by Jill Mansell
That had been over an hour ago, and she was still here. Marguerite had been asking all sorts of questions about her life, from upbringing to school days, from the different jobs she’d done to the various boyfriends she’d won and lost over the years.
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Tula. ‘Am I being interrogated?’
Marguerite smiled slightly. ‘Sorry, is that what I’m doing? We writers are nosy people. We like to know everything.’
Tula brightened. ‘Are you going to put me in a book?’
‘I very much doubt it. You’re not interesting enough.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Just being honest. The female characters I write about are strong. They always get exactly what they want.’
‘I’ve just got what I wanted.’ Tula grinned. ‘Another job.’
‘Touché.’ Amused, Marguerite topped up their glasses. ‘Come on then, tell me some more about you.’
Over the limit herself, Marguerite had called Riley and asked him to drive Tula back to the hotel. When he returned, she said, ‘That was quick.’
‘Dropped her off, drove straight back.’ Riley shrugged. ‘Doesn’t take long.’
‘I thought you might have spun it out a bit, laid on the charm. Like you usually do.’
‘I’ve tried. It didn’t work. You know that.’
He’d told her, but he still hadn’t told her why. Marguerite watched him examine a fraying hole in the sleeve of his favourite faded blue sweatshirt. ‘I like her very much; she’s a lovely girl. I’m sure you could win her over, you know.’ Encouragingly she added, ‘And we’ll be seeing more of her now she’s going to be helping me out here.’
There was a troubled look in his eyes. ‘So it’s all part of your grand plan, is it? Maybe you could go one step further and pay her to be my girlfriend.’
‘Oh darling, I’m just trying to help.’ The nicer Tula had turned out to be, the guiltier Marguerite had felt. Riley was normally so sunny-natured; she’d never seen him like this before.
‘Well you can’t help.’ He shrugged. ‘It isn’t going to happen.’
‘And it’s all my fault.’
‘What?’ His gaze narrowed.
‘I know why she won’t take you seriously. I asked her and she told me.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He exhaled. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does, though.’ She couldn’t bear to see him hiding his feelings. ‘I can see what it’s doing to you, how important this girl is.’
‘Hey, don’t worry. I’m me. I’ll find someone else.’
Bravado. Did he think she was stupid? Marguerite took a deep breath and said, ‘If you want, you can tell her.’
Riley froze for a moment. Then he slowly shook his head. ‘No. We can’t do that.’
‘But if she matters that much to you …’
‘Tula can’t keep secrets. She told me so herself. She said she hates it, it’s too stressful, and sooner or later things end up accidentally slipping out.’
‘Oh,’ said Marguerite.
‘But thanks for offering.’ He gave her a crooked smile.
‘Oh darling. I do love you. So much.’
‘I know. I love you too. Don’t worry about it.’ As he headed for the office to start work, he added, ‘Really, I’ll be fine.’
Marguerite watched him go with a heavy, guilty heart. If she hadn’t known him so well, she might even have believed him.
Chapter 43
It was the bright corkscrew curls that did it; otherwise Sophie might never have made the connection.
The baby she never would have recognised, chiefly because he was no longer a baby; two years on, he was a big-eyed toddler in a turquoise all-in-one swimsuit, sitting at one of the tables outside the café eating an ice cream sundae. His older sister, who must now be five or six, was throwing bits of bread roll to the sparrows hopping around the table. She was wearing a green polka-dot sundress over her swimming costume and her red-gold ringlets gleamed in the sunshine, bouncing around her shoulders as she flung another piece of bread across the cobbles.
Yes, it was definitely them, presumably back on holiday again with their parents. The father was finishing a cup of coffee and putting away his phone. The three of them were getting ready to leave the café; now he was dropping a couple of pound coins on to a saucer for the waitress. The moment to act was either now or never; if she didn’t say something, they’d be gone.
‘Hello!’ Sophie approached the children’s father. ‘OK, this might sound weird, but I’ve just recognised your daughter. I took a photo of your children on the beach a couple of years ago and I’d love you to have a copy of it.’
The man eyed her warily. ‘I don’t think we’re interested, thanks.’
‘Honestly, though, it’s a brilliant photo. If I say so myself. I’m a photographer …’ Rummaging in her bag for a business card, she belatedly understood his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Oh, I’m not trying to sell you anything! I don’t want any money. I just thought you might like it … I didn’t expect to ever see you again. I love the photo so much it’s on my living-room wall. I live just up there.’ She pointed to the narrow street behind them. ‘Or if you’d rather just give me an email address, I could send you a copy of it.’ Or maybe not. She shrugged and gave up. ‘But it’s OK, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. You’ve probably got enough photos anyway.’
‘Am I in it?’ The girl with the ringlets sounded interested.
‘You are. You’re doing something very funny and a tiny bit naughty,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re putting a bit of seaweed on your brother’s head.’
‘Am I?’ Delighted, she turned to her father. ‘I want to see the photo, Daddy. Can we go?’
He smiled at her, then at Sophie. ‘I thought you were selling me something. Sorry about that. I’m too suspicious by far. If the offer still stands, we’d love to see the photo. And thank you. It does sound great.’
His name was Matt, she discovered on the short walk up the hill to her flat. The children were Georgina and Jamie, and this was the sixth day of their week-long holiday. Tomorrow they were heading back to London.
‘So I found you just in time.’ Sophie used the key on her silver bangle to open the front door. ‘Now, just up these stairs … come on, sweetie, hold my hand … and here we are. Look, there’s the photograph. And that’s you!’
‘Wow,’ said Georgina. ‘Hahaha, look at me putting seaweed on Jamie’s head. And he doesn’t know I’m doing it, hahahahaha!’
‘And there’s Bingo.’ Matt pointed to the little dog with the naughty look in his eye as he made a grab for the last sandwich on the plate.
‘He’s our dog,’ Georgina told Sophie. ‘He likes sandwiches.’
‘He likes any kind of food,’ Matt said drily.
‘And that’s Mummy’s foot there.’ Georgina’s arm shot up to point to the pedicured toes in the bottom right of the picture. ‘Look, Daddy! It’s Mummy’s foot!’
Matt nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’
Sophie had briefly been tempted to Photoshop the foot out of the picture, but had finally left it in for balance … and because Photoshop always felt like cheating. She was also wondering where Mummy was right now; she could be sunbathing on the beach or back in London. Perhaps they were divorced. They hadn’t mentioned her whereabouts and she certainly wasn’t going to ask.
‘Was Mummy watching me put the seaweed on Jamie’s head?’ Georgina regarded her with interest.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ As Sophie said it, she saw Matt glance down at his daughter, checking she was OK.
‘Mummy’s dead,’ said Georgina, staring once more at the photograph on the wall.
Oh.
Matt, who was holding Jamie on his left hip, rested his free hand on his daughter’s head.
‘How awful. I’m so sorry,’ said Sophie. ‘That’s very sad.’
‘We miss her very much.’ Matt acknowledged her words with a brief nod. ‘It happened just over a year ago.’ Ruffling
Georgina’s bright ringlets, he said, ‘Still getting used to her not being here with us, aren’t we?’
Georgina nodded too. ‘It’s nice seeing Mummy’s toes.’
‘Well now I’m even more glad I recognised you,’ said Sophie, ‘so I can give you your photograph.’ And reaching past them, she lifted the simply framed print down from its place on the wall. She turned to Matt. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thank you. Very much indeed.’ He inclined his head. ‘Only one problem: we don’t have the car with us and I have to carry Jamie back to the house we’re renting.’
‘Well I could bring it over …’
‘No, no, I can come by later and pick it up. Would you be around this evening if I called in?’
Sophie nodded; was it wrong to be wondering how his wife had died? She smiled at him and said, ‘No problem, I’m not going anywhere. Call round any time tonight.’
Matt returned shortly before eight o’clock, changed into dark trousers and a bottle-green shirt. His freshly washed hair was combed back from his face and he’d just shaved. He was also wearing nice cologne.
‘OK, so here’s the thing.’ Wasting no time, he launched straight in. ‘We’re down here with my parents, who are babysitting tonight. As you can imagine, it hasn’t been the easiest of weeks. Georgina was telling them about you, and my mum said why didn’t I ask if you’d like to go out for something to eat this evening. Not on a date … I’m nowhere near ready for anything like that … but just as a way of thanking you for the print.’ He paused, grimacing slightly. ‘So I’m asking you, but feel free to say no if you don’t want to. Believe me, I’ll understand. It’s hardly the most enticing offer you can think of.’
He’d stopped, run out of breath. Her heart sinking, Sophie said, ‘Um … right …’ This was when she really needed to be able to think up some kind of excuse, the perfect reason why she couldn’t go out to dinner with this man.
‘I know. God, I’m sorry. My mother just thinks I could do with getting out of the house, spending a couple of hours away from them. It’s OK, though, I can see what you’re thinking. Really, it’s fine.’
Oh dear, what a shame, I have to stay in and wash my hair …
Oh what bad timing, I have to work tonight …
Oh no, so sorry, I’ve got friends coming over, they’ll be here any minute now …
‘Let’s have dinner,’ said Sophie. It was no good; this poor, poor man, how could she do it to him? Who would have the heart to turn him down?
By eleven o’clock, the restaurant was emptying fast.
‘And you managed to stay awake the whole evening,’ said Matt. ‘That’s going above and beyond the call of duty. Well done you.’
Sophie grinned; it hadn’t been the ordeal she’d expected. He’d promised not to embarrass her in public by bursting into tears, and he hadn’t. As also promised, there’d been no flirting of any kind. Matt was still far too entrenched in his grief. His wife’s name had been Louisa, and he’d thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together. Then she’d become ill and died. There hadn’t been any more details than that, and Sophie hadn’t asked. Now Matt was struggling to keep things going for the sake of Georgina and Jamie. Apparently one day he would begin to feel something vaguely approaching normal again, but at the moment that was as elusive as crawling towards a mirage in a desert. Every day was an effort. The bank where he worked had been great, but he sensed that some of his colleagues were starting to lose patience with him, not because they were horrible but simply because they didn’t understand. They just wanted their old friend back to the way he’d been before.
‘Anyway, thanks for keeping me company.’ Having paid the bill, Matt said, ‘We’d better get out of here. Looks like they’re ready to close up.’
He’d driven over earlier, leaving his car parked outside Sophie’s flat, and they’d walked down to the restaurant on the harbourside. Now they made their way back up the narrow cobbled lane.
‘It’s been a good night,’ said Matt.
Sophie smiled. ‘It has.’
‘Isn’t it weird? Tomorrow we drive back to London and the chances are that we’ll never see each other again.’ He paused. ‘Could be why it’s been so easy to talk to you.’
‘Probably.’
‘You haven’t asked me how Louisa died.’
‘Not up to me to ask that. It’s none of my business.’ Oh, unless you murdered her …
But he hadn’t, she knew that. Poor man.
‘Friends and family know. I’ve never told a stranger before.’ They were standing outside her flat now. Matt turned to her, a bleak look on his face.
‘You don’t need to tell me.’ Louisa had been ill, then she’d died. Up until now, Sophie had assumed it was some form of cancer. But would that really be so difficult to say?
‘I want to tell you.’ She could see the tension in his jaw. ‘You realise I’m using you to practise on. The first time has to be the worst.’ Matt paused, then said in a rush, ‘She had postnatal depression. I didn’t know how bad it was. And then she killed herself. Oh God …’ His voice began to wobble and crack. ‘OK, said it now. She committed suicide, jumped off a bridge and left us, and I know it only happened because she was ill, but you can’t imagine how it feels, knowing your wife would rather be dead than stay with you.’ He shook his head, correcting himself. ‘With us.’
Chapter 44
Dot and Antoine had bumped into some of Dot’s old friends in the hotel bar and were busy catching up with each other’s news, so Josh had volunteered to bring Griff out for his late-evening walk. They’d made their way along the beach and back, taking advantage of the tide being out. For the last forty minutes he’d been throwing Griff’s ball across the wet sand and Griff had bounded after it, never tiring of playing his favourite game.
Now Josh was wishing he’d bribed one of the hotel staff to do the job instead.
OK, not quite true. Knowing had to be better than not knowing, surely.
But the sight had hit him like a punch in the stomach from a pro. There was Sophie, standing outside her flat fifty metres away, locked in a clearly emotional embrace with another man. Her hair gleamed pale gold in the reflected glow of the street lamp overhead. The man who was holding her was taller, darker and no one Josh recognised. It wasn’t a normal hug between acquaintances, that much was obvious. They weren’t letting go of each other.
And now, finally and with reluctance, they were. Words were exchanged; their heads remained close together, his hands still rested on Sophie’s arms. Griff, suddenly realising who it was, pricked up his ears and let out a whimper of excited recognition.
‘Sshh,’ whispered Josh, before the dog could break into a giveaway volley of barks.
Together they watched as Sophie slipped the bangle off her wrist, fitted the key into the lock and opened the front door. The next moment she and the man had disappeared inside. Then the light went on in the flat upstairs and Sophie appeared silhouetted in the window, reaching up to pull the curtains closed.
Right, well that told him all he needed to know. Josh turned and gave Griff’s lead a tug to show him they were heading home.
Fuck. Just what he hadn’t needed to see.
Also, who was the man spending the night in Sophie’s flat?
‘Sorry about that.’ Matt blew his nose on a tissue. ‘So much for promising not to be an embarrassment. What a wuss.’
Sophie shook her head. ‘You’re not a wuss. Your wife died. It’s allowed.’
‘Haven’t cried like that in months. Pretty brave of you, letting me into your flat.’ He attempted a smile, took a mouthful of coffee and grimaced because it was now tepid.
‘Do you feel better?’
‘I think so. A bit. It’s the guilt.’ Matt sighed. ‘The shame. The endless wondering if I said or did something to cause it … just one stupid, careless thing that tipped her over the edge.’ He paused. ‘And knowing that other people are wondering it too.’
Sophie said
nothing. She couldn’t tell him about Theo; the very last thing he needed was for her to try and compete. And how could she, anyway? His wife had died, leaving him alone to bring up two children. She couldn’t begin to comprehend how that felt. All she understood was the guilt and the shame, coupled with the hideous inescapable knowledge that she most certainly had done something to cause her own husband to want to end his life.
‘I’m seeing a grief counsellor,’ Matt went on. ‘I told him I wished Louisa had been killed in a car crash. Anything else would have been better than this.’
‘Because then you wouldn’t have had to feel responsible? You probably still would, though.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘One way or another you’d have found something to feel guilty about. It’s what people do.’
Another wry smile. ‘He said that too.’
‘You can’t see it now, but things will get easier. Eventually. Sorry,’ said Sophie. ‘I bet when people say that it just makes you want to stab them.’
‘Sometimes. Not you, though. And I know.’ Matt grimaced. ‘There’s no magic pill. I just have to get through it. My mother says she knows I can’t imagine it now, but one day I’ll meet someone else, fall in love again, maybe even get married …’ He was shaking his head at the seeming impossibility of the idea.
‘She’s right.’ Sophie’s throat tightened. ‘It’ll happen. One day.’
Oh God, listen to me. What a hypocrite.
He left shortly after that, heroically finishing his cold coffee and thanking her again for listening to him. They exchanged another brief hug, she gave him the framed print and he carried it out to the car.
Sophie stood on the doorstep and waved as he drove off down the narrow street. Poor Matt. And what a lot of rubbish she’d told him. That was the thing about platitudes: they were easy to say, far less easy to put into practice.
Look at me, four years down the line and still completely unable to move on. What a pity I can’t take my own advice.
