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Cleo opened her mouth but her voice abandoned her, Lorna’s boob staring straight at her, the gypsy blouse risen defiantly over the top of its fullness.
Lorna stood. ‘It’s alright my five-year-old son has to look at filthy girly mags every time I take him to the newsagents, isn’t it? Absolutely fine when he flicks a music channel on that hordes of disco bimbos shake their thonged backsides at him? But . . .’ Lorna cupped a hand to her mouth . . . ‘Good God! Someone call the modesty police if a mother nurses her child. Well I’ve got news for you, Cleo Roberts.’ Lorna’s face had gone quite red. ‘My daughter has a right to feed freely! I have a right to use my breasts!’
3 (#ulink_b9976fd6-8574-59a2-8366-665391b9ce11)
Isobel startled at the sound of the woman behind the counter banging away at the coffee machine. A baby began to cry over near the other window. She felt a wave of purpose wash through her, then noted the Free Wifi sign framed and hanging on the far brick wall like a gift waiting to be stolen. All those thoughts swelled somewhere at the bottom of her like a rising threat. The doubt. The ridiculousness of her goals.
She clasped her writing pad like a religious scripture.
Base Camp 1. Simple enough. Home. Home was Base Camp 1.
She scribbled the next few lines of writing as if indenting them into the page made them more achievable somehow.
2 - Job
3 - Friends
4 - Partner/Family
5 - Reputation
6 -
The pen flicked free of her grasp, skittering to the floor.
‘Whoops, nearly.’ A pair of expensive deck shoes arrived where Isobel reached. Their owner scooped up her biro and offered it back to her with a smile. She noticed it now, his boyish handsomeness, but still it didn’t matter. She mustered a polite smile in return.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. A woman after my own heart.’
‘Sorry?’ He was older than Isobel but only a decade or so, and in that way that seemed to benefit the male sex and leave the females worrying about crows’ feet and dermal fillers.
He nodded at her notepad. ‘A list-maker. The world is divided into us and them, you know. The list-makers and the billionaires, according to Forbes.’
Isobel grimaced. She would definitely be worrying about crows’ feet one day. Probably very soon. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘Forbes. According to them, the ultra-successful tend not to make lists. I can’t function without them myself. Good luck with yours, maybe you’ll buck the trend?’ Isobel watched his eyes travel to the tabletop. Oh no, was he? Bugger, he was, he was skim-reading her list. She fought against slapping a hand over her pad like a child hiding the answers to a test and glugged another mouthful of tepid tea instead. ‘Looks pretty aspirational. Hope you get to tick it all off soon.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I moved to Fallenbay with similar goals. It’s a great place.’ Isobel went with another smile. ‘See you then.’
‘Bye.’ Her breathing relaxed as soon as he turned. She studied her list, the blank spot waiting next to Base Camp 6. Was it a base camp? Or was it the summit? What was it she was hoping to achieve here in Fallenbay exactly? A Happily Ever After? She was thinking on this point very carefully when something blew up in the kitchen.
‘Evie! I told you to watch that thing today!’
Isobel stopped listening to the crisis over the exploding microwave. She was zoned out. Focused. Determined again.
Home. Job. Friends. Partner/Family. Reputation.
It was an aspirational list, he was right. It was just missing one final and integral point. Item 6. She penned it in without hesitation and a wave of calmness washed over her. If Sophie was going to watch her go down this route, then this would be Isobel’s consolation prize. The best she could shoot for. The second summit. This would be what she wouldn’t leave this shiny, clean, brochure-ready town without having first crossed off her list.
She clamped her pen between her fingers.
Base Camp 6.
SUMMIT: Criminal record.
4 (#ulink_290e205b-4ff4-5cb5-9ae0-ad278bf76ec7)
‘Muuum? I can’t see, this water is dirty, I can’t see!’
‘You’re breathing all over the glass, Maxy. Look,’ Sarah grinned and pointed Max’s rolled-up activity sheet, ‘there’s your nose print.’
Max drummed his finger against the tank. ‘How is Pete the Pleth-io-thaur going to fit into this tank though, Mummy? When they are bigger than our house?’
Sarah’s heart leapt for the occasional lisp Max had adopted. It only caught here and there, she would be robbed of it altogether once his big teeth came through. She swept the blonde hair from Max’s eyes. He could be a poster child for Fallenbay’s surf culture. People were always mistaking him for Jon’s child. Unlike Will, Max looked nothing like their father. Yet. Will had been blonder at five too though. In a heartbeat he’d become a teenager, Patrick’s dark waves steadily trampling Sarah’s genes into submission. Will had inherited most of his dad’s brooding features now; they were all Patrick Harrison had bothered leaving of himself for his children to hang on to.
‘I wish Will came to the aquarium,’ sighed Max. ‘I need a piggyback so I can see in this tank.’
‘You know, you’re pretty lucky having your very own fifteen-year-old, Maxy.’ Max was the centre of the Harrison-Hildred household, everything seemed to orbit him like a crudely evolved planetary system. Football tournaments, swimming lessons, Sarah, Jon, Will – each spinning about Max at differing rates of significance. Max’s footings were solid; it was Will always on the periphery. Why was it so tricky? Fathoming out a rhythm that worked equally for the four of them? It felt like bobbing for apples sometimes: the closer Sarah tried moving Jon and the boys towards a common centre, the further away Will bobbed.
You’ll get him back, darling! her mother had reassured. He’s a teenager, let him get his angst out of his system. Only, Will wasn’t showing any angst. She’d quite like for Will to have a blow out, break something, slam a few doors. Instead of always being on the other side of one.
You’re looking a gift horse in the mush! Cleo had snorted over their breakfast at Coast last week. Be glad Will’s not into skimpy clothes and warpaint. Have you seen Evie’s eyebrows lately? I’m not kidding, Sar, I’m thinking of hiding her stash. Why can’t I have a normal teenager? Who does alco-pops or ciggies? Why does mine have to do kohl?
Sarah felt a tug on her sleeve. Max steered her to the next exhibit. Maybe she should be more grateful for Will’s nonchalance instead of analysing it like a mad scientist, pinning it on all the change she was inflicting on him. The house move. The wedding. The intricacies of a second marriage.
Her stomach lurched. It did that rather a lot lately. You are not pregnant, she reassured herself. You’re just a liar.
‘Mummy, you’re ringing.’
‘Careful, Max, you’ll pull my arm off.’ She fumbled through her bag, ‘maybe it’s Will, changing his mind about meeting us?’ It would be nice knowing where Will was spending any of his free time nowadays. She glanced at the caller ID, flicked off the volume and slid the phone into her jacket pocket.
‘Was it Will?’ Great orbs of light and shadow slid from the aquarium walls over Max’s hopeful face.
‘Nope. Only the estate agents, kiddo. Today’s a family day, they can wait.’
A new vibration thrummed over her chest. Resistance was futile. ‘Just a second, Max. They probably want to organise the For Sale sign. Hello?’
‘Hello, Mrs Hildred?’
She forgave him his mistake. Mothers in their mid-to late-thirties normally were married, weren’t they? Normally. It was all she’d ever wanted for the boys, a bit of normality. Positive role models. Love. Honesty. ‘Speaking.’
‘Hello, Tom here, Thacker and Daughters estate agents. I’m delighted to be ringing you with great news! We’ve received an offer on Milling Street.’
‘An offer?’ She could hear that almost-laughter thing her voice did when something ominous was coming and she needed to buy time before it hit. Like Ofsted declaring they were about to spring an inspection on Hornbeam. ‘But . . . but we’ve only just gone on the market, we’ve had one viewing!’
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
‘Yes . . . But I’m afraid we’re not taking anything less than the asking price.’
‘More good news, Mrs Hildred! The purchasers have offered the full asking price.’
Sarah winced. ‘But we haven’t even got our For Sale board up!’ Think. Were they in a chain? ‘We don’t want to be in a chain. Not even a short one.’ She felt sweaty. She was useless at bluffing.
‘Cash buyer, Mrs Hildred. Super, hey?’
Acceptance settled swiftly. She’d always been the accepting sort. ‘Can I get Jonathan to call you back, I’m just in the middle of something important with my son?’
Max buried his finger in his ear and began twisting it back and forth. She made a mental note to check if that crusty old bottle of hand sanitiser was still lurking in the bottom of her bag.
‘I’ll look forward to his call, Mrs Hildred. Cheerio.’
She shut off the phone. ‘Stupid estate agents, working on bank holidays.’ Max looked a question at her. They weren’t allowed to say stupid. ‘Sorry, kiddo. Come on, let’s see if we can find any of Godzilla’s cousins anywhere in the other tanks. Oh, look, Cretaceous Asia. Godzilla’s a Japanese dinosaur, right?’
Max looked up at her. ‘Godzilla isn’t a normal dinosaur, Mummy.’
‘Isn’t he?’
‘No. He’s made up from different bits of different dinosaurs.’
‘I see.’ She hadn’t got boxes. Sarah and the boys hadn’t even viewed any of the properties on the flashy cliffside development Jon had all the glossy brochures for. Compass Point. Navigate your family to a better lifestyle. Sarah cringed inwardly every time Jon pulled one out. Now he’d put an eye-watering deposit down. It was happening. Already. When everyone, everyone, said house sales dragged out, how they’d be on the market for months. Will’s GCSEs were starting soon, they couldn’t move now. Should’ve made more of a stand then, shouldn’t you? Now it’s too late.
‘What’s do you think my favourite bit is, Mummy?’
‘Hmm?’
‘My favourite Godzilla bit? Guess, Mummy.’
Sarah rubbed her forehead. ‘Tail?’ How was she going to break it to Will? He loved Milling Street. He loved his room, school ten minutes away by bike, the beach and harbour shops not even that.
‘Teeth!’
‘Hmm? Oh, his teeth. I see.’
‘No, look Mummy, teeth!’
She looked through the water. Something grimaced back at them. Max squealed with delight. ‘Jon! I know it’s you, Jon, I touched a shrimp with my actual finger!’ Max ran around the water tube, slamming into Jon’s legs.
‘Hey, big fella! Having fun? What did I miss? Where have you been? What did you see? Ready for flapjack?’
Jon had caught the sun over the weekend. Sarah had stifled a giggle last night when he’d shown her his new wetsuitshaped paler parts. Her body still reacted to him of course. It was her brain currently finding its role uncertain. Jon was handsome, charismatic, kind. Just because her mind was cautious didn’t mean her eyes didn’t enjoy what they could feast on. It was no different to Cleo tempting her with a fat slice of tiramisu when she was watching her calories. See how delicious it looks, Sarah, any sane woman would fancy a slice of that! Jon inspected Max’s crumpled activity sheet attentively, head furrowed in concentration, eyes bright and serious. Yes. Any sane woman would.
Did it really matter that the butterflies never fully arrived? She wasn’t a teenager any more for goodness sake, she and Jon were still compatible. Conversationally. Physically. Just, no butterflies. No big deal. Okay, so there had very definitely been butterflies when Patrick first burst into her life. Great big swarming butterflies of epic proportions, like Mothra, Godzilla’s giant winged adversary. But then Patrick was a bit of a shit, and so a bit of a shitty yardstick. If it weren’t for Max and Will, she’d regret ever clapping eyes on him. Their one-time adorable how-we-met story made her shudder now. Patrick swanning into the Students’ Union, shiny new camera swinging from his neck, bracing his hands at her table declaring Sarah’s to be the most perfect profile on campus and he’d know, he’d been staring through his lens at beautiful girls all day. I’m not a pervert, he’d assured her. Well, maybe one part pervert to four parts decent chap. She should’ve taken that swinging camera and garrotted him with it. Instead, she’d made love to Patrick Harrison all afternoon and fallen hopelessly in love, becoming Mrs Harrison by the following summer.
She glanced at Jon, Max still talking him through the creatures they’d already spotted. Jon was not a Patrick. And even though she didn’t feel butterflies, she still felt something every morning when Jon walked out suited and booted for work, and even more so now, while he was at his absolute best in casual weekend T-shirt and jeans mode. With Max, who adored him. She was lucky to get another shot at this. A family for the boys. At times she wondered if there’d been some silly mix-up. As if she was the wrong suitcase Jon had mistakenly plucked off the airport conveyor belt and was now too embarrassed to return to its rightful owner because of his own sheer stupidity at getting something so utterly obvious so utterly wrong. But only dimwits like her did things like that – although in her defence, a surprise trip to Portugal with a ten-year-old and a colicky newborn had turned out to be a particularly disorientating experience.
Now here she was. Four years into her second chance and Jon still hadn’t decided he’d made a terrible mistake. He just kept on driving her and the boys towards a hopeful horizon. It was the strangest thing.
‘Whoa, Maxy . . . Who’s this beautiful creature you’ve found in the aquarium? Can we take her home and keep her?’
Sarah’s shoulders relaxed again. ‘You looked like one of those gurners through the water,’ she smiled. ‘Reminded me a little of my Aunt Linda.’ None of Sarah’s father’s side were much for smiling, too busy in-fighting over big egos and small inheritances.
Jon slipped his hand under the hem of her jacket. ‘And you looked like a siren.’ He pulled her into him. He was wearing the terrible Spiderman aftershave Max had bought him for Father’s Day last year. Sarah let him kiss her, hoping it might be enough to chase away the fresh doubt. ‘What do you think, Maxy, is Mum hiding a mermaid tail under this long dress, do you think?’
Max shrugged. He didn’t care for mermaids. Sarah took a deep breath. ‘The estate agent just called.’
‘I know, he left me a voicemail. So, what do you think?’
Seventeen years she’d lived in that house. Will and Max’s only home. ‘Bit scary, I guess.’
‘And a little bit exciting?’
‘Sure. It’s just . . .’
‘A big change?’ Jon kissed her on the head and gave the back of her neck a gentle, reassuring squeeze. ‘It’ll be okay, Sarah. I promise. This is going to be a great move for us. All of us. Especially Will.’ He nuzzled into her. ‘This is mine and Will’s chance to start a new chapter together. Not as a confused young boy and his school counsellor, or wary son and the guy who moved in, but as equals, Sarah. This is our chance to start from zero, as equals. A solid family unit.’
5 (#ulink_737a41a1-5aca-5e85-aff6-b5e0dccf9c64)
There were two of everything in Curlew Cottage. Two saucepans, two plump little sofas, each with nautically inspired cushions, two bistro chairs sitting on the shady path out front. Isobel was disjointing the cottage’s ethos, a conspicuously single entity in a setting made for two. It didn’t strike her as a much-used holiday let. Holidaying couples looking for a peaceful bolthole from which to explore Fallenbay were welcome, the ad said. Dogs and young children, friendly or otherwise, were not.
‘All settled then? Is it still quiet?’ Sophie’s voice crackled down the line. Isobel pressed the phone against her ear and heard her dad and Ella roaring with laughter in the background.
‘Quieter than there.’ She flexed her achy calf muscles. The hill that wound its way up here was a killer. Snaking and rising all the way up to where the cottage sat like a lost shoe under a gloomy canopy of evergreens. Isobel had smelled her clutch burning on her first crawl up the private road, but the price had been right and the particulars had promised privacy. Obscurity. Curlew Cottage had pretty much delivered.
Sophie shut a door and the laughter died. ‘Weather improved?’
‘Yeah, today was hot.’
Isobel had driven through sheeting rain to Fallenbay, the air inside the cottage musty when she’d first arrived. Bright, white plastered walls cold and cave-like to the touch. It didn’t feel lived in at all, but then she’d sussed how to light the log burner and eaten her first meal-for-one looking out towards the harbour in the distance.
One-bed cottage . . . Fronted by private woodland . . . Open aspect to the rear . . . Sea view . . . Yes there was, but to see it she’d eaten her dinner standing up, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, the distant boats bringing welcome specks of colour through the little square window over the bathtub.
Sophie fell quiet again. Isobel checked her reception while Sophie thought of something to say. ‘So what are you thinking to your new digs? Now you’ve been there a couple of days? Did you ask about a landline?’
‘There’s a landline here, in the cottage. But I’m not sure how they’d charge for any calls I make so I’m just gonna stick with my mobile.’
‘Great. A mobile with no reception. Here’s hoping you keep it charged, at least. What about the rest of it?’
Of course it was charged, she wasn’t stupid. She looked around the clean, compact cottage kitchen. ‘It’s okay. It’s cosy.’
‘Looked pokey on the photographs.’
‘No, not pokey. Just . . . enough. Plenty of space actually, for a loner.’
‘You’re not a loner. Well, you’re not alone, anyway. Agh, I hate thinking of you there by yourself, Isobel.’
