Read Summer House Online

Authors: Marcia Willett

Summer House (6 page)

BOOK: Summer House
5.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
When Imogen hurried to open the door, hoping that Rosie hadn't been wakened by the ringing of the doorbell, she was startled to see Nick standing outside.
‘Nick!' she cried, and then automatically put her finger to her lips. ‘Rosie's asleep. Come on in. What are you doing here? Did you get down last night?'
‘Haven't been home yet.' He followed her into the living room, glancing around, smiling his secret smile. ‘I wanted to see you first.'
‘Oh?' She'd slid behind the breakfast bar and switched on the kettle, and now she turned to look at him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Why?'
He shrugged, still smiling. ‘Because we're old friends. Aren't we?'
‘Of course we are.' She busied herself with mugs and teabags, disturbed as she'd always been by that secret smiling gaze. ‘But even so …'
He hitched himself up on to one of the stools. ‘Well, I need all the friends I can get at the moment.'
‘Oh, Nick.' She sounded exasperated. ‘Whatever is it this time? Has Alice really left you or is it just a sticky patch?'
He leaned with both arms on the counter, not looking at her now. ‘It's a bit more serious this time, Im.'
She experienced a tiny thrill of fear. ‘Oh God, Nick. Have you been messing around?'
‘Not in the way you mean. There's no woman involved.'
He looked at her, and she knew that he'd seen and recorded the tiny inexplicable flash of relief; though why, after all this time, should it matter to her even if there were? She stared back at him; her stomach contracted and her hands were icy.
‘Well, that's something,' she said lightly. ‘Alice will be glad to know that.'
His smile told her that he knew that she was glad too, and she turned away, confused, relieved to be occupied with the tea-making.
‘I've cocked up big time financially,' he said. ‘Borrowed some funds from the golf club I'm treasurer for.'
‘Oh, my God …' She turned back to stare at him, and he caught one of her hands. She made no attempt to resist him. ‘So what does that mean exactly?'
His laugh was impatient. ‘Does it matter? Do you really want the details? I took some chances with money that wasn't mine. A gross misjudgement. I was expecting to pay it back out of my end-of-year bonus but things are tricky in the City and I got only a quarter of what I was expecting. I don't know how the hell I'm going to explain it to Dad but I really need some money very quickly.'
Imogen drew back her hand, felt guilty and stretched it out to him again and he held it tightly. ‘I'm so sorry, Nick. Honestly. But I can't see what I can do to help.'
‘At least you haven't recoiled from me in disgust and shown me the door. I suppose I just wanted a bit of … oh, I don't know. Affection? Friendship? Before I face Dad.' He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it lightly, and let it go. ‘You were always special, Im, you know that.'
‘It was a long time ago,' she muttered, pushing a mug of tea across the counter to him.
‘But nothing was quite the same afterwards, was it?' he asked.
‘We agreed,' she said, not answering him directly. ‘We said that we were too close. Almost like brother and sister. We
agreed
,' she repeated more firmly. ‘We were rather like Milo and Lottie.'
‘We weren't a bit like Milo and Lottie,' he said. ‘There was no family connection at all between us.'
‘We were brought up almost like brother and sister,' she protested. ‘Or at least like cousins.'
He watched her thoughtfully. ‘I'm right though, aren't I? Nothing was quite the same afterwards. I've never been so happy, Im, as I was then with you.'
She flushed. ‘It's in the past, Nick. Ten years ago. And what's it got to do with now? What will you tell Milo?'
He took a deep sighing breath. ‘It's going to have to be the truth, I'm afraid.' He smiled at her expression. ‘Surprised? Oh, make no mistake, I've thought of every possible story that might be believable but even I can't think of anything plausible. I just hope he doesn't throw me out.'
‘You know very well that Milo would never do that.'
He looked so desperate that her heart was wrung with anxiety and pity for him. There was no point in telling him what a fool he was; clearly he knew that well enough already.
‘Is Alice very cross?' She'd never really much liked Alice.
‘She's utterly disgusted with me,' he muttered. ‘Said she couldn't bear to look at me. I can't blame her.'
‘But what made you do it?' she asked more gently. She realized that she was feeling very slightly virtuous, more tolerant of his weakness than the upright, unforgiving Alice. Of course, she'd known him for ever; knew his weaknesses – and strengths.
Nick swallowed some tea. ‘You have really no idea, Im, what it's like to live in a very commercial society. Where even at the school gate you're judged by your shoes, and your kids are likely to be losers if they carry the wrong pencil boxes, or if your skiing holiday isn't in this year's socially acceptable resort. The pressure is huge. Children's parties are a competitive nightmare. I'd maxed my credit cards, got behind with the mortgage and I needed extra money; it's as simple as that. The trouble is, you feel that you have to keep up with your friends.'
‘Then move. Live somewhere else, where those values don't apply.'
He laughed at her. ‘Will you be the one to tell Alice that she needs to change the habits of a lifetime? It's what she's used to, and I knew that when I married her. I thought I could hack it. It's not her fault that I couldn't quite cut it. If I can borrow some money quickly I can just about deal with it and she might –
might
– just bring herself to overlook it.'
‘How much, Nick?'
He grimaced. ‘Twenty-three thousand?'
‘Jesus!'
‘I know. But I'm strapped whichever way I turn when it comes to borrowing, and the mortgage can't take another penny, so Dad's my last resort.'
‘Is Milo likely to have that much spare? He's only got his pension, hasn't he?'
Nick looked away from her. ‘He's got the Summer House,' he said reluctantly. ‘And Ma says that the tenants are about to move out.'
‘You mean sell it?' She felt a pang of real grief. ‘Oh, Nick, that would be so sad. It's always been part of the High House, hasn't it?'
He shrugged. ‘Have you got any better ideas?' He put down his mug. ‘I must get on. They'll be wondering if I'm OK. See you later?'
‘Of course. Let me know what happens.'
‘Thanks, Im. I mean, really, thanks.'
She came round the end of the counter to give him a hug, feeling rather pleasantly compassionate and horrified, both at the same time. He put his arms around her and held her tightly.
‘Good luck,' she said, releasing herself quickly.
She hurried him to the door, shut it behind him, and stood staring at it. To her relief Rosie began to shout, and Im turned and ran quickly up the stairs.
 
Nick drove slowly: he had no stomach for the meeting to come and, as he drove, he rehearsed the words that he would use to his father. In his heart he blessed Im for her partisanship; he'd never let his mother know just how fond of Im he was: even when they'd been small children she'd been determined to make him see Matt and Im as usurpers and he'd played along with it to please her. But Im had been such a sweetie, and she'd grown up to be a very pretty girl. The fact that none of the family had known about their
tendresse
had made it even more exciting: not even Matt had guessed.
Nick almost smiled: it had been fun fooling them all. But he'd always had his suspicions about Lottie; that direct way she'd looked at him sometimes so that he'd been unable to meet her eye. Funny woman, his aunt Lottie; she wasn't at all how one might imagine an aunt. He wondered whether he could count on her to support him; perhaps he ought to tell her first and let her break the news to Dad.
Nick beat his fist lightly on the steering wheel and shook his head in disgust at the thought. But his gut turned to water as he imagined the coming interview. His father was so old school, so straight; though he'd always stood by him, always taken his side. Nick made a face. Of course, there had been a few occasions in the past when he'd been in disgrace: that shoplifting stunt when he'd been at boarding school, for instance, and a bit of a drugs problem at uni; but nothing really bad, nothing serious. Not like this.
He groaned aloud in his despair. He'd give anything, anything at all, to turn the clock back. He slowed down as he approached the tollgate but there was no one in the booth. He wasn't surprised, it was too cold to be standing about today – and too bloody cold to get out of the car to put the money in the slot and, anyway, he hadn't got any change. He'd pay double next time. Meanwhile he drove on with a placatory wave of the hand to anyone who might be watching from the cottage window. Maybe they'd recognize him, and they'd understand.
All the way down the winding road, through Allerpark Combe and into Porlock, he was thinking about Alice and the children.
‘Will you tell your parents?' he'd asked diffidently.
She'd given him the cool, contemptuous stare that seemed to be her habitual expression just lately.
‘No,' she answered. ‘I don't think I could bear them to know just what a stupid immoral prat you are. If you can sort it then nobody except us will know. I certainly couldn't go on if it became common knowledge.'
Humiliated, he'd accepted all of her strictures: he had no choice.
‘If you had to do something so despicable at least the timing was good. The half-term fortnight's been booked for ages so my parents won't suspect anything. Except that you were going to get down to see us whenever you could. Well, you can forget that, I'm afraid. I shall invent some crisis for you. When you know what Milo says you can text me.'
‘Don't forget,' he'd wanted to cry defensively, ‘what the money was spent on. That two-week skiing holiday in Verbier, for instance, when you insisted on taking a chalet and inviting six friends as pay-back for hospitality, not to mention your new must-have Mercedes hatchback.'
Of course, he'd said nothing: there were no excuses. Driving ever more slowly along Bossington Lane and into the village, Nick tried to brace himself: at least Im was on his side. He looked up at the High House standing up on the hill and with a sinking heart turned up the drive.
Milo came strolling out to meet him. He could see at once that Nick was stiff with apprehension, his face clenched and pale. All the older man's irritation drained away, though his anxiety increased, and he put an arm around his son's shoulders and hugged him.
‘Good trip?' Stupid question: he knew quite well that the journey must have been hell. ‘Lottie is out with Pud but she'll be back later. Like some tea?'
He sensed Nick's relief. It had been Lottie's decision to be out when Nick arrived.
‘He'll probably want to unburden himself at once,' she'd said. ‘He's always been like that, hasn't he? It'll be agony for him to sit around making polite conversation over the teacups. I'll take Pud for a long walk and hope that you have enough time together before I get back.'
Leading the way into the house, Milo felt unbearably nervous; he was too old, he told himself, for this kind of crisis. He felt vulnerable. He made tea while Nick talked
rather aimlessly about the journey from London and tried not to get in the way; but as soon as he put the mug into Nick's hand he wasted no more time.
‘So what is it?' he asked. He knew that he looked severe and that his voice was brusque but it was the only way that he could manage to control his own nerves. ‘Sit down and tell me what's happened.'
Nick put his mug on the table – his hand was shaking too much to hold it – sat down and began to speak. It was clear that he had rehearsed the little recital but he stumbled through it – expenses to be met, afraid of not having enough to pay the mortgage, the school fees; of course, he'd planned to return the money out of his bonus … He mumbled on wretchedly and Milo watched him, at first with compassion, followed by disbelief and horror.
‘
How
much?' he cried when Nick muttered the sum involved. And, ‘You bloody fool,' he said almost dispassionately when Nick repeated it.
‘I know,' he answered simply. ‘I know that, Dad. But I've nowhere else to go.'
Milo thought about the expensive holidays, the school fees, the quantities of toys and the extensive wardrobes of Alice and her children.
‘Have you ever thought,' he asked, ‘of saying “No” to Alice and the children occasionally?'
Nick was clearly taken aback by the question. He considered it – and shook his head.
‘Part of the deal was keeping up with the lifestyle,' he answered simply. ‘I really believed that I could.'
‘“Part of the deal”?' Milo repeated disbelievingly. ‘Are you by any chance talking about your wedding vows?'
Nick almost smiled. ‘I suppose you could put it like that.
Alice is high maintenance and I knew that when I married her.'
‘But she makes no contribution to this must-have lifestyle? Couldn't she get a job?'
Nick actually laughed. ‘Alice? Work? What at?'
‘Surely she could train for something? She's young enough. Can you think of any good reason why I, at my age, should use my hard-earned savings to pay for her extravagances while she does nothing? What about her parents? They're a great deal better off than I am.'
‘She says that she doesn't want them to know what a “stupid immoral prat” I am. I think those were her words. I have to deal with it or my marriage is on the line.'
‘So I have to subsidize your family's high-maintenance lifestyle, Alice's idle extravagance and your criminal weakness? You realize that what you've done is criminal?'
Nick bit his lips, humiliated. ‘I promise I'll try to pay it back. The trouble is – I haven't got much time.'
‘How much time?'
A short silence. ‘Two weeks,' Nick answered reluctantly. ‘The books have to go in then.'
Milo closed his eyes. ‘My God, Nick.'
‘I know,' he said miserably. ‘I tried everything I could think of before I came to you … Good God, Dad!' He smashed his fist on the table. ‘I didn't want to have to do this.'
Milo was unmoved by the outburst – Nick was inclined to become theatrical when the situation demanded it – but he got up and went to the drinks tray and poured him a small Scotch. Standing behind him while he drank it, Milo stared unseeingly down upon his son's thick, fair hair. How could he help him? He dropped a hand on Nick's shoulder, sensing his misery and humiliation.
‘What did your mother say?'
Under his hand he felt Nick's shoulder move in a shrug. ‘She's furious with me but she blames Alice, which isn't really fair. You're right. I should have more courage and stand up to her now and then. The trouble is, I feel a failure if I can't deliver, you see.'
Milo involuntarily tightened his grip as his own sense of failure assaulted him. He'd made similar mistakes with Sara and because of it the marriage had broken down – with what damage to Nick? Quite suddenly the little scene dislimned and he was back nearly forty years, and this time it was his father sitting at the table staring at him with a shocked, disbelieving expression.
‘Divorce?' he was repeating incredulously. ‘You and Sara want to divorce? But what about the child? And whatever will your mother say …?'
His mother had been distraught, angry, condemnatory. Even now Milo's gut churned with a remembrance of his helplessness and humiliation.
‘We'll manage somehow,' he said now – and felt Nick's shoulder sag with relief. ‘I'll have to think how,' he warned him, ‘and you must promise to use this experience to get your relationship with Alice on to a new footing. If she wants more than you can provide then you must tell her that she must get out and earn it herself.'
Nick nodded earnestly – he looked ill with relief – and Milo knew that his son's readiness to agree to reform was simply a reaction to his thankfulness: nothing would change. He sighed.
‘Lottie will be back soon,' he said. ‘Do you want this kept as a secret between you and me?'
Nick shook his head. ‘I told Im,' he said. ‘I don't mind
Lottie knowing that I'm a stupid immoral prat. She's my aunt. It won't be news to her, after all.'
The bitterness in his voice, the emphasis on the little phrase he'd used before, wrenched Milo's heart; at the same time he felt impatient with Nick's foolishness and anxious at how he might be able to help him.
‘Would it be better,' Nick was asking diffidently, ‘if I go back to London?' He smiled, a rather forced hangdog grimace. ‘You won't be able to be really rude about me to Lottie with me sitting there, will you?'
Milo smiled too, remembering Lottie's remark about Hugh Grant and the Scotch. ‘I don't see why not,' he answered. ‘It's never stopped me before. She's your aunt, after all.'
Nick looked at him gratefully. ‘Thanks, Dad. I mean, really, thanks. You've saved my life.' He got up. ‘I'll go and unpack. Is it OK if I have a shower?'
Milo watched him go and then poured himself a drink. He sat down at the table and began to think how he could help Nick. He was still sitting there when Lottie and Pud came back. She raised her eyebrows and he nodded and pointed towards the ceiling.
‘Twenty-three thousand,' he muttered – and her eyes widened in horror. ‘I know,' he said. ‘But it's pretty desperate this time.'
‘You seem quite calm about it.' Lottie kept her voice down. ‘How on earth will you manage?'
He gave a little shrug. ‘I was thinking about what we were talking about earlier. My idea of selling the Summer House to Im and Jules. After all, neither Sara nor Nick could complain now if I sold it to them at a very competitive rate, could they?'
Lottie looked anxious. ‘But is it right for
you
, Milo? The
Summer House is a bit of an insurance policy, isn't it? That's what you always said, anyway. A buffer against old age or illness.'
‘The Summer House will be difficult to let again without doing a great deal of modernizing. If I sell it I can buy two small letting properties in Minehead or Dulverton – much more sensible – and Im and Jules will have a home. They won't care that it's a bit run-down, and I'll have the rental incomes to boost my pension.'
Lottie frowned. ‘It sounds quite sensible,' she admitted cautiously.
They heard Nick's footsteps, exchanged a quick glance. ‘It's OK,' Milo said, ‘he wants you to know,' and Lottie turned to greet her nephew. She hugged him, aware of the fear and despair beneath his relief, seeing in his shamed glance a question: did she know yet? Would she condemn him?
‘It's good to see you, Nick,' she told him.
He smiled at her. ‘Thanks, Lottie. It's good to be home. I thought I'd just take a little walk. Get some fresh air and stretch my legs.'
He went out, gently closing the door behind him, and Lottie sat down opposite Milo.
‘Very tactful of him,' she said. ‘Pour me a drink, please, Milo, and start at the beginning.'
 
Nick walked down the drive, his head bent against the cold wind, hands in his pockets.
‘It'll be OK,' he said to himself once or twice rather drearily, but he felt no real lightening of spirits.
He would have given anything to be back at that point in his life before he'd succumbed to fear: to return to that particular moment and do it all differently. He still felt ill
with regret and shame though his gut-churning terror of discovery had receded.
The whole length of the drive he argued with himself; trying to justify his actions. It was easy now, he told himself despairingly, to imagine that he would have had the courage to tell Alice that they were overdrawn in every possible area: that they could no longer go on living at such a rate and that together they must face serious cutbacks. At the mere thought of such a confrontation he felt sick again in the pit of his stomach, fearful at the prospect of her contempt at his failure. And here was the real nub of the thing: not that
she
might be at fault for her extravagances and snobbery; only that
he
was to blame because he couldn't provide for them. Dimly he recognized that he was overanxious to retain the goodwill of his family and friends; that he was diminished by their criticism. Because of his need to please all the people all the time he'd allowed himself to make bad decisions, trying to double guess what would make this friend or that member of the family happy. This invariably led on to secret resentment, yet he continued to be driven by this need.
As he turned out of the drive into the village street, he began to recall numerous occasions in his life when his desire to remain popular, loved, admired, had been stronger than the instinct to be true to himself. He was easily swayed, too unconfident to have the courage of his own convictions. Oh, he could brazen things out if necessary, put on a swagger to cover his uncertainties and give the impression of being confident and cheerful. He was so successful at this Jekyll and Hyde existence that sometimes he'd wondered if he were schizophrenic. He was good at being very jolly; a bit of a clown. Alice had responded to it.
‘You make me laugh,' she'd said once, early on in their relationship. ‘I like that.'
He'd been flattered; determined to keep up this aspect of his character, thus retaining her approval and love.
Now, as he strode on through the village, past the pretty cottages with their tall, stone chimneys, out towards Allerford, he knew the reason why his brief relationship with Im had been so magical. She'd accepted him for what he was – and there'd been the confidence of consanguinity.
‘We were like cousins,' she'd said, and it was true, but that loving closeness had been incomparable and precious during that brief period of their love affair. She'd been eighteen and had her first job working at a racing stable near Newbury; he, an immature thirty-year-old, had been doing well in futures trading after a few disastrous early career moves, and driving down from London at weekends to see her.
Here was another area in which he yearned to reinvent the past; to have another shot at something he'd rejected out of fear.
‘Nobody must know,' Im had said to him anxiously. ‘What would your mum say if she suspected?'
Her fear had infected him and even now he could remember the terror he'd felt at the prospect of telling his mother that he was in love with Imogen. All too often, right through his life, his mother had expressed herself forcibly on the subject of the ‘usurpers'. As a child he'd walked a stressful line between his mother's potential wrath and his easy, natural love for his father and Lottie, and for Matt and Imogen. Yet he'd always needed his mother's love and approval too, fearful that she might cease to love him just as she'd ceased to love his father.
‘It's my fault, isn't it?' the small Nick had asked anxiously. ‘It's because of me that you and Daddy don't want to be together any more,' and neither of them had been able to give an adequate explanation to the contrary, though his father had remained unwavering in his love and attention to him; more stable and reliable than his mother, who had been given to angry tirades against his father in those early years after the divorce.
BOOK: Summer House
5.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Runaway by Grace Thompson
Prophecy: Dark Moon Rising by Felicity Heaton
City of War by Neil Russell
Alchemy and Meggy Swann by Karen Cushman
Love Redeemed by Kelly Irvin
Show Business Is Murder by Stuart M. Kaminsky
NotoriousWoman by Annabelle Weston