Honestly, what a kerfuffle. Was Jack having this much trouble getting himself ready for tonight, or was he jumping into the shower, reaching for the first clean clothes to hand, and thinking T-shirt and jeans, that'll do?
Oh well, it was different for girls. They had so many more deci sions to make, like dangly earrings or studs, subtle nail polish or bright, flip-flops or proper shoes, bikini-style knickers or thong.
Or no knickers at all…
The TV was on, the newsreader was reaching the end of the news, and for the life of him, Jack couldn't have named one item on the program. His eyes had been on the screen, his ears had heard the newsreader's voice, and nothing—
nothing—had
permeated his brain. Because all he could think about was tonight. And Tilly. Shit, this was serious.
What's more, she had no idea. How could she know how he felt, how life-changing this evening would be? She couldn't begin to un derstand what was going on inside him. Jack could hardly believe it himself. When Rose had died, his world had changed forever. It had been like a giant prison door clanging shut. That was what happened when you allowed yourself to fall in love with someone; when they were ripped away from you, the pain and grief were unimaginable.
So he had vowed never to let it happen again, had simply kept that particular door locked. It had been so much easier to act the part of the flirtatious philanderer, to have fun and avoid any form of emotional involvement. OK, so he'd managed to earn himself a fair old reputation along the way, but so what? He'd always been honest from the word go, had never resorted to false pretenses.
But now everything was about to change. Because despite his best efforts, Tilly had unlocked that door. And it might be terrifying, but it was also a fantastic feeling, like being sprung from prison after four years.
The tumble-dryer clicked off and Jack opened it, pulling out the warm, no-need-to-iron, dark-green pillow cases, duvet cover, and king-sized fitted sheet. If Tilly smelled the fabric conditioner on them, would she think he'd taken it for granted that she'd end up in his bed tonight? Would she be offended at having been regarded as a sure thing? Then again, didn't they both know, deep down, that it
would
happen tonight?
As he carried everything upstairs, Jack wondered what she was doing now. Tilly wasn't the type to flap around, spending ages trying to decide what to wear. She'd probably be out, taking Betty for her walk before heading back to the house, jumping into the shower, and quickly changing into a little top and jeans. That was one of the great things about her: she wasn't high-maintenance or vain, like so many of the girls around here.
Right, that was the bed sorted. He stepped back to admire the end result. The bedroom was tidy, everything was clean, and the lighting was acceptably discreet. All of a sudden, it seemed incredibly important; he wanted Tilly to feel comfortable here and to approve of the way the room looked. Last Christmas Monica had given him a box of candles in colored votive glasses, and said, 'You could put them on the shelves around your bedroom, there's nothing more romantic than candlelight in a bedroom.'
The candles, needless to say, were still packed away in their gift box in the wardrobe. For a moment Jack wondered if he should get them out. On the one hand, he was keen to impress Tilly, but on the other, he didn't want her feeling as if she'd just walked into an Austin Powers shag-pad.
OK, give the candles a miss. They were possibly something only a girl could get away with. Briefly pausing in front of the mirror on top of the chest of drawers, Jack checked his hair hadn't dried funny, then crossed to the window to close the curtains. As he reached out to grasp them, his left arm brushed against the blue and silver ceramic bowl on the window ledge. Rose had bought it from a craft shop in Tetbury and painted extra silver stars and polka dots on it herself, pronouncing it perfect for holding bunches of wild flowers. Which, it went without saying, was something else he'd never attempted. Since Rose's death, the bowl had stayed empty. Well, he was a man. Men didn't pick flowers
or
light candles. He moved the bowl closer to the glass, then began to close the curtains.
Jack froze as a car turned into his road. Not just any car either; this was a red Audi with number plates he not only recognized, he knew them off by heart. It couldn't be, but it was. For a moment he forgot to breathe, because she'd always had a talent for timing.
Then he gripped the window ledge for support, a great wave of shock and hope and nausea rolling through him as he watched the Audi turn in through the open gates.
Because he wasn't hallucinating.
It was Rose's car.
Chapter 33
THIS WAS CRAZY. JACK shook his head, ordered himself to get a grip. Rose was dead. It might be Rose's car, but Rose wasn't the one driving it.
Because she was dead.
He knew that. It was just the shock of seeing it so unexpectedly. For a split second his brain had been tricked into believing the ac cident had never happened and Rose was still alive. There had even been time for guilt to kick in, because she would have found out he was about to be unfaithful to her, and blurting out the excuse that he'd thought she was dead
wouldn't
have gone down well with Rose.
Jack took deep breaths, mentally steadying himself. She hadn't come back. Only her car had come back. Following Rose's death, he hadn't known what to do with her beloved red Audi. When her parents' rusting old Fiesta had failed its MOT in spectacular fashion, he'd been only too glad to hand it over to them. It had undoubtedly been lovingly washed, polished, and valeted on a weekly basis and driven well within the speed limit ever since.
Jesus, though. They'd given him a heart attack. And for them to turn up today of all days, tonight of all nights. It was almost as if Rose had sent them here on purpose.
On the driveway below, the Audi's doors opened. Bryn emerged first, followed by Dilys. They looked older, slower, tireder, worn out with grief. Jack, who hadn't seen them for two years, felt his stomach plummet at the sight of them now.
Maybe they wouldn't stay long.
He was meant to be picking up Tilly in an hour.
Bryn Symonds was now almost seventy, with thin grey hair and a defeated face. Once the life and soul of the village, for thirty years he had owned and run a small hardware shop. With the rise of the megastores, Bryn's business had fallen into difficulties. He had managed to keep it afloat with the help of loyal local customers, but it had been a struggle. Then Rose had died and Bryn had stopped being the life and soul. He gave up the shop and retired.
Dilys had never gone out to work. A proud Welsh housewife, she kept busy polishing windows, cleaning paintwork, scrubbing doorsteps, and baking bread. Their little house was immaculate.
And Rose, their beloved only child, had been their whole world.
The doorbell rang as Jack was halfway down the staircase. He crossed the hall and opened the door, dreading what lay ahead and awash with guilt at dreading it.
'Oh Jack.' Dilys took one look at him and dissolved into tears, as she'd taken to doing every time they'd seen each other since the day her daughter had died. He knew why, of course. Because he reminded her of the happy life Rose was supposed to have, the one she should be leading now.
And who could blame her for that? If the accident hadn't hap pened, Bryn and Dilys would have been proud grandparents, turning up at the house today to visit their daughter and son-in-law, and to shower gifts and affection on their adored three-year-old grandchild. Who knew, maybe he and Rose would have had another baby by now, and Dilys would be in knitting overdrive. Bryn would be build ing complicated structures out of Lego and painstakingly mending anything that got broken… OK, don't think about it, just blank it out, and
don't
start trying to imagine what the children might have looked like.
He hugged Dilys, shook hands with Bryn, and invited them into the house.
'Oh, thank you, love.' Dilys dabbed at her eyes with an ironed handkerchief as Jack put the cup of tea down in front of her. 'Sorry to land ourselves on you like this. I hope we're not being a nuisance.'
What could he say? 'Of course not. It's great to see you again.'
Another lie, another wave of shame.
'Well, it's been quite a while.' Bryn quietly stirred sugar into his tea.
'I know. I'm sorry.'
'Twenty-three months.'
'I've been pretty busy here.' Jack felt worse and worse.
'It's all right, love. We know. We understand,' said Dilys. 'You've got your work to take care of.'
'And how have things been for you?' He hated even asking the question, already knowing the way the conversation would go.
'Oh well. Not great.' Sorrowfully, Dilys shook her neatly permed head. 'We do our best to keep busy, but nothing really seems to help.'
Bryn said, 'Vandals broke into the cemetery and sprayed graffiti all over the gravestones.'
'What?'
'Oh Bryn, don't tell him.' Dilys clutched Jack's hand. 'Sorry, love, we weren't going to tell you.'
'But he should know. It's his fiancée's gravestone. Filthy words, they wrote.' Bryn shook his head sorrowfully. 'Broke our hearts, it did.'
'When did this happen? Can it be cleaned off?' Appalled, Jack said, 'Who did it?'
'No one knows. Stupid kids, I imagine. It's all right; we managed to scrub the stone clean.'
'Took him three weeks,' said Dilys. 'All day, every day. But Bryn managed it in the end. Scrubbed his own hands raw too, didn't you, love?'
'I wasn't going to stop until my daughter's headstone was perfect again. And the flowers we planted around it are looking good too.'
Jack nodded, picturing the scene, unable to speak.
'Here, love, you can see for yourself. We've taken some photo graphs to show you. Although hopefully it won't be long before you can come and see it for yourself, eh?' Dilys took a mini photo album out of her cream leather handbag and passed it over. 'We'd really like that, wouldn't we, Bryn? And you could stay for as long as you l-like… oh dear, what did I do with my hanky?'
She was off again, breaking down completely this time. Bryn, doing his best to comfort her, said to Jack, 'We've been going through a tough time, see. It feels like everyone's forgetting about Rose. They used to ask us how we were, and talk about her. But now it's as if they think we should be putting all that behind us. Moving on, like. But they don't understand. We can't put it behind us and we don't want to forget her. And new people are moving into the village who never even knew her—it's like she means nothing to them. Well, I suppose she doesn't. But she means everything in the world to us.'
'That's why we had to come and see you today.' Still tearful, Dilys shook her head and wiped her red-rimmed eyes. 'Because you're the only other person who loves Rose as much as we do. You're the only other person who understands, because you miss her too. I mean, I know they can't help it, but it's like she's f-fading away, being rubbed out, getting fainter and fainter. And everyone else is just moving on as if she'd never existed.'
Jack escaped from the kitchen and went upstairs. It was eight thirty already and he could no longer even remember whether he'd been meant to pick Tilly up at eight o'clock or nine. Bryn and Dilys Symonds' grief had had that much of an effect on him. What's more, it was catching. At this moment, he was riddled with shame and guilt.
Having ensured the bedroom door was firmly shut, he took out his phone. What other choice did he have?
What was going on? Jack had said he'd be here at eight. From not having had the slightest twinge of anxiety that he might not turn up, Tilly was now in knots. Eight o'clock had come and gone and she hadn't been able to stop pacing the kitchen since. All dressed up and nowhere to go. This was like being sixteen again, beginning to realize that the boy you'd fancied for months, who'd said he'd meet you at the bus stop, had stood you up.
Disbelief mingled with misery as, slowly and sickeningly, the hands of the clock slid round to eight thirty. Every few minutes she'd been compelled to check that the phone was still working. By eight thirty-one, she was pinning all her hopes on a car accident. Not too serious, just enough to result in Jack being trapped in his car, unable to reach his mobile. As soon as the firemen managed to cut him free, he'd call her, maybe a bit battered and bruised but otherwise unhurt, and he would be
so
apologetic, and she would tell him not to be stupid, he was OK and that was all that mattered, but he'd keep saying he was sorry, even while the paramedics were telling him he had to get off the phone now because they needed to check him over, then she'd hear Jack say to them, 'There's only one person I want to be checked over by, and she's on the other end of this line.'
Bbbbrrrrinnnggg. Back in the real world, the phone on the coffee table rang at last and Tilly launched herself at it like a rugby player. Of course he'd rung, of course he had a genuine excuse, he was probably calling to say he was on his way and would be here in two minutes…
'Hello?'
'Hi, it's me. Look, sorry, but I'm not going to be able to make it tonight. Something's come up.'
It was Jack's voice, but it didn't sound like Jack. He was dis tracted, distant, not himself at all.