A Deep Deceit (14 page)

‘Sooner than you think,' she replied. It transpired that the young man who had the most junior job was employed only on a temporary basis and was soon leaving to go to university.

I decided I would again mention to Carl the possibility of my taking a job and I would do it that very evening, probably over supper. But just as we were about to dish up the pan-fried dabs Carl had bought from our lovely fishmonger, while I had been at the library chatting to Mariette, there was a knocking on the front door.

‘Bound to be Will, probably inviting himself to dinner again,' remarked Carl in an unconcerned kind of way. ‘It's OK, there's plenty for him . . .' We were used to Will turning up unexpectedly, after all we had no telephone, nor had we ever found any real need for one.

I opened the front door and, as Carl had predicted, there stood Will. Nonetheless, I had not the slightest intention of inviting him in, in spite of what Carl had said. I really wanted to talk to Carl alone before it was once more too late.

Will waved a bottle at me. ‘Pink champagne, how about that?' he announced. ‘Won it in a raffle. Thought maybe I could persuade you both to share it with me?'

He grinned at me confidently. Too confidently. I was vaguely irritated by his presumption. ‘I'm sorry, Will, we were just sitting down to supper and we really do need to be on our own tonight,' I heard myself say. If he hadn't irritated me and if I hadn't been so intent on talking to Carl, I might have been a little more gracious.

The grin froze on Will's face. For a moment he looked dumbfounded. Well, we always made him welcome. But his features quickly relaxed. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘Don't worry about it. I was just passing. Another time, aye?'

‘Yes, as ever. Another time.'

He gave a kind of half-salute with his free hand and turned away.

I felt guilty then. ‘Sorry, Will, you don't mind, do you? Just bad timing tonight, really . . .' My voice tailed off.

‘No problem,' called Will over his shoulder. “Course I understand. I'll keep the champagne for the next time you pop round to the gallery. How's that?'

I muttered my agreement at his retreating back and closed the front door.

Carl was just putting a big platter of dabs on the table. ‘Why did you turn him away?' he asked mildly. ‘I told you there was plenty. I thought you liked Will.'

‘I do, but he does take liberties,' I said, perhaps a little grumpily. ‘In any case, there's something I want to tell you.'

‘OK.' He gestured me to sit down and help myself. ‘Fire away.'

‘You know I mentioned once before that I liked the idea of getting a job?' I began tentatively as I ladled a dab on to my plate.

He nodded but did not say anything.

‘Actually there's one going in the library,' I went on. ‘Mariette seems to think I could get it if I wanted . . .'

I didn't quite finish all that I had intended to say and there seemed to be a long silence before Carl replied. ‘Well, I think that's a wonderful idea,' he said.

My heart soared. If, upon reflection, his smile was strained, I did not notice it at first. I just knew I was beginning to really yearn for outside stimuli. But before I could tell him how delighted I was with his reaction, Carl started to speak again. ‘I'm just so sorry that it's not possible,' he said very quietly.

It was almost like a slap in the face. ‘What do you mean?' I asked him haltingly.

‘Suzanne, you know very well it won't be possible,' he repeated.

‘I don't. Why not? Carl, please, oh please, Carl.' I heard myself imploring him.

‘Suzanne, how can you have a job?' he asked. ‘You'd never cope and you don't even have a National Insurance number . . .'

Worse than that, I realised I didn't even quite know what a National Insurance number was.

Carl put down the forkful of dab he was about to put in his mouth, reached out with his hand to squeeze mine, and said again how sorry he was. He leaned across the table and kissed me gently on the end of my nose. For once I found him patronising more than anything else.

‘It's not the end of the world, my Lady of the Harbour,' he coaxed. ‘Anyway, aren't I enough for you any more?'

His voice was gentle and teasing. Nonetheless, I heard myself reply very seriously and very honestly, putting into words thoughts I had never mentioned to him before: ‘Sometimes I do want more, Carl, yes I do.' I touched his face with one hand in order to soften the blow of my words. ‘I just want a job and friends, the normal things, the ordinary things . . .'

Then I saw the pain flash across his eyes, this man who had given me a whole fresh start in life, a new identity. And fear. Maybe even fear. Carl, too, could be afraid, I knew that, although he seemed to have only one fear, really: the fear of anything disrupting our love and our life.

I could not hurt him. ‘It's OK, Carl,' I said, before he even spoke again. ‘I know you are right. I suppose I always knew it wouldn't really be possible. Maybe one day, aye?'

Carl smiled and kissed me again. This time on the mouth. ‘Yes, darling,' he whispered. ‘One day.'

I knew he didn't mean it, though. And sometimes I wondered how long you could keep a secret.

A couple of days later Carl decided he would make bouillabaisse for supper and we paid a visit to our favourite local fishmonger. Steve was a young man with film star good-looks, totally incongruous in a fishmonger's apron yet apparently enviably content in his work, who somehow contrived to be quite passionate about fish and frequently waxed lyrical about his product.

True to form he produced a monk-fish which he proclaimed to be particularly splendid. ‘Just look at the shine on that,' he enthused. ‘You'll not get a healthier looking fish than that one . . .'

‘Steve, I think I should point out that the fish is dead,' Carl interrupted dryly.

‘Good Lord!' countered Steve. ‘So it is.'

On the way home we dropped in at the Logan Gallery to visit Will Jones and find out how the sales of Carl's paintings were going.

I was anxious about visiting Will for the first time since I had turned him away from Rose Cottage, but to my great relief, he was as friendly as ever to both of us. He didn't seem to be harbouring any grudge at all and our visit to the gallery really cheered Carl up, because we learned that his paintings were selling exceptionally well. So well, in fact, that Carl invited Will to share the bouillabaisse with us that night as a kind of thank-you.

As ever, on the rare occasions when we actually invited him to our house, Will accepted with alacrity. He was something of a loner and I used to think that sometimes he might be lonely too, but neither Carl nor I knew much about his private life. We were always made very welcome at the gallery and occasionally Will entertained us, invariably most generously, at a local restaurant, but we had never been invited to his clifftop bungalow home out on the Penzance Road. We knew that he lived alone and he had told us that he had never been married. If he had a special woman friend nobody in the town knew of it. Indeed, Will seemed not to make friends easily and I always thought that one reason the three of us were so comfortable with each other was because none of us wanted to probe. I had once ventured to Carl that maybe Will was gay. Carl had laughed and asked me if I had never noticed the way the gallery owner looked at me. Nonetheless I was not entirely convinced.

Anyway, I was glad Carl had invited him partly because it eradicated my remaining guilt about the pink champagne incident, and I welcomed any diversion that might help take our minds off our worries.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Carl spent an hour or two framing his latest painting and I made a pretence of helping him. As usual, more than anything I just watched. Carl was so deft with his hands that it was a pleasure to watch him choose just the right colour and weight of framing material, and angle the beading so absolutely perfectly. When he had finished he started work on the bouillabaisse.

By the time Will arrived just before seven the whole cottage was full of an aroma of garlicky fish.

‘Delicious,' Will said as he sniffed his appreciation and handed me a bottle of rather good white wine. We ate around the table in the downstairs room, curtains drawn and candlelit as usual in order to disguise its dinginess. But we had rigged up a single spotlight on the wall, which effectively illuminated my
Pumpkin Soup
painting.

Supper was excellent.

‘This bouillabaisse is as good as I've had in any restaurant,' remarked Will.

‘What do you mean “as good as”,' countered Carl. ‘How about “far better”, or “much superior” or something else along those lines . . .'

‘Why are great chefs always so arrogant, Will?' I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What, Carl arrogant? A talented painter, a brilliant cook and he's got you, Suzanne? What on earth has the man got to be arrogant about?'

‘And I'm stinking rich,' said Carl, waving his arm around the dimly lit little room. ‘How do you like my mansion?'

Will grinned and put a hand over one of mine, which was resting on the table. ‘You two have quite enough riches,' he said. ‘I would swap everything I possess, the gallery, the car, my house, for what you have . . .'

He spoke lightly enough and his tone was as theatrical as ever, but we had noticed before that Will was inclined to become a bit hyperbolic after a few glasses of wine.

Carl invariably responded with the easy teasing banter which came so easily to him. ‘That can be arranged, Will,' he said. ‘When do you want to move in? I think you may have to raise the ceilings, though, and God knows how you'll get on with my old van.'

Will laughed and said that he had forgotten about the van, and the offer was withdrawn.

Very occasionally, particularly if Carl had sold some paintings at a good price, we would go out to supper in a little fish restaurant just a few doors away from our home.

This was a real treat for us, and I was delighted when, later in the week having had such an exceptional run of sales, Carl suggested we celebrate with a meal out in our favourite restaurant.

I washed my hair, trying desperately to blow-dry a little bounce into its lank flamess which was emphasised by then by my half-grown-out layered haircut, and we both put on our smartest clothes – we didn't need to, but we enjoyed dressing up every now and again. I even considered risking the orange suit, tucked away at the back of my wardrobe – I hadn't quite been able to bring myself to throw it out – but thought better of it. In the end I settled for the familiar and safe calf-length skirt, cotton print blouse and a jacket.

The Inn Plaice, in spite of its appalling name, was anything but and, because it was in a back street away from the seafront, had to rely on the quality of its food rather than a stunning location with which to tempt diners. Its proprietor, Pete Trevellian, the younger son of a family of fishermen, behaved more as if he were hosting a dinner party for friends in his house than running a restaurant, but Pete had a good set-up. His fish, mostly supplied direct from his family's fishing boats, was good and fresh, and his father and brothers were able to make a better living than many fishermen in the area partly because of the family restaurant outlet. The Inn Plaice had a big local following and, unlike many eating houses in the town, which relied almost entirely on the seasonal tourist trade, was able to remain open all the year round.

Pete greeted us, as he did most of his regulars, with a complimentary glass of wine. But once we were settled at our table with menus Carl suddenly announced that he had forgotten a quick errand he must run, and jumped up and left before I had time to protest. He was gone for several minutes and, just as I was beginning to wonder where on earth he had got to, he returned clutching a bunch of daffodils. ‘For you with my love,' he said. ‘Supermarket special, I'm afraid – should have thought of it earlier, shouldn't I?'

I shook my head and thanked him profusely. Another of the many things I loved about Carl was his spontaneity. It was typical of him to be sitting at a restaurant table, think about buying me flowers, and just rush off and get some. I was as knocked out by my slightly tired-looking daffs as I would have been by a bouquet of orchids.

Carl ordered more wine. We then turned our attention to the menu and chose crab chowder followed by an assortment of grilled local fish served with a side dish of Pete's irresistibly crunchy chips, and fresh fruit salad with clotted cream for dessert.

In the end we got through two bottles of wine, as well as Pete's initial glasses, an unusually large amount for us, but it just turned into one of those sort of evenings. As we said our goodbyes and set out on the short walk home I realised that I was definitely slightly tipsy. I made a concentrated effort to walk straight as Carl could be a bit stiff about drinking to excess, but he seemed easygoing enough that night. After all it was he who had ordered the deadly second bottle and I fancied he might not be stone-cold sober himself. I leaned against him heavily as we turned, perhaps both of us swaying slightly, into the cobbled alley that led to Rose Cottage.

I could see from the light of the street lamp on the corner that there was something strange about our front door. It seemed to have shiny red marks all over it, standing out starkly against the faded, pale-blue paint. I caught my breath. I could feel Carl stiffen beside me. Both instantly sober, we covered the last few yards to the cottage in silence. The shiny red marks were writing, as I think we had both immediately suspected, although we could not see to read what had been scrawled across the door to our home until we were directly in front of it: ‘YOU CANNOT ESCAPE – I'M WATCHING.'