could have a life together.
You fool, she told herself. You complacent, trusting idiot.
She could sense the tears gathering inside her, threatening to fill the ache of emptiness. And pain was prowling, too, waiting to sink its claws into her heart and mind.
The tap at her door sent her bolt upright, looking apprehensively over her shoulder. But it was only Mrs Gladwin bringing the threatened tea. Her face was solemn, but her eyes, understandably, were sparking with curiosity.
‘No one wanted any breakfast,’ she said. ‘So I’ve had to throw all that lovely food away. It seems a wicked waste.’ She paused. ‘I’ve cleared up the kitchen, so if I’m not wanted for anything else…?’
Lou realised wearily that she was asking to be paid. She forced a smile. ‘That’s fine, Mrs Gladwin, and thank you.’ She found her bag, and handed over the cash.
Mrs Gladwin lingered. ‘Next weekend, Miss Louise? Will the family be down?’
Lou looked at her blankly. ‘I—I really don’t know.’ Nor did she care, she thought. And how absurd to think that life could just—go on. For anyone to assume that she would go on living in this house—in this village—with all the dead hopes, dead memories. When everyone must know that was quite impossible.
When she knew, beyond all doubt, that she had to get away—and fast. Leave it all behind her, and escape.
She said quietly, ‘I’m sure my stepmother will be in touch over the arrangements. Thank you for the tea.’
‘The cup that cheers,’ said Mrs Gladwin, nodding portentously, and departed.
Louise looked at the tray, with its snowy lace cloth and the pretty flowered crockery. Another act of kindness, she thought, amid the personal desolation that was beginning to tear at her. But, again, from the wrong person. She did not want Alex Fabian’s kindness. She could not bear the thought of it.
She went on staring until the outlines of cup, saucer, jug and teapot lost their separate shapes, and became oddly blurred. Until the first scalding, agonised tears began to sear their way down her face, falling faster and faster.
She began to sob, making small, desperate, uncontrollable noises, pressing her hands over her eyes so that the salty drops squeezed through her fingers. She could feel grief burn in her throat, and taste it on her icy lips.
At some moment, still weeping, she stripped off the skirt and top and threw them across the room, shuddering as if they were rank—rancid. Knowing she never wanted to see them again as long as she lived.
She went to the wardrobe, dragged out a pair of black jeans and a round-necked sweater in fine grey wool, and pulled them onto her body.
She found her soft leather travel bag, and began hurriedly to fill it with underwear, more trousers and casual tops, flat shoes.
Escape, she thought, the word echoing like a mantra in her brain. Escape…
But where could she go?
There was Somerset, she thought. She could stay with her aunt and uncle, and find kindness with them. Use their farm as a sanctuary while she tried to decide what she could do with the rest of her life.
On her way downstairs, she paused outside the main bedroom and tapped on the door.
Her father opened it. ‘What is it?’ He looked at her bag. ‘Is it Ellie? Has she come back?’
‘No,’ she said, wincing. ‘That’s—not going to happen, Dad. But I’m going away for a while.’
‘But she must come back,’ he said. He looked past her. ‘You don’t realise how serious all this is. It was part of the deal with Fabian, and he’s walked out on us. We need that injection of capital, or the business could go under. We could lose everything.’
Lou stared at the man in front of her, and wondered when he had first become a stranger.
She said, ‘I think you already have lost everything. At least everything that matters.’ She paused. ‘I’ll be in touch—some time.’
She went out of the cottage the back way, feeling fresh tears springing up as she realised how much of her life she was leaving behind. Yet knowing at the same time that she had no other choice.
She’d expected—hoped—maybe even prayed that Alex Fabian would be long gone. But there was to be no respite for her on this merciless day.
Because, as she came out into the yard, he was there, loading his own bag into the boot of his car.
She checked instantly, wondering if she could duck back into the house before he saw her. But it was too late.
He was already straightening, turning to look at her, the green eyes curiously intent.
‘So there you are,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
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