Chapter 11
Olivia has decided to eschew the hotel breakfast today.
She is already feeling a little confined by this place; the same faces surrounding her in the foyer, at the bar.
She had bid Tobias and the kids to head on down without her, where they no doubt enjoyed all that the complimentary buffet had to offer.
Drew was eager to fill up on bacon and eggs before his paddleboarding lesson and Bella had agreed that she would join him down by the water.
Meanwhile, Tobias wanted to be on site early at the renovation again, keen to keep the builders ‘under the cosh’, as he put it.
So, she is a free agent today. Free to spend the day as she chooses.
She has decided to start with a long bath.
Then she will take a stroll, find somewhere nice for coffee and pastries, maybe check out the local bookshop.
She even considers the idea of some sketching before she pushes it to one side with a blush, imagining Tobias’s snort of derision.
It’s been a lifetime since she indulged any of her artistic pursuits, after all.
Two kids, and a large house to run, soon put paid to that.
She had left her job at the art gallery when she became pregnant.
It had seemed to make sense at the time.
Her career had always been a labour of love and Tobias was already earning a fortune in the city by then.
Of course she could have hired a nanny, a cleaner, outsourced it all to a whole army of staff.
But she couldn’t bear the idea of handing over her babies to others, the thought of them loving anyone but her.
And every time cleaners came to the house, she felt invaded, judged.
Later, she had considered retraining when Bella and Drew were old enough not to need her so much but by then she had completely run out of confidence.
The yawning gap in her CV spoke of nothing more than school committees and fundraisers.
And every time she wandered into the gallery where she used to work, it seemed to be staffed with yet younger, smarter, more technically erudite recruits.
The idea of going back into a cut and thrust environment somewhere like Mayfair or Chelsea filled her with dread and sent her fleeing back to the reassuring quiet of her kitchen, her garden, her familiar neighbourhood.
These are the thoughts that cycle around her head as she bathes, dries herself, selects her clothes for the day (a pink, block-printed kaftan, made in India but sourced from one of the heavenly boutiques nearby).
She coaxes her hair into her usual artfully tousled updo, inserts silver hoops into her ears, and sighs as she considers the fine lines on her face.
But then she slaps on some factor 50 and dons enormous sunglasses, grabbing her straw bag as she leaves.
Down in the town, she fights her way through a river of bodies: parents and their children, all similarly dressed; the local rowing team, out for their daily practice, carrying a boat on their shoulders; a small delivery van, carefully inching its sides along the narrow cobbled street that was not built for this sort of traffic.
Presently, she finds a table free at her favourite café, orders a large black coffee and an almond croissant (diet, be blowed) and watches the world go by.
From here she notices a woman, pale and thin, unlike most of the weatherbeaten locals or tanned tourists.
She is wearing a black T-shirt and leggings, her hair scraped back into such a severe ponytail, it gives Olivia a headache just thinking about it.
The woman sits down on the stone steps leading up to the local church.
From a plastic carrier bag, she produces a makeshift sign advertising ‘Hair Weaves’ for ￡20 a pop.
Olivia sips her coffee, crumbles her pastry, watches as one little girl persuades her mum and then sits down at the feet of the woman.
Long, nimble fingers work quickly on a section of the girl’s hair, twisting different coloured threads round and round until a candy-striped shaft hangs down her back.
The mum pays, producing two notes, and the little girl smiles her thanks, delighted.
Not bad, thinks Olivia. Cash in hand. Twenty quid for ten minutes’ work.
She sees the woman push the notes into a bumbag around her waist and take a pull on her bottle of water.
She looks about her with that strange, wary look in her shadowed eyes as the crowds drift past.
Standing, Olivia downs her coffee and gathers her things.
She is feeling spontaneous. Free to make her own decisions.
And on a whim, she strides over to the church steps and asks the woman to weave her hair.
It’s the sort of thing she hasn’t dared to do since she was at art college, back when she used to have a nose ring, when she got her first and last tattoo (a peacock, whose feathers fan resplendently over one of her shoulders).
She lets the woman do what she likes, as long as she weaves in a bit of golden thread to catch the light.
Sitting at her feet, attendant like a child, she is aware of the many passersby.
Defiant, she squares her shoulders. Who cares what Tobias or the others might say?
Besides, she’s not doing it for them. When the woman has finished, Olivia fishes into her purse and pulls out several notes, much more than the asking price, and presses them into her hands, seeing the flare of surprise that sparkles in her eyes.
Buoyed by this act of charity, this feeling of rebellion, Olivia continues to stroll along the main street, her new braid swinging.
She looks briefly into one or two boutiques, but she has no need of any more summer clothes or trinkets, no one for whom she needs to buy souvenirs.
Her mind flits to the renovation, how she wishes it was ready so that she could shop for some locally-sourced produce and cook a beautiful meal in the new kitchen.
Eating out so much can become a bore, not to mention terrible for the waistline.
She comes to a stop outside a small traditional shop front.
Something about it is familiar and she sees it is the fishmonger’s where she used to buy fresh scallops and prawns.
Her mouth waters at the thought, especially if she could find some local samphire to go with it. Perhaps even oysters for a treat.
But then she looks up with dismay to see the shop is closed, permanently.
The windows are dark and there is a ‘For Sale / To Let’ sign above the door.
What a shame, she thinks, disappointed at the future loss she feels, especially when she will have finally moved into the second home.
But then she takes off her sunglasses, considers the shop anew, and thinks, what an opportunity.
Hastily, Olivia finds her phone and snaps a picture of the sign with the estate agents’ details.
The old fishmonger’s shop is the perfect space.
She can already imagine herself here selling tasteful arts and crafts in a chic independent gallery.
Perhaps, if there’s room, she can convert part of it into a studio for herself and she can begin painting again.
Her heart beats a little faster, a spasm clenches her gut.
She has had this feeling so few times in her life that it is all she can do not to tear the sign down and chain herself to the shopfront, staking her claim.
In fact, what is she waiting for? Someone else to come along and make an offer while she is dithering, asking Tobias’s permission, consulting with the kids?
She doesn’t need anyone else’s approval.
She still has a small nest egg that her parents put in trust for her, gathering interest like dust. Money that has been ring-fenced for herself, away from Tobias’s investments and the kids’ school fees.
She has been saving it. Never really imagining what it could be spent on other than a milestone birthday perhaps.
A new car? Some tokenistic piece of jewellery. None of which she needs.
But this. This represents a new life, a new role.
A new her. It feels so serendipitous that it is available, here, now.
As though it was always meant to be. She considers her husband and children.
Tobias is still so wrapped up in his work.
Leaving for the office at 5 a.m. each morning to catch the stock markets, staying out late to entertain clients.
She hardly sees him. Bella has her own life now at university, a social circle that seems increasingly wide and sophisticated and separate from her family.
But what about her son, Drew? Her heart quakes a little at the thought of not being there for him.
But he is swiftly outgrowing her too, just like Bella.
He will be off to university next year as well.
And Tobias could keep an eye on him in London whenever she was down here. It could work.
With that, she unlocks the screen of her phone and looks up to the agent board again, which is attached to the side of the building.
Shakily, she taps out the local number and takes a steadying breath.
A couple of families traipse past her, carrying their beach paraphernalia.
A dog on a lead comes over to sniff at her ankle briefly.
Olivia turns away from them all, presses a finger to her ear to better hear as the call is answered.
‘Good morning. Miller and Staunton lettings and estate agents. How may I help you?’
The voice sings out gaily and Olivia feels her nerve falter for a second before she takes another deep breath.
‘Oh hello. I wonder if you can. I’m enquiring about the property on Quay Lane. The old fish shop. Yes, that’s right. I’d be interested in arranging a viewing. As soon as possible please. Am I local? Yes, yes I am.’
As she walks down to the seafront, leather sandals slapping on the cobblestones, the sea breeze whipping up the hem of her kaftan, Olivia feels a fizzing sensation in her stomach, her mouth irresistibly drawing up into a smile.
She scans the horizon, a hand shading her eyes, looking for her children.
Eventually she spots Drew’s skinny but tanned torso, his bright red shorts and long gangly legs atop a paddleboard a little way out on the water.
She waits to catch his eye and waves enthusiastically.
He already looks so grown-up. She can see the man inside the boy, bursting at the edges of his lean body.
He’s the apple of her eye, she won’t deny.
She remembers being secretly happy when he emerged that day in the delivery room and he had her dark blonde hair.
She’d presumed he’d have the same shock of red as his father and sister.
But then she’d subsequently heard somewhere that the red hair gene is recessive and not always passed down.
In any case, it had seemed like a sign. Drew was something of her own, a child in her own image.
She casts another panoramic look around the bay and her eyes latch on to Bella in her skimpy bikini.
She is sitting on the beach, long limber legs glossy with suntan oil.
One hand is holding a cigarette – though she still denies the smoking to her father – while the other plays with her hair.
Olivia can tell that her daughter is chatting away on her phone, her lips moving, her mouth smiling, earbuds in.
Who is she talking to now? She is never off that thing, thinks Olivia.
It could be one of a myriad of friends and acquaintances.
Again, she feels a mix of envy and sadness when she considers her daughter.
She is so in awe of her yet always senses her own inadequacy in comparison.
How she has fallen in her children’s eyes from being the mother they followed faithfully like ducklings to what she is now; flightless, obsolete, a redundant dodo.
Crouching down on a nearby rock, Olivia draws her legs up to her chest and hugs herself.
Even these thoughts cannot dull her newfound joy as she toys with her hair weave.
A changed woman; she is vibrating with excitement.
She’s already decided that she will put down a deposit, secure the retail space as soon as she has looked around it with the agent this afternoon.
Before she tells anyone else and they have the chance to talk her out of it.
Besides this isn’t about them. It’s about her.
The next phase of her life, her future. Here. With Marcus.