Chapter Ashleigh Brett and Remy Hughes 1995 Aged 33
Ashleigh Brett and Remy Hughes
Remy
Remy raced as best she could up the wide stone staircase of this vast country pile, doing her darndest not to trip or spill the bowl of ice.
Her Buffalo platform trainers made the job a little trickier, but who cared when it gave her a lovely extra couple of inches of height?
Her baggy jeans sat pleasingly over the top; she liked this look.
The lady who seemed to be running the kitchen had been very kind, helpful, when she’d explained that Sophie, her twelve-year-old daughter, had a bit of a temperature.
‘Oh lordy!’ the woman had remarked, abandoning a tray of choux buns she was delicately tending to, as if as aware that illness, this weekend, was an absolute no-no.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing!’ She’d done her best to smile as if her words were true, fingers crossed behind her back.
Walking into the large bedroom with a sweeping view of the immaculate, striped rear lawn at Mulverton, she deposited her ice on a magazine on the chest of drawers. Sophie was still curled up on the pull-out bed that had been set at the foot of the imposing four-poster.
‘How are you feeling, darling?’ Remy bent low and placed her hand on her daughter’s clammy forehead. It was warm, very warm.
‘Bit sick.’
‘Oh, Soph. Keep sipping water. I’ve got some ice. I’ll soak a flannel in it and put that on your head; it’ll cool you down. Where’s Dad?’ She looked towards the vast bed, just to check he wasn’t lost under the heavy silk counterpane.
‘In the bathroom. Harper’s being sick.’
‘What? No!’ Pushing her long hair behind her ears, she rushed to the bathroom, where Midge stood by the sink of the rather grand en suite and wiped at the front of his shirt with the damp corner of a towel. Harper splashed in a bath filled almost to the brim with bubbles.
‘You got enough bubbles there, Harps?’
Their little one smiled. Aged three, she was at that adorable time in her life when everything made her giggle and nearly everything was of interest. Remy watched as she heaped bubbles on to the back of her hand and blew them against the tiled wall.
‘She looks alright.’ This she noted with relief, hoping it was the over-indulgence of Jammy Dodgers in the car on the way here that had made her sick and not a bug. Please, please, not a bug! Not this weekend.
‘Well, she does now, but a few minutes ago, it was like a scene from The Exorcist. Projectile doesn’t come close, it was . . .’ He shook his head.
‘Poor love.’
‘I’ll survive. Just washing splashes off my shirt. Wish I’d packed more than three.’
‘I meant Harper!’ She tutted at the big oaf of a man she adored.
‘She was sticky’ – he pulled a face – ‘so I thought it best to give her a bath and get her into her PJs.’
‘It’s only four o’clock,’ she pointed out.
‘I know! But if she’s ill, I thought, snuggle her up in here with Soph. I’m happy to sit with them, get them some soup, I don’t know!’
‘Hmmm, you wouldn’t be using the girls’ sickness as an excuse to hide and avoid the celebrations now, would you?’
‘As if!’ He winked at her in the mirror. ‘You know there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend time with The Right Honourable Archie of Mulverton and his mates. When are they arriving? Wouldn’t want to miss it!’
‘Midge, my love,’ she began, running her hand over his back, about to issue another reminder of why this was important to her, to Ashleigh, and how it would soon be over.
‘Mumma!’ Harper suddenly wailed, and as Remy grabbed her, her little girl proceeded to vomit the watery remains of her stomach into the bubbles.
‘It’s alright, my love, I’ve got you.’ Having whipped her out of the warm water, Remy swaddled her daughter in a huge white bath sheet and, with her safely on her lap, rocked her, using the loo as a makeshift seat.
‘What do you think it is?’ She wanted Midge to give her the answers. It was what he did. Her rock, her guide, her great, great love.
How they had got together, seven years ago now, was still the stuff of all good rom-coms. Remy had not been looking for a relationship.
The opposite, in fact, as scars on her face and body were matched by the scars on her heart, carved by her short-lived, disastrous marriage to Jamie.
Riven with shame at what she now saw as a lack of sound judgement, it had eroded her confidence, making her doubt her choices to the point when even choosing between coffee and tea had felt like a ridiculous pressure.
In the face of her assault, her life had become small, her bedroom tiny, her horizon within reach, all of it wrapped in subdued loneliness.
She had, however, resigned herself to it; there were, she knew, far worse lives for her and her daughter than being in a warm, safe environment, where they were both so loved.
The memory of Jamie’s damp flat where she felt anything but welcome was there for perfect recall.
Then Midge appeared, took her hand and led her into a wide, open space, a whole other universe where she learned not to berate herself over what had happened with Jamie, understanding that she was reeling from the after-effects of the attack, searching for something, anything that might act as a safety rope.
The marine never stopped trying to fill her with confidence, to make her feel loved, and she knew that if she could spend her days with him by her side, she would want for nothing else.
It was a peaceful, happy and fulfilling life, based around her little family.
Being with him kept her fear at bay, and living a happy life meant she no longer hankered for degrees or to prove herself in any way. It was enough. She had enough.
And it had all started on that day seven years ago, when having finished her shift at a local builders’ merchants, where she inputted data and chased payments in the chaotic office, she had collected Sophie from school, thinking it was any other day.
Still living at her parents’ house, she could hear her mum and dad chatting to someone in the sitting room.
‘That’ll be Remy, now!’ She heard her mum and, curious, had poked her head inside the door.
There he was, the nice-faced helper who had given her his jacket.
It was only the sight of him that made her remember the jacket.
She had no idea what had happened to it but hadn’t seen it since she’d arrived at the hospital.
It was shocking, surprising and yet wonderful to see him, remembering how his face, his words, his kindness had provided something good to focus on amid the bewildering chaos of that rotten night.
She’d told Tony all about him and he’d teased her lack of nous in getting his number.
It had then fallen to her to remind him that she had been a wee bit preoccupied, to put it mildly.
When, eighteen months after the attack, he had finally crawled from his dark hibernation, her beloved Tony had listened intently about the tall man who had appeared from nowhere with his mates, and quite simply saved his life.
‘Like Batman?’ he’d queried.
‘Yes, exactly like Batman. But without the tights.’
Midge had, true to his word, disappeared to the Falkland Islands, and she had all but forgotten about him.
In truth, of all the vivid memories of that horrific night, meeting Midge and him giving her his jacket had not ranked highly.
She did, however, remember his parting words: See you in a bit, as if confident that he would.
It had been a nice thing to say.
In the intervening years, reeling from her best friend upping sticks and shipping off to Sydney, where his brother lived, concentrating on getting through every day, she had felt the icy grip of solitude.
Ashleigh was understandably preoccupied with her business, which was taking off, and Tony moving so far away was a wrench.
She felt the loss of him keenly, still did.
Not that she blamed him, not a bit. The attack had changed her best friend, as it had her.
He lost his sparkle for a while, his confidence too, his ability to hold eye contact, his sense of humour, not that you’d know it to see him now, flying high!
He was a photographer, well known for his stunning portraits, and was deeply and madly in love with his maths teacher beau, Raul.
She was so very proud of him and loved him still. Would love him always.
See you in a bit, yes, that was what Midge had said, and there he was as she’d hung her coat on the hook in the hallway, turning the day into something extraordinary, a beginning no less.
He had stood from the sofa, mug in hand, his sharp intake of breath the only clue that he might be a little nervous too. ‘Hello.’
‘If you’ve come for your coat . . .’ She smiled.
It was good to see him, really good. He stared at her as if taking her in and it was one of those moments when the world stopped spinning and the planets aligned and she felt the warm spread of possibility trickle through her veins at no more than the proximity of him.
Something that felt a lot like desire leapt in the base of her gut and all she could do was laugh, because it was bonkers!
Utter madness! This man who had come to her aid when she had needed it most, Batman, no less, was now in her parents’ sitting room and was drinking tea.
‘I remembered what you said, Brett. Church Lane, Broadhaven.’
‘Apparently so.’ She did her best to contain the crackling fire of joy that threatened to burst from her, sparked at no more than the sound of his voice.
‘He’s a Royal Marine!’ her dad chimed.
‘I know, Dad.’ She’d nodded.
‘Muuum! Can I have some crisps?’
He’d looked towards the sound of Sophie in the kitchen, and she half expected him to pop the mug on the table and leg it. But he didn’t, he hadn’t.
‘Yep!’ she called in response.
‘I did say I’d look you up.’ He spoke confidently, as if they weren’t being observed by her parents.
‘That was a long old tour. Did you get lost?’