She couldn’t deny it. She had said that. ‘All right, all right, take your point. And I don’t want to be like that. But I still can’t help finding it odd that you didn’t tell me that you were going to come back from Paris two days earlier than you’d intended.’
‘I told you. I had stuff to do here.’
‘What kind of stuff?’ Jude hated herself for asking the question.
‘Just stuff. Nothing that would interest you.’
‘If it wouldn’t interest me, then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t tell me about it.’
‘One thing I’ve never wanted to do in our relationship, Jude, is to bore you.’
‘Oh, very slick.’ Jude grinned. ‘The old silver tongue working overtime again.’ Her expression changed. ‘What was this “stuff” that was so important you couldn’t ring me or text me to say that you’d come back from Paris early?’
Piers Targett looked at her ruefully, then sighed. ‘All right.’ He gestured round the kitchen. ‘It’s this place. I want to put it on the market. Which means contacting estate agents, sorting out a cleaner to do a basic tidy-up, a gardener to make the outside look vaguely presentable. That’s what I’ve been doing this morning . . . well, most of the day, actually. All that stuff . . . which, as I say, is not very interesting.’
‘And none of this was to do with Reggie Playfair’s death?’
He looked totally shocked by the question. ‘No. Why should my putting this place on the market have anything to do with poor old Reggie?’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant has any of the other “stuff” you’ve been doing had anything to do with his death?’
Piers Targett shook his head in a manner that contained puzzlement and also some other emotion that Jude could not quite identify.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Going up a blind alley. But there is one thing I do want to ask.’
‘Ask away.’
‘Why have you suddenly decided you want to put this house on the market? From all accounts, you’ve owned it for quite a while, not used it much, spent an increasing amount of time in London. So why now? Why do you suddenly want to sell now?’
He grinned wryly. ‘Partly it’s financial. Some of my investments – some of my “pies” as Oenone calls them – have proved to have less filling in them than I’d hoped. So realizing a bit of capital and then going off to find more lucrative pies to dip my fingers into, well, that’s part of the reason.
‘The other bit –’ he turned the full beam of his deep blue eyes on her – ‘is to do with you.’
‘In what way to do with me?’
‘Look, Jude, this place represents a different part of my life. This is where I lived when . . .’ The supremely articulate Piers Targett seemed to run out of words.
‘When you were married?’ Jude suggested.
‘Yes. And well, as I told you, I still am technically married. Not divorced, anyway. But I couldn’t move on. I couldn’t get rid of this place, even though I was hardly ever here, even though I’ve let it become such a tip. Every time I considered doing something about the place, inertia overcame me. It was all too much effort. Then I met you, and suddenly I had a reason for wanting to close that chapter of my life. Suddenly I had a reason to want to move on. And I felt I had to set that whole process in motion before I could get back in touch with you. Does that make any kind of sense, Jude?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Yes, it does, Piers.’
Their eyes interlocked and they were drawn ineluctably towards each other. But before they touched, they both froze at the sound of the front door clattering open and shut.
A woman with long blonded hair appeared in the kitchen doorway.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So this is the new one, Piers?’ She looked Jude appraisingly up and down. ‘First time you’ve gone for bulk.’ And almost before the insult had had time to sink in, she announced, ‘I’m Jonquil Targett. Piers’ wife.’
SIXTEEN
‘So what’s he told you about me?’ demanded Jonquil Targett. ‘Nothing, if I know Piers. Presenting himself as the poor, suffering divorcé, finally having got over the trauma of the relationship in which he’d invested so much emotional capital and at last ready to take the first stumbling steps towards a new one? Only needing the love of a good woman? Is that the image he’s projected to you?’
‘No,’ replied Jude with more coolness than she felt. ‘Piers has not told me he’s divorced. He’s made no secret of the fact that he’s still technically married.’
‘Technically? Huh, I like that. Reducing me to a small technicality in his life. I hope he hasn’t pretended to you that you’re the first of his girlfriends.’
‘No, he’s never suggested that.’
‘Though I think you’re the first he’s brought back to this house, the house that we jointly own.’
Jude tried to think back to what Piers had actually said about his emotional history and realized that it had been very little. They’d been so caught up in the happiness they’d found in each other that most other things had seemed irrelevant. They’d both known that there were big subjects that they would have to deal with eventually if their relationship progressed. But shelving such discussions for the time being had suited both of them.
‘Jonquil, just leave her alone,’ said Piers in a voice Jude hadn’t heard from him before. There was a note of despair in it. Gone was the urbane articulacy. In his wife’s presence Piers Targett seemed immobilized, struck down by the same inertia that he had said prevented him from selling the house.
Jonquil knew the power she had over him, and gloried in it. She was an attractive woman, probably about the same age as Jude, but thin as a rake. The long blonded hair, though perhaps a bit too young for her, had been expertly done. She was dressed in the kind of tight sweater and jeans that people with her figure could get away with.
‘Piers,’ said Jude, ‘I think I’ll go now.’
‘No, don’t.’
‘I think I should.’
He didn’t argue any further. Jonquil had drained the will out of him. ‘Look, I’ll give you a call,’ he said. ‘I can explain.’
As she went out through the front door, Jude wondered how many men had used that pathetic, hopeless expression over the years. ‘I can explain.’ And how many women had accepted those explanations, knowing all the time that they were as false as the lies that had got the man into the position of needing to explain in the first place?
It was nearly dark, but at least the rain from earlier in the afternoon had stopped. Jude didn’t know exactly where she was, but she remembered the car going through the small village of Goffham just before they reached their destination. And in that small village there had been a pub. She’d walk back there, have a glass of wine – no, a large Scotch – and phone for a cab to take her back to Fethering.
Untidily parked on the gravel outside the house there was now a Nissan Figaro, presumably the car in which Jonquil Targett had arrived. Its baby-blue paint looked somehow ineffectual beside the classic scarlet of the E-Type. As she walked past, Jude noticed something white draped haphazardly across the Figaro’s back seat.
It was a wedding dress.
Mid morning on the Sunday, Carole rang the number Susan Holland had given her for Donna Grodsky. When the phone was answered there was a baby crying in the background. She explained that she was trying to find out what had happened to Marina.
‘Are you police or something?’ asked the suspicious voice from the other end of the line.
Carole was only fleetingly tempted to lie. ‘No,’ she said.