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‘Are you having a shower or are you going to keep coating the kitchen with a fine layer of dust?’
‘I love you too, darling wife. Thanks for the warmth. Think maybe tomorrow I’ll stay on site, cuddle up to a scaffold pole instead.’
‘Well if you didn’t always take Evie’s side,’ she spat irritably.
‘I take my side, Cleo. The side where emptying the dishwasher myself is going to cut less time out of my evening than arguing with you and the kids over it.’
‘Kid. Harry does his chores.’
‘Excellent! We must be parenting half-right then.’ He squeezed Cleo’s shoulder. There was movement in the kitchen doorway.
‘Afternoon, parents.’ Harry stretched his arms above his head, his lean, muscled midriff peeping out below his Beastie Boys T-shirt.
‘Hey Harry. Good day, son? What did you do with yourself, beach was it?’ Sam could flit seemlessly from sparring partner to relaxed father mode, just like that. Infuriating.
‘Nah, just hung out with the guys. The Village was dead so we played the courts mostly. Good day at work?’
Surfers’ Village was the name given to the area where the locals congregated for the best surf, away from tourists and holidaying politicians. Evie would’ve headed straight for The Village today too, but Harry won the coin flip and Evie got the extra shift at Coast. She was probably still sulking now.
Sam rubbed the back of Harry’s head, pulling him playfully into his chest. ‘Work’s work, kid. You make sure you come good on those exams. I don’t want to see your hands looking like these in a few years, okay?’
Cleo stole a sideways glance. ‘You need some cream on those, Sam. Harry, did you bring your washing down? I’m about to put a load on.’
‘It’s already in, I need my sports kit for the morning. I separated the whites and stuff.’
‘My marvellous son.’ She planted a kiss on Harry’s cheek as he passed her for the fridge. He pulled a carton of milk out of the door and began glugging from the spout. ‘Harry, get a glass.’ He stopped guzzling and grinned from behind a milk moustache. Her beautiful long-eyelashed little boy was rolling over for this tall, gangly, fridge-raiding youth.
‘What’s up with Evie?’ asked Harry.
‘Other than a severe allergy to chores, I don’t know, why?’
Sam walked into the sun room and slumped into one of the chairs, groaning as his body clocked off for the day.
‘I think she’s been crying. She came out of the bathroom like Alice Cooper and bit my head off for staring.’
Cleo rolled her eyes. ‘Justin Bieber’s probably going to be a father. Youth of today, I despair, I really do. I’ll go up in a minute, thanks love. Have you got any homework, H?’
‘I’ll check after I’ve texted Ingred.’
‘Just watch the network charges, okay, son? Denmark’s a long way away.’
That woke you up, Sam. International texting charges. Ingred had only been in the UK for three weeks, and Harry’s ‘girlfriend’ for just five days before the exchange trip ended and she’d returned to her Nordic homeland. ‘Have you tried Skyping, Harry? It’s free. Bloke at work uses it when his kid wants to talk to his mum.’
Cleo sniffed a scandal. ‘Why, where’s his mum?’
‘Rich got custody.’
‘Oh.’ Single fathers were like exotic beings to Cleo. She never could fully grasp how any mother coped without knowing every little detail about her children’s lives. It would drive her batty.
Harry shrugged. ‘Ingred’s Skype is glitchy or something. She said it’s the new phone she’s using. We haven’t hooked up online at all yet. No calls either, which sucks. Texts only.’
‘You sure she hasn’t given you the wrong number, Romeo?’ Sam teased.
Harry smiled to himself. ‘No, Dad. We’ve been texting… like, a lot.’
Sam grinned. ‘That’s good, son. And probably a good thing your calls aren’t getting through. No enormous bills hitting the doormat, right? You don’t want to overload her with charm anyway, I mean, sending you her new number you the day she arrived home, she’s keen enough. Must be the Roberts effect.’ Sam winked at Cleo. He’d no idea about that trail of balsamic vinegar, no idea at all. ‘Keep an eye on the texting costs, okay though, H? Your mother needs a new microwave. And a baguette-proof vest.’
Cleo scowled and stalked towards the stairs. ‘It’s rude to earwig phone calls.’ Sam wouldn’t be laughing for long. Cleo’s sights were set on more than just a new microwave. That little French place in the harbour had started themed food nights. They were doing a roaring trade with the locals. No more relying on seasonal tourism. Who wanted to be prepping food day and night, though? Music. That was the key. Give the local lot an open-mic night, live music and light bites only.
She clasped the newel post and took a lungful of air to shout Evie again. Sam would just have to get his head around it. She planted a foot on the bottom step and looked up. ‘Jeez, Evie! You scared me to death. What’s the matter with you?’ Evie stood dishevelled at the top of the stairs, long brown hair straggled and weed-like around her red and flustered face. Cleo hesitated. Evie was a stomper. A door slammer. A pain in the bottom. She wasn’t a crier. ‘Evie? What is it?’ Evie couldn’t form her words, her chest spasming as she tried to speak. Cleo’s own chest tightened. ‘Evie? For goodness sake, tell me what’s happened!’
‘Someone . . . someone . . .’
Cleo felt a panic rising. ‘Someone what?’
Evie burst into achy sobs. ‘Someone called me fat on Facebook. Everyone’s seen!’
7 (#ulink_105ace7e-d8cf-5b5b-9a9f-7b1ace1c7820)
Isobel peered into the window of West Coast Ink. She’d only planned to walk along the footpaths around the cottage but her feet had kept going, Forrest Gumpish. The town was quiet now, the bank holiday given up to preparations for the working week ahead. Shutters were closed or closing, car spaces vacant. One or two shops, like The Organic Pantry up ahead, replenishing stock in peace.
It was quite enjoyable, this meandering, nosing in windows, looking at the objects inside without first scanning the faces. It felt like taking a sneaky look behind the scenes of a set, standing on the stage of a pretend town after the performance had finished, the crowds gone home. She twisted the bracelet over her wrist and allowed her eyes to dart around the gloom through the glass. There weren’t any obvious signs that West Coast Ink offered laser removal, though it was hard to tell with the lights off. It didn’t look like a tattoo shop in there, she could see that much. At least not like the one she’d stood outside with Sophie two years ago, clammy and nervous and a little bit buzzy after too many cocktails, Sophie talking her through the door with fibs: It’s a nice pain! Trust me, you’ll ease into it!
It had not been a nice pain. She’d almost buckled, almost yelped, Enough! I don’t want any more! Leave it like that! But Sophie had smiled at her from the other chair, and Isobel, not wanting to let the side down, had given her a weak thumbs-up. Sophie was hardcore. More hard-headed. More hard-hearted. They shared their dad’s straight nose and mum’s dark hair (before the bleach) and now a tattoo on the wrist apiece, but there the similarities ended.
She carried on along the kerb just as a young girl strode out from behind a truck, straight into Isobel’s path. Isobel glimpsed two startled eyes over the top of the crate in the girl’s arms, then watched her launch the lot across the pavement.
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you!’ yelped the girl. She wore pumps and khaki shorts that made her look even more girlish as she began scrambling for the apples skittering across the kerb.
‘Let me help, I was in a world of my own too.’ Isobel made a grab for the crate first, righting it before any more rosy red orbs were lost. She lunged around the street, collecting the strays the girl hadn’t reached yet. They regrouped on the pavement, an armful each.
‘Thanks,’ smiled the girl. ‘Last week I dropped two watermelons. Have you ever seen one of those explode? My boss was not happy.’ She had the same healthy complexion as the other locals, pretty without make-up, just the hint of decoration where a small clip pinned her hair off her face.
Isobel piled the apples into the box. ‘Sometimes there just aren’t enough hands.’ The girl held an apple up for inspection. Isobel spotted just one or two dinks, then the girl’s neon-pink nail polish, then . . .
Isobel glanced away.
‘These are destined for the discount bin,’ the girl sighed.
Isobel smiled mechanically. The girl was missing the tip of her middle finger and nearly half of her index, neat little nubs where her fingers should be. ‘No, I’ll buy them,’ blurted Isobel. ‘I have a fiver on me I think, I’ll . . . make a crumble or something.’
‘Elodie! Ever heard of switching your phone on?’
A teenage boy in a checked shirt and a pair of those funky Clark Kent glasses all the kids seemed to like walked handsin-pockets across the street towards them. Isobel cringed. She used to tell the boys at St Jude’s not to do that, after one tripped down the art block steps and couldn’t free his hands in time. Ruined his teeth.
‘Hey, I thought you were conquering alien worlds with your gamer buddies,’ said the girl.
He slowed on his approach, giving Isobel a fleeting look. ‘I was, but Mum’s freakin’ out. The cleaner’s just found a letter crumpled inside the letterbox or something. She wants you to go home straight after your shift.’
The girl stiffened. ‘What sort of letter? Did she open it?’
‘No. Dad said it was an invasion of privacy. She thinks it’s from the conservatoire. You’d better be turning up, Elodie. If she finds out I haven’t been taking you, you’ll get a slap on the wrist and I’ll be grounded forever . . . without privileges.’
The girl glanced at Isobel standing there like a right wally waiting for her apples. ‘Your hardware’s safe, Milo. I haven’t missed a single Saturday class, okay?’
‘Sweet, ‘cos I’m about to start season seven of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix, I need my laptop.’
Isobel rocked back on her heels trying not to look like a spare part. ‘It’s good . . . definitely hang on to your laptop.’
The girl chortled, ‘He’s never off it! You need to get out more, Milo.’
Isobel hoped Elodie’s prettiness had been enough to save her from the taunts. She also felt for Milo who, like Isobel, was afflicted with a sassy sister. ‘A computer’s a bicycle for the mind, right? Can take you to a lot of places, I guess,’ she smiled.
‘He has that exact Steve Jobs quote! Milo’s training up to take over Apple. He’s just got to stop getting caught at school with iffy money-making schemes before Mum confiscates his laptop.’
‘Not everyone’s a child genius,’ Milo said. He gave Isobel a furtive glance.
‘Steve Jobs wasn’t a child genius. A billionaire school dropout, actually.’ She’d just danced on the grave of her teaching career. ‘I just mean, you know, why shouldn’t you take over Apple one day?’
Milo eyed her suspiciously. ‘Yeah . . . Anyway, so Elodie, you nearly done?’
‘Nearly,’ she beamed. ‘Let me just get a bag for these. I’ll try not to give you the really bashed ones.’ She nodded at Isobel and disappeared into the grocer’s. Her brother set his hands back into his pockets. He peered into the crate on the pavement and tapped it with his foot. Isobel thought about starting a weather conversation. Or a surf conversation; she could do with learning some lingo.
‘She’s not selling you these, is she? They’re knackered.’
‘Oh, they’re just a bit bruised. They’ll be fine.’
Elodie strode back outside into the evening sun.
‘Are all of these going cheap now then, Elodie?’ Milo asked.
‘Why? Do you want some? Don’t eat them around Dad, you’ll start him off on acid erosion again.’
Isobel ran her tongue over her molars, the sensitivity she always felt at the back there flaring in response.
‘Not for me. Hobo Bob’s digging around in the bins behind the French place again. I might take him some if they’re going.’
Isobel took the bulging paper bag from the girl.
‘They’re not going for free, Milo.’
‘Not even for a good cause?’
‘Cough up. I know you’re flush, I’ve seen you stuffing cash into your speakers.’ Milo looked rumbled. Isobel looked at her shoes but the girl started talking to her again. ‘Bob’s our resident homeless person. Kind of a fixture.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Isobel. ‘Why’s he homeless?’ It was an affluent enough town.
Elodie shrugged. ‘Didn’t he used to be a big banker or something, Milo? How do people go from high-flyer to eating from bins? It’s crazy.’
‘People fall from grace,’ offered Isobel. Others were pushed.
Milo’s hair flopped over his eyes. ‘Hobo Bob fell a long way. His wife spread rumours about him hurting little girls. Never proved he was a perv, though.’
An unpleasantness stirred in Isobel’s memory. A towering heap of captions. Little tart, Romio’s being too soft with her. Go on, hurt her mate. I’d hurt her. I’d hurt her till she squealed.
Isobel’s eyes flitted from shop front to shop front. French place? She found it: Pomme du Port.
‘Bob’s not a perv,’ laughed Elodie. ‘Stacey tried to buy him a latte again last week, he wouldn’t go near her!’
‘Was he ever convicted?’ Isobel’s neck was pulsing, her eyes fixed on the French restaurant. A banker would be good with computers, wouldn’t he? But then so was her gran. And most bankers could spell Romeo.
‘No evidence,’ said Milo. ‘Mud sticks, though. Like our Dad says, lose your name, lose everything.’
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