Summer at Shell Cottage Page 6

  You had to have boundaries. You couldn’t carry everyone else’s problems around the whole time. You had to know when to switch off, close down that compartment in your mind and leave it at the office – these were fundamental rules of her job. But it was hard for soft-hearted Harriet to block out the kids in her care, especially when she’d built up some trust. Their faces would come to her over the summer and she would wonder with a pang how they were coping, alone in the wilderness of the holidays. And then, come September, she’d spend the first week or so practically holding her breath while she did a mental headcount, checking up on her students, counting them all back in again.

  Still. She was tired, weighed down by their problems and heartbreak, by every injustice they faced. And actually, there were some things she wouldn’t miss about being here and dealing with stroppy, angry, often rude teenagers day in day out. Just that morning, Violet Parker had laughed in her face and said, ‘Whoa, Miss, what’s going on with them funky eyebrows, then? Was it, like, a bet or summink? Was you drunk or what?’

  Yeah. A break from the personal comments would be nice.

  Meanwhile, Molly and Robert were on good form and looking forward to their upcoming holiday. There were all sorts of activities laid on for the students at Molly’s school this week, probably in an attempt to stop the Year 10s bunking off en masse, and today she was going on a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon with the English department. Harriet had been astonished to hear that her book-dodging daughter had actually chosen this option, voluntarily, without any kind of bribery, especially as all her friends seemed to have plumped for trips that sounded way more fun – to the Tate Modern or the Olympic Park. Secretly, she was thrilled. Could this be Robert’s good influence rubbing off on his stepdaughter, inspiring her to develop a love of literature? Miracles happened, she supposed.

  Robert also had a big day today – an important lunch meeting with both his British and American editors in town, at some gastro place called the Marylebone Tavern. ‘We’re going to wade through the entire manuscript together, chapter by chapter, and discuss how to finesse it,’ he’d told her rather grandly the night before as they snuggled on the sofa in front of a cop drama on TV. (Well, he was watching it anyway. She was distracted by watching him shove handfuls of Kettle Chips into his gob and wishing she had a higher performing metabolism.)

  Lucky, lucky Robert, Harriet thought now as she made herself a gritty instant coffee from the last dregs of the jar and waved hello to one of her colleagues across the staff room. It certainly seemed to take a lot of eating and drinking to get a book published, in her opinion. How the other half lived!

  ‘Will you be coming back after the holidays?’ Alison, one of the teaching assistants, had asked her the other week, only half joking. ‘If my hubby hit the big time, I’d be tempted to retire and lie around on a chaise longue eating chocolate all day.’

  Harriet had laughed, not taking the question seriously, but later that afternoon, when she was told to fuck off (twice) and called a fat nosey bitch on the phone by Lillie Arnold’s alcoholic mother, she lay her head on the desk, wondering, as she sometimes did, why she bothered. Maybe it would be easier to turn her back on it all, simply stick two fingers up at Mrs Arnold and all those other crap, useless parents she came across who seemed hell-bent on ruining their children’s lives.

  It was actually quite tempting now she thought about it. She could become Robert’s glamorous assistant and drive him around to his meetings and parties. Perhaps in a saucy little uniform – he’d like that …

  The bell rang just then, signalling the end of break time, and Harriet snapped out of her reverie. Three days left of term. She could make it.

  Harriet was only due to be in school for the morning that day, with a gruelling afternoon looming, where she and a local police officer had to attend a meeting at the parental home of one of her students, to discuss the boy’s welfare. The boy in question had been coming to school late every day, and had recently turned up with bruises and a black eye, and Harriet had strong suspicions that the bruising was down to his father, a known thug who’d been in trouble with the police before. The family lived in a flat near Edgware Road, but it was only when she and the police officer had been knocking on the front door for five minutes that a neighbour stuck her head out of her window and told them the family were away.

  Harriet didn’t like the sound of that, but unfortunately there wasn’t much they could do about it now, and so she had to beat a helpless retreat.

  Now what? It wasn’t worth trawling all the way back to school for the last hour, so Harriet wandered towards Marylebone Road, the air sultry and smelling of diesel, deciding that she might as well seize the chance to pick up a few things for the holiday. They were due to set off for Devon at the weekend, and in all the end-of-term kerfuffle she’d hardly had a chance to think about it.

  It was going to be a fantastic fortnight away, she had already decided. With Molly coming up for sixteen in November, Harriet was well aware that this might easily be the last time her daughter deigned to join them on a family holiday before she had her head turned by the joys of festival trips or mooching about in London all summer with mates instead. It seemed like five minutes ago that Molly had been obsessed by making sandcastles and moats, and collecting every last shell on the beach. Now she was taller than Harriet, and more interested in building a follower base on Instagram than any sandy constructions. Where had the years gone?

  Molly had been turning her nose up at the prospect of another holiday in Devon with the in-laws, especially when her friends were apparently off to Ibiza and the Greek islands, but Harriet loved the old-fashioned seaside holiday appeal of Shell Cottage. The house was beautiful yet homely, the beach was absolutely blissful, and you could go mountain biking or horse riding or hiking and really switch off and forget about the rest of the world. Of course, to her daughter, the very thought of ‘switching off’ was anathema, to be greeted with undiluted horror. Molly was already stressing about the dodgy Wi-Fi but you couldn’t have everything.

  Anyway, Harriet had an ace up her sleeve. Next summer, when Robert’s book had been published and they hopefully had money pouring in like nobody’s business, they could go somewhere more glamorous themselves – Tuscany, Florida, Provence, anywhere they fancied, basically. She’d lure Molly into another holiday by promising her exotic luxury and guaranteed sunshine. Yes, of course it was shameless bribery. But if she could squeeze an extra fortnight away with her daughter, before Molly decided she was too sophisticated to be seen dead holidaying with her embarrassing mother, then bring on the shameless bribery. It would be worth every penny.

  She had reached the chemist now, so walked in and began adding toiletries to her basket: suncream (hey, she was an optimist), insect bite cream (and also a realist), hair conditioner and aftersun, the shaving gel Robert liked …

  Then a thought struck her. Wait a minute! Hadn’t Robert said he was in Marylebone too today? Her local geography was pretty hazy but the Marylebone Tavern couldn’t be that far from here, surely. Maybe his lunch was still going on! She felt a pulse of excitement at the notion. She could offer to meet him afterwards for a debrief over coffee, get all the goss about exactly what the American editor had said. Robert had mentioned the possibility of an American tour to promote the book, and Harriet was definitely going to invite herself and Molly along for that, if it happened.

  Hi love, how did mtg go? she texted, the basket of toiletries awkwardly balanced on one arm as she typed. Could meet you for coffee afterwards if you fancy it?

  His reply came two minutes later as she was paying for her purchases at the till.

  Sorry, will be a while yet! Lots to discuss – but going v well. Xx

  Harriet wrinkled her nose in disappointment then stuffed the phone back in her bag and handed over a twenty-pound note to the cashier. Oh well. It had been a long shot, she supposed. With a bit of luck, that American editor would be drunk by now and promising Robert that yes, of cou
rse his wife and stepdaughter could join him for the New York leg of the tour …

  She rolled her eyes at her own pipe dream and left the shop. Now to bump straight back down to earth by seeing if she could hunt down a pair of shorts on the high street which didn’t make her bottom look too elephantine. ‘This could take a while,’ she murmured to herself as she strode grimly forwards.

  After a bruising hour spent wincing at the sight of her unflattering-shorts-wearing reflection in various changing rooms, Harriet decided to abandon the idea and wear long, leg-hiding skirts all summer instead, whatever the weather. Even on the beach if she had to. Never mind that Robert’s sister Freya was sure to be swishing around in floaty chiffon tops and stylish tea dresses in Devon. Never mind that Olivia, Robert’s mum, was the most intimidatingly elegant woman ever, even when she’d been swimming in the sea, for heaven’s sake, somehow remaining luminous and poised when everyone else was soggy and tousled with salt in their hair. Never mind that Harriet’s only existing shorts were a pair of denim cut-offs which were getting a bit thin between the thighs now and had a grease mark on one buttock, where she’d accidentally sat on a discarded chip paper at Notting Hill Carnival last year.

  To hell with the search for new shorts. Everything she tried on made her look like a comedy holidaymaker, rather than chic beach goddess. She just had to hope that Olivia and Freya didn’t remember the denim cut-offs from last summer and – worse – chose to comment on them. Goodness, Harriet, they’ve lasted well, haven’t they? Shorthand for Goodness, Harriet, buy yourself a new pair of ruddy shorts, will you, for crying out loud? Those ones are hanging by a thread, you cheapskate.

  No. They weren’t like that, thank God. And if they did notice, they were both too well mannered to comment anyway. And besides, Harriet, she told herself, suddenly cross at her own self-absorption, they’ll be far too preoccupied with everything else, i.e. missing poor dead Alec, to give your fat arse a second glance, for heaven’s sake. If anyone was going to be rude about her attire, it would be Molly, who seemed to think Harriet chose each outfit specifically to annoy or embarrass her.

  Marylebone was one of Harriet’s favourite places to browse, with the heavenly cheese shop, gorgeous boutiques and cool Scandi design shops tucked into the stately Victorian mansion blocks and Georgian houses. Yet today, she felt defeated. By the time she’d slunk empty-handed from the last clothes shop she could bear to trawl through, she wished more than ever that Robert had taken her up on the offer of coffee and a chat. He was the lovely sort of husband who could reassure a woman about her thunder thighs in a way that was actually convincing. Or else he’d just take the mick out of her for caring and turn the whole thing into an affectionate joke, somehow managing to cheer her up and make her feel devastatingly attractive to the whole of humankind before she knew it.

  She wondered for the hundredth time how his lunch meeting was going … and then let out a gasp of excitement as she noticed that the Marylebone Tavern was just across the street. Ooh! Quel coinkydink, as Molly would say. Should she peer through the window? Pretend to be casually passing by and – Oh! Robert! Fancy seeing you here! Why yes, of course, I’d love to join you for dessert. Wine, too? Ah, go on, then, why not? Hi there. Great to meet you. Did I mention I’ve always wanted to go to the States, by the way? Like, seriously, always?

  Better not. But there was no harm in nonchalantly crossing the road, was there? No harm in dawdling along slowly past the restaurant with maybe just a very quick gander inside. No harm at all, she assured herself firmly, unable to resist seeing handsome, talented Robert there in his best shirt, living the dream.

  It was only when she was on the other side of the street that she noticed something odd. The inside of the restaurant seemed dull and dingy unlit. There were no tables set up outside either – strange, on such a glorious summer’s day. And then, as she drew level with the front door, she saw to her bewilderment a ‘Closed’ sign in the glass pane. Closed for two weeks due to renovations, read a printed piece of paper.

  What the … ? She stood stock-still in the street and removed her sunglasses in case her eyes were playing tricks on her.

  Closed for two weeks due to renovations. No. There was nothing wrong with her eyes. The Marylebone Tavern wasn’t open – so where the hell was Robert?

  Chapter Nine

  One hundred miles or so away, around the back of a multistorey car park in Stratford-upon-Avon, Molly was fervently kissing Ben Jamison and gasping as his hand tugged her school blouse out of her skirt’s waistband. ‘Oh, Ben,’ she said, her breathing fast and shallow. His fingers slipped under her blouse and her nerve endings fizzled deliriously as he touched her bare skin. Then his fingertips grazed the underside of her breast and it was as if fireworks were star-bursting inside her.

  Oh. My God. No way. Was this really happening? It was amazing. He was amazing. And to think she’d nearly been swayed by Chloe, badgering her to go on the Tate Modern trip with the rest of their mates! She’d just had a feeling about today, though. All those meaningful looks she and Ben had exchanged across the classroom recently. She’d had an inkling he might like her but hardly dared hope anything would happen. Yet now …

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped, deliciously shivery at what his fingers were doing, the sensation of his mouth on hers. He pressed his body against her and she could feel the hardness in his groin. She’d never actually felt a penis before in real life. She hadn’t even really seen one, not properly, unless you counted the dodgy film she and Chloe had sniggered over on Chloe’s iPad last time they’d had a sleepover. The thought of taking her clothes off and letting a guy do that to her had always seemed faintly gross in the past. Like, ewww. Why would you?

  Now she knew. Now she got it. Talk about a revelation. Talk about a voyage of discovery! She felt as if she was journeying to a brand new place and never wanted to return. For a brief wild moment, she felt as if she would do anything he asked her to. Anything. Right here behind the car park. Nudity. Penis-touching. All of it!

  There was a disapproving cough behind them just then, audible even above the drum solo of Molly’s heart and her gasping breaths. Ben must have heard it too because he stopped kissing her and pulled away hurriedly. Molly noticed an elderly lady giving them a very hard stare as she walked past them a few metres away, towing a tartan shopping trolley, and her cheeks flamed.

  Ben laughed softly. ‘Whoops,’ he said, removing his hand and straightening his tie. ‘I guess we’d better get back and meet the others. Find out some more about Shakespeare.’ He traced a line down the side of her face and she felt her stomach somersault. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said thickly. ‘Oh, the things I could do to you, Molly Tarrant-Price.’

  She giggled, feeling nervous and delighted and wanton all in the same moment. ‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ she said, unable to look at him for blushing. He was hot, though, with those teasing blue eyes and dark hair. Different from the boys she’d fancied before, too. For a crazy moment, she wanted to pull him close to her again, resume the kissing. But he was checking his watch and the spell was broken.

  ‘Shit. We’re gonna be late,’ he said. ‘Look – let’s just keep this to ourselves for now, yeah?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, trying to act cool, like it was no big deal to have been snogging gorgeous Ben Jamison with such passion. She’d already decided she wouldn’t blab about what had just happened anyway not even to Chloe. Gossip went round school so fast, the last thing she wanted was everyone whispering behind her back.

  He smiled at her and the rest of the world seemed to melt away, disapproving old ladies, gossiping friends and all. Then he leaned down and kissed her again, squeezing her breast this time. ‘That’s just for starters,’ he said, low and husky, and the breath caught in the back of her throat in another gasp of desire.

  Somehow or other, Molly managed to smile in reply but the rest of her body seemed beyond control, flooded with a mad racing deluge of endorphins. Oh my God. Ben Jamison, the most gor
geous person in the entire school had kissed her and told her she was beautiful. His fingers had been on her actual body. He’d said, ‘That’s just for starters,’ as if he wanted more.

  Whoa. Head rush. This was like being in the best sex dream ever, only it was real.

  Heart fluttering, skin tingling, Molly tucked her blouse back into her skirt and followed him as they went to meet the others for the backstage theatre tour. Her head was in such a whirl, she could hardly see where she was going. How on earth was she going to concentrate on Shakespeare and acting and stuff after that?

  Chapter Ten

  It had been a whole month now since Freya had answered the phone to hear her husband say those terrible words, ‘Hi, love, it’s me. Listen, don’t worry, but I’m in hospital. I’ve been stabbed,’ but she still found herself reliving the absolute horror all over again whenever the memory flashed into her mind.

  Stabbed. Her adrenalin had spun into hyperdrive with that one single syllable, her mind freezing in panic, bile rising in her throat. Back when she’d been a junior doctor, working in the busy A&E department of the Homerton Hospital, she’d seen countless stabbings, umpteen raw red slashes and punctures, where flesh had met a blade due to revenge or passion or sheer random violence. They had stitched up and mended each one, mopped up the blood and sent them home again, knowing that there would be plenty more to come, a never-ending stream of young men in the wrong place at the wrong time, often having tangled with the wrong people.

  And now Victor had been added to that unfortunate club. Stabbed, in the line of duty. Stabbed, saving the life of his colleague Tony. Freya had burst into the accident and emergency unit that day with pure dread running through her veins. It had only been a fortnight since her father’s funeral, and she still hadn’t surfaced from the plunging depths of grief. Now she found herself flooded with a new and terrible fear that she was about to lose her husband too. ‘No,’ she begged under her breath, just in case a benevolent god might be in the vicinity. ‘Not both of them. Please.’