‘What are you doing in Will’s bed?’
‘Will … ’ I said, quietly. ‘Will wasn’t well … I just thought I should keep an eye –’
‘What do you mean, he wasn’t well? Look, come out into the hall.’ She strode out of the room, evidently waiting for me to catch her up.
I followed, trying to straighten my clothes. I had a horrible feeling my make-up was smeared all over my face.
She closed Will’s bedroom door behind me.
I stood in front of her, trying to smooth my hair as I gathered my thoughts. ‘Will had a temperature. Nathan got it down when he came, but I didn’t know about this regulating thing and I wanted to keep an eye on him … he said I should keep an eye on him … ’ My voice sounded thick, unformed. I wasn’t entirely sure I was making coherent sentences.
‘Why didn’t you call me? If he was ill you should have called me immediately. Or Mr Traynor.’
It was as if my synapses had suddenly snapped together. Mr Traynor. Oh Lord. I glanced up at the clock. It was a quarter to eight.
‘I didn’t … Nathan seemed to … ’
‘Look, Louisa. It’s really not rocket science. If Will was ill enough for you to sleep in his room then that is something you should have contacted me about.’
‘Yes.’
I blinked, staring at the ground.
‘I don’t understand why you didn’t call. Did you attempt to call Mr Traynor?’
Nathan said not to say anything.
‘I –’
At that moment the door to the annexe opened, and Mr Traynor stood there, a newspaper folded under his arm. ‘You made it back!’ he said to his wife, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders. ‘I’ve just fought my way up the road to get a newspaper and some milk. Roads are absolutely treacherous. I had to go the long way to Hansford Corner, to avoid the ice patches.’
She looked at him and I wondered for a moment whether she was registering the fact that he was wearing the same shirt and jumper as the previous day.
‘Did you know Will had been ill in the night?’
He looked straight at me. I dropped my gaze to my feet. I wasn’t sure I had ever felt more uncomfortable.
‘Did you try to call me, Louisa? I’m sorry – I didn’t hear a thing. I suspect that intercom’s on the blink. There have been a few occasions lately where I’ve missed it. And I wasn’t feeling too good myself last night. Out like a light.’
I was still wearing Will’s socks. I stared at them, wondering if Mrs Traynor was going to judge me for that too.
But she seemed distracted. ‘It’s been a long journey home. I think … I’ll leave you to it. But if anything like this happens again, you call me immediately. Do you understand?’
I didn’t want to look at Mr Traynor. ‘Yes,’ I said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
7
Spring arrived overnight, as if winter, like some unwanted guest, had abruptly shrugged its way into its coat and vanished, without saying goodbye. Everything became greener, the roads bathed in watery sunshine, the air suddenly balmy. There were hints of something floral and welcoming in the air, birdsong the gentle backdrop to the day.
I didn’t notice any of it. I had stayed at Patrick’s house the evening before. It was the first time I had seen him for almost a week due to his enhanced training schedule, but having spent forty minutes in the bath with half a pack of bath salts, he was so exhausted he could barely talk to me. I had begun stroking his back, in a rare attempt at seduction, and he had murmured that he was really too tired, his hand flicking as if he were swatting me away. I was still awake and staring at his ceiling discontentedly four hours later.
Patrick and I had met while I was doing the only other job I have ever held, that of trainee at The Cutting Edge, Hailsbury’s only unisex hairdresser’s. He walked in while Samantha, the proprietor, was busy, asking for a number four. I gave him what he described afterwards as the worst haircut not only that he had ever had, but the worst haircut in the history of mankind. Three months later, realizing that a love of fiddling with my own hair did not necessarily mean that I was cut out to do anyone else’s, I left and got the job at the cafe with Frank.
When we started going out, Patrick had been working in sales and his favourite things could have been listed as beer, garage chocolate, talking about sport and sex (doing, not talking about), in that order. A good night out for us would probably comprise all four. He was ordinary-looking rather than handsome, and his bum was podgier than mine, but I liked it. I liked the solidity of him, the way he felt when I wrapped myself around him. His dad was dead and I liked the way he acted towards his mother; protective and solicitous. And his four brothers and sisters were like the Waltons. They actually seemed to like each other. The first time we went out on a date, a little voice in my head said: This man will never hurt you, and nothing he had done in the seven years since had led me to doubt it.
And then he turned into Marathon Man.
Patrick’s stomach no longer gave when I nestled into him; it was a hard, unforgiving thing, like a sideboard, and he was prone to pulling up his shirt and hitting it with things, to prove quite how hard it was. His face was planed, and weathered from his time spent constantly outdoors. His thighs were solid muscle. That would have been quite sexy in itself, had he actually wanted to have sex. But we were down to about twice a month, and I wasn’t the kind to ask.
It was as if the fitter he got, the more obsessed by his own shape he became, the less interested he was in mine. I asked him a couple of times if he didn’t fancy me any more, but he seemed pretty definite. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he would say. ‘I’m just shattered. Anyway, I don’t want you to lose weight. The girls at the club – you couldn’t make one decent boob out of all of theirs put together.’ I wanted to ask how exactly he had come to work out this complex equation, but it was basically a nice thing to say so I let it go.
‘Will … ’ I said, quietly. ‘Will wasn’t well … I just thought I should keep an eye –’
‘What do you mean, he wasn’t well? Look, come out into the hall.’ She strode out of the room, evidently waiting for me to catch her up.
I followed, trying to straighten my clothes. I had a horrible feeling my make-up was smeared all over my face.
She closed Will’s bedroom door behind me.
I stood in front of her, trying to smooth my hair as I gathered my thoughts. ‘Will had a temperature. Nathan got it down when he came, but I didn’t know about this regulating thing and I wanted to keep an eye on him … he said I should keep an eye on him … ’ My voice sounded thick, unformed. I wasn’t entirely sure I was making coherent sentences.
‘Why didn’t you call me? If he was ill you should have called me immediately. Or Mr Traynor.’
It was as if my synapses had suddenly snapped together. Mr Traynor. Oh Lord. I glanced up at the clock. It was a quarter to eight.
‘I didn’t … Nathan seemed to … ’
‘Look, Louisa. It’s really not rocket science. If Will was ill enough for you to sleep in his room then that is something you should have contacted me about.’
‘Yes.’
I blinked, staring at the ground.
‘I don’t understand why you didn’t call. Did you attempt to call Mr Traynor?’
Nathan said not to say anything.
‘I –’
At that moment the door to the annexe opened, and Mr Traynor stood there, a newspaper folded under his arm. ‘You made it back!’ he said to his wife, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders. ‘I’ve just fought my way up the road to get a newspaper and some milk. Roads are absolutely treacherous. I had to go the long way to Hansford Corner, to avoid the ice patches.’
She looked at him and I wondered for a moment whether she was registering the fact that he was wearing the same shirt and jumper as the previous day.
‘Did you know Will had been ill in the night?’
He looked straight at me. I dropped my gaze to my feet. I wasn’t sure I had ever felt more uncomfortable.
‘Did you try to call me, Louisa? I’m sorry – I didn’t hear a thing. I suspect that intercom’s on the blink. There have been a few occasions lately where I’ve missed it. And I wasn’t feeling too good myself last night. Out like a light.’
I was still wearing Will’s socks. I stared at them, wondering if Mrs Traynor was going to judge me for that too.
But she seemed distracted. ‘It’s been a long journey home. I think … I’ll leave you to it. But if anything like this happens again, you call me immediately. Do you understand?’
I didn’t want to look at Mr Traynor. ‘Yes,’ I said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
7
Spring arrived overnight, as if winter, like some unwanted guest, had abruptly shrugged its way into its coat and vanished, without saying goodbye. Everything became greener, the roads bathed in watery sunshine, the air suddenly balmy. There were hints of something floral and welcoming in the air, birdsong the gentle backdrop to the day.
I didn’t notice any of it. I had stayed at Patrick’s house the evening before. It was the first time I had seen him for almost a week due to his enhanced training schedule, but having spent forty minutes in the bath with half a pack of bath salts, he was so exhausted he could barely talk to me. I had begun stroking his back, in a rare attempt at seduction, and he had murmured that he was really too tired, his hand flicking as if he were swatting me away. I was still awake and staring at his ceiling discontentedly four hours later.
Patrick and I had met while I was doing the only other job I have ever held, that of trainee at The Cutting Edge, Hailsbury’s only unisex hairdresser’s. He walked in while Samantha, the proprietor, was busy, asking for a number four. I gave him what he described afterwards as the worst haircut not only that he had ever had, but the worst haircut in the history of mankind. Three months later, realizing that a love of fiddling with my own hair did not necessarily mean that I was cut out to do anyone else’s, I left and got the job at the cafe with Frank.
When we started going out, Patrick had been working in sales and his favourite things could have been listed as beer, garage chocolate, talking about sport and sex (doing, not talking about), in that order. A good night out for us would probably comprise all four. He was ordinary-looking rather than handsome, and his bum was podgier than mine, but I liked it. I liked the solidity of him, the way he felt when I wrapped myself around him. His dad was dead and I liked the way he acted towards his mother; protective and solicitous. And his four brothers and sisters were like the Waltons. They actually seemed to like each other. The first time we went out on a date, a little voice in my head said: This man will never hurt you, and nothing he had done in the seven years since had led me to doubt it.
And then he turned into Marathon Man.
Patrick’s stomach no longer gave when I nestled into him; it was a hard, unforgiving thing, like a sideboard, and he was prone to pulling up his shirt and hitting it with things, to prove quite how hard it was. His face was planed, and weathered from his time spent constantly outdoors. His thighs were solid muscle. That would have been quite sexy in itself, had he actually wanted to have sex. But we were down to about twice a month, and I wasn’t the kind to ask.
It was as if the fitter he got, the more obsessed by his own shape he became, the less interested he was in mine. I asked him a couple of times if he didn’t fancy me any more, but he seemed pretty definite. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he would say. ‘I’m just shattered. Anyway, I don’t want you to lose weight. The girls at the club – you couldn’t make one decent boob out of all of theirs put together.’ I wanted to ask how exactly he had come to work out this complex equation, but it was basically a nice thing to say so I let it go.
