else.
She queued and paid for her groceries, all the time thinking of the hairdressing project as escape.
It was only when she finally entered her cottage and began to unpack her groceries that Agatha’s common sense began to reassert itself. Mr. John surely got women on the hook by being charming to them. And yet… and yet… If he had reason to suspect she was on to him, why offer her a business proposition where she would be working closely with him? He had not asked for any money. She had offered it. She phoned Charles and asked him for dinner, telling him she would let him know her news when he arrived.
The sad fact was that Agatha had become addicted to the state of being in love and was all too ready to transfer that love to someone, anyone, other than James Lacey.
Charles arrived just as the first crack of lightning split the sky overhead. “Let’s hope the weather’s broken at last,” he said.
“Do you mind if we eat in the kitchen?” said Agatha.
“Not at all. What delicacies are you going to microwave for me?”
“Sausage, egg and chips, all fried.”
“Good. I’d like a bit of fried bread as well.”
“You’ve got it. Go and make yourself a drink and get me a gin and tonic while I fry. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”
Agatha turned to the stove. There was another great crack of thunder and then all the lights went out.
“Blast!” she shouted to Charles, who was at the drinks trolley in the living-room. “I’ll light candles. Don’t fall over anything.”
She fumbled in the kitchen drawer for the candles she kept in readiness to cope with Carsely’s many power cuts. Charles came in holding a branch of candles he had taken from the dining-room table. “If you’re all right, I’ll go back and get the drinks.”
“Wait a bit. I’ve got a big torch in this cupboard under the sink.” Agatha found it and handed it to him.
He put the candles with the others on the kitchen table and retreated with the torch.
“Thank God this is a gas cooker,” muttered Agatha.
When dinner was cooked, they sat down to eat it in candle-light.
“Now,” said Charles, “what happened?”
Agatha told him about her visit, about the hairdresser’s
bruised face, about the business offer and how she had found
the car, unmarked, at the side of the house.
“So it does look as if someone might have beaten him
up. Good,” remarked Charles.
Agatha said, “I’ve been wondering if we’ve been
wrong… about the blackmailing, I mean. Maybe he’s just a
ladies’ man.”
“A successful one, too, by the look in your eyes. Agatha,
he’s after your money.”
“I offered it. All he was doing was offering me a job.”
“Which you wouldn’t dream of accepting.”
“It might be a good idea. I mean, I’m rotting here in
Carsely.”
“When you talked about your life in London, I always
got the impression you were rotting there without knowing it.
You’ve got friends here. Something always seems to be happening to you.”
“I could do it for a bit. See how it works. I wouldn’t
sell up here till I was sure.”
“Aggie, he has got to you, you silly old thing.” Agatha winced at that “old” but said defensively, “In
any case I mean to string him along. It’s a good way of getting
to know him better. Then I can be sure.”
“I think that’s a damn dangerous thing to do.” “Why? If he does try to blackmail me, then I’ll go
straight to the police.”
“Aggie, blackmailers create violence. You’ve gone potty.” But Agatha had begun to build a dream up in her head of
being back working in London. Why not go for Bond Street?
Start with a splash. Big party. Get all the celebs. She could practically smell the petrol fumes of Bond Street, the scent from the perfume counter at Fenwick’s, the glowing pictures in the art galleries, the glittering jewels in Asprey’s window.
And perhaps, just perhaps, if he kissed her again like that, the bright pictures of James would fade and die.
“If you don’t want to know any more about it…” she began huffily.
“Oh, I do. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need my help soon. Listen to that storm, Aggie. You’re surely not going to send me home tonight.”
“You can sleep here… in the spare room.”
The phone rang. Agatha picked up the kitchen extension. It was Mr. John, his voice warm and concerned. “I just wanted to know you were all right.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
“This terrible storm. There are trees down everywhere. Have you electricity?”
“No, but I’ve a gas cooker and candles.”
“I’m very excited about our business project and would like to talk some more about it. Why don’t you drop over here tomorrow afternoon at three, say?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Get off!” Charles had crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.
“What’s going on?” demanded the hairdresser sharply. “Who’s there?
“No one,” said Agatha. “Just a mosquito. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”
She swung round on Charles. “What did you do that for? That was John.”
“I guessed as much. You are getting into deep water, Aggie.”
“I’m not,” she protested huffily. She took a Sarah Lee apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven. “I should have put that on earlier,” she said. “Let’s go sit and relax.”
As they went into the living-room, all the lights came on again. “Good,” said Charles, “we can watch telly.”
He switched it on and flicked the channels until he came across a rerun of “Hill Street Blues” and settled down happily to watch.
“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see that,” aid Agatha crossly. “And it is my television set.”
“Shh!”
So they watched “Hill Street Blues” and then there was a Barbra Streisand movie and Charles was addicted to Barbra Streisand. While he watched, Agatha let dreams of a new life curl around her brain rather like the smoke which was beginning to curl under the kitchen door. She had forgotten about the apple pie and it was only as smoke began to drift between them and the television set that she realized with a squawk of alarm what had happened. She ran to the kitchen and switched off the oven and opened the door and windows. Sweet cool air drifted in. She walked out into the garden. The rain had stopped and a little chilly moon sailed overhead through ragged clouds. She stood breathing in the fresh air until all the smoke had cleared from the kitchen. The pie when she removed it was a blackened mess. She threw it into the garbage and then began to diligently clean the surfaces of the kitchen.
By the time she had finished cleaning, the movie had ended and Charles was watching “Star Trek, The Next Generation,” an early one, to judge from the beardless and baby-faced Commander Riker.
“Charles,” said Agatha crossly. “It’s late and the storm’s over. You can go home.”
“I haven’t got Sky Television and I haven’t seen this one.”
“Home, Charles.”
