by Jules Wake
‘You’re up early.’
‘Bejesus! You scared the daylights out of me. What are you doing up at this time?’
Angela smiled, a dreamy, secretive expression slipping across her face and sipped from a mug. ‘I’m always up at this time. It’s my favourite part of the day. I like the peace and quiet. The calm before the storm.’
Carrie wrinkled her nose. She and Jade had never quite managed to time their routines to suit each other. Inevitably there were fireworks in the mornings. ‘And,’ Angela added, ‘it’s my best chance of getting in the bathroom.’
‘Well, at least here you’ve got your own bathroom. I’m not sure how we’re going to manage when we go home, after a bathroom each and all this space.’
‘Well, hopefully it’s temporary. Have you and Alan decided what you’re going to do? Are you going to move in with him?’
It hit Carrie, like a force-nine gale, that she hadn’t even contemplated doing that until they were married. It wasn’t that she was old fashioned, but it hadn’t occurred to her.
‘We’re going to buy a bigger place. His flat is … a boy’s place. And I’ve got the money from Mum and Dad. If we combine that, we could get a bigger place.’
‘You could have bought a place ages ago. Used that money.’
Of course, Angela being Angela couldn’t come right out and ask why she never had, which was a relief. After Richard had gone, the only thing that kept Carrie going was the handy realisation that she needed to keep an eye on Angela and Jade. As Jade got older and became more active and started school, it became harder for Angela to cope. Not that she ever said anything, but Carrie could see that things were challenging. It made perfect sense for Carrie to move in with them and even more so financially. It wasn’t as if Angela could get a high-paid job. She’d trained as an accountant, which is where she’d met Clive, Jade’s father, but continued ill health had forced her to take the offered redundancy.
‘Did you sort everything out with Richard? Gosh he hasn’t changed that much, has he? As lovely as he always was. And so good with Jade. I mean, he can’t be used to teenagers, can he? But he handled her beautifully.’
‘That’s because she was on her best behaviour,’ grumbled Carrie, thinking of how she normally behaved.
‘True, but he did have a way with her. And as soon as he arrived, he asked me to look after Phil. What a nice man.’
‘Who, Phil or Richard?’ asked Carrie with a teasing grin which deepened when Angela turned a rosy pink.
‘Phil. He helped with all the clearing away. What’s happening?’
Angela nursed her coffee cup between both hands, with an expectant air.
Carrie rolled her eyes, ‘We’re going out to lunch today. He’s coming at twelve-thirty.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I hope so.’ Her mind strayed back to last night’s conversation. It hadn’t been as straightforward as she’d hoped. Richard didn’t exactly bite her hand off to sign on the dotted line.
Making sure she kept herself busy throughout the morning, she decided to work outside, taking advantage of the pretty little summer house on the lawn below the pool. It was the first time she’d explored beyond the pool terrace and she quickly discovered the reason for the well-manicured gardens.
The summer house doubled as a tool shed, albeit a very grand one. The tools were all housed in wooden racks and neat cupboards. Beside it, in a little lean-to, a ride-on tractor was parked, no doubt used to cut the vast lawn, which was surprisingly level given that the rest of the garden sloped away down the hill.
Once she stopped being distracted by the view, which the summer house had been positioned to enjoy, she lost herself in the story and managed to write a few scenes.
Angela made one welcome interruption mid-morning with a large glass of home-made lemonade. There was no stopping her newly discovered inner domestic goddess.
After a few hours, her back complained about her posture, bent double over the little mosaic table. As she stretched she caught sight of one of the gardeners heading her way. Dressed in baggy khaki walking shorts, trainers and a shabby T-shirt, with a canvas hat on his head, he shambled towards her. Curious, she scanned the rest of the lawn, expecting to see a few of his colleagues. The gardens were immaculate; she would have thought there’d be an army of gardeners to keep it looking like this, not this solitary fellow.
She nodded at him, unconvinced her schoolgirl French would make much impact. To her surprise, he walked right into the summer house, loitering in the doorway, silhouetted by the sunshine. It was one of those very British moments where she didn’t know what the hell to say or do. With the full sun behind him, the floppy hat pulled low over his face and the mirrored sunglasses, it was difficult to see him properly.
She nodded at him again.
He nodded back and, for a minute, it felt as if she were in a French farce and she wondered who would break first.
‘Bonjour,’ she said.
He grinned, perfect all-American white teeth glowed at her.
‘You!’ She jumped up as Richard bent double with laughter.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ she yelled at him.
‘I wondered how long it would take you to recognise me,’ he wheezed, between delighted chuckles.
Oh Lord, how the hell did he do that — swap from Mellors, the gardener, to James Bond, with a mere tweak to his gait, straightening up and lifting his shoulders? Of course, he was an actor, a bloody good one. He could move seamlessly from role to role and she needed to remember that. Now he’d pulled his hat off and ditched the sunglasses, it was perfectly obvious. She had to admit, but wasn’t going to, that he’d disguised himself rather well. She’d had no idea it was him until he’d flashed those glow-in-the-dark choppers at her.
With a pinch of her lips, she slammed her laptop shut, as his laughter eventually subsided. Honestly, it was worse than having to deal with the Year 10s at school.
‘Are you ready for lunch?’ he asked, pulling up a seat and sitting down opposite, drawing in a much-needed breath. ‘Sorry,’ he struggled to hide another threatened burst of laughter, ‘but it was funny. You had that outraged, prim, “you’re invading my space but I’m too English to say anything about it” look on your face.’
‘I thought you were one of the gardeners,’ she said, with a touch of disdain, but he grinned even more.
‘Mission accomplished, then. Shall we go?’ he asked, merriment still dancing on his face. ‘Come on, Carrie. It was funny.’
‘Only if you’re about five,’ she said, with an inward wince. What was wrong with her? When had she lost her sense of humour? She sounded horribly like a school teacher of a bygone age. Even her students wouldn’t recognise her at the moment.
‘Let me go and get my bag and say bye to Angela and Jade,’ she paused, adding with saccharine sweetness ‘unless you fancied inviting them along too.’
‘Not this time.’
As she stood up, he stepped in front of her, his eyes looking into hers. ‘Shall we start again?’
Her eyes widened, as she wondered what he was … before she could complete the thought, his lips had touched hers with a fleeting but nonetheless electric-charged kiss, which sent a couple of thousand volts zinging through her.
‘Hello,’ he said, the husky timbre of his voice resonating like a tuning fork against her breast bone.
Oh shit, how did he do that? With as much dignity as she could muster, given that her legs were about to go on strike, she pulled away. ‘I’ll go … get my things.’
She hurried back to the house, conscious her face burned bright pink, a shade that owed nothing to the sun.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘Have you been here before?’ asked Carrie, looking around. The restaurant simmered with quiet, low-level chatter. A few unoccupied tables dotted the sun-filled terrace, but most, including theirs, had reserved signs on the pristine, crisp white table cloths. The maître d’ had seated them with an almo
st cavalier flourish, in a prime spot beneath a wide cream parasol, at a table on the edge of a broad patio with a commanding view of the Bay of St Tropez.
A week ago, she’d been drinking builder’s tea in the staff room at work. It was a pinch-yourself moment and she was glad that she’d made an effort and put on a dress and strappy, heeled sandals.
Did the staff know who Richard was? Phil had dropped them off at the end of the street rather than bang outside the restaurant and Richard had kept on the ridiculous hat, along with the sunglasses, and maintained the shambling walk.
As disguises went, it was rather successful. In synthetic fabric shorts and sensible walking shoes he resembled a rambler who’d strayed off the path and lost the rest of his party, a million miles away from the suave movie star she’d bumped into in Ramatuelle a few days ago.
‘Yes, I’ve been here a couple of times. Friends of mine have a villa down the road. They come here quite often. It’s the best restaurant in Gassin and definitely commands the best view.’
Carrie took in the view, focusing on the intense blue, which darkened where the sea met the sky, a pure azure unmarred by a single cloud or white-capped wave. She gave a silent shudder of bliss, a smile touching her lips as she shifted her attention to the trees in verdant shades of green, massaging the contours of the landscape.
Sleek service accompanied the arrival of the menu as the waiter shook out her napkin and placed it in her lap.
‘Aperitif?’ asked Richard, consulting the menu and snapping it shut almost immediately.
She nodded, unsure whether he was asking or telling her.
‘Would you like a Pastis? Or champagne?’
‘Pastis? Isn’t that liquorice?’
‘Anise. Or aniseed to us.’
‘I think I’ll stick to champagne.’ If her colleagues could see her now. Champagne for lunch, how decadent.
‘Dom Pérignon?’ Richard asked.
‘T-that would be lovely.’ She inclined her head graciously as if the champagne, she’d only heard of in James Bond films, was her go-to choice when it came to lunchtime aperitifs.
Richard rattled off their order in excellent-sounding French, upon which she commented.
He laughed. ‘Down to a very good language coach, when I played a lieutenant in Napoleon’s army in an unseen drama that never made it beyond the pilot. I can do a passable accent but the words are terrible. Ordering food and drinks is about the extent of my skill.’
Something she’d do well to remember. He could adopt another persona at will. He was an actor, that was what he did. The Richard she knew all those years ago no longer existed. Why was he suddenly showing an interest in her now, after all this time? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known where to find her.
Perusing, or hiding behind, the menu, gave her somewhere else to focus on rather than looking across the table at the man who’d been, still was, her husband. She hadn’t expected to enjoy herself. Not that that had anything to do with Richard. It wasn’t every day you got to eat in a place like this. Her aim had been to get through this lunch, nailing down everything they needed to and then she could get on with the rest of her life and forget all about him.
The previous night she felt as if Richard, like some devious fairy or imp, had led her down a completely different path to the one she wanted to go, distracting her with spurious conversation. It was quite simple. They needed to formalise a divorce. And as quickly as possible.
Dealing with Richard was a bit like knitting with mist, she decided. It was up to her to pin him down and sort things out today, once and for all. She pulled a notebook out of her bag and put it on the table between their place settings.
Richard inclined his head but didn’t say anything. The mirrored lenses were starting to bug her.
‘I need an address for you.’ She pulled out a pen and pushed the book over to him. ‘Can you write it down, so that we can start.’
‘Start what?’
‘You’re being obtuse again. To start divorce proceedings. It’s all very straightforward. I need to fill in a divorce petition form but I can’t do it without an address for you.’
‘And then what?’
‘You’re sent a divorce petition. All you need to do is agree to it and return the form within eight days.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘No, then I apply for a decree nisi to the court. They agree …’
Richard held up a hand. ‘Hold your horses. How come the court decides all this? Don’t I have a say in anything? I recall I was there when we got married.’
‘Richard! When you get the divorce petition and return it, you are agreeing. And would you take those bloody sunglasses off.’
White teeth flashed as he peeled them off and lay them on the table with a flourish. ‘That’s more like the Carrie I remember.’
Luckily for him the waiter arrived, smoothly depositing a tall delicate glass of straw-coloured champagne in front of each of them.
Had he always been this damn irritating? She focused on her hands in her lap, knitting the fingers together. With a calming breath, she quickly separated them and leaned her forearms on the table.
‘Salut,’ he lifted his glass in toast. ‘To new beginnings.’ His face gave nothing away.
‘Salut.’ She took a sip and almost sighed. ‘This is heavenly.’ She took another taste, enjoying the sensation of sharp bubbles dancing over her tongue.
‘So, this petition thing. I don’t have to agree.’
Carrie swallowed her drink in a hurry, gasping slightly as it almost went down the wrong way.
‘Of course … you have … to agree,’ she wheezed.
‘Yes, but what if I don’t want to?’ He looked reasonable. He sounded reasonable. ‘Did you know fifty per cent of people regret getting divorced?’
He wasn’t being reasonable.
‘Are you being deliberately difficult about this?’ The calming breaths weren’t working.
‘You’ve sprung this on me.’
‘Sprung it on you!’
‘Yes,’ he put an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand, as thoughtful as a scholar, ‘I’m trying to get my head round it. I’ve never been divorced before. I don’t know any of this stuff.’
Carrie sighed and muttered under her breath.
‘I heard that.’
‘There are five grounds for divorce; we could go for any one of them. Adultery, desertion,’ she paused, before adding with a hiss, ‘unreasonable behaviour, or separation for two years or five years. I’d say we’ve got a full house there. Take your pick.’
‘I’m not disagreeing that there might be grounds but I’m not sure we’ve given it enough of a chance. I thought we established last night we’d both made mistakes.’
‘What?’ Carrie stared at him. Was he mad?
‘So, given we’ve been apart all this time and not got divorced, we should at least give it a try. After all, what’s the hurry? We’ve been “not divorced” very successfully for the last eight years.’
‘Only because you didn’t want a divorce. You wanted a separation, remember? You didn’t want to formalise anything at the time.’ She clenched her hands under the table but couldn’t stop herself adding, ‘You’ve had plenty of girlfriends over the years. Didn’t any of them want to get married? Or was our marriage a handy excuse?’
Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Our marriage was never mentioned. And if you recall, you suggested a divorce. When I said I didn’t want one, you then wanted the separation. You pushed for it, if you remember, and you assumed, at the time, I was seeing other people.’
Carrie tossed her head. ‘You said, at the time, it suited your career.’
His face closed down but not before she saw an odd look flash in his eyes.
‘And I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.’ His face hardened. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’
‘You’re asking me to believe you’ve been a monk all this time?’ She rai
sed a sceptical eyebrow.
‘No, I’m reminding you of how it played out. You called time first. Not me. I told you that I wasn’t involved with any of those women. You wouldn’t believe me but you wouldn’t come out either. I couldn’t win.’
‘I … I …’ Damn, he was right. It was a low, but honest, blow. She’d conveniently buried that truth.
‘Richard. I’m engaged to another man.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Alan wants to … we want to get married at half term. October.’
‘Hmm. Sounds rather tight timewise.’
‘Which is why we’re having this conversation now.’ Her voice rose. ‘If you don’t contest, there’s a chance we might be able to speed things up, especially as there’s no money, children or property involved. A good solicitor can help expedite the process. Keep things out of the papers.’
Richard leaned back in his chair, looking a little too relaxed as he sipped his champagne, the rest of him very still. Even with the silly clothes on, he exuded a touch of slight danger. A hint of storminess rolled in the deep-blue eyes and, with sudden prickle of awareness, Carrie wondered if she was taunting a tiger.
‘Two weeks,’ Richard sat forward again, putting his glass down with ungentle thud, sending champagne slopping over the side.
Carrie frowned.
‘You give me two weeks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Two weeks to decide if it’s a good idea to get divorced. I let you call the shots last time. It’s my turn. Two weeks to make sure you won’t regret it afterwards. If after that you still want a divorce, I’ll pay a solicitor to get you the quickest divorce ever.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Carrie snapped, ignoring the weird sensation of falling through the air.
‘What have you got to lose? The Carrie I knew would never back down from a challenge. She’d have spat in her hand and shaken on it.’
‘As I told you before, I’m older and wiser.’
‘You keep saying. But surely this is a logical deal. Win, win for you. You get to prove me wrong and you get your quickie divorce.’
Any moment now, she was going to start hyperventilating. This was not happening. It should have been totally simple. The research she’d done described the process in three easy stages. File for divorce, apply for a decree nisi, apply for decree absolute. Job done.
