Summer at Shell Cottage

by Lucy Diamond

  In the past, Olivia had always shied away from those confessional all-girls-together conversations where husbands inevitably came in for a slating but there was something about being naked in the sea that made you forget your inhibitions. ‘Mine didn’t,’ she heard herself saying and shrugged, the water sliding from her shoulders. ‘Mine played me for a total fool.’

  Gloria raised one of her severely plucked eyebrows and considered Olivia. ‘You don’t strike me as a fool,’ she said. ‘Far from it.’

  Olivia let herself sink down in the water until the balls of her feet touched the soft mud of the seabed, then pushed gently back up again, relishing the feeling of buoyancy. Gone were her aches and pains, her stiff knees, her tired old feet. ‘I didn’t think I was a fool either,’ she agreed, ‘but somehow my husband got away with having a mistress and another son while I was looking the other way. Thirteen or fourteen years, it must have been going on. So not only a fool but blind as well.’

  Gloria’s mouth fell open for a moment before her expression changed to one of thorough indignation. ‘Flaming Nora,’ she said and whistled. ‘Seriously? Now that’s devious. That’s proper greedy. Straight from one of the pages of his books, that kind of behaviour. Catch me buying another of them now? No chance.’

  Olivia said nothing, letting her body drift downwards again, while she thought of the still-unread manuscript, untouched and gathering dust in a bag in her bedroom. She hadn’t gone online to look at her emails since arriving in Devon but she would lay money on there being a few marked ‘Urgent’ from Alec’s editor, Eleanor, by now. Urgent, indeed! They were talking about a novel here, made-up words on a page, not a building on fire or a volcano about to blow. Let Eleanor email away and get her knickers in a twist. She’d be in for a long wait, that was all Olivia could say.

  ‘Tell me about Bill,’ she said, not wanting to think about Alec or Katie or Eleanor any longer. ‘Was he the love of your life?’

  She was expecting the usual toothy smile on Gloria’s face but again came that muted expression, the clouding of Gloria’s eyes. ‘Well, I thought he was,’ she said cryptically and gazed out at the horizon for a few moments. Then, to Olivia’s consternation, a tear trickled down her friend’s cheek and into the sea. ‘Sorry. Always reminds me of him, coming here.’

  ‘You don’t need to say sorry,’ Olivia replied at once. ‘I’m sorry for asking. Silly of me.’ She knew only too well how the smallest thing could set a widow off, memories waiting to ambush you around every corner. ‘Do you want to talk about him, or … ?’

  Gloria shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just having a moment, that’s all.’ She rubbed her arms theatrically. ‘Brrrr. Think I’m going to get out and warm up again. There’s a flask of coffee in my bag. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Sure,’ Olivia said. She recognized subject-avoidance when she heard it; she was an expert herself, after all.

  Taking your clothes off and swimming in the sea was one thing, but it was even more daunting to walk out again, completely naked. All the water pouring off your wet body to start with, and then the terrifying prospect of facing land as one emerged. Needless to say, Gloria didn’t seem fazed for a second, and strode ahead confidently, arms swinging, towards the refuge of the bamboo mat. Olivia, by contrast, had one arm clasped across her goosepimpling breasts, and the other covering her privates.

  ‘Looking on the bright side,’ Gloria said, drying herself quickly, then passing the damp pink beach towel to Olivia, ‘at least we won’t be sitting around in wet costumes all afternoon. Nothing worse than that, in my book.’ She put on her bra and dress, and Olivia hugged the towel around herself.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, sinking down onto the mat. Her bare legs glistened with water and her muscles felt stretched. The warm air encircled her like an embrace and she twisted her hair up, squeezing out the drips. ‘That was wonderful,’ she added. ‘It reminded me of being a girl. I’m starting to think that women of our age should behave recklessly more often, you know.’

  Gloria grinned. ‘Sounds like a T-shirt slogan right there,’ she said. She rummaged in the bag for a thermos flask and brought out two plastic mugs as well. ‘The Reckless Women Club. We should make badges. Or get matching tattoos.’ She winked and then went plunging back into the bag to produce a white paper bakery bag with two fat jam doughnuts inside. ‘Here. Get one of these down you.’

  ‘Jam doughnuts. Now you’re talking. I’m always prepared to be reckless when it comes to jam doughnuts,’ Olivia said, taking one and biting into it. ‘Thank you. For all of this. You thought of everything.’

  Gloria passed her a steaming mug of coffee. ‘All part of the service.’ She held her own mug aloft. ‘To being reckless women!’

  ‘To reckless women everywhere!’ Olivia echoed. Coffee had never tasted so good. She gazed out at the rich deep blue of the sea, a million golden sparkles on its surface. You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing, she imagined saying to Freya when she returned to the cottage, and felt happier and younger than she had done for years. Contrary to popular belief, life could still be fun when you were widowed, she marvelled. It was a revelation.

  Coffee drunk, doughnuts munched, they lay back in the sun for a while, soaking up the warmth, like two old lizards on a rock, Olivia thought drowsily Now, this felt good. Much as she adored her children and grandchildren, much as she’d always enjoyed family holidays down at Shell Cottage, this was something just for her for a change. Miles away from the house, from the heartbreak, from Katie, she felt as if her energy was being restored, charged up by sunshine and relaxation. Olivia Tarrant, you’re going soft in the head, she scolded herself in the next moment. But still. There was something to be said for getting away from it all, that was for sure.

  ‘So what are you going to do about this other woman?’ Gloria asked after a while. ‘Want me to shove her off a cliff for you?’

  Olivia gurgled with unexpected laughter. Every conversation she’d had about Katie recently had been accompanied by fraught, angry tears and hurt offspring. Lying here and actually being able to laugh made the whole messy situation slightly more bearable. ‘Better not,’ she replied. ‘My son-in-law’s a detective. My recklessness doesn’t go as far as seeing either of us locked up behind bars.’

  ‘And there’s a kid as well, did you say?’ Gloria remarked and Olivia heard her snapping her lighter and then two quick puffs of a cigarette. The smoke hung in the air like a small fragrant cloud.

  ‘There’s a kid as well,’ Olivia confirmed. ‘Leo, he’s called.’

  Gloria coughed on her cigarette. ‘Oh right, Leo Browne? Christ. And Katie. I know who you mean now. He’s a nice lad. Used to come in my pet shop every Saturday and mooch about, stroking the hamsters and giving them all names. His mum was allergic so he wasn’t allowed one of his own.’

  Olivia rolled onto her front, not really wanting to hear about Leo and his devotion to small rodents. The more the boy was coloured in with details – hamsters, allergies, ‘a nice lad’ – the more he began to take shape in her mind as a real person. As Alec’s son. Living and breathing. Crying in her kitchen.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Gloria asked again.

  The question was like a scalpel poking at a wound. Olivia shrugged, her good mood shrivelling at the edges. ‘I’m not sure,’ she confessed. ‘Katie’s tried a few times to build bridges but …’

  ‘You’re not ready for bridges,’ Gloria finished for her. ‘Fair enough. Plenty of time for bridge-building.’

  If I actually want to build any bridges, that is, Olivia thought doubtfully. Given the choice, she would rather sever all ties, turn her back on what had happened and slap thick black paint over that part of her memory. Bridges were overrated.

  Gloria rolled over too, and blew a perfect smoke ring that hovered in the air for a moment before wispily dispersing. ‘It’s bloody annoying, when the one you love surprises you after they’ve gone, isn’t it?’ she said, in commiseration. ‘I
nconvenient too. You can’t have it out with them and make them answer for what they did. You can’t ask them why, or how could you, or what the hell were you thinking? Inconsiderate bastards.’

  Precisely. Olivia couldn’t have phrased it better herself. ‘Quite. And they leave you the mess to deal with on your own, just when you’re feeling at your absolute worst,’ she agreed. Then the full portent of Gloria’s words trickled down into Olivia’s subconscious and she eyed the other woman across the bamboo mat. ‘Go on. You might as well tell me. What did Bill do?’

  For a moment, Olivia thought she’d overstepped the mark, pushed too hard. It was none of her business what had happened with Gloria and Bill, after all.

  She was just about to apologize and retract her question when Gloria spoke. ‘He died in a road accident,’ she said, puffing another smoke ring. ‘It was a wet night, him on his motorbike, the front wheel must have skidded. Went straight into the path of this Land Rover, the driver couldn’t do anything about it. First thing I know is the next morning when two coppers are knocking at my door, hats in their hands, the works.’

  ‘Oh, Gloria,’ Olivia said, picturing the scene.

  ‘Accidental death, the coroner said. But … Well …’ Gloria heaved a sigh. ‘I just don’t know, Liv. He’d been depressed for a few weeks before then – our business was going under, things were looking bleak.’

  ‘I remember you saying.’

  ‘We’d had a bit of a row too. Just a silly one about whose turn it was to fill up the car. Of all the things! Petrol, for heaven’s sake. But I wouldn’t leave it. I kept on at him. Even got a receipt out of my purse to prove it had been me who’d paid last time, like the annoying old cow I am.’ Her mouth quirked in a miserable twist. ‘He lost his temper, anyway, we both did, and then he stormed out. It wasn’t unusual for him not to come home when we had rows, he’d often go drinking with a mate and kip over, come slinking back the next day. Not this time, though.’

  Olivia reached over and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said helplessly. She and Alec had had fairly tempestuous rows on occasion. Didn’t every married couple? What dreadful bad luck for Gloria and Bill, never able to make up again.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gloria, a heaviness in her voice. ‘But then that afternoon a text comes through, and it’s from him. And I’m, like, what the hell, because I’ve just been told he’s dead, but the signal’s so shit around here, it can sometimes take hours for a text message to get through, especially if the weather’s bad.’

  Olivia’s heart clenched. ‘Oh gosh. What a horrible shock.’

  ‘I know, right? Total shock. First I have this, like, euphoria that he must still be alive, that there’s been some terrible mistake. Then I’m confused – wait. How can that be? But then the penny drops. Ahh. No. He’s not alive, it’s just a delayed text winding me up from beyond the grave. So then I’m like, oh my God. He was texting to say sorry. His last words will be that he’s sorry we had a row and that he loves me and I was totally right about the petrol.’

  She pulled a face but her mouth was resolutely down-turned and Olivia had the sinking feeling that Bill’s last words were nothing of the sort. ‘What did the text say?’ she asked gently. Gloria seemed to have run out of steam.

  ‘It said …’ Gloria stubbed her cigarette out in the sand and chucked it into her empty mug, her expression grim. ‘It said “Sorry, love, but I can’t go on like this.” That was it. And ten minutes after he sent it, he was dead.’

  Olivia winced. ‘Oh no. So you think … ?’ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the question. Poor Bill. And poor, poor Gloria. It was just heartbreaking.

  ‘Yep. Not “accidental death” at all. Not that I told anyone about it, mind. Couldn’t face them all knowing.’ She looked sidelong at Olivia. ‘You’re the first person I’ve told, actually.’

  Olivia still had her hand around Gloria’s and she squeezed it tightly, at a loss for what she could possibly say ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again eventually, the words seeming inadequate. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gloria said, ‘but what can you do? Life goes on, doesn’t it? The world keeps on bloody well spinning, whether we want it to or not.’ She gave a snort. ‘And for us reckless widows left behind, we have to just pick ourselves up and carry on. It’s that or go into full nervous breakdown mode, anyway.’

  Olivia nodded. ‘I think I’ve done a bit of both recently. It’s hard. Especially, as you say, when they surprise you like that. Selfish sods.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gloria agreed, sounding a bit more like herself again. She propped herself up on her elbows then shook a fist at the sky. ‘You selfish old twat, Bill! You inconsiderate ball-sack!’

  Before she knew it, Olivia was doing the same. ‘You cheating prick, Alec Tarrant!’ she heard herself screeching. ‘You smooth-tongued weasel! You lying snake in the grass!’

  ‘YEAH!’ Gloria yelled, before catching Olivia’s eye and snorting again. The snort became a laugh and then the two women collapsed into giggles, shoulders shaking, tension released.

  ‘Tune in next week for the latest episode of Two Streaking Madwomen in Devon,’ Gloria said, still laughing, ‘when the madwomen gatecrash a beach party.’

  ‘The madwomen get arrested for indecent behaviour.’

  ‘The madwomen bust out and go joyriding.’

  ‘The madwomen go to expensive restaurants and run off without paying.’ They could hardly speak for laughing now.

  ‘And then toddle off and enjoy a nice cup of tea in front of the wrestling,’ Gloria finished, wiping her eyes. ‘Oh, you do make me laugh, Liv. I’m glad our paths crossed this summer.’

  ‘So am I, Gloria,’ Olivia said, feeling slightly hysterical from so much laughter. Her stomach muscles ached but in a good way. ‘So am I.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Robert had barely slept up in the attic room the night before. His mind had churned and circled, unable to be stilled, with everything coming back to Harriet and her face when the penny dropped. The bewilderment. The shock. And then, worst of all, the contempt. He would never forget the contempt, for as long as he lived.

  You piece of utter shit, her eyes said. How could you do this to me?

  She had reeled, open-mouthed, for a long, terrible moment before storming out of the house. She had then vanished for the entire evening with Molly, reappearing only to defiantly stuff a white plastic bag full of vinegar-smelling fish and chip wrappers into the kitchen swing-top bin.

  ‘Is everything all right, Harriet?’ Freya had asked, looking concerned, but Robert could tell that Harriet was so boilingly angry that she barely trusted herself to speak, other than a gritted-teeth ‘Yes’.

  The next thing he knew, his clothes had been taken out of the wardrobe in great armfuls and dumped unceremoniously back into his suitcase, along with his toiletries, alarm clock and the thriller he was halfway through, before the whole lot was carted off to the attic room. It was the least he deserved, he supposed.

  Up in the attic he had stewed all night, cursing his own stupidity for having blown the best relationship of his life. And all because he had been too proud to admit to his failings! The worst thing was, Harriet was the one person who wouldn’t have thought any less of him for it. Harriet would have hugged him and told him, Never mind, declaring that books were overrated anyway, give her real life any day – give her a real fabulous husband, even better, and, corrr, come here, let me cheer you up … I still think you’re the best thing since squeezy Marmite …

  She would, as well. He could imagine her saying almost those exact words, just as he’d have said them to her had their situations been reversed. She’d have comforted him, and he’d have got over the rejections, then moved on to something else – a job that he actually liked and was good at, for starters. Because that’s what loving wives and husbands did for each other – they held hands through the disappointments every bit as much as they celebrated the triumphs. He’d never met a woman who was so loyal and so
cheerleading as Harriet. Why hadn’t he appreciated just how good and precious and special their relationship was back at the time? Why had he fucked it all up?

  Today, Harriet had got up earlier than everyone else and gone out, taking the car with her. For a moment he had feared the worst, agonizing that she’d driven home and left him for good. In a terrible flash of foreboding, he envisaged returning to Seymour Street and finding the locks changed, a huge sign up in the front garden: LIARS CAN JOG ON. NOT WELCOME HERE.

  No, he reminded himself thankfully, seeing Molly’s spotted raincoat hanging in the hallway as he came downstairs for breakfast. Harriet wouldn’t have left without Molly. And she was definitely still here, judging by the row of bikinis hanging bone-dry on the washing line, the vanilla-scented perfume and Clearasil in the bathroom, the jumble of sandals and flip-flops abandoned in the hall.

  For as long as they remained at Shell Cottage, the onus was on him to somehow make it up to her and show just how sorry he was. He would get down on his knees and beg for a second chance if he had to.

  With no car and no desire for company, Robert decided to take himself off for a long walk in the meantime. He wouldn’t come back again until he’d worked out his next move: a way to make it up to his wife. There must be something he could do to make her love him again. He just had to think hard enough.

  It was another perfect summer’s day and the roads were empty. All self-respecting holidaymakers would be at the beach by now, he supposed, staking out their patches with windbreaks and towels, snapping open folding chairs, trying to keep their picnics cool and sand-free in the shade. If he hadn’t gone and messed everything up, they might have been there again too, the sound of the surf rushing deliciously in the background, Harriet flicking through a magazine, teasing Robert about his awful shorts (he loved those shorts) and asking him to put cream on her back.

  He thought longingly about the feel of her soft, warm skin beneath his fingers and cursed himself all over again. Idiot, idiot, idiot, every footstep seemed to say instead as he walked dismally along.