The Beach Hut (34 page)

Jane’s throat was dry. She nodded as she took in the implications. This was Terence finally salving his conscience. As the waiter arrived with the tea, and presented the three-tier cake stand with a flourish, then poured a glass of champagne for them each, she was overcome with a desire to laugh. Which she did, then put a hand over her mouth.

‘I’m so sorry, Norman. It’s just ...’

Norman’s eyes were twinkling. He was so used to dishing out bad news, and wrangling with dry and dusty legal loopholes, that this was a novelty for him. And Jane was one of his favourite clients. He had been outraged on her behalf at the mess Graham had left her in. This was a delightful postscript as far as he was concerned. Although not without its caveats, as he was going to go on to explain.

‘There’s no doubt this will go quite some way to solving your financial problems. But it carries with it its own thorny issues, not least the question of publicity. The publishers know there is a story behind this, Jane, and they’ll be pushing for it.’ He looked at her perspicaciously. ‘Apparently Terence made it quite clear in his will that the story is yours, and yours alone, to tell if you want to. It’s pretty valuable in itself - you could get a substantial sum from one of the Saturday broad-sheets, depending on the . . . subject matter. How . . . revealing it is. Of course, the juicier it is, the more copies the book will sell.’

Jane nodded. She could see that only too clearly. The story was dynamite. She didn’t need Max Clifford to tell her that. She took a sip of champagne, quite shaken, and not sure what to think.

‘As I said, the family are not happy - particularly his most recent wife and the daughter you saw at the funeral. They’re talking about contesting the will, but they haven’t got a leg to stand on. Terence was quite lucid when he changed it, wrapped it up good and proper, thankfully, so it’s watertight. Which makes you potentially very wealthy, Jane. Even more so, depending on how you decide to play it. You might well decide that anonymity is worth more to you than the extra cash would be. But bear in mind that the press will probably now have your name, after that debacle at the funeral’ - Norman’s withering tone made it quite clear he thought the daughter’s behaviour out of order - ‘and although Terence wasn’t exactly ...’ he groped for a suitable analogy, ‘David Beckham in terms of popular appeal, he had a certain cult status, so there will be interest in tracking you down and getting your side of the story.’

After several more sips of deliciously crisp Taittinger, Jane thought it was about time she spoke. She could see that Norman, despite his professional discretion, was itching for the truth. More than once, his eyebrows had risen more than their usual minuscule amount.

‘It’s a short and rather pathetic story,’ she told him. ‘It finally ended earlier this summer. But it began in 1964 ...’

 

The day after the party the heavens opened and it rained solidly for three days, which suited Roy perfectly. It meant he could keep his head low, and it also meant that all the beach-hut owners, including the Lowes, hastily began to shut up for the summer and leave Everdene. By the time he went back down to the huts, The Shack was firmly locked. It was as if the party had never happened. A fine mist came in from the sea and heavy clouds hung over the horizon, as if his mood was dictating the weather. The beach was deserted. It was as desolate as he was.

Nothing could have prepared him for the way he felt. Bereft. Abandoned. As if Jane had hacked a piece of his heart out and taken it back home with her. And he had no one to talk to. His friends would only take the mickey. His mother would say ‘I told you so’. He only talked to his dad about drill bits and fishing, not affairs of the heart.

And he certainly couldn’t talk to Marie.

He avoided her for as long as he possibly could. He had his hands full making the huts good for the winter, ensuring they were totally weatherproof and secure before the really bad weather set in. Twice she came down to see him while he was working, and he pretended to be busier than he really was. He’d taken the sandwiches and cake she’d brought him and turned away, climbing back onto the roof he was mending. He couldn’t bear to see the hurt on her face. She didn’t deserve his hostility. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t want the consolation prize. And he didn’t think it was fair on Marie to be the consolation prize either. No one wants to be second best.

But he didn’t have the courage to tell her how he felt, because then he really would be left with nothing. After all, Jane wasn’t going to come knocking on his door, telling him she had made a mistake and declaring undying love. She was gone, back to London and the bright lights, probably, and chances are he wouldn’t see her again, at least not until next summer, by which time she would probably be in love with some impossibly sophisticated man she had met in one of the nightclubs she kept talking about. He had just been someone to chat to while she was bored, a minor distraction.

The thought depressed him profoundly, but Roy was nothing if not a realist, and he had plenty of time to ponder his predicament as he hammered and sawed and oiled and painted. By the time the following weekend came around, he had arrived at the conclusion that he would just have to make the most of what he had got. He would take Marie out for dinner, get dressed up, try and see if he could spark something up between them. He did
like
her, after all. She’d been good enough for him once. He wasn’t going to let Jane’s rejection ruin his life.

He booked a table for two at Captain Jack’s, the tiny restaurant at the top of the town. Marie’s eyes had lit up when he told her, and she almost seemed to go into a panic, flustering about what to wear. He told her she’d look lovely in anything, but he could tell this wasn’t what she wanted to hear. And by the time the Saturday came around and he went to pick her up from the flat above the café where she lived with her parents, he could tell she had somehow, in the intervening days, gone into Bamford and bought a new dress. A yellow dress, not unlike one Jane had worn.

Only on Jane it had looked simple, elegant, fresh. It didn’t really suit Marie. It was too tight around the bust, and the colour did nothing for her. But he admired her anyway, because that was what you had to do. They walked through the early-evening sun, through the streets, his arm in hers. She was chattering, excited. He could feel her body brush up against his as they walked. She wanted to be close to him. He wanted to be a million miles away.

At the restaurant, they were treated like a king and queen. Most of the summer visitors had left, and so there were only a few diners. Nothing was too much trouble. They had a gin and bitter lemon at the bar before they sat down, and Roy ordered a bottle of wine - the maître d’ had guided him kindly, not condescendingly, towards his choice.

After two glasses, a flushed Marie finally brought the party up.

‘It went on till gone midnight,’ she told him.

‘Did it?’ he replied. ‘I left at about eight. Everyone was getting a bit ...’

‘Yes,’ she told him, then leant in, her eyes gleaming. ‘And do you know what else? Apparently Jane Lowe’s been having a thing with that writer. You know, the one in the big house.’

Roy felt himself go hot, and his blood start to foment. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip.’

‘It’s not gossip. Catherine Lammas heard them . . . doing it when she went there to clean.’ She sat back with a smile of satisfaction. ‘So there.’

Roy looked down at his steak. He thought he might be sick. He took another swig of wine.

‘Imagine - carrying on with a man old enough to be her father. And he’s got another woman in there now. Some glamour-puss from London. I bet she sent Jane packing . . .’

Marie’s words washed over him. Roy emptied his glass, then nodded as the maître d’ indicated he would bring another bottle. It was the only way he was going to get through the evening. He couldn’t listen to another word of her prattle - malicious gossip that was totally unfounded.

Although, deep down, he knew it probably wasn’t.

Marie went into raptures over the dessert trolley. Roy couldn’t face his rum baba, so she had that too. Then the maître d’ brought them over two Irish coffees. On the house.

Marie’s eyes were brighter than ever and her cheeks were flushed as Roy paid the bill and escorted her out of the restaurant. It was dark, and the stars were twinkling.

‘Let’s go down to the beach,’ said Marie, tugging at his hand. ‘Come on!’

He didn’t want to go to the beach. He wanted to go home and slide into bed, alone with his thoughts, so he could mull over what he’d just been told. Was what Marie told him true - that Jane had had an affair with Terence Shaw? Had she been toying with Roy because she had been rejected, passed over for a better model? He shook his head, as if to banish all the questions that were whirling round. He held Marie’s hand, followed her onto the beach, steadying her as she stumbled slightly in the sand, unused to her high heels.

‘Let’s go into one of the huts,’ she was saying, entirely intent on mischief. He didn’t protest; he knew they were all locked. He’d follow her down to the end, then walk her back up the beach, take her home . . .

The third one she tried was open.

She pulled him inside.

Suddenly Marie’s hands were everywhere. All over him. And her lips. She tasted of Irish coffee and wine and the pale pink lipstick she had touched up before they left the restaurant. He felt the softness of her body against his, the swell of her breasts. She took his hand and guided it under her skirt and then up, up, up - to the tops of her stockings, where he could feel the flesh of her thighs. He stroked them, and she moaned, pushing herself against his hand. He took it a little higher, to the cotton of her knickers, sliding his fingers inside . . .

He was hard now. His body didn’t seem to listen to what his mind was saying - that this was wrong. That he shouldn’t go any further if he didn’t really love her. But something else took over, some primal urge that clearly she was feeling too. She was fumbling with the zip of her dress. Suddenly she was in front of him, nearly naked, and he groaned, half in despair, half in desire. She tugged at his waistband. He needed no encouragement. Soon they were on the floor, stripped of their clothing, lying on a rug he had grabbed and flung over the rough floorboards.

Was he crazy? This was the worst possible thing he could do. But he just couldn’t resist. And maybe this was what they needed to do. Maybe this would bring them together. She was pulling him on top of her. He just had to be careful . . .

Roy woke the next morning with a thick head and a terrible sense of dread. Images of the night before flashed before him as he stumbled out of bed and down to the kitchen. He needed tea. The large brown pot was on the side, still half full. He poured himself a cup, sat down at the kitchen table. He could hear his mother dragging the Hoover around the front room. Last night’s meal suddenly repeated on him. It had all been too much. His blood felt thick.

And he felt ashamed. He should never, ever have done it with Marie like that. OK, so she had encouraged him. She’d been all over him. There was no denying that. But knowing what he felt about her, knowing that only twenty minutes earlier he had wanted to get away from her, didn’t want to hear another word, he should have resisted. He could have done it without hurting her feelings. He could have told her he wanted the first time to be special, maybe in a hotel.

Instead of animal. He’d been a bloody animal, giving in to his urges like that. And what would she think now? Having sex would definitely give her the idea that they were a proper, serious couple. That things had somehow moved on. And she’d want to do it again. She’d enjoyed it enough, that much he could tell.

Roy swallowed the sugary sludge at the bottom of his cup. He had to get out. He had to get away. Otherwise he would be trapped for ever. He knew he’d never have the prize he really wanted, but there must be other girls out there like Jane - exciting, beguiling, who could show him a new world. He was ready to experience something else, taste the things Jane had told him about. The things he heard about on the radio and read in the papers. The things he would never get in Everdene, not in a million years. It was so far away from everything, so far behind everything, it would never catch up.

He rinsed his cup in the sink. His next lot of wages from the estate were due at the end of September, and he still had most of August’s packet left. He had some money saved up in his Post Office Savings Account. He could sell his bicycle. He had enough for the train to London, and a roof over his head somewhere cheap for a while. He’d give himself four weeks, and if nothing happened he could come back. It wasn’t as if he would miss anything. Only the seasons changed in Everdene. And maybe he would find himself a new life. There’d be work, surely? Building sites were always crying out for labour, strong young men like him, and he was handier than most.

His mother wouldn’t be happy, he knew that, but it was his life, and he was ready for her objections. His father wouldn’t judge him either way. And Marie? She would, he knew, be devastated, but she would get over it eventually. And he couldn’t stop himself from doing the things he wanted, just so he didn’t hurt her.

His mother came in, dragging the Hoover behind her like a recalcitrant toddler.

‘You were in late.’ Her eyes asked a million questions.

‘Yep,’ answered Roy, giving nothing away.

His mother smiled. ‘She’s a good girl, Marie.’

You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen her last night, thought Roy, but he said nothing. In fact, saying nothing was going to be his policy from now on. He wasn’t going to tell anyone his plans. That would make it so much easier. He would just head for the station on his day of escape, and leave a note for each of them. Cowardly? Maybe, but so much easier than steeling himself for the hysteria and the opposition he knew he would face. They would try every trick in the book between them to make him stay, and he was having none of it. In the meantime, he would keep his head down and stay out of everyone’s way.