Faith - Lesley Pearse [161]
Stuart had commented that he thought that two years after the event she should have at least begun to get over it, and David agreed totally. It was as if it had become an obsession. He was, to his knowledge, the only guest in the house, yet Crail had been buzzing with tourists that afternoon. Why weren’t some of them staying here? Was it that potential guests asked around before booking a room and were put off by unfavourable reports? Or was it that she turned people away if she didn’t like the look of them? He wished he’d thought to ask around about the guest house during the afternoon, it might have been enlightening.
He had only one glass of wine, refusing more when she attempted to top up his glass, yet that didn’t slow down her drinking. She finished off the bottle, then opened a second one, and at that point she was turning her spite on to Roger, Jackie’s husband. David really didn’t want to listen to the litany of grievances she had with him, they were all about rents he was collecting on Jackie’s properties, and as David understood it, the man was entitled to do this anyway. David had had enough; he wanted to go to his room and watch television in peace.
∗
But mindful that Stuart would be disappointed in him if he didn’t come back with some new information, he decided he must hang on a little longer.
‘What made you move up to Scotland?’ he asked, the moment she stopped to draw breath before another onslaught. ‘Did you become disenchanted with London?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘We came up here a few times to stay with my sister, and we saw how cheap property prices were. It was so tempting – in London a house this size would always be out of reach. I guess you could say it seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘I sense you regret it,’ David said.
‘I regretted it before we’d even repainted the front door,’ she said bitterly, once again refilling her empty glass. ‘It was a big mistake, but we had burned our bridges and there was no way back.’
‘But Crail is lovely, I’d give my eye teeth to live here,’ David said. ‘And you must have made dozens of new friends?’
‘You can’t make friends here, it’s a closed circle,’ she said with disdain. ‘Not that I really want to be part of that dull, flower-arranging Kirk set, they act like they think they are all superior to us English people.’
That wasn’t how David had found people here. Everyone he’d spoken to had been very warm and friendly.
‘And your husband? How does he feel about it?’
‘As long as he’s got someone to have a round of golf with and someone beside him propping up the bar, he’s happy,’ she said sharply.
The sound of the front door opening made David turn in his seat.
‘Speak of the devil. Here he is, my husband Charles,’ Belle said as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. ‘And look at the state of him!’
David wanted to laugh, for Stuart had described Charles as a handsome, smartly dressed playboy. This drunken man wearing loud checked golfing trousers with matching flat cap and a bright yellow sweater was swaying on his feet in the hall and looked more like a large Norman Wisdom.
‘My little flower,’ he exclaimed and staggered towards the kitchen with his arms outstretched. ‘The champion returns!’
David got up from his seat to make his escape. Much as he had wanted to meet Charles, he didn’t think he would get anything useful from him while he was so drunk.
‘Don’t go,’ Belle said, then, turning to her husband, she frowned at him. ‘We have a guest, Charles. David Stoyle. Now, behave yourself.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Boil,’ Charles slurred, offering his hand.
Charles sat down at the table and began talking about golf. Belle interrupted him frequently, telling him that David didn’t play and therefore had no interest in hearing about his game. Charles was too drunk to take any notice and Belle was desperately trying to drag David’s attention back to herself.
It was acutely embarrassing to David to be party to the friction between the couple. Belle was in fact