Read Online 4 Death at the Happiness Club by Cecilia Peartree - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cecilia Peartree
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he could have hugged her, except that he would have squashed their meal beyond repair.
It had started to rain again, quite hard, and they retreated into the tent to eat. The fish and chips, although cooling off rapidly, tasted wonderful.
'I hope it was all right to have salt and sauce,' said Caroline.
'That's perfect,' said Christopher. He felt he should have congratulated her on successfully completing this mundane task, except that she might have found it patronising. And yet he thought she deserved applause, or recognition, or at least some small sign that he was pleased with her. Traditionally he had always been the provider of food in their relationship, at least in recent years, so it made a pleasant change to have this reversed.
He just wasn't sure if it was healthy for her to be this anxious to please. It certainly wasn't natural for her. Ever since childhood she had resisted adopting these female ploys, and he had at times admired her for it, at other times wished she would be more normal. It was similar to the ambivalence with which he regarded Amaryllis. Maybe he just liked to feel ambivalent about women.
Before he could start worrying about whether this in itself was abnormal, she said, 'If you'd like to go over to the bar and have a drink, just go. Don't mind me.'
'But won't the smell of alcohol - ?'
She shook her head decisively. 'I can't cope with being in a pub just yet. But smelling it on your breath won't send me over the edge. It's OK, Christopher. I'll just get into the sleeping bag and read for a while.'
'If you're sure,' he said cautiously. Although he wasn't by any means desperate for a drink, and indeed he only usually went to the pub in Pitkirtly because that was where his friends gathered, it would certainly be nice to get away from Caroline for a little while. She probably wanted a break from him too. It was only natural. They weren't used to spending hours on end with each other.
There was a bar on the campsite, which he avoided on the grounds that there seemed to be some sort of country and western event going on there; instead he walked into town and found a proper pub somewhere along the main road, with taciturn local people, a grumpy barmaid and a cluster of old ladies in woolly hats who reminded him of Mrs Stevenson.
A couple of pints later, he thought he had better return to the tent. His feet were quiet on the grass, and when he unzipped the door to the tent, Caroline jumped, spilling the liquid she was drinking all down her face, her front, all over the sleeping bag…
'Christopher! What the hell are you doing back already?'
'Caroline,' he countered. 'What the hell are you drinking?'
She scowled.
'You made me spill it,' she muttered, trying to mop up the mess with the dry corner of the sleeping bag.
'Don't do that - you'll get it everywhere,' he said, and stepped forward to help. She pushed him away.
'I can do it. Just get out of my way.'
'Give me the bottle.'
'No!'
She clung on to the brandy bottle and glared at him, eyes fierce and protective.
'But it'll interact with your medication.'
'No it won’t,' she said. 'I haven't taken my medication yet. This is to help me sleep.'
'For God's sake, Caroline…'
He lowered himself on to his own sleeping bag and sat there staring at her. All the effort that had gone into saving her… all the months of hospital and therapy, and the things the children had gone through… it was all for nothing after all.
'It's all your fault,' she said, still clutching the bottle.
'How on earth do you work that out?'
'You're so perfect. It's impossible for me to live up to. It's always been like that. You laugh at me all the time - you've been laughing at me even those last couple of days since we met at the station. I can't compete with you. I might as well just do what I want.'
'I haven't been laughing,' said Christopher, thinking of the times he had been nearer tears than laughter since Inverkeithing. 'I'm not perfect.'
'But everybody
It had started to rain again, quite hard, and they retreated into the tent to eat. The fish and chips, although cooling off rapidly, tasted wonderful.
'I hope it was all right to have salt and sauce,' said Caroline.
'That's perfect,' said Christopher. He felt he should have congratulated her on successfully completing this mundane task, except that she might have found it patronising. And yet he thought she deserved applause, or recognition, or at least some small sign that he was pleased with her. Traditionally he had always been the provider of food in their relationship, at least in recent years, so it made a pleasant change to have this reversed.
He just wasn't sure if it was healthy for her to be this anxious to please. It certainly wasn't natural for her. Ever since childhood she had resisted adopting these female ploys, and he had at times admired her for it, at other times wished she would be more normal. It was similar to the ambivalence with which he regarded Amaryllis. Maybe he just liked to feel ambivalent about women.
Before he could start worrying about whether this in itself was abnormal, she said, 'If you'd like to go over to the bar and have a drink, just go. Don't mind me.'
'But won't the smell of alcohol - ?'
She shook her head decisively. 'I can't cope with being in a pub just yet. But smelling it on your breath won't send me over the edge. It's OK, Christopher. I'll just get into the sleeping bag and read for a while.'
'If you're sure,' he said cautiously. Although he wasn't by any means desperate for a drink, and indeed he only usually went to the pub in Pitkirtly because that was where his friends gathered, it would certainly be nice to get away from Caroline for a little while. She probably wanted a break from him too. It was only natural. They weren't used to spending hours on end with each other.
There was a bar on the campsite, which he avoided on the grounds that there seemed to be some sort of country and western event going on there; instead he walked into town and found a proper pub somewhere along the main road, with taciturn local people, a grumpy barmaid and a cluster of old ladies in woolly hats who reminded him of Mrs Stevenson.
A couple of pints later, he thought he had better return to the tent. His feet were quiet on the grass, and when he unzipped the door to the tent, Caroline jumped, spilling the liquid she was drinking all down her face, her front, all over the sleeping bag…
'Christopher! What the hell are you doing back already?'
'Caroline,' he countered. 'What the hell are you drinking?'
She scowled.
'You made me spill it,' she muttered, trying to mop up the mess with the dry corner of the sleeping bag.
'Don't do that - you'll get it everywhere,' he said, and stepped forward to help. She pushed him away.
'I can do it. Just get out of my way.'
'Give me the bottle.'
'No!'
She clung on to the brandy bottle and glared at him, eyes fierce and protective.
'But it'll interact with your medication.'
'No it won’t,' she said. 'I haven't taken my medication yet. This is to help me sleep.'
'For God's sake, Caroline…'
He lowered himself on to his own sleeping bag and sat there staring at her. All the effort that had gone into saving her… all the months of hospital and therapy, and the things the children had gone through… it was all for nothing after all.
'It's all your fault,' she said, still clutching the bottle.
'How on earth do you work that out?'
'You're so perfect. It's impossible for me to live up to. It's always been like that. You laugh at me all the time - you've been laughing at me even those last couple of days since we met at the station. I can't compete with you. I might as well just do what I want.'
'I haven't been laughing,' said Christopher, thinking of the times he had been nearer tears than laughter since Inverkeithing. 'I'm not perfect.'
'But everybody
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