Anyway, it was Marcella’s idea, and I think she’s absolutely right. Since they got Bean, they can’t imagine life without her. And Norris is here now; we can’t kick him out into the street, can we?’ Bending down and cupping Norris’s lugubrious face in her hands she cooed, ‘Eh? Of course we wouldn’t do that, because you’re beautiful, aren’t you?’
The world had gone mad. Her mother had never shown the remotest interest in dogs before and now look at her, crawling around on the floor making goo-goo noises like some besotted new mother.
Was this what happened when you hit the menopause? ‘Well, I’d better make a start on those windows,’ said Marcella.
About bloody time too. But Kate couldn’t help covertly watching as Marcella crossed to the utility room, took a yellow bucket out from under the sink and began to fill it with water and a dash of Fairy. She was wearing lime-green cotton Capri pants, a raspberry-pink shirt knotted at the waist, and orange flip-flops. Her skin was the colour of Maltesers, her black hair tied back with a glittery pink scrunchie. Marcella had to be in her early forties, but she possessed an enviable figure. As she vigorously swirled the Fairy Liquid around in the water, her high bottom jiggled like a 25-year-old’s. And her waist was tiny, Kate noted. Unlike Estelle, who had been letting herself go lately and could do with shifting a couple of stone.
‘Don’t drink it, you daft animal,’ Marcella gently chided as Norris investigated the contents of the bucket with snuffly, snorty interest. That was something else about Marcella: she had a beguiling voice, warm and husky with that hint of a Newcastle accent betraying her upbringing on Tyneside.
‘He’s thirsty. I’ll get him a bowl of water,’ said Estelle. ‘And we’re going to need some cans of food for him. Sweetheart, why don’t you have a shower and get dressed, then you could pop down to the shop and pick some up.’
Kate sighed; this whole charade was nothing more than a conspiracy to get her out of the house.
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘I have to hold the ladder while Marcella’s doing the high-up bits. Otherwise she might fall off.’ Estelle grinned. ‘And then who’d clean the windows?’
Shooting a look of hatred at Norris, Kate moved towards the door.
‘Actually, could you do me a favour?’ said Marcella. ‘When you see Jake, tell him to take the lamb chops out of the freezer. If he spreads them out on a plate they’ll defrost in a couple of hours. And remind him that Sophie has to be at the village hall by five o’clock for Charlotte’s birthday party.’
Could the day get any worse? Kate gritted her teeth; the very last thing she needed was to be forced to speak to Maddy Harvey’s brother. With barely concealed irritation she said, ‘Why don’t you just ring him?’
‘Because to get to the store you have to go right past Jake’s workshop. It’s sunny, so he’ll be sitting outside. Anyway,’ Marcella concluded with a dazzling smile, ‘why add to your parents’ phone bill when it’s not necessary?’
Oh, for crying out loud, thought Kate, increasingly tempted to literally cry out loud. My father’s a multimillionaire, a phone call costs less than ten pence, what are you talking about, woman?
But Marcella, armed with her brimming bucket and a whole host of window-cleaning paraphernalia, had already left the room.
Of course, Marcella had more than likely done it on purpose.
This thought struck Kate as she made her way down Gypsy Lane with Norris ambling along at her heels. It was by this time one o’clock; showering, washing her hair, dressing then carefully applying enough make-up to minimise the horror of the scarred side of her face had taken fifty minutes. The irony of this ritual didn’t escape her; once upon a time she had been a strikingly attractive girl and make-up had made her breathtakingly gorgeous. These days it was a tool necessary to prevent small children screaming with fright at the sight of her.
So long as it didn’t melt in this heat.
Thinking dark thoughts about Marcella, Kate rounded a bend and was brought up by the sight of the flowers on the verge opposite, a sudden profusion of poppies, ox-eye daisies and dog roses marking the spot where April Harvey had been killed. Marcella had planted them herself, shortly after the accident.
Each time she walked up the lane to Dauncey House, she passed them and was reminded afresh of April’ s death.
Although flowers or no flowers, she was hardly likely to forget it.
Kate paused to gaze at the flowers, remembering April with her funny, wobbly gait, slurred speech and lopsided smile. To her shame, she also remembered the way she and her friends from Ridgelow Hall had made fun of April whenever they saw her, mimicking her mannerisms and comical way of speaking.
At least, they had when the rest of April’s family weren’t around. Anyone caught making fun of her would have been swiftly and efficiently dealt with by either Maddy or Jake.
It was deeply embarrassing to recall now, but she had been only young at the time. Making fun of people because they weren’t perfect was what children did. It had never occurred to her that one day she might not be perfect herself.
Bored with waiting, Norris strained at his lead. Slowly Kate made her way on down the dappled, tree-lined lane. As they rounded the final bend, where Gypsy Lane joined the town’s broader Main Street, she saw Snow Cottage ahead of her on the right and beyond it the row of craft shops and galleries set back from the road, where metal-workers and artists and ceramicists produced and displayed their wares for visiting tourists.
And there was Jake Harvey, as Marcella had predicted, sitting outside his own workshop, chatting animatedly to an old woman while she examined one of his bespoke caskets.
Stripped to the waist in a pair of white jeans, Jake looked like something out of a Coke ad.
Deeply tanned, shinily muscled, with overlong hair streaked by the sun into fifty shades of blond, he was the archetypal bad boy at school, the one your mother always warned you not to get involved with.
Not that Kate had ever been tempted herself; during her teenage years she and her friends had spent their time lusting after public-school educated boys with names like Henry and Tristram.
Reluctantly she approached the workshop, aware that her stomach was jumping with trepidation.
God, all this hassle for the sake of lop.
Chapter 9
‘It’s perfect,’ the elderly woman was saying as she ran a gnarled hand over the glossy deep crimson surface of the casket. Alerted by the sound of footsteps — and possibly Norris’s laboured sumo-like breathing — she turned and greeted Kate with a cheerful smile. ‘Hello, dear, come and take a look, hasn’t this young man done a marvellous job?’
At least concentrating on the casket meant not having to meet Jake Harvey’s eye. Kate studied the picture of a leggy brunette in mid high-kick, presumably dancing the can-can. Frowning, she struggled to work out the significance.
‘It’s me,’ the woman explained with pride. ‘I was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. I was nineteen when this photograph was taken. It’s where I met my husband. Such happy days.’
Intrigued, Kate peered more closely at the lid of the casket, wondering how the effect had been achieved.
‘You make an enlarged colour photocopy of the original print,’ said Jake, reading her mind, ‘and cut around the figure you want to use. Then you soak it in image transfer cream, place the copy face down on the lid and rub over it with a cloth. When you peel the paper away, the photo’s transferred to the lid. Couple of coats of varnish and you’re done.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Kate told the woman, careful to keep the left side of her face out of view.