High Tide

by Veronica Henry

  And that was why she had to walk away now. Spencer might be gone, but really – what she had just done was indecently premature. She’d just attended her husband’s funeral, for heaven’s sake. And she was drunk. Well, not drunk, but her inhibitions had flown out of the window. She didn’t want gossip. Or a reputation. She’d kept her head down for so long in this town. People would be watching, because they always did. One false move and it would spread like wildfire.

  If it wasn’t spreading already. Nathan was probably inside texting his mates. ‘Help. I’ve been attacked by a cougar.’ She’d be a laughing stock. She felt her stomach roil in horror as she thought about it. She didn’t want an embarrassing farewell scenario, with him feeling he had to give her his number. He’d done his duty and he’d been very kind and he was the most fabulous kisser, but she didn’t want him to feel he owed her anything more. She couldn’t bear to think he was working out how to make a swift exit.

  She picked up her bag, made for the gate and let herself out of the pub garden as quickly as she could.

  Kate sat on the sofa with Leanne on her lap and chewed her way through three slices of ham and pineapple pizza, relishing every forbidden mouthful. She couldn’t hear anything on the television over the chatter and demands of the kids, but it didn’t matter. It was comfortable and cosy and friendly.

  The warmth and the red wine and the unfamiliar carbs soon made her eyelids heavy, and she drifted off.

  Sometime later, she felt Leanne being lifted off her lap.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Debbie. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, but I need to get this one into bed.’

  Kate sat up. ‘I should get to bed myself. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Scott’ll walk you home.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ll walk you,’ said Scott, and Kate knew there was no arguing.

  They walked in silence back down the hill. The lights of the town were twinkling beneath them, and the blustery gale of earlier had blown itself out so the air was now still. A large moon hung over them, milky white.

  ‘If there’s anything you want doing while you’re here,’ said Scott, ‘you only have to say. Deb thought the world of your mum.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate, especially as she knew his offer was genuine, and that if she called him at three in the morning and asked him to toast her slippers and bring them to her on a silver tray, he probably would. She wanted to hug him but she wasn’t quite sure if it was proper.

  ‘You’ll be OK, then?’ he asked as they got to Belle Vue, and she wanted to say no, she wouldn’t, not at all, but if she did that then she would howl and it wouldn’t be fair on Scott, to have a woman he hadn’t seen since he left school bawling all over him.

  So she said, ‘Absolutely fine, honestly,’ and when the door shut behind him she stared at it with her fists clenched and felt desperately alone.

  She hurried up the stairs, scrambled into her nightdress, brushed her teeth and got out the prescription she’d picked up that morning. She didn’t want to risk waking up in a few hours’ time, her mind on overdrive. She swallowed the tablet before she could change her mind, and crawled into bed.

  Vanessa wove her way back up the high street. The lamplights were still on but there was no one around, the shops all in darkness. Her shoes were killing her so she took them off. The pavement was cold beneath her stockinged feet. She’d never seen Pennfleet like this: still and quiet and empty. It was like a stage set for the perfect seaside town, waiting for the actors to turn up and begin their performance.

  She came to a halt outside her shop, nestled between a wine merchant and a boutique selling autumnal knitwear. ‘ADRIFT’ read the turquoise and silver letters above the door. She felt a burst of pride as she looked at it. There were two bay windows, backlit, glowing gently in the dark. One held a display of delicate silver jewellery with a nautical theme: tiny silver crabs and oyster shells and starfish hung from charm bracelets and necklaces. The other side housed a collection of blue and white crockery glazed with a high shine, so fine you could almost see through it, decorated with a tiny lighthouse motif.

  Whatever else anyone said about her, thought Vanessa, they couldn’t take the success of Adrift away. She might have had a soulless marriage, and no children, but the shop was an achievement, something to be proud of. And it did make a difference. She always got a warm glow from seeing her customers’ faces when they chose something they really loved, whether it was a painting or a pair of earrings. And she thrived on discovering new talent, nurturing and encouraging her suppliers, urging them to try something different. She had a meeting this week with a new painter: she couldn’t wait to sit down with her and talk about what she might do. Vanessa was no artist herself but she had a strong feeling for what people liked without making her product range too commercial or saccharine. She liked an edge and for her artists to take risks. And she inevitably sold what they produced when they took those risks. It was exciting and rewarding. For her, for her suppliers, and for her customers.

  She smiled at her reflection in the window. What was she like? Standing there all tousled and bedraggled, shoes in hand, her lipstick all kissed off? Mrs Knight, paragon of virtue, her reputation unblemished. Until tonight. She had to see the funny side.

  She walked on, then turned left at the end of the high street towards the harbour, and the night air hit her with its full force. The weather was so fickle at this time of year, lulling you into a false sense of security: warm one minute, the wind biting the next. She walked right along the river until she came to the entrance of Pennfleet House, where she put her shoes back on. Lights were blazing, and she could hear loud music. She slid her key into the lock, pushed open the door, walked through the hall and into the kitchen.

  Mary Mac was surrounded by dirty plates and glasses, looking disapproving.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she told Vanessa. ‘It’s chaos. Karina’s gone to bed; all the men are in the billiard room. I think Daniella’s being sick upstairs. I’ve no idea where Aiden’s gone.’

  Vanessa sighed. ‘I’m so sorry. I should never have left you. You’re an angel, you know that?’

  ‘If I were you I’d stay away till they’ve all gone. They seem to think it’s their house.’ Mrs Mac flipped open the dishwasher and a cloud of steam came out. She started unpacking the crockery ready for the next load.

  ‘Go home, for goodness sake. I’ll do this,’ said Vanessa.

  ‘No – you’re fine. You’d better go and see if Daniella is all right. She didn’t look too clever.’

  Vanessa glanced in the drawing room but shut the door quickly. The men had all taken off their jackets and were lolling about on the furniture in various states of inebriation with Spencer’s sound system on full blast, singing their way through his favourite songs. The air was thick with cigar smoke.

  She found Daniella in one of the upstairs bathrooms, her arms around the toilet. She’d stopped being sick but looked terrible, her face streaked with tears.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vanessa. ‘You poor love.’ She’d been there often enough in her youth. ‘Let me run you a bath.’

  Half an hour later Daniella was bathed and wrapped up in a cosy dressing gown, sitting cross-legged on her bed, hugging a hot-water bottle. The two children had their own rooms for when they came to stay.

  Vanessa sat on the bed next to her and stroked her damp curls. She looked so much younger and prettier without all the make-up and her hair straightened.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  Daniella looked at her thoughtfully.

  ‘You know, Mum hates you,’ she said. ‘But I think you’re all right.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Vanessa. As backhanded compliments went, it was a good one.

  ‘Can we still come down here? In the holidays? Me and Aid?’

  What could she say? She couldn’t say no. She’d be a monster if she said no. She had to be careful, though. Daniella was perfectly capable of turning fro
m vulnerable and self-pitying to quite nasty. She’d done it often enough in the past. Vanessa fell into the trap every time. It was as if she never learned.

  ‘I don’t know quite what’s going to happen yet.’ That was noncommittal.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Daniella sat up straight. ‘You’re not selling the house?’

  She was on high alert. Vanessa suspected her mother might have charged her with finding out what she was going to do.

  ‘I mean just that. I don’t know what’s going to happen. What I’m going to do.’ Shut up, Vanessa, she thought. Leave it at that.

  ‘But we come here every summer.’

  As well as going on a Caribbean jaunt paid for by Spencer. And skiing every winter.

  Vanessa suddenly felt terribly tired.

  ‘Listen, I need to go to bed. And you should, too. It’s been a long and sad day.’

  Daniella frowned. ‘Are you sad?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Daniella surveyed her doubtfully.

  ‘Daddy isn’t very good at making people happy, you know. Only bank managers.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Wasn’t, I mean.’ Then she began to cry.

  ‘Come here,’ said Vanessa, and hugged her. It wasn’t Daniella’s fault that she was spoiled. And she didn’t have a very good role model in Karina.

  Eventually Daniella cried herself out.

  ‘Sorry,’ she hiccupped.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Vanessa. ‘You don’t have to apologise.’

  She tucked Daniella into bed, then went back into her bedroom and threw off her funeral dress. She couldn’t even be bothered to change into her nightie. By the time she climbed under the covers in her underwear, she had all but forgotten her evening of passion. She had a fleeting memory of Nathan, and his embrace, and she smiled, then fell asleep. Their encounter seemed like something that had happened to someone else a very long time ago.

  Kissing the widow of the richest man in town probably wasn’t one of his best ideas, Nathan thought.

  He should have taken her straight home, not poured a bottle of Pinot Grigio down her.

  But the tricky bit – the really tricky bit – the thing that had thrown him even more than the fact that he’d undoubtedly angered his boss, was … he liked her.

  Liked her a lot. He couldn’t get her out of his head. And it wasn’t just because she was incredibly pretty, even though she must be nearly forty. Not that forty was old these days.

  He knew, of course, that it was wrong to like a woman just for her looks, yet very often he didn’t get beyond that. Not because he was shallow. But because, ironically, women often judged him on his looks. Inevitably they were drawn to his jeans-perfect arse and sculpted arms and laughing eyes, and didn’t look for anything else. And once you had decided that’s all you were worth, it was hard to believe there was more to you, so you tended to judge people on the same basis.

  But there was something else about Vanessa Knight. She had a warmth that drew you in, and it had enveloped him and left him reeling. He’d been gutted to find that while he’d gone to get their drinks she had disappeared into the inky night, leaving the wooden gate ajar.

  He knew where she lived, of course. Everyone did. Pennfleet House was perched on the edge of the river, long and low, softly white with powder-blue window frames that matched the sky and a terrace that overlooked the harbour. But he wasn’t going to chase after her. He just stood there, with his pint of cider in one hand and her Cointreau on ice in the other, feeling bereft, shivering in the chill autumn air.

  Now, Nathan lay on his bed staring at the ceiling with its skylight that revealed a sprinkling of stars and thought about the sweetness of her mouth on his. And realised that she had made him feel different.

  He’d had older women before. Pennfleet had no shortage of them – they prowled its narrow winding streets during the summer, many of them left alone by wealthy husbands who only tipped up at weekends. Sunshine and Pimm’s and loneliness made them easy prey.

  Not that Nathan was predatory. Far from it. He didn’t need to be. Women fell into his lap. Quite literally, sometimes. His life was a simple equation that he was in charge of. Work, pub, occasional flings. Not answerable to anyone but himself. It wasn’t a bad life. Pleasingly uncomplicated.

  So his encounter with Vanessa Knight threw him entirely. He felt as if she had run off with a piece of his heart. The full moon glowed down on him, intense with silver light, and he knew sleep was going to elude him. Which was good, as he was dreading the morning. Morning would bring reality. And consequences.

  The consequences of doing something you really shouldn’t have in a small town.

  10

  There were four of them. Tiny, squirming, chocolate-brown bundles with black teddy-bear noses. Six weeks old and delightfully determined, shoving each other out of the way, batting each other with their too-large paws, rolling around and wrestling while their long-suffering mum looked on.

  Nathan picked up each of them carefully in one hand, checking them over for injury, examining their eyes and ears before plopping them back down in the pen. Then he inspected Monkey, checking her teats for blockages, making sure she wasn’t too thin.

  He still couldn’t tell what breed the father might have been. Monkey was a border terrier, with a rough, dun-coloured coat, while the puppies were shinier and darker. She had certainly lived up to her name.

  He’d named her when he went to choose her, two years earlier, from a farm right out on the moors. He’d picked her out of the litter and held her to him. She had put her paws either side of his neck, staring at him with bright-brown eyes. ‘Hello, monkey,’ he had said, and somehow the name had stuck.

  And she was a monkey, squirming her way out of the back door when no one was looking while she was in season. And coming back looking as if butter wouldn’t melt, two hours later.

  And butter clearly had melted, if these four scraps of fur were anything to go by. Nathan had set them up a nest in one of the sheds in his grandfather’s back yard, and made sure there was no chance of escape. They were warm and dry and cosy in here, and he cleaned them out three times a day.

  This morning they took his mind off his hangover and the murky memory he had of last night. It was a mixed memory: part delight, part horror. He wished he could just recall the wonderful warmth he had felt without the cringing embarrassment.

  He filled up the water bowls and added fresh bedding. The puppies were getting bigger and stronger every day. They’d be ready to leave their mum before long. He and his grandfather might keep one, but the others would have to go. If only he knew what the father was he could advertise them as some sort of exotic crossbreed of the type people seemed to go in for: a Borderpoo or a Jackborder. But they had no idea who the sire was.

  Happy the puppies and their mum were all content, Nathan crossed the yard and went in through the back door. His grandfather was at the kitchen table, a pot of tea in front of him. He was studying the day’s form in the Racing Post, chewing on a piece of toast spread thick with butter and marmalade.

  He indicated the pot.

  ‘Cup of tea in there for you.’

  ‘Cheers. I need it.’

  His grandfather gave him a sly grin. ‘Yup. Happen you do.’

  Nathan sighed. The Pennfleet tom toms were out already. It wasn’t even nine o’clock.

  ‘Mick in the paper shop?’

  ‘Yup.’ Daniel Fisher took another bite of toast and spoke through the crumbs. ‘You want to watch them posh maids. Mark my words she’ll look right through you next time you see her.’

  ‘You speaking from experience?’

  ‘Yup.’ He grinned again. ‘They think they like a bit of rough, but when it comes down to it …’ He shook his head.

  Nathan poured his tea, thick and brown. His eyebrows, which were dark compared with his sun-bleached hair, were knitted in consternation. ‘I don’t see myself as a bit of rough.’

  Daniel chuckled. ‘Course you don’t.’ />
  Nathan felt aggrieved. ‘I treated her with the greatest respect. I looked after her. I bought her drinks. What’s rough about that?’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, lad. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘I haven’t got any hopes.’

  His grandfather looked at him askance. ‘You’ve got that look. You’ve got the look of a lad who’s been love-struck.’

  ‘To be honest, Grandad – I think it’s more to do with one pint too many.’

  Nathan didn’t want to pursue the conversation. He wasn’t sure how he felt himself, and he didn’t want his grandad theorising and confusing him even further. There was nothing you could tell Daniel Fisher about the world and how it worked. He knew everything. Or thought he did.

  Despite that, Nathan adored his grandad. When his parents had moved up country, to Gloucester, to a shiny new house on a shiny new estate, Nathan couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Pennfleet, so he’d stayed with his grandad, in the cottage Daniel and his wife had lived in since their marriage over fifty years ago. Rosie had gone, ten years ago now, but they muddled along, the two of them. The cottage was pretty much as it had been when Daniel and Rosie first moved in. No central heating, the windows rattled in their frames, the kitchen was prehistoric, the bath took half an hour to fill. But a variety of wood-burning stoves kept it as warm as toast, and the one thing Nathan had insisted on was fitting a shower into what had been the utility room, which he used twice a day and Daniel used never.

  And outside was Daniel’s yard, a ramshackle collection of stables and sheds and workshops containing a myriad projects-in-progress and things-for-men-to-mess-about-with. And, in the far corner, an aviary filled with Daniel’s collection of prize-winning finches. In the biggest shed was stored every tool known to man, the wooden handles smooth with wear, the blades kept sharp, all in fine fettle and stored neatly until the day when they would be needed. For everything came in handy eventually. It was Daniel’s mantra. He never threw anything away.