Never Tell. Claire Seeber
‘Have you read Scott Fitzgerald?’ I was staring again. The heat of the pub was making me feel sleepy.
‘Of course,’ Dalziel shrugged languidly. ‘The Beautiful and Damned. Most apt.’
‘You remind me of someone, you know.’
James snorted. ‘Great line, Rosie.’
‘It wasn’t a line.’ I was flustered.
‘It might not have been, sweetness, but I could certainly do with one.’
‘One what?’ I was lost.
‘One great line.’ Dalziel took the money from the barmaid idly and then folded a five-pound note into her pudgy hand. ‘Or more. For you, my angel.’
I gaped at him; not even my father tipped so extravagantly. Dalziel picked up the bottle and motioned for James to bring the glasses.
‘So, Jamie, my love,’ he threw over his shoulder, heading towards the table where we’d been sitting, ‘what do you think?’
James looked unsure. ‘About what?’
‘A Rose between two thorns, hey?’
I looked into Dalziel’s eyes. Later, I realised I’d never really known what colour they were. Amber perhaps.
‘Another little convert for us? And an English student too. Are you well read?’
‘Reasonably,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m getting there.’
‘Perhaps you can help with my Union debate about God and the Devil.’
I was overwhelmed with gratitude and excitement; surprised because he didn’t seem the godly type – but if it meant spending time with Dalziel, I would have converted to anything. For the first time since I’d arrived in Oxford, I was glad to be there. But then, I had no idea what was in store.
Chapter Three GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008
The morning after I’d tried to help the wailing girl at the garage, I dropped the twins at nursery and drove homewards through the green Cotswold lanes, fighting a sudden longing for a cigarette. Xavier was still waiting to hear from me; and Lord Higham’s face was staring at me impassively from the morning paper on the passenger seat. Images I’d blocked for years flickered remorselessly through my head until I had to pull onto a farm track. The rain had finally stopped during the night and the hedgerow sparkled with moisture, but I felt strangely bleak. I’d always known it was a risk coming here. It was too close for comfort; it always had been.
But during my last pregnancy four years ago, James had been recovering from a serious bout of depression. His record label had narrowly missed a takeover bid, thanks to his business partner’s bad accounting, and the incident seemed to prompt the return of the nightmares from university days. He’d been haunted again, resulting in drugs and drink to counter endless sleepless nights. In the end he’d said the countryside was what he needed, he’d practically begged: and I’d craved peace myself, too exhausted to question his motives.
I sat in the car for a long time, thinking.
‘Oxford 15 m, London 53m’ read the quaint white fingerpost. Wearily I rested my head on the steering wheel as Mick Jagger bemoaned ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’. I felt utterly confused and suddenly torn. London and Xavier lay in one direction; my family and my home were in the other. And somewhere suddenly in the middle were these memories, the cold clamp of the past pressing around me, the hideous misadventure James and I had fought to leave behind.
I restarted the car, startling a lugubrious cow peering over the hedge, and I saw it was already time to collect the twins. They were so pleased to see me, running into my knees with euphoric cries of ‘Mummy!’ like I was the best thing since ice cream or Father Christmas, that the guilt I felt was savage. I shouldn’t write about anything other than giant marrows: that much I owed my children. But my soul was aching for the thrill of the hunt. I took them home and kissed and hugged them until they told me to go away, and eventually deposited them in the garden sandpit with sandwiches and juice whilst I sat on the stone bench and watched them.
After a while I went inside and unearthed my notebook from the tidy pile, peeling an ancient half-eaten Twix from the front, and took it outside. Sitting on the bench in the spring sunshine, watching Effie’s sand-cakes grow ever wetter, and Fred sampling some tasty mud, I scribbled for a while. When I’d finished, I closed the book and fished my phone out.
‘So’, I said carefully when he answered, ‘if I do it, can I have carte blanche?’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re not Kate bloody Adie, darling.’
‘Not quite, no,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit Northern but not nearly as posh.’
‘And you’re prettier. Well, marginally.’
‘Yeah, OK, Xav. Don’t go overboard.’
‘Listen, something else has just come through on the wire from Qatar about Kattan. It might be nothing. But I wanna be first if it’s there. Specially after the fucking Telegraph stealing our ten-p tax thunder. I’ll send everything over.’
‘OK.’
‘And, Rose, one thing. Be careful of interesting angles.’
‘Funny,’ I said shortly. I’d nearly been sued by the South African government the last time I’d written for Xav. Thankfully my instinct had been right, but it had been scary there for a while; the court costs mounting into six figures, me envisaging utter ruin.
‘You’ve got a week.’
‘OK.’ I hung up. Effie looked up at me and then carefully poured some sand into her red plastic cup.
‘Cup of tea, Mummy?’ she asked earnestly, holding it out to me.
‘Do you know what, my angel,’ I lowered myself into the sandpit between them, ‘I don’t mind if I do.’
I had meant to discuss my plans with James that evening, though secretly I was dreading it. He was happy with me doing one day at the local paper: returning to a national would be entirely different.
But by the time the children were fed and bathed and I’d thought of all the right things to appease him with, James’s partner in crime, Liam, had arrived for the night. Unsurprisingly, he had a new girlfriend in tow, a tiny jolly redhead with see-through skin and an over-inflated bosom.
Lord Higham was being interviewed on Radio Four when they arrived. I was desperate to listen but turned it down hurriedly as James walked into the kitchen. I knew he’d freak if he so much as heard the name.
‘Hey, babe,’ Liam kissed me. ‘This is Star.’
‘Wow.’ I suppressed a smile. ‘Hi, Star.’
‘That’s a funny name,’ Alicia said. ‘It’s like being called Moon.’
‘Or Bum-bum,’ said Freddie with a joyful snigger.
‘No it’s not, silly,’ said Alicia. ‘It’s not like Bum-bum is it, Mum?’
‘No it’s not,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘It’s very silly, Freddie.’
‘Bum-bum,’ Freddie repeated, his eyes round at his own daring.
‘Anyway you shouldn’t say that, should he, Mum? It’s rude.’
‘No, he shouldn’t,’ I agreed solemnly. ‘It is very silly, Freddie.’
‘Bum-bum!’
‘That’s enough, Fred,’ his father warned.
‘It’s not my real name actually – Star,’ Star offered in rather vacant Northern tones. ‘I wish it