The Foster Husband (16 page)

Charles didn’t stir, not even when his wife began passive aggressively rearranging the picnic spread, as if weighing up each component as a weapon. If I were him, I’d have been
worried, a thrown Kilner jar could do some serious damage, even to his thick head.

Matt and I grinned at one another, trying not to laugh out loud. Other people’s domestics always seem completely risible, don’t they? While your own are incredibly serious and
complex.

‘Nightmare,’ I mouthed, rolling my eyes.

We stumbled to our feet and brushed the grass off our clothes. Charles and his wife were still not speaking, a frosty silence lengthening between them as we walked away from their waterproofed
picnic rug.

‘God, yeah, she was awful,’ he agreed. His voice went high and mocking. ‘Linus! Hummus!’

‘What? No,
he’s
awful,’ I said, pulling on Matt’s hand to make him stop and look at me. ‘Just ignoring her like that when she’d made all that
effort.’

‘Is it any wonder, with her nagging at him?’

‘She wasn’t nagging!’ I felt stung into defence of this stranger. Something about the droop of her neck told me Charles didn’t pay her much attention.

‘Basher, if you had nothing better to talk to me about than hummus recipes, I’d ignore you too,’ said Matt, tapping me playfully on the nose.

I ducked my head out of the way, but it wasn’t worth arguing over. Other people’s problems didn’t affect us. We’d never let ourselves get like that.

‘Right. To the pub,’ said Matt, setting a brisk new pace up the hill. I followed after him, trying to match his long stride.

‘Wait, have you finished your Class War game, then?’

Matt turned around. ‘Game over,’ he said. ‘Obviously.’

‘Obviously?’

He shrugged. ‘Sudden death. She said the magic word.’

I looked at him blankly.

‘Ottolenghi. Patron saint of weird hummus. You lose.’

‘But I wasn’t even playing, you arse!’

‘Them’s the rules, Basher Bailey. If one of us wins, stands to reason the other one loses, right? I can’t help it if that’s you.’

At the time I thought very little of this game. It all just seemed like nothing, a silly diversion that kept us occupied on the walk towards our Sunday lunch. But afterwards I remembered it for
two things: the opposing sides we had taken in an argument that had nothing to do with us. And the fact that only one of us could win.

The postcard is in a bin on the seafront. And I ripped it up into little pieces just in case the compulsion should come upon me to run back and try to retrieve it. Matt
mentioned the emails I haven’t answered. It’s time to face these, too. And if that means going into the Baileys’ office, one cramped room containing my entire family and my
inescapable housemate cum foster husband, then so be it.

When Mum and Dad established the company, they rented the upstairs floor of a house just off Broad Street. I am sure the intention was to move to bigger premises as the business grew, but
somehow they never got around to it. Nor had they ever thought about redecoration – it’s not the sort of office where meetings are held, since holiday-makers either go directly to their
rental cottages or meet in town or on the Cobb for one of the guided walks. No one visited, and nothing ever got thrown out. Like the striated cliffs of Lyme, new material was simply added on top
of the old. Which meant that stepping back into the office was like revisiting my childhood. There was the supremely Eighties poster for the ‘Do You Think He Ichthyosaurus?’ fossil tour
– all bubble writing and batwing jumpers (the latter on the tourists, I hasten to add, not the dinosaurs). There was the framed Austen Festival newsletter, featuring a furious six-year-old
Prue, dressed up in an olde-worlde outfit very much against her will. At seventeen I had hated the picture of me leading the French Lieutenant’s Walk; the photographer had caught me with my
mouth hanging open in a weird way, and the wind had blown my hair into knotty tangles. Now I am just astonished at how young I look.

‘What are you doing here?’ says Prue, looking up from her computer. There’s a pile of wedding magazines next to the monitor, each one bristling with multi coloured Post-its
marking relevant pages.

‘Hello, darling,’ says Mum. She takes her glasses off and stands up, pushing them into the twisted knot of hair that is piled on top of her head. ‘Come on in. I hoped
you’d come and visit us.’

Dad waves hello but is busy scowling at a screen and obviously doesn’t want to be disturbed. There is no sign of Ben, but then I hear a toilet flush and he appears behind me, wiping his
wet hands on his trousers. Even here, it seems, there is no escape from his bathroom habits.

‘Kate!’ he exclaims. ‘Just talking about you, weren’t we?’

Mum quickly shakes her head at him, and Prue glares him into silence. Dad harrumphs behind the computer monitor. I suppose that means they weren’t saying anything good. I should be used to
people talking behind my back by now, but it always makes me feel sick to realize they have.

‘Ben, I think we need some more milk,’ says Prue, giving him a pointed look.

‘Ah, not sure we do actually,’ says Ben. He heads towards the office fridge to prove his point. ‘Loads left.’

‘No there isn’t,’ she answers, stepping in front of the fridge and blocking his way. ‘I, er, I drank it.’

‘All of it? A pint?’ Ben rubs his blond curls, bemused.

‘Yes. I just really fancied a big glass of milk. While you were in the loo just now. Lovely. But now there’s none left for tea. So can you run out and get some? Just take some money
from petty cash.’

Ben shuffles his feet, kicking at the corner of a desk as he looks at each member of the Bailey family in turn, sensing he is being banished. At last he grabs a handful of change from the red
tin by the office door and stomps off down the staircase, his heavy footsteps reverberating through the building.

The sounds of his departure have barely faded before Prue crosses the room to point at me accusingly, her pale blue eyes so like mine that it’s like being accosted by my younger self.

‘Don’t you think I don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Prue,’ says Mum. ‘This is not the way to—’

Prue interrupts. ‘Ben’s told us, you know.’

‘Told you what?’ I ask, wondering what Ben could possibly have to complain about since he’s moved into Granny Gilbert’s bungalow. That I don’t allow him to use my
dog as a waste disposal unit? That I haven’t bought the most recent copy of
Grazia
to accompany his morning poo?

‘Darling,’ says Mum, coming over to stand between me and my sister. She takes hold of my hand and squeezes it gently. ‘What Prue is trying to say is that we are very worried
about you. Ben has mentioned that the house has become rather dirty since he moved in. He says you never clean anything up, which is ever so unlike you.’

‘Dirty?’ I echo. I have the uncomfortable sense that I may have fallen on my own sword here.

‘You’re trying to drive him out, aren’t you?’ says Prue, hands on hips. ‘I know your game, you were just like this when we shared a room. You think if you make it
all horrible he’ll just leave. Well, he won’t.’

I start laughing at the idea that my cunning plan has been so woefully misunderstood, but I realize that to say it out loud – the house is dirty because I am training your future husband
– cannot help but sound very wrong indeed. Prue has always resented any influence from me. In fact, it wouldn’t be too much to say that her entire puritanical streak may have been
formed primarily by her efforts to be as unlike me as possible.

‘Oh you can laugh,’ says Prue. ‘But you won’t drive him out of the house. No matter how filthy you are.’

‘Filthy!’ I say. ‘Jeez, Prue, it’s your stupid fiancé who doesn’t even know how to put a plate in the dishwasher. I’m not filthy; I’m just not
cleaning up after him. And if that’s a crime then you can put the handcuffs on me right now, officer.’

Mum looks relieved. ‘Oh dear, is that how it is? I must admit I did wonder, you’ve always been so neat and tidy.’

‘Could never even put a bloody cup down at yours without you running for a coaster,’ Dad offers from his corner of the room, as if this is a helpful comment.

‘I haven’t complained about Ben coming to live with me,’ I say to Prue, ‘but I’m not going to run around after him with a dustpan and brush like his
mother.’

‘It’s not like you’ve got anything else to do,’ mutters Prue.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Girls,’ admonishes Mum.

But Prue can’t stop herself. ‘It’s not like you’re doing anything else, is it? Ben’s here helping out with the family business – a family business
you’ve never taken even the slightest interest in, I might add. He’s planning a wedding, he’s moving his entire life here. And what are you doing? Hanging out in cafes with old
ladies. Oh yes, I saw you with old Mrs Klepto Curtis at the Bay Tea Shoppe.’

‘Klepto Curtis?’ I ask, looking from Prue to my mother.

Mum interrupts. ‘Prue, really, it’s not nice to speak about Mrs Curtis like that. She is not a kleptomaniac.’

‘Mum,’ says Prue, throwing herself down onto her office chair. ‘She stalks tourists around town nicking free teas off them all summer long. Someone even made a complaint to the
police in June.’

‘She doesn’t actually steal anything though,’ insists Mum. ‘She’s just a confused old lady.’

‘She doesn’t seem all that confused,’ I offer. She seemed sharp as a tack to me, to tell the truth.

‘Stop changing the subject,’ says Prue. ‘The point is that everyone else is working their arses off right now, and you’re just swanning around town doing absolutely
nothing. Would it kill you to be a bit understanding of how busy Ben is? Maybe he doesn’t have time to, like, scrub down the taps to your satisfaction.’

‘I’m not doing nothing,’ I say.

‘Yeah?’ Prue sneers at me. ‘Go on, what are you up to then? What’s taking up all your time? Walking the dog? Thinking deep thoughts while you look out to sea? Don’t
think we haven’t all noticed your French Lieutenant’s Woman impressions. Everyone’s seen you.’

I take a sharp breath in. It is typical of Prue that she should so ruthlessly and accurately summarize my aimless wanderings. I cannot deny that my daily schedule of dog walking and tea drinking
doesn’t stand up to outside scrutiny. I’m not getting over anything. I’m just wasting time.

Dad’s head lifts up from his computer, waiting to hear my answer, and even Mum doesn’t instantly leap to my defence, which means that they must in some way agree with Prue.
Let’s face it, even I agree with Prue. But if she thinks I’m about to admit it, she is very much mistaken.

‘I’m decorating Granny Gilbert’s bungalow, actually,’ I say, lying quickly. ‘I spoke to the estate agent about it.’

I can only hope Prue doesn’t end up confirming this conversation with the estate agent as, while he would agree that we spoke about decorating, he would no doubt tell her, truthfully, that
I had scoffed at the idea of doing it myself. We had decorators do our place in London, and my knowledge of DIY starts and ends at pointing to a colour chart to indicate which shade someone else
should paint my walls.

But even as the words leave my mouth, I realize that this could be a great idea. I need a focus for my restless mind, and perhaps this will be it.

‘You? Decorating? When did you decide this?’ demands Prue.

‘Um, recently?’ I say. ‘Very recently.’ Like, five minutes ago.

‘Well,’ she folds her arms across her chest. ‘You should have discussed it with me first. Granny Gilbert left that place to both of us. You can’t go round painting it all
weird colours and stuff. I mean, you’re all depressed, you’d better not go doing the walls in black or anything.’

‘Who says I’m depressed?’ I ask.

‘No one, darling,’ says Mum, quickly enough that it’s obvious she thinks I am.

‘Well I’m not. And I’m doing this for our benefit, Prue, actually.’

‘How?’ says Prue.

‘Well,’ I am clearly going to have to freestyle this, but as I do, the mission becomes clearer and clearer, as if I truly had given it a great deal of thought and preparation.
‘The estate agent said that Granny Gilbert’s house might sell if it gets a bit of a facelift. And couldn’t you and Ben do with the money for your deposit?’

I don’t add that I could do with the money myself. My savings are running low, and there’s no telling how long it will take for Matt and me to divide our assets. Granny
Gilbert’s bungalow isn’t going to make anyone a fortune, but if it was sold at last the profit could be enough to give me a fresh start.

‘You don’t have the first clue what you’re doing,’ says Prue. ‘What if you make it worse?’

I glare at her.

‘Girls,’ says Mum, again. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea, Kate, darling. And you are very clever to have thought of it. And Prue, I think as Kate is doing this partly for
your benefit, you might have a quiet word with Ben about tidying up after himself. After all, the estate agents could send someone round to the house at any time.’

Dad snorts behind his computer. ‘Going to take more than paint to shift that place,’ he says.

‘Shut up, Dad,’ says Prue, on my side for once. ‘I could invest my half of that money in this place. Actually put some of my plans into action.’

Dad looks alarmed. ‘Already? Aren’t you too busy with the wedding to start changing Baileys’ right this second? I thought we’d agreed to take it all slowly?’

‘You know my primary focus is always the business,’ says Prue, her chin set determinedly. Dad looks over at the bridal magazines and her eyes follow his pointed gaze.

‘There’s a reason they call it the wedding
industry
, Dad,’ she says. ‘That is research. You won’t be making that face when Baileys’ has a piece of
the pie.’

She catches a glance between Mum and Dad.

‘Pie. Wedding cake. Whatever. You’ll see. I have plans for all of us.’

None of us doubts it for a moment.

While Prue and Dad debate the future of Baileys’, I take the opportunity to check my emails on Ben’s computer. But he is back from the shops with the milk before I can do anything
more than see that Matt has sent me an email every single day since I left, and so has Sarah.