‘You’ve just got to look to the future,’ Ella says. ‘There’s no point regretting what happened back then. You made what you thought was the best choice at the time. We all did. No one can blame you for that.’
‘That’s also why this relationship with Noah has to work,’ Flick says. ‘He’d make a great father. He’s the first person I’ve ever thought that I really could do this with. I can’t mess up this chance.’ Then she laughs, trying to make light of it. ‘Think of what great-looking kids we’d knock out.’
I really had no idea that Flick felt like this. I always thought she was happier with the one-night stand, the married man. When did the idea of motherhood start to creep into the forefront of her consciousness? Why has she never mentioned it to us?
‘Have you never wanted a baby, Grace?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘Harry’s got a couple already. He’d be great,’ she presses on. ‘At least one of you would know what you’re doing.’
‘It’s never even been an option,’ I tell her. ‘His view is that he’s already done the baby thing with Freddie and Oscar. He’s never wanted to start over again with another family. He’s always been very firm about it.’
She looks taken aback by that. ‘Didn’t that bother you?’
‘I just accepted it.’
‘And you’ve never gone round, looking in prams and wondering “what if”?’
I can honestly say that I haven’t and now I wonder why that is. Have I pushed down my own maternal instinct in deference to Harry’s views? I’ve loved being a stepmum to Freddie and Oscar, but have I been fooling myself all these years that it was enough for me? Given the chance, would I want more?
‘If it was me, I’d have been putting a few holes in those condoms, missing a few pills.’
Is that, I wonder, what she’s doing with Noah? It would simply never occur to me to let my plans trample over someone else’s. As a partnership we’ve worked out something that suits us both. But something uncomfortable pricks in my brain. It actually suits Harry more than it suits me.
‘Everyone wants kids,’ is Flick’s verdict. ‘It’s only natural.’
Do they? Do I?
When I examine it, I think the main problem is that I’ve never really seen Harry as wonderful father material. So perhaps that’s why I’ve never had the urge to procreate with him.
When I first met Harry, the boys were already teenagers, so I used to stay away from his place when he had his access visit once a month. Then, gradually, I got to know them. Now, of course, I love them to bits. They were great as kids, but I’m not sure that most of it is down to Harry’s input. His first wife left him when the boys were only five and two, so he didn’t have a lot of influence on them as he didn’t push for regular access. I don’t know why that was. They just never figured very highly in his life. We used to take them out for pizza and on bicycle rides – the things that part-time parents do to fill the time – but he never felt truly involved in it. His style of parenting was very much hands off and still is.
Now, they’re both lovely young men with their own lives to lead. I think if I didn’t call them regularly to see how they were, Harry would have very little to do with them other than exchanging tweets. They’re a credit to their mother rather than to Harry, I suspect, and I feel blessed that they still want contact with me.
Perhaps if we’d had them as younger children, it would have influenced me more. But sometimes dragging round two teenagers who clearly would prefer to be somewhere else made it seem like so much hard work. Harry used to say that I was lucky as I’d had the benefits of kids without enduring the sleepless nights and the stretch marks. But I’m not so sure that he was right. I’ve loved the brief glimpse of family life that I have had. Wouldn’t I love it more if I had children of my own?
What would happen if I did suddenly start to feel broody? I’m thirty-two. Hardly past it. There’s still time for me to have a baby. Haven’t I just been telling Flick the very same thing? But is that ever likely to happen with Harry? The answer, quite probably, is no. Coming out of nowhere, that hits me hard. As well as always being an accountant, am I also going to stay a child-free zone? The thought shakes me more than I’d like to admit. Am I happy to spend the rest of my life doing what everyone else thinks I should do rather than what I want to do myself?
‘Well, I’m done with waiting around for married men,’ Flick says. She grinds her cigarette butt into the sand. ‘There comes a point when late nights and one-night stands become a chore. I’ve had more than my fair share of cocktails and high heels. Noah has turned everything upside down. Now I want to give it all up and have something more meaningful in my life. I’m ready to play house and babies,’ Flick admits. ‘Bring it on.’
I had no idea that Flick felt quite so deeply about Noah. He would make a great father, there’s absolutely no doubt about that. If this is really what she wants – husband, children, roses round the door – then who am I to resent my friend having some happiness?
‘This has to work with Noah,’ she reiterates. ‘It has to.’ Flick smiles at us both ruefully. ‘I’ve messed up so many times. I can’t do it again.’
‘Does he love you?’ It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it and I want to bite off my tongue.
‘I think he does. He just needs convincing.’ She throws back her hair. ‘Wish me luck, ladies. This one has to stick around. I’m even going bloody surfing in an attempt to show him that I’m his ideal woman.’ She laughs. ‘What do you think about that, Grace? Me on a surfboard. It must be bloody love.’
‘It must be,’ I agree. And I feel guiltier than ever.
‘When do you think you’ll propose to him?’ Ella wants to know.
‘On this holiday,’ she says, decisively. ‘No time like the present. I’d like to end this week with a clear vision of my future and, more importantly, a ring on my finger!’
There’s a rushing noise in my ears that’s not the waves and, though I’m still sitting firmly on the sand, I feel as if the ground has suddenly fallen away from beneath me.
Chapter Thirty-One
Later than we’d planned, we pull up in front of Cwtch Cottage. It’s time to face the music. I kill the engine and we all sit in silence.
‘Please don’t say anything about the baby,’ Ella makes us promise. ‘I need to find the right time to tell Art. Until then mum’s the word.’
‘Well, that’s bloody funny, woman. “Mum’s the word.” That’s exactly what it is!’ Flick says and we dissolve into giggles. I feel that there’s a touch of hysteria in my own laughter.
When we’ve calmed down again, Ella says, ‘We’d better go inside. They must be wondering why we’ve taken so long.’
‘Wish me luck,’ I say. ‘I’ll need it. Harry’s going to go ballistic.’
Heavy of heart, I follow the others through the cottage. As we expected, our men are outside on the terrace. It looks as if Art and Noah are just finishing breakfast at the table. Harry is out on the rocks. He has one of the golf clubs and the bucket of balls and, like Ella’s dad used to, he’s knocking them out into the sea.
‘Hello, ladies. Where have you been?’ Art says when he sees us. ‘We thought you’d got lost.’
Ella kisses his cheek. ‘I had an errand to run in St Davids and it took much longer than I thought.’
Noah looks up. I’m sure it’s not my imagination, but his eyes search for me before they search for Flick. His face lights up in a smile.
Flick goes over to him and kisses him passionately. ‘Hello, darling. Did you miss me?’
‘It was very quiet without you,’ he teases. Then he studies me closely. ‘Are you all right, Grace?’
‘We had a bit of an accident,’ Flick says. ‘Grace has pranged Harry’s pride and joy.’
‘I thought you looked pale.’ His face is lined with concern. ‘No one hurt?’
I shake my head. ‘Not yet.’ I look again to Harry who is, at this moment, blis
sfully unaware, and I sigh to myself. He is not going to be happy. The tentative truce we came to last night is, I feel, not going to survive this. ‘I’d better get it over with.’
So while Flick fills in Noah and Art on the dastardly details, I walk out to where Harry is. He doesn’t pause in his activity.
‘Nice shot,’ I say as another ball disappears into the ocean beyond the rocks. He stops and turns to me. I clear my throat. ‘Harry, I need to have a word with you.’
‘Not now, Grace,’ he says, not meeting my gaze. Clearly he thinks a talk is on the cards about what we said to each other last night and he is, obviously, not keen to revisit it. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘You’ll want to know about this.’
He stops and leans on the golf club, expectantly.
‘I’ve had a bit of a bump in the car,’ I explain calmly.
That makes him jump like a scalded cat. ‘What? In the Bentley? Is it bad?’
‘You’d better come and look.’
He throws down the golf club and is already racing ahead of me. I haven’t seen Harry move this fast in years. I trudge after him. The others, very wisely, stay where they are and I shoot them a rueful glance as I pass.
I hear Harry cry out. Well, it’s more of a despairing howl. It’s clear that he’s seen the damage that the Bentley has sustained during its brief skirmish with the post. And, as I round the corner of the cottage, I see him on his knees at the bumper. He is rocking backwards and forwards, hugging himself.
‘Have you seen this?’ he splutters as I approach.
‘Of course I have, Harry. I’m the one who backed it into a post.’
‘How the hell did you manage to do that?’
‘I lost concentration for a second,’ I explain. ‘Just a second.’
‘Oh my God.’ Harry rends his hair. ‘Oh my God.’ He crawls forward to stroke the crumpled metal, lovingly.
‘It’s a car, Harry,’ I say, flatly.
‘It’s barely a month old!’
‘We can fix it.’ My lips are tight. ‘I’ll organise everything.’
‘This will cost thousands! Thousands, Grace.’
‘I know and I’m really sorry.’
Again I have to wonder why Harry has seen fit to spend so much money on a car. The chances are that, these days, it’s going to get dented. Will he be hysterical when we park it on the street anywhere? Surely this kind of car is a prime target for vandals. Our old car was much more modest and he wouldn’t have created like this if I’d bumped it. Who does he think that he’s trying to impress with this ostentatious show of wealth? Certainly not me.
‘It’s only money and the insurance policy will cover most of it,’ I reiterate.
‘That’s hardly the point, is it?’ he says.
‘It was an accident, Harry.’ I’m surprised that I sound so calm. I was worried about what he’d say but, frankly, now I don’t give a flying fuck. There are far more important things in life to worry about than a bit of a dent in your car. ‘No one was hurt. Which is all that matters.’
Harry looks at me as if he wishes it was me lying crumpled on the road with a still-pristine Bentley embedded in my brain. He shakes his head.
‘I’ll say nothing more about this,’ he says crisply. ‘For the sake of harmony. My instinct is to get straight in it, drive back to London and put it into the garage to be repaired right away.’
‘If you want to leave, Harry, then you must do that.’
‘I thought you wanted to go too,’ he counters. ‘That’s what you said last night.’
‘I can’t leave,’ I tell him. ‘Ella needs me here. We should put our differences aside and stay for the rest of the week.’
He doesn’t know yet, but I hope we will all be celebrating her and Art’s good news – as soon as she tells him.
Harry pouts. ‘The salt air will make the exposed metal rust.’
‘Not in a few days,’ I point out. ‘It’s not going to make it any worse than it is now, for heaven’s sake.’
He speaks to me as if I’m a naughty child. ‘I want you to pay for this, do you hear?’
I wonder if he means in money or emotional torture. To be honest, I don’t care either way. For the hell of it, I feel like kicking in one of the panels too. Or maybe pouring red wine all over his leather seats. And just last night I hoped that we might have turned a corner.
‘I don’t know that I can ever forgive you for this, Grace,’ he warns.
I say nothing. He seems to think that this gives him the high moral ground, which may be so. But all I feel is that it’s another nail being hammered into the coffin that has become our marriage.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Commiserations about the injury to the Bentley are passed around. Harry drags Art and Noah outside to examine the damage and no doubt tells them what a complete idiot I am. When they come back, Ella says, ‘Let’s go off to the beach. That’ll cheer us all up. It’s a beautiful day and we don’t want to waste it.’
So, with Harry still grumbling, we all head off to Portgale beach as we’d agreed last night. We leave the Bentley behind because my husband announces that he needs a drink and I refuse to drive it. Never in my lifetime am I going near that car again.
Today, I’ve vowed that I’m going to try to give Noah a wide berth, so we hitch a ride in Art’s Mercedes even though the back seat is considerably more cramped. As we’re heading for the cars, Noah catches my arm.
‘Are you OK?’ he says. ‘There’s been much talk about the car, but I’m sure you’re shaken up too.’
‘I’ll live,’ I say to Noah, more crisply than I should.
His hand falls from my arm. ‘Good.’
The atmosphere is terrible between me and Harry. I’m trying to be jolly – too much so – but Harry is morose, unspeaking. So Ella and I sit in the back together and I notice that my friend’s unusually quiet on the journey. I take her hand and hold it and she smiles at me gratefully.
When we arrive, the sun is already high in a sky unbroken by clouds. The beautiful weather has brought everyone out and the beach is busy. But as it’s broad and wide, there’s still plenty of space for us amid the sandcastles, the beachballs and the buckets and spades. I stand and breathe in the salt air, feeling it clearing my head. We set up camp on the shingle slope near to one of the surf shops and the pub. Ella has brought some of the beach towels and cushions from the cottage and makes a comfy seating area for us all.
The sea shimmers invitingly and already there are plenty of surfers out, bobbing on the waves. Kite surfers with their brightly coloured canopies scoot along the edge of the surf in the wind. The warm breeze lifts the hair from my neck and I pile up my curls and secure them with a scrunchy.
Harry has finally divested himself of formal clothes and is in his shorts, a T-shirt and a pair of crocs. He’s absolutely ruled out any chance of having a go at surfing and asked Art to stop off at a petrol station on the way so that he could buy himself a copy of The Times, which he’s now manfully trying to read. The wind, however, is making it difficult for him to keep the newspaper open and he keeps shaking it as if he’s trying to get rid of an annoying wasp. If I were him, I’d give up and join in with the chat, but Harry is clearly determined to sulk.
‘Grace?’ he asks. ‘Have we got any suntan cream?’
‘Yes.’ I rummage in my beach bag and then take it over to him. I don’t want to spoil the day for the others with our squabble. ‘Do you want me to put some on for you?’
‘I can do it myself, thank you,’ he says. Clearly, Harry is not so keen to forgive and forget.
Ella has, very sensibly, decided to opt out of the surfing too and sits next to Harry with a magazine.
‘Will you be OK here?’ I ask.
‘Yes, fine,’ she assures me. ‘You go off and have fun.’
‘I’m quite happy to sit here with you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Ella says. ‘I won’t hear of it. I’m just going to chill out, read my mag and do a bit o
f sea gazing for inspiration. I’ve brought the binoculars so that I can watch you all.’
Noah comes over. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Ready to go over to the Surf Shack and get our gear?’
‘Sure.’ I peck a kiss on my husband’s forehead. ‘See you later, Harry.’
I get a grunt in return. So I go over with Noah to join Flick and Art and together we all head along the beach to the equipment shop to get kitted out.