Authors: Sue Moorcroft
Martyn suddenly realised that he was standing in the entrance to the car park in bare feet being given a talking to by his mum. He wanted to roar with fury. Instead, he turned and sprang up the stairs.
Clarissa’s voice followed. ‘Honor’s lovely but there’s no point getting involved with her, Martyn. She’s only here for the summer. And how much do you really know about her?’
Stef watched as the door at the top of the metal stairway slammed and the woman in the blue athletic gear glared at it, before tucking her car keys in her bag and marching up the street and into a shop.
His gazed moved on to the place that the crazy woman and her kid had disappeared into, with tables and chairs set outside.
So now he’d seen them: Robina and Rufus Gordon. Till now just names on Honor’s lips.
Not surprising that Honor hadn’t opened up to a mommy like that. Robina Gordon was a spitting wildcat with poison-tipped claws.
His head swivelled back as Martyn’s front door banged open and he stormed back down the stairs, cast Stef a freshly honed glare, then set off down the street in the opposite direction and crossed the busy road at the bottom. He’d changed into running gear and paused on the stretch of grass beyond the road to stretch out his hamstrings. Then he ran towards some railings and disappeared from view.
Stef thought toxic thoughts, shaken by a daylight viewing of Martyn. He saw that Martyn was what women would call
a hunk
. That was bad.
But toxic thoughts, however satisfying, were unlikely to have any actual effect. Thoughtfully, he straightened, and began to saunter towards the collection of chairs, tables and flowerpots through which Robina and Ru had made their way. Above the little white door was a sign that said
Eastingdean Teapot
.
Inside, apparently one of the day’s first customers, he chose a round wooden table and a chair with its back against the wall, facing the kitchen where a red-eyed Robina was drinking from a thick white mug, both hands wrapped around it, as if for stability. She was listening to the whisperings of a woman with pink hair. The kid, Rufus, was making cutlery scratchy noises at the back. After a minute, the kid emerged to take Stef’s order.
Stef glanced at the menu and was glad to see that an English tearoom actually served coffee. ‘I need black coffee, please.’ Ru flicked him a curious look when he heard the American accent but filled the order without comment.
The coffee was good and rich, maybe Costa Rican, and Stef breathed in the steam as he watched kitchen activity step up as customers arrived, calling greetings, and some of them even nodding to him, a stranger. Here, next to the ocean in this small place, folks were friendly. On his one previous visit to England Stef hadn’t really cared for it, maybe because Honor acted as if ‘England’ were another word for ‘paradise’. Or maybe it was because they’d never left London and he wasn’t a city boy, let alone thrilled by history, like Honor and Garvin. For him, old soon got old.
By the time he’d drunk two cups of coffee he’d thought things through. Robina had begun to work, albeit with nothing of the frantic pace set by the pink-hair lady. Nearly every table was occupied and Rufus threaded backwards and forwards with the orders. Stef stopped him as he breezed by. ‘Would you please ask the owner if she’d spare me a moment?’
Rufus looked suspicious.
Stef smiled. ‘Tell her that I won’t keep her long.’
Brother-in-law.
Shrugging, Rufus swung back into the kitchen, tearing an order from his pad as he paused to speak to Robina.
After a lengthy and evidently dubious sizing up, Robina emerged from behind the counter. ‘Can I help you?’ It was difficult to believe that this was the same woman who had been screaming the F word up and down the street not much more than an hour ago.
Stef rose, extending his hand and making his voice low and rueful. ‘You certainly can. My name’s Stefan Sontag and I’m having awful trouble with my wife, Honor. I know that you’ve had trouble with her, too, and I’m hoping that between us, we can persuade her to come home to America with me.’
Robina’s eyes widened. ‘Honor’s
husband
?’
Stef took his seat again, making his movements relaxed and non-threatening, smiling boyishly. ‘That’s me.’
Slowly, Robina slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘I didn’t know Honor was married.’
Stef made his smile wobble. ‘She seems to have forgot, doesn’t she? Maybe–’ He lifted his hands in a gesture that said,
I’m looking for ideas.
‘Maybe if you could tell me something about this Martyn Mayfair guy she’s
… with? It would be a huge help to me to know what I’m up against.’
The spark of curiosity in Robina’s eyes ignited into a flame of eagerness. ‘I can probably tell you more about him than you’ll ever need to know.’
When Stef finally left the Eastingdean Teapot he’d drunk enough coffee to float a boat and eaten a chunk of incredible cake.
In his room above the bar of the Fig Leaf pub, he fired up his laptop, opened a new document and began to tap, retrieving from his agile mind just about every detail that Robina Gordon had told him about Martyn Mayfair, adding in his own observations about Martyn’s property and lifestyle.
Plenty to work with.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Since yesterday and Ru’s visit, Honor hadn’t seen a soul she knew; not anybody from the Eastingdean Teapot nor any of the Mayfairs. Not even Stef. And especially not Martyn.
The day had been long and tense, not helped when she – belatedly – logged on to her email account and found a message from her dad:
Stef’s jail time is over early. He’s looking for his wife and I think he knows where to look. I assume you’re in England, searching for your mother? That’s what we all thought when you took off. Did you find her? Is she still a flake? I’m afraid that if you’re looking to Robina to solve all your life problems, you’re in for a disappointment, unless she’s changed a lot.
But I’m still here, honey. Nothing will change my love for you. Nothing at all.
She’d had to blink back tears. Typed,
Good guess, Dad. And coming to England’s not a decision I can regret. Except that, yeah, Stef’s here
…
Honor put on her running shoes and black lycra shorts. Running along the undercliff would release those endorphins to brighten her mood, expand her lungs and send oxygen-rich blood to her brain – hopefully allowing her to work out whether she ought to call on Martyn. ‘Hi!’ And, maybe, ‘As I realise that you’re avoiding my calls and not answering my texts I thought I’d coming banging on your door
…’ Yes, why not make a guy feel cornered and defensive? Way to go.
It wasn’t that she was hoping to encounter him out running, on neutral territory or anything
… But running the route he ran every morning, at exactly the time he usually ran it, wouldn’t hurt. She could run it two or three times before she fell over from exhaustion, probably.
The weather was very British. Patchy August sun but a chill breeze, tourists sticking obstinately to their summer clothes as if that would warm up the day. Honor paused at a bench down on the Undercliff Walk to do her stretches, taking her time and stretching right out. Then she set off slowly, to warm up, but soon she was running comfortably, weaving gently between strolling tourists and young families with bikes and buggies, teenagers with skateboards.
And other runners.
Her wish came true when a runner who threw a long shadow drew level and slowed his pace to match hers. She risked a glance up at him, his hair streaming back from his face and managed, ‘Hi,’ without disturbing her breathing.
He responded, ‘Yeah, hi,’ neutrally. He wasn’t even breathing fast, yet.
They completed the distance to Rottingdean together and ran up the steps and down the slope, up the steps and down the slope. When Honor felt as if the bones would slide out of her legs if she had to do one more circuit, Martyn jumped down on to the stones and set off back in the direction they’d come.
No way!
Lungs beginning to burn, she forced herself to keep up on the concrete. When he jumped back up and ran into the underpass, she followed, their footsteps magnified and echoey, then out of the underpass, around the corner, across the parking area and into the park.
Martyn took only one run up the grass slope, then walked along the brow, beside some houses, cooling down. Shakily, Honor flopped down on to the grass, chest heaving.
Presently, after he’d performed a load of sensible stretches, he crossed his legs and folded down beside her.
From their vantage point, they could look down on the children’s play park, the skateboard park and some courts where men were gathering, stringing up a volleyball net. One shaded his eyes and looked up to Martyn, shouting a question.
Martyn waved and shouted back, ‘Five minutes, Jamie.’
Only five minutes. Words began to burst from Honor’s mouth. ‘So, aren’t we even friends, now?’
For the first time, he looked right at her. ‘I don’t know what we are. I’ve been thinking about nothing else but that you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me Robina’s your mother.’
She’d had over a day to mentally run this conversation and had her bullet points all ready. ‘You said I was tainted even when I went to work with her. You call her your stalker.’
He ripped up a handful of grass. ‘Fuck it, Honor! Having an imperfect mother isn’t a foreign concept to me. I would have understood.’
She kept her eyes on his face, on the well-defined profile, set and grim. ‘You’re pissed with me. And I don’t think it’s because I hid my unsatisfactory parentage. It’s because Stef turned up – even though I had been open with you about my status.’
Silently, he turned and watched the men below tossing around a volleyball, boosting it up into the air with forearms, punching it down again with fists. He chewed a stalk of grass. Finally, ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s unfair but, actually, you’re right and it’s all about your “
stattus
”, and yes, I am pretty pissed. Maybe more at me than you. Because I knew you were married and what the potential for trouble was. Now the trouble has arrived, it’s eating me.’ Climbing to his feet, he set off down the slope.
‘I told him I want a divorce,’ she called after him, without moving.
He halted. She watched him trade off his curiosity against his dudgeon. Then he reversed his route and let himself back down beside her on the cool grass, closer, this time. ‘What did he say?’ His brown eyes were cautious.
Scrunching up her knees, she laid her cheek on them, holding his gaze. ‘He said no way. It was awful,’ she admitted. ‘He stayed and stayed, arguing, and he’s hanging around, still hoping to change my mind. He says he loves me. I told him I can’t live his life any more but it’s hard to hurt him. I guess it goes against my character.’ A tear tipped, unwanted, on to her cheek.
He let his fingertips touch her arm. Pause. Hover. Stroke. Warm. Delicious. His voice was soft. But regretful. ‘That sounds like too much Honor, not enough Freedom.’
‘And you sound so good-mannered about not taking something that’s not yours. So fucking
English
.’
His thumb was drawing tiny circles on her arm, creating goosebumps. ‘I am English. Which brings me to the small matter of us living three thousand miles apart.’
‘People make it work.’ She slid her hand on to his.
‘Like your parents?’
‘Your parents lived in the same country and that didn’t work a whole lot better, did it?’
‘Fair point,’ he admitted. ‘But you need to sort yourself out. I don’t want some half-arsed triangular relationship with me as the villain, the adulterer. I hate that kind of guy, the weasel who sneaks around. I should have kept a lid on things because, where you’re concerned, I don’t share. I want all of you.’ He leaned in and kissed her nose.
She sniffed as he jerked suddenly to his feet and the tears began to trickle down her cheeks. ‘Martyn?’
He turned.
She tried to swallow away the misery that made her throat stiff. ‘I’d already told him that I wanted out, before
… you and me. You believe that, don’t you?’
She heard his sigh, even though the breeze was hissing in her ears and whipping his hair across his eyes. ‘Yes. Does that make a difference?’
The volleyball men were shouting again. Martyn acknowledged with a wave and began to trot down the slope.
Honor watched him go, muscles rippling under his running clothes, long-sleeved and full length so that his tan wouldn’t get diced up. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. She sighed and climbed to her feet. If she wasn’t too much mistaken, Martyn had just told her that what he wanted was commitment. According to the rules, that was meant to make her happy. Funny.
Back home, Sunday was one of Stef’s favourite days to work at the diner because it would be jumping with kids out of school and Monday to Friday workers who’d broken free from their treadmills.
But the Teapot, he discovered this particular Sunday, boasted the same number of grey heads, tan cardigans and sensible sandals as it did any other day.