Page 35 of The Price of Love
But, on the upside, I got to see more of the great outdoors than I had in the Lakes. Luke had brought his laptop, needing apparently to catch up on some paperwork and also to drop a bunch of emails to prospective clients, so I booked myself on a day trek to Dozmary Pool. Riding a thoroughbred at the gallop across heather rid me of any tetchiness I’d been harbouring. And, since we also managed to fit in more than our quota of sex (more than the sex quota of a small Catholic country actually), I didn’t really feel cheated.
Even better, when we arrived back on Sunday evening, there was no sign of either Flint or Ash. Luke kissed me goodbye, promised to pick me up the following evening in time to catch a film at the City Screen, with drinks beforehand, and hurled off in a slightly alarming puff of black smoke. The big black car had clocked up nearly a thousand miles that weekend, and it looked as though the distance was telling on significant valves.
The phone rang as I carried my bag upstairs. I ignored it, but it rang again as I was showering, and then again when I was making myself some tea. Figuring that anyonethatdesperate to reach one of us would probably be glad to get answered, I picked it up.
‘Oh, Willow. Thank God it’s you.’
‘Hey, Bree.’ There was a breathy pause. ‘It’s not the baby, is it?’ I asked. Bree still had a couple of weeks to go and I didn’t like the sound of the silences coming down the line at me.
‘Can you come?’
‘What, now? Have you rung Paddy?’
‘Please, Will, just come.’ My sister’s voice broke up and the line went dead. I stood and stared into the receiver for a moment, then started to panic properly.
Flint was out and besides he didn’t have a car. Ash was God knows where, and anyway, if Bree was in labour, being slung across a throbbing saddle would probably obviate any need for obstetric intervention.
I called Cal, but his answerphone was on, I didn’t have his mobile number and the farm wasn’t on the phone. So that was Cal out of the white charger rescuer league. Who else did I know with a car?
I tried Luke’s mobile, but it went direct to voicemail. He often left it on silent, so it wouldn’t disturb us during our dates, so maybe he’d forgotten to turn the ringer back on. Or he might still be driving. I checked the time — he should be arriving back at the hotel about now.
‘Moat House Hotel, how may I help you?’ The receptionist had a strong accent, French or Spanish.
‘I need to speak to one of your guests, Mr Luke Fry. Could you tell me if he’s back yet, please?’
‘A Mr Fry, is that correct?’
‘Yes. I mean, if it’s a matter of security you don’t have to tell me anything, just ask him to ring this number? Tell him . . . tell him his fiancée needs to speak to him. Urgently.’
‘Mr Fry.’ I could hear the girl accessing the computer, the sound of a mouse clicking and a keyboard being tapped. ‘I’m sorry, there doesn’t seem to be anyone of that name staying with us at the moment.’
‘Luke Fry. Tall bloke, longish blondish hair.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss . . . ?’
‘Cayton. Willow Cayton. He must be there somewhere?’
‘Then I’m sorry, Miss Cayton. There is no one of that name resident in the Moat House Hotel at this moment. Was there any other matter I could help you with?’
‘I don’t know. Can you drive or deliver a baby?’
‘I am sorry.’ Obviously labelling me a complete nutter, she hung up.
So,where the hell was he?
I tried his mobile again, but once again only got voicemail. He couldn’tstillbe driving, the Moat House was only half a mile from my house. And he’d been telling me on the drive back about how he was going to get some paperwork done as soon as we got home — no mention of, say, going to the showroom or anything. . .Wherewashe? He’d been staying at the Moat House ever since he came back to York.Whydidn’t they recognise his name?
Now I was worrying on several fronts. Luke had disappeared, Cal was out of contact, my brothers were God knows where and, although I had a driving licence, I had no access to any vehicles. In desperation I called Katie, who doesn’t drive, but has a husband who does. She told me that Dan was up in Newcastle, at some kind of literary do, but why not try Jazz?
‘I didn’t know Jazz could drive.’
‘Yes, you did. He passed his test before you, remember? You said that if you failed you’d have to go and live on the Orkneys until he forgot about it.’
‘Oh, yes. Has he got a car?’
‘Yeah, Skoda. Pretend to think it’s a BMW, he likes that. Oh, and tell Bree good luck and remind her to put ice on her stitches when she pees.’
Please, remind me never to have children. In fact, strike me infertile now.
