Now and Then Friends (6 page)

“The car should be there by noon,” Marie said. “You can be in London by dinnertime.”

For a second Claire pictured it: the sleek black sedan pulling up the lane, the driver holding the door open, all obsequious charm. She'd slide inside and doze her way down to London, arrive at her parents' flat in South Kensington, sleep in the second guest room; the first they kept for more important guests. And then what? Slot into some kind of life her parents had arranged? A job at an art gallery or museum, something barely paid but seemingly prestigious. She'd meet up with the group of catty acquaintances she'd called friends, daughters and nieces and grandchildren of her mother's socialite cronies. And endure and endure and endure.

“I don't want to be in London by dinnertime,” she said quietly. Just this much defiance took more strength than she feared she had. “Please, Mum, just let me be, for a little while at least. You can call me every day. You can send someone over to check on me. Just . . . let me
be.” Her voice ended on something close to a whimper, making her cringe.

Marie was silent for a long moment. “I am not happy with this, Claire,” she said sternly, and then let out a long, weary sigh. “Fine, since you are being so
difficult.
But if at any moment I feel like things aren't going well, I'm sending someone to get you. Is that clear?”

“Very.”

“I'll call you tonight,” Marie promised, and Claire murmured her thanks and goodbye before hanging up and rolling over onto her side, a pillow clutched to her stomach.

So this was freedom. She didn't know why she'd been so determined to stay here. It wasn't as if Hartley-by-the-Sea had anything to offer her. It was better than being micromanaged in London by her mother, but only just. She couldn't stand the thought of staying in the house all day, wandering through its elegant, empty rooms, feeling anchorless and adrift.

But she didn't need to stay inside, hiding. It was a beautiful, if chilly, day, and it had been years since she'd been down to the beach. Claire showered and dressed and then headed outside, the brisk wind making her eyes water as she started down the lane towards the main road and then turned right towards the beach.

Sheep pasture bordered the road on both sides, the tufty grass touched with frost. Puffy white clouds studded a fragile blue sky, and by the time she'd reached the promenade, her eyes were streaming from the wind.

The tide was in, so Claire stood on the concrete promenade and watched the white-tipped waves crash against the railings before turning towards the shabby little beach café up on the promontory. She'd hardly ever been inside; her parents had preferred to go farther afield, to the more fashionable towns of Cockermouth or Keswick, for refreshment.

There weren't many people in the café; Claire saw a couple of
elderly ladies chatting as they dipped their shortbread biscuits into cups of milky tea. A little boy was playing in a corner that had been set up as a play area, with a blanket and some books and toys.

A dark-haired woman emerged from the kitchen and Claire realized it was Abby, whom she'd met at the pub quiz last night.

“Hello,” Abby exclaimed. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I didn't know you worked here.” Claire came towards the till and perused the plastic-covered menu self-consciously.

“My grandmother owns the place,” Abby explained, “but she's been unwell. Noah and I are living with her until she gets back on her feet.”

“Noah . . . ?”

Abby nodded towards the little boy playing in the corner. “My son,” she said, a slight note of proud challenge entering her voice.

“Of course.” Claire smiled at the boy, who, at the mention of his name, had looked up from his toys. “Well,” she said, only half joking, “you don't have a job going, do you?”

Abby made a face. “Sorry. I wish I did. I wish I had enough business to warrant the help.”

“It was worth a shot,” Claire said. “How about an egg-and-bacon sandwich and a cup of tea instead?”

“That I can do,” Abby said, and rang up the order. Claire paid and then wandered to a table by the window, where she could watch the sea surge and swell. She propped her chin on her hands and wondered where else she could look for a job, and then she wondered if she really
wanted
a job.

Did she want to stay in Hartley-by-the-Sea? Maybe only by default, because she had nowhere else to go. But to get a job, actually settle down here, if only for a while?

She turned the thought over in her mind, trying to imagine it. Working here, making friends here, building a life. Something she'd never actually done before, not really.

She'd spent four years in Portugal, but it hadn't felt like a life or a home. She'd had a job that had felt like being a show pony, a glamorous, soulless executive flat, and a fiancé who had sometimes felt like a stranger. A charming, handsome stranger but someone she didn't really know or miss.

The thought brought a sense of shame, that she'd come so close to tying her life to a man she didn't actually care about. But then she didn't know if Hugh had even cared about her. She'd never really understood why he'd wanted to marry her, except that she looked good on his arm and always did what he said. Not exactly the stuff of romantic dreams.

He hadn't called her once since she'd left Portugal a month ago, hadn't sent so much as a text. It was as if he'd disappeared from her life, and the worst thing was she didn't feel hurt or even disappointed. She only felt relief.

“Here you go.” Abby put down her sandwich, along with a little tin pot of tea and a jug of milk.

“Thanks.”

She stood there while Claire poured the tea and milk, starting to feel self-conscious under the women's scrutiny.

“I think you should try the post office shop again,” Abby said. “I know Dan Trenton can be a bit unfriendly, but honestly, he's like that with everyone.”

“Is he?” Claire took a sip of tea. “I don't actually have any experience working in that kind of environment.”

“You don't need much. Just ringing up the till, stocking shelves, I imagine.” Abby hesitated. “What did you do out in Portugal, then?”

“I worked in real estate.” It sounded far more important than it had been. “Really, I just showed retirees a new estate of villas my fiancé was developing. It didn't involve much more than walking around an empty house, opening doors and talking about the
stunning ocean views and dual-aspect kitchen.” She grimaced at the memory, and Abby cocked her head.

“Didn't like it much, did you?”

“Not really.”

“What happened to the fiancé?” Abby asked. “If you don't mind me asking?”

“We broke up.” Claire felt her face heat. “Actually, he dumped me. I think.”

“You think?”

“Well.” Claire grimaced. “We left it a bit . . . undecided. I was coming to England, and we haven't spoken in a month. So.”

“You don't seem too disappointed.”

She let out a laugh, surprised at Abby's bluntness. “No, I'm not. And yet I stayed with him for nearly four years. I'm not sure what that says about me.”

“Maybe that you're very patient?” Abby suggested with a smile. “Enjoy your sandwich.” She turned away to tend to a pair of hikers who had come into the café, stomping mud from their caked boots and brandishing elaborate-looking walking sticks. Claire stared out at the sea.

Perhaps she would try Dan Trenton again. Why not? She'd made two sort-of friends since she'd come back to Hartley-by-the-Sea, and as she sipped her tea she could almost imagine what it would feel like to live here. To have a life. To be free and independent and happy.

Three things she'd never really felt before, but maybe, just maybe, she could feel them—be them—here.

Rachel gazed in weary dismay at the en suite bathroom she was cleaning. Four wet towels in a sodden heap on the floor; coarse, dark hair filling up the drains of both the shower and the sink; and as for the toilet . . .

“Oy, Juliet,” she called. “Who did you have staying here? A pair of gorillas?”

“Some hikers who are in uni,” Juliet called back up. “They weren't the tidiest blokes.”

“You should have charged extra,” Rachel answered as she started spritzing the shower stall. “
I
should charge extra.”

“Shall I put the kettle on?”

“You'd better, and make it a double.”

Twenty minutes later Rachel came downstairs to the kitchen of Tarn House, with its cheerful green Aga and the view of the sheep pasture leading to the dark green fells in the distance. Juliet Bagshaw stood at the sink, rinsing out a teapot, as Rachel bundled the wet towels into the washer.

“You survived,” she said, humor glinting in her gray eyes, and Rachel grimaced.

“Only just. The toilet almost defeated me.”

Juliet held up a hand. “I really don't want to know.”

“I'm sure you don't.” The kettle started whistling, and Juliet whisked
it off the Aga's hot plate while Rachel made herself comfortable at the kitchen table. Juliet was always good for a cup of tea and a chat.

“So,” Juliet said as she poured water into the teapot, “what's going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Lucy said you weren't yourself at the pub quiz last week.”

“Wasn't myself?” Rachel tried to joke. “Who was I, then?”

“‘Not on top form' were her actual words.”

“I single-handedly answered seventeen of the twenty questions. I'd say that was top form, or close to it.”

Juliet turned around, planting her hands on her hips as she gave Rachel a stern look. “Rachel. Quit it. You know what I mean.”

“Who says I do?” Rachel challenged grumpily. Six months ago Juliet had minded her own business well enough; it was only since her half sister, Lucy, had come to stay, and she'd begun dating Peter Lanford, that she'd started
emoting
. Right now Rachel didn't like it.

“Seriously,” Juliet said as she poured the tea into mugs and brought them to the table. She pushed the milk jug towards Rachel. “Is something going on?”

“Nothing more than usual. Lily doesn't want to study and Meghan is being a lazy pain in the backside. But what else is new?” Rachel poured milk into her tea and stirred it vigorously.

“And what about this Claire West, then?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. What about her?” Juliet raised her eyebrows, an eloquent response, and Rachel blew out a breath. “All right, fine. Maybe I was a bit snippy with Claire at the pub quiz, but only because she's so bloody useless.” Juliet sipped her tea, waiting for more, and annoyed now, Rachel gave it to her. “Look, I know Lucy's taken Claire under her wing because Lucy's like that. She's always looking to fix people. But that doesn't mean I have to.”

“Of course you don't,” Juliet answered mildly. “How do you even know Claire?”

“Didn't Lucy tell you that? We went to primary school together.” Juliet cocked her head, waiting, and Rachel groaned.

“Oh, honestly, Juliet. We used to be friends, all right? Best friends, way back when.”

“And what happened?” Juliet sounded uncharacteristically gentle rather than her usual acerbic self. Letting both Lucy and Peter into her life had softened Juliet, so now Rachel felt like the one with brittle edges, the hard angles.

“We stopped being friends,” she answered. “As you do.”

“Do you?”

“Come on, Juliet. Are you still friends with your bestie from Year Two?”

“I didn't have a
bestie
,” Juliet said with a grimace.

“Your BFF, then.”

“Oh, please.”

Rachel grinned, but Juliet kept giving her a knowing, beady look, and with a sigh she continued. “We just . . . grew apart. I guess.” Or rather, Claire grew apart from her. Quite abruptly. At least it had felt abrupt, but maybe it hadn't been. Maybe it had been more of a drifting as the reality of secondary school approached, and Claire had naturally gravitated towards the girls who would be going to Wyndham. Rachel had a distinct memory of coming into the school yard and seeing Claire surrounded. She'd stopped short, and Claire had looked away. Even now, nearly twenty years later, that memory made her chest hurt. “It was a long time ago,” she said to Juliet.

“But she still gets under your skin.”

“Maybe a bit . . .” Rachel stared down at the milky depths of her tea, embarrassed by the admission. What had happened between her and Claire was ancient history, virtually irrelevant. What grown woman was still bothered by a breakup with a childhood friend? Before last week she hadn't spoken to Claire West since they'd both been in school
pinafores. She'd hardly spared her a thought in the last ten years. So why all the angst and anger now? It didn't make sense.

“She really gets to you,” Juliet observed.

“No.” The denial was both instinctive and necessary. “She doesn't. Honestly. We were best friends, I know, but I'm not so pathetic that it matters or hurts me now. It's just . . .” Rachel hesitated. She didn't talk about her childhood very much. She never mentioned her father, or the way he'd left without a hug, a note, or even a backwards glance. In the ten years since his abrupt departure, all of the Campbell women had preferred to pretend he'd never existed. “That time in my life was hard,” she finally told Juliet, each word drawn from her with reluctance. “My mum broke her back right as I was leaving Year Six and Lily was only tiny and my dad was out of work. It was
hard.
Anyway,” she said, her tone turning deliberately dismissive, “I think seeing Claire again after all this time brought it back. So it's not her. It's just . . . that time of life.”

Which sounded plausible, although Juliet didn't look as if she was buying it. And the truth was, it
was
about Claire, at least in part. Claire with her perfect hair and teeth and clothes and family; Claire with parents who'd bought her a car and a flat in London and who were
there
. Who took care of her. Who made her life easy.

But that was a dangerous way to start thinking. “Anyway,” Rachel said, injecting a cheerfully brisk note of moving-on-now into her voice, “what's up with you? How are things with Peter?”

Just the mention of Peter Lanford's name caused Juliet's cheeks to turn pink and her eyes to brighten. Rachel suppressed a laugh. Before Peter, Juliet had never been so obvious. So
happy.
It was cute, if a little saccharine.

“They're fine,” she said. “Just fine.”

“That's all you're going to tell me?”

“What do you want,
details?
”

“Well, yes, actually. A few, at least. Come on, Juliet. For ten years you've lived in this village and barely said boo to anyone.”

“That's not fair—”

“All right,” Rachel conceded, “you've growled boo to a few people. You haven't been the friendliest—”

“I tried,” Juliet protested. “I'm still trying. No one changes overnight, you know. And if you think I'm going to just go ahead and spill all the details of my love life—”

“Ooh,” Rachel couldn't resist teasing.
“Love life.”

Color deepened in Juliet's cheeks as she rose from the table. “Right, then. This conversation is officially over.”

“Are you and Peter serious?” Rachel pressed. “I mean, it has been six months, and neither of you is getting any younger—”

“Thanks very much for reminding me.”

“Are you thinking marriage yet?” Rachel asked, grinning. “The whole nappies-and-bottle routine? You know . . .” She propped her elbows on the table, leaning forward as she made her eyes go wide.
“Babies.”

Juliet gave a shudder. “
Don't
mention babies.”

“You don't long for the pitter-patter of little feet?”

Juliet stared out the window at the muddy pasture, her gaze turning distant. “It's not that. But it's . . . complicated. I'm not sure babies are in the cards for me. I've got limited fertility as it is.”

“Oh, I didn't know that,” Rachel said, dropping the joking tone. “I'm sorry.”

“It's fine, honestly.” Juliet cleared their mugs and dumped them in the sink. Rachel saw something brittle in the way she moved, and she wished she hadn't pressed quite so much. Clearly Juliet had sorrows in her life she hadn't shared with Rachel, which was hardly unexpected. The woman had been a completely closed book until six months ago.

“What about you?” Juliet asked. “I hear you were getting rather cozy with Rob Telford at the pub quiz.”

“What!” Rachel sat up straight. “Lucy again, I suppose?”

“No, not Lucy.” Juliet's mouth curved in a small smile. “Kate Barton, from Hillside Farm. I buy eggs off her.”

Rachel let out a groan. “She was in the year above me at school. Is
nothing
private in this place?”

“You've lived in this village all your life and you're only realizing that now?”

“No,” Rachel conceded with sigh. “Just having a moan about it.”

“Kate said you were wearing a sexy top and leaning over the bar while you talked to Rob.”

Rachel could tell her friend was enjoying this. “And that constitutes flirting, I suppose.”

“Not just flirting. Kate's mother is wondering when you're getting married.”

“Juliet.”

“You know how things are in Hartley-by-the-Sea,” Juliet answered, unrepentant. “Really, you ought to be surprised there isn't a notice in the parish magazine, grateful that the church hasn't been booked. Yet.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies.”

“Exactly.”

“I'm not really interested in Rob Telford,” Rachel said as she traced a pattern in the weathered wood of the kitchen table with one finger. “I just wanted a distraction.”

“Poor Rob, then.”

“I'm not all that sure Rob Telford is interested in me. Anyway, I don't have time to date.”

“What about the whole nappies-and-bottles routine for you?” Juliet challenged. “You're getting close to thirty, after all.”

“I'm twenty-eight,” Rachel answered indignantly. “In any case, I've already done the nappies and bottles with my sister Lily, and I still help out with Nathan.”

“They say it's different when it's your own.”

“I don't think it is.” Rachel rose from the table. “I should go. The Harts are expecting me at three.”

“Are they the new family that's moved up to the top of the village?”

“They have toddler twins. Which makes me all the more certain about not having kids of my own.” Rachel had meant it to come out flippantly, but she had a feeling she sounded bitter. And she wasn't bitter. Not about Lily, anyway. She'd never regret taking care of Lily, or having Nathan in her life.

“Rachel.” The compassion in Juliet's voice had her tensing by the door, her back to Juliet. “Look, I understand about someone blowing into your life unexpectedly and stirring up all sorts of memories,” Juliet said. “Trust me on that.”

“I know,” Rachel said, although she didn't really. She knew Lucy and Juliet had had issues, that until Lucy had come to live with Juliet, their relationship as half sisters had been nonexistent and then fraught, but not any of the details. In any case, it was strong now, and Lucy and Juliet had each found happiness with a bloke to boot. Juliet might have once understood how Rachel was feeling, but she was in a different, better place now.

“When Lucy first knocked on my door,” Juliet persisted, as stubborn as ever, “I wanted to slam it in her face. Even though I was the one who invited her.”

“But you didn't,” Rachel said. “And it's all good now.”

“That doesn't mean it wasn't hard.”

Slowly she turned around. “What are you trying to tell me, Juliet? To give Claire a chance? We aren't
sisters.
We were friends about twenty years ago, when we were children. We've both moved on. And like I told you, my . . . issues have nothing to do with Claire.”

Juliet regarded her evenly, her gray eyes seeming far too shrewd. “As you like,” she said, and whistled for her dogs, two greyhounds who came scurrying towards her, to come with her outside.

It was obvious that Juliet didn't believe her, and unfortunately Rachel didn't believe herself either. She drove up the high street to the top of the village and parked in the drive of the Harts' neat new build, two stories of smart red brick with a slate roof and a fenced-in garden of runty trees and anemic-looking shrubbery.