling Lottie never missed a trick – and got to her feet as Matt brought Annabel forward, saying, ‘And this is Venetia.’

  It was typical of Matt that he saw no need to put Venetia into any kind of context for Annabel; as far as he was concerned no qualification was necessary. Venetia approved of that. She toyed with the pleasure to be had from the reaction of saying, ‘I’m Milo’s mistress,’ but resisted out of her love for them all, although only Nick would have been really embarrassed. Instead she took Annabel’s hand and murmured greetings. She could see that the girl wasn’t the least bit interested in her but was prettily polite, briefly deferential, whilst her eyes darted back at once to Nick and Matt.

  Venetia disliked being treated like an invisible old woman rather than a person in her own right.

  ‘And this is Pud,’ she said brightly. ‘The most important member of the family. I hope you like dogs?’

  For one blissful second Venetia saw an unguarded expression of irritation on Annabel’s face, swiftly veiled as she bent down to the hopeful spaniel with insincere cries of delight. Venetia smiled triumphantly as she watched Annabel reluctantly stroking Pud and trying to look as if she were enjoying it.

  ‘I can see he’s taken to you,’ she observed. ‘Next thing he’ll be sleeping on your bed.’

  And then Milo came back to say that lunch was ready and Venetia swallowed the last of her gin and tonic and followed them into the breakfast room.

  It was Lottie who showed Annabel to her room. She made all the right noises, grateful appreciation and amazed delight at the view, but after Lottie had gone she sat on the bed and allowed herself to relax for the first time since she’d got off the train. She felt quite exhausted by the effort she’d been making. Of course she’d known that it might not be that easy; after all, it was she who’d made all the running and edged Matt into a corner so that he’d finally invited her to meet his family. Even so, she’d believed that, once she was here, he would have been much more … much more what?

  Annabel stood up and wandered over to the window. The view was pretty amazing, if you liked high bare hills and little square fields and stuff like that, but it wasn’t really her scene. Still, she was prepared to learn to love it if Matt gave her the chance. And that was the trouble. He was still behaving as if they were friends, nothing more, and she’d hoped that once she was here, on his patch, the friendship would seg
ue into a closer intimacy. She’d got off the train – and she’d known she was looking really good – and he’d been standing there, very sexy in dark grey jeans and a half-zip jumper over a rugby shirt, and he’d simply given her a kiss on the cheek; very cool, very contained. And even in the car she hadn’t been able to force that sense of intimacy. She’d tried everything she knew to charm him and now she was feeling a bit foolish as well as cross because Matt simply wasn’t playing up to her and she knew that back in London all her mates were waiting, holding their respective breaths, to hear how she’d got on.

  She couldn’t prevent a little grin of satisfaction when she remembered the reaction when she’d told them he’d invited her down to Exmoor.

  ‘You have got to be kidding,’ they’d said. ‘Matt Llewellyn? How did you manage that?’

  Well, of course everyone knew his reputation for privacy, the cat that walked by himself and so on; just as everyone knew that his well-known journalist father had been killed covering the wars in Afghanistan. But despite all the media coverage and the huge success of Matt’s book and the film, he still managed to keep his personal life just beyond the reach of critics and journalists. So it had been a real triumph when she’d managed to arrange a few dates with him, generally after some book launch or at a literary festival.

  Annabel frowned discontentedly: not that there had been much to write home about, to be honest. Matt had very good manners and he was amusing but he’d stayed well on the side of friendship even after she’d made it clear that she’d like it to go much further. She was convinced, though, that by gentle pressure she’d get there in the end. She sensed that he wasn’t particularly comfortable with women and she was sure that she could win him over simply by being around. He’d get used to her, begin to depend on her.

  Actually, she preferred men like Nick: charming, flirtatious, easily impressed – but Nick wasn’t an internationally bestselling author who’d made a stash of money with his first book. And, anyway, he was already married. During lunch she’d discovered that he had two children and a wife in London. It was a bit tricky trying to work out the scenario here. The old brigadier, Milo, was Nick’s father, and Lottie was Nick’s aunt, fair enough, but their relationship to Matt was all a bit woolly and she hadn’t liked to be too inquisitive, and Matt had given her only the briefest of sketches. And then there was the old bat who’d shown her up about the damned dog. God, how she hated those tall, thin old women who looked like retired greyhounds. Who the hell was she, anyway? Not his mother, that was for sure.