Occasionally, she would find herself singing along to a song on the radio as she drove through the narrow lanes towards the cottage and she’d think, ‘Aha. Caught you. Happy.’ And then the moment was gone, and the fear settled back upon her. What I need, she told herself, sternly, is just to get on with things and stop analysing. The trouble was, there was something missing. It had occurred to her more than once that it would have been much easier if Matt had died. Cruel, admittedly, but then at least she would not have this constant nagging sense of being incomplete, of having failed. Her life, she could not help but think, was always going to have that bitter gap. And I’m not like that, she thought, sadly. I’m not bitter. I don’t want to be a victim. Matt’s selfish and thoughtless actions have turned me into someone I have no desire to be. And here, in the cottage, she was no one. Not Emily and Lottie’s mother, not Matt’s wife, not even her mother’s daughter. She was the beginning of a new person, who didn’t quite know who she was, let alone whether or not she was happy. At the moment, days were for surviving and nights a relentless quest for the bliss of sleep.
The evening of Catherine’s visit during Sara’s second week at the cottage, she had decided this could be a life of infinite possibility. This was true, but it was quite hard to be so brave and optimistic when you were lying in bed, quite alone, with the wind making the wisteria tap on your window like something out of Wuthering Heights, knowing that yards from your little house lay the sea, not a solid, comforting thing, but a vast, moving, mysterious entity with endless unknown depths, and that the future was equally without form or structure and was entirely up to you.
During the day, she loved the sea, especially when the sun was bright and the sky overhead a kingfisher blue. Then she could feel, for the most part, brave, and confident. But at night everything seemed to close in on her, and the fear came and she felt lost, such a tiny thing, amidst so much space. Then she would hunch the bedclothes and quilt around herself, like a cocoon, and think, ‘you brought yourself here. You chose this. This was a conscious decision, and at the time you thought it was a brave thing, a healing thing. You needed it. Now you are being a coward, a useless creature, a scaredy cat, frightened of your own shadow. Be rational. There is nothing to fear.’ Forcing herself to breathe slowly, she would start to count out, one by one, the certainties in her life – her love for Lottie, for Emily, her mother, her friends. Hector. Matt.
I am still in love with him. I’m furious with him, I despise him, I am so very disappointed in him, but I love him. He is the man I married, and I can never change that.
Catherine’s visit had not helped. It had been too soon, she realized. She needed to establish the anchoring points of her life here before she brought in the past. With Catherine the chaos had returned, the need to discuss and try to make sense of what had happened.
Be sensible, she told herself, firmly. She was just as much Lottie’s mother and Emily’s mother, no one had deserted her, so many of her friends had sent letters and flowers. She had not been forgotten. She had a large, if now distant, network of friends who were desperate to see her and make sure she was OK. Work would start soon on the cottage, once she had found some builders – and there was so very much to do, so many decisions to make – but she did not have Matt to share the burden. When they had renovated their home on the common, she had never bothered him during the day at work with small queries, but she knew that at the end of the day he would be home, and all the myriad questions which had built up could be discussed jointly, and settled. Whenever anything important needed to be settled, she automatically thought, ‘I’ll see what Matt thinks’. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t take a decision for herself – it was rather that she always had his second opinion, and she trusted his judgement.
Nothing seemed to faze Matt – he said that having lived with his father, anything that life could now throw at him was a breeze. Maybe that was why he was so successful in business – what could be more frightening than his childhood memories of a violent, drunken father who regularly woke Matt by throwing his mother down the stairs? It had made him a risk-taker, an adventurer, but one who seemed to need to be able to come home to the safe haven of the family they had created together, so very different from his own. Or so she had thought. Well, she mused, he might have needed the safe haven of his family, but he apparently needed something else as well – another kind of risk. Perhaps she had given him too much security, unwittingly provided the firm ground from which he could launch his sexual adventures.
What had made him do it, to take such a risk? He must have known that, eventually, he would be found out. If he didn’t love her, Sara, anymore – was that a possibility, despite his protestations? – why hadn’t he told her? Were there other parts of his life she knew nothing about? She lay in bed, thinking hard. Little things drifted into her mind, little things she hadn’t thought particularly significant at the time. For the last year or so, his hands had trembled in the mornings. She noticed it when he was holding his coffee cup, and she remarked on it. He dismissed it, saying he was just stressed from work, he’d take a few days off soon. And he had a tic which seemed to beat constantly, he’d developed a habit of pressing his finger against the corner of his eye, to hide it.
He was clearly under stress, but was that stress caused by the guilt of deception? He must have felt something, she thought. He couldn’t have divided his life so very easily. He must, she thought, have been, secretly, in turmoil. She tried, briefly, to imagine how she would feel if she had fallen in love and was sleeping with someone else, without Matt knowing. She shook her head. It was impossible to contemplate. Bizarrely, she felt a pang of pity for him. It must have been eating away at him, the guilt – no wonder his hands were shaking.
Why? ‘Why’ was the word which ran round and round her mind, as she lay in bed telling herself, ‘I must sleep.’ She went over so many situations, analysing entire conversations, the way he had looked and acted, searching for clues, for unexplained late nights, any loss of affection or distance from her. There was nothing. Until that moment at the party when the darkness had moved across the back of his eyes, she had not known. Not even suspected, not one tiny inkling. How had he hidden it from her? She knew that Catherine thought she must have at least suspected something was going on. Had other people known, their friends, his staff? His PA Sheila knew him nearly as well as she did – had she known? Sara didn’t think so – the shock on all their faces when Richard had dropped his bombshell had been so very genuine. There hadn’t been any horrified murmuring, no, ‘Oh no, that this should come out now,’ – it had taken them all by complete surprise. No one could pretend to such an extent. This had been a secret. A secret life, from which she and the girls and everyone else they knew had been excluded. He often spent evenings socializing after work with clients, travelled to meetings abroad in Europe and the States. Thinking about it now, he had endless opportunities for infidelity, but she had never felt insecure because she thought that was not the way they lived their lives. He called her constantly when he was away, there were no mysterious absences or times when she could not get hold of him. Or so she had thought.
So why had he done it? Was it because it was secret, the thrill of no one knowing? Was there a distant side to him she had never known existed? Or was he unhappy and bored with her, and she had never realized? Had there been others? That thought made her turn, restlessly. Maybe she had been skipping about like bloody Doris Day while all the time he had been sneaking off into dark corners, booking hotel rooms, meeting women in bars. Behind the face she knew so well, was there an entire person she did not know? Could he be such a convincing actor?
And then there was the question of love. Sex, yes, she could just about understand. Catherine had once said that any woman could make a man sleep with her if she tried hard enough. Sex, she said, was so integral to male self-esteem that if a woman absolutely threw herself at him, he would be forced to act upon it, because otherwise he was not fully a man. Sara ha
d thought Matt was that rare thing, a genuinely honourable man who realized there was too much to lose for the cheap thrill of casual sex. She had thought that their marriage was based on friendship, as well as love, and that he respected her too much to betray her so cheaply.
Sara wasn’t a fool, she wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t realize how men talked when they were together, even – especially – civilized, sophisticated men. So had Matt been unable to stop himself, had he fallen in love with this woman, and did he love her more than his family? Was it an emotion he could not control? Had he been planning to leave her?
The trouble was, she thought, as she lay there, increasingly hot and unsettled, miles away from sleep, I do not know. And I do not know if I will ever know. And that means that everything I have based my life upon for the past twenty-seven years does not appear to have any validity.
She put her hand on her stomach, feeling the soft, pliant skin. Was it so very simple – she was too fat? Sexually unattractive? It seemed so superficial, she could not believe that this was the reason. Matt had never complained about the way she looked, he had always been so tactile. Their love-making never faltered. That was largely why she’d never bothered to diet much, or go to the gym, persist with jogging or contemplate cosmetic surgery – friends did, because they thought they had to, to ‘keep’ their men from straying. Sara had been pitying, she loathed that attitude. But had she been naïve? Maybe she had been far too complacent and not made enough of an effort to stay young-looking and slim. She shook her head. That was so hard to believe. Matt had said he loved her because she was secure, she didn’t torture herself with worry, or follow the latest diets and chase an image she was never going to attain because getting old was getting old, no matter how you tried to cover it up or exercised away the lumps and bumps, which invariably came back the moment you stopped.
‘Can you hear me? This bloody line keeps breaking up.’
‘You’re not driving, are you, darling?’
‘No, don’t worry, I’ve pulled over in one of those lay-by things.’
‘They’re not lay-bys. They’re passing places. Be careful. Can you see a sign?’
‘I haven’t seen one for miles. There was one, but it was leaning over too far and appeared to be directing me into a field of sheep.’
‘That’s the one. Turn left there.’
‘I turned right.’ Lottie sounded as if she was about to cry, and Sara’s heart turned over. My child. Did you ever grow out of that tug, even when they were in their forties and bank managers or whatever? Did you ever grow out of the urge to rush to them, put your arms around them and try to shield them from the harsh realities of life?
‘Well, turn round,’ Sara said practically.
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Did you bring a map?’
‘No.’
Sara felt a wave of familiar impatience. Hopeless Lottie, who had always relied on everyone around her to sort out her life. She seemed cast adrift in the business of trying to be an adult, clearly not helped by the current situation. Maybe Matt had been right. Maybe she had sheltered her too much, and not equipped her with the tools of independence and responsibility. Emily never had any problems getting from A to B, in fact she positively relished any kind of practical challenge requiring ingenuity. Lottie, however, seemed to approach life with a kind of hopeless optimism, and when things did not go well, due to a complete lack of planning, she looked about for someone to blame. It was never her fault.
‘You took it out of my car before I went to Granny’s.’
Sara sat on her impatience. ‘No, I didn’t. Anyway. Just turn round and go back to that signpost. Then go the opposite way, and just keep on coming. Don’t turn off at all. When you get to the fork in the road, after about a mile, with a small grassy bit in the middle, take the right fork. That leads to Lanteglos – and go right through the village, with the Spar shop on your left-hand side. About a mile on there’s a yellow house – there will probably be some hens in the road. Don’t hit them, for goodness sake – and two miles on from there you’ll see the Volvo parked in a lay-by. I know it’s a passing place, but the road doesn’t go anywhere from here, it just becomes a track to the farm. The cottage – it’s mostly painted white – is opposite the car. Have you got that?’
‘I think so,’ said Lottie dubiously.
‘Attagirl. You should be here in about fifteen minutes. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Thanks. I’ll need a cup of . . .’ Her voice, which had been quite audible, changed and became a Dalek noise, and then disappeared altogether. The signal had been lost. Sara put down the phone and looked around her.
What would Lottie think? She’d risen early, and, in her nightie and dressing gown, set to work. She had decided to have a bath once she’d finished cleaning, because she knew she would be dusty and sweaty. That was one of the beauties of the cottage – you could wander around stark naked if you wanted to, as long as you looked out for the postman. He was the only person you were likely to see all day, unless the farmer or his son came past on their tractor, to feed the sheep, or a group of walkers passed on their way to the cliff-top paths leading to Polperro and Polruan.
The rituals of the morning helped to banish the ghosts of the night – clean teeth, splash face, brush hair, let Hector out. Simply opening the front door on to the garden was a gift, now that summer was coming. This morning the sun was just beginning to climb in the sky, and the garden was bathed in a soft, pale golden light. By noon, the sun would be directly overhead, scorching, iridescent yellow in an aquamarine sky. At this time, however, the light was muted, a gentle awakening as the rooks stretched their wings in the fir trees beyond the gate, making exploratory cawing noises ending in spluttering coughs, to test their voices ready for the full throttle of homecoming at about five in the evening, when the entire garden became a cacophony of greetings and territorial bickering.
Catherine had asked how she could bear such a din, but Sara shrugged and said you got used to it very quickly, and anyway, the rooks were here first. It was their home far more than hers. That did not stop her, however, from bellowing at them from time to time, ‘Just bloody shut up, will you?’ as they flapped, squawking, from tree to tree, swooping down over the garden, or disappearing towards the horizon on mysterious missions while their mates shouted hysterical reminders. A rookery was not, she acknowledged, a soothing or peaceful thing to have at the end of your garden.
She stepped out on to the lawn, the grass under her bare feet covered with dew.
Within minutes her feet were soaked, and covered with the tiny white petals of the daisies – she must mow the lawn. Only she didn’t have a mower – there was hardly a need for one at the apartment, and Matt had long ago sold their old one.
Her hands curved around a comforting cup of coffee as she looked out over the moss-covered wall, towards the sea. Not once, not one morning, did it ever look the same. This morning it was in a sexy, lolling-about Mediterranean mood, almost turquoise, fading to navy blue towards the horizon. She padded over to the wall. The roses she had deadheaded when Catherine was here were beginning to grow, and from the blunt-ended stems pale green leaves were unfurling, tinged with a deep red. Earlier, as she’d been brushing her teeth, she was delighted to see a pale pink bud on the wisteria outside her bedroom window, like a small plump pineapple. Now, looking up at the wisteria from the garden, she could see the entire climber was dotted with buds. It was too straggling, but she’d soon get that under control. Gradually, the grey fingers of the night were beginning to curl up and retreat, as the sun warmed her face and she planned the day.
Walking back inside, she looked around, trying to see the cottage through Lottie’s eyes. Of course she would think it was very small and, at the moment, shabby. What she hoped, most of all, was that Lottie would be able to see the potential, not to mention share the sensation of peace which had wrapped itself around Sara from the moment she had walked in through the front door. Nothin
g could keep the night thoughts at bay, but once she was awake, the cottage did its best to soothe her. This healing power had nothing to do with her physical surroundings – the air of peace lay in the atmosphere, the way the old walls had absorbed the centuries of life within. You could try to create an impression of calm using sofas, carpets, curtains, ornaments, paintings, flowers – but what you could not create was an atmosphere. That was what had connected with Sara, the sense that the soul of the cottage wanted her to stay.
But, practically, it was a mess. There was nothing she could do about the kitchen, but she’d made the two little living rooms as comfortable as possible, sweeping the boards, putting down two of her favourite Moroccan rugs, which were too wide for the floor space and curled up at the edges where they met the wall. Her furniture looked far too big – she had taken the cream sofa and two armchairs from their apartment, their proportions designed to fill the space of the former loft. Here, the three-seater sofa was so long it filled an entire wall, and with the armchairs, there was barely room to tiptoe around the edges. Lottie would say it looked like a furniture showroom. But there was nothing she could do until she started knocking down walls, if that was possible without the entire house falling down. There was her dream – her subconscious had picked up this fear.
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