The Cornish Guest House (26 page)

Every now and again she glanced out of the window, frightened that Carl would come, but she was so high up that the people below were faceless blobs and she told herself that he’d be in no fit state to track her down just yet. Later, she slept, took a shower and climbed back into the things that she’d worn the night before. She had nothing with her save those clothes and her handbag with a comb and some loose change.

She was fine until about four, when the jitters started. She would have called Molly, but she was at college. She turned on the TV and tried to focus, nibbling on biscuits, bread, anything she could find to take her mind off the cravings. Carl would have sorted her out, but not until she’d taken her punishment and this time, she’d thought, he might kill her.

When Luke finally walked in at about 7 p.m. she almost wept with relief.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, noticing her jerky movements and anxious, darting eyes.

Instead of taking her out, he made pasta, poured them both a glass of red wine and insisted that she tell him everything, every last detail. She paced the room, unable to sit still, but he was quiet and patient, nodding every now and again and prompting her gently to go on.

When at last her story was over, she fully expected him to throw her out. After all, she’d left no stone unturned. She’d felt that somehow he’d have known if she’d tried to gloss things over and in any case it had been a relief to speak the truth. Even Molly didn’t know the full story. Carl – and now Luke – were the only ones.

For a moment Luke paused, knitting his eyebrows, and Tabitha thought this was it. She was mentally hurrying from the flat, wondering where to go and how to hide. Then he got up from where he was sitting and took her in his arms, and she was so surprised that she shook and sobbed until his shirt was wet and she thought that she had no more tears left.

After that, he drove her to the out-of-hours doctor who handed her a prescription for diazepam and something to help her sleep.

‘We’ll get you off that stuff,’ Luke promised as they climbed back in his car, and he seemed so sincere that she almost dared to believe him.

The first few weeks of withdrawal were hellish; she felt so depressed that she could scarcely get out of bed. Fury and fiery restlessness came in waves, followed by lapses of lethargy and hopelessness. Luke insisted that she stay indoors with him the entire time. ‘You’re safe here,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to make you well.’

He took her to support group meetings and picked her up at the end and when she mentioned Carl he told her not to worry. ‘I’ve got my eyes on him. He won’t come anywhere near.’

As she became fitter and stronger, she began to think about re-joining the band because composing and singing was what she liked to do more than anything in the world. They’d found a new lead vocalist, they’d had to, but Molly promised to take Tabitha back in a heartbeat. Luke, however, said no. ‘You don’t need to work now, Tabby, you’ve got me.’

Molly visited when she could and to begin with Luke seemed to like her, but when she, too, raised the issue of the band, his face clouded over. The life didn’t suit Tabitha, he said, the late nights, parties, drugs, the whole seedy scene. Molly tried to argue that Carl was the problem, not the music, but Luke wouldn’t have any of it.

‘She’s bad news,’ he warned, when Molly left. ‘I don’t want you seeing her.’

After that, Molly and Tabitha only met when he was away; it was easier when Molly got a job in Manchester. She’d either visit the flat or later, when Tabitha had begun to relax a little about Carl, they’d go for a meal in the city centre, taking care to keep to busy streets and venues, constantly checking that they weren’t being followed. Although they never saw Carl, they always had the feeling that someone was watching. Molly said they were Luke’s men, too, but they let them be.

Tabitha was happier than she’d ever been, wasn’t she, with a stunning home and a boyfriend who showered her with expensive presents: a ring here, a gorgeous pair of shoes there? He loved it when she dressed in beautiful clothes and she’d never been the object of such praise and admiration. It was almost too much. And yet… little by little she began to wonder about her rescuer, whom she could never quite pin down. He left for work each day but she never saw his office, neither did he give her his business address or phone number.

Then there were the strange friends, who rang at odd times of the night or at weekends, when he’d shut himself away to take the calls, emerging later with a frown or a grin, but he wouldn’t say why.

After a while, she started to push a little, wanting to be part of that side of his life and curious, too. ‘Tell me,’ she’d beg. ‘I’d like to know about your work, I want to be supportive.’

But he smiled coolly and snapped the TV on. ‘I don’t like mixing business with pleasure. When I’m with you I just want to relax.’

Frustrated, she began again to wish that she had something more in her life. She wanted for nothing materially because Luke paid for everything, but singing and composing had been her passion. As she became more confident in herself, she wanted to know why Luke wouldn’t let her go back to what she did best. Surely, with Carl under control, he couldn’t deny her that?

She waited till the end of the evening after they’d been for a meal and made love. They were lying in bed, her head on his chest, breathing in and out deeply, listening to the sounds of the still busy city below. But as soon as she spoke, she could feel Luke’s body tense.

‘I’ve told you, Tabby. I don’t want you doing it.’

Something made her bold; perhaps it was the wine she’d drunk earlier.

‘You want me to be happy, don’t you? What’s the harm?’

Without warning, he pushed her off, sprang out of bed and stood in the doorway, facing her. His fair hair gleamed white in the half-light and he looked taller than usual, and menacing.

‘Watch your step, or you’ll be on your own again.’ His voice was hard, his mouth small and tight, and for a moment she’d been reminded of the way he’d spoken to Carl that night when he’d been lying in a bloody mess at his feet.

‘I–I’m sorry,’ she stammered, ‘I was being silly.’

And just as if someone had flicked a switch, the light came on and he turned into the old Luke, kind, protective, loving Luke.

‘That’s my girl,’ he said, sitting beside her once more, running his palm down the side of her face and squeezing her jaw just a shade harder than she’d have liked.

She wondered whether it was pure coincidence that two days later she saw Carl for the first time in months. He was on the other side of the road, right across from the flat, leaning casually against the wall, smoking a cigarette, and when his eyes bored into her, her knees went weak.

She stood, paralysed, watching him flash in and out of sight as cars and lorries rumbled past in both directions. Then, when there was a lull in the traffic, he pointed at her slowly and deliberately, before aiming two fingers at his own temple and staggering slightly. She was in no doubt what he meant.

Two burly men in jeans and dark bomber jackets walked past, staring at him the whole time, and he slunk away. But after that she didn’t feel like going to the shops, as she’d intended, and hurried home, waiting for Luke’s return.

‘Good day?’ he asked cheerfully as he plonked his briefcase on the floor and took off his coat, then he gave her a look and she knew that he knew and that he’d been teaching her a lesson.

They married a year later. It was only a quick, register office affair. His parents were dead and he said he’d invited his sister, who lived in Glasgow, but she couldn’t come. Two of his friends were witnesses, but they couldn’t stay for a drink, so Luke and Tabitha went on their own to his favourite restaurant in Salford. Soon after, they moved to their new townhouse in Manchester and six years after that Oscar came along. Luke said that she’d made him proudest man in the world.

She’d always suspected that there were other women, but she never mentioned it. She’d rather he had twenty mistresses than abandon her to her fate, for she was certain that Carl would neither forgive nor forget. She’d been devastated when Luke had told her they were moving to Cornwall, not only because she’d have to leave Molly and the city she now called home, but also because she’d felt safe there, surrounded by his minders.

‘He won’t follow,’ Luke insisted, ‘not when he knows I’m around.’

But she couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t know the man as intimately as she once had, or how deep his resentment ran. In any case, she had no choice. Luke had bought The Stables without her seeing it and she was to run a guest house.

The door creaked, making her jump, and she cried out, ‘Oh!’ She was so relieved when her husband walked in that she almost forgot about their argument and rushed towards him. ‘I thought… Where have you been? I didn’t know if you were coming back.’

She wanted him to hug her, to tell her it was all right, but his eyes were mean and bloodshot.

‘Ungrateful bitch,’ he said, grabbing her by the jaw and squeezing so tight that she squealed in pain. He pushed his face close to hers in that way he had and she could smell alcohol on his breath. ‘I’ll throw you back on the streets where you belong. You’ll never see Oscar again.’

When he finally let go, she sank to the floor. ‘Don’t, Luke, I beg you. I swear to God it’ll never happen again.’

She grasped his ankles but he shook her off, took a step back, and she wondered if he might kick her. She didn’t care, as long as she could stay. Instead, however, he turned on his heel and made for the bathroom, where she heard him switch on the tap and climb in the shower. Familiar sounds. The reassuring noise of everyday life. He’d come round, surely? If she behaved…

She rose slowly, ignoring the twinge in her legs from kneeling in that cramped position, the smarting arm from where he’d grabbed it, and she slunk into the bedroom, crawling under the duvet and curling up, foetus-like, so as to occupy the least space possible, to give him all the room he required. By the time he returned and clambered in wordlessly beside her, she sensed that he’d calmed a little. He switched out the light and she heard his breath become slow and heavy until finally a short, rhythmic sequence of juddering snores, followed by a gasp, told her that he was asleep.

He rolled on his back, stretching his arms and legs wide so that she had to scrunch up even smaller, but she didn’t try to move him. This she could endure, she thought, running her hand down the knobbly seam of the mattress, reminding herself of just how close she was to the very edge. Oscar needed her and for him, the light of her life, she’d put up with anything.

It was Rosie’s thirteenth birthday at the end of March, and although she didn’t want a party, she’d asked for money to take some friends to a film in Plymouth and for pizza after.

Liz was still unused to having cash in her pocket, having had to scrimp and save for so long, and had found herself budgeting out loud in front of Robert one Monday morning when the restaurant was closed and Rosie had left for school. ‘Roughly five pounds on petrol, nine pounds-ish per ticket, seven pounds or so for a pizza.’ She’d frowned at him over his breakfast cereal. ‘How many friends do you think she can invite? Can we afford it?’

He’d reached out and touched her hand. ‘Darling, she can have as many as she likes. You don’t need to worry about money any more.’

But, still, Liz found it hard to splash out, even where her daughter was concerned. Thriftiness was in her blood and Rosie’s, too. They weren’t used to treats.

‘Can I have three people?’ Rosie had enquired later, ticking their names off on her fingers. She hadn’t mentioned Tim, though. These days, his name never crossed her lips.

Liz had said that she could have a few more if she wanted, but Rosie had shaken her head. ‘Three’s the perfect number. If I have any more I won’t get to talk to them all.’

Saturday arrived, the day of the party, and when Liz returned home midmorning from dropping the girls at the cinema, Robert was at the restaurant and the house was quiet. She was intending to do some work herself and had just plonked her sewing kit on the kitchen table when the phone rang: Pat.

‘How the babby?’ the old woman wanted to know. She was as excited about the forthcoming arrival as anyone, and was already busy with her balls of wool and needles, knitting bootees, cardigans and shawls.

‘All good,’ Liz replied, stroking her bump. ‘It’s definitely starting to show now.’

Pat told her to look after herself, before turning to the
real
reason she’d called. ‘Guess what?’

Liz recognised that breathless tone and, suspecting that this would be a long one, filled the kettle and settled down.

Pat cleared her throat and announced solemnly that she’d had a call from a Detective Constable James Burgess. ‘From the Met, you know.’ She tended to put the police on a pedestal, alongside the Queen and the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘Such a charming man. Perfect manners.’

The bad news was that someone had been hacking into accounts at her bank and stealing people’s money, the good was that her own was quite safe. A very helpful gentleman – not James Burgess, someone else – had transferred the lot into a special police account for her until the investigation was over.

‘Just imagine if they’d gone off with all my savings,’ Pat muttered. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

Apparently, the police were close to making some arrests, she went on, while Liz listened quietly. ‘They think there’s quite a few involved, the dirty dogs.’ They’d asked her not to contact the bank herself for fear of jeopardising the operation. ‘I said of course I’d do anything I could to help. Can you believe it? Me? Caught up in a fraud investigation? Fancy that!’

The next few minutes seemed to pass in slow motion as Liz carefully went through the details again. She was trying to sound calm but it wasn’t easy. Even as the old woman repeated the sequence of events, doubt crept into her voice as the story sounded more implausible with each retelling.

‘I’ve been duped, haven’t I?’ she said at last, sounding hollow with regret. ‘All my savings.’ There was a strange noise, a bang and the line went dead.