Summer at Shell Cottage
Page 28
Oh, Robert, Olivia thought again. He’d been the most sensitive little thing as a child. He’d cried all the way back from primary school once because another boy had called him stupid for getting his sums wrong. ‘But I am stupid,’ he had sobbed pitifully, burrowing into Olivia on the safety of her lap once home. ‘I must be stupid.’ And here he was, a grown man and still putting himself down.
‘I have never thought you a failure, Robert,’ Olivia told him. ‘Not once. You’re a kind, good person. You always have been. Look how you’ve helped me through your father’s death. I couldn’t have asked for a better son!’
‘I don’t think you’re a failure either,’ Freya said. ‘Not at all! I—’
‘You don’t have to say all of this. It’s fine,’ Robert interrupted dully. ‘Really. I don’t want a Help Robert the Fuck-Up support group or anything. I just wanted to tell you. To say yes, I did fuck up. Yes, I have done the last thing I ever wanted, which is wreck my relationship with Harriet. Yes, I am ashamed of myself. And yes, I know Dad would be too.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I’m sorry for lying to you all. Deeply, deeply sorry. I don’t expect you to understand or forgive me or – ’ he turned pleadingly to Harriet – ‘or feel you can love me any more. I wouldn’t blame you.’ He walked towards the door. ‘Once again, I’m sorry.’
He left the room and they all looked at each other, speechless.
‘Bloody hell,’ Molly said, breaking the silence. ‘Did that actually just happen? I’m telling you, after today, I’m never going to get married. Seriously – never!’
Chapter Forty-One
Freya made her excuses and slipped away from the dinner table as soon as possible. While she might not agree with what her brother had done, she knew only too well that desperation could lure you down strange roads, ones you might normally avoid. When you lived in a permanent state of dread that everyone else would find you out to be no good, then any escape route, however crazy, could seem a bright idea at the time.
The grass was cool beneath her bare feet as she padded across the garden in search of him. The sun was starting to sink through the sky, like a penny falling in slow motion through water, and the day’s warmth was gradually leaching away from the ground. Robert was down at the bottom of the garden on the creaky old swing seat, staring out at the beach and swigging red wine straight from the bottle. She could smell it as she approached and the sharp, fruity scent made her stomach clench. Oh, for a delicious gulp of Merlot, to ease her way through what was almost certainly going to be a difficult conversation. She could picture it, scarlet and viscous in a large full glass; she could feel the weight of it in her hand, the taste on her tongue …
But no. Not tonight. And not for quite a few nights to come either. That way was closed for the time being.
‘Rob. Mind if I join you?’
He shrugged as if to say he couldn’t care less, and she perched on the seat beside him, feeling it rock and sway with the extra weight. There were spots of high colour on his face from the drink and the drama, and as a veteran of both those things this summer, she felt a renewed kinship with him.
‘I remember sitting here as teenagers one summer,’ she said when he didn’t make any attempt at conversation. ‘Do you remember? Sneaking Dad’s fags in secret and nearly puking up in tandem. Bleeurgh. Green faces a-gogo.’
He didn’t reply, although she thought his lips twitched in a tepid smile. She took that as her cue to venture further down memory lane.
‘And us two hiding here once, when we were much younger, and Mum was insisting we had to have baths.’ The memory came to her out of the blue, of them crouched low on the padded seat, trying not to giggle or make any other sound as Olivia’s voice rang out around the garden. ‘And Dad telling us bedtime stories, with us in our pyjamas. “Just one more chapter, Dad, pleeease!”’
She shouldn’t have mentioned their dad, or telling stories, because Robert immediately stiffened and drew away from her. Idiot, Freya. Running before you were walking. Maybe it was time to tackle things head-on instead.
‘Listen, about all of that,’ she said quickly, before he could make excuses and leave. ‘For the record, I’ve never thought you were a failure. No – listen, hear me out. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wished I was more like you – laid-back, confident, able to get on with everyone.’
He snorted, looking unconvinced.
‘I’m serious! What I wouldn’t give to be less neurotic and uptight, less of a social bloody misfit compared to you.’ She hoped he could hear the conviction in her voice, because she meant every word. ‘I went into medicine because Mum and Dad wanted me to, basically. I’ve always done the safe, nerdy, traditional thing. Whereas you—’
‘Whereas I lurch from disaster to disaster because I’m not as clever or successful as you,’ he said bitterly, upending the bottle again and swigging out of it.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, Rob. You made a mistake with the book thing, granted. But at least you tried! You gave it a go. Most people are too chickenshit to take that kind of a risk.’
‘Too sensible, you mean.’
She tried again, concerned that she would never lift him out of his black mood at this rate. ‘Anyway,’ she said bracingly, ‘work stuff isn’t the be-all and end-all, is it? You’ve got Harriet and Molly …’
‘I’m not sure I have any more.’
‘And you’re a good person. You’re kind! Who else has made the effort with Katie and Leo? Not me. Not Mum. We’ve been in total denial. We’ve been too scared and freaked out, instinctively shunning them rather than doing the mature thing – the right thing – like you, and dealing with the situation. You’ve got bags of – what do they call it? – emotional intelligence. Whereas Mum and I are more like emotional cripples.’
There was a pause and then he shrugged. ‘I felt sorry for him. Leo, I mean. He’s only a kid.’
Freya thought of that solemn little boy she’d met with a plate of flapjacks in his hands – her half-brother! – and felt a wrench inside that she’d barely given him a second thought, with everything else going on. ‘Good for you, Rob,’ she said. ‘Our little brother.’
‘I know.’
‘He looks like Dad, doesn’t he?’
‘Yeah. He’s a nice kid. And Katie’s had a hard time too. We really need to get Mum to see that.’
Freya nodded, although she knew it wouldn’t be quite so simple an undertaking. ‘Give her time,’ she said. ‘She’ll come round eventually. It’s been a massive shock for her.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments, with just the rhythmic creak of the seat’s hinges and the faint roar of the sea down in the bay below breaking the silence. A car engine started and then faded away – Gloria leaving, presumably – and then came Victor’s voice telling Teddy off about something or other. She wondered what Harriet was doing right now and how she felt about Rob’s deceit. Poor, trusting Harriet, with a headstrong, impassioned daughter to cope with, and now a husband’s lies on top of everything else. She must be in pieces.
‘Look,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I’ve messed things up this summer too. I know you might think I’m this perfect person, but I’m not, Rob. I’m really not. I—’
‘There you are!’ came their mother’s voice just then. And down the path she bustled, a cream cardigan thrown around her shoulders. ‘Robert, dear, I’ve been thinking. About what you said.’
Freya heard him stifle a groan. I’ve been thinking had been their mother’s catchphrase for much of their teenage years; it tended to precede notions about them getting paper rounds or Saturday jobs, signing up for homework clubs or doing more to help around the house. You could almost hear the Here we go again in Robert’s head.
‘Hi Mum,’ he said, somewhat dutifully. ‘Welcome to the swing seat of doom.’
‘Robert, now listen, don’t be like that. Feeling sorry for yourself, I mean. Everyone makes mistakes. And I’m really sorry that you felt you had to pretend that—’
‘But I’ve had an idea. That’s the thing. Dad’s last manuscript – why don’t you finish writing it?’
‘What?’ That took him by surprise. It took both of them by surprise, actually. With everything else that had happened over the summer, Freya had completely forgotten about this half-completed manuscript that Dad’s publishers were so keen to get their hands on.
‘Dad’s manuscript,’ Olivia repeated patiently. ‘His last book. Goodness knows how many hysterical emails that editor of his will have sent me by now, I dread to think. But you could finish it. You could be his co-author. He would have loved that.’
Freya gasped. Of course. The perfect solution. ‘That is genius, Mum. Yes!’
‘No.’ Robert shook his head. He was so drunk now it seemed to take him an effort to stop shaking it again. ‘Definitely not. I’m not good enough.’
‘But you are. Of course you are!’ Olivia and Freya chorused. It would be lovely, Freya thought. Father and son collaborating, the old master and the young apprentice …
Robert merely laughed – a short, scornful noise lacking in any humour. ‘Mum, I’m really not. Genuinely. Every last publisher in the country has said so. Nobody thought I was up to scratch.’ He sighed and scuffed at the ground again. ‘I tried, all right? I gave it my best shot. But at the end of the day, I failed. So let’s not bodge up Dad’s last book and tarnish his reputation out of some well-meaning attempt to make me feel better. Honestly. It’s time for me to look for a different job.’
Olivia sagged a little but nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said quietly. ‘I understand.’
Freya moved up so that she was in one corner of the seat, leaving space in the middle. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Mum? Join us.’
Robert shuffled over to the other corner so that there was enough room and Olivia gingerly squeezed in between them. ‘This is nice,’ she said after a while, as they rocked there, all three of them gazing out at the bay. The sea was turning a deep rose-pink and the beach was deserted, save for a few last sandcastles still standing proud against the tide. Olivia reached out and took their hands so that they were linked in a line. ‘Well, now. We three are having a peculiar old summer, aren’t we?’
‘It’s memorable, I’ll say that,’ Freya replied dryly. What with Dad and Katie, Mum losing the plot, her nearly drinking herself to a watery death, Molly’s near seduction and now Robert’s revelations, it was not at all the relaxing holiday break that any of them had been hoping for. She squeezed her mum’s hand, feeling glad for this moment together at least. ‘But we’ve got each other, right? We’ve still got each other.’
‘We’ve still got each other,’ Olivia echoed, squeezing back. ‘And we’ll face the future – and whatever happens next – together.’ Her eyes misted over a little. ‘This has been the strangest summer of my life. But if getting to know Gloria has taught me anything, it’s that you can live through the worst, and still come out smiling. We’ll get there, I promise. All three of us, we’ll get there.’ There was a pause. ‘By the way,’ she added, ‘I’ve been wondering about getting a tattoo. What do you think?’
Freya hadn’t felt so close to her mother and brother since they’d held hands at Alec’s funeral two months ago. They all talked honestly about how they’d struggled ever since, and vowed to look after one another better from here on in. It felt good – as if they’d wiped the collective slate clean and could forgive each other’s mistakes, and move on. Then, later that evening, just after she was coming downstairs from kissing the children goodnight, Freya’s mobile started ringing. Melanie Taylor, she read on the screen, and her stomach gave a lurch.
Oh, Christ. Now she really badly wanted a drink. A vat of wine to paralyse her brain, to make this all go away. And even though waiting for a reply had been fraught and full of dread, now that the call had finally come, she was so scared of what Melanie might say that she was sorely tempted to send it directly to voicemail.
Be brave, Freya. Take the medicine. She had just confessed her drinking problem to her mother and brother, after all. She could handle this on top.
She slid her finger across the screen to answer the call, her mouth dry. ‘Hello? Freya Castledine speaking.’
‘Hello, Doctor Castledine, this is Melanie Taylor returning your call.’
Freya sat down on the bottom step, her heart banging in her ribcage as if she’d just run around the block. ‘Hi,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘How are you? How’s Ava? I hope you didn’t mind me ringing earlier.’
‘Ava’s fine. She’s much better. She came home yesterday and is eating and drinking like it’s going out of fashion.’
Freya’s throat felt so tight for a moment that she couldn’t speak. Ava was fine. She was back home. Eating and drinking. Oh, thank goodness. Thank goodness! ‘I’m so pleased,’ she said, hearing a sob in her voice. The breath whooshed out of her with sheer relief; she felt light-headed and dizzy with a burst of happiness. ‘I’m so glad to hear that, Melanie.’
Melanie had sounded formal and clipped until that moment but then her voice softened a tone. ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘It’s been …’ It sounded as if she might be swallowing back a sob herself. ‘It’s been a nightmare.’
‘I’m sure. I can imagine. And for what it’s worth, I am truly sorry about that day. If I missed anything. I mean, I honestly don’t think I did, but—’
‘I’m sorry too,’ Melanie said, and Freya was so surprised she stopped mid-sentence. ‘I’m sorry I took it out on you. I said some horrible things. I was just scared, that’s all. Really scared. But it wasn’t your fault.’
It wasn’t your fault. Never had words sounded so God-given, so merciful and downright wonderful in one’s ear. It wasn’t her fault. Freya had to press her lips together for a moment, fearful that she might break out into full-blown tears. ‘Thank you,’ she said eventually. ‘Thank you for saying that. I really appreciate it. But seriously, don’t worry about the things you said. You wouldn’t be a mother if you weren’t prepared to fight for your child. I completely understand.’ She let out a long, shuddering breath, feeling a weight of tension leave her body. ‘Thanks for letting me know anyway. I’m so glad Ava’s okay.’
‘You’re welcome.’ A thin mewling cry went up in the background. ‘Oh, I’d better go, there’s madam now, just woken for her bedtime feed.’ She hesitated as if she wanted to say something else, but then the crying went up a notch and she must have changed her mind. ‘Goodbye, then, Doctor Castledine.’
‘Goodbye, Melanie. Take care.’
Freya clicked off the call and leaned back against the stairs, clasping the phone to her chest as if it were a lucky charm, a talisman, a love letter from a sweetheart. Not a person remotely given to superstitious whims, she nonetheless felt very much like offering up some kind of prayer to the universe all of a sudden, for granting her this reprieve, this day of redemption. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, shutting her eyes and breathing in sheer, blessed relief. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
Chapter Forty-Two
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Molly cried, just as soon as they’d left the dinner table. ‘God, Mum, why didn’t you say?’
Harriet topped up her wine glass, feeling numb after the dinner table revelations. Everyone else had left the room, except for her and Molly, still there with untouched puddings in front of them. So now they all knew, she thought dismally. Now they all knew Robert had been lying for months, living in this crazy fantasy world of his, and everyone would be eyeing her marriage from the sidelines like it was some kind of disaster area. Which, let’s face it, it was. Full-blown carnage. A motorway pile-up. A meteor strike.
She hadn’t been able to bear looking at Olivia or Freya, not wanting to see expressions of pity or even contempt. She certainly didn’t want to pick up What-the-hell?-And-you-knew-about-this? vibes from them eithe
r. (Cringe.) ‘I was going to tell you,’ she replied wearily, twisting the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. ‘I wanted to. But I figured that you’d had enough going on today without yet another drama to add to the load.’
‘I can’t believe it. I don’t understand, Mum. Why would he make it all up? And keep on lying like that? Why?’
Ahh, the very questions that had been seething tumultuously through Harriet’s head since the night before. She still wasn’t sure how to reply. Because he’s a psychopath? Because he’s deranged? Because real life – and us – weren’t enough for him? ‘I don’t know, love,’ she said despondently. ‘I’ve been trying to figure that one out for myself.’
Molly’s heart-shaped face twisted. ‘I really liked him, though,’ she said. She looked as pained as Harriet felt. ‘I really, really liked him, Mum. He was always so nice to us. And funny. And kind. I thought he was a good person.’
‘Me too, Molls. I thought he was the bee’s knees. And the bee’s elbows, ankles and arse and all.’
Molly leaned her head against Harriet, who slid an arm around her in response. They sat there like that for a moment: mother and daughter, the betrayed, the ones left behind. Harriet couldn’t help thinking of how they’d clung together when Simon left, how they’d even shared her bed for a few weeks because they both felt so bereft without him. History repeating itself in the cruellest possible way.
‘What are you going to do?’ Molly asked after a while. A hank of her long hair was pooling, soft and ticklish, on Harriet’s arm. ‘Are you going to … split up?’
There was a catch in her voice and Harriet was pierced by a shard of terrible, awful guilt that this was somehow her fault, that she’d mucked things up for the both of them yet again; unable to hang on to a husband for longer than five minutes. But she’d never asked Robert to be anything other than he was! She’d never pushed him to be more ambitious or reach for a target he couldn’t achieve!