Heaven Sent, page 26
Clemmie felt very sick.
Helen removed a strand of ash-blonde hair from her lip-gloss and peered over Clemmie’s shoulder. ‘Oh, you’ve still got that old Peugeot. Did you see my car?’
‘No! If I had, I’d—’
Shut up, Clemmie, she shouted at herself. Just shut up.
‘Of course you were probably looking for the Jag, weren’t you?’
Clemmie, who obviously hadn’t been looking for anything, shook her head.
‘I got rid of the old one last week,’ Helen purred. ‘It was too embarrassing to be seen on the school run with last year’s model. The children were mortified and I was so afraid they might be bullied. The new one’s parked over there. Nice, isn’t it?’
Swallowing the mixture of bitter disappointment, agonising pain and tearing fury which was in danger of choking her, Clemmie turned round and flew through the storm, slamming into the relative sanctuary of the Peugeot.
Helen, she noticed, was smiling triumphantly as she closed the door.
‘Noooo!’ Clemmie screamed, thumping her fists against the steering wheel. ‘How could he do that – to me? The bastard! I hate him! And Helen! But mostly him – I bloody hate him!!!!’
And blindly crashing the gears, she kangaroo-hopped the Peugeot away from the boathouse.
Dashing away her angry tears, she stopped at the roadwork traffic lights on the outside of Winterbrook and wondered where on earth she could go. Not home. It was far too early, and also Molly and Bill would be sympathetic and kind which would make everything even worse.
The windscreen wipers slashed backwards and forwards, mocking her; the red light was faint and blurred by the teeming rain, the effect increased by her tears.
Driving around in this weather and this state of mind was lunacy, Clemmie realised. She was in no fit condition to drive anywhere. But where was there to go? All her friends were in couples and she simply couldn’t face that sort of togetherness. Not tonight.
But Phoebe was different, wasn’t she? She’d known Phoebe and Ben since childhood. They wouldn’t mind her crashing in on them for an hour of shoulder-soaking. Not, Clemmie decided as the lights turned green and she drove away from the roadworks towards Hazy Hassocks, that she was ever going tell Phoebe the whole sad story.
No way.
Eventually managing to find a parking space in the dark and wet Winchester Road, Clemmie hurried up Phoebe’s path and rang the bell. Maybe they were out. Maybe she should have phoned first.
Phoned … Why the hell hadn’t Guy phoned her to tell her that he’d changed his plans and invited Helen to stay?
Why? Clemmie clenched her teeth. Because he wanted to make damn sure she knew where she stood, of course! That was it. He knew that Clemmie was stupidly in love with him, and had chosen this abominably cruel way to make sure she backed off and left him alone.
The cruel, evil, heartless bastard.
Phoebe opened the door. ‘Clemmie! God – you’re soaking! Er, come in.’
Clemmie shuffled into Phoebe’s neat hall. In the few weeks she and Ben had lived here, they’d transformed it into a chic, immaculate home. It was very Phoebe, Clemmie thought, with clean pale colours, no knick-knacks, and absolutely nothing out of place. She couldn’t have lived comfortably in it for more than ten minutes.
Seeming somewhat agitated, Phoebe ushered her into their living room, which was stylishly decorated for Christmas in various shades of designer cream and gold.
‘Hi.’ Ben, as neat and blond and organised as Phoebe, looked up from the chair beside the modern white gas fire. ‘Oh, Clemmie – you’re drowned. Er – were we expecting you?’
Clemmie stared at them, the rain dripping from her hair and trickling down her face. ‘Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry – I won’t stop.’
For the first time, she registered that both Phoebe and Ben were dressed for a black tie event. Phoebe looked wonderful in a floor-length black evening dress; Ben was equally impressive in his tux and bow tie.
‘Sorry, Clem, but our cab’ll be here at any minute. It’s Ben’s works’ dinner and dance tonight. You should have phoned …’
‘Yes … yes … I’m sorry. Stupid of me.’
‘Clem?’ Phoebe peered at her. ‘Look, if there’s something really wrong, Ben can go in the cab, I’ll catch him up later.’
Ben didn’t look as though he was very thrilled with this idea.
‘Don’t be daft.’ Clemmie stretched a smile. ‘I’m fine – just at a bit of a loose end and I – I was going to see if you wanted to come out for a pre-Christmas drink. I should have phoned. Silly of me – I’ll go now.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Phoebe looked concerned. ‘Has something happened? You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’
‘No! It’s just the wind making my eyes water – and the rain – and—’
‘That sounds like the taxi.’ Ben stood up, making little jerking motions with his head.
Clemmie sniffed and tried to smile. ‘Right, I’m off. You have a lovely time and I’ll catch up with you over Christmas.’
‘Actually, we won’t be here.’ Phoebe fumbled with her jacket and bag. ‘We’re dividing ourselves between my parents and Ben’s family. Still, you’ll be at our flat-warming, won’t you?’
‘Yes – wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Clemmie headed miserably for the front door. ‘’Bye Ben, and Phoebes, have a lovely Christmas.’
‘You too, Clem. ’Bye.’
Half an hour later, having driven aimlessly round and round a wet and windy Hazy Hassocks, with its deserted streets and bedraggled Christmas decorations, Clemmie knew she had to go back to Bagley.
She couldn’t stay out like this, feeling as she did, looking so awful. On her own. And like Phoebe and Ben, all her friends would be with their respective partners, doing something wonderfully festive on this last Friday before Christmas.
She had never felt more alone in her life.
Praying that Molly and Bill would be out at the Barmy Cow, or hermetically sealed in the living room watching the television and wouldn’t hear her come in, Clemmie headed back towards Bagley-cum-Russet.
Of course, she’d have to leave The Gunpowder Plot. She couldn’t work with Guy now. Not with Helen and children in situ, her very presence mocking all Clemmie’s hopes and dreams. Not knowing that Guy thought she was just another sad and needy and pathetic woman like Tarnia Snepps and all the others.
Sod him to hell! He’d not only broken her heart and destroyed all her foolish romantic daydreams, but he’d also made it impossible for her to continue working in the one job she’d wanted all her life.
In one stroke she’d lost not only the man she loved – loved? Hah! Been stupidly infatuated with, more like! – but also the best job in the world.
And then there were YaYa and Suggs.
Pulling up outside the Post Office Stores, Clemmie felt as desolate as the icy December weather.
Christmas …
She couldn’t stay here and pretend everything was all right and join in all the joyous traditional things when her heart was breaking, could she? Couldn’t face two weeks with her aunt and uncle who’d know however hard she tried to disguise her misery. Couldn’t meet up with her friends, all glowing with love and blissfully happy in their relationships.
She simply couldn’t.
She crept into the house, not disturbing Molly and Bill who thankfully were glued to something amusing on the television judging by the guffaws echoing from behind the living room door, and stumbled upstairs.
Quickly ripping off the purple dress and the boots and the earrings, and hurling her bag across the bedroom, Clemmie wrapped herself in her fluffy dressing gown, switched on the television, and lay on her bed, trying to get warm.
Flicking through the programmes, she winced at the seasonal laughter, the gaiety, the happiness. She snapped the television into silence and fumbled in her bag for her mobile.
Huh! Three missed messages – all from Guy. Clearly making sure that she’d got the only message that mattered to him.
She looked at the contents of her handbag strewn across the bed. Sad, sad cow!
The rainbow maker, in its carefully chosen multicoloured wrapping, lay in the middle of the chaotic heap of her foolishness: her make-up bag, her face wipes, her deodorant, her toothbrush, her moisturiser and her clean underwear. All the stuff she’d thrust into her bag in the expectation of staying overnight at the boat-house.
All tangible reminders of her blind stupidity.
She had to get away from all this.
Wiping her eyes on her dressing gown sleeve, Clemmie rolled from the bed and switched on her computer. Thank the Lord for Bill Gates and MasterCard.
Less than an hour later she’d booked a flight from Heathrow to Inverness the next day, sorted out regional transfers, and spoken to her mother, who’d been wildly excited and delightedly volunteered to drive down and collect her for the final stage of the tortuous journey to Thurso.
She was going home for Christmas.
Chapter Twenty-Four
January was simply the worst month of Clemmie’s life. The cold, grey, wet and windy weather persisted. The only cheerful thing about the New Year was the clutch of photos which had arrived from Milton St John. Luke and Suzy, warmly dressed, gazing at one another, outside the registry office after their marriage ceremony; their smiles and eyes simply scorching with total happiness and mutual love.
Apart from that, everything was, Clemmie felt, unremittingly gloomy and hopeless.
She returned to The Gunpowder Plot on the morning of the seventh, her resignation letter in her handbag.
Guy wasn’t there. Neither was Helen.
Suggs scampered excitedly from his sofa bed and scrabbled at her knees until she picked him up and cuddled him. His eyes, circled by his dark bandit’s mask, were almost as sad as her own.
YaYa, coming into the office from the kitchen, greeted her with such an overwhelming enthusiasm that it made her want to cry all over again. Hugging, they thanked each other for their presents.
YaYa was wearing Clemmie’s Christmas present earrings. Clemmie wasn’t wearing YaYa’s present of gorgeous but extremely scanty La Perla bra and knickers.
Fortunately, after the exchange of pleasantries, YaYa’s non-stop résumé of her festive gigs with Honey Bunch and Foxy, and full details of her riotous family Christmas, meant that Clemmie didn’t have to say much at all.
She briefly told YaYa about going to Scotland ‘on a whim’ and said it was lovely. Which it had been, even if the travelling had been exhausting.
Her parents had been absolutely delighted to see her, and she them. They’d had a quiet family Christmas with all the trimmings, and she’d met their friends, and had been taken to every amazing beauty spot the Highlands had to offer within a thirty-mile radius. And it had snowed and she’d experienced the happy mayhem of a proper Scottish Hogmanay.
Most importantly, she’d almost been able to shut all the hideousness of her humiliation out of her mind for the entire duration of her stay. Almost, but not quite.
It was impossible to wipe Guy out of her heart and her head, and his face was the last thing she saw before going to sleep each night, and the first thing she thought of when she woke each morning.
And then she’d remembered the pain, and tried not to let her sorrow show.
Molly and Bill had been startled at her last-minute change of heart regarding her festive plans, but hadn’t shown any real reluctance at her going. They always felt she should visit her parents more often.
‘Bit of a dead time here, after Christmas,’ YaYa said, as they removed the decorations. ‘Might as well get shot of these – there’s no point in waiting for Twelfth Night in my opinion. Damn silly when it’s all over isn’t it, love?’
Clemmie nodded. All over … Awful words.
‘And there’s no gigs, either firework or drag, because no one’s got any money. We usually just spend the month tidying up and stock-taking and sending out the new season’s flyers and catalogues and waiting for the slightly better weather and slightly less broke punters.’ YaYa pulled a face and lit a cigarette. ‘I hate bloody January. And I don’t know about you, love, but my resolutions have already bitten the dust. As you can see. I stopped smoking for twenty-three hours. Yours doing any better?’
Clemmie, painfully reminded as she removed Suggs from the bauble box how blissfully happy she’d been just a few weeks previously when they’d excitedly enrobed the boathouse with glitz and glitter, muttered that she hadn’t made any resolutions at all.
YaYa shrugged, blowing a plume of smoke across the room. ‘Probably the best way. Mind you,’ she paused in winding tinsel into a ball one-handed, ‘I sure as shit hope Guy’s made at least one.’
Clemmie didn’t look up. ‘Why?’
‘Because he’s been as miserable as sin ever since I came back. I hope he’s resolved to cheer up a bit. He won’t tell me what’s up – and he always tells me everything. I know he couldn’t go to his parents for Christmas, but I can’t see that that would be any reason for him to be so bloody bad-tempered. Quite the opposite, in fact.’
Clemmie said nothing at all.
‘Did you two have a row, love?’ YaYa peered at her. ‘When I wasn’t here? Did anything happen?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Right … So it isn’t that,’ she sighed. ‘I really don’t know what his problem is. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look as though your break has done you much good, either. You look like you haven’t slept for a month.’
‘Probably jet lag,’ Clemmie tried to joke. ‘It’s a long way to Caithness. And I was at Phoebe’s party on Friday night, practically from stepping off the plane.’
‘Lucky you,’ YaYa said. ‘We were freezing our bits off at the rock concert – which was a virtual bloody wash-out. I got a backstage pass and didn’t recognise any of the bands. It made me feel sooo old, love, you wouldn’t believe. They were children. They weren’t even speaking my language. And most of the audience went home at half-time and didn’t even see the fireworks. And Guy – well! You’d think someone had given him a humour bypass.’
Clemmie shrugged. She didn’t care. If Guy was unhappy
because Helen was making his life hell all over again, then it was all he deserved.
‘Where is he today?’
‘No idea, love. Work, I think. Sussing out a new site, probably. He’s barely spoken two words to me since I came back from Brighton. I thought it was something I’d done, but he said no. So if it’s not me and it’s not you, God knows what or who it is.’
Clemmie knew but she wasn’t going to say so. No way. Guy would tell YaYa what a sad deluded cow Clemmie was in his own good time. Long after she’d left The Gunpowder Plot, she hoped.
The phone rang. They both dived for it. YaYa got there first.
‘Who, love? Oh, right – yes, love. Hi. No, he’s not here at the moment. Can I help you? No? Yes, I’ll tell Guy as soon as he comes in and get him to ring you. Thanks, love. ’Bye.’
‘Who was that?’ Clemmie asked listlessly. It didn’t matter any more. She wouldn’t be here much longer. Nothing that happened at The Gunpowder Plot would concern her.
‘Ellis Blissit, the secret wedding bloke from Steeple Fritton. Wanted to speak to Guy. Didn’t want to talk to me. Sounded OK though – wanted to tell Guy he’d changed his mind about the firework music if it wasn’t too late, so the secret must still be a secret and the wedding must still be on.’
‘Good.’
Clemmie picked up a stray drawing pin before Suggs could eat it. Her eyes hurt. They’d had such fun in Steeple Fritton, and she’d been so looking forward to seeing Ellis and Lola’s wedding fireworks; and of course, because it was also Guy’s birthday, hopefully sharing his celebration too.
Now she’d have left here long before then and would never know what happened. Never know if Lola became Mrs Blissit. Never know if Guy had a happy Valentine’s Day birthday. All because …
She swallowed quickly. Oh, damn it – she had to know one thing more.
‘How are you getting on with Helen?’
YaYa pulled a face. ‘Helen? Helen? Why would I be getting on with Helen? I haven’t seen Helen, love. Not since she and the monsters left here at the back end of last year.’
Clemmie couldn’t even find any comfort in that. So Helen had left again – so what? What did it matter? Clearly Helen and Guy had an on-off relationship, and she’d been here for him when it mattered, hadn’t she? And while they kept going back to one another there was no room in Guy’s life for anyone else.
YaYa frowned. ‘What on earth gave you the idea that Helen was back here, love?’
‘Because, well, because she was here on that last Friday before Christmas, when you’d gone off to do your gigs with Honey and Foxy – and I – well, I gathered that she was staying.’
‘Over my dead body,’ YaYa snapped. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised she was here for a temporary visit if I wasn’t. Although why Guy’d would want to spend any time with her baffles me. Always has. He seemed truly bloody delighted when she buggered off last time. But then, it seems Guy can never say no to her, love – as you know.’
Yes, Clemmie thought sadly, she knew only too well.
‘One good thing,’YaYa went on, ‘is that she obviously didn’t stay long this time; but that’s not to say she won’t be back. Especially now The Gunpowder Plot is raking in so much money. The gold-digging bitch will be rubbing her designer-labelled mitts with greedy glee,’ She growled. ‘I wonder why Guy hasn’t mentioned her visit to me, though? I must ask him – we don’t have secrets.’
‘Probably best not to,’ Clemmie put in quickly. ‘If he’s not very happy. Maybe mentioning Helen wouldn’t be the right thing to do at all.’
‘Maybe not … But if Helen went back to London straight after Christmas, and as he usually can’t wait to see the back of her, I can’t see that being what’s making Guy so depressed and irritable now.’
