Redemption Song (31 page)

He might have to. He rolled over and watched her. Beautiful, clever, good Saffron. He didn’t deserve her.

In the morning, Joe felt sick with tiredness and he’d still not come to a decision. He watched her again, as he’d done most of the long, long night, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, a strand of orange hair across her neck, the long, brown lashes resting on cheeks dusted with freckles. The sight of her made him melt. He ran an index finger under a lock of hair, sweeping it over her shoulder. She opened her eyes, dreamy and only semi-conscious.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘What time is it?’ she croaked.

‘Just before ten.’

With an alertness that took him by surprise, she leapt out of bed. ‘I promised Mum I’d set up chapel for the eleven o’clock service. Mrs So-and-so is ill and she didn’t want to call anyone else on a Saturday evening.’

She rummaged through the crumpled heap of clothes on the floor, retrieved her knickers, turned them inside out and yanked them on, before clambering into her jeans, hopping from foot to foot as she tugged them up her long, lean legs. He must have looked surprised because she added, ‘I’m not staying. Just setting up. You around later?’ She tied the belt of her jeans and scooped out hair caught beneath her T-shirt. It tumbled down her back, her titian waves highlighted against her dark top. He yearned to tug her back into bed, to lose himself, and all thought of what he should do, in her sweet flesh, in the ecstasy of lovemaking.

‘Well?’ She stared at him, eyebrows raised, crouched and tying her boot laces.

How long had he drifted off for? It could only be seconds, she was in a rush. He had to talk to her today, one way or another. ‘Sure. Give me till mid-afternoon. Say three?’

Christ, he was a first-class procrastinator. Why not earlier? He had nothing important to do. He’d be unable to give a carving he was working on the focus it required. Instead, he’d probably fart around gaming.

‘Great. Give me a chance to have lunch with Mum. Catch up. Far side of the beach if it’s still bright? Tŷ Melyn if not? I fancy a Bakewell tart.’ The guest house they’d retreated to after Saffron had told Joe about Ben and the crash and Stephen had become a haunt. It was always empty mid-afternoon and the landlady was friendly and welcoming. If she had no cakes they made do with tea and ginger nuts. ‘My weakness,’ she’d told them, patting her rounded stomach.

He followed Saffron downstairs, kissed her goodbye, and watched her belting towards the lane. She burst with energy, with the pure joy of being alive. He felt like a man in the dock, waiting for the judge to return.

Saffron bombed into the manse, splashed her face with water, and brushed her teeth before heading over to the chapel. Rain was checking the PowerPoint presentation as she dashed in.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, flapping her hands and checking the table at the entrance for up to date newsletters and something to do other than look at her mum. ‘I’ll get the Bibles.’

‘Don’t panic. You’re not late. How was your evening?’ In her peripheral vision Saffron saw Rain look over from the iMac. She appeared calm, interested, without any trace of her usual desperation. Such eagerness to please had lessened considerably of late, Saffron noted, and the panic attacks and periods of fevered cleaning had almost disappeared. Her mum looked relaxed and pretty, her blonde curls bouncier than ever.

‘Fine.’ Saffron shuffled the papers on the table. It was stupid to be embarrassed.

‘That all?’

‘It was nice, thanks. Now, what do you want me to do once I’ve got the Bibles?’

Nice wasn’t the right word. They both knew that. But Saffron didn’t read romantic fiction, or watch romantic dramas. She didn’t have the vocabulary to describe the evening, her feelings for Joe, and she wouldn’t have shared them with her mum regardless. For the mechanics of the act, the chemical, hormonal and physical changes to her body she could have written an essay, but to put into words what occurred in her heart, in her soul? Impossible. She loved him; couldn’t be without him; there was nothing more to say.

Once parishioners started filing into the chapel, Saffron made herself scarce. After a bath and change of clothes, she prepared a lunch of bread, cheese, and salad and then went back to the chapel to help clear up and prepare the space for the long evening service. She didn’t wash her hair, not wanting to erase his scent, the musky, slightly vinegary smell of him. From time to time, she grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it across her nose, inhaling him, as if to remind herself he existed, that he wasn’t spectre or dream.

Rain had invited Mair Shawcroft and another elderly lady for lunch. Saffron beefed up the salad, adding more greens and herbs from the garden. She opened a packet of Brie and popped another baguette in the oven to warm it, and washed a punnet of strawberries before placing the fruit in a crystal bowl reserved for special occasions. She threw a linen cloth over the table, and enjoyed the vibrancy of the glistening greens and reds against the pure white fabric.

In the warm, golden light of the dining room, the women were relaxed and entertaining. Rain and her guests teased Saffron gently about her affair with the ‘handsome carpenter’, becoming whimsical as they reminisced about their own youthful flirtations and love affairs and, in Mair’s case, somewhat more earthy undertakings. Rain stroked the tablecloth and told her guests that it was a wedding present from an elderly aunt, a gift Stephen hated using when the children were small. ‘It’ll be ruined! Peanut butter and Marmite stains!’ In the end it was Stephen who’d stained it when he’d reached for the salt cellar one evening and knocked over a glass of Merlot.

‘You’d never know,’ Mair remarked, casting her eyes across the table.

‘There!’ Rain pointed and laughed. ‘Just got to know where to look.’

Saffron noticed with pleasure that Rain spoke of Stephen with warmth and a realism that had been absent for so long. Rain was remembering the man she’d loved, the man who’d loved her. A breeze rippled through the windows, lifting the curtains into the dusty air, the diaphanous fabric reminiscent of a wedding veil. Saffron bit into another strawberry, the sweet juice pouring down her chin, and wished she’d opened a bottle of white wine. There was everything to celebrate and Rain would not have objected. The grandmother clock in the corner chimed the hour and Saffron decided to make her way down to the sea, to enjoy a walk along the promenade before meeting Joe on the sands.

As she ambled down the rise towards the promenade her heart sang. The pier was busy, even for a glorious Sunday afternoon. It was not yet half past the hour, plenty of time to kill. She waltzed past the doughnut stall, the man clutching a bunch of balloons and towards Eifion’s rock hut. She could stop and say hello. Ceri might be around.

At the New Age hut, where a heavily tattooed woman sold tie-dyed scarves, skull rings, and Saffron’s beloved patchouli oil, Saffron spotted Joe up ahead. She raised her hand and was about to call out when she realised he was talking with someone, a petite woman. He’d not seen Saffron. Who could the woman be? Joe knew so few people. Realisation seeped through her, like ink on blotting paper. It could be Allegra. The long, brown, wavy hair, bronzed limbs.

Saffron lowered her arm and snuck behind a rail of velvet dresses with lace-up fronts and black T-shirts decorated with Celtic knots and symbols. She shuffled the coat hangers, as if she was looking for something, but her eyes were fixed ahead. Too far to hear the conversation but close enough to witness its passionate intensity – all flailing arms, and then, my God, was that a kiss? Her spirits plummeted as her mind went into overdrive. Had Joe planned this meeting? He couldn’t have; he’d asked to see her, Saffron. Why would he not say anything? But if it was meant to be a secret why meet in a public place? For sure, he couldn’t have known she would be early, that she would wander on to the pier, but it was risky nevertheless. Her heart battered against her ribcage. This was bad. Something wasn’t right. And if it wasn’t Allegra, who was it?

A high-pitched screech lanced the clammy air, a baby’s cry, and Saffron spun round, her back to Joe and the mysterious woman. Coed Mawr was a small place, she knew everyone he associated with and that wasn’t many; a few churchgoers, Rain, Eifion, Ceri. Shaking, she fiddled with rings displayed on a table outside the hut, head bowed. Heavy footsteps pounded past and she sneaked a glance. Brown wavy locks swung across a slim back. Saffron turned back to look up the length of the pier. Joe had disappeared. But where to?

A split-second decision had to be made. Saffron dropped the opal ring she was clutching and raced towards the pier exit, her eyes fixed on the woman’s back.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Saffron tailed the woman from the promenade to the shopping arcade, uncertainty about what she might say when she finally plucked up the courage to stop her,
if
she plucked up the courage to stop her, growing with every step. But she was increasingly sure it must be Allegra.

Hi, I’m Saffron. I’m Joe’s girlfriend. What are you doing here?
wouldn’t cut it. It sounded so … so … lame. Who was to say Allegra hadn’t swung by to collect some of her CDs or cutlery? Bollocks. Joe didn’t have any CDs and little in the way of cutlery. Perhaps Allegra took the lot? Had they lived together? Joe had never said.

He’s not said much, full stop.

Saffron was so busy running through imaginary conversations that she almost crashed into another shopper, the only person shielding her from the woman who must be Allegra. The shopper turned, clearly alarmed by Saffron’s proximity, scowled but said nothing. Saffron heaved a sigh of relief. She did not want to draw attention to herself; she wasn’t ready to confront this woman, this almost-certainly-Allegra who’d stopped in front of an electrical shop next door but one to Wynne’s. She was checking her phone by the looks of things. With the shopper gone, the arcade was almost deserted and Saffron felt conspicuous. She dived into the entrance of Wynne’s and peered in the window, pretending to inspect the miserable display; the dummy still minus a hand. The shop was dark, the owner resolutely resisting the push for Sunday opening.

‘Saffron! Can’t keep away, huh?’

It was Mrs Evans, the manager, brandishing a key. What was she doing here? Mrs Evans jerked her head at the window. ‘You can help me spruce up this display if you like. I’ll pay overtime.’

Panicking, Saffron bit her lip and shook her head. To her relief Mrs Evans merely laughed, turned the key, and pushed open the door. Her parting shot echoed round the arcade. ‘Your loss, Saffron, love. See you tomorrow.’

Saffron turned away from Mrs Evans to find herself looking down into the face of the woman she was now one hundred per cent certain was Allegra. Eyes of different colours bored into her: one hazel, one green.

‘So you’re Saffron.’ Allegra smiled, though only with her mouth; her eyes remained glassy. ‘Marcus described you well.’

‘Marcus?’

A genuine, if smug, smile spread across her face. My God, she was beautiful. Stunning. ‘Ah, but of course. You know him as Joe, don’t you?’ She flicked a rogue strand of hair over her shoulder. It felt like a smack in the face to Saffron.

‘We need to chat. There are things you need to know. Shall we go for a coffee? Can you recommend anywhere? I believe you’re local,’ Allegra said. And though her tone was kind, concerned, her eyes moved over Saffron like she was a piece of fluff to be removed from a jumper.

‘I’m not sure we have anything to say to each other.’ Saffron spoke in a manner she’d reserved for distressed patients, her attempt to match Allegra’s composure. She was glad of her height, at least she could look down on this pint-sized beauty. In a perfect world she’d have walked away, head high, but she was unable to, trapped in the porch entrance of Wynne’s. Her world had travelled a million miles from perfect in the past half an hour. Allegra was so close Saffron could smell the heady, expensive notes of her perfume.

Why, for fuck’s sake, why, did I follow her instead of Joe. Marcus?

‘You might not have anything to say to me, but I have plenty to say to you,’ Allegra said.

Why is she being so horrible? She left him; she broke his heart.

Allegra smiled. She spoke again, even more softly this time, even kinder. ‘There’s so much you don’t understand about Marcus. So much you deserve to know, so that you can understand.’

That Saffron knew little about Joe was true, but she did understand him. She did, didn’t she?

Why did you lie to me, Joe? Who are you?

‘I’d like to explain something about Marcus and me. Why we belong together.’ Allegra touched Saffron’s arm, pityingly. Instinctively, Saffron recoiled.

She wants him back.

Saffron could almost feel herself shrinking. She couldn’t compete with this goddess. She was insignificant. Nothing. She didn’t even know his real name.

Allegra turned and waved a slender arm in the direction of the arcade exit. ‘I saw a café on the main drag. Didn’t look too awful. We’ll go there,’ she said, confidently, walking away, clearly sure Saffron would follow.

And follow she did, her emotions veering from fury to devastation. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. But was she to fight or run? At school and university she’d always been contemptuous of those girls who fell out over men, fought for their attentions, but she wouldn’t – couldn’t – give up Joe without a battle. No way was she going to capitulate. Allegra’s elegant dress rippled as she tottered off, the red silk shifting like sand in a desert storm.

Beware. This woman will be no pushover.

As they neared the café, Saffron nudged in front, determined to take back control. In her flat-soled boots, she walked faster than Allegra in her stupid little heels. Saffron launched herself at the café door and stomped through without looking behind her, hoping the door would swing back just heavily enough to knock Allegra off balance.

The place was deserted bar a couple of bored-looking teenagers staring into empty glasses as if willing them to fill with vodka. Saffron scanned the room before deciding on a window seat. Sure, it could get embarrassing if people from the street saw them arguing, but it afforded a quick exit, should one be required. She snatched the menu from its stand, though she wanted nothing.