‘OK,’ Sara said. ‘But I’m coming back the same day. I can’t leave Hector.’
‘You are turning into your mother. Helen would look after him.’
‘I don’t think I could subject Hector to that.’
‘Maybe not.’
Sara realized, with a start, that she had no desire to stay one night away from the cottage. She looked about her, at the peeling walls, the rickety furniture, the old-fashioned sink and ridiculous little stove. This had become home.
Chapter Twelve
Sara was on Lottie’s laptop, reading about the local wildlife trust on the Internet, when Lottie burst through the door.
‘I’ve seen him!’ she shouted. ‘Here! In the village!’
‘Who?’ Sara asked, looking up, bewildered.
‘Him, him. You know, the man, the waiter dude. The yummy one. He was getting into a beat-up old car, with a surfboard on the roof, just next to the Spar. He saw me!’ Her eyes shone. ‘He saw me and he waved.’
‘Lottie,’ Sara said, smiling at her daughter’s excitement. ‘Perhaps you need to get out more, not me. It can’t have been that thrilling. He only waved at you.’
‘Oh, it was exciting all right,’ Lottie said, punching both hands into the air and doing a little dance. ‘Yippee! The beautiful man lives in our village! He’s going to like me, he really likes me, he’s going to marry me . . .’ She sang, clicking her fingers and dancing around her mother’s chair.
‘You big banana.’ Sara turned her attention back to the laptop. ‘Are you sure he hadn’t just been shopping at the Spar?’
‘Nope,’ Lottie said, leaning her elbows on to her mother’s shoulders and looking over her shoulder at the screen. ‘I saw him close a door right next to the shop and lock it with a key. He lives here. He actually lives here.’ She sighed. ‘Now all I need to do is a lot of shopping. You name it. Milk. Newspapers. Bread. Tinfoil. Binbags. Crappy rental DVDs we don’t want to watch. You name it, I’m there, shopping away. If only we could see the village from here.’
‘We could put a telescope on the roof.’
‘Ha, ha. Just wait till I tell Emily. I’m going to ring her now. Who would have thought that life could be so brillianto in this backwater? She reckons there are no good-looking men in London and do you know why? Because they’re here! They’re all here! I love Cornwall.’ She leant forward slightly and kissed her mother loudly on the side of the cheek. ‘Great hair, by the way. What are you doing?’
‘Trying to find out more about the wildlife trust.’ Sara gestured at the screen, running her other hand through the troll-like fluffy hair she had just washed but couldn’t be bothered to blow-dry. ‘It’s fascinating. Do you know they log all the sightings off the coast of things like dolphins, seals and sharks? Someone spotted a basking shark last week just a hundred and fifty metres from the shore and it was eighteen feet long! Imagine. Very ugly, though, look at the picture. Dolphins turn up all the time and play with surfers and swimmers. They come into the bays into pods, and apparently they love to romp about with whoever is in the water. Beyond cute – see.’ She gestured at a photograph of a dolphin, which appeared to be smiling into the camera. ‘The trust is a charity – it gets some local authority and European Union funding, but mostly it relies on donations and sponsorships, and it obviously does all kinds of amazing work, running lots of projects with local schools and whatnot. You know, I think I really could help – I reckon they must be desperate for fund-raising ideas.’
‘Yo, Mother. This could be big business. Just remember, when you’ve made your first million that this was all my idea.’
‘I’m highly unlikely to make a lot of money,’ Sara said. ‘They won’t want to pay me much at all, I’ll probably have to negotiate a small percentage of the money I raise. But it’s better than nothing, isn’t it? And more important than that, it could be fun.’ She leant back against Lottie, who wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. ‘You know, I feel really enthusiastic about this. It’ll be great to have a proper purpose to life, instead of just drifting about doing things for other people. I should have gone back to work, you know, once you were at secondary school. God knows why I didn’t stand up to Dad.’
‘He wasn’t an easy person to stand up to,’ Lottie murmured, a shadow passing over her face.
Sara reached up to touch Lottie’s hand gently, which was resting by her chin. ‘I know, hon, I know.’ She sighed. ‘I’m never ever going to make as much money as Dad, obviously, but it will be great to actually earn something myself. All I need to do is make enough to keep us and pay for the renovations.’
‘Dad’s just bought a black Porsche Carrera. Em told me. So now he’s got that and the Range Rover. Not very environmentally friendly, is it? How can he drive two cars at once? Emily says the Porsche is the dog’s doodahs, but then she’s easily impressed.’
‘Sad.’
‘Mmm. Love you. I’m just going to wash my hair before I nip back down to the village. What do you want from the shop?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Hey ho. There must be something you need.’
‘He’ll be at work,’ Sara pointed out. ‘He won’t be home for ages. You’d be better driving into Fowey and marching up and down outside the café.’
Lottie looked at her mother’s reflection in the screen, outraged. ‘I can’t make it look too obvious,’ she said, unwinding her arms and standing up straight ‘It’s got to be a casual, accidental meeting. An “Oh, gosh, do you live here too? Fancy that, how amazing.”’
‘Now you know what time he leaves for work,’ Sara suggested, twisting round in her chair to look at Lottie, ‘you can happen to be walking into the shop, can’t you?’
‘Excellent idea. Top thinking.’ Lottie wandered away up the narrow stairs, still singing ‘He really likes me, he wants to marry me . . .’
Sara smiled, and turned her attention back to the computer. She could offer her fund-raising advice on a consultancy basis to lots of different projects needing sponsorship. Thinking about it, she decided she would concentrate first on conservation and environmental organizations. So many seemed to struggle to get their message across, because even though ‘being green’ was becoming much more popular and mainstream, the general public – and business – did tend to think this type of organization was run by people with beards, wearing sandals, and Matt had said that the more militant, active groups like Greenpeace made big business rather jumpy. He’d run a couple of publicity campaigns for the larger green charities. But now being environmentally friendly and recycling was becoming so much more of an accepted part of most people’s lives, Sara presumed that companies looking to give away sponsorship and donations – usually because of the tax breaks involved – would now look to the green charities.
Living here, she felt a much stronger commitment to the environment. Perhaps because the landscape was so beautiful, the conservation of wildlife and nature seemed a far more pertinent issue. She was definitely beginning to feel more personal responsibility – she realized there was a lot just one individual could do to make a difference.
Two days ago, after she’d walked Hector over the cliffs to Polperro, she had paused in the old cobbled town square to read the noticeboard. It was full of finger-wagging notices about the need to recycle. A local couple called Bob and Pat had put up a note saying they were willing to collect people’s old Inkjet cartridges for recycling, because apparently the things will never biodegrade, not in a trillion years, and would probably be the last things left on earth after a nuclear holocaust. The note hadn’t said those words exactly, but Sara got the picture. She thought of all the Inkjet cartridges she’d gaily lobbed into the bin over the years, and felt extremely guilty.
Using Google, she surfed around other conservation websites, based on Cornwall. Clicking on to the first one listed, she was met by a banner headline which screamed ‘Subscribe NOW To Pesticide News!’ across the top of the home page. Possibly tomorrow, she thought, closing that
website down. Or maybe the day after that. It depends just how committed I become. Quite possibly not that committed, she reluctantly admitted to herself.
At her feet, Hector thumped his tail, indicating that he was bored with all this inactivity and needed some attention. At least he was at her feet – over the past few weeks whenever she’d sat down, he had decided it was time to make a bid to become the largest lapdog on the planet. He would slide a paw on to her knee, and then, looking in the other direction – and quite possibly whistling to himself – he would lever his not inconsiderable bulk on to her knee and perch there like a great hairy bird. Once ensconced, he would peer into her eyes with all the love and devotion he could muster, breathing hot doggy breath into her face from far too close a range for comfort. He was revelling in Sara’s undivided attention, and had taken it upon himself to stay as close to her as possible at all times. Hector, my Protector, she smiled to herself. He had always been rather wary of Matt, who said he ought to be treated more like a dog, and less like a furry person. It drove Matt mad when he came home unexpectedly and found Sara talking to him, which she did, she had to admit, quite often. Matt would put on a goofy Hector voice and say, ‘I don’t know what you’re saying, Mummy, because I’m just a dog not a real life human being and I have a brain the size of a peanut.’
‘I know,’ she said, as Hector’s nose emerged from under the table, having slid forward on his stomach. ‘You want to go out.’ At the sound of her voice, the thumping redoubled and he climbed to his feet, stretching out his front legs and arching his back. Sara pushed back her chair and stood up, stretching too. She looked out of the window. The leaves on the oak tree in the middle of the lawn were beginning to unfurl, like green and pale orange feathery fingers, from the ends of the lichen-covered branches. Spring was becoming summer. To the far side of the cottage lay a small dell which had been filled with bluebells, but these were now dying, wilting into the wild garlic. Each morning as she opened the front door, she was overwhelmed by its feral smell, heightened by the dew.
In the kitchen, she gathered up Hector’s lead from the dresser, and called up the stairs to Lottie that she wouldn’t be long. She glanced at her watch – it was eleven o’clock.
Time seemed to have taken on a quite different meaning, here at the cottage. In London, every day during the week had a strict timetable – Matt was up at six, ready for his morning jog, and at precisely quarter to seven she’d hear the whir of the power shower. As he washed, Sara got up, reluctantly, and put out his clothes for the day – black trousers, bespoke tailored shirt, usually white, and his favourite black suede Church brogues – he had ten identical pairs. He refused to wear anything but cashmere socks, which were a complete nuisance as she had to hand-wash them, or else they would shrink. Sara rarely dressed before he left, pulling on a comfortable old cream dressing gown and without bothering to brush her hair she would wander into the kitchen to start the tedious business of juicing oranges. Matt insisted on fresh orange juice, and freshly-ground coffee without milk or sugar. He would only eat muesli she made herself, as he said the bought varieties had too much sugar. His one concession to indulgence was to have banana sliced over the top. Sara seldom ate before he left. He tucked his newspaper under one arm as he departed, kissing her on the cheek while simultaneously checking his Blackberry for urgent overnight messages.
Once he had gone Sara would put a butter croissant into the baking oven of the Aga, and gratefully sit down to read the second newspaper. When the girls had still been at school, breakfast time was a whirlwind of lost jumpers, homework and arguments about hair and chipped nail varnish. Once they left school and were off at university or travelling like Lottie had been, Sara savoured the peace of the empty apartment, with time to enjoy her breakfast and plan the day.
Her day, she now realized, had centred almost entirely around Matt and his needs – shopping for the food he liked, taking his clothes to the dry-cleaner, tidying the apartment so it was welcoming and neat when he came home. Goodness, she thought – it wasn’t much to show for a life, really, was it? A very tidy home and food in the fridge? What had happened to her goals? At university she had agreed with her friends there was no way she was going to give up her career when she had children, but it had just happened, somehow – she couldn’t bear to hand them over to a nanny and Matt had made it clear he wanted her to be at home. Her life had been pleasant, certainly, but why on earth hadn’t she been frustrated by so little challenge? Had she lived most of her life, vicariously, through Matt? I lived in his shadow, she thought, sadly. My life was . . . inconsequential.
Looking back it seemed to Sara almost as if she had been sleepwalking. Why hadn’t she insisted that she wanted to have her own career, rather than being little more than a housewife? If anyone new asked her what she did, she used to say that she worked for her husband, but actually once the children were born she had done hardly anything, just odd hours here and there when Matt needed her. She wasn’t by nature an idle person, and she had not liked being financially dependent, even though Matt never made an issue about the money she spent, as she was naturally far more frugal than he was. If she’d wanted to, in the later years, she could have blown a fortune on designer clothes and pampering herself with beauty treatments and visits to health clubs, but that had held no interest. Besides, she could never quite rid herself of the guilt, the feeling that it wasn’t her money as she hadn’t earned it.
I was, she thought, as she walked down the lane, swinging Hector’s lead, far too dependent. She was beginning to realize why Matt might have found it so easy to deceive her – she rarely asked him why he was late, or where he had been. She just accepted it was part of his career, to stay out late, entertaining clients. I put him on a pedestal, she thought, and believed everything he told me. I did not challenge him, in any sense of the word.
Hector trotted from side to side of the lane with his tail held high, and ears pricked. There were so few cars, she didn’t need to put him on a lead.
She was also beginning to understand how Matt had controlled her, and moulded her into the person he wanted her to be. How he used his temper, which he knew she hated, as a weapon to make sure he got his own way. Sara loathed shouting, as did Lottie, and would go to any lengths to avoid confrontation. Over the years, she had become adept at sidestepping any issue which might make him angry. Why didn’t I stand up to him, she wondered. She had always believed that their relationship was based on equality – but she could see now that this was simply not true. Whoever earns the money inevitably held the balance of power in a relationship, she thought. Matt was, effectively, my boss. He felt superior to me. Why did I let him tell me what to do? When we married, I was working full-time, I had so many interests outside of the home and a career I really liked. Then one by one I began to give things up – my job, certain friends Matt did not like, interests and hobbies he did not share, until almost all of my attention was focused on him, the children and our home. That isn’t healthy, she thought. No wonder he thought my life was – well, less important than his. That somehow he owned me, and he could do what he pleased. Karina is a career girl, she’s very good at her job, she presumably has lots of interests – she must be opening up a whole other world to him. Not to mention her youth. She has all the promise of her youth.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sara saw a sudden movement. She turned, just as a huge dark brown bird of prey launched itself into the sky from a post at the side of a five-barred gate by the bend in the lane. She paused to watch over the gate as it swooped down low over a field, and then soared, effortlessly, to the top of a distant oak tree, which swayed violently as it landed. She wasn’t very knowledgeable about birds, but she thought it might be a buzzard, or perhaps a kite. She could see the bird had white feathers under its wings, and she was fairly sure that meant it was a buzzard. Sara craned her neck, trying to see it more clearly, but it was hidden by leaves. She looked up at the cloudless sky. All she could hear was the faint rumble of a tr
actor in the distance, and birds singing. Smiling, she turned away and walked on down the lane.
It was bordered on each side by a high grassy bank, filled with a tangle of ivy, cow parsley, pink geraniums, tiny white dog roses, nettles and layers of sticky bindweed. At the next gate she stopped again, and rested her elbows on the top, breathing in the fresh, wild-garlic-scented air. Before her the fields stretched away, neatly bordered by stone walls and hedges. Amidst the grazing land were fields of oilseed rape, vibrantly yellow, the breeze creating undulating ripples through the crop like waves on the sea. In the distance she could just make out the spire of St Just’s, the Norman church in the next village to Lanteglos. Helen had mentioned she went there every Sunday – not because she was an especially committed Christian, she said, but just because it was a good chance to catch up with all the local gossip and feel part of the community. This phrase was accompanied by a slightly self-deprecating smile. She found it, Helen said, an oddly comforting thing to do. The rector, she told Sara, was known locally as the sprintin’ vicar because as well as delivering sermons in the three village churches which made up his parish, he also ran marathons.
Sara decided, leaning on the gate, that she would go to church this Sunday. Lottie was unlikely to want to join her – she hadn’t been in a church since the end-of-term services at school, and would no doubt accuse her of turning into Granny.
Smiling to herself at the thought, Sara stepped back from the gate and called Hector, who had disappeared around the corner. He came trotting back, his ears pricked at the sound of her voice. ‘Home,’ she said. As she turned, she was abruptly buzzed by a very large fly. It was a nasty black thing, which hovered in the air like a small alien spaceship, legs dangling, peering intently into her face as if to say, ‘Aha. Earthling.’ It circled her, slowly. ‘Edible,’ it appeared to have relayed to its cronies, and they suddenly appeared from nowhere, buzzing around her ears and eyes. She flailed about, shouting, and at that precise moment a very battered white car came round the corner, too fast. Tyres squealing, it slewed to the side, just missing both her and Hector, and came to rest against the far grassy bank. There was a surfboard on the roof.
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