Date Night (ARC) Page 3

  ‘And you want that for your marriage?’ Fran replied, rolling her eyes.

  Libby shook her head. She remembered Fran’s disastrous love life when they were living together – sitting up countless nights consoling her sobbing friend when yet another guy had treated her badly. Her downfall was that she was simply too eager to please. Too desperate for a man. They smelt it a mile off.

  ‘I wish I was you,’ Fran had said to Libby after one particularly bad break-up. ‘Then I’d never get dumped.’ Fran had secretly coveted Libby’s lifestyle since they met, including her boyfriends, her ambitions, her family – never more so than after the time she’d found the guy she believed was her ‘forever man’ in bed with another girl. Afterwards, she’d barely spoken to anyone, hardly eating or sleeping for months. But, gradually, something changed within her, as if she’d been cut to the very core, almost on a cellular level. Libby knew, from then on, that Fran would be OK – even if she spent the rest of her life alone.

  Except, as it turned out, she didn’t have to spend it alone. Through her and Sean, she met Chris. Her soulmate. And then he died.

  ‘Stealth mode is what you want,’ Fran said over the rim of her wine glass.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ Libby said, snapping out of the memories.

  ‘If you want to know, and I mean really know if there’s anything going on, then you don’t confront him. You carry on exactly as normal. But you watch, you observe, and you check things out.’

  ‘Check things out?’ Libby’s mind swam through the possibilities. Did she mean follow him? Spy on him? Rifle through his pockets? She didn’t like the idea.

  ‘There are ways,’ Fran continued. ‘You just have to be patient. And,’ she said slowly, ‘accept the consequences if you don’t like what you find.’

  ‘Find what, where?’ Libby said, feeling tearful. But she fell silent when she heard the front door open and close from the hallway. A moment later, Sean was in the living room, shrugging out of his waxed jacket. Libby thought he looked cold and worn out.

  ‘Hi, love,’ he said, coming over and giving her a quick kiss on the head. ‘Hello, Fran,’ he said, adding a quick nod and the briefest of smiles.

  Libby closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of the outdoors on her husband. When she opened them again, he was still looking at Fran.

  ‘Nice haircut,’ he said, chucking his coat on the back of a chair.

  ‘A busy night after all, then?’ Libby said before Fran could reply, unable to help the questioning inflection at the end. She’d meant it as a statement rather than a challenge.

  ‘No, it wasn’t actually.’

  Libby looked at her watch, then at Sean again.

  ‘I’m technically on call until seven in the morning.’ Sean stretched out, his eyes switching between the two women, as if he sensed he was interrupting something. ‘I was at the pub.’

  ‘Drinking?’ Libby said, realising that what she could smell wasn’t the night air, but beer. ‘What about the Land Rover?’

  ‘It’s outside,’ Sean said. ‘The parts are coming in a day or two, but Andy said it’s fine to drive until then. Coffee anyone?’

  ‘What, to sober up?’ Libby said, instantly feeling bad.

  ‘Er, no,’ Sean replied slowly, looking from Libby to Fran and back again. ‘I haven’t had a drink. You know I wouldn’t while working or driving.’

  ‘Then why can I smell it on you?’ Libby placed her own drink on the table, folding her arms as she stared up at him.

  ‘The perils of drinking a pint of Coke in a small beery pub, I guess.’ Sean’s face broke into that smile of his, the one that always melted Libby from the inside out. She loved the way his eyes crinkled, how his mouth turned up more at one side than the other.

  ‘I see,’ was all she said, picking at her fingernail.

  ‘OK, well…’ Sean replied, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘I’m going to get some sleep while I can. I’m half expecting the Fishers to call me out early about their stallion.’

  Libby nodded, turning away as he left the room. ‘Night,’ she said as an afterthought.

  Silence hung between the two women until it was clear that Sean had gone upstairs.

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ Fran said quietly, standing up and heading for the back door. ‘And Libby,’ she added, giving her a look, ‘that’s absolutely not the way you find out. Not if you really want to know the truth.’

  Four

  Libby tasted the sauce. It wasn’t right. As she dug through the dozens of spice jars on the steel shelf, she knew there was a flavour missing. The barn kitchen was filled with classical music, as well as the scent of bramble and plum glaze that would be smothered on the venison before cooking. That was stage one of the main course she’d dreamt up for Saturday night’s dinner – a seasonal four-course birthday meal for ten. She’d catered once before for the Hedges – a summer buffet party for thirty or so guests, where she’d set up the spread and left the hosts to it. It was such a success they’d rebooked her services again, this time for a sit-down meal for Michelle Hedge’s fortieth.

  Cinnamon, she decided, adding just a touch. She didn’t want it to be overpowering, but something was needed to pick out the subtle blackberry undertones of the earthy yet mildly sweet glaze. Libby imagined the tender meat glistening with highlights of autumn as it rested, slicing it across the grain on a huge wooden board before serving with a medley of locally picked mushrooms.

  ‘Ouch!’ she said, dropping the spoon on the stainless-steel worktop. She clutched at her mouth as the end of her tongue burned. A few gulps of chilled water later and she stood at the back stable door of the barn, looking out through the glass panes into the cobbled courtyard behind Chestnut Cottage. Through the dusk and drizzle, she stared at Sean’s empty parking space next to hers. There wasn’t much room – just enough for both their vehicles, plus some turning space – with the barn sitting squarely behind the cottage and, behind that, the garden. Again, it wasn’t huge but enough for a patch of lawn for Alice to have a swing and space to play, plus the overgrown area beyond where she’d begun preparations for a vegetable plot. Planting would begin in earnest in the spring, but for now she’d dug over a patch, got some onions in, rows of garlic bulbs and some winter greens. Her aim was to produce as much organic food on-site as she could.

  My absolute perfect dream, was how she’d described Chestnut Cottage to Sean when he’d first brought her here. She smiled to herself, returning to the stove to check how much the glaze had reduced. Not enough, she thought, adjusting the heat. And it was true about the cottage being a dream – the kind of place she’d always pictured herself living. Though back then it had needed a lot of imagination and looked more like the stuff nightmares were made of: damp layered with rot and ancient, crumbling plaster, plus old, peeling wallpaper. The place hadn’t been lived in for several years after the tenant had passed away and, with the leaking roof doing it no favours, the property manager of the large local estate that owned it was only too willing to let Sean have it at a knock-down price for cash. It was the same estate that owned the White House Barns and Spa, along with many of the cottages in the area.

  Libby had never worked out how Sean had heard about it before it went to open market, and she didn’t like to pry, but together they’d taken out the biggest mortgage they could afford for the renovations and, with the extra financial help from Marion, they’d moved in within a couple of years. Camping out in the static caravan up at Sean’s parents’ farm had been an adventure at the start, but with Alice being a toddler at the time, a particularly fierce winter had driven them into the spare room in the farmhouse. Of course, Marion was in her element looking after them – though Libby never told Sean that she often felt stifled and smothered by her. She knew Marion was only trying to help.

  Libby jumped as her phone rang, smiling when she saw it was Sean. Then her stomach knotted. Even if the words on the note had faded from her mind this last day or so, she’d not been abl
e to get what Fran said out of her head: Not if you really want to know the truth…

  ‘Hi, darling,’ Libby said. ‘You OK?’

  She could tell he was driving, the phone on hands-free with the rattle of the diesel engine almost as loud as his voice.

  ‘All good,’ he said. ‘Just on my way to the last call-out then I’ll be home. Need anything from Stow while I’m passing?’

  Libby thought, though not about what they might need. ‘Where’s your appointment?’ she asked, her voice wavering. It was a normal question, one she regularly asked without thinking. Except now she was thinking about it, wondering where he was going.

  There was a small silence before Sean replied. ‘The Drakes’ place,’ he said. ‘It’s one of their horses.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Libby replied, vaguely knowing the Drakes. While they weren’t professional breeders, they ‘dabbled’, as Sean had once put it, and turned out some nice animals. They also took in rescue horses, which was likely what Sean’s visit was about. ‘But isn’t their place east of here? Why would you be passing through Stow?’

  Another silence, filled with the sound of gears crunching. Libby thought she heard Sean swear. ‘Did I say Stow? Sorry, love. I just meant the local Spar on the way back. Anything we need? Do we have more coffee in the cupboard or should I get some?’

  ‘We have coffee,’ Libby said slowly. Her stomach cramped again. ‘There’s nothing we need. I’ve made a lasagne for tonight and I’ll be fetching Alice soon.’ Libby looked at her watch. ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Should be back by half past five, easily,’ he said. ‘Righto, love. See you soon. I’m turning down their drive now.’

  He said goodbye and hung up, leaving Libby staring at her phone screen. Then, on a whim, she opened up the Google Maps app, tapping in the address of the vet’s practice, then the Drakes’ farm. ‘If he left the surgery at three,’ Libby said aloud, knowing that’s when the afternoon clinic ended, and factoring in the seventeen minutes the app said the journey would take, ‘then he should have got there way before now.’ But of course, she supposed, he could have got delayed in clinic or had notes or other jobs to do before he left. She pretty much knew what his working day entailed. At least she thought she did.

  But she couldn’t help calling the vet’s reception anyway. As ever, Jean answered. She was Archie’s wife and had worked at the practice for as long as Libby had known Sean.

  ‘Hi, Jean, it’s Libby,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Libby,’ she replied and, as ever, they exchanged a few pleasantries. ‘Anyway, Sean’s not here, I’m afraid. Have you tried his mobile?’

  It wasn’t uncommon for Libby to call the practice to get a message to her husband. Mobile signal was poor at the surgery as well as patchy generally in the area.

  ‘It’s not connecting,’ she said, hating that she’d lied. ‘Do you know what time he left?’

  ‘Ooh, now there’s a question I can answer,’ Jean said, laughing. ‘It was two o’clock on the dot. I always make a cuppa at two and asked if he wanted one. But he’d got his coat on, his bag and keys in his hand.’

  ‘I see,’ Libby replied, looking at her watch again. It was just after four now. What had he been doing for nearly two hours?

  ‘Did he have a call-out just after two, then?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Well, I know he had to go to the Drakes’ at some point. They’ve just taken in a new rescue. Lame, apparently. But…’ Libby heard Jean clicking her mouse then flipping through the pages of her diary. ‘I don’t think we’ve had any other call-outs this afternoon, not for Sean.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Jean. No problem.’ Libby’s mouth was dry as she hung up, wondering where Sean had been, what he’d been doing.

  She screwed up her eyes before turning back to the stove. When she stirred the glaze, it made a sticking sound, peeling away from the edges of the pan. ‘Damn,’ she said, turning off the flame. Taking a fresh spoon, she tasted the sauce, being careful to blow on it a few times first. ‘Damn, damn, damn…’ she cursed, dropping the spoon into the washing-up sink. There was no mistaking the bitter, nutty taste of burnt fruit.

  But Libby was too distracted to think about a culinary rescue mission. Instead, she took off her butcher’s apron, double-checked the gas was off and headed across the courtyard back to the cottage. Her face was wet from the drizzle as she dashed over the cobblestones, going in through the back door to the boot room. The house seemed cool in comparison to the catering kitchen. Cold and empty without the three of them in there, Libby thought, as she stood staring around the unlit kitchen. For a moment, she imagined herself and Sean chattering, laughing, telling each other tales of their days, while Alice sat at the table colouring or playing a game on one of their phones. My perfect dream…

  She shook her head, trying to convince herself that it still was a dream and she was living it, that she was the luckiest woman alive to be married to Sean, to have dear little Alice as their daughter – not to mention living in such a beautiful home in a friendly village. But, for now, she knew she had a small window of time to, to…

  Libby hung her head. ‘Time to what?’ she said aloud, annoyed with herself as she went through the kitchen. She glanced out of the front window as she headed into the hallway, just checking that Sean wasn’t pulling down the lane. But all she could see were the usual cars belonging to the neighbours, the woman who ran the post office walking her Jack Russell, and someone she didn’t recognise cycling past.

  Libby went up the narrow, creaky staircase and into her and Sean’s bedroom. She flicked on the light, breathing in the scent of fresh bedding. They’d chosen a calming grey colour to go on the walls and, with the white linen, the wooden boards adorned with soft fur rugs and the antique mirrors making the low-ceilinged room seem more spacious than it really was, the bedroom was her and Sean’s oasis of calm.

  Now, as she opened the door to Sean’s wardrobe, she felt as though she were tainting it, adding an ingredient of suspicion and mistrust where none was warranted. Would he be able to tell, she wondered, as she walked her fingers through the shirts and jackets hanging up there.

  She started with his jackets. He didn’t own that many, wearing either his scrubs in clinic or, usually, jeans and a shirt with a sweater, and his waxed jacket in the winter, keeping work boots and a spare set of clothes in the Land Rover in case things got messy on a call-out. At home, jeans, polo shirts and his favourite sports jacket were mainly what he wore, sometimes putting on a smart shirt if they went out to lunch at the weekend or were visiting friends. Sean was as laid-back and easy-going with his choice of clothes as he was in himself. And that’s what had drawn Libby to him in the first place – no fuss, no self-consciousness, making him even more attractive.

  Libby pulled a tissue out of the sports jacket pocket. She was about to throw it in the bin but thought better of it. He might remember it was in there, wonder where it had gone. In the same pocket were a few folded receipts, looking as though they’d been there a while. Indeed, the date on them confirmed they were from a shopping trip they’d taken together to Oxford, on one of his days off, to find Alice a birthday present. The receipt for the bicycle they’d bought her was there, plus another for the coffees they’d grabbed mid-morning, and the bistro lunch they’d decided upon on a whim when the rain had started. Her heart skipped for a moment when she saw the lingerie shop receipt – the £45.99 spent on ‘sexy push-up/panty set’. But then she relaxed as she remembered the pair of them walking past the boutique, the displays catching Sean’s eye, making him squeeze her arm as he’d stopped her.

  ‘Want to take a look?’ he’d asked, that smile of his breaking. He knew she loved pretty things. So they’d gone in, picked through the racks of lingerie that were far from everyday.

  ‘For our special nights,’ Libby had said with a twinkle in her eye. They regularly put time aside for themselves, with Marion taking Alice overnight.

  ‘No,’ Sean had replied. ‘You should wear stuff like this
whenever you want, not just for me. Then I can imagine you in it as you’re slaving over a hot stove,’ he’d laughed as they’d left with the smart perfumed shopping bag tied up with ribbon, their fingers tightly clasped.

  Libby sighed, tucking the receipt back in Sean’s pocket. She closed her eyes for a moment, hating herself for what she was doing. What was she expecting to find – a phone number written down? Love notes? Condoms? A secret mobile phone?

  Libby put the jacket back on its hanger and closed the wardrobe door, flopping back onto the bed. Her head sank into the soft pillows and a waft of lavender rose up around her, calming her anxious thoughts. Suspicion is not a part of my life, she thought, closing her eyes, wishing she could convince herself that she meant it.

  Five

  Sean was nearly two hours late. Earlier, Libby had fetched Alice from Marion’s and brought her home, promising her that Daddy wouldn’t be long, that they could all eat dinner together then watch an episode of the nature programme Alice loved so much. After that, she would have a warm bath and a story from Daddy if he wasn’t too tired.

  Too tired from what? Libby wondered bitterly, sipping on her gin and tonic alone as she sat on the kitchen window seat, staring out into the lane for signs of Sean’s car. With Alice hungry and restless, Libby had already fed and bathed her, settling her in front of the TV in her pyjamas. She refused to go up to bed until she’d seen her dad. Understandable, Libby thought, taking another sip of the sloe gin she’d made the year before. Ice cubes tinkled in her glass as she swirled it round, peering out into the night whenever a car cruised slowly past the house.

  Fifteen minutes earlier a small silver Honda had driven down the narrow lane, almost coming to a stop outside the cottage. With the lights off in the kitchen, the street lighting gave off just enough of a glow to show a blond-haired woman driving, peering out of the passenger side window as though she was looking for somewhere. Or someone, Libby thought. Then, five minutes later, the same car had driven back again, having looped around the village, making Libby’s skin prickle. The woman seemed to be taking an unusual interest in Chestnut Cottage, Libby thought. But then she exhaled with relief as the woman finally parked and went into a house a couple of doors down. None of the properties along their lane had numbers – just names, and some of the signs were faded. Cheshunt House, where the woman had gone, often got their mail and vice versa.