Storm Force

Going to Mauritius by herself was out of the question. The hotel, a luxurious bungalow complex, would be full of couples, which would only serve to emphasise her own sense of loneliness and isolation. Nor could she find anyone else to accompany her at this short notice.

And if I could, I wouldn’t want to, she thought. It’ll be bad enough when everyone finds out. They’ll all be so sympathetic, and falling over themselves not to say, ‘I told you so,’ especially Louie and Sebastian. I don’t think I can bear it.

She supposed she could try to book herself another kind of holiday, somewhere her presence as a single woman wouldn’t be quite so remarkable, but her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t think of one place she was remotely interested in going to.

On the other hand, she couldn’t stay in London either. Unless she stayed in her flat like a total hermit, news would soon spread that she hadn’t gone away, and if she wasn’t careful she would be back at the office, wet-nursing Kylie St John through the re-write of her next bestseller.

Oh, no, Maggie thought with sudden violence. Over my dead body.

She got to her feet, drawing a deep breath. There was somewhere else she could go. There was her cottage.

Sebastian might joke about it, but small as it was, and hidden in the wilds of East Anglia, it was precious to her. She enjoyed its seclusion and its comparative inaccessibility down little more than a farm track. She had bought it more or less for a song, using a legacy from her grandmother for the purpose, and over the past few years had poured in most of her spare cash on improvements to the building. She had had a secondhand Aga installed, and had toured the used furniture shops, choosing exactly the right items, then cleaning and stripping them down with loving care. Her next major project was going to be a bathroom. The present toilet arrangements consisted of an outside loo ringed by nettles, a rickety washbasin in the larger of the two bedrooms, and a tin bath in front of the Aga.

Her sister Louie, who had fallen foul of the nettles on a midnight trip to the loo, had said with feeling that the whole place was like the end of the world, and the name had stuck. In fact their last Christmas present to her had been a handsome carved wooden nameplate with the legend ‘World’s End’, which Seb declared had doubled the value of the cottage in one fell swoop.

But as a bolthole—a place to lick her wounds in peace—it was second to none. She could go there—be alone—and get her head together. Start planning for life after Robin.

She winced as she made her way into the bedroom. The first thing she had to do was unpack her case. She wouldn’t be needing any glamorous coordinated beachwear at World’s End. Jeans, sweaters and thermal undies were the order of the day there.

The worst moment was when she came across the nightgown she had bought for her first night with Robin. It was white, pretty and sheer, and if she was honest, she hadn’t counted on wearing it for very long. She had always enjoyed being in Robin’s arms, and wanted his kisses. She had grown accustomed to him, felt safe with him, and had no qualms about giving herself to him completely. Now, she looked down at the nightgown, feeling fresh tears scalding in her throat. She never wanted to see it again, or any of the other charming, provocative trifles she had bought either.

Stony-faced, she emptied them all out on to the floor and kicked them to one side. Serves me right for trying to be sexy, she thought, biting her lip. I should have remembered that I’m good old Maggie, and bought some sensible knickers.

She took a long, clinical look at herself in the mirror. She would never set the world on fire, but when her face wasn’t streaked with tears, her nose red and swollen, and her grey-green eyes like twin bruises, she was passable, she thought judiciously, even though her hair was common-or-garden red rather than more sophisticated auburn, and she was definitely on the skinny side of slender.

And now unexpectedly back on the market, as estate agents said in their advertisements.

‘A wonderful friend,’ Robin had said.

Was that really all she had been to him? And would she have been any more in that romantic bungalow, tucked away in a flower-filled tropical garden?

Now we shall never know, she thought with bitter self-derision, rooting through her wardrobe for gear more appropriate to mid-October in England.

She repacked her case, then stripped off her dress and jacket, changing into black wool trousers and a matching polo-necked sweater.

She was half-way out of the door when she remembered the cottage keys. She pulled open the top drawer of the bureau and reached into the corner, but the familiar bunch wasn’t there.

Frowning, Maggie pulled the drawer out further, riffling through the contents. But there was no sign of the keys. Had she forgotten to put them away after her last visit, a couple of months ago? It seemed so. No doubt they would be tucked away in some handbag.

But she wouldn’t look for them now. She kept a spare set in the bottom tray of the box which stored her costume jewellery. She would take those instead.

She carried her case round to the lock-up garage where she kept her Metro, then dashed round the local mini-market, filling a box with bread, eggs and milk as well as canned goods. She could get meat and vegetables at the farm shop on her way to World’s End.

The weather was deteriorating, she noticed, as she began her journey. She switched on the car radio and listened to the forecast. The outlook was stormy, with rain and high winds approaching gale force at times.

Maggie pulled a face. Electricity supplies to the cottage were inclined to be erratic in bad weather, although the gales might never materialise. But if they did, she had plenty of candles, and a fresh supply of fuel for the Aga had been delivered at the beginning of the month, according to Mrs Grice, the farmer’s wife, who kept a friendly eye on the cottage for her.

I’ll make out, she thought with a mental shrug. And stormy weather suits my mood at the moment. The wind and I can howl together.

Getting out of London was the usual nightmare, and Maggie was a mass of tension by the time she won clear of the suburbs. She had intended to drive straight to the cottage, but now she decided she would take her time—stop for a meal even. It was ages since she had been out to dinner, she realised with amazement. Robin didn’t care for restaurant food, so she had usually ended up cooking for him at the flat—except when they had eaten at his mother’s house.

She found an Italian restaurant, already filling up with customers, and demolished an enormous plateful of lasagne, washed down with a glass of the house wine, following this with a helping of chocolate fudge cake laden with cream.

Robin, who believed in healthy eating, would have disapproved of every mouthful, and the knowledge gave her a kind of guilty pleasure as she lingered over her cappuccino. Comfort-eating, she thought. When her three weeks in hiding ended, she’d probably be like a barrel.

The wind had risen considerably by the time she started off again. Strong gusts buffeted the car, slowing her journey considerably, and she was half tempted to stop and spend the night at a hotel and hope for better conditions next day.

Oh, to hell with it, she thought. I’ve come half-way. I may as well go on.

The further she drove, the more she regretted her decision. The rain was battering against the roof and windscreen as if trying to gain access and the wind sounded like some constant moan of torment.

It was nearly midnight before she turned with a sigh of relief on to the track which led to the cottage. Clouds were scudding across the sky like thieves in the night, and the trees which lined the track were swaying violently and groaning as if in pain.

I’ve never seen it as bad as this, Maggie thought, avoiding a fallen branch. Thank goodness I had the roof mended in the spring.

She parked in her usual spot, grabbed her case, and ran for the front door. The wind tore at her, lifting her almost off her feet, and for a moment she felt helpless in its power and badly frightened. The gust slackened, and she threw herself forward, grasping the heavy metal door-handle to brace herself while she searched in the dark for the keyhole.

At last the door yielded, and she almost fell into the living-room. It was a struggle then to re-close the door. The wind fought her every inch as if it were a living enemy, and her arms were aching by the time she had finished.

Gales, indeed, she muttered to herself. This feels more like a hurricane.

She tried the light switch beside the door without much hope, but to her surprise the central light came on, although it was flickering badly.

Just give me time to find the candles, Maggie appealed silently, going to the small walk-in pantry. As she lifted its latch, it occurred to her how unusually warm the room felt.

It was as if—as if … She stood motionless for a moment, then crossed the room to check. There was no ‘if’ about it. Someone had lit the Aga.

Mrs Grice sometimes lit it for her, if she knew she was coming down, but this time Maggie hadn’t signalled her intentions. So unless Mrs Grice had suddenly been gifted with second sight …

Oh, don’t be stupid, Maggie apostrophised herself. She probably thought the place smelled damp and needed airing through. I’ll thank her tomorrow.

She found the candles, their pottery holders, and a box of matches, as well as the old-fashioned stone hot water bottle she had picked up in a junk shop. She needed its comfort tonight, she thought, as she filled the kettle and put it to boil on top of the hotplate. She would have some Bovril as well, she decided, taking the jar out of the cupboard.

There was a solitary beaker upside down on the draining-board. Maggie stared at it for a moment, frowning. Where had that come from? she wondered with a frisson of uneasiness.

Now stop it, she caught at herself impatiently, Mrs Grice came and lit your stove for you. Surely you don’t grudge her a cup of coffee for her efforts? All the same, it was unusual. Mrs Grice was a meticulous housekeeper, not given to abandoning stray cups on draining-boards.

When the kettle boiled, she filled her bottle, picked up one of the candles and the matches, and mounted the flight of open-tread stairs which led from the living-room to the upper floor. Her bed, she thought, could be warming while she had her Bovril.

She opened her bedroom door, and went in, putting the candlestick down on the dressing-table before turning on the light.

And froze.

Her bed was already occupied. A naked man was lying across it, her brain registered in panic, face downwards, and fast asleep, one arm dangling limply towards the floor.

Maggie could feel the scream starting in the pit of her stomach. By the time it reached her throat, it was a hoarse, wild yell of terror that made itself heard even above the keening of the wind.

The man stirred and half sat up, propping himself on an elbow as he looked dazedly round at her.