High Tide (18 page)

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At the time he had thought he was too good for the job. Too good to pack up big green boxes of groceries into the back of a van and trundle round the countryside delivering them. Too good to wear the supermarket uniform, with a name badge on, because he’d once been foreman and everyone had known his name and didn’t need telling who he was.

Everything had changed. Fear and guilt and remorse and terror all jumbled up inside him. What had made him think he was so special? All that mattered now was that he could make amends.

He strode into the supermarket, his head held high. The sign was still there.

Five minutes later, he was sitting in a blue chair in front of a desk. A thin-faced woman with large glasses ran through a checklist of questions. He was astonished when she seemed delighted by his credentials.

‘You’re just the sort of person we’re looking for,’ she told him.

What – a loser?

He thought it but didn’t say it.

‘I need to do a CRB check, of course, because you’ll be in customers’ houses. But if all that goes smoothly, we can have you up and driving as soon as.’

She gave him a rabbity smile that made her nose wrinkle.

Bloody hell. It was that easy. Who knew?

Kenny left the supermarket and drove to the other side of the retail park. There were two big electrical places, so he chose the one where they’d bought their washing machine, because it seemed as good a reason as any. He walked over to the computer section and gazed round at the blank staring screens. He had no idea where to start.

His sons had gone mad at him when they moved. How were they supposed to keep in touch, all the way over in Australia?

‘There’s an amazing thing called the telephone,’ he told them.

‘No one uses phones anymore for this kind of thing, Dad. And it’s free, over the internet. Over the Wi-Fi.’

‘It’s not bloody free if you’ve got to pay five hundred quid for a computer, is it? That’s called a false economy.’

He’d stayed stubborn, and Mary didn’t push, because she wasn’t the pushy type, and once a month they dialled first one son and then the other on a Sunday morning for a ten-minute chat, timed on the egg timer in the kitchen.

Now, however, he walked up to the first assistant he could find.

‘I want a computer. Or a laptop. Whatever I need to speak to my sons in Australia. Over the Skype or whatever it is.’

‘No problem. What’s your price range?’

‘I don’t care. I just want the easiest.’

He didn’t care. All of a sudden the only thing that mattered was Mary. He’d got a few hundred saved up, out of his benefits and what he won on the horses. He didn’t know what he’d been saving it for, but it made him feel a bit more secure, knowing there was a nest egg. In case of trouble.

He hadn’t expected this sort of trouble. Remembering Mary’s face this morning made him shudder.

The assistant was talking to him.

‘Have you got Wi-Fi at home?’

‘We did have, when the boys were at home. Do I need it?’

‘You will do, yes. But if you’ve had it, you should be able to get it reconnected. Come and look at these.’

The lad showed him a small range of laptops and how they worked. He wrote down on a piece of paper what Kenny would need to do, and who to contact. ‘I’ll take this one,’ he said, not knowing why he had chosen it, but wanting the deal done as quickly as possible. He had other things to accomplish before the close of play.

Jobs and laptops were easy to acquire, it seemed.

Removing his mother was going to be a different story.

He had always known it was going to be difficult. Which was why he had avoided it for so long. He knew he should have nipped it in the bud when she first bowled up. Should have shown her the door after two weeks, when it became obvious that she was far too comfortable. Of course she was, with Mary’s cooking and housekeeping, because Mary was kind and selfless and ran round after both of them because she had run round after people all her life.

Yep, thought Kenny, he was a miserable, ungrateful worm who had let his wife run herself ragged, because he was too gutless and lazy to stand up for himself or for her. He’d taken the easy option all the way. Not any more.

‘Mum,’ he said to Ruthie, who was, surprisingly, not in front of the telly for once, but was sitting at the dining table replacing her false nails. The sight of it made him feel slightly ill. She was surrounded by pieces of white plastic, applying them one by one with glue to her nail-beds.

‘Don’t disturb me. I need to concentrate.’

‘No. This is important. You have to move out.’

Ruthie looked up at him with a benign smile, rolled her eyes in faux fond exasperation and carried on her work.

‘I mean it. You’ve been here long enough. It’s time for you to find a place of your own.’

Ruthie gave a sigh of impatience. He was interfering with her concentration.

‘You were never supposed to be here for this long.’

She held out her left hand and admired it.

‘Don’t ignore me, Mum.’

She looked at him with raised eyebrows and started on her right hand.

‘What
is
behind all this? Who’s rattled your cage?’

‘Mary and me, we need our privacy. We were happy to help you out, but … you can’t stay here for ever.’

‘So you’re chucking me out? Is that it? Your own mother?’

‘No. Of course I’m not chucking you out. We’ll help you find somewhere.’

‘Me? In my condition?’

‘Mum. There is no condition. You’re just …’

He floundered under her level gaze.

‘What? I’m just what, exactly?’

‘Well, you need to lose a bit of weight and move about a bit.’

She gave a bark. ‘You can talk. And her. She’s no Twiggy.’

‘At least she gets off her arse.’

‘Which is more than you do.’

Kenny flinched. He wasn’t going to tell her what he’d done that morning. He didn’t want her knowing any of his business. Not at the moment. Not until things were straight.

‘There’s some flats in Shoredown. We can get you into one. We can sort out your rent – you’ll get some help with that from the council.’

‘Oh. Do you know, I thought I would get help from my own family. I didn’t think I’d have to go begging.’

‘It’s not begging. You’re entitled to it. And you have got some money, Mum. I know you have.’

‘Have you been going through my stuff?’

‘No. But you have, haven’t you?’

Ruthie was shrewd, he knew that. He didn’t know how much, but he knew she had cash to dip into. She wouldn’t look at him.

He tried a gentler tone.

‘I don’t want to upset you. But like I said, we need our privacy—’

Ruthie snorted. ‘Been reading
Fifty Shades
, has she?’

Kenny felt his heart harden. No one laughed at Mary and got away with it.

‘Either you go with my help and my blessing. Or you can bugger off.’

‘Well,’ said Ruthie. ‘That’s nice. That’s very nice indeed.’

He didn’t care what she thought. Everything was different now.

He looked up at the ceiling. It was too much for him. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t.

Even Ruthie, self-absorbed, self-centred Ruthie, could see something was the matter.

‘What is it? What’s the matter with you?’

He couldn’t tell her. Mary wouldn’t want her to know. Mary was very private. Besides, he couldn’t imagine her being of any help. He just turned to her.

‘Could you, for once in your life, put somebody else first?’

23

On Tuesday, Kate spent the day on what seemed like endless administration, talking to service providers and going into the bank. She realised Rupert was right, that probate was a huge chore. Every time she thought about him she felt agitated, and more than once was tempted to telephone and cancel their dinner. He was only going to make a fool of her again. She remembered he’d offered her the use of his office, and she had to admit it was tempting – he was bound to have Wi-Fi, and a photocopier – but something stopped her. She used the Wi-Fi in Sam’s café instead, and the photocopier in the tourist office. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do for now.

She looked up the company Rupert ran with his brother. Pennfleet Holiday Cottages. It was a predictably upmarket venture, done in a low-key way, just like the Malahides. They had a signature look for the decor of each cottage – soothing heathers and greys and lavenders. There were picnic hampers on arrival, with tartan rugs; bicycles to borrow; televisions hidden away behind hand-painted doors; piles of board games. All very discreet but well thought out.

Kate recognised Belle Vue would be perfect. It would sleep a family of four very nicely. Rupert could do a refurb over the winter – new kitchen, new bathroom – and have it ready to rent by spring.

She was cross with herself for falling into his trap. But she decided she could play it to her advantage. If she sold to him, she could save agents’ fees and not go through the agony of endless negotiating.

She’d had two estate agents value the house the day before, both of whom gave her a price within five thousand of each other. She’d done her research on the internet anyway, and decided roughly what she wanted to ask.

‘It’s not really the best time of year to go on the market,’ said the second, who was full of useful advice. ‘You might need to stand your ground. But I think this should sell well. Of course, your other option would be to do it up – you’d get a really good price then.’

‘It’s difficult, when I’m not here,’ said Kate. ‘Of course, what I’d really like to do is live here myself and do it up.’

She was surprised when these words came out. It was true, though – as she had cleared the house, she had imagined the tired seventies decor ripped out, a cream Shaker kitchen installed, a modern staircase in glass and steel rising up to the first floor … She could visualise it so clearly, and felt sad that it would fall to someone else, that they would excise any evidence of her and her family and breathe new life into the old stone walls.

‘And by the way,’ said the agent, ‘if it doesn’t sell straight away and Pennfleet Holiday Cottages make you an offer, don’t have any of it. They drive a hard bargain. Hang out till the spring. You’ll definitely get your price then.’

Kate couldn’t help laughing. Rupert’s reputation went before him. Well, he was in for a shock if he thought he was going to get one up on her.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I’ll let you know what I decide to do.’

As the agent left, Kate felt rising panic. Carlos was pressing her for a decision on when she was going to get back. She knew she had to have a meeting about the ball as soon as she could. It wouldn’t look good to dither. It was the pinnacle of her career. She needed to get the key people on board. She couldn’t mess this one up. But she couldn’t just walk out of Belle Vue. Or could she? Maybe she should lock it up and leave it, then come back in a month or so, when probate was through.

By the time Debbie came round to help her clear out some cupboards, she was feeling very tetchy.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ she said. ‘I’m never going to manage.’

‘You just need to be organised,’ said Debbie.

‘Thank you so much for helping me.’

‘It’s fine. I’d only be going for a run or going to the supermarket or running errands. It’s much more fun to be gossiping with you.’

‘Just like the old days, eh?’

‘How many times did we sit in this kitchen reading our horoscopes?’

‘And drinking that horrible fizzy pink wine that gave you a headache?’

‘And trying to finish our sixth-form projects. What a waste of time that was. I did mine on eighties supermodels. I mean, really – why?’

Kate laughed. ‘I did heraldry. Yawn!’

They set to clearing out the airing cupboard next to the bathroom. It seemed that even old pillowcases and tea towels could bring back memories. Kate hated consigning them to the recycling. She understood the compulsion to hoard, because stuff gave you a sense of identity. But common sense and practicality won the day in the end. And Debbie’s insistence that, much as the striped towels reminded her of her childhood, they had no place in her life.

‘Keep the good stuff. Just the really special things. Your parents don’t want to be remembered through a ratty old towel.’

It was astonishing how long it took to clear out. Kate supposed there was over fifty years of stuff in there – stuff her parents had had since their wedding day.

‘This is just the airing cupboard. What about the rest of the house? Oh God … I’ll never finish.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And I better go and get ready.’

Debbie looked at her. ‘I can’t believe you’re going out with Rupert Malahide tonight.’

Kate couldn’t believe it either. Maybe it was because she hadn’t been out for dinner with anyone for months, because work was so busy? Maybe she was flattered? Maybe she wanted to prove something to him?

‘After the way he treated you,’ Debbie said with indignation. ‘What a cock.’

‘Oh, you know what? It was just teenage nonsense. It wasn’t a big deal.’

Kate tied a knot in the top of the bin bag. She could say that now, but it wasn’t how she’d felt at the time.

It was the summer she and Debbie left school, before they went on to sixth-form college in Shoredown – they both wanted to go there rather than stay on at the school, because it seemed more grown-up. They’d spent the months working and playing as hard as they could. The sun shone on Pennfleet every day, and a little rain fell at night from time to time, considerately, to keep any fear of drought at bay and to keep the gardens and allotments plumped up.

It was a summer of sailing, music, laughter and promise. Debbie’s dad had done up an old dinghy, which they took up and down the river and round to secret coves in a flotilla with their friends. Kate remembered wearing nothing but a bikini top and shorts day in day out. She remembered the cool water on her skin as she dived off the dinghy into the bright-blue water. Their limbs turned biscuit brown, their hair streaked white-blonde. They were golden girls.

They owned the town. They had no shortage of boys to choose from, both from Pennfleet and summer visitors. They flirted, but that was it. They didn’t want to be tied down. They thrived on kisses and flattery, growing ever more confident. Their friendship was strong and it was all they needed. There was no pact; it was just how they operated. Each of them knew that the possibility of someone meaningful was out there, but until he came along, they weren’t ready for anything serious. Freedom was paramount.

The yacht club end-of-season disco proved a turning point. Maybe it was the sense that summer was drawing to a close, as the days got shorter and the sun got lower in the sky. Maybe it gave them a sense of urgency, a sense that they needed something more to get them through the long dark winter months. The visitors would be leaving soon and the town would become a ghost of itself, the pubs and bars suddenly empty of noise and laughter.

The Malahide grandchildren were there in force. Their grandmother Irene, chatelaine of Southcliffe, had been a high court judge who’d retired to Pennfleet and was determined to see out the rest of her days giving her extended family holidays to remember. Southcliffe had been the scene of much revelry and high jinks over the years. There were enough Malahides to throw a party without inviting anyone else, but they were sociable and generous and so the young of Pennfleet often found themselves lured up the long winding drive and onto the croquet lawn. Their grandmother was sensible enough not to let the rabble into the actual house, but the garages had a huge empty space over the top of them that converted neatly into a party room. The parties were wild. The Malahides’ friends were spoiled, wealthy and high-spirited. The indigenous young of Pennfleet were never quite sure how to treat them. Hearts and noses were broken, aided and abetted by vast quantities of drink.

Tonight, they had come into Pennfleet en masse. They were a yacht club fixture, with a plethora of boats between them. They scooped up all the trophies in the regatta, and no one much cared, because it seemed to have become a given that they would win. It was impossible to know how many of them there actually were, because their ranks swelled and dwindled from weekend to weekend, depending on which of them were down. It seemed that night they were all there. Everywhere you looked, there was a white-blonde head, a vision of good breeding. They had none of the potential faults of English aristocracy: their teeth were perfect; there was no goofiness or underbites or sticky-out ears. They were catalogue perfect, in their faded denim and boat shoes and polo shirts, boys and girls alike.

And it was there Kate found herself pinned down by Rupert’s bright, enquiring gaze. Rupert had had a terrible reputation. In another age he would have been called a playboy. He toyed mercilessly with the hearts of the local girls. Rupert, it was said, was his grandmother’s favourite and was due to inherit Southcliffe.

That night he was wearing a Breton T-shirt, shorts and espadrilles, with a bandana round his neck. He should have looked ridiculous and effeminate, but as soon as Kate met his gaze she knew there was no question. He made her feel mysterious, alluring, like the girl he had been looking for all his life.

‘Come and dance,’ he said to her, and it was a command. She had no choice.

They owned the dance floor. They barely touched, but their eyes never left each other as they moved in perfect time to the music, the bass pounding through them. Kate knew everyone was looking, that her friends were exchanging glances. Debbie caught her eye at one point – a warning glance, she thought, a glance that asked whether she knew what she was doing. But she was in too deep by then. She was bewitched.

And then he took her hand and led her away from the dance floor.

Debbie cornered her.

‘What are you doing? You know what he’s like.’

‘I can look after myself.’ Vodka had made Kate bold.

‘You know what he does! Makes the local girl feel like a princess, gets into her knickers then dumps her.’

Rupert was waiting patiently throughout their whispered exchange. Debbie flashed him a sweet smile then turned back to Kate.

‘You’re just a plaything. Don’t fall for it. You’re just his new box of Lego. He’ll forget you tomorrow.’

‘Debs – I’ll be fine.’

That was how his magic worked. He made girls feel invincible. Special.

He led her out onto the deck overlooking the river. The cool night air settled on her skin. The river rippled and shone in the lights from the yacht club. She could hear the water, reassuring, always there, lapping against the bank.

And he kissed her and she thought,
This is it. This is what it’s all about.
Everything she’d ever heard about him, she forgot in that moment. Every warning. As he ran his fingers through her hair, and murmured into her ear, his warm lips working their way down her neck to her collarbone, any doubts she’d had melted away. Her blood fizzed as sweet as sherbet inside her.

‘Where can we go?’ he asked.

And without thinking twice, she led him to the shed where the boats were taken for repair, with its cold cement floor and the smell of diesel, and she fucked him, up against the wall, digging her nails into his back under the rough cloth of his shirt. And they stood, gasping and clinging to each other, and he whispered, ‘Oh my God. I didn’t know it could be like that,’ and she didn’t realise he said that to all the girls.

They lay curled up with each other for hours in the darkness, warmed by their lust. Their fingers were linked as they whispered. They rubbed noses, touched foreheads, their breath mingled, their lips grew sore from kissing.

‘Come to my brother’s twenty-first,’ said Rupert. ‘Next Saturday. I need you with me. I want you to sit next to me. Promise?’

‘Of course.’ Kate’s heart thudded.

‘You’ll be the guest of honour.’

‘What should I wear?’

‘Oh, any old thing.’ He grinned. ‘Nothing, preferably. Seven thirty for eight.’

He held her tight before she peeled herself away. She had to be home by one. Her parents trusted her and in return she never broke their rules.

‘Saturday,’ he whispered, and she nodded and walked away, gliding back through the streets and up the hill to home, where she lay in bed, shivering with the cold and the shock, lightheaded and turned completely inside out.

The next Saturday, Debbie helped her get ready for the party. She was quiet, though, whether with disapproval or jealousy Kate wasn’t sure. She was too caught up with the evening ahead to worry. She hadn’t seen Rupert all week, and she fought her instinct to contact him. She was going to play it cool, and blow his mind when he saw her. She was going to be the belle of the ball.

She wore a black body-con dress, so tight there was no possibility of knickers, and high, high heels. Debbie blow-dried her hair into a sleek sheet of gold, put on false lashes, painted on red lips.

Kate barely recognised herself in the mirror. She looked like a film star, polished and glamorous. She would outshine everyone there, she promised herself. Rupert would be proud to have her by his side.

Her dad, her dear sweet kind proud dad, gave her a lift, for Southcliffe was quite a way out of town. He drove his car halfway up the drive, then she asked him to stop. She was too embarrassed to be seen being dropped off in a battered old Ford. By the time she reached the marquee, her shoes had blistered her feet. But the excitement inside her dulled the pain. She couldn’t wait to make an entrance, and see Rupert’s face light up.