Page 140 of Deep Blue Sea

‘Don’t go,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm.

Adam nodded as if he completely understood. ‘I’d better go and get us all another drink then.’

50

‘Jim the butcher wants to know if you’ll join him for a do-si-do,’ said Dot, her face flushed with exertion. For a sixty-eight-year-old, Dot had certainly thrown herself enthusiastically into the country dancing, not to mention the liberal amounts of cider and Pimm’s that had been on offer at the village fair and the ‘after-show’ party – the annual barn dance at John and Elsa Deacon’s farm. Diana looked across at Jim, saw his shy glance towards her friend.

‘I don’t think Jim wants to do the do-si-do with me, Dot,’ she smiled. ‘I think he wants to do it with you.’

A happy smile played across Dot’s lips. ‘Do you think so?’ she whispered.

Jim seemed to be hopping from foot to foot, like he was waiting for an answer. It was sweet: well into their seventh decade and they were still acting like twelve-year-olds, still unsure of the opposite sex, but still hoping for that dance with someone special.

‘Jim’s been sweet on you for ages, Dot. Didn’t you see when he was selling the raffle tickets, he pretended not to notice when you took six tickets instead of three?’

‘That’s slander!’ said Dot with mock-offence, and Diana giggled. Dot cast a quick look across to where Jim was still standing on his hot bricks.

‘Don’t you think he’s nice? You know he lost his wife four years ago, just eighteen months before Ron.’

Diana smiled kindly. ‘Dot, none of that matters. All he wants is a dance.’

Dot shook her head, her expression suddenly turning serious.

‘See, grief doesn’t end, you know, at least that’s how it is with me and Ron. It changes, it softens, and then it doesn’t keep you awake so much at night. But it always stays with you. I don’t want anyone to replace Ron, I just want someone to talk to at night.’

‘And someone to do the do-si-do with,’ smiled Diana, making a shooing gesture with her hands. ‘Go! Before someone else snaps him up.’

‘How am I looking?’

‘As tasty as your courgette and ginger cake.’

Dot looked momentarily unsure of herself. ‘When do you think is the right time to move on? You know, thinking about other men . . . like that?’ Her cheeks turned even redder. ‘Sorry, it’s the Pimm’s, I shouldn’t have asked you that. Too soon after Julian.’

Diana put a hand on her arm. ‘When you’re ready,’ she said simply. ‘That’s the answer, Dot. I know that Ron would want you to smile again.’

‘Thanks, lovey,’ said Dot, and set off across the floor, her hands extended towards her new beau.

Diana felt herself torn as she watched them dancing. She was happy for Dot, of course she was. It was the beginning of something. That excitement of the first few minutes, hours, days, when all that was between you was hope. She had often thought how entire industries were built on that window of time. Expensive lingerie shops, high heels – all designed to make someone fall in love. But at the same time, she felt horribly guilty. When was the right time to move on? In her case, it had been three weeks after she had buried her husband. She had jumped into his brother’s bed with barely a second thought; what did that say about her? What did it say about her relationship with Julian? She had tried to put it down to grief, to her emotions playing tricks on her, but the truth was, she was attracted to Adam. She wanted his hands on her flesh, his breath on her neck, she wanted him rearing above her . . . She shook her head. It wasn’t right, she knew that. She should be deep in mourning, wearing black like Queen Victoria, weeping and wailing. Dr Shapiro had warned her about the stages of grief, about the possible need for emotional connection with another person, but she hadn’t referred to it as a ‘horny’ stage.

She glanced across the barn to where Adam was sitting on two hay bales with Rachel and Liam.

He was here. That was something. But they hadn’t had a chance to talk. Not like he’d promised in Brooklyn. The judging of the flower and vegetable show had taken over two hours, the presentation of the trophies another one. Then Adam and Liam had got roped into the clearing up, and since the barn dance had started, he’d sat around drinking with Rachel and Liam, making jokes, laughing, avoiding Diana if the truth be told. Not in an obvious way or even a deliberate way – he wouldn’t be here if he really didn’t want to see her. But she could sense that there would not be a repeat performance of that night in New York.

Not tonight, anyway.

As she took a sip of the warm cider that the bar had been serving all evening, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She answered it, and heard an unfamiliar voice with a heavy foreign accent.

‘Mrs Denver. It’s Yohan Clarke. I’m calling from Jamaica.’

It took a second for her to place his name.

‘Yes, Yohan, how are you?’

‘Good, and how is Miss Rachel?’

‘Home safe and sound. Thank you for your assistance out there.’

‘I am ringing to tell you to expect a call from Officer Henry of the Montego Bay police force.’