The Runaway Wife

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘Well, that’s a couple of quid more than you’re earning now. And it’s not as if I don’t earn enough. Honestly, Tess, there’s no need for you to work at all.’

  ‘You don’t understand – I need to feel fulfilled.’

  ‘So, what’s wrong with feeling fulfilled on two quid an hour? And isn’t looking after two great little boys, going to the stained glass workshop, Pilates and art appreciation classes fulfilling enough? Christ, Tess!’

  ‘You men never understand! I suppose I should talk to Connie myself, woman to woman. You know how much she loves the boys.’

  ‘Get on with it, then. No point in sounding off at me!’

  It was 10 p.m. and Lou had finally managed to get the baby to sleep.

  ‘Too late for a drink?’ Andy asked, turning on the BBC News.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Lou snapped. ‘I’ll have a white wine, and fill it up.’

  ‘Been another tough day?’ Andy sighed as he removed the Cabernet Sauvignon from the fridge and poured them both a glass.

  ‘It damn well was! She hasn’t slept at all – not closed her eyes for one minute all day. Everyone else’s babies sleep for an hour or two in the afternoons – it’s what keeps mothers sane. And I don’t recall Tess ever having a problem with her two.’

  ‘Ah well, that’s Tess for you.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Andy turned down the remote control; there was little chance of concentrating on the news. ‘Isn’t she your typical earth mother, or whatever they’re called these days?’

  ‘Earth mother!’ Lou spluttered as she set down her glass. ‘She’s never in the house! Anyway, what’s that got to do with it? Are you insinuating that I’m not a natural mother?’

  Andy sighed. ‘Of course not, Lou. You’re a lovely mother.’

  ‘Stop patronising me! And anyway, Mum spends half her life looking after Tom and Josh – which is far more than she ever does here – while Tess goes to her endless bloody classes.’

  ‘Not at the moment, she’s not!’ snorted Andy as he turned up the volume.

  ‘I suppose you find that amusing!’

  ‘Just that your ma’s gone walkabout, and that’s an indisputable fact, my darling.’

  ‘And leaving her family without a backward glance! Poor old Dad!’

  ‘“Poor old Dad” my foot! He’s never at home anyway – practically lives at the golf club.’

  ‘Yes – and now, in case you haven’t noticed, he expects me to go over there and clean and tidy up for him! On top of everything else!’

  ‘Well, tell him to get a cleaner or something.’

  ‘That’s typical of you! You’ve never liked my father, have you?’

  Andy gave up on the news. ‘Are we having that old argument again?’

  ‘You’ve never liked him, Andy. You think he’s dull and boring – just because you work in advertising with a bunch of nutters. You sneer at anyone in an ordinary job but, let me tell you, my dad earned a good living and looked after us well.’

  ‘I’m sure he did. Just a pity he seems to have had a humour bypass.’ He took another swig of his drink. ‘I don’t know why you don’t get in touch with your mother instead of ranting at me.’

  ‘I’m going to do that, but right now I’m heading up to bed,’ said Lou, picking up her glass.

  As she slammed the door the baby let out a lusty yell.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done!’ she hollered back at Andy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DON JUAN

  On the short drive to Fort William all Connie could think about was that kiss, which had unlocked stirrings deep inside her. Stirrings that she barely remembered existing. She felt excited and naughty and what the hell! She couldn’t believe she could want this man, so much! This man she hardly knew! What’s happening to me? she wondered. She glanced sideways at him. He seemed unperturbed. Well, he probably did this sort of thing all the time.

  ‘We’ll be able to see Ben Nevis properly,’ Don said as they drove along. ‘Believe me, it’s not that often you can actually see the summit. We’ve got to make the most of this fine weather.’

  They had an excellent view of its imposing height as they stopped for coffee in Fort William. But, as she sipped her drink, Connie could only think that she should get a train home, or south, or anywhere for that matter, without delay. She wondered how frequently trains ran from Fort William to London. She’d ask him to take her to the station just as soon as they finished their coffee.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘We might make a little diversion and head for the Road to the Isles.’

  Connie nodded. ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful drive from here to Mallaig,’ he said. ‘The most scenic in the UK. And I can show you beaches that can rival the Caribbean any day!’

  What about my train? Connie thought. But perhaps we can go there and come back in a couple of hours. And perhaps we can’t. Or won’t. And do I really want to get on the train? Will I be able to resist him? Why should I resist him?

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ she said into her coffee cup.

  Don leaned across the table and gently lifted her chin up so she was looking directly at him. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

  ‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it?’ Don asked, as they drove along. ‘We’re extremely lucky because ninety per cent of the time you can’t see a damn thing due to the awful weather.’

  They got to Glenfinnan. ‘This,’ he told her, ‘is where Bonnie Prince Charlie rallied his clansmen for battle. And that,’ he added, pointing out of the window, ‘is their monument.’

  And there, at the foot of the towering mountains, at the head of Loch Shiel, stood the tall, imposing monument, the tribute to the many men who’d fought and died, he told her, for the cause of Charles Edward Stuart.

  Connie was mesmerised by the surrounding mountains, the rough heather-clad terrain, the intense green near the loch, the blue of the water. And so much history!

  And all the time she was aware of his proximity and his hand brushing against her leg when he changed gear. She should really get on that train – but tomorrow, or the next day.

  Just over an hour later they were in Mallaig.

  ‘This is the end of the Road to the Isles,’ he said, taking her hand as they parked above the town. ‘From here you can get the boat to all the islands. And that, over there, is Skye, where your friend Flora MacDonald was looking towards.’

  Connie felt she was running out of adjectives as she studied the glorious panorama.

  ‘I know I promised you Caribbean-type beaches and, charming as this port is, there’s no sand, so let me take you to Arisaig.’ He opened the car door for her. ‘I want to show you my favourite place. It’s not far.’

  Arisaig did indeed have beaches to outdo the Caribbean, Connie thought, although she’d never been to the Caribbean, of course. But surely even the Caribbean couldn’t rival these spectacular views out across the sea to the little islands.

  ‘This is stunning!’ Connie exclaimed. This place is seducing me, and he’s about to do the same. Bugger the train!

  ‘Arisaig,’ he said, ‘is not only beautiful, but has its own special place in history too. During the Second World War, at Arisaig House, Churchill created a secret guerrilla army of saboteurs and assassins who were trained to smuggle themselves into Nazi-occupied Germany. This whole area was sealed off – no-go. It’s a hotel now, but there’s an exhibition at the visitor centre.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to see that,’ Connie said. ‘I’d no idea.’

  ‘No one had any idea,’ Don said. ‘That was the whole point.’

  They parked alongside the beach.

  ‘Do you know what?’ Connie said. ‘I feel I want to run barefoot along that sand!’

  He laughed. ‘Then we shall!’

  Within minutes they’d kicked their shoes off and were running, giggling, along the fine powdery sand, watched w
ith interest by some strolling couples and several encampments of kids building sand castles.

  ‘They filmed Local Hero round here,’ Don said, as they slowed a little. ‘Remember the film, with Burt Lancaster?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, out of breath. In fact she could only think of Burt Lancaster in some old film, rolling about on the beach with Deborah Kerr. She’d better not mention that.

  ‘Can we slow down now?’ she gasped. ‘Don’t forget I’m older than you, and I’m way out of condition.’

  ‘You’re in very good condition,’ he laughed, as they tumbled down on the sand, and he put his arms round her. ‘How long is it, Connie, since you’ve run along a beach barefoot?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Not since Greece – a long time ago, before I was married.’

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is tragic. Everyone should run barefoot on the sand. Regularly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Connie agreed. ‘They should.’

  She couldn’t imagine Roger running along the beach, giggling. And collapsing in the sand! Roger had been paranoid about getting sand in his clothes, between his toes or, horror of horrors, in the picnic, as he set up deck chairs and wind breaks, then gathered the herd together, plastering them in factor ninety-nine or something, before making his way cautiously to the water’s edge.

  There must be daft couples who do things like this, Connie thought: enjoying each other’s company, laughing at silly things, running barefoot on the beach. But not Roger and I, she thought. Not in a million years.

  ‘And,’ Don stroked her cheek, ‘after they’ve run barefoot on the sand, they should go to bed and make wild, passionate love.’

  She turned her face to his, and he kissed her.

  ‘I noticed a “Vacancies” sign half a mile or so back,’ Connie said. ‘Why don’t we see if it’s still there?’

  They walked, her hand in his, back to the car, brushing themselves free of sand as they went.

  La Vista had one double room available for two nights only. It was separate from the house, across the yard in what used to be a milking parlour, they were told by the plump young landlady. Would that be all right? Yes, yes, it would be just fine. They liked the idea of the privacy of the milking parlour. ‘Och, as long as it disnae rain,’ said Morag. ‘Ye can get awful wet just coming across for yer breakfast.’

  It was ideal, Don said, and it wasn’t going to rain.

  Ripping off their clothes, sand flying everywhere, they crashed onto the bed. Afterwards Connie couldn’t remember ever having had sex like it. Certainly not with Roger, who didn’t do much in the way of animal passion. Don was different. She refused to think about how long and how often it must have taken him to perfect his techniques, and she could scarcely credit her own fevered reactions either. Don Juan, Nyree had named him, and she wasn’t far wrong. She relished every inch of that tanned, beautiful body, those deep dark eyes. That slightly lopsided grin, the square jaw, his wicked sense of humour – the whole bit – a walking, talking cliché, that’s what he was. The way he listened when she spoke; really listened, or seemed to anyway, as though what she was saying was of major importance. She realised he was a ladies’ man, of course; Don Juan, Casanova – what the hell. Just for a day, or perhaps a few, he was going to be this lady’s man. Connie felt infused with new life.

  What had she done? It was as if someone had opened up the floodgates to let everything flow out, carrying away all her inhibitions and insecurities and hang-ups. And he didn’t have to be with her; he could have packed her onto that train in Inverness. Indeed he should have done, because what was she now – a fallen woman? Did they call them fallen women these days, or wanton ones? Whatever they were called, she was one of them now. After forty-one faithful years!

  She should really stop this right now. There had to be a way to get home as soon as possible. In fact the train would be just fine. Tomorrow, though. She’d go home on the train tomorrow. They’d have tonight together. Just one night.

  ‘Now,’ he said, propping himself up on one elbow, ‘we’ll go to see the sunset.’

  This, Connie thought, is complete Mills & Boon.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said.

  They showered together and he didn’t appear to notice the flab, the stretch marks, the wrinkles. She was pleased to note that he had his own quirks as well – the beginnings of a beer belly, and he was ever so slightly bandy.

  ‘Why ever did we waste two whole nights in separate beds?’ he asked, as they got dressed. ‘You’re a cracker!’

  A cracker! Connie McColl was a cracker? Well, that was a new one. She was rather pleased at being a cracker.

  ‘We’d better think about getting something to eat now,’ he said, as he put on his shoes.

  ‘Fish, perhaps?’ suggested Connie.

  ‘With chips?’ he teased.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘With a pickled onion,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘And a pickled egg,’ she added.

  Sunset comes late in Scotland in summer, and so, after the fish and chips, they bought a bottle of wine, took two plastic glasses from their bathroom, and headed towards the sea, where they found a vacant bench just a few yards above the beach. Connie snuggled up to Don as he deftly opened the bottle with a smart little corkscrew he withdrew from his pocket.

  ‘Do you know,’ she mused, ‘that a million years ago I spent ages trying to find a wine I liked with a screw-top because I hadn’t thought to pack a corkscrew?’

  ‘Very remiss of you,’ he agreed.

  ‘And a million years ago,’ Connie continued, ‘I could never even have imagined sitting in a beautiful spot like this, with a man who wasn’t my husband, and with whom I’d just made the most fantastic love.’

  ‘A lot happens in a million years,’ he said, handing her a glass of wine and kissing her gently on the mouth. He put his arm round her and she leaned back against him, sipping her wine.

  The sun was slowly slipping down towards the horizon as they gazed out at the panorama of sea and islands. It was one of the most beautiful views that Connie had ever seen as the sun finally disappeared behind the Small Isles in a riot of red and pink and purple, with the mountains of Rum and Skye ablaze with colour. And then, as darkness fell, they wandered back to La Vista, hand in hand.

  When Connie woke just after six the next morning it was already bright and sunny outside, and slivers of sunlight were peeking in through the chink in the curtains. She surveyed her still sleeping lover and thought she’d like to make love again, and again. This whole thing was surreal, ridiculous, totally crazy. Whatever had happened to sensible old Connie McColl? Furthermore, she didn’t care, and that train from Fort William could wait until tomorrow.

  She eased herself from his arms and tiptoed across to the window. What a beautiful spot it was and what perfect weather!

  Don opened one eye. ‘Come back to bed, please,’ he said. And she did.

  It was another beautiful day, and surely one more day couldn’t hurt. Of course she couldn’t live in this dream world forever and besides, she missed her kids and their little ones. But she couldn’t even begin to think of Roger. Because what would he think of her brazen adultery? Would he want a divorce if he had any inkling of what sort of woman his wife had become? Did she want a divorce? She wouldn’t even have admitted such a thing to herself just a week or two back.

  They stopped at the visitor centre on the way to the beach to see the exhibition. Connie could scarcely believe that such clandestine and controversial goings-on had ever taken place in an area of such scenic beauty. But, of course, over the centuries, this entire area had been a battleground of one sort or another. What must it have been like, Connie wondered, to have been born into such a turbulent period of history? One clan fighting another and perhaps your entire family slaughtered in front of your eyes? There but for an accident of birth and all that, she thought. And, of course, it still went on daily in other parts of the world. You should thank your lucky stars, she thought, for your safe
, secure, civilised life in Sussex. But you still have to do battle with yourself, she considered, with your feelings and your failings – although she guessed that those fighters from the past never had the time or the inclination for all this self-analysis.

  Don unearthed two large beach towels from the depths of the boot of his car, and spread them out on the grassy verge at the edge of the sand. Connie stripped off her top and shorts, and laid down beside him in her swimsuit. It was a one-piece, black, Marks and Spencer; a sensible choice for the older woman, of course, but Connie was beginning to wish it was pink, or turquoise, or emerald green because Don was wearing a very tiny, racy pair of royal blue trunks.

  He leaned across and kissed her gently.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how you’re feeling. Happy?’

  ‘At this moment, very happy,’ Connie replied.

  ‘But at other moments?’

  ‘Not sure,’ she murmured. ‘Very confused.’

  He began to stroke her breasts. ‘Am I adding to the confusion?’

  ‘Yes,’ she moaned, ‘you are most definitely adding to the confusion.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, continuing to stroke.

  Connie removed his hand. ‘You,’ she said, ‘are turning me into a sex maniac.’

  He laughed. ‘Have you never been a sex maniac before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Never?’ Don turned to face her. ‘Not even on your honeymoon?’

  ‘Not even on my honeymoon.’

  ‘Bloody hell! And you’ve had four kids!’

  Connie sighed. ‘Lie back and think of England – isn’t that how the saying goes?’

  ‘You are kidding me, Connie!’

  ‘No, I’m not!’

  ‘Why the hell did you ever marry him?’

  When she didn’t respond he said, ‘What am I going to do with you, Connie McColl?’

  ‘I have a suggestion, but probably not here on the beach!’