It was funny, because Dave didn’t feel out of place with the other partners in the same way she did. It must be a bloke thing, she decided. They just got on with it; mucked in. She could see them all, engrossed in their game – competitive yes, but in a healthy way. They didn’t bully each other, getting one up with their clothes and their thinness and their jewellery. Sometimes she thought she didn’t like women very much. There was always some low-lying sense of competition to throw you off kilter.
And it was all too easy to find yourself sucked into the game. She knew she was playing it today by what she had done. But she couldn’t bear another year of it. She had to make a statement by getting one up. Did that make her as bad as them? She didn’t think so. She wasn’t doing it because she felt better than them. She was doing it to feel better about herself.
‘New dress?’ The MD’s wife Rosa looked at her over the top of her Chanel shades.
Why did she even ask when it was obvious it wasn’t? ‘No,’ replied Ange. ‘No point, really, when I only wear one once a year. I’m not a dress person.’
Rosa said nothing. She didn’t need to. She tried another topic of conversation. At least she was having a go at being polite.
‘Have you been away this summer?’
‘No,’ said Ange. ‘I’m not a hot weather person or an abroad person either. Happy pottering about at home, really.’
Dave had offered for her to go wherever she liked. She looked on the Internet but couldn’t begin to imagine herself in any of the destinations. They were quite happy firing up the barbecue for themselves and a few friends over the summer, and having the occasional day trip. What was wrong with liking home?
‘God, I’d die if I didn’t get away. We went to Dubai. The children’s club is amaaaazing – didn’t see them from dawn till dusk. I just lay on my sun lounger all day, reading, and the waiters bring you whatever you want to drink.’ Rosa put a beringed hand up and clicked her fingers to indicate that was all she needed to do to summon the attention of the staff. Her diamonds twinkled in the sunlight.
‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ said Ange, who couldn’t see the point of having children if you were going to bung them in a club all day. She felt bad enough that her two had to go to her mate’s today for the picnic.
By one-thirty the sun was still high in the sky, and Ange arranged one of the parasols over a table so they could keep the food in the shade. She could see the other women exchange knowing glances when she took the lid off her cool box. Little smirks, as if to say: ‘Here come the pork pies’. She was going to wipe the smile off their faces today.
She spread out a pretty checked tablecloth and began to produce her wares, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat.
First, there was a flask of cool, creamy watercress soup, which she poured into little shot glasses and popped on a tray: into each glass she put a tiny slug of truffle oil. Then she laid out a rough game terrine, wrapped in bacon, and a basket of poppy-seed rolls, followed by tomato tartlets criss-crossed with anchovies and scallops on a minted pea puree and chicken coated in breadcrumbs and garlic and parmesan. Then she piled the sweets onto a cake stand she’d brought with her. Macaroons in pastel colours – pale green with pistachio cream, pale pink with rose cream. Strawberry shortcakes, raspberry tartlets, lemon cheesecakes …
‘Where did you get all this?’ asked Rosa, in a strangled voice.
‘I made it,’ Ange replied carelessly. ‘I seem to have so much time on my hands now the kids are both at school.’
Rosa and the others gawped at her, then exchanged glances, not sure whether to challenge her. Ange could see they didn’t believe her. They thought she’d bought it all in from some smart caterer and put it in her own dishes to make it look as if it was homemade.
Rosa pointed at the macaroons.
‘Surely not those?’
‘Yes,’ Ange nodded. ‘Terribly fiddly. And, of course, you have to remember to separate the egg whites two days in advance. It helps give them volume,’ she explained airily, picking up her shot glass and hiding her smile behind it.
They were all staring at her food. She could see they were starving. They were practically drooling.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Don’t let it spoil. One day won’t hurt. You can run it off on the beach later.’
They didn’t need any second telling. Ange watched in satisfaction as they snatched up delicacy after delicacy, cramming their mouths full and nodding in approval. She passed them a plate of baby chocolate éclairs, the chocolate glaze gleaming.
‘Eat them, before they melt,’ she urged. They stretched their hands out greedily.
It had taken her a whole year to reach this standard. A year of evening classes at the local college, faffing about with piping bags and bain-maries and sugar thermometers. She could now make choux pastry and béarnaise sauce and fancy fondant potatoes. Of course, she’d had loads of disasters along the way, but she wanted to prove, just for once, that she could do something that would surprise them. That she wasn’t just a bingo manageress, to be laughed at. And she could tell she’d impressed them. They were united in their admiration. She felt a glow inside, which was infinitely preferable to the sense of inadequacy she usually had amongst them.
Eventually, the men arrived, hot from their cricket, and hurled themselves down on the rug expectantly. But as they started to look at the food on display, they looked disappointed, somehow.
‘Where’s the pork pie?’ asked Martin, the finance director.
‘And the scotch eggs?’ demanded Phil, the lawyer.
‘And the cold sausages?’ finished Ron, the MD. ‘A picnic’s not a picnic without cold sausages.’
The men all looked at Ange. There was disappointment and confusion etched on all their faces. She laughed, and got up to fetch her second cooler.
‘I brought some extra, just in case,’ she told them. ‘I know how you lot work up an appetite.’
And she started to unload the real food. They all groaned with delight as she chucked them each a packet of cheese and onion crisps to be getting on with.
‘Good old Ange!’ proclaimed Ron, as Rosa gave him one of her death stares. ‘We can always rely on Ange to provide a good spread.’
Ange rewarded him with an old ice-cream tub stuffed with cold bangers.
‘I’ve got a jar of piccalilli if you want to dunk them,’ she offered. She could see each of the wives shudder inwardly.
As the sun began to drift downwards, and people began to doze off, soporific and contented, Dave came and lay down beside Ange on the rug.
‘Crowfield’s just told me I’m in line for vice president,’ he whispered.
Ange looked at him. They knew the job was going to be vacant soon, but neither of them had ever dreamed Dave might be in the running.
‘How?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘He says I’m a maverick. But I’ve got the right values. He says it’s mine, bar the formalities.’
‘Oh.’ Ange thought about the news. Of course Dave had the right values. That was why she’d married him. Vice president? She wanted to laugh with glee, but she didn’t want to draw attention. What on earth would the other wives say? They’d all be spitting. It was the job they all wanted for their husbands.
She smiled to herself. Fourteen, they’d been when they met. In the youth club in the village hall. They’d never looked back. Never had eyes for anyone but each other, and they were as happy now as they were then.
‘I love you,’ she said, as quietly as she could. ‘And I’m so proud.’
Dave winked at her as he crammed in a piece of pork pie.
Ange wanted to reach over and give him a great big smacker on the cheek, but she didn’t think public displays of affection would go down well. That wasn’t the role she was playing today.
Today, she was the perfect partner’s wife.
&nb
sp; The vice president’s wife. Maybe.
TIM
Tim didn’t tell anyone that his party was basically a farewell party.
As long as he didn’t tell anyone, he didn’t have to admit it to himself.
As the day dawned, he thought that Everdene was taunting him. Reminding him what he was giving up. Never had it looked more beautiful; the sands pristine, the sky and sea a matching pale turquoise; the occasional puff of cloud dotted overhead to soften the vista; their Daz whiteness matching the lacy surf at the water’s edge.
He didn’t regret what he was doing, though. He knew it was the right thing. And, he reasoned, he had the rest of the world to explore. He had the freedom and the financial wherewithal to go wherever he pleased, whereas Rachel wouldn’t. He felt happy knowing that she would have the beach hut as a refuge and an escape whenever she wanted it.
And if his generosity had come about through guilt, what of it? Was there such a thing as true altruism, he wondered? And actually, he would never stop feeling guilty, no matter how much he tried to atone. Even if what he was guilty of wasn’t even his fault.
Yes, he would miss Everdene, but it was time for a new chapter, time to move on from the regret he would never be allowed to forget as long as he remained here. And who knew what tonight would bring?
The girl from the deli was called Lorraine. Tim remembered her name as soon as he got her email saying she would love to come to the party.
‘Can I crash?’ she’d asked, and he’d taken that as a good sign, her wanting to stay over. There had definitely been a connection between them as they bantered over the counter. She had something about her. He admired her entrepreneurial spirit, her work ethic and her knowledge of food. As he finished his morning coffee, made from the beans she had roasted and ground for him last time he’d been in, he allowed himself a flicker of excitement. Anticipation was a pleasure in itself, he thought. The allure of the unknown.
The party had turned from a bunch of mates, a pound of sausages and a disposable barbecue into something much more elaborate. He seemed to have asked pretty much everyone on Everdene Sands, because that’s the sort of place it was – parties went viral. And it was obvious if you left anyone out: in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Although everyone would bring a bottle and muck in.
He spent the day stringing up bunting; pegging out a dance floor with flares stuck into the sand; setting up his sound system and fine-tuning the Spotify playlists on his Mac: seventies’ funk, nineties’ rave, some chill-out tunes for the small hours, when the full moon would hang over the bay and lull everyone to sleep.
He filled several plastic tubs with sea water. Come evening they would be packed with ice and cans of Red Stripe and pear cider and bottles of Prosecco.
As soon as he realized that the guest list was getting out of hand, he’d decided to delegate the catering. He didn’t want to spend the evening hovering over a barbecue poking sausages. So he was getting The Lobster Shack to come in and do the food. They were bringing industrial catering burners and cooking up huge pans full of seafood paella: golden yellow rice studded with peppers and chicken and giant prawns and mussels.
Then Jenna was bringing down her ice-cream van at midnight, when everyone would be ready for something sweet to keep them going
Tim was pleased to be using the locals to make his final fling perfect.
After all, Everdene had been good to him. He’d had some of the best times in his life here.
He wasn’t going to think about the worst.
By six o’clock that evening, everything was in place. He had an hour to wait for everyone to arrive. He showered, stuck on his favourite O’Neill shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. He was just pulling the tab on his first can of Red Stripe when there was a tap on the door.
It was Lorraine. She was as cute as he remembered, her copper bob set off by a turquoise shift dress.
‘I’m sorry I’m early,’ she said, ‘but I thought I’d struggle to find it.’
He stepped back to let her in. ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘Come in. Let me get you a drink.’
Freckles. She had hundreds of freckles. And smiling hazel eyes.
‘Oh my God, this is just gorgeous,’ she said, looking round the hut, and he didn’t tell her this was his last weekend here. It didn’t seem to matter.
Two hours later, the party was in full swing. Kid Creole and the Coconuts were blaring out across the evening air. Most of the day trippers had left, leaving the sands clear for the guests to spill out up to the water’s edge – the tide was in as far as it would come. As the sun glided gently towards, the silver sea turned to gold.
Vince stood on the edge of the crowds, wondering why he felt so out of place. He thought he was probably in line for the prize of miserable bastard of the year. He should be happy, after all. Everything in his life was falling into place.
His biggest worry, which had been his brother, now wasn’t a worry at all. On the contrary. Chris had totally turned the corner. He was even badgering Vince about them getting another boat and expanding even more. His new girlfriend, Chloe, seemed to have kindled some kind of ambition in him. She was still working at The Lobster Shack, which Vince was pleased about, because she was their best waitress, and she’d promised to stay on until the end of the season. The restaurant was a massive success. It was all down to Murphy, thought Vince. It had been him with the vision.
Murphy. He seemed to have come through the recent events unscathed. In fact, if anything, he and Anna seemed closer than ever. They were here tonight. She’d left the girls with her mother. Of course he was pleased for his friend. Of course he was glad it was working out. But something felt sour. He still wondered if he should have told Murphy the truth.
He drank from his can of Red Stripe. He felt maudlin. Maybe he’d finish his drink and go home. He was about to toss the empty can in the bin and make his escape when he felt a hand on his arm.
It was Anna. Looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in a white tunic with silver embroidery, a wide leather belt at her waist; endless legs and silver flip-flops. She looked angelic. Only Vince knew the truth.
‘I just want to say thank you,’ she said to him. ‘Thank you so much. You made me see sense. You made me realize what it was I had to lose.’
He looked at her in distaste. He would never be able to trust her. What would she have done, if he hadn’t intervened? Would she have run off with her gardener, leaving Murphy to blame himself? Maybe he should have let her?
‘Don’t think badly of me,’ she pleaded.
‘Anna,’ he said, with brutal honesty. ‘I don’t think anything of you.’
He might as well have slapped her.
She breathed in, as if to calm herself.
‘Please dance with me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose you as a friend.’
‘I can’t,’ said Vince. ‘I’m sorry.’
He was damned if he was going to give her absolution. That way she would have got away with everything.
‘You’re right,’ she said, as if she could read his thoughts. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
Vince shrugged. Maybe one day he’d feel differently, but right now he didn’t want to be anywhere near her.
He watched her walk away, into the crowds, to go and find Murphy, who was holding court, looking ridiculously Don Johnson in an unstructured linen suit and mirrored Ray-Bans. She grabbed his hand and led him towards the dance area which was now lit by flares. She pulled him towards her, her unsuspecting husband, and began to dance.
Vince could see that for Murphy, there was no one else at the party. He was entranced by his wife, gracious and elegant and slinky. She was mesmerizing.
Vince didn’t want to look at them a minute longer.
He turned, and walked straight into Kiki.
‘Hey,’ she said, holding out her arms. She was so o
pen. So full of joy. So absolutely the antithesis of what he was feeling. ‘Do you want to dance?’
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and dodged out of her way. He just wanted to be on his own.
Chloe walked with Chris down to the water’s edge. The tide had turned, and the sea was nudging its way back out. They stood in the shallows, letting the water swirl around their ankles.
She knew this was probably hard for him. A party, where everyone was drinking hard and losing their inhibitions. She stuck to water too, in solidarity, even though he told her he didn’t mind if she drank. But she found she didn’t need alcohol. She felt so happy and relaxed with him. She’d slotted seamlessly into seaside life, which surprised her: her life had been so urban until now, apart from the occasional holiday. Although she was rushed off her feet during her shifts at The Lobster Shack, she adored the way of life.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
‘Oh, you don’t want to do too much of that,’ said Chris, turning and stroking her hair.
She smiled, and nestled into him. ‘I might sell my flat,’ she said. ‘And move down here. Permanently.’
He held her at arm’s length and looked at her. ‘Are you serious?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve been doing some research. Looking at all the local businesses. I think there might be scope for me to set up my own agency. PR and advertising and web content. Specializing in seaside businesses. I’ve even got a name. SeaPR.’ She laughed at her own play on words.
‘Well,’ said Chris. ‘Maskells could be your first clients.’
‘I’d give you a discount.’
He kissed her on the nose. ‘Mate’s rates.’
‘Something like that.’ She kissed him back. ‘I can carry on waitressing, for the time being. It looks as if the restaurant’s enough of a success to carry on through the winter. Then if the agency gets big enough, if I get enough clients …’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t get bored? It’s pretty deadly down here out of season. There’s nothing much to do.’
The Beach Hut Next Door Page 22
