wearing a wraparound dress that revealed her waist for the first time in over a decade and showed a lot of leg. She looked sensational, but to Legs it was like staring at a stranger.
Her phone started to ring. She wanted to ignore it, but it was playing ‘Teenage Kicks’, the song she’d assigned to Francis, added to which Hector was suddenly all over her like a rash.
‘What network are you on?’ he demanded as she delved into her pocket to retrieve it. ‘There’s never a signal here.’
‘Virgin,’ she admitted, making him reel back in shock as she mentioned Smile Media’s business arch-nemesis.
She answered the call, stepping behind a tree in a hopeless quest for privacy.
The signal was in fact so poor that the line was barely holding together. Francis sounded like he was speaking from a tin on a three-mile string.
‘How much do you know about this?’ she demanded furiously.
‘I knew … should ha … warned you.’ Despite the interference, hearing his voice was like a warm breath in her ear, his bass tone was softer and lighter than his father’s, still tinged with American top notes, but the timbre strikingly similar. ‘You’ve just caught … together?’
‘Not exactly in flagrante, but flagrant enough.’
‘We must talk. I’ll meet you … the Lookout … ten min …’ The line went dead.
Face flaming, she swept past her still-smiling mother and headed for her car. ‘I’ll book into the pub.’
‘Aren’t you coming back?’ Lucy called, voice shaking.
‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow when we’ve all calmed down enough to talk. Enjoy your oysters.’ I hope they choke Hector, she added with unspoken venom.
It was only once she was behind the wheel and emerging from woods to sunlight that she started to sob, overwhelmed by what she’d just witnessed. She drove back to the Gull Cross fork and swerved blindly down the lane towards the bay. At the point where the track started to snake down through the coastal heath, she braked hard and then cut the engine. The Honda was left parked at a jaunty angle with the bonnet crammed in a gorse bush.
The sea wind whipped away her tears as soon as she got out, and the panic subsided. Francis would make sense of it all. He always did.
Chapter 6
The path up to the Lookout was massively overgrown these days, sometimes barely passable. Legs kept losing it completely and having to retrace her steps. Mostly she navigated from instinct. Beyond the trees, almost cut into the cliff side, was a narrow stone ledge that ran deep within the gorse and heather, virtually a gully at times, uneven and precarious.
At its end, the Lookout perched on the narrowest of platforms, resembling little more than a neglected birdwatchers’ hide dressed with wooden shipboard. It concealed a large cave, complete with table and chairs, a bunk and even a constant supply of freshwater that trickled along a trough of stone on one corner. Legend had it that a hermit had once lived there, before moving to the relative comfort of Spycove.
As teenagers, the Norths and Foulkes and Francis had double-dared one another to go there, convinced that it was haunted, or worse still occupied by a runaway mass murder from HMP Dartmoor. Eventually, overcoming their nerves, they’d claimed it as their own and styled it in different guises over the years – from fluffy pink to gothic black, bookish retreat to party pad. Now what minimalist signs of habitation remained were neglected, the cave showing evidence of a recent invasion of birds, bats and other visiting creatures.
Legs didn’t suit high drama, and suited heights even less. She had no idea why Francis had suggested meeting here, and had been far too overwrought to think about it until now. She supposed it fitted the moment. He had always been the ultimate stage manager.
After ten minutes, just as she was starting to wonder whether the stage manager had missed his cue, a wiry little terrier wearing a checked neckerchief
Her phone started to ring. She wanted to ignore it, but it was playing ‘Teenage Kicks’, the song she’d assigned to Francis, added to which Hector was suddenly all over her like a rash.
‘What network are you on?’ he demanded as she delved into her pocket to retrieve it. ‘There’s never a signal here.’
‘Virgin,’ she admitted, making him reel back in shock as she mentioned Smile Media’s business arch-nemesis.
She answered the call, stepping behind a tree in a hopeless quest for privacy.
The signal was in fact so poor that the line was barely holding together. Francis sounded like he was speaking from a tin on a three-mile string.
‘How much do you know about this?’ she demanded furiously.
‘I knew … should ha … warned you.’ Despite the interference, hearing his voice was like a warm breath in her ear, his bass tone was softer and lighter than his father’s, still tinged with American top notes, but the timbre strikingly similar. ‘You’ve just caught … together?’
‘Not exactly in flagrante, but flagrant enough.’
‘We must talk. I’ll meet you … the Lookout … ten min …’ The line went dead.
Face flaming, she swept past her still-smiling mother and headed for her car. ‘I’ll book into the pub.’
‘Aren’t you coming back?’ Lucy called, voice shaking.
‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow when we’ve all calmed down enough to talk. Enjoy your oysters.’ I hope they choke Hector, she added with unspoken venom.
It was only once she was behind the wheel and emerging from woods to sunlight that she started to sob, overwhelmed by what she’d just witnessed. She drove back to the Gull Cross fork and swerved blindly down the lane towards the bay. At the point where the track started to snake down through the coastal heath, she braked hard and then cut the engine. The Honda was left parked at a jaunty angle with the bonnet crammed in a gorse bush.
The sea wind whipped away her tears as soon as she got out, and the panic subsided. Francis would make sense of it all. He always did.
Chapter 6
The path up to the Lookout was massively overgrown these days, sometimes barely passable. Legs kept losing it completely and having to retrace her steps. Mostly she navigated from instinct. Beyond the trees, almost cut into the cliff side, was a narrow stone ledge that ran deep within the gorse and heather, virtually a gully at times, uneven and precarious.
At its end, the Lookout perched on the narrowest of platforms, resembling little more than a neglected birdwatchers’ hide dressed with wooden shipboard. It concealed a large cave, complete with table and chairs, a bunk and even a constant supply of freshwater that trickled along a trough of stone on one corner. Legend had it that a hermit had once lived there, before moving to the relative comfort of Spycove.
As teenagers, the Norths and Foulkes and Francis had double-dared one another to go there, convinced that it was haunted, or worse still occupied by a runaway mass murder from HMP Dartmoor. Eventually, overcoming their nerves, they’d claimed it as their own and styled it in different guises over the years – from fluffy pink to gothic black, bookish retreat to party pad. Now what minimalist signs of habitation remained were neglected, the cave showing evidence of a recent invasion of birds, bats and other visiting creatures.
Legs didn’t suit high drama, and suited heights even less. She had no idea why Francis had suggested meeting here, and had been far too overwrought to think about it until now. She supposed it fitted the moment. He had always been the ultimate stage manager.
After ten minutes, just as she was starting to wonder whether the stage manager had missed his cue, a wiry little terrier wearing a checked neckerchief
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