Love Nest (23 page)

26

Max and Karen had seen each other three times in the past week. Well, ‘seen’ was a bit of an understatement, as she’d also touched him all over, tasted him, smelt him, listened to him whisper all the things he’d like to do to her. She’d managed to persuade either Ludmila or Phil to hold the fort and then she’d hurried from work to his flat, where they’d fallen upon each other like starving animals.

Whenever she looked in the mirror she wondered how something so momentous could be happening to someone who’d just filled in an online shopping list that included own-brand bleach and ant-killer. She felt like a character in a film. Who would she cast as herself, she wondered, as she sewed back a button on to her jacket that had been missing for three years. Maybe Natalie Portman? Karen laughed at her vanity. But she felt gorgeous right now: gorgeous and young and invincible.

She was in this altered state when she went to Christine and told her that – regretfully – she was resigning. She felt like a fly on the wall as Christine gave her a look so outraged it must have burned at least 2,000 calories. Karen muttered platitudes about how much she’d miss working with such an inspirational boss, how much she’d love to freelance for the supplement, how she’d do everything possible to assist in finding her replacement and how of course she understood she was tied to four months’ notice.

She should have been heartbroken, but instead she just felt mildly amused. It was perverse, because of course resigning was acknowledging that soon they really would be off to Devon and that would be the end of her and Max. But she somehow couldn’t acknowledge that.

On a high consisting of plenty of sex mixed up with guilt, she ploughed through her work, commissioning dozens of new ideas. If she wasn’t having a stolen lunch with Max, she went for a vigorous workout in the company gym. She’d done her expenses, which dated back to 2008. At home she’d tidied the kitchen drawers and thrown out all her laddered tights and single socks.

She didn’t know why. She couldn’t have cared less about pleasing either Christine or Phil, but she needed to focus on those details of her life she could control when the bigger picture seemed so crazy. Dates for exchange and completion had finally been set, but when Phil talked about the move she just smiled and nodded, letting none of the normal anger and frustrations he provoked even begin to penetrate the cloud of happiness that surrounded her.

But she couldn’t get away at the weekend. Max had told her not to worry, he was busy with family things. But she couldn’t help it now. It was only Saturday afternoon, but she wanted to hear his voice so badly. The girls were watching lowbrow trash in the playroom; Phil was in the den watching golf, as usual. She’d picked up her phone, then put it down, about six times before she finally took the plunge and called him.

‘Max, it’s… er, me, Karen.’

‘Oh. Hello.’

‘Can you talk? I mean, I know it’s a weekend but…’ She felt suddenly idiotic. ‘I just…’

‘Actually, it’s not a good time.’

He sounded like a robot. Karen thought she might throw up. Was this really the same man who’d been licking her nipples on Friday, stroking her hair? She shouldn’t have called him.

‘Sorry. I…’

‘I’ll call you later, OK? ‘Bye.’

‘’Bye.’ Karen’s heart felt as if it had been gouged by an icepick. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so snubbed. Or so stupid.

Eloise’s voice ripped through her self-pity. ‘Mum! Bea’s a cow. She won’t let me watch
The
Secret of Moonacre
, she wants to watch
Pretty Woman
.’

‘
Pretty Woman
? Starring Julia Roberts? That’s not suitable for a nine-year-old.’

‘That’s what I told her, Mum! Tell her, tell her. She says it’s about a princess but I say it’s about a hooker. She’s horrible, I hate her.’

Sighing, Karen stood up.

‘Right. Let me sort it out.’

Dear Gwen,

How is everything? Did you get permission to have the tree cut down? All is well-ish, here – the sale of the house is pressing ahead and I can’t truly say my heart leaps at the thought of moving into the house in the village, it’s very damp and ‘in need of complete modernization’, as I believe they say. Still, it will be a challenge!

Meanwhile, I have had dinner with Richie Prescott again and – to my surprise – he’s asked me away for the weekend to Salcombe. Not far, but a place I’ve always loved: Sebby and I went there often as children and I have such happy memories of us playing on the beach. So off we go! I am packing my sunhat and wellies, this being the British Isles. Wish me luck. Big hugs and kisses to the girls and once the sale/move is complete I can’t wait to come and visit.

All love

Grace xx

Grace sat back, a tiny smile playing on her lips, and stared out at the garden. The lime trees were in flower, and their sweet vigorous scent drifted in through the open window. She’d certainly been very surprised by Richie’s invitation – first to dinner, which, if she was honest, she hadn’t enjoyed terribly; Richie had drunk a lot again and then nagged her unceasingly about selling the house to Anton (who’d upped his offer first by another five thousand pounds, then another ten thousand, and then twenty), which she point blank refused to do. But then he’d invited her to go away for a weekend. That was what real, serious couples did. Couples like Sebby and Verity. It was an invitation for Grace to become one of them, to join the rest of the world. She could hardly turn it down on the basis that Richie Prescott was a bit boring. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was her last chance for love, for a relationship, for normality and companionship – all the things that she’d willingly forfeited for Mummy but which she longed for so much now.

At night, she lay imagining finding an outlet for the passion which lay folded inside her like the petals of a bud. She imagined her and Richie’s wedding in the village church, her – having slimmed down – in Mummy’s old dress, he in morning suit. Gwen’s daughters as bridesmaids. Alfie and Basil as adorable pageboys. Maybe the Drakes wouldn’t mind them borrowing some of Chadlicote for a small reception. And later, children. It wasn’t too late. Cherie Blair had had a baby when she was three hundred and fifty-five or some such.

Since he’d asked her out again, Grace had eaten nothing but a Ryvita bar for breakfast, cottage cheese on a lettuce leaf for lunch and a small piece of grilled chicken with heaps of steamed broccoli for supper. She’d walked the dogs vigorously each day. She’d lost four pounds. She reckoned she could manage at least another four by the weekend.

She occupied herself with clearing out the house. Today she’d been piling up old clothes either to go to Oxfam or – if they were really beautiful – to keep as an incentive to continue with the weight loss. She turned back to the pile on the bed behind her. A cream silk blazer with black piping on the collar. Beautiful! She stroked it reverentially, holding it to her nose to inhale the faint fragrance of Mummy’s favourite scent, Vent Vert. As always, she checked the pockets. She felt paper, its texture shiny. Pulling it out she saw a packet of seeds. The picture on the front was a vibrant splash of maroon and violet petals. ‘Sweet pea “Little Sweetheart”,’ it said.

Without quite knowing what she was doing, Grace went downstairs to the kitchen and opened the door leading to the courtyard outside. She knelt down beside an old, chipped pot and tore open the packet. Looking around, unable to see a trowel, Grace scooped some earth from the flowerbeds with her bare hands. Then she dropped in three tiny seeds and kneaded them into the mud. She sat back on her heels, filled suddenly with new ambition, fascinated to know what would happen next.

By Saturday morning, she’d lost five more pounds and tiny shoots were beginning to germinate. Grace watered them carefully and adjusted their position as she waited for Richie to arrive. He’d said he’d pick her up about ten, though it was already quarter to eleven. She’d packed a suitcase with a fresh spongebag and new white nightie, both ordered online.

He accelerated up the drive fifteen minutes later.

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ he called out of the wound-down window. ‘Just had a little business to attend to.’ As ever there were beads of sweat on his forehead, and his complexion was more florid than even a week ago. ‘Well, come on then!’ he continued, patting the seat beside him. ‘Let’s make up for lost time!’

It was only half an hour or so’s drive to Salcombe, down winding lanes edged with hedges filled with cow parsley and early forget-me-nots. The sky was a benevolent blue and the fields were full of sheep and lambs. Grace was thrilled. She loved Salcombe; she and Sebby had spent hours on its beaches making sandcastles and paddling in the freezing sea.

‘It’s lovely to be having a change of scene,’ she burbled. ‘Looking after Mummy, it was always so difficult. I’ve no regrets about the years I spent caring for her. What else could I have done? I mean, I wish that Sebby had helped a little more. But he and Verity were always so busy entertaining clients or doing things with the children, and they always needed plenty of notice and I never seemed to give them enough. I did go to Paris and it was rather wonderful, but when I got back Mum was in a terrible state, saying they’d tried to give her tomato soup when she only liked oxtail and the children were too noisy and Verity hadn’t put her eye drops in properly.’

‘I’ve booked a room at the Tide’s Reach Hotel,’ Richie said, eyes on the road. ‘It’s right on the beach, lovely views. I hope you like it.’

‘I’m sure I will.’ A room! Not two rooms. So it was going to happen tonight. Nervously, she kept gabbling. ‘And then, another time, I went to my old friend Gwen’s wedding in Scotland. I sort of hoped I’d meet a nice, kilted Scotsman, though I’m not sure Mummy would have been too pleased at my moving so far away, but of course I ended up seated next to a thirteen-year-old female cousin and an eighty-six-year-old deaf uncle and when I got home Lou was on the verge of resigning because Mum had screamed at her for serving dinner at five twenty-one instead of the usual five fifteen. She did offer to look after her again when she’d calmed down but it never happened. It sort of didn’t seem worth it.’

‘We’ll be there soon,’ Richie said. He paused and then added, ‘So have you thought any more about Anton’s offer?’

Grace glanced at him. His eyes were still fixed on the road.

‘Thank you, but I’ve already told you no thank you.’

‘And I already told you,’ Richie responded lightly, ‘he will do a lovely job with the house. Restore it with great care.’

‘It still seems very dishonourable towards the Drakes.’

‘He’s prepared to offer you a hundred thousand more than them.’

‘A hundred thousand?’ There would be money left over that way. Perhaps Sebby would let her have some to restore the cottage. Grace wavered.

‘You should tell the Drakes. They could always beat it.’

‘No,’ said Grace. ‘No, it’s not right.’

‘Well, you have the weekend to think about it.’ Richie’s expression didn’t flicker. ‘And here we are now. Salcombe! “By the sea, by the sea, by the bee-yoo-ti-ful sea. You and me, you and me…” ’

His singing was atrocious. But Grace didn’t care. She was seized with childlike excitement as they drove along a narrow coastal road, busy with couples in faded T-shirts and children in matelot tops carrying buckets and spades. They parked beside the hotel, which looked over an estuary with bright blue sea and a string of sandy beaches on the other side. Grace climbed out, self-consciously inhaling the salty air. Seagulls wheeled overhead.

They checked into the cosy lobby.

‘Would someone take the bags up to the room?’ Richie asked. ‘We need to partake of a little refreshment.’

‘In the bar?’ Grace asked. She was looking forward to treating herself to a sandwich with a cup of tea. No sugar. But Richie wrinkled his nose.

‘Bit fusty here. I thought we’d go into town.’

Grace imagined they’d walk along the coastal road. But instead they drove, leaving the car in a municipal car park. Richie marched ahead of her, stopping at a pub. Not the bright modern gastropub with sleek blond floors and a blackboard featuring bruschetta and porcini, but a sour-smelling old-man’s pub with a carpet stiff from decades of beer spills.

‘I think there’s a pub in the centre of town that’s much nicer than this,’ she tried. ‘There’s a back garden with sea views.’

‘Overpriced nonsense,’ Richie said firmly, already halfway to the bar. ‘We’ll just have a snifter here and then plenty of bracing sea air to blow away the cobwebs. Pint of your best bitter, squire,’ he said to the barman. ‘Grace?’

‘I’ll have a lime and soda.’

‘Sure?’ He pulled a face at the barman. ‘Women, eh?’

‘They haven’t got our capacity,’ the barman said, not altogether unsympathetically. Richie laughed, paid him. They sat at a table covered in damp rings from pint glasses. Grace wished there was another woman in the room.

‘Well, cheers,’ Richie said. ‘Here’s to us.’

They clinked glasses and Richie drank avidly. An old man shuffled over. He had the red nose of a habitual drinker and wore a crumpled grey jacket that had seen better days.

‘Ah, well. So what are the pair of you doing in this fine establishment?’

Grace stiffened but Richie grinned. ‘We’re having a drink,’ he cried, as if this were not the most bleeding obvious answer in the world. He patted the chair beside him. ‘Come and join us.’

Soon the two men were deep in conversation about the cricket and about which was better, Tennants or Carlsberg. Grace sat feeling stiffer and stiffer. Her drink tasted like acid. A shaft of sunlight poured through the grimy windows and created a pool of light on the table. Grace wanted to be outside, enjoying it. She tried to blot out the conversation and focus on the night ahead of her. She imagined herself in the bathroom at the hotel, brushing her hair, dressed in the new nightie. She imagined opening the door and seeing Richie waiting for her on the bed. Her throat tightened with nerves.