by Lucy Diamond
Not such an old biddy after all, she thought with a rush of pride as she felt Gloria’s hand on her waist, helping her take the last steps down. There! And now that she was here on the sandy floor of the hidden cove, she was so glad she’d done it, even if her legs had gone to jelly all over again. What a place. What a find! Sheltered by high curving cliffs, there was no wind at all in the crescent-shaped inlet, just a stretch of pale yellow sand and the sea, foaming up the beach towards them. High above a kittiwake soared, its wings silhouetted against the blue.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ she breathed. ‘It’s perfect.’
Gloria looked pleased. ‘Good, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘And best of all, I’ve never seen another person here, in all the times me and Bill came down. It’s like having your own private beach.’
Olivia took off her sandals and let her bare feet sink luxuriously into the warm, powdery sand. It was so quiet. So remote. You could just about see the bonnet of Gloria’s Mini up on the headland if you stretched your head back but there was no other sign of civilization in sight.
Then a thought struck her. An image of the straw beach bag containing her swimming costume and towel, still neatly tucked in the passenger footwell of Gloria’s car where she’d left it. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Slight problem.’
Gloria merely shrugged when she heard the news. ‘Not to worry. Nobody will see us here anyway,’ she said, heaving a large bamboo mat from her bag and unrolling it on the sand. ‘Go crazy and skinny-dip if you want to swim. Me and Bill used to do it all the time.’
Olivia tried to hide her embarrassment at the suggestion, feeling as prim and proper as a Victorian nun. ‘Oh. Well. I’m not sure,’ she said, feeling her face flame. Honestly. Gloria might be able to throw her clothes off and swim about naked but Olivia … No. She couldn’t. Nobody had seen her body since Alec and it would feel horribly exposing to reveal all so brazenly in public. Every time she showered or bathed, she was aware of how pale and wrinkled she had become, of how she sagged and pouched in all the wrong places nowadays. When one was approaching sixty nudity was simply not the done thing.
Gloria gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Well, if you’re not going to, I am,’ she declared, and pulled her sleeveless cyan shirtdress over her head. Olivia averted her eyes but not before she saw Gloria’s magenta bra and black lacy knickers go flying off onto the bamboo mat. ‘Last one in’s a rotten egg!’ called Gloria, and then she was pelting away down the sand, bottom wobbling like twin caramel blancmanges, shrieking for joy.
SPLASH. In she went, launching herself at the waves, arms outstretched as if embracing a watery friend. Up went another squeal. ‘Jesus, it is cold. Makes you feel alive, though. Come on in!’
I couldn’t, thought Olivia as Gloria waved from the sea, then surface-dived like a frisky bum-baring dolphin. I absolutely couldn’t. Turning away, she wiped each foot free of sand before gingerly stepping onto the bamboo mat and sitting down. Gloria, meanwhile, was windmilling her arms through the water, sending up fountains of spray that glittered like crystals against the blue sky. From the lack of tan lines on Gloria’s body, Olivia suspected she was a frequent nude sunbather and swimmer. Oh, to be so carefree and liberated!
‘Come on. Seriously! It’s lovely when you get used to it. Refreshing. Blissful!’
Olivia shook her head, smiling and wishing she could be so bold. It did look lovely, to be honest. A memory came to her – one she hadn’t thought of for years. She and her sisters when they were in their teens, swimming naked in the millpond of the farm along the road, while all the farmhands were getting in the corn. She remembered the paleness of their bodies in the cool green water, the dreamy, weightless sensation of swimming without a single stitch to cover you. They’d splashed one another and laughed at each other’s lolling breasts and floating pubic hair as they lay on their backs. It had been a glorious day. Birdsong and duckweed and the prickly sensation of the dried grass when you came out, dripping. She could almost hear the peals of girlish laughter now.
The sun felt hotter than ever all of a sudden and Olivia slipped off her cardigan, folding it carefully on the sand. She had on a fawn-coloured shell top underneath which was light and cool. Gloria cheered approval as she saw Olivia remove the cardigan, clearly thinking she was about to join her in the water. ‘I knew you’d do it,’ she crowed. ‘Come on, get ’em off.’
Olivia was about to shake her head again – no, Gloria had misunderstood – but there was something about the way her friend had cheered that made her think twice. I knew you’d do it! Like she had faith in her. As if she didn’t think Olivia was a fuddy-duddy Victorian nun at all, as if she knew about the day at the millpond. Gloria was fully expecting her to strip off and wade in. So … what was stopping her?
She glanced up at the cliff behind her. Nobody there. Back as a teenager, she hadn’t hesitated for a moment, stepping out of her slip and knickers before pinching her nose and jumping straight into the delicious cool water. Had she even been the first one in, the most daring of the sisters?
She smiled. Yes. She was pretty sure she had been. She could even dimly remember urging her sisters to join her, just like Gloria was now.
The sun was casting sparkles on the water. So enticing. So refreshing. And before she knew it, Olivia was standing up, unzipping her skirt and undressing. Doubts skittered across her mind when she was down to her bra and pants: Freya’s voice, Mum, what on earth are you doing?, the notion of hikers up on the cliff path peering down through binoculars, a yachtsman tacking round from the next bay …
Oh, who cared? Flesh was flesh. Life was short. And besides, the sea looked absolutely marvellous. She unhooked her bra, dropped her knickers and stretched her arms up to the sky. ‘Here I come!’
Chapter Thirty-One
Unbeknown to Olivia, she wasn’t the first to leave Shell Cottage that morning. Harriet was already long gone.
After a night of tossing and turning, punctuated by angry dreams, she had left Molly sleeping peacefully in the double bed and tiptoed out before anyone could stop her. She hadn’t seen Robert since the catastrophic phone discovery the evening before – and frankly nor did she want to. Following her meltdown in the car, loudly shouting and crying like a maniac, she had eventually returned to Shell Cottage with takeaway fish and chips, scooping up Molly en route, and driving them both out to Pemberley Point for a carbohydrate bender. When in doubt, eat. That particular mantra had got her through her first divorce, anyway. It seemed as good a time as any to wheel it out once more.
‘By the way, you’re sleeping in with me tonight,’ she had announced, much to Molly’s surprise. They were sitting out on the headland, the sea bashing against the cliff face below. It felt a suitably dramatic place to come, given her state of mind. ‘Robert’s going up in the attic.’
Molly lay back, faintly green around the gills, having monstered a huge battered haddock and chips. ‘How come? What’s going on?’
Harriet licked her salty fingers. She was completely stuffed already but couldn’t bring herself to stop eating. ‘What’s going on is that Robert is a …’ she began and then somehow managed to shut her mouth before she came right out and uttered the words ‘complete knobhead’. She wiped her fingers on the grass, uncertain how much to confide. ‘He’s … got a headache,’ she said in the end. Molly didn’t need to know the contents of their row, she decided. Not yet anyway.
Molly didn’t seem suspicious, thankfully. ‘Okay. Cool,’ she said, shrugging. ‘As long as you’re not snoring and farting all night anyway.’
Harriet thought of this charming daughterly reply now as she got into the car, and smiled briefly despite her lack of sleep and the black cloud she was under. Gone out for a few hours. Ring me if any problems, love Mum, she texted Molly quickly, before starting the engine and heading out towards the coast road. Molly would probably sleep in till midday anyway, given half a chance, and Harriet would no doubt be back before she even stirred. In the meantime, it was a relief to leave every
thing else behind. She didn’t have a clue where she was going, but she knew for certain that she wanted to get away from her husband for the time being. And good sodding riddance, too!
Quite honestly, she had felt like a puppet with cut strings since finding out his dirty little secret, she thought, accelerating away. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself or how she would ever pick herself back up again. All she knew was that she was hurting, very badly, winded with shock and burning with humiliation. It wasn’t just the fact that he had lied about his so-called publisher, it was all those other lies he’d told too. The glamorous party to which she had been mysteriously uninvited, the envy-inducing lunches and meetings. Hadn’t she known there was something dodgy about the Marylebone Tavern mix-up? She should have trusted her instincts all along.
After their takeaway last night, Harriet had been sorely tempted to bundle her and Molly’s things into the car and flounce off back to London like a raging adolescent. When this sort of disaster struck, she wanted all her mates around her with a crate of wine and a lorryload of Dairy Milk, so that they could get stuck into a proper cathartic They’re Such Bastards bitchfest.
The adult in her was just about able to resist this temptation though, recognizing wearily that oh, bloody hell, she and Robert were going to have to sit down, she supposed, to talk the whole dreadful situation through, like proper grown-ups. It would be hideous, she could tell already. He, no doubt, would try and cobble together more excuses and lies to explain his shameful behaviour while she scowled and sat on her hands to avoid punching him in the nose. Bloody Robert! Why did husbands, however nice they initially seemed, always end up being such utter cocks?
Bollocks. And she’d thought he was the one, too. The key that fitted her lock, the perfect match, two halves of a whole. She’d even used the word ‘soulmate’ about him in her wedding speech. ‘Arsehole mate, more like,’ she sneered to herself, hunching over the steering wheel as she put her foot down and nipped past a trundling milk lorry. ‘Without the “mate”, that is.’
Realizing she was way over the speed limit, she slowed down and tried to calm herself by dwelling on the beautiful, serene landscape around her. It was a staggeringly gorgeous morning; even she, in her toweringly crap mood, could appreciate that. Not yet eight o’clock, and the sky was still faintly pink around the edges from the sunrise, with just a few rose-tinged wispy clouds like puffs of icing sugar. Mind you, if there was any justice, there’d be a massive thunderstorm now instead, with booming crashes and bangs and a biblical downpour. And Robert would be struck by a bolt of jagged lightning and …
She wrinkled her nose and let out an exasperated sigh. No. That was the problem. Even after what he’d done, even after all those lies, she didn’t want him struck by a bolt of lightning, or any other means of death. She just wanted the situation to miraculously unhappen, to rewind nine months and talk him out of this whole stupid book-writing idea in the first place. Oh, sure, he wanted to live up to his dad, he wanted to make everyone proud – she got that, loud and clear. But couldn’t he have just helped old ladies across the road, like normal people did? Remembered his mum’s birthday on time, done some voluntary work at the local animal shelter, cleared snow off their neighbours’ stretch of pavement … the sort of nice, thoughtful thing he already did, in fact, for crying out loud. Why wasn’t that enough for him? Why had he felt so compelled to stick his neck out in the hope of impressing the world?
Honestly. Parents and children, expectations and hang-ups. It was always so flaming complicated, so fraught. Thank God she didn’t have that kind of relationship with Molly. Thank goodness they could always be straight with one another.
The thought cheered her a little. She still had Molly. Whatever happened, whichever prat of a bloke messed her about, she had her daughter and that was enough for Harriet. If it came to the crunch, they could go it alone again, even if it meant the two of them moving back to a smaller, cheaper flat, even if they had to put up with mouldering walls and mice under the floorboards like last time.
They would manage. They didn’t need one crap ex-husband or the other. They didn’t need anyone or anything at all!
Mind you, saying that, she couldn’t half do with a kick-ass coffee right now. And a bacon sandwich would definitely hit the spot too. She also quite fancied phoning her friend Gabbi and having a good, long whinge to her. Every broken-hearted, angry woman should have sustenance and friends in her hour of need. She drove on in search of where she might find them.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Since the Pedalo Ride of Despair, where Freya had confessed all to Victor, she had made a few big decisions. The first was on the drinking front. As she had vowed to Harriet, she was going cold turkey, cutting it out for good, bosh. Three days later, she was proud to say that she hadn’t touched a drop. Going to bed stone-cold sober was a novel experience and the first couple of nights she had lain there, head buzzing with spirals of thought, unable to switch off her brain without the dulling tether of alcohol. Waking up without the jarring ache of a hangover was worth it, though. She felt alert and energized each morning now, ready for anything, even child-wrangling. Well, well. Who knew?
Of course, it was early days, and she definitely wasn’t kidding herself that stopping drinking was going to be easy. It had become a habit for her, a crutch on which she had leaned far too heavily. Just the night before, Olivia had opened a bottle of port and the smell was enough to make Freya salivate. She and her dad had loved a drop of port after a large dinner, especially on Christmas Day. But in the next second, she remembered the seaweed-in-hair moment when Libby had stared at her with such reproach, and she poured herself a glass of orange juice instead. No. Don’t go back there.
Thankfully Freya was the sort of person who saw things through when she put her mind to it. She had a steel rod for a spine; determination ran through her veins. ‘I can do this,’ she said to Victor, doggedly drinking her juice.
‘I know you can. If anyone can, it’s you,’ he said.
Her second decision concerned Victor. Their conversation on the pedalo had been cut short when they rounded a corner and saw that Teddy – of course – had fallen in the water and was currently drying off on the riverbank along with Robert, who had leapt in to haul him out. ‘I went swimming!’ Teddy cheered, waving his hands above his head. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t lose my glasses!’
Since then, there hadn’t really been the moment for another heart-to-heart with her husband. They had been courteous to each other, kind, even. He was keeping an eye on her, she could tell, his gaze flicking to hers more often than usual, putting a solicitous arm around her as they sat out on the patio en famille in the evening. She couldn’t help worrying a little about what he was not saying, though. After Dad’s secret affair, and now Robert and Harriet seeming to have had a bust-up, this holiday was fast turning into the Hunger Games of Tarrant relationships. Would any of them survive the fortnight?
She wanted their marriage to survive, that was the key thing. And so decision number two was most definitely to find a way to get their relationship back on track. She would build up the courage to talk to him properly and find a way to muddle through.
Decision number three was the one she was about to tackle now, though, and it involved an apology she should have made two weeks ago.
Don’t, her boss Elizabeth had advised when Freya had first suggested it. Saying sorry is tantamount to accepting culpability. Mrs Taylor could use it against you – she could sue you, twist your words. You could be putting your job in jeopardy.
Freya had gone along with her boss’s instructions at the time, not wanting to risk her career in any way. But the decision had weighed heavily on her conscience this whole time. It had not felt honourable or honest. It went against Freya’s personal code of right and wrong to duck an apology. And so now, this morning, it was time to change that and make the call.
For once, the house was quiet. Mum had gone off with Gloria, who seemed to have transfo
rmed from Gloria-the-cleaner into Gloria-the-new-best-friend, judging by the way both women had been cackling as they clambered into Gloria’s clapped-out Mini together. (Freya was delighted! Mum had never really gone in for female friends before. ‘I prefer to spend time with your father,’ she’d always said, and Freya had never quite voiced the Yes, but … that rose to her lips each time.) Victor had taken the children down to the beach with the bodyboards (and Teddy’s armbands); Freya had promised to join them just as soon as she’d made this call. Neither Robert nor Harriet were anywhere to be seen and their car had gone (maybe they had taken out a Heartbreak Pedalo of their own), although Molly was still in the house, judging by how long the shower had been running just now.
Meanwhile, her phone waited silently beside her. The sooner she got this over and done with, the sooner she could head down to the beach with the others. Come on, Freya. Do the right thing.
She perched on the edge of the bed, suddenly nervous. What if she did end up losing her job because she’d said sorry, and a court viewed that as guilt? When she’d talked it through with Victor the night before, sitting up on the patio with their glasses of lemonade (lemonade!), he’d told her gruffly that it sounded as if she didn’t have anything to apologize for anyway. ‘It wasn’t your fault the baby got ill. You said yourself, you made all the right checks at the time.’
‘I know, but …’
‘Just do what you’ve got to do, Freya. Follow your instincts. If you want to apologize, do it, and we’ll deal with the consequences, whatever they are, later.’
Do what you’ve got to do, Freya. It was good advice. Time to stop prevaricating and act. With a shaking finger, she dialled Melanie’s number and waited. Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring. Freya’s breath tightened in her lungs. Then the voicemail message kicked in.
This is Melanie, I can’t take your call right now. Leave me a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.
