‘Gita, it’s my pleasure.’ And she meant it.
The phone rang. ‘Hello?’
‘Jude, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Gaby Martin.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Look, I’m going to be down in your area at the weekend. Steve and I are staying in a hotel overnight, and your Carole’s cooking lunch for us on Sunday.’
‘And the back’s still giving you pain, is it?’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Well, I can do any time on Saturday.’
About eleven?’
‘That’d be fine.’
‘There’s just one thing . . .’
‘What?’
‘Could you not tell Carole I’m coming?’
‘OK. If that’s what you want.’
‘I don’t really mind her knowing, because after all it was Carole who put me in touch with you, but I don’t want Steve to find out.’
‘Gaby, your secret is safe with me.’
‘Thank you very much for sorting all this out, Mother.’ Stephen gestured to the spread of brochures and flyers laid out over the dining-room table at High Tor.
‘No problem. Glad to do it.’ And Carole had been. Finding out details of potential reception venues and caterers was a nice specific project, which made her feel that she was contributing something to the ongoing wedding planning. When she had worked for the Home Office, Carole Seddon had always been attracted to tasks that had a finite end.
‘And you say Gaby’s coming down later?’
‘Yes. Had some stuff to do in London, so she stayed in her flat last night, and she’s getting the train to Fethering round lunchtime.’
Stephen and Gaby were not yet fully cohabiting. She still kept on the Pimlico flat she shared with an actress friend called Jenny, but she spent much of her time – and all weekends – at Stephen’s house in Fulham.
Carole indicated four brochures. ‘I thought those were the most promising for what you said you wanted. They could all currently do the fourteenth of September. Two are hotels, so obviously would cater the reception themselves. The other two are just venues. Both have caterers they recommend, but equally would allow us to bring in our own caterers if we wanted to. I’ve rung round. We can have a look at any of the venues any time today, though the hotels would rather we avoided lunch and dinner time.’
‘You have been busy, Mother. Thank you very much.’
That Saturday morning, without Gaby present as a catalyst, Stephen seemed all formality again. Carole wondered, with a pang of envy, whether he was more relaxed with his father than he was with her.
‘This one at least you’ll recognize.’ She proffered an elegantly printed brochure for the Hopwicke Country House Hotel, where Stephen and Gaby had stayed a few months previously, and where a murder had taken place. ‘Though that’d probably be pretty pricey.’
‘Money’s not a problem.’ It was a line Carole had longed to be able to say all her life, but never would. Money was always a problem. Even now, with her secure index-linked pension and modest outgoings – only herself and Gulliver to look after – money remained a problem. Not so much a real problem, as something about which to feel a constant undertow of anxiety. A middle-class upbringing made that unavoidable. She was surprised that Stephen hadn’t inherited it.
‘No,’ he went on, ‘my worry with the Hopwicke Country House Hotel would be whether the place’d be big enough.’
‘Big enough? Why, how many guests are you proposing to invite?’
Hundred – hundred and twenty . . .’
‘Goodness. Well, you may be right. As I recall, they could only do sixty for a sit-down meal. But I suppose, if you have a buffet—’
No, we’ll have a sit-down meal.’ The firmness with which he said this made Carole wonder once again exactly how her son made his living. His particular combination of finance and computers certainly seemed to be lucrative. Anyway, Gaby and I know the Hopwicke, so we don’t need to look at that. But, if you’re ready, Mother, let’s go and see the other three. And you’ve shortlisted some potential caterers too, have you?’
Dutiful and efficient, his mother assured him that she had.
They were in his newly registered BMW on the way to a converted tithe barn near Fedborough when Carole brought up the subject of Gaby’s parents. Tentatively, she tried to find out what Stephen really thought of them.
‘They’re fine,’ he said, unhelpfully.
‘Rather shy, I thought.’ Carole probed.
‘Yes, but nothing wrong with that.’
‘Oh, no. No . . . Howard must be quite a lot older than Marie.’
‘Yes. And he misses a lot because of his deafness.’
‘Mm. Still, he looks very fit for his age.’
Yes, he is, remarkably. Apparently he had cancer seven or eight years ago.’
‘Really?’
Yes, bowel cancer. Gaby told me. She was terribly worried at the time. But he had surgery and radiotherapy, and made a complete recovery.’
‘He certainly looked fine, and he really tucked into his food.’
He’s in very good nick for someone pushing eighty.’ Stephen sighed, almost with satisfaction. ‘No, I don’t see the Martins being a potential problem as inlaws. They’ll keep a low profile. All the skeletons will stay firmly in the closet.’
Which, Carole thought, was rather an odd thing for her son to say.
Gaby had rung Stephen from her mobile on some pretext, but with the real purpose of ensuring that he and his mother had left High Tor before the taxi from Fethering Station brought her to Woodside Cottage.
Gita had gone for her first outside trip alone since her arrival. Jude had carefully shown her the way to the beach, naming cafes where she could stop if she felt exhausted, saying it’d be no problem if she returned while Gaby was still there. In fact, she had fussed so uncharacteristically that Gita, with a wry smile, had eventually said, ‘It’s all right, Jude. I’m not about to walk into the sea with my pockets full of stones.’
‘I know. I didn’t mean—’
‘Yes, you did. And I know exactly why you did. But don’t worry. From my recollection of Fethering Beach, I’d have to walk about a mile before the water got up to my knees.’ An exaggeration, but not a huge one. An even less efficient way of topping myself than the last one.’
It was said with bravado. Increasingly over the last few days, Gita had been mentioning her suicide attempt, daring herself to bring it out into the open. But the words still made Jude wince.
‘I’ll be all right. I’ve got to start being on my own sometime.’
‘I know. But this girl’ll only be here till about twelve. And it’s not a problem if you’re back earlier than that. You can just—’
‘Jude, I will not be back earlier than that. In fact I won’t come back.’
‘What?’
Gita smiled at the ill-disguised anxiety in her friend’s voice. ‘You come and join me. I’ll buy you lunch in that pub – the Crown and Sceptre, is it?’
‘Anchor.’
‘Right.