a future without Jake.
‘I don’t think so. But thank you,’ I said.
He looked aghast. ‘You’re not staying here? You can’t!’
‘I can,’ I said, feeling more determined.
‘But you can’t use your phone! And there’s no Internet.’
‘There is at the pub.’ I was surprised at how calm I was. How easy everything suddenly seemed. ‘What I need is a car.’
‘Take mine,’ said Jake instantly. He was, after all, a decent bloke. ‘And I’ll hire one. We probably need two anyway, if we’re both working. We should have thought of that. Come on.’ He reached out and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘This is silly, Tilly. You don’t really want to be here by yourself, do you?’
It was good to feel his arm around me. But I also knew it wasn’t right. Not any more. And I was also suddenly irritated by the way he called me Silly Tilly. People always thought that was so original…I hadn’t minded so much before, but lately he’d been doing it more often and suddenly I’d had enough. I thought of the samplers on the sitting-room wall. ‘Carpe diem’. ‘Tell the truth and shame the Devil.’ So I took a deep breath and I did.
‘I don’t think there’s much point in being with you, Jake,’ I said, carefully. ‘I don’t think things are the same any more. Something’s changed. These days you don’t seem to be with me really.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But I’m working on this project…’
‘…about football club owners.Yes, I know.’
‘Well, not entirely. There’s more to it than that and the more I looked into it, the more I found. There’s a lot of very dodgy stuff going on.’
‘What sort of dodgy?’ Despite myself, my curiosity was sparked.
‘There are some very unpleasant characters involved, not least Simeon Maynard. Everyone knows there’s something going on, but nobody’s talking and it’s impossible to prove. I’ve been trying for weeks.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me? You’re working on this really big story and yet you say hardly a word about it to me. Doesn’t say much about sharing, does it?’
‘No, well, sorry, but I have talked it over with Flick.’
‘Flick?’
‘You know, Felicity Staveley, from college. Well, she’s now working on that investigative programme on Channel Nine, and she said—’
Flick. Felicity Staveley with her perfect hair and gallons of confidence. She was meant to be a lowly TV researcher, but had already appeared on screen looking stunning and knowledgeable.
‘So are you and…Felicity, well, are you…?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Jake quickly. Too quickly. ‘It’s just that she has lots of contacts and we’re old friends and it seems logical.’
‘Of course,’ I said coldly. ‘Absolutely logical.’
Only Jake could fancy another woman for her contacts book. But Felicity’s ambition was a match for his and I knew then that I had well and truly lost Jake. And I didn’t even mind. Well, not much. I felt oddly distant from him. This was all so unreal anyway—this place was another world. ‘Look, if you don’t want to be without the phone and the Internet, keep in touch with…Felicity, why don’t you stay at your bed and breakfast? But I want to stay here.’
‘You can’t stay on your own.’
‘Jake, will you please stop telling me what I can or cannot do. Of course I can!’ And hey, I so enjoyed saying that—especially when I saw the stunned expression on Jake’s face. ‘But I need a car.’ I flipped through Mrs Alderson’s folder. There was a leaflet about taxi and car hire from a garage about ten miles away. ‘If you take me to the garage so I can hire a car, that would be helpful. Thank you.’ My tone was brisk and businesslike.
‘But…’ Jake looked as if he wanted to carry on arguing, persuading, talking. But he also looked baffled. He wasn’t used to my taking decisions so calmly. He suddenly shrugged. ‘OK, Tilly,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
Maybe it was my imagination. But I thought he looked relieved.
When the man at the Dales Garage had heard where I was staying, he’d led me smartly away from the neat little rows of shiny Ford Focuses and instead taken me round the back and shown me a rusty Escort van. ‘Engine’s fine and there’s nowt left on bodywork to hurt much more,’ he said. I wasn’t that sure, it looked a heap of trouble for me, but as he was asking just a tiddly sum for it, the deal was done. Jake tried to intervene, but I waved him away. A rusty Escort van was suddenly my vehicle of choice.
‘Anyway, I like the registration number, PIP,’ I said to Jake, who looked at me oddly.
‘I think the northern air has done something to your brain,’ he muttered. ‘Ring me if you want anything,’ he said. ‘And here’s the address of the B & B.’ He gave me a card. Our hands touched for a moment. ‘There’s always half a double bed there for you.’
‘I don’t think so. But thank you.’
He gave me a hug, suddenly awkward. I gave him the briefest of kisses and then climbed into PIP and drove off with barely a backward glance. I’d checked my phone—I discovered this morning that you could get a signal just at the top of the track from the farm to the main road by the old chapel. But now I needed to check my email.
I bounced along in my little rusting van, crunching the gears every now and then as I got used to it on the steep narrow roads. The previous owner must have weighed about twenty stone because the driver’s seat was in a state of collapse. The carpet was full of holes and there were odd gaps in the dashboard. But there was a radio. I pushed a button and Madonna came belting out and I sang out loud along with her at full volume. I was on my own in a strange place, in a strange van and suddenly it wasn’t scary, it was exciting, exhilarating. ‘Who’s That Girl?’ Me!
The Miners’ Arms, like the farm and the cottage, was grey stone and solid at the top of the moor. Just three or four houses and the old chapel were its only neighbours. As I pulled up in the car park, my new-found confidence faltered a little. Walking into strange pubs and bars alone could always be a bit dodgy. But the sign was newly painted and the windows sparkled. I could do this. Of course I could. I carefully locked PIP—though I didn’t believe that anyone could possibly want to steal it—and walked into the pub.
Inside there were rough stone walls and flagged floors and it smelt warmly of wood smoke and polish and further in of tantalising food smells—proper food. My stomach rumbled. Two fires burnt brightly in huge fireplaces at either end of the bar. At a table near one of the fires, two middle-aged couples in walking gear were enjoying coffee and cake. Near the other fire sat an old man reading The Northern Echo, a pint in front of him. Another couple of men were tucking into pies, steam escaping from the golden pastry and the meat tumbling out in a thick, rich gravy.
The walls were covered with old photographs. And more of those samplers. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try,
