Her eyes snapped open. ‘Official?’ What was he on about?
‘You know. We should sort things out with a solicitor. Start proceedings. ’
Hayley panicked. She didn’t want to make things official. She feigned puzzlement. ‘Proceedings?’
‘A divorce.’
‘What?’
‘Well, we can’t carry on like this indefinitely.’
‘I don’t think we should rush into anything—’
‘Rush?’ He sounded surprised as he came to sit down on the sofa next to her. ‘I don’t call this rushing. You’ve been seeing Kirk for nearly a year now.’
Hayley sat very still. She was going to have to think quickly. She didn’t like this at all. She liked to be the one in control, the one who dictated the pace. And she certainly didn’t want to start divorce proceedings until she was certain of her future with Kirk. He was bound to ask her to marry him sooner or later. She’d make him the perfect wife, she knew she would. Once she’d got the ring on her finger, then she’d play ball with Fitch. She’d get a decree absolute before you could say small blue box from Tiffany.
She tried not to think about the ring Fitch had bought her. The pretty little antique ring with the solitaire diamond from the jeweller’s in Comberton. She had been thrilled with it at the time, but she was embarrassed by it now. She had long taken it off and stuffed it in the top drawer of her dressing table. For a moment she felt a twinge of shame. But she told herself it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t help it if the man of her dreams had walked into her life. Once she’d thought Fitch was that man, but somehow he wasn’t enough any more. Not now she’d tasted what Kirk had to offer.
But she had to be careful. She didn’t want to burn her bridges.
She put her glass of port down on the coffee table and turned to face her husband, her eyes soulful.
‘I’m not ready for this, Fitch.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Tough. This isn’t about you, Hayley. It’s about me. And the girls. I want a line drawn underneath everything. I need to move on. I’m not just going to sit here and wait—’
She put a finger to his lips.
‘Shhh . . .’
She slid her arms around his neck.
‘We don’t have to have this conversation.’
‘Yes, we do.’
She ignored him, brushing her lips along his neck. She knew he liked it. She used to feel him melt when she did it. But he seemed to have frozen in her embrace.
‘Hayley . . .’ He sounded awkward as he tried to extricate himself. But she wasn’t going to be deterred. She slid her hands round to cup the back of his head, sliding her fingers through his long hair, then leaned in to kiss him. There. She had him. He was responding, kissing her back—
Suddenly, he pulled back sharply, jerking his head out of the way. ‘Stop it!’
She flinched at the irritation in his voice.
‘Don’t play games with me, Hayley. It’s not fair.’
He stood up, glowering. She folded her arms.
‘You’d better go.’ His voice was cold. ‘I’ll bring the washing up first thing, like I said. About half seven.’
His tone of voice was final. Hayley knew better than to argue. She had played her trump card, in the mistaken belief that Fitch would find her irresistible after nearly a year of abstinence. At least she presumed he was abstaining. Maybe she was being taken for a fool?
She decided that she was best off leaving. He’d taken her rather unawares. She needed time to think, to plan a strategy. She picked up her coat, kissed him chastely on the cheek.
‘Goodnight, Fitch.’
‘Night, Hayley,’ he replied, rather drily.
After Hayley had gone, Fitch went back to bed, hunkering down under his duvet, unable to get to sleep. He was cross with himself. He had mentioned divorce just to test her, and he should have known what her reaction would be. Sex was Hayley’s only currency. And quite often it worked. There had been a moment when he had almost given in. Both the lure of her warm body and the possibility of having his girls back under his roof had been very tempting. But he was pretty sure that this was one of her games, that she had just wanted to prove how irresistible she was, and he didn’t want them all back on those terms. She had to understand how much hurt and damage she had caused her family.
Then he panicked. In rejecting her, perhaps he had lost his only chance? A woman spurned, after all, was a dangerous thing. He should have made it clearer that there was a chance for them, but it had to be conditional on certain things. Her getting rid of Kirk, for a start. The problem was she wasn’t reasonable.
He knew she was still unhappy. He could feel it in her. Kirk might be giving her everything she wanted in material terms, but he didn’t get the feeling their relationship was in any way stable or nourishing. Her head had been turned by his wealth and his lifestyle - things Fitch couldn’t even begin to offer her. But until she realised that, there was no going back.
He wondered if there was hope. If there was any way he could make her truly happy. He would make changes if he had to. But he sensed there was some deep discontent in her that went beyond anything he could rectify. Looking back, they had become embroiled too quickly. They had married before they had really got to know each other, and the children had been born so soon afterwards, there had been no time to work on their relationship and figure out where things had gone awry.
Perhaps they should have moved away? He could have set up in business somewhere else. He’d done it once, after all, with success. Hayley might have flourished with a change of scene. She was so entrenched in Withybrook - apart from her stint at her uncle’s factory, it was all she had ever known. And he supposed it was claustrophobic. It didn’t bother him in the least what the other residents thought, but he wasn’t related to half of the village, and hadn’t been to school with the other half. There was barely anyone for miles around who didn’t know the ins and outs of the Poltimores’ business. And what they didn’t know, they made up. Maybe it would get to you in the end. And maybe he had been selfish, with his contentment at finally fitting in somewhere, at being accepted and having a place in the pecking order at last, instead of being made to feel an outsider. Had Hayley’s dissatisfaction and subsequent desertion been the price of his contentment?
Just how much was he to blame? he wondered.
Six
On Monday morning, Charlotte woke early. If she had thought living in Withybrook would be quiet, she was mistaken. The dawn chorus was deafening, and was mixed in with the jubilant crowing of someone’s cockerel in a nearby garden. He was soon joined by the cows lowing, whether because they were hungry or needed milking she had no idea. Then the local schoolchildren gathered at the bus-stop, laughing and shouting, swapping sweets and forbidden cigarettes. A few foul oaths floated up to her window, until the bus finally arrived to take them away. Tractors trundled up and down the high street, then a milk lorry thundered past, followed by the recycling men throwing everyone’s empty bottles with gay abandon into the back of their truck. She had intended to have a lie-in after her long drive and her late night, but in the end she gave up.
She clambered out of bed with a thick head; she had drunk more wine last night than she had for months. She leaned her head out of the bedroom window, breathing in the fresh air. It was cool and sharp. The day was fine - not sunny, but not the oppressive grey of the day before. Again she caught the scent of wood-smoke mixed with dung: a pleasant change from the smog-filled fumes she was used to.
She scrambled into her jeans, eager to explore the little house in the light of day. Her bedroom was fairly nondescript, with low-beamed ceilings and a small window, tired floral wallpaper and a mushroom carpet, but nothing that a bit of elbow grease couldn’t sort out. The bathroom, however, was a disaster. A dark brown bath, a minute basin, a cracked and stained loo - none of it was salvageable, and the whole room had been tiled from top to bottom, which meant a lot of back-breaking work removing them, and no doubt
the plaster would come off too. Charlotte tried not to feel daunted. She was going to have to do the donkey work herself, which she wasn’t used to. But on her budget she couldn’t afford to pay workmen for doing things she was actually perfectly capable of doing.
She brushed her teeth and washed her face, then peeped into the second bedroom: similar to the first. So far so good, and much as she had expected. She went down the stairs, with its threadbare cord carpet, and was pleased to see that the hall was flooded with light from the semi-glazed front door. That was half the battle, having a welcoming entrance, and with decent paintwork and new carpet, the place would be magically transformed.
The dining room was tiny. There wasn’t much she could do about that, but she had plenty of tricks up her sleeve - a few optical illusions and clever use of mirrors, and prospective purchasers would think they were looking at a veritable banqueting hall. The living room, happily, was a decent size, although the fireplace was hideous and the light fittings bordered on the criminal.
As the most important room in the house, the heart of the home, the kitchen was going to be the biggest challenge. It was dark and poky. The units were heavy mock-oak with ornate brass handles and latticed fronts. The floor was covered in nasty dark green hexagonal tiles. To make up for these shortcomings, the larder (which had housed the rats, of which thankfully there was no sign) was very spacious. She could imagine it lined with shelves, groaning with brightly coloured bottles and jars and tins, strings of garlic and chillies hanging from hooks.
There was a back door leading out into the garden with a huge cat flap hacked out of the middle. She pushed it open. Immediately outside the door was a depressing concrete area which held the bins, and what was obviously an old coal store. The garden was long and thin, with broken-down larch-lap fencing, a patchy lawn and a couple of empty flower-beds. Charlotte told herself that even Vita Sackville-West struggled to make a garden look inviting at this time of year, and noted an old wooden bench that she earmarked for renovation. She had to keep looking on the bright side, and not become daunted.
She had bought a new spiral-bound notebook, a sketch pad and a tube of fresh pencils. She felt rather as it if was the first day at a new school, filled with both excitement and fear of what was to come, wondering if she would make any friends, and if she would be able to cope with the workload. She began by sketching out a floor-plan of the cottage, measuring each room carefully, and was quite surprised by the square footage. It was, indeed, deceptively spacious, but suffered from being cluttered by awkward furniture, most of which she was going to get rid of at the first opportunity.
She commandeered the kitchen as her office, spreading her papers out on the work surface and using the wall as a noticeboard to display her plans. The trick for selling was to keep the house as neutral as possible, without making it seem bland. Fresh and light, but with a few quirks that enhanced its character to make it stand out from the next property. Thankfully, Myrtle Cottage was structurally sound, and so this revamp was just cosmetic. Its layout was perfectly practical; there was no need to start knocking down walls, the windows were in good condition, and the wiring and the roof were up to scratch just as Gussie had promised. Simple touches, like changing the doors from flat veneer with nasty metal handles to something more in keeping, would make the world of difference.
She lugged her box of paint samples out from the car, then found an old cardboard box to tear up. She carefully painted her chosen colours onto sizeable strips, which she could then take into each room and consider. The temptation, of course, was to paint everything white, but Charlotte knew that while it worked in certain spaces it could be cold and stark. She liked to mix her paints herself; she didn’t like being dictated to by the paint companies, and she loved experimenting. Mixing and adding and stirring until she had the perfect shade was immensely satisfying. For the next hour, she played with warm creams and caramels, until she settled upon a rich but light golden hue which she could use throughout the house, bringing it to life while providing the perfect foil for any other colours she brought in.
But she knew she was displacing. It was always the temptation, to rush ahead to the detail when what really mattered was working out the cost. Sighing and putting the lids back on her pots, she picked up her notebook and began to walk around the house making a list of essentials.
New kitchen units
New bathroom suite
Interior doors x seven
Front door
Back door
Carpet throughout
Flooring - kitchen and bathroom
Fireplace - living room
Light-fittings throughout
She punched in numbers on her calculator as she went. She was disheartened to find that she had reached ten thousand before she had even got up the stairs. She was going to have to have a drastic rethink. The problem was she was used to clients to whom money was no object. They wanted the very best, and that’s what she gave them. She rarely had to compromise. Decorating on a shoe-string was not her forte, but it was going to have to be - and quick. This was a whole different ball game, and she suddenly felt despondent. She wasn’t qualified to pull this off at all. Perhaps she should phone Gussie now and tell her? What was the point of pulling in a princessy interior designer to do a cheap refurb? She didn’t do budget.
Then she gave herself a talking-to. Just because she was used to dealing with demanding clients who only wanted the best didn’t mean she couldn’t compromise. She was perfectly down-to-earth and practical. She was able to source a good deal. She had imagination. It pained her to cut down on quality, but at the end of the day she was only dressing the house to make it look palatable for prospective purchasers. Never mind if the carpet wore out in six months, or the kitchen cupboards fell off. She was creating an illusion. And although it went against the grain, and everything she stood for, she didn’t have a choice.
By now it was midday, and her head was throbbing. Whether it was the stale air, the surfeit of wine or the stress, she couldn’t be sure. Not having any breakfast probably didn’t help. She decided to get out and explore the village and go in search of sustenance.
She came out of the front door and into the street, turning right, as she was pretty sure she remembered seeing a shop on the other side of the road from the pub. She inspected the houses along the way, surprised at the disparity. Some of them were almost derelict. The frames were rotten and she could see tattered curtains through the filthy windows. Some of them had prams and plastic toys scattered over the gardens, and cars up on bricks. Others looked as if they might be empty, or even harbouring an unnoticed corpse. At the other end of the scale were the houses that had been done up tastefully, with slate house signs, muted colours on the doors and windows and interesting beaten copper sundials and water features. There didn’t seem to be anything in between.
The village shop-cum-post office was an extraordinary mixture of exotic and prosaic, which she supposed accurately reflected the demo-graphics of the village. You could get olives and tinned corn beef, but not Marmite. Dom Perignon and Carlsberg XXX, but not a reasonably priced bottle of half-decent red. A girl with ginger and white striped hair and a belly-button ring chewed gum behind the counter. A board boasted scrappily written index cards offering bunk beds and BMX bikes for sale, next to beautifully designed adverts for art exhibitions and garden openings. There was a pile of local papers on the counter, but no other papers or magazines. Racks of faded wrapping paper hung next to a carousel of gaudy greetings cards. A set of shelves displayed rows of homemade chutneys and jams with handwritten labels. Boxes of free-range eggs sat next to Tupperware cartons of penny sweets: fizzy cola bottles and chocolate mice and strawberry laces. The air was thick with their sugary scent.
‘Do you sell . . . bread?’ ventured Charlotte, thinking that what she really needed was several rounds of toast and a pot of tea.
The girl pointed to a shelf that contained a couple of sorry-looking sliced loaves.
> ‘S’all we’ve got left. Thursday and Saturday, the baker comes. But you’d do best to order what you want, ’cos it goes quick, like.’
Charlotte picked up one of the loaves reluctantly, thinking that she had better go to a supermarket and stock up. She chose a pot of homemade strawberry jam, and was grateful that she had packed butter in her cool-box.
‘What about milk?’
The girl wearily reached behind her and plonked a carton of UHT on the counter.
‘Fresh milk you’ve got to order, too.’
Charlotte added a packet of ginger nuts to her purchases, and a tin of tomato soup. She needed something for lunch. As for supper, there was absolutely nothing in here that would serve as a meal. She wasn’t a food snob by any means, but one look in the freezer and she had dismissed boil-in-the-bag curry and crumbed haddock fillets.
As she approached the counter, she decided she would do her best to ingratiate herself with her first villager.
‘I’m Charlotte, by the way.’ She smiled at the girl as she handed over her purchases. ‘I’ve just moved into Myrtle Cottage.’
Marriage and Other Games Page 14
