She imagined them all getting ready to set off on the journey down to Cornwall, donning crisp white shirts and sombre suits; demure dresses in black silk or linen. Most of the women would wear hats. It would be a fashion fest; a competition as to who could look the most chicly grief-stricken.
Vanessa knew she should make an effort. Three days earlier, she’d driven to a boutique in the next town to find a suitable outfit. She laughed at the memory of the assistant who had asked her, ‘Is it for something special?’
‘It’s for my husband’s funeral,’ she’d said, and the girl had looked horrified, not at all sure what to say: she’d backed away behind the till and busied herself with some paperwork. Vanessa hadn’t found anything in the end, because it was all summer stock: wafty whites and turquoises which didn’t seem suitable. Spencer wasn’t the sort of man who would want people to wear bright colours to his funeral. He would expect black.
Then she realised she didn’t have to do what Spencer expected any more.
Yet she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She didn’t want any of his family looking at her askance. Or Karina. She’d had enough of that over the years. Sometimes she felt like a curiosity he’d brought back from a zoo: something to be wondered over and petted then put back into its cage. The glorified shop girl, posh but poor, who’d caught his eye when she helped him choose a wedding present. He’d rushed into the shop en route to the church, in a blind panic because he was late. She’d picked out a stunning serving plate, wrapped it and bedecked it with ribbons and bows and found him a card. And a pen. And dictated a thoughtful message for him to write to the happy couple. He’d come back later, after the wedding, more than a few glasses of champagne in, and asked her out for dinner.
‘I’m not leaving until you say yes,’ he’d said, standing in the middle of the fine china she was in charge of. She’d been dazzled by his insistence. And he took her to Quaglino’s, where she’d always longed to go …
And that night, as now, she had worried about what to wear. She put down her coffee cup and wasn’t sure why she was so anxious. She had millions of black dresses. Dresses Spencer had chosen and sent to her by courier, arriving on padded hangers in linen clothes carriers from a designer website, for the nights when she escorted him to the social functions that kept his business afloat. So what if she wore one she’d been seen in before? Karina would know – Karina would give the tiniest flicker of her perfectly threaded brow – but Vanessa didn’t care.
She didn’t really understand why a funeral required such formality. Surely it was better to turn up as yourself? Which in her case would mean faded jeans, a flowery tunic and flip-flops. She hated dressing up these days, though once she had dressed up to the nines for him.
In the beginning, all his friends and family had thought she was a gold-digger, a shop girl who had lured him into a honey trap, because Spencer had made a fortune in the garment industry and his fortune showed no signs of shrinking, unlike the cheap clothes he peddled. She was never going to persuade them otherwise, so she stopped trying, even though it was miles from the truth. She had fallen for him because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was young and very pretty and extremely impressionable and naive and he’d swept her off her feet. And what wasn’t to like about being spoiled and doted on and put on a pedestal?
She’d done trophy wife for ten years, sparkled and radiated and networked on his behalf. But after the baby thing, after the ectopic pregnancy that nearly cost her her own life and meant she could never have children, she couldn’t face it any more. Spencer had brought her down to their weekend house in Pennfleet to convalesce, and she had never found the strength to leave. She found peace by the seaside. She never wanted to go back to their St Johns Wood mansion block. Their marriage became one of convenience.
It had been a funny old relationship. Maybe it had been perfect? She had no idea. It was the only one she had ever known. She spent the week in Pennfleet making the house ready for Spencer and his friends at the weekends so they could relax after a hard week doing deals and making money. And as Mary Mac did most of the work, all she really had to do was decide menus, book tables and make sure his latest fad was readily available – whether it was wagyu beef or artisanal gin, Spencer liked to be up to date with everything, as long as it involved a hefty price tag.
She looked out across the water to Poseidon, Spencer’s pride and joy, crouched on the water, predatory and powerful, arguably the most expensive boat in the harbour. He’d loved that boat. What on earth was she supposed to do with it now? It shouldn’t even be in the water still, but Spencer had wanted to squeeze the last few weeks of fine weather out of it. She supposed she would go out on it to scatter his ashes, though she didn’t have a clue how to drive it. Someone in Pennfleet would help her out. They’d probably jump at the chance to have a go. It was worth more than most of the fishermen’s cottages that lined the banks, even though they were going up in price.
She sighed. The sun was warming up and it was going to be the most glorious day. A day for walking into town and buying a crab sandwich and sitting with your legs hanging over the harbour wall while you ate it, and trying to stop the seagulls pinching the crusts out of your hands.
A feeling settled on her but she couldn’t identify it. She shut her eyes to analyse it, and finally put her finger on her emotion. She did feel sad, but not sad because Spencer was dead. Sad because she didn’t feel sadder. Had she loved him? She couldn’t be sure. They had rubbed along together well enough, in benign disinterest. They never argued. They simply didn’t have anything in common. They barely spent any time alone together. They’d resorted to separate bedrooms years ago. Vanessa knew this was partly her fault. She had frozen up after the ectopic pregnancy. Spencer certainly hadn’t forced her into anything. Separate rooms had stopped sex being the elephant in the room. And if Spencer found other women to keep him entertained, he was very discreet about it.
She had never embarked on any sort of clandestine relationship herself. She wasn’t sure how Spencer would have reacted if she had and he had found out. She hadn’t the confidence or the inclination or the opportunity. In the meantime, she had buried herself in her shop.
Spencer had bought Adrift for her, as a sort of consolation prize for not being able to have a baby. A clumsy but well-meaning gesture that she hadn’t the heart to object to. The sort of gesture that wealthy men made when they felt guilty and weren’t sure what to do with their wives.
She was surprised as anyone to have subsequently fallen in love with it. Maybe Spencer knew her better than she knew herself? And she made a success of it, too. She had learned a lot about retail in the shop where they had met, and she used those skills to open a gallery selling artwork and jewellery inspired by the sea, using strictly local artists, of which there were plenty. And of course she had Spencer to learn from, although her motives were entirely different from his when it came to business. She wasn’t out to make massive profits. For Vanessa, it was about discovering and nurturing new talent, giving artists their first break and watching them flourish. And if she happened to make money (which she did, because she had a good eye for what tourists wanted) she invested in new talent. Profit gave her the luxury of being able to take risks.
Adrift was her baby and her lover. It gave her a sense of identity and purpose. It was shut today, out of respect, and the two girls who worked there would be at the funeral. No doubt they would be wondering what would happen now, whether Vanessa would keep the shop on. Of course she would. Too many livelihoods depended on it: artists and craftspeople who already had limited outlets. She couldn’t just cut off their source of income. And the approaching winter was when she would have time to discover new talent. The summer had been hectic. Now it was time to take stock, literally, and discover new possibilities.
She poured the last inch of coffee out of the pot but it was too cold by now. She wasn’t sure what to do while she waited for the funeral to start. She thought about phoning Squi
rrel and then thought – no. She needed to get today out of the way first. Squirrel could wait until tomorrow.
Kate called the surgery on the dot of half past eight and managed to wangle herself an emergency appointment with Dr Webster at nine. She decided to walk to the medical centre. It was up yet another steep hill on the outskirts of the town, but it was quicker to walk than going to fetch the car.
As she left the house and stepped out into the street, her mother’s next-door neighbour shot out of her side gate. Sunny had the longest plait of anyone Kate had ever met, and dressed in the colours of the rainbow. She ran the health-food shop in the high street and sold crystals and talismans and incense. She had a heart of gold, and had been in and out of Belle Vue all through Kate’s childhood, offering various cures and remedies and dietary advice. Kate remembered the crumbly blocks of halva Sunny sometimes gave her, and the little biscuits made of sesame seeds that gave a snap when you bit into them.
‘Angel!’ Sunny had a list of endearments she varied. She threw her arms around Kate’s neck. Kate breathed in some sort of exotic essential oil that took her back. ‘You poor baby. Your poor mother. She didn’t suffer, though. You do know that?’
‘They said it was instant.’
‘Anything I can do, you know that.’
‘Of course.’
‘How are you?’ Sunny held her at arm’s length and surveyed her, a deep crease between her eyes.
‘Honestly? I’m not sure.’ This was true. Kate still felt as detached from the news as she had when she first heard it. Nothing had happened so far to make it seem true.
‘If you don’t want to stay in the house on your own, you can come and stay with me.’ Sunny lived in a yellow cottage that was full of cats and dream-catchers and the smell of curried lentils.
‘I’m fine – honestly. I’m quite happy. Anyway, listen – I’ve got to get to the doctor’s.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes – I forgot my sleeping tablets, that’s all.’
Sunny frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be taking those.’
Kate shrugged. ‘I can’t sleep without them.’
‘I’ll bring you some Rescue Remedy from the shop.’
Kate smiled. She didn’t want to say that if Rescue Remedy worked on her, she’d be using it. Sunny meant well.
‘I must go or I’ll miss my appointment. I’ll see you at the church later.’
Sunny wrapped her in another hug. ‘Take care, lovely.’
Kate hurried on, up around the back of the town and along the road that led to Shoredown, where the warren of lanes containing the less salubrious houses of Pennfleet spilled out, with their jacked-up cars and overflowing bins and drawn curtains. It wasn’t always a picnic, living at the seaside. People forgot that behind the picturesque harbour and the bobbing boats and sense that life was one long holiday there were people struggling to make a living in a town that had little industry but for the tourists. And the winters were long for those who made their money from those tourists. If the permanent inhabitants of Pennfleet knew anything, it was how to make hay while the sun shone. And that sun would be dwindling even more in the next month or so, along with the number of visitors, until the long dark winter finally arrived.
Kate could remember only too clearly the hardship of some of her friends at school – the debt and the poverty. It was surprising there wasn’t more hostility towards the second-homers. They were seen as a necessary evil, propping up the economy, but also inflating the house prices.
‘Kate!’ A voice was calling after her. ‘Kate! It’s me.’
She turned to see a woman running down the hill carrying a small girl, waving at her with her spare arm. She recognised the voice rather than the slight figure with the long black hair, dressed in skinny jeans and a pink vest with silver glitter.
Debbie. Her best friend from school. Her partner in crime since they’d first set eyes on each other on arrival at Pennfleet High. It was probably ten years since they had last spoken.
‘Oh my God! Debbie!’ Kate beamed with pleasure.
‘I thought it was you!’ Debbie panted as she came to a stop. The child on her hip gazed solemnly at Kate while they spoke, her fine blonde hair tied up in a Pebbles ponytail on top of her head.
‘I’m so sorry about your mum.’ Debbie’s face was screwed up in anxiety. She was fully made up, even at this hour in the morning, heavy eyebrows and full lips drawn in and ridiculously long lashes.
‘Thank you.’
‘She was amazing, you know. She was brilliant to me just after I had Leanne.’ Debbie indicated her daughter, who was casually kicking her mum with a leopardskin baseball boot. ‘I broke my leg. I couldn’t do a thing. She was so helpful. She got me back on track. I was right depressed.’ Debbie tickled Leanne under the chin. The little girl giggled. ‘I’m going to try and get to the funeral later if I can get someone to pick up Leanne.’
‘That’s really kind of you. But you don’t have to.’ Kate was touched.
‘No. I want to! She was a very special woman.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Shout if you want anything. I’m usually about. Got my hands full with this lot – she’s number four.’
‘Goodness.’ Kate couldn’t imagine having four children. ‘They must keep you busy.’
‘Just a bit. I work down the Neptune weekends to keep body and soul together – Scott has the kids. Gives me some of me own money and gets me out of the house.’
Debbie shook back her long black hair with the thick blunt fringe and smiled. She was as thin as a rake with tattoos on her shoulders; her arms muscular from lifting her children. Kate supposed she didn’t need an expensive gym subscription to keep her figure: running around after four kids probably did it.
She thought about the nights she and Debbie had spent in the Neptune, eyeing up the boys they fancied, getting drunk on cheap vodka cocktails. They’d had so much in common then. Homework stress, clothes stress, boy stress. The boredom of living in Pennfleet stress. Debbie had pierced Kate’s ears with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a needle in her bedroom. They’d painted each other’s toenails and dreamed about getting away. Kate had managed it. Debbie hadn’t.
What was the difference between them, she wondered?
And who was the happier?
‘You got any?’
‘Any?’
‘Kids.’ Debbie looked her up and down and decided that gave her the answer. ‘Nah. You look way too together.’
Kate managed a laugh. ‘I live in New York. I’ve got this crazy job. No way could I fit kids in. I can’t even fit a boyfriend in.’
‘It sounds perfect.’ Debbie laughed, crooked her spare arm round Kate’s neck and hugged her, swamping her in a cloud of cheap perfume and hairspray and cigarettes. ‘I’ll see you later, sweetheart. I’ve got to get this one to nursery.’
She ran off down the hill.
Kate watched after her. It had been strange but lovely to see her. She had often wondered where her mates were now, what they were doing, and she always felt a tiny needle of guilt that she hadn’t kept up with any of them. When she’d left for New York social media hadn’t been established in the way it was now, making it easy for people to keep in touch. She didn’t have time to trawl through Facebook looking for old schoolfriends – and none of them had ever tracked her down. Re-connecting with Debbie had given her an unexpected lift. Debbie had been so kind, so genuine. Their friendship, it seemed, had survived the intervening years.
As she climbed further up to the crest of the hill, Kate reached the point where she could see right over the top of the town and out to sea. She had forgotten quite how spectacular it was, and stopped for a moment to drink in the infinite shades of turquoise and ice blue and slate and silver and steel and glittery deep green. The slightest change in light could change the colour of the water, depending on where the sun and the clouds were hovering.
Summer had long slipped away on the tide, disappearing over the h
orizon to the other side of the world, and in its place was autumn, demure and subtle and in many ways more alluring, with her softer, more mellow light and her wispy, misty mornings.
Her mother loved this time of year. Kate remembered Joy’s hands snagged by blackberry tangles, and the ritual making of bramble jelly and sloe gin. There would, she knew, be ranks of jars lined up in the larder, all labelled in her mother’s comforting handwriting. What was she to do with them? She couldn’t take them back in her luggage. She couldn’t imagine them lined up on the stainless steel shelf in her apartment, which only had room for exotic coffee beans and expensive olives. Would she just throw them away? It seemed a waste. Or give them to her mother’s friends? Did people want jam and pickle made by a dead person? Was it ghoulish, or the perfect memento?
By now she’d arrived at the medical centre, an ugly flat-roofed building which had caused great excitement when it was built twenty years ago. Kate could remember her mother’s glee at the brand-spanking-new facilities. It was now looking pretty tired, with grey carpet, yellow walls and hundreds of out-of-date magazines.
She only had to wait five minutes before she was called through to Doctor Webster, who had been their family GP since Kate was small, and was now in her early sixties, a slight woman with cropped grey hair and a perspicacious gaze. Kate remembered going to her over the years for ringworm, a lingering chest infection, a persistent sty – and, as a teenager, asking to be put on the pill and praying Dr Webster wouldn’t mention it to her mother …
‘My dear, I wondered if it was you when I saw your name. I’m so sorry.’ The doctor clasped Kate’s hand in both of hers. Her touch was cool and reassuring. ‘You know how very much we valued your mother here at the surgery. I’m hoping to be able to come to the funeral and pay my respects.’ Dr Webster smiled. ‘I learned a lot from her over the years. She was a very wise and special woman.’
High Tide Page 5