Indian Summer Read online

  Camilla wants to weep, but instead she gently pushes back the sheet – too hot for the duvet – and slides out of bed. She will make tea for Archie, get on his right side before the day properly starts. Then breakfast, and after that the children will be arriving. Her heart rises at the prospect of those little ones and she goes downstairs feeling happier.

  Archie stirs. He senses Camilla’s absence before he opens his eyes and stretches with a little groan of pain as his aching limbs protest. Thank God that the hot weather has slowed the growing of the grass and weeds and he can concentrate on mending the fence that edges the river path. There’s a right of way along the river there and he needs to make sure the dogs can’t escape. The old posts are rotten and he’s shocked at the price of new ones; but then he’s shocked by the price of most things these days. He simply doesn’t have enough income to keep ahead. Of course, the rent from the cottage is helping, but there are far too many outgoings – and now the playroom window will need replacing.

  Archie’s irritation rises again at the thought of this completely unnecessary expenditure and he wants to pull the sheet over his head and groan with despair. Instead he pushes himself up, hauls his pillows behind his head and tries to take a more reasonable view. After all, it wasn’t Camilla’s fault; it’s a perfectly natural act, to open a window. Yet his irritation still bubbles at a deeper level, fuelled by his fear. His life seems to be spent in doing sums, dreading letters from the bank and his accountant, juggling incomings and outgoings. His whole body aches from the physical effort required to keep the place from falling down.

  He hears Camilla on the stairs and wonders whether to remain grumpy; make her suffer for her thoughtless action. She comes in, carrying the tray, smiling hopefully, and he remembers that Emma’s children are coming today and that Camilla will be anxious that all will be well with them. His self-pity melts in the face of her wary but determinedly cheerful expression – Is he still in a bad mood? How can I jolly him along? – and he begins to laugh. Her face smooths out into relief, surprise.

  ‘I was thinking of my old dad,’ he says. ‘Do you remember how he used to say, “Start the day with a smile. Get it over with”?’

  She laughs with him; the tricky moment has passed and the day lies open before them.

  Joe eats his breakfast with enthusiasm. He can’t wait to be with Camilla, to play with the unfamiliar toys, ride the tractor, walk with the dogs.

  ‘Where will you go, though, Mummy?’ he asks, pausing in the middle of spooning up his Cheerios. ‘Where are you meeting Naomi?’

  She frowns, biting her lip, as if he has said something upsetting, but next moment she’s smiling again as she makes up a bottle for Dora.

  ‘We shall go to the Dandelion Café again,’ she says firmly. ‘Coffee first and then lunch, then home to fetch you and Dora.’

  Joe pushes his spoon round and round his bowl. He wonders if he ought to say that he wants to go with her – and a part of him does want to; he doesn’t really like her to be too far away. He decides to test her.

  ‘I want to come with you,’ he says. He makes his voice a bit whiny to show that he means it and she looks really surprised, even frightened, so that he begins to feel anxious again. But very quickly she’s laughing.

  ‘No you don’t,’ she says. ‘You want to go and play with all those lovely toys and see Bozzy and Sam. I nearly believed you for a moment but I don’t now. You don’t want to sit in a boring old café when you could be riding that tractor.’

  She puts his smoothie next to his plate and bends to kiss his cheek. He still senses that something isn’t quite right but the prospect of the tractor and the dogs sounds much more fun than sitting with Naomi and Mummy while they talk and drink coffee.

  ‘Camilla said something about a tent,’ Mummy says. ‘What fun. I shall dash back after lunch so that I can have a go in it.’

  He feels excited again; happy.

  ‘You might not be able to fit in it,’ he warns her. ‘It might be just for children.’

  Mummy pulls a funny face showing that she’ll be sad if she can’t get in the tent and he makes a face back at her and waves his spoon.

  ‘Dora can go in the tent with Bozzy and Sam,’ he says.

  Dora lets out a great yell, as if she’s understood him and wants to go in the tent with the dogs, and he and Mummy laugh and laugh and everything is good.

  Mungo arrives first. He goes down the steps and puts his newspaper on the table next to the window beside the bar. The other tables are occupied and he has a sudden misgiving: supposing Marcus arrives and is obliged to share his table? This wouldn’t be quite the scenario he’s planned. He goes to the bar, orders coffee and carries it back to his table. Several people are finishing their drinks, almost ready to go, and he unfolds his newspaper whilst keeping an eye on them.

  It’s a shock when Marcus walks in, almost as if until now it were all just a game; something that wouldn’t really happen. But he’s here, pausing just inside the door, giving a lightning glance around as if he’s mentally noting everyone who’s there. He goes to the bar, waiting his turn, leaning against the bar, surveying the room. A family gets up to leave and he moves across, speaks to them, makes a little joke, puts his jacket on the chair. All his actions are quick and controlled, packed with energy. He goes to fetch his coffee and then sits, half-turned, with his back to the wall, his eyes on the door. Every so often he checks his mobile for messages and then puts it back on the table impatiently.

  Watching him from behind his newspaper Mungo can gauge the exact moment that Emma enters the bar. Marcus’ expression changes from watchfulness to a kind of relieved triumph; his pale eyes widen and his thin lips curve upwards. Then he is on his feet, going to meet her, taking both her hands in his. Emma is tense; conscious of her surroundings, pulling her hands away quickly after that first greeting.

  Mungo is fascinated. He notes all their tiny reactions, their body language: Emma’s nervousness, Marcus’ intensity. There is no way, he thinks, that this can last right through lunch, and he prepares himself for action. Emma sits down with her back to him but, as Marcus goes to the bar to order coffee for her, she glances round and he lowers his newspaper to let her see where he is. By the time Marcus looks back to smile at her Mungo is bent over the crossword, pen in hand.

  When she sees Mungo in his corner by the bar Emma almost collapses with relief. She has become more and more nervous during the drive to Haytor and now she feels quite weak. She presses her trembling hands between her knees and gets ready to tell Marcus exactly how things are. There is no way that she can sustain a long friendly lunch with him.

  He puts the mug down in front of her and slides in opposite. She sees that he is ready to behave as though there is no longer any doubt that there is to be a relationship between them; that by turning up she has agreed; accepted this. Emma fumbles with the paper packet of sugar, her hands are shaking, and he puts his own out and holds them over hers, squeezing them. His hands are warm and strong. She can barely look at him but knows she has to; that she has to hold it together.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ems,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be so good. Trust me. It’s going to work out, you’ll see.’

  She withdraws her hands, puts the sugar into the mug, not able to look into those pale, mesmerizing eyes. Lifting the cup in both hands, she sips the scalding coffee and is filled briefly with a kind of strength. She puts the cup on the table, still holding it, and finally looks at him properly.

  ‘No, Marcus,’ she says. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong.’

  Still he smiles; at least his mouth smiles, but his eyes grow wary. Her hands tighten on the mug but she keeps calm.

  ‘Wrong?’ he says lightly, very quietly.

  ‘Mmm.’ She nods. Suddenly she is resolute. She remembers how she has lied to Joe and she sits back a little, distancing herself from Marcus but still looking at him. ‘It’s not going to work between us, Marcus. I haven’t been thinking clearly and I apologize for mislea
ding you, but I love Rob and my children and I’m not going to risk my marriage. I’m sorry, Marcus.’

  He sits back, too, and his eyes are very bright and very angry.

  ‘I’m sorry, too, Ems,’ he says, ‘because you’re making a big mistake. You can’t give up on this now. I shan’t let you.’

  Emma takes a very deep breath. ‘But you can’t stop me,’ she says gently. ‘Can you? I’m married to Rob. Please, Marcus, be reasonable.’

  He laughs, a short, violent burst of laughter that makes her flinch back from him, afraid again, for suddenly now she can see all sorts of ways in which he might destroy her life. She thinks of her children and of Rob and she is swamped with fear. Marcus leans forward, begins to speak but he is forestalled.

  ‘Good grief, is it Emma?’ cries Mungo in a ringing voice trained to reach the back of the gallery. ‘Yes, it is. I thought I recognized you. Hello again.’

  She jumps violently, staring up at him with all the amazement he could have wished. Just briefly she’d forgotten all about him.

  ‘Mungo,’ she stammers. ‘How … how nice to see you. I didn’t notice you.’

  ‘Ah, but I noticed you.’ He beams upon them. ‘And is this your husband? How do you do?’

  ‘No, no,’ says Emma awkwardly. She hadn’t realized how very easy it would be to play the part so convincingly; she feels utterly confused and totally embarrassed but deeply relieved that Mungo has made his move. ‘This is Captain Marcus Roper. He’s a commando, like Rob. They’re very old friends. This is Sir Mungo Kerslake,’ she says to Marcus. ‘He lives next door to me. It’s wonderful,’ she adds, pulling herself together as he and Mungo shake hands, ‘to have such a famous actor as a neighbour.’ She glances round the bar quite casually. ‘Are you alone? Would you like to join us?’

  She feels Marcus’ fury like a lick of flame across the table but she ignores him, smiling at Mungo, who sits down on the chair beside her and looks at their coffee mugs.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he says warmly, ‘I should love to. Now what are you drinking? Shall I get you more coffee?’

  He looks at Marcus enquiringly, the benevolent old uncle, and Marcus is obliged to offer Mungo coffee and stand up and go to the bar to order it.

  ‘Didn’t like the look of things,’ murmurs Mungo, beaming all the while. ‘We’ll go out together when you’re ready. Make sure you get away before I do.’

  Emma doesn’t know whether to laugh or weep so she beams back at him to pretend they’re having a jolly conversation, and by the time Marcus comes back she’s relaxed; she’s safe.

  ‘Marcus is off to California soon,’ she tells Mungo, ‘to join up with the US Marines on an exercise.’

  And then Mungo starts a conversation about filming in California and tells a long and rambling anecdote that includes several famous names. Marcus maintains a polite expression but Emma knows that he’s simply waiting for a moment to suggest that he and she make a move. As Mungo finishes his anecdote and his coffee she gets in quickly.

  ‘Marcus, I’m sorry about this but I have to go. I told you earlier that Dora’s not very well and she’s playing up so I promised Camilla I’d get back as soon as I can. I’m glad we’ve been able to see each other to say goodbye. I hope the course goes well.’

  She picks up her bag and Mungo gets to his feet. ‘I must be off, too. So nice to meet you, my dear fellow.’

  He puts his newspaper on the table, knocking his spectacle case to the floor so that Marcus is obliged to scrabble about under the chair for it. Apologizing, continuing to talk to them both as they walk out together, Mungo takes Emma’s arm, gestures to something, commenting about the weather. Marcus only has a short opportunity to get close to her as she fishes her keys out of her bag and unlocks the car door.

  ‘Please, Ems, we can’t just finish like this. For God’s sake—’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says quickly, very quietly. ‘Forgive me if you can. It was just a midsummer madness. Take care, Marcus. Goodbye, Mungo.’ She raises her voice. ‘Great to see you.’

  He lifts his hand to her. ‘Race you home,’ he cries jokingly.

  Emma drives away, heart thumping, looking back in her mirror at them standing together watching her go. Just for a moment she regrets the excitement, the fun of having a secret, and the satisfaction of seeing Marcus’ desire for her. But she shakes her head, repudiating it, remembering how she’d felt when she lied to Joe, telling him she was meeting Naomi. It’s a false happiness; shadow not substance.

  She drives fast but carefully, wanting to be home, back with her children.

  Marcus watches her go. He is so angry that he can barely be polite to the old queen beside him, with his pretty silk scarf and his tight jeans. Just for a moment he wondered back there in the café if he’d been set up, but Emma looked so shocked, so disconcerted, that he dismissed the idea. Anyway, this old luvvie wouldn’t have the bollocks to try to cross him.

  He’s getting into his car, saying goodbye, and Marcus nods to him and strides away. He needs to walk, to climb, to work off his frustration in physical activity. Haytor hardly rates as a climb but it’s better than nothing – and it’s there.

  So what’s the next move? He passes the holiday-makers, toiling up as if they’re climbing Everest, and perches on an outcrop amongst the heather and the gorse, staring out towards the sea. It’s not just that he’d like to get Emma into bed. Of course he wants to, but he also wants to prove that he’s capable of a relationship, that Tasha was wrong when she called him an emotional retard. Emma makes him feel warm and loving; he knows he can make it with Emma. He’ll text her, insist on one more try. She owes him that. This morning has been a complete farce.

  He reaches into his jeans pocket but his phone isn’t there. He stands up and digs his hands into his jacket pockets: nothing. He looks around him on the rocks. Where the hell …? He must have left it in the café, on the table. He was so anxious to get a moment alone with Emma before she went that he’d forgotten it.

  Cursing, he begins to descend, half running, half sliding and slipping, leaping down the slopes of the tor, dodging the holiday-makers and their dogs and children. He crosses the road, hurries back into the bar. There’s a group of teenagers at the table now and they stare at him as he asks if they’ve seen his phone, shrugging, glancing at one another with silly grins and raised eyebrows. He wants to slap them about a bit, teach them to show respect, but they continue to look blankly at him and shake their heads.

  He goes to the bar and asks if anyone has handed in his phone; more checking, more head shaking. His anger is rising. Someone’s taken it but there’s nothing he can do about it. He goes outside and gets into his car, trying to calm himself down. There’s no real harm done: the phone is purely for private use, though a few of Emma’s texts might have caused her a bit of embarrassment if he’d wanted to hype up the action. Even so, he feels that one way and another he’s been completely rolled over and he’s not used to it.

  And no, Tasha, he shouts silently inside his head, I am not a control freak nor am I an emotional retard.

  Suddenly he remembers the multimedia photo she sent him yesterday of their two boys in the garden, beaming out at him. The message read: ‘See you on Saturday, Dad. Love you xx’.

  Suddenly, shockingly, his eyes are full of tears. Angrily he swipes at them; he wants to see that picture again. An idea occurs to him: could Emma have picked up the phone by mistake? He sits in his car thinking about the possibilities this offers. He can’t text, he can’t ring, but what’s to stop him dropping in and asking the question? Perfectly reasonable. He looks at his watch. It’s a bit early. She’s bound to be home with the kids around tea-time. He’ll make a recce. Meanwhile he’ll find a pub and have a pint and a sandwich.

  Suddenly he thinks of the nerdy guy in the fish and chip shop last evening. Just as he was getting over his paranoia about being followed, there he was again. He’d wanted to grab him, question him, but nerdy guy slipped past him and hurri
ed out while the woman behind the counter was asking him what he wanted and by the time he’d got out nerdy guy was long gone. And, though he might tell himself that if nerdy guy was following him then he was rubbish at it, something else was just nagging at the back of his mind, wondering if this was the whole point: that he wanted to be seen, as a kind of warning. As if he might be saying: stop now and it’ll be OK. We’re on to you but it’s not too late. You could stop stalking Emma, go back and make it up with Tasha and your kids, celebrate being made up to major next year. It’s all still there waiting for you.

  Marcus hesitates but then the thought of being rolled over by that old queen fills his gut with rage and bile and he knows, he just knows he’s got to give it one last go. Anyway, there’s a possibility that Emma might have picked his phone up by mistake. It’s a long shot but it’s a good enough reason to make one last bid.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘I CANNOT BELIEVE that you stole his phone,’ Kit says. ‘Honestly, Mungo! How could you do that?’

  She and Jake have been waiting for Mungo’s return and now they sit at his kitchen table eating fresh rolls with cheese and olives whilst he tells them what happened.

  ‘Well, do you know it was easier than I believed it would be.’ Mungo is still pumped up by his part in the action. ‘He’d been checking it, you see, and he just left it there, lying on the table beside his coffee mug. I remembered poor Emma saying that she was worried about a few indiscreet texts so I decided to remove it. First, I just casually put the newspaper on top of it and then I did that sort of dithery old codger thing. You know? Drop my specs case on the floor and then emit cries of distress while he grovels about under the chair for it and I trouser the phone. By this time Emma was heading off, so naturally he dashed after her. Went like a dream. Take One. A wrap.’ He sighs with contentment. ‘I hadn’t realized, though, just how difficult it would be to play the part of a rather dotty old man.’