Now and Then Friends (11 page)

“I don't know if any of those girls were actually real friends.”

And I was.
She'd been a good friend to Claire West until she'd been unceremoniously dumped. Rachel sighed. “So what do you want me to do, exactly?”

“Just keep an eye on her. It would be better for her not to be alone right now.”

As if Rachel needed one more person in her life to watch over. “I'm happy to check up on her when I come to clean,” she said, although happy was stretching it. “But other than that . . .”

“Couldn't you drop in every day or two?” Andrew asked. “I know you're busy—”

“You keep saying that, but I'm starting to think you don't mean it.”

“Sorry.” He gave her a rueful smile as he raked a hand through his hair, and Rachel's stomach did a surprising little flip. When he dropped the whole pompous thing, Andrew West was actually good-looking, in an uptight, nerdy sort of way. Although there was nothing nerdy about his wavy dark hair or deep blue eyes, or even the broad shoulders she could detect under the fleece. No, unfortunately it was just his personality.

“Does Claire think she needs checking up on?” Rachel asked.

“She's . . . resistant.”

“And she's also an adult. So maybe I should let her make her own decisions.”

“Claire's never been good at making her own decisions.”

Which was a horribly patronizing thing to say, and yet Rachel could see the truth in it. When they were little Claire had always let Rachel make her decisions. At school Rachel had even carried Claire's lunch tray and picked out which meal she'd eat. But she'd liked taking care of Claire. And Claire had been so grateful, smiling up at her, relief evident in her face whenever Rachel stepped in and took over.

“Claire is never going to learn to make her own decisions if everyone keeps insisting on making them for her,” Rachel said. “She's twenty-eight years old. Maybe it's time for her to grow up.”

“I take your point,” Andrew answered, “but now's not the time for that particular life lesson.”

What was it about Claire that made everyone want to look out for her? Was it her sense of fragility, or did simply being chronically helpless make proactive people step in and take control? Rachel couldn't say, even for herself. What she did know was that she didn't want to help Claire now nearly as much as she had when they were seven.

“I'm not sure there's ever a good time for that life lesson,” Rachel said as she downed the last of her wine. “I had to learn it when I was twelve.”

Andrew frowned. “What happened when you were twelve?”

“My mother broke her back.” Rachel wished she hadn't mentioned anything; she couldn't stand pity, especially from someone who could spare it so easily. “Everyone's life sucks sometimes, you know.”

“Yet you seem to think only yours does.” Andrew spoke mildly, but Rachel recoiled all the same. Heat rushed into her face, and she put her wineglass on the table with a decidedly loud
thunk
.

“I think I'll get that prescription now.” She reached under the chair for her coat and yanked it on. Andrew watched her, unperturbed.

“I've upset you.”

“Well-done, Sherlock.” Rachel stood up, hugging herself, all the things she'd liked about this place now jarring, irritating her. This was not her life.

Andrew put his half-pint of lager, barely drunk, on the table. “Where do you need to pick up the prescription?”

“Lowther Street. There's a late-night pharmacy.”

“All right.” He left a pound on the table and then walked out of the bar, holding the door open for her first. Rachel went through, averting her head. She felt stiff and jerky, and while she knew her hurt was obvious, she couldn't make herself relax. It was an overemotional reaction, considering she barely knew Andrew West and he barely knew her. But in that case, how dared he make such an assumption about her?

“You know,” she said as they walked towards the car, “you don't know anything about my life.”

“I'd say I know a little at this point,” Andrew answered. “But essentially you're right.”

“So you really have no right to make a judgment like that,” she continued, keeping her voice even.

Andrew opened her door, ever the gentleman. And didn't agree with her.

“Do you?” Rachel pressed as he got in the driver's side.

“Perhaps not. I was simply responding to what I've experienced of you so far.”

“You're very blunt, you know.”

His mouth twitched in a tiny wry smile. “I have been told that before.”

They didn't speak as he drove through the empty streets of Whitehaven and parked in front of the pharmacy on Lowther Street, its plate window fogged with rain, halogen lights glowing inside.

“I'll be right back,” Rachel said, and slipped out of the car. It took only a few minutes to get her mother's prescription, a four-week supply of OxyContin that cost nearly two hundred pounds. And half
of that had gone down the toilet, thanks to Meghan. Rachel handed her debit card over with a grimace, breathing a tiny sigh of relief when the amount went through.

Back in Andrew's car she clutched the bag to her while he pulled out onto the empty street. Neither of them spoke on the way back to Hartley-by-the-Sea.

“So you'll check on Claire?” he asked when he'd parked in front of her house. Rachel didn't know whether to laugh or groan.

“I'll try,” she said on a sigh.

He paused and then said carefully, “If you'd prefer to think of this as part of your housekeeping . . . I could pay you the hourly rate.”

Rachel stared at him for a moment, offended by the suggestion even though practically it made sense. She would be going out of her way, spending time she didn't have running around after Claire. And she could certainly use the money. “That's not necessary,” she managed, and got out of the car.

Inside, the house still smelled of burned sausages and Rachel could hear Nathan's pitiful sobs from upstairs. He sounded utterly exhausted.

“Finally.”
Lily appeared at the top of the stairs, looking harassed. “Nathan has been crying for hours.”

“Did you give him Calpol?”

“No. You didn't tell me—”

“Sorry,” Rachel said wearily. “I'll go to him. Can you give Mum her prescription?” She nodded towards the white bag she'd left on the hall table, and Lily gave a little grimace.

Lily didn't spend much time with their mother. Since Janice had injured her back when Lily was only a newborn, they'd never had a lot of time together, and they hadn't really bonded. Rachel and Meghan handled their mother's care, wanting to shield Lily from it, and now Lily was eighteen and usually avoided her mother as much as she could.

“Okay,” she said reluctantly, and went downstairs. Rachel kicked
off her shoes and headed into Meghan's bedroom. Nathan was kneeling on the bed, tears running down his snot-smeared face.

“Hey there, Nath,” Rachel said softly. She put her hands on his thin shoulders and pulled him to her; he came with a loud sniff, tucking his head into her shoulder. “How about some yummy medicine?”

He nodded against her chest, hiccupping, and she eased away and went to retrieve the bottle of bubble-gum-pink Calpol from the bathroom as well as a sticky spoon, which looked like it hadn't been washed between doses.

She gave him two spoonfuls and then tucked him into the double bed he shared with Meghan.

“Ray-Ray stay?” he asked hopefully, and with a sigh she stretched out next to him.

“Okay, Nath.”

Nathan snuggled into her again, smearing snot across her sweater, and Rachel put her arm around him, resting her chin on the top of his head. He smelled like baby shampoo and Calpol with a hint of sausage. She kissed his head and closed her eyes and tried to ignore the tug of longing for something in her life to be different.

On Thursday Claire set her alarm and slept on her bad ear so she would hear it. She felt cautiously optimistic as she dressed, buoyed by the cup of tea she'd had with Lucy and Juliet Bagshaw yesterday afternoon.

There had been something so pleasant and welcoming about their kitchen, with its green Aga and a jar of early daffodils on the windowsill and the B&B guests going in and out. Lucy's good humor was, as ever, infectious, although her half sister, Juliet, had taken a bit more getting used to. Her smile reminded Claire of a crack in a plate, and she'd given her several speculative looks that had left Claire squirming. But she'd been friendly enough in the end, and Lucy's warmth certainly made up for any lack on her half sister's part.

Sitting with them, listening to their good-natured bickering, Claire had felt a part of things. At least, she'd felt as if she could be a part of things, eventually. Maybe.

Buoyant, Claire made it to the village shop by ten minutes to eight, and this time she stepped inside with a cheery smile for the man at the counter.

“Morning, boss.”

“Just call me Dan.”

“Okay. Dan.” Claire glanced around, but the newspapers and milk hadn't arrived yet. “What would you like me to . . . ?”

“I thought I'd teach you how to operate the till. That'll be most helpful, when I need to be at the post office counter.”

“Okay.” She eyed the cash register, telling herself it couldn't be that difficult. It was nothing but an oversized calculator.

“You need to come around this side,” Dan said.

“Oh. Right.” Claire moved around the counter with its racks of sweets and crisps to the small space behind it. There was barely room for both her and Dan, especially considering how huge he was. Claire didn't even come up to his shoulder.

“So it's a basic machine,” he said. “You check the price sticker. You input it into the machine.” He pointed to the number buttons. “Then you hit the tab and the drawer opens. Take the money, make the change, close the drawer, and give the receipt. Simple.” He eyed her expectantly, and after a second Claire recited, “Money, change, drawer, receipt. I think I've got it.”

Dan didn't look convinced. Standing this close to him made him seem even more intimidating. He had a tattoo on the inside of his forearm that said “sapper” in curly script, surrounded by clouds of fire. Claire realized she was staring at it, and she moved her gaze up to Dan's face. This close to him she could see that his eyes were brown with flecks of gold. From a distance, narrowed in his usual glare, they'd just looked dark.

“Why don't we practice?” he said, and moved past her to the front of the shop, his large body brushing against her as he did so. He smelled of soap.

“Okay.” She stood in front of the cash register as if it were an undetonated bomb. She could do this. She really could. She tucked her hair behind her ears and wished her heart hadn't started pounding. All she was doing was operating a till, for heaven's sake. It didn't have to be hard.

Dan plunked a bar of chocolate onto the counter. “Ring that up, then.”

“Right.” Gingerly Claire picked up the bar of Bournville. “Okay.
Eighty-nine pence. Got it.” Her voice sounded squeaky. She stabbed the eight and nine buttons on the till, and Dan made an impatient harrumphing sound.

“You just charged me eighty-nine pounds for a bar of chocolate. You need to put a zero and decimal point first. Everything is rung up in pounds.”

“You didn't tell me that,” Claire protested.

“I thought it was obvious.”

“Well, it wasn't.” She bit her lip and searched the keypad of the register. “Is there a delete button?”

“Oh, for . . .” Dan muttered under his breath, and then moved around to join her behind the counter. He pushed the “clear” button and then rang the order up himself. The drawer opened with a jolly-sounding
brrrng
that was at odds with the tension emanating from the man operating the register.

“Sorry,” Claire said, and he shoved the drawer closed and ripped off the receipt before flinging it into the bin.

“Don't be so sorry all the time. I'm the one who hired you.”

“Yes, but you probably thought I wasn't quite as useless as I am.”

“Actually, I did. Why don't we try again?”

This time Claire managed to ring up the bar of chocolate without any problem, and the sound of the drawer opening made her nearly weak-kneed with relief.

The newspapers and milk had arrived while they'd both been behind the counter, and after tossing the second receipt in the bin, Dan handed her the bar of Bournville. “Keep it,” he said tersely, and then headed for the post office counter. “You can stack the papers until someone comes in. Don't attempt to do cigarettes or Lottery cards, though, all right? Those are handled differently.”

“Okay,” Claire said, and watched while he opened up the post office, wondering if this meant she was actually in charge.

The first person to come into the shop was Eleanor Carwell, dressed in the same twinset and tweed skirt she'd worn yesterday, looking just as sniffily imperious. She collected her milk and
Telegraph
and placed them both on the counter, clearing her throat unnecessarily as Claire hurried over.

“Behind the till now, are you?”

“Yes, just started.” Claire smiled brightly before picking up the paper and scanning it for the price. Considering she'd been staring at the newspapers for the last half hour, she should know where it was, but in her nervousness the lines of print blurred before her.

“It's a pound forty, dear,” Eleanor said tartly.

“Right.” She looked up. “Seems expensive for a daily newspaper.”

“I quite agree. Perhaps your employer would care to lower the price?”

“Oh, well . . . It's a national thing, isn't it?” Claire rang up the newspaper with a tiny sigh of relief and then glanced at the pint bottle of milk. There was no price sticker on it.

“Eighty pence,” Eleanor said with a slightly martyred air. “Do you not know the price of anything?”

“Not yet. I've just started. That's two pounds twenty, please.”

Eleanor took out her change purse and counted out eleven twenty-pence pieces before sliding them across the counter. “Have you spoken to your mother about me?” she asked.

“Oh. No, I'm sorry. I haven't spoken to my mother for a few days.” Although she'd seen that her mother had left two more voice mails, she hadn't listened to them yet. Dealing with Marie West took a level of fortitude Claire never seemed able to work up to.

“Well, I hope you improve in time,” Eleanor said with a nod towards the cash register, her tone implying she very much doubted it, and Claire sagged against the counter as she left the shop in a cloud of stale Yardley's lavender water.

The rest of the day passed in silence until lunchtime, when Dan
dismissed her for half an hour. “What about your lunch?” Claire asked. “Don't you want a break?”

“I can't have you in the shop alone,” he answered. “Not until you've learned a bit more, anyway.”

It wasn't raining for once, so Claire walked down to the beach café. It took longer than she'd expected, so by the time she stepped into the muggy warmth of the café, she realized she had only five minutes to eat if she wanted to make it back on time.

“Claire!” Abby greeted her from behind the counter. “Lucy told me you got the job at the post office shop.”

“Word travels fast here, doesn't it?”

“You should know that by now,” Abby answered with a smile. “What can I get for you?”

“I only have about five minutes,” Claire said, a note of apology in her voice. “I didn't realize how long it would take me to get down here. Do you have anything ready-made?”

“Only the kids' picnic baskets,” Abby said, and pointed to a row of luridly colored cardboard boxes that held, according to the sign above them, a sandwich, a juice box, a packet of raisins, and a biscuit.

“That's fine. I'll take one of those,” Claire said, and after paying and thanking Abby, she walked back outside, feeling more than a little ridiculous holding the little box with a picture of Buzz Lightyear on it. She found a park bench overlooking the sea and ate the jam sandwich, tilting her face up to the sun. She'd forgotten how beautiful it could be here when the sun actually came out. She'd hardly ever come down to the beach when she was younger; her parents had never been walkers, and when she was a teenager she'd always gone with the Wyndham girls into Whitehaven, to pursue the more alluring pleasures of the town's dodgy nightclubs. She would have preferred to go to the beach, but she'd never gone against the crowd.

It annoyed her now, how little backbone she'd had. How little she
still had, if she was honest with herself. She'd done everything everyone had asked of her, even gone into a clinic to dry out when she was pretty sure she didn't actually have a drinking problem. The trouble was, after so many years of obeying other people while you doubted yourself, Claire wasn't sure she knew how to be different. She definitely didn't think she had the strength.

But coming back to Cumbria had been a strong decision, even if it looked from the outside like merely running home. She just hoped she could keep at it. She knew the pressure from her parents would only get worse. Her mother was too used to managing her to stop now, and Claire was used to being managed. Not having someone arranging her movements, telling her what to do and even what to think, felt like dangling in midair, feet kicking uselessly.

It was only as she took these first few tentative steps that she realized there might actually be a foundation beneath her feet, even if she didn't know how strong or safe it was.

With a start Claire realized she'd spent ten minutes staring into space, half a jam sandwich dangling from her fingertips. She stuffed the bright box with its kiddie contents into the bin and hurried up the beach road, back to the shop.

She was late. Of course. Dan glowered at her but didn't say anything, and then pointed to the till. “You can manage that while I do the post office. There's usually a rush after lunch.”

There hadn't been yesterday, but obediently Claire went behind the till. She rang up four purchases in three hours, when Dan took over the mad rush of pupils from the primary. This time she managed to tap a bit more firmly on the shoulder of a boisterous-looking lad who had been trying to put a cherry bootlace in the pocket of his trousers, and he grinned sheepishly before putting it back. Progress.

Lucy came in just as she had before, after the children had left, as cheery as ever.

“Oh, Claire, I'm glad I caught you. Rachel's backed out of the pub quiz tonight, and so we're desperate for a fourth. You wouldn't mind coming, would you?”

“Oh . . . no, I suppose not.” Actually, she would mind. She couldn't think of anything worse than facing the loud scrum of the pub on quiz night, as well as twenty questions she knew she wouldn't be able to answer. “Why did Rachel back out?”

“She's not feeling well. Which means she must
really
not be feeling well, because Rachel never misses a quiz. But you'll come?”

“Well, I . . .” Dread seeped into Claire's stomach. Abby and Lucy and even Juliet were friendly, but the whole experience was an endurance test. The crowds, the noise, the feeling of ignorance and then the awkwardness at only drinking water while everyone was swilling wine. Although, actually, she'd like a glass of wine. “I suppose . . .”

“Great—”

“Can't you tell she doesn't want to go?”

Both Lucy and Claire turned in astonishment to see Dan leaning over the counter, scowling as usual, although this time it was at Lucy. “Stop pestering her. She said no yesterday and she's trying to say it today.”

“Oh.” Lucy's face crumpled a bit, and Claire felt a rush of sympathy.

“No, I don't mind . . .” she began, unconvincingly.

“Oh, I didn't realize,” Lucy said. “I'm sorry.” She turned to Claire with an uncertain smile. “I do rush on sometimes, I know, and I'm not always clued in to what's really going on . . . but if you don't want to go, you mustn't. I mean, we can always find a fourth. I just thought . . . ”

Claire was torn between appeasing a disappointed Lucy and taking the exit Dan had so surprisingly provided. In the end she chose to escape. “I'm sorry. I'm just not a party kind of person. But maybe something else, some other time, would be . . .” She trailed off, and Lucy nodded.

“Yes, of course. Sure. Brilliant.” She slapped a coin on the counter, waved at them both, and then hurried out of the shop.

Claire turned slowly to Dan. “Thank you,” she said. “I think?”

He arched an eyebrow, unsmiling. “What's to think?”