‘It’s amazing,’ says Jamie, his face alight. ‘I can’t quite believe we’re going to be staying here. Good call, Libs.’ He takes a deep breath through his nose. ‘Ah, smell that air. So fresh and clean. No pollution, no fumes.’ Just cow shit instead, I want to say, but bite my lip. I can almost see the tension of the last few months ebbing away from him, transforming him back into the man I’d married.
A squirrel scrambles up a nearby tree and Ziggy barks, a deep woof that shatters the silence as he pulls against his restraint. Jamie laughs and leans over the back seat to unbuckle him, clipping the lead onto his collar. ‘Come on, boy, I know you’re dying to explore.’
Jamie jumps out the car and darts around to open the passenger door for me. ‘Very chivalrous,’ I say, trying not to flinch as I stand up.
He frowns. ‘Are you all right, Libs?’
‘I just can’t wait to get this cast off, that’s all. It makes everything so bloody awkward.’
‘Not much longer, my little heroine.’
I thump his arm playfully with my good hand. ‘Stop taking the piss.’
He kisses my forehead. ‘I’m not taking the piss, you are a heroine,’ he mumbles. ‘Don’t you forget it.’ Then he bounds away from me, dragged by Ziggy, and I follow with trepidation, half expecting the irate owner to come hurtling out of the house to tell us to get off his land. Noticing my hesitation, Jamie beckons me to the door, charcoal-grey aluminium, as clean and polished as the rest of the house. Philip Heywood told me on the phone that it has recently undergone a restoration.
Jamie’s eyes are shining as he looks up from the piece of paper he’s consulting. ‘It is the right place, look,’ he says, to reassure himself as much as me. He prods the paper with his finger, then indicates the slate sign with the words ‘The Hideaway’ carved into its face. ‘Apt name. There isn’t another house for half a mile. And it’s not far from Lizard Point. I’ve always wanted to see the lighthouse.’ He sounds like one of my six-year-olds.
I feel a stab of guilt that we’ve swapped our poky two-bedroom flat in Bath, with the animal hairs and the dog-food aroma, for this. It’s not even a Georgian flat, as one might expect in Bath, but late Victorian.
‘Do you think it was OK to bring Ziggy? I never thought to ask.’
Jamie’s eyes widen in alarm. ‘Shit, Libs. Why didn’t you check? I have no idea.’
‘I didn’t expect the house to be so big and posh, that’s why. Philip said there was still building work going on. I thought it meant it would be a bit more …’ I pause, taking in the neatly tended plants and bushes that encompass the driveway ‘… unfinished.’
My fears are confirmed as soon as we step over the threshold. It’s definitely not the sort of place to bring a dog. Everything is so white: the sofas, the rugs, the walls. I know we’ll stain it somehow, with our messy ways and Ziggy’s dirty paws. Apart from a pile of rubble near the tree in the far corner of the garden, there is little evidence that any building work has taken place.
I take the lead from Jamie, too worried to let Ziggy go, unable to shake the feeling that we are trespassing as I wander into the kitchen. It’s huge and open-plan, with white gloss cabinets and marble worktops. Bifold doors open onto a wide garden that overlooks an expansive beach below.
‘Look at this, Jay,’ I call, my head in the American-style fridge, practically salivating at all the food. ‘There’s enough here to feed a family of ten.’
Jamie joins me to peer inside. ‘Ooh, they have pâté, smoked salmon, a massive Stilton – and look at all those craft beers!’ He grins at me. ‘This is heaven!’
‘Our fridge is practically empty,’ I say, ashamed of the pint of milk and curled-up ham that I’d left behind. I never even thought about stocking it up.
‘Don’t worry about it, they’ve got more important things on their minds.’ He drifts over to the kitchen island and picks up a lined piece of paper that looks like it’s been ripped out of a notebook. ‘It says here we can help ourselves to the food. Isn’t that generous?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer as he tosses the note aside and wanders around the kitchen, touching appliances and tinkering with various knobs and buttons. ‘Wow, this kitchen is fantastic,’ he exclaims as a 20-inch TV pops up seamlessly from the island worktop.
I smile inwardly, knowing how much Jamie would love to have the money to spend on the latest gadgets.
‘You can fiddle later,’ I say, pulling him away from the spaceship-like coffee machine. ‘Let’s explore.’ I take Ziggy off his lead. Jamie grabs my hand and we race around the house like over-excited teenagers, the dog at our heels, barking joyfully.
There are solid oak floors throughout, with an impressive floating glass staircase in the large, square living room that curves up to the second floor. Colourful abstract paintings adorn the chalky white walls and there is a huge head-and-shoulders shot of a woman who must be Tara Heywood in the living room, her head thrown back, her large brown eyes dancing. Upstairs I poke my head around the door of the first bedroom, which contains a sofa bed and a faded, antique dolls’ house. Shelves along one wall are crammed with toys; not modern ones that my kids at school would play with, but old-fashioned and unsettling. Punch and Judy puppets are slumped against a china doll with one foot missing, and an ugly clown stands next to a stuffed weasel. Surely this isn’t their daughter’s room? It would have given me nightmares as a child.
The other two bedrooms are bigger and there is a traditional study with a leather-topped desk. I pad into the room. Bookshelves line the walls, although they are half empty; a few dog-eared romance novels, a classic-car manual and an encyclopaedia. I count three more stuffed animals: a ferret, a fox and a sad-looking rodent that looks a bit like a rat but could equally be some kind of mole.
At the end of the corridor, in the circular turret, is the master bedroom. It’s the largest room by far, with an en-suite bathroom and a separate dressing room. ‘Wow, this is bigger than our whole flat.’ I stand and gawp at it in amazement – at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the four-poster bed with floating white muslin, the roll-top bath. There is another head and shoulders shot of Tara, black and white, her expression more serious this time. I go to the window and gaze out at the beach below. I can’t see another soul. It’s idyllic.
‘I didn’t expect it to be so modern, so opulent,’ I say as Jamie comes to stand next to me. ‘I thought it would be a quaint cottage or something.’
‘Don’t you like it?’ Jamie looks astonished that I might not.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s amazing. Like properly amazing, the sort of house you’d see in a film. It must cost millions. It’s just … it doesn’t seem a fair swap.’
He shrugs and puts his arm around me. ‘It’s what they wanted, remember. It was their idea.’
‘I know …’
He sighs. ‘God, Libs, this is a stroke of luck.’ I face him, noticing the bags under his eyes, his grey complexion, and push down my uneasiness. The Cornish air will be good for him. And for me. I touch my stomach self-consciously and Jamie notices. ‘We need this,’ he says. ‘You need this. After what happened at school and then the miscarriage …’
Tears spring into my eyes and I blink them away. I can’t think about it. I’ve come here to help me forget. To heal. ‘Yes.’ My voice is thick. ‘It’s a beautiful place. We’re very lucky.’
‘We’d better keep it tidy.’ He pulls a face and I can hear the amusement in his voice. It’s a standing joke between us, our mutual messiness, and we take great enjoyment out of accusing the other of being the worst.
I glance at Jamie; he still dresses like a student in his faded jeans, ripped at the knee. ‘We should have taken our shoes off,’ I say, looking pointedly at his scruffy Converse. ‘And we’re going to have to keep Ziggy’s paws clean. We should’ve bought those dog socks we saw in that pet shop.’ I giggle at the thought of Ziggy in fluffy socks. He’d never forgive us.
Jamie laughs, loud and heartily. It echoes around the house. I ha
ven’t heard that sound enough in the last few months and it makes my heart soar. ‘Do you know what we need to do?’ he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he grabs my hand.
‘No, what?’
He inclines his head towards the bed. ‘We’re going to have to christen it.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really? What, now?’
‘No time like the present.’ He sweeps me up effortlessly – he is nearly a foot taller than I am – and carries me to the bed. We tumble onto the soft cotton sheets, our limbs entwined, and he starts kissing my neck in the way he knows I love. I wrap my legs around him, pressing my body to his, feeling more contented, happy, than I have in months.
We spend ages in bed, taking our time, exploring each other’s bodies, just like we used to in the early days, before we got married, before things became complicated. Before his family’s interference and Hannah’s quiet, unnerving presence in our lives. Afterwards I snuggle up against Jamie’s shoulder. It feels unnatural to have to lie on my left side, to avoid leaning on my cast. It feels so heavy and cumbersome. Less than two weeks, I remind myself.
I’m content for a while watching the sun going down, creating shadows across the lawn. Then I spring up from the bed, covering myself with a sheet, conscious that the windows have no curtains.
‘Where are you going?’ Jamie murmurs, gathering the feathered duvet around his armpits.
‘To nose through Tara’s wardrobe,’ I say, raising my eyebrow playfully.
‘Libs! You can’t do that.’
‘Oh, come on. Surely you’re intrigued? Don’t you want to know more about Philip and Tara Heywood?’
He shrugs, a lazy smile playing on his lips. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, I do.’ I shuffle over to the en-suite dressing room in my makeshift toga. Ziggy follows me and stretches out on the fleecy rug in the middle of the floor.
The dressing room is about the same size as our bedroom back at home. A floor-length mirror hangs on one wall and a button-backed chair sits next to it. It’s like a changing room in a fancy shop. This isn’t even their main residence, just a holiday home. It makes me wonder what their actual home must be like. I reach up to flick through the clothes: long evening dresses, strappy sun dresses, floaty skirts, tops in silky fabrics. I take a long emerald dress from the hanger and drape it against my body, admiring myself in the mirror, although it’s way too long for me and the extra material pools around my feet. I resemble a little girl trying on her mum’s clothes. Or even a boy, with my short pixie cut. I return the dress and open a drawer of underwear. There are sexy thongs and high-end lacy basques. I recognise one I’d seen on an Agent Provocateur website. All very classy and out of my price range. Nothing tacky here.
I move to the shoes. They are on narrow metal shelves that pull out from the wall and are in every conceivable style and colour. All designer brands, some of which I’ve never heard of. I think of my tatty ballet pumps that I bought from Top Shop as I cradle a pair of patent red stilettos. Size 7, much too big for my size 4 feet. I put them back despondently.
‘I can’t even borrow her shoes,’ I wail as I climb back into the four-poster bed. ‘She’s a giant. Or a supermodel.’
‘Or an alien,’ adds Jamie.
‘A very beautiful alien,’ I laugh. ‘How the other half live, huh?’
He pulls me into his arms and says softly against my hair, ‘Well, we’re that other half this week, Libs. So let’s enjoy it.’
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin …
Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinUKbooks
Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/penguinbooks
Pin ‘Penguin Books’ to your Pinterest
Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/penguinbooks
Listen to Penguin at SoundCloud.com/penguin-books
Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk
PENGUIN BOOKS
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published in Penguin Books 2017
Copyright © Claire Douglas, 2017
Extract from Last Seen Alive © Claire Douglas, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover design by Lisa Brewster © Blacksheep; Images © Deposit Photos
ISBN: 978–1–405–93562–3
The Text Page 4
