Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

Gritting her teeth, Kirsty walked into reception. No sign yet of either Arthur the barman or the Croatian kitchen girls. Gail and Bel were chattering away on the sofa where, during opening hours, customers waited while their table was prepared. Two expensively dressed forty-somethings, one blonde, one brunette. Everyone always said Bel was stunning (for her age was Kirsty’s unspoken qualification) but Kirsty suspected she might be putting on a pound or two around her waist. Wishful thinking, probably, but nobody could deny that her nose was too beaky to be remotely beautiful. So was Oliver’s, but somehow it suited him, lent a kind of distinction.

As for Gail, she was fixated on defying the passage of the years. A few weeks ago, Kirsty had overheard her telling Bel that when her divorce finally came through, she’d celebrate by splashing out on more cosmetic surgery. She’d already had a discreet nip and tuck around the jawline and kept harping on about a boob job. Poor flat-chested creature, she could do with one. Now the blonde hair had lengthened overnight and Kirsty was positive she’d invested in extensions. Pity she couldn’t do anything about that letterbox of a mouth. Over the years, Gail had tried her hand at a variety of small enterprises before becoming a supplier of wine. The Heights was her best client, and she and Bel were friends. Gail was scheduled to make one delivery each week, but dropped in every other day. They spent more time yapping about clothes and television than discussing business.

‘Hello, Kirsty, how are things?’

No mistaking the fruity smell on Gail’s breath. Her favourite tipple was gin made from damsons harvested in the Lyth valley. Sweet and strong, no wonder she was having to take care not to mix up her words. An empty glass stood in front of her. Bel, always the goody-goody, was sipping fizzy water.

‘All right, Mrs Flint, how are you?’

‘I told you before, sweetheart, my name’s Gail. None of this Mrs Flint nonsense.’ Gail’s trout-like lips (Kirsty suspected excessive Botox injections) formed a smile. ‘I’m fine, but you do look a little flushed, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re not working her too hard, Bel?’

As Bel smiled and shook her head, they heard a car pulling up outside. Kirsty caught sight of Oliver through the window, lifting a crate of glasses from the boot of Bel’s gleaming BMW. It always gave her a kick to see him without being seen. She adored his elegance of movement, the movement of his shoulder blades under the thin cotton shirt. He didn’t bother with the gym, but he had as much feline grace as Bel. Even when peeling potatoes or carrots, he seemed incapable of clumsiness. Tall, dark and blue-eyed, in some ways he reminded her of Sam. But her brother’s muscles were running to fat. Too many chip suppers.

Sam had no time for Oliver. He was dead jealous, bound to be, but he loved to wind her up by insisting that Oliver was gay. All chefs were, in his book. Oliver had flowing locks, down almost to his shoulders, high cheekbones and manicured hands; very different from close-cropped, grubby-nailed Sam. But Oliver wasn’t gay, she was sure of that.

He came into reception and put the box down. When his eyes met Bel’s, the intensity of his gaze made Kirsty shiver with cold despair. It was as if the woman were a hypnotist, as if at a snap of her fingers, he would satisfy her every whim. Kirsty imagined Oliver as wild and passionate. Dangerous, even. Yet Bel had tamed him, made sure he did her bidding. Lucky, lucky woman to have that lithe body wrapped around her in bed every night.

‘Where shall I put these glasses?’

Bel reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘Let me show you.’

Her tone was flirtatious, her eyes sparkling with promise, like a teenage coquette. She led him by the hand to the kitchen. For a quick grope, presumably; the woman just couldn’t keep her hands off him.

Gail leaned forward and whispered, ‘Much as I love Bel, I can’t help a twinge of jealousy. How about you?’

It was as if she got a kick out of twisting the knife. Kirsty coughed, scouring her brain for an excuse to get away.

‘She tells me Oliver’s very sensitive to her needs. All he cares about is giving her pleasure. I mean, I’m bound to be jealous, aren’t I? The younger men I’ve known, it’s always wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’’

Oh God, too much information. ‘I’d better be getting on with my work.’

Gail smirked. ‘Don’t let me keep you, sweetheart.’

Bel and Oliver were coming back already. His hair was messed up and Kirsty yearned to smooth it back into place, it was like a physical ache. But she had to choke her instincts. She dared not touch him.

Time to take refuge in the bar. Oliver didn’t even spare her a glance as she scuttled out. Her throat was dry and she poured herself a glass of water, downing it in a couple of gulps.

Through the thin wall, Kirsty heard Gail squawk with laughter. Did she detest Gail more than Bel, or the other way round? And was it because they had both screwed her father? She didn’t think so. Roz Gleave was another member of that not very exclusive club, and Kirsty liked her. But Gail was a first-class bitch. Tina Howe reckoned that Gail was all fur coat and no knickers, though while Gail was married to Peter Flint, no one doubted who wore the trousers. Tina said it was a wonder he’d stuck with her so long. Gail loved talking about girl power and making out that she and Kirsty were bosom pals, but if you stripped away the chatter, underneath she was as hard as nails. She was like Dad in one respect; they both thought only of themselves. As for Bel, she’d been a kid when she’d slept with him. According to Sam, Dad had always fancied her, kept pestering her even when she was safely married to a wealthy man, even when that man was dying, even when he was still warm in his grave. In different circumstances, Kirsty might have felt sorry for Bel. But Bel had Oliver in thrall, and that was reason enough to hate her.

Hate, hate, hate. It was a cancer, eating away at her insides. She could feel it spreading through her, insidious and irresistible.

A couple of times lately, she’d even fantasised about catching Bel alone in the restaurant and bashing her on the head until the life seeped out of her. She could pretend the killing took place in the course of a burglary gone wrong. Of course, she’d never do it. It wasn’t lack of nerve; the truth was she didn’t have a violent bone in her body. But her dreams were becoming desperate. Even on a summer day, they made her cold with fear.

Marc Amos’s bookshop flirted with the senses. If the whiff of old books and background Debussy were insufficiently seductive, the casual visitor would be lured from the craft shops in the courtyard by the rich aromas wafting from the cafeteria. It shared the ground floor of the old mill building with a maze of ceiling-to-floor shelves. Leigh Moffat’s succulent home-baked desserts had found fame beyond this corner of the South Lakes and as many people gorged on her lemon cake and Death by Chocolate as on the tens of thousands of books in the store.

Amos Books wasn’t on Daniel’s route to collect his sister from the station, but he calculated he could get away with an hour’s diversion. It was an indulgence, and not only of his incurable bibliomania. The last time he’d met Hannah, he’d told her about Aimee’s suicide — something he seldom spoke of — but although she’d hinted that she and Marc were having difficulties, she hadn’t confided in him about her private life. Impossible not to be curious. He liked Marc as well as Hannah. The complication was that he’d felt a strong stirring of attraction to her, unexpected, unwanted, yet unmistakable. A couple of times it had kept him from sleeping. He and Hannah were both in relationships, and he didn’t want to wreck things for either of them. But she’d known his father, been close to him, there was so much that she could explain about him; helping Daniel to fill in the blanks. He couldn’t simply forget her. They could still make a friendship work.