But she didn’t, of course, because she’d never taken the trouble.
Oh, Nick! The only blood relative he had left didn’t just dislike him, she thought he was some kind of monster.
By the time she got back to Sunnyside, she was sobbing.
The study door came open and Nick was standing there, hair slightly rumpled, eyebrows raised in that gently enquiring way of his, ready to hear all about what was going on with her, ready to provide a sounding board, a shoulder to cry on, an ally against the world who would always be in her corner.
He was so kind, so empathetic.
How could Yvonne not see that?
He strode across the hall and swept her into his arms. ‘What the hell’s happened?’
‘Nothing! Nothing.’
He held her away from him, tipping her chin with one finger and contemplating her gravely, just a hint of a tender smile lifting his lips. ‘Funny sort of nothing.’
‘Yvonne . . . Yvonne said something to me last night, and I can’t believe . . . I can’t believe your own aunt would think something so terrible.’
‘Ah.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘She said – she suggested that you . . .’
‘Might have killed them?’
And now she was blurting, ‘She suggested you could have used the digger that was standing in the field to . . . to dig a hole and –’
He tightened his arms around her. ‘Shh. Shh. It’s okay. She’s been peddling that little rumour for the past twenty years, but I don’t think anyone seriously believes it.’
‘But why would she do that? She doesn’t actually believe that you hurt them?’
He shrugged. ‘Possibly. Yvonne has never really “got” me, as they say. Thinks I’m being serious when I say outrageous things. She certainly didn’t appreciate the admittedly warped sense of humour I had as a kid.’ He suddenly smiled. ‘I was a right little horror, it has to be said. This one time, Andy and I spent ages mocking up a severed arm with a bit of old mannequin from the art department at school, and when we were helping out at the farm one weekend, I went running into the kitchen carrying the arm, pretending Andy had fallen into the hay bailer.’ He began to gulp with laughter. ‘We’d gone crazy with the tomato ketchup. Even put a sleeve on it the same colour as the jumper Andy was wearing.’
‘Oh no, Nick!’ She couldn’t help smiling.
‘Final confirmation of Yvonne’s long-held opinion that I was one sick puppy.’ He suddenly sobered. ‘And now she thinks I’m an actual psychopath.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t, deep down. Not really. She probably feels guilty about not taking you in when you needed her. Convincing herself you’re a bad person is her way of coming to terms with what she did.’
He smiled.
She smiled back at him. ‘What?’
‘You always have to find a reasonable explanation for people, don’t you, no matter how abhorrent you might find their behaviour?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m not saying that what Yvonne did was reasonable. Because it wasn’t. It was the worst, Nick. It really was the worst.’ And she burst into tears all over again at the thought of him, sixteen-year-old Nick, standing in this very spot, maybe, a suitcase in his hand, off to boarding school. And Yvonne . . . Yvonne on the doorstep, jiggling her car keys and looking pointedly at her watch.
That afternoon, when Nick had closeted himself in the study again at three o’clock, Lulu slipped out of the house into the now heavy rain and scuttled down the path to the garage. The drive forked halfway along the avenue, an offshoot going to the garage and former stables. Presumably, this dated from when the Victorian owners wanted the horses and their smell kept well away from the grand residence. The study faced the other way, so Nick wouldn’t see the car leave. Or hear it, hopefully.
She felt really bad about sneaking out behind his back, but when she’d broached the subject of the car in bed last night, after they’d made love – usually a good time to broach anything controversial – he had sighed and said he would drive her anywhere she wanted to go.
He could have driven her to Carol Jardine’s house.
Lulu could have told him why she wanted to speak to Carol. But that would have implied that she was checking up on him, that she thought he might, as Yvonne had suggested, be pulling the wool over her eyes, when nothing could be further from the truth. The problem was that people with PTSD sometimes presented with a mix of real and false memories, and it was important for the therapist to determine which was which.