Indian Summer Read online

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just I can’t bear the thought of losing you, that’s all. I don’t think you have any idea of how I feel about you.’

  His expression is tender now, almost humble, and she feels her own power over him, which is rather gratifying and exciting.

  ‘I will try,’ she says. ‘I’ll talk to Camilla and see if we can have some time on our own together. It’s just that it’s all happened so quickly.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, sitting back. He stares around, calmly, easily. ‘Time for another coffee?’

  Emma glances at her watch. ‘A very quick one. Then I must go home to feed Dora, and Camilla has invited us to lunch.’

  Emma can’t quite decide why the thought of Camilla, looking after Joe and making lunch for them, is such a comforting one. She watches Marcus go to order the coffee; takes another look to make sure there’s nobody she knows, though that’s very unlikely here in Totnes. And anyway, Rob and Marcus are friends. It’s not that amazing that she and Marcus might be having coffee together – and Dora is an excellent chaperone. She tries to capture that earlier warm glow of light-hearted excitement but Naomi’s cool common sense has made it seem rather silly; cheap even. Marcus comes back towards her. He is lean and tough and sexy, and her gut still behaves oddly at the sight of him.

  He sits down, smiling and friendly; no stress. He begins to tell her about some incident in Norway, which makes her laugh, things are easy between them again, and she relaxes and it’s good.

  It is not until Emma begins to collect her things together that she sees Joe’s spoon. It is crushed and twisted almost in half. Somehow the sight of it is shocking; frightening. She glances quickly at Marcus, but he is occupied shrugging himself into his jacket, and she takes the spoon and drops it into her bag.

  Marcus walks back to the car park with Emma, waves her off. He must be careful; very careful. He likes being with her; likes the way that she’s attracted to him but playing it cool. He respects that. But he needs something to happen; to move things along. All the time she was with the girlfriend he was watching her. He saw her face change from excitement – that need to tell someone, to be girly and gossipy – to wariness. He could tell at once that the boot-faced friend was putting the mockers on it; damping things down. The way Emma put her head on one side, her more serious expression, showed that doubt was creeping in. How glad he was then that he’d decided to take the chance to trail her. He’s done it before – checked out where the cottage is – but he needs to be careful. There’s that guy next door, for a start. Emma says she thinks he’s a writer. He comes and goes; he’s a bit of a loner.

  Marcus unlocks the door and gets into his car. He can’t help smiling. If people only knew how easy it is to follow them, watch them, they’d never know a minute’s peace. And after all, it was fair enough. She’d sent the text telling him that she was meeting a friend for coffee in the bistro Rumour, more or less suggesting that he should be there, too. It was easy to slip in early and sit at a table at the back, behind a small partition from which point he could watch the two girls together. He needs to see her; to be reassured that she’s attracted to him. He longs for that warmth, that female companionship that he misses so much since Tasha told him that she’d decided she wanted a trial separation; that he was becoming impossible to live with. It’s been less than a year – and he’s been away for most of that – but he misses her, the bitch. God, he misses her and the boys. Not all the time, of course. Not when he’s with the lads out in Norway or in Af. That kind of companionship surpasses everything; nothing like it. But when he’s back he doesn’t want to live in the Mess. He wants to be with his wife and with his boys. He and Tasha keep up the pretence that Daddy’s away working most of the time – he still has most of his stuff at the little cottage in Sidbury – but he needs the stability that Tasha always gave him.

  He’s got only these few days of leave and then at the weekend he’s going to see his boys. Thinking about them upsets him. They’re used to his being away, of course, but soon they’ll begin to know something’s wrong. They’re only two and four years old; they don’t really remember anything different, to be honest. Even so, he’s not going to lose them. And, to be fair, Tasha makes sure he sees them when he can. She thinks it’s important. Sometimes he wonders if she’s just trying to teach him a lesson, to shock him into showing more respect and being more responsible when he’s home. Well, it works both ways. She threw him out so she can’t complain if he finds someone else. He’s always fancied Emma but now she’s become a challenge. He can’t get her out of his head and he’s determined to have her. But he hasn’t got much time; he must keep up the pressure on her if he wants to succeed. That night he’d been watching her cottage he’d have knocked on the door, taken her by surprise, if her nosy neighbour hadn’t appeared, peering out in the dark.

  Marcus clenches his fists, remembering his frustration. He was waiting under the trees, watching the lights go off upstairs to be certain that Joe was asleep; hoping to catch Emma off guard for a moment. Last night he phoned her, asked straight out if he could come round, but she blocked him. Joe was still awake, she said, fobbing him off. She wants him, he knows that, but just at the moment it’s a game to her. Thrill of the chase and all that. For him it’s a need to prove to himself that he can make another woman love him; take chances for him. If he can just get her alone he knows he can convince her. He hoped that she was going to be on her own this morning, without her children, so he could persuade her to stay and have lunch with him, but no such luck.

  A car pulls into the space beside him and a small, thin, nerdy-looking guy in shorts gets out. Marcus lowers his window.

  ‘Want my ticket?’ he offers. ‘I put way too much on it. Couple of hours enough for you?’

  The nerdy guy hesitates, then shakes his head.

  ‘That’s very kind but I never quite know how long I’m going to be when I’m researching.’

  He looks as if he might be going to explain what he’s researching but Marcus isn’t interested. He starts the engine, backs out and drives away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘SUCH ENERGY,’ SAYS Mungo, watching Joe pedalling at high speed round and round Camilla’s yard on a brightly coloured plastic tractor. ‘Can you remember being like that?’

  He feels he has seen Joe somewhere before but can’t think where.

  Camilla frowns. ‘I don’t remember much before I was about seven and had my first pony. Anyway, it’s difficult to know what it is you actually remember and what is received wisdom, isn’t it? I think I was rather a bossy little girl. Archie says you were always making up games and bullying your friends into taking part. Either that or playing with pretend friends. He says you preferred pretend ones because they always did exactly as you told them.’

  They both laugh.

  ‘Not much change there then,’ says Mungo. ‘It was clearly an excellent apprenticeship for my career.’

  ‘Did you read that review in the Telegraph of whatshisname’s autobiography? He says you were an absolute martinet. Terrified him into submission when you were directing him in some play or other.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Mungo indignantly. ‘I was like a father to him. Taught him everything he knows. Millie, that child will get heatstroke if he goes on like that. I left Mopsa in the kitchen because the midday heat is too much for her.’

  ‘Emma’s due back any time now.’ Camilla glances at her wristwatch. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay to lunch? I wish you would.’

  ‘I’ll wait and see if I like her,’ says Mungo candidly. ‘We’ll have a code so that there’s no embarrassment. Now what shall it be?’

  ‘Too late,’ says Camilla. ‘I hear a car coming up the drive.’ She calls to Joe, who is still circling on the tractor, ‘I think Mummy’s back,’ and then walks round the side of the house where a small car has come to a stop. ‘Yes, it’s Emma.’

  Mungo follows her, waiting at the entrance by the barn whilst Camilla goes f
orward to greet her. He stares in astonishment. It is the girl from the Dandelion Café; the girl who was in conversation with the tough young man. And, of course, that’s where he saw Joe: the little boy drinking the milkshake. He is seized by curiosity. Camilla has told him that this Emma’s husband is out in Afghanistan, so who was the man with her in the café?

  Camilla is bringing her forward, introducing her, and Mungo takes her hand, delighted by this new development.

  ‘Hello, Emma,’ he says warmly. ‘Camilla says that you’re settling in very happily at the cottage. I’m just up the lane if you need any help. You must come and see me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve been invited to lunch too,’ he says, beaming at Camilla. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Emma says. She glances behind her at the car. ‘I think I need to get Dora out. It’s so hot, she’ll be boiling.’

  ‘Well,’ murmurs Camilla, as they watch Emma leaning in, unstrapping Dora from her seat, ‘it didn’t take you long to make up your mind.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that she was so pretty,’ he says, ‘but remember that I’m no good with babies. You must deal.’

  Joe appears beside them. ‘I’ve been riding on the tractor, Mummy,’ he shouts. ‘Come and watch me.’

  Camilla takes Dora from Emma. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ she says tenderly to Dora. ‘Just a few minutes,’ she says firmly to Joe, ‘and then you must come in and wash your hands. Lunch will be ready by then.’

  Talking to Dora, she carries her off into the house. Mungo glances at Emma to see if she minds Camilla’s appropriation of her role, but Emma looks quite content with this relief from her responsibilities.

  ‘She’s amazing with them,’ she says, as if answering his unspoken question. ‘It’s wonderful when somebody else takes charge for a moment.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mungo. ‘It must get tiring coping all on your own.’

  ‘Bath-time is the worst,’ she tells him. ‘But you get used to it. Still, it’s great to get out and have a break and meet up with friends …’

  She falls silent and they stand for a moment, watching Joe, who is showing off and pedalling as fast as he can. Mungo is aware of a certain tension emanating from her. From the corner of his eye he sees her fingers clench and unclench on the long strap of the bag that hangs over her shoulder.

  ‘You must meet Kit,’ he says lightly. ‘She’s a very old friend who is staying with me at the moment. You might have seen her already in the lane with my dog, Mopsa.’

  Emma looks at him quickly, and then away again. ‘I don’t think I have,’ she says uncertainly. ‘Though Joe mentioned someone out in the lane with a little dog. He said she looked like a princess or a witch, but a nice one. He couldn’t make up his mind.’

  She smiles but he can feel the weight of her anxiety, perhaps even guilt, and he feels immensely sorry for her.

  ‘A witch or a princess. That sounds like Kit,’ he says cheerfully. ‘I can never make up my mind about her, either.’

  Camilla appears.

  ‘I’ve found the highchair for Dora,’ she says. ‘She’s all settled. Come along,’ she calls to Joe. ‘Time to wash your hands. Quickly now.’

  Obediently Joe climbs off the tractor and runs towards her. ‘What shall we do after lunch?’ he asks, seizing her hand and going inside with her. ‘Shall we take the dogs up on the moor?’

  Emma watches them disappear, raises her eyebrows, and gives a little shrug. ‘I wonder how she does that? It would have taken me at least twenty minutes to get him off that tractor and indoors. What’s her secret?’

  Mungo smiles at her; gives her a tiny wink. ‘She was saying earlier that she was always bossy, you know. Even as a child. Old habits die hard.’

  She laughs at his little joke and just for a moment she looks relaxed and at peace. Mungo thinks of that tough-looking young man and can quite understand how he might wreck one’s peace of mind. He remembers Ralph and how terrible old love nearly destroyed them all, and he realizes that Emma reminds him of Izzy; not just her gamine, waif-like Audrey Hepburn look but that same vulnerability.

  ‘We’d better go and wash our hands,’ he tells her, ‘or Camilla will be after us. We shan’t be exempt simply because we’re grown up. Or pretend to be.’

  Emma looks at him intently. ‘I don’t always feel grown up,’ she admits. ‘Sometimes I think it’s quite scary that I’m responsible for two small children.’

  ‘Terrifying,’ he agrees sympathetically. ‘We’re all the same underneath, you know. Putting up smokescreens so other people don’t know how totally helpless we really feel. Well, perhaps not all of us. Not Camilla. Camilla is very grown up. But I keep forgetting that she and your mother are old friends.’

  ‘They were at school together and they stayed in touch afterwards. She was really good when Mum and Dad got divorced. Mum’s a bit of a scatterbrain so I think she really appreciated Camilla’s practical approach. I think she was quite grateful to have someone to tell her what to do.’

  ‘Ah, well now, Camilla’s just the right person for that,’ says Mungo.

  Camilla reappears. ‘Are you two ever coming? Joe and Dora are waiting for their lunch.’

  Mungo and Emma follow her meekly into the house.

  ‘Told you so,’ he whispers to her, and Emma laughs. Mungo is pleased: he feels that he has broken down some of her defences and that a kind of rapport has been established. His curiosity is aroused and he longs to know more about Emma and the man in the café. He remembers their body language, their intensity, and he has the odd sense that she might be in some kind of danger.

  Don’t be such an old drama queen, he tells himself. But the feeling remains.

  Kit and Archie are enjoying Camilla’s picnic, anchored up in Old Mill Creek in the shade of the woods: the water soft and still as stretched silk, boats resting on their mirror images, trees leaning to embrace their reflections. A flotilla of ducks sets out from the shadowy shore, fracturing those images, splintering the smooth surface into a thousand shining ripples. Quacking encouragingly, they paddle hopefully around The Wave, waiting for some morsel to be thrown to them.

  ‘Poor things,’ says Kit sadly. ‘The trouble is that these sandwiches are so delicious I can’t spare a single crumb. Camilla is so clever. You are a very lucky man, Archie.’

  ‘I know,’ says Archie, rather smugly, as one who has been able to pick and choose, and has chosen the best. ‘And she’ll be having a wonderful time with young Joe. Funny little chap. Very serious. Probably because of his father being away so much.’

  ‘Have they got a dog?’ she asks, putting a tiny yellow tomato into her mouth, crunching on its sweetness. ‘We never had one at home because we lived in a very small house in Bristol but they were always there at The Keep for the holidays. Dogs are so good for children.’

  ‘Joe certainly loves ours, and Emma talked about getting one but she might think she has enough on her hands just at the moment with Rob away.’

  They sit companionably in the cockpit, the picnic spread before them. Seagulls wheel above them, heads cocked, yellow eyes fixed on the possibility of food. Kit draws up her legs and wraps her arms around her knees.

  ‘If you had to do it all over again,’ she says, ‘what would you change?’

  Archie breathes deeply, smiles contentedly. ‘Can’t think of anything. Wouldn’t have minded a nice ocean-going yacht, but no point really. Camilla’s not much of a sailor.’

  Kit watches him as he cuts a slice of cherry cake, sprinkles a few crumbs over the side for the ducks, who come at once, quacking and splashing. How wonderful it must be to have no regrets, no feelings of remorse for those foolish mistakes of one’s youth. It is so peaceful to be with Archie, so soothing and so safe. Yet she knows she will not be able to tell him of her dilemma with Jake. Like Camilla, he would take the rational, pragmatic view of one who has never been at the mercy of a mercurial nature. He would try to sympathize, to under
stand, but there would be none of that genuine empathy that she finds with Mungo or, in the past, with Izzy.

  ‘What about you?’ he is asking idly, finishing his cake, dropping a few more crumbs to the squabbling ducks.

  ‘Not having my own dog,’ she answers quickly. ‘I always thought it wouldn’t really have worked in London but sometimes I wonder if I could have managed it after all. Thousands of people do.’

  ‘Well, you still could,’ he says, ‘though I always feel sorry for dogs cooped up in the city and only being able to walk in parks. Doesn’t seem quite right somehow.’

  Kit smiles to herself: this is the countryman’s view. Would Jake want a dog? She thinks about him, about how and where they might live together, and is seized with the now-familiar panic. Part of her longs to see him and part of her is in complete denial. She reaches for some cake and finishes her glass of white wine. Camilla has deemed it safe to allow them a half-bottle: no more, lest Archie should become careless. Archie is stretched out, knees drawn up, eyes closed, head pillowed on his rolled-up sailing smock, and Kit wishes she could stay here for ever in this quiet backwater, eating Camilla’s cherry cake. Jake is no threat here …

  When Mungo read Jake’s letter he was silent for a moment and then raised his eyebrows and let a little whistle escape his lips.

  ‘Whew!’ he said. ‘This boy’s keen, sweetie. Rather touching after all these years. I’d like to meet him. He’s so direct and honest, yet there’s a tenderness too. It makes me feel quite emotional.’

  She took the letter from him, folding it. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel the same but it’s such a huge step, Mungo. I remember the old Jake and he’ll be remembering me in the same way. It’s twenty years since we saw each other. Supposing we arrange to meet and we don’t even recognize each other? I couldn’t bear to see the disillusionment in his eyes. Imagine the horror!’