Page 19 of One Summer Weekend
Now he was asking mea question; I roused myself from the depths of self-reproach. ‘Sorry?’
‘I said, did you notice the painting in my office?’
‘The watercolour?’ I recalled the slate-grey lake, the snow-capped hills. ‘Is it of somewhere in the Lake District?’
‘Yes – Grasmere. We’re near there now – keep looking out of your window, you’ll soon see the lake. And Wordsworth’s buried in the villagechurchyard – mind, he’d be hard pressed to “wander lonely as a cloud” these days, wouldn’t he, with all these people around?’
‘You don’t have to be alone to be lonely,’ I said, half to myself.
A swift, appraising look. ‘You’re right, that was a stupid thing to say. Anyway, the painting’s a Midge original.’
‘Oh? I liked it.’
‘I’ve got a few more of hers, in the receptionarea and at home.’ And he went on to describe – at unnecessary length – her burgeoning career as a Lakeland artist, how she’d sparked an interest in art that he’d never had at school, his tentative attempts at painting in the privacy of her studio. Only half listening, I leaned back on the head rest, soothed by the gentle thrum of the car and the now-familiar timbre of his voice ...
I awokein a panic, my mind spinning with questions. How long had I been asleep? Where were we? And the most ridiculous thought of all – had I slept with my mouth open? A frantic sidelong glance at Jack left me none the wiser. As he turned his head, I looked hastily away – just in time to see the road sign. Only two miles to Threlkeld.
Two miles? We’ll be there in five minutes, at most.
Asurge of nausea. ‘Look, I need to know – whathaveyou told Bill and Midge about this weekend?’
He swung the car down a strip of tarmac, little more than a lane. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. Bill’s more than a customer, he’s a really good friend, and so’s Midge.’ He hesitated, as though uncertain of his ground – or my reaction. Somewhere in the back of my mind, an alarm belljangled. He continued, ‘They won’t be in a hurry to talk to you about me unless they feel completely relaxed with both of us, with our … relationship, for want of a better word.’
A sharp left into a long driveway leading to a creeper-clad cottage. Pretty enough, but my immediate thought was –that doesn’t look big enough for three bedrooms!In front of us, a tortoiseshell cat sprawling onthe honey-gold gravel; beyond, with her back to us, a woman in bright blue trousers mowing a square of lawn. As we crunched across the gravel, the cat sprang up and scuttled behind an old stone trough crammed with trailing pink geraniums.
My hands clenched slowly in my lap. ‘What exactly are you saying?’
The car eased to a halt and he switched off the ignition. Even so, I could barelyhear the muffled drone of the lawn mower for the ringing in my ears; a simple sign of stress – or that imaginary alarm bell, now frighteningly real?
Our eyes met – mine hostile, his defensive. I watched dry-mouthed as he slid his gaze away, to the cottage, and the woman in the distance.
At last he owned up. ‘I’ve sort of let them believe … Well, they think you’re my new girlfriend.’
