coming back for hours. He even woke up a couple of times in the night to find the bed stone cold beside him.
And then she started making excuses for things like not going out for a walk with him, or to the pub for a drink. She would always have ‘something to do in her work room’.
Gradually, day by day, he was losing her.
‘Oh, er, number four,’ Paul muttered to the forecourt attendant. Taken abruptly from his wool-gathering he began ferreting for his wallet while a queue built up behind him. At last, anxious to be out of the place and alone again with his thoughts, he threw down two twenty-pound notes, though by the time the assistant had checked the notes for forgery and slowly counted out a handful of small silver change he realised it would have been quicker to use his credit card.
But at last he was free to go – except that someone was blocking his way.
‘’Scuse me.’
Paul found himself glaring into angry blue eyes again. The woman in the green coat, having helped herself to a free read of one of the magazines on display, had dropped it back on the shelf and made for the exit at precisely the same moment that Paul reached it.
He sighed, pulled the door open and let her pass through ahead of him.
‘Women!’ he snarled. Not only had he received no thanks whatever for his chivalry, he had been rewarded with a two-finger sign.
The flowers were still shivering in their cellophane as he stomped past them. But Paul had made up his mind. Susannah would not be getting a bunch. She simply didn’t deserve it.
Black. Something black. It had to be something black.
Susannah yanked the hangers along the rail, setting her teeth on edge. Black suited her mood just fine. What a shambles she’d made of things that afternoon! If she’d kept a cool head she might at least have had the satisfaction of selling one of her dolls: cause for celebration indeed. Even Paul would have been forced to concede that. As it was, Harvey Webb, if he had any sense, would probably have marched Lucy-Ann straight back to her shelf in the shop, demanding the return of his credit card. He might have been genuine, too. He might have been a useful contact. He might even have bought her teapot stand, had she not flown off the handle.
But now she had really burned her boats. She would never be able to face Reg again, and the likelihood of finding other suitable outlets was pretty remote. Of course there were plenty of likely shops in the area, but she knew from experience that very few would show any interest in her work; and it would take her for ever to get round to them all. She simply didn’t have time. She would try as soon as she had a spare moment, of course – but her most immediate priority had to be her Uncle Bert’s funeral.
Her father had phoned her late one evening with news of the death, his voice revealing shock, for all its bluster, because his brother had been two years his junior.
‘Bert’s next-door neighbour,’ Frank May had thundered down the line, ‘a Mrs Wardle – ever met her? Well, she thought you might like to go to the funeral. Apparently you always sent Bert a card at Christmas. Can’t think why,’ he’d added with a sniff of contempt, because he’d never had much regard for Bert himself.
‘He taught me to play Canasta,’ Susannah had tried to explain, remembering how her uncle had sat opposite her at his little card table for hours at a time, sucking placidly on his pipe while the more boisterous members of the family cavorted around them. That was how she had always thought of him, if she’d thought of him at all: as something of a loner; a bit of an odd-ball whom nobody understood, except maybe herself. Perhaps she took after him, she mused, lifting a black satin party dress from the wardrobe rail.
Of course, black satin was entirely unsuitable for a funeral, even supposing she could still get into the dress, which was doubtful, but it had long been one of her favourites and she couldn’t help holding it against herself, recalling happier days. Days when she had been content with her lot and this madness about wanting fulfilment hadn’t seized her. What had happened to change things? Was Paul right? Should she really see a doctor?
She turned her head from the mirror to listen to a sound outside. As if conjured up by her thoughts, Paul’s car had squeaked to a halt on the drive. And that was him coming into the cottage. Now he’d stopped on his way through the kitchen – no doubt to look at the day’s mail – and silence fell once more.
Susannah pretended absorption in her task, dreading the coming confrontation. Another battle, she thought wearily, because she no longer felt inclined to apologise. And the likelihood of Paul suddenly seeing the light and showing understanding towards her was very remote indeed.
Eventually – after what seemed like decades – Paul creaked up the steep little staircase to their room in search of her. She didn’t have to look round to know that he had come into the room and was standing at the foot of the bed, his jaw tense and truculent as he slowly pulled off his tie.
But suddenly he was behind her, much closer than she had imagined, his hand coming up to knead the back of her neck.
‘Susie,’ he sighed into her hair, ‘I’d forgotten all about your old Uncle Bert. And I’m sorry. No wonder you’ve been so uptight. It must have been a bit much, coming on top of the kids flying the nest and us selling up the old family home.’ He turned her round to face him, his hand still massaging imagined knots at the top of her spine. ‘There’ve been too many changes in a short space of time,’ he told her, smiling down at her indulgently. ‘I think perhaps I should have been surprised if you hadn’t blown your top. Don’t you?’
She swallowed her amazement and gazed back at him; he had actually managed to come up with a solution that let them both off the hook without either of them having to admit they were in the wrong.
Did he really believe his own reasoning, though? His expression revealed nothing, it seldom did, but she thought not. The problem was still obvious to them both, and they really ought to discuss it. But when it came to relationships it was typical of Paul to sweep difficult issues under the carpet.
He couldn’t help being that way: he had been brought up by a single aunt, his parents having been killed in a London air-raid towards the end of the war, and he had had only narrow experience of relationships. His views on parenthood and families were consequently based on ideals, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit that they might fall short in any way.
‘Paul, I –’ she began, but he put a finger to her lips.
‘Don’t let’s waste any more time, analysing,’ he said, turning away. ‘It’s all over. Finished. Forget it.’
‘OK.’ She caved in. She hadn’t the energy to pursue the matter right then.
‘Well, what do you think of this for the funeral?’ she asked, snatching at a hanger and swinging a pleated skirt around on it. ‘I’ve a jacket that matches, somewhere.’
‘It’s fine. Perfect. I like it.’ The relief in his voice was obvious: they were back on an even keel. He flashed her his most wicked grin, which prompted her to throw the garment aside in disgust.
‘It looks like my old school uniform,’ she said.
‘I know; I remember it from your old photographs.’ He squeezed her bottom. ‘Perhaps that’s why I like it.’
‘Cradle-snatcher pervert,’ she murmured, knowing he was nothing
