Summer at Shell Cottage (40 page)

Olivia looked pleased by the remark.
‘Yes, I thought so too,’ she said.
‘It’s taken me this long to be able to turn the other cheek, though.
At the start of the holiday,
I was ready to go for her with my claws out.’
She stretched out her long elegant fingers and they both studied them for a moment.
‘Anyway, the point I’m edging towards is that I
hadn’t realized until then how good it was going to feel forgiving her.
How much lighter I felt afterwards.’
She tilted her head, considering her words.
‘It’s not as if I
don’t care about what happened.
I do.
I thought the world had ended for a while.
But what good does being angry do, really?
It only gives you wrinkles at the end of the day, and goodness
knows I’ve enough of those already.’

‘Oh, Olivia, stop right there.
You are the most unwrinkled, beautiful, elegant—’

Olivia batted away the compliments.
‘I can live with my wrinkles,’ she said.
‘But I don’t want to live the rest of my life with bitterness, looking back and feeling
consumed by fury.
I want to look forward.
What’s done is done.
She apologized, I accepted, that’s that.’

Harriet pursed her lips.
She knew what her mother-in-law was hinting at.
But Alec was dead, and therefore it was impossible for him to reoffend.
Robert, meanwhile, was very much alive, although
possibly newly maimed, if the clatter of metal and volley of swearing from the garden was anything to go by.
If she did forgive Robert, as she knew Olivia was urging her to do, then what was to
stop him going and doing it all over again, some other lie, some other betrayal?
Wouldn’t it be safer just to cut her ties and walk away?

Victor had definitely scored some major brownie points today, Freya thought as she pushed open the door and stepped into their bedroom.
Their bedroom, by the way, that just so
happened to be in the swankiest and most gorgeous hotel she had ever set foot in.
The bed was huge, its frame made from chunky slabs of honey-coloured wood.
There was a roll-top bath and a walk-in
shower in the bathroom, plus luxury toiletries and thick fluffy dressing gowns.
There were French windows that opened onto a small wrought-iron balcony overlooking the sea.
In short, she reckoned
she could pretty much live in this room quite happily for some considerable time without feeling the need to re-engage with the rest of the world.
‘Whoa,’ she breathed, dropping her
overnight bag to the floor.
‘This is gorgeous, Vic.
Thank you.’

Victor put his arm around her.
‘You deserve it,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been a very good husband lately.
This is me trying to make it up to you.
This is me
opening my eyes and realizing what’s been right in front of me the whole time.’
He held her tight against him.
‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, Vic.’
She felt herself go limp against him, grateful for his solidity.
How good it was to lean on someone and let them take your weight.
It made her realize just how rigidly
she’d been holding herself upright all this time.
Must cope.
Must keep going.
Must not show weakness.
Well, bugger that for a waste of time.
That plan had been about as successful as
the square wheel.
‘I’m not sure I’ve been the best wife either,’ she said shakily.
‘Or the best mum.
Or daughter.
Or GP.’

He stroked her hair, smoothing it back from her face.
‘You’re too hard on yourself, love,’ he said.
‘Did nobody ever tell you that?
You’re doing fine.
Everyone else
thinks you’re doing an amazing job of all those things.’

She had found herself dreaming of her midnight plunge into the sea on a few occasions lately – her brain flashing up vivid snatches of memory that frightened her every time: the blackness
of the water, the seabed vanishing beneath her feet, the weight of her clothes dragging her down.
There had been a single terrible moment when she had just wanted to sink below the surface, let the
sea take her down, allow the water to pour into her lungs .
.
.
until a second later she’d felt Vic’s strong hands beneath her armpits and he’d hauled her unceremoniously onto the
sand.
It wasn’t what she would call ‘doing fine’, personally.

‘Freya?
I’m serious.
You’ve had a hard time.
Anyone would have struggled.
And if I hadn’t had my own head rammed up my arse recently, I would have noticed and been there
for you earlier.
If you’re going to blame anyone, you can blame me, not you.
All right?’

Her head was still pressed against his shoulder.
‘All right.’

She felt his grip tighten.
‘You and the children are what matters most.
You are my top priorities, okay?
And from now on, I’m going to pay more attention to you all,’ he said
gruffly.
‘That’s a promise, Freya.
We’ll get a decent babysitter sorted so that we can go out together more as a couple.
We’ll get a cleaner too, so you don’t end up
doing it all.
Hell, let’s hire in a full set of staff – chauffeur, butler, the works – while we’re at it.’

She laughed.
‘Sounds good to me.’

‘And Robert’s offered to have the kids for a weekend soon – brave, foolish man – so that we can go away somewhere too, just the two of us.’
He let go and looked
into her eyes.
‘I want to make this work, Freya.
I want us to get back to where we used to be.
Having a laugh.
Spending proper time together.
Sneaking off to posh hotels like this one .
.
.’

‘Me too,’ she said with a watery smile.
‘Absolutely.’
She thought of all the nights she’d spent curled up on her own in the living room, seeing off a bottle of red
wine while she waited for him to come home.
All the times she’d put the children to bed alone, feeling resentful, while he was at some gala evening or other being lauded yet again for his
heroics.
Being a hero was just as much about putting out the bins and reading the children a bedtime story in Freya’s eyes.
‘And I’m going to stop bottling things up,’ she
added.
‘It’s taken me this long to realize that competitive coping is not remotely noble or impressive – it’s actually just a bit tragic and the shortcut to a nervous
breakdown.’
She tried to laugh to show that she was only joking but it was difficult with the lump in her throat.

‘Good call,’ he said, squeezing her hand.
‘The other thing is, I’m going to knock the drink on the head too.
We’ll keep the house dry for a while, be teetotallers
together.
Less temptation for you, less of a beer gut for me.’

‘Oh, Vic.’
He so didn’t have a beer gut.
This was all for her benefit and she knew it.
The moment they had walked into this room, she’d thought with a pang of how, had
things been different, they’d have been popping open champagne and getting sozzled together at this point.
She was touched that he was willing to make such a sacrifice.
‘That’s so
lovely of you.
Really supportive.
Are you sure?’

‘One hundred per cent.
It’s the least I can do.
We’re a team, aren’t we?’

‘We are most definitely a team.’
God, she loved him for this.
She absolutely loved him.
It was as if the fog had lifted, and they’d remembered who they were again – Freya
and Victor, the very same people who’d fallen in love at a French pizzeria all those years ago.
A good team.

‘But in the meantime,’ he went on, ‘here we are, just the two of us, all alone.’
He grinned, the dimple flashing in his left cheek, and his hand slid lower down her back,
to rest on her bottom.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any .
.
.
ideas .
.
.
about how we might fill our time away have you?’

She grinned back, happier than she had been all summer, and tucked a thumb into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘It’s funny you should ask me that because I do have one or two, now you
mention it .
.
.’
She leaned up to kiss him full on the mouth and then their hands were all over each other’s bodies and the very posh bedroom was suddenly filled with flying clothes
and laughter.
They collapsed together onto the enormous bed with a deliciously wanton sense of abandon, reminding Freya of those first heady days back in France.

Mmm-mmm, she thought joyfully, as he tossed her knickers over his shoulder.
Now this was
exactly
what holidays were all about .
.
.

Back at Shell Cottage, there was something of a carnival atmosphere – or a festival, even – with the three tents now standing upright in the garden.
Teddy was so
excited about camping out that he was capering about in pyjamas already, even though they’d only just had dinner, and usually you had to practically crowbar him up to bed of an evening.
He
and Libby had stuffed their tent full of blankets and pillows, soft toys and cushions, as well as an elaborate trap to catch any bears that happened to be strolling by.
Meanwhile, Dexter was
red-faced and exuberant following three energetic badminton matches with Robert, and was demanding more, despite Robert lying on the grass with the racquet on his face, pretending to be dead from
exhaustion.

He
was
a good man, Harriet thought, watching through the kitchen window as he lay there, putting up with Libby arranging the shuttlecocks in a pattern on his legs for at least twenty
seconds before leaping up and roaring in pretend rage, sending her racing away shrieking.
He was a nice, funny, good man.
But .
.
.

She sighed, turning away to distract herself with the washing-up, rather than thinking too hard about the ‘but’.
Did every man have to have a ‘but’?
Was that part of the
deal when you married someone?
To be fair, she probably had a few herself.

Well, I do love Harriet but she’s a bloody nightmare first thing in the morning
, she imagined Robert saying to a marriage counsellor.
True enough.

Harriet’s great but she is the messiest woman ever to walk this earth.
Well, yeah, okay, he’d have a point.
She’d own up to that one too.

Harriet is a loyal wife but she does have a bad habit of flirting with handsome surfers ten years younger than her.
She flushed, squirting in washing-up liquid and running the hot tap.
All right, all right.
Nobody was perfect, were they?
Definitely not her.
Not Robert either.
Maybe everyone had their ‘but’ points.
Maybe that was just part of being human.

She plunged her hands into the water and turned her attention to the lasagne dish from dinner, which had burned-on melted cheese encrusted around the edge.
Sometimes it was easier not to think
at all, she decided, submerging it beneath the suds and scrubbing with renewed vigour.

Robert was keeping his distance, that much was evident, politely waiting for her to decide she wanted to talk.
If
she wanted to talk, that was.
In the meantime, Olivia
had dabbed on some bright lipstick and gone off to meet Gloria – ‘After all my good deeds today I need a drink,’ she had declared cheerfully.
‘Don’t wait up!’
– and Molly had vanished up to the attic for a very intense Skype session with Chloe.
(Or so Harriet hoped.
It was all she could do not to go and spy through the keyhole in case her daughter
had latched on to Inappropriate Man Numero Duo by now.
Please, no.
There were only so many new grey hairs a woman could acquire in one single summer holiday.)

Harriet sat and read a magazine for a while, then dried and put away all the washing-up, padded back to the living room, switched on the television and flicked through every single channel
– rubbish, the lot of them – before switching it off again.

She poured herself a glass of wine and glanced out of the window to see that the children’s tents were zipped shut, and that Robert was lying with his head sticking out of his, reading a
book.
Surely the children hadn’t actually gone to sleep already?
It was only just past eight o’clock.

She hesitated, her hand on a second wine glass, wondering whether or not to venture outside, whether or not she could face a conversation with him now.
He must have sensed her watching, though,
because in the next moment, he looked up and saw her at the window.

Busted.
She felt she had no choice but to hold up the empty glass and wine bottle with a questioning expression, at which he put his thumb up and grinned, turning the book face down on the grass
in a way that suggested he was done with reading for the time being.

Right.
So it looked as if they were going to talk now, after all.
Dramatic chords boomed in her head and she gave herself a quick pep talk.
Be strong.
Be calm.
No shouting in front of the
children.
No weakness in the face of sad-puppy eyes.

Once outside, it quickly became apparent that the children were definitely not asleep.
Harriet smiled to hear the hysterical whoops of mirth exploding from the far tent.
‘What’s
going on in there, then?’
she asked, sitting down cross-legged on the grass and passing Robert his wine.

Robert sat up, lifting his glass in mock salute.
‘They’re having their midnight feast now,’ he explained, ‘so they can brush their teeth again afterwards.
Very sensible
really.
Dentists everywhere would approve.’

Harriet remembered similarly early ‘midnight feasts’ that Molly and her friends had had on sleepovers when they just couldn’t hold out any longer.
‘Sweet,’ she
said.

‘Yeah.
I am turning a blind eye to the fact that they sneaked the cake tin in there, by the way.
I suspect there will be many rainbow sprinkles and crumbs in sleeping bags tonight, not to
mention a few diabolical sugar hangovers in the morning.’

Harriet gave another brief smile, but allowed the conversation to peter out.
Now that they were here, she was no longer sure what she wanted to say to him.
The air was warm and soft, the
golden-blue sky seeming to fold around them in a benevolent, protective way.
She found herself wishing they didn’t have to have any difficult conversations at all; that they could simply
pretend it had never happened and be Harriet and Rob again.
But his face had already lost its smile, his mouth was twisting in an awkward grimace and she could tell he was gearing up to apologize
all over again.

She was done with apologies, she realized.
There were only so many a person could bear to hear before they became downright irritating.
‘What are you going to do now, then?’
she
asked, heading this one off at the pass.

The question took him by surprise.
‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, job-wise.
Now that the book isn’t happening.
Will you try again, or .
.
.
?’

He gave a hollow laugh.
‘God, no.
Fifty or so rejections is enough to put me straight on that front.’

There was a terrible despair in his face, genuine humiliation.
Despite everything, she felt a stab of sympathy for him.
‘Don’t say that, Rob.
I read some of it, remember.
I thought
it was good!’

‘Yeah, well.’
He grimaced.
‘That’s because you’re a lot kinder than all the editors and publishers who turned it down.’
He laced his fingers together and
cracked his knuckles.
‘What I really want to do – don’t laugh – is something sporty.
Be a personal trainer, do a bit of kids’ football coaching.
I know it’s not
exactly highbrow, but—’

‘But who gives a shit about highbrow?’
she burst out.
This, then, was the core of the whole problem – this stupid shame he seemed to feel about his career choices.
‘Being
a social worker isn’t highbrow either but it’s a good job.
It helps people.’
There was a small silence and she felt defensive all of a sudden.
‘I mean, the money’s not
great and there are no fancy parties or glamorous working lunches, but .
.
.’

He winced.
‘Yeah.
It is a good job.’

‘It’s about doing what makes you feel happy, Rob.
Doing what satisfies you here.’
She banged a fist against her chest.
‘It’s really
not
about what’s
going to impress the rest of your family.’

‘I know.
I get that now.’
He ran his fingers through the grass, eyes down.
Sad puppy.
Apologetic puppy.
She wasn’t going to let him get away that easily, though.

‘Or me!
You didn’t have to try and impress me either.
Because I was already impressed, Rob.
Don’t you see that?
I was already impressed!’

He looked ashen-faced but didn’t speak.

‘I was impressed when you helped me with the power saw in our woodwork class.
I was impressed when you took Molly and her friends to see that awful teenybop band when I was ill.
I was
impressed when you worked around the clock at that dreadful cycle courier place, Rob, when we were saving up for our wedding!’
Her voice had become so loud and high-pitched that the giggling
from the children’s tent suddenly ceased.
‘That’s what does it for me,’ she said in a quieter tone, hands shaking on her wine glass.
‘Kindness and thoughtfulness and
hard work.
Not you spinning off into some fantasy realm where you think you’re famous!’

He recoiled as if she’d slapped him but then nodded with a certain grimness, tacitly acknowledging that he deserved every word.
‘I never meant it to get so out of hand,’ he
mumbled.
‘So .
.
.
ridiculous.’

She looked at him.
Really looked at him – this man, her husband – as she wondered what was best to do.
After Simon, she hadn’t been sure she could ever trust another man again,
but when she met Robert, it seemed so easy, she was surprised to have doubted herself.
So where did they go from here?

Two paths lay ahead of her in this moment.
One, where she and Robert split up and she vowed to steer clear of men all over again.
A lonely path, but a self-righteous one too.
A path where she
would never be hurt or lied to or made to feel an idiot again.
She would be safe that way.

And then there was a second path, of course.
A path where she and Robert started over.
A less lonely path but a less certain one for that.
She would have doubts, suspicions.
It would take her a
while before she could continue along the path without sidelong glances at Robert to check what he was up to.

But what good does being angry do, really?
It only gives you wrinkles at the end of the day.
I don’t want to live the rest of my life with bitterness
, Olivia had said that
afternoon.

Neither did Harriet.
‘A sports coach would be cool,’ she found herself saying, as if the last part of their conversation hadn’t just happened.
‘And you’d be a great
personal trainer.
Think of all those new-year’s-resolution-ers in January who’ll be desperate to get in shape.’

He looked up, recognizing an olive branch when he saw one.
‘I think I’d enjoy it,’ he said cautiously.

‘I know you’d enjoy it.’
She finished her glass of wine and set it down on the grass.
Olivia was right, she thought.
Forgiveness – even the first tiny step towards
forgiveness – left you feeling a whole lot better.
They could make this work.
She indicated his tent with a tilt of her head.
‘So .
.
.
is there room for two in that thing or
what?’

His eyes widened, full of hope.
‘Are you saying .
.
.
?’

‘I’m saying, you’ll have to budge up in there, Bear Grylls.
Mrs Grylls here fancies a night under canvas, too.
Is that all right?’

The look on his face made it quite clear that yes, this was very much all right.