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Beside her, Welsh Alf and the rest of the lads nodded earnestly. Embarrassed didn’t anywhere near cover what she felt.
Cass’s feelings of preoccupation stayed with her all the way home. And her thoughts were certainly not just about Fiona and Andy. The to-do list in her head was steadily growing longer and longer. Usually they went to the pub after rehearsals, so it would be after closing time when she wandered back home and there would be other people around coming back after a night out, but heading straight back after choir the streets seemed almost deserted. It was cold, the wind busily scouring rubbish up out of the gutters for dramatic effect, and under every streetlight lay a pool of film-noir lamplight, not that Cass noticed. The dog and cat were upset she had arrived back early having planned a night of chase, chew and snore, but she didn’t notice that either and headed up to bed for an early night.
Trouble was that the night seemed never-ending and full of dreaming and waking and thinking and dreaming some more. Cass’s dreams were long and complex, full of Fiona and Andy and the girl in the market, and some kind of giant fish—possibly beginning with H—flapping about on a roof terrace, along with angels and singing and unseen tensions and hurrying, and hiding and a sense of impending doom; by the time the morning came, Cass was completely exhausted and relieved to get up.
Chapter Four (#ubbfe2cc8-34b5-5753-b6ca-521d9140aa28)
Rolling out of bed, Cass pulled on jeans and a sweater, deciding what she needed was a walk with Buster to clear her head before opening the shop.
Outside, the new day was grey and heavy as an army blanket, but unseasonably warm, so that as Cass walked down High Lane to the river it felt almost clammy.
It was ten by the time Cass opened the shop up, the new day still so overcast that she needed to put all the lights on to shake off the gloom. It didn’t help her mood at all. In the workshop she pulled the dustsheet off the armchair she’d been working on the day before, and took stock of what still needed doing. Cass bought most of her furniture and bric-a-brac in from car boots and at auction, giving things a new lease of life. Sometimes she painted them, other pieces were re-upholstered or just plain old-fashioned restored, giving chairs and tables, beds and bookcases, sofas and sideboards a quirky, idiosyncratic, more contemporary twist, so that everyone from designers through to arty first-time furniture buyers came along to the shop to see what she currently had in stock.
The armchair Cass was working was stripped back to the frame and looked like something you’d find in a skip, although with a bit of TLC it would be just the kind of thing people would want in their home, a handsome feature in heavy corn-coloured linen that just screamed style and luxury.
While she sorted out her tools, Buster settled himself into his basket under the bench and turned his concentration to sleeping, while Mungo the cat curled up on the discarded dustsheet. Hanging on the wall behind the bench in the workshop was a calendar on which Cass had been marking off the days to the All Stars’ concert and tour with big red crosses.
Cass was really looking forward to a little late season sun. There would be dinner and dancing and warm nights sipping cocktails out on the terrace, and the thought of a week of beach life and sunshine lifted her spirits no end. She picked up a little tacking hammer and surveyed the frame of the chair, mentally busy thumbing her way through her wardrobe while her hands worked.
It didn’t look as if she was going to be rushed off her feet, and so Cass pinned up the set list for the concert and started to work her way down through the songs. Buster and the cat studiously ignored her.
Cass liked to practise a little every day even when they didn’t have a concert. When she was alone she’d put a CD of the choir’s current repertoire into her player—Alan recorded all the parts—so Cass sang along as she tapped away at the chair, sang while she replaced the beading, stained and bees-waxed a little mahogany sideboard in the main shop, and sang while she put the undercoat on a little chiffonier that she planned to distress, although Cass had stopped herself humming the tunes under her breath in the street and when there were punters in the shop, because she was conscious that it disturbed people—and there was that whole mad-old-biddy, slippery-slope thing that she sometimes felt herself sitting at the top of.
Cass was halfway through the first set and well into the second verse of Moondance when the shop bell rang.
Buster opened an eye but didn’t bother barking or moving.
‘Some guard dog you turned out to be,’ Cass murmured as she got to her feet. Putting down her hammer, Cass went into the shop, dropping a handful of brass tacks into the pocket of the big canvas apron she was wearing.
‘Hello?’ called a male voice rather tentatively from the front of the shop.
Cass looked at the man for a second, struggling to place his face.
‘Mike,’ he said warmly, heading towards her extending his hand. ‘We met the other night at your mother’s house? Mike? I’m the architect?’
Cass reddened, embarrassed. ‘God of course, I’m so sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I was miles away—working…’ She didn’t mention the singing, as she indicated the back of the shop with a nod of her head and the last of the tacks cupped in the palm of her hand in case he might need some sort of visual aid. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ she said although, even as she said it, Cass realised it sounded more like, I wasn’t expecting to see you again.
‘Right,’ said Mike. ‘I did ring. I was going to ring again but I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.’ He tried out a laugh.
And then there was a silence while Cass tried to work out if Mike had dropped by to see her, which was flattering, or whether he was curious about the shop, or had been prompted by Rocco and her mother. It felt awkward, and Cass was just wondering what she should say next when Mike said, ‘Actually, I’m looking for a dresser and your mum said this was a good place to start. You’ve got some lovely stuff in here—apparently.’ His gaze roamed around the shop’s interior. ‘She’s right, it is an Aladdin’s cave.’
‘You could say that. Sorry I didn’t return your call.’ Cass rummaged through various excuses that would be mutually painless. ‘I’ve been up to my eyes with the concert and the trip.’
Mike nodded.
‘I’ve got a couple of dressers in at the moment, one’s out the back in the store, that’s quite nice, small, pine, probably turn of the last century, classic two-drawer two-cupboard. Or I’ve got a really lovely early Victorian one if you’ve got the room. It’s Irish, very rustic and huge.’ She guided him back into the shop, where one wall was dominated by a dresser that was nearly eight feet long and almost as tall, currently decked out with various bits of blue and white china.
‘Wow, that is amazing,’ said Mike appreciatively, running his hands over the deep wooden dresser top that was cut from one great plank of timber. The front edge was uneven where it followed the profile of the tree, and the wood itself had aged down to a rich, dark ginger; it showed signs of a combination of long use and great care.
‘It’s one of a kind.’
Mike nodded and stood back to take it in. ‘Nice…’
‘But a little too big for what you had in mind?’ suggested Cass.
‘No, actually not at all,’ he said, still looking it over. ‘I’ve just finished converting an old chapel in Steepleton and it would look great in there. I’ve got a really nice kitchen—I’m like your mother, I love to cook.’ As he bent down to open the row of doors he revealed a neatly combed-over bald patch, confirming her suspicions that he was nothing like her mother. ‘Actually, it would be perfect. Assuming we could come to an agreement about price.’
Cass watched him thoughtfully as he worked his hand and eye over the old wood. The dresser was one of those things she loved but hadn’t been able to shift. Handmade by an unknown craftsman, it was beautiful if somewhat quirky, with oversized half-moon metal handles and shelves with fronts that followed the shape of the tree the plank was cut from rather than being squared off. Mike picked up the price tag, a little white parcel label tucked discreetly through one of the handles.
‘Will you take an offer?’
Cass considered it for a moment.
‘What I mean is, is this your best price?’
‘It is if you want me to arrange to have it delivered, it is. It weighs a ton,’ Cass said.
Mike hesitated, but if he was expecting Cass to waiver he’d picked the wrong bunny. ‘Fair enough. Would you mind if I measured it up?’ he asked, pulling a tape and pad out of the pocket of his Barbour.
‘Be my guest,’ said Cass. ‘Is there anything else I can interest you in?’
Mike set the tape out along the top of the dresser and Cass instinctively caught hold of the dumb end. ‘How about lunch?’ he said, as he jotted the numbers down.
‘Oh very smooth,’ she said.
Mike’s eyes were alight with mischief. ‘I like to think so—I really enjoyed supper with Rocco and your mother the other night, but it would be nice to talk to you without the dynamic duo filling in the blanks.’
‘And hogging the limelight?’
‘Exactly,’ said Mike.
‘So, looking at my dresser was just a cunning ploy to ask me out?’
‘No, I really do want one and Rocco was right, this would be perfect in the new kitchen. It’s one of the nicest ones I’ve seen in a while. Presumably it comes to pieces?’
‘Uh-huh—the shelves slide out and the top lifts off the base, which divides into two, the bun feet unscrew and finally the fretwork trim and finial top lifts off—mind you, it’s still not exactly a flat-pack.’
‘Will you hold it for me while I just double check that it will fit?’
Cass nodded. ‘Consider it done.’
‘When could you arrange to have it delivered?’
‘Probably by the end of this week—as long as we’re talking cash.’
Mike nodded. ‘Okay. And how about to lunch?’
Cass smiled; the bottom line was that Mike still wasn’t her type. ‘It’s a nice offer, but I don’t close at lunchtime. And I’m hardly dressed for eating out…’ She glanced down at the work shirt and jeans she was wearing under her apron.
‘It is short notice,’ said Mike shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Cass suspected he was about to add, Maybe another time then or, Ah well, never mind, worth a shot, or maybe even suggest they made it dinner instead in which case she had better come up with a good excuse quickly, when he said, ‘Actually, I don’t mind what you’re wearing. I was thinking maybe just grabbing soup and a sandwich. Local greasy spoon.’
‘You really know how to impress a girl,’ said Cass wryly.
Mike laughed. ‘I thought I’d aim low and see what kind of reception I got, bearing in mind you didn’t ring me back.’
Cass winced. Although Mike hadn’t been the only customer she’d had in during the morning, there weren’t that many people about and lunchtime rushes were rare as hen’s teeth except in midsummer. She glanced back at the workshop; there was nothing in there that wouldn’t keep. Right on cue her stomach rumbled. He grinned.
‘Okay, but I can’t be too long.’
His expression brightened. ‘Great, where do you suggest? I don’t know the area very well.’
‘How do you feel about wholefood?’
Cass could see Mike trying hard but he couldn’t quite hold back the grimace. ‘Fine,’ he managed. ‘Are we talking lentils here?’
‘Not necessarily. My friend runs a really good cafe just across the road. They do some fantastic food and all of it is sickeningly healthy.’
‘Okay, sounds like a plan,’ said Mike. ‘Although I should warn you I don’t do tofu.’
‘Me neither. I’ll need to lock up,’ said Cass, heading back towards the workshop. Buster looked up at her as she picked up her handbag from under the bench and brushed the dust off. ‘I’m expecting you to keep an eye on the place,’ she murmured, bending down and scratching him behind the ears.
A few seconds later Cass followed Mike out into the street and pulled the shop door to behind her.
‘So,’ he said, as they fell into step. ‘How’s the singing going?’
‘Are you sure you want to know?’ She looked him up and down; it was no good. Something about Mike irritated her, which was never a good sign. How was it her mum had ended up with Rocco while she attracted men like Mike?
He smiled. ‘Uh-huh—your mother and Rocco tell me that you’re brilliant.’
Maybe it was because he was acting as if they already knew each other, maybe it was the way he appeared to be fiddling with something in his jacket pocket, maybe it was the sniffing.
‘My feeling is that they’re probably biased,’ said Cass, as they headed across the green towards the cafe on the corner.
‘Great shop. I’d really like to take a good look round sometime.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Feel free.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘About twelve years.’
He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Good spot.’
And he was too cheery.
‘I think so.’
‘Cool,’ said Mike, which didn’t deserve comment.
Cass’s shop was long and narrow, a sitting-room’s width with a big bow window at the front, overlooking High Lane and a triangle of grass across the lane, which was set with mature limes, some remnant from a more rural age that had got trapped between the river and the rest of the town.
‘There are some really interesting little shops around here.’
‘It’s kind of grown over the last few years. It used to be quite rundown when we first moved here, but quaint, and so the property was a reasonable price. Being close to the river is quite a draw—gradually lots of old hippies and craftsmen have moved in. Summer it’s really busy. People come down at the weekends to walk along the river, walk with their kids, paddle. That’s how we first found it—on Sunday the place is full of visitors trying to force-feed a dozen of the fattest ducks you’ve ever seen; they waddle up from the river en masse, and there’s a swan who is way too fat to break a sweat, let alone anyone’s arm.’
Mike laughed.
‘Oh, and then we have this guy who shows up on a tricycle, wearing a boater. He parks up under the trees over there and sells old-fashioned ice cream from a cold box on the front.’
‘Great place for weekend mooching.’
‘Fortunately for me. I get a lot of passing trade.’
‘So how did you end up selling furniture?’
‘Long story. I’ve always had an eye for a bargain and been a bit arty. I used to have a market stall when the boys were little, buying things in, restoring them, painting them up…’
They fell into step. High Lane had quickly become a little community in its own right. On the corner closest to town was Lucy, who designed and made silver jewellery, while in the shop alongside her a guy called Shaun made shoes and could mend anything made of leather known to man, and then further along Nick and Susie ran the wholefood cafe and shop, that by some fluke of geography had a river view and a wide front garden that they had transformed with climbers and geraniums and bright umbrellas into a little oasis of calm. There was a gallery at the far end of the green in the old granary that fronted the river, and next door to that was a clothes shop and a flower shop. Tucked in between them all were little cottages that had been snapped up by people looking for homes that had more to them than housing estate chic. Cass loved it all.
The cafe was half full when they arrived and Cass, having said her hellos, was shown to a table overlooking the garden.
‘What made you move here?’ Mike asked as he glanced down the menu.
‘It’s a lovely place to live and I really wanted a business I could run from home—when the boys were little it was important.’ She paused. ‘Did Rocco tell you about Neil?’
He nodded, then said, ‘They didn’t say much.’
‘Well, after we lost Neil I felt we needed to have a home and job that held us all together and this place seemed like it. The kids were almost nine and ten when we moved in. Lost always strikes me as such an odd euphemism for someone dying. It makes me sound as if I was careless and a bit feckless—anyway, it was a difficult time for everyone. He was only thirty-eight.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Cass smiled. ‘Thank you. It’s a long time ago now but I still miss him and it’s odd because it’s one of those things a lot of people can’t handle. They can manage divorce, single parents, being abandoned, leaving—all sorts of things—but they can’t handle dying…’ Cass laughed and took a handful of roasted seeds from the little pot in the middle of the table, waving the words away.
‘If you could give us another minute or two,’ said Mike as the waitress made her way to their table, notepad in hand.
Cass glanced down at the menu. What she didn’t tell Mike was that even now she loved Neil more than she knew how to say and missed him every day, and that—without meaning to—she compared every man she had met since against him; and there had been no one who even came close. She understood that memory played tricks with your mind and that, by dying, Neil often appeared as she wanted him to be rather than how he was—but she still missed his voice and the smell of him and the way he made her feel better, and his laugh and…
And although Cass hadn’t planned it that way, and despite several boyfriends, it was hard for someone to walk in the shadow of the dead, someone who never grew old, who never got fat, never farted, whose life was sealed in the vaults of memory and as a result could never go on to shag her best friend or leave her stranded in the rain or ring up to argue about child support or who should have the house.
‘See anything you fancy?’ Cass asked. When she looked up to see how Mike was doing with the menu, she caught him staring at her, which made her redden at the unintentional play on words.
‘I’d like the cauliflower, mushroom and aubergine satay with wild rice,’ said Mike to the waitress.
‘And I’ll have the roast autumn vegetables with cashew couscous. And a glass of apple juice,’ Cass said.
The girl scribbled the order down and Mike handed the menus back. ‘And just a glass of tap water,’ he said. ‘So,’ he continued as the waitress retreated. ‘Maybe I should tell you all about me and my life.’ He made it sound like a treat.
