High Tide (11 page)

Nathan took a bite out of his bacon sandwich.

‘I’m not sure if I can.’ He gave Sam a meaningful look.

‘You’ve fallen for her.’

‘It was pretty amazing.’ He swallowed. ‘She was amazing.’

‘Nate. Mate. I think you might just have been a rebound snog. Sorry if that sounds harsh. Just chalk it up. Move on.’ Nathan wiped away the crumbs from his mouth. Sam took away his plate. ‘I know you’re not going to listen to me. But I don’t want to see you get hurt.’

Sam thought a lot of Nathan. He was a good bloke. But he wasn’t very worldly wise, for all his good looks and the way he had women falling at his feet.

Nathan drained his cup. ‘I’ve got to go and see Malcolm anyway, before I do anything.’

‘I’ll get your picnic sorted. It’ll be ready about midday. In the meantime, keep your head down. In a few days’ time it’ll all blow over and you’ll have forgotten about her. You can look back and laugh. ’

Nathan put his cup down and stood up, digging in his pocket for a tenner. Today was going to be a long one, what with his hangover.

Sam waved his money away.

‘It’s on me, mate.’

‘Don’t be daft. You’ll go bust if you start going down that road. First rule of surviving in Pennfleet: no mates’ rates.’

Sam took the tenner.

‘Oh, and can I stick one of these up?’ Nathan handed him a piece of A4 paper.

Sam looked at it. ‘Of course. Though I better not let Daisy see this. I’m being pestered to death for a dog.’

‘Man’s best friend,’ said Nathan. ‘I’ll do you one for fifty.’

‘I thought you said no mates’ rates?’

Nathan just grinned and walked out of the door.

Sam watched after him then went and stuck the sign up on the notice board. It was next to an advert for Turn Back Time, the festival being held on the quay to mark the day the clocks went back. Live music, a hog roast – Sam was supplying the food and hot buttered cider – and fireworks at midnight.

He smiled at the thought. He loved living in Pennfleet. He really did.

He stood back and looked at Nathan’s advert. There was a photo of the bundle of puppies, unbearably cute. Would it be mad? He thought it might be a good investment. Something to hold his little family together. The puppy could come with him to the café – he allowed dogs; he would be cutting his potential custom by half if he didn’t. Everyone seemed to have a dog these days.

A dog had been a non-starter in London, with the two of them working full time. But now …

And, he thought, it would be something to keep him company when the kids left. The empty nest wasn’t so very far away. And much as he didn’t like to think about it, maybe a dog would help fill the hole …

Back at the house, Daisy and Jim were sitting at the island in the kitchen in their pyjamas, staring at Jim’s iPad.

‘Right,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve set up an email address. And opened a profile for him. I looked through millions of sites and this seemed to be the best. Not too many saddoes or desperate cases. So.’ He paused for a moment. ‘What do we write? We need a profile name, for a start.’

‘Are you really sure this is a good idea?’ asked Daisy. ‘Is it even legal?’

‘What – like he’s going to sue us? Dad just needs a nudge. He doesn’t have to marry any of them.’

‘OK,’ said Daisy, still not sure but swept along by her younger brother’s enthusiasm for the project. ‘How about Telegram Sam? From that T-Rex song he likes?’

‘Perfect.’ Jim typed it in, then went through the next few questions. ‘Height – five foot ten. Build – medium. Hair …’

‘None,’ laughed Daisy. ‘Well, shaved. I guess.’

‘Eyes – grey. Status – widower? Or should we just put single?’

Daisy made a face as she considered. ‘Single dad? Widower might freak them out.’

Jim nodded. ‘ Children – two living with, fourteen and sixteen. OK, now the big one. Wants …? There’s a suggested list here. What do you think?’ He looked at his sister for assistance. ‘“Fun” just sounds dodgy.’

Daisy shrugged. ‘“Let’s see what happens”?’

Jim nodded. ‘We can always change it later. OK – now we need to describe him in more detail. “I was an A and E consultant and now I run a café/deli by the sea.”’

‘“I’m a great cook. Great singer. But a terrible dancer.”’ Daisy giggled. ‘“I do a great rendition of ‘Moves Like Jagger’. In my underpants.”’

‘I don’t think we’ll mention that.’

‘Likes photography. Fishing. Inventing cocktails.’

‘Scandi crime thrillers. Joni Mitchell.’

‘Mexican. He does the best Mexican.’

‘
Dr Who
. He loves
Dr Who
.’

‘Actually, I don’t think he does. I think he pretends to because you do.’

Jim frowned. ‘But I pretend to still like it because he wants to watch it.’

It used to be a ritual, their
Dr Who
sessions. Sam would make nachos with homemade salsa and melted cheese, and the three of them would snuggle up on the big sofa, even Daisy. It was times like that they felt as if Louise was still there with them, because they were a family and it was her spirit bonding them.

‘Well – put “I love watching Dr Who with my kids.”’

‘That might scare them off.’

Daisy screwed up her face.

‘Pigs. He loves pigs.’ They always got him something pig-related for his birthday. Piggy banks, pig aprons, pig garden ornaments, pig slippers, even piglet fairy lights.

‘Do you think that’s a selling point?’ Jim looked at what they had done. ‘He’s not coming over very well on paper so far.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. At least he seems real. We’re not bigging him up. We don’t want to attract the wrong sort of women.’

‘I suppose so. He just doesn’t seem … special. And he is.’

‘Cuddly. Kind. Funny?’

‘Can you say those things about yourself?’

The two of them stared at their dad’s profile for a minute. It was hard, summing someone up, when the things that were special about them weren’t really definable.

In the end, Jim sighed.

‘Let’s just put this up and see what happens. We can tweak it as we go along.’

‘OK …’

Jim put the finishing touches to the profile, and added a photo they agreed on – Sam in front of the deli, smiling proudly on opening day.

‘Right – now I’m going to need your debit card. It’s sixty pounds to join for three months.’

‘What? You mean I’ve got to pay?’

‘We don’t get access to the profiles otherwise. And he won’t get any “likes” if he doesn’t subscribe. And no one will be able to message him.’

‘Rip off,’ said Daisy, but she went and got her purse. She had quite a lot of money saved from working over the summer.

She crossed her fingers as Jim entered the details and uploaded the profile.

‘OK. Now we just have to wait. It’s Saturday, so there’ll be hordes of single women sitting with their laptops looking for the man of their dreams.’

‘How do you even think this stuff?’

Daisy was always intrigued by the workings of her brother’s mind. She looked up at the picture of her mum. Louise would be cheering them on, she was certain. Whether they’d find someone as lovely as Mum for their dad was another question, but they’d give it a go.

‘I better get to work,’ she said.

‘Don’t say anything to Dad,’ Jim warned her.

‘Well duuuh.’ She grabbed her hoodie and put it on. ‘See you later. Text me if anyone messages him.’

11

At ten o’clock Pennfleet House was still dead to the world, in a post-funeral slump. The only sign of life was Frank Cooper, the marmalade cat, who sat in the middle of the island in the kitchen looking round in consternation – and no little indignation – that no one had been to refill his bowl of milk. Around him were scattered empty glasses and bottles and ashtrays bearing the nubs of Cohiba cigars. The drinkers and smokers had at least managed to bring their detritus through to the kitchen, but they were the kind of people who didn’t expect to do any more than that. They were all used to having someone pick up after them.

The back door opened and Mary Mac bustled in, slipping off her fleece jacket (she was starting to need that in the mornings now). She ruffled Frank Cooper’s head roughly.

‘Off there now, or you’ll have those glasses over.’

She scooped him off the island and deposited him on the floor, then began to run a sink full of hot soapy water. Mary always did things properly – she wasn’t going to shove the glassware in the dishwasher. It would all be washed by hand, rinsed and dried with a proper linen glass cloth.

She filled the kettle, too. She needed a cup of tea. She’d had a bad night’s sleep, waking at four and worrying, worrying, worrying. Frank Cooper was not quite enough to give her a distraction or consolation.

And she was still smarting from the exchange with her mother-in-law earlier that morning.

‘What you going in to work for on a Saturday?’ asked Ruthie. ‘When you don’t know if you still have a job? It’s not like a dead person can pay you.’

Mary didn’t answer at first. There was no arguing with Ruthie. She knew that from bitter experience. And she couldn’t rely on Kenny to stand up for her.

‘It’s the least I can do for Vanessa,’ she replied, eventually.

Ruthie scoffed.

‘Yeah. Cos she’d be right round here if Kenny died, helping you clear up.’

‘She probably would, actually.’ Mary didn’t see why she should have to defend Vanessa, but she felt protective.

‘She’ll sell that house and be off without as much as a thank you,’ predicted Ruthie. ‘You’ll be out of a job. And then where will we be? You need to go down there and ask what your situation is. Not waste your time helping out. You need to be businesslike.’ Ruthie jabbed a finger at her.

‘Leave her be, Mum.’ Mary was surprised to hear Kenny intervene. He barely offered an opinion on anything these days, unlike his mother.

For the first year after Kenny lost his job at the boatyard, he had been resigned to the situation. And optimistic, despite having had his livelihood snatched away: something he had thought would be with him for ever, the thing that provided his security and the rhythm of his life and his companions. But eventually the optimism had faded, as Kenny’s workmates all managed to find re-employment yet he didn’t have so much as an interview. There seemed to be no reason for it. He had no less experience than any of them. Gradually, the fight went out of him. He had, quite simply, given up. He had retreated further and further into himself. He barely spoke or did anything. It was all he could do to get dressed.

Mary tried to be encouraging and keep his spirits up, but it was very difficult to galvanise someone who didn’t want to be galvanised. She couldn’t find the key to unlock him. She accepted that the burden of bringing money into the house lay with her, a burden made easier by the fact she liked working for Spencer, and he paid her well. She assured Kenny that she didn’t mind being the breadwinner for the time being, but her reassurance only seem to compound his depression, not alleviate it.

Mary couldn’t understand how their lives had changed quite so drastically. When Kenny was in work, they’d had a lovely life. Nothing spectacular, but easy. They had their house, their two boys, enough money to get by and have the odd treat. No flash cars or exotic holidays – but when you lived in Pennfleet you didn’t need either.

But in one fell swoop, their boys had gone to live in Australia (a plumber and an electrician, both doing well), the boatyard had closed down, and Ruthie had arrived on the doorstep.

Ruthie had been a dancer on the cruise ships. She’d stayed on them even after she had Kenny, leaving him with her own mother. That was the real irony, that she’d been no mother to Kenny, yet now he felt a responsibility to her, even though she had effectively abandoned him for months on end as a child. And not, Mary knew, because she had to earn a living, but because she loved the life. The glitter, the glamour, the men.

Now, five stone heavier than she had been in her heyday, Ruthie held court in her pink velvet Parker Knoll in their front lounge, puffing away endlessly on her Richmond Superkings, her once dainty feet spilling out over the sides of her slippers. Her face was caked in make-up: her eyelids green, her lips sugar pink, and Mary wasn’t convinced she ever took it off fully. She watched endless daytime telly and sent Kenny out for scratchcards – the floor around her chair was littered with silver scrapings. Mary prayed she would win the big one and bugger off, but she never did, only the occasional tenner which covered her fags. Mary certainly never saw any of it.

Ruthie was Mary’s cross, and she had to bear her, because she didn’t have the heart to throw her out. She just didn’t. Her friends said she was too soft, but what was she supposed to do? Ruthie had been living with a man, in his house, and when they split she had found herself homeless. Mary couldn’t throw her out onto the street.

Pennfleet House was Mary’s respite. There, she could create order. She had the utmost respect for Spencer and adored Vanessa, and if theirs wasn’t the most conventional of marriages, they had found a way to rub along together. And they were good to Mary, both of them. She was paid handsomely, and in return she was at their beck and call and ran the house like clockwork.

It was her duty to keep things running smoothly at Pennfleet House, even if her future was uncertain. She filled up the large glass teapot – she hated it; hated seeing the bags floating about inside, but Spencer had preferred it over a traditional pot – and got herself a mug. She should have time to sit and drink it before the mourners surfaced. None of them had been early risers on previous visits, and there was no reason why they should start now.

And so, for the first time since she had discovered it, she was alone to ponder her problem. Her heart hammered as she turned it over in her mind. It made her feel sick, and she felt powerless. Petrified. It could change everything. Everything. And what was she to do?

Upstairs, Vanessa gradually came to as the sun crept up and slipped through the window, between the undrawn curtains, and cast a beam of light on her face. She didn’t want to open her eyes, not because of the light, but because she would have to face the day. And she wasn’t really sure about it yet. Spencer was dead, she knew that. The house was full of his entourage, none of them her fan-base. She’d bunked off the funeral tea – no doubt some of them would have something to say about that.

And all she could really remember – all she wanted to remember – was a strong pair of arms and a warm pair of lips, kissing it all away. She remembered feeling safe and looked after. And then running away, because it was too good to be true. It was an illusion. It had to be, because fairy tales didn’t happen in real life. Besides, she hadn’t left behind a glass slipper for him to track her down. Though to be fair, he didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes …

She could still taste the cheap white wine she had drunk. She could feel the remnants of its chemical sweetness in her brain, leaving behind sketchy memories and a dull thud and a heaviness in her heart that only making a fool of yourself can bring. What a crazy thing to do, throwing herself at someone nearly half her age. Thank God no one had seen her. She cringed slightly as she thought about it, her cheeks pink and her underarms prickling.

Then she sat up. She couldn’t go under. It was her life. She could behave how she liked and no one could judge her. She should get up, jump in the shower, put on some clothes that made her feel strong and in control, then sweep down to the kitchen and meet her detractors face on, with no conscience. So she’d lost control for a minute there. So what?

She threw back the covers and leapt into a steaming hot shower that drove away the pounding of her head and her misgivings. She pulled on a pair of leather trousers, a big slouchy cream cable-knit sweater, dried her hair and put on foundation and mascara – just enough to disguise the ravages of time and a hangover.

In the kitchen she was met by a sea of faces, all sitting round the island while Mary Mac served coffee and tended a pan full of scrambled egg.

‘I hope you all slept well,’ Vanessa said, scooping up Frank Cooper and lugging him over to the fridge, where she pulled out the full cream milk that was his.

‘Where did you go?’ asked Karina, her voice loaded with accusation. She was power-dressed and in full make-up.

‘I wanted to be by myself.’ Vanessa put the cat down and filled his bowl, then stood up with the sweetest of smiles. ‘You all seemed to be making yourself at home well enough when I got back.’

The kitchen was immaculate. Last night it had looked as if a bomb had gone off. There wasn’t a glass or a plate or a crumb to be seen. Vanessa knew none of this lot would have lifted a finger. She felt a needle of guilt that she hadn’t either, but she would make it up.

She went over to the stove. ‘You sit down, Mary. I can do this. You’ve done enough.’

‘You’re all right,’ said Mary. ‘I’m at the crucial stage with the eggs.’ She whisked vigorously.

Vanessa poured herself a coffee.

It was odd, being here in the kitchen with all these people who had been such a big part of Spencer’s life. She could feel his absence. It left a huge vacuum. There was no momentum. Were Spencer here, the room would be filled with his restless energy. He would be showing off his latest piece of kitchen apparatus, making sure the eggs were not just free-range but that the chickens had been scampering about somewhere deeply fashionable and bucolic. And he would be making plans – probably involving
Poseidon
and a trip up the river to his favourite pub. He would have phoned ahead and given the pub rigorous instructions as to what they should be served. The pub didn’t mind, because he tipped heavily.

Today, however, the atmosphere was stolid and slack. Time hung heavy, in loops of torpor. There seemed to be no purpose. She missed him, Vanessa thought, and she was surprised to realise just how much. She still hadn’t addressed how she felt. Her feelings were suspended for the time being. She would unpack them when she was ready – spread them about and analyse them.

‘So, what time are you all off?’ she asked, in a light, cheery tone that said now wouldn’t be soon enough.

Karina sniffed. ‘It depends what time Daniella and Aiden get up. I don’t want to put them under pressure. They’re very cut up.’

‘Of course,’ said Vanessa, thinking that she would take Daniella up a cup of tea with lots of sugar in and see how she was.

With a bit of luck, they would all be gone by midday.