The Beach Hut Next Door (21 page)

Somehow he had made the words
with me
sound incredibly intimate. This wasn’t an invitation to a working lunch. If she accepted, this would be the start of something.

‘I’m starving,’ she told him, and locked her eyes on his, and felt a jolt, a spark, a life-affirming tingle that filled her with joy.

He said nothing, just wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulled on his jacket, and she followed him, wordlessly, down the stairs, out of the door, along the street, and into a tiny, bustling brasserie that smelt of sizzling steak and garlic where the maître d’ led them, without being asked, to a window table laid for two.

He’d planned it, thought Elodie with a thrill, and she held her menu in front of her face so Colm couldn’t see her smile.

From that day on, they were inseparable. And it felt so right. It was so easy. They slotted into each other’s lives effortlessly. They didn’t even have to discuss it because there was nothing to discuss. They were both free agents. They had so many things in common, and so many things they could share with each other: books, films, food, music. They even read the same newspaper. They were both still utterly absorbed by their work, with no intention of retiring. They were passionate and perfectionist about what they did.

At weekends, they wandered along the South Bank, argued ferociously about art in Tate Modern, bought over-priced cheese at Borough Market and ate it in the front of the telly with heavy red wine that made them both fall asleep. They swapped books and did
The Times
crossword. They were competitive and symbiotic. They had days out in Whitstable and Woodstock; took a boat up the Thames to Hampton Court. He made chutney and Christmas puddings and she laughed at his domesticity.

And on Valentine’s Day – which they both agreed was a ridiculous commercial trap – he nevertheless booked a table at Clos Maggiore, their favourite restaurant in Covent Garden, and, as the waiter took away the plates that had borne the roasted duck breast on a bed of plums, leaned across the table, those eyes that had drawn her in burning with something that told Elodie her life was soon to change.

‘After Emma left me I never thought I would get married again,’ he said. ‘It seemed pointless. Hypocritical, even. To do it again when you’d fucked it up once. But, right now there is nothing I want more, nothing I would love more, than for you to become my wife. I would be so proud.’

Elodie put her hands over her face and peered out at him between her fingers. An infantile, girlish gesture that she hated herself for, but it was instinct, to mask the surprise, the delight, the joy for just one moment until she had assimilated what he’d just said.

She didn’t need to think about it all. Not really. Yes, it was a risk. He was bound to have flaws. Who didn’t? And wouldn’t that be part of their future together – discovering each other’s weaknesses?

And perhaps one of the nice things about embarking on a relationship when you were older was that you were more aware of your weaknesses, so didn’t have to spend so long dwelling on them.

They were sitting on the balcony of her apartment when she saw the advert, in the property section of the Saturday
Times
. Her heart turned over once, twice, and her mind started racing. She didn’t say anything to Colm, but something came full circle in Elodie’s mind. She and Colm had agreed that they would sell her flat and move into his, in Hampstead – although she would miss the water, Hampstead suited their lifestyle far better, with its slightly bohemian café society, and his was much bigger than hers. The sale had been agreed and this was their last Thameside weekend before the contracts were completed.

And there it was. A quarter-page advert. The Grey House. ‘An unmissable maritime opportunity’. It looked just the same. The photo was taken from below, the beach huts in a row beneath the cliff, the house hovering above, nestled amongst the monkey puzzle trees. If she closed her eyes she would be able to smell the sea breeze and feel the warmth of the sun on her face.

Her need to go back was primal. Suddenly, it was the only thing that mattered. It was time. Time to confront her past, so she could have the one thing that had ever really mattered to her. She didn’t know what it was she was going to find; who would still be there. How she would feel.

‘OK?’ Colm was looking over at her with a frown.

‘Yes …’ she nodded, but she thought she was probably far from convincing. She didn’t want to tell him the truth. She’d never told anyone her story, except Lady Bellnap. Not even Edmund, who had accepted she was estranged from her parents and seemed to think that it didn’t need further qualifying. She had always felt that if she told people, it would define her.

Suddenly, however, the past no longer held any fear for her. She knew who she was, and it wasn’t that girl who had been betrayed on her wedding day. She needed to go back, to the time and the place. It wasn’t closure she wanted. It was the opposite: the chance to open the past back up. To rediscover the place that had meant so much to her, and to share it with the people who now meant so much to her. And to make her peace with the people who had once mattered.

VINCE

The next day, as Vince drove up the M4 towards Chiswick, he started to question his own motives the nearer he got to London.

Murphy was so grateful that Vince had offered to go and fight his cause. Although Murphy seemed like an open kind of guy, he was in fact intensely private. He liked everything to seem perfect; for people to look at him and think ‘that’s the kind of life/house/car/wife I want’. The fact that all that was about to come crashing down had made him panic, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

So here was Vince, charging to the rescue like the best mate he was. Yet he had to ask himself why he was really doing it. Not just out of friendship. He couldn’t fool himself. If Murphy and Anna split up, he was unlikely to see Anna again. So it was in his interests for them to get back together. Although that didn’t bring her any closer to him, at least he would get his fix from time to time.

And if he went to plead Murphy’s case, he would get a fix straight away. Breathe the same air she was breathing. Feel her eyes on his skin. Know that she had thought of him, because if he was there in front of her she had to think about him, even if it wasn’t in the way he wanted to be thought of.

Vince slapped the steering wheel with annoyance. Why couldn’t he ever rid himself of this curse? This obsession. Why was he feeding it? It was always the same when he saw her. His longing intensified and tortured him for days, weeks, afterwards. Febrile dreams in which she was just out of reach. He twisted like a kite in the wind. It was exhausting. He sometimes wondered if he could be hypnotized into forgetting her. Then he realized he didn’t want to forget her. It was a never-ending loop with no solution and it drove him crazy.

He turned into the wide, leafy street. He’d driven down here so many times, always with his heart in his mouth, his pulse pounding. Today was no different. He pulled into the gravel drive in front of the house. A red-brick Victorian semi he knew was worth over two million because Murphy had told him. Vince thought the house was nice enough, but couldn’t get his head around the figure.

He rang the bell and put his hands in his pockets while he waited.

Anna answered eventually. She looked amazing. No make-up, hair loose, dressed in white yoga pants and a grey hooded T-shirt. Bare feet. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch her.

‘Vince!’ She did a smile/frown – pleasure at seeing him mingled with confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ She put her hands up to her hair and ran her fingers through it, pulling it round to one side. He thought of the times he’d wanted to run his fingers through it.

He raised his eyebrow and gave a shrug. ‘I came to talk to you about Murphy.’

‘I don’t know that I want to hear anything that Murphy has to say.’

‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’ Vince had worked out she was more likely to see him if she thought this.

She surveyed him for a moment. Then she looked at her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be going out …’

Vince felt irritated. ‘What? To yoga? Or the supermarket? This is important, Anna. There’s stuff I think you should know.’

She frowned, then sighed. ‘OK. Come in. I’ll make us some coffee …’

He followed her inside. He saw their reflection in the glass of the etched mirror as they walked past and it made his heart judder in his chest. Why couldn’t he control himself when he was around her? Get a grip, he told himself.

The kitchen was at the back of the house; an enormous extension with folding glass doors that led out into the garden. Everything was immaculate. Big wicker baskets contained the children’s homework. Their paintings were framed on the wall – no Blu-Tak or drawing pins in this house. The island contained baskets of gleaming fruit.

Anna filled the kettle. The water bubbled from the tap like a spume of champagne. Even their water, thought Vince, was better than everyone else’s.

She flicked the kettle on and stared at him.

‘I’m not having him back,’ she said, an edge to her voice.

‘You’ll never meet anyone who loves you as much as Murphy,’ countered Vince.

‘I don’t need love like that. I read the texts, Vince. They were …’

She made a face.

‘They were texts,’ said Vince. ‘From her to him. He’s not interested. I know he isn’t.’

‘So why give her his number in the first place? Why encourage her?’

‘She gave him her number because she wanted a job.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘I was there, Anna. The worst thing Murphy is guilty of is being a flirt. He’s vain. He’s a man. We all like to think we’re irresistible.’

‘You don’t behave like that. I know you don’t.’

No, thought Vince. Because I’m in love with you and there is no other woman on the planet I’m remotely interested in. He sighed.

‘I know it’s wrong. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s a minor misdemeanour. The punishment doesn’t fit the crime, Anna. He’s been stupid, yeah. But that’s all.’

Anna shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Vince. I can’t trust him. I keep wondering what else is going on behind my back? What aren’t I giving him that makes him let that go on? That’s no basis for a happy marriage.’

‘I think you’re overreacting,’ said Vince. ‘I understand that it’s threatening, to find that kind of thing. But it doesn’t mean anything. I promise you. Murphy’s distraught.’

Anna’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I just don’t feel the same way about him any more.’

Vince reached out and touched her hand. Her skin was velvet. He wanted to carry on, run the tips of his fingers up her arm, across her collarbone, but instead he squeezed her fingers in a gesture of reassurance.

‘It’ll take time,’ he said. ‘But it will be worth it. Look at what you’ve got. What you’ve built together. And the girls. What about the girls?’

‘You think I want them to have a dad around who lets women send him filthy texts?’ The scorn in Anna’s voice made Vince drop her hand. It was searing. He looked down at the floor. Maybe she was right? Maybe Murphy should have done something to stop it.

He walked over to the doors while Anna busied herself with the cafètiere, the scent of freshly ground beans soon filling the air. More perfection. Even the garden was like something out of a magazine and contained the essence of Anna: a soft sweep of lawn, beds stuffed with scented roses and a huge oak tree with a curved wooden bench underneath. It was tranquil and feminine; an oasis. Vince could see the gardener’s wheelbarrow perched at the side of one of the beds, filled with rich compost. He’d seen the gardener before, a hulking Mills & Boon of a bloke in khaki fatigues and big boots who turned up twice a week and did all the things that Vince would have done, had he been married to Anna, but that Murphy wouldn’t do if you’d put a gun to his head.

Something suddenly struck Vince as odd. There’d been no sign of the gardener, although he was clearly around somewhere. His Hilux in the drive and the waiting wheelbarrow indicated that. But since Vince had arrived, he had not materialized. He frowned, and looked round the kitchen. It was then he noticed the two cups in the sink. Nothing wrong with that, he supposed. It was only polite to offer your gardener a coffee when he arrived. He imagined Anna discussing planting plans, looking through seed catalogues, showing him a picture of something she had seen in a magazine.

There were two plates, too, with knives and crumbs. Well, OK. Nothing wrong with offering him a piece of toast to fuel up the day ahead. But somehow the crockery seemed unspeakably intimate.

‘Where’s the gardener?’ asked Vince. ‘Don’t want him getting the wrong idea.’

It was a joke. Sort of.

Anna looked at him, the kettle in her hands, about to pour.

The whole story was in her eyes. For one second. Like a subliminal advert in the middle of a film. Guilt and defiance and fear. Then the shutters came down and her gaze was wide with baby-blue innocence.

‘He does his own thing. I’ve no idea. Probably gone to the garden centre for something he’s forgotten.’

‘His truck’s still in the drive.’

Anna just wasn’t a good enough actress under interrogation. She turned away.

The only way out of the garden was through the house.

The silence that fell was profound. It went on for five, ten seconds while each of them assessed the situation and decided what to say.

‘He’s upstairs, isn’t he?’ said Vince finally.

Anna’s jagged breath in and out said it all.

‘How long?’

She shrugged, but it was defiant. She looked, if anything, rather sulky. Like a stroppy sixth former who has been caught smoking.

‘You were going to let Murphy hang for this.’ Vince had never felt fury like it. Not for a person. For the sea, yes. But not for another person.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her round. Her face was almost devoid of expression, a blank mask; her eyes stony.

‘You don’t believe there was anything wrong with those texts, do you?’ he said. ‘It was a very convenient way to ship Murphy out. To let him take the blame for the failure of your marriage.’

‘No. No, of course not.’

‘But why would you attack him for it, when you were doing worse? Unless you wanted it as an excuse.’

Again, the sulky sixth former look. Vince felt a strong urge to shake her. He remembered the last time he had seen her, and how gorgeous he had thought she looked. At the opening. The opening when the girl had taken Murphy’s number.

And when Anna had gone back early because Lyra was poorly.

Another penny dropped.

‘She wasn’t ill at all that night of the opening, was she? Lyra? You got to Everdene and decided to hightail it back to your lover. You couldn’t resist the pull of a free night with him.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous. I would never use my children like that.’

But she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

‘I worshipped you,’ said Vince, in wonder. ‘I worshipped the bloody ground you walked on.’

‘More fool you,’ said Anna.

‘This will kill him.’

She pressed her lips together. Her chin was trembling. But, Vince realized, there wasn’t a hint of remorse. She looked angry. Angry that she had let herself be caught out.

‘Are you going to tell him?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Vince. ‘I am.’

‘What about the girls?’

Vince didn’t want to think about the girls. Yet they were the only ones that really mattered in this whole sorry mess. He looked away; looked at their matching spotty mackintoshes hanging on the peg by the back door.

Then he looked back at Anna.

‘You should have thought about them before you started sleeping with the help.’

Anna gasped. ‘What gives you the right to judge?’

‘My friendship with Murphy.’ Vince stared her out. ‘Which goes back further than your marriage.’

Anna put her hands flat on the slate work surface to try and steady them. Her white gold wedding ring and matching solitaire engagement ring sparkled defiantly. The bracelets she’d been playing with at the opening night hung on her wrists. Vince imagined Murphy choosing them, having them wrapped; handing the box to her one Christmas morning.

‘What can I do to persuade you not to tell him?’ Her voice was low; there was a wheedling note to it that turned his stomach.

‘I came here to plead Murphy’s case,’ said Vince. ‘To beg you to have him back because I know that, despite his flaws and faults, he is a good man. A man who would never actually be unfaithful, despite what you might think. Though I think you know that. It’s you with the morals of a snake.’ He rubbed his chin. He could feel the stubble scrape his fingers. ‘You better tell matey to come out of hiding. He’s wasting valuable gardening time.’

Anna stood up. She wrapped her arms around herself and stalked to the bottom of the stairs.

‘You can come down,’ she called up. ‘He knows you’re here. So you might as well get on with what you’ve got to do.’

She stalked back into the kitchen and sat down, crossing her arms.

A moment later footsteps came down the stairs and the guy Vince had seen once or twice before walked through the kitchen and out of the door that led to the garden. There was a cocky carelessness to his gait that Vince didn’t much like.

‘Does he do this with all his clients, do you think?’ he asked Anna, and got a filthy glare in return.

Suddenly she didn’t seem so ethereal. She was hard. Her white-blonde hair had a flatness to it; her skin was not so pearlescent. And Vince felt sure he could smell fear on her; something rather sharp that was not to his liking. She tucked her hair back behind her ears, a gesture he had once found charming. Now, it indicated nervousness, and he found it irritating.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and now she seemed near tears. Vince suspected they weren’t real; just her next ploy. ‘It’s just hard, you know, being here on my own while he gallivants about the place.’

Vince looked around the kitchen, with its gleaming surfaces, its sleek appliances. ‘Not that hard,’ he said.

Anna looked defiant. ‘He likes getting attention, Murphy. But he’s not very good at giving it.’

‘Unlike your man out there?’

Silvery tears began trailing down her cheeks, like raindrops down a window.

‘Please don’t tell him.’

‘What was your plan, Anna? To kick him out and take him for everything? I suppose you thought you’d get the house? At what point were you going to move him in?’ He jerked his head towards the garden.

‘It’s not like that!’

‘Course not. It never is.’ He stared at her. ‘You’re not the person I thought.’

Anna stared back. ‘None of us is,’ she whispered.

Vince sat down on a chrome stool and put his head in his hands for a moment. He wasn’t sure what to think. Murphy was no angel, but he would be gutted if his family was torn apart. He was simply a born flirt, and while that wasn’t necessarily right, Vince genuinely didn’t think Murphy did any more than just that – Anna had hit the nail on the head when she said he needed attention. While Anna – Anna was clearly guilty of something more serious. Vince didn’t know what the man in the garden meant to her, or what they had planned between them, if anything, but they hadn’t been upstairs playing chess.