Now and Then Friends (7 page)

Rachel collected her pail of supplies from the back of the car and headed towards the house, knocking once and calling hello before she stepped inside.

The smell hit her first: a full nappy pail that clearly hadn't been emptied all day. Then the noise: nearly two-year-old twins who sounded like they were in a screaming contest.

“Sorry,” Emily Hart called as she came from the kitchen. She had a smear of jam on one cheek and a stain on the front of her jumper, which looked alarmingly like sick. “The twins are teething and they've just been horrid all day. If I could, I'd post them back to wherever they came from.”

“If you could do that, the Royal Mail would go on strike,” Rachel answered. “Imagine all the kiddies people would be trying to cram into the postbox.” She put her pail by the stairs and headed into the kitchen, the granite surfaces covered in the maternal detritus of half-empty sippy cups and biscuit crumbs. Rachel felt something squish under her foot and retrieved a graying half-eaten banana from the floor. “Cup of tea?” she called over her shoulder, and Emily slumped against the doorway.

“Yes, please. You're a saint, Rachel.”

“Saint of the tea bags.” She took the kettle, a modern triangular thing of gleaming chrome, and filled it at the sink. From the sitting room she could hear the toe-tapping theme song of
Fireman Sam
.

“They seem quiet now,” she remarked to Emily as she opened the cupboard and took out two mugs. Emily was, like the Fairley sisters, one of her clients who needed a bit of looking after; Rachel spent at least twenty minutes of her three hours at the Harts' house chatting with Emily or making tea. More than once she'd changed Riley's or Rogan's nappy; Emily had looked so pathetically grateful that Rachel hadn't been able to keep from offering. Between the twins and Nathan at home, she'd changed a lot of nappies for someone who didn't have kids and professed not to want them.

“I put on the telly,” Emily confessed in a whisper, as if the parenting police were going to jump out of a cupboard and arrest her for giving a
two-year-old too much screen time. “Just for half an hour,” she added, a pleading note entering her voice. “I don't do it all that often, honestly.”

The kettle began to whistle, and Rachel lifted it off the gleaming black hob. “Plug them into the matrix all day long as far as I'm concerned,” she said. “They won't be watching
Fireman Sam
when they're sixteen, I promise you.”

Emily gave a small smile. “No, but you know what they say about too much telly. It suppresses their creative development, leads to childhood obesity. . . .”

“And gives a mother a much-needed break. Trust me, the way Riley and Rogan careen about this place, you don't need to worry about obesity. I burn calories just watching them.” She poured the water into the mugs and dunked the tea bags a couple of times before she flicked them into the sink with a spoon. It would be her job to clean up the mess later.

Sitting at the table, cradling a mug of tea, Emily Hart started to look and no doubt feel human again. “You're lucky you don't have any kids,” she said as she took a sip of tea.

Rachel sat down across from her. “Having a kid sister is almost the same. I practically raised Lily.”

Emily eyed her curiously, and Rachel wondered what had made her say that. She didn't normally confide in her clients, or in anyone. First Juliet, now Emily. Seeing Claire West had shaken her up way too much, made her
say
things.

“How come you raised her?” Emily asked. “What about your parents?”

“My mum broke her back when I was eleven, just after Lily was born. She's pretty much been an invalid since then.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. . . .”

This was why she didn't share details with anyone. Pity was awful; it felt like a kind of well-meaning violence. “Thanks, but it's fine now. We're all fine. Lily is eighteen and about to do her A levels. She's going to Durham University next year.” If she got three As, which she would.
Rachel would make sure of it. And an A star in biology, because her sister really was that clever.

“Still, it must have been difficult,” Emily ventured, and Rachel rose from the table.

“For a little while, yes, of course. But it was a long time ago. Now, clearly the kitchen needs sorting,” she continued as she poured the rest of her tea out in the sink. “And the bathrooms, I'm sure. Anything else at the top of the list?”

Emily cringed guiltily. “The nappy pail . . .”

“First thing,” Rachel agreed. “And maybe I'll open a few windows while I'm at it.”

Three hours later she'd left the Harts' house with Riley and Rogan chucking wooden trains around the newly cleaned kitchen and Emily defrosting a pack of chicken breasts for dinner. It had all been oddly domestic and cozy as Rachel had buttoned up her coat and stuffed her supplies back into her pail. Maybe it made a difference that the kitchen was three times the size of her own, with granite counters and top-of-the-line appliances.

For a second she imagined living in this kind of house, pottering around this kind of kitchen. The kids she could take or leave, but the privacy, the space, the freedom . . .

Those were attractive.

Grimacing, Rachel headed towards her car. The fragile blue sky of that morning had darkened to pewter, and rain was spitting down like an insult. She threw her stuff in the back of the car before getting in and sitting there a moment, her hands on the steering wheel.

“Right,” she said aloud. “Get over it, Rachel. Move on, for heaven's sake.”

She had to, because Claire was here to stay, at least for a little while, and tomorrow she was cleaning her house.

It took Claire four days of moping around the house, venturing into Whitehaven by train for supplies, and randomly surfing the Internet for job opportunities before she worked up the courage to try the village shop again on Tuesday morning.

She wasn't sure she wanted to deal with Dan Trenton on a daily basis, but since she didn't have a car and train times were irregular, a job in the village really was ideal.

And if she got a job, even one stocking shelves at the post office shop, she'd have something to show her parents and brother, something to prove that she was actually making a life for herself here.

Even if it didn't feel that way. She hadn't seen Lucy or Abby or really anyone since her walk to the beach; the weather had been horrendous, at least compared to Portugal. Gusty wind and spitting rain, although that morning the sky had been blue. For about fifteen minutes. She'd forgotten how absolutely awful the weather could be here, although there was something strangely cozy about it too. Sitting snugly inside with a cup of tea while the heavens opened did make one feel safe.

Now Claire stood in front of the village shop and checked that the help-wanted sign was still in the window. Of course it was. Who really wanted this job?

Rain blew into her face, and she wiped her cheeks of moisture before stiffening her spine along with her resolve and heading inside.

No one was by the till, and the shop had an empty feel to it. Claire stood there for a moment, her gaze wandering around the shelves of dusty packets and tins, before she decided to go around to the back, where the post office was.

Dan Trenton was just coming from behind the post office counter with its wall of Plexiglas, and he was moving at a clip that nearly had Claire smacking into his concrete wall of a chest.

She took a hasty step backwards and Dan grabbed her by the arm. “Whoa.” He righted her even though she hadn't actually been losing her balance and then released her with a scowl. “You again.”

“Yes, me again. I wanted to ask about the job. Again.”

Dan moved past her to the till and then turned, his arms folded. Claire glanced at one of the tattoos: the name “Daphne” with an intricate design of vines and flowers around it.

“I thought you weren't sure how long you were staying.”

“At least six months,” Claire said firmly. “Probably longer.” She was lying, because she had no idea how long she'd end up being here. But she wanted this job. The more Dan resisted, the more determined she felt to get it, to actually achieve something on her own merit.

“Do you have retail experience?”

“I worked in real estate for the last four years, showing villas to prospective buyers. That's kind of like retail.”

His lip actually curled. “You don't need to showcase a tin of beans. I'm talking about handling money. Working a cash register. Basic stuff.”

“Well, then, no. But I could learn. I'm a quick learner.” Dan looked unconvinced and no wonder. She was a decidedly slow learner. “I could really use a job,” she added, hating that she'd resorted to begging, and so quickly. Dan Trenton did not seem like the kind of man who would be moved by pity. “And I'll work hard. Promise.” Still nothing. “It's not like you've a queue of people lining up to interview,” she finally burst out.

“I'm choosy.”

“Clearly.”

She held his gaze even though it was hard, and her breath too because this was incredibly nerve-racking. Then he gave one short, terse nod.

“Fine. You can work on probation for a fortnight, four days a week, at minimum wage. Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday do you?”

“Yes—”

“You can start tomorrow?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Eight o'clock sharp.”

“Okay. Thank you. You won't regret it.”

Dan Trenton didn't answer.

She headed back up to Four Gables without seeing anyone. The misting rain had upgraded to a downpour and the wind was starting to gust, which meant the handful of commuters trickling from the train station was walking with their shoulders hunched and heads down. One man was uselessly holding a soaked newspaper over his head, the thin paper coming apart in his hands, and a woman had made the mistake of opening her umbrella, which immediately blew inside out, revealing its bent spines.

Claire tried to give her a smile of sympathy, but the woman wasn't looking. No one was in this weather, and so she hurried down the street towards the beach road and then up to her house.

She had a job. After wrestling with the latch in the wind, Claire closed the front door of Four Gables behind her and leaned against it. She actually had a
job.
The first job she'd gotten all by herself. She knew her parents would scoff at her working in a shop; so would Andrew, for that matter. They were all ruthless academics, but working in a shop was more her speed, surly Dan Trenton aside.

“Claire?”

Andrew came around the corner from the kitchen, and Claire gaped,
feeling as if she'd conjured him from her mind. “Andrew . . . what are you doing here?”

“How about ‘welcome home'?” he responded wryly, and Claire moved forward to hug him. Awkwardly, because her family didn't really do hugs.

“Sorry. Welcome home. But I didn't know you were coming. Last time we talked you were in Minneapolis.”

“That job finished.” Andrew's arms had closed around her for one brief, tight hug before he stepped back. Claire hadn't actually seen her brother in more than two years; with her in Portugal and Andrew in America, their holiday times hadn't crossed. Or maybe they just hadn't wanted to come home for a West Family Christmas, with all the awful, excessive trimmings.

“You didn't say anything . . .” Claire began.

“Actually, I texted you. Do you ever check your phone?”

“Oh. No, not really.” She moved past him into the kitchen, and Andrew followed.

“Why not?”

“Because there's no one I want to talk to on it.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” she said as she turned around and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I didn't think you'd call. You usually don't.”

She hadn't meant it as an accusation, but Andrew must have taken it as one because he answered, “I know I should be in better touch.”

“I didn't mean it like that. But why are you here, Andrew? It's not like you to come back to Cumbria. You were rubbishing Hartley-by-the-Sea to me a few days ago.” She gazed at him, trying to see something in his expression, but as ever, Andrew was blank-faced, unsmiling, his dark hair a little damp from the rain.

“I have a couple days before my next project, which happens to be near Manchester,” he said. “So I decided to come back for a bit.”

“How long?”

“Four days.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath before voicing her fear. “Are you checking up on me?”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“I'm not a baby.”

“I didn't say you were.”

Claire expelled a frustrated breath. This was how conversations with Andrew always went. He won everything, even Monopoly. “I don't need anyone being worried about me.”

“Sorry, but that's not your choice.”

“I'm fine—”

“Really, Claire?” The words were a challenge, but his voice was gentle.

Claire's strength to stand up to her brother evaporated. “I wish you hadn't come,” she mumbled.

“Do you want me to leave?”

She didn't know if the question was genuine—when did Andrew ever do what she wanted?—but she pretended it was. “No, not now that you're here.” She realized she meant it, stupidly perhaps. Four Gables was huge, but it was going to feel very small with Andrew watching her all the time, measuring how much vodka and whiskey was in their dad's dusty bottles, thinking she was on the brink of toppling into alcoholism. She hadn't even been tempted to have a drink in the four weeks of rehab. She'd barely drunk anything during university; hard liquor had made her sick. But Andrew wasn't going to listen to her feeble protests. No one was.

“You don't sound convinced,” he remarked, and she sighed.

“I'm not. But like I said, you're here.” Her earlier euphoria about landing a job had started to trickle away. It was such a small, silly thing. “What are you doing in Manchester, anyway?”

“Working on some repairs to the Ridgegate Reservoir near Macclesfield.”

“Right.” Which made putting bread on shelves for a wage definitely feel a bit
less than.

“Claire . . .” Andrew's voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “Look, I know you've been through a difficult time. . . .”

Claire winced at the prospect of some emotive spiel from her brother. Or worse, yet another warning about how she shouldn't be alone. “Look, I need to shower and change,” she said. “I'm soaked just from walking here from the post office. I forgot how wet and windy Cumbria is.”

“You didn't get water in your ear?”

For a second she was propelled back to school days, when Andrew had been charged with Making Sure Claire Didn't Do Something Stupid.

“No, but in any case, a few drops of water won't actually—”

“Remember, the doctor said you could go completely deaf if you got water in your bad ear.”

As if she'd ever forget. “I'm going to shower,” Claire said, and left the kitchen without waiting for a response.

Upstairs she turned on the shower full blast and reached for the earplugs she'd been required to wear since she was four. It didn't usually bother her; it was just her thing. Claire's thing, to be deaf in one ear, missing its middle bones, having had countless surgeries and procedures over the years. No one in her family ever talked about it and hardly anyone knew. Hugh hadn't even known. As for being deaf in one ear, Claire had long ago learned to listen carefully and pretend she'd heard something when she hadn't. Usually it worked.

She showered and changed into yoga pants and a hoodie, gazing out at the shrubs and flower beds below. The hedges were clipped to military precision and the flower beds looked ruthlessly weeded. Absently Claire wondered how much her parents spent on gardening, and why,
when they came to Hartley-by-the-Sea for a couple of weekends a year. Maybe.

The answer, of course, was obvious. Appearances.

“Claire?” Andrew knocked on the door but didn't open it. “Fancy a takeaway?”

“From where? You're not in Manchester, you know.”

“There's a chippy in Egremont, if I remember correctly. Or an Indian place in Whitehaven. How about a curry?”

For the first time since her brother had arrived Claire felt genuinely glad he was there. Sharing a takeaway sounded so cozy, so
normal.
And she could use someone to talk to, even stodgy Andrew. “Okay,” she said. “Let's have a curry.”

An hour later—takeaway in Cumbria was not, by any means, fast food—they were sitting at the kitchen table with Andrew dividing the basmati rice into precise halves.

Claire glanced at the fine china and crystal glasses Andrew had put out as she tore off a strip of naan bread. “Pretty fancy for a takeaway.”

“It's always worth doing something properly.”

“Of course.” Andrew was definitely their mother's son.

“I can't remember the last time we were here together,” Claire remarked. Andrew sat back in his chair, reflecting.

“Your graduation from uni maybe?” He glanced around the kitchen with its top-end appliances. “It hasn't felt like home for a while.”

“I know. It's strange to me, in a way, that it ever was home. I thought Mum and Dad would sell it.”

Andrew's mouth twisted wryly. “I think they like having a second home in the Lake District, even if we're two hours away from the tony part.”

“Maybe. Funny, though, that they never really got involved here.”

“I don't know.” Andrew ladled some chicken korma onto both of their plates. “Dad was busy in Leeds, and Mum was busy with you.”

Claire grimaced. “Yes, I know.” She'd been her mother's full-time
job. “So, were you sad to leave Minneapolis?” she asked as they both started eating.

“Not particularly. Were you sad to leave Portugal?”

“Not particularly.” They smiled at each other, strangely conspiratorial, and then being Andrew, he got serious again.

“Have you heard from Hugh?”

“Nope.” Claire swallowed a piece of chicken that seemed poised to stick in her throat. “I think I've been officially dumped.”

“Mum seemed to think the two of you might get back together.”

Claire grimaced. “Of course Mum thinks that. She loved Hugh. Probably still loves him.” Hugh ticked all of her mother's boxes: wealthy, intelligent, good-looking, successful, charming. Shallow and with a hidden cruel streak too, although those qualities might not have bothered her mother, if she'd ever noticed them.