Marnie opened the pub door. The white queen had left the board, and the building. This game was better conceded than caught up in an eternal stalemate.
*
Marnie walked into Little Raspberries, kicked off her shoes stripper-style and flopped onto the sofa. She had no job, no man and yet she felt ridiculously happy, as if she were an animal that had just spotted a trap in the undergrowth and avoided it. She hadn’t thought it possible that she’d feel sorry for Suranna, but she did. She hadn’t thought it possible that she could look at Justin and feel nothing but contempt and stirred in with that, a smidgen of pity. Where did all that love go, she wondered. How could it fill you so much, inflate you like a big balloon enough to make you float over the ground and yet the next minute drain away through a hole that no one knew was there.
But not always.
There were some lovely templates of what marriage should be like, even in a village as small as Wychwell. Cilla and Griff laughed a lot together, Dr Court and his wife walked everywhere arm in arm, David at the pub and his missus, Roger and his wife, the Rootwoods. When it worked well, it really worked well. Then she wondered, not for the first time, who had mended Lilian’s heart and why they had never married.
There had been a disparity in every one of her relationships, the scales had always been tipped against her, but it wasn’t as if she’d surrendered easily. Aaron had chased her for weeks, in fact he’d been a borderline stalker and she hadn’t batted her eyes once at Justin before he’d made a move on her. She’d always hoped that this time it might lead to a trip down the aisle, not a garden path. She wanted the little girl’s perfect dream – a church, a white dress and a big cake, a honeymoon, a relationship stable enough for a family to nest in. She wasn’t so stupid that she hadn’t done all the self-analysis and realised that she was probably drawn to life’s arseholes for the most warped of reasons. You’re not fit to be a mother, love. So best we fall at the first hurdle and not at the last, eh?
That’s why Herv Gunnarsen getting close terrified her, because her receptors didn’t know what to do with him. He wasn’t her usual type: he was decent, thoughtful, kind and as gorgeous on the outside as he was on the inside. And he fancied her and was she mad turning down the chance to have his lovely hands caressing her face again and his soft lips falling onto hers?
So, as Marnie drove from Leeds back to Wychwell, she made a brave decision: she was going to let Herv Gunnarsen in. She couldn’t go through life denying what her heart craved. Maybe she’d been right to keep hope alive after all. He had nothing to fear from her, she would never let him down and betray him like his wife had done. Most of all, she wanted to undo the mis-knitted pattern of her life and start it again. She wanted to love and be loved in equal measure and be the kind of mother who always let her children know that she was on their side and would never blame them for what others had done. And that it was okay for them to have imperfections and make mistakes.
If Herv Gunnarsen tried to kiss her again, she wouldn’t push him away. It was time to show her mother’s voice the door.
Marnie put the kettle on and whilst she waited she wondered what she should do with all the flat-pack Tea Lady cheesecake boxes that were taking up too much space in the corner of her kitchen. She had really enjoyed making the orders for Mrs Abercrombie and she knew they had gone down well with her customers. Was it so important that they were outsourced and not baked on the premises? She toyed with the idea of ringing her and talking through an idea that had come to her between putting the water in the kettle and the steam coming out. Why not call herself ‘the Little Tea Lady’ who made cheesecakes for the (Big) Tea Lady in her country kitchen? She knew it was good and Mrs A just might buy it.
Then a stop sign flashed up red and brightly in her head.
Actually Mrs Abercrombie didn’t deserve them. She was making a ridiculous profit on the cheesecakes and yet hadn’t had the decency to ring Marnie to discuss it when a couple of customers started shouting their mouths off in her shop. And to take them at their word, too. She’d let her carry on baking a fridge-full of cheesecakes, all to go to waste, as far as Fiona Abercrombie knew. Yes, the old bat could sod off. Marnie’s cheesecakes, complete with Mrs McMaid’s secret ingredient, were way too good for her over-priced, overhyped, up-themselves cafés. Marnie hadn’t a clue where her fabulous cheesecakes did belong, but she’d figure it out. She was an ideas person and a bloody good one at that. And if she didn’t realise her own value, what chance had anyone else of knowing what she was worth. She couldn’t remember where she’d heard that before, but it was flipping true.
She settled down with her book, shutting out everything but Penelope Black’s words. She was six chapters from the end with number three – Black Manors – ready and waiting to be opened and the tension had really cranked up.
It was only when a character made an appearance in the last chapter that Marnie’s senses really began to sit up and take notice. Emma Tybalt, an old lady who lived in the woods, descended from witches. Eunice Prince, Titan Sonnett, Kate Sowerby? Penelope Black knew Wychwell intimately or Marnie was a monkey’s uncle.
Chapter 38
Marnie was on her way up to the manor the next morning when she saw the woman coming out of Herv’s house, closely followed by the man himself, his hand gently on her back. The woman was very tall, very slim, very blonde, very glam – and clearly wearing the clothes she had been out in the previous night. She was very everything Marnie wasn’t. Herv caught Marnie’s eye briefly when he was holding his car door open for the blonde woman, but looked immediately away. The blonde reached up, pulled down his head and kissed him on the mouth before getting in and Marnie knew that they’d spent the night together. Tears pressed at the back of her eyes like acid and a heavy weight of disappointment landed with a thud in her stomach. Well, what did she expect? That he’d wait around for her to honour him with her assent? Become a monk? She’d had her chance and blown it. C’est la bloody vie.
Emelie was in her garden hanging out washing on her line. Or rather standing by the basket, holding her side. She waved to Marnie, who conjured up a smile from somewhere as she heard Herv’s car turn left behind her.
‘Good morning,’ Marnie called, fighting the tremble in her lip. ‘You all right?’
‘Damned arthritis,’ grumbled Emelie. ‘It’s a nuisance.’
‘Here, let me.’ Marnie opened the gate and walked over the grass. ‘I’ll peg them up for you. Go and have a sit down.’
‘Have you got time for a tea?’ asked Emelie.
‘I have,’ replied Marnie, though it was company she could do with rather than tea. She missed Lilian. She would have given anything to have sat down with her over a big pot of tea and let it tumble out that she’d been an idiot and allowed Herv Gunnarsen to slip through her pathetic fingers. She felt stupid-cow tears push out of her eyes and she flicked them away as if they were irritating insects crawling down her cheeks. She hung out the sheets and towels; then she took a deep breath and walked into Emelie’s house where that pungent smell once again worried her nostrils.
‘That damp can’t be doing your arthritis any good, Emelie.’