‘I’m sure they’ll be upset,’ replied Serena. ‘But I think they’ll understand. They’ve known I’ve been miserable for a long time.’
Something dark flickered across Philip’s face. He was totally on his back foot. And he didn’t like the thought that his children had been somehow complicit in this. He stepped forwards.
‘You bitch,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very clever, haven’t you? Manipulating everything to make yourself look whiter than white, when all the time you’ve been fucking my
brother
, you filthy slut—’
‘Let me stop you there. I have never
fucked
anyone else while I’ve been married to you.’
‘You must have been doing something. It wasn’t just something you dreamt up on the spur of the moment.’
‘No,’ admitted Serena. ‘It was just something that happened. I suppose you could say we fell in love.’
Philip’s eyes were like slits. No man likes being made a fool of, and especially a philanderer.
‘You’ll get nothing,’ he declared. ‘And you won’t see the children.’
‘Actually, that’s entirely up to them. They’re both over sixteen. And I’m entitled to half of everything.’
‘I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’
‘Fine,’ said Serena. ‘To be honest, that’s exactly what I expected.’
She picked up a cardigan and slung it round her shoulders.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ she replied.
‘You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and walk off.’
‘I was going to give you some time. To think. Before we discuss the details. I don’t want to get embroiled in an argument. I want to make this as painless as possible.’
‘You want me to make this easy for you, you mean?’
She gave him a twisted smile, a smile that was covering up the fact she was trying hard not to cry.
‘You’ve never made anything easy for me, Philip.’
Moments later, he was left alone in the middle of the hut as the door swung shut behind her.
He felt his chest tighten. He put a fist to his heart, to ascertain how steady the beat was. Wow, that would be a cliché, wouldn’t it, if he keeled over with a heart attack? But after a few seconds of deep breathing, the tightness passed and Philip was able to relax, before he thought about his next move.
Shit. He was well and truly stitched up like a kipper. Those names Serena had trotted out - they were just the tip of an iceberg, though he thought she probably knew that. Which meant he didn’t have a leg to stand on. All the time he thought he’d been so clever, she had known all along. Bloody Eleanor Tripp. She saw too much, with those cold, hooded eyes of hers. She’d probably put a stopwatch on all of his tutorials, making notes if they ran over, running back to Serena to report back. Man-hating witch.
It had been like a drug over the years. A new intake every year, of stunning, intelligent, nubile young creatures, all hanging on his every word. He loved selecting his next lover, as mouth-watering as picking from a box of handmade chocolates. Then betting with himself how long it would take to make her succumb. He had perfected his methodology. A little extra attention. A few glowing comments to make her feel good. An extra tutorial, to go over something. A glass of wine. A finger along the curve of a cheek - they were putty in his hands by that stage. Philip knew he was an attractive man, that his knowledge was an aphrodisiac to those hungry to learn. That they were flattered when he made them feel special. Once he had captured them, he would keep them going for about six months, having enjoyed their wide eyes as he taught them things about their bodies they’d had no idea of, then gently dropped them.
‘My wife suspects,’ he would murmur, stroking the inside of a softer than soft thigh. ‘I don’t want a scandal.’
They always wept bitterly, but in the end went without demur. Somehow he had managed to escape detection. None of them had ever compared notes, because he made them promise.
‘This has never happened to me before,’ he would say. ‘This has been very special. I will always treasure it. But it can’t go on.’
The irony of all this, however, was he had slowed down of late. He no longer felt so ardent. He didn’t salivate as the first years trooped in for freshers’ week. And last term he had heard two girls, quite distinctly, discussing him.
‘Ewww, no way. I couldn’t,’ one of them squealed. ‘He must be at least fifty.’
Which he wasn’t. Not for quite a while. And he had thought his greying sweep of hair lent him a distinguished air.
The exchange had dented his confidence. He couldn’t bear the thought of rejection, of some ravishing girl pushing him away in distaste. And so this year, he hadn’t sought out new prey. Instead, he had actually started to enjoy his own wife’s company. He had noticed how radiant she looked lately, how she was growing into her looks rather than fading. She seemed to be bursting with vitality, bubbling over with a new-found confidence. It had rather intrigued him. Next to her, undergraduates seemed raw, unformed, naive, while Serena was womanly, mysterious . . .
And now he knew why.
He was suddenly overcome with the humiliation. A hot flush spread over him; breathing seemed difficult again. How on earth could he face the rest of the family after this? His own children, for heaven’s sake? And his mother - what would his mother say? Would Serena be using her list of his indiscretions as part of her defence? And the annual party? When everyone on the beach gathered at The Shack to celebrate the end of the summer? How could he face them all?
He sat down heavily on the end of the bed he and Serena had been sharing and put his face in his hands. He knew, absolutely, that he had the ending he deserved. He could taste the bile of regret in the back of his throat, but it was too late to be sorry now. Or was it? Was there any way he could get her back? A holiday? A diamond? An apology? A promise . . . ? Philip suspected not. He had never seen Serena so calm, so sure of herself. He’d blown it, by being selfish, and smug, and arrogant, and thinking he was immortal, untouchable . . .
Philip stood up smartly. He wasn’t one for navel-gazing and beating himself up, he reminded himself. He was a man of positive action - the grass didn’t grow under his feet. He pulled the suitcase out from under the bed and started throwing his clothes back in. Serena would have nothing to put hers in at the end of the week, but that was her problem. He was going home. He was going to leave her to explain her decision to all and sundry. If he wasn’t there, he didn’t have to face it.
Besides, it was the start of a new academic year in a couple of weeks. He’d get back to the faculty, sort his study out. Order some wine from Majestic, plan a cocktail party for the new intake - he’d do blinis and smoked salmon. Immediately, his mind went to lustrous long hair, innocent eyes and pearlescent skin. He swept up the car keys. He’d take the car too. He wasn’t going to worry about how Serena and the children would get back. It was her bloody problem.
Adrian sat on the sand with his arms around his knees. How many times had he sat here over the years, looking out to sea? He would miss it, for sure. The view had an instantly calming effect. It enabled you to see things for what they were, and to realise that other things didn’t really matter.
He saw her walking up the beach towards him. Her blond curls were ruffling in the breeze. She wore cut-off jeans and a red gingham shirt knotted at the waist, a cardigan round her shoulders, her feet bare.
‘OK?’
She sat down next to him. She sighed.
‘I’m sure it will get nastier before it gets better. Philip won’t let this go without a fight.’
They sat in silence side by side for a moment, each enjoying the warmth from the other’s body, the closeness, the lack of any need to say anything. Then Adrian put his hand up to her face, turning it to his, and kissed her.
At last, she was his.
And he was hers.
Inside The Shack, Jane went to cover Spike over with his duvet. Bart had rolled out of his arms and she tucked the pair of them back in again. She felt drained by what Adrian had told her. It threw up so many questions. Not just practical ones, but questions about her role as a mother.
What could she have done to prevent this ghastly situation? She knew deep down it was Philip’s failings that were the root cause. He was so like Graham, it was spooky - they had the same defence mechanisms, the same superior attitude, the same ability to blame other people for their own shortcomings. She should have worked harder when he was little to delete these character traits, but looking back now she didn’t think they had been so apparent when he was small.
Her mobile rang. Her heart leapt into her mouth, as it always did when her phone rang at a peculiar time.
It was her solicitor, Norman.
‘Jane? I’m so sorry to disturb you so late, but I’ve just had rather a strange phone call. From Terence Shaw’s agent. The writer? He wanted me to let you know - he passed away yesterday.’
‘Oh my goodness.’ She made her way across the room and sank into a chair. She had absolutely no idea what to think or feel. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she repeated, feeling rather confused.
‘The funeral will be on Thursday. In London. He thought you might like to go. And, of course, I’ll come with you if you’d like. It is invitation only, but he seemed to think it might be important to you . . . ?’
That Norman was dying of curiosity there was no doubt. Jane knew she had to give him some sort of explanation.
‘I worked for him when I was young. I . . . typed out one of his books. He was . . . quite a character.’
She wasn’t going to start spilling the beans about her misspent youth to her solicitor over the telephone. Norman was the soul of discretion, which was why she had employed him for so long, but she didn’t want to shock him.
‘I’ll come up on the train,’ she decided straight away. ‘I’ll come to your office first.’
She hung up, her hand shaking.
The love of her life. Dead.
There was no hope any longer. Nothing to dream about.
Yet somehow she felt the most immense sense of relief, and liberation. And in that moment, she felt glad that Adrian had stuck out for what he believed in. And hoped that one day, maybe Philip would find the same happiness with someone else. It might be too late for her, but if she could teach her children, and her grandchildren, the value of true love, then she wouldn’t have suffered in vain.
11
HARBOUR LIGHTS
I
t was a pearl-grey morning just after dawn as Roy drove his ancient Volvo estate down the steep, winding lane that led from his house to Everdene beach. He must have done the journey a thousand, a million times, but he never tired of the dramatic view. The waves this morning reared up like rampant stags and hurled themselves against the craggy rocks, spume billowing. Further out to sea, the water was calm, a sheet of silver steel waiting to be brought to life by the rising sun. It was going to be a hot one, he could tell that by the haze. In a few hours this road would be bumper-to-bumper, filled with impatient motorists eager to get to the beach. There would be road rage before the day was out.
As he drove towards the beach-hut car park he saw Jane waiting by the entrance. She looked pale and anxious, as if she hadn’t slept, and was wearing jeans and a light mac. She’d come to ask him the day before if he would give her a lift to the station - she knew he was always up early, and the chances of any of her family emerging willingly at that time were fairly slim.
He had been only too pleased to oblige.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said as she slipped into the passenger seat. ‘I’m going to have to do a mercy dash into the shops at Paddington-I didn’t bring any suitable clothes with me. I didn’t think I’d be going to another funeral quite so quickly.’
Her tone was dry and she managed a fleeting smile.
‘Terence Shaw, eh?’ replied Roy, keeping his tone neutral. He remembered her working for Everdene’s infamous author that summer. Roy had always wondered what had gone on between Jane and Terence. Something, he was certain.
But Jane obviously didn’t want to talk about it. She pulled down the passenger mirror to check her appearance, gave a little shudder of distaste - ‘I look like a corpse myself’ - then snapped the mirror back into place and turned to him with a bright smile.
‘Terribly inconvenient, really, having to go up to town just before the party. I’ve left it all in the capable hands of Chrissie and Serena.’
Roy chuckled.
‘Should be fine, then.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ Jane coughed, slightly embarrassed. ‘Serena’s just left Philip.’ There was another pause. ‘For Adrian.’
Although he was driving, Roy turned to look at her in amazement, just for one second, then wrenched his gaze back to the road. He digested the information quietly, as was his wont, then whistled.
‘Fireworks?’
‘Actually, no. It’s all rather calm. Philip just upped and left. He went back home. I haven’t managed to speak to him yet. But I think the general consensus is ...’ She trailed off with a small sigh as she thought about the soap opera that was her family. ‘Serena was bound to leave Philip anyway, in the end, and better the devil we know. And I think it will be a good thing for Spike if it all works out - he and Serena have always been close.’
Roy shook his head in disbelief.
‘I know,’ Jane laughed shakily. ‘You couldn’t make it up, as they say. Anyway, I’m going to try not to let it spoil the party. The Last Party.’
She leant her head back against the headrest. Why did those three words sound so melancholy? It wouldn’t be the last party, either, just the last one that she would organise. She was sure the other beach-hut owners would carry on the tradition. Everyone looked forward to it - it was the highlight of the summer. Always held on the Saturday night of the August bank holiday, it started at three o’clock in the afternoon and had been known to carry on until three the next morning. It had been instigated by Jane’s mother, and when Jane came back as Mrs Milton she reinstated it. Entry was by a bottle of champagne per head and a contribution to the food - either salad to accompany the pig roast or a pudding. The dress code was ‘Black Tie or Beach Beautiful’, with the older generation opting for the former and the young the latter, though there had been a fashion of late for the options to be mixed, with men turning up in dinner jackets and surfing shorts. This tongue-in-cheek interpretation pretty much summed up the tone of the affair, which inevitably ended in girls in ball gowns being chucked into the sea amidst much shrieking and laughter.