The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [9]
I flushed. ‘Well, no. That sounds—’
‘You want to cherry-pick your bits of country life for her. You don't actually want to live here, but you want her to reap the benefits. Is that it?’
I stared at her, horrified. Suddenly I saw red. ‘Caro, I did live here, remember? This was my home. And no, I don't mean to pass the buck. I'll come across, do my share, take the children to shows or whatever.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘OK,’ she said suddenly, ‘you're on.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, fine.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘You tack up the ponies, muck out the lorry, drive it to shows in the pouring rain – splendid. I'd like to see more of Anna. And you too, Evie. You're on.’ She challenged me with her eyes.
‘Right.’ I caught my breath, taken aback. ‘I will.’ I swallowed. There didn't seem to be much more to say. After a moment I turned, somewhat shaken, and walked uncertainly across the yard to the gate.
‘But don't forget,’ she called sweetly after me, ‘she can't come to Pony Club unless she has a pony!’
I stopped a moment in the muddy yard. Blinked rapidly. Then I took a deep breath and marched on as best I could, hobbling in the shingle in my heels, knowing she was watching me, a smile on her face.
I turned up the lane, fury mounting. She had to spoil it, didn't she? Just when I thought we were getting on so well, she had to go and muddy the waters. Get all chippy again. And, boy, was her resentment close to the surface. Scratch it and – whoosh – did she erupt. Because that was what it was, I decided angrily as I stalked on to the car. Resentment. And envy. Anna had her cool town life – plays, concerts, friends nearby – and she should jolly well stick to it. Her kids didn't have any of that, so she was damned if Anna was going to have a bit of something hers had in spades.
Well, we'll see about that, I thought as I marched round the church wall to the car. I got in, slamming the door behind me. It created a breeze and sent a shopping list on the dashboard fluttering into my lap. I snatched it up irritably. Eggs, butter, dishwasher powder… On an impulse I plunged my hand into my bag, rifled fruitlessly for a pen, found an eyeliner instead, and in black, sticky and appropriately childish letters scrawled ‘PONY’ underneath. I gazed at it a moment; felt a tiny bit better. Then I turned the key in the ignition and sped off.
3
‘She's infuriating!’ I stormed to Ant the next morning, chucking bowls in the dishwasher and tossing cereal packets back in the cupboard. ‘One minute she's nice as pie, and the next she's morphed into Anne Robinson!’
He smiled into his Independent. ‘Only if you know which buttons to press.’
‘I didn't press anything deliberately.’ I flicked the dishwasher door shut with my foot as I passed. ‘I thought she'd be pleased, actually, to have Anna around, have her more involved in the farm. I certainly didn't think she'd jump down my throat like that.’
Ant folded up his paper calmly. ‘Now why do I suspect you're being slightly disingenuous?’
‘What d'you mean?’
‘Surely you knew there was every possibility? Caro is one of life's throat jumpers.’
‘Yes, but why?’ I wailed. ‘She never used to be.’
‘Because she's sensitive. For obvious reasons.’
He stood up and drained his coffee, tilting back his head. ‘And tackling her in the middle of her party was perhaps not the most subtle of manoeuvres.’
‘It wasn't the middle of her party, it was at the end, when she was being uncharacteristically sweet and understanding and I was stupidly lured into a false sense of security. Oh, morning, sleepy-head. You're cutting it fine.’
Anna had slipped into the kitchen via the basement stairs and slunk into position at the table, shoulders hunched, eyes half shut.
‘Not really, there's no assembly this morning. Miss Braithwaite's got clinical depression. Who was being sweet?’
‘Caro,’ I said shortly. ‘At Jack's party.’
‘Oh. Did you ask—’
‘Darling, how was the exam?