‘Thanks. Inside is a bit bashed and scuffed, but it’s very cosy. We’ll have a great week. I’m so excited to see you. I hope you like it, Grace. I’ve wanted you and Flick to come down here for ever.’
‘Well, I’m glad we’ve finally made it.’
Ella tucks her arm into mine and steers me back towards the cottage. ‘You’re looking very tired, lovely lady. Everything OK?’
‘Work, life.’ We exchange a glance. She knows that Harry and I are having a tough time together, but not the specifics. ‘Nothing that a glorious week by the seaside won’t cure.’
‘We’ll have those roses back in your cheeks in no time.’ She gives my face a friendly pinch.
I breathe in the fresh, salty air and wonder why I live in a flat in the city. Harry, standing behind the Bentley, is still trying to get a phone signal. He gives up when he sees us coming back and busies himself lifting one of the cases of wine out of the boot with a grunt.
‘Can I give you a hand with that, love?’
‘I can manage,’ he puffs as he falls into step behind us.
‘You look as if you’ve come well prepared, Harry!’ Ella teases.
‘I know what you lot are like when you get together,’ he tosses back.
Ella grins at him.
‘Is Flick still coming too?’ I ask.
‘Oh, you know what Flick’s like,’ Ella says, rolling her eyes. ‘She’s supposed to be arriving later. But, as we can’t get a phone signal here, and there’s no landline, I haven’t been able to ring her and double-check. It’s only a ten-minute drive to the nearest phone box, but I haven’t had a chance to get there either. I told her she wouldn’t be able to get in touch with me, but she’s probably forgotten. I bet she’s texting me like mad and wondering why I’m not replying.’
‘I hope she hasn’t forgotten altogether that she’s coming.’ Our friend isn’t known for her reliability.
Ella laughs. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her, but I’ve made the bed up anyway.’
‘I thought she couldn’t make it.’ Behind us, Harry sounds tetchy. He’s not Flick’s biggest fan. He finds her too loud, too attention-seeking. He thinks she’s a bad influence on Ella and me. And he’s probably right.
I shrug. ‘She changed her mind at the last minute.’ She could, however, just as easily change it back.
Harry tuts and stamps ahead of us. Ella and I exchange a glance and a giggle. ‘He loves her really,’ I say.
Flick doesn’t like to commit to anything and, even if she’s said that she’ll come along to some get-together or other, is always liable to change her plans at the last minute. I think it comes with not having a partner to answer to. Ella thinks she’s just naturally born selfish, but she says it nicely.
‘Is she bringing anyone?’
‘I think she must be resting between lovers,’ Ella chuckles. ‘She said she’d come by herself.’
‘Either that or he’s married, as usual, and can’t get away from the missus.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s more likely.’
Ella has never really approved of Flick’s preference for men who are already permanently attached to other women. Neither have I, come to that, but we’ve learned to live with it. Unfortunately, the concept of the sisterhood is an alien thing to Flick. Under sufferance, we’ve met a few of her married lovers over the years. They’ve always seemed unsuitable and shifty. They’ve never hung around for too long though. It would be lovely if Flick, for once, could meet someone nice, solvent and unattached.
‘I’ve hardly heard from her in the last few months,’ I confide. ‘I’ve been texting and phoning, but she seldom replies. She’s not avoiding me, is she?’
‘Oh, you know what she’s like,’ Ella says with a shrug. ‘She’s probably up to no good somewhere.’
‘Yes.’
If Flick’s in a tricky relationship, she sometimes goes ‘dark’. Despite being in her thirties now, she’s still exactly the same as when we were at university: flighty, fickle and very frustrating. But we both love her, nevertheless. Ella’s right, I’m probably reading too much into it. I can’t think of anything that I’ve done that would have caused Flick offence. She’s not one to take anything too much to heart, anyway.
‘We’ll all have a lovely week,’ Ella assures me.
‘Of course we will.’ I get a thrill of excitement. I’m going to put all my troubles behind me and just have fun. ‘It’ll be just like old times.’
Chapter Four
Ella, Harry and I swing through the front door of the cottage and into a porch filled with outdoor clutter. There are coats, abandoned shoes and a ragtag of sports equipment alongside a couple of tennis rackets that have seen better days. A slightly rusty Swingball leans up against the wall and, beneath it, lie a couple of mismatched golf clubs with a bucket of tatty balls.
‘Daddy used to stand on the rocks and knock the balls out to sea, as far as he could,’ Ella says when she sees me looking at them. ‘Not exactly eco-friendly, but then he’d go and collect the ones that were washed up on the shore and do it all over again.’
‘Good therapy.’
She laughs. ‘It used to keep him amused for hours.’
The porch leads straight into the homely kitchen. It’s roomier than I’d imagined from outside and is all stripped pine cupboards with a big, proper farmhouse table right in the middle. At the table, Ella’s partner, Art Jarrett, has his feet up and is plucking absently at the guitar slung across his thighs. At his elbow stands a bottle of wine, already open.
Harry brightens as he sees it. ‘Ah, a man after my own heart.’ He instantly dumps the case of wine he’s carrying and rubs his hands in anticipation.
My spirits sink slightly. I wish Art had been having nothing more potent than a cup of tea. That’ll be Harry started for the day and, once he’s begun, there’s no stopping him.
Art stands up when he sees us. ‘Welcome, one and all!’
‘Hi, Art.’ I give him a kiss and a hug.
‘Hi, babe. Long time, no see.’
I like Art. He and Ella don’t have the easiest of relationships, but he has a boyish charm that’s appealing and seems to let him get away with murder most of the time.
The reason we haven’t seen him for a while is because Art has been out in Romania or Bulgaria or maybe both. Art is a band manager, mainly for heavy metal bands, and he kind of looks like that’s what his job should be. He favours the grungy image – ripped jeans or, for best, crumpled linen suits teamed with Guns ’n’ Roses T-shirts. His dark hair is long, unkempt and currently appears as if a burgundy dye is growing out. Usually, as now, a couple of days’ worth of stubble graces his chin.
Ella and Art have been together a long time and, after years of splitting themselves between two places, now share Art’s very smart house in Notting Hill. Marriage is a banned word in their household although Ella makes no secret of the fact that she would very much like to be Mrs Jarrett one day. Most of their problems stem from the fact that Art is a ‘free spirit’. He hates to be tied down and, more often than not, they’re not even in the same country. Ella is quite a renowned artist and she does her fair share of travelling, jetting around the world to create big installations of her work. Then, whenever Ella is at home, Art is usually away somewhere else. He can be on tour for months at a time. Heavy metal may not be the big thing here, but on the continent it’s massive and Art has to go where the money is. Besides, he likes his life on the road. Too much, Ella would say.
Art claps Harry on the back and gives a thumbs-up to the case of wine that’s now on the kitchen floor.
‘There’s another case in the boot,’ Harry says. ‘White.’
‘Top man,’ Art says.
The men, in many ways, are so different, but they rub along well together. My other half is as straight as the day is long. Harry is an actuary, specialising in pensions management for a huge global corporation. I’d like to say that his work isn’t as dull as it sounds, but I’m afraid that it is
. Even I, as a fully signed up and sensible accountant, can glaze over within seconds of Harry starting to talk to me of his working day. Art has absolutely no chance. Even the word ‘pension’ is a complete anathema to Art’s life ethos. He’s used to dealing with monumental egos who dabble in drugs or put televisions through windows of European hotel rooms or turn up late for photo shoots. He’s not that interested in the minutiae of final pension schemes or the dwindling benefits of annuities. Can’t say that I blame him. Thankfully, Art knows how to handle Harry and, once they get the drink flowing, they become great mates. I think it comes with Art having to manage tricky artists for a living that he can get along with anyone.
‘Pull up a chair you two, get yourself some glasses,’ Art instructs.
Only one of us lights up at the thought. Ella brings two glasses from the cupboard and puts them on the table.
‘Not for me,’ I say. So Art fills just one glass.
Harry grasps it gratefully. ‘Devil of a journey,’ he says. ‘Need a bit of a snifter.’
‘There’s a load more stuff in the boot, Harry,’ I remind him. Some of it is perishable and we’ll need to put it in the fridge.
‘Later, Grace,’ he says dismissively.
Harry knocks half of it back in one swallow and smacks his lips gratefully. That’ll be me getting the presents and cases out of the boot, then.
Sometimes when I look at him now, I’m not really sure quite how I came to be with Harry. We met at a function organised by a financial advisor who turned out to be a mutual acquaintance – so far, so boring. Over the champagne and canapés we chatted and, later, when the jazz band started up, Harry asked me to dance with him.
I liked his maturity. Compared to other men that I’d dated – and there were very few of them – he seemed so sophisticated, so urbane, so stable. Unlike Flick, I haven’t had vast experience with men. At university, I hated the whole dating scene. I think I only ever went out with anyone because she cajoled me into it. I’ve never been Ms Popularity. I was an only child, terribly shy, who morphed into a swotty teenager and ever since then have preferred a good book to a man. Even in the thick of the college scene, I was a very reluctant dater. I could never have been like Flick, waking up with a different man every weekend, sometimes not even remembering who they were. She always had complicated relationships and, to be honest, some of the things that happened in our flat nearly put me off men for life. I think the wilder she was, the more determined I became not to go down that route.
When I first started work, I had two half-serious relationships – men that I dated for a few months rather than a few weeks. One was a teacher. One was a social worker. Both were entirely needy and in dire financial straits. They both needed a babysitter more than a life partner. I dated because I was expected to, rather than because I actually wanted to. I was actually a lot happier on my own.
Then Harry came along, my intellectual and financial equal. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I don’t mean it to, but it was nicer to be with someone who could afford to take lavish holidays rather than want to drag me round Europe in a tent. Someone who could afford to eat in real restaurants rather than McDonald’s.
He was reliable and didn’t play games. If Harry Lincoln said he would telephone, he did. If he said he would pick me up at eight o’clock, at five to eight his car would pull up outside my flat. He didn’t grope me like the men my own age. He didn’t rush me. He seemed to have got his life together. There might not have been giddy romance with Harry, but there was no high drama either. I was never swept away by passion for him. I didn’t go weak at the knees when I saw him. I never felt the fevered heat of love stories. I’m not the sort of person who believes they need that as the foundation of a relationship. Harry and I simply got along well. We shared a love of the theatre and good food. We didn’t argue. It seemed enough. When he asked me to marry him, I couldn’t see a reason why I shouldn’t and said yes. He loved me. He was solid, dependable. I assumed I loved him too.
My parents were delighted. They too had a quiet marriage – one without fireworks and falling out. I thought if I could be like them, it would serve me well. They were pleased with Harry. They thought we made a good match. They brushed over the fact that he’d been divorced and had two teenagers in tow. In their eyes, the fact that he had his own house and a good job more than made up for that. They were probably right. Though, with hindsight, I wonder if they were just relieved that I’d finally taken someone home to meet them and hadn’t turned out to be a lesbian. They wouldn’t have liked to explain that down at the golf club.
And I’ve been happy with him. It was a sensible decision. Harry has been a good husband. I’ve always tried my best to be a good wife. We’re financially secure and have wanted for nothing. We have rubbed along well perfectly together. It’s only now that the veneer is starting to chip, that things are unravelling. He’s not the same man that I married and I wonder if he’s having a mid-life crisis.
Now I watch him as Art pours him some more wine. Harry seems tired too. Perhaps both of us are simply exhausted and this break is long overdue. If we can just kick back and relax, maybe we can put these last few months behind us. Harry’s blue chambray shirt is teamed with crisp jeans and trainers. He’s put his jacket on for the journey from the car to the cottage and I’m not sure it’s a look that I like, even though it’s Harry’s standard ‘casual’ attire. Particularly next to the laid-back Art, he comes across as far too buttoned up. But I’m being unnecessarily critical; this is how Harry has always looked. This is how he was when I met him, so I shouldn’t start to complain about it now.
One great thing that has come out of our marriage is Harry’s two wonderful boys. They’re really great and I’ve never, not for one minute, regretted being involved in their lives. I’ve heard other stepmums beef about their partners’ children and all the awful things they do and the problems they have. But I’ve never had that with Harry’s kids. I’ve always treated them as if they were my own. Freddie’s now twenty-two and Oscar is twenty. It was more difficult when Harry and I first got together as they were still teenagers and we had to fit our blossoming relationship round his access visits, but it wasn’t long before we formed a unit. They were both so accepting of me that it was very easy to love them.
Now the boys are away at university and are so wrapped up in their own hectic lives that we hardly ever see them – on high days and holidays or when they are seriously short of cash. But I remember what it was like and even though I miss them terribly and phone them both regularly, I want them to have fun while they can, while they have no responsibilities to grind them down. Plus they do spend a lot of time on Twitter with Harry too – which, at least, accounts for some of the hours he spends on there. Not quite like sitting round the kitchen table together having a good old chinwag, but I guess that’s the way of modern relationships.
‘Look at those two,’ Ella says, nudging me. ‘Stuck in already.’
Sure enough, Harry has stripped off his jacket again and has settled down at the table next to Art. The second glass of wine also hardly touches the sides and he’s pouring out his third. Harry sets the bottle down on the table next to his own elbow. It’s practically empty already.
‘No signal.’ He taps forlornly at his mobile. ‘How do you manage, mate?’
Art shrugs. ‘I can just about cope for a few days at a time. Drives the office mad.’
‘Mine too,’ Harry agrees readily and, while they complain about the lack of technology, I take in the rest of my surroundings.
The kitchen has huge, full-length windows at the back – clearly a later modification – that look out on to the terrace and the magnificent sea beyond. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the ocean is mesmerising. It’s like watching a constantly shifting painting. I feel that I could stand and look at this view for ever and never grow tired of it.
‘Let’s bring your cases in,’ Ella suggests. ‘Then we can join them for a natter.’
I was hopi
ng that we might all go out for a walk on the beach while the weather is so glorious. It looks so enticing. After being cooped up in the car for hours, I’d love to stretch my legs, feel the sand in my toes. Who wouldn’t want to? I’d like to feel that warm wind in my hair again more than I’d like a glass of wine.
So, leaving the men to their drinks, we go to unload the boot. I lift out our suitcases, but I’m going to leave the other box of wine for Harry to bring in. He can at least do something.
‘I’ve brought you some of those cupcakes that you like so much from the bakery in Notting Hill.’
They’re nestled safely on the back seat along with a bouquet of white lilies for Ella, which I know are her favourite flowers. I’ve brought a selection of nice cheeses too, which we can have after dinner. They’re all in the cool box alongside a couple of tubs of really special olives, which I know Art has a soft spot for.
‘Oh, Grace, you’re always so thoughtful,’ Ella says. ‘Mmm. Those cakes look delicious. Perfect excuse to have afternoon tea now.’