‘Webb,’ he had to remind her, ‘Harvey Webb.’
‘– and I made them different to appeal to all tastes. Not that it made a scrap of difference,’ she added bitterly.
‘Sorry?’ He looked puzzled.
She drew a long breath, wishing she’d not made the comment. Now she would have to explain. ‘They’ve travelled the length and breadth of the country with me over the years, those dolls, moving from shop to shop on sale or return. Just about anywhere my husband’s work has taken us, they’ve gone too. Yes –’ she sighed, putting down her cup – ‘Paul’s spectacular promotions have taken us all around the country – abroad as well on two occasions – while my sad little failures have trailed along behind us.’ She forced a grin. ‘Congratulations, Mr Webb –’
‘Harvey.’
‘– you are the first mug ever to actually buy one.’ And, she thought, surprised at herself, you’re the first person I’ve ever told this to.
He appraised her gravely – as gravely as a face like his would allow. ‘I think,’ he said after a pause, ‘I’m beginning to see why you were a bit touchy back there. But they’re beautifully made, those dolls. And so is the Roman teapot stand. I meant what I said about that.’
Inadvertently – or not, she couldn’t be sure – he had covered one of her hands with his as he spoke, and holding her eyes with his own he went on, ‘I think, Mrs Harding, you’re one hell of a talented lady. And don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.’
She gazed back at him with obvious pity. Men were so utterly transparent it was unbelievable. Did he really think she was going to fall for this stupid malarkey? Any minute now he would conjure up a huge shipping order that he was sure he’d be able to get for her: a thousand teapot stands, he would reckon, for someone he just happened to know in the business. In return, of course, for … well, really, he must be desperate, the dirty old so-and-so!
Frustration that had only been lightly tamped down since its last eruption swept her to the edge again. She slid her hand from beneath his, grabbed hold of her bag and stood up.
‘And you, Mr Webb,’ she replied as coolly as her wavering voice would allow, ‘are one hell of a patronising bastard.’
The flowers shivered in their cellophane as Paul walked past. He stopped and looked down at them, arrested by a flash of remorse. He had only come to the service station for petrol and perhaps the evening paper, but should he buy flowers for Sue?
‘’Scuse me,’ a young woman in a green coat rasped in his ear as she attempted to dance her way around him. She might as well have bawled, ‘Get out of the flaming way!’, her tone was so full of irritation.
Paul stood his ground for a moment, blocking the woman’s path and treating her to a hostile stare before politely holding open the door for her. Women these days! What on earth was the matter with them? Bolshie. Aggressive. They’d stab you in the back as soon as look at you.
And what was the matter with Sue? What did she think she was playing at? She’d damn nearly killed him last night. If that mosaic thingy had caught him on the head, goodness knows what might have happened. He was certainly seeing a side of her just lately that he’d never seen before, and he didn’t like it one bit.
When had things begun to change? When Katy went to live in London, he supposed. But at first it had all seemed for the better. Susannah didn’t appear to be one of those women who pined over an empty nest – unless she was doing her best to hide it. But he didn’t think that was the case. And they had both thought it a good idea to go for the cottage too; so it couldn’t be that.
No, everything had been great to begin with. If retirement was going to be like this, he’d thought, then let them chuck him out of his job tomorrow! One of these pushy power-hungry young women could bash their brains out in his place, and the best of British luck to her.
Next thing he knew, Susannah had wanted to set up a work room for herself. Fair enough, he’d said, a hobby would be nice for her. He had helped her organise the room and not batted an eyelid at the cost of stocking it with materials. Meanness had never been one of his failings, and he’d quite enjoyed the project. But what he hadn’t bargained for was the amount of time she ended up spending in the room when it was finished.
At first it had been the odd hour or so. Then he would find her, in the middle of TV programmes, stealing out of the room for what he thought was going to be a trip to the fridge for an apple, or a brief visit to the loo, and not coming back for hours. He even woke up a couple of times in the night to find the bed stone cold beside him.
And then she started making excuses for things like not going out for a walk with him, or to the pub for a drink. She would always have ‘something to do in her work room’.
Gradually, day by day, he was losing her.
‘Oh, er, number four,’ Paul muttered to the forecourt attendant. Taken abruptly from his wool-gathering he began ferreting for his wallet while a queue built up behind him. At last, anxious to be out of the place and alone again with his thoughts, he threw down two twenty-pound notes, though by the time the assistant had checked the notes for forgery and slowly counted out a handful of small silver change he realised it would have been quicker to use his credit card.
But at last he was free to go – except that someone was blocking his way.
‘’Scuse me.’
Paul found himself glaring into angry blue eyes again. The woman in the green coat, having helped herself to a free read of one of the magazines on display, had dropped it back on the shelf and made for the exit at precisely the same moment that Paul reached it.
He sighed, pulled the door open and let her pass through ahead of him.
‘Women!’ he snarled. Not only had he received no thanks whatever for his chivalry, he had been rewarded with a two-finger sign.
The flowers were still shivering in their cellophane as he stomped past them. But Paul had made up his mind. Susannah would not be getting a bunch. She simply didn’t deserve it.
Black. Something black. It had to be something black.
Susannah yanked the hangers along the rail, setting her teeth on edge. Black suited her mood just fine. What a shambles she’d made of things that afternoon! If she’d kept a cool head she might at least have had the satisfaction of selling one of her dolls: cause for celebration indeed. Even Paul would have been forced to concede that. As it was, Harvey Webb, if he had any sense, would probably have marched Lucy-Ann straight back to her shelf in the shop, demanding the return of his credit card. He might have been genuine, too. He might have been a useful contact. He might even have bought her teapot stand, had she not flown off the handle.
But now she had really burned her boats. She would never be able to face Reg again, and the likelihood of finding other suitable outlets was pretty remote. Of course there were plenty of likely shops in the area, but she knew from experience that very few would show any interest in her work; and it would take her for ever to get round to them all. She simply didn’t have time. She would try as soon as she had a spare moment, of course – but her most immediate priority had to be her Uncle Bert’s funeral.
Her father had phoned her late one evening with news of the death, his voice revealing shock, for all its bluster, because his brother had been two years his junior.
‘Bert’s next-door neighbour,’ Frank May had thundered down the line, ‘a Mrs Wardle – ever met her? Well, she thought you might like to go to the funeral. Apparently you always sent Bert a card at Christmas. Can’t think why,’ he’d added with a sniff of contempt, because he’d never had much regard