Deep Waters Read Free Page B

felt comfortable saying it to Serena.
    ‘You haven’t…?’
    ‘Asked her to marry me? Not yet,’ Mark admitted. ‘I’m working up to it, though.’
    Serena didn’t look at him, but she laid a damp hand on his sleeve. ‘Don’t rush into anything,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘I mean it, Marco. You may think she’s the one, the right person—’
    ‘She is ,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m sure of it. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.’
    ‘Give it time,’ Serena said. ‘If she’s the right one, you won’t lose anything by waiting. And if not…well, it’s better to find that out before you commit yourself.’ She swallowed. ‘You think you know someone, but it takes time. Lots of time.’
    Mark realised she was talking about Joe, was talking out of her own pain. He shouldn’t have expected her to be over the moon about his happiness with Callie.
    And yet…there was something in what Serena said. If it was right, then what was the rush? Callie wasn’t going anywhere, and as his feelings for her—their feelings for each other—deepened even further, there would come a time when the next step would present itself as inevitable.
    Mark’s churchyard reverie was interrupted by the jangling of his phone. Callie.
    ‘ Cara mia ,’ he greeted her, a smile in his voice.
    ‘I just wanted to let you know, Marco. There’s a change of plan for this evening.’

    ‘Well, Bella,’ said Callie. ‘I suppose this is it.’ Home, for the next few weeks.
    Home. If you could call it that. Callie looked round the room, trying hard to find something homely about it.
    It wasn’t a small room: that was one thing in its favour. High ceiling, plenty of floor space. The high ceiling, though, meant that there was all the more of the drab, depressing wallpaper on view. And as for the floor space…
    The floor was covered with not one but two patterned carpets, joining somewhere near the wardrobe. The carpets were equally threadbare, equally hideous—one a bilious shade of green, with large swirls of a darker green, and the other a floral design, featuring overblown pink roses on a dreary grey background. The Stanfords’ last vicarage must have had smaller rooms, Callie guessed, with none of its carpets large enough to make the transition to this current Victorian monstrosity. Either of those carpets would have been ugly enough on their own; together they were truly sick-making.
    Unsurprisingly, none of the furniture matched either. There was a frameless double bed, covered with a dingy white candlewick spread, a dark oak wardrobe, a lighter oak chest of drawers, and a pine bedside table. Blessedly there was also a wash basin attached to the wall in the corner, its pipe-work concealed by a frilled and gathered skirt.
    Callie looked at the books on the bedside table. Thoughtfully provided? On the whole, she doubted it: they seemed a random collection of old paperback novels—from some long-ago church jumble sale, or left behind by previous guests—mingled with an assortment of other tomes. There was a cookery book, a chemistry text book, and a battered children’s picture book. She was glad she’d thought to bring along her own reading material.
    Unfortunately, though, there was no reading lamp on the bedside table. The room’s only illumination came from the window, and above—from the single dim bulb dangling from the middle of the ceiling, shrouded in an ugly fringed shade. Evidently people were not meant to read in this room.
    Bella jumped up on the bed and flopped down, seemingly impervious to her depressing surroundings.
    ‘Oh, Bella,’ Callie said. She realised she should probably get the dog off of the candlewick bedspread, but she didn’t have the heart. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Bella’s ears.
    What had she done? What had she committed herself—and Bella—to?
    She hadn’t had many other options, and when Brian had suggested it, she’d overcome her reservations about