Seb is a social creature. Much as he may seem to have changed, that aspect has stayed the same. Since he’s arrived in Budbury he’s spent time here in the pharmacy, in the café, in the pub. He’s befriended people who were initially wary of him. He’s won people over, wormed his way into their lives – because he can’t stand being alone.
I’ve always known this about him, and it’s not a big deal – a lot of people are like that. With Seb, in the past, it’s been damaging – contributed to his party posse tendencies and the fact that he surrounded himself with fake friends and a fake community.
He’d even started to win me over, if I’m totally honest – but maybe leaving him alone, after a difficult afternoon of emotional battery, was too much for him. Maybe it pushed him too far. I recall part of our talk that day, in the van – and the words he used to describe himself.The way he acknowledged his potential ‘wobbles’, and admitted that there would always be part of him wondering if he could get away with one last high.
Was this it? Was this the wobble that finally knocked him over – being in Mr P’s kitchen, those pills left out there like candy, calling to him? You’d have to have been an addict of some form or another to understand the temptation that never, ever quite goes away. The fine line between resisting and giving in.
I am filled with certainty that this is what has happened. That Seb has given in. I feel angry, and humiliated, and disappointed, and above all sad – sad that it’s come to this. Sad for me, because I’d started to trust him and now he’s let me down. Sad for him because of how hard he’s worked.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Katie, sounding concerned. ‘You’ve gone really pale. And I unwrapped a whistle pop for you five minutes ago and you didn’t even hear it.’
Usually I react like a bloodhound at the crinkle of a lolly wrapper – but I’ve been too tied up in my thoughts, my conclusions, to even notice.
‘Um … I’m all right. Yes. Just thinking. You know I can’t think and do anything else at the same time, Katie.’
She smiles and nods, but I can tell she’s not convinced. I drag myself through the rest of the day as best I can, all the time the subject of Seb hovering in the back of my mind. I call Mr P again, to make sure he’s not found the tablets, and then I check my van and my handbag, in case I did one of those weird things you’re sure you didn’t do but might have – like picked them back up again.
I’m desperate for him to have located them, or for me to find them lurking in my glovebox. Neither is the case, and I feel increasingly glum as the afternoon wears on.
By closing time, Katie is clearly very worried. As we clear away, check the computer for any prescriptions sent through for the next day, and double lock the cupboard – the one with the ‘really good drugs’ inside, as Seb pointed out – she gently probes me to find out what the problem is.
Eventually, she gives up on that, but says: ‘My mum’s picked up Saul from school. I’m at a loose end, and I’m sure he’s driving her nuts by now. Do you want us to go around to the cottage and sit with Lynnie for a bit? Give you a little break?’
Lynnie’s care schedule is a complex thing, with me and Van and Willow all doing our best to combine our work lives and our personal lives and our domestic lives. Tonight, Willow is going round to visit Laura with Edie, Van was planning a night out with Sam, and I’m on home duty. It’s not a chore – she’s our mother and we love her – but it is complicated and sometimes difficult.
I ponder what she’s offered, and eventually reply: ‘Katie, that would be brilliant. I do need a bit of time to … do some stuff. Are you sure, though? I don’t want to put you out.’
‘Don’t be daft. It’s no trouble. It’s actually a bit of a rest for me too, to be honest – Saul and your mum entertain each other so much, I usually end up drinking coffee and keeping an eye on them, just in case they decide to do something mad, like try and break the speed record for sliding down hills on cardboard, or doing yoga in tree branches, or dressing Bella Swan up as a circus sea lion and trying to get her to balance a ball on her nose. She really doesn’t like it when they do that …’
These are all real-life examples of what Saul and Lynnie can get up to together. They both have a flair for the dramatic.
‘Okay. I know they’re in safe hands. And thanks.’
She makes no-worries noises, and we part ways outside the pharmacy. It’s a beautiful evening, warm and with only a gentle breeze, and she insists that she wants to walk to the Café to collect Saul and then across Frank’s fields to the cottage to relieve Willow. I toy with the idea of walking to my destination as well, but decide I might need the safety cocoon of my van at some point.
I text Willow to tell her about the change in plan, and reluctantly set off. I don’t want to do this – but I also know that I need to.
By the time I arrive at the Rockery, the sun is hovering lower in the sky, and even the birdsong sounds sleepy. The gardens here are beautiful, thanks to Matt, who is a master gardener. I wonder absently if he’ll have any time for that now the babies are here.
I’m on the verge of popping in to say hello, when I realise that I’m not in the right frame of mind – plus I’m sure Laura is up to her eyeballs in poo anyway, and could do without unexpected visitors randomly knocking on the door.
I take a while deciding this, perched on the bonnet of the van, my face turned up to the fading sunshine like a light-seeking flower – I take a while because I’m procrastinating. I bite my lip, lock my van, and tell myself that enough is enough.
That doesn’t stop me walking slowly towards Hyacinth, though, stopping every now and then to gaze at a patch of petunias, or a fragrant tangle of honeysuckle. In fact I stop and start all the way there, eventually standing in front of the cottage’s wooden door with its quaint name sign, feeling as grim as the garden looks gorgeous.
I clang the brass knocker, and wait for a few moments. Maybe he’s not in, I tell myself. Maybe he’s at the café. Maybe he’s in the shower. Maybe he’s in a drug-induced coma …
I knock again, and this time I hear his voice yelling hello, and the sound of feet thudding down the stairs. He pulls the door open, and I see that the shower option had been the correct one. His hair is damp, and shedding droplets over the tan skin of his bare shoulders. His black jeans have obviously been tugged on quickly, the studs as yet unfastened. His feet are bare, and he looks … happy to see me.
‘Auburn!’ he says, gesturing for me to come inside. ‘What a nice surprise! Or … had we arranged something, and I’d forgotten?’
He looks slightly confused, and I walk past him into the living room. The place is tidy enough – nowhere could survive Hurricane Seb without some collateral damage. I gaze around, unsure what I’m looking for. Unsure how to broach the subject. If I’m right, I need to know. If I’m not, I could do a lot of harm if I blunder into this the wrong way.
‘No, I just needed to talk to you,’ I reply, too tense to sit even when he gestures at the sofa.
‘That sounds serious,’ he says, frowning. ‘Is something wrong? Is your mum okay? Laura and the babies?’
‘They’re fine,’ I respond quickly. ‘It’s Mr Pumpwell I came to talk about.’
‘I saw him yesterday and he was okay when I left him – in fact he seemed in good spirits. Is there something wrong with him?’
Seb has, over the years, proved to me that he is a fantastic actor – especially back in the days when all I wanted to do was believe the best about him. So now, despite his apparently genuine combination of confusion and concern, I can’t let it sway me. The man could win an Oscar.
‘Nothing wrong, no,’ I say, meeting his eyes firmly. ‘But he has been on the phone to me today. It seems that his prescription has gone missing. The pills were there on the kitchen table yesterday, but now they’re not.’
I leave the words there, dangling between us, like a toxic cord connecting us to each other. I want to tear my eyes away, to look out of the window at the honeysu
ckle. To look at the fruit in the big wooden bowl on the table. To look at anything but Seb, and the way his face changes as realisation dawns.
He’s not an idiot, and he quickly makes the connection. His expression goes from worry about Mr P to disbelief to an awe-inspiring level of sadness.
He shakes his head wearily, and smiles in a way that speaks of pain and misery more than joy.
‘And you think I took them,’ he says eventually. It’s not a question – it’s a statement.
‘I … I’m not saying you did, Seb. But it crossed my mind.’
He nods, and grabs up a T-shirt from the back of the chair. He’s voluntarily putting clothing on his body, which tells me how upset he is. I think he’s buying time, hiding his face, thinking about how to respond.
He runs his hands through his wet hair, and replies: ‘Of course it did. Drugs go missing, let’s blame the drug addict. It makes perfect sense. I wouldn’t expect anything more. Hope, maybe, but not expect.’
This is torturous, but I won’t let him guilt me into leaving without some answers.
‘Seb, I’m not accusing – I’m asking. I’m asking you, right here and now – did you take them? If you did, I won’t judge. I understand what it’s like. If you didn’t, I will make the biggest apology the world has ever seen, and will own up to the fact that I’m a complete twat. But I need to know.’
‘Why do you need to know?’ he snaps, some anger finally seeping into his tone. ‘What is it to do with you anyway, Auburn? You’ve made it perfectly clear that you and I are over. You’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re in love with your almighty Finn, the man with no demons. You’ve made it perfectly clear that there’s nothing left between us. So tell me, why do you need to know?’
He’s lashing out, and it feels unfair, but I can accept that. He’s hurting, so he’s attacking. Tried and tested Seb technique, that, and one that doesn’t have the same effect on me it used to, all those years ago. Back then, when I was so tangled up in it all I couldn’t see beyond the web we’d woven around each other, I’d have risen to the bait. I’d have snapped back and argued, or apologised, or placated, or somehow backed down.
‘You’re not answering my question,’ I reply calmly, insistently.
‘And I’m not going to. The fact that you even came here to accuse – sorry, to “ask”! – says it all. Don’t worry. I’ll be packed and out of your hair before you can say “rehab”. Now, I’m going to ask you to leave.’
‘Seb, there’s no point reacting like this – just talk to me, damn it! Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me I’m an idiot, for goodness’ sake! That’s all I need to hear!’
‘Is it, though?’ he asks, stalking away from me, so much energy and emotion fizzing through him that he looks like he needs to run or jump or scream or all three at the same time. ‘Is that all you need to hear? If I tell you you’re wrong, tell you you’re an idiot, will it be enough? Will you believe me? Or will you still be wondering? Will you always be wondering?’
I try and place a calming hand on his arm, but he shakes me off abruptly, as if disturbed by the contact.
I feel tears spring into my eyes, and a weakness and regret and sense of exhaustion sweep over me. Here I am, again – arguing with this man. This wonderful, stubborn, funny, deceitful man. My husband.
He sees how upset I am, and takes in a deep breath. I can almost feel the tangible effort he’s making to rein in his reaction, the way he’s trying to steady himself.
‘Look,’ he adds, gazing over my shoulder, off through the window to the fields out back. ‘I get it. I do. This is exactly the kind of stunt I’d have pulled when we were together. And this is exactly the kind of way I’d have reacted – angry, defensive, making you feel like you were going mad to suspect me even when all your instincts told you you were right. That was the way I behaved with you back then, and believe me I regret it. It’s my own fault that this is the way you see me. But I can’t change the past, and apparently you won’t let me change the future – so there is nothing to be gained from this, for either of us.
‘We both need to protect ourselves, I see that now. And maybe too much has happened for there to ever be trust again. So please – please just go, Auburn. No blame, no recriminations, no more games. Just go.’
I stare at him for a few moments, not knowing what to do. What to say. I want to comfort him. I want to console him. I want to apologise and tell him I’m sorry the thought even crossed my mind; that I’m a fool.
Instead, I remind myself that he still hasn’t answered my question. That he’s my husband in name only. That leaving is entirely probably the very best thing I can do.
He’s turned away from me, standing tall and distant, his shoulders tense and hard. I want to reach out and touch him so badly.
I walk out of the door, and into a fresh summer’s evening that now feels tainted. I walk past Black Rose, and see the hazy outline of Laura inside, strolling around with two babies in her arms. I walk back to my van, and sit and sob for what feels like forever. I’m crying for him, and for me, and for Finn. For all that was, all that wasn’t, and all that could be but probably won’t.
Sometimes, life just sucks.
Chapter 24
I arrive home to the cottage to find that Lynnie is, thank the lord, tired out from her escapades with Saul. They’ve re-dressed our garden scarecrow in a paisley dressing gown, a feather boa, and a red beret placed at a jaunty angle. They’ve done some weeding. They’ve baked chocolate chip cookies. Now they’re busily drawing up plans for a new deluxe tree-house.
There are sheets of paper and pencils and rulers scattered over the kitchen table, and when I inspect their fanciful designs, Lynnie announces that she’s going to ask ‘that nice young man who lives in the motor home’ to construct one for them.
‘That’s Van, silly billy!’ says Saul in a no-nonsense tone. ‘He’s your actual son, and you’re his mum – you must have forgotten again!’
Saul, of course, is only four – and he treads where angels fear to tiptoe. Lynnie gazes into the distance for a while, then grins broadly.
‘You’re so right! I am a silly billy!’ she replies, piling the papers up into a neat stack. Saul complains a bit when Katie tells him it’s time to leave, but eventually gives in and starts helping Lynnie pack away the pencils ‘in rainbow order’.
Katie takes in my swollen eyes and unhappy expression, and immediately asks if I want a cookie.
‘That bad?’ I say, shaking my head. I feel that crappy that not even a cookie will help.
‘Not at all,’ she lies, gathering up her coat and Saul’s Iron Man backpack. ‘But you know where I am if you need me.’
She pats my arm, and the two of them set off for their adventure – a walk across the fields and back home, where Tinkerbell will be awaiting them in all his ginger glory.
Once I’ve made sure Lynnie is well and settled – watching a re-run of a weird show she likes called Dog with a Blog – I take a shower and mooch around the house. I feel a bit like a zombie, I’m so drained, and a cursory glance in the bathroom mirror tells me I don’t look much better. I’m glad it’s all steamed up and I can pretend I didn’t see it.
I pull together some cheese on toast for the two of us, and a couple of mugs of peppermint tea, and we settle in to watch TV while we wait for Willow to get back. I must have crossed paths with her as I left the Rockery and she arrived.
When she does come back, she has lots of lovely photos of the babies. The babies with Laura, and Matt, and her, and Edie, who she took with her, and with Lizzie and Nate, and one very funny one where Midgebo is licking one of their tiny heads, evidently caught in the nano-second before Laura shooed him off.
The pictures cheer us all up – you’d have to be heartless not to love them – and Willow joins us for some tea. I can see she’s giving me sideways glances, and that she knows something’s wrong, but I don’t enlighten her. There’s no point dragging everyone down with me.
‘Are
you okay?’ she whispers, while Mum chortles away at an episode of Fawlty Towers – we were all Disneyed out. ‘Laura said she thought she saw you at the Rockery.’
‘I’m fine, Basil!’ I reply, in a passable Sybil impression, but don’t think I’m fooling her. Mum, who had seemed totally distracted, pipes up: ‘It’s his fault. That one from Spain.’
I can’t tell whether she’s talking about Seb or Manuel, so I shrug and leave it at that. Not long after, I make my excuses, claim tiredness, and head for my room. It is, in fact, 8.58p.m. – so in two minutes’ time it will be a perfectly acceptable bedtime for a working lady such as myself.
I’m too numb to even get changed, so I fall on top of the duvet wearing my jogging pants and T-shirt with a picture of a Teletubby on it. I have no idea which Teletubby – the green one – and I have no idea why I own this particular T-shirt. It made its way into my wardrobe at some point, though, and is now one of my favourites. I have paired that stylish outfit with some bang ontrend candy-striped fluffy bed socks, and am now rocking the runway by lying flat out and staring at the ceiling. Budbury’s Next Top Model.
I absently wonder what Finn is up to right now. He sent a lacklustre text, informing me he’s in London, ready for his conference to start tomorrow. I wonder if he’s lying on his bed thinking about me. I wonder if I should jump in the van and drive there through the night. Then I wonder if I have the energy to even get under the blankets.
My phone starts to ring next to me, and I fling out one arm to find it. Naturally, I knock it off the bed, and it skitters off across the floor, still ringing. Muttering various inventive swear words, I retrieve the evil device, and a glance at the screen shows me that it’s Mr Pumpwell.
I answer as quickly as my fingers will let me, and say hello, settling myself back down onto the mattress.
‘Is that you, Auburn?’ he shouts, as usual. You have to laugh. When I confirm that it is indeed me, he continues: ‘Good. Sorry to bother you so late in the day.’
A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 23
