‘I’ve come to claim that coffee you promised me,’ he says, sounding decidedly firm. ‘And don’t even consider saying no, as a refusal can often offend.’ He picks up my jacket and holds it out for me.
He looks so smilingly pleased to see me, so vibrant and energetic, so full of life, that I find myself laughing for the first time in weeks. Just seeing him standing there, legs astride, with that wry grin on his handsome face, reminds me that I’m still young, only twenty-six, not at all the withered old crone I feel inside.
‘No strings,’ he adds more quietly. ‘Just coffee.’
I can feel myself weakening. ‘Well, maybe a quick one then, just five minutes. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ I allow him to lead me away.
We go to a coffee bar across the road where Tim orders an espresso for himself and a latte for me, plus a couple of chocolate chip muffins. I demur, saying I’m not hungry but he insists I need the calories. He’s probably right. We sit at a marble topped table and I start to crumble my muffin, nibbling the odd chunk while Tim eats his with gusto and genuine enjoyment. I suspect this is the way he tackles everything in life, with true joy and exuberance. I’ve forgotten how that feels.
He explains that he’s here for the weekend, this time to tackle Helm Crag, known locally as the lion and the lamb because of the configuration of the rocks. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate.’
He nods. ‘I heard that you and your husband had broken up. I’m sorry, although I have to say that what little I’ve seen of him didn’t impress me much.’
I smile at this. ‘He can be very impressive, when he puts his mind to it. Otherwise, no, you’re right. He can be . . . ‘
‘A real shit?’
I giggle. ‘Difficult.’
‘So you aren’t going to be shedding too many tears over him then?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Excellent! Forward march. Fresh fields and pastures new.’
I laugh out loud at this. ‘If you mean am I looking for another fella, no I am not. Another relationship is the last thing on my agenda right now.’
He slides one hand over mine and gently squeezes it. ‘Of course it is, I realise that, Carly. I wasn’t trying to push you into anything. But we could be friends, maybe? I could offer a shoulder to cry on, if needed. A friendly chat. Well meaning, if not necessarily impeccable advice, and plenty of fresh air and exercise, should you desire it.’
‘If only life could be that simple.’
‘How is your little daughter?’ he asks, more seriously, and I’m suddenly crying again, despite having just vowed never to do so again. I find myself describing the misery of Sunday, and Katie’s strange silence and clinginess afterwards. He listens patiently without offering any solutions, then goes and buys us more coffee.
‘Feeling better now you’ve got that off your chest?’ he gently asks, and I nod.
‘Good. I wish I could be more help, but I can at least lend a sympathetic ear. My sister went through a divorce and it was most unpleasant for her, but you have to hang in there and get through it as best you can. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.’
‘Yes,’ I say, responding to his warm smile with a shy one of my own. ‘I can see that now.’
‘I’m here most weekends, Carly, if you need a friend. Remember that.’
‘I will.’
‘Why would she need a friend when she has a husband?’ The deep voice from behind nearly has me jumping out of my skin. I whirl about to face him. ‘Oliver. What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Good job I am. This all looks very cosy. Didn’t take you long to latch on to lover-boy again.’
‘Oliver, for God’s sake, stop that!’
Tim is frowning and I’m feeling hugely embarrassed, but Oliver is clearly enjoying himself. He leans over and gripping me firmly by the elbow, hisses in my ear, ‘I’d like a word, if you don’t mind.’
I wrench my arm free. ‘Actually, I do mind. I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.’
‘Oh, yes, we do.’
‘Then you can say it to my solicitor.’
He snorts with laughter. ‘And double the legal bill, I don’t think so.’ He turns to Tim. ‘I think you should go. I need to discuss some important issues with my wife.’
‘Not now, Oliver.’
‘Yes, now. Or are you saying that such issues as the welfare of our child are less important than spending time with your lover?’ He asks me this loaded question with contempt in his tone.
‘You need to know,’ Tim quietly remarks, ‘that I am not her lover. Unfortunately.’
‘Beat it!’
I’m shivering inside, shaking with silent fury and a familiar sensation of helplessness. Tim gets slowly to his feet, his gaze fixed firmly on mine. ‘I’ll be just outside.’ His eyes are telling me that he’s there for me, should I need him. I simply nod and wearily accept the inevitable. Oliver always manages to get what he wants. Whether I’ve left him or not, he’s still very much in control.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I feel like a displaced person, dividing my time between my parents’ sofa and Emma’s floor. I even spent a few nights in the office, me cuddled in a sleeping bag behind my desk, Katie ensconced in a drawer doubling as a make-shift cot. I had use of a microwave and a kettle, and it certainly saved on petrol getting to and from Windermere, but it was far from ideal as it meant I had Katie with me all day, which was hard work. I did try asking my sister if I could squeeze in with her children, or have them double up while I rented a room off her, but she wouldn’t even consider it.
‘There are quite enough people in this house already, thanks very much. I’m sure your rich husband can afford to pay for you to rent a place somewhere.’
‘That’s just it, I want to be independent of Oliver, Jo-Jo.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, get real, Carly. Screw him for every penny you can, but don’t expect me to bail you out.’
I gave up on the argument and went back to sleeping under my desk. I’ve been asking everyone I can think of for weeks if they know of a place available long-term on a reasonable rent, and then just as I’d almost given up hope, Caroline, a friend of Emma’s, comes up trumps.
She rattles a set of keys. ‘It’s somewhere in the country between Staveley and Burneside, near the River Gowan so you can enjoy riverside walks. Come on, let’s go and find it.’
The cottage is more isolated than I would have liked, some distance from the road, surrounded on all sides by fields and backing on to a wood. It’s one of a row of four but the others are holiday cottages, so are rarely occupied until the height of summer. It’s also very small, with no front garden. Nevertheless I’m excited at the prospect of a home of my own, however humble it might be. I’m hoping that once the divorce comes through there will be some settlement from Oliver when he’ll either put the house up for sale, or pay me a fair share for my portion of it. Knowing my husband as I do, I’m not expecting this operation to be either simple or quick.
I push open the door, which sticks a little from the damp, and I’m hit by a none-too-clean smell which is not encouraging. The cottage is dark and overwhelmingly green: carpet, paintwork, a three piece suite which looks as if it has been branded with any amount of gravy, egg and tea stains over the last fifty years, and a hideous, green-tiled, 1950s fireplace. The walls are a symphony of green and beige swirls in polished anaglypta. I smile, determined to be positive, and throw back the dusty curtains, also green, to let in more light. ‘This is lovely, at least it will be once I’ve given it a lick of paint here and there. It is all right for me to brighten it up a bit, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll check, but I shouldn’t imagine there’ll be a problem. The cottage belonged to Caro’s mother, who’s recently died. I think she’d be happy to sell it, if you were interested. You might get it for a good price since it needs considerable work doing to it and isn't in the Central Lakes.’
I perk up even more and look at the cottage now from a more professional point of view, as I’m accustomed to doing when offered a possible property to put on our books. The sitting room is small, with a tiny kitchen behind. Beyond that lies a tiny, unkempt garden which could be made pretty with time and effort. It even boasts a small paved area currently occupied by a rotting bench that has seen better days.
Upstairs are two bedrooms of roughly equal size, and a bathroom in a depressing shade of avocado that was probably installed as the latest thing in the early sixties. ‘It’s rather tired, but certainly has possibilities. With a wood burning stove in place of that 1950s fireplace, new kitchen, new bathroom, complete redecoration, floorboards stripped and waxed, and completely refurnished in bleached pine with a nice squashy sofa, it could make a cosy, charming home.’
Emma laughs. ‘That’s more like it. Time to start fighting back. I was beginning to worry about you. I’ll leave you to settle in, and if you decide you like it, you can always put in an offer. Here’s Caro’s number, together with details of what she requires as monthly rent. It might be worth checking if she’d reduce that a little, in view of its condition.’
I glance at the piece of paper and wince. ‘I would definitely welcome the possibility of a rent reduction, since I’m a bit hard pressed for cash right now. I’ll give her a ring and see if we can come to terms.’ I’m filled with a sudden surge of optimism. Creating a home for Katie and myself would be fun, and represent a new beginning for us.
But when Emma’s gone, leaving me to mooch about on my own for a while, the professional mask slips and my confidence rapidly dissolves. I’d have to get a mortgage, maybe a bridging loan as well. I don’t have any money of my own until after the divorce goes through, maybe not even then until Oliver decides what he’s doing about the house.
I stare out over the empty fields and woods and feel desperately, achingly alone. I think of all the work I would need to do to the place, without any assistance, and am filled with self-doubt and indecisiveness. What am I doing here? How could I possibly cope on my own in the middle of nowhere with a small child, let alone attempt any of the renovations? I must be mad to even consider it. Panic clutches at my chest and I pull out my mobile, desperate to ring Oliver. I need to ask him what I should do, what’s the best way forward, can I really afford to pay this rent? Could I afford to take on a mortgage? Am I being sensible to even consider buying this cottage?
I’ve punched in the first three numbers before it dawns on me that turning to my husband every time I hit a problem is the last thing I should be doing. What am I thinking of? I switch it off, and, finding my legs are shaking, sink into the smelly green armchair, my head in my hands. Oliver is right. I am stupid and inadequate. Quite incapable of coping on my own. I must be mad to be even considering this.
‘Cooee! Hello, oh there you are. I thought I heard someone. I’m Sue, from the end house. Are you the new tenant?’ I’m confronted by a woman as round as a dumpling, with frizzed hair clipped back from her smiling face. ‘I wondered if you fancied a cup of tea. I’ve got the kettle on.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you.’ I jump out of the chair, a bit nonplussed to be confronted by a smiling stranger when I’m in the throes of grieving for a lost marriage. ‘I thought none of these cottages was occupied, that they were all holiday cottages.’
‘They are, except for mine, which is more of a second home. I work in Manchester, at the archives, but come up here as often as I can get away.’ She glances about her at the dingy green decor. ‘Bit grim, isn’t it? I thought it might cheer you up to see mine, show you what can be done with these cottages.’
And indeed it does. By the time I’ve admired Sue’s array of shining copper kettles, her smart little kitchen, and become acquainted with her excellent shortbread, I’m feeling much more optimistic. Ready for anything. I thank her for her kindness and head back Windermere, bursting to ring Emma’s friend and get the whole thing fixed up.
The divorce proceedings have shuddered to a halt. Oliver still hasn’t returned the acknowledgement of service. This is a document sent by the court at the same time as the divorce petition, which Oliver is expected to fill out and return. My solicitor informs me that it is a perfectly straightforward document and should cause no problems. Apart from an obvious check that he has received the divorce papers, it asks Oliver if he intends to defend the case, and does he admit adultery.
Unfortunately, Oliver is proving to be elusive. He appears to have moved out of the matrimonial home, and so far my solicitor has been unable to trace him in order to serve the papers on him. Why am I not surprised? Oliver never admitted to anything in his life, so why should he do so now? He’ll be keeping his head down somewhere, determined to make things as difficult as possible for me. But if he hopes that I might weary of the battle, give up and go back to him, he couldn’t be more wrong.
When I ring Grace to ask if she has any news, her tone is decidedly frosty. She claims not to know where he’s living, tells me he’s off work because he’s so upset. Which means we can’t even contact him at his office.
I try not to worry and turn my attention to making plans on how best to do up the cottage. I’ve come to an agreement with the owner that I’ll rent it for twelve months with an option to buy at the end of that time, should I find it suitable. It sounds like a good deal, and gives me time to sort myself out financially.
But any improvements will have to be made on a shoestring. I can only afford a few cans of paint at this stage, but I set to with a will, determined to at least banish the green walls. The task seems daunting but Emma offers to help, as does Glen, her partner. It’s a quiet Saturday so she closes the office and rings to say she’s on her way. To my complete surprise, Tim is with them. I feel that familiar uplift of spirit which always happens when I see him, instantly followed by a rush of guilt and fear. I find myself glancing up and down the deserted lane, as if to make sure we’re not being watched.
Emma breezes in bearing brushes, mops and buckets, and a bright innocent smile. I instantly remonstrate with her, ‘Why did you bring Tim? I’m not sure that was a good idea.’
She gives me an arch look, then glances at the grim, dark walls and equally depressing carpet and furnishings. ‘He volunteered. Anyway, I doubt you can afford to be too picky. You look like you need all the help you can muster.’
I have to confess this is true, so welcome him with a philosophical smile, hoping against hope my in-laws, Grace and Jeffrey, don’t decide to drop by out of curiosity.
I’ve persuaded Jo-Jo to have Katie for the weekend while I blitz the place, and in no time the four of us have dragged out the stained green velvet settee, the chairs and sagging bed, and other Victorian monstrosities. We rip up the carpet, along with several layers of smelly linoleum which lie beneath. I’ve hired a skip and it soon fills up with the contents of the cottage. The kitchen and bathroom will have to make do with a good scrub until I can afford to have them replaced, but scouring off the thick layer of grease that coats every surface should improve matters considerably. The two men make short work of knocking out the old fifties fireplace, and Tim assures me he can easily fit the second-hand multi fuel stove I’ve bought.
Glen has hired an amazing piece of equipment which steams the anaglypta off the walls, and in no time the two men are working their way through the entire house. Emma and I follow on behind, cleaning off the bits they miss, filling cracks, sanding the paintwork, and using a great deal of elbow grease as we scrub and mop, and generally dispose of the mess.
The work is exhausting, leaving little energy for chatter. With Radio One blasting away, people humming and laughing, the day has a warmth and companionable quality to it; yet I still feel slightly detached, all hollow and empty inside, as if I’m clinging to the edge of a cliff and about to fall off. When we stop for a break in the middle of the day, I stroll down to the river for a breath of fresh air. Tim comes to join me.
‘It looks an
impossible task at the moment, doesn’t it, but it’ll soon pull together.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ I agree. But can I pull myself together, I wonder? Why do I keep experiencing these panic attacks, this terrible need to call Oliver and ask his advice? Am I quite incapable of thinking for myself, of making decisions about my own life?
As if sensing my mood, Tim says, ‘It can’t have been easy for you, walking out on a bad marriage. I admire your courage.’
I glance up at him in surprise. ‘Do you? It all seems so very difficult I can’t seem to think straight. I don’t know who I am any more, or whether I can even cope on my own, let alone look after Katie properly.’
‘I’m sure that’s a natural reaction, and you’re making a great job of looking after Katie already. Look, I’ve no wish to pry, and I may be jumping to completely the wrong conclusion, but I’ve heard it said that the most dangerous time for . . . for an abused woman, is the moment when she finally breaks free. The divorce, in fact. So do take care, Carly.’
I look at him in astonishment. I’ve told him nothing about the reason for the break up of my marriage, and I know in my heart that Emma would never betray a confidence. He must have put two and two together himself, perhaps making judgements about Oliver’s behaviour, or perhaps my own gives away more than I realise, to a keen observer. ‘You’re quite astute.’
He gives a self-deprecating smile. ‘It has been said. I accept this is none of my business, but I want you to know that you aren’t on your own, not at all.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. ‘If there’s anything you want doing, just let me know.’
He’s so close I can sense the warmth from his body. I feel a great urge to smooth my hands over his arms, bare to the elbow beneath the rolled up sleeves of his check shirt, lean into those strong masculine shoulders. I hear a rustle in the undergrowth and glance back over my shoulder, nervous suddenly, as if I sense we’re not alone. I step back, away from his mesmerising closeness, and manage a stiff little smile. ‘You’ve helped already, just by coming here today.’
Trapped Page 30
