Chapter 4 #2
“With her mother bedridden and her younger sisters . . . Rachel manages everyone, and she works like a devil.” Lucy glanced at Rachel thoughtfully; she was leaning against the bar, chatting with Rob with a look of almost fervent determination on her face. “She wasn’t on top form tonight, though.”
“I think that was because of me.” Lucy and Abby turned to stare at her in surprise, and Claire explained, “We were friends in primary school, a long time ago. But I think I annoy her now.”
“No,” Lucy protested, but she sounded unconvinced.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Claire said, and made her way through the tables to the door.
As she was reaching for the handle, she glanced back at Rachel and felt a jolt of uneasy surprise to see Rachel gazing back at her.
She started to smile, but Rachel simply moved her gaze on, as if she hadn’t seen her at all.
Early the next morning she woke to the phone ringing shrilly, clicking over to voice mail, and then ringing ahead. With a groan Claire reached for the receiver by her bed and managed a groggy hello.
“Claire.” Her mother’s voice was breathy, melodramatic, and made her wince. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you?”
“Five?” Claire answered. Five voice mails on her mobile that she’d deleted.
“Do you realize how worried we’ve been about you?” Marie demanded. “We were expecting you here. We sent a car.” Her mother always spoke in accusing italics.
Claire rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, and in the distance she could hear the train coming into the village, clattering across the tracks.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” she said, “but I didn’t want to come to London. I needed a little space.”
“Dr. Bryson said you shouldn’t be alone.”
“For heaven’s sake, I’m not suicidal.”
“Claire.” As usual whenever Claire dared to raise her voice, her mother sounded shocked and so very disappointed. “We’re concerned. We want to help you.”
“I know. I appreciate that.” She took a deep, even breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Daddy’s sending a car to get you,” Marie informed her briskly. “And this time you’ll get in it, Claire, and come back to where you belong. Where we can keep an eye on you.”
“Mum, I’m twenty-eight, not eight,” Claire said. She could feel a lump forming in her throat, her default response to her mother’s commands. “I don’t need looking after.”
“You’re in a vulnerable state. The doctors at the clinic insisted you should be with people—”
“There are people here,” Claire interjected. “Last night I went to a pub quiz—”
A second of shocked silence followed. “You were at the pub?”
“I had water. Seriously, Mum, I am not about to fall off the wagon.” She almost added that she didn’t think she actually had a drinking problem, but she kept herself from it.
Her mother would just start pontificating about denial.
And maybe she did have a problem. She’d gotten drunk.
Roaring drunk, according to Hugh, and Claire supposed she had to believe him since she didn’t remember much of the party.
She might have started singing at some point.
And dancing. Completely and utterly unlike quiet, malleable Claire, which had no doubt appalled and humiliated Hugh.
“The car should be there by noon,” Marie said. “You can be in London by dinnertime.”
For a second Claire pictured it: the sleek black sedan pulling up the lane, the driver holding the door open, all obsequious charm.
She’d slide inside and doze her way down to London, arrive at her parents’ flat in South Kensington, sleep in the second guest room; the first they kept for more important guests.
And then what? Slot into some kind of life her parents had arranged?
A job at an art gallery or museum, something barely paid but seemingly prestigious.
She’d meet up with the group of catty acquaintances she’d called friends, daughters and nieces and grandchildren of her mother’s socialite cronies. And endure and endure and endure.
“I don’t want to be in London by dinnertime,” she said quietly.
Just this much defiance took more strength than she feared she had.
“Please, Mum, just let me be, for a little while at least. You can call me every day. You can send someone over to check on me. Just . . . let me be.” Her voice ended on something close to a whimper, making her cringe.
Marie was silent for a long moment. “I am not happy with this, Claire,” she said sternly, and then let out a long, weary sigh. “Fine, since you are being so difficult. But if at any moment I feel like things aren’t going well, I’m sending someone to get you. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
“I’ll call you tonight,” Marie promised, and Claire murmured her thanks and goodbye before hanging up and rolling over onto her side, a pillow clutched to her stomach.
So this was freedom. She didn’t know why she’d been so determined to stay here.
It wasn’t as if Hartley-by-the-Sea had anything to offer her.
It was better than being micromanaged in London by her mother, but only just. She couldn’t stand the thought of staying in the house all day, wandering through its elegant, empty rooms, feeling anchorless and adrift.
But she didn’t need to stay inside, hiding.
It was a beautiful, if chilly, day, and it had been years since she’d been down to the beach.
Claire showered and dressed and then headed outside, the brisk wind making her eyes water as she started down the lane towards the main road and then turned right towards the beach.
Sheep pasture bordered the road on both sides, the tufty grass touched with frost. Puffy white clouds studded a fragile blue sky, and by the time she’d reached the promenade, her eyes were streaming from the wind.
The tide was in, so Claire stood on the concrete promenade and watched the white-tipped waves crash against the railings before turning towards the shabby little beach café up on the promontory.
She’d hardly ever been inside; her parents had preferred to go farther afield, to the more fashionable towns of Cockermouth or Keswick, for refreshment.
There weren’t many people in the café; Claire saw a couple of elderly ladies chatting as they dipped their shortbread biscuits into cups of milky tea. A little boy was playing in a corner that had been set out as a play area, with a blanket and some books and toys.
A dark-haired woman emerged from the kitchen and Claire realized it was Abby, whom she’d met at the pub quiz last night.
“Hello,” Abby exclaimed. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I didn’t know you worked here.” Claire came towards the till and perused the plastic-covered menu self-consciously.
“My grandmother owns the place,” Abby explained, “but she’s been unwell. Noah and I are living with her until she gets back on her feet.”
“Noah . . . ?”
Abby nodded towards the little boy playing in the corner. “My son,” she said, a slight note of proud challenge entering her voice.
“Of course.” Claire smiled at the boy, who, at the mention of his name, had looked up from his toys. “Well,” she said, only half joking, “you don’t have a job going, do you?”
Abby made a face. “Sorry. I wish I did. I wish I had enough business to warrant the help.”
“It was worth a shot,” Claire said. “How about an egg and bacon sandwich and a cup of tea instead?”
“That I can do,” Abby said, and rang up the order. Claire paid and then wandered to a table by the window, where she could watch the sea surge and swell. She propped her chin on her hands and wondered where else she could look for a job, and then she wondered if she really wanted a job.
Did she want to stay in Hartley-by-the-Sea? Maybe only by default, because she had nowhere else to go. But to get a job, actually settle down here, if only for a while?
She turned the thought over in her mind, trying to imagine it. Working here, making friends here, building a life. Something she’d never actually done before, not really.
She’d spent four years in Portugal, but it hadn’t felt like a life or a home. She’d had a job that had felt like being a show pony, a glamorous, soulless executive flat, and a fiancé who had sometimes felt like a stranger. A charming, handsome stranger but someone she didn’t really know or miss.
The thought brought a sense of shame, that she’d come so close to tying her life to a man she didn’t actually care about.
But then she didn’t know if Hugh had even cared about her.
She’d never really understood why he’d wanted to marry her, except that she looked good on his arm and always did what he said.
Not exactly the stuff of romantic dreams.
He hadn’t called her once since she’d left Portugal a month ago, hadn’t sent so much as a text. It was as if he’d disappeared from her life, and the worst thing was she didn’t feel hurt or even disappointed. She only felt relief.
“Here you go.” Abby put down her sandwich, along with a little tin pot of tea and a jug of milk.
“Thanks.”
She stood there while Claire poured the tea and milk, starting to feel self-conscious under the women’s scrutiny.
“I think you should try the post office shop again,” Abby said. “I know Dan Trenton can be a bit unfriendly, but honestly, he’s like that with everyone.”
“Is he?” Claire took a sip of tea. “I don’t actually have any experience working in that kind of environment.”
“You don’t need much. Just ringing up the till, stocking shelves, I imagine.” Abby hesitated. “What did you do out in Portugal, then?”
“I worked in real estate.” It sounded far more important than it had been.
“Really, I just showed retirees a new estate of villas my fiancé was developing. It didn’t involve much more than walking around an empty house, opening doors and talking about the stunning ocean views and dual-aspect kitchen.
” She grimaced at the memory, and Abby cocked her head.
“Didn’t like it much, did you?”
“Not really.”
“What happened to the fiancé?” Abby asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
“We broke up.” Claire felt her face heat. “Actually, he dumped me. I think.”
“You think?”
“Well.” Claire grimaced. “We left it a bit . . . undecided. I was coming to England, and we haven’t spoken in a month. So.”
“You don’t seem too disappointed.”
She let out a laugh, surprised at Abby’s bluntness. “No, I’m not. And yet I stayed with him for nearly four years. I’m not sure what that says about me.”
“Maybe that you’re very patient?” Abby suggested with a smile. “Enjoy your sandwich.” She turned away to tend to the pair of hikers who had come into the café, stomping mud from their caked boots and brandishing elaborate-looking walking sticks. Claire stared out at the sea.
Perhaps she would try Dan Trenton again. Why not? She’d made two sort of friends since she’d come back to Hartley-by-the-Sea, and as she sipped her tea she could almost imagine what it would feel like to live here. To have a life. To be free and independent and happy.
Three things she’d never really felt before, but maybe, just maybe, she could feel them—be them—here.