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She had worked hard in the long, narrow garden, transforming it into a series of separate, almost secret gardens. A betrayal of her own need sometimes to seek sanctuary… to conceal herself not just from Nick but from her own fears and doubts?
‘I’m sorry if you think I’m being over-possessive,’ Nick had told her bitterly after her mother’s death. ‘But whose fault is that, Fern?’
No, he would never agree to her going to visit Cressy.
She glanced at the top of the letter. There was a telephone number there as well as the address.
She walked over to the phone, carefully pressing the numbers. She would have to lie, of course, to tell Cressy that unfortunately she just couldn’t spare the time to visit her.
She could feel her stomach muscles tensing at the thought, as she heard the phone ring, her tension increasing slightly as she heard the receiver being picked up at the other end and then her friend’s voice.
‘Cressy, it’s me… Fern.’
‘Fern! Wonderful… When can you come? You are coming, aren’t you?’ Fern heard her pleading when she made no response.
Cressy had always had a distinctively husky, almost vibrant voice and now, listening to it, it was almost as though she were in the kitchen with her, her intelligent eyes brimming with the enthusiasm for life which made her so compellingly attractive.
Cressy was one of those people whom others instinctively warmed to, a vibrant, decisive personality that could be sharp and impatient at times and yet which was so essentially and obviously compassionate that she drew others to her.
‘I… I don’t think I can make it, Cressy,’ Fern apologised. ‘You see—’
‘No, dammit, Fern, I don’t. I need you. I’ve never been married before, remember… I’m feeling a bit jittery and… oh, all right, if you want the truth, I’m downright terrified and I desperately need someone to come and hold my hand. There’s no one better than you at doing that, Fern. Please… please come!’ she coaxed… and, as she listened to her, Fern could almost see her smiling that wide-mouthed smile of hers, her lips curling back from her teeth, her hand lifting to rake impatiently through her hair.
Fern laughed in spite of herself. If ever there was anyone who needed her hand holding less than Cressy, she had yet to meet her, but then, as though she had read her mind, Cressy’s tone suddenly became serious and she said quietly, ‘I do need you, Fern. You’re my oldest friend. You know me better than anyone else. I can be honest with you in a way that I can’t with others. I love Graham more than I ever imagined I could love anyone and yet I’m terrified at the thought of committing myself to marriage. Crazy, isn’t it?’
Not when you knew Cressy’s family history, it wasn’t, Fern reflected inwardly.
Her mother ha
d left Cressy’s father when Cressy was eight years old, and precociously intelligent enough to understand the shocked gossip that spread through the village.
Cressy’s mother had aristocratic connections; very distant connections as it happened, but none the less the gossips had remembered this fact and embroidered on it, remembering also that Cressy’s mother had a very, very distant and long-dead family relative who had been notorious for her affairs and for the very mixed percentage of the large brood of children she produced, while her husband turned a blind eye to what she was doing.
There had been much talk of ‘blood coming out’ and Fern could vividly remember Cressy solemnly announcing that she would never marry in case she turned out like her mother.
That had been when Cressy was eight, but childhood traumas could cast long shadows even over the lives of mature and intelligent adults.
‘I’d love to come, Cressy,’ she said regretfully, ‘but I can’t. Nick has only just returned from a business trip to London and things are rather hectic…’
‘You mean he wouldn’t approve of you coming to stay with me,’ Cressy contradicted her, the flat, crisp tone of her voice making Fern wince slightly. ‘Oh, it’s all right, Fern. I know that Nick doesn’t approve of me. I suppose he’s afraid that my bad influence on you might encourage you to break out of that prison he keeps you in. I only wish it could.’
‘Cressy…’ Fern objected uncomfortably.
‘Oh, all right. I’m sorry, Fern, but…’ She broke off and then said quietly, ‘Please try to come. I meant what I said about being terrified. I do need you.’
‘I’ll try,’ Fern agreed, but as she replaced the receiver she suspected that Cressy knew as well as she did herself that she would not be going.
Half an hour later, she was just about to start the ironing when someone rang the doorbell.
When she went to open the door, the sight of Venice standing there took her completely by surprise.
It was a pleasantly warm day, warm enough for Fern to feel slightly uncomfortable in the jumper and skirt she was wearing.
Venice, in contrast, was wearing a tight-fitting scoop-necked short-sleeved cerise top, patterned with bright yellow coin-sized spots, with matching equally clinging leggings, and, seeing her standing there, her hair and make-up immaculate as always, her skin prettily tanned, her hands and nails looking as though any form of domestic activity was completely unknown to them, Fern felt a momentary and totally alien thrill of envy and resentment.
It didn’t need the amused contempt which narrowed Venice’s cat-shaped eyes nor the pleased smile that curled her mouth to highlight the contrast in their appearances to make Fern suddenly feel not merely dowdy, but somehow old and tired as well.
As she stepped back to allow Venice to walk into the hall, she pushed her hand into her hair, a defensive reflex action which betrayed her feelings.
