The Dream House (42 page)

She fumbled the key into the ignition of the Audi and the car rolled out into the near-darkness. The headlights swept over Simon where he was dragging Bobby back up the road, but Kate ignored him and pulled the car out into the direction of the coast. Where was she going? She didn’t know and she didn’t care.

The vast East Anglian sky glowed gold and grey around her, but she was driving towards purple, indigo, midnight blue and, in the far distance, black. There was no moon, but faint stars already pricked the velvety sky. Hedges rose on either side and every now and then she passed through a comforting tunnel of trees, the headlights highlighting the details of every leaf and branch, reflecting the eyes of terrified creatures on the road. Slowing down to let them pass calmed her mind. She couldn’t really be mad if, in the depth of her misery, she was still instinctively protective, could she?

When she came to the main road, she turned right towards the great silent church at Blythborough, then dodged down through the maze of dark, deserted lanes to the coast at Dunwich. There she parked the car and walked out alone onto the stony beach.

It was quiet now, apart from the rhythm of the waves; there was no harsh wind, just a cool zephyr from the sea. She walked up the beach, with the dark hulk of the crumbling cliff on her right and the whitish glowing dome of Sizewell nuclear power station in the far distance, then stopped and looked out to sea.

Deep under the black mass of water, she knew, lay the ruins of a city. Sometimes, people would say, one could hear the distant tocsin of bells from the drowned churches, the single ghostly remant of what had been a bustling port in medieval times, before the storms that had clawed great gobbets of the land into the murky depths.
That passed. This will too.

Out here in the darkness, lulled by the gentle sound of the sea, Kate was restored to herself again. Still racked with pain, afraid, but in control. She knew what she had to do now. Debbie was right – she
would
come through. But it would be without Simon.

She waited as a crescent moon began to rise over the water, bathing her in its peaceful light. Then she turned and made her way slowly back to the car.

‘Simon, I want you to leave,’ Kate said quietly. ‘First thing tomorrow morning.’

She had returned to Paradise Cottage to find him waiting alone in the half darkness of the living room. Joyce had scurried off to bed. The house was in silence.

Simon was sitting in an armchair, arms wrapped around his chest, staring at the floor. Kate perched on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped and resting on her knees. Her position suggested she was counselling Simon, not dictating the end of their marriage.

He raised his head. His face was ravaged with emotion. ‘Yes,’ he croaked. He scraped one hand back through his hair. ‘I know. But what about the children? I can’t just leave them. Kate, whatever happens to us, I love my children. I want to be their father, to be there for them.’

A rush of angry retorts tore through Kate’s mind at this. She rejected all of them as unhelpful.

‘We will have to tell them together,’ is what she finally said. ‘I’ve no intention of depriving them of their father, whatever happens. It’s a cheap form of revenge and would only hurt them. You need have no worries on that score.’

Simon’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded.

‘And we must tell your mother together.’

‘Yup,’ he said and sniffed.

She stood up, still calm. Her anger was ice-cold. ‘I’m going to bed now. I can’t bear to talk to you any more this evening.’ She glanced at the sofa.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep down here,’ Simon muttered, brushing away tears with the back of his hand, ‘if you’ll let me get a couple of blankets out of the cupboard.’

When she took some dirty cups through to the kitchen on her way to bed, Kate noticed the picture on the fridge. The dream house and the four smiling stick figures, the dream family. She put the cups down by the sink and, tearing the picture off the fridge door, ripped it to pieces.

The next morning, after breakfast, they told Joyce together as she and Kate were loading the dishwasher in the kitchen. Joyce immediately burst into tears.

‘Sorry, I’m sorry. I could see it coming but I haven’t dared think it would really happen. Oh, the poor children.’

Telling the children was much, much worse. Kate had had a sleepless night thinking about it. They were both old enough to realize something serious was happening. Daisy, at six, understood a little more than Sam, who just knew that his daddy was going away. Both of them cried. Sam clung to his father, weeping uncontrollably. Daisy’s tears were angry. She kicked at Kate when her mother tried to comfort her in the armchair where she had buried herself.

Simon was crying as he took his suitcase out to the car, watched by the white-faced women and with Sam struggling in his mother’s arms. Daisy wouldn’t come out and say goodbye.

The following Thursday morning, a large manila envelope addressed ominously to
Ms Kate Hutchinson
arrived by registered mail. It contained a letter from a firm of City solicitors and informed Kate that Simon was requesting a formal separation. As well as demanding that Kate deliver the children to him every weekend, Simon was claiming a large proportion of the value of Seddington House and its contents.

Kate read the letter through twice, shock succeeded by disbelief. Let Meredith have her children? And every weekend? Never! Was Simon crazy? How could he leap from their civilized conversation of last weekend about sharing the children’s upbringing to this – this intolerable demand! She threw the letter on the table as though it was burning her. And Seddington House! How could he just walk out on her, then turn round and grab for something that was hers, that was nothing to do with him. The injustice of it all!

She stared at the letter again, then in a sudden movement, snatched it up, balled it and stuffed it into the pedal bin. Then she swept up the breakfast bowls and banged them angrily into the sink. It was Simon who had had the affair, Simon who had gone off with someone else, leaving her without any immediate means of support and with two children to look after. Surely the law wouldn’t uphold such unfairness. What kind of monster was he, to make these demands? What would Joyce say, when she heard what her son had done? But Joyce was in Italy with her reading group, and mercifully, could enjoy her holiday in ignorance of this further injury to family happiness. Thank goodness also, Kate thought, that she had cancelled France yesterday. They couldn’t have gone on holiday, she and the children, with something like this hanging over them, could they?

She slumped down into a chair, the fire gone out of her. Now she felt so alone. Who could she speak to? Certainly not her parents – she had said nothing to them so far about her marriage problems, and when she plucked up the courage to do so, she knew she would have to comfort them rather than the other way round. And she so badly wanted comfort. And advice. Liz, she thought.

Kate checked that the children were still watching TV cartoons in the living room then rang her friend’s office. Rosie, Liz’s nice secretary, answered. Kate had forgotten Liz was away in Jersey for a fortnight. After she put down the phone, she retrieved the letter from the bin, straightened it out and read it again. A wave of misery and defeat rolled over her. How was she to fight this?

Would she, after all this searching, lose her dream house before it was truly hers? Was she, in fact, despite all the dreams, finding lost family, establishing connections with the past . . . never meant to have this wonderful place to call home? She had, it seemed, set her heart on something she had been convinced would bring happiness for herself and her family, but it wasn’t working out that way. Maybe the dream was just that – a nighttime fancy, a trick of the mind, that melted away in the truth of daylight. Or a dark chimera that had led her astray, bringing in its wake only betrayal, envy, decay.

She had to talk to someone or she would go crazy. She picked up the phone once more and punched in Debbie’s number.

Within five minutes of putting down the phone to Debbie, Kate had goaded Sam and Daisy to put on their shoes and shepherded them, both protesting, to the car. As she strapped them in, it occurred to her to wonder how long she would have the family car. Simon had left it behind, but it was a company car, not his own.

‘I can’t believe Simon would do something like this,’ she raged to Debbie as her friend read the letter. They had retired to the kitchen, having ushered the five children into the living room, with a huge plate of chocolate biscuits and a new video Debbie had been hoarding for emergencies. ‘It’s not like him at all. It’s cruel, and whatever else Simon has turned out to be, he’s never ever been cruel.’

‘Could this be to do with Meredith?’ Debbie asked. ‘Is she quite an aggressive person?’

‘That’s what I was thinking. It’s the only explanation. I don’t know what she’s like, but she must be tough to be so successful in the City, and this whole thing smacks of the American legal approach – all guns firing.’ Kate was surprised at how coolly her mind was working. Although she could feel a black sea of panic and distress surging away underneath, she was holding herself together.

‘At least he’s not asking to have the children full-time,’ said Debbie.

‘How could he? He works ten hours a day. And he must know the courts would be unlikely to find for him. But still, every weekend . . . It would be so stressful for them, never mind for me.’

‘Jasmin,’ said Debbie suddenly. ‘She’s a family lawyer, isn’t she? She’s not cheap, I’ve heard, but I’d put my money on her sorting things out. Ring her. I’ll have the children while you go and see her.’

And that’s how, later that day, Kate found herself sitting in Jasmin Thornton’s bright modern office in Ipswich, a large mug of strong coffee in her hand and the Orwell River twinkling in the distance through the huge plate-glass windows.

‘I’ve read about this guy.’ Jasmin looked up from the crumpled letter and smoothed her severe black bob, frowning. ‘He’s from New York originally but married a British lawyer and retrained. Let’s say he’s brought some American legal manners with him. He goes for the jugular. Especially if there’s someone like this Meredith egging Simon on.’

‘But surely they don’t have a leg to stand on.’

‘All I can say is that we’ve got some tough negotiating ahead. But,’ she said, smiling slightly, ‘I’m in the mood for this, so they’d better watch out.’ She leaned back in her chair and prepared to take notes. ‘I am less worried about the access issue – you’re right, the courts are unlikely to go for something that places too much stress on the children. It’s the finances we have to sort out. Now, tell me about Seddington House. Where are you with probate?’

Kate spent an hour with Jasmin, who had cancelled another meeting to see her, going over what she could remember of Simon and her finances and her bequest. She gave Jasmin Raj Nadir’s phone number and promised to make sure she was sent a copy of the will, together with various other documentation. By the time she drove back to Fernley, she felt much calmer, but utterly exhausted.

As she drove through Seddington village in the late-afternoon sunshine, she noticed Dan’s bright van parked outside the church and was overcome by a longing to see him. She knew she ought to get back to relieve Debbie of the children, but she hadn’t yet told him about Simon, so she parked her car behind his and went to knock on his door. There was no answer. As she waited she looked round the tiny front garden, decorated with tubs of geraniums and lobelia. Dan’s house was so small, but it was usually loved and cared for, although she remembered with a pang of empathy that he wasn’t feeling up to housework at the moment.

After a while, she walked down the lane that ran behind the cottages, but there was still no sign of him. She slumped against the fence, suddenly giving way to weariness. Just as she was gathering the strength to go, a motorbike roared up the lane behind her.

Dan pulled the bike up against the fence, killed the engine and lifted off his helmet, smiling hello. His toffee-coloured curls were crushed and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He smelled of leather and oil as he brushed past her to open the gate, then turned and quickly kissed her cheek.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked, seeing Kate’s wan expression.

She couldn’t speak, so he drew her into the garden. She followed him down the path and watched mutely as he unlocked the back door.

‘Put the kettle on, would you? While I get these off.’ He gestured to his boots and leathers. He stomped through to the hall and she stood listening to the sounds of zips, thuds and scuffling as she stood in her misery watching the kettle. Finally Dan appeared in the doorway, combing his curls with his fingers, his bulk overwhelming in the small kitchen. He looked enquiringly at her.

‘It’s Simon,’ she said.

‘I thought as much.’ And seeing the tears well in her eyes, he pulled her towards him and snuggled her into his chest. Kate sobbed against his comforting old sweater. After a while she grew calmer. Taking the hank of kitchen roll, he ripped a piece off for her to blow her nose.

‘Hang on a moment,’ Dan said, and reaching past her, he set about making the tea. Without letting her go, he grabbed both mugs in one hand and guided Kate into the living room where he threw a lot of papers, books and clothes into a corner and sat her down next to him on the sofa. Then she told him everything, about Simon leaving and the lawyer’s letter. She was all cried out, and just sat there dully staring at a cobweb in the fireplace that was gently shivering in a gust of air from the chimney.

Finally she looked up and smiled weakly at Dan, wiping her eyes with her hand. ‘Sorry, must look like the wreck of the
Hesperus
,’ she said.

‘You look lovely. As always.’ He smiled with deliberate mock gallantry, but his eyes were serious.

She pressed her lips into a smile that didn’t convince either of them. ‘I ought to be getting back now. Could I go and wash my face?’