by Jenny Colgan
“I don’t know.”
Huckle shook his head.
“I trusted you,” he said. “I thought we had something beautiful and real and kind of . . . kind of wonderful going on down here. In this beautiful place. With us. And them, and everything we had . . . everything lovely: friends, and family, and, well, everything I’d never been able to find in my life before . . .”
He bit his lip.
“And now that’s broken. It’s ruined. It’s shattered.”
“No!” said Polly, running to the door. “No it isn’t. You’re being completely unreasonable. This has nothing to do with us.”
“But all four of us were an ‘us.’ All four of us were together. Were friends. Who trusted each other. Who did things together. And now . . . three of us, what, have to watch this weird baby grow up? And not tell the other one? It’s a conspiracy!”
Polly sighed.
“You can never put things back together how they were,” said Huckle glumly. “You can’t pretend this never happened. You can never unknow it.”
“Where are you going?” said Polly, her heart beating rapidly in terror. “Where are you going? Are you going to Reuben’s? Are you going to tell him?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know,” said Huckle. “Just leave me alone.”
She heard the motorbike start up and roar off. She glanced at the tidal chart, which she knew mostly by heart, but it was still useful. The causeway would be flooded this time of the evening. He had nowhere to go; he certainly couldn’t get to Reuben’s. He’d probably go to the Red Lion and have a pint, cool off. Well, he’d have to; it was a freezing evening and there was literally nowhere else to go. Unless he had a change of heart and walked back through the door . . .
She spent a long time staring at the door, waiting for him. Her tea went cold. Dinner was unmade. She picked up her phone, but as usual the signal was non-existent, so there was nothing to do except stare at it as if it really might get a message. She didn’t want to text in case she said the wrong thing. She felt absolutely awful.
She went upstairs, but the rest of the house was freezing and it made her sad to see all the Christmas decorations, so she just turned round and came back down to the kitchen again, huddling beside the log burner.
Neil hopped over and perched on her shoulder, and she rubbed the back of his neck mournfully as she ran the argument through in her head again. Even in the depths of her despair she could see the patterns of her life that had always made her smooth things over for her mother, try and make everything all right. She’d tried to do the same for Kerensa, and it hadn’t worked at all. You couldn’t brush things under the carpet like that. Of course if she thought about it, it hadn’t really worked for her mother either.
That habit she had of not facing up to things, of hoping for the best . . . Life wasn’t butter icing. You couldn’t just spread it over the cracks of the cake and make it look pretty and hope nobody would be any the wiser. It didn’t work like that. Instead, the cracks got worse underneath, and then one day the wound was too deep to heal.
Polly burst into tears, horrible racking sobs, not pretty; the kind of snotty crying that hurts your throat and makes your nose bright red and that you just can’t seem to stop. It didn’t feel cathartic at all; it just went on and on and on. And every time she caught sight of the lighthouse lamp reflected in a window, she thought perhaps it was the headlamp on Huckle’s motorbike, and that he was coming home, but it wasn’t, and he didn’t. And all the time she was wrestling with the worst question of all: should she tell Kerensa she had betrayed her confidence? Should she put the fear of God into her that Huckle was going to ruin her entire life, had the power to do so at any moment and that it was entirely possible he would? Which wouldn’t just ruin her life; it would ruin Reuben’s too, and quite possibly the life of the tiny child whose life hadn’t even started yet, and Polly felt she knew a bit about that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Polly dozed off, still crying, about two a.m., then woke again with a start. The fire was nearly out and the kitchen was terribly cold. She looked around, horrified. She was still completely alone. Where was he? What had happened? Was something wrong?
She glanced down at her phone, which, as usual with the odd fluctuations of the signal, had popped on at some point, gathered her messages and now was gone again. She sighed and scrolled through. There it was, just a simple text from him.
Staying at friend’s.
Oh well, at least nothing had happened to him. For one horrible instant earlier, she had thought he might have decided to drive through the water-covered causeway regardless of the consequences—she wouldn’t put it past him. But he hadn’t gone to Reuben’s, because there were no missed calls or texts from Reuben or Kerensa. Unless they’d all been caught in a massive bloody shootout, of course.
She shook her head, then wrapped herself in a blanket off the back of the sofa and headed up the stairs to bed. The bedroom was icy. Her feet simply couldn’t get warm, no matter what she did, and she lay on her back staring at the ceiling, her eyes too dry for tears. What was going to happen now? It was nearly Christmas, and it looked like it was going to be an absolute disaster. Would Huckle even come? And if he did, would he be able to stop himself saying something? What if everyone had a few glasses of champagne and things got a bit heated? That happened at Christmas. That happened all the time.
She couldn’t sleep now. She had to get up and prep for the bakery, then she’d promised to go over and do an afternoon tea for Reuben’s business partners and his parents.
This was the problem with work, which also made it a solution, she supposed: that it was relentless, that it was always there, however you were feeling, whether or not you were ready for it. So even though she was exhausted, and desperately worried about Huckle, she had no choice but to get up and carry on.
She was kneading bread and mainlining coffee at the kitchen table, having turned on the radio loud to try and cheer herself up, desperately trying to shake herself out of this awful torpor. She’d worked so hard to create this life for herself, to make a success of it. But now it felt like it was creaking, beginning to crash around her ears. Neil came in because he liked the music on the radio, but even seeing his little face didn’t cheer her up the way it normally would. It all felt so empty and futile, but what else could she do other than carry on?
Outside, Huckle was drawing up on the motorbike, slightly hungover after a night on Andy’s sofa, having talked things through and realized that of course it wasn’t his business, not really. He had no right to tell anyone anything. It was awful, of course it was, a terrible thing he would have to bear, watching his best friend raise another man’s child. But it was what it was. He couldn’t get upset with Polly about it; she hadn’t done anything. And she must be utterly distraught after their fight. He shouldn’t have stormed out like that. He would apologize and they would carry on, and he’d just avoid Kerensa.
Looking through the low, wide kitchen window, he could hear the music playing and could see Polly busying herself at the table, dancing away to the radio, getting on with doing what she always did; cheerfully carrying on with life as if nothing had happened. It stung him. He’d been in agony about this, and she’d been . . . well.
Huckle had fallen for Polly with an absolute certitude that this was a girl who knew her own mind, her own heart; that was what he loved about her. That she was ballsy; that she grabbed hold of life with both hands, went for what she wanted. It was wonderful.
But with that went something else. Huckle had twice given up a high-powered career, knowing it wasn’t for him, that it didn’t make him happy. He much preferred pottering about with his bees, looking after them, making something lovely by hand. He didn’t care about status, things like that. It didn’t mean anything to him, much to his parents’ occasional despair when they reflected on his expensive education.
He wasn’t a go-getter, he wasn’t a workaholic; none of those things. And as he looked at
Polly, the thought that was uppermost in his mind was: she doesn’t need me. She has Neil, and the bakery—look at her. I’m in agony, in despair about this, and she’s just carrying on as if nothing is happening. She’ll always be okay.
He blinked, his heart full of sadness, and missed Polly looking up and seeing him, and how her heart leapt and she wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him and beg forgiveness; promise that she would never, ever do anything like that, not ever again, that they would share everything, but please, please, please don’t tell Reuben.
Then she saw his face—so grave—and her own face fell too, as he walked in through the kitchen door.
“Hey,” he said carefully.
“Hey,” she said.
“You’re back at it?”
“Yeah, it’s Reuben’s big party this evening, plus I’ve got some afternoon buns . . .”
Her voice trailed away.
“Where were you?”
There was a tremor in it. It was fear. Huckle heard it as an accusation.
“Out. I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?”
He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Polly just looked so sad.
“No,” she said, and her eyes strayed back to her work surface and the flour dusted there. Neil stayed resolutely at Polly’s side; he didn’t even come to greet Huckle as he normally would.
“No,” said Polly again. “I don’t suppose you do.”
She sighed.
“Well, I’d better get on.”
Huckle had come back in the hope that . . . What? he thought. What was he hoping for? For Polly to fall at his feet, promising anything to make him stay? But that wasn’t the girl he knew. That wasn’t the girl he loved. Nothing like.
Yet to see her like this, so unfazed by everything that had happened, when he was faced with the utter horror of his friend possibly having to spend the rest of his life raising a child who wasn’t his; who wouldn’t look like him or have anything in common with him . . . It was just awful, and here she was, banging dough about like nothing had changed when everything had. Was this a female thing? Some secret conspiracy of girls against men? Huckle had always liked women, genuinely enjoyed their company. But this felt like a place he just couldn’t go; he couldn’t understand it, not at all.
He cleared his throat.
“I was thinking,” he said. “There’s this beauty convention, they’ve been asking me to pop in, do some display samples . . . maybe travel around a bit, visit a few buyers here and there.”
“Traveling salesman,” mumbled Polly quietly. This meant nothing to Huckle.
“So . . . I’m going to take off for a few days.”
“But it’s practically Christmas!”
“You’re working, aren’t you? You’ll be busy,” he said, raising his voice.
Polly blinked several times.
“Oh,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know what else there was to say.
“I’ll get some things,” said Huckle, staring at the floor.
Polly’s heart was beating incredibly fast in her chest.
“You aren’t coming to Kerensa and Reuben’s?” she said.
Huckle shook his head. “Do you think that would be a good idea right now?”
“No,” said Polly.
“Well then,” said Huck. And he climbed the circular staircase to pack, and Polly watched him go.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Polly set off to Reuben’s house in Nan the Van, doing her best to put everything out of her mind. Huckle would calm down, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? It was a difference of opinion. Or rather, it wasn’t a difference of opinion. They both knew Kerensa had made a terrible mistake. Where they differed was on what to do about it.
Polly wished he’d stated—utterly and categorically—that he wasn’t going to tell Reuben. She should have got him to promise; to write it down and sign it or something.
Oh God. He was coming back, wasn’t he? Of course he was. Of course. They’d fallen out, that was all. And he’d cool off and they’d sort it out and . . . well. Well. Things would happen. It would be okay.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on it, as she picked Jayden up at the Little Beach Street Bakery. He was uncharacteristically quiet.
“What’s up with you?” she said.
“So anyway,” said Jayden, looking awkward and staring at his knees. Polly shot him a sidelong glance.
“What?” she said, realizing she’d been so caught up in her own problems, she’d hardly spoken to Jayden at all. He went even pinker.
“So I was thinking about what you said.”
Polly cast her mind back.
“About asking Flora to marry you?”
“Yeah. And you said I probably shouldn’t do it because she’s a student and everything and I’m only twenty-three.”
“Yes,” said Polly, remembering her brief conversation with Flora at the Christmas fair as she expertly maneuvered Nan the Van across the causeway.
“Yeah, well, I thought about it and I’ve decided I’m going to totally ignore your advice.”
Polly looked at him.
“Oh good!” she said sarcastically. “Well, everybody else does.”
“So. I’m going to ask her.”
Polly bit her lip. Flora was so nonchalant, it was hard to tell how this was going to go. And she was only twenty-one. Twenty-one! At that age Polly could barely find her keys, never mind get married.
Mind you, things didn’t seem to have changed that much twelve years later.
“Well,” said Polly, resigning herself to picking up the pieces later, “that’s great news. No, it is. I’m really pleased.”
Jayden smiled.
“Well, she hasn’t said yes yet.”
“I’m sure she will,” said Polly, not in the least bit sure. “And it will be lovely. How are you planning to ask her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, are you going to do a romantic gesture? Wrap it up or hide it or something?”
“Wrap what up?”
“The ring, Jayden!” She looked at him. Honestly, she really wasn’t sure he was ready for marriage.
“Oh yeah,” said Jayden. “My mum says she’s got one somewhere I can have.”
Jayden’s mother only had one son amongst many girls in the family and had possibly, in Polly’s view, occasionally been a little overindulgent. She hoped Flora knew that Jayden’s mum still squeezed toothpaste on to his brush for him in the morning and left it loaded in the bathroom.
“Are you sure Flora will like that? She wouldn’t want a ring of her own?”
“A ring’s a ring, right?” said Jayden, looking confused.
Polly took a very deep breath.
“I mean, you’ve only got some seaweedy stuff,” he added, looking even more confused.
“Yes,” said Polly. “But it’s very special to . . .” She was suddenly aware that she was about to cry, and swallowed it down hard.
“What’s up, boss?” said Jayden.
Polly breathed out.
“Nothing,” she said, hitting the A road over to Reuben’s house. It was the most glorious morning; good walking weather, and there were plenty of hikers out along the beautiful trails. Polly was suddenly very conscious of her horrible lack of sleep. “Whatever you think will be best . . .”
“Do you think I should do something special?” said Jayden. “I was just going to ask her. But there’s still time to go to the jeweler’s.”
“Is there really a rush?”
Jayden thought about it.
“Well, it is Christmas,” he said.
He looked up as they turned in to the incredibly impressive drive toward Reuben’s house.
“Wow,” he said. “Wow. Is this all his?”
“It is.”
“It’s amazing,” he said. “I’ve never seen a house like it. It’s incredible. Wow. This would . . .” He trailed off. “It’s weird that some pe
ople are rich like this and some aren’t,” he added. “You’d think they’d spread it around more.”
“Then they wouldn’t be rich, I suppose,” said Polly. “But yes, I don’t understand it either.”
“He must be so happy,” said Jayden, as they crunched over the gravel toward the house. “He must be, like, the happiest guy in the world.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The happiest man in the world was marching up and down by the front door, shouting at someone on his mobile phone.
Polly didn’t even bother pausing at the main entrance. She was happier around the back anyway. Marta was there and could help her out.
There were a lot of people turning up for Reuben’s party: colleagues of Reuben’s, as well as many of his friends and acquaintances (like many incredibly rich people, Reuben had the knack of attracting large crowds of people he didn’t know particularly well). As she parked the van, Polly heard a massive roar start up next to her and popped her head out of the door. A huge machine was there, making fake snow.
“Seriously,” she said, “that has to be the least environmentally friendly thing I have ever seen.”
“No,” said Reuben, wandering round the side of the house, still shouting on his phone but pausing to put his hand on Polly’s shoulder. He had, she never forgot, so few real friends. And what kind of a real friend was she being to him right now anyway? “No, that’ll be the full outdoor fires I’ve got coming later to heat you up from all the fake snow.”
“REUBS!”
“What? It’s going to be an awesome party!”
He pointed over to where the tennis court usually was. In its place was a bar made of ice.
“Is that what I think it is?” said Polly. “Oh my goodness, really?”
“Really,” said Reuben. “Don’t try the vodka luge until everyone’s finished being served, okay?”
“Duh,” said Polly. “But still. I mean. Incredible.”
“Thank you,” said Reuben. “Have you seen Kerensa?”
Have you seen Kerensa? was becoming quite the refrain.
