Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [81]
Oh, well, may as well eat, thought Agatha. She sliced a piece of what appeared to be chicken. Blood oozed out onto her plate.
James was laughing at something Jill was saying. He had not once looked in her direction. He had abandoned her as soon as they entered the house.
Suddenly a thought hit Agatha, a flash of the blindingly obvious. I do not need to stay here. These people are rude and James is a disgrace. She rose and went into the house. “Second door on your left,” Jill shouted after her, assuming Agatha wanted to go to the toilet.
Agatha went straight through the house and outside. She got into her car and drove off. Let James find his own way home.
When she reached her cottage, she let herself in, went through to the kitchen and kicked off her sandals. Her cats circled her legs in welcome. “I’ve had a God awful time,” she told them. “James has finally been and gone and done it. I’ve grown up at last. I don’t care if I never see him again.”
“What an odd woman!” Jill was exclaiming. “To go off like that without a word.”
“Well, you did rather cut her dead,” said James uneasily. “I mean, she was left on her own, not knowing anyone.”
“But one doesn’t introduce people at parties anymore.”
“You introduced me.”
“Oh, James, sweetie. Don’t go on. Such weird behaviour.” But the evening for James was mined. He now saw these people through Agatha Raisin’s small bearlike eyes.
“I’d better go and see if she’s all right,” he said, getting to his feet.
“I’ll drive you,” said Jill.
“No, please don’t. It would be rude of you to leave your guests. I’ll phone for a taxi.”
James rang Agatha’s doorbell, but she did not answer. He tried phoning but got no reply. He left a message for her to call back, but she did not.
He shrugged. Agatha would come around. She always did.
But to his amazement, the days grew into weeks and Agatha continued to be chilly towards him. She turned down invitations to dinner, saying she was “too busy.” He had met Patrick Mulligan one, day in the village stores. Patrick worked for Agatha and he told James they were going through a quiet period.
Fuelled by jealousy, James did not pause to think whether he really wanted the often-infuriating Agatha back in his life. He watched and waited until he saw Agatha leaving her cottage on foot. He shot out of his own door to waylay her.
“Hullo, James,” said Agatha, her small eyes like two pebbles. “I’m just going down to the village stores.”
“I’ll walk with you. I have a proposition to make.”
“This is so sudden,” said Agatha cynically.
“Stop walking so quickly. I feel we got off to a bad start. It really was quite a dreadful barbecue. So I have a suggestion to make. If you’re not too busy at the office, we could take a holiday together.”
Agatha’s heart began to thump and she stopped dead under the shade of a lilac tree.
“I thought I would surprise you and take you off somewhere special that was once very dear to me. You see, I may have told you I’ve given up writing military history. I now write travel books.”
“Where did you think of?” asked Agatha, visions of Pacific islands and Italian villages racing through her brain.
“Ah, it is going to be a surprise.”
Agatha hesitated. But then she knew if she refused, she would never forgive herself. “All right. What clothes should I take?”
“Whatever you usually take on holiday.”
“And when would we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Say, the end of next week?”
“Fine. Where are you going?”
“Back home to make some phone calls.”
Inside her cottage, Agatha looked at the phone and then decided she must simply communicate such marvellous news to her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, in person. She let her cats out into the garden and then hurried off to the vicarage.
With her grey hair and gentle face, Mrs. Bloxby always acted like a sort of balm on the turmoil of Agatha’s feelings.
“Come in, Mrs. Raisin,” she said. “You are all flushed.