High Tide (5 page)

She wasn’t here any more. She would never hear her voice again.

She opened the window and leaned out. The air was sharp and cold and delicious on her face. She looked down the street. From up here, she could see nearly all the town that had once been her world, and the road ribboning down to the harbour, dark blue with morning chill. She took in a deep breath as if to gather strength from the slight mist that was still clinging to the rooftops and chimneypots.

Run, shower, breakfast.

Call the doctor.

She should call the undertakers, too, to tell them she had arrived and make sure everything was in hand.

Then change.

Then …

She wasn’t going to think that far ahead. She needed to focus on the now, if she was going to get through it. She pulled on her sweat pants and a T-shirt and laced up her running shoes. She was good to go.

5

At seven o’clock on the morning of her husband’s funeral, Vanessa Knight sat on the cobbled terrace of her house and drank a pot of strong coffee. She loved being up before anyone else. Well, most people; you had to be up very early indeed to beat the Pennfleet fishermen.

She watched their fishing boats setting off for the day, the little white lines they left in their wake cutting through the blue.

She watched the gulls circling, beady eyes vigilant, never missing an opportunity to scavenge.

She watched the early-morning clouds drift away and make way for the sun.

But she didn’t see any of them.

She pinched her arm, to make certain she was actually still there. She wasn’t at all sure what it was she was supposed to be feeling, but she was fairly confident it shouldn’t just be nothing.

Not grief. Not shock. Not distress, or anger, or bewilderment. Or fear.

She didn’t even feel numb.

She felt normal. As if today was just another day, not the day she was burying her husband of seventeen years.

She shivered slightly in the morning freshness. It was as if the weather knew the calendar had changed, for the moment September ended the sun seemed to have shed its warmth on rising, taking longer to heat up. The air smelled different: sharper and sweeter and smoky, and breathing it in brought a sense of change; of new horizons. Gone was the fevered heat of summer. The calmness of autumn was here.

Vanessa relished the quiet, because tonight the house would be bursting at the seams – twelve guests had been the last count reported to her by Mary Mac, who was in charge of the organisation. No one had bothered talking to Vanessa about arrangements, even though she was presumably the head of the house now. They all went through Mary, Spencer’s housekeeper and right-hand woman since long before Vanessa had appeared on the scene. Not that Vanessa minded. She was used to it, and Mary Mac was her greatest ally. Vanessa thought she would have long gone mad if it wasn’t for Mary’s common sense and kindness. And she was the one who would get her through the next twenty-four hours. Since the day Vanessa had been swept down to Pennfleet House by Spencer all those years ago, Mary Mac had done everything to make her feel welcome and looked after from that day onwards.

Consequently, Vanessa had turned to Mary as soon as she heard about Spencer’s massive stroke. They had hugged each other, chastened with shock, unable to believe that the forceful personality who had dominated their lives for so long was gone. The house already felt like a shell, as if it had lost its purpose, like a ship without a captain.

‘Come on,’ Mary said eventually. ‘We can’t fall apart. We’ve got things to do.’

It was Mary’s emotional support Vanessa couldn’t manage without. Never mind that she ran the house like clockwork – Vanessa didn’t much care about gleaming surfaces and freshly ironed sheets and full freezers. She could do all that for herself – not as well, of course, but then Vanessa didn’t have Spencer’s exacting standards. Not that he had ever found that out, because she’d never had to lift a finger.

Lucky, some would say.

Vanessa refilled her coffee cup and stirred in some of the cream she had found in the fridge. It was probably for the pavlova which was going to follow the chicken casserole, also waiting in the fridge, ready to feed the hordes tonight. Spencer’s ex-wife Karina and his children Daniella and Aiden, his brother, his two best friends and their wives. His business partner and his PA. His coterie. His entourage. None of whom ever paid Vanessa much attention. They viewed her as a mild irritation, someone who didn’t quite fit into their picture of how things should be.

She imagined them all getting ready to set off on the journey down to Cornwall, donning crisp white shirts and sombre suits; demure dresses in black silk or linen. Most of the women would wear hats. It would be a fashion fest; a competition as to who could look the most chicly grief-stricken.

Vanessa knew she should make an effort. Three days earlier, she’d driven to a boutique in the next town to find a suitable outfit. She laughed at the memory of the assistant who had asked her, ‘Is it for something special?’

‘It’s for my husband’s funeral,’ she’d said, and the girl had looked horrified, not at all sure what to say: she’d backed away behind the till and busied herself with some paperwork. Vanessa hadn’t found anything in the end, because it was all summer stock: wafty whites and turquoises which didn’t seem suitable. Spencer wasn’t the sort of man who would want people to wear bright colours to his funeral. He would expect black.

Then she realised she didn’t have to do what Spencer expected any more.

Yet she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She didn’t want any of his family looking at her askance. Or Karina. She’d had enough of that over the years. Sometimes she felt like a curiosity he’d brought back from a zoo: something to be wondered over and petted then put back into its cage. The glorified shop girl, posh but poor, who’d caught his eye when she helped him choose a wedding present. He’d rushed into the shop en route to the church, in a blind panic because he was late. She’d picked out a stunning serving plate, wrapped it and bedecked it with ribbons and bows and found him a card. And a pen. And dictated a thoughtful message for him to write to the happy couple. He’d come back later, after the wedding, more than a few glasses of champagne in, and asked her out for dinner.

‘I’m not leaving until you say yes,’ he’d said, standing in the middle of the fine china she was in charge of. She’d been dazzled by his insistence. And he took her to Quaglino’s, where she’d always longed to go …

And that night, as now, she had worried about what to wear. She put down her coffee cup and wasn’t sure why she was so anxious. She had millions of black dresses. Dresses Spencer had chosen and sent to her by courier, arriving on padded hangers in linen clothes carriers from a designer website, for the nights when she escorted him to the social functions that kept his business afloat. So what if she wore one she’d been seen in before? Karina would know – Karina would give the tiniest flicker of her perfectly threaded brow – but Vanessa didn’t care.

She didn’t really understand why a funeral required such formality. Surely it was better to turn up as yourself? Which in her case would mean faded jeans, a flowery tunic and flip-flops. She hated dressing up these days, though once she had dressed up to the nines for him.

In the beginning, all his friends and family had thought she was a gold-digger, a shop girl who had lured him into a honey trap, because Spencer had made a fortune in the garment industry and his fortune showed no signs of shrinking, unlike the cheap clothes he peddled. She was never going to persuade them otherwise, so she stopped trying, even though it was miles from the truth. She had fallen for him because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was young and very pretty and extremely impressionable and naive and he’d swept her off her feet. And what wasn’t to like about being spoiled and doted on and put on a pedestal?

She’d done trophy wife for ten years, sparkled and radiated and networked on his behalf. But after the baby thing, after the ectopic pregnancy that nearly cost her her own life and meant she could never have children, she couldn’t face it any more. Spencer had brought her down to their weekend house in Pennfleet to convalesce, and she had never found the strength to leave. She found peace by the seaside. She never wanted to go back to their St Johns Wood mansion block. Their marriage became one of convenience.

It had been a funny old relationship. Maybe it had been perfect? She had no idea. It was the only one she had ever known. She spent the week in Pennfleet making the house ready for Spencer and his friends at the weekends so they could relax after a hard week doing deals and making money. And as Mary Mac did most of the work, all she really had to do was decide menus, book tables and make sure his latest fad was readily available – whether it was wagyu beef or artisanal gin, Spencer liked to be up to date with everything, as long as it involved a hefty price tag.

She looked out across the water to
Poseidon
, Spencer’s pride and joy, crouched on the water, predatory and powerful, arguably the most expensive boat in the harbour. He’d loved that boat. What on earth was she supposed to do with it now? It shouldn’t even be in the water still, but Spencer had wanted to squeeze the last few weeks of fine weather out of it. She supposed she would go out on it to scatter his ashes, though she didn’t have a clue how to drive it. Someone in Pennfleet would help her out. They’d probably jump at the chance to have a go. It was worth more than most of the fishermen’s cottages that lined the banks, even though they were going up in price.

She sighed. The sun was warming up and it was going to be the most glorious day. A day for walking into town and buying a crab sandwich and sitting with your legs hanging over the harbour wall while you ate it, and trying to stop the seagulls pinching the crusts out of your hands.

A feeling settled on her but she couldn’t identify it. She shut her eyes to analyse it, and finally put her finger on her emotion. She did feel sad, but not sad because Spencer was dead. Sad because she didn’t feel sadder. Had she loved him? She couldn’t be sure. They had rubbed along together well enough, in benign disinterest. They never argued. They simply didn’t have anything in common. They barely spent any time alone together. They’d resorted to separate bedrooms years ago. Vanessa knew this was partly her fault. She had frozen up after the ectopic pregnancy. Spencer certainly hadn’t forced her into anything. Separate rooms had stopped sex being the elephant in the room. And if Spencer found other women to keep him entertained, he was very discreet about it.

She had never embarked on any sort of clandestine relationship herself. She wasn’t sure how Spencer would have reacted if she had and he had found out. She hadn’t the confidence or the inclination or the opportunity. In the meantime, she had buried herself in her shop.

Spencer had bought Adrift for her, as a sort of consolation prize for not being able to have a baby. A clumsy but well-meaning gesture that she hadn’t the heart to object to. The sort of gesture that wealthy men made when they felt guilty and weren’t sure what to do with their wives.

She was surprised as anyone to have subsequently fallen in love with it. Maybe Spencer knew her better than she knew herself? And she made a success of it, too. She had learned a lot about retail in the shop where they had met, and she used those skills to open a gallery selling artwork and jewellery inspired by the sea, using strictly local artists, of which there were plenty. And of course she had Spencer to learn from, although her motives were entirely different from his when it came to business. She wasn’t out to make massive profits. For Vanessa, it was about discovering and nurturing new talent, giving artists their first break and watching them flourish. And if she happened to make money (which she did, because she had a good eye for what tourists wanted) she invested in new talent. Profit gave her the luxury of being able to take risks.

Adrift was her baby and her lover. It gave her a sense of identity and purpose. It was shut today, out of respect, and the two girls who worked there would be at the funeral. No doubt they would be wondering what would happen now, whether Vanessa would keep the shop on. Of course she would. Too many livelihoods depended on it: artists and craftspeople who already had limited outlets. She couldn’t just cut off their source of income. And the approaching winter was when she would have time to discover new talent. The summer had been hectic. Now it was time to take stock, literally, and discover new possibilities.

She poured the last inch of coffee out of the pot but it was too cold by now. She wasn’t sure what to do while she waited for the funeral to start. She thought about phoning Squirrel and then thought – no. She needed to get today out of the way first. Squirrel could wait until tomorrow.

Kate called the surgery on the dot of half past eight and managed to wangle herself an emergency appointment with Dr Webster at nine. She decided to walk to the medical centre. It was up yet another steep hill on the outskirts of the town, but it was quicker to walk than going to fetch the car.

As she left the house and stepped out into the street, her mother’s next-door neighbour shot out of her side gate. Sunny had the longest plait of anyone Kate had ever met, and dressed in the colours of the rainbow. She ran the health-food shop in the high street and sold crystals and talismans and incense. She had a heart of gold, and had been in and out of Belle Vue all through Kate’s childhood, offering various cures and remedies and dietary advice. Kate remembered the crumbly blocks of halva Sunny sometimes gave her, and the little biscuits made of sesame seeds that gave a snap when you bit into them.

‘Angel!’ Sunny had a list of endearments she varied. She threw her arms around Kate’s neck. Kate breathed in some sort of exotic essential oil that took her back. ‘You poor baby. Your poor mother. She didn’t suffer, though. You do know that?’

‘They said it was instant.’

‘Anything I can do, you know that.’

‘Of course.’

‘How are you?’ Sunny held her at arm’s length and surveyed her, a deep crease between her eyes.

‘Honestly? I’m not sure.’ This was true. Kate still felt as detached from the news as she had when she first heard it. Nothing had happened so far to make it seem true.

‘If you don’t want to stay in the house on your own, you can come and stay with me.’ Sunny lived in a yellow cottage that was full of cats and dream-catchers and the smell of curried lentils.

‘I’m fine – honestly. I’m quite happy. Anyway, listen – I’ve got to get to the doctor’s.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes – I forgot my sleeping tablets, that’s all.’

Sunny frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be taking those.’

Kate shrugged. ‘I can’t sleep without them.’

‘I’ll bring you some Rescue Remedy from the shop.’

Kate smiled. She didn’t want to say that if Rescue Remedy worked on her, she’d be using it. Sunny meant well.