After two glasses, a flushed Marie finally brought the party up.
‘It went on till gone midnight,’ she told him.
‘Did it?’ he replied. ‘I left at about eight. Everyone was getting a bit ...’
‘Yes,’ she told him, then leant in, her eyes gleaming. ‘And do you know what else? Apparently Jane Lowe’s been having a thing with that writer. You know, the one in the big house.’
Roy felt himself go hot, and his blood start to foment. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip.’
‘It’s not gossip. Catherine Lammas heard them . . . doing it when she went there to clean.’ She sat back with a smile of satisfaction. ‘So there.’
Roy looked down at his steak. He thought he might be sick. He took another swig of wine.
‘Imagine - carrying on with a man old enough to be her father. And he’s got another woman in there now. Some glamour-puss from London. I bet she sent Jane packing . . .’
Marie’s words washed over him. Roy emptied his glass, then nodded as the maître d’ indicated he would bring another bottle. It was the only way he was going to get through the evening. He couldn’t listen to another word of her prattle - malicious gossip that was totally unfounded.
Although, deep down, he knew it probably wasn’t.
Marie went into raptures over the dessert trolley. Roy couldn’t face his rum baba, so she had that too. Then the maître d’ brought them over two Irish coffees. On the house.
Marie’s eyes were brighter than ever and her cheeks were flushed as Roy paid the bill and escorted her out of the restaurant. It was dark, and the stars were twinkling.
‘Let’s go down to the beach,’ said Marie, tugging at his hand. ‘Come on!’
He didn’t want to go to the beach. He wanted to go home and slide into bed, alone with his thoughts, so he could mull over what he’d just been told. Was what Marie told him true - that Jane had had an affair with Terence Shaw? Had she been toying with Roy because she had been rejected, passed over for a better model? He shook his head, as if to banish all the questions that were whirling round. He held Marie’s hand, followed her onto the beach, steadying her as she stumbled slightly in the sand, unused to her high heels.
‘Let’s go into one of the huts,’ she was saying, entirely intent on mischief. He didn’t protest; he knew they were all locked. He’d follow her down to the end, then walk her back up the beach, take her home . . .
The third one she tried was open.
She pulled him inside.
Suddenly Marie’s hands were everywhere. All over him. And her lips. She tasted of Irish coffee and wine and the pale pink lipstick she had touched up before they left the restaurant. He felt the softness of her body against his, the swell of her breasts. She took his hand and guided it under her skirt and then up, up, up - to the tops of her stockings, where he could feel the flesh of her thighs. He stroked them, and she moaned, pushing herself against his hand. He took it a little higher, to the cotton of her knickers, sliding his fingers inside . . .
He was hard now. His body didn’t seem to listen to what his mind was saying - that this was wrong. That he shouldn’t go any further if he didn’t really love her. But something else took over, some primal urge that clearly she was feeling too. She was fumbling with the zip of her dress. Suddenly she was in front of him, nearly naked, and he groaned, half in despair, half in desire. She tugged at his waistband. He needed no encouragement. Soon they were on the floor, stripped of their clothing, lying on a rug he had grabbed and flung over the rough floorboards.
Was he crazy? This was the worst possible thing he could do. But he just couldn’t resist. And maybe this was what they needed to do. Maybe this would bring them together. She was pulling him on top of her. He just had to be careful . . .
Roy woke the next morning with a thick head and a terrible sense of dread. Images of the night before flashed before him as he stumbled out of bed and down to the kitchen. He needed tea. The large brown pot was on the side, still half full. He poured himself a cup, sat down at the kitchen table. He could hear his mother dragging the Hoover around the front room. Last night’s meal suddenly repeated on him. It had all been too much. His blood felt thick.
And he felt ashamed. He should never, ever have done it with Marie like that. OK, so she had encouraged him. She’d been all over him. There was no denying that. But knowing what he felt about her, knowing that only twenty minutes earlier he had wanted to get away from her, didn’t want to hear another word, he should have resisted. He could have done it without hurting her feelings. He could have told her he wanted the first time to be special, maybe in a hotel.
Instead of animal. He’d been a bloody animal, giving in to his urges like that. And what would she think now? Having sex would definitely give her the idea that they were a proper, serious couple. That things had somehow moved on. And she’d want to do it again. She’d enjoyed it enough, that much he could tell.
Roy swallowed the sugary sludge at the bottom of his cup. He had to get out. He had to get away. Otherwise he would be trapped for ever. He knew he’d never have the prize he really wanted, but there must be other girls out there like Jane - exciting, beguiling, who could show him a new world. He was ready to experience something else, taste the things Jane had told him about. The things he heard about on the radio and read in the papers. The things he would never get in Everdene, not in a million years. It was so far away from everything, so far behind everything, it would never catch up.
He rinsed his cup in the sink. His next lot of wages from the estate were due at the end of September, and he still had most of August’s packet left. He had some money saved up in his Post Office Savings Account. He could sell his bicycle. He had enough for the train to London, and a roof over his head somewhere cheap for a while. He’d give himself four weeks, and if nothing happened he could come back. It wasn’t as if he would miss anything. Only the seasons changed in Everdene. And maybe he would find himself a new life. There’d be work, surely? Building sites were always crying out for labour, strong young men like him, and he was handier than most.
His mother wouldn’t be happy, he knew that, but it was his life, and he was ready for her objections. His father wouldn’t judge him either way. And Marie? She would, he knew, be devastated, but she would get over it eventually. And he couldn’t stop himself from doing the things he wanted, just so he didn’t hurt her.
His mother came in, dragging the Hoover behind her like a recalcitrant toddler.
‘You were in late.’ Her eyes asked a million questions.
‘Yep,’ answered Roy, giving nothing away.
His mother smiled. ‘She’s a good girl, Marie.’
You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen her last night, thought Roy, but he said nothing. In fact, saying nothing was going to be his policy from now on. He wasn’t going to tell anyone his plans. That would make it so much easier. He would just head for the station on his day of escape, and leave a note for each of them. Cowardly? Maybe, but so much easier than steeling himself for the hysteria and the opposition he knew he would face. They would try every trick in the book between them to make him stay, and he was having none of it. In the meantime, he would keep his head down and stay out of everyone’s way.
Three weeks later, Marie came down to the house to see him. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. She looked terrible. Roy’s heart sank. How could she have got wind of him going? He’d managed to avoid her by taking on extra work labouring on a house that was being built in the next village, getting up at dawn and not returning until after dusk. And he hadn’t breathed a word of his plans to a soul. Perhaps they had told her in the post office that he had drawn his money out. People in Everdene were very good at putting two and two together. He would have to think of something. A motorcycle - could he say he was buying a motorcycle?
‘What is it?’ he asked her.
Marie looked at him, and in that second every plan he had made over the past few weeks crumbled to nothing.
‘I think I’m pregnant.’
As predicted, Jane had a thundering headache by the time she got on the six o’clock train at Paddington, though possibly thanks more to the three glasses of champagne Norman had poured down her than anything. She downed two tablets with some Evian water, then leant her head against the window pane as the train slid out of the station and through the insalubrious tower blocks that leered over the sidings.
She was still reeling from the shock of the afternoon’s revelation. She had travelled up this morning a virtual bankrupt, with no real idea of how she was going to finance herself for the rest of her life. Now, she was almost certainly solvent again, although the money wasn’t in the bank just yet and would take some time to materialise. Publication for Exorcising Demons was scheduled for November. And in the meantime, she had to decide if she was going to play ball with the press.
Was she prepared to spill her guts for money? She had always rather despised people who did so, but now she was facing the prospect of thousands of pounds for revealing the details of something that had happened years ago, and affected no one but herself now that Terence was dead, it was rather tempting. She could see for herself it was rather a wonderful story - even the phlegmatic Norman had nearly choked on his Taittinger when she told him the details.
Why not, she finally decided. As long as she made sure that her story was told in a reputable paper, like The Times or the Independent (and Terence Shaw was hardly red-top fodder) then what could go wrong? She wasn’t ashamed of what she had done. And anyway, she could arrange to be away when the story broke. She didn’t really fancy being trailed by reporters asking for the more salacious details. Norman had even mentioned talk of the film rights, which in turn would send sales of the book escalating. So really it was up to her to make as much of the story as she could. She smiled - what was that game the kids played? Who would play you in the film of your life?
Never mind that, she told herself. Before she started casting her teenage self, there were so many decisions. Not least what she was now going to do with the house. And The Shack. Once she had informed the bank of this latest development, they would hold fire, she was certain. As the train picked up speed and rolled past the fields of Berkshire in the encroaching dusk, she decided she would continue with the sale of her house - it was far too large, and she rather fancied a completely new beginning. A nice mansion flat in Chelsea or Kensington, perhaps.
And The Shack? If you had asked her at the beginning of the summer, she would have done anything to save it and keep it in the family. But now, as her family began to fracture, she wondered what the point was. They had certainly got a great deal of pleasure and enjoyment out of it over the years, but maybe it was time for them all to move on, her included. Perhaps the best thing would be to sell it and split the cash up between the three boys. She had no doubt it would come in useful. Yes, she decided. She would go ahead with the sale. Norman had a pile of offers in his office - they had already been through them and agreed which one to accept.
It was definitely the right thing to do. Once she had sold The Shack, and her story, she would have a clean slate. She had buried her husband, and her lover. It was time for her own story to begin.
They had been surprisingly content, Roy and Marie. They had got married before Marie had started to show too much, a quiet December wedding, just both sets of parents and a few friends. Roy used the money he had taken out of his post office account to buy her a ring, and a beautiful Silver Cross pram for the baby girl that had been their saving grace. At first they had lived with Marie’s parents, in her bedroom in the flat over the café, because that way it was easy for Marie to carry on working. Then when the second daughter came along two years later, they had moved up the road to a flat of their own.
Eventually, Marie’s parents had retired, and she had taken over the running of the café. By the time the two girls were at school, she had turned it around. With Roy’s help, she had knocked through into the courtyard at the back and made a little tea garden, filled with pots of flowers. She opened later and did fish suppers, which proved a roaring success. It became a little goldmine, and Roy was proud of her. In the back of his mind, he could never imagine Jane getting stuck in like this and making a success of herself. She would have needed looking after, pampering, and he would never have made her happy.
With him working for the estate, putting up the rest of the beach huts, and the ‘foreigners’ he took in season, when people wanted help with their holiday homes, soon Roy and Marie had enough cash to buy a little house of their own, one of the old coastguard cottages on the road out of Everdene. They loved the house, with its low beams and wonky walls, and the tiny garden overlooking the sea. Roy woke up every morning and was glad. There was still a bit of him that wondered what he had missed out on, but how could you not be content with your lot when you looked out of your bedroom window to crashing waves and Lundy Island in the distance?
They were pillars of Everdene society. Marie was on the Parish Council and helped run the playgroup even after the girls left and went to school. They helped organise the summer fete and the Christmas Fayre. Although the visitors outnumbered the residents for many months of the year, there was still a strong community. Roy belonged here, he realised. And it was a wonderful place to bring up the girls. Marie might not have been the love of his life, but perhaps he was happier for it. Perhaps a companion made you more content than a grand passion.
He was certainly devastated when she had died. It had been mercifully swift, four months from diagnosis to death, but he had been shocked by the emptiness he felt when she had gone. It was five years ago now. For eighteen months he had gone into a decline. Not quite a depression, because he had still functioned, but his daughters had been worried. Then one day he had told himself that moping was never going to bring her back. He had gutted the house from top to bottom. Thrown out all her stuff - her ‘bits’, the silly china ornaments, her clothes. He’d ripped up all the carpets, thrown out all the curtains, stripped the walls of the heavy floral paper she had favoured. Then he’d painted the house brilliant white from top to bottom, sanded and oiled the floorboards, and put up simple wooden venetian blinds. The girls had been upset at first - it didn’t feel like home any more - but Roy had explained that’s what he needed. He didn’t want to live with Marie’s ghost. He wanted a blank slate. Relieved that at least their father was no longer pining, the girls eventually agreed that the house was better for it - brighter - as was he.
He went to the local college and learnt photography. He bought himself a computer and spent hours fiddling about, eventually printing out exquisite photos he had taken of the area - close-ups of the local wildlife that only someone like he knew where to find: puffins, seals, jellyfish, crabs. He framed them and sold them through a local gallery. Life had a simple rhythm. Work, pint in the Ship Aground, home for dinner - he’d taught himself to cook as well, working his way through a Jamie Oliver cookbook from beginning to end.
He knew Jane Milton had been surprised when he invited her for supper, and even more surprised when he’d presented the sea bass cooked in spring onion and ginger, served with watercress and orange salad, followed by pineapple granita. She had admired his photographs, exclaimed over the view, tapped her foot to the jazz that came out of the hidden speakers he had installed. He sensed she had been expecting some poky pensioners’ cottage and an indifferent meal. She had enjoyed their evening, telling him that it was the first time she had relaxed since Graham’s funeral, and he took this as a compliment.
He realised now, as he drove to the station - she had phoned just after she left Paddington to say she was on the train - that the chances of their friendship developing into something deeper were slim. The Shack was as good as sold - he knew there had been any number of enquiries, and several good offers. He felt a twinge of sadness - not that he harboured any delusions about late-blossoming romance, but in spite of, or perhaps because of, his initial obsession with Jane
, he had become very fond of her over the years. By the time she had reappeared with Graham Milton, he already had two children, and then she quickly became pregnant with hers, which inoculated them both from the memory of that night at the party. They had become firm friends, Roy almost a surrogate husband at times when she was down at Everdene without Graham and needed male assistance - though only ever of the practical kind. He had changed tyres for her, put her children’s feet in buckets of hot water when they had stepped on weaver fish, had taken them out over the rocks around the cove to see the seals when they were in . . . And even now, here he was, collecting her from the station. Did she use him? he wondered. Maybe. But he didn’t actually mind.
He watched her coming out of the station. She was in a dark blue dress - her funeral attire, he realised, and wondered how it had gone. Again he remembered the rumour - Marie’s gleaming eyes as she told him about the supposed affair. He had never found out if it was true.
She opened the door and got in, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek in gratitude.
‘What a day!’ she exclaimed. ‘You wouldn’t believe. You won’t believe.’ She put her hands up to her face and pushed back her hair. ‘Will there be a shop open? Can I get something to eat? The train had run out of sandwiches . . .’
‘Why don’t I make you an omelette?’ suggested Roy. ‘Saves stopping. Then I can drop you back.’
‘Would you? Oh, that sounds wonderful. I’m sure none of the others will have thought to save me anything, and I’m not sure I can face them yet.’ She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. ‘And I can tell you my news. But you must promise not to say a word.’
The Beach Hut Page 27
