Sarah Painter - The Language Of Spells

‘I’m sure,’ Gwen said politely.

‘Well. I’m glad you’re okay.’

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled to show that she was fine and that he didn’t have to be politely concerned for her any longer.

‘Good,’ Cam said. ‘I’ll leave you to your reading.’

He paused at the door, looking like he might be about to say something.

Gwen dug her fingernails into her palm to stop herself from blurting out something stupid like: stay . Or from reaching out and grabbing the front of his shirt. ‘See you later,’ she said. After he’d gone, she ran upstairs and watched him get into his car from the bedroom window. She laid her head against the cool glass and marvelled at the heat in her skin.

The locksmith came as promised, but he kept his coat on while he worked. The house was freezing and Gwen couldn’t get the pilot light on the boiler relit. By the afternoon, ice had formed on the inside of the windows and Gwen answered the door wearing thick socks, tartan flannel PJ bottoms and an enormous hooded sweatshirt that was rolled up several times on the sleeves.

Gwen was surprised to find Cam on the doorstep. He was looking serious, which wasn’t so shocking. Gwen wondered if the frown was regulation issue, handed out after the bar exam.

‘You look terrible,’ Cam said.

‘The words every woman longs to hear.’ Gwen stepped aside to let him in.

‘Sorry. I mean, you don’t look well. Are you all right?’ His face softened in concern and instantly he looked like a different man.

‘The boiler’s broken and the repair guy says he can’t come out until tomorrow and I can’t stop thinking about some stranger walking around in the house while I was asleep and touching all my stuff. Well, Iris’s stuff. Apart from that, I’m fabulous.’

He held up a hammer and a piece of plywood. ‘I come bearing gifts.’

Gwen brightened. ‘Can you fix heating?’

‘Sorry, probably not. I’m going to nail this over the glass in your back door.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll take a look at your heating, although I warn you not to get your hopes up.’

‘Good enough.’ The hallway suddenly seemed too small a space to share with Cam, so Gwen led the way to the kitchen.

She flipped the switch on the kettle and got a tin down from the cupboard while Cam examined the back door. She wondered if Cam, as executor of Iris’s estate, had some legal obligation to look after the property. The thought that he might be bound to the house and, by extension, her for six months, was appealing. ‘Is this part of the service?’ Or do you still care about me?

Cam turned round. ‘What do you mean?’

Gwen didn’t know how to ask whether he was in her kitchen out of personal concern or professionalism. And suddenly she didn’t want to know the answer. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

Cam pounded nails with a focus that Gwen found alarmingly attractive. He had taken off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. His shoulders filled out his white shirt very nicely indeed and the way his hair curled over the nape of his neck did something odd to Gwen’s insides. She leaned against the counter and contemplated his back. It was soothing to look at him when he wasn’t frowning at her.

Then the doorbell rang and spoiled Gwen’s moment of quiet enjoyment. Cam glanced over his shoulder. ‘You expecting someone?’

‘Not exactly.’

It was a tall man with a checked scarf tucked into a dark wool coat. His skin was suspiciously smooth and evenly toned. He had the well-kept look that went hand-in-hand with a disgustingly healthy bank balance. She would lay money that he didn’t want chilblain ointment.

‘Ms Harper?’

‘Hello.’ Gwen stuck out her hand. The man gripped it firmly and pumped her arm, while Gwen tried to work out if he was wearing foundation.

‘I’m Patrick Allen,’ the smooth man said. ‘As head of the Rotary, ‘I’d like to welcome you to our little town.’ He gave a fake modest chuckle that made Gwen want to throw up. ‘I heard about the unfortunate incident and I wanted to assure you that this is a very safe town.’

The cold air was streaming through the open door and Gwen saw a hard frost clinging to the lavender bushes that lined the path. Politeness said that she had to invite him into the house, but Gwen felt a stickiness in the air that was almost like a barrier. Damn house making all the decisions . She ignored the feeling and smiled as cheerily as she could manage. ‘Would you like to come in?’

Cam appeared in the kitchen doorway, the hammer dangling carelessly from one hand.

‘This is Patrick Allen,’ Gwen said quickly, trying to ignore the way her heart had sped up. She was having a ridiculous throw-back reaction to Cam. Something to do with old memories.

‘I know Patrick.’ Cam smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Don’t often see you on this side of the river.’

‘I could say the same to you, Cameron.’ Patrick inclined his head. ‘I wanted to talk to you about something, actually.’

‘You’ll have to make an appointment at the office.’

Patrick ignored him. ‘It’s about this ridiculous folk festival.’

‘I’ve told you before,’ Cam said. ‘Not something I can help you with.’

Patrick crossed his arms. He looked unaccustomed to hearing the word ‘no’. ‘What’s the point in having laws, then?’

‘A question I have asked myself many times,’ Cam said with a tight smile. He turned to Gwen. ‘Where will I find your boiler?’

‘If you can’t even use them to protect what’s right …’ Patrick was still talking and Gwen revised her initial impression from ‘smooth’ to ‘irritating’.

‘Upstairs. Back bedroom in the cupboard in the corner,’ Gwen said.

Cam started to turn away, then stopped. ‘The law isn’t about what’s right. It’s about what’s legal.’

‘But this so-called festival will be an embarrassment,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s an affront to the decent people,’ he went on, his chest puffed up with importance, ‘the decent businesses—’

‘Are they having a craft market?’ Gwen said.

‘Pardon?’ Patrick glanced at Gwen.

‘At the festival. Are they planning to have a craft tent or something? These things often do.’

‘I have no idea,’ Patrick said, his expression sour. ‘What I do know is that they will ruin the town’s green.’

‘Chippenham and Trowbridge have held them for years without any problem,’ Cam said. ‘And, as I understand it, the town council have made it clear that the green must be left in the state in which it was found.’

‘We’re not Chippenham,’ Patrick said in a withering tone.

‘Just, if there’s going to be a craft market, I’d love to join in. I have a stall.’ Gwen knew she was being childish, but she couldn’t help it. Patrick reminded her of every authority figure she’d ever rebelled against. Old habits died hard.

Patrick looked momentarily at a loss for words. Then he rallied with another false laugh. ‘Ah. I take it I won’t be able to count on you to sign my petition, then?’

‘As a local business owner, I welcome anything that brings in the punters,’ Gwen said sweetly.

‘Well. Yes. I suppose.’ Patrick looked as if he dearly wanted to say something else.

‘I’ve got to get my tools,’ Cam said and went out of the front door. Gwen didn’t blame him.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea?’ Gwen ushered Patrick to the dining room. She was damned if he was sitting in her lovely kitchen.

‘I can’t stop, really. Just wanted to welcome you and to see if there was anything …’ Patrick trailed off as he took in the mausoleum chic of the dining room. He turned on his heel. ‘Did you say your boiler wasn’t working? Can I help with that?’