A burly bouncer with a shaved head let them into a dingy hallway that led directly onto narrow stairs. Leading Tati by the hand, Marco took them down into the basement. After such a grotty entrance she’d expected some smoky dive, but in fact the room was quite wonderful. It must have been an old wine vault originally. Now candlelit brick alcoves concealed plush, red-velvet loveseats, and a long, clear glass bar took up the whole of one enormous wall. Tables were arranged in a semicircle around a low dance floor, at the back of which a jazz trio were thumping out a tune. The clientele were sexy rather than glamorous: lots of slim, dark European girls in flapper dresses and costume jewellery and men in dark suits. It was like stepping back into the Twenties.
‘This is great!’ Tati’s eyes lit up. It was so long since she’d been dancing, so long since her world had consisted of anything but children’s homework, village gossip and legal papers. Just being here with Marco felt liberating, intoxicating.
‘I’m so glad you like it.’ Marco beamed back at her. ‘Shall we dance?’
The floor was almost empty, but the room was so dark and the low, fast beat of the music so hypnotic, Tati didn’t feel self-conscious. Feeling Marco’s warm body pressed against hers as they swayed to the rhythm was better than any foreplay. Closing her eyes, Tatiana let go of her worries – school, her unpaid legal bills, Dylan Pritchard Jones, Brett Cranley. One by one they flew out of her head like so many bad dreams forgotten at dawn’s first light. Because tonight felt like a dawn, a new beginning. Marco, London, the club had all reminded Tati of the person she used to be, the person she still could be, just as soon as she got Furlings back.
Opening her eyes as Marco leaned her back in a tango-esque move, she caught sight of the musicians at the back of the dance floor.
‘Oh my goodness.’
‘What?’ Marco pulled her upright. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
‘No no.’ She rested her head on his shoulder, glad of the darkness and the noise and Marco’s broad torso concealing her like a shield. ‘It’s just … the pianist. I know him.’
Lost in the music and his own performance, Jason Cranley hadn’t seen her. But Tati had recognized his earnest, pale face immediately. So, his parents are away in the South of France and he’s taking the opportunity to spread his wings. Good for him! She was astonished Jason had the balls to defy Brett so brazenly. He always seemed so afraid of his father, so overshadowed. It pleased her to think of Jason executing this small defiance. But at the same time she hadn’t wanted any reminder of the Cranleys and home to creep into her perfect date with Marco.
‘Should we go and say hello after their set?’ Marco asked. ‘I guess we should if he’s a friend of yours.’
Tati shook her head. She didn’t want to acknowledge Jason tonight, and she suspected he would feel the same. In their different ways, they were both trying to escape Fittlescombe and reality.
‘That’s OK. He’s not really a friend, more of an acquaintance. Anyway, I’m not feeling sociable.’ Reaching up so her arms were around his neck, she kissed Marco passionately on the lips.
‘Nor am I,’ Marco growled, his dick hardening rapidly. He’d brought Tati dancing because he wanted the evening to be special and memorable. With Katia’s warnings ringing in his ears, he was determined to differentiate himself from Miss Flint-Hamilton’s countless other lovers. But enough was enough. If he didn’t get her home and naked within the next fifteen minutes, he was going to implode with frustration. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Back in Swell Valley four days later, Jason Cranley wiped his brow as he climbed farther up the hillside into Furlings’ woods. It was a swelteringly hot summer’s day, and Gringo, the family basset hound, had decided to run off the moment Jason let him off the lead. Well, waddle off. Gringo wasn’t the speediest of animals, with his squat, stumpy legs and barrel-round body, so it hadn’t occurred to Jason to keep much of an eye on him. But while Jason walked on, lost in a highly pleasurable daydream involving him playing piano to a packed and rapturous crowd at Ronnie Scott’s, Gringo had somehow managed to disappear completely from view. Despite having the biggest, floppiest ears known to dog, he was apparently deaf to his temporary master’s repeated calls and whistles. Hot and irritated, Jason was starting to get worried. If anything happened to that dog, his mother and Logan would be heartbroken and Brett would have a fit.
‘Gringo!’ he shouted, his voice echoing through the valley. He’d reached the top of the hill now, the basset’s lead dangling uselessly from his hand, the same bright red as Jason’s cheeks. Following a steep, narrow path through the pines and silver birch, he descended to the valley floor. The river Swell was at its widest and shallowest here, on the very edge of Furlings’ land. Dancing and burbling its way through the woods, its cool, crystal-clear water looked wonderfully inviting. Peeling off his sweaty T-shirt and discarding his shoes, Jason waded in, splashing ice-cold water onto his torso and face, and drinking a long cool draught from his scooped hands.
‘You shouldn’t drink it, you know. I know it looks clean, but you never know what microbes are in it.’