He didn’t bother to hide his scorn. ‘I can’t believe she understood him.’
‘No, maybe not.’
‘I was wondering if we could get together sometime, have another chat. I know you’re very busy-’
‘OK,’ she interrupted. ‘Why not? Would you bring Louise along?’
‘Christ, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I mean, she isn’t ready to talk objectively about Dad. The wounds are still raw, as far as she’s concerned. And she’s finished with a boyfriend, that’s why she’s here in the Lakes, to get away from it all. It wouldn’t be a good idea…’
‘Just you and me, then?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Lovely morning!’
A pair of cheery grey-haired walkers greeted Kirsty and she forced a smile in reply. In one sense they were right: the sun was already so fierce that she was wearing her dark glasses and a skimpy T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of an opened parachute and the legend
She’d borrowed her mother’s chiffon scarf to hide the mark on her neck and left her Citroen at home. Walking to The Heights would clear her head. Sam would never have attacked her but for their row about letters. What had she and her family done to cause someone to be so cruel? They were harmless, ordinary people.
Leaves from an overhanging oak grazed her cheek as she rounded the last bend in the lane. Pushing the branch away, she reminded herself that one extraordinary thing had happened in their lives. Her father’s killing. Why would anyone rake the tragedy up after so long? It didn’t make sense.
It was as if the Howes were cursed. The Lakes were full of folklore about spells and jinxes: who could say it was all nonsense? Roz had once given her a book she’d published, packed with strange tales. Hidden above these sunlit lanes was the dark domain of the Crier of Claife. Ferrymen of old never took passengers across Windermere at night, for dread of the wailing spectre that prowled the Heights. One to remain ‘until a man could walk across Windermere dryshod’. Kirsty remembered a couple of customers swearing they’d heard weird howlings as they walked home in the dark, but Oliver reckoned that had more to do with the whisky they’d been drinking than the Crier of Claife.
Outside the restaurant, Bel was watering the tubs, bending over the pansies, green can in hand. Kirsty stopped in her tracks. For a wild instant she imagined sidling up behind the woman. It would be so easy to slip off the scarf, loop it around her neck — and squeeze.
Oh Jesus, what was happening to her? She would never do it, could never do it. But even to let the idea creep into her brain…
Bel straightened and glanced over her shoulder. When she saw Kirsty, she gave a smile that showed off her flawless teeth. Trust the bloody woman never to have needed a filling in her life.
‘I’ve just taken a booking for noon. Table for eight, a gathering of grandmas. We’d better have them sitting in the window.’
‘Fine,’ Kirsty murmured. ‘I’ll put two tables together.’
‘Lovely.’
All their conversations were like this. Pleasant, superficial, the same as the movie tunes Bel liked to hum. Sometimes she repeated herself word for word, as when complaining about walkers who didn’t take off their muddy boots before entering the restaurant. Her pleasant, softly spoken manner disguised the fact that, in Kirsty’s humble opinion, she really was rather stupid. Thank God she didn’t have an inkling of how Kirsty felt about Oliver. Kirsty knew that was how it had to stay; she couldn’t risk the sack. Not because it would be difficult to find work elsewhere, but because this job gave her an excuse to spend hours in Oliver’s company. Was that pathetic? Sam would say so, but he would be wrong, there was nothing feeble or pathetic about wanting to be close to someone you cared about. Oliver was almost — but not quite — a married man and she’d tried to distract herself with flings, but it was no good. Oliver hadn’t encouraged her, but she couldn’t help herself. The harder she tried to forget him, the more she yearned to be with him. All the time.
‘Has your brother mentioned when he might get round to that work at the back of here?’ Bel smiled again. ‘I asked Peter Flint, and he said Sam’s the one with green fingers.’
Kirsty remembered Sam’s warm, chunky fingers, closing around her throat. ‘He hasn’t said. I expect he’ll get round to it soon.’
A car’s horn pipped and Bel said, ‘Here’s Roz. Reliable as always. I phoned and said we were running low on her recipe book and sightseeing guides. She promised to let me have a few more copies.’
Both of them waved as Roz Gleave jumped out of her little green sports car. Kirsty liked Roz almost as much as she resented Bel and Gail. For a start, Roz never bothered about trying to look glamorous. Bel was uncannily pretty, even Kirsty had to admit that, and Gail disguised mutton as lamb with the help of an army of cosmetic surgeons, while both of them spent a fortune on clothes. In contrast, Roz didn’t give a toss about defying the advance of years. Her once-dark hair had turned as grey as Blencathra in the wet; but she never dyed it, and she didn’t always bother with a comb. If she fretted about the thread veins on her cheeks or the pouches under her eyes, you’d never guess. This morning, she was wearing dungarees and scuffed trainers. To look at her, you wouldn’t dream she ran a business at least as successful as Gail’s or Bel’s.
A month ago Kirsty had eavesdropped on a conversation in the restaurant between the three friends when Gail asked Roz if she’d thought about investing in implants. To Kirsty’s delight, Roz burst out laughing.
‘Chris loves me as I am, thanks very much! He’s put up with my meagre boobs all these years and I’m a bit too long in the tooth to change them now.’
Another thing Kirsty liked about Roz. She was happily married to a man who might be good-looking, but wasn’t remotely as exciting as Oliver Cox. In Chris Gleave’s company, Kirsty never had the same sense of fierce passions, barely suppressed.
‘Half a dozen copies of each title, wasn’t it?’ Roz lifted a box from the car boot and displayed the contents for Bel to see. ‘Hi, Kirsty, how is life?’
Without meaning to, Kirsty rubbed her throat. It was still sore.
‘Um, fine, thanks. Absolutely fine.’
‘That’s good. Love the scarf, by the way. Though aren’t you a bit warm on a scorching day like today?’
‘No, no, it’s OK. I like the feel of it, next to my skin.’
Would Roz understand how she felt about Oliver, would it help to confide in her? Kirsty had known Roz and Bel all her life, even though while her father was alive the two women kept a distance from the Howes. Presumably because of their past affairs with him. Roz was funny and kind and things hadn’t always been easy for her. Chris’s breakdown, for instance, there must be a story behind that, though Kirsty didn’t know what it was. Surely she could trust Roz to keep a secret. The snag was, Roz was bound to take Bel’s side. They were bosom buddies. In fact, everyone liked Bel. They didn’t seem to care that she was too bland, too perfect, the same as her home-made apple pie.
While Bel chatted to Roz, Kirsty trudged into the building. She kept her uniform in a locker and soon she’d changed into the short black skirt and white top cut low enough to keep the old blokes from nodding off during the pensioners’ discount lunch hour. The scarf stayed on. Through the thin wall of the kitchen, she could hear Oliver talking to the Croatian girls who were here for the summer. Veselka and Danica were lively enough, but scarcely soulmates. All they were interested in was picking up a few quid to take home to their families and seeing how often they could get laid.
Moments after she started lugging the tables into position, Oliver wandered out from the kitchen. He hadn’t shaved yet, hadn’t even combed his hair. In his sweatshirt and patched-up jeans, he looked nineteen. Too young for Bel, for sure. She’d insist he smartened himself up before any customers arrived. Pointless, Kirsty thought. People liked chefs to be unconventional, they expected it. If this was her place, she’d change a few things. Liven it up.
‘How are you?’ He fiddled with a hangnail. ‘Got over that hiccup from yesterday?’
‘The letter, you mean?’
‘That anonymous drivel, yes.’
