And Sara knew that Granny’s farmhouse had always been a place of safety for Lottie, even if she was made to play endless games of whist and help with the church flowers. Sara suspected she craved that kind of mundane normality, with everything else in her life in such turmoil.
‘Lottie’s out with the dogs at the moment,’ her mother said loudly – she firmly believed your voice needed to carry on the phone – and Sara held the receiver away from her ear, wincing. ‘She’s not eating. I made her steak and kidney pie for lunch, you know it’s her favourite, but she wouldn’t even touch it, just pecked away. She’s far too thin. I can’t stay on long, I’ve to make the sandwiches for bridge tonight and I must wash Badger. He rolled in fox poo this morning, I hope he’ll go in the river with Lottie. Dreadful smell, right through the house. For all we know she’s become dyslexic with all this bother.’
‘Anorexic. No, she isn’t, she’s always been very slim.’ Sara had some sympathy with Lottie, her mother’s pastry was like eating carpet underlay.
Sara’s father had died ten years previously, and since his death her mother had filled her life with what she termed ‘good works’, such as the church and various voluntary organizations. She was, she said, busier than she had ever been. Not happier, but busier.
‘Darling? Did you hear me?’
‘Sorry, Mum, I was miles away. She’s bound to be sad. Can I talk to her now?’
Her mother sighed. ‘I told you, darling, she’s out with the dogs. I can’t hang on too long, I’ll get her to ring you back.’
‘Of course,’ Sara said, smiling. ‘I won’t keep you . . .’ There was no point in reminding her mother that she had actually rung her, as she would have forgotten.
‘I don’t mind Lottie stopping with me, but we’ve got to think what is best. I’m only her grandmother, it’s you she needs. I really have to rush, darling, it’s my only chance to pick up the, for the concert, oh, you know, the things—’ Her voice rose, impatiently.
‘Tickets?’ Sara hazarded.
‘That’s it. Tickets, for the choir recital on Thursday. Are you eating properly?’
‘I am.’
‘I bet there’s nowhere to shop. Is there a local shop? You’re going to spend a fortune on petrol.’
‘There is, in the village about two miles away. Pelynt.’
‘Wherever. I bet you don’t have half the things we get these days in the village shop. Baguettes.’ She paused, to let Sara take in the sheer exoticism. ‘Oh, blow the tickets.’
Sara knew this was her mother’s shorthand for saying she had decided she had the time to talk, and wanted to say something specific. ‘I know you’ll explain it all to me in time but I really cannot understand why you felt compelled to rush off halfway across the country. Why didn’t you come up here if you wanted to get away? Your home is always here for you, you know that, darling.’
Because, Sara thought, then I really might have felt as if my life was over. I’d be clucked over and pitied by all your friends and before I knew what was happening to me I’d be in a tweed skirt and flat shoes handing out slices of cake at the church coffee morning, not to mention being paired off with Mary’s fiftysomething son who played the organ, still lived at home and was clearly gay.
Sara had now admitted to herself that a great deal of her decision to leave London and all their friends had a great deal to do with the aura of failure, of the dreaded, ‘Poor Sara, it must be so awful for her.’ In Cornwall, she could not feel like a specimen on a microscope slide. She knew no one, and no one knew what had happened.
‘I like it here,’ she said, defiantly. ‘It’s very beautiful, honestly, Mum, you’ll love it. Lots of windy walks and pretty villages.’
‘I can’t help thinking you’ve been rather rash. It’s not like you, you always thought things through. If you don’t object to me speaking my mind, I don’t think moving all that way away is the best thing for the girls. One minute they had a family and a home and the next you’re all scattered to the four winds. And you’ve left Matt rather in the lurch, not that I could ever condone an – oh, what do you call it? An affair. Nasty French word. Your father couldn’t even boil a kettle, and I bet Matt’s just the same. I know what he did was dreadful – I don’t know the details, and I don’t want to – but there must have been a chance to patch things up. Twenty-six years of marriage, it’s an awful lot to throw away, darling, especially these days when people seem to get divorced over a little tiff. It must be so confusing for the girls – where are they supposed to call home? With you, or Matt? It’s just been all so sudden.’
Sara closed her eyes. Not now, she thought. Not when I am feeling so fragile from lack of sleep and I am surrounded by boxes and indecision. I need my mother to be on my side.
She took a deep breath. ‘Please understand, Mum, that I have thought this through. I can’t go back, at least not yet. And don’t tell the girls that you think I should. That isn’t fair. They have enough to cope with as it is.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, you know me, I’m the soul of – what is it?’
‘Discretion.’
‘Exactly. Have you spoken to Matt?’
‘Once.’
‘And what does he say?’
‘It has nothing to do with him.’ Sara said, quietly. ‘This isn’t his decision. I don’t need to ask his permission. It’s my life now, Mum.’
‘You’re still his wife, darling.’
‘He should have thought about that before he climbed into bed with someone else.’
Her mother snorted disapprovingly. ‘I told you I don’t want to know all the gory details. But, you know, darling, men will be men. I can’t help thinking you are being a touch melodramatic by leaving him like this. Why couldn’t you have stayed and worked things out? It’s hardly the first time a man’s gone off. He hasn’t murdered anyone.’
‘How would you have felt if I’d been the one to have had an affair? Would you think Matt was justified in leaving me?’
‘You’re not that stupid. Besides, you’re rather past the age for all that palaver, aren’t you?’
Sara quietly seethed. ‘That’s not the point. I might. Why is it so very different for Matt?’
‘Men never think they’re too old. Your father . . .’
Please, Sara thought. Please don’t tell me that my father had an affair. I need to be able to cling on, at least, to the fact that I had a blissfully carefree childhood and my parents were faithful and adored each other and there are no skeletons to come tumbling out of the cupboard.
‘Your father didn’t have an affair as far as I know, but how do I know? I know that he was a good husband and a good father, and I’m very grateful for that. I’ve had a very nice life, and so have you, until all this happened. Was Matt ever a bad husband to you, before?’
‘Not really. We’ve had our ups and downs . . .’
‘Oh, who doesn’t? I’ve no idea why the modern generation seems to think that marriage should be all sweetness and light, it’s about bloody hard work and sticking at things. And Matt has been a wonderful father to the girls. He didn’t have an easy start, and he’s done so well with the company and everything. Does an affair really matter so much, darling? It probably meant nothing at all to him.’
Sara had to prevent herself from shouting. She took a deep breath. ‘Yes it does. It does to me. It means he lied to me. I can’t take him back. How would I ever trust him again? Besides, you always used to tell me I should do more with my life. Well, now I’m going to. I am going to get a job.’
Her mother snorted. ‘A job, now? At your age? Doing what? Besides, it’s all very well for you starting again, but what about the girls? They may be nearly grown-up but they need stability. They still need their home and their parents. I don’t hold with all this giving up and rushing off. It’s pride, isn’t it? You think he’s let you down.’
‘One of the main reasons I left,’ Sara said, willing her voice to stay calm, ‘was because of the girls. Should they re
ally have a doormat for a mother, who would accept anything just to keep the peace and a nice comfortable home around her? Matt took away, in one fell swoop, everything I thought our marriage stood for. I could not live a lie, especially not for them. I think Lottie agrees with me. She wouldn’t talk to Matt for weeks after – after he walked out on us.’
‘I bet Emily doesn’t. She’s a right monkey, that one, she’ll know which side her bread is buttered. I don’t see her high-tailing it down to Cornwall.’
‘She has her new job,’ Sara said, remembering that Emily so far had not given her any idea when she planned to visit. Catherine had promised to come soon, but there were no such promises from Emily. Despite her determination not to think of either girl taking sides, she felt a flash of jealousy. Then she had a disturbing thought. Had Emily actually met this woman yet? What if she had, and hadn’t told her? What if this woman – girl – had moved into their home? Her heart beat faster, and for a moment she felt faint.
‘What? I’m sorry, Mum, I wasn’t listening.’
‘I said, you shouldn’t have left so quickly. Perhaps you should have given him more of a chance.’
‘Why?’ Sara asked, indignantly.
‘You could have nipped it in the bud. Anyway, why couldn’t Matt have moved out, if anyone had to? Then there wouldn’t have been all this disruption. I know it must have been awful, hearing like that – Lottie told me that much, I wouldn’t let her tell me more – but I don’t understand why you couldn’t have sat down with Matt and talked it all through. I don’t think you’ve really given him a chance to explain, darling.’
‘I don’t really want to have this conversation right now, Mum. You have no idea how difficult . . .’
‘See this through Matt’s eyes, darling,’ her mother cut in. ‘To him it was probably just a fling, you know, a midlife thingy, sex.’ Sara stared at the phone. Her mother never failed to surprise her. ‘And have you even given him a chance to explain, yet? It’s been nearly three months, darling, that’s an awful long time not to talk at all.’
‘Once. I talked to him once.’
‘What did he say?’
Sara hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone about their conversation, not even Catherine, who was panting to know.
‘You don’t have to tell me, darling. I know I sound like I’m criticizing, but I’m always going to support you, you know that. I’m just so worried about you, all alone in that funny little house, so far from everyone. I’d love you to come here, or shall I come down?’
‘No!’ Sara said, quickly. She wound the cord of the phone around her finger, looking out at the little wilderness garden through the smudged glass of the window. It would be a relief to talk about it. She took a deep breath, and told her mother what happened.
She was loading the dishwasher in the service flat when her mobile, which was lying on the kitchen table under a newspaper, rang. She’d taken it off ‘divert’ as the girls and Catherine said they were fed up with not being able to get hold of her, and it had been at least a week since Matt had tried to call her. She did not think for a moment it would be him.
‘It’s me.’
‘Hello, you,’ she said automatically, as she always did, and for a split second, nothing had changed. A thrill ran through her, the sheer pleasure of hearing his deep, confident voice. In that split second, she felt safe. Then she shook herself. No. Nothing was the same.
‘Don’t hang up. Please. Thank God you’ve finally answered. I’ve been trying to get you for days. Well, two weeks and one day, to be precise.’
‘Mmm.’
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Oh, brilliant,’ he said. ‘On top of the world. Never been better.’ He laughed, bitterly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘Don’t refuse to speak to me. How do you expect me to feel? This is completely insane. You left me, Sara, and I—’
She stared at the phone, then closed her eyes. ‘Stop this, Matt. I’m not ready . . .’
‘How’s Lottie? Is she with you?’
‘She’s not so great. Yes, she’s here.’
‘Why won’t she see me?’
‘I don’t know. It isn’t my decision, it’s up to her.’
‘I suppose I should feel lucky that at least one of my daughters can bear to be in the same room as me.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you about this. You know how sensitive Lottie is. She’s devastated, Matt.’
There was a long pause.
‘Can I see you? Please? I can’t talk to you about any of this over the phone, it seems crazy. I need to hold you, Sara, oh, God, I need to see you . . .’
‘Please. Don’t.’ Tears were pouring down her face. ‘Don’t do this to me,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I love you, love you. Can’t you imagine what it’s been like for me? The flat is so empty, it’s like someone has died. I hate going home. Thank God Emily’s been here, she’s kept me sane. I . . . I just can’t . . .’ He was crying. Sara stared at the phone. Matt never cried.
‘Hush,’ she said, without thinking. ‘It’s OK.’
‘No it isn’t fucking OK!’ he shouted.
‘Don’t shout. Stop it. Look, for God’s sake, Matt, I’m the one, I’m the one who had to stand there, listening to your best friend tell me that you had a girlfriend – what a ludicrous term – in front of everyone who knows us best. I stood there, in my lovely new dress and my painted nails, as everything that I thought was my life, everything I had always trusted to be real, was shattered. I’ve been to hell and back, Matt. Please. Don’t tell me how hard it’s been for you. Don’t tell me how hard it is to come home to an empty flat. Imagine coming back here, to this shitty little place which feels like a prison, not knowing which way to turn . . .’
‘Come home. Come home, then.’
‘I can’t,’ she sobbed, leaning back so suddenly her back collided with the hard cold white porcelain of the sink.
‘Why? Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know you!’
‘That’s absurd, Sara. How can you say that?’
‘Because the Matt I love could never, never, have done anything like that to me. You’ve taken away everything I thought was mine, you’ve made my life seem little, my love, unimportant, next to whatever you have . . . whatever you have with her! It’s the lies, Matt, it’s the lies, for how long, how long . . . ?’
‘Don’t.’ His voice was very quiet.
‘I can’t help it. Can’t you see? I can’t be with you. I can’t make sense of any of this. I must have been so wrong . . .’
‘When? When are you going to change your mind?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How can it be better? Being apart?’
‘I can think. Plan what to do.’
‘That’s not what Emily says.’
Sara took a long, shuddering breath. ‘Really? And what does Emily say?’
‘She says you’re in pieces.’
‘Oh, does she? That’s very supportive of her.’
‘They shouldn’t be taking sides.’
‘Well, maybe you should have thought of that, shouldn’t you, when you were slipping off to sleep with someone else, Matt, lying to me, to all of us. Who is she? Tell me! TELL ME!’
The line went dead.
Chapter Seven
She had barely given it a tap, when the entire wall came crashing down. One moment she was holding a hammer, the next it had become a toothbrush. Before her horrified eyes, the wall began to crumble, she was enveloped in clouds of dust and then, corner, by corner, the entire cottage began to sag and fall in on itself, like a pack of cards.
At this precise moment she woke up, and looked about her, her heart beating wildly. The cottage walls were still there. Crumbling and patchy, but still there. Her bedroom was just the same – the same too-short curtains barely covering the window, same floorboard
s with a gap just in front of the tiny cracked corner sink, with the mildewed mirror above. Same rickety chair, where she’d placed her jeans and T-shirt the night before, neatly folded, with her deck shoes lined up at the base of the chair. The book she’d been reading as she fell asleep, a romance set in Provence, lay open on top of the heavy quilt.
Exhausted, she fell back against the pillows, feeling her pulse rate gradually returning to normal. When she’d first opened her eyes, everything had seemed blurred, not quite real, as if somehow caught between a dream life and the solid, defined realities of consciousness. It took a moment for her vision to settle, and in that twilight moment, there was a twinge of the fear.
She was working on the fear – it kept creeping, uninvited, into moments of her daily life. When she drove the car home from the shop, with a bag of food on the passenger seat – bread, milk, eggs, dog food – in that one, crystalline instant when she switched off her engine and girded herself to pick up the shopping and get out of the car, there it was. She didn’t think this was depression – it did not settle upon her like a dark, heavy cloud, rather it lurked, with shadowy grey fingers, at the very edge of her consciousness, reaching out to touch her when she least expected it, taunting her – you think you’re surviving, in control, but you’re not, are you? You’re scared. Is this better than swallowing your pride and accepting Matt back? Believing him if he said it would never happen again, closing your mind to suspicion?
The trouble was, she realized, that being on her own, she had far too much time to think about herself and ask herself how she felt. Life, before, had been far too busy and structured, and the question, ‘Am I happy?’ was quite irrelevant. Now she found she was constantly testing herself as to whether she felt happy, miserable or simply numb, poking her feelings, trying to establish what they were, how she could capture happiness and recreate the sensation. Does walking the cliff paths make me happy, or simply tired? As I lie in a hot bath after a long, cold walk, am I pleasantly happy, or just warm? Does eating make me happy, or does it simply satisfy a physical need? It was, she had decided, quite exhausting to analyse how you felt all the time – not to mention pointless and counterproductive, but she could not prevent herself from doing so. Introspection, she had found, was a thankless, exhausting task, which led nowhere apart from into more confusion and unhappiness. Look outwards, she told herself. Not inwards. Be busy. Get on with things. Let contentment come to you, rather than seeking it out and attempting to manufacture the feeling.
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