basket?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ snapped Guy, sliding a squeezed-out dishcloth along the runnels of the sink. ‘Geraldine and the girls in the gallery probably sent it as a joke.’ He extracted a piece of bacon rind and fish skin, both of which she supposed she should have removed from last night’s fish pie, from the plughole.
‘And what about the charming nude of Julia?’ she hissed.
‘That does it,’ said Guy, losing his temper. ‘You said you liked Julia, so I kept back that little nude for you for Easter. It’ll be worth a lot one day, and I know how you like women,’ he added nastily.
Georgie flushed. In her wild sixties days, she and Tancredi had had the odd threesome with other girls.
‘And don’t you get turned on hearing about it?’ she said furiously.
The row escalated, until Georgie burst into tears and said she was sorry. Then Guy apologized. He hadn’t meant to be ratty, but he was worried about their overdraft.
‘We must pull in our horns.’
Cuckolds have horns, thought Georgie as she hugged him in passionate relief.
She was particularly glad the row was made up because Flora was coming home on Sunday for her birthday before going back to Bagley Hall for the summer term in the evening. Having forgotten to get the Hockney framed, Guy gave her a cheque instead. Georgie gave her a sand-coloured shorts suit from Jigsaw which she’d wanted. Dinsdale, who’d been decked out in a big blue bow for the occasion, gave her a basket from the Body Shop.
‘I don’t want to go back,’ grumbled Flora, chucking all the clothes, which were marginally more crumpled after Mother Courage had ironed them, into her trunk, and putting two hundred Marlboros on the top.
‘Ought you to take these?’ asked Georgie. ‘You’ll ruin your voice. Do try and do some work, darling, and don’t get caught drinking. You know how it upsets Daddy.’
Guy had seldom looked less upset as he walked in.
‘Goodness, what a shambles,’ he said. ‘Panda, that’s worked out really well. You remember that old boy in Wales whose private collection hasn’t been looked at for fifty years? He’s just rung. He’s going abroad tomorrow, but he’s invited me up to stay at the local and have dinner with him tonight.’
‘Oh, a jaunt,’ said Georgie in excitement. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You can if you like.’ Guy didn’t sound too enthusiastic. ‘But he’s an old queen and doesn’t like women, so I’d better go on my own. As I had to book at the last moment, I only got a single room.’
‘When we were first married we slept on sofas,’ said Georgie sadly.
‘Darling, be reasonable. You’ve got to work and someone’s got to look after Dinsdale.’
‘Will you come back here on the way to London?’ Georgie hated to plead.
‘I really ought to get up first thing and bash up the motorway,’ said Guy, removing one of his favourite jerseys from Flora’s trunk. ‘I’ve got a lunchtime meeting with an American collector. I can take Flora back to Bagley on the way to Wales. So get your finger out,’ he added to Flora.
Georgie worked late that night until she was so tired that she slept through a massive thunderstorm which blew down several of the silver-painted trees in the wood. Then she had a marvellous morning’s work, joyfully playing the piano, singing, scribbling and rubbing out. She could hear all the themes of the individual instruments in her head, and she kept doing different things to prove to herself that what she’d written in the first place was the right thing.
By a quarter-past one, she’d drunk so much black coffee she was beginning to jump, so she went down to the kitchen to get some lunch. Mother Courage had already left, so she decided to cook that ox’s heart for Dinsdale. As she was looking for it, the telephone rang. It was Geraldine from the gallery.
‘You don’t know where Guy is? His lunch date’s arrived and his car phone’s on the blink. I rang The Leek and Daffodil. They said he checked out at eight-thirty.’
‘Oh, help,’ said Georgie going cold. ‘You don’t think he’s had a shunt?’
‘No, probably a tree across the road or something. They had force ten gales in Wales last night.’
‘Will you ring me when he gets in?’
‘Sure. How’s the country?’
‘Bliss. While you’re on, Geraldine, you might be able to help me. A lovely puppy vase with blue ribbons turned up in the move. Someone must have sent it to us as a moving-in present, or to me for going to Number One. You’ve no idea who it could be?’
‘Haven’t a clue, sounds lovely though,’ said Geraldine. ‘I must go and force-feed Moet to Guy’s disgruntled lunch date.’
Heart thumping, Georgie collapsed on the window-seat. Guy, who was so truthful he made George Washington look like Matilda, had been caught out in a second lie — first the wrong number, now the puppy coming from Geraldine. Feeling dizzy and sick, she found she had thrown all today’s post in the dustbin. Loathing herself, she rang directory enquiries, and then The Leek and Daffodil.
‘I’m awfully sorry, this is Georgie Seymour.’
‘Oh, Mrs Seymour,’ gushed the manageress, ‘I’m so glad you rang. We’re such fans, and it was lovely the way your husband signed you in under another name. We all thought you looked so young and lovely. I expect you’re ringing about your scorpion necklace.’
‘That’s right,’ said Georgie numbly.
‘My daughter found it in the bed. If you give me the right address, I’ll post it back to you.’
‘It’s Angel’s Reach, Paradise Lost,’ said Georgie and hung up.
In the Exhibitions in Progress file in Guy’s office, she found a formal letter from Julia and dialled her number.
‘She’s not back from Wales,’ said a voice with a strong Rutshire accent. ‘I was expecting her hours ago. Who’s that speaking?’
But Georgie had hung up again. Her first emotion was passionate relief that she hadn’t been going crazy, thinking Guy was up to something. He’d always been so adamant about his utter fidelity and now he’d been caught out. Wondering what to do next, Georgie decided to drive over to Julia’s and confront her. It couldn’t be very far with a Rutshire address, SHADOW COTTAGE, MILES LANE, ELDERCOMBE, said the letterhead.
On the way, it started to bucket down again. Georgie got terribly lost and nearly bumped into several cars. But finally she found the ravishing Stanley Spencer village, with a lazy, weed-choked stream meandering between the High Street and the faded red cottages. The rain had driven everyone in, so there was no-one to ask the way. On the right of the war memorial she found Miles Lane.
Getting out of the car, Georgie realized Dinsdale was still wearing his blue birthday bow and whipped it off, putting her belt through his collar, as she started to trudge through the deluge. She hoped Miles Lane wasn’t miles long, and wished she knew on which side was Shadow Cottage. But the next moment, Dinsdale’s nose had gone down and, sweeping her past three modern houses, tail waving frantically, he took a sharp right up the path of the prettiest garden filled with scillas, primulas and early forget-me-nots. Toys were neatly stacked on a table in the window, and someone had left a paper-bill addressed to Armstrong in the porch. Dinsdale’s tail was really going, bashing Georgie’s legs.
The door was answered by an elderly woman in a red mac and a crinkly plastic rain hat.
‘Mrs Armstrong?’ asked Georgie.
‘No, she’s out.’ It was the same Rutshire accent that had answered the telephone.
‘I’m Mrs Seymour.’ Georgie tried to control her breathing, ‘Guy’s wife. He’s putting on an exhibition of Mrs Armstrong’s work.’
‘Oh, right.’ The woman in the rain hat looked suddenly more friendly. ‘You must be Georgie Maguire. We’ve got all your records at home. Can I have your autograph?’
Somehow Georgie held the pen to sign the piece of paper.
‘I’m expecting Julia any minute. She’s so excited about her exhibition. She’s just rung. She’s been ’eld up four hours on the Severn Bridge. There were cross winds so they reduced the traffic to single line. I’ve just got to pop out and pick up the kids. If you want to wait, she won’t be long.’
That woman doesn’t know anything about Guy and Julia, thought Georgie, watching her splashing down the path. Perhaps I’m imagining things. Julia’s cottage was absolutely gorgeous inside, a rainbow riot of pastel colour with her paintings on every wall.
If she’s taken my husband, thought Georgie, I’m entitled to help myself to her drink. There was only elderflower wine, but it was better than nothing. Georgie took a slug, then opened the desk by the window, and
