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Jeremy said, after a pause, ‘I thought we drove to Italy for our honeymoon. We didn’t get the coach, did we? I had the new Austin. Green. Nice car, that was.’
‘That,’ said Jan awfully, picking up her bag, ‘is not the point, Jeremy. I have to go to my meeting now. Goodbye.’
The conversation with Jeremy—who was a fool, she had to remind herself—had made her late, and now she would be late for Ron and Francesca, the dear girl, who was so sweetly offering to help with the campaign. Jan hurried out of Water-meadows, the sweetly inaccurate and inappropriately named cul-de-sac where she lived, walking briskly towards the pub. She cut behind the warren of backstreets that formed the old heart of the town, where the lanes twisted and curled and where many a visitor to the town had found himself ending up by the old town walls that led down to the meadows, rather than the high street. Jan was a local though, of course, and it was with no little pride that she knew how to navigate her way through the maze, coming out at the back of the garden to Leda House, Leonora Mortmain’s home. The garden was huge for a townhouse; though she was trying something between a walk and a trot, Jan glanced up as she always did, at the rose that climbed up the back of the house, and took in the sweet smell of the garden stocks in the air.
Jeremy’s words rang in her ears. What was he doing, chatting away to Leonora Mortmain, and not mentioning it to her? For starters, she’d do anything to see inside Leda House (apparently, there was a Fabergé egg in the drawing room!). The idea of a teenage Leonora Mortmain, gambolling in fields with the butcher’s son or whoever, was ridiculous. It struck her then, and she slowed down, that it was probably something to do with the fact that she just didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d ever been a child. Much less been happy, been in love, got drunk, kissed someone she shouldn’t. Unimaginable, really! Jan thought of Jeremy suddenly with a smile, she didn’t know why. She turned the corner, onto the high street.
It was only five minutes past ten when she arrived at the Feathers, but they were five minutes too many. Mick was outside, wiping down the blackboard.
‘Hello, Jan,’ he said, standing up. ‘You here for the meeting? Francesca’s just arrived.’
‘Yes,’ panted Jan, practically running towards the door. ‘See you later, Mick.’
Inside, she found Ron, Andrea Marsh and Francesca, sitting around a table at the back of the pub. She bustled towards them.
‘Gosh. I am sorry, honestly. It’s been a bit of a hectic—’
Ron looked up, and Jan stopped as she saw the look on his face.
‘Council just called, Jan. It’s all over.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Jan, her breathing short. She put her hand on the table.
Ron’s face seemed to have aged twenty years in one day. ‘That old—that woman signed the agreement yesterday. Council’s approved it. The Mitchells have offered to finance some community park or something, so they’ve given planning permission for the shopping centre to go ahead. They start draining the land next month.’
Andrea gave a huge sniff; Francesca patted her hand. ‘I’m calling them this afternoon,’ Francesca said, drumming her pen on the table. ‘This isn’t over, Jan. I’m telling you.’
Jan smiled at her. ‘Of course it’s not,’ she said, steadying herself on the table and catching her breath. ‘We’ll fight it, and we’ll win.’ She raised herself up, with a proud expression. ‘Won’t we?’
But somehow, she didn’t believe it was true. It would take a miracle, and that sort of thing just didn’t happen.
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