The Beach Hut (7 page)

‘It’s good for the girls,’ he assured her. ‘Even if we don’t benefit, it’s a legacy for them.’

Sarah couldn’t help feeling that the whole exercise was to make Ian feel as if he was one of the gang. She hated it when they were out and he talked about their ‘property portfolio’. It made her cringe.

He wasn’t like that all the time, thank goodness. Just enough to put her teeth slightly on edge. Like they did when he pulled on his Armani jeans - since when had Levis not been good enough? And when he polished his BMW at the weekend - what on earth was wrong with a bit of dirt?

And sometimes he looked at her critically when they were going out. He had suggested once or twice that she smarten herself up a bit, and she had been outraged. Did he want her to be all fake tan and blond highlights, like the rest of the wives in their coterie? They had no sense of expression. She might not be smart, but she knew how to dress as an individual. She wasn’t going to put on their uniform of designer jeans and sparkly tops and six-inch heels. She was quite happy in her little dresses and vintage cardigans and biker boots, her hair piled into a messy topknot. She certainly wasn’t going to change to make him feel as if they belonged.

Once he had looked at her hands. There was paint under her nails, which were short and ragged, and the skin was chapped from white spirit and wiping them on rags.

‘Why don’t you get your nails done?’ he asked, and she realised he wanted her to have hands like the other women, soft and pampered, with their false nails, square-ended with white tips. The very idea made her shudder. They had hands like porn stars, hands that were made for rubbing themselves suggestively over a man’s chest in a meaningless gesture.

And anyway, the people they mixed with didn’t put her under any pressure to don their uniform. The women always cooed over what she wore, admiring her bravery. ‘You’re so arty,’ they sighed, ‘so
boho.
’

‘I’m just
me,
’ she would reply, though she wanted to retort that she wasn’t a sheep. She didn’t put her name down for a designer handbag at the local boutique, she bid for one on eBay or found something in a charity shop.

She could tell Ian disapproved, but he hadn’t always. He’d once loved her for her kookiness. He’d been proud of the fact she was an artist. He’d shown everyone the fairy mural she had done for the girls’ bedroom in Harbourne. He’d loved that she decorated their Christmas presents with potato prints and shells she’d sprayed silver. Now he seemed embarrassed. He wanted to buy everything in Selfridges and have it gift-wrapped, all shiny paper and sharp edges. If he had his way, he’d book her an appointment with a personal shopper and have her made over from top to toe, until she looked like a clone. A fully paid-up member of the Terracotta Army, as she privately dubbed them, on account of their permanent spray tans.

In fact, the only thing she had done lately that he had approved of was buy the beach hut. It had been her idea. She had seen the For Sale sign when they were having a day at the seaside in Everdene two years ago. She had ‘done the maths’. If they used it for two weeks of the year, and rented it out for the rest, it would ‘wash its face’. Not least because they wouldn’t have to fork out for a fortnight in Portugal or Antigua or wherever the hot destination of the moment was. The girls far preferred mucking about on the beach and going for fish and chips to shacking up at some chichi hotel. And Sarah hated,
hated
, flying.

Ian hadn’t been sure at first. Largely, she suspected, because it hadn’t been his idea, but in the end he hadn’t been able to argue with the figures. And now Sarah was secretly gleeful that it was the only one of their properties which, if it hadn’t gone up in price, was certainly holding it. And they had no trouble renting it out, whereas one of their flats had been empty for nearly four months, which had eaten into their reserve fund.

Which was why she was heading to Everdene to get ready for the season.

And Oliver Bishop.

 

They met at a drinks party. A drinks party at a grand house in Race Course Lane - rather mystifyingly named, because as far as Sarah could see there was no race course, but it was the poshest address locally and Ian had been thrilled to be asked to the Johnsons, who were top dog in the area.

By ten o’clock, everyone was half cut and was either in the massive conservatory (‘Amdega!’ Ian told her in an awed tone) or the adjoining kitchen (‘Smallbone!’ The same tone), Sarah had gone back into the garden to have a cigarette. A roll-up. It was a habit she had never broken, an art-school affectation that made her something of a social pariah. Anyone else with any common sense had stopped smoking years ago, usually when they got pregnant. But Sarah enjoyed her illicit roll-ups. Only one or two a day, hardly worth bothering to stop. It was her little rebellion. The thing that was hers and no one else’s.

A figure stepped out of the back door. She hoped it wasn’t Ian coming to tell her off. She wasn’t going to shrink into the shadows. She drew on her roll-up, defiant.

It wasn’t Ian. It was one of the other guests.

‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Another smoker.’ And lit up a Camel with a Zippo.

He looked about twelve. Tufty, sticky-up hair. Ceaselessly roaming eyes that slid from her eyes to her cleavage to her bottom then back to her mouth without apology. A demonically charming smile. He even smelt dangerous - a musky cologne that made Sarah’s endorphins stand to attention at once. He had trouble written all over him.

He sucked in the smoke as if it held the elixir of life.

‘Goodness,’ she commented. ‘You look as if you needed that.’

‘After talking to that lot? Yapping on about where they’re going skiing?’ He threw his eyes up to heaven in a gesture that was slightly camp, but there was no doubting his sexuality. She looked at him with interest. Did he feel the same way she did, bored to death with the conversations? Listening to them compare the merits of the Trois Vallées versus Austria. Debating how they were going to get there - by car or air or snow train. The women spent hours discussing ski boots and salopettes and what colour was in this year. Sarah couldn’t care less, as long as she was warm and dry. She had worn the same outfit four years running, and there was still plenty of wear in it. Nobody had actually said anything but she could tell they all noticed.

Personally, she wasn’t bothered about going skiing - the girls enjoyed it for about two days and then got exhausted, and she was never going to be a daredevil on the slopes - but Ian had looked utterly panic-stricken when she had suggested giving it a miss this year. Then she’d asked if they could go on their own and he had been irritated by the suggestion. The social life was a big part of the holiday for him. Sarah would have liked to snuggle up in their own chalet, happy to spend the evening in front of the fire with a glass of wine and a good book, but no - they all had to troop out to whatever restaurant was in vogue and boast about their bravery on the piste.

‘Do you ski?’ she asked Oliver tentatively.

‘Yes, but I don’t spend three months talking about it beforehand.’ He gave her an impish grin, then adopted a mock pompous voice.
‘We always go to
St Anton. Bloody marvellous - can’t beat it. Take the same chalet every
year
. . .’

Sarah snorted into her wine glass.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Tell me about yourself. No - hang on a minute. Let me guess.’

He put his head to one side and studied her. Then put out his hand.

‘Messy hair.’ He touched one of the strands of dark copper that framed her face. ‘Interesting jewellery.’ He set one of her long beaded earrings swinging with the tip of his finger. ‘Not too much make-up. Just enough . . .’

The back of his knuckle hovered by her bare cheek.

Sarah realised she was standing stock-still, holding her breath.

‘I’d say something arty.’

She nodded.

‘I’m an illustrator.’

He spread his hands and gave a modest nod as if acknowledging to himself how clever he was. ‘So - what do you illustrate?’

‘Well, anything. Brochures, packaging. And I’ve done a couple of children’s books.’

‘Wow. I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not exactly
The Very Hungry
Caterpillar .’

He looked bemused.

‘Best-selling children’s book of all time?’ She looked at him archly. ‘I take it you don’t have kids?’

‘I do,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not usually at home for story-time. I’m away a lot.’

For some reason this made her blush.

‘Well, that’s a shame. It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures, reading to your kids.’ She sounded so prim. She wasn’t prim. Why was she coming over like a school-teacher all of a sudden?

‘Mmm-hmm.’ He was looking at her, nodding earnestly, but with a smile. He was teasing her. She felt warm again. Inside her heart was lolloping along at a slightly faster rate than usual.

‘And what about me?’ he asked. ‘What do you think I do?’

Sarah rolled her eyes. He was making this into a game, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to play. But she went along with it. She scrutinised him. His hair was messy too, but the sort of messy that comes from an expensive haircut, not just unkempt, like hers. His jeans were faded, he had on black baseball boots, his shirt was untucked, white but with square mother-of-pearl buttons that meant it was expensive. Nice watch - square copper face, roman numerals, dark brown crocodile-skin strap. Definitely Watches of Switzerland, not Ratners.

Wealthy. Maverick. Slightly rebellious. Not a corporate man.

‘Something to do with the web?’ she guessed. ‘Or PR?’

He shook his head.

‘Not even warm.’

‘Dentist? Car salesman? Chef?’ Her guesses were random now.

He frowned.

‘You’re not even trying.’

‘But I’ve got no idea. You could be anything!’

‘I’m a barrister.’

‘You’re kidding?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t look like one.’

‘You mean I’m not a corpulent, red-faced buffoon?’ He laughed, showing perfect white teeth. Naturally perfect, not cosmetically enhanced. ‘So is your husband here?’

‘Yeah.’ Sarah’s heart sank. For some reason, she didn’t want to point Ian out.

‘Is he an artist too?’

‘No. He’s a chartered accountant.’ She made a face. ‘What about your wife?’

She saw a flicker of something before he answered.

‘Divorce lawyer.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Buyer beware.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘You probably saw her in there. She’s the life and soul of the party. Big networker, my wife. Always on the lookout for potential clients.’

Sarah wrinkled her nose.

‘That’s awful.’

‘That’s business.’

They smoked in companionable silence for a moment. Sarah felt a little unnerved. In that short exchange she felt a sense of camaraderie with this stranger. She realised she didn’t even know his name.

‘I’m Sarah, by the way,’ she said.

‘Oliver. Oliver Bishop. But you can call me Ollie.’

They shook hands. When she went to take her hand away, he held onto it. He looked at her thoughtfully.

‘What?’

‘You look as if you need waking up.’

‘Waking up?’

‘You look as if you’re on autopilot. As if you’re not . . . really being you.’

She frowned. How could he know that? That’s exactly how she felt, as if she was going through the motions. As if all her feelings had been neatly packed away because she had no use for them at the moment. Not all her feelings, perhaps. She loved her children, passionately.

And she still loved Ian. But not with that deep-rooted passion that made you want to sing out loud. She loved him . . . like a brother, she supposed. Maybe that was the same for everyone after a certain amount of time. Her friends certainly complained about having sex with their husbands. Groaned wearily about having to spend any time with them. Positively rejoiced if they went away on business, as they could have the house to themselves and watch
Desperate Housewives
without—

‘We should have lunch.’

She jumped out of her reverie.

‘Lunch?’

‘Don’t look like that. People do it all the time.’

‘But why? Why would we have lunch? Or do you mean all four of us?’

He laughed heartily at this and Sarah felt indignant.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not the sort of person who thinks it’s normal to have lunch with another woman’s husband.’ She knew she sounded frosty and uptight. When really she wanted to get her diary out and make a date straight away.

‘It’s perfectly normal, if he’s discussing artwork with her.’

‘Artwork? You’re a barrister. Why would you need artwork?’

‘I have other interests. I’ve got shares in a vineyard in France. I’d like you to design a label.’ He was utterly convincing. Tying her up in knots. Presumably using the tactics he employed in court. ‘What’s your mobile number?’

Looking back on it now, this was the moment at which her life had changed. She should have refused to give it to him.

Instead, she told him, and he gravely punched it into his phone, then dialled.

She felt her phone go in the pocket of her jeans. The vibration drilled right down into the core of her. But she just smiled and put her cigarette out on the garden wall, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hand shaking.

‘I better go back inside. Circulate.’

He grimaced and mimed putting a gun to his head.

‘Good luck.’

 

Inside, she scanned the guests until she picked out the woman who must be his wife. She was stunning. Amazonian, wearing a paisley silk halter-neck dress that left nothing to the imagination but wasn’t remotely tarty.

‘We’re going to St Moritz,’ she was declaring. ‘Ollie’s been there ever since he was tiny. He won’t go anywhere else. We stay at the Badrutt.’