The Beach Hut Next Door

by Veronica Henry

  He looked around the bedroom. Everything stood to attention, shining and gleaming. Everything was as it should be. No clutter. No noise. No chaos.

  No Janice. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to stand it.

  ‘I’ll come and fetch him,’ he said down the phone. ‘I’ll be there as quickly as I can, first thing.’

  He set off back down the motorway at eight o’clock the next morning. He wondered what on earth he was doing. It was going to cost him sixty quid in petrol to fetch the wretched animal, plus the vet would sting him. They always did. He almost turned around halfway. He wouldn’t fetch him; wouldn’t answer the phone for a few days. What could they do? They couldn’t force the dog on him. But something made him drive on.

  He managed to find the vets quite easily. There was just a young nurse on duty. She made him fill out some paperwork and, as he predicted, there was a charge for Elvis’s overnight stay. He grumbled quietly to himself as he pulled the cash out of his wallet.

  ‘I’ll just go and fetch him,’ the nurse said, and Bob waited on one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area, reading the adverts for wormers.

  Elvis waddled out on the surgery lead, looking baleful and defiant. When he saw Bob he sat down squarely in the middle of the surgery and looked away. Bob felt a surge of something. He wasn’t sure what. He got up and walked towards him.

  ‘Hello, boy.’ His voice was gruff. He realized that Elvis was a living connection between him and Janice; that his hot, square little body would give him comfort. He squatted down and held out his hand. ‘Come here.’

  Despite his apparent reluctance, Elvis turned his face back to Bob. He reached his chin forward and rested it on his knee. For a moment, he shut his eyes. Bob stroked his head and Elvis burrowed in further. He seemed to be saying sorry: sorry for being a nuisance and for buggering off.

  ‘It’s all right, boy,’ said Bob, and found his voice wasn’t as strong as it could be. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go, you and me.’

  VINCE

  Vince stood at the helm of his boat, his arms crossed. The two brothers who crewed for them had a week off, so he and Chris were going out together with a guy who stood in every now and again. In theory. Yet again, here he was, waiting for Chris to turn up.

  Only this time, he didn’t mind his reason for being late. He could see the two of them from his vantage point, kissing each other on the harbour as if their lives depended on it. The waitress from The Lobster Shack – Chloe. It was astonishing, he thought, how having the right person in your life could turn it around.

  He gave a piercing whistle.

  ‘Oi,’ he shouted. ‘Put her down.’

  Chris didn’t miss a bit. Just flipped him the finger. Then extricated himself, grinning, and loped towards the boat, jumping on board.

  ‘Sorry. Did I keep you waiting?’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve got all day.’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’

  It was only brotherly banter, but Chris’s remark hit home. Because actually, thought Vince, he was. He was jealous of the purity and simplicity of Chris’s relationship with Chloe. The lack of complication. Not that he begrudged his brother his newfound love. Not one bit. He was glad and grateful, not least because it had spared him the ghastly task of intervening. Possibly dragging Chris off to rehab. Which, given this was Tawcombe and not LA, would have been very counterintuitive.

  They were about to set off when Vince’s mobile rang.

  It was Murphy.

  ‘Hey.’

  There was a choking sound on the end of the line.

  ‘Vince. It’s me, mate. She’s thrown me out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Anna’s chucked me out of the house. She packed my bag and threw it out of the window. I’ve never seen her so mad.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She found a text.’

  ‘Oh, Murphy.’ Vince threw his eyes to the sky in exasperation. ‘Man.’

  ‘I can’t help it if some mad, crazy girl texts me in the middle of the night.’

  Vince groaned. ‘Not that girl from the launch.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did the text say?’

  There was a guilty pause. ‘It was pretty explicit.’

  Vince uncoiled the rope with one hand and jumped back onto the boat, letting it slump with a thump onto the deck. There was no need to delay their journey any longer. He strode over to the wheel. They’d have a phone signal until they were quite a way out, so he turned the key in the ignition, then started to back the boat out carefully.

  ‘How many times have I told you? Don’t give out your phone number!’

  ‘You saw what she did! I didn’t give it to her.’

  ‘You gave her the come on, though.’

  ‘Vince, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.’

  ‘Murphy, you’re an idiot.’

  ‘Vince, I adore Anna. You know I do. I would never cheat on her. I know you don’t think much of me, but honestly …’

  There was genuine pain in his voice.

  Vince wasn’t surprised. Who wouldn’t be distraught at the thought of losing Anna?

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked Murphy,

  ‘I’m going to have to come down. She’s changed the locks.’

  ‘No way! What about the girls? What has she told them?’

  Murphy didn’t answer. Vince just heard a bit of a choking noise over the thrum of the engine. His mate was crying. Eventually he managed to get the words out. ‘I’ve told them … We’ve told them I’m going away on business.’

  Vince looked at the horizon. If they pushed it, he would be back at six, in time to take Murphy for a pint.

  ‘You better get your arse into gear and get down here, then.’

  He hung up and looked at his brother.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘It was only a matter of time. You know what Murphy’s like.’

  ‘Get in there, then.’

  Vince looked at his brother sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘Ah, come on, Vince. It’s bloody obvious you’ve got a thing for Anna. Why else have you lived like a monk for the past … Well, since forever?’

  Vince glowered at the horizon, feeling a fool. If it had been obvious to drunken Chris, who else had cottoned on?

  Not Murphy. Because all Murphy wanted to do, once he’d arrived and drunk four pints, was to get Vince to go up and talk sense into his wife.

  They sat in front of Vince’s beach hut with the remains of a bottle of Havana Club, the cool of the night air settling round them.

  ‘Vince, you know what I’m like better than anyone. And you saw that girl set me up. She’s been bombarding me with filth since I let her get my number. But I don’t reply to her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, only to say it might be a good idea if she stopped.’

  ‘You should have changed your number.’

  ‘It’s too bloody inconvenient. And I didn’t think Anna was going to find it. I don’t understand. She’s just not the snooping-about-in-your-phone type.’

  ‘It must have been obvious, Murph.’

  Murphy poured out another inch of rum.

  ‘I can’t lose her. She’s my rock, Vince. We’re a great team. We’ve got our beautiful girls. She can’t want to break up over a stupid text, surely?’

  ‘Well, they say sending explicit texts is as bad as being unfaithful nowadays.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Vince. That’s great.’

  Vince felt conflicted. He hated seeing his mate in such distress, but he did think he’d been an idiot. If he’d really respected Anna, he wouldn’t have played into the girl’s hands in the first place.

  ‘Do you want me to go up and see her for you? Explain how things are.’

 
Murphy looked at him, surprised.

  ‘Would you do that for me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Vince gazed at the horizon. It was rapidly disappearing from view as the sky joined the sea in submission to the night.

  ‘Explain to her that I’m an idiot. Not a bastard. I’d never be unfaithful to her. Never.’

  Vince looked at his mate. Did Murphy protest too much? He couldn’t be sure. But he knew it was up to him to try and save his marriage. That was, after all, what friends were for.

  ELODIE

  A more contented marriage Edmund and Elodie’s could not have been. It may not have reached the giddy heights of passion, but it worked. It allowed them both to be the people they needed to be, and to be the parents they wanted to be to Otto.

  And Elodie took the plunge: she left her secretarial post and began to write. She had learned so much during her time working with Edmund, and she found she was itching to tell stories herself. She started off small, writing half-hour plays and short stories, submitting them under a pseudonym to his colleagues, for she never wanted to be accused of nepotism. And then, one day, she got her first commission, and confessed to him what she had been doing.

  He was delighted, and from that day on gave her his unstinting support, taking Otto out to the park at weekends so she could bash away on her typewriter, reading her work, giving constructive criticism, suggesting books she might like to try and adapt. And then encouraging her to make the leap from writing for radio to writing for television: a former colleague was producing a weekly police drama, and was looking for new writers.

  Elodie found that her way of looking at the world was just what television needed. She brought a warmth and sparkle to scripts without ever sacrificing depth or nuance. She became more and more in demand. Her success meant they moved to a larger house, in Teddington, and were able to employ a nanny. Edmund never begrudged her success or the amount of her time it absorbed. He was delighted and endlessly proud. He was quite happy in his niche. Despite numerous offers, he himself was never tempted to move on career-wise, yet he never felt inferior to her.

  She wrote under her married name – Smithers – because she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Her first name was unusual enough. She didn’t want anyone spotting her name in the Radio Times and getting in touch. She knew if her parents had wanted to find her enough they would have, but nevertheless she wanted to keep a low profile. Even without the past she was so eager to forget, she was a private person who didn’t court publicity, despite the world she moved in. And people liked her even more for that: she was modest and self-deprecating about her increased success.

  They had a wide-ranging circle of loyal friends; bohemian intellectuals who loved coming round for the endless Sunday lunches for which they became famous, at which children ran riot and the wine flowed. Elodie had a knack of collecting people, because she was interested in them, fascinated by them, wanted to know what made them tick. Edmund was endlessly charmed by his talented and extravert wife, happy to bob along in her wake, comfortable enough in his skin not to feel overshadowed, even when she went on to win awards for some of her work, because she always, always said she couldn’t have done it without him.

  And then one day, Edmund had a heart attack. A congenital fault, said the consultant. He had been sitting on a time bomb. He was three days in a coma before they turned off the life support machine.

  The weeks following Edmund’s death were a blur, but her friends were incredible. They somehow knew exactly when she needed company and when she needed to be left alone; when she needed a warming casserole brought round and when she just wanted to sit and drink a bottle of wine with someone. The letters of condolence she received brought her the most comfort and yet the most sadness. Edmund had been an even better friend to people than she had realized; always a font of knowledge and advice and quiet support, especially to the writers whom he had worked with. Several of them told her how his wisdom and encouragement had brought them back from the brink of despair. Elodie herself knew how a gift could turn into a curse if the muse didn’t materialize. She rarely suffered from writer’s block herself, but understood how it could drive someone to the edge of madness. That Edmund had kept his loyalty so quiet made her realize even more keenly what she had lost.

  And then an envelope arrived via the undertakers and she recognized the writing immediately, even without the Worcestershire postmark. Her mouth was dry as she opened it.

  My darling Elodie,

  I read about the death of your dear Edmund in the newspaper.

  Of course, I have followed your career and your life from afar. Do not think that I have not thought about you every day, or that I did not care. I have never forgiven myself for what happened, for not intervening sooner. But as no doubt you have realized, life is not always straightforward and we do not always make the decisions that are best for us or the others around us. Regret is the bitterest pill.

  But I have taken solace in your success, and the fact that you married a kind and honourable man who I hope gave you everything you deserve. I knew you were strong, my Elodie, and that you would survive, and perhaps be better off without us.

  That was probably the hardest decision for me to make, but sometimes it is kindest to let go. I hope you understand that, and can forgive me. Both for that decision and everything that went before.

  I am proud of you. More than you can possibly know. And if you need me, you know where I am. But I entirely understand if you don’t want to make contact.

  Your loving father.

  Elodie was still too numb from Edmund’s death to take in the implications. Desmond had been watching her all this time. He was holding out an olive branch. Somehow, the purity of her marriage to Edmund highlighted even more the rotten state of her own parents’ relationship. She had no desire to go back and revisit it. After all, she had now lived longer without them then she had with, so their influence had faded into the background. They were nothing to her now. A distant memory, that was all.

  And the following week there came the news that she was up for a BAFTA for a one-off drama she had written: a gritty, humorous piece about a working girl in Soho who became an artists’ model, then a muse, then a madame. It had turned its previously unknown star into a household name, and became something of a cult hit.

  When she won Best Screenplay, a month later, and went up onto the stage to accept her award, she broke down when she thanked Edmund, and the cameras went crazy. And every producer in the country wanted to work with her, every broadcaster wanted her to pen a drama series; she could, it seemed, write whatever she wanted. She was so busy, so in demand, so snowed under, that her father’s letter became insignificant; the decision of whether to meet him or not got pushed to the back of her mind.

  Besides, carrying on with her work was the best tribute she could think of to Edmund. She made sure she had enough projects on the go to give her life momentum. And meetings. She needed meetings if she wasn’t to become reclusive, because that was one of the downsides of being a writer; the fact it was such a solitary occupation. Even though she had technically passed retirement age, she stayed in demand. She had never really gone out of fashion, because she moved with the times and didn’t get stuck in a rut. She always had something fresh and irreverent to say; her characters were always relevant and with the times. She could pick and choose whom she worked with and no one had the temerity to interfere with her work. She was respected in the industry as someone who could always deliver.

  Her busy social life balanced out the days she spent locked away: she moved from the family house in Teddington into a Thameside apartment by Tower Bridge: she loved to be by the water, by the ever-changing narrative that was the river. She was always at the theatre or cinema or out to dinner; never short of invitations, although she never went out on ‘dates’. She didn’t feel the need for someone else in her life. Otto lived near enough to visit r
egularly and eventually she became a grandmother, a role she adored. She was just the right sort of granny – practical and hands-on without being interfering. She always remembered how grateful she had been to Lady Bellnap for being the very same, and tried to emulate her attributes.

  Lady Bellnap had passed away years before, but had left Elodie a small sum of money along with the diaries she had kept while out in the Far East. Elodie had found them riveting and unputdownable – the incredible human detail moved her to tears, and she knew one day they would be a source of inspiration. Eventually, she sat down and began to sketch out an idea for a drama series based on the diaries – a young doctor and his wife battling to make a change in tropical climes. All great ideas start with a tiny seed. Some hid for years, waiting to germinate, but this one germinated straight away, blossomed and flourished. It wrote itself, which was always the best way. It was dramatic, romantic, the stakes were high, the setting exotic – it had everything needed for a ratings winner.

  She wanted to take the idea to an independent producer whose work she had long admired. Colm Sanderson’s dramas were always gentle but thought-provoking. They had both depth and warmth, and left the viewer feeling as if they knew something more about the world. He was the perfect person to handle this material, she felt sure. Not that she was precious about her work – Elodie had long learned not to be precious – but at her age, she was entitled to be choosy. And she was also lucky enough to be able to say no if she thought her work was going to be misrepresented. A luxury, she knew.

  She sent Colm a treatment. A two-page document that was enough to tantalize him, with enough detail to make sure he couldn’t just steal the idea (not that he would; bona fide producers never stole ideas), but leaving it open-ended enough to invite discussion. A good pitch for a series was always a starting point; a good writer always left room for improvement. It was a draft process.