Love & Freedom (Choc Lit)

by Moorcroft, Sue

  She kept her eyes on his face, on the well-defined profile, set and grim. ‘You’re pissed with me. And I don’t think it’s because I hid my unsatisfactory parentage. It’s because Stef turned up – even though I had been open with you about my status.’

  Silently, he turned and watched the men below tossing around a volleyball, boosting it up into the air with forearms, punching it down again with fists. He chewed a stalk of grass. Finally, ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s unfair but, actually, you’re right and it’s all about your “stattus”, and yes, I am pretty pissed. Maybe more at me than you. Because I knew you were married and what the potential for trouble was. Now the trouble has arrived, it’s eating me.’ Climbing to his feet, he set off down the slope.

  ‘I told him I want a divorce,’ she called after him, without moving.

  He halted. She watched him trade off his curiosity against his dudgeon. Then he reversed his route and let himself back down beside her on the cool grass, closer, this time. ‘What did he say?’ His brown eyes were cautious.

  Scrunching up her knees, she laid her cheek on them, holding his gaze. ‘He said no way. It was awful,’ she admitted. ‘He stayed and stayed, arguing, and he’s hanging around, still hoping to change my mind. He says he loves me. I told him I can’t live his life any more but it’s hard to hurt him. I guess it goes against my character.’ A tear tipped, unwanted, on to her cheek.

  He let his fingertips touch her arm. Pause. Hover. Stroke. Warm. Delicious. His voice was soft. But regretful. ‘That sounds like too much Honor, not enough Freedom.’

  ‘And you sound so good-mannered about not taking something that’s not yours. So fucking English.’

  His thumb was drawing tiny circles on her arm, creating goosebumps. ‘I am English. Which brings me to the small matter of us living three thousand miles apart.’

  ‘People make it work.’ She slid her hand on to his.

  ‘Like your parents?’

  ‘Your parents lived in the same country and that didn’t work a whole lot better, did it?’

  ‘Fair point,’ he admitted. ‘But you need to sort yourself out. I don’t want some half-arsed triangular relationship with me as the villain, the adulterer. I hate that kind of guy, the weasel who sneaks around. I should have kept a lid on things because, where you’re concerned, I don’t share. I want all of you.’ He leaned in and kissed her nose.

  She sniffed as he jerked suddenly to his feet and the tears began to trickle down her cheeks. ‘Martyn?’

  He turned.

  She tried to swallow away the misery that made her throat stiff. ‘I’d already told him that I wanted out, before … you and me. You believe that, don’t you?’

  She heard his sigh, even though the breeze was hissing in her ears and whipping his hair across his eyes. ‘Yes. Does that make a difference?’

  The volleyball men were shouting again. Martyn acknowledged with a wave and began to trot down the slope.

  Honor watched him go, muscles rippling under his running clothes, long-sleeved and full length so that his tan wouldn’t get diced up. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. She sighed and climbed to her feet. If she wasn’t too much mistaken, Martyn had just told her that what he wanted was commitment. According to the rules, that was meant to make her happy. Funny.

  Back home, Sunday was one of Stef’s favourite days to work at the diner because it would be jumping with kids out of school and Monday to Friday workers who’d broken free from their treadmills.

  But the Teapot, he discovered this particular Sunday, boasted the same number of grey heads, tan cardigans and sensible sandals as it did any other day.

  Comparing the quaint Eastingdean Teapot to the chrome and plastic Drives Diner was like comparing a tinkling music box to a jukebox blasting out Springsteen.

  Robina smiled vaguely in his direction but didn’t stop work, if you could call it work, decorating a cake. Customers read fat Sunday newspapers or murmured their way through tedious conversations, putting ly in words that didn’t need it, like real and quick.

  Stef couldn’t stand to watch that much nothing happening. He left after one cup of coffee.

  He wandered down the street, crossed the busy coast road and gazed at the ocean for a while, hugging his jeans jacket around him. It would be over eighty degrees in Connecticut, right now. He ought to be there, enjoying the sun, celebrating his freedom, not chasing around liddle ole England. The sooner he made Honor see sense, the better he’d like it.

  So he turned and made for Honor’s rented house. But when he reached it, it was empty. Or, at least, if Honor was there, she wasn’t answering the door of the dull-but-cutesy, white-painted, single-storey house. Mooching back down the stairs, he took a seat on the second step. He’d wait.

  He waited for quite a while, giving himself a numb butt, bored to tears with the view of untended garden. Finally, he was rewarded not by Honor running up the drive but by a small white car pulling in. A bug. And, well hey, the woman who hopped out was the other one he’d watched giving Martyn Mayfair a hard time right after Robina-mom-in-law had finished screaming at him. Stef’s nose for trouble twitched. He rose to his feet as she made for the steps. ‘Hi.’

  She pulled up short, eyeing him speculatively.

  ‘I’m Honor’s husband, Stefan Sontag.’

  Her eyebrows snapped down. ‘Honor’s husband?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, ma’am. But I guess you didn’t know about me, right?’ He pinned on his best rueful-and-harmless expression.

  ‘That’s right.’ She didn’t look any too pleased to be in possession of the knowledge and it took her several seconds to digest it. ‘I’m Clarissa; Honor’s renting the bungalow from me,’ she said, eventually. ‘I called to ask her to get her grass cut. Again.’ She glanced down at where the grass had grown so long that it had fallen over the edge of the drive. ‘She keeps promising …’

  Stef smiled, scenting opportunity. ‘I don’t think Honor cares for yard work. But, now I’m here, I’d be happy to do it, if I can find a machine to use.’

  She brightened. ‘No problem. There’s one in the garage.’

  ‘Do you have another key? Honor only has one but she said she’d ask her landlady for another – and that’s you, right?’

  ‘That’s right. But she should have a spare.’ Her lips pursed in fresh suspicion.

  He grinned. ‘That’s what she said! She was sure she had a spare. But you know Honor, she’s forgotten where it was. Just like she’s forgotten the time, now, most likely.’

  ‘The key should be hanging up inside one of the kitchen cabinets.’

  ‘Great.’ Stef stood back and gestured Clarissa ahead of him. ‘If you can just let me in, I’ll search for it.’

  Clarissa hesitated. ‘I ought to wait and ask Honor if it’s OK.’

  Damn! But Stef was too shrewd to complain. He just made a performance of settling himself back on the step. ‘I appreciate you looking out for her safety. I’ve been real worried while she’s been here in Europe and I won’t be happy until she’s home in Connecticut with me.’

  For several moments, Clarissa just looked at him. ‘You’ve come to fetch Honor home?’

  ‘That’s my plan.’ He laughed, as if stating the obvious.

  She tapped her keys on her palm. ‘I see.’ She tapped some more. Faster. ‘It’s just that Honor rented the bungalow for four months.’

  He went for sincerity. ‘And if Honor signed up for four months’ rent, that’s what you’ll get.’ He launched into a eulogy about Honor being so honourable that she’d travel across continents just to return a few cents she owed.

  ‘How about if I just give you the garage key, so that you can cut the grass?’ she interrupted.

  ‘That would be great.’ He leaped to his feet like a waggy dog. ‘It’s boring just waiting.’ He followed Clarissa as she opened the garage door and showed him the mower, the electrical outlet, the door out of the end of the garage to give him access to the back yard and a green bin on w
heels for the grass cuttings.

  He wheeled the mower to the lawn, pressed the button and tweaked the handle, and it roared into life. While Clarissa watched, he cut two swathes of grass then raked up and dropped the long stalks into the green bin. ‘This is not grass cutting, it’s haymaking.’

  Such a feeble joke seemed to reassure Clarissa that there was no harm in him and she said her goodbyes. As soon as she’d backed the little car out and whirred away up the road, Stef let the mower fall silent and whisked through the garage and up more steps to the back yard, where the long grass was falling over with neglect. He glanced around, checking out the degree to which the garden was overlooked, which turned out to be not much. Just another bungalow, really, its back to Honor’s place and just about every blind still rolled down in Sunday morning laziness.

  Grateful for late sleepers, Stef began to feel around the opening edge of each window. The top one, in the way of many wooden frames, had some play in it. He began a rapid tattoo with the flat of his hand, just where the long window catch hooked on, pausing periodically to ease the opening section to and fro. The catch began to jiggle. All he needed was patience and a little time.

  Honor, to avoid Stef, had risen early and taken the bus into Brighton. It wasn’t one with Martyn projecting sex appeal from the side, but a sparkling woman and a cute child peeking through fashionable spectacle frames.

  From the bus stop on the Old Steine, Honor walked down on to the shingle of Brighton beach, past the fairground rides to where a series of arches under the promenade parallel with the sea were filled with gift shops, beach cafés, and watercolour artists’ studios. She browsed through postcards and prints, pulling up her jacket collar against the breeze.

  Families had staked their claims on the beach and, as it was low tide, there was even a ribbon of damp sand for the children to play on. Only the final few of the pier’s stilts were in the water.

  Behind the breakwater a noisy group, probably students, sat around a young guy who cradled a guitar. He grinned up at Honor as she crunched past, goatee beard and blond curls making him look like the result of an imp catching an angel at a weak moment, and kicked a jacket over an impressive beer stash. From the Argus, Honor knew that Brighton police had the power to confiscate alcohol being consumed in public places. Returning the smile, she hoped that kids only eight or ten years her junior didn’t think she looked as if she could be the Beer Police. She hesitated. What if she stood and listened to the imp angel’s music? Maybe they’d widen their circle to admit her and offer her a beer.

  A new song began and she hovered but the circle remained closed. OK. On past the little shops, the sculpture that looked like a curved segment of a monster Easter egg, the row of little boats that constituted the Brighton yacht club, a skate park and playground, the great rusty frame that once was the West Pier and a bandstand straight out of Dickens. Finally, she walked up from the beach to find that the esplanade had widened to encompass gardens and statues and she’d crossed the boundary into Hove. Angling away from the ocean, she strolled through gardens surrounded by buttery yellow Regency houses and found herself in a crowded and busy shopping area for a late lunch and to browse the afternoon away around the shops.

  At the end of the long solitary day, she caught a bus towards home, content to watch the city go by as the bus crawled through the busy traffic in Hove and Brighton, seeming never to progress more than a few yards without stopping for traffic signals, junctions or bus stops, until it began uphill to Woodingdean. There, the view was more suburban and she was almost asleep when it finally swooped down to Rottingdean.

  She clambered down opposite the White Horse Hotel, where the bus would loop around and turn back, crossed the intersection and started down the slope to the Undercliff Walk – it being a lot flatter than Marine Drive – glad that today she didn’t have to go through Martyn’s up-the-stairs-down-the-slope routine. The sea was well on its way in, now, sucking and gobbling at the pebbles and then falling back for a breather.

  Rounding a fold in the cliff, she came across Frog and the Tadpoles, toeing a soccer ball around one of the widened areas of the Undercliff Walk. She grinned. Her last encounter with Frog had gone well – once the ice down the shorts incident was behind them – ending in eating cake together.

  Although he didn’t grin back, he half-lifted a hand in greeting. ‘Hey, Yankee Doodle.’ His hair was so short that it didn’t move in the breeze but the loose material of his top flapped against his body.

  ‘Hey, Toby.’

  She paused to allow the ball to cross in front of her. As she went forward, she tensed, juuuuust in case the ball flew back via some part of her body.

  But Frog just tapped the ball behind her then fell into step alongside. ‘Know what? There’s a Mr Yankee Doodle hanging round. Says he’s your old man.’

  Honor sighed. ‘Yeah.’

  The ball dribbled past them and Frog trapped it with his foot. ‘He asks a lot of questions.’

  ‘About me?’

  Frog tried, and failed, to flick the ball up and on to his knee, then tried again, scowling. ‘About Martyn Mayfair.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disquiet trickled through her stomach. Martyn would hate it if Stef’s questions got him talked about. Particularly in connection with Stef’s wife. ‘Did you tell him anything?’

  Frog managed to flick the ball up, on to his knee and back to his foot. ‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘I told him to piss off.’

  ‘That really works for me.’ Honor was filled with relief. ‘Thanks for the heads up. I owe you one.’

  Frog began to fall behind, lining the ball up for a mighty kick. ‘Make sure it’s not an icy one.’

  With the last of her energy, she pulled herself up the cliffside stairway by the handrail and crossed the road on aching legs.

  In her driveway, she halted. Wow – somebody had cut the grass. A wriggle of guilt. Bet Clarissa had got sick of asking her to organise it and had sent someone herself. Honor had better call her up and arrange to pay her back. She yawned and let herself into the bungalow, which was quiet and still and felt like home. And smelled like coffee.

  Coffee? She hadn’t been here to make coffee.

  ‘Hiiiii honeeeee. Had a good day?’ The voice was full of laughter and jubilation. And was all too familiar. And all too damned close.

  Honor’s head spun right so fast that she hurt her neck. And there was Stef, lounging on her sofa, his laptop open on his knee, grinning like a chimp and waggling a door key in the air. ‘With me living here,’ he promised, ‘we’ll be able to work things out.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Martyn half-regretted agreeing that Ru could upload files for him. It wasn’t that he minded Ru lounging on the sofa and gazing beadily at the laptop screen as blue lines grew and shrank to reflect progress. It was just that, however tedious he generally found it, tonight he actually could have used something to focus on.

  He would have bought the iPad he’d fancied if he’d thought about Ru hogging his laptop and his password book, preventing him from working on anything else or even checking his bank account or posting on Twitter or Facebook.

  He tried to read, but all he could see in front of his eyes was Honor’s face, in Saltdean Park, when he’d explained to her what kind of a (sanctimonious? up himself?) guy he was. And how, having enjoyed (some of the hottest ever) sex with her, he was leaving her to scrub away her troubles until she was shiny clean enough for him.

  He’d been crap at volleyball, staring blankly as the ball boinged past him. Jamie had asked him if he was hungover or getting the flu. But he was feeling worse than that. All the hurt and anger that had sustained him during the past few days had flickered and died as, from his customary post at the back of the court, he’d watched Honor climb to her feet and trail away across the grass.

  He’d hadn’t quite anticipated the huge sense of loss.

  That slow sinking feeling that told him he’d just fucked up had stayed with him for the rest of the day. A
n hour ago, he’d sent her a text. Can we talk? x

  And she hadn’t replied, which probably was what he deserved. Turning to the television, he flicked through the satellite channels, from the nature channels to Fashion TV to movies, with zero interest. Noticing that Ru’s gaze had flown to the screen like a starving child outside a sweet shop, he tossed over the remote. ‘You choose.’ Leaving Ru flicking blissfully to South Park, he prowled into the kitchen, switching on the coffee machine, gazing into the fridge without interest.

  A knock on his front door. He let the fridge swing shut. He supposed it would be Clarissa; she didn’t take any classes on Sundays and was prone to turning up. He truly hadn’t expected it to be Honor waiting at the top of the metal stairs, a bright red suitcase in one hand, her hair falling half-free of the band that was meant to secure it behind her head. He stared blankly, baked to the spot by a hot rush of pleasure and want.

  ‘Hi,’ she quavered. ‘Can I just–?’ Her lower lip – her beautiful lower lip – trembled and she bit down, ducking her head. ‘I–’ she tried again, but the rest of the words were strangled into a kind of unintelligible song.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll–!’ With a hiccup, she spun on her heel, she and the suitcase teetering dangerously.

  His hand snaked out and fastened on her elbow. ‘Come here!’ And in a moment the door was shut and Honor was this side of it, shaking with sobs, clinging, trembling, her suitcase on its side on the floor. Holding her tightly, he murmured, ‘It’s OK. It’ll be OK,’ kissing the top of her head and quashing his instinct to batter her with, ‘What’s wrong? Who did it?’ questions.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped. ‘I shouldn’t have come. You’ve got a strong view on my situation and I respect that. I just– When I got your text–’ Her fingers gripped his shirt, her words squirting out between gulps and sniffs and gasps. ‘Stef broke into the bung-bungalow and he’s moved his stuff in … and won’t leeeee-eave. He was hate-hateful.’

  Breathing in the fresh air that she’d brought in with her, he let her cry. Holding her was delicious, even with her heart pattering against him like a trapped bird and her tears soaking slowly into his shirt.