Seduction Never Lies(14)

The narrative was punctuated by scraps of Descent's music, raw, raunchy, ferocious, and available with one click.

It was, she thought with shocked disbelief, like discovering there were actually aliens on other planets.

Making her realise just how sheltered her life in Hazelton Magna had  been from the overheated world of rock music, reality television and  instant celebrity. Making her see why Jago's arrival could well be  regarded locally as an unwarranted invasion. How, in spite of her  regrettable incursion into his grounds, he was the real trespasser.

She wanted to stop reading, but something made her continue. Some  compulsion to know everything, as if that could possibly make her  understand the inexplicable.

'Sometimes the demons you find there make the return journey with you...'

His words. And she shivered again.

The band, she read, had broken up three years earlier, citing 'artistic  differences'. But they had reunited a year later, with a UK tour  planned. But this project had been cancelled following Pete Hilton's  sudden departure, caused, it was rumoured, by a fight with Jago Marsh.  After which Descent had come to an abrupt end, the other band members  dispersing, said the article, 'to pursue other interests'.

Like buying neglected country houses, thought Tavy, returning  dispiritedly to the computer's home page. And her researches had done  nothing to allay her fears or quell her inner disturbance over Jago  Marsh. On the contrary, in fact.                       
       
           



       

Because it was obvious from the tone of the article that, to him, women  were merely interchangeable commodities, a series of willing bodies to  be enjoyed, then discarded, which was only serving to deepen her  resentment of him and the way he'd treated her.

His arrogant assumption that she would enjoy being in his arms.

A 'treat of the week' for the village maiden, no doubt, she thought furiously.

What she needed now was something to take her mind off it all. She  required an occupation, and in the absence of any correspondence, she  decided to tidy the stationery cupboard, and check whether more  letterheads, report forms and prospectuses needed to be ordered.

Demonstrate my efficiency, she thought, pulling a face.

To her surprise, the cupboard was locked, but there was a spare key in  Mrs Wilding's desk drawer, eventually locating it under a bulky folder  tied up with pink tape which she lifted out and left on top of the desk.

She opened the door, and inspected and rearranged each shelf with  methodical care noting down, as she'd suspected, that more uniform lists  were needed, plus compliment slips and letterheads. She was kneeling,  examining a box of old date stamps that had been pushed to the back of  the bottom shelf and forgotten, when an icy voice behind her said, 'What  do you think you're doing?'

Tavy turned and saw Mrs Wilding glaring down at her.

'Just checking the supplies.' She got up, feeling faintly bewildered. 'I realised it was some time since I did so.'

'But the cupboard was locked.'

'I got the key from your drawer.'

'Well, in future, kindly do only what you're asked.'

Tavy watched as Mrs Wilding relocked the cupboard, ostentatiously  putting the key in her handbag, then replaced the folder in the drawer  and slammed it shut.

She said quietly, 'I've made a note of what we need to re-order from  the printers, Mrs Wilding. Shall I leave it with the library list?'

'You may as well.' Mrs Wilding paused. 'I shan't need you again today, Octavia. You can go home.'

Faced with an afternoon of freedom at any other time, Tavy would have  turned an inner cartwheel. But this felt like being sent away in some  kind of disgrace-as if she'd been caught prying-when she was simply  doing her job. Because if any of the school's stationery had run out,  she knew who'd have been blamed.

She managed a polite, 'Thank you, Mrs Wilding,' then collected her jacket and her bag, and went to find her bicycle.

She was halfway down the drive, when she heard the sound of a powerful  engine approaching, and drew in to the verge, just as a big Land Rover  came round the corner, with 'White Gables Stud' blazoned on its sides,  and Norton Culham at the wheel.

Tavy couldn't remember him ever calling at the school before, so it was  truly turning into a day of surprises, although Mr Culham driving past  without appearing to notice her was certainly not one of them.

Everything normal there, she thought, giving a mental shrug and  continuing on her way. Passing the church, she saw an unfamiliar car  parked outside, and remembered the diocesan surveyor was expected.

Damn, she thought. I meant to wish Dad luck.

As she wheeled her bike up the Vicarage drive, she saw there was  something in the porch, leaning against the front door, only to realise  as she got closer that it was a large florists' bouquet-two dozen  crimson roses beautifully wrapped and beribboned.

She picked them up carefully, inhaling their delicate exquisite  fragrance, then detached the little envelope from the outer layer of  silver-starred cellophane, and took out the card.

There were just two words. 'Peace offering.'

No sender's name, but she knew exactly who needed to make this kind of atonement and whispered, 'Patrick.'

This wonderful, extravagant, passionate gesture more than made up for  the apologetic phone call that she'd expected but never received.

Smiling, she let herself into the house, and took the flowers through  to the kitchen. She'd need at least two if not three vases for them. And  wasn't there something about cutting the stems and bruising them in  order to prolong the blooming? Because she wanted to keep them fresh not  just for days but weeks.

She took out her mobile and, for once, because she wanted to reassure  him that peace had indeed broken out, she called him at work.

He answered immediately. 'Tavy?' He sounded surprised and none too  pleased. 'What is it? This isn't a good time. I have a client waiting.'

'But you must have known I'd ring,' she said. 'To thank you, and say how truly beautiful they are, and how thrilled I am.'                       
       
           



       

There was a pause. Then: 'I don't follow you,' he said. 'What's "truly beautiful"? What are you talking about?'

'Your peace offering,' she said, her voice lilting. 'The lovely flowers you just sent me.'

'Flowers?' Patrick's tone was impatient. 'I never sent any flowers. Why  would I? It must be a mistake by the florist-or someone's playing a  joke on you. I suggest you get it sorted. Now I really have to go. I'll  call you later.'

He disconnected, leaving Tavy standing motionless, clutching the phone,  and staring at the bouquet lying on the kitchen table, as if each  long-stemmed blossom had suddenly turned into a live snake.

'No,' she said aloud, her voice clipped and harsh in the silence. 'It's  not true. They can't be from-him. I don't-I won't believe it.'

Peace offering...

She was trembling, her stomach churning in a mix of incredulity,  confusion and disappointment. She brought her fist up to her mouth,  biting down hard on the knuckle, trying to distract one pain with  another.

She'd believed Patrick had sent the flowers because he'd spoiled the  previous evening by getting stupidly and aggressively drunk, and she'd  expected him to show a measure of remorse. But his attitude on the phone  indicated quite clearly that was the last thing on his mind.

She didn't want to speculate what Jago Marsh's motivation might be. She  only knew that to receive flowers-and red roses, the symbol of love at  that-from someone as cynically amoral as he was, had to be a kind of  degradation.

Suggesting to her where they really belonged. She snatched the bouquet  from the table and marched out of the house, down the drive to where the  bins were awaiting the weekly refuse collection, thrusting the flowers  on top of the kitchen waste.

'Good riddance,' she muttered as she went back to the kitchen.

Back in the kitchen, she picked fresh herbs from the pots outside the  back door to add to the omelettes she was planning for lunch in case the  surveyor joined them, then set about assembling the ingredients for  supper's cottage pie. The browned meat was simmering nicely on the stove  with diced onion and carrot when her father returned.

'Well, this is a pleasant surprise,' he said, smiling with an obvious effort.

'I was given the afternoon off.' Tavy saw with concern the bleakness in his eyes.

'Because we have a visitor,' he went on.

So the surveyor was with him, she thought, summoning a welcoming smile.  Which froze as Jago Marsh followed him into the kitchen, carrying, she  saw with horror, the roses she'd put in the bin only a short while  before.

'And also something of a mystery,' her father added. 'We found these beautiful flowers outside, apparently thrown away.'

'I suggested you might be able to shed some light on the subject.' Jago  put the bouquet back on the kitchen table, his mouth twisting  ironically as he studied her flushed face. 'Can you?'