Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Claire
Claire lay in bed and listened to the murmur of her parents’ voices downstairs. No doubt they were talking about her, trying to manage her as always. It had been paralyzing, coming into the house to confront them. Not that she’d actually done any confronting.
No, she’d stood there with her head bowed, practically cowering, as her mother fluttered around her and her father remained silent, radiating disapproval.
“Darling, we’ve been so worried,” Marie had exclaimed, air-kissing both of Claire’s cheeks before she stepped back and examined her. “You look pale and a bit skinny. Not that you can be too thin, but are you eating well?”
“I’m eating fine,” Claire had said. She’d forced herself to look up and face them. Her mother’s sharp features were pursed with that familiar mixture of annoyance and concern that Claire always seemed to engender. “I’m fine,” she’d added, and her voice came out a little firmer.
“Claire, how on earth can you be fine? You’ve run all the way to Cumbria, and Andrew says you’re working in the post office. . . .” Marie had let out an uncertain laugh. “Honestly, I thought he was joking.”
“What’s wrong with working in the post office?” Claire had asked. “Not that I’m actually working in the post office. I have to be trained to do that.”
Her mother had laughed again, only to trail off uncertainly. “Claire, really. This isn’t . . . Look, I understand you needed a bit of a break, especially after Hugh . . .” Her mother’s voice turned tearful and tragic, and Claire had suppressed a sigh.
“I’m not actually all that broken up about Hugh.”
“It’s admirable, of course, to put a good face on it—”
“I’m not putting a good face on it—”
“But that’s all in the past anyway.” Marie brought her hands together in a sort of clap. “The reason we’ve come all this way is because Daddy has arranged a job for you down in London. A proper job.”
Claire had felt a leaden sense of inevitability fall over her, weighing her down. “What kind of proper job?”
“Working for a charitable foundation. Something with sport . . .” Marie had glanced at her husband. “What is it, Edward?”
“The Foundation for Promising Athletes,” he’d said, his voice a rumble, his arms folded. Sitting there so silent and disapproving, he reminded Claire of Dan. Except Dan was a lot nicer.
“Sounds very . . . sporty,” Claire had managed. “So what does it do?”
“Oh, it scouts for athletes from all around the country,” Marie had enthused. “It’s found the number twenty-two-ranked tennis player—”
“And it’s a charitable foundation?” Claire had interjected. “It sounds like a talent agency.”
“It’s not like that.” Marie had drawn back, affronted. “It runs camps and things. For the disadvantaged. They just have to show ability. Isn’t that right, Edward?”
Her father nodded. Claire had sighed. Her parents had been home for ten minutes and she already felt overwhelmed, knocked back by the sheer force of her mother’s will.
She didn’t want to go to London and work for some tony foundation, but at that moment she didn’t have the energy to explain that to her mother.
Fortunately, her parents had left it, no doubt assuming Claire would fall in with their plans as she always did. And after an interminable dinner at Raymond’s, Claire had excused herself and escaped to her bedroom, glad not to have to face her parents till the morning.
Lying in bed, she wondered what they were saying about her.
She hadn’t possessed the courage to order a glass of wine with her meal that night; her parents had exchanged relieved looks when she’d asked for sparkling water.
Now she imagined them whispering about her, how wan she looked, how much better her life in London would be.
Telling them no was going to take all the strength she had.
The next morning her mother was in the kitchen when Claire came downstairs, ready to clean two of Rachel’s jobs that she’d switched to Saturday.
“You’re up early,” Marie said brightly as she sipped a black coffee, her smartphone in her other hand.
“I’m going to work.”
“Work?” Marie looked blank. “You mean at the post office? But, Claire—”
“No, not at the post office. I’m cleaning houses for Rachel Campbell.” Marie gaped at her, utterly flummoxed. “I enjoy it,” Claire said with an edge of defiance. “And I have responsibilities.”
“Of course you do,” Marie agreed. She sounded as if she were soothing a skittish colt. “Of course you do. But… you can tell Rachel you can’t do it after today. And you can give your notice at the post office.”
Claire didn’t bother to reply. She just took a banana from the bowl and reached for her coat.
Outside the sun was shining, but the wind was cold.
She lowered her head against it, calling herself a coward.
An emotional coward, just like Dan, because she hadn’t disagreed with her mother.
Because part of her felt it would be safer, easier, to slink back to London than to keep trying to carve out a life for herself here, with people she wasn’t even sure wanted her around.
On the way to Rachel’s she saw that Dan was in the post office when she arrived, and impulsively Claire stepped inside.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, and she just shrugged. Dan peered at her from behind the Plexiglas. “Claire? Is everything all right?”
“No.” Her voice wobbled, and she mentally shook her head at herself. Now Dan actually showed a modicum of interest in her. “It’s bloody awful at the moment. My parents just arrived.”
“You don’t get on with them?”
“Not particularly, although I doubt they would say that.”
Dan came out from behind the post office counter. “What do you mean?”
“They’ve been managing my life forever, and they still think they can do it.” She paused and then blurted, “They want me to go to London. My father’s arranged a job for me, working for some sports charity.”
Dan was silent for a long moment. “And?” he finally asked.
“And they’re going to nag and pressure me to go until I cave, because that’s what always happens.”
“It’s your choice, whether you go or not.”
“I know, but it never feels that way. My parents are very forceful.And it isn’t as if I’ve got a real life here.
” She glanced at him, daring him to object, to insist that she did.
Dan stayed silent. “I mean, I’m not even a postal assistant yet,” she half joked.
“And working in a shop a few days a week? Living at home? I can’t even afford to get a flat. ”
“So you want to go to London?”
“I don’t know.” But she did know, even if she didn’t want to admit it to Dan. She wanted to stay in Hartley-by-the-Sea; she wanted Dan and Rachel and everyone else to tell her to stay. To insist on it, because they wanted her there. Because they needed her.
“It sounds like a decent situation,” Dan remarked tonelessly. “Working in London. And it’s more your thing, isn’t it? City life. All that.” He waved his hand vaguely.
“I’ve liked it here,” she said, and then waited.
Dan still said nothing. “But maybe . . .” She imagined taking the job, finding a flat her parents would pay for, falling in with her old circle of friends, a never-ending cycle of clubs and wine bars and parties.
Maybe that really was her life. Maybe she’d just been playing at something different in Hartley-by-the-Sea.
“I think you should go for it, Claire,” Dan said, and went back behind the post office counter. Claire couldn’t make out his expression behind the Plexiglas. “It sounds like a good opportunity.”
He almost sounded as if he wanted to get rid of her. And she was late for Rachel. “Okay then,” Claire said finally. “Thanks for your input.” She walked out of the shop without either of them saying another word.
Four hours later she’d finished her two cleaning jobs and stood in front of Rachel’s house, pail of cleaning supplies in hand. Claire couldn’t bear the thought of going back to Four Gables and facing her parents, and so she knocked on Rachel’s door instead.
Meghan answered the door, looking unimpressed. “You’ve got a face like a lemon.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just life.” Claire tried for a smile. “Is Rachel around?”
“Yes, but she’s busy. I don’t think she can fix your life on top of everything else.”
Affronted, Claire drew back. “I didn’t ask her to. I just cleaned two of her houses, actually—”
“Come in if you want,” Meghan cut her off, and stepped aside.
The house was tidy for once, with all the coats on their hooks and the little hall table cleared of its usual drift of junk mail.
Meghan looked better too, her face a little rounder, her eyes less wild.
She inspected Claire for an uncomfortable moment before she nodded towards the kitchen. “She’s in there.”
Claire stepped into the kitchen to see Rachel sitting at the table, papers spread out in front of her.
“Claire—”
“Sorry. Am I interrupting you?”
“No, not really.” Rachel tidied the papers into a pile and put them away. “Just going through a few things. How did the cleaning go?”
“Fine—”
Rachel looked at her more closely. “Are you all right?”
“Do I really look that awful?”
“No, but . . .” Rachel looked at her closely. “You look tired and I don’t know, lost.”
Which was how she felt. “My parents came home yesterday.”
“And?”
Rachel looked nonplussed, which was just how Dan had looked. Having her parents return to their own house shouldn’t be such a big deal. Such a tragedy. Of course it shouldn’t.
“And they want me to move back to London. My father has arranged a job for me, working for a sports charity.”
“Really.” Rachel rose from the table, taking her pile of papers with her. “So are you going to go?”
Why did everyone assume she was? Why wasn’t Rachel or Dan or anyone expressing dismay that she might be leaving, and then urging her to stay? “I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Rachel’s voice had hardened just a little. “I mean, what’s keeping you here, really?”