Chapter 41
Marnie marched home to Little Raspberries, shut the door and locked it against the village, against the world, against Herv Gunnarsen most of all. She clicked on the kettle and checked her emails to see if anything had arrived from Mr Wemyss whilst it was coming to the boil. It had, and also, she couldn’t believe her eyes to see she had also received one from Caitlin.
She opened the message from Mr Wemyss first; Caitlin could wait. His mystery client would like to engage Dennis Whitby as the builder to carry out the renovations of the houses, and could Marnie arrange for him to visit and prepare quotes. He, apparently, had done work for Miss Dearman in the past and she had been very pleased with his services.
Marnie made herself a coffee before opening the email from Caitlin. The subject line said: Please read. She couldn’t imagine what it could say because it would be neither a wedding invite, nor an apology. Maybe she’d heard about Marnie’s mother and wanted to say something on the lines of, ‘sorry to hear about your mum, had to say that, but it doesn’t mean we are friends. I still think you’re a shit.’
Should she delete it without reading and not give Caitlin a chance to stick the boot in again? The temptation to look was too great though. She clicked on it and found a considerable amount of typing.
Dear Marnie
I have no idea how to start this, I’ve rewritten this email a load of times and nothing seems right so I’m just going to jump in and say that I owe you the biggest SORRY in the world.
You will not be surprised, I’m sure, to hear that Grigori and I have split up. I found out he had been sleeping with Tawny his PA. He was so arrogant when I confronted him and he said something, though I can’t quite remember what in all the drama, that made me realise he really had come on to you on the staircase at Lucy’s wedding, blaming it on drink of course. After all the years we were mates, I cannot believe that I took his word above yours. I feel ashamed.
Let’s go out for a drink and talk. I really miss you and could do with a friend right now.
Lots of love
Caitlin xxx
PS. Sorry to hear about your mother.
Marnie read it and initially a candle flame of joy ignited inside her that her friend wanted to be back in her life, then she re-read it and the light was snuffed out immediately. So, if Grigori hadn’t been so stupid as to drop himself in it, she would still be enemy-zoned – correct? And that line ‘I could do with a friend right now’ might as well have been written in a highlighter so yellow, it could have been seen from Mars. And though Caitlin knew that Marnie and her mother didn’t get on, a post scriptum mention for her death – really? Where was the ‘how are you?’ for a start. But then Caitlin always was less about you and more about me me me. These were crumbs from the apology table, and Marnie didn’t do crumbs any more. She wasn’t someone on a piece of elastic that could be dropped and picked up again when it suited. Nope, she wasn’t that Marnie now and the awareness that she wasn’t shocked her in a warm way. Could she be actually growing up at last? Thanks to a batty old lady who had seen her warts and all and still valued her as something precious . . . ?
Marnie didn’t answer straightaway. She took her book into the garden down by the stream. The raspberries had ripened early, she noticed; they were fat on the brambles and would need harvesting soon. They would have made wonderful toppings for Mrs Abercrombie’s cheesecakes: raspberry and champagne, raspberry and white chocolate, raspberry and even more raspberries . . . but that was a closed avenue. Maybe someone in the village made jam or pies, like Jessie Plumpton had, and could use them. Or maybe Lionel or David would take them for their wine-making; it would be a shame to waste them so she’d ask around. She wondered who the next occupant of Little Raspberries would be when she left. It had been the most wonderful bolt-hole. In winter, when snow fell, the garden would look like Narnia. She could imagine sitting in this spot with a fire crackling in an iron basket and drinking a mug of warm spiced cider. She imagined kissing Herv Gunnarsen with cinnamon lips and gave her head a shake to rid it of the image.
She forced herself to focus on the Country Manors book, willing it to pull her into the story again so she could forget all about her future and Caitlin and really annoying Herv Gunnarsen and Christmas snogging, and it worked for a while until Manfred’s nephew Jurgen Goss arrived at the manor all the way from Austria – a whopping great hunk of a bloke with a lion’s mane of blond hair, blue eyes and a penchant for gardening and fornicating with some very inventive uses for his garden twine. Marnie closed the book; she’d read enough today.
She replied to Caitlin just before she turned in for the night.
Dear Caitlin
I am so sorry to hear that you’ve been through all that. You don’t need me to tell you that you are so much better off without G. Onwards and upwards – good luck.
My best wishes
Marnie x
That said all she needed to really.
Lying in bed, she started to think about her own plans for Wychwell. That lovely tearoom she had envisaged. It would have been the ideal place to sell her cheesecakes in, if she’d stuck around. Screw Mrs Abercrombie and her rubbery crap. As for the question of which one would be better – Winter House or Summermoor . . . well, why not both? It would make perfect sense to knock them together into one big tearoom.
As Marnie started to lift off the shores of consciousness and drift into sleep imagining how the combined buildings would look, her eyes flashed open. She sat bolt upright, switched on the bedside lamp and starting frantically hunting for a pen and paper. There was something she had to write down before she did a Lilian and forgot it.
She had a hunch where Margaret Kytson’s well might be. Lilian hadn’t found a clue in the ledgers – which is why she couldn’t locate it again when she looked. It’s what Lilian hadn’t seen in them that had given her the answer.
Marnie got up and made herself a hot chocolate in an effort to reboot her bedroom routine because her mind was spinning. Going out for a walk around the block was not an option. Knowing her luck she’d see the Pink Lady floating across the manor gallery, and there were only so many mysteries her brain could deal with in one evening.