Three weeks later, Marie came down to the house to see him. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. She looked terrible. Roy’s heart sank. How could she have got wind of him going? He’d managed to avoid her by taking on extra work labouring on a house that was being built in the next village, getting up at dawn and not returning until after dusk. And he hadn’t breathed a word of his plans to a soul. Perhaps they had told her in the post office that he had drawn his money out. People in Everdene were very good at putting two and two together. He would have to think of something. A motorcycle - could he say he was buying a motorcycle?
‘What is it?’ he asked her.
Marie looked at him, and in that second every plan he had made over the past few weeks crumbled to nothing.
‘I think I’m pregnant.’
As predicted, Jane had a thundering headache by the time she got on the six o’clock train at Paddington, though possibly thanks more to the three glasses of champagne Norman had poured down her than anything. She downed two tablets with some Evian water, then leant her head against the window pane as the train slid out of the station and through the insalubrious tower blocks that leered over the sidings.
She was still reeling from the shock of the afternoon’s revelation. She had travelled up this morning a virtual bankrupt, with no real idea of how she was going to finance herself for the rest of her life. Now, she was almost certainly solvent again, although the money wasn’t in the bank just yet and would take some time to materialise. Publication for
Exorcising Demons
was scheduled for November. And in the meantime, she had to decide if she was going to play ball with the press.
Was she prepared to spill her guts for money? She had always rather despised people who did so, but now she was facing the prospect of thousands of pounds for revealing the details of something that had happened years ago, and affected no one but herself now that Terence was dead, it was rather tempting. She could see for herself it was rather a wonderful story - even the phlegmatic Norman had nearly choked on his Taittinger when she told him the details.
Why not, she finally decided. As long as she made sure that her story was told in a reputable paper, like The
Times
or the
Independent
(and Terence Shaw was hardly red-top fodder) then what could go wrong? She wasn’t ashamed of what she had done. And anyway, she could arrange to be away when the story broke. She didn’t really fancy being trailed by reporters asking for the more salacious details. Norman had even mentioned talk of the film rights, which in turn would send sales of the book escalating. So really it was up to her to make as much of the story as she could. She smiled - what was that game the kids played? Who would play you in the film of your life?
Never mind that, she told herself. Before she started casting her teenage self, there were so many decisions. Not least what she was now going to do with the house. And The Shack. Once she had informed the bank of this latest development, they would hold fire, she was certain. As the train picked up speed and rolled past the fields of Berkshire in the encroaching dusk, she decided she would continue with the sale of her house - it was far too large, and she rather fancied a completely new beginning. A nice mansion flat in Chelsea or Kensington, perhaps.
And The Shack? If you had asked her at the beginning of the summer, she would have done anything to save it and keep it in the family. But now, as her family began to fracture, she wondered what the point was. They had certainly got a great deal of pleasure and enjoyment out of it over the years, but maybe it was time for them all to move on, her included. Perhaps the best thing would be to sell it and split the cash up between the three boys. She had no doubt it would come in useful. Yes, she decided. She would go ahead with the sale. Norman had a pile of offers in his office - they had already been through them and agreed which one to accept.
It was definitely the right thing to do. Once she had sold The Shack, and her story, she would have a clean slate. She had buried her husband, and her lover. It was time for her own story to begin.
They had been surprisingly content, Roy and Marie. They had got married before Marie had started to show too much, a quiet December wedding, just both sets of parents and a few friends. Roy used the money he had taken out of his post office account to buy her a ring, and a beautiful Silver Cross pram for the baby girl that had been their saving grace. At first they had lived with Marie’s parents, in her bedroom in the flat over the café, because that way it was easy for Marie to carry on working. Then when the second daughter came along two years later, they had moved up the road to a flat of their own.
Eventually, Marie’s parents had retired, and she had taken over the running of the café. By the time the two girls were at school, she had turned it around. With Roy’s help, she had knocked through into the courtyard at the back and made a little tea garden, filled with pots of flowers. She opened later and did fish suppers, which proved a roaring success. It became a little goldmine, and Roy was proud of her. In the back of his mind, he could never imagine Jane getting stuck in like this and making a success of herself. She would have needed looking after, pampering, and he would never have made her happy.
With him working for the estate, putting up the rest of the beach huts, and the ‘foreigners’ he took in season, when people wanted help with their holiday homes, soon Roy and Marie had enough cash to buy a little house of their own, one of the old coastguard cottages on the road out of Everdene. They loved the house, with its low beams and wonky walls, and the tiny garden overlooking the sea. Roy woke up every morning and was glad. There was still a bit of him that wondered what he had missed out on, but how could you not be content with your lot when you looked out of your bedroom window to crashing waves and Lundy Island in the distance?
They were pillars of Everdene society. Marie was on the Parish Council and helped run the playgroup even after the girls left and went to school. They helped organise the summer fete and the Christmas Fayre. Although the visitors outnumbered the residents for many months of the year, there was still a strong community. Roy belonged here, he realised. And it was a wonderful place to bring up the girls. Marie might not have been the love of his life, but perhaps he was happier for it. Perhaps a companion made you more content than a grand passion.
He was certainly devastated when she had died. It had been mercifully swift, four months from diagnosis to death, but he had been shocked by the emptiness he felt when she had gone. It was five years ago now. For eighteen months he had gone into a decline. Not quite a depression, because he had still functioned, but his daughters had been worried. Then one day he had told himself that moping was never going to bring her back. He had gutted the house from top to bottom. Thrown out all her stuff - her ‘bits’, the silly china ornaments, her clothes. He’d ripped up all the carpets, thrown out all the curtains, stripped the walls of the heavy floral paper she had favoured. Then he’d painted the house brilliant white from top to bottom, sanded and oiled the floorboards, and put up simple wooden venetian blinds. The girls had been upset at first - it didn’t feel like home any more - but Roy had explained that’s what he needed. He didn’t want to live with Marie’s ghost. He wanted a blank slate. Relieved that at least their father was no longer pining, the girls eventually agreed that the house was better for it - brighter - as was he.
He went to the local college and learnt photography. He bought himself a computer and spent hours fiddling about, eventually printing out exquisite photos he had taken of the area - close-ups of the local wildlife that only someone like he knew where to find: puffins, seals, jellyfish, crabs. He framed them and sold them through a local gallery. Life had a simple rhythm. Work, pint in the Ship Aground, home for dinner - he’d taught himself to cook as well, working his way through a Jamie Oliver cookbook from beginning to end.
He knew Jane Milton had been surprised when he invited her for supper, and even more surprised when he’d presented the sea bass cooked in spring onion and ginger, served with watercress and orange salad, followed by pineapple granita. She had admired his photographs, exclaimed over the view, tapped her foot to the jazz that came out of the hidden speakers he had installed. He sensed she had been expecting some poky pensioners’ cottage and an indifferent meal. She had enjoyed their evening, telling him that it was the first time she had relaxed since Graham’s funeral, and he took this as a compliment.
He realised now, as he drove to the station - she had phoned just after she left Paddington to say she was on the train - that the chances of their friendship developing into something deeper were slim. The Shack was as good as sold - he knew there had been any number of enquiries, and several good offers. He felt a twinge of sadness - not that he harboured any delusions about late-blossoming romance, but in spite of, or perhaps because of, his initial obsession with Jane, he had become very fond of her over the years. By the time she had reappeared with Graham Milton, he already had two children, and then she quickly became pregnant with hers, which inoculated them both from the memory of that night at the party. They had become firm friends, Roy almost a surrogate husband at times when she was down at Everdene without Graham and needed male assistance - though only ever of the practical kind. He had changed tyres for her, put her children’s feet in buckets of hot water when they had stepped on weaver fish, had taken them out over the rocks around the cove to see the seals when they were in . . . And even now, here he was, collecting her from the station. Did she use him? he wondered. Maybe. But he didn’t actually mind.
He watched her coming out of the station. She was in a dark blue dress - her funeral attire, he realised, and wondered how it had gone. Again he remembered the rumour - Marie’s gleaming eyes as she told him about the supposed affair. He had never found out if it was true.
She opened the door and got in, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek in gratitude.
‘What a day!’ she exclaimed. ‘You wouldn’t believe. You won’t believe.’ She put her hands up to her face and pushed back her hair. ‘Will there be a shop open? Can I get something to eat? The train had run out of sandwiches . . .’
‘Why don’t I make you an omelette?’ suggested Roy. ‘Saves stopping. Then I can drop you back.’
‘Would you? Oh, that sounds wonderful. I’m sure none of the others will have thought to save me anything, and I’m not sure I can face them yet.’ She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. ‘And I can tell you my news. But you must promise not to say a word.’
Roy just smiled. She knew as well as he did that he was hardly likely to breathe a single syllable. Roy had always known how to keep his counsel.
Jane sat back comfortably on the sofa in Roy’s living room and stretched out her legs. She was exhausted, but very grateful for his offer. She couldn’t quite face going back to her family yet - she would be hit with a barrage of questions, and problems that had arisen over the party, and no doubt there would have been some drama over the Adrian/Philip/Serena triangle. Roy’s house was a little haven from all of that. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen. She ran her eye around the room, admiring the simplicity - his black and white photos on the wall, a shelf of books, another shelf of CDs. On the coffee table next to her was an open brochure for a world cruise. She picked it up-a luxury cruise, by the looks of it, and her mouth watered as she leafed through it. Enticing locations, top-notch accommodation, wonderful food. How heavenly . . .
‘Are you going on a cruise, then?’ she asked teasingly, as Roy came through with her supper on a tray.
‘I thought I might. Thought it was about time I saw something of the world. Nothing much happens in Everdene in November. It would make a change.’
He put the omelette in front of her. A perfect yellow crescent, flecked with parsley and chives picked from the garden. A handful of cherry tomatoes from the greenhouse. And a glass of crisp white wine.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Jane, and picked up her knife and fork thoughtfully. A cruise in November. It sounded ideal. She could be miles from home when her story hit the newsstands. Soaking up the sun while tongues wagged.
She looked up at Roy. He was watching her rather intently. Waiting for her verdict on the omelette, she supposed, but he blushed and looked away when she caught his eye. Strange, she thought, but maybe he was self-conscious about his cooking.
‘Roy - be honest with me,’ she said. ‘I’ll totally understand if you say no. But this cruise you’re thinking about . . . how would you like a travelling companion?’
12
THE ROCKPOOL
A
lison hadn’t been at all convinced when Mike had suggested a week in Everdene for Chayenne’s first holiday. Even less so when he had proudly announced he had booked a beach hut for them to stay in. The British seaside on a bank holiday? She pictured kiss-me-quick hats and men with fat stomachs slumbering in deckchairs. She wanted to go to Majorca, but Mike had insisted it would be too traumatic for Chayenne to go abroad - she might not like flying, or the heat, or the food. Alison thought longingly of the villa they had rented once or twice in Puerto Pollensa, and held her tongue. He was probably right. He seemed to be right on all matters concerning Chayenne so far. He had an instinct for what she needed. Which was probably why the two of them had bonded so well.
And Alison had been left feeling like a spare part.
She had known it would be difficult. After all, they’d had to jump through enough hoops, and it had been made clear at every stage of the process that adoption was no picnic. Applications, assessments, preparation classes, counselling. References. Endless meetings with the social workers. Forms and more forms. Until finally, two years after they had come to the conclusion that they were never going to have children of their own and that this was the right thing to do, Alison and Mike became Chayenne’s mum and dad.