‘It’s an escape,’ he told her. ‘Everyone needs to escape.’
She didn’t tell him how very well she knew that.
And on Friday afternoons, more often than not, he told her to slip off a couple of hours early.
‘I’ll tell Personnel I’ve sent you off to get something I need for next week’s sound effects,’ he told her. ‘Should anyone ask.’
She appreciated his kindness, and the truth of it was she worked twice as hard for him as she would otherwise.
Two years puttered by, and Otto grew strong and confident and brought her more joy than she could imagine. At work, she became more involved in the productions than any of the other secretaries she knew. She talked at length about the plays Edmund was producing, made suggestions, even came to him with ideas for adaptations. And he entrusted her with his slush pile – the dozens of unsolicited scripts that came his way for consideration. She compiled a detailed report on each, and was thrilled to bits when one of her recommendations went into production. It might never have seen the light of day otherwise.
Of course, all of this was beyond the duty of a mere production secretary, but Elodie didn’t mind that she wasn’t being paid for what she was doing. She loved it, and that was all that mattered, and she didn’t feel exploited, or as if Edmund was using her to his own end. He always gave her credit for what she had done, and praised her work. She felt they were a team, and nothing gave her more joy than the afternoons they played back the programmes they had recorded in their entirety. It was so satisfying listening to what they had shaped; to hear the pages leap from the script and into life. Often the actors and writer would come in to listen too, and they would end up drinking wine in a celebratory fashion.
One particular lunchtime, after the playback of a new detective drama serial, Edmund and Elodie sat down to finish the last of the wine once the actors had gone. They were in a self-congratulatory mood, because the head of drama had commissioned another five episodes, and the writer had been a recent discovery of theirs, so they felt particularly jubilant.
Edmund cleared his throat as he topped up her wine. He looked awkward.
‘There’s something I need to talk to you about,’ he said.
Elodie’s heart hammered. He was going to tell her he was moving on. He was always being offered jobs in television or theatre. It was inevitable that one day he would take up one of those offers. But where would that leave her? She couldn’t bear to think of his replacement, who might relegate her back down to her official duties, and might not appreciate her input.
She sighed. Nothing stayed the same for ever.
‘I suppose,’ Edmund carried on, ‘that I should have bought a ring …’
‘A ring?’ Elodie tried to recalibrate her brain to take in what he was saying.
He was blushing. Right to the tips of his ears.
‘I wanted to ask you … if you would marry me.’
Blood pounded in her ears as she realized just what he had asked. She’d had no inkling whatsoever that he might. She was astonished. She stared at him, unable to answer.
He backed up his proposal.
‘I think the world of you. I think you are astonishingly talented and I want to help you make the most of that talent. And I want to look after you. And Otto.’
She’d brought Otto into the office quite a few times. Edmund had always shown a kindly interest and let him play with his headphones.
Elodie felt shock and panic in equal measure. She put down her glass, suddenly unable to stomach any more of the warm, indifferent wine that Hospitality provided.
What on earth was she going to say? She liked Edmund. More than liked him: she nurtured a warm fondness for him that had depth and breadth and would endure. She respected him and valued his opinion and admired him possibly more than anyone else she had ever met. She was in awe of his intellect; touched by his kindness. His friendship and guidance meant more to her than anything in the world.
But marry him? No. She just couldn’t imagine it. She couldn’t put her finger on why. It was excruciating. She wished she were anywhere else in the world. She wished he had never asked, because she didn’t want to say no to him: dear, kind, precious Edmund, whom she knew had agonized over this question. He hadn’t asked her lightly.
She picked up her glass again and took a gulp of wine, to moisten her dry mouth. How could she find the right words? She couldn’t find a single syllable that seemed appropriate. Her mouth opened and closed once, twice. She felt hot with panic and fear and misery. This was the most awful situation she had ever found herself in.
Then Edmund reached across and put his hand on hers. Inwardly she begged him not to put her under more pressure. Instead, he looked at her and smiled sadly.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I understand. Please, don’t upset yourself. I wanted to ask, but I … entirely appreciate … it’s … not what you want.’
Elodie’s face crumpled.
‘It’s not that I don’t love you,’ she finally managed. ‘I do. Very much. Just … not in that way.’
He picked up the bottle of wine and refilled their glasses.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. I suppose I’d hoped that—’ He broke off with a shake of his head. ‘Never mind. I’m not going to go all self-pitying and mawkish. I don’t want to make it any more difficult for you.’
She thought she was going to cry. Why did his kindness make her feel so sad?
‘I’d do anything to help you,’ he went on. ‘You do know that? School fees for Otto, maybe? Or a holiday? When did you last have a holiday?’
Her mind flickered back to the beach at Everdene. It was the only place she’d ever been on holiday. The only place she’d ever wanted to go. It seemed a million miles away now.
‘I’m fine, Edmund,’ she told him. ‘I want for nothing. And if I ever do need anything, I know you’re there.’
Was that enough, to let him know that she knew if she needed him, he was there? Was that simply exploiting him? After all, what was she giving him in return?
‘It’s all right,’ he smiled, as if reading her mind. ‘You’re not using me.’
Her heart contracted with love, but the wrong kind of love. She knew she would never meet anyone as devoted or kind as long as she lived. But to tie herself to him when she knew, deep down, that she didn’t feel about him the way he felt about her was wrong. It would be cruel. It would end in her disappointment and his disillusionment. She would feel trapped and he would feel betrayed. They would live out their days in a grindingly soulless union, each resenting the other for what they couldn’t provide.
And then Edmund’s fingers stroked her hand gently and she realized why it was She could never give herself to him the way she had Jolyon. She didn’t feel for him, physically; not in the same way. The realisation made her pity him, and she didn’t want him to see that pity. She never wanted to humiliate him that much.
She spent the rest of the afternoon in the Xeroxing room, her head dull with too much wine. The noxious chemical smell of the copying fluid did nothing to help, as she ran off copy after copy of the latest script, the letters bleeding into the cheap paper they used for early drafts. She thought she would go mad with the noise.
At the end of the day, Edmund scooped his jacket off the coat stand as he always did and bade her good night. He was no more stiff than usual. Elodie wondered just how much of their conversation he had taken to heart. If once she had rejected him he had pushed the matter to one side, or if he was going home to reflect on how he might have done things differently, what it was about him that had made her say no? We rarely know the full impact our actions have on others, she thought. She realized she didn’t even know what his house was like: whether he just had a room in a boarding house, or his own flat, or lived with his parents, or had a four-storey townhouse to call his own. How very self-centred she was, she
chided herself. She had never bothered to find out much about him. Their relationship had always been about his interest in and concern over her.
More shame burned in her gullet. She really didn’t like herself very much today. She grabbed her own coat, pulled it on along with her gloves, and hurried down the stairs to the ground floor and out onto the street to catch the bus home. She wanted Otto. To hold him to her and squeeze him tight. He was the only human she wanted to be emotionally responsible for.
That night she couldn’t sleep. She lay listening to Otto snuffling in his cot. What if she were wrong to turn down Edmund’s proposal? What if their marriage just happened to work? That they might happily coexist, bumbling along in harmony rather than united in passion, rather neatly balanced? Without the huge expectations that came with a more hot-blooded coupling, that began on a huge high and could only go downhill? What if they found something rich and fulfilling and satisfying that nourished their souls?
She was looking for a fairy-tale ending, she realized. She was looking for what she had once had: a glittering, handsome prince who made her heart pound. But where had that got her?
As dawn began to creep into the bedroom, she finally fell to sleep. And when she woke to find Otto standing in his cot, beaming at her, she decided she would accept Edmund’s offer. It would be a very different kind of marriage to the one she had thought she would end up with. But it would be a good one. Of that she was sure.
She spent all morning trying to pluck up the courage to approach him. He had been perfectly polite and kind to her – there was no evidence that his proposal had been rejected. He was too much of a gentleman to make her feel bad about it. Finally, just before lunchtime, she came and stood by his desk.
‘I think … you rather took me by surprise yesterday. I hadn’t time to think things through properly. I panicked a little. And the offer might not still be open, but I’ve had a chance to think about what you said, and if it’s not too late …’
He was staring at her. She floundered on.
‘If it’s not too late, I would like to marry you. Very much.’
For a moment he said nothing. He screwed the lid back on his fountain pen and put it down. Then he stood up and opened his arms.
‘I will look after you,’ he said, ‘until the end of time.’
Elodie stepped into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her. She felt dazed, unsure if she had made the right decision. But, most of all, she realized, she felt safe.
Lady Bellnap assured her that she had made a very sensible choice.
‘It’s a choice you have made with your head, and not your heart,’ she observed. ‘Sometimes that’s the wisest course. Our hearts can be broken, after all.’
Hers already had been, Elodie thought. Yet she had survived.
To say the wedding was quiet was an understatement. Just Elodie, in a yellow dress the colour of sunshine, and Edmund, in his usual jacket and trousers, and Lady Bellnap as their witness along with Edmund’s brother. Lady Bellnap took them for lunch at the Capital Hotel afterwards, and gave them Elodie’s favourite painting from her flat, a vibrant oil of two parrots on a branch.
There was to be no honeymoon, as they were going into the studio the following day to record a play. But instead of going home to the flat in Ealing, Elodie and Otto were going to Twickenham, where it turned out Edmund had a small three-bedroomed terraced house. He’d painted the smallest room for a nursery, and bought a new cot, and put up jolly red curtains.
‘I’ve got my old train set ready for him, for when he’s big enough,’ he told her shyly, showing her the boxes containing his Hornby waiting on the shelf.
She threw her arms around his neck. ‘It’s the most wonderful wedding present,’ she told him, and she meant it. His thought, his care, the time he’d put in; it all meant more than she could say.
And that night, she discovered there was a different kind of love. Something gentle and tender and meaningful. There might not be the ecstasy or the thrill, but it left her feeling more satisfied. And at peace with herself. She lay in Edmund’s arms. She had, she decided, done the right thing.
Later that summer, Edmund asked her where she would like to go for a belated honeymoon.
‘Oh, nowhere,’ she said. ‘I’m quite happy.’
But he insisted. ‘I know we’ll have Otto with us,’ he said. ‘But it would be nice to mark the wedding with a few days somewhere. So we have a memory.’
Elodie thought about it for a moment. ‘Everdene,’ she told him. ‘I used to go to the seaside there as a child. I think Otto would like it.’
Since Otto had grown bigger, she had thought more and more about the place where she had been so happy, and how he would love it. Now she had the security of marriage, she thought she felt ready to go back. She had no idea how she would feel, or what she might find there, but the place had meant so much to her as a child and she wanted to pass that carefree happiness on to her son. She could picture him on the sand, his fat little feet pottering about, the waves ticking his skin, the sun kissing him. The urge to return there was primal.
Edmund duly booked them into a bed and breakfast. They set off in his A35 at the crack of dawn early one Saturday. Elodie had packed a picnic basket with hard-boiled eggs and ham sandwiches and flapjacks and a flask of tea. It seemed to take forever to get there, but after hours of tedium suddenly they turned a corner and there it was in front of her, her Everdene. Her heart leaped with the joy, and she pulled Otto onto her lap to show him his very first glimpse of sea.
‘Look, darling,’ she said. ‘That’s my sea, and I’m giving it to you.’
‘Fish,’ said Otto solemnly.
‘Fish and crabs and sea urchins,’ agreed Elodie, remembering the rock pools: she could barely wait to sit with Otto and scoop out the watery treasures. A brand-new bucket was waiting on the back seat for that very purpose.
Edmund looked sideways at her. ‘This place means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply. She had never told him the truth about her past. Like Otto when he hid under a blanket and thought he couldn’t be seen, if she didn’t tell anyone then it had never happened.
They had a blissful few days. The sun was obliging: warm but not fierce. The bed and breakfast was in a farmhouse half a mile from the coast, and Otto was spoilt rotten by the farmer’s wife, who took him to collect eggs and watch the cows being milked. And every day they went to the beach. Elodie made sure they stayed at the far end, nearest the village, away from The Grey House. But she could feel its pull, and she knew she had to go back there. Whatever it was that drew her back was as strong as the urge to protect her child. Yet her parents hadn’t protected her. Far from it. Now she had Otto, she was even more bewildered by their treatment of her. It went against all instinct.
She left her visit until the very last day. Edmund took Otto off for a walk while she packed everything up. The packing took her all of five minutes, and then she hurried down to the beach, walking along the bottom of the dunes until she reached the hut belonging to The Grey House. She felt as if she could open the door and find herself in there.
She stood at the bottom of the cliff looking up at the house. In two minutes, she could climb the path and be in the garden. Would they still be there? Her mother and father? Could she wander into the house? What would they say if they saw her?
And then she saw him. Desmond. Flanked by a couple of what she presumed were guests. She saw him gesticulate, pointing out the view, Lundy Island, with that familiar proprietorial sweep of his hand. Nothing had changed for him, she thought. He wasn’t standing there wondering where she was or how she was, his only daughter. He was gloating, showing off his achievements and his possessions. And no doubt Lillie would be sitting in the shade, plotting and scheming. Or maybe she had been banished? Maybe there was someone else sitting in her place?
The sun we
nt in behind a cloud and Elodie shivered. She pulled her cardigan round her as if to protect herself. She must be mad to even consider returning or making contact. Apart from anything, it wouldn’t be fair on Edmund and Otto to dig up her skeletons. They had a perfect life: calm and ordered and secure. They were her future.
The past, Elodie decided, belonged just there.
An hour later, they set off for home, Elodie in the back of the car with Otto wrapped in her arms, safe and secure, a bucket full of shells at their feet. Her little family was all she needed.
CHLOE
Driving at night with the roof down felt a little reckless, somehow. And very intimate, as the sky itself wrapped itself round her, deep Quinky blue. The motorway was empty, and Chloe felt as if she was the last person in the world, driving over the horizon. The stars spread themselves out in front of her, and she felt as if she should be using them to guide her, rather than her prosaic sat nav, which told her she had another thirty-four miles to go.
She couldn’t get there fast enough. She couldn’t wait to leave it all behind her: today, her wretched job, her flat. The past two years of stress and sleeplessness and toil which had led to bitter disappointment. And injustice.
The anger boiled up inside her and she tried some deep yoga breathing to try and dispel it, but she knew it wouldn’t work. It was going to take a bit more than a bit of hippy-dippy claptrap to eradicate the rage. Her fists balled up on the steering wheel even now. How could something like that be allowed to happen, in the twenty-first century? The patriarchy, it seemed, was alive and kicking in the streets of Soho. And she didn’t even work in the ‘entertainment’ industry. The girls she knew who worked in the lap-dancing club over the road had more enlightened bosses than she did. Her stomach churned at the memory. But then, while there were girls like Jasmine in the world, being rewarded for your looks rather than your endeavours was going to carry on.
The Beach Hut Next Door Page 16
