The Beach Hut Next Door

by Veronica Henry

  He responded almost by return of email.

  ‘I love this. It’s just the sort of project I am looking for. Edgy nostalgia: emotional without being sentimental. Let’s meet.’

  It was exactly the response she wanted. Positive. To the point. She emailed him back and made an appointment. She felt pleased. Finding the right home for a project was tricky. And although this was a million miles away from a green light, she felt in her gut that it was a step in the right direction.

  There was something else, too, but she tried to hide that from herself, rather coyly. She had always found Colm Sanderson intriguing. They had met several times at industry parties. He was tall, statuesque, with a sweep of steel-grey hair that fell to his upturned collar, and the most fascinating pair of eyes she had ever looked into. They were knowing, curious, teasing and inviting all at once. How did he do that? she wondered. They’d had a couple of conversations over warm white wine and forgettable canapés, and each time there was a frisson between them she worried was inappropriate at their age. The richness of his voice, the gleam in his eyes that was somewhere between naughty and teasing, the way his mind worked even faster than hers did: she couldn’t deny that she found him attractive.

  And, she told herself, a decent enough period of mourning had passed. She’d been a widow for some years. It wasn’t as if she was throwing herself at Colm with Edmund barely cold in his grave. It was OK. It wasn’t unseemly.

  So when the morning of their meeting arrived, she laughed at herself in the mirror as she dressed. How could a woman of her age, her standing, feel flustered? She was being utterly ridiculous, but still she tried on three jackets before deciding that midnight blue velvet made the most of her grey eyes, and that its luxury could be toned down if she wore jeans with it, and that high-heeled boots would give her stature. Colm, she calculated, must be six foot three.

  She knew he was separated. He’d been married to a well-known and respected actress for years but she had left him two years before for a much younger man – she had the kind of cheekbones that enabled her to do that without anyone holding it against her. Colm had taken her departure with an elegant good grace that made him, in Elodie’s eyes, even more intriguing. They had three grown-up children. It was all very civilized and sophisticated. Whether he already had someone else was anyone’s guess.

  They met in his office in Charlotte Street. For two hours they batted ideas backwards and forwards, jotting ideas and straplines down on a white board, thrashing out the story arc of the series, giving it a shape, making sure there was enough content.

  She loved the way he worked. He had the utmost respect for her as a writer, for her craft and her skill. He never kidnapped the material and tried to make it his own. Instead, he asked her questions, pushing her to analyse the characters and their individual arcs, enabling her to come up with the answers.

  By midday, they had an outline they were both happy with.

  ‘So if I commission you,’ he said, ‘how long would it take for you to come up with a first draft for episode one and a bible that I can take to the commissioners?’

  He would take the project to the BBC or ITV and try and negotiate, but he needed some solid material to convince them: a good script and a document that outlined the series.

  ‘A month,’ said Elodie decisively. ‘Long enough to do it justice, but short enough to put me under pressure to deliver.’

  Colm laughed. ‘A month it is then. But there is something else.’

  Elodie’s heart sank. Here it came. The snag. There would be no budget. He would want her to do it for a pittance. Or he would want to share the credit. Or some other awful condition that would mean her refusing the commission. She could taste disappointment already. She had thought more of him than that.

  ‘What?’ she asked him warily.

  ‘You get the commission on condition you come out for lunch with me.’

  He was already standing, unhooking his scarf from the hatstand, looking at her with his lopsided smile.

  Somehow he had made the words with me sound incredibly intimate. This wasn’t an invitation to a working lunch. If she accepted, this would be the start of something.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she told him, and locked her eyes on his, and felt a jolt, a spark, a life-affirming tingle that filled her with joy.

  He said nothing, just wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulled on his jacket, and she followed him, wordlessly, down the stairs, out of the door, along the street, and into a tiny, bustling brasserie that smelt of sizzling steak and garlic where the maître d’ led them, without being asked, to a window table laid for two.

  He’d planned it, thought Elodie with a thrill, and she held her menu in front of her face so Colm couldn’t see her smile.

  From that day on, they were inseparable. And it felt so right. It was so easy. They slotted into each other’s lives effortlessly. They didn’t even have to discuss it because there was nothing to discuss. They were both free agents. They had so many things in common, and so many things they could share with each other: books, films, food, music. They even read the same newspaper. They were both still utterly absorbed by their work, with no intention of retiring. They were passionate and perfectionist about what they did.

  At weekends, they wandered along the South Bank, argued ferociously about art in Tate Modern, bought over-priced cheese at Borough Market and ate it in the front of the telly with heavy red wine that made them both fall asleep. They swapped books and did The Times crossword. They were competitive and symbiotic. They had days out in Whitstable and Woodstock; took a boat up the Thames to Hampton Court. He made chutney and Christmas puddings and she laughed at his domesticity.

  And on Valentine’s Day – which they both agreed was a ridiculous commercial trap – he nevertheless booked a table at Clos Maggiore, their favourite restaurant in Covent Garden, and, as the waiter took away the plates that had borne the roasted duck breast on a bed of plums, leaned across the table, those eyes that had drawn her in burning with something that told Elodie her life was soon to change.

  ‘After Emma left me I never thought I would get married again,’ he said. ‘It seemed pointless. Hypocritical, even. To do it again when you’d fucked it up once. But, right now there is nothing I want more, nothing I would love more, than for you to become my wife. I would be so proud.’

  Elodie put her hands over her face and peered out at him between her fingers. An infantile, girlish gesture that she hated herself for, but it was instinct, to mask the surprise, the delight, the joy for just one moment until she had assimilated what he’d just said.

  She didn’t need to think about it all. Not really. Yes, it was a risk. He was bound to have flaws. Who didn’t? And wouldn’t that be part of their future together – discovering each other’s weaknesses?

  And perhaps one of the nice things about embarking on a relationship when you were older was that you were more aware of your weaknesses, so didn’t have to spend so long dwelling on them.

  They were sitting on the balcony of her apartment when she saw the advert, in the property section of the Saturday Times. Her heart turned over once, twice, and her mind started racing. She didn’t say anything to Colm, but something came full circle in Elodie’s mind. She and Colm had agreed that they would sell her flat and move into his, in Hampstead – although she would miss the water, Hampstead suited their lifestyle far better, with its slightly bohemian café society, and his was much bigger than hers. The sale had been agreed and this was their last Thameside weekend before the contracts were completed.

  And there it was. A quarter-page advert. The Grey House. ‘An unmissable maritime opportunity’. It looked just the same. The photo was taken from below, the beach huts in a row beneath the cliff, the house hovering above, nestled amongst the monkey puzzle trees. If she closed her eyes she would be able to smell the sea breeze and feel the warmth of the sun on her face.r />
  Her need to go back was primal. Suddenly, it was the only thing that mattered. It was time. Time to confront her past, so she could have the one thing that had ever really mattered to her. She didn’t know what it was she was going to find; who would still be there. How she would feel.

  ‘OK?’ Colm was looking over at her with a frown.

  ‘Yes …’ she nodded, but she thought she was probably far from convincing. She didn’t want to tell him the truth. She’d never told anyone her story, except Lady Bellnap. Not even Edmund, who had accepted she was estranged from her parents and seemed to think that it didn’t need further qualifying. She had always felt that if she told people, it would define her.

  Suddenly, however, the past no longer held any fear for her. She knew who she was, and it wasn’t that girl who had been betrayed on her wedding day. She needed to go back, to the time and the place. It wasn’t closure she wanted. It was the opposite: the chance to open the past back up. To rediscover the place that had meant so much to her, and to share it with the people who now meant so much to her. And to make her peace with the people who had once mattered.

  VINCE

  The next day, as Vince drove up the M4 towards Chiswick, he started to question his own motives the nearer he got to London.

  Murphy was so grateful that Vince had offered to go and fight his cause. Although Murphy seemed like an open kind of guy, he was in fact intensely private. He liked everything to seem perfect; for people to look at him and think ‘that’s the kind of life/house/car/wife I want’. The fact that all that was about to come crashing down had made him panic, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

  So here was Vince, charging to the rescue like the best mate he was. Yet he had to ask himself why he was really doing it. Not just out of friendship. He couldn’t fool himself. If Murphy and Anna split up, he was unlikely to see Anna again. So it was in his interests for them to get back together. Although that didn’t bring her any closer to him, at least he would get his fix from time to time.

  And if he went to plead Murphy’s case, he would get a fix straight away. Breathe the same air she was breathing. Feel her eyes on his skin. Know that she had thought of him, because if he was there in front of her she had to think about him, even if it wasn’t in the way he wanted to be thought of.

  Vince slapped the steering wheel with annoyance. Why couldn’t he ever rid himself of this curse? This obsession. Why was he feeding it? It was always the same when he saw her. His longing intensified and tortured him for days, weeks, afterwards. Febrile dreams in which she was just out of reach. He twisted like a kite in the wind. It was exhausting. He sometimes wondered if he could be hypnotized into forgetting her. Then he realized he didn’t want to forget her. It was a never-ending loop with no solution and it drove him crazy.

  He turned into the wide, leafy street. He’d driven down here so many times, always with his heart in his mouth, his pulse pounding. Today was no different. He pulled into the gravel drive in front of the house. A red-brick Victorian semi he knew was worth over two million because Murphy had told him. Vince thought the house was nice enough, but couldn’t get his head around the figure.

  He rang the bell and put his hands in his pockets while he waited.

  Anna answered eventually. She looked amazing. No make-up, hair loose, dressed in white yoga pants and a grey hooded T-shirt. Bare feet. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch her.

  ‘Vince!’ She did a smile/frown – pleasure at seeing him mingled with confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ She put her hands up to her hair and ran her fingers through it, pulling it round to one side. He thought of the times he’d wanted to run his fingers through it.

  He raised his eyebrow and gave a shrug. ‘I came to talk to you about Murphy.’

  ‘I don’t know that I want to hear anything that Murphy has to say.’

  ‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’ Vince had worked out she was more likely to see him if she thought this.

  She surveyed him for a moment. Then she looked at her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be going out …’

  Vince felt irritated. ‘What? To yoga? Or the supermarket? This is important, Anna. There’s stuff I think you should know.’

  She frowned, then sighed. ‘OK. Come in. I’ll make us some coffee …’

  He followed her inside. He saw their reflection in the glass of the etched mirror as they walked past and it made his heart judder in his chest. Why couldn’t he control himself when he was around her? Get a grip, he told himself.

  The kitchen was at the back of the house; an enormous extension with folding glass doors that led out into the garden. Everything was immaculate. Big wicker baskets contained the children’s homework. Their paintings were framed on the wall – no Blu-Tak or drawing pins in this house. The island contained baskets of gleaming fruit.

  Anna filled the kettle. The water bubbled from the tap like a spume of champagne. Even their water, thought Vince, was better than everyone else’s.

  She flicked the kettle on and stared at him.

  ‘I’m not having him back,’ she said, an edge to her voice.

  ‘You’ll never meet anyone who loves you as much as Murphy,’ countered Vince.

  ‘I don’t need love like that. I read the texts, Vince. They were …’

  She made a face.

  ‘They were texts,’ said Vince. ‘From her to him. He’s not interested. I know he isn’t.’

  ‘So why give her his number in the first place? Why encourage her?’

  ‘She gave him her number because she wanted a job.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I was there, Anna. The worst thing Murphy is guilty of is being a flirt. He’s vain. He’s a man. We all like to think we’re irresistible.’

  ‘You don’t behave like that. I know you don’t.’

  No, thought Vince. Because I’m in love with you and there is no other woman on the planet I’m remotely interested in. He sighed.

  ‘I know it’s wrong. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s a minor misdemeanour. The punishment doesn’t fit the crime, Anna. He’s been stupid, yeah. But that’s all.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Vince. I can’t trust him. I keep wondering what else is going on behind my back? What aren’t I giving him that makes him let that go on? That’s no basis for a happy marriage.’

  ‘I think you’re overreacting,’ said Vince. ‘I understand that it’s threatening, to find that kind of thing. But it doesn’t mean anything. I promise you. Murphy’s distraught.’

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I just don’t feel the same way about him any more.’

  Vince reached out and touched her hand. Her skin was velvet. He wanted to carry on, run the tips of his fingers up her arm, across her collarbone, but instead he squeezed her fingers in a gesture of reassurance.

  ‘It’ll take time,’ he said. ‘But it will be worth it. Look at what you’ve got. What you’ve built together. And the girls. What about the girls?’

  ‘You think I want them to have a dad around who lets women send him filthy texts?’ The scorn in Anna’s voice made Vince drop her hand. It was searing. He looked down at the floor. Maybe she was right? Maybe Murphy should have done something to stop it.

  He walked over to the doors while Anna busied herself with the cafètiere, the scent of freshly ground beans soon filling the air. More perfection. Even the garden was like something out of a magazine and contained the essence of Anna: a soft sweep of lawn, beds stuffed with scented roses and a huge oak tree with a curved wooden bench underneath. It was tranquil and feminine; an oasis. Vince could see the gardener’s wheelbarrow perched at the side of one of the beds, filled with rich compost. He’d seen the gardener before, a hulking Mills & Boon of a bloke in khaki fatigues and big boots who turned up twice a week and did all the things that Vince would h
ave done, had he been married to Anna, but that Murphy wouldn’t do if you’d put a gun to his head.

  Something suddenly struck Vince as odd. There’d been no sign of the gardener, although he was clearly around somewhere. His Hilux in the drive and the waiting wheelbarrow indicated that. But since Vince had arrived, he had not materialized. He frowned, and looked round the kitchen. It was then he noticed the two cups in the sink. Nothing wrong with that, he supposed. It was only polite to offer your gardener a coffee when he arrived. He imagined Anna discussing planting plans, looking through seed catalogues, showing him a picture of something she had seen in a magazine.

  There were two plates, too, with knives and crumbs. Well, OK. Nothing wrong with offering him a piece of toast to fuel up the day ahead. But somehow the crockery seemed unspeakably intimate.

  ‘Where’s the gardener?’ asked Vince. ‘Don’t want him getting the wrong idea.’

  It was a joke. Sort of.

  Anna looked at him, the kettle in her hands, about to pour.

  The whole story was in her eyes. For one second. Like a subliminal advert in the middle of a film. Guilt and defiance and fear. Then the shutters came down and her gaze was wide with baby-blue innocence.

  ‘He does his own thing. I’ve no idea. Probably gone to the garden centre for something he’s forgotten.’

  ‘His truck’s still in the drive.’

  Anna just wasn’t a good enough actress under interrogation. She turned away.

  The only way out of the garden was through the house.

  The silence that fell was profound. It went on for five, ten seconds while each of them assessed the situation and decided what to say.

  ‘He’s upstairs, isn’t he?’ said Vince finally.

  Anna’s jagged breath in and out said it all.

  ‘How long?’

  She shrugged, but it was defiant. She looked, if anything, rather sulky. Like a stroppy sixth former who has been caught smoking.