Christmas at the Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  ‘Have they been together long?’

  ‘Two years now. And he was great to start with. We thought everything was going to be OK again. We’d had a bit of a tough time. My dad got sent to prison. Everyone always assumes drugs. But it was fraud. Dad was smart. He was a financial advisor. But not smart enough. He lost all our money.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Lizzy.

  ‘I know. He and his partner invested it in something high risk they shouldn’t have touched.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘He lost our friends’ money too. That’s what Mum couldn’t forgive. And she hated all the gossip. The way everyone dropped her when they found out. So we moved down here. She used to come here on holiday as a kid. She thought it would be nice for River to grow up by the sea. And she thought I’d be better going to college here than in the city. I think she thought I might go off the rails without a father figure.’

  ‘You don’t seem like an off-the-rails type.’

  Harley grinned at her. ‘Of course I’m not. I’m an angel.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? You ought to tell your mum where you are. She’ll be worried.’

  Harley looked down at his phone. ‘I told her I was at a mate’s last night. So she won’t be worried yet. Maybe I’ll just text her. Tell her I’m not coming back.’

  His face crumpled with the stress of it. Lizzy put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s always better to do these things face to face, you know. Trust me, as a mum, that’s what I’d want. A chance to talk it over.’

  She felt anguish for Harley’s mother and what she’d been through. And the agony of being torn between two people you loved who didn’t see eye to eye.

  ‘She’s out all day. She’s selling stuff at the Candlelight Market in Micklestone. She makes wreaths.’

  ‘Wreaths?’ Lizzy looked alarmed.

  He laughed. ‘Christmas wreaths. Not funeral ones.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, why don’t we go? I could drive you. A Candlelight Market sounds just the thing.’

  ‘Does it?’ Harley didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Yes. I haven’t had a chance to do anything like that yet this Christmas. Wandering around buying stuff you don’t need and eating things you shouldn’t.’ Lizzy’s eyes were shining. ‘Micklestone’s not far, is it?’

  ‘It’s about eight miles. And that would be amazing,’ he said. ‘Because I can’t go back to the house. I just can’t.’

  Lizzy jumped up. ‘Well, come on then. I like a plan. Let’s get our skates on.’

  Harley couldn’t help but feel heartened. There was something comforting about Lizzy. She didn’t judge, and she had insight. He opened his mouth to ask what had happened to her, why on earth she was here, but she was already clearing the plates and taking them over to the sink. She was slightly hyper, slightly overexcited, as if she was covering something up, and there was something about her body language that told him not to ask. Not just yet.

  18

  Cynthia struggled awake from a not-very-interesting dream – even her dreams were dull these days – to see her mobile inching its way across her bedside table as if it was determined to throw itself off the edge. It always did that when she put it on silent/vibrate and it still unnerved her. She reached for it listlessly and tried to focus on the name that was flashing up. Without her glasses on she made an educated guess that it was Amanda.

  ‘Hello?’ She could never leave a phone unanswered, even if it was someone she didn’t much want to talk to. Cynthia wriggled her way up until she was leaning against her mink-grey velvet padded headboard. How many sleeping tablets had she taken last night? If it was two, that would explain why she couldn’t gather her thoughts. It was a naughty habit, but the oblivion was so tempting.

  ‘Cynth! We’re in the departure lounge. Drinking Buck’s Fizz.’

  Amanda sounded jubilant. She must be phoning her from the airport. Cynthia felt a pang. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Listen. I thought I ought to phone you. I wanted to give you the heads-up.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘I don’t think Simon has told Lizzy you’re coming to them for Christmas.’

  ‘Oh.’ She tried to remember the arrangements that had been made. Oh yes. Amanda had promised she’d square Cynthia having Christmas with Simon, thanks to her last-minute skiing plans. That had only been a few days ago. Cynthia hadn’t spoken to Simon about it yet – she knew this time of year was hectic for him at work. She was going to give him a ring tonight, to see what time he was coming to pick her up, and what she could bring.

  ‘I bumped into Lizzy yesterday and she had no idea you were coming, so I think he’s forgotten to tell her. And to be honest, she was a bit … funny about it.’

  ‘Funny?’ Cynthia felt her chest tighten.

  Amanda sighed. ‘I don’t want to tell Simon off for not telling her because then he’ll get cross with me. But she didn’t sound very happy.’

  ‘Oh.’ No, thought Cynthia. She wouldn’t be.

  ‘You know how organised she is and she’d probably planned everything down to the last potato. Lizzy’s never been very spontaneous or flexible. Everything is always such an ordeal for her.’

  Cynthia frowned. That was patently untrue. Lizzy was very capable and easy-going, totally unlike Amanda who had very specific priorities and was very controlling. The two women couldn’t be less alike.

  ‘Well, the last thing I want to do is upset Lizzy,’ said Cynthia, wishing the conversation would go away. That she hadn’t answered the phone.

  ‘Talk to Simon. He’ll smooth things over. He probably just forgot to mention it. You know what he’s like when he’s under pressure.’

  Amanda spoke as if Simon’s preoccupation with work was still a daily irritant to her. Cynthia felt nettled. Her son was a grafter like his father had been and there was nothing wrong with that. She was very proud of him. She was about to say something when Amanda cut her off.

  ‘Oh, our flight’s being called. Got to run. Merry Christmas, Cynth. I’ll bring you back some duty-free.’

  She rang off.

  Cynthia sighed. She dropped the phone back onto her bedside table and tried to assess the level of fug she was feeling this morning. She welcomed fug; clarity was alarming as it brought everything into sharp focus. She liked her edges fuzzy, which was why she went to bed as late as possible then took sleeping tablets. Heaven forbid she should wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  But the truth had cut through the fug. Of course Lizzy was disgruntled that she was coming. Cynthia had known she would be. She’d hoped they could get through it by pretending, like they usually did. But Amanda had hit her Achilles heel, making her acutely aware of the rift between her and her second daughter-in-law.

  The one she infinitely preferred, though she could never admit it to anyone.

  She swung her legs out of bed. The champagne carpet was luxuriously soft under her feet and she wriggled her toes for a moment before fishing about for her slippers. She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The day was throwing a grudging light over the six dormer bungalows that sat in a circle in Copperfield Close, as if there were people elsewhere who deserved the light more.

  Cynthia had never much cared for the word ‘gated’. She had a horrible feeling that the gates were to keep the residents in, rather than intruders out. Copperfield Close felt like a very expensive prison, but as Simon had pointed out when she moved from their rambling family home after Neville died, the move was as much about the future as it was about now. Which basically meant it would still suit her when she started to lose her marbles or went off her legs.

  She could never argue that the bungalow wasn’t impressively appointed. Every comfort had been considered, every eventuality. Everything was controlled at the touch of a button. Even the curtains could be closed when she was away from home via her pho
ne. Every cupboard was soft-close; appliances could be turned on and off with the flick of a finger. She didn’t even have to fill a kettle – boiling water came out of a special tap. The carpets were deep and soft; the curtains long and thick; the lighting was dimmable.

  Cynthia never had to think about anything. Every bill was paid by direct debit, her readings sent by remote control. She could sit on her sofa all day and not move and her life would still go on. The fridge would be stocked, the interest on her investments would be put into her current account, the laundry and dry-cleaning would be collected and redelivered in cellophane and put back in its place. There was a regular delivery service of groceries, prescriptions, whatever you needed. In Cynthia’s case, boxes of wine arrived and were placed in her temperature-controlled wine fridge by a faceless helper. There was a team of them, in pale green tabards.

  And if she wanted to go anywhere, she pressed a button on her phone and a driver in a white Mercedes would glide to her front door. She had told Simon that she didn’t want to keep a car any longer, that it was more economical to rely on taxis and buses than keep Neville’s Jaguar on the road. She’d told him a friend from the golf club had bought it. The lie was effortless for why would he not believe her?

  It all made her feel as if she might as well not be here. Yes, she was ladies’ captain at the golf club, but there were plenty of people waiting to jump into her size fives. Yes, she was on several charity committees. Yes, she played bridge. Yes, she indulged her passion for musical theatre on a regular basis. She was busy, busy, busy yet she felt empty inside. Without Neville, it all felt pointless.

  Christmas made it infinitely worse. Neville had always been such a jolly Christmassy sort. He embraced it fully, and he had lots of traditions that began in early December, making it a month of both celebration and generosity.

  The first weekend in December they would go into Birmingham to do the Christmas shopping. Neville made a list of gifts for his staff, and the two of them would work their way through Rackham’s from the top floor, analysing what was on offer, comparing possibilities, debating colours, until every member of staff was catered for. Then they would go and choose that year’s wrapping paper and ribbon.

  Afterwards they would go for tea at Druckers, the Viennese patisserie. This was Cynthia’s favourite day of the year, sitting surrounded by their carrier bags with a beautifully set table between them and a plate of cream-filled pastries and cakes to devour. In those days you weren’t made to feel guilty about cream and sugar and carbohydrates. A little of what you fancied did you good – or even a lot, from time to time. They would always leave saying they didn’t need anything else to eat that day.

  In the evening, they would wrap the presents together. They laid everything out on the dining table. Neville would carefully measure and cut the right shape and size of paper, Cynthia would wrap, and they would share a bottle of champagne while they labelled everything up, writing something thoughtful to each recipient. Cynthia would pop two jacket potatoes in the oven, because she knew that by eight o’clock they would feel hungry again despite their earlier indulgence, and when they finished wrapping she would serve the jacket spuds filled with butter and grated Cheddar with a dollop of coleslaw on the side.

  Now, it was a different picture. Neville was gone, his engineering business had long been sold and there were no staff members to thank this Christmas for their loyal service, even though she was still living off the fruits of their labour. Thanks to Neville’s business skills and risk-taking and careful financial planning he’d made a big profit from the sale. Because he was jolly and ruddy-faced and full of jokes people thought him a bit of a buffoon but he was far from foolish. He had left her a wealthy woman.

  She couldn’t bear thinking about it, the hole he had left when he died. Being his right-hand woman had been her raison d’être. He had never made her feel like just a housewife. Or a trophy wife – even though that’s what everyone had thought she was, for she had been so glamorous, with her tiny waist and her dancer’s legs and her halo of white-gold hair, petite next to Neville’s bear-like bulk.

  Cynthia had never had a shred of personal ambition – two years at ballet school had been enough; she might have had the legs but simply didn’t have the guts or the backbone – but she was ferociously ambitious for her husband and his business. She was that woman in the quote: ‘Behind every successful man …’ And she bloody well worked hard for it, from the moment she brought him his poached egg in the morning to turning on the electric blanket at night.

  He had never belittled or demeaned her or made her feel like the little woman. He worshipped her. He valued her opinion. Every night they talked things over. He made decisions based on her suggestions. She knew every member of his staff and had views on how they should be handled. They had been a team, and now she was alone she felt rudderless. He’d been gone nearly five years and still she had found nothing to fill the emptiness she felt inside.

  There was only one thing that had made it less painful. She thought she had the perfect formula. She measured it out carefully, so people didn’t talk and she didn’t make a fool of herself. She had a list of rules. Never before midday. Never more than three glasses an hour. And never more than one bottle a day.

  Of course, sometimes she broke her own rules, but that was the nature of the beast: it made you forget your principles. It mostly happened when she was with people. She needed her crutch even more when she was in public, for she didn’t know who to be, how to be. And of course, other people urged you on, filled up your glass, and she found it hard to say no.

  The next day she would resolve not to overindulge again. A little was enough to numb the pain, after all. A lot just added to her anxiety the next day. Why could she never learn that? Surely she had learnt her lesson, after what had happened?

  Cynthia leaned her forehead on the glass of the window, limp with despair. Why had Amanda done it? Why did she have to swan off and leave Cynthia feeling even more unloved and unwanted than usual?

  It’s not Amanda’s fault, you fool. It’s your own.

  Even now, the memory made her shudder. Her cardinal sin. The shame. The realisation that Lizzy would never trust her again because of what she had done. The awful deal they had struck …

  It was no wonder Lizzy didn’t want Cynthia coming to them on Christmas Day. Oh God, how humiliating. There was no way she was going to go to Pepperpot Cottage now, even though she had bought everyone’s presents with enormous care. Of course she wanted to see Hattie and Luke, but she didn’t think they’d be bothered. Seventeen-year-olds didn’t care about that kind of thing.

  Not like when they’d been small. They had loved coming to see their grandparents, running up the gravel path outside the house and fighting as to who would get to ring the doorbell. There was a train set for Luke and a doll’s house for Hattie – the same ones that Mo and Lexi had enjoyed. She had loved their chubby little arms round her neck and the way they wriggled when they sat on her knee and she tried to read to them.

  She turned away from the window. She wasn’t going to think about it. She wasn’t going to live in the past. Instead she picked up her phone. Her hands were shaking as she found Lizzy’s number. She cleared her throat so her voice wouldn’t waver, threw back her shoulders as if she was about to go on stage with the Royal Ballet and breathed in to give herself courage as the answerphone clicked in.

  ‘Lizzy? It’s Cynthia. I think there might have been a bit of a mix-up. Amanda seems to think I’m coming to you for Christmas Day. But as soon as Amanda told me she was off skiing I made other arrangements. I do hope that hasn’t inconvenienced you. Let’s make plans to swap presents after Christmas.’ She paused for a moment, not quite sure how to ring off. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she added quietly.

  She hung up quickly. She could already imagine Lizzy’s eyes rolling as she listened to the message, but also her relief. Cynthia imagined her knife and fo
rk being whisked away with a flourish.

  Outside, she saw the fairy lights spring to life on the two conifers that flanked the entrance to Copperfield Close. The automatic timer had snapped on, reminding everyone that this was the season to be jolly. Cynthia shut her eyes. One tiny risk. One stupid decision and she’d messed up everything. She had lost any hope of being welcome at Pepperpot Cottage ever again.

  19

  Simon’s heart sank as he drove back onto the drive at the side of Pepperpot Cottage and saw Lizzy’s car was still not there. He had secretly been hoping that she would have turned up while he was gone. But no. The drive was defiantly empty.

  ‘Hey,’ said Mick the Post, striding up with his trolley behind him. ‘Not so many today. Thanks for the wine, by the way.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Simon, but he didn’t want to engage in Yuletide pleasantries. He took the proffered mail and hurried inside, to find Hattie and Luke still in the kitchen.

  ‘Should we open this, do you think?’ he asked.

  Along with two Christmas cards was an official-looking envelope with Lizzy’s name typed on the front.

  ‘It might be a clue,’ said Hattie.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Simon, and started to lift the flap without thinking too much about what would be inside. Some hideous diagnosis of a terminal disease or a massive debt or a letter demanding damages? A ransom note?

  He pulled out the letter.

  ‘It’s from Inglewood’s.’

  ‘There’s a voucher.’ Beady-eyed Hattie spotted it in the envelope and pulled it out. ‘Fifty quid! Bloody hell!’

  Simon read out the letter.

  Dear Mrs Kingham,

  Please accept our full apologies for the misunderstanding in our store today. Be assured that we will not be taking the matter any further. We wish you season’s greetings, and as a token of our goodwill we enclose a voucher for you to spend at your leisure.