Summer at Shell Cottage (27 page)

Since the Pedalo Ride of Despair, where Freya had confessed all to Victor, she had made a few big decisions.
The first was on the drinking front.
As she had vowed to Harriet,
she was going cold turkey, cutting it out for good, bosh.
Three days later, she was proud to say that she hadn’t touched a drop.
Going to bed stone-cold sober was a novel experience and the
first couple of nights she had lain there, head buzzing with spirals of thought, unable to switch off her brain without the dulling tether of alcohol.
Waking up without the jarring ache of a
hangover was worth it, though.
She felt alert and energized each morning now, ready for anything, even child-wrangling.
Well, well.
Who knew?

Of course, it was early days, and she definitely wasn’t kidding herself that stopping drinking was going to be easy.
It had become a habit for her, a crutch on which she had leaned far too
heavily.
Just the night before, Olivia had opened a bottle of port and the smell was enough to make Freya salivate.
She and her dad had loved a drop of port after a large dinner, especially on
Christmas Day.
But in the next second, she remembered the seaweed-in-hair moment when Libby had stared at her with such reproach, and she poured herself a glass of orange juice instead.
No.
Don’t go back there.

Thankfully Freya was the sort of person who saw things through when she put her mind to it.
She had a steel rod for a spine; determination ran through her veins.
‘I can do this,’ she
said to Victor, doggedly drinking her juice.

‘I know you can.
If anyone can, it’s you,’ he said.

Her second decision concerned Victor.
Their conversation on the pedalo had been cut short when they rounded a corner and saw that Teddy – of course – had fallen in the water and was
currently drying off on the riverbank along with Robert, who had leapt in to haul him out.
‘I went swimming!’
Teddy cheered, waving his hands above his head.
‘Don’t worry, I
didn’t lose my glasses!’

Since then, there hadn’t really been the moment for another heart-to-heart with her husband.
They had been courteous to each other, kind, even.
He was keeping an eye on her, she could
tell, his gaze flicking to hers more often than usual, putting a solicitous arm around her as they sat out on the patio
en famille
in the evening.
She couldn’t help worrying a little
about what he was
not
saying, though.
After Dad’s secret affair, and now Robert and Harriet seeming to have had a bust-up, this holiday was fast turning into the Hunger Games of
Tarrant relationships.
Would any of them survive the fortnight?

She
wanted
their marriage to survive, that was the key thing.
And so decision number two was most definitely to find a way to get their relationship back on track.
She would build up
the courage to talk to him properly and find a way to muddle through.

Decision number three was the one she was about to tackle now, though, and it involved an apology she should have made two weeks ago.

Don’t
, her boss Elizabeth had advised when Freya had first suggested it.
Saying sorry is tantamount to accepting culpability.
Mrs Taylor could use it against you – she
could sue you, twist your words.
You could be putting your job in jeopardy.

Freya had gone along with her boss’s instructions at the time, not wanting to risk her career in any way.
But the decision had weighed heavily on her conscience this whole time.
It had not
felt honourable or honest.
It went against Freya’s personal code of right and wrong to duck an apology.
And so now, this morning, it was time to change that and make the call.

For once, the house was quiet.
Mum had gone off with Gloria, who seemed to have transformed from Gloria-the-cleaner into Gloria-the-new-best-friend, judging by the way both women had been
cackling as they clambered into Gloria’s clapped-out Mini together.
(Freya was
delighted
!
Mum had never really gone in for female friends before.
‘I prefer to spend time with
your father,’ she’d always said, and Freya had never quite voiced the
Yes, but .
.
.
that rose to her lips each time.) Victor had taken the children down to the beach with the
bodyboards (and Teddy’s armbands); Freya had promised to join them just as soon as she’d made this call.
Neither Robert nor Harriet were anywhere to be seen and their car had gone
(maybe they had taken out a Heartbreak Pedalo of their own), although Molly was still in the house, judging by how long the shower had been running just now.

Meanwhile, her phone waited silently beside her.
The sooner she got this over and done with, the sooner she could head down to the beach with the others.
Come on, Freya.
Do the right
thing.

She perched on the edge of the bed, suddenly nervous.
What if she did end up losing her job because she’d said sorry, and a court viewed that as guilt?
When she’d talked it through
with Victor the night before, sitting up on the patio with their glasses of lemonade (lemonade!), he’d told her gruffly that it sounded as if she didn’t have anything to apologize for
anyway.
‘It wasn’t your fault the baby got ill.
You said yourself, you made all the right checks at the time.’

‘I know, but .
.
.’

‘Just do what you’ve got to do, Freya.
Follow your instincts.
If you want to apologize, do it, and we’ll deal with the consequences, whatever they are, later.’

Do what you’ve got to do, Freya.
It was good advice.
Time to stop prevaricating and act.
With a shaking finger, she dialled Melanie’s number and waited.
Ring ring.
Ring
ring.
Ring ring.
Freya’s breath tightened in her lungs.
Then the voicemail message kicked in.

This is Melanie, I can’t take your call right now.
Leave me a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.

Leave a message.
Ugh.
Freya hadn’t considered having to leave a message.
She thought about hanging up in a moment of panic, but Melanie’s phone would surely store her number.
No.
Deep breath.
Do it.

BEEP.
‘Er .
.
.
Hello.
This is Freya.
Doctor Castledine.
I’m just ringing to say that I really hope Ava’s on the mend and you’re okay.’
Another deep
breath.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you.
My boss actually advised me not to, but .
.
.’
Her mouth dried and she had to force herself on.
‘Well, look, I just wanted to
say that I’m sorry.
I wasn’t at my best the day that you came in.
I’m not making excuses; I should have been more on the ball.
So I’m sorry if I let you down.’
She
wanted to cry all of a sudden.
She wasn’t even sure what she was saying any more, let alone whether or not this was the right thing to do.
‘For what it’s worth, I genuinely
didn’t see any signs of serious illness when you came in.
My mind might have been elsewhere but I would have noticed, I promise you that.
I’m on holiday right now but I’ve been
thinking about you and Ava.
Maybe we could have a chat when I’m back in Oakthorne.’

She had run out of words.
‘That’s it, really.
Forget doctor–patient, I just wanted to reach out as a human being and a mum, and say all of this.
I should have said it sooner,
so I’m sorry for that, too.
Okay.’
Wrap it up now.
She would be cut off any second.
‘Well, take care anyway.
Bye.’

She pressed ‘End call’ and collapsed backwards onto the bed.
Had she even been coherent?
She hoped she had sounded sincere, at the very least.
She hoped, too, that Melanie would
accept her apology in the spirit it had been made and not let rip at her again.

Freya exhaled noisily.
Christ, doing the right thing was exhausting.
But that was one important job crossed off the list, one amend hopefully made.
Now for some quality time with her loved ones,
as the magazines liked to call it.
Or trying not to mind when your six-year-old attempted to give you a wedgie on a public beach, as she preferred to think of it.

There were three main bedrooms on the first floor of Shell Cottage: her parents’ room, Freya and Victor’s, and the room shared by Rob and Harriet.
Her children were
wedged into the box room at the back, up a small flight of stairs, whereas Molly had been sleeping in the attic room.

The house had seemed silent earlier, bar the long-running shower, but as Freya walked along the landing, she heard voices from Rob’s room and paused in confusion.
Who was the male voice
she could hear talking to Molly?
Oh, right.
She must have the call on speakerphone or something.

Freya was not generally a nosey person but as she passed the bedroom, an overheard phrase stopped her in her tracks.

‘You would, if you loved me,’ the male voice said.

The words instantly triggered a warning bell in her head.
Oh, what?
How many millions of manipulative men had said
that
to women over the centuries?
And now here was some lad trying it
on with poor innocent Molly, by the sound of things.
Don’t give in to that kind of bullshit, Molly
, she thought fiercely, gripping the bannister and cocking an ear to hear the
girl’s response.

‘Well .
.
.
I don’t know.
I mean .
.
.
I should check with Mum.’

‘No.
Don’t tell her.
Don’t tell anyone.
This is our secret, Molls.
If you tell anyone, I won’t see you again.
Do you understand?
If you tell anyone, it’s
over.’

Freya felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck.
The sly little bastard
, she thought to herself indignantly.
She had a good mind to charge into the bedroom, snatch the phone and
have a few words with this jerk herself.
She tiptoed towards the open door and peered through the crack along the hinged side.

Molly was sitting on the bed speaking into her laptop.
Ahh, Skype, then.
She was fully dressed at least, but sounded subdued as she replied.
‘Okay.
So .
.
.
what’s the plan, then?
Where are you staying?’

‘It’s called the Ennisbridge Hotel.
Only a couple of miles from you, I checked.
Double bedroom.
Just the two of us.’

Freya put her hand up to her mouth.
Oh my goodness.
Did Harriet know about this?
She would bet anything she didn’t have a clue.
‘Boyfriend?’
she had laughed the other day at
the Co-op.
‘No, not Molly!’
Harriet worshipped her daughter.
If she had the faintest idea that this kind of conversation was taking place, there was no way she’d have left the
house that morning.

‘Here,’ the male voice continued.
‘I’ve just texted you a link to where it is.
You can’t miss it, though: right on the seafront, big white building.
We can be
together at last, just me and you.’
Freya heard him laugh, low and throaty.
‘I can’t wait to see those tan lines in person, babe.’

Molly giggled but through the crack in the door, Freya thought she could see a nervous light in the girl’s eyes.
Christ.
Don’t do this, Molly.
Don’t go!

‘Okay,’ Molly said.
She blew a kiss to the screen.
‘I’m on my way.’

Freya immediately scuttled back to her room, heart thumping, as she heard Molly shut the laptop and then, moments later, hurtle down the stairs.
What should she do?
She couldn’t let Molly
go off and meet this boy without trying to get hold of Harriet.
In fact, she couldn’t let her go at all.
Yes, eavesdropping was awful, and yes, Molly would probably hate her for interfering,
but Freya had to stop her step-niece before she did anything she regretted.
Call it women’s intuition, call it a mother’s sixth sense, but she didn’t like the sound of this guy
one bit.