‘Paula. The car you set fire to. The hotel you burned down. Me. The children. If it becomes an inconvenience or interferes with your plans, you destroy it.’
‘No, no,’ he replied, unsure how she’d failed to grasp the significance of incinerating Betty or the hotel. He’d thought she’d understand they had been selfless acts, and the closing of chapters. But it wasn’t an argument worth pursuing. Maybe later she might realise it was just those who’d sought to ruin him who’d fallen foul of his sourness.
‘If you’re not here to hurt me, then give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police and tell them what you did to Paula?’
‘I don’t have one, and you have every right to. But if you’re going to call them, at least wait until you’ve heard everything first.’
‘And when will that be?’ she asked, as the sick feeling in her stomach made itself known again.
Soon, he thought. Soon.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-two years earlier
7 January
I can honestly admit, with my hand on my heart, that I hadn’t given another man a second glance in the two and a half years Simon had been gone.
Sometimes I’d daydream about how it might feel to fall in love again, but there’d never been a face attached to the strapping hunk who swept me off my imaginary feet. Besides, falling in love scared me – it meant running the risk of once again losing someone. I was terrified of feeling that all over again. So I vowed to keep potential aggravation at arm’s length for the time being.
Instead, I threw all my attention towards my dressmaking – and, more urgently, trying to find the money to buy Fabien’s from Margaret. Steven had done a wonderful job making a success of his and Simon’s business, and he now employed a staff of five. I still owned Simon’s half, and when I told Steven about Margaret’s offer, he thought I’d be mad to turn her down. I suggested he could give me the extra capital I needed if he bought me out.
In theory, it was the perfect solution, but before I asked him, I had to give it a lot of thought. Simon had invested so many hours in building it from scratch that giving up his share was another way I’d be letting him go. But I had to put myself first, and although I’d be waving goodbye to his dreams, he’d be helping me to reach mine. So with Steven’s money and a small bank loan, I was soon to have a business of my very own.
But just when I had everything mapped out for the year ahead, something – or more accurately someone – came along to throw a spanner in the works.
Tom caught my eye the first night I began the bookkeeping course Margaret had suggested. He was the only person who smiled when I walked nervously through the classroom door. He was classically handsome, with dark, wavy hair and greying temples, and his few laughter lines drew me to his chestnut-brown eyes.
I was stacked from waist to chest with textbooks when Emily’s Barbie pencil case toppled from the top to the floor. Tom’s hand shot out and caught it, and he chuckled at the doll’s smiling, plastic face and impossibly thin waistline. I blushed.
‘I don’t think you’ll be needing all of them tonight,’ he began as we queued for a vending-machine coffee during the first lesson break.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘All your textbooks, they’re for the entire course,’ he said, pointing to my desk. ‘Unless you’re planning to condense six months into one night?’
My nervous laugh came out like a pig’s snort and I died a little inside.
Tom introduced himself and explained how he was about to start his own business in wood sculpture and furniture design. He’d recently quit a successful career as a solicitor to follow his dreams – a brave decision for a man in his late thirties. And, like me, he didn’t know the first thing about accounts. Already we had something in common.
‘Are you busy later?’ he asked as we returned to our seats. ‘Do you fancy a drink after school?’
‘Me?’ I asked, taken aback. ‘Oh, um, well, I’ve got to get home.’
‘How about the weekend then . . . Saturday night? Dinner? That’s if you’re free. Or if you want to.’
‘I barely know you,’ I replied, sounding like an uptight virgin from a Bront? sisters novel.
He grinned. ‘That’s what dinner’s for.’
I stared at him blankly. Then my mouth stepped in before my brain had a chance to.
‘I’ve got three kids and my husband’s disappeared and he’s probably dead but I can’t be sure because we haven’t seen him in years and I’ve not been on a date since ABBA won Eurovision,’ I blurted out in a babbling stream.
He responded with a silent smile until he was sure the onslaught of information had peaked.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from,’ I mumbled.
‘Well, I’m divorced with a money-grabbing ex-wife who’s sadly very much alive and I’d love to go on a date with you.’ He smiled at me. ‘So how’s about it?’
11 January
I wasn’t sure how I’d found myself in a Chinese restaurant sharing a chicken chow mein with a single, drop-dead-gorgeous man.
Dating in my thirties was not such a different experience to dating as a teenager. As a sixteen-year-old, I’d been embarrassed by my growing boobs and pimply skin. As a thirty-six-year-old, I was embarrassed by my sagging boobs and stretch-marked skin.
When I started putting my make-up on for my ‘date’ – a word that seemed ridiculous for a woman of my age to use – I glared into that unforgiving bathroom mirror. I remembered how naturally Simon and I had fitted together, how from the start I didn’t want to be chatted up by anyone else. Other boys had asked me out, but there’d been a vulnerability that came with him that they didn’t have. And the Simon I remembered was funny and spontaneous, able to make me laugh with his uncanny impressions of teachers. He’d sketch beautifully detailed pictures of me and hide them in my exercise books for me to find. He made me feel like I was his all.
Now I asked myself what Tom thought he saw in me. I had more baggage than an airport check-in, my once-sparkling blue eyes had been dulled by circumstances beyond my control and my confidence with the opposite sex was at rock bottom. Actually, it was lower than that. I was not what you’d call ‘a catch’.
Twice I almost phoned him to cancel, blaming a sick child, before I reminded myself dating was just another mountain waiting to be conquered. In the end, I had nothing to worry about. Once the butterflies stopped circling my stomach, I was drawn in by his sense of humour, his self-confidence and honesty.