chapter Ten
“You’ve been so long in that bath I’m surprised you haven’t turned into a prune.”
Honey looked over her shoulder to see Cam walking toward the deck, coffee in hand. “Hiya.”
“Can I join you?”
“Of course.” She cupped her hot chocolate in both hands and smiled at him as he sat beside her. She had indeed spent over an hour in the bath, soaking until the water turned cool, and now she wore her favourite pink pyjamas and soft white fluffy robe, her feet—stuffed into matching white fluffy slippers—propped on one of the wooden garden chairs.
He sipped his coffee, and they looked out across the lawns to the darkening gloom of the Waitangi Forest. Although it was nearly April and therefore officially autumn, the sub-tropical Northland hung onto its summer jealously. The air had not yet cooled enough for Cam to don a jacket, and cicadas still called from the bush.
Cam placed his mug on the table between them. “Missy told me you rang Dex before you got in the bath.”
“Yes.”
“But he was busy tonight.”
“Yes.” She looked at her hot chocolate and picked out a tiny fly that had attempted to go for a swim in it.
“Everything all right?” Cam asked.
She sighed. “I think so. Probably. I don’t know. I rang him at lunch today and he was…weird. And tonight he was…” She trailed off, not knowing how to voice it. “Distracted, I suppose.”
“Work?” Cam suggested.
“Maybe.”
“He’s a busy man. He has a lot on his plate,” Cam said. “And he’s probably nervous about Saturday.”
“I know.” That didn’t explain his irritated tone, she thought. His curt, clipped sentences. The awkward silences. Something had changed, and it wasn’t just her imagination.
“Did you tell him about the court case?” Cam asked.
“No…” she said slowly. “I told him I wasn’t allowed to discuss it outside the courtroom.”
“You discussed with me.”
“I know.”
He sipped his coffee as he waited for an explanation.
She watched a pair of pukekos walking across the lawn, their blue feathers bright in the late evening sunshine, their red feet comical as they strutted to the pond. “I didn’t want to mention it,” she said tiredly. “I didn’t want to have the conversation, because I’d talk about Sarah Green and he’d pick up from my tone that it was upsetting me, and then he’d get angry that I was comparing her to myself and tell me off.”
The corner of Cam’s mouth curved up. “He wouldn’t tell you off.”
“Yes, he would.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He would tell you—rightly—that this case has nothing to do with you or Ian, and it’s not fair on you or the defendant for you to let your emotions become involved.”
Honey bit her lip. It was an easy thing to say, but not so easy to carry out. The afternoon had been no easier than the morning. The prosecuting lawyer had cross-questioned Sarah ruthlessly. Honey thought that maybe James had paid a lot of money for the smartly-dressed, hotshot lawyer to come up from Whangarei—the nearest city an hour away, rather than hiring one from the smaller law firms in Kerikeri, whereas Sarah’s pro bono lawyer—although he had done a good job in trying to elicit some sympathy for her—wore an old suit and didn’t seem quite so on the case.
The prosecuting lawyer had picked holes in her testimony, querying everything from why she hadn’t put the chain across the door if she was so afraid of burglars, to forcing her to admit that she must have stabbed James only six feet from the front door rather than in the kitchen as she’d previously testified, because a smear of blood had been found on the wall there. It couldn’t have been made as James walked out, said the lawyer, because the wall was on the left, and the wound was on the right side of his face and arm. Rather than pointing out that James could have turned around and leaned against the wall, Sarah had asked what difference it made, but Honey had already understood the point the lawyer was trying to make—that Sarah had come out of the kitchen and advanced to tackle the intruder, rather than waiting there for him to come to her. That was not the action of a woman terrified for her life.
“I can’t not involve my emotions,” she said in answer. “I’m an emotional person.”
Cam smiled then. “Yes, you are. You’re very like your mother.”
Honey studied the lawn again, watching the rabbits that had come out to play. A lump rose in her throat. “I wish Mum was here,” she whispered.
Cam turned the mug in his hand. “Yeah. Me too.”
“I’ll miss her on Saturday,” she said. If we make it to Saturday. She didn’t voice those words though, knowing her father would be duty bound to offer her platitudes and tell her everything would be all right. At that moment, she wasn’t so sure. It should have been exciting, but instead everything seemed to be conspiring to make her stressed and worried.
“She’ll be there,” Cam said. “In our hearts.”
Honey nodded, because it comforted him to think so. And wished she could be certain it was true.
***
On Tuesday morning, the defending lawyer called several other witnesses to back up Sarah’s testimony. They were a sorry, unconvincing bunch, thought Honey as first Sarah’s father, then her boss, were asked to take the stand and answer questions about Sarah’s love life and the way her character had changed over the time she’d lived with James Hill. Both of them declared that yes, the vibrant, giggly young girl had grown quiet and sullen as time went by, and her father confirmed that he’d gradually seen less and less of his daughter, and when she had come to visit, she was always worried about getting back to the house she shared with James in case he should find her gone and grow angry. But he had shown no emotion as he discussed the ways in which James appeared to have controlled his eldest girl, and although her boss testified that she’d obviously sunk into depression, he didn’t seem upset to have finally let her go.
How awful to be so unloved, Honey thought as she made her way out of the courtroom for lunch. She’d never had that problem. Even when things had been bad with Ian, she’d always known her family were there. True, they’d all been focused on Marama and her illness at the time, which was the main reason nobody had realised just how bad things had got at home with him. But Honey had known that one phone call to Koru or Cam—to any of them, in fact—would have sorted the situation. She just hadn’t wanted to admit her relationship had failed. Had wanted to try and sort it herself. Women were constantly told nowadays that they shouldn’t expect men to sort out their lives for them, that they had to be strong and cope alone. But not everyone was strong. Sometimes people need a little help, she thought, getting in her car and opening her phone.
The first thing she registered was that there were no messages from Dex. Seven from the wedding organiser, but none from the man she was supposed to marry.
She sat there for a few minutes, fighting back tears. It didn’t mean anything. He occasionally went all day without contacting her. He’d told her that sometimes he had quiet days where he longed for something to happen, but most days he lurched from problem to problem, and perhaps today was one of those.
She forced half a sandwich down and read the texts from the wedding organiser. The woman—Gillian—was very pleasant and had obviously been told to keep her customers informed on events, but she’d interpreted that as relating every little problem that arose, even if they were solved half an hour later. Honey’s stomach churned as she read that the florist had fallen and broken her ankle—but Gillian then went on to say she knew of another who had agreed to pick up the order.
The next message said menus had been printed but a mistake had been found in the spelling of one of the dishes. Honey clenched her fists, knowing she’d checked every word in the menu three times, only to read in the following text that the error appeared to have been the printers’ end, and they were going to reprint with no extra cost.
The fifth text said the hotel had apparently double-booked the room where the reception was to be held, which sent a spiral of panic through her. The sixth said not to worry, it was a computer error and everything was fine.
“I don’t need to know this stuff,” Honey said out loud, banging the phone on the steering wheel as if she could knock some sense into the woman. “Why bother telling me when you’ve already sorted it?”
The seventh text said the white Rolls Royce that was supposed to take Honey to the hotel had failed its Warrant of Fitness and wouldn’t be fixed until the following week—the small local firm had offered a silver Rolls Royce instead, if that suited.
Fighting the urge to say she’d be happy to use Harry Potter’s Knight Bus if it meant she could get to the wedding, Honey texted the word FINE and sank back in the seat, exhausted. She’d spoken the truth. She’d have worn a T-shirt and trackpants, cycled there on a tandem and served the guests ham sandwiches if it meant she could marry Dex and live happily ever after. She just wanted to marry the guy she loved.
That wasn’t asking for much, was it?