‘And now you can have a lovely chill out with Art until dinner’s ready.’
Art has his guitar out again and is playing some great soulful tunes that are drifting in through the windows from the terrace – Adele, Will Young, Nerina Pallot. He seems really relaxed and I wonder if he too has finally fallen under the spell of this magical place. Like me, if he’s taken a break from the treadmill of his life, will he start to wonder why he’s on it in the first place? I do hope that Ella has been able to tell him her news… their news.
I shoo her out of the kitchen to sit with Art on the terrace and I take her place next to Noah chopping onions. ‘What’s on the menu?’
‘Noah Reeves’s special chicken biryani with vegetable curry and aubergine bhajee.’
‘Sounds incredible. Do you do this kind of thing often?’
‘Sometimes I cook at the estate.’ He grins at me. ‘Usually knocking out hearty breakfasts for shooting parties. I’m a dab hand at afternoon tea and sometimes I even wander into the outer reaches of fancy food.’
‘Oh, really?’ I look suitably impressed.
‘Yes, really.’ He grins at me as he mixes all manner of spices together.
‘I’m more of an open-a-jar sort of person myself.’
‘Then you are missing one of the great joys of life,’ he informs me.
‘At least I discovered another one this afternoon.’
‘You enjoyed the surfing?’
I nod. ‘Very much.’
‘Aching now?’
‘A bit. I had a nice long bath. I’m hoping that will stave off the worst of the pain.’
‘You did really well,’ Noah says, generously.
‘I think that might be stretching it, but I did enjoy myself.’
‘You’ve caught the sun.’
‘That means that my nose has gone all freckly.’
His eyes soften. ‘It suits you.’
‘What are you two up to?’ Flick breezes in from the terrace. ‘Can’t have you getting all cosy in here together.’
Guiltily, I take a step away from Noah. ‘We could do with an extra pair of hands,’ I say lightly.
‘I’m just here for more wine,’ Flick informs us. She picks up a piece of peeled carrot and pops it into her mouth. ‘You should know by now that I don’t do kitchens.’ She twines her arms round Noah’s waist. ‘Looks as if you have it all under control.’
‘Sure do,’ Noah agrees.
Flick raises an eyebrow at me and nuzzles his neck. I chop my onions faster. She drifts off to get another bottle of white wine out of the fridge. ‘Smells divine,’ she says and disappears again.
‘Nearly done with the onions?’
‘Yes, thank goodness. My eyes are starting to smart now.’ Tears squeeze out and flow down my cheeks.
‘Hold your hands under the cold water,’ Noah advises.
I do as he suggests, but still the tears run down my face and I blink furiously to try to stem the burning. Then suddenly the tears that were onion-induced turn to real tears and, unbidden, I find myself crying.
‘Here,’ he says and rips some kitchen towel from the roll. As I hold my hands in the stream of water, he comes close. He turns off the tap and turns me towards him. His hand goes into my hair and he tilts my face towards him, then dabs gently at my eyes for me, blotting my tears.
This is what I would call getting too cosy. His face is above mine, very near, and he’s gazing at me intently. My tears dry to a trickle and, with a few noisy gulps, stop.
‘Better?’
‘Much,’ I gulp.
He gazes down at me, frowning in concern, and I sniff again. Noah rests his forehead against mine and the mere touching of our skin makes me tremble inside. We stand there, immobile. I know I should pull away, but I can’t. Someone could see us. All it would take is for Harry to turn his head this way. Or Flick could come back inside at any second. Then what would we do? I close my eyes and try to steady my breath, but the heady scent of Noah fills my senses. He still has the fresh tang of the sea air layered with a musky, oriental spike of aftershave that makes my head swim. Eventually, when there are no more tears, he moves away and I gulp in air that doesn’t taste of Noah.
‘OK now?’
I let out a shuddering breath.
‘I don’t like to see you sad,’ he says.
‘Just onions,’ I assure him, shakily.
‘I don’t think so, Grace.’
I shrug as my voice simply can’t be trusted.
‘Have it your way. Shall we move on to less distressing vegetables then? There are some aubergines to slice.’
I try a teary laugh. ‘I can do that.’
So I distract myself by taking a knife and hacking vengefully at some innocent aubergines.
Noah takes the onions and tips them into the pan with the chicken. He adds the spices and stock, stirring all the time. ‘Want to talk about it?’ he asks, not looking at me.
I shake my head. ‘It’s something I’ve got to deal with.’
‘I know that you’re struggling,’ Noah says softly. ‘I’m not blind.’
‘No.’ I look up at him and smile ruefully. ‘But perhaps I have been for too long.’ Before I can say any more, Ella comes in. Which I think is a good thing.
‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘I can’t just sit there and vegetate. My bottom’s going numb. I’ve spent all day doing nothing.’
‘Ella!’ I admonish.
‘I can, at least, set the table, Grace,’ she counters. ‘Find me a little job to do before I go mad.’
Rooting in the drawer, I pick out the knives and forks and hand half of them to Ella. Together we move over to the table. I lower my voice when I ask her, ‘Did you find the right moment to tell Art yet?’
‘I didn’t,’ she admits.
‘Oh, Ella.’
But what can I say when I’m no better myself? Seems that both Ella and I are happy to ignore the elephants in our rooms.
Chapter Thirty-Five
We all sit round the big kitchen table and Noah serves the curry. Harry, Art and Flick are already in hearty, ebullient mood. The wine is flowing and, do you know, I’ve decided that if you can’t beat them, you should join them. I’m tired of being disapproving, always feeling as if I have to watch what I drink myself, so that I can be Harry’s conscience. Tonight, I want to lose myself too, to squash down the emotions that are battling for space in my head and float on a fluffy cloud of alcohol-induced bliss. It seems to work for everyone else.
The wine is flowing and I hold out my glass. Barely looking at me, Harry fills it. But I don’t care. Tonight he can sulk all he likes, I’m just going to let it wash over me. To add to the ambience, Noah’s curry is sensational and everyone tucks in enthusiastically.
‘This is delicious, darling,’ Flick gushes. ‘Really heavenly. You’re so clever.’
‘Very bloody Jamie Oliver,’ Harry grumbles. But he eats a massive plateful, nevertheless.
I swig my wine, but it tastes bitter in my mouth and I acknowledge without regret that I’ve completely lost my enjoyment of alcohol. Putting my glass down, I realise that the answer to this isn’t to be found in getting drunk. If only I could persuade Harry to feel the same way. So I sit on the sidelines and watch the others getting totally plastered. We seem to have fallen into two camps – Harry, Flick and Art are the heavy drinkers while Noah, Ella and I are the abstainers. Despite the excellent food, the former all seem to be determined to get as drunk as possible.
Over dinner the banter gets louder and louder. Before long, Harry and Art start to trade insults.
‘You want to get a real job, you long-haired layabout,’ Harry jokes. ‘Band manager? What the hell is that when it’s at home?’
‘Yeah, old man,’ Art says affably. ‘Money for nothing and my chicks for free.’ I see Ella flinch at that. ‘If I wanted to be a boring fart like you, I’d have gone into pensions.’
And, of course, the more wine that is consumed, the more the jovial ins
ults start to take on a more spiky tone and become point scoring, particularly when it’s Harry aiming them at Noah.
‘What do you do for work, Noah?’
‘I’m an estate manager.’
‘Council estate?’
‘Country estate,’ Noah says patiently.
‘Not your own?’
‘No.’
‘By the time I was your age, I’d had two kids and a house in Hampstead, another on the south coast, and a boat.’
By the time he was a year older, he also had a divorce under his belt. One of those homes had been sold to pay maintenance to his ex-wife and the boat had gone too. But I don’t say that out loud.
‘I think that says something about a man,’ Harry says smugly.
It says that he’s a plonker. I’m seething silently.
‘Perhaps it does,’ Noah agrees.
‘Harry, shut up,’ I say.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he gets worse. A lesser man would be riled, but Noah deflects all Harry’s jibes with good humour.
As it carries on, even Flick is beginning to get annoyed. ‘Put a sock in it, Harry,’ she says, regarding him over her wineglass. ‘You’ve made your point.’
My husband falls silent and stays that way.
Ella is looking panicked as well she might. Harry is behaving like a petulant child and he’s spoiling the evening. The good-mood vibe has seeped away and there’s a tension round the table that’s palpable. I don’t know why he’s quite so against Noah.
‘Let’s go and play ping-pong,’ Ella suggests as soon as we’ve eaten. ‘There’s a table set up in one of the outhouses.’
‘I’m game,’ Art says. He’s looking very laid-back and has started rolling a joint.
‘Let’s clear the table.’ I start to collect the plates and Noah does the same.
‘I need a breath of fresh air,’ Flick says. ‘I’m just going to walk on the beach for five minutes.’ She motions to Art to follow her outside. What she means is that she needs a puff of his joint and knows that Noah will disapprove.
‘I’ll come too,’ Harry says and, taking one of the half-empty wine bottles, he heads out after them. I don’t think that Harry has ever used drugs, so perhaps he does just want some air. Perhaps he’s just trying to make amends after picking on Flick’s boyfriend. Usually Ella would have a smoke with Art, but I notice that she hangs back instead and fiddles about, tidying the kitchen.
I stack the dishwasher and pile the pots and pans up in the sink. With much therapeutic clanging, I start to wash them. Noah comes alongside me.
‘That was great,’ I say to Noah, aware that no one has thanked him properly for his efforts. ‘Really great.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He takes up the tea towel and starts to wipe.
I clang some more, then Noah puts his hands on my arms and stops me. ‘You’ll give yourself a headache on top of everything else,’ he says with a smile.
‘Sorry.’ My anger ebbs out of me and I can’t help but laugh.
‘Harry’s not my biggest fan, is he?’
‘I don’t know what’s going on there,’ I admit.
I’m beginning to think that Harry is aware of the amount of time I’m spending with Noah. Is that why he’s like he is? If so, I have to make sure that I put some space between us. I don’t want to antagonise the situation further and spoil the holiday. Already we’re walking on eggshells with each other.
‘He’s being a total prat. I’m sure it’s nothing personal. It’s just the drink talking. I’m really sorry.’
‘There’s no need for you to apologise,’ he says.
Before I can say any more, Ella comes into the kitchen and starts to rummage through the cupboards. ‘I’m sure there are some more ping-pong balls in here,’ she says. ‘I bought some last time I came down.’ Then, ‘Ah. Here they are.’
Perhaps if we all run round and blow off a bit of steam, it might help to clear the atmosphere a bit. I can only hope.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The outhouse that holds the table-tennis equipment is the biggest one of the three that lie alongside Cwtch Cottage. It’s dusty and clearly hasn’t been used for years. There are cobwebs in every corner and it smells of pipe tobacco. Ella and I are the first to arrive.
‘I should come and give this a good clean-out,’ Ella says. ‘It would look so much better.’ She runs her hand fondly over the well-used green table that dominates the room. ‘This is what Dad and I used to do on rainy days when we were up here on holiday. We could spend hours playing each other. Even though I never seemed to get any better, he always used to let me win.’ Her voice is wistful. ‘I do miss them both.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I can’t believe that I’m going to have a baby – their first grandchild – and that neither of them is here to see it. They would have loved to be grandparents. I’m just sorry I never did it when they were around.’
I take Ella in my arms and give her a hug. She’s such a tiny little thing that I always want to protect her from the knocks of the world, but this girl is tougher than she looks. ‘They’d be very proud of you, Ella. You know that.’
‘I’d have liked their help too. It must be so much easier if you have your family supporting you.’
‘We’re family,’ I say. ‘Flick and I. We’ll be here for you.’
She squeezes my hand. ‘I’m not sure I’m brave enough to do this by myself.’ Ella smoothes her T-shirt over her bump. ‘It might not look much, but I think I’m already three months gone.’
I had no idea that was the case.
‘That doesn’t leave me much time to prepare. If I’m honest, Grace, I’m frightened.’
‘You have to tell Art.’
‘How can I?’
I put my hands on her tummy. ‘He’s going to figure it out soon enough, Ella. That bump’s going to get steadily bigger. You can’t keep wearing baggy jumpers and blame it all on an increased appetite.’
Then Noah arrives and we abandon our chat to pick up the table-tennis paddles. The rubber is worn and puckered, the colour faded.
‘Come on, Ella, I’ll take you on,’ I say.
So my friend and I play together while Noah takes up a seat and watches us. Like the girls we are, Ella and I hit the ball to each other. I don’t want to make her run around in her condition but, as I haven’t played this since I was about twelve years old, it’s all we can do to get it backwards and forwards across the saggy net. I feel self-conscious with Noah’s eyes watching us intently.
Just like her dad, I let Ella win. As we finish our match, Harry, Art and Flick arrive, presumably drawn by the light on in the outhouse. The mood is a lot more mellow now, probably due to the influence of the wacky-baccy. Only Harry is still crotchety.
‘Who’s on next?’ I hold out my bat.
Noah and Flick take up the paddles and it’s clear that Noah lets her win too, but it’s equally apparent that Flick is bored within seconds. Obviously, the delights of table tennis are failing to enthral her. She might say that she wants to give up the wild life of hard partying, but the reality of the alternative is, perhaps, harder to swallow.
Then I play Flick and give her a good thrashing because, if it’s humanly possible, she’s even worse than I am. In fairness, my opponent isn’t helped by the fact that she’s as drunk as a skunk and swaying like a ship on the ocean. It’s also clear that she’s been enjoying Art’s pot and that hasn’t improved her game either.
It’s the turn of the men. Art takes Harry on, but smoking a joint or two hasn’t improved his hand-to-eye coordination either and, even though Harry is drunk and lurching about, he runs rings round Art who concedes gracefully.
‘Come on, Noah,’ Harry says. ‘Show us what you’ve got. See if you’re as good at this as you are at everything else.’
‘Harry,’ I warn, ‘it’s table tennis.’ You’d think he was challenging Noah to a duel.
‘It’s fine, Grace,’ Noah says. ‘I’m happy to take Harry on.’
With the
first serve, the tone of the match is set. Harry smashes the ping-pong ball across the net with all the force he can muster and it whizzes straight past Noah at hip height.
‘Not so clever now,’ Harry snarls.
So Noah serves and spins it back across the table expertly. So it continues.
Ella keeps score. As the points fall, the game gets more tetchy. ‘Come on, boys,’ she says lightly. ‘Play nicely.’