Long gone were the days when he would come home as regularly as clockwork for an early supper with the family before his evening shift started. Now, with two businesses to run, he was far too busy and he would generally grab something on the go.
Liz would always leave out a plate of whatever she and the girls had eaten in case he was hungry when he returned from work around midnight. Nine times out of ten, however, she would find the food sitting untouched in the fridge when she went downstairs in the morning. She didn’t know why she bothered.
Realising that her mind was occupied with nothing more interesting than tonight’s menu rather shocked her. In her previous life as a single mum juggling two jobs, she had worried constantly about how to pay the bills and whether she could afford this or that school trip for her daughter.
Looking back, she wondered how she had coped. She had felt permanently exhausted and then when Rosie had fallen ill with her brain tumour, the strain had been so immense that she had almost reached breaking point.
So how come she was suddenly struck with a sneaking suspicion that in some ways, she and Rosie had been happier back then, at least before the tumour was diagnosed? It didn’t add up.
It dawned on her that in those days, she’d had a strong sense of purpose; her sole reason for existence was Rosie and the only thing that mattered was ensuring that she, Liz, could earn enough to keep a roof over her daughter’s head and that she was content and well cared for.
The fact that there were just the two of them had made them extra close, and even in some of their worst moments, when they’d felt so anxious and isolated, they’d managed to laugh and have fun.
Money may have been tight, but walking along the cliffs and building sandcastles on the beach had cost nothing, and Liz was always able to find a few pence for an ice cream or lolly to put a smile back on her daughter’s precious face.
Things were certainly easier now, she mused. Thanks to Robert’s success, she’d been able to give up work and devote herself to the girls. They had a cosy home, food, a car and plenty of cash for clothes and treats. Yet she and Rosie had never been further apart and Robert, well, he was always working.
An unpleasant, niggling sensation settled in her gut. At first she couldn’t identify it, then she realised with a jolt what it was – dissatisfaction – and the words Is this all there is? seemed to hover before her, like a pantomime ghost.
Enough! She pulled herself up sharp. She should be grateful for what she had and stop imagining that there was something better just around the corner. She’d once been so good at making the very best of things. Prosperity had made her greedy.
With Max, she’d come face to face with the reality of what she stood to lose and it had terrified her: Robert, her home, their family life and cherished friends, Mitzi the cat, even.
Ever since then, she’d been like an Olympic oarswoman, rowing with all her might to get safely back to shore. She thought that she’d made it but now, she wasn’t quite so sure.
It was Max who’d unsettled her, Max whose fault it was for deciding to come to the unveiling ceremony after all. Damn him. She wished to God that she’d never set eyes on his beautiful, handsome face.
*
Lowenna went to sleep straight after lunch and after tidying away the dishes, Liz sat at the kitchen table and opened her laptop. Along with cleaning and waitressing, she’d once run a small online business making and selling hair accessories, but she’d wound it right down and now only made things occasionally for friends and family.
It was months since she’d looked at her website and it crossed her mind that should either update or close it altogether. Curious to see it again, she Googled the name, RosieCraft, and was surprised by how appealing the homepage looked; she’d forgotten how much thought she’d put into the design, which she’d done on a shoestring with a little help from an arty friend.
At one point, her home-made velvet scrunchies, flowery headbands and quirky slides, decorated with beads or semi-precious stones, had sold like hotcakes. She’d never earned much from them because she didn’t charge a lot, but it had been enough to make it worthwhile.
For a time, she’d enjoyed it, and it had helped to take her mind off Rosie’s illness. She still kept a big box of fabric, elastic, wool, ribbons, beads and suchlike at the bottom of her wardrobe, which she hadn’t looked at for at least two years.
Perhaps she should revive the business – or even start something new? Soon, Lowenna would be at nursery school and she, Liz, would need a project to get her teeth into. Everyone needed a mountain to climb, after all; for too long, she’d been meandering pleasantly but idly across the plains.
Her gaze fell on a photograph of one of Rosie’s school friends, modelling a pair of particularly cute hair slides with rhinestones and pearls. Liz could still remember making them; they had taken longer than usual because the rhinestones were so small and fiddly and she’d had to do most of the stitching at night, while Rosie was asleep, when the light wasn’t so good.
She could recall taking the photo, too, and the sense of satisfaction when Rosie’s friend had proudly worn the slides to school. Soon all the other girls had wanted some as well.
This unfamiliar discontent that she’d been feeling was surely a sign that she needed to change something. Reviving the business might give her the sense of purpose that seemed to be missing, and bringing in some cash would take a bit of pressure off Robert, too.
He’d never ask her to get a job; quite the opposite, in fact. When she was pregnant with Lowenna, he’d insisted she should feel free to devote herself to motherhood if that’s what she wanted, knowing how hard she’d had to struggle when Rosie was little.
Thankfully, she knew that he’d also support her if she chose to return to work. She made a mental note to show him her appreciation more often.
After browsing through the other pages, she closed the website down and clicked on her email inbox. It was a while since she’d checked it, and she scrolled through the unread messages now, deleting all the nonsense.
To her dismay, there was one from a potential customer to which she’d never got around to replying. The woman from Norwich wanted two dolly bow bands for her daughters, Iris and Daisy, and wondered if Liz could decorate them with special flowers appropriate to their names.
The message was dated 15 December, nearly six months ago. Ashamed, Liz closed it quickly. The bands had probably been intended as Christmas presents. How rude the woman must have thought her! Well, it was too late to redeem herself now.
Once she’d tidied up her inbox, she started on the junk folder. It contained more than two thousand bits of spam, which only went to show how preoccupied she’d been with other things.
She was about to delete the lot without another glance when her attention was caught by a particular name about halfway down the page. Her stomach lurched for the second time in just a few hours and she had to reread the words to make sure that she hadn’t dreamed them up.
Max Maier
Subject: Hello again
There it was in bold letters, clear as day. A coincidence, given the conversation with Esme earlier – or not?
Quickly clicking on his name, she realised that he’d used a different, business address, which would no doubt explain why the email had been rejected.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled down further, seeing his name crop up again and again. She counted seven messages, all unopened. The first one dated back to last November, soon after he’d left the village for the final time.
Just delete them, a little voice told her; he’d probably think that she’d done so already. But then another, louder voice drowned out the first and before she knew it, she was opening up that first email and starting to read.
Dear Liz,
You asked me not to contact you, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave things like that between us.
I meant what I said about my feelings for you. It was hell going back to Munich and, trite
as this may sound, I miss you.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but I sense you care a little for me too. If I’m wrong, I apologise. Just tell me the truth and I promise you’ll never hear from me again.
If, however, you feel anything at all, please put my mind at rest and let me know how you are.
Can we at least be friends?
Max x
His words seemed to set off a chain reaction in her: joy followed by confusion, fear, anger, despair and finally, a giddy sense of recklessness.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she read his next email, and the next until she’d seen them all, the last one dated only two days ago.
Most of them said much the same thing – how he missed her, how he wished they could be friends, and so on, interspersed with a little information about his life in Munich.
He was very busy at work, it seemed, and the publishing company he owned had recently acquired three new titles. He and his daughter, Mila, had been on holiday to Dubai, where she’d learned to water-ski, and her mother, his ex-wife, was getting remarried.
As she imagined him going about his day, meeting up with family, perhaps having dinner with friends, Liz felt a pang of regret. Maybe he went on dates, too. He was handsome and single; she was certain that other women would have their eye on him.
One might take his fancy and help him forget about her, which would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? So why did it feel like a stab in her heart?
Telling herself not to be silly, she read on until the final email, when the tone suddenly became more formal and less friendly. Max confirmed that he had changed his mind and would be coming to Tremarnock for the plaque unveiling after all.
I think it’s important for me to honour my grandfather. It wouldn’t feel right for me not to be there.
And in conclusion:
I’ll be arriving late on the Thursday and leaving on the Saturday morning. I won’t be staying in the village. As I haven’t heard from you, I don’t expect to see you but I thought it would be courteous to let you know.
I hope you’re well and that you have all the joy in your life that you deserve.
Max.
There was no kiss this time.
When she’d finished, Liz sat back and took a deep breath. The last line had stung her, there was no doubt about it, though whether it was meant to or not, she wasn’t sure.
Was her life filled with joy? Right now, not really. Hadn’t she just been complaining to herself that she lacked purpose and, if she were honest, a bit of excitement, too?
But how much joy did she really deserve? How much did anyone, for that matter? Deserve was a strange, subjective word, suggesting worthiness and entitlement, rather narrow, old-fashioned concepts which didn’t seem to fit with what she knew of Max’s easy-going, liberal personality.
Perhaps that was the point and he was berating her for being self-limiting.
She certainly had plenty of blessings, but who was to say that there should be a cap on how much happiness one person was allowed? Wasn’t life to be lived and enjoyed? Seize the day, and all that – so long as you didn’t hurt anyone in the process.
And there was the rub. Although she’d only kissed Max once, she knew that Robert would be desperately hurt if he found out, as she would be if he’d done the same to her.
She could pretend all she liked that the kiss had been nothing more than a moment of madness, a flash of lust, fuelled by wine and soon extinguished. But she’d be kidding herself – and Robert – and she owed him more than that.
Perhaps she owed Max something, too, for having stolen a little piece of his heart, even if it could quite easily be replaced.
Sitting upright, she pulled back her shoulders and pressed reply.
Dear Max,
I’m sorry I haven’t answered your emails. I’ve only just found them in my junk folder. I think they must have gone in there because you used a different address.
I’m glad you’re well and I think it’s good that you’re coming to the ceremony. It would have made your grandfather very happy to watch you unveiling the new plaque.
Unfortunately, I’m going to be away that weekend so I won’t see you. I hope it’s a terrific event, I’m sure it will be, and I know the other villagers will look after you.
With very best wishes,
Liz
She thought about it for a moment before deciding to add a small x on the end; it looked too stark without. Then she pressed send.
A warm glow of virtue spread through her body, followed by relief. She’d done the right thing by Max and Robert, thank goodness, and could surely wipe the slate clean.
It was with a skip in her step that she went upstairs to check on Lowenna, who was just beginning to stir. And later, when she went into the back garden to bring in the washing, she even gave the seagulls, peering at her from the safety of her roof, a friendly, ‘Good afternoon’ as if they were old friends.
Chapter Eight
What on earth did you wear for your first day at work as a snack bar manager? Chabela had absolutely no idea. She had plenty of suits and smart shirts, skirts and trousers for her university job, but she hadn’t brought them with her and besides, they’d look totally out of place in a beach shack.
As she looked out of her bedroom window, she could see spots of rain pitter-pattering on the gravel drive at Polgarry Manor and the sky overhead was ominously grey.
This was not an auspicious start, she thought, taking off her pyjamas and delving into the chest of drawers for knickers, bra and socks. Not only was she pretty clueless about what she was supposed to be doing at the café, but she was also likely to get wet and cold in the process. Great.
For the first time since she’d formally accepted the job from Robert four days ago, she began to have doubts about her course of action.
Friends back home already thought she was mad for having come to Cornwall in the first place. If she wanted a holiday, they’d said, why not choose London, Paris or Rome instead? As a single woman, surely she’d be safer in a big city, and wouldn’t it be more fun?
She’d argued them down, insisting that she wanted somewhere a bit wild and different and that she was used to solo travel. Right now, however, the thought of being in a bustling capital seemed extremely appealing. At least there would be plenty of indoor entertainment and warm, comfortable places in which to hide away from the rain.
As for working in a beach shack, those same friends would think that she’d gone quite mad.
It was Saturday morning, and she found it hard to believe that she’d only been here for just over a week. She’d already met Simon, found herself a job and Tremarnock was beginning to feel quite familiar, although of course she’d seen just a fraction of the area so far.
Rather quaintly, Simon had sent her a note in the post to say that he was ‘on the case’ with the Penhallow story and that he’d come back to her soon. In the meantime, could he be so bold as to suggest that she start trying to source the ingredients for the Mexican meal she was to cook, and to which he was greatly looking forward?
Some items, such as black beans and cilantro, may be hard to get hold of here in darkest Cornwall, although I think you will find them in the best supermarkets. If you have any problems, do let me know and I’ll see what I can do.
She thought he must surely be joking – who ‘sourced’ ingredients for supper before a date had even been set, for God’s sake? – but then she decided that he wasn’t. From what she knew of him so far, he seemed like the sort of man who believed in doing things correctly. If a recipe specified black beans, any other colour simply wouldn’t do. She made a mental note not to try to palm him off with improvisations.
Time was getting on and she was due to start work at ten a.m. Without more ado, she settled on some jeans, white trainers and a blue and white striped Breton top. Simple and comfortable. And she wore a red and white spotted scarf to keep her hair out of her face, tied at the front with a jaunty bow.
Che
cking herself in the mirror above her chest of drawers, she decided that the outfit had a good beach vibe, but that she’d need to take an extra sweater or two. Given the weather, wellington boots might be more suitable than trainers, but as she didn’t have any, they were out of the question. In any case, the café would at least be dry inside, though not especially warm, given that the front serving hatch was permanently open to the four winds.
It hadn’t seemed like such a problem when she’d met Robert there for another chat the day after she’d called in on him at the restaurant with Liz. Now, though, she was beginning to wonder whether she might need to invest in thermal underwear if she were to survive a whole British summer.
What would her students think if they saw her dishing out cups of tea and lobster rolls? She almost laughed out loud at the idea. And what of Alfonso?
A cloud seemed to settle just above her head, grey, damp and heavy with rain. She could imagine his look of incredulity, dismay and probably disillusionment, too. After all, she had once been his protégée, destined, he insisted, for great things.
The fact that she’d chosen instead to hide away in a village in the middle of nowhere, serving ice creams and French fries to tourists, would no doubt appal him. How the mighty had fallen!
She took a deep breath and gave herself a mental shake. What Alfonso might or might not think was no longer any business of hers; this was her life and she alone was mistress of her destiny.
She turned around to check her reflection in the mirror one more time before grabbing her bag and coat off the bed, marching swiftly to the door and closing it firmly behind her.
*
It was only a ten minute drive from Tremarnock to Polrethen beach, which was situated at the bottom of a steep, winding, tree-lined lane. Robert had told Chabela not to use the gravel car park, which you had to pay for, but to pull up instead on an area of hard standing at the back of the café, which was especially reserved for members of staff.
The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall Page 9