Summer at Shell Cottage

by Lucy Diamond

  The question hung in the air between them. Were they going to split up? Oh, help. When would Harriet feel like a proper grown-up who knew the answers to all the difficult questions? ‘I don’t know,’ she said again, with the hopeless feeling that she was failing her daughter once more.

  ‘Mum. Talk to me properly. How do you feel about him? Do you still love him?’

  ‘I …’ The question took her by surprise. ‘Um …’

  ‘It’s okay, you know. Say what you want to say. I’m not a baby any more, Mum, you don’t have to keep hiding things from me because you’re worried I’ll be upset.’

  Harriet blinked and looked at her daughter: this clear-eyed, caring girl-woman who knew her better than anyone. For all these years, Harriet had been the defender and protector in their unique, close relationship. For so long, Harriet had stood in front of Molly, shielding her from troubles as best she could. But now the scales seemed to be tipping, and here was Molly stepping forward and coming to stand beside her, announcing her arrival as comforter and adviser in return. Maybe Harriet didn’t have to hide unpalatable truths quite so furtively any more. This girl beside her – this young woman – knew a thing or two about love, after all.

  ‘I do love him,’ she found herself replying slowly. The words took her by surprise and she said them again. ‘Yes. I do still love him. And not just for me, but for you too. What he’s brought to our little family. All the good times we’ve had together. But—’

  ‘You don’t have to think about me in all this,’ Molly interrupted. ‘Yeah, I really like him too – liked him, anyway – but I’ll be gone in a few years, won’t I? It’s what you think about him that counts. Whether you can trust him any more.’

  Harriet nodded. That was the big one. Should she trust him? Others wouldn’t. Others would send him packing, show him the door. Would it be very weak of her to give him a second chance? Did that make her even more of a sucker? ‘You’re right,’ she mumbled.

  ‘But for what it’s worth,’ Molly went on, ‘I don’t think he’s a nasty person. I don’t think he was lying in an evil way, like Dad did.’

  Harriet opened her mouth to protest – still automatically leaping to Simon’s flimsy defence – but Molly went on before she had the chance. ‘With Robert … I think he lied because he wanted to impress everyone. Not because he was trying to trick you or hurt you.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s still pretty lame, let’s face it. But he does love you, Mum. Even though he knows he totally screwed up.’

  ‘When did you get so wise?’ Harriet said, marvelling at this super-smart advice-dispensing daughter who seemed to have all the answers, right when she had precisely none herself. She squeezed Molly’s hand. ‘Thank you, lovey. I think you’re right, to be honest. I need to talk to Robert and get things straight again although – ’ she glanced over her shoulder at the door, through which he had strode earlier, full of drink and self-loathing – ‘probably not tonight. But tomorrow. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’

  Molly seemed to approve of this. ‘I know he’s been a bit of a jerk, Mum,’ she said, ‘but maybe you shouldn’t be too hard on him. He’s just a bloke, remember.’

  Harriet laughed, and then Molly did too, and they hugged each other tightly. But Harriet’s smile didn’t last for long. Somehow or other, she and Robert needed to get to the bottom of why he’d been such an idiot – and where the two of them might go from here.

  Whether it was straight to the divorce courts, or into last-chance saloon, she still had no idea.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  ‘You’re singing, Granny!’ cried Libby the next morning at the breakfast table.

  Olivia, stirring porridge at the hob, glanced round to see her granddaughter with a bowl piled high with chocolate cereal, beaming across at her. ‘What, darling?’

  ‘You’re singing again,’ Libby said. The sun had brought out all her freckles, Olivia noticed, and her hair was fluffed up from being in bed. There were only the two of them up in the house so far; the rest of the family were obviously still sleeping off the fraught events of the day before. ‘You always used to sing when you were cooking but you haven’t lately. Not for ages. And today you are!’

  ‘Today I am,’ Olivia realized, smiling back at the little girl who looked so triumphant to have noticed this. ‘Today I’m singing – who knows what I’ll be doing tomorrow. Juggling, maybe. Ice skating.’

  ‘Sliding down the bannisters,’ Libby said, eyes lighting up at the idea. ‘Oh, Granny, why don’t you try it? It’s really fun.’

  Olivia laughed. ‘I think I’ll stick to singing for the time being,’ she said, abandoning the porridge for a moment to come round and hug her granddaughter. Bless her for noticing the change in her grandmother, when Olivia’s mind had been elsewhere for so much of the holiday. It was time to put that mistake right, at least. ‘I was thinking,’ she went on, ‘maybe later today, me and you could do something special together, just us two. Anything you like – apart from sliding down the bannisters, that is.’

  Libby was warm and soft to cuddle, and her hair smelled of strawberry shampoo. ‘Can we make cakes?’ she asked hopefully. ‘We haven’t made cakes in ages. Proper ones with icing and sprinkles.’

  ‘Good idea! Cakes with icing and sprinkles it is,’ Olivia said. ‘This afternoon at … let’s see. Three o’clock? Then everyone can have one for afternoon tea.’

  ‘And it’s just me, not Dexter or Teddy isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s just you, not Dexter or Teddy,’ Olivia promised. ‘I’ll do something nice with them tomorrow instead.’ She planted a kiss on Libby’s head. ‘By the way, I’m pretending I haven’t seen all the chocolatey cereal you’ve got heaped up there. Or perhaps it’s my weak old grandmotherly eyes that are playing tricks on me.’

  Libby giggled and shoved in a spoonful guiltily. ‘Are you coming to the beach today, Granny?’ she asked.

  ‘Not today, darling. I’ve got a couple of important things to do first.’

  ‘And then we’ll bake the cakes at three o’clock?’

  ‘You bet we will.’

  ‘Brilliant, Granny.’ Libby beamed again. ‘Knock, knock,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Dunnap.’

  ‘Dunn – ’ Olivia broke off and laughed. ‘Oh, no, Libby Castledine, I’m not falling for that one.’ She poured her porridge into the bowl and added extra sugar, just for the hell of it. ‘Now then, three o’clock on the dot, I’ll see you back here with clean hands and an apron on. Do we have a deal?’

  Libby held out a warm pink hand. ‘Deal,’ she said solemnly.

  After breakfast, Olivia washed and dressed herself, combed her hair and carefully applied her favourite lipstick. She exchanged a tentative smile with the woman she saw in the bedroom mirror, hardly able to believe it was almost three weeks since she’d come to Shell Cottage. She felt a completely different person from the widow who’d arrived then, weighed down by grief and the lonely, desperate feeling that life held precious little to look forward to. Back then, she’d known nothing of the storm about to break, of course; had no idea of the shock that waited for her down in the kitchen of this very house. Ignorance, while not exactly blissful, had been a protective bubble, blinkering her from the rotten core at the heart of her marriage. And for a short while after arriving here, she’d lost sight of the valuable things she still had left to cherish: her daughter, her son, her glorious grandchildren, her gardening business … so much that was worth treasuring. What was more, she’d forgotten how to smile, let alone have fun.

  But that had all changed. It was as if a new Olivia had been born. An Olivia who had emerged from the sadness, who was singing in the kitchen again, who had remembered just how much she cared about her family. She had been shocked to hear the night before what had been going on under her nose recently: Freya’s drinking (poor, unhappy Freya!), Robert’s turmoil, and then the dreadful story of what had happened – or almost happened – with pretty young Molly yesterday. They
all needed her, she realized. She still had a purpose. Now it was time to step up and get on with life again, with the same grit and bravery that the rest of her family had shown.

  It wasn’t all doom and gloom, of course. She had also made a brand new friend, who made her laugh so hard she worried for her pelvic floor, and who spurred her on to do the most ridiculous, extraordinary things. She had become a woman who dared to hope that there may yet be good times ahead of her and was no longer quite so scared of the future. She refused to be scared of the future!

  That was why she had stuffed the bundled sheaf of paper – Alec’s last novel – into a canvas bag and put it, and herself, in her car. ‘A couple of important things to do,’ she had said to Libby. Now there was an understatement if ever she’d heard one.

  The first important thing was to read the blasted manuscript, of course. She could easily have done this at home, sat in a deckchair, or on the sofa in the living room if it was too breezy outside, but she knew that such a scenario would inevitably lead to a stream of interested questions and speculation from the rest of the family. (‘Is it any good?’ ‘What do you think of it so far?’ ‘What are you going to do about it?’)

  She didn’t want any of that. She needed peace and quiet, a chance to settle into the book and give it her full attention without glancing over her shoulder every time she heard approaching footsteps. So she started the engine and drove away from Shell Cottage and along the coast road as far as Ennisbridge. That would do, she thought, turning down the narrow, winding lane that led down to the heart of the village and the seafront itself.

  She parked the car, locked up and headed off with the canvas bag of papers in search of somewhere quiet to sit and read. It was a humid sort of day, with very little wind, and she was thirsty already, the bag weighing unexpectedly heavily on her shoulder. She glanced down at the beach, where she could see the Lobster Pot opening up, and thought for a moment of Mitch, Gloria’s friend. Would he be there today? Would it be very obvious if she took the manuscript and parked herself at one of the tables in the hope of seeing him again?

  Yes, Olivia. Obvious and naff. Have some dignity, for goodness’ sake.

  She went instead to a vintage tea room just off the seafront, which had splendid eau-de-nil wallpaper printed with a repeating gold feather design. Antique gilt-painted bird cages hung from the ceiling, the tables were laid with smart white cloths and there was an old dresser against one wall with mismatched crockery. It reminded Olivia a little of the coffee houses where she and Alec had met, back in their courting days, and she decided that this made it the perfect venue for today’s task.

  She settled herself into a corner table, ordered a pot of tea from the henna-haired waitress in a 1950s frock, and set the manuscript on the table in front of her. Okay. Right. Here we go, then.

  Her hand hovered above the first page but her fingers made no contact with the paper. She was surprised by how apprehensive she suddenly felt. Alec’s last book. Once she had finished reading this pile of paper, there would be nothing new of his ever to read again. His life’s work – over.

  The finality of it stopped her hand and she sipped her tea, pondering the matter. Despite everything, she was curious to take a peep. Alec had always been so precious about his work, so superstitious about not letting anyone read a single paragraph until he was completely satisfied with what he’d written. She didn’t even know what this book was about.

  Well, she thought. Only one way to find out.

  She set her teacup back on its saucer, then picked up the first page, took a deep breath and began reading. Chapter One …

  Alec’s books were all thrillers along a similar theme. He had his world-weary Belfast-born detective, Jim Malone: a maverick chain-smoking gumshoe, engaged in a running battle with the more traditionally minded detective superintendent, although Jim’s quick wits and magpie-like brain always managed to solve the crime and bring about justice by the closing chapters.

  Alec and Jim were like brothers, he used to say when he appeared at festivals or did broadcast interviews. Jim was like the dark side of Alec, he explained, who said and did all the things that he, Alec, was too fearful or socially responsible to dare do himself. ‘This way I get the best of both worlds,’ he would say, smiling his charming smile. (Olivia could picture him now, leaning forward confidentially, eyes twinkling, giving the impression it was the first time he’d ever admitted this information to anyone.) ‘I stick by the rules and toe the line, yet I can indulge this other side of my personality and allow Jim to get into all kinds of trouble, so I don’t have to.’

  Olivia gave a small snort of derision, remembering this now. How he’d had the front to say, many times over, that he had stuck by the rules and toed the line, she’d never know, when he had his mistress and son tucked secretly away in Devon. Maybe he was more like Jim than he’d cared to admit.

  She soon became engrossed in the novel. The plot centred around a shady Russian oligarch whose money had come from human trafficking. Two young women had been found dead and the net was starting to close around the prime suspect. What interested Olivia more, though, was the sub-plot, which described Jim cheating on his long-standing (long-suffering, more like) wife Margaret, with a younger woman, Katherine.

  As Olivia read on, she no longer heard the sounds of the cafe around her – the tinkling of the bell as new customers came in, the hiss and gush of the coffee machine, the chatter of other women on nearby tables. She was deeply in Malone’s world now: trudging through rainy streets in search of the next clue, meeting Katherine in dingy bars and then slinking home to Margaret, sick with guilt as he lied to her about where he’d been. Her breathing almost stopped as she got to the part where Malone berated himself for his own weakness. Margaret was the best and most loyal woman alive, after all, Jim reasoned. She had stood by him through the ups and downs of his career. She understood him like no other person on earth! So why – why – was he risking it all for this younger woman, who had bewitched him with her youth and beauty? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t be satisfied with his wife? How he hated himself at times!

  Olivia’s hands shook as she turned the pages. Previously Jim Malone had never been one to indulge in such soul-searching. Was this Alec on paper, spilling his guts about his divided loyalties? And how would Jim – and Alec – resolve the dilemma?

  She munched through a toasted sandwich at midday and ordered another pot of tea as she read on, becoming impatient with the Russian oligarch plot, uninterested in the poor dead women, obsessed only with Jim Malone’s love life. And then, on page two hundred and twenty, it was Jim’s birthday and he had an epiphany. Margaret brought him breakfast in bed (she did the best ever Eggs Benedict, apparently; at least Jim appreciated her for that much) then surprised him with tickets to see the London Philharmonic Orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall that evening. In short, she was the thoughtful, loving wife she’d always been. (Quite, Olivia thought dryly, wondering where this was going.)

  Katherine, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten it was Jim’s birthday altogether. The only thing he received from her was an emailed photo of a positive pregnancy test. And Jim felt a rushing sensation of doom, Olivia read, like a condemned man hearing the judge read aloud his punishment.

  Olivia dropped the manuscript as if the pages were red-hot and sat back in her chair, only just remembering to breathe. Of course, Jim was a fictional character, this wasn’t an autobiography, but it was impossible not to interpret his reaction as that of her husband. Had Alec felt the same way, that Katie’s pregnancy test had trapped him into a relationship? Was this whole book some kind of coded message to her, and to Katie? Surely he wouldn’t have been so cruel. Surely he wouldn’t have been that crass?

  As the pages began to dwindle to a close, the paragraphs became scrappier, the sentences crafted with less care. At the end, Alec had left a series of notes to himself, a kind of ‘thinking aloud’ in print.

  Katherine loses the baby – Jim’s
secret relief. They split up and he returns to Margaret, feeling he just made a lucky escape. Jim’s guilt drives him to – ?? How can he make it up to M?? Holiday somewhere romantic – Italy? South of France?

  Olivia dizzily remembered Alec making a similar suggestion to her shortly before the heart attack. ‘We should go away together later this year,’ he’d said. ‘Just the two of us, somewhere sunny and romantic, a proper holiday. What do you think? We could go to Italy, perhaps. The south of France …’

  The room seemed to be spinning around her. What did all of this mean? Had he been planning to leave Katherine – Katie, rather? Was the holiday suggestion prompted by guilt, as it had been for Jim?

  She stared blindly at the paper, her heart gradually returning to its normal pace. Well, one thing was for sure, she realized, there was absolutely no way she could send this book to Eleanor at the publishing house. Have the literary reviewers and wider book-reading population speculate on just how much of the novel was based on real life, picking over her marriage with a gossipy eye? Certainly not. Some things had to remain private, and that was that.

  Then again, she realized in the next moment, Jim had chosen Margaret, ultimately, hadn’t he? Jim had loved Margaret, while Katherine had been a passing dalliance, one he was pleased to be rid of. Perhaps there was some crumb of comfort to be had from this.

  For a few quiet moments, she sat and absorbed this interpretation and its wider implications. So I win, she thought. In that case, I win, Katie.

  But the victory felt hollow, as if it wasn’t much of a victory after all.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ the henna-haired waitress asked, appearing at the table and picking up the empty teapot and milk jug.

  Olivia shook her head. It was almost two o’clock and she still had her other ‘important thing’ to do. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. Then she stuffed the manuscript back in her bag and headed out to the car, her mind still turning.