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Authors: Marcia Willett

BOOK: Summer House
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‘You've always loved Nick,' she answered simply. ‘He's very lucky. We all need one person who's always unconditionally on our side. You've always been on Nick's.'
Im looked confused, embarrassed, opened her mouth to attempt an explanation, but Rosie began to wriggle and to cry, and Im smiled gratefully at the older woman, picked up the big bag and hurried away up the stairs.
All the way back to the cottage Imogen wondered how she might tell Jules the exciting news.
‘Of course, Jules doesn't really know the Summer House at all,' she'd said to Lottie. ‘He's only seen glimpses of it through the trees. Do you think the Moretons would let us have a look around it? After all, if they're leaving it wouldn't make much difference to them, would it?'
At the bottom of the drive where it forked away to the Summer House she'd slowed the car, peering to get a glimpse of the little whitewashed house with its red-tiled roof and pretty veranda. She knew that it had been built at the whim of Milo's great-great-grandmother, who had wanted a studio where she might go to paint her charming watercolours in peace; the next generation used it as a rather special summer house where the children could picnic and have parties. Just after the war Milo's father had extended it from the studio-summer house into a delightful cottage for the couple who worked for him. Imogen recalled the accommodation:
the two big downstairs rooms, now a sitting room and a kitchen-breakfast room, divided by the hall which opened on to the veranda; and, a much later addition, upstairs two good-sized bedrooms, a smaller room (perfect for Rosie) and a bathroom.
Joyful with anticipation she drove into Porlock, waved to Richard – the owner of Antlers, the pet shop – and pulled suddenly into the kerb beside him, stopping on the double yellow line.
‘We're getting a puppy,' she called to him. ‘Picking him up in a couple of weeks' time. I'll be in to get some things for him.' She glanced in her mirror as a car pulled up behind her, unable to pass. ‘Oh dear. Better dash …'
She drove on again, still fizzing with exhilaration, chatting to Rosie, speeding away up the toll road to the cottage. Ray came out of the booth, recognized the car and waved her on. She smiled at him, almost tempted to stop and tell him the news, but she resisted the temptation, knowing that Jules must be the first to know. She thought about how she might tell him:
‘You'll never guess what's happened!'
‘I've got the most amazing news.'
‘Milo wants to sell us the Summer House.'
She pulled into the drive and glanced at her watch: nearly half past three. Rosie had fallen asleep, and Imogen decided to leave her there sleeping in the patch of sunlight for another ten minutes. She climbed out, clicking the door quietly closed, standing for a moment breathing in the crisp cold air. Today, the coast of Wales, clear and sharply defined, appeared to be only a step away across the narrow shimmering strip of blue water where a tiny motorboat sped northwards like a shining arrow, its creaming bow wave
sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine. A solitary seagull tilted and swooped above her.
Imogen sighed with pleasure. She let herself into the cottage, wondering what she might cook for supper – there were some lamb cutlets in the fridge – and checked to see that there was a bottle of wine with which to celebrate the good news. She'd wait until Rosie was in bed, she decided – bath-time was always such chaos and she wanted to be able to talk to Jules properly without distraction – and then she'd pour him a drink and just tell him. With luck, it might be one of his late nights when he arrived home just in time to read Rosie a story and kiss her goodnight. That would mean less temptation to blurt it all out the minute he walked in through the door before Rosie was tucked up. She let out a little cry of anticipatory joy just as her mobile beeped: a text.
She seized the phone, pressed the buttons: it was from Nick.
‘Home. R u ok? Has Dad told u yet? x'
She texted quickly back to him: ‘Lottie told me. Cant wait 2 tell Jules.' She hesitated, wondering whether to add some message of affection, then added an x and pressed ‘send'.
Another message arrived almost at once.
‘Gt. Stay in touch. Luv u lots x'
Im stared at the message, shrugged away her unease. After all, Nick always sent affectionate messages; there was no harm in it. It was strange how, just this last day or two, she had become supersensitive about him. She was just being silly. She texted quickly, giving herself no time to brood on it, and sent it: ‘Will txt later. Luv u 2.'
She glanced at her watch: time to wake Rosie or she wouldn't sleep this evening. Imogen went out to fetch her.
Rosie was heavily asleep and resented being wakened: she grizzled, struggling, reaching for the velvet rabbit and wailing when she couldn't reach him.
‘Stop fussing.' Imogen hoisted her daughter on to her hip. ‘Here's the rabbit. Come on. We're going to have some tea.'
She picked up the big Cath Kidston holdall from the back seat, locked the car, and carried Rosie into the cottage.
 
‘But I don't want to buy the Summer House,' Jules said. Half perched on the high stool, he turned to look at her, one elbow resting on the wide pine bar. ‘I don't want to live in Bossington.'
Imogen remained quite still, kneeling on the floor, some of Rosie's toys still in her hands. She'd been tossing them into the playpen but now she stared up at him, shocked into stillness. Her expression, and the way she kneeled like a supplicant, irritated Jules. It made him feel guilty, as if he were bullying her, which was unfair.
‘Come on, Im. We've talked about this a hundred times. We want to live near Simonsbath. You've always said you wanted to. It wasn't just me.'
‘I
know
I have,' she cried in anguish, willing him to understand how crucial this was to her, ‘but that was before this happened. I never thought for a
minute
there would ever be a chance of buying the Summer House. And at a price we can afford. It's worth twice that, Jules. Apart from anything else, can't you see what a bargain it is?'
‘Something is only a bargain if it's what you want. I don't want the Summer House.'
She flung the last of the toys into the playpen and stood up. Jules subconsciously braced himself. Her cheeks were brightly pink, which made her eyes look even bluer than
usual, and in her jeans and the slouchy jersey she looked very young and very pretty. He wanted to put out his arms to her but her expression did not encourage it.
‘And what about me?' she asked.
He stared back at her. Suddenly he no longer wanted to put his arms round her; instead he was filled with resentment.
‘I'm not thinking about you,' he told her bluntly, ‘or only indirectly.' He turned to face her as she marched round the end of the bar into the galley. ‘We've talked about the distance we are here from the practice and we've said over and over again that the drive is hell when I'm called out at night. We both hate it, not just me. OK, here I can be on the A39 very quickly, but even then I've got miles of winding lanes. You know very well that we cover farms and stables down as far as Twitchen and Molland, and it's you that makes a fuss when I have to go out in fog or snow at two in the morning. And you hate it if I spend the night in the flat at the surgery. It's a small practice, Im, there's just the two of us, and I'm the assistant who's on call four nights a week and can't afford to get it wrong.'
‘But that will change,' she argued, ‘as the practice grows.' She bit her lip, trying to contain her bitter disappointment. He made her feel selfish, but her longing for the Summer House was so great that she couldn't think straight.
Jules was watching her. Her answer had hurt him deeply. ‘You mean that the Summer House is more important than my safety. That's what we're talking about, Im. Driving around Exmoor is brilliant on a fine day with no pressures but you try it on a foggy night with a sick animal on the end of it, and then coming home exhausted with another day's work ahead. We're adding another three miles if we
move to Bossington and we're not talking nice straight roads here.'
She leaned back against the draining board, her arms crossed over her breast: she felt defiant and defensive, both at once. She knew that it was perfectly reasonable of Jules to say these things, yet she could hardly believe that he was not thinking for a single minute of what this opportunity might mean to her: to own the darling little Summer House, and to be close to Milo and Lottie, with Matt and Nick around, and Rosie growing up surrounded by a real family. And – her heart gave a little anxious jolt – if they didn't buy it would Milo still be able to help Nick out? Milo knew that she and Jules had the money for the deposit in the bank and a mortgage lined up, ready to go. If they didn't buy the Summer House it might not sell for ages. How would Milo find the money then? She couldn't say these things to Jules; it might look a bit odd to be worrying about Nick to that extent. She'd already had a bad moment with the rabbit. Rosie had refused to go to sleep without it and Jules had said, ‘Is this new?' and Im had answered hurriedly, ‘Yes, we got it in Dunster this morning,' which wasn't absolutely a lie but wasn't absolutely all of the truth, either. She simply hadn't wanted to mention her meeting with Nick and now she was in a turmoil of disappointment, shock and anger.
‘Look at the map,' Jules was saying. He'd got off the stool and had reached down the map book from the bookshelf. ‘Look.' He was jabbing a forefinger along the squiggly lines of lanes, head bent so that she could see his very nearly bald bit, and she'd never liked him less than she did at that moment. ‘Look at the terrain across the moor between here and Simonsbath. It takes me the best part of half an hour
from here. And that only gets me to the practice. What if I have to go on to the stables at Molland or to Twitchen?'
He looked up at her and she stared at the map, unwilling to meet his eyes. He shut the book with a snap; put it back on the shelf.
‘You don't really give a damn, do you?'
‘I just want an opportunity to discuss it sensibly, that's all,' she said angrily.
They stared at each other, neither ready to back down, the evening in ruins about them. Jules stood up and went into the hall whilst Im stood motionless, listening intently: surely he wouldn't just walk out. Where would he go? He came back in with his Barbour on, his face shuttered.
‘I'm on call tonight,' he said, ‘and I'll almost certainly have to go over to Molland at some point. I'll spend the night in the flat at the practice and grab some supper at the pub.' He paused, waiting for her to protest, to make some gesture, and then shrugged, said, ‘'Night, then,' and went out.
Im could hardly believe that he'd gone: she'd been certain that he was bluffing and would come back. She heard the four-track's engine start up and then the sound of it die away as Jules drove off. Resentment and disappointment blocked any tendency towards regret, though she knew, deep down, that Jules had every right to make his points.
But even so … Im came out from behind the bar. She hardly knew what to do with herself: her expectations had been so high, she'd been so happy. And she couldn't talk about it to anyone; not yet. Her close friends would understand, of course they would, but it might be a bit tricky presenting Jules' point of view without them suspecting that she was being a bit selfish. On the other hand, they'd absolutely understand how she'd be feeling about the Summer House.
Just thinking about it made her want to weep. Im filled a glass with wine and put away the food she'd been assembling for their celebratory supper: she simply wasn't hungry any more. In the hall she paused to check for any sounds from upstairs and went on into the sitting room. She made up the fire, switched on the television and sat down, deciding that she daren't even phone Nick. After a few moments of reflection she realized why: she couldn't bear it if his anxiety about the money were to be greater than his concern for her disappointment.
She took a few sips of wine and on an impulse picked up her mobile from the arm of the chair and scrolled to Matt's number. He answered after a few rings.
‘Hi, Im.' As usual he sounded rather detached but comfortingly familiar. ‘How's it going?'
‘Oh, Matt,' she said chokily. ‘I'm having a beastly time. You can't imagine.'
‘No, I probably can't.' He sounded more alert; concerned. ‘What's going on?'
‘You've got a minute? You're not dashing off anywhere?'
‘No. You have my undivided attention.'
‘Well …' Im settled herself with relief in the corner of the sofa and began to talk.
Matt put his mobile down and sat for a moment, thinking about his conversation with Im. What a mess it all was, and what was the right of it? He could understand Jules' viewpoint: apart from the very real concern about the distance from the practice, he could also see why Jules might not want to live quite so near to Milo and Lottie.
‘Think about it,' he'd said to Im. ‘Would you want to live so close to Jules' parents? I know they live in Scotland so there are all sorts of reasons why it's not a real possibility, but think about it, Im.'
‘Milo and Lottie aren't my parents,' she'd answered stubbornly. ‘It's different.'
‘No, it's not. Not really,' he'd said. ‘Be honest. Lottie was always
in loco parentis
for us in her own particular boho way. And Milo was the father figure in our lives. And that's how Jules sees them. But I know how you love the Summer House and the thought of having Lottie and Milo around …'
He'd tried to be fair, to show her both sides, but he'd felt really sorry for her; it must have come as a terrific shock to
find Jules set so firmly against her own desires. And then there had been all the stuff about Nick, about him needing money and not getting his bonus. Well, at least it wasn't another woman, although, knowing Alice as he did, Matt suspected that she might overlook an extra-marital affair much more readily than she'd forgive a real financial problem: she'd never accept a loss of status.
Of course, he could see that Jules buying the Summer House was a perfect all-round solution but why should Jules be sacrificed for Nick?
‘How shall I tell them?' Im had cried in anguish. ‘Milo will be thinking he's making my dreams come true and it will solve Nick's problem. And Lottie will be really hurt to think that Jules doesn't want to live that close to them.'
‘Hey, cool it,' he'd said. ‘Try to be rational. Neither Milo nor Lottie will be in the least bit surprised that Jules is worrying about the travelling to and fro. It's a hell of a journey, especially in bad weather and with sick animals on the end of it. They might be disappointed but they'll be OK with it. I'm not sure about Milo raising the money for Nick but that isn't your problem. It's between Milo and Nick. Anyway, I really can't see Milo's bank making a fuss with all the equity he's sitting on. And he can still sell the Summer House.'
‘It's so cruel,' she'd said in a small voice. ‘It was like my dream come true. I couldn't believe it when Jules just turned it down flat. He didn't think for a single second what it might mean to me. To have all the family around for me and Rosie.'
And that's the real problem, thought Matt. Im is hurt because Jules isn't considering her feelings and Jules is upset because it seems that Im doesn't care about him. God, what
a muddle it all is. All these misunderstandings and wounded feelings sloshing about; all the emotional blackmail that goes with relationships. I'm well out of it.
He thought about his mother; the never-quite-drunk, but never-quite-sober behaviour that had made him anxious about taking friends home; the complexities that made him so wary about forming a close relationship of his own. On a few occasions he'd imagined that a close, loving relationship would answer the need inside him and dispel the haunting loneliness. Yet it had never worked out that way. Instead, his sense of incompleteness blocked his ability to love and to give himself totally, and women grew puzzled and then irritated by his apparent self-sufficiency. Each time he told himself that it would be different; that this time he would be able to be open, to be honest about these strange feelings and the nightmares that dogged him – but as yet, no woman had ever come that close. He'd never yet felt emotionally safe enough to risk the look of love disintegrating into a stare of contempt – and, anyway, he wouldn't want to go into such an important relationship pleading such weakness. One day, if he were lucky, he might meet a woman with whom he felt such rapport that the telling would be easy – but it hadn't happened yet …
As if on cue the phone rang again and he picked it up and glanced at the screen: Annabel. He groaned briefly, hesitated and then answered.
‘Hi,' he said, keeping his voice especially calm in an attempt not to give an impression of eagerness, nor yet of disinterest. ‘How was the party?'
‘You should have been there,' she told him. Her own voice was part jolly, part reproving. ‘You would have loved it. It was such fun.'
‘Great.' His tone now implied delight that she had enjoyed herself but refusal to be drawn into any kind of regret. ‘That's good then.'
‘The trouble with these early evening launch parties is that you feel a bit flat afterwards. You know? You're still on a high but you've got nowhere to go.'
Don't fall for it, Matt told himself. Just don't.
‘Has everyone else gone?' He sounded interested but not concerned, and he congratulated himself on his ability to keep it all friendly.
‘Well, not everyone.' She was clearly reluctant to admit this; slightly irritated that he hadn't picked up on his cue and invited her round, or suggested that they should meet somewhere. ‘A couple of them are going out for some supper, I think.'
‘Sounds a great idea,' he said enthusiastically. ‘I should go for it.'
‘Why don't you come and meet us?' She was trying to sound casual, making an effort not to be too keen. ‘It would be fun.'
‘Me?' He implied surprise. ‘It's a bit short notice. I'm working on an article for
The Times
travel section and I'm running late with it as it is.'
‘I'm not surprised,' she retorted. She was aggrieved now, making no attempt to hide it. ‘I tried to phone before but you've been engaged for ages.'
‘My sister, Imogen,' he answered briefly, resenting it that he should need to explain to Annabel. ‘Bit of a problem, that's all. That's what delayed me.'
‘Oh, well, I won't hold you up.' Her voice was brittle, hurt. ‘See you on Saturday.'
Even in her irritation, she couldn't quite bear to go without
reminding him of their next meeting and he felt equal parts of guilt and annoyance.
‘Sure, see you then,' he said cheerfully. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening. 'Bye.'
He put the phone down. It was possible that, had Annabel spoken to him before Im had phoned, he might well have gone out to join her but Im's problems had reignited all his deep-seated fears regarding commitment and he'd reacted accordingly. Annabel was very keen, even though she was playing it carefully, and he was wary. The fact that he'd agreed to go down to Exmoor at Easter for a long stay meant that he could keep her at arm's length for a little longer: he liked her very much but he simply didn't want to be rushed into a closer relationship. Although it was a pity that he hadn't found anywhere to rent, he was rather looking forward to a spell at the High House – and now it seemed that he might be able to be of some use; at least he could be there for Im and cheer old Jules up a bit.
Matt sighed, frustrated. What he really needed was inspiration; some exciting ideas for the new book. This sensation of being only half alive, of being mentally crippled, was disabling; it affected all parts of his life. This was why he hadn't wanted to go to the launch party or meet Annabel afterwards. There were too many friends and colleagues who would ask the usual question – or remain tactfully silent – about his work. So many people were waiting to see if he could do it again or if his great success had merely been a flash in the pan.
Lottie had been right to suggest a change of scene; and perhaps she'd also been right when she'd talked about the death of someone close to you revealing hidden terrors. Just recently the nightmares had started up again, and the
lifelong, overwhelming sense of loneliness and loss, held at bay throughout the writing of
Epiphany
and its attendant success, had resurfaced with a vengeance.
Remembering his mother, the way
she
had been disabled by grief, a great sorrow welled in him.
‘She must have loved Dad so much,' he'd said to Lottie once, almost bitterly.
He'd felt it deeply that neither he nor Im could in any way make up for that crippling loss.
‘Yes,' she'd answered. ‘Yes, she did, Matt. But she also had post-natal depression after Imogen, and then Tom's death on top of that seemed to make recovery impossible. A double whammy. But we must keep hoping that one day she'll get better.'
She never had – but whilst she'd lived there had been hope. Now, it was too late. The sorrow, kept banked down as a rule, welled within him, swelling his heart with misery. It had all been such a
waste
: such a bloody waste. Even the birth of her granddaughter had been viewed through a haze of alcohol and pain; she'd seemed detached, almost disinterested. He'd been so disappointed – ‘Perhaps,' he'd said hopefully to Lottie, ‘this will trigger something' – as well as hurt on Im's behalf. Im, as usual, had been philosophical.
‘She's never been like a proper mother,' she'd reminded him. ‘She can't help it and I'm used to it. Jules' mum and dad are euphoric, and Lottie and Milo are thrilled to bits.' She'd shrugged. ‘We're luckier than lots of people, Matt.'
He knew she was right but still there had been that interior struggle. He could remember, very dimly, a different Helen: one who laughed and sang to them, who lifted them in her arms. There seemed to be a whole piece of his life, waiting just beyond his memory, that he continually strained to
recall: a life in which their mother was a joyful, happy person who hugged and kissed them, and played silly games with them. These shadowy memories confused him because as soon as Imogen had been born his mother's depression had descended and his father had been killed. Yet they remained to tantalize him: those flashes on his inward eye of a happy woman playing with her children. All through the years of growing up he'd wanted her back.
‘Grow up,' he told himself now, savagely. ‘Grow up and get a life.'
He stood up with an impatient quickness that dislodged some books and papers from the small table beside the chair. He bent to pick them up and saw a few envelopes: the morning post as yet unopened. All three were addressed to his mother at the Blackheath flat and redirected by the Post Office, and he glanced at them without much interest. One was about double glazing; one was from a charity. The third envelope had been handwritten and he slit it open. Another envelope was inside, addressed to his mother at the news agency where his father had been employed, and marked ‘Please forward'. He opened it curiously but there was nothing inside except a photograph.
He held it, staring at his own face laughing back at him; his stomach contracted, as if in fear, and his heart beat quickly. He turned the photograph over but nothing was written on the back. He looked inside the envelope, shaking it, but nothing else was enclosed and the envelope bore a foreign stamp that he did not recognize and a smudged postmark that he could not decipher. He studied the photograph again. The camera had been a little behind him and his head was turned, chin on shoulder, and he was smiling at the photographer.
Matt tried to remember when it might have been taken, and where – on one of his trips abroad? – and by whom, and wondered why it had been sent to his mother with no message. He was gripped by an irrational fear, and great confusion clouded his mind.
When his mobile signalled that it had received a text he seized the phone with relief. The text was from Lottie and it was brief.
‘R u OK?'
He stared at it. This was not the first time that Lottie had demonstrated her powers of second sight. He and Im had often teased her about it. Somehow the text steadied him; confirmed his decision to leave London for a while and spend time with his family. He put the photograph back into its envelope, studying the stamp and postmark again but making no sense of it, and then texted to Lottie.
His mind was made up: he would go down to Exmoor next week.

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