It was too late, though. He had heard her, and he looked up and gave her a grin.
‘You look rough,’ he said, and then pulled a face as if he’d remembered why she was back at the farm just too late. ‘God, Pip, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think.’
She put a placatory hand up and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘I know. I look bloody awful. Didn’t sleep much.’
‘Right,’ he said. There was a pause and then, ‘Well, I’d better get off. Your dad’s waiting for me. Nice to see you though.’ He stared straight at her, his eyes locking with hers and holding her gaze until she looked away.
‘Have a good day,’ she said to his retreating back.
Something about the exchange whisked her back to her teenage self, and she suddenly felt very aware that for all the time she’d been back at the farm, she’d made no effort to connect with him. There had been a period in their lives when the two of them had been as good as joined at the hip. They’d basically grown up together: same school, mutual friends, shared experiences. At one point, they had been really close. As close as it got, in fact – a passionate, urgent desire for sex pushing them together, even though they had always considered themselves friends rather than a couple.
But then she’d gone off to university and he had taken a job on the farm with her dad, and they had drifted away from one another. Or, more truthfully, she had put up her sails and sailed purposefully in the opposite direction towards something new. Then she’d come back, and whilst he must have known what had happened to her – didn’t everyone? – he had decided, or possibly been instructed, not to pry.
Pip realised now that she wished he would pry, just a little. It might feel good to talk to him; he might understand how she felt more than her parents could. He’d always known her better than anyone else in Suffolk, maybe better than anyone anywhere, and she suddenly felt a nostalgic yearning for his slant on her life. Perhaps she would ask him out for a drink one night, for old times’ sake. Her mother had said there was a girlfriend on the scene, but surely two old friends going out for a quick drink wouldn’t upset anyone.
She watched Jez through the window as he hopped into the waiting Land Rover. Yes, she really would like to spend a bit of time with him.
But right now she wanted to read the diary and so she crossed the kitchen to the old Welsh dresser, opened the cupboard and peered in. The plastic bag was there, thrust unceremoniously to the back. She retrieved it carefully so as not to dislodge the precarious pile of underused utensils. Then she opened the bag and peered inside. The diary was still there, although where else would it have got to? Her mother would have had neither the time nor the inclination to read it. She would simply have stuffed the bag out of the way so Dominic wouldn’t think the family untidy, as if such things could possibly matter. Pip closed the dresser and padded quietly back up the stairs.
‘Did you find it?’ came her mother’s voice.
Pip sighed. She really couldn’t move without being tracked. ‘Yes, thanks,’ she called back.
She opened her bedroom door and closed it firmly behind her. Maybe she should invest in a bolt if she was going to be here for a while, but then she reprimanded herself. That wasn’t fair. Her mother was just concerned for her well-being, and Pip had to allow her that.
She slipped back into bed, pulling the covers up around her, and took the diary from the bag.
12
1979
The part was hers. Julian had rung to inform her that the role of DC Karen Walker was in the bag. Filming would begin in the summer with the programme airing after Christmas in the prized ‘dark winter evenings’ slot. It was wonderful news. Everything had gone exactly as they had hoped.
Evelyn was recording the moment in her diary, but had stopped writing to brush the tears from her cheeks. Instinctively, she shielded the pages. She didn’t want spotted rainbows of smudged ink across this particular entry. It would mean that she would never be able to read the page again without asking herself why she had cried when she wrote it, and then remembering.
It didn’t matter. That was in the past, and now she had the part she didn’t need to dwell on what she had gone through to get it. This was going to be the start of her success, she could feel it, and that was a good thing, something to be celebrated. The role of DC Karen Walker in the groundbreaking, women-led police drama series would be the making of her as an actress. By the time the credits rolled on the final episode, anyone who mattered would recognise her face. There would be photoshoots for the cover of the Radio Times and they were bound to want to interview her and the instantly recognisable Maggie Booth, whom they had cast as the inspector, on Parkinson . Only those who didn’t watch television would fail to know who Evelyn Mountcastle was, and, to be honest, who cared about them?