he would wonder why.
Because she had a past that was nearly as colourful as his own, and when lovers begin prevaricating—lovers possessed of tangled pasts that unfortunately happen to exclude each other—there is usually a reason from one of their pasts that has slithered unexpectedly into both of their presents. Wasn’t that the case? And isn’t that just what Tommy would think?
Lord, Helen thought. Her head was spinning. Would the water
never
boil?
“I’d need half a day to go over the estate books once we got there,” Tommy was saying,
“but after that the time would be ours. And you could use that half day with Mother, couldn’t you?”
She could. Of course she could. She hadn’t yet seen Lady Asherton since—as Iris would have put it—“things” had fi nally become offi -
cial with Tommy. They’d spoken on the phone.
They had both agreed that there was much to discuss about the future. Here was an opportunity to do so. Except that she couldn’t get away. Certainly not tomorrow, and with all probability, not the day after that either.
Now was the moment to tell Tommy the truth: There’s just a little something we’re investigating, darling, Simon and I. What, you ask? Nothing really. So inconsequential. Nothing to trouble yourself over. Truly.
Another lie. A lie on a lie. A terrible muddle.
Helen looked hopefully at the kettle. As if in answer to her prayers, it began to steam. It switched itself off, and she dashed to attend to it.
Tommy was saying, “…and they’re apparently set to descend on Cornwall as soon as possible to celebrate. I think that’s Aunt Augusta’s idea. Anything for a party.”
Helen said, “Aunt Augusta? What are you talking about, Tommy?” before she realised he’d been chatting away about their engagement while she’d been ruminating over how best to lie to him. She said, “I’m sorry, darling. I drifted off for a moment. I was thinking about your mother.” She poured water into the teapot, stirred it vigorously, and went to the refrigerator where she rooted round for the milk.
Tommy said nothing as she assembled the teapot and everything else on a wooden tray.
She picked up the tray, saying, “Let’s collapse in the drawing room, darling. I’m afraid I’ve run out of Lapsang Souchong. You’ll have to settle for Earl Grey instead,” to which he replied, “What’s going on, Helen?”
She thought, Damn. She said, “Going on?”
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m not a fool. Is there something on your mind?”
She sighed and reached for a variation on the truth. “It’s nerves,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
And thought, Don’t let him ask anything more. And to keep him from asking, “It’s the change between us. Finally having everything definite. Wondering if life is going to work out.”
“Are you getting cold feet about marrying me?”
“Cold, no.” She smiled at him. “I’m not getting cold feet at all. Although the poor things are miserably sore. I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought those shoes, Tommy. Forest green, the perfect match for this suit, and absolute agony. By two o’clock I had a fairly good idea what the bottom half of a crucifi xion would feel like. Come along and rub them for me, will you? And tell me about your day.”
He wasn’t buying. She could tell that by the way he was observing her. He was favouring her with his detective inspector’s inspection, and she wouldn’t emerge unscathed from the scrutiny. She turned from it quickly and went to the drawing room. She poured the tea, saying, “Have you brought the Fleming case to a conclusion, then?” in reference to the investigation that had taken up so much of his time for the past several weeks.
He was slow to join her, and when he did, he walked not to the sofa where she had his tea ready, but rather to a fl oor lamp, which he switched on, then to a table lamp next to the sofa, then to another next to a chair. He didn’t stop until every
Because she had a past that was nearly as colourful as his own, and when lovers begin prevaricating—lovers possessed of tangled pasts that unfortunately happen to exclude each other—there is usually a reason from one of their pasts that has slithered unexpectedly into both of their presents. Wasn’t that the case? And isn’t that just what Tommy would think?
Lord, Helen thought. Her head was spinning. Would the water
never
boil?
“I’d need half a day to go over the estate books once we got there,” Tommy was saying,
“but after that the time would be ours. And you could use that half day with Mother, couldn’t you?”
She could. Of course she could. She hadn’t yet seen Lady Asherton since—as Iris would have put it—“things” had fi nally become offi -
cial with Tommy. They’d spoken on the phone.
They had both agreed that there was much to discuss about the future. Here was an opportunity to do so. Except that she couldn’t get away. Certainly not tomorrow, and with all probability, not the day after that either.
Now was the moment to tell Tommy the truth: There’s just a little something we’re investigating, darling, Simon and I. What, you ask? Nothing really. So inconsequential. Nothing to trouble yourself over. Truly.
Another lie. A lie on a lie. A terrible muddle.
Helen looked hopefully at the kettle. As if in answer to her prayers, it began to steam. It switched itself off, and she dashed to attend to it.
Tommy was saying, “…and they’re apparently set to descend on Cornwall as soon as possible to celebrate. I think that’s Aunt Augusta’s idea. Anything for a party.”
Helen said, “Aunt Augusta? What are you talking about, Tommy?” before she realised he’d been chatting away about their engagement while she’d been ruminating over how best to lie to him. She said, “I’m sorry, darling. I drifted off for a moment. I was thinking about your mother.” She poured water into the teapot, stirred it vigorously, and went to the refrigerator where she rooted round for the milk.
Tommy said nothing as she assembled the teapot and everything else on a wooden tray.
She picked up the tray, saying, “Let’s collapse in the drawing room, darling. I’m afraid I’ve run out of Lapsang Souchong. You’ll have to settle for Earl Grey instead,” to which he replied, “What’s going on, Helen?”
She thought, Damn. She said, “Going on?”
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m not a fool. Is there something on your mind?”
She sighed and reached for a variation on the truth. “It’s nerves,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
And thought, Don’t let him ask anything more. And to keep him from asking, “It’s the change between us. Finally having everything definite. Wondering if life is going to work out.”
“Are you getting cold feet about marrying me?”
“Cold, no.” She smiled at him. “I’m not getting cold feet at all. Although the poor things are miserably sore. I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought those shoes, Tommy. Forest green, the perfect match for this suit, and absolute agony. By two o’clock I had a fairly good idea what the bottom half of a crucifi xion would feel like. Come along and rub them for me, will you? And tell me about your day.”
He wasn’t buying. She could tell that by the way he was observing her. He was favouring her with his detective inspector’s inspection, and she wouldn’t emerge unscathed from the scrutiny. She turned from it quickly and went to the drawing room. She poured the tea, saying, “Have you brought the Fleming case to a conclusion, then?” in reference to the investigation that had taken up so much of his time for the past several weeks.
He was slow to join her, and when he did, he walked not to the sofa where she had his tea ready, but rather to a fl oor lamp, which he switched on, then to a table lamp next to the sofa, then to another next to a chair. He didn’t stop until every
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