The Keeper of Lost Things(58)

“What about that book you showed me? The collection of short stories?”

“That was only the first of several that were published. I suppose he must have kept copies of the others somewhere, but I don’t remember seeing them.”

Freddy grinned.

“I bet they’re in the attic.”

“Why?”

Freddy pulled the face that Sunshine always pulled when she thought that they were being particularly obtuse.

“Because that’s where everyone always puts the stuff they don’t know what else to do with,” he said triumphantly. “Although if I’d had a book published, I’d have it on my bookshelf in pride of place.”

Laura thought about it for a moment.

“But he wasn’t proud of all the short stories that were published. Remember, I told you? His publisher wanted insipid, simple happy-ever-afters and they fell out over it in the end.”

Freddy nodded.

“I do remember. Bruce wanted lemonade and Anthony gave him absinthe.”

Laura smiled.

“You would remember that. Anything to do with alcohol . . .” she teased.

“But I suppose it’s worth a try. I haven’t really had a proper look in the attic, and even if the books aren’t there, there might be something else . . .”

“Tomorrow,” said Freddy, standing up and dragging her to her feet. “We’ll look tomorrow.”

He kissed her firmly on the lips.

“Now, what was that you said about being smutty . . . ?”

Laura woke with a jolt that broke her fall. Was she dreaming about falling or falling out of the dream? She could never tell. It was still dark and the silence was barely rippled by the hushed duet of Freddy and Carrot’s breathing. The back of Freddy’s warm hand rested on the outside of her thigh, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could just about make out the rise and fall of his chest. She wondered what Anthony would think. She hoped he would approve; be pleased for her. After all, he had told her to be happy and she was. Mostly. She still worried about returning the lost things. The website was coming along nicely, thanks to Freddy, and though her fear of failing Anthony was deeply rooted in the fertile tract of her self-doubt, now courage grew alongside. Finally, she had found the guts to try. Therese was a constant shadow, but the general sweep of her life, the day-to-day at Padua, was definitely happy.

Oh, and of course she worried about Freddy. But surely that was an occupational hazard in a new relationship, particularly at her age? She worried that he hadn’t yet seen the full horror of her treacherous stretch marks and her crow’s-feet in the unforgiving glare of the midday sun. She worried that he might not yet have noticed the insidious creep of cellulite crumpling her once pert bottom and threatening her thighs. And she was sorry too that Freddy had not seen her bottom at the peak of its pertness. Instead, it had been wasted on Vince. If only she had met Freddy when she was young. Younger, even. If only she had married Freddy. She smiled to herself at her foolishness and then stopped, mindful of the crow’s-feet, and vowed to wear enormous sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat should she ever be foolish enough to venture outside in the sunlight again. And she wasn’t even going to think about the menopause. The clue was in the name, wasn’t it? But not so much a pause as a bloody great full stop as far as being remotely attractive to men was concerned. She was even breaking out in a sweat not thinking about it. She turned her pillow over and buried her face in the cool, fresh cotton. Get a grip, Laura! she told herself. She reached for Freddy’s hand and took it in her own. Instinctively he squeezed it, and Laura lay there in the darkness, blinking away the tears until eventually she drifted back to sleep.

Things always look better in the morning. It wasn’t the sunlight that poked fun at Laura’s imperfections, but the darkness with its looming doubts that mocked her in the sleepless spells that broke the night. After breakfast, she went out into the garden, hatless, and squinted into the morning sun. Freddy had gone into town and she was going up into the attic. She fetched the stepladder from the shed and carted it upstairs with some difficulty. Carrot had decided to help by running up and down the stairs barking excitedly in an attempt to ward off the invasion of the clanking, rattling metal legs that were clearly an instrument of the devil. As Laura propped the fully extended ladder against the wall, she could already hear Freddy scolding her for not waiting.

“We’ll do it when I get back,” he had said.

But she was too impatient to wait. Besides, Sunshine would be here soon, and she was perfectly capable of calling an ambulance. As she pushed open the hatch into the attic, the musty smell of warm dirt and dust wafted out to greet her. She flicked on the light switch and, at once, her hand was sticky with cobwebs. Where to start? There were a few bits of old furniture, a large rug rolled into a sausage, and a variety of boxes. She lifted the lids on those closest to her. They contained the general household flotsam and jetsam: an unused tea service, a canteen of silver-plated cutlery, and various pieces of useless but decorative china. One contained books, but as far as she could see, none had been written by Anthony. Laura made her way cautiously across the joists, stooping awkwardly under the pitch of the rafters. A child’s push-along horse on wheels stood lonely in a corner next to a large brown cardboard suitcase and a box from a dressmaker in London. Laura stroked the soft teddy-bear fur of the horse’s nose.