Sensing Lauren’s hesitation, Charlotte added, ‘I wouldn’t ask if I had anywhere else to go, but Ethan’s selling the flat.’
Lauren tucked Freddie’s chair under the table. ‘You’re dropping filling down your front,’ she told her son. ‘Lean forwards so it lands on the plate.’ She ruffled his hair.
He gave her a big smile, guacamole stuck in the gap where a front tooth should be.
Lauren wandered through to the lounge and sat down on the worn sofa. As a kid, she’d looked up to Charlotte: she was the sister with aptitude, strength and organisational skills; she’d coped with adversity, solved problems, and looked after them all when their mum had died. But now, as an adult, she was worried that Charlotte would find fault with her choices, and the life she’d made for herself and her kids.
She didn’t voice these concerns. Instead, she said, ‘Of course you can stay.’ Charlotte had never asked Lauren for anything in her entire life. Her sister was a self-made, self-sufficient individual, who relied on no one. Things must be dire if she was asking for help.
Her sister sighed. ‘Thanks, Lauren. I really appreciate it. Would Friday be okay?’
Friday? Three days to clean the flat, buy food – which she couldn’t afford – and make up a spare bed. It wasn’t long enough. ‘You’ll have to sleep in the lounge, I’m afraid. We don’t have a spare room.’
Silence hung in the air. ‘That’s … fine.’ It clearly wasn’t. ‘Thanks, Lauren. I’ll text you when I’m leaving.’ Charlotte hung up.
Lauren leant back against the sofa. She could feel a lump beneath her that she hadn’t noticed before. A spring was working its way through the fabric. Another annoyance to add to the list.
Gathering her thoughts, she got up and went into the kitchen. ‘Finished?’
Her kids nodded in unison. ‘Yuu-mm-yy.’ Florence licked her fingers.
‘Good girl. Here, use this, please.’ Lauren handed her a fresh kitchen towel. ‘Satsumas or yoghurt for pudding?’
Freddie pulled a face. ‘Can’t we have ice cream?’
Florence scowled at her brother. ‘We can’t afford ice cream.’
Shock hit Lauren. ‘Why on earth would you think that, Florence?’
‘’Cause we don’t have any money in the bank.’ Her daughter looked like a typical eight-year-old, swinging her legs, rubbing her tiny hands on the kitchen towel, but her words made her sound a lot older. ‘I saw the thingy.’ She pointed to the top of the fridge where the bank statement poked out from under the treat jar – a jar that was currently devoid of sweets.
‘Oh, darling. Of course we can afford ice cream,’ Lauren lied, wishing for once that her daughter wasn’t quite so advanced for her age. ‘I just forgot to buy some this week.’ She bent down and kissed Flo’s cheek. ‘Now, I don’t want you to worry about what a silly bank statement says. They’ve probably added it up wrong.’
Florence frowned. ‘Like Freddie does in maths class?’
‘I do not!’ Freddie looked indignant. ‘You do.’
‘Do not.’
‘Do too …’
‘Hey, no bickering. Be nice to each other, please. I’ll get some ice cream at the weekend.’ When I have some money. ‘Now, what would you like?’
They settled on yoghurt. Lauren busied herself clearing the table and picking at the leftovers, trying to stem the surge of shame. She’d tried so hard to keep her money worries from her kids. In future, she’d ensure paperwork was filed away. But that was the least of her concerns. With her sister visiting, and another mouth to feed, her finances weren’t going to improve. And if Charlotte had lost her job, then money would be an issue for her too. Somehow Lauren was going to have to make her income stretch even further.
The kids finished their dessert and ran into the lounge.
‘No jumping about until your dinners have gone down,’ she called after them.
‘Yes, Mummy!’ Their sing-song reply made her laugh. Thank God for her kids.
Unlike Charlotte, Lauren had never really known what she wanted to be when she grew up. She’d done okay at school, but she hadn’t wanted to continue studying. She was too excited by what the world had to offer … and then their mum had died and the world no longer seemed like such a wonderful place. But she’d never been lazy and, after leaving school, had tried numerous jobs in the hope of finding her calling. She’d worked in a bar, trained as a nursery assistant, and worked as an usher at the local theatre. She’d always loved drama at school, and getting to watch plays for free every night was the best job ever.
At nineteen, she’d met a boy called Joe and thought she was in love. When she fell pregnant, Joe broke things off, making her realise that she wasn’t in love, and neither was he. His interest steadily decreased as her belly size increased. Six months after she gave birth, he disappeared from their lives completely. She grew tired of chasing him for child-maintenance payments. His refusal to have any contact with the kids led her to accepting her dad’s offer to move to Cornwall with him. She’d hoped that an idyllic setting, and help from her dad, would make life a little easier. And, for the most part, it had.
Lauren ran the hot tap, swishing it around the washing-up liquid bottle, trying to make the meagre contents stretch a bit further.
Moving to Penmullion had definitely been the right decision. She was happy; so were her kids. And even though her dad didn’t help out as much as she’d hoped he would, it was still good to be together as a family.
A loud crack from the lounge was followed by a squeal. Lauren dropped the wok into the sink, splashing suds everywhere, and ran into the living-room area. Florence was sitting on the floor, rubbing her arm. Freddie was patting her head, his red cheeks clashing with his hair. ‘Sorry, Florence. Didn’t mean it.’
Next to them, the ancient carpet-sweeper was bent at an angle, missing its handle.
Brilliant. Her pedantic sister was coming to stay, and Lauren couldn’t even vacuum.
Florence looked up, her blue eyes tearful. ‘Are you mad, Mummy?’
Lauren shook her head. ‘Of course not, sweetie. Accidents happen.’
She sat down next to her daughter.
Freddie jumped onto the sofa and resumed waving his sword about.
Yep, moving to Cornwall had been the right thing to do … even if it did still have its challenges.
CHAPTER FOUR
Friday, 27 May
Charlotte battled her way out of the loos and queued up for a hot drink, needing something to calm her agitation. It was only ten a.m., but the motorway service station at Leigh Delamere East was full of people heading down to the coast for the May bank holiday weekend. She hadn’t realised quite how busy the roads would be. She’d been driving for three hours, and still had another hundred and twenty miles to go. At this rate, it would be dark before she reached her destination.
Collecting her takeaway cup from the counter, she headed outside, trying to remember what her GP had said about focusing on the positives of her situation, instead of dwelling on the negatives – which wasn’t easy. The grief she’d felt at leaving her old life behind was indescribable. But, much to her surprise, her visit to the GP had been extremely helpful. Far from dismissing her tearful ramblings, he’d listened patiently and had diagnosed a mild anxiety disorder. At first, she’d been reluctant to accept any failing in her mental health, but as he’d spoken about the impact of stress, and its ability to exacerbate physical pain, she’d realised that denying her condition was foolhardy. He’d said battling to keep things ‘just so’ was like clinging hold of a stick under water, the effort of not dropping it was so exhausting that, in the end, you’d drown trying to keep afloat. Sometimes you just had to let the stick sink to the bottom and trust that, eventually, it would float back up to the surface and continue its journey down the river. A nice analogy.
Ethan’s decision to leave was out of her control, he’d said. As was losing her job. The best thing she could do was stop beating herself up for not being able to con
trol everything, try to relax, and take the opportunity of an impromptu holiday.
The spring weather had been steadily improving all week, so a spell at the seaside might improve her spirits. It would be good to spend some time with her family, and it’d been over a year since she’d seen her niece and nephew, so really, this trip was a blessing … even if it had been forced upon her.
She sipped her latte. It didn’t taste great, but it was warm and sweet and gave her energy levels a boost. She managed another few mouthfuls before binning it.
It was hard to believe that, up until a few weeks ago, her life had been going to plan. Her career was flying high, her finances were stable, and the five-year plan for achieving the ‘perfect life’, which she’d drawn up with Ethan, was on schedule. They’d planned that, within the next two years, they’d move to a town house with a good resale value, and they’d up their pension pots with additional contributions. It wasn’t the most dynamic of plans, and perhaps, on reflection, it lacked a certain sense of romance, but it was pragmatic and considered, and it’d been what they’d both wanted. Or at least, what she’d thought they’d both wanted.
Unbuttoning her purple suede jacket, she climbed into her car, gearing herself up for rejoining the M4.
It felt a lot longer than three weeks since Ethan had dropped his bombshell. The initial shock had subsided, but the confusion hadn’t. Why hadn’t she seen it coming? There must have been signs, clues to suggest Ethan wasn’t happy, and yet she’d been oblivious. While she’d been working long hours, carrying out the renovations on the apartment, adhering to their five-year plan, he’d been plotting his relocation to bloody Paris.
How had she got things so wrong?
His words still haunted her, how he’d described their relationship as a ‘business arrangement’. What a cruel thing to say, and unfair too. Not everyone was mushy when it came to romance. It didn’t mean she wasn’t invested, or that she didn’t have feelings. Their relationship was built on the merits of a shared life. It was uncomplicated, straightforward, and if she was honest, a little boring at times, but that was only to be expected after four years … right?
She moved into the fast lane, taking the opportunity of a gap in the traffic to put her foot down, blinking away the latest onslaught of tears threatening to surface.
It wasn’t just breaking up; she was still smarting over losing her job, and struggling to come to terms with how quickly everything had unravelled. One minute she was employee of the month, the next she was being handed her P45. The only chink of light had come when she’d contacted the government’s arbitration service and they’d advised her that she might have a case for unfair dismissal. Determined not to go down without a fight, she’d lodged a claim with the employment tribunal. But until her case was heard, she needed a place to lick her wounds and regroup. And Cornwall was the ideal setting to wait it out.
Previously, the idea of swapping her city life for fish and chips, and endless caravan sites, hadn’t overly appealed. But Cornwall was one of England’s finest tourist attractions, unspoilt and breathtakingly rugged, which was why her sister had moved there, along with their father, when the twins were babies. They’d become disillusioned by the frantic pace and congestion of London, and needed to ‘step off the treadmill’. Whatever the reason, it was still hard not to feel abandoned. Her entire family had relocated four hundred miles away, leaving her behind. And it’d left a wound. A wound aggravated by the strain of a five-hour drive that hampered her ability to visit. But Lauren and her dad couldn’t see that.
Thankfully, for the next forty minutes, the traffic kept moving and she made good progress. Bristol docks came into view, with its vast car park of new vehicles waiting to be shipped abroad, closely followed by the impressive Brunel bridge.
The switch from city to countryside wasn’t immediate, despite the enormous ‘Welcome to Cornwall’ sign. The roads narrowed, the houses shrunk, the air became salty and moist. The earlier mist had burnt away, leaving some semblance of spring-like weather in its wake.
She shifted position, trying to get comfortable and ease the tension in her upper back. She should have removed her jacket when she’d stopped for a comfort break. She twisted her head from side to side, trying to ease the stiffness.
It wasn’t long before the road became a single lane. Her satnav – or rather ‘Posh Joanna’ as she’d named her, due to the fact she sounded uncannily like Joanna Lumley – directed her through numerous towns and villages, each one decreasing in size and signs of civilisation. Posh Joanna estimated her arrival time was still another twenty-nine minutes away. Lauren and her dad really had moved to the sticks.
The narrow road led her through a small market town with a large clock centred in the main square. As she queued at the traffic lights, she studied the sights. The words ‘quaint’ and ‘old-fashioned’ sprung to mind. Interior design jobs in London usually involved wealthy clients spending a fortune recreating the period look. Here, they achieved shabby-chic without even trying.
According to her sister’s directions, they lived in the next town. ‘Ignore your satnav,’ Lauren had said. ‘Or you’ll end up face down in the ford.’ Useful to know, but difficult to adhere to, when simultaneously driving and reading scribbled instructions lying on the passenger seat.
Posh Joanna instructed her to ‘turn around when possible’ – quickly followed by ‘turn left and then immediately left’. This latest direction resulted in her coming face-to-face with a tractor. With no space to pass, she turned sharply onto an unmade lane, vaguely aware of the tractor driver waving in her rear-view mirror as she bumped down the track.
Several things gave cause for alarm. There was nowhere to turn around, the hedgerow either side encroached onto the lane and, ahead of her, the road was submerged under water.
‘Stay on this road for the next mile,’ Posh Joanna said.
‘Oh, don’t be so daft. How can I stay on this road for a mile? Look at it.’ Vaguely aware that Posh Joanna wasn’t able to respond, she slowed to a stop.
Killing the engine, she climbed out of the car, mulling over whether this was in fact just a large puddle, and not the ford her sister had warned her about.
‘If you’re thinking about driving through it, I wouldn’t.’ The sound of a man’s voice was so unexpected that she physically jolted.
The feeling enhanced when she turned around and saw the rather unusual sight of a glamorous woman hugging a tree. Her sparkly dress and blonde beehive hairdo were at odds with her rustic surroundings. She clearly wasn’t the owner of the voice … and then Charlotte looked again. The woman wasn’t hugging the tree – she was handcuffed to it!
‘You couldn’t pass me the key, could you, love?’
Okay, not a woman. A man dressed as a woman. Not surreal at all.
Charlotte looked again. Man or woman, she was stunning: her skin luminescent, even beneath make-up; her eyes a startling shade of blue. Her nails were manicured and painted gold, and her figure was lithe and delicate. She was better turned out than Charlotte, who’d always prided herself in maintaining a well-kept exterior.
The woman smiled, her pink lips parting to reveal pearly-white teeth. ‘The key?’
Right. The key. Charlotte followed her eyeline. ‘Where did you last see it?’
The woman nodded downwards. ‘It landed somewhere over there.’
Charlotte looked around. True enough, lying on the edge of the dirt track was a tiny key. She was about to pick it up when her brain alerted her to the potential safety issues of releasing someone in restraints. ‘Are you a criminal?’
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Hardly.’
Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. ‘You’re handcuffed to a tree.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’
‘For my own safety, I’d like to know why before releasing you.’
The woman let out a sigh. ‘Let’s just say, things got a little wild last night. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the
intimate details.’
Charlotte picked up the key. ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ She made her way over to her. ‘Would the person who did this have returned at some point?’
The woman seemed to consider this. ‘Difficult to tell. Maybe.’ She lifted her hands so Charlotte could access the lock. ‘I’m Dusty, by the way.’
Charlotte deliberated whether to engage. ‘Dusty’ was hardly regular. But she didn’t radiate aggression, only vulnerability. ‘Charlotte.’
Dusty smiled. ‘Nice to meet you. Pardon me for saying, but you have cheekbones to die for.’ When Charlotte stopped unlocking, Dusty must have sensed her alarm, because she added, ‘No need to panic. I bat for the other team, if you get my drift.’
Charlotte laughed. Satisfied she wasn’t about to be attacked, she removed the handcuffs.
‘Free at last.’ Dusty rubbed her wrists. ‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘Well, you could direct me to Penmullion. I’m a bit lost.’
‘That I can do.’ Released from the tree, Dusty circled her arms. ‘Reverse back up this lane. When you reach the crossroads, go straight over. You’ll see a sign for the town at the bottom of the hill.’
‘Thanks.’ Charlotte was about to walk away when she added, ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’
Dusty smiled. ‘Kind of you, sweetie, but I’m good.’ She kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. You’re an angel. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in desperate need of a pee.’ She disappeared into the hedgerow.
Cornwall was an odd place, Charlotte decided. If it weren’t for the silver handcuffs lying on the ground, she might have thought she’d hallucinated the whole thing.
Thirty minutes later, having scraped her car trying to reverse back up the narrow lane, she found the town of Penmullion. The view coming over the hill was delightful. In the distance, she could see the sea, the tops of the white cliffs merging into the clouds above. The sharp descent into the town made driving conditions precarious, so she decided to leave sightseeing for another time and focus on arriving in one piece.
The Summer Theatre by the Sea Page 4
