Jill Mansell - Falling for you

Downstairs once more, he yanked open the front door.

‘You’re right, my wife was here,’ said Oliver, ‘but she’s gone now. Look, she might not be back for a while, so I wouldn’t bother waiting if I were you. When she needs one, we’ll call another cab.’

The man didn’t leave. He backed away a couple of steps, his gaze flickering over Oliver’s towelling robe, bare feet and wet hair.

‘What’s going on here, mate? Your wife asked me to come back for her. Look, is everything all right?’

All right? For crying out loud, his life was in pieces; how could everything possibly be all right?

But Oliver knew he wanted the man to go, so he shook his head and said wearily, ‘Don’t worry, everything’s just fine.’

Clearly unconvinced, the taxi driver said, ‘Look, mate. Has something ... happened?’

Upstairs, Estelle could bear it no longer. The taxi driver, it was blindingly obvious, thought that Oliver had murdered her in a fit of rage and was taking a shower in order to wash away the evidence. If she didn’t show herself, the man would be on the phone to the police in a flash.

Creeping along the landing, cupping the side of her head so as not to leave a trail of blood, Estelle reached the top of the staircase. Her heart lurched at the sight of Oliver, standing in the front doorway with his back to her. Clearing her throat, she called out, ‘It’s OK, I’m not dead,’ and saw Oliver spin round in disbelief.

Chapter 51

Astounded, Oliver said, ‘Estelle?’

The taxi driver looked pretty taken aback too. Squinting up at Estelle through the gloom, he said,

‘Jesus, what happened to you?’

Pulling her shirt collar to one side, Estelle saw that while she’d been squashed away in the wardrobe, a fair amount of blood had trickled down her neck and soaked into the shoulder of her white shirt. No wonder the taxi driver sounded so horrified, she must look like something out of a Hammer horror film.

Unable to bring herself to look at Oliver, Estelle said, ‘I fell and hit my head. It’s really not that bad.

Look, if you could come up and give me a hand with my stuff, that’d be great. As soon as everything’s loaded into the taxi, we can be off.’

Did he do that to you?’ demanded the taxi driver.

‘Of course I didn’t bloody do it to her.’ Oliver spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I didn’t even know she was here. You heard me calling her name—’

‘Sshh,’ said Estelle, because Oliver was raising his voice. ‘He didn’t do it, I promise,’ she told the taxi driver. ‘Now, can we get my things into the cab?’

‘No,’ said Oliver.

‘Please, I just want to go.’ Estelle wondered why she couldn’t get anything right, not even leaving her husband.

‘We need to talk,’ Oliver told her.

‘She doesn’t want to talk, mate.’ The taxi driver wasn’t taking his eyes off Oliver for a second, he was on his guard should Oliver suddenly produce a machete from the pocket of his dressing gown.

‘Talk about what?’ Estelle’s eyes filled with tears, something she’d dreaded happening. ‘What a complete and utter idiot I’ve been? Thanks, but I already know that.’

Oliver shook his head. ‘Please. We need to do this properly, without an audience. Just tell him to leave, will you?’ Estelle hesitated at the top of the stairs.

‘Go on,’ said Oliver.

‘Look, love, shouldn’t you be getting that head of yours seen to? Needs a few stitches, if you ask me.’

Checking her scalp again, Estelle encountered a fair amount of stickiness but scarcely any fresh blood. The last thing she felt like doing was spending the next six hours in casualty waiting for some overworked, sleep-deprived doctor to sew her up.

‘It’s OK,’ she told the taxi driver. ‘You can go.’ He looked up at Estelle. ‘Sure?’

Estelle nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘OK.’ With a shrug, the taxi driver said, ‘That’ll be sixty-five quid, then.’

When Oliver had paid him and the cab had disappeared from view, Estelle ventured down the stairs.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea, if that’s all right.’ Finding it hard to meet Oliver’s gaze, she headed for the kitchen.

‘Here. Sit down.’ While the kettle was coming to the boil, Oliver pulled out one of the carver chairs. ‘Let me take a look at that cut.’

Reluctantly Estelle did as she was told. She felt Oliver gently exploring her scalp with his fingers and wanted to cry. ‘How much does it hurt?’ said Oliver.

You mean compared with finding out my husband has another child? Hardly at all, thought Estelle. She shrugged and said, ‘I’m OK.’

‘It’s not deep. No need for stitches. So where were you hiding?’

‘In the wardrobe, in the spare room.’ She’d probably smeared blood all over the taffeta ball gown and Oliver’s old overcoat; it had been a tight fit in there. ‘You’ve got mud on your leg.’

‘Fell in the river,’ said Oliver, ‘trying to rescue Norris. I could picture the headlines,’ he went on. ‘Dog drowns; negligent businessman responsible.’

‘He jumped in and started splashing and yelping,’ Estelle guessed. ‘The reeds tickle his tummy.

He loves it.’ She paused, watching steam billow from the kettle. ‘How’s Tiff?’

The kettle clicked off and Oliver dropped teabags into the pot. Carefully he said, ‘Doing well.

Making a fantastic recovery.’

Estelle nodded, relieved. ‘I thought you’d be at the hospital.’

‘No. They don’t need me there.’ He paused. ‘How’s Will?’

Tit for tat, thought Estelle.

‘Sorry!’ Oliver blurted out. ‘I’msorry, you don’t have to answer that. None of my business. I’m just sorry about .. . everything. The whole lot,’ he said tiredly. ‘God, what a mess.’

Estelle was speechless; she’d never heard him sound so defeated. Finally she said in a small voice,

‘Yes.’

He massaged the back of his neck. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’

‘Didn’t you?’ What the hell, thought Estelle, the worst had already happened. Feeling suddenly reckless she said, ‘Sure about that?’

‘You were never supposed to find out. There’s nothing going on between Juliet and myself.’

Oliver shook his head. ‘I just wanted to see my son growing up.’

Estelle swallowed as the old ache of longing came back. She and Oliver had tried so hard for another child of their own, but it had never happened. Anyway, that was irrelevant now.

‘I’m not talking about Tiff.’ Her eyes were bright, her tone accusatory. I’m talking about the way you endlessly criticise me, tell me my clothes don’t suit me, sneer at the novels I read, complain that my roast potatoes aren’t crispy enough. Those are the things that hurt, Oliver. Being treated like a second-class citizen is what hurts.’

This outburst was greeted with a stunned silence. She was able to see Oliver mentally checking off each item on the list.

‘Do I?’ he said at last, clearly shaken. ‘Is that what I do? My God, I’ve never even thought about it before. I suppose I have done all those things.’

‘Trust me. You have.’

‘And Will was the one who pointed it out to you,’ said Oliver.

‘I suppose.’ Estelle was reluctant to give Will Gifford credit for anything. ‘But we were in a rut long before he came along. He just brought it all out into the open.’

‘And that’s why you ran to him.’

Oh God, she had run, practically the length of platform 4 at Paddington station. Wincing at the memory of having thrown herself ecstatically into Will’s arms, Estelle swallowed hard and forced herself to nod.

‘At least we aren’t in a rut now. This is the opposite of arut,’ Oliver said wearily. ‘I don’t blame you for getting out. Maybe Will’s what you need.’