‘I’m no such thing,’ I remonstrated. ‘I’m as flawed as the next person.’
He shook his head. ‘I disagree. You’re a woman of extraordinary ability and self-belief. I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman like you before.’
‘That’s because you’ve never bothered to get to know one before. Other than in the biblical sense.’
His smile widened. ‘And you’re going to cure me of that.’
‘Am I?’
‘You know you are. Why else do you tolerate my wayward ways? And for the record, I can think of nobody finer than you to fix me.’
There it was. The gauntlet thrown down. A seductively irresistible challenge that was impossible for me not to accept.
I should have walked away. But I didn’t. Max had found my Achilles heel – my arrogant self-belief that I could make him a better man – and I willingly allowed him to lead me to make the biggest mistake of my life. For which I would never forgive myself.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Island House, Melstead St Mary
November 1962
Florence
It was Mrs Collings’s day off and while Beatty was upstairs vacuuming, Florence was in the kitchen preparing supper for Romily when she arrived back. She would be eating alone tonight as Hope was down in London and Edmund was going over to Meadow Lodge to spend the evening with Kit and Evelyn.
Originally Romily had planned to come home two days ago, but she had telephoned Florence from Oxford to say she had decided to take a detour for a couple of days to go and see her old friend Sarah and her husband, Tony.
Florence moved about the kitchen with the ease and familiarity as though it were her own. Not surprising, given that it had been a second home to her for more than twenty years. She had spent more time in it than her own kitchen, which was very cramped in comparison.
One day she would have her dream kitchen – modern, bright and airy and full of the latest equipment, including a freezer. She wanted a breakfast bar where she and Billy could sit together on stools and look out over a pretty garden while eating their meals. A detached bungalow was what she wanted, with nice straight walls and central heating. She would have built-in kitchen cupboards and formica counter tops. In the garden she would have a patio made with that jolly crazy paving that was so popular.
Billy thought she was as crazy as that paving! He couldn’t see anything wrong in staying right where they were. ‘Living next door to the bakery couldn’t be more convenient,’ he would say whenever she brought up the subject of moving. ‘If we lived anywhere else, I’d have to get up even earlier,’ he’d grumble.
‘I’m not talking any distance away,’ Florence would say, ‘we’d still be in the village, or on the outskirts. Wouldn’t you like a bit more space around you? A bit more privacy?’
‘I’m not moving into one of those houses on the Clover Green estate,’ he’d say. ‘You can forget that!’
Florence was reasonable enough to accept that very likely they wouldn’t move until Billy decided to retire from running the bakery. Which was a long way off. But at least by then her mother-in-law wouldn’t be around. Though it would be just Florence’s luck that the old woman proved to be indestructible. The Soviet Union could drop a nuclear bomb directly on Britain and Melstead St Mary could be blown to kingdom come, but Ruby Minton would be the sole survivor. Out she’d crawl from the wreckage demanding to know what all the noise was about, and who the hell had made all this mess!
Florence had drawn a blank when searching next door for proof that Ruby was the anonymous letter writer. In haste, while her mother-in-law was watching the television with Billy, Florence had hunted through every cupboard and drawer, but not a single piece of evidence had she found. Not a hint of anything that might suggest Ruby’s hatred for Florence had taken a more malicious turn. But maybe the nasty old woman had a hiding place that Florence hadn’t found. Or she could have simply got rid of the evidence.
To Florence’s dismay she had started watching Billy in a way she never had before. She had sworn she wouldn’t allow any seed of suspicion to be sown as a result of receiving the anonymous letter, but she simply couldn’t stop herself from wondering if Billy was messing around behind her back.
To her shame she had been checking his shirts before washing them – sniffing the collars for strange perfume or searching for smudges of lipstick. She had gone through his pockets too, dreading what she might find – a scribbled down telephone number, or a lover’s keepsake.
Oh, how she wished she could talk to Romily about all this! She had wanted to when Romily returned home from America, but the moment had never seemed right. Also Romily had seemed, well, sort of unsettled. Perhaps it was having Hope and Edmund living in the house with her.
After Beatty had finished vacuuming and Florence had left everything ready for Romily, the two of them walked home in the dusk. They parted in the main street where Beatty waited at the stop for her bus, and Florence went on up to the Market Square.
The bakery was closed and assuming Billy was already home, she went next door to Quince Cottage and let herself in. There were no lights on, but even so she called out to Billy.
‘I’m home,’ she said, taking off her coat and hanging it on the row of hooks by the front door.
There was no answer.
Deciding he was probably with his mother, she switched on the hall lamp and bent down to pick up the mail from the doormat. That was when she saw the envelope with her name on it. It was just like the one she had received before.
She ripped it open and immediately wished she hadn’t.
not much of a wife are you?
no wonder your husband goes
elsewhere.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Athena Theatre, Covent Garden, London
November 1962
Isabella
‘You know, if you’re going to point that rotten little peashooter at me, you might just as well do it with more conviction.’
‘Oh, so suddenly you’re an expert on firearms, are you?’
Isabella sighed and turned to the director, Mallory Carlisle, for backup. ‘He was pointing the gun over my shoulder,’ she complained.
‘Isabella, sweetie, it’s only a dress rehearsal.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the whole point of a dress rehearsal to get things right in order to be ready for the actual performance?’
‘And correct me if I’m wrong,’ boomed the old goat at her side, ‘I am the one with more theatrical experience under my belt than this . . .’ he waved his hand dismissively in her direction, ‘than this nobody has had hot dinners.’