In the back of his mind, however, was also the fact that life was so much easier without Hayley’s oppressive presence. He had become weary of constantly having to bolster her up. Why should he have to worry about her state of mind every minute of the day? She certainly hadn’t seemed to worry about his, he realised now. Looking after her had been exhausting, both mentally and physically. With her out of the house again, Fitch felt free. Unencumbered.
Maybe what they needed was a clean break. She could go off and live in sunny Watford in Kirk’s shag palace and swan around in designer dresses being taken to swanky restaurants. And they could get on with their life in Withybrook. For Fitch it would be an admission of failure, but was it really worth trying to keep a marriage alive for the sake of pride and your own values? Maybe the grown-up thing to do was admit that they’d made a mistake, that they were incompatible and wouldn’t ever be able to make a go of it, because they both wanted different things out of life.
Whatever happened, whether Hayley stayed or went, the only important thing to Fitch was Jade and Amber. He would never let them go. He would fight tooth and nail to keep them. They belonged here, in Withybrook, with him, and he was confident he could manage. It might be a struggle, but he could organise his work so that he could be with them after school and during the holidays. It might mean a bit less cash coming in, but money wasn’t everything. He certainly had plenty of work lined up, and the most obvious solution was to take someone on to help him with the donkey work, someone he could train up and delegate to.
Yes, decided Fitch. If being a single dad was the way forward, then he could handle it. He never resented a moment spent with his daughters. He didn’t feel the urge to go off on wild nights out with the lads, or weekends away. And Hayley’s parents were always there in extremis, if he got snowed under or delayed.
Not that it wasn’t tiring. They jumped into his bed at half six in the morning, and were still on the go when he urged them back into bed at eight. But they were tidy, they weren’t fussy eaters, and they didn’t squabble too much. And anyway, it would only be a few years before they were able to look after themselves. Then, in the blink of an eye, they would be young women, with their own lives. And then they’d be off and gone. He only had them for a very short time, and he was determined to make the most of them.
With or without his wife.
On Sunday, he took the girls to the beach at Mariscombe. Just over ten miles away from Withybrook, it was a stretch of golden sand fringed by a deep blue sea of rolling waves. In the summer, it was filled with holidaymakers, crammed with scantily clad bodies and ice-cream vans, but in the winter it was an exhilarating paradise peopled with just a few intrepid surfers, the odd kite-flyers and dog walkers. Fitch never tired of its beauty. He remembered discovering it not long after he had moved to the area, and marvelling at its wild perfection. He loved coming here on a summer’s evening with a disposable barbecue and a dozen sausages from the local butcher. He would cook while the girls frolicked in the waves, and then they would devour hot dogs smothered in tomato sauce, Dido hopping round them hoping for a tail end.
Today was too cold for either paddling or barbecuing. Behind the beach were the dunes, and the girls spent the afternoon rolling down them, their screams of laughter bringing smiles to the faces of passersby. Why the fuck wasn’t Hayley here? wondered Fitch darkly. You’d have to be completely heartless not to enjoy the scenery and their joy. He realised that he didn’t even know if she was coming back this evening or not. She used to come back on a Sunday night, but there had been something final in the way she had driven off yesterday without a backward glance.
He’d get the girls into bed early tonight, he decided, then call Hayley on her mobile. Tell her that they needed to talk, and come to a decision about their future. He wasn’t prepared to live in limbo any more. It wasn’t that he wasn’t able to compromise, but he couldn’t let things drift. It was time to get tough.
The girls grumbled as he herded them back into the car and drove home. There was no sign of Hayley as they came back into the house. He made a quick supper of spaghetti hoops on toast, then the girls each had a shower while he gathered their sandy clothes off the floor and shoved them in the washing machine. Half an hour later, they were tucked up in bed.
‘Is Mummy coming back?’ asked Jade. She was the more anxious of the two. Being the elder, she was more aware of atmospheres and moods.
‘Not tonight,’ Fitch replied, thinking that if Hayley did turn up later he could easily say she had changed her mind.
He saw the two girls exchange a knowing glance, and was shocked. They obviously understood more than he gave them credit for. It made him feel incredibly sad. He’d failed them. He and Hayley had failed them. He felt a surge of frustration and anger, the sudden need to go and get completely shit-faced and forget the guilt that niggled at him morning, noon and night.
He compromised by pouring himself a Scotch, slinging in a couple of ice cubes, enjoying its fiery warmth as it hit the back of his throat. He picked up the phone, and scrolled through until he found her number.
There was no reply. He could imagine her taking a cursory glance into her handbag, seeing his number come up, then turning to simper up at Kirk as they drank a bottle of some flashy champagne. He threw the phone down onto the sofa in disgust. What if he had been phoning because one of the girls was ill? Though what she would do about it he didn’t know. She didn’t know Calpol from Cuprinol.
He leaned back and stretched, his body aching slightly from the strenuous walk on the beach and the climb up the dunes. He reached for the remote. There would be some anodyne Sunday-night drama on that might take his mind off things; something in period costume with an undemanding plot.
He was just nodding off when the doorbell drilled. He jumped up, startled. Maybe she’d come back after all, and forgotten her key. He tensed. Was she expecting confrontation or reconciliation?
As soon as he answered the door he knew that neither was on the cards for that evening. Hayley’s father stood on the doorstep, flanked by two of her brothers. Fitch took a step back, suddenly nervous. What had she told them? They looked serious, as if they had come to remonstrate with him over his behaviour.
Shit - had they come to get Jade and Amber? They bloody better not have. But why else would there be three of them? One to hold him down, the other two to carry the girls from their beds and up to the farm. Well, they weren’t going to get away with it.
‘What is it?’ he asked gruffly, and was disconcerted when Hayley’s father’s face crumpled and he broke down in front of him, terrible sobs racking his body.
‘It’s Hayley,’ offered one of the brothers.
‘What?’ asked Fitch.
‘She’s an accident,’ the other one told him.
‘She’s dead.’ Her father’s voice was that of a broken man. ‘My little girl. She’s dead . . .’
Twenty
When Jade and Amber scampered into his bedroom the next morning, Fitch felt as if he had only just got to sleep. It had been a terrible night. Eliciting the exact details from the Poltimores had proved a struggle, but eventually a picture emerged. Hayley had been driving Kirk’s Mercedes when a car had jumped a red light and ploughed into the side of them. Hayley had been killed outright. Kirk had escaped without a scratch.
Fitch had spent most of the evening on the phone, as Hayley’s father seemed totally unable to deal with the situation, just sat at the kitchen table in a daze. They had wanted Fitch to go back to the farm with the girls, but he refused to wake them, so one of the boys had gone to fetch Barbara, who completely fell apart.
In the end, Fitch had called Penny, who came over straight away.
‘I’ll give her something to knock her out,’ she told him. ‘The best thing they can do is take her home and put her to bed. There’s no point in her staying up all night hysterical. Everyone’s got to deal with this nightmare.’
She gave him a hug as she left.
�
��I’m so sorry, Fitch.’
He knew she didn’t just mean about the crash.
He finally got to bed at about four, but he couldn’t sleep. He was sick with worry about how he was going to deal with this latest nightmare. And now the girls were awake, bouncing on his bed, sliding under his duvet, fighting to get the closest to him. He had to tell them.
‘Jade. Amber.’
They looked at him warily, unused to the strain in his voice. He held out an arm for each of them and they slid into his embrace. He held them tight, trying to control his voice.
‘I’ve got some very sad news. You’re going to have to be very brave, both of you. And I know you will. You’re big girls . . .’
They looked at him solemnly.
‘Is it Herman?’ asked Jade. Herman was the terrapin in the Poltimores’ kitchen, a creature they inexplicably adored.
‘No,’ said Fitch carefully. ‘I’m afraid it’s Mummy. There was a terrible accident. Someone drove into the side of her car.’
‘Is she hurt?’
‘Will she have a scar?’
‘I’m afraid it was worse than that. She . . .’
Fuck. There was just no other way of saying it. There was no euphemism he could use. He had to come straight out with it.
‘She died.’
Jade and Amber looked at each other.
‘It didn’t hurt her,’ he went on hastily, even though he wasn’t sure if this was true. ‘She didn’t feel anything. It was just like going to sleep.’
Jade’s chin began to wobble.
‘So are we orphans?’
‘No, sweetheart. You’re not orphans. I’m still here.’
Amber buried her face in his chest. Fitch felt his throat tighten. If only there was something he could do to take away their pain. He squeezed the two of them as tight as he could, pouring every ounce of his love into them in the hope that it might help.
Jade squealed in indignation. ‘Daddy, you’re hurting.’
Amber sat up suddenly, as if she had thought of something important.
‘Can we have pancakes?’
The pair of them looked at him hopefully.
Fitch lay there for a moment, startled by their reaction. He supposed the truth would hit them later.
‘Why not?’ he said, and got out of bed to face the day. ‘Why not . . . ?’
The estate agent strode through Myrtle Cottage nodding with approval, pointing his state-of-the-art tape measure at the walls and noting the period features down on his laptop. He’d been to see it months before, when Gussie and her brothers had asked for a valuation, and he had to admit that it was unrecognisable from the dingy, poky little abode that it had been.
This was now a delightful little home. It was flooded with light, painted in warm but muted colours, the woodwork fresh and gleaming. The hallway was airy and inviting rather than oppressive, with the floorboards stripped and waxed, a striped coir runner snaking up the stairs.
The sitting room was cosy, with an oversized velvet sofa, shelves crammed with books and artefacts, a wood-burning stove and a wall smothered in paintings of the countryside all in different frames. The dining room was a particular delight, with silver and white rococo wallpaper in the alcoves either side of the fireplace, a pretty chandelier, and lace curtains fluttering at the windows. And although the furniture obviously wouldn’t go with the house, it had been dressed to show any prospective purchasers just what effect they could achieve. A mixture of antique and modern, it was contemporary but not off-putting, and yet in keeping with the period features it had retained.
This girl knew what she was doing, he decided as he tried to calculate a fair asking price, one that would please the vendors but was achievable and wouldn’t leave the house stagnant on the market for months because it had been over-valued. You had to be careful in Withybrook. Too high and you priced the locals out of the market, leaving it only open to out-of-towners and weekenders, which inevitably reduced the number of viewers. But at the same time, you didn’t want to let a property like this go for a song. It was a peach.
He explained all this to Miss Dixon, adding that he would send his valuation in writing to Gussie in the post, but that he thought she would be pleased. And as he left, he asked for her card.
‘I reckon I could get you loads of work, if you’re interested,’ he said.
She declined, politely. ‘I’m not staying in the area once this job’s finished,’ she told him.
‘Shame,’ he said. ‘We could do with more talent like you round here.’
Talent in more ways than one, he thought, as he closed down his laptop. She was a very pretty girl, even if she didn’t make the most of herself. A bit of make-up and some decent clothes wouldn’t go amiss. He hoped she’d make the effort when the viewers came round. It was an aspirational business, selling houses, and anything you could do to entice a purchase always helped. Including managing to get yourself out of your pyjamas by eleven o’clock in the morning.
Charlotte shut the door on the estate agent with a sigh of relief. He’d seemed favourably impressed, but she was nervous about what price he would finally give Gussie. She desperately wanted the house to do well for her friend. She was pleased with what she had done, but she hoped all her work was worth it, and had increased Myrtle Cottage’s value. She would hate it to have been all in vain.
There were only a few little jobs left to do, as she’d explained to the agent. The slate in the dining-room fireplace, a couple of light fittings she had ordered on the internet but which hadn’t arrived yet, and some etched glass to replace the horrible frosted glass in the front door, which would be so much more in keeping. Then her job was done. She could go when she wanted. Gussie had said she could stay on while the house was sold - in fact, it would be doing her a favour, to have it lived in, and to have someone to keep it clean. But Charlotte wanted to get away.
The past couple of weeks had been grim. She hadn’t been able to come to terms with the shock of Ed’s news. She vacillated between terrible anger at the injustice, raging fury at Melanie’s treacherous behaviour, and sheer desolation, when she plummeted into the depths of despair, wondering what on earth she had done to deserve such heartache. To keep her mind off it, she’d thrown herself into finishing the cottage, jet-washing the little patio she had fashioned out of some end-of-range slabs, washing the windows until they shone, putting up the curtains, arranging bowls of fruit and vases of fresh flowers so it felt like a proper home and not just a show house.
And it did feel like her home. She had poured her heart and soul into it over the past few months. She had been able to decorate it to her own taste, choosing the colours she felt drawn to. And she had used her own furniture and bits and pieces to dress it - the things she had been able to salvage from the house at Parsons Green because they were officially the tools of her trade. She’d used remnants of fabrics from other jobs for curtains. And thus Myrtle Cottage was almost a reflection of her. Her ideal home. But she knew she couldn’t stay here. She would have to find herself another job. Connor had given her a decent reference. She’d have to start sending off her CV, she thought wearily. She’d just started taking photos of the rooms on her digital camera to add to her portfolio when the door knocker went.
It was Nikita, who’d brought the last set of curtains up - Stacey had gone over them with her industrial steam iron until they were pristine.
‘Terrible, isn’t it?’
‘What’s terrible?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I haven’t heard anything.’
‘Hayley Poltimore.’ Nikita announced the name importantly.
‘What about her?’
‘Dead! Crashed her lover’s car last night. They reckon she was half cut.’
‘No!’
Nikita nodded, obviously relishing being the bearer of bad tidings.
Charlotte felt sick. What a grisly, terrible thing to happen. She thought about Jade and Amber.<
br />
‘Those poor girls,’ she said, stricken.
Nikita made a face and shrugged. ‘She wasn’t much of a mother, was she?’
‘You can’t say that!’ Charlotte was horrified. ‘She was still their mum.’
‘They’ll probably be better off without her.’
‘Nikita!’
‘Everybody’s saying it. Everybody knows he’s the one who does everything in that house.’
Fitch. Poor, lovely Fitch. What on earth must he be going through? Charlotte knew his biggest worry would be Jade and Amber. What a terrible thing, to have to support your children through the death of their mother, no matter how self-absorbed she might have been.
Marriage and Other Games Page 34
