‘What are you going to do with yourself then? I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much call for a high-flying interior decorator in Bibury.’
‘Oh I don’t know about that, people’s houses always need redecorating at some point.’
He smiled at her.
Annie popped the ginormous savoury scroll, cheese oozing out of its sides, down on the table.
‘Peckish then?’ Ben raised an eyebrow, and Isla felt her face flush. ‘How’s Kris settling in at the school, Annie?’ Ben was looking back at Annie.
‘Great, he’s enjoying it. A country school like Bibury Area is a big change to teaching at an urban Athens high school, but so far it’s all good. He says teenagers are the same the world over!’ She turned her attention to Isla. ‘Kristofr, or Kris as he likes to be called now he’s living in New Zealand, is my boyfriend.’ She frowned. ‘No that doesn’t sound right, I’m too old to call him that. Um, partner … ugh I hate that term.’
‘At least you didn’t say life partner that’s the most cringe-worthy term of them all.’
The two women grinned at each other in silent understanding as Ben filled in the blanks. ‘How about just calling him by his name? You women always have to over complicate everything.’
‘Thank you, Ben. Yes, Kris.’ Annie sniggered. ‘My man friend teaches history at the high school.’
‘He’s a good bloke, your man friend.’ Ben winked at Annie as he gave her ‘man friend’ the seal of approval.
‘I think so.’ A silly look drifted over her face.
‘They met in Greece,’ Ben said. ‘It was front page news in the Bibury Times that the school was employing a foreign senior history teacher.’
‘I can imagine it would’ve been, just like Violet McDougall retiring.’ She couldn’t help herself.
Ben didn’t take the bait to mention his new girlfriend, though. ‘Miss Seastrand’s gone too, a bloke called Callum Packer’s replaced her.’
‘Not before time.’ Isla recalled the Deputy Head, a grey-haired harridan. She was convinced the woman had it in for her. ‘I caught her smoking cigarettes on the school field again,’ Miss Seastrand announce to Principal Bishop as though she had just collared a criminal mastermind and was awaiting her reward.
‘She was a holy terror that woman.’
Ben laughed. ‘Yeah, she was. I remember the time she caught Ryan and me down the Four Square trying to buy cigarettes when we were supposed to be in Science class.’
‘Oh, I remember that! Gosh, I would’ve been about twelve, and you guys were fourteen. Dad brought home a pack of Benson and Hedges and made Ryan smoke the lot. He was green; it was more entertaining than watching The Sopranos.’
‘Ah, they don’t do good TV like that anymore.’ They smiled at each other until Isla became aware of Annie’s hovering presence.
‘So how did you meet Kris, Annie?’
‘We met at the Acropolis in Athens. He was on a day trip with some of his students.’
‘Oh, how romantic! I was in Athens a few years ago. The Acropolis blew me away. To be able to walk amongst all that history was amazing. He’s Greek then, your man friend?’ She smiled.
‘Yes, he’s from Naxos, and it was romantic apart from my friend Carl who I was travelling with coming down with the traveller’s trots. He’s a bit of a drama queen at the best of times. Anyway, it’s a long story, and I’ll tell you it when we know each other better, but the gist of it is that Carl had stampeded off to find a loo and I was sitting admiring the view when Kris left his students and came over to say hi. I’m Annie Rivers by the way. It’s nice to meet you.’
‘Isla Brookes and it’s nice to meet you too.’ They smiled at each other before Annie headed back behind the counter to fill the coffee plunger.
Isla was pleased Annie thought that they would get to know each other better, and she watched her potential new friend as she busied herself filling Ben’s order. He was staring at her, she realized, and she felt the need to babble bubbling up in her throat. She swallowed it back down when he broke the silence.
‘You don’t want to let that get cold.’
‘No,’ she said picking up her knife. ‘Yum, it looks good.’
‘Here you go Ben, coffee to go, white with one sugar and a sausage roll.’
‘Cheers Annie.’ He took the takeaway cup and the paper bag through which the grease from his sausage roll was already seeping and hovered, watching as Isla cut into the pinwheel. ‘It’s good to see you again Isla; I’ll see you around then.’
‘Yeah, it was good to see you too. See you around.’ She kept her gaze fixed on her plate until she heard the door bang shut behind him.
‘Well, that last goodbye was like a scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie. All the two of you needed to look the part was a cowboy hat each.’
Isla looked up at Annie, startled.
‘You obviously have a history.’
‘You could say that, yes and I know where I can get hold of a cowboy hat.’
Annie grinned, pulling the chair out opposite Isla, where a few seconds ago Ben’s hands had been resting. ‘So come on then, spill.’
‘I will when I know you better,’ Isla said smiling before she stuffed in as much scroll as she could fit in her mouth.
‘Touché.’
‘Yum.’ Isla could hear her gran telling her not to talk with her mouthful. ‘What’s in this? It’s divine.’
Annie was only too pleased to share her recipe secret, it was all in the relish apparently, and the two women whiled away an uninterrupted half an hour chatting about food. Annie told Isla how she’d fallen in love with cooking while staying with a Greek family who ran a guest house in Crete. ‘All the produce they cooked with was picked fresh straight from their garden.’
Just then, a middle-aged man who looked like he’d just crawled out of the bush after a week-long tramp barrelled into the tearooms, and greeted Annie cheerily nodding in Isla’s direction. Annie excused herself, taking herself around to the business side of the counter as he inquired loudly as to whether the toasted cheese rolls were any good. Left to her own devices, Isla found her mind drifting back as she recalled the pleasure she got from gardening during her stay at Break-Free Haven. She could almost feel the arable soil running through her fingers and the Californian sun warming her back.
Chapter 7
Break-Free Haven Lodge
The last of the morning mist was hanging like a thin vapour stream over the meadow by the time Isla donned a floppy hat and ventured outside. She was a week into her stay at Break-Free and knew it wouldn’t be long before the sun broke through the mist – and then it would be hot. She’d inherited her gran’s olive skin, and dark eyes which Bridget always reckoned was a nod to her Irish Celtic ancestry. And, although she tanned easily, she was part of the Kiwi slip-slop-slap sunscreen generation and was wary of too much sun. This colouring had bypassed her mum much to Mary’s chagrin; she was a fair-skinned blonde with a penchant for spray tans.
As a moody teen, every time Isla had fallen out with her mum, she’d be sure to go and look at an old school photo that still hung in the halls of Bibury Area School. Gran had told her the story of how her mother, as a know it all fifteen-year-old had basted herself in cooking oil before lying out in the sun despite being told not to, to be tanned for her class photo. The sight of Mary Collins as she had been back then, lobster-like in the front row of the class of seventy-five, always made Isla snigger and put her life back into perspective.
Now, she pulled on the pair of gardening gloves she’d been given and headed over to the greenhouse. The first time she’d taken part in the vegetable garden therapy session, she’d felt vaguely resentful at the situation she found herself in. She’d been perched on the wooden side of one of six raised boxes in a sunny spot behind the main red barn building, half-heartedly thinning out a row of carrots. Why should she have to get her hands dirty when she was paying a small fortune to be here? It wasn’t as if she’d get to eat the fruits of
her labour either because by the time these spindly baby carrot thingies grew to an edible length she’d be long gone.
Her father was a gardener; his veggie patch was his pride and joy. She started to understand what drove him as she planted out the beetroot seedlings. There was something satisfying in knowing that by doing what she was doing she’d be providing nourishing, organic food for future women in need passing through Break-Free. She’d been rostered on for last night’s meal too and had been surprised by how much she’d enjoyed the process of preparing food for others. She’d forgotten how much she loved cooking. Proper cooking, not the ripping open of a packet or opening a jar of sauce cooking that she’d been used to in the latter years of life in London. There’d never been enough time to prepare anything from scratch.
Today, she was working alongside Betsy who hailed from Texas; she was planting out baby lettuce. They made great companion plants, Betsy informed her, while setting about her task. She looked to be around the same age as Isla, but she already had the haunted, bruised look of someone who’d packed in a lot over the years and led a hard life.
Isla was enjoying the peaceful setting as she settled into a pluck-from-the-pot and pop-into-the-soil rhythm. It was beautiful here, she thought. There were only twelve women in residence at Break-Free at any given time. She’d been lucky that there’d been a cancellation, otherwise, she’d have had to go on a waiting list. Twelve women here as guests, or inmates as they liked to joke, and four staff who were also all women. The only male she’d seen since leaving LA was the driver, who’d met her at her hotel.
Perhaps that was the answer, she mused watching a bee buzz lazily past in search of nectar. Maybe she should set up an all-women Amazonian style sanctuary deep in the heart of New Zealand’s West Coast. They could be self-sufficient. She warmed to her theme. If anybody felt the need for any of that other business she’d sworn off for the foreseeable future, they could always pop into town and drag some young buck back from a local bar. She grinned. Where on earth did the word buck come from? It was like something her gran would say.
‘My mom’s boyfriend raped me when I was twelve.’
Isla’s grin was wiped from her face, and her hand froze over the little hole she’d been about to drop the beetroot seedling into. Betsy didn’t look at Isla as she continued her story in her soft Texan drawl, carrying on with her planting while she talked. Her mother hadn’t believed her when she’d gone to her and told her what happened. She hadn’t believed her or hadn’t wanted to believe, Betsy said, but either way she’d left home by the time she was fifteen as a result. By twenty-one, she’d had three kids to three different fathers and had lurched from one bad relationship straight into another until this year when she’d told herself, enough was enough. The only good things that had happened in her life to date were her kids, and that was why she’d come to Break-Free.
‘I’ve made some bad choices along the way, and I want to start making the right ones. I don’t want what that bastard did to me to shape the rest of our lives. He doesn’t deserve that kind of power.’
Isla wondered how as a single mum she could afford it here and Betsy must have sensed her curiosity.
‘My mom saw the light one day, and when she died last year, she left me her house. I sold it, bought a place for my kids and me, and here I am. I’ve gotta do my best here for their sake because they’re my world you know?’
Isla nodded. She didn’t know, but she could imagine. ‘Who’s looking after them? You must be missing them.’
‘Oh yeah, I am, but they’re fine. My friend Joanne, the kids call her Aunty Jo, she’s staying with them. She’s been like a sister to me. They’re in good hands. What about you, you’re a long way from home with that funny accent of yours. Why’re you here?’
‘Um, I’m kind of a work in progress, but I suppose the trigger point for me coming here was my last relationship. It wasn’t healthy. He didn’t abuse me or anything, well not physically anyway but he had this knack of making me feel like I wasn’t good enough without actually ever saying so.’ Isla glanced at her nails; they’d been chewed down to the quick when she left Toad but were starting to grow again now. ‘And since I’ve been here, listening to you and the other girls as well as talking to Rita, I’ve realized that he was very good at it.’
‘He was a bully.’
‘More of a control freak with manipulative tendencies.’ The two women smiled in mutual understanding at the counselor lingo. ‘He chipped away at my confidence in such a subtle way that I used to wonder if I was being overly sensitive and imagining it.’ Isla had realized while she’d been at Break-Free that she’d been on eggshells trying to please Tim. To be skinny enough, bright enough, funny enough for him, but never quite measuring up. All the while her work commitments were pushing and pulling at her until she’d reached snapping point.
‘Yeah, I know the type. I’ve been there, done that, and got three kids to prove it,’ Betsy said. ‘You don’t need to hit to hurt.’
Isla nodded her agreement with the sentiment before realizing it was time for her one-on-one session.
Half an hour later, Rita, the White Feather Programme Co-ordinator, was listening to Isla in her therapy session. ‘The wrong kind of man and career burnout are what pushed you to the edge sweetie-pie. I’m thinking you’re suffering from this thing called Rushing Woman’s Syndrome. It’s not something we normally see in a woman your age with no kids, but from what you’ve told me about your lifestyle, it fits.’
They were seated opposite each other, enveloped in the squidgy bean bags that you had to roll out of onto your hands and knees to stand up. From Isla’s vantage point she could see out of the open window to the sequoia forest. The room was not at all clinical, with a Navajo rug dominating the wooden floor space between the orange coloured bean bags. The walls were painted a neutral taupe colour, and a massive artwork dominated one of them. Rita told her it had been donated by a former guest
It depicted a peace lily with the giant Californian redwoods, or sequoia as was their first given name, that formed a backdrop to the land on which Break-Free sat illuminated in the background by an orange sunset. It was almost half past three, Isla saw, glancing at her watch. She’d never worn a wristwatch before but had purchased one in LA, as cell phones were banned at Break-Free. She’d handed hers in after a quick call to Maura to let her know she was doing okay. Isla liked to know what the time was. It gave her a modicum of control over her days.
It had been a light bulb moment sitting on that beanbag, to hear a label that did not involve the word nerves or breakdown. She didn’t get the Russian connection though. ‘Russian Woman’s Syndrome?’ The mind boggled.
Rita smiled, and Isla thought she had the kindest blue eyes. She also noticed that there wasn’t a single grey hair in amongst her blonde mane. So much for a steel grey smart haircut stereotype.
‘R-U-S-H-I-N-G honey, Rushing Woman’s Syndrome. Dr. Libby Weaver, she’s a Nutritional Biochemist who hails from your part of the world and has written a book on the subject. She believes it’s a modern-day scourge for women, and so do I.’
Isla listened as Rita filled her in on the ins and outs of the condition, mentally ticking off all the things she could relate to. Yes, she was always in a mad rush to get the job done whatever it may be. Yes, there were never enough hours in the day. Yes, she’d gone off sex in the latter months of her relationship with Tim and had to keep pretending he was Hugh Jackman to get the job done. Yes, she did feel wired most of the time but strangely fatigued too. Yes, she felt bloated and sick on occasion. Yes, around that time of the month she could happily wreak havoc on anyone who crossed her path. Yes, she’d lie in bed at night finding herself unable to switch off. The list went on, but Rita was ready to summarise. ‘Basically honey, your body has been running on adrenaline and not much else. It’s telling you it’s had enough.’
Okay, so now that she knew what was wrong with her, Isla wanted to know how she was going to make it all bett
er? It was time for Rita to produce her magic counseling wand and fix everything. The next thing Rita said, however, was not, ‘Abracadabra, so this is what you’re going to do now Isla,’ but rather:
‘So what’re you going to do now Isla?’
Isla looked at her, startled. That wasn’t in the contract. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I want you to tell me what I should do next.’
Rita laughed. ‘Oh, that’s not for me to say, sweetie, but I think it might be time for you to re–evaluate exactly what it is you want from life. The pace hasn’t always been that hectic for you so why don’t you start by telling me about the town you grew up in?’ Rita looked at her in that counselor way of hers, inviting her to elaborate without actually asking out loud, and so Isla did.
For Isla, at eighteen Bibury had become unbearably claustrophobic. It was a town so tiny it didn’t even get a mention on most maps. The closest thing to a cultural experience it offered was karaoke at the Pit on the first Saturday of the month. So as soon as she finished school, she broke things off with her boyfriend Ben, packed her bags and left town so fast she wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been smoke coming off her heels.
Her mum and dad had thought they understood her need to go and broaden her horizons. The world, Mary had said wisely upon hearing her daughter’s news, was a wonderful place. Her parents had just come back from visiting Isla’s older brother, Ryan. He’d gone to work in the mining industry just outside of Emerald in Queensland, and Mary was feeling not only worldly after visiting Australia but magnanimous too.
It was her gran who’d been hit hardest by the news that Isla was leaving to set up home two and a half hours away in Christchurch . Poor Gran, she couldn’t relate to her granddaughter’s burning need for more. She tried to placate her by telling her she was only going to the big smoke to study and that she’d be home every other weekend. Looking into those wily dark eyes reminiscent of her own though, she’d felt uncomfortable. They both knew she was lying. Gran had always known when she wasn’t telling the truth. Bridget had some grandmotherly super-power, Isla was sure of it.
Sweet Home Summer Page 6