I
’m in one of the rash of Starbucks on Oxford Street and I’m nursing my second cappuccino.The place is dirty, strewn with used cups and plates and screwed-up napkins. The staff are run off their feet. I get a pang for the cleanliness of Poppy’s tea room and a place so quiet you can hear the clock tick.
I’ve been here for over an hour and I can’t bring myself to move. All I have to do is drain my cup, stand up and walk for just a few minutes down to Charlotte Street and the hot new restaurant 24/7 where I’ve arranged to meet my friends for a convivial lunch. But I can’t do it. My hands are trembling and my heart is beating erratically. And it isn’t down to the coffee hit. Two trails of sweat are working their way from my under-arms down my sides.
I’ve known Angela, Lizzy and Justine for years now, but we’ve hardly been in contact at all since we moved away to Yorkshire. Another case of out of sight, out of mind. I was so looking forward to seeing them - but now? I don’t think that I can cope with their sympathetic words and pitying smiles. Especially as they couldn’t come to Will’s funeral to support me when I needed them. Are these people truly friends of mine?
Perhaps I would have felt better if I’d come out of the British Television Company with the promise of a new job, with the thought that I could step back into my old world, that my life would continue as I used to know it, albeit without Will. But no. It’s clear that’s not going to be the case. What will I do now? Put out the word on the media grapevine that I’m looking for something - me and the three thousand other people who are about to be unceremoniously dumped by the BTC. I’d counted on the fact that my old colleagues would understand my situation and know the pressures that I’m under. If my old company can treat me so harshly, how can I expect to be able to find a new employer who’ll treat me kindly until I find my feet again?
My friends all have great jobs and supportive husbands. How can I sit and listen to their gossip when I feel so outside of their world? What do I have to tell them about? Can I really regale them with tales of horrid Hamish and a bunch of doddery old sheep with bad feet? We’re different people and, to be honest, it hadn’t hit home until now.
Punching a text into my phone, I tell Lizzy that I can’t make it and to give my apologies to the others. It makes me feel terrible as I was the one who was so keen to set up the lunch. Now, I find I just don’t have the stomach for it.
Lizzy texts me back. ‘Just as well!’ she starts. Angela, it seems, has had to cancel as she was too busy at work to escape. Justine had forgotten about our lunch and has arranged to take one of her clients out instead. Lizzy, who at least has bothered to reply, is running late herself and hasn’t yet left the office. So much for my thoughts of white wine and sympathy. If I had gone along, I’d have been sitting on my own like a lonely, widowed lemon.
‘Another time,’ I text back, remembering all the occasions I too had to blow people out because my work had taken priority. Perhaps our friendship will get back on track when I’m down here again and I’ve got a job of my own.
So, instead of something wonderful that would probably be pan-fried and drizzled with a fabulous
jus
, I order another coffee and a plastic-wrapped sandwich which a pleasant girl heats up for me. As I eat the synthetic-tasting cheese, I wonder how the children are faring with Guy. I sincerely hope that they’re having a better day than I am. I’d like to text Guy to see how they are, but I don’t want him to think that I’m checking up on him.
My next stop is to see the Headteacher at Tom and Jess’s old school to secure places for them for next term. I hope to goodness that the house is sold by then. The Weston Academy is a very prestigious school and the children were doing so well there before we left.The fees, however, are astronomical and I’d banked on a decent salary to pay for it all. From the price of the uniforms alone, you’d think they were made by Armani.
I clear my own table, even if no one else does, dumping my debris into the already overflowing wastebin. Then I get back on the Tube heading out to Notting Hill.
It seems strange to walk along the roads of my old neighbourhood, and I get a pang of longing. I avoid going past my old home as I just don’t think that I could bear to look at it now that someone else is living happily there. What would have happened if we hadn’t moved? Would Will still be alive today if we’d stayed put in the smoke? Was it the stress of all the upheaval that actually proved too much for him? Was that the straw that broke the camel’s back? Certainly the stress of trying to move back the other way isn’t doing me any good.
I reach the school gates and feel shaky as I go inside and ask for the Headteacher. Mr Spalding is brisk and businesslike. He runs the school as a tight ship, which is what Will and I liked so much about it. There’s no messing with Mr Spalding.
I’m shown into his office and, echoing my pose of this morning, take up a seat opposite him.
‘We were terribly sorry at Weston’s to hear of your loss,’ he tells me.
‘Thank you.’
‘How are the children coping?’
‘They’re fine,’ I say. ‘Tom’s a little quieter than normal, which is to be expected. Jessica is coping amazingly well.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘They’re both looking forward to coming back to London and seeing their friends here. They need to be with things, with people that are familiar. That’s why I’m hoping to bring them both back to Weston’s.’
Mr Spalding sucks in his breath. He shakes his head. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Ashurst. We would love to be able to accommodate Tom and Jessica at Weston’s. They were both excellent students, a delight. We were sorry to lose them. But I’m afraid that we are totally oversubscribed already. I don’t need to tell you how popular the school is.’ Smug smile. ‘We have a very long waiting list.’
‘I thought that in the circumstances . . .’
‘I would dearly love to be able to help.’
‘But you can’t?’ Or won’t.
‘I’m afraid not.We have a long waiting list. Imagine the uproar if anyone found out that Tom and Jessica had jumped the queue.’
Yes. God forbid that two grieving children should be given any preferential treatment. But, in my shock, I say nothing.
Mr Spalding stands and shakes my hand. And I shouldn’t be quite so stunned this time that I’m being summarily dismissed, but I am.
So, for the second time today, I find myself out on the pavement, dazed and confused. By now I should have had a great job and my kids should have been safely enrolled to go back to their fabulous school. This day is not going how I planned it at all.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
B
ehind the Bainbridges’house was a huge and very pretty garden, set out with a variety of secluded areas, all carefully planned by Marty and copiously photographed in his range of bestselling books. His perfectly manicured terrace has graced the covers of dozens of glossy magazines. He opens it on two weekends a year for charity and crowds of admiring fans always come to gawp.
‘Garden’s looking good, Marty,’ Guy said, thinking that it put his own neglected patch to shame.
‘Photo-shoot next week for
Gardeners’ World
. Been working my backside off to get it shipshape. Not easy at this time of year. The ground’s as soft as putty.’ Marty surveyed his estate with pride. ‘Damn pleased with the results though.’
‘So you should be. I’ll have to get you to come round and give me some tips on mine.’
‘Any time, dear boy. Any time.’
Beyond the garden was the farmyard with its assorted barns and outbuildings that somehow managed to maintain a chocolate-box air.The lucky Bainbridge children had their own small petting zoo set out in one of the barns.
Pens containing pygmy goats, rabbits, guinea pigs, two lambs and a handful of squeaking black-spotted piglets were immaculately maintained. Guy never had to worry about the livestock at the Bainbridges’ being mistreated.
Tom and Jessica, in raptures, sat on strategically placed hay bales while the rabbits hopped over their legs and the guinea pigs scrambled around them.
‘Oh, this is lovely,’ Jessica trilled.‘Do you think Mummy would let us have bunnies and piggies at home?’
‘We’ll have to ask.’ How could Guy break it to them that their mother was planning to take them back to London just as soon as she possibly could? That was way beyond his role of babysitting duties.
‘I love it here,’ the little girl sighed as a rabbit tried to nibble her coat. ‘I thought I liked London best, but I don’t.’
Maybe this day was going a bit too well, Guy thought. He didn’t want to convert the kids into countryphiles if they were soon to be leaving again.
‘I need to go with Mr Bainbridge to look at his new sheep,’ Guy said. ‘Do you want to come along too?’
The children nodded and they all mucked in together to help put the rabbits and guinea pigs back in their respective homes.
‘I’ll leave Hamish behind,’ Guy said to Marty. ‘If that’s okay with you. He might make the sheep a bit skittish. If I tie him up here, he’ll be fine.’
Securing the dog safely to the fence, they all set off across the field to the sheep paddock. They could hear Hamish barking forlornly as they strode away from him.
Marty had bought himself two dozen quality Suffolk sheep, one of the premier breeds of the British Isles that were also known locally as ‘black faces’ because, unsurprisingly, of their characteristic glossy black faces and ears.
‘Think they’re good enough to show?’ Marty wanted to know.
‘They’re certainly a fine pack,’ Guy agreed.
The two men spent time leaning on the fence, admiring the sheep and the spectacular view of the moors rising up behind the farm.
‘We should be making our way back for lunch,’ Marty suggested, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m sure the table will be groaning under the weight of food by now if I know my Gillian. Anyone hungry?’
‘Yay!’ Tom and Jessica cried.
As they headed back towards the house, Guy suddenly realised that he couldn’t hear Hamish any more. When had the dog stopped barking? Wouldn’t he have started up again when he heard them all approaching?
His heart started to pound as they rounded the corner and saw the fence where Hamish had been so securely tied. The lead was still firmly attached to the post, but of Hamish there was no sign.
‘Oh, no,’ Guy breathed as he broke into a run.
‘What’s wrong?’ Marty shouted after him.
‘Hamish!’ Guy called back.
Tom and Jessica also exchanged worried glances and raced after Guy.
In the garden - Marty’s prized garden - Hamish was having a great time. Marty was right. The ground was very soft. Hamish was busy digging himself a crater with his front paws. About the twentieth he’d already completed.
‘Hamish!’ Guy bolted across the decimated lawn. Behind him he heard Marty gasp. ‘Hamish! Stop that now!’
Hamish had no intention of stopping. This was a great game. He snuffled his snout into the mammoth hole he’d just dug.
Guy, Tom and Jessica ground to a halt behind him.
‘Eeuuw!’ Jessica said. ‘What’s that?’
Hamish turned, triumphant, prize between his great slobbering jaws.
‘It’s a mole,’ Guy said, feeling terribly faint.
‘I’ve never seen one of those before,’ she said, impressed.
‘Me neither,’ Tom agreed.
Marty came alongside of them, panting. The mole peered blindly at them all.
‘Well,’ Marty said, when he finally caught his breath.‘I’ve never had a problem with moles before.’
And Guy didn’t like to point out that he didn’t actually have a problem with moles, he had a problem with a dog who liked digging for them.
Chapter Forty
I
’m in the same situation as I have been in twice already today. Big desk, big chair for the enemy. Little chair, no tea for me.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ I ask.
Mr Robert Hilton of Henry, Hilton & Gambon, our family’s longstanding firm of solicitors, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. ‘If Will had still been employed by the British Television Company, then of course, you’d have been in for a large payout. Their life cover policy was very generous.’
‘But because he’d left a couple of months or so earlier, I get absolutely nothing.’
Robert checks his paperwork again. ‘I’m afraid that’s correct.’
‘Oh, God.’ I grip the arms of the chair. I’d been hoping that there was still a life policy in place to bring us in some much-needed money.With neither Will nor I working since we moved to Helmshill, our savings are now non-existent. But it seems the BTC policy was truncated at the same time as his employment and, for some stupid reason, I assumed that he’d still be covered by
something
. I was wrong.Very wrong. I know full well that Will never got round to setting up a new policy. There wasn’t much extra money for life insurance after we’d paid for everything else. With the two of us being able to work together to bring in a bit of money, we might just have managed. Now, with just me left as the breadwinner, a part-time job or some erratic freelance work isn’t going to be anywhere near enough.
‘Your husband’s timing was, I’m sorry to say, most unfortunate.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘I’m assuming that, in time, William would have made better provision for you all . . .’ His voice tails off.
Time was the one thing that my husband ran out of. And, in doing so, he’s left me and the children virtually destitute. I pull myself together. That’s not strictly true. We are asset rich and cash poor. As a family, we have a fortune tied up in that house, but not a bean in the bank. The place is now a millstone round my neck and it only strengthens my resolve to offload it as soon as humanly possible.