Chapter 65
Bonnie picked up a copy of the Daily Trumpet from the newsagents after dropping off the letter Stephen had sent her into David Charles’s office. She flicked through its pages before driving on to work. She found the mention on page nine, tucked into the left near the bottom just above an advert about a furniture sale. Bonnie could have wept with relief. Her name wasn’t mentioned, there was no detail, no age, no address. She felt as if a tight belt around her chest had slipped a notch. She might still feel its presence, but she could breathe. Stephen would have seen it, she knew, and that worried her because he might feel duty-bound to highlight who the Barnsley woman was, but then again, he wouldn’t want to prejudice the case that the police were presently building against her. Stephen would be pouring all of his poison into files containing his ‘evidence’ against her, she was sure of it, because that was the sort of thing he would do, but he would have to stay silent sub judice. The same legal system preparing to prosecute her, ironically, would be keeping her safe for now.
*
Lew walked into the Pot of Gold and breathed in the dear familiar scent of old things, polish, wood, must. It was the smell of normality, sanctuary, home. His late parents had barely a modern stick of furniture, everything was carved and heavy, and had previous lives in other people’s houses and he loved the solidity of all the pieces he grew up amongst. It would be good to get back to work. Yesterday had been spent setting in motion the deconstruction of his married life: showing an estate agent around his house, a full hour with Adriana de Lacey, preparing a financial statement for the settlement, then a meal for one in the hotel bar and watching TV in his room. He’d stay there for now; he hadn’t got the energy to look for somewhere to rent.
The huge longcase grandfather clock announced an accurate nine o’clock and on the third chime in walked Bonnie. Lovely Bonnie, part of this world that he knew would keep him tethered to sanity. She smiled a welcome at him but it sat tenuously on her lips.
‘Good morning, Bonnie,’ he called. ‘Good weekend?’
How could she answer that honestly, she thought. ‘Not bad. And yourself?’
Oh how to answer that, he thought. He went for the keep-it-simple approach, marvelling at his own composure. He felt as if he were wearing a mask, a hard tight one with a manufactured pre-painted smile. ‘Yep.’
She took off her yellow summer mac and he noticed that she had on a navy dress with polka dots underneath. It wasn’t like her to wear something so dark which made her look washed out and awfully fragile. There was something about her that made him not want to lie to her. He didn’t think he had it in him to pretend that his life was just the same as it had been when he last saw her three days ago.
‘Actually, it was a crap weekend, Bonnie. I left my wife. I might as well tell you just in case I get more phone calls on the office number than usual.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘C’est la vie.’
Bonnie didn’t react immediately. There were a few moments’ silence when the only sounds were the clocks, tocking their comforting rhythms, before she spoke.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Lew. I’ll make us a coffee, shall I?’
‘A coffee would be good.’ He gave her a smile of appreciation. She walked a step in the direction of the office, then turned back.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to say.’
‘I get that, Bonnie.’ He gave a soft chuckle.
She didn’t say that her natural reaction would have been to put her arms around him, press her warmth into his skin in the hope that it would find its way to his heart.
‘We reach for the kettle as people, don’t we?’ she laughed gently. ‘When we know we can’t feed a soul, we look for the next best thing to comfort.’
‘We do.’
When she went into the back room, she immediately noticed a copy of the Daily Trumpet on the desk. She wondered if his eyes had taken in the snippet about the anonymous woman who had helped her mother-in-law kill herself, not knowing it was she. Should she tell him before the police came calling, or Stephen painted murderer over the building in red paint? She hadn’t ruled out that he might. But there were security cameras outside the building: he wouldn’t risk being seen, surely? She was torturing herself thinking of all the ways Stephen Brookland could ruin her life. She no longer thought of him being connected to her, but as a vindictive stranger. She knew he wanted to punish her for leaving him, for upsetting his way of things. It was only a matter of time before Lew knew what was going on in her personal life. She should tell him first, before he heard it elsewhere with all its distortions. She gave herself the length it took the kettle to boil to decide what to do. When it clicked off, she knew she couldn’t tell him. Not yet. She had confessed everything to the police, but she needed some respite for herself, a safe island of normal to stand on in the middle of the torrent. Being here in the shop was the happiest she had felt for many years. She just wanted to hang on to it a little longer.
As Bonnie handed Lew the coffee, she noticed immediately that he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. It had been his wife’s birthday on Sunday. Bonnie got the impression he had spent a fortune on her in presents. And yet sometime over the weekend his marriage had crumbled. Hers had been falling brick by brick for years; Lew’s seemed to have been instantly dynamited. She wouldn’t have asked him how it had happened, but she wondered.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, taking a long sip, wondering how a mere instant coffee could taste so good. She always made them just right.
‘Is there anything . . . I can do, silly question I know . . .’ Bonnie asked, immediately chiding herself. ‘Stupid of me, of course there isn’t. Ignore that.’
‘Bonnie.’ Lew put down his coffee and turned to face her. He put his hands on her arms and looked into her huge hazel eyes. ‘I just want everything to be as it usually is in here. With Stickalampinit bringing in his ridiculous creations, Long John spending an hour polishing one item of silver, Starstruck reciting anecdotes about film stars and you being you, holding it all together, making this place work. That’s what you can do for me.’
Bonnie nodded. ‘I understand,’ and as much as she wanted his hands to remain on her, to savour the thrill of his contact, she stepped away from him on the pretence of needing to check something on the shop floor, because she couldn’t bear the thought that if he relied on her to be stable and unchanging, she was going to let him down very badly.