It was funny, but the uncertainty heightened everything for her, somehow. Of course she was disconsolate if she went back to her family in the evening having barely exchanged a word with him, but it made it all the more exciting when she became the centre of his universe the next day.
She dreamt of becoming his muse. She dreamt of articles in the paper, about him declaring that he couldn’t write a word unless she was near him, how she inspired him. She dreamt of a house in London, with a yellow drawing room, and dinner parties, with her drifting in wearing the latest creations from the latest fashion house. Mr and Mrs Shaw. Jane Shaw. Terence and Jane Shaw, synonymous with glittering social gatherings and the very latest of everything. She would carry on typing out his work - he wouldn’t let anyone else near his masterpieces. She was his right-hand woman, his talisman, the one he couldn’t live without.
And a baby! There would be a baby. Or maybe three. She dreamt of dear little babies that would fill the gaping hole left inside him by whoever the real Anita was. He had never recovered from the loss, that much she knew, but at least she could help him heal it a little bit. What would they be like, she wondered, her babies? A bit dense, like her? Or geniuses, like him? He would be for ever grateful to her, for giving him his dearest wish. And they would come down here, to Everdene, and he would build them the most magnificent sandcastles, round which he would weave the most wonderful stories . . .
She never put any pressure on him. She never asked him about their future. She was far too sensible for that. But when he looked at her after they made love, when he smiled deep into her, and brushed his lips against hers, she knew that he needed her.
She marvelled at how life had turned out. There she’d been on the beach, longing for glamour and nightlife and London, and the answer was there all along. The key to her happiness was only half a mile away, and it had been her mother who had found it.
Prue was very smug about her transformation.
‘You just needed something to keep you busy,’ she told Jane. ‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’
Jane smothered a smile when she thought of some of the things her hands had done over the past few weeks. Her mother would be horrified. And yet she would have to come clean eventually. When the time came for Terence to take her back to London. It wouldn’t happen until he had finished the book. She knew he could see no further into the future than that, and she wasn’t going to distract him. Patience was all she needed.
In the meantime, she painstakingly typed out the words that were flowing from him faster and faster as he reached the climax. It was a masterpiece. She knew that. She didn’t need him to tell her. She was desperate to know the outcome, totally absorbed in the fates of the characters, swept along by their respective journeys, experiencing their joy and their despair. No one could fail to be riveted. As each chapter unfolded, she felt more and more proud.
The day came when he delivered to her the last five pages. His eyes were feverishly bright as he brandished them, and she jumped up and hugged him. He pulled her to him and started kissing her, but for once she dragged herself away.
‘No. I want to finish typing. I want to find out what happens. Go away. I’ll call you when I’ve finished.’
He went back down the stairs, grumbling. She laughed to herself, smoothing out the pages, inserting a fresh piece of paper for the home stretch.
She was very nearly at the end when she heard a car in the drive.
She looked out of the window. A Mini had pulled up at the front of the house. Bright yellow. And out of it jumped the most beautiful woman Jane had ever seen, in the shortest dress she had ever seen, with white knee-length boots, the absolute height of fashion. She could see her eyelashes from here, framing huge brown eyes in a pale face. She was holding a bottle of champagne.
Jane could tell by the smile on her face exactly what she was here for.
She drew away from the window, feeling her stomach curdle. She could never, in a million years, compete with a woman like that.
She heard her knocking at the door.
And the door open.
‘Surprise!’ A peal of laughter floated up the stairs. ‘Darling, you did it! Well done. You are a genius.’
Jane bit her lip, looked down at the typewriter and typed The End.
Ten minutes later, she went into the living room.
The woman had unzipped her boots and was lying on the sofa, sipping a drink. She was even more ravishing up close. Jane could smell her perfume. It had changed the whole atmosphere in the house.
She waved gaily at Jane.
‘Darling, hello! I’m Barbara. Grumpy Guts is in the kitchen. Have a glass of champagne . . .’
She jumped up and went to pour Jane a glass.
‘No, thank you. I’m fine—’
‘Come on. You deserve a medal, putting up with him all this time. Have you had to type the whole thing out? You are clever. His writing is appalling. I couldn’t do it.’
‘No. I need to get back. Thank you . . .’
She backed out of the living room and up the stairs. Tears blinded her as she gathered up her things. What a little ninny she’d been. Of course he had a girlfriend. Or wife - perhaps this was his wife? How could she possibly have thought she was the centre of Terence Shaw’s universe? In those few terrible moments all her dreams gathered together and floated out of the window, laughing at her as they drifted off across the ocean.
She patted the neatly typed manuscript into shape. She collected up all the handwritten pages and put them into order - she had kept them in case he had ever wanted to refer to them. She opened the door. Terence had gone back into the living room. She could hear their voices clearly - Barbara’s languid, husky drawl, Terence’s rich, low rumble.
‘You haven’t been making love to that creature, have you? She looks miserable as sin.’
‘Christ, no.’ Terence’s response was lazy, laconic. ‘Mousy little thing. I like something with a bit of spirit.’
Barbara’s chuckle indicated that she had just that. And the ensuing silence indicated that the conversation was over and they were indulging in more important things.
Jane stood in her office, fists clenched, heart thumping, her cheeks red.
Something with a bit more spirit?
Before she had a chance to have a second thought, she swept up all the papers off the desk and grabbed her handbag. She marched down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she lifted the lid of the wood-burner that heated the water. The handwritten pages went in first. The flames inside made short work of the paper, and she watched in satisfaction as every last scrap was devoured and turned to ash.
Then it was the turn of the manuscript.
As she held the pages of her labour in her hand, she felt tears well up. At that moment she was swept away by fury, by the injustice, but she knew that once the anger had subsided, the real pain would kick in. This revenge would do nothing to anaesthetise her. There would be no respite . . .
Before she went, she left the title page on the lid of the wood-burner, just to make sure he understood what she had done.
He came to find her a few days later, of course. She saw him hovering further down the beach, his hands in his pockets. She wasn’t afraid of confrontation. She went to meet him, and they walked down the beach together, out of earshot of anyone in the huts.
She couldn’t read his expression. It was neither cold, nor angry. His voice was calm.
‘You’ve destroyed a year’s work.’
She tilted her chin and met his eye, shrugging.
‘You’ve ruined my life.’
‘Is this about Barbara?’
‘You never told me about her.’
‘I never made you any promises.’
Her mouth twisted. She wanted to cry, but she was determined to smile. Of course he hadn’t made her any promises. She’d made it all up for herself, the fairy-tale ending.
‘I suppose I just assumed I meant something. How idiotic of me.’
He hesitated for a moment. He looked pained, as if he was about to say something momentous. Then he sighed.
‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t clarify quite what for. Breaking her heart? Using her? Being caught out? Losing his work? He held her by the shoulders. He looked deep into her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Janey.’
He let his hands drop, then turned and walked away, back towards that steep path she had taken so many times over the past few weeks, her heart thudding with the excitement of seeing him. His steps were taut with tension. She looked up towards the house, and saw Barbara waving at him from the balcony.
She knew no one would ever make her feel the way he had. Ever again. She had tasted it, the gut-wrenching emotion that drives all humans, that sets them apart from animals. The emotion that fuelled his writing. The emotion he had felt with his heroine, Anita Palmer, and that he would never feel again. Which was why he could pick up and put down the likes of her and Barbara, toy with them, use them to his own ends.
She went back into the cool of the hut. Her parents were dozing on the beach, Robert and Elsie were mucking about in the shallows. She picked up her handbag and looked inside.
It was all there, bar the title page she had left on the burner. She drew it out carefully, two hundred and forty-two pages. How much of it would he be able to remember? How long would it take him to write it again? Would he bother?
She hoped he spent nights writhing in agony over what he had lost. She hoped it tortured him. She hoped that he desperately tried to recall the plot, the descriptive passages, the wonderful dialogue that had reduced her to tears, but that it would elude him, taunting him. She hoped that he felt just one fifth, one tenth of the agony she had been feeling.
Maybe that way he would learn his lesson.
At the end of the summer, her mother arranged a party for the beach-hut owners. They had all got to know each other over the holiday. Friendships had been formed, the children made up little gangs, depending on their ages. Everyone who had anything to do with the beach was invited; the couple who ran the post office, Roy and his family.
Her father constructed a big fire, so they could cook sausages and roast marshmallows. Everyone contributed something to eat. The Ship Aground provided kegs of beer for the men, and there was a deathly punch for the rest of the grown-ups, with bits of fruit floating round in it.
Jane drank four glasses. She had got used to drinking wine with Terence, and so had developed a head for drink. The fifth tipped her over the edge, gave her a devil-may-care courage.
As the sun descended towards the sea, a shining gold disc surrounded by pink, she took Roy by the hand and drew him round behind the huts. As darkness descended they stood close to each other.
‘Hold me,’ she instructed and he did, sliding his arms rather awkwardly round her, then pulling her to him. She shut her eyes and put her lips to his. He responded eagerly, pulling her in even tighter.
She felt nothing. He kissed her, and she felt nothing. Terence had only had to look at her and she felt torrential passion well up inside her. Kissing Roy was perfectly pleasant. She didn’t feel disgusted or revolted. But it was nothing special. It didn’t make her want to die for him. It didn’t make her head spin or her legs feel as if they were going to give way underneath. It was like . . . eating an apple. As everyday as that.
She pulled away from him. She couldn’t use him like this. Roy was far too nice to be an experiment. He deserved better. Someone who could feel, for a start.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘What is it?’ he asked, concerned.
She shook her head and walked away. The sun had disappeared entirely, and the chill night air clamped itself around her. She could sense him watching her, sense his disappointment, and his bewilderment.
She slipped into the beach hut, scrambled up to the top bunk, and pulled the blankets over her. Sleep had become the only true escape. She shut her eyes and waited for it to wash over her, so she could be free from all the thoughts jumbled up in her head, made even more confused by the punch.
When her parents finally came back in with Robert and Elsie, they found her fast asleep.
The following week, she bought a daily newspaper in the post office and applied for three jobs in London. She received interviews for two of them by return of post. She took the train up to Paddington, and by the end of the day she had been offered a job as personal assistant to the managing director of a car showroom in Mayfair. Eight pounds a week.
She found the manuscript when she was clearing out the house to sell.
It made her heart jump. It skittered crazily in her chest, even more than it had when the police had knocked at her door and told her about Graham.
She sat down to read it, the black letters on the yellowing pages as familiar as if she had typed them only yesterday. She felt she could almost have recited the whole book from start to finish, even though she had buried it in the recesses of her mind all these years. Fifty years.
If Terence Shaw had left her with anything more than a hole where her soul should have been, it was a love of books. Reading had got her through her miserable, loveless marriage to a man she had thought was decent and honourable enough to do as a companion, but he had turned out to be far from that. Reading and children had got her through it - she had poured her love into them, a different love from the one she had been denied, but a meaningful and satisfying love nevertheless.
Summers had been the best. Her mother had left her the beach hut, and she had taken the children down there for the whole of July and August, with Graham coming down there if and when he felt like it. It didn’t much bother her if he appeared or not, although she preferred not. And there she read, voraciously, while the children played. Bags full of books she had borrowed from the library or friends, bought from second-hand shops, ordered as a result of reviews she had read. She devoured the Booker shortlist every year. Ten years ago she had started a book club, which was still flourishing, and the other women were always astonished by the depth and breadth of what she had read over the years. She wasn’t a book snob - she loved a Danielle Steele as much as a Dickens, a Jilly Cooper as much as a J. M. Coetzee.
They filled the hole in her soul.
And so, as she reread the manuscript, she knew she was qualified to judge it.
It was a masterpiece. It was an effortless, coruscating - she remembered the day she’d learnt that word - piece of writing that would speak to anyone who read it. It was timeless, universal, as relevant to her now as it had been when she had first read it.
She set the last page back down. She felt ready. It would be wrong to deprive the world of this work any longer. Fifty years was enough. She’d had her revenge. Now Graham was dead, she was ready to move onto the next phase of her life. The last phase. She wanted peace. After all, she was old. Her body no longer raged in its quest to relive those feelings she’d once had. However long she had left, she wanted it to be calm, gracious and dignified. While she still had the manuscript, the silent feud would rage on.
It was surprisingly easy to contact him. A website, a publicist, an email, a phone call from his people to arrange lunch. At a private members’ club in Soho - a dark blue door down a little alleyway. She rang the buzzer and gave her name over the intercom, then announced herself again when she reached the reception desk. A girl with shining long hair and a tartan dress made her sign the register, then led her through a maze of corridors to a small room. It was painted in the same dark blue as the door, lined with books, and had an assortment of small sofas and chairs arranged around coffee tables.
He was sitting in a corner. She was astonished at how small he was. Where once he had towered over nearly everyone, now he was tiny, a shrunken little being.
His eyes were the same. Hooded, burnt into his face. Only now the shadows underneath were a sickly yellow.
She ordered a drink from the girl and sat down in the chair opposite him.
‘Jane.’
For years she had imagined this moment. Him speaking her name.
It left her cold.
She put the manuscript down on the table between them.
He stared at it for a full minute before he spoke. He reached out and touched it, flicked through the pages. He didn’t need to count them to know they were all there. He raised his eyes up to hers, the eyes she had once drowned in. The ones she had dreamt of so many times during her life.
And he laughed.
She gazed at him coldly. He wasn’t going to diminish her gesture.
‘You have no idea what you did to me, have you?’ she demanded. ‘I was so completely in love with you. I never loved anyone again. And I don’t suppose you ever gave me another thought.’
‘Of course I did,’ he said, and his vehemence surprised her. ‘You have no idea how I felt, do you?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘How could I? You never told me.’
He reached out a clawed hand and pulled his glass towards him, staring down into it ruminatively.
‘You had a lucky escape, you know.’ He swirled the liquid round, and Jane heard the ice clink. ‘I never made anyone happy. I’ve never been able to. Not least myself. ’ He drank deep. ‘I’m a silly, weak, foolish, selfish old man. What the youth of today would call a waste of space.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘I know.’
And suddenly, she did know. He was right. He would never have made her happy. Not in a million years. She would just have been a stepping stone to his next liaison, the next woman who fed his rotten, narcissistic ego.
‘It’s your best book,’ she told him. ‘I’ve read them all.’
The Beach Hut Page 4
