behind the groundsman’s hut after double games, of gloating—immediately before she sent Cass to Coventry.
The bottom line was that what went on between Fiona and Andy was none of her business. Even though they were friends, asked her conscience? Especially because they were friends, countered Cass. And even if Cass had known about the girl before Fiona came round, her advice would have been that Fiona and Andy needed to talk about what was going on between themselves first, before they involved anyone else, particularly if that anyone else was likely to get mashed in the middle.
Cass sighed. The halibut weighed heavy as an albatross, the drizzle finally broke loose into a full-scale downpour, and even Buster was keen to beat a retreat as they hurried home.
As she slid the key into the shop doorway, Cass decided that the best course of action really was to say nothing. Maybe seeing Andy and the girl together was just a coincidence, or completely innocent. Maybe Fiona coming round had planted a seed in her imagination; maybe she had imagined the little buzz between Andy and the girl. Maybe Fiona and Andy had already sorted it out, talked it through, made everything right. Maybe today was the day that Andy was going to tell the little blonde that it was over for good. If she said anything, Cass might put her foot right in it and break something that wasn’t broken or cracked, something that was nine parts mended.
Who was she kidding? Cass sighed, wondering who’d died and made her Claire Rayner.
Meanwhile in an alcove in the back of Sam’s Place, at one of the smallest tables, furthest away from the large plate-glass windows, Andy watched as Amelia’s fingers knitted tightly around a tall thin mug of hot chocolate. She was hunched over it, apparently frozen, blowing away the steam as well as warming her hands, occasionally glancing up at him from under those long, perfectly mascara-ed lashes. She was wearing pink fingerless gloves.
The bar at Sam’s Place had an old colonial feel to it, with an overhead fan, lots of dark wood, ochre-coloured rag-rolled plaster and rattan furniture arranged around a central bar, and at this time of the morning it was practically empty. The guys from the market were over in the Nag’s Head if they wanted a beer and at Bennie’s on the corner or one of the stalls if they wanted coffee, tea or bacon butties. Behind the servery, a couple of staff were busy fiddling with the coffee machine; other than Andy and Amelia, their only other customer was an elderly man reading his newspaper and drinking coffee. He hadn’t looked up since the two of them had walked in.
‘You look rough,’ Amelia said, blowing over the top of the mug.
Andy, who hadn’t been sure exactly which way this conversation was going to go, smiled. ‘Well, thanks for that. I’d like to return the compliment but you look great.’
She had the good grace to blush. Last time they’d met Amelia had cried and shouted and stormed off, because he couldn’t think of anything to say that could help her with the pain, so he’d said nothing and been left standing in the middle of the beach at Holkham on his own, with people staring at him.
When he had got back to the car, Andy had had to make sure there was no sand in his shoes in case Fiona found it. He’d showered as soon as he got home, rinsing the fine grit from his hair, feeling it rasp under his fingertips as he rubbed in shampoo, although in the pocket of his leather jacket he still had a little white shell Amelia had given him.
‘You know, Andy, I could learn to really love you,’ Amelia had said, as she pressed it into his hand, before all the crying and the shouting and the running away had started.
Andy looked across the table at her now; she was watching his face intently. ‘So, how are things going?’
Amelia shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘So…?’ He waited for a second.
Amelia looked up at him from under long, mascara-covered lashes. ‘I know that you said not to ring you at home, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve missed you,’ she said, pausing as if trying to gauge his mood. ‘I was worried that you might not come.’ And as she spoke, Amelia began to spoon whipped cream, dusted with chocolate, into her mouth. ‘I wanted us to talk.’
Andy had ordered an espresso; the coffee was as hot as it was bitter and left an unpleasant residue over his tongue and teeth.
‘I can’t stay very long,’ he said, glancing round, tipping his wrist to indicate his watch and time passing, hoping to create some sense of urgency that would persuade her to come to the point.
Over the last few months he’d discovered that Amelia wasn’t very good at getting to the point. She preferred to meander through unrelated backwaters, telling Andy silly things or exciting things or secret things, sometimes things that he would rather not know, sometimes things that took his breath away. When they first met he’d thought it was charming and amusing, but now he found it frustrating, and he felt bad for feeling that about her. She was beautiful and young and every time they met he promised himself that he wouldn’t be bewitched or sidetracked by those things.
‘I can’t be long,’ he pressed.
Amelia nodded, scooping up more whipped cream. There was a tiny blob of it on her chin and he fought the temptation to lean across and wipe it away.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, still watching his face. ‘I know, you have to get back to Fiona. Who are you trying to fool here, Andy? We both know you’re not happy with her. You don’t have to be a genius to work it out. It’s not like you have got any kids or anything. Why don’t you just say something—or just leave? For god’s sake, it’s not rocket science. Start over…’ She stared at him, waiting for a reply. ‘You’re not happy, are you?’
Andy opened his mouth to say something but there were no words there. What could he say?
‘Why don’t you just tell her straight about me, about us?’ she asked. ‘Get it over and done with.’
Andy wasn’t sure what the answer was, and so said nothing. He felt at a loss for not having the right answer, or any kind of answer, come to that. This wasn’t the kind of man he was. The trouble was that, since meeting Amelia, it seemed to be the man he had become—meeting her had changed him forever.
Amelia took his silence for some kind of tacit agreement. ‘Why don’t you leave her, Andy? You know you want to.’
He winced, wishing that he’d never told Amelia that he was unhappy. My girlfriend doesn’t understand me was hardly the most original line he’d ever come up with, and completely stupid really, particularly as Amelia would never have noticed how unhappy he was if he hadn’t told her. She was far too self-obsessed to notice what was going on in anyone’s life but her own.
Across the table, Amelia licked her lips and then rootled through her handbag so that she could check them in a little mirror, adding more gloss from a clear glittery tube, smoothing away the fleck of cream. She ran a finger over her eyebrows, first one and then the other, and Andy noticed as he always did what beautiful hands she had; those long fingers with French-manicured nails. Her component parts constantly caught his attention and enchanted him. She caught him looking at her and smiled slyly. ‘So why don’t you just leave her?’ she asked.
Andy pushed his hands back through his hair; he had no idea now why he had even mentioned it to her. Confession and complaining had never really been his style. But then again he had never lied to Fiona before, nor gone behind her back. This was such a mess.
‘Look Amelia, it’s good to see you, but if there is something you want to say—I mean—I really have got to get back.’
Amelia’s mouth tightened into a little moue of displeasure. ‘I thought that we could talk. I haven’t seen you all week…’
‘Well, we can talk,’ said Andy, hoping that she wasn’t planning to make a scene like the one on the beach. ‘Just not for long. I did say I couldn’t be long today.’ And then he made himself be quiet, because he didn’t want to promise her that they would meet again soon and talk then, because she would want to know where and when and for how