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‘I don’t want you to feel you’re being forced out,’ Tom assured her. ‘You suggest a date when it would be convenient for you to move out, then if you need to stay on for a while we can adjust the date later.’
‘You’re very thoughtful, Tom,’ she said, smiling at him. He was a kind man, too; she appreciated the way he tried to make things easier for her. If only he would stop trying to interfere in her life!
‘Have you decided where to go on holiday?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll check that out tomorrow. What about you? I thought you would be going away today; that was the plan originally, wasn’t it?’
‘I had to change the flights. I rang to explain that I’d only need one seat, so they suggested I went tomorrow. It’s easier to sell two seats than one, they said. More couples go on these holiday flights. So I’m off early tomorrow. That’s why I had to see you today, before I went.’
‘Well, I hope you have a lovely time, Tom.’
‘I intend to!’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, come and have lunch at the pub—you’ve always liked their roast Sunday lunch.’
It seemed a good idea, it would save her having to cook a meal for herself, so she agreed and they left ten minutes later. The pub was only half full when they arrived, but as time wore on more and more people crowded into the timbered room, with its shining horse brasses and silver tankards hanging on the wall behind the bar counter.
They both chose carrot soup followed by roast beef with light, crispy Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts.
‘Their gravy’s terrific, too,’ Tom said, as he finished. ‘Not to mention the horseradish sauce.’
They knew a few of the other customers and got into a game of billiards after the meal. It was nearly four o’clock before Tom drove Pippa home.
‘Thank you for lunch; it was great,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come in for tea or coffee?’
‘I have to pack, yet,’ he said. ‘I’d better scoot home now.’
‘Have a wonderful holiday!’ she said, and stood waving as he drove away.
She was grateful to him for having taken up the whole afternoon. If Randal had pursued her here he would have found her not at home, so she would have avoided a difficult confrontation.
If only she could fix a holiday at once! Then she would be able to put off seeing Randal for weeks. For the rest of the day she was on tenterhooks, and was very relieved when night fell and she could lock up the cottage and go to bed to read and listen to music.
There were no bad dreams that night and she slept well. When she got up it was raining, a light, thin rain which came in sudden showers. She showered, dressed, had breakfast, then did some housework.
Mid-morning, she drove to the nearest travel agent, was given a brochure of Italian holidays and took it across the road to a café, where she read it, drinking another cup of coffee.
Tom would be in the air by now, en route for what would have been their honeymoon. Lucky Tom.
She was attracted by the idea of a fortnight on the Adriatic coast; there she could combine a beach holiday with a visit to the Byzantine church at Ravenna and a trip to Venice, which she had always longed to see. So she went back to the travel agent and booked two weeks at a hotel right on the beach road, with full board, starting in a week’s time. She would fly there, of course, from Gatwick Airport, and would be taken by coach to her hotel.
A trouble-free holiday, she decided. She couldn’t wait.
After doing some shopping she drove home to find Randal’s car parked outside the cottage, with him sitting in the driving seat.
While he watched her sardonically, she sat in her own car, paralysed, drumming her fingers restlessly on the wheel, feeling like driving off again and staying out until she could be sure he would have gone. But what was the point? She could put it off, but sooner or later Randal would catch up with her; she knew how persistent he could be.
So she drove on to her forecourt and parked. As she got out of her car, Randal got out of his, but she ignored him, hurrying to open her front door. Before she could shut it in his face he was beside her, pushing his way inside on her heels.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded, as Tom had done yesterday.
‘Shopping and booking a Mediterranean holiday,’ she defiantly told him, walking into the kitchen with her shopping basket and beginning to unpack what she had bought.
‘You’ll have to cancel that,’ he said with calm arrogance. ‘We’ll go abroad for our honeymoon!’
‘There isn’t going to be one!’ she snapped.
He coolly put the kettle on and got out the instant coffee, just as if he lived here too, set out two mugs, got milk from the fridge, then leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said with irritation. Who did he think he was?
