Love & Freedom (Choc Lit)

by Moorcroft, Sue

  It hurt to snuff that certainty out. She was as gentle as could be – but she still said it. ‘You turning up here today was a shock, but it has made things easier for me because I can tell you to your face what I decided this week.

  ‘I want to get a divorce.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The sound of the doorbell, early in the morning, at first made her heart leap. But reality took over.

  It wouldn’t be Martyn.

  She’d called and texted him the night before but he’d evidently been observing voicemail silence.

  Talking – yelling, crying – things out with Stef had taken into the early hours, leaving both her head and heart thumping. It was only when it sank in to him that she really wasn’t going to let him into the bungalow and they’d spend the night shivering on the lounger outside, if necessary, that he’d admitted to having already taken a room at the Fig Leaf, ‘In case things didn’t work out right away.’ Tossing and turning for what was left of the night, she’d strained for the ringing of her cell phone or even the turr-ree of an incoming text message, wrestling with the temptation to run up the road and bang on Martyn’s door. But when a girl had left both voice and text messages and a guy didn’t respond … he probably wasn’t ready to see her in the middle of the night.

  When the doorbell sounded again before she could even get to the mirror to check out how bad the bags under eyes were, she paused. Impatience. Stef?

  So she opened the front door cautiously. Then flung it wide, with a glad smile. ‘Ru!’

  His hair curtained one side of his face but the half she could see showed the hint of a smile. ‘I’ve got the money Mum owes you.’ He exhibited a folded brown envelope, obviously much recycled, Honor scribbled above other crossings out.

  Pulling at his arm, she dragged him into the kitchen, almost forcing him to take a seat at the table. ‘How about breakfast? You like eggs?’

  His eyebrow lifted. ‘Yeah, great. Thanks.’

  She poured him orange juice and broke eggs into a jug, whizzing through the meal preparation in case he suddenly tried to get away. In ten minutes, rafts of toast and creamy hillocks of egg were on the table. ‘When you didn’t turn up for the self-defence class I made up my mind that your mom – mum – had forbidden you to see me.’

  He cut a corner from his toast and snow-ploughed a froth of eggs up on to it. ‘She has.’ He popped the forkful into his mouth.

  Honor’s heart sank. ‘Oh.’

  He shrugged as he chewed and swallowed. ‘But Soppy put your wages out, ready to post through your door, so I decided to do it for her.’ His half a face smiled again. ‘They’re always on at me to be helpful.’

  Relaxing, beginning on her own breakfast and realising how long it was since she’d eaten properly, Honor grinned. ‘I don’t want you to get in trouble with Robina, though.’

  His cheeks bulged around too much food for one teenager’s mouth and he shrugged again, wrinkling his nose, too, which she assumed to convey that he didn’t mind being in trouble with his mother. Or that it was a situation too familiar to cause anxiety.

  He didn’t slow down until there was nothing but crumbs and a sheen of grease left on his plate. Then he swigged back his orange juice and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Mum’s mega pissed at you for getting it together with Martyn. I warned you how she’d get.’

  ‘I know.’ She lost her appetite for the rest of her scrambled eggs, dropping her fork untidily on the plate. She wasn’t that certain whether ‘together’ and ‘Martyn’ were destined to end up in many of her sentences. She propped her chin on her fist. ‘I hate it that I can’t hang out with you any more.’

  He shook back his hair and for a moment she saw his whole face and its set expression. ‘We can hang out,’ he said, gruffly, sliding his chair back. ‘Unless Mum puts a bad spell on you or sticks pins in an Honor doll or something. Better get back.’ With a quick grin, he loped across the hall and out of the front door before Honor could even begin to compute the effect if she told him that Robina was her mother. Too.

  Martyn opened his front door to find Ru hovering, hands in pockets, brown eyes fixed on him uncertainly.

  Inside, Martyn heaved a sigh gusty enough to blow Ru right back where he came from. But he didn’t allow his frustrations to make it to his face, just stepped back and let Ru in. ‘I thought you’d be working in the Teapot.’

  ‘Yeah, soon.’ Ru made no attempt to go further than the foyer. ‘Um …’

  Martyn waited.

  Ru shuffled. Then spurted, ‘Will it still be OK for me to do stuff on the computer for you? Only, I really want to. You know.’ Ru gave a great, exaggerated shrug, making the time-honoured it’s a woman thing face. ‘Now Mum knows about you and Honor.’

  Martyn was stirred by curiosity. ‘What happened, exactly? Honor was obviously upset and I didn’t ask for details.’ In fact, it hadn’t even been near the top of his things that have gone badly wrong list.

  ‘Someone told her they’d seen you kissing so she sacked Honor. She really doesn’t want you guys to be together. I mean really. I’ve just seen Honor and she looks as if she’s been run over by a train.’

  ‘She’s upset,’ he repeated. And could have added: You don’t know the half of it. Honor’s husband has shown up and – listen to this, it’s good – turns out that Robina is Honor’s mother. So you’re Honor’s brother, which explains why she took you under her wing. She didn’t tell you? I know exactly how that feels because she didn’t tell me. And, maybe, Did you happen to see the husband over breakfast at all …?

  But he couldn’t let his sparks of anger and hurt ignite the whole box of fireworks because it was Honor’s decision whether to tell Ru.

  And, whoever’s fault this sticky mess was, it wasn’t Ru’s.

  He managed a smile. ‘I’m working on a relaunch of a site this weekend. Come round on Sunday evening and upload all the files – if you can do that without pissing your mother off.’

  ‘Wicked. I just won’t tell her.’ Relief ran across Ru’s face like a flicker of sunshine. He opened the door and backed out on to the space at the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll be–’

  ‘Ru! What the flying fuck are you doing with him?’

  Ru’s and Martyn’s gazes locked, neither looking down at the street from where the bellow of rage had come. ‘Oh, shit,’ they said, in unison.

  Then Ru shoved his hands into his pockets and turned reluctantly to clump down the stairs. ‘What?’ he demanded, in his best belligerent-teen, mothers-are-so-crap voice.

  On the ground, Robina’s eyes burned with rage as they flicked from her son to Martyn. ‘What are you doing with that bastard?’

  Ru’s steps halted. ‘Don’t be lame, Mum–’

  ‘I said, what are you doing with that bastard?’

  ‘I’m going to help him with some stuff,’ he muttered, defensively.

  ‘Like hell you will!’ Robina’s voice achieved the pitch and volume of a whistling kettle.

  Male solidarity wouldn’t allow Martyn to abandon Ru. Somehow, he found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with the kid, who was looking as if he could literally be blown against the wall by Robina’s screams. ‘What’s the problem, Robina?’

  Robina swung on Martyn and he was shaken to see venom where he was used to seeing the fawning hot looks she’d been sending him for what seemed forever. ‘You take your American bitch and fuck off. Ru, go home.’

  Martyn tried to make his voice conciliatory, because poor Ru had to live with Robina, at least for the next few years. And surely Robina’s erstwhile crush couldn’t have been buried so deeply, so quickly? ‘Robina, there’s no need for this–’

  ‘Touch my son again and I’ll call the police,’ she snarled.

  He recoiled. ‘Don’t be ridic–’

  ‘I mean it.’

  They glared at one another. Slowly, Robina turned and yanked Ru along by his elbow, away up The Butts in the direction of the Teapot.

  Bursting w
ith impotent wrath, Martyn hurled after Robina, ‘I’ve heard stalkers can turn on their victims!’ Then he noticed a denim-clad figure across the road, leaning on the wall outside the Fig Leaf and drinking in the whole scene. Stefan Sontag.

  Martyn locked on to his gaze. ‘Want something?’

  Stef grinned. ‘Not a thing.’

  And then, as if his day wasn’t the pits already, Clarissa’s voice rang out from the car park. ‘Mar-tyn May-fair!’

  He swung to face her. ‘What?’ He sounded just like Ru. He even felt like adding, Don’t be lame!

  Clarissa hesitated. A dozen expressions flitted across her face, as if she were trying each emotion out for size before wearing it. Finally, she settled for rueful disapproval. ‘From Robina’s remarks, I suppose I know now what Honor and Robina quarrelled about.’

  Martyn suddenly realised that he was standing in the entrance to the car park in bare feet being given a talking to by his mum. He wanted to roar with fury. Instead, he turned and sprang up the stairs.

  Clarissa’s voice followed. ‘Honor’s lovely but there’s no point getting involved with her, Martyn. She’s only here for the summer. And how much do you really know about her?’

  Stef watched as the door at the top of the metal stairway slammed and the woman in the blue athletic gear glared at it, before tucking her car keys in her bag and marching up the street and into a shop.

  His gazed moved on to the place that the crazy woman and her kid had disappeared into, with tables and chairs set outside.

  So now he’d seen them: Robina and Rufus Gordon. Till now just names on Honor’s lips.

  Not surprising that Honor hadn’t opened up to a mommy like that. Robina Gordon was a spitting wildcat with poison-tipped claws.

  His head swivelled back as Martyn’s front door banged open and he stormed back down the stairs, cast Stef a freshly honed glare, then set off down the street in the opposite direction and crossed the busy road at the bottom. He’d changed into running gear and paused on the stretch of grass beyond the road to stretch out his hamstrings. Then he ran towards some railings and disappeared from view.

  Stef thought toxic thoughts, shaken by a daylight viewing of Martyn. He saw that Martyn was what women would call a hunk. That was bad.

  But toxic thoughts, however satisfying, were unlikely to have any actual effect. Thoughtfully, he straightened, and began to saunter towards the collection of chairs, tables and flowerpots through which Robina and Ru had made their way. Above the little white door was a sign that said Eastingdean Teapot.

  Inside, apparently one of the day’s first customers, he chose a round wooden table and a chair with its back against the wall, facing the kitchen where a red-eyed Robina was drinking from a thick white mug, both hands wrapped around it, as if for stability. She was listening to the whisperings of a woman with pink hair. The kid, Rufus, was making cutlery scratchy noises at the back. After a minute, the kid emerged to take Stef’s order.

  Stef glanced at the menu and was glad to see that an English tearoom actually served coffee. ‘I need black coffee, please.’ Ru flicked him a curious look when he heard the American accent but filled the order without comment.

  The coffee was good and rich, maybe Costa Rican, and Stef breathed in the steam as he watched kitchen activity step up as customers arrived, calling greetings, and some of them even nodding to him, a stranger. Here, next to the ocean in this small place, folks were friendly. On his one previous visit to England Stef hadn’t really cared for it, maybe because Honor acted as if ‘England’ were another word for ‘paradise’. Or maybe it was because they’d never left London and he wasn’t a city boy, let alone thrilled by history, like Honor and Garvin. For him, old soon got old.

  By the time he’d drunk two cups of coffee he’d thought things through. Robina had begun to work, albeit with nothing of the frantic pace set by the pink-hair lady. Nearly every table was occupied and Rufus threaded backwards and forwards with the orders. Stef stopped him as he breezed by. ‘Would you please ask the owner if she’d spare me a moment?’

  Rufus looked suspicious.

  Stef smiled. ‘Tell her that I won’t keep her long.’ Brother-in-law.

  Shrugging, Rufus swung back into the kitchen, tearing an order from his pad as he paused to speak to Robina.

  After a lengthy and evidently dubious sizing up, Robina emerged from behind the counter. ‘Can I help you?’ It was difficult to believe that this was the same woman who had been screaming the F word up and down the street not much more than an hour ago.

  Stef rose, extending his hand and making his voice low and rueful. ‘You certainly can. My name’s Stefan Sontag and I’m having awful trouble with my wife, Honor. I know that you’ve had trouble with her, too, and I’m hoping that between us, we can persuade her to come home to America with me.’

  Robina’s eyes widened. ‘Honor’s husband?’

  Stef took his seat again, making his movements relaxed and non-threatening, smiling boyishly. ‘That’s me.’

  Slowly, Robina slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘I didn’t know Honor was married.’

  Stef made his smile wobble. ‘She seems to have forgot, doesn’t she? Maybe–’ He lifted his hands in a gesture that said, I’m looking for ideas. ‘Maybe if you could tell me something about this Martyn Mayfair guy she’s … with? It would be a huge help to me to know what I’m up against.’

  The spark of curiosity in Robina’s eyes ignited into a flame of eagerness. ‘I can probably tell you more about him than you’ll ever need to know.’

  When Stef finally left the Eastingdean Teapot he’d drunk enough coffee to float a boat and eaten a chunk of incredible cake.

  In his room above the bar of the Fig Leaf pub, he fired up his laptop, opened a new document and began to tap, retrieving from his agile mind just about every detail that Robina Gordon had told him about Martyn Mayfair, adding in his own observations about Martyn’s property and lifestyle.

  Plenty to work with.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Since yesterday and Ru’s visit, Honor hadn’t seen a soul she knew; not anybody from the Eastingdean Teapot nor any of the Mayfairs. Not even Stef. And especially not Martyn.

  The day had been long and tense, not helped when she – belatedly – logged on to her email account and found a message from her dad: Stef’s jail time is over early. He’s looking for his wife and I think he knows where to look. I assume you’re in England, searching for your mother? That’s what we all thought when you took off. Did you find her? Is she still a flake? I’m afraid that if you’re looking to Robina to solve all your life problems, you’re in for a disappointment, unless she’s changed a lot.

  But I’m still here, honey. Nothing will change my love for you. Nothing at all.

  She’d had to blink back tears. Typed, Good guess, Dad. And coming to England’s not a decision I can regret. Except that, yeah, Stef’s here …

  Honor put on her running shoes and black lycra shorts. Running along the undercliff would release those endorphins to brighten her mood, expand her lungs and send oxygen-rich blood to her brain – hopefully allowing her to work out whether she ought to call on Martyn. ‘Hi!’ And, maybe, ‘As I realise that you’re avoiding my calls and not answering my texts I thought I’d coming banging on your door …’ Yes, why not make a guy feel cornered and defensive? Way to go.

  It wasn’t that she was hoping to encounter him out running, on neutral territory or anything … But running the route he ran every morning, at exactly the time he usually ran it, wouldn’t hurt. She could run it two or three times before she fell over from exhaustion, probably.

  The weather was very British. Patchy August sun but a chill breeze, tourists sticking obstinately to their summer clothes as if that would warm up the day. Honor paused at a bench down on the Undercliff Walk to do her stretches, taking her time and stretching right out. Then she set off slowly, to warm up, but soon she was running comfortably, weaving gently between
strolling tourists and young families with bikes and buggies, teenagers with skateboards.

  And other runners.

  Her wish came true when a runner who threw a long shadow drew level and slowed his pace to match hers. She risked a glance up at him, his hair streaming back from his face and managed, ‘Hi,’ without disturbing her breathing.

  He responded, ‘Yeah, hi,’ neutrally. He wasn’t even breathing fast, yet.

  They completed the distance to Rottingdean together and ran up the steps and down the slope, up the steps and down the slope. When Honor felt as if the bones would slide out of her legs if she had to do one more circuit, Martyn jumped down on to the stones and set off back in the direction they’d come. No way! Lungs beginning to burn, she forced herself to keep up on the concrete. When he jumped back up and ran into the underpass, she followed, their footsteps magnified and echoey, then out of the underpass, around the corner, across the parking area and into the park.

  Martyn took only one run up the grass slope, then walked along the brow, beside some houses, cooling down. Shakily, Honor flopped down on to the grass, chest heaving.

  Presently, after he’d performed a load of sensible stretches, he crossed his legs and folded down beside her.

  From their vantage point, they could look down on the children’s play park, the skateboard park and some courts where men were gathering, stringing up a volleyball net. One shaded his eyes and looked up to Martyn, shouting a question.

  Martyn waved and shouted back, ‘Five minutes, Jamie.’

  Only five minutes. Words began to burst from Honor’s mouth. ‘So, aren’t we even friends, now?’

  For the first time, he looked right at her. ‘I don’t know what we are. I’ve been thinking about nothing else but that you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me Robina’s your mother.’

  She’d had over a day to mentally run this conversation and had her bullet points all ready. ‘You said I was tainted even when I went to work with her. You call her your stalker.’

  He ripped up a handful of grass. ‘Fuck it, Honor! Having an imperfect mother isn’t a foreign concept to me. I would have understood.’