Chapter 2
Leaving the office, Beth stood outside in a daze, shivering despite the heat. People pushed past her impatiently as she stood motionless in the middle of the pavement, wondering what she should do and where she should go.
Home, she thought numbly. That’s where she needed to go. Back to her flat where she could allow grief to consume her and the tears to flow unchecked and she began to walk quickly down the road, hoping another bus would arrive before the floodgates opened and Beth’s grief became something that all the commuters on the Number 64 route would be forced to share.
She only just made it. Catapulting herself through bus doors which weren’t fully opened, she ignored the outraged shout from the driver and dashed along the street to her flat, key in hand. Closing the door behind her, she slid down its length to land in a desolate and soggy heap on the floor, sobbing loudly and throwing in the occasional wail to release some of the heartbreak.
It was some time before the tears finally dried up and other than the occasional jagged sob that threatened to split her heart in two, she fell into an anguished silence. She had fallen in love with Matthew Pettigrew almost instantly. As they had laughed their way through their favourite films and argued good-naturedly about their favourite books, she had fallen head over heels in love with him. They had been so happy in their flat, with each other, with their life together. She had even thought he was about to propose.
But it would appear that while she was planning their future, he was falling in love with someone else and she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the anguished howl that threatened to spill out.
Head thumping and her mouth dry, Beth dragged herself upright catching sight of herself in the hall mirror. Her naturally curly hair, which she claimed was verging on mousey but Matthew always insisted was strawberry blonde, was stuck to one side of her face. Her dark blue eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and her normally heart-shaped face was puffy and damp with tears. She stared for a moment, then continued to the kitchen. The wine, chilled or not, was needed.
Her phone pinged and she saw a message from Sally.
Sally: OMG -just heard – You all right?
Beth seriously felt that she may never be all right again.
Beth: I’m ok
It was a lie and Sally would know it instantly. But it gave Beth a crumb of dignity.
Sally: I’d like to say I can’t believe that he would do something like that
Beth: But?
Sally: Well, I never pretended to like him. Always thought he was stringing you along
Sally had never made any secret of her low opinion of Matthew. But Beth would gently reprimand her friend whenever she became too vocal, happy in the knowledge that Sally was wrong and Matthew was a wonderful person. It would appear Sally’s instincts had been better than Beth’s own.
Sally: Do you need anything? A chat, therapy, alcohol?
The chat could wait, therapy was too expensive and she had the alcohol. It would seem in the short term all Beth’s needs were accounted for.
It suddenly occurred to Beth that maybe she’d spent the last few weeks being the laughingstock of the office.
Beth: Did you know?
Sally: No!! I would have told you! Are you sure you don’t want me to come round?
It was tempting. Sally would listen patiently as Beth cried and wailed and told her how much she loved Matthew. How she thought Matthew had loved her. But these were all things Beth could do very well on her own. And nothing that Sally could say or do would make Beth feel any better.
Beth: No, I think I’m better by myself tonight
Sally: He’s a loser. And a cheat. And Laura’s just as bad. Once she sets her sights on something….
Laura had arrived at their company only a few months earlier. Her role was vague, her qualifications uncertain but she made no secret of her intention of taking over the business from her father one day. She had commandeered the large corner office, evicting the current occupant, and had taken the parking space next to her father’s Rolls Royce, leaving a parking war in her wake. It would seem that she had also decided to take Matthew Pettigrew.
But Matthew wasn’t company property. He was Beth's. And Matthew should have been able to explain this simple fact and refuse to be claimed. A sob broke free and Beth rubbed her eyes gritty with tears and salt.
Beth: He could have said no
Sally: But he’s weak and pathetic and was never good enough for you. Probably saw it as a way up the greasy ladder!
Beth sniffed sadly. Matthew was the golden boy of the company and Beth had been so proud of his determination to succeed. But it would seem that his ambition was greater than Beth had realised. Maybe the lure of the CEO’s daughter and a penthouse office had just been too tempting for him to say no.
But he was supposed to love Beth. He had told her that he loved her, he had acted like he loved her. He had held her in his arms each night and woken her with a kiss each morning, surely all acts of love, and more tears wound themselves down her soggy face to plop onto her lap.
Sally: Sure you don’t want me to come over?
Beth: Sure
Sally: I’m so angry with him. And her!
Beth: I feel so stupid
Sally: He's a lying two-faced bastard, you weren’t to know!
Beth: Maybe I should have been able to tell he was in love with someone else
Sally: Why?!! He kept saying he loved you! And I doubt if there is any love going on -not really. Just a whole lot of lust
Beth: Oh God! I think that’s even worse!
Sally: He’s a useless pathetic excuse for a man. I hate him!!
Beth: Me too.
Except that she didn’t, she loved him and her hand shook as she took a deep drink of wine, grabbed some tissues and retreated to the corner of the settee, only to catch the scent of Matthew’s aftershave on one of the cushions. Burying her head into its velvety depths she remembered him next to her, his arms wrapped around her as he told her that she was his soul mate, the one person who understood him, the rock by his side.
It was several minutes before the latest wave of tears subsided. With her wine glass now empty and the tissues becoming dangerously low, Beth wandered into the kitchen sniffing gently, her eyes blurry with tears. Her throat was raw from crying and her heart ached so much she could feel it thumping sadly.
Beth: Do you think I got the wrong end of the stick?
Sally: What end of the stick could you possibly be holding? He’s having an affair with her!
Beth: But maybe I should have stayed and asked more questions, made sure I understood what was happening
Sally: Such as what? How long have you two been shagging? How long have you been carrying on behind my back? You always give in to him too easily! But not this time. He’s betrayed you- there is no going back
Beth: It hurts
Sally: Oh honey! I bet it does. He’s behaved so badly, don't forget that. Don't forgive him. EVER!
Beth groaned, topping up her glass and hugging the bottle tightly to her in search of some comfort. Sally was right of course, but it was still breaking her heart in two.
With only a rapidly disintegrating tissue left, Beth found her bag, digging at the bottom in search of more and finding not only half a packet, but the letter that had arrived that morning. Taking the tissues, letter and a very large glass of wine into the living room it took several attempts before she could clear the tears from her eyes long enough to make sense of the contents. Eventually, the tear-stained letter was read, read again and read through once more. It would appear that Aunt Lizzie’s beach hut now belonged to Beth.
When she was a child, in fact right until turning 16, Beth had spent several weeks of every summer holiday with her Aunt Lizzie in Welby-on-the-Sea. They had been halcyon days, full of sunshine and salty sea air, ice creams eaten while sitting on the harbour wall and fish and chips eaten out of the paper wrapping. Beth had been given a freedom otherwise absent in her rather organised childhood in Bristol.
The two sisters couldn’t have been more different. Beth’s mother, Maureen, believed in a tidy house, a visit to the supermarket every Friday and a full washing line every Monday. Aunt Lizzie had a wanderlust running through her veins that she never tried to control. The unfortunate death of their parents in a car accident, when both girls were in their early twenties, had given Lizzie the freedom she craved.
Maureen had grieved quietly and proceeded with arrangements to tie the knot with Jimmy Carter and move to Bristol to begin her new life.
Lizzie had remained in the tiny coastal town of Welby-on-the-Sea but used her small inheritance to fund a trip to India. It was the first of many and while Maureen settled down to a safe and ordered life in her three-bedroomed semi, Lizzie spent much of her life travelling to the more exotic corners of the world, coming home to Welby only to plan her next visit.
Maureen was far more interested in keeping her house clean rather than entertaining her young daughter. Aunt Lizzie, in contrast, had far more interest in spending long afternoons crabbing in rock pools and taking Beth into the harbour in a small boat, which had once been painted a bright blue and red but was now faded and showing its age. Aunt Lizzie claimed to be a free spirit and refused to be tied down by worries over the whiteness of her sheets. Beth’s mother claimed Aunt Lizzie was an ageing hippy who should know better.
Beth relished the summers she shared with her aunt. And it wasn’t just the time spent in the small coastal town. Aunt Lizzie had a beach hut, one of only 20 on a small double row set at one end of the curving bay. They had been built in a somewhat optimistic attempt to give the small resort a more sophisticated air, and the council of the time had been buzzing with the possibility of Welby becoming a tourist attraction, visitors drawn there by the thought of owning their very own beach hut. The initiative had failed and the row of brightly coloured huts had been used mainly by the locals. Lizzie Brandon had Number 4, in the front row, and while to the ordinary eye, it may look like a wooden hut which had seen slightly better days, inside the only limit had been Beth’s imagination.
Whenever rain forced them off the beach and indoors, Beth would spend the afternoon curled up in a corner of the beach hut to listen to Aunt Lizzie recount tales of her travels; stories of maharajahs and temples, mango swamps and pyramids. Her aunt would produce silk scarves and carved wooden statues, conch shells and exotic masks and Beth would clutch them tightly as her aunt described her journey through the Amazon, or her trip to the wild forests of Borneo.
Aunt Lizzie had encouraged Beth to spread her wings and choose her path. Her mother had made it quite clear that there would be no wings, spread or otherwise, and any path Beth chose would involve business studies, an all-round subject guaranteed to find her a good job. Aunt Lizzie told Beth not to become tied down by irritating banalities such as a mortgage and a husband. Maureen told her daughter that she needed to find herself a nice young man with good prospects and the sooner the better.
The summer after her 16th birthday was the last summer Beth spent in Welby. The following year, she had a boyfriend, Michael Davidson, whom she didn't want to abandon for several weeks, plus a summer job which was needed to pay for the driving lessons she wanted to take. There had been no visit to Welby-on-the-Sea.
Aunt Lizzie had been very understanding. Her voice had sounded strange to Beth, echoing around the hallway of the Bristol house and there had been a tinge of sadness in its depths.
‘It's not like I won’t see you again, Aunt Lizzie,’ Beth had said, believing every word. ‘Maybe I'll be able to come next summer, with Michael,’ she had giggled.
The following summerMichael had disappeared with Karen Abbot and although Beth had passed her driving test, she had kept the summer job and was now saving for her very own car. The idea of giving it all up for several weeks to visit Welby seemed less than appealing compared to the thrill of spending the summer surrounded by her friends and a blossoming relationship with Michael’s replacement. And then had come the search for her first real job, business diploma in hand, and it wasn’t long before she was ensconced at a desk with a growing to-do list and relationships to handle. Suddenly, there was no longer the opportunity to spend long lazy summers with her aunt in Welby-on-the-Sea.
Beth hadn't been to Welby since. She and her aunt had kept in touch by letter and Beth had loved opening an envelope to find her aunt’s scrawling handwriting detailing her latest adventures and narrow escapes as she continued her zest for travelling. There was something deliciously old-fashioned about sitting down with pen and paper to tell Lizzie about moving in with Matthew and the flat they now shared. But there had never seemed to be the time to go back to Welby-on-the-Sea and although she had seen Aunt Lizzie several times, at family weddings, christenings and two funerals over the years, they had been brief unions with a marked absence of tigers and temples.
Then a few months earlier, the unthinkable had happened and Aunt Lizzie was cut down by the cancer gnawing away inside her. Without any fuss and little warning, she had died.
Tears began to fall down Beth’s cheeks again. For Matthew but also for Aunt Lizzie. How could Beth have failed to make time to visit her beloved, eccentric aunt? She had once suggested to Matthew that they go to Welby for a week and stay with Aunt Lizzie. He had been quite appalled at the prospect of spending any amount of time, but in particular an entire week, with an ageing relative and produced a counter suggestion that they go to Lanzarote and rent a villa with their very own swimming pool. Beth could have visited Welby without him, even if it were only for a few days. She should have made time to visit her aunt. But the truth was, she hadn’t wanted to leave Matthew’s side, not even for a weekend. He obviously hadn’t felt the same, he’d had no compunction leaving her side for good.
Beth looked down at the letter in her hand. The will had eventually been found in an old biscuit tin and according to the solicitor, the hut had been left to Beth in its entirety.
The solicitor, Mr Crabtree, had added a warning that the hut was in need of some repair which didn’t surprise Beth. It had needed repairing the last time she had visited which was over ten years ago.
But she remembered the hut with such fondness. Oh, how she would love to be there right now, curled up in Aunt Lizzie’s old deckchair, a glass of wine in her hand as she gazed out to sea and nursed her broken heart and no longer sure who she was crying for, Beth took the letter and her wine to bed and sobbed herself to sleep.