Summer at Shell Cottage (32 page)

‘I’m glad we had this chat,’ she said, looking shy all of a sudden.
‘I don’t want to be enemies.’

‘We’re not enemies,’ Robert said.
‘We were never enemies.
Mum’s just upset, that’s all.
She feels betrayed by him – we all do, a bit.
We thought he was
the greatest man alive before .
.
.
all this.
You know.’

She nodded.
‘Of course.
I understand.
But don’t forget – he thought that you were the greatest too.
If I’ve learned anything about being a parent, it’s that even
when your kids mess up or do something they end up regretting, you still love them.’
She eyed him meaningfully over the mug.
‘And he loved you.
Very much.’

It felt as if a great load had been lifted from Robert’s shoulders as he hugged both Katie and Leo goodbye a short while later, and promised to be in touch soon, for a tie-tying lesson,
some penalty shoot-outs and whatever else they might want from him.
Dad had loved him, he thought, walking away from the house with a new spring in his step.
Dad had been proud of him.
Even though
Robert had known this deep down, it meant a lot to have another person, an outsider, validate him in this way.

The only thing was, now he felt more of a fool than ever for spending so long lying to everyone when, as it turned out, there hadn’t been any need.
So how could he put things right?

Having stumbled upon a friendly little beach café down in Hamstone, Harriet had never been more grateful to sink into a chair outside on the big open terrace, and tuck
into a full English breakfast and two delicious cups of coffee.
So much for heartbreak making you skinny and tragic – well, not in Harriet’s book, it didn’t.
She had probably put
on half a stone already since Robert’s bombshell last night, and there would only be more comfort eating to come.
She’d gone up two whole dress sizes after Simon walked out.
The
bastard.

Still, sitting here in the new-washed morning, seeing the sea rushing hypnotically in and out just metres away, she was actually starting to feel vaguely human again, for the first time all day.
There was something about leaning back in the early sunshine, having polished off a huge breakfast, and watching the surfer dudes in their wetsuits leap acrobatically through the waves, that
cheered a woman right up.
Especially the bare-chested surfer dudes with their sculpted muscles and taut thighs.
Mmm.
Good work, lads
, she thought appreciatively.
Good show.

The man from the café came out just then and collected up her breakfast plate.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
he asked.

Harriet was positively stuffed but then again, she
had
just been royally shafted by her formerly beloved husband and was therefore entitled to have anything she damn well wanted.
Besides, she had always found that pastries were very helpful when it came to absorbing hurt feelings.
‘Well .
.
.
I wouldn’t mind another coffee, please,’ she said.
‘And
did I spy some almond croissants at the counter in there?’

‘You did indeed.
Shall I bring one out with your coffee?’

‘Yes please.’
And then, because she didn’t want him to think she was always this greedy, added, ‘I
am
on holiday.’

‘Absolutely!
You’re on holiday and it’s a glorious morning to sit and admire the view.
I’ll be right back.’

Harriet blushed as he walked away, wondering if there was an undertone to his words about admiring the view.
Had he noticed her watching the surfers like some saddo middle-aged pervert?
She
picked up her phone and cupped a hand around the screen to shade it from the sun.
She would ring Gabbi for a chat, she decided, to prove to the café man that she did actually have a life
other than perving over surfers.

Ahh.
And then again, maybe she wouldn’t, she realized, peering at the screen.
There didn’t seem to be any signal.

‘The reception’s terrible around here,’ a male voice said just then, and Harriet looked up, her eyes popping out on stalks because one of the surfers was striding up the
café steps, his wetsuit stripped down to his waist, tousled shoulder-length hair dripping onto his hunky bare chest.

‘Oh,’ she said, flustered.
(Bloody hell.
He was fit as a butcher’s dog, as Gabbi would say.
Was this some kind of celestial reward sent by the Betrayed Wife Goddess?)
‘Right.
Thanks.’

‘It comes and goes,’ he went on, grabbing a towel that had been left hung over the terrace railing.
‘Sometimes if you stand on a table, jump up and stretch your arm out and .
.
.
Nah, I’m joking.’
He grinned and towelled his hair and face, and Harriet had to try very hard not to gaze up and down his bod while his eyes were covered.

She looked out to sea instead.
‘Nice day for it,’ she said, tilting her head to indicate the surf.
Then she blushed violently, aware of the innuendo in her words.
What was wrong with
her?
Heartbreak was turning her into a sleazeball as well as an eating machine.
But he was smiling back at her, periwinkle-blue eyes twinkling naughtily, and she found herself giggling.
Oh well.
She needed cheering up right now, and she was far too old for him anyway.
He was never going to take her cheesy lines seriously.
‘Sorry.
That came out wrong,’ she added.
‘Don’t take any notice of me.’

He raised an eyebrow.
He really was very handsome, it had to be said.
‘It’s always a nice day for it, if you ask me,’ he replied, in such a flirtatious manner that she giggled
again, as if she were twenty years younger.
(She
felt
twenty years younger all of a sudden.
The sun had gone to her head or something.)

The café man emerged just then with a fresh pot of coffee, a sugar-dusted croissant and a folded copy of the
Guardian
under one arm.
‘Just in case you wanted something to
read,’ he said, setting it down on the table in front of Harriet.
‘Morning, Joe.
Coming in for a coffee?’

Surf hunk Joe looked from the café man to Harriet and then back to the café man.
‘I might stay out here for one, mate, if that’s all right with you.
Don’t want to
go dripping on your floor or anything, do I?’

The café man looked disbelieving but didn’t comment on this display of apparent consideration for his floor.
‘Coming right up.’

‘Mind if I join you?’
Joe asked, sliding into the seat opposite Harriet before she had a chance to say no.
Like she was going to anyway.

‘Of course not,’ she said, trying to sound cool, although inside she felt positively fluttery.
She racked her brain for something witty and clever to say – what?
what?
–
but then her phone had to go and choose that moment to detect a faint bar of signal and rang, like the attention-seeking little git it was.
She decided to ignore it.
A fiver said it would be Robert
anyway, with a plaintive Where-are-you?-Can-we-talk?
call and she certainly didn’t want to engage in one of those right now.
Let him stew.
Let him agonize.
Let him think a bit more about what
a complete and utter twat he had been.
She would contact him, when she was good and ready thank you very much – although that could be a while, now that the Goddess of Betrayed Women was
rewarding her in such a glorious and unexpected way.

‘Buzz off,’ she muttered to her phone, shoving it deep in her bag without even bothering to look at the caller.
She kicked the bag further away from her –
Do not ruddy well
disturb
– and then sat up a little straighter in her chair in the hope of disguising her pot belly.
‘So,’ she said, flashing her most dazzling smile at Joe.
‘Tell me
about surfing.’

Thank you, universe
, she thought, half an hour or so later, when Joe had scoffed a huge brown-sauce-smothered breakfast and she’d put away not one but two almond
croissants and her third coffee.
I owe you big time for that act of mercy.
Sod her belly, tight as a drum, forcing its way unprettily over the waistband of her shorts.
Sod the vague
feeling of seediness that she was sitting here, a married woman, flirting with a handsome stranger.
The seedy feeling was worth it, as was every last calorie, for the brief, fabulous pinch of time
when she’d forgotten all about Robert – and every other living human being for that matter – whilst chatting and laughing with this god of a man, bronzed and honed, and mere
inches across the table from her.

So what that nothing would ever happen with him?
So what that she knew she’d eventually have to peel herself away and return to her trouble-riddled real world?
It was bliss, sheer bliss,
to flirt and banter in the sunshine by the beach.
Exactly what she needed to make her feel human again.

‘How come you’re down here all by yourself, anyway?’
he asked her once their plates had been taken away, and she’d (reluctantly) requested the bill.

Ahh.
And there was reality knocking against the window: time’s up.
How she wished she could reply with something romantic and thrilling – that she was making a fresh start down by
the seaside, that destiny had brought her here, some other made-up tosh.
Instead she sighed a little and traced the spilled sugar crystals around the table with her index finger.

‘Had a row.
It was either come down here or hurl myself off the nearest cliff.’
Oh God, that sounded melodramatic.
She didn’t even mean it, either.
Like she’d ever do
anything so rash when she had Molly to care for.
‘I’m joking,’ she said quickly.
‘Well.
About the cliff thing, not about the row.’

A row,’ he repeated.
Ahh, right.
Is that who keeps ringing your phone, then?’

‘My phone?’

‘Yeah, it’s been vibrating against my foot every now and then through your bag.
We must be having a good reception morning for once.’
His mouth twitched.
‘That’s if
it is your
phone
that’s vibrating, of course.’

She laughed at the smutty glint in his eye but hauled her bag back towards her all the same.
God, Robert must be getting desperate if that was him, making so many calls.
It
was
Robert,
wasn’t it?
She had a flash of panic that something was wrong with Molly, that she’d been rushed to hospital while Harriet had been lounging around here, ogling the local talent.
She
delved into the bag.
‘It’s probably just – ’ she began as her fingers closed around the phone.
It buzzed almost immediately with a new text and she leaned over the screen to
examine it.

Three missed calls from Freya.
Freya?
Maybe it was some awful medical thing.
The text was from her too and Harriet read it – then leapt to her feet in alarm.
Oh my God.
Molly.
She thought
she might throw up.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

Come quickly.
Ennisbridge Hotel.
I think Molly’s in trouble.

Words guaranteed to stab through any mother’s heart with so much fear, angst and guilt; it was a wonder that Harriet actually made it back into her car.
Her hands shook violently as she
turned the key in the ignition, and she thought for a moment she might not be up to the job.
Wished, for a second, that Robert was there to drive them both instead, to reassure her that everything
was going to be okay.

No.
Don’t think that.
She could manage fine without him.
And now was not the time to be thinking about him anyway.
Deep breaths, Harriet.
Control yourself: Do not crash the
car.
She had to keep her cool and get herself over to Ennisbridge right this minute, without crumbling or crying or freaking out.

But it was difficult after hearing Freya’s anxious voicemail messages one after the other, saying that she’d overheard Molly making arrangements with some boyfriend or other –
and worse, that she was on her way to meet him in a hotel.
Right now!
A hotel!
While her back was turned!
While Mother of the Year Harriet had been flirting idiotically with a twenty-something surf
hunk over almond croissants.

Christ, Harriet, you stupid wazzock.
Priorities, for God’s sake.
What were you thinking?
How could this have happened?

Scorching along the road, she beeped anyone who dared dawdle along in front of her, overtaking recklessly, cutting up other drivers at junctions.
Someone gave her two fingers, someone else
flashed their lights reprovingly at her but she couldn’t have cared less.
Sorry, love.
Bore off.
You are nothing to me but six feet of machinery between me and my precious daughter.
Possibly between me and my daughter’s virginity.
So take your flashing lights and bloody well stuff them up your arse, all right?

Shit.
Shit
, Molly.
What the hell?
Where had this come from?
Why didn’t Harriet even have a clue about this boy?
And since when did Molly go all secretive on her, and live this
double life?
Harriet would not have believed someone if they’d said Molly had a boyfriend.
No.
She actually would have laughed at the suggestion.
Molly?
Bless her, but no.
She was far too
naive.
Way too innocent.
She still had a cuddly bunny rabbit in her bed, for heaven’s sake!
She still put her hair up in bunches sometimes!
She was a girl, not a woman.
And that was fine.
Why
should any teenage girl feel they had to rush these things, if they weren’t ready?