Guilty. Anne Mather
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she agreed, and, unable to prevent herself from smiling at the cheeky toddler, she moved on.
It was after one by the time she had loaded her purchases into her car, and striking half-past as she turned into the school car park. One or two stragglers were still sauntering across the playground, and they gave her a knowing look, before turning to whisper to their friends. Laura could almost hear the comments about her being late as well, and she tried not to look too flustered as she strode towards the school buildings.
The afternoon seemed endless. Now that the time for Julie’s arrival was approaching, Laura could feel herself getting tense, and it didn’t help when her class of fourth-years started acting up. Usually she had no trouble with her pupils, and she had gained a reputation for being tough, but fair. However, today she found it difficult to keep order, and it wasn’t until she apprehended how hoarse she was getting that she realised she had had to shout to make herself heard.
But at last three-thirty arrived, and after dismissing the fourth-years Laura packed what exercise books she could into her briefcase, and tucked the rest under her arm. By her reckoning, she had at least two hours left to prepare herself for Julie’s arrival, and the way she was feeling she was going to need every minute of it. She didn’t know why she let Julie tie her up in knots like this, but she always did, and Laura intended to have a bath and wash her hair, so that she could have confidence in her appearance, if nothing else.
Burnfoot was situated in some of the most beautiful country in Northumberland. A small community of some one thousand souls, it was surrounded by the rolling fields and hills of the border country, with the crumbling remains of Hadrian’s Wall providing a natural barrier to the north. It was farming country, with tumbling streams and shady forests, and long, straight roads, unfolding towards the old Roman forts of Chesters and Housesteads.
Laura had always loved it. Even though she had been born and brought up in Newcastle, this was the area where she felt most at home, and when the opportunity to buy the cottage had presented itself she had jumped at the chance. She knew Julie had thought she was mad; a single woman, on her own, going to live in some ‘God-forsaken spot’ as she’d put it; but Laura had never had cause to regret her decision. The cottage had been in a poor state of repair when she’d got it, it was true, and it had taken years to get it as she wanted. But that was all behind her now. It was still small, and the ceilings were still too low, but she had had central heating installed, and on a cold winter’s evening she could light the fire in the living-room, and toast her toes.
She was perfectly content, she thought, except on these occasions when Julie invaded her life, and then she was forced to see the cottage’s shortcomings. Julie was adept at pointing out its disadvantages, and never once had she admired the garden Laura had worked so painstakingly to tame, or complimented her mother on providing a home that was both attractive, and full of character.
Laura had decided to prepare fish for dinner. It was a Friday, and she couldn’t be sure that as an Italian, and no doubt a Roman Catholic, Julie’s boyfriend would be prepared to eat meat. She had bought some plaice, and she intended to cook it in a white wine sauce. She had decided not to provide a starter, and instead she had bought a strawberry shortcake to supplement the cheese and crackers that she herself preferred. She knew Julie had a sweet tooth, and, although she was generally on some diet or another, she could be relied upon to be tempted by the dessert. It also meant she could prepare everything in advance, and leave the fish on a low heat while she took her bath.
Before she could attend to her own needs, however, there was the bed in the spare room to make up, and fresh towels to put out. She drew a pretty, chintzy cover on to the duvet, and then surveyed the room critically, trying to see it through a stranger’s eyes. She couldn’t imagine what a man, who evidently came from a wealthy background, would think of this tiny bedroom, with its accent on feminine tastes. The carpet was cream, the walls were a delicate shade of pink, and the curtains matched the cover on the duvet. Laura herself had made the pleated skirt that swagged the small dressing-table, and even she had to duck her head to look out of the window.
Oh, well, she thought after opening the window and inhaling the cool air of an April evening, at least the view from the window was worth looking at, even if the spring was dragging its heels in this part of the world.
The bathroom was modern anyway, she reflected some time later, soaking in a warm, scented tub. Until she had been able to afford the renovations to the plumbing system, she had had to make do with rather primitive conditions, which was probably one of the reasons why Julie had only visited the cottage once before the new bathroom was installed. But now, although again everything had had to be scaled down to fit its surroundings, the tub was satisfyingly deep, and there was even a shower above it. Of course, it wasn’t a proper shower cubicle, such as Julie had in her bathroom in London. But Laura didn’t mind. She was usually the only one who used it, and she realised with a pang that, apart from Julie, this would be the first time she had had anyone to stay at the cottage.
She wondered what her daughter had told…Jake…about her mother. How had she described her, for instance? As a middle-aged frump, she supposed. She knew Julie thought she didn’t make the best of herself, and her daughter was always saying that Laura ought to pay more attention to her appearance. Julie said she was a woman of thirty-eight, going on fifty, and in her opinion Laura ought to shorten her skirts and take advantage of the fact that she had nice legs.
But Laura was so accustomed to living alone and pleasing herself that she seldom considered what might or might not be flattering when she bought clothes. She was happiest in jeans and sloppy shirts or sweaters, pottering about the garden at the cottage, or taking Mrs Forrest’s Labrador for long walks through the countryside. She would have had a dog herself, except she didn’t think it was fair, as she was out all day. But when she retired…
She smiled, soaping her arms, and enjoying the sensation of the creamy compound against her skin. It was silly to think of retirement yet. She was only thirty-eight. But the truth was, she saw no evidence for change in her life, and she had to think of the future. She might get married, of course, but apart from Mark she could think of no one who might want to marry her. In any case, it was not an option she considered seriously. Having remained single all these years, she was probably too set in her ways to adapt to anyone else’s, she decided ruefully. Besides, she could think of nothing a man could offer her that she didn’t already have.
Washing her hair, however, she had to acknowledge that it did need cutting. The trouble was, most days she just coiled it into its usual knot at her nape, and by the time she thought of it again she was back at the cottage. In any case, it was essentially straight, and it was probably easiest to handle in its present condition. She was not the type to go for fancy cuts or perms. At least she didn’t have many grey hairs, she thought gratefully. Her hair was still that nondescript shade between honey-blonde and chestnut, and if it was also thick, and shining, she scarcely appreciated it.
She heard the car as she was drying her hair. She had been sitting on the stool, in front of the mirror in her bedroom, trying to make an objective assessment of her appearance, and when she heard the powerful engine in the lane outside she knew a moment’s panic. Obviously, she had spent longer over her toilet than she had intended, and now she met her own reflected gaze with some trepidation. For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t even dressed, she thought frantically. And the door downstairs was locked.
There was nothing for it. She would have to go down in her dressing-gown, she decided, shedding the towel she had worn sarong-wise around her body and snatching up her towelling bathrobe. If she hurried, she might be able to unlock the door and escape upstairs again without anyone seeing her. Julie would not be pleased if she met the man her daughter was going to marry in such a state of disarray. Although her hair was dry and silky, it was simply not suitable for a woman of her age. She looked like an ageing hippy, she thought frustratedly. If only she had paid more attention to the time.
Not stopping to put on her slippers, she started down the narrow staircase, and then stopped, aghast, when the handle of the front door was tried and rattled impatiently. It was immediately below her, the cottage having only a minuscule hallway, from which the stairs mounted on the outer wall. A second door led into the living area, which