Джеффри Арчер - Tell Tale - Stories

Adam had been standing impatiently by the phone for some time before it eventually rang. He grabbed the receiver.

“He’s just left the house so should be with you in a few minutes.”

“Why’s he so late?” asked Adam edgily. “I was beginning to think he might have found out about us and driven straight up to London.”

“You’re overreacting again, my darling,” said Angela. “He just had rather a lot of packing to do before he finally left.”

“That’s a relief, because I can’t stall the brewery for much longer.”

“I’m sure they can wait until Monday.”

“And if you can call me the moment he’s signed, I’ll put down the deposit of two hundred thousand they’re demanding, though I confess it will clear me out.”

“No need to worry yourself about that, my darling. Once he’s signed I’ll immediately transfer a million to your account and the pub will be yours.”

“Ours,” Adam reminded her, as he watched Gareth’s Jaguar driving into the car park. “He’s just arrived,” he whispered.

“Good. Just make sure he doesn’t change his mind.”

“No fear of that,” said Adam before putting down the phone. He bent down and extracted a dusty bottle of 1987 Pouilly-Fumé from under the counter. He’d uncorked it by the time Gareth marched in, looking happy for the first time in months.

“No need for you to guess this week,” said Adam, placing two glasses on the bar in front of him. “Because I’ve chosen one of your favorites.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“Your freedom, of course.”

“How could you possibly know about that?” said Gareth.

“I could tell from the expression on your face,” said Adam, a little too quickly. “So it will be just like old times,” he added, raising his glass.

“Not quite. I still have to sign the document tomorrow morning.”

“But surely you’re not having second thoughts?”

“I was, but decided on balance to take your advice and try to move on.”

“Even though it’s going to cost you two million?”

“Along with the family home and our villa in the south of France.”

“Well, at least you still have the Chelsea flat.”

“And a cufflink,” said Gareth.

“A cufflink?”

“Don’t you remember, the proof that Angela’s having an affair?”

“Ah, yes,” said Adam. “I remember.”

“And what’s more, I’m fairly certain I now know who owns the other one.”

Adam could feel his cheeks going red. He quickly took a gulp of wine. “Anyone we know?”

“No.”

“Then, how do—”

“Because I found two BA tickets for a flight to Nice in her handbag.”

Adam didn’t speak as Gareth put a hand in his trouser pocket, took out a cufflink, and placed it on the bar. Adam stared at a blue and silver crested cufflink.

“I suspect that lover boy will be joining her at Heathrow tomorrow morning, before they go on to our — her — villa in the south of France.”

Adam continued to stare at a cufflink he’d never seen before.

“Stop nagging, woman,” said Dennis, but not loud enough for his wife to hear.

Dennis Pascoe would have got divorced years ago, but couldn’t afford to. He’d been married to Joyce for thirty-four years, and assumed it must now, unfortunately, be till death do us part.

She hadn’t been his first choice, but then he suspected he hadn’t been hers. Dennis used to tell himself they’d stayed together because of the children, but that was no longer convincing, as both Joanna and Ken now lived abroad, so the truth was they remained together because of inertia.

Dennis had recently retired as the deputy station master at Audley End, a branch line for Saffron Walden. It hadn’t exactly been an earth-shattering career. He’d left school at fourteen, with no qualifications, and failed several interviews for other jobs before he signed on as an apprentice with British Rail. He told his mother Audley End was no more than a stepping-stone for something bigger. The problem was, Dennis had no idea what that something bigger might be, and never found out.

Dennis progressed from apprentice, to ticket collector, to booking clerk, finally ending up as deputy station master in charge of a team of five. Only three of them on duty at any one time. In reality, “deputy” meant he couldn’t afford to join the local golf club, and was unlikely to be invited to become a Rotarian.

However, the real problem came when Great Eastern took over the franchise from BR and Dennis opted for early retirement on a full pension at the age of fifty-five, convinced he was still young enough to find another job to supplement his meager income. Wrong again, because there weren’t many jobs in the private sector for retired deputy station masters, other than as a night watchman or a lollipop man, both of which Joyce wouldn’t allow him to consider.

Within days of retirement, Dennis also discovered that marriage may well have been ordained for better or worse, but not for seven days a week. Joyce, who had never done a day’s work in her life — other than to keep the house clean, do the shopping, feed him, handle all the household bills and bring up the children — didn’t appreciate Dennis getting under her feet while she was trying to do the housework. Housewives don’t retire, she often reminded him.

The other problem Dennis had to face was that his pension didn’t allow him to indulge in many luxuries and, with inflation, that was only likely to get worse as he approached old age. He had a season ticket for Norwich Football Club at the wrong end of the ground, which he could just about afford, and their fortunes were not much better than his. They were either trying to survive in the first division or attempting to reach the playoffs in the second. And then there was the love of his life, not Joyce, but his stamp collection — a hobby that had begun at the age of seven, when his grandfather had given him a packet of “Commonwealth Specials” to celebrate the Queen’s coronation. Dennis now had over a thousand examples of stamps from all over the world, proudly mounted in five separate albums.

His only other extravagance was to subscribe to Stanley Gibbons’s monthly newsletter and catalogue, which he then spent hours perusing, aware that he would never be able to afford the rare examples he would have most liked to add to his collection.

Dennis tried to fill his day with long walks, not always possible when it was raining, and a visit to the local pub, where he sat in the corner drinking a half pint of bitter slowly, while reading the Sun . He made sure he was back in time for lunch, after which he migrated to the sofa only to fall asleep while watching afternoon television or turning the pages of his stamp albums.

It was while Dennis was reading the Sun and Joyce was vacuuming the front room that he spotted the advertisement for a package holiday on the Costa del Sol, which sounded a lot more exciting than their annual visit to Skegness. Dennis studied the advertisement more carefully, while Joyce attempted to vacuum around him. They were offering bed and full board, flights included, for £200. Too good to be true, thought Dennis, but would Joyce even consider the prospect? During his morning walk, he thought about how to convince her the time had come to be a little more adventurous.

Dennis waited until the end of lunch before he said, “Damn good sausage and mash, luv.” Joyce looked suspicious, as praise didn’t often flow from that side of the table, so she could only wonder what he was after. She didn’t have to wait long to find out. “I was thinking you might like a change from Skeggie this year,” he suggested.