Love & Freedom (Choc Lit)

by Moorcroft, Sue

  ‘Thank you. You’re sweet,’ she said.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ A sweet man would have listened when she wanted to tell him about her marriage. Let her talk out her problems, cry on his shoulder if necessary, and take the obligatory step back out of respect for the relationship with its prior claim. Well, he’d already taken the step back. It just hadn’t been respectful.

  And now she was looking at him with laughter and reproof warring in her green eyes, as if she could read his thoughts. Because the connection was that strong.

  The evening was clear, the kind of summer twilight that slides so slowly through the deepest shades of blue that it doesn’t meet black until really late. He noted Ru pause on the metal stairs to glance around before continuing nonchalantly on to solid ground. It didn’t sit well to see Ru enduring his teen years instead of enjoying them and he remembered how it felt to be different. He’d had the advantage of a wide circle of friends, which was more than Ru seemed to have, but he’d always been aware of the other kids talking about his weird family.

  He watched Honor as she skipped alongside Ru on the narrow pavement, talking earnestly. His eyes fell to her round bottom, rolling perfectly. A row of tiny wispy curls had escaped her ponytail at her nape. He made himself look away. Then looked back.

  When they’d seen Ru up the passage and into the door that would take him to the flat above the Teapot, they swung around and walked back down The Butts and into Marine Drive. ‘I feel real sorry for him,’ Honor observed.

  ‘I’d feel “real sorry” for anyone with Robina as a mother. She’s a pain in the arse.’

  Turning the corner into Marine Drive was like stepping through a door to a new weather front. The wind slapped their hair around and rushed into their ears and they saved conversation until they reached the comparative shelter of the bungalow’s patio, tucked in the L of the building.

  There, Honor paused, studying her door key. ‘So, what does “Wind your neck in” mean?’

  ‘Was that too English for you? “Get out of my face”, is the nearest translation, I suppose. Or “Back off”. It’s used when someone’s getting out of order.’

  She nodded. The gathering dusk was taking the colour and detail out of her hair and eyes, gradually hiding her from him. ‘I saw you today.’ She cleared her throat. ‘You were on a bus.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re a model.’

  He frowned. ‘That a problem?’

  She turned to lean against the door, crossing her arms. ‘Of course not. I just feel so stupid.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, blankly.

  ‘Because when your sisters gave you a hard time about only working a few days each month, I assumed you were down on your luck.’

  A laugh shook through him. ‘No. I do OK.’

  ‘“OK”! I guess you do. I’m so glad I didn’t offer you yard work. I nearly did, thinking you would maybe welcome a little extra in your pocket.’

  ‘Offer. I might do it.’ A picture flickered through his mind of working alongside her in the sunshine on the patch of sandy grass that constituted a lawn, rolling up his manly sleeves to tackle the jobs she couldn’t manage.

  ‘Not now I know! That was before you rode past me this afternoon, fifteen-foot tall, looking like the Dolce & Gabbana guy in your skivvies.’

  He winced. ‘I’m not the face of Dolce & Gabbana, that contract belongs to a big name.’ She was looking at him as if he was suddenly speaking in tongues. He tried to explain. ‘Don’t mix le Dur up with Dolce & Gabbana or Hugo Boss. Le Dur isn’t a global brand. It’s a UK company with mass appeal – ie the product doesn’t cost that much. It’s cheerfully aimed at an unsophisticated consumer likely to be impressed by a French name that, literally translated, means “the hard”. I’m not “the face of” anything. I’m not those stratospheric guys. Le Dur’s campaigns are buses, not performance cars. Weekly magazines, not monthly glossies.’

  ‘I just never met a model before.’

  He tried to read her face in the fading light. ‘Did you really worry that I was out of work?’

  She scrunched up her face in embarrassment. ‘Clarissa and Zoë always talked about you only working a few days a month.’

  ‘I do only work a few days a month. On shoots, anyway. Modelling really only takes up so much time, but I do promo stuff, talk to my agent. And do my books, like any self-employed person.’

  ‘And you devote a lot of time to keeping in shape? That’s why all the working out and stuff?’

  He let his shoulder settle against the door beside her. He could feel her warmth, even though the breeze fluttered around them like an anxious bird. ‘I don’t really work out. I’m not a gym rat and I haven’t had a personal trainer for ages. At school, I ran and played rugby and tennis, and I just accelerated the programme to include stuff like volleyball and swimming when I began making money as a model. It’s what I like to do and it stops the pounds from settling. The only thing I have to be careful of is getting tanned in stripes – that’s why it’s usually either long sleeves or no shirt.’

  Slowly, she nodded. ‘I have to admit that it makes a whole lot more sense than you being unemployed. I always wondered why your sisters were so mean to you, but now I see it was just teasing.’

  Turning, she put her key in the lock. ‘You were good to Rufus, tonight.’

  ‘You were the one who pulled his nuts out of the fire.’

  She frowned down at her hand, as if waiting for it to turn the key and let her into the bungalow. ‘I like Ru.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say I like the kid, with his woeful eyes, obviously always expecting to be left out of everything good. Sympathy, yes. Empathy, even, living with three women, dippy women at that, and no adult male in his life.’ But a needy adolescent son of loopy lustful Robina Gordon was strife in waiting; just offering to give the kid a lift had made his instincts howl at him to stay away. ‘He’s an unhappy kid. Not surprising, with a mum like that.’

  ‘No.’ Honor nodded, sadly. She heaved a sigh. ‘She’s a piece of work.’

  ‘And to think you came all the way over here to find your own mother.’

  She laughed shortly. ‘Robina’s enough to put a girl off having a mother. Maybe meeting her the way I have is meant – telling me to leave well enough alone.’

  He allowed himself to be distracted by the way the wind was whipping her hair gradually out of its ponytail. Until–

  ‘Robina’s in love with you–’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ he cut across her. ‘Lust, possibly, but it’s a lot more stalky than love. Love means that you do the best for the other person, not make life uncomfortable for them to satisfy your own transient and unrealistic desires.’

  ‘She thinks you and she could be “relationshippy”.’ Honor continued to study the door lock.

  ‘Trust me. Robina’s love for me is no more real than the word “relationshippy” is.’

  Finally, Honor turned the key. ‘Trust me. Both are real in her mind. I can’t explain how uncomfortable it makes me.’

  He walked back along Marine Drive telling himself that she was right not to have invited him in. He’d told her he stayed away from other men’s wives; she’d told him that she was married.

  End of.

  End of. Except here she was living under his nose and getting under his skin. And there was no actual husband to be seen …

  He rounded the corner in The Butts, feeling for his keys. For a moment he hesitated, looking across the road at where the Fig Leaf’s burning bright windows were open to allow the sound of laughter to lift on to the evening breeze. The idea of strolling in and leaning on the bar for an hour was hugely tempting. There was always someone he knew, someone who would laugh and chat and be undemanding.

  But last time he’d gone in for a quiet beer Robina had paid the girl behind the bar to take him over a drink, like in some cheesy movie. So he’d ended up standing there with a drink in each hand, feeling conspicuous and uncomfortable. And
Robina had winked at him, which had made people snigger.

  He turned across the car park. And then halted. Stared into the black shadow behind the straggly line of bushes that, to someone’s mind, constituted the landscaping of the area, positive he’d seen movement. Fuck’s sake. Robina? Frog?

  He stared into the darkness in silence, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. And, as hesitant as a bird, Rufus Gordon stepped into view.

  Martyn frowned, not letting himself relax. ‘I thought I’d seen you home.’

  Ru nodded. He put his hands in his pockets and scuffed his feet.

  ‘So what are you hanging around for?’

  ‘I’m not waiting for you.’

  ‘So who are you waiting for?’

  Ru scuffed his feet again. His trainers looked overlarge for his skinny legs. ‘Not anyone. It was you came charging around the corner. Made me jump.’

  Martyn stared at him, tapping his keys against his leg, trying to work out what was going on. ‘Did Robina send you?’

  Ru looked up, startled. Wounded. ‘No!’ He turned away. ‘I’m not here for anything, OK? I just don’t want to be there. I’m on my way down to the beach.’

  Martyn’s conscience pricked. ‘Have you had a row with your mum?’

  Ru slowed. Shrugged. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Was it anything to do with you coming here, earlier tonight?’

  Ru swung back. ‘I told you I wouldn’t tell her and so I didn’t. OK? Just take a chill pill, will you? Not everything’s about you.’

  Unwillingly, Martyn laughed. He let his shoulders unbunch. ‘Sorry. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’ll blow over.’

  Perversely, now Martyn wanted to prevent Ru from melting into the night. Unhappiness radiated from the kid like a bad smell. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?’

  Ru looked up at the stars that were just beginning to prick through the sky. He shook back his hair. Finally, he muttered, ‘Crusty came out of hospital a day early and Mum and Soppy got drunk on Malibu, to celebrate. Crusty went to bed, probably feeling like shit and wishing she was back in hospital, and Mum and Soppy are being really stupid. They’re dying their hair and they wanted to dye mine, too; coming into my room and getting hold of my arms and trying to drag me into the kitchen, giggling like twats. Mum got really stressed because I wouldn’t do it. Screeching at me.’

  Martyn’s lips twitched. ‘Crusty and Soppy?’

  ‘Kirsty and Sophie,’ Ru clarified impatiently. ‘Who live with us.’

  ‘Yes, I know who you mean. So what colour did they want to do your hair?’

  Ru began scuffing again. ‘Flamingo.’

  A pause. ‘Like … pink?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Martyn turned for the metal steps. ‘Want to come up, then? I’ve got some stuff to do but you can watch Sky.’

  Ru breathed, ‘OK.’ But it took him a moment to start up the steps behind Martyn, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d been invited.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On Sunday morning at the Eastingdean Teapot, Honor found Sophie sulking in the kitchen and sporting shocking pink hair. It looked like hell with her ever-pink face. Honor felt laughter ballooning.

  ‘Robina was going to do hers, too!’ Sophie wailed. ‘She chickened out.’

  Robina tossed back her dark curls, then winced. Sullen grey shadows lurked beneath her eyes in an otherwise stark white face. ‘There wasn’t much dye left. I was worried it wouldn’t take properly.’

  Sophie pouted. ‘You chickened out.’

  ‘You certainly were brave, Sophie,’ Honor consoled. ‘And how is your friend, Kirsty?’

  Sophie’s gaze accused Robina once more. ‘Exhausted. She could have done with a good night’s sleep. But Robina wasn’t very well during the night. Were you, Robbie? And every time she thundered to the bathroom she banged the door. Poor Kirsty.’

  ‘Poor me.’ Robina swelled with outrage. ‘I was the one who spent half the night on the bathroom floor.’

  Honor washed her hands and tied on her apron. ‘Was it something you ate?’

  Sophie slammed the oven door shut and set the timer. ‘No – something she drank. Because she was greedy, as usual, and drank more than her share – also as usual!’ Her pink face quivered as she slammed utensils on the steel surfaces.

  Robina screwed up her face in pain and reached for the ties of her apron. ‘I’m too ill to work. I’m taking a sickie.’

  Instantly, Sophie’s anger flipped to dismay. ‘Robbie! That’s not fair. OK, I won’t bang–’

  Calmly, Honor cut across her panicked apologies, reaching around Robina and retying the apron strings. ‘No, you’re not taking a sickie because if you do, me and Sophie are downing tools so the Teapot will have to be shut and Sunday must be a lucrative day. You’re not too sick to work. You and Sophie are going to stop taking swipes at each other and we’re all going to be friends and just get the work done, OK?’

  Robina and Sophie gaped.

  Honor held their gazes. She’d spent too long dealing with Stef’s stunts to be intimidated by people throwing tantrums. ‘Jeez, what is it with you guys? Grow up. Does Kirsty usually get between you when you fight?’

  Robina’s glare dissolved. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, with a grin. ‘Kirst is the sensible one, Sophie’s the emotional one and I’m the diva. Right, Sophie?’

  Sophie giggled. ‘Right, Robbie.’ But then a stick of a woman shuffled through the door, clutching the doorframe as if her knees might buckle. The laughter died.

  ‘Hiya, Kirsty!’ Robina’s jollity was horribly forced after the instant of silence.

  Sophie shot around the counter and helped Kirsty pull out a chair. ‘Kirstee! Are you sure you ought to be up?’

  Kirsty propped herself in the chair, looking like an old waxwork, yellowed and shrunken. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘How about peppermint tea?’

  ‘I’ll do it. You guys sit down together.’ Honor made peppermint tea for all three of the women after shaking hands with Kirsty, ‘Hi, how are you?’, pretending not to notice that Kirsty’s hand had a permanent tremor.

  Kirsty looked so drawn that Honor had to thrust away the words sick unto death that rushed into her mind. Customers began to cast Kirsty furtive glances, making Robina joke, loudly, ‘I hope nobody thinks she got like this from eating here!’ But no amount of wisecracking disguised the shock in Robina’s eyes or the anxiety in Sophie’s round pink face.

  When Kirsty had staggered back up to her room, Robina snapped at everyone for the rest of the morning. Sophie whispered that it was because Robina could see there was no way Kirsty would be well enough to look after the Teapot while Robina and Sophie went to the Global Gathering, but Honor thought Kirsty was so damned sick that even Robina couldn’t be quite that self-centred.

  She hoped not, anyway.

  Thursday and Friday were Honor’s free days this week and, by the time they came around, she was glad to have a couple of days off from refereeing spats between Robina and Sophie, facilitating ecstatic encounters between hungry customers and Robina’s cakes and breathing in so much sugar that her own sweet tooth took a hike and she began to fantasise about salted nuts or crispy bacon.

  She hadn’t intended working half the hours Robina rostered her on for but the Teapot was frantic with the tourist season in flood, as most English kids finished school during the third week of July for the long summer break, and the sun shining as consistently as the English sun seemed able to manage. She had to harden her heart about Ru standing in for her because Robina said that the last couple of days at school were a waste of time.

  Honor said, ‘No, they’re not! They’re fun!’ and felt double bad because his supposed holiday job at the funfair had fallen through and he’d probably end up covering at the Teapot all summer. But a girl had to have the odd free day in which to run by the ocean with the wind flying her ponytail like a kite, mooch contentedly around Pretty Old and haggle a 1960s’ Wedgewood cruet from Peggy
the hobbit, then hang out over lunch at the Fig Leaf pub before heading home for a hot shower and to fire up her laptop.

  Her email inbox had another message from Stef waiting for her, making use of Billie’s internet connection again. OK. You’re making me think long and hard about what I’ve done and I apologise (again) for how it turned out for you. I don’t accept that it’s all over between us, though.

  She sighed. There didn’t seem much point in repeating how over it all was. Stef probably thought he could talk her round now that she’d had time to calm down.

  To cheer herself, she caught up with the family news – her dad and Karen, along with Stef’s dad, Will, had joined a club, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a gym; Jess had new shoes, it was the turquoise heels that did it; and Zach was finding his internship in Texas hotter than hell.

  Facebook caught her up on what was going on with her friends and the former students of Hamilton High, bringing vividly to her mind the sunny streets of Hamilton Drives and the places they’d hung out: the lake; the shopping mall. The picture-book white wooden church; the steeple so white against the blue of the sky and the green of the willows.

  Then, on impulse, she searched Facebook for Martyn Mayfair and, as well as his own understated one, found a fanpage with a very proprietary tone. As well as listing a ton of ads that Martyn had been in, complete with images, it led to a slideshow on YouTube. Was this what Robina had done, without even asking Martyn if that’s what he’d like? Wow.

  A little Googling around and she discovered that Martyn’s own web presence was minimal and sophisticated in purple and black and linked directly to a similarly understated page at Ace Smith Model Management, giving few details other than height, weight, colour of eyes and successful campaigns, headed by le Dur. A selection of moody and sizzling images pretty much did the talking. Backtracking to the Google search page she found a whole host of other model agencies to click through. The most successful agencies adopted the same ‘less is more’ approach as Ace Smith. Not for them tempting bios vaunting positive approach and unique look or lists of work that would be considered.