I open the bifold doors. It rained overnight and the air smells as clean as freshly washed laundry. I retrieve my mug and sit at the garden table. The chair isn’t completely dry and I can feel the water seeping into the seat of my pyjama bottoms but I’m determined to sit out here, to feel like I’m on holiday. I hear the scratch of Ziggy’s paws on the tiled flooring and turn to see him plodding through the kitchen. He plonks himself next to me, his head in my lap. There’s no sign of Jamie.
‘Daddy can’t still be asleep?’ I ask while rubbing Ziggy’s velvety ears.
It’s nearly 10.45 and I expect Jamie is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the four-poster bed, tapping away on his laptop, catching up on emails. He’ll start to feel anxious if he’s behind with work, especially as he no longer has a boss to chivvy him along.
Not wanting to disturb him, I stay in the garden, my eyes closed, the sun warm on my face, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore below. I can smell the sea from up here, mingling with the candle’s fragrance and a faint trace of something else, a muskiness mixed with sweat.
Then two things happen simultaneously: a twig cracks underfoot and Ziggy barks. My eyes snap open just in time to see the back of someone disappearing down the steps that lead from the garden to the beach. I stand up so quickly that my chair topples backwards.
‘Oi!’ I shout. Has someone been watching me? I run across the lawn, Ziggy following me, barking manically, the damp grass soaking the hem of my pyjama trousers and my slippers. Fury makes me forget to worry for my safety. I peer over the gate; a man is making his way down the steps. He looks different from the one yesterday, older, less stocky, and with skinny bow legs. He has a flat cap pulled down over his forehead and is wearing a waxed jacket and jeans. He’s holding a walking stick, although he looks fit and able. I stare, shocked by his audacity, and can only watch as he scampers across the sand. I wonder what he’s doing and where he’s going. Is he using our garden as a cut-through to the beach instead of walking further down the road? Is he a neighbour? Why do strangers around here feel like they can just wander onto someone’s property? I wonder if it’s because the house is empty half the time.
I retreat into the house, shaking from the adrenaline and shock. I race through the kitchen, into the living room and up the glass stairs. Jamie is still fast asleep.
‘Jamie!’ I shake him awake. It’s nearly 11 a.m. now, unheard of for Jamie to still be asleep at this time.
His eyes open straight away and he sits up, looking about him in shock. ‘W— what’s going on?’
I fill him in through halting breaths.
‘Maybe he’s a neighbour, there’s another house a quarter of a mile or so away. Ring Philip …’ He falls back against the pillows, looking exhausted.
‘Are you OK?’ Jamie’s normally an early riser; even at weekends he’s up long before me, tinkering with his laptop or out for a run with Ziggy. He’s untidy and disorganised but he never likes lounging around in bed during the day. His hair is standing up on end, he has bags under his eyes and his skin is pale, with beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and dampening his fringe.
‘I feel really sick and groggy. Like I’ve got a hangover. My mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.’
‘Nice,’ I laugh. Then I frown. ‘You didn’t drink much last night.’ I touch his forehead; his skin feels hot and clammy under my fingers.
‘My head is killing me. I’m going to stay here for a bit if you don’t mind, Libs.’ He pulls the duvet up around his chin and turns over with a groan.
‘Do you want me to get you anything? Painkillers? Water?’ I say, concerned.
He grunts a no from under the covers so I leave him to it, trying to ignore the anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d picked at my food last night, and I hadn’t touched the sausages, or the beers he’d been drinking. They’d been sealed, straight from the fridge. I wonder if they’d been off. Or maybe he’s coming down with a bug. I’ve known Jamie for nearly five years and in all that time he’s only been ill once after too much to drink.
I return to the kitchen, pour some granola into a bowl and perch on one of the bar stools to eat it. I try calling Philip, not expecting him to pick up, suspecting he’s at the hospital with his daughter. As predicted it goes straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message; instead I stare at the phone in my hand, debating whether I should have bothered him.
I potter about the kitchen for a while, but the quietness unnerves me so I fiddle with the knobs on the radio again. I’ve already tried to fathom how it works but I can never manage to tune in to a station; instead it emits white noise and, irritated, I turn it off.
I have a view over the garden from the sink as I wash my mug and, as I glance up, my stomach flips. The same man as earlier is walking through our garden. I tap on the window with my knuckles but he ignores me, strolling down the side of the house. I hurry to the front door just in time to see him rounding the corner of our driveway and heading to the lane beyond. I call after him but it’s too late, he’s gone.
I’m furious as I head back into the kitchen and I try Philip’s mobile again. This time he picks up.
‘Hello,’ he barks. He sounds irritated, as though my call has interrupted something important; it’s at odds with the soft way he’d spoken to me the other day.
‘Philip Heywood? It’s Libby Elliot … I mean Hall. I’m staying in your house.’
‘Libby.’ His voice immediately softens, although he seems distracted as he asks how things are going at the house.
‘Great …’ An image of the dead animals and his surveillance equipment flashes through my mind. I feel as though I know too much about him, as if I’ve eavesdropped on an intimate conversation between him and his wife. What has he gleaned about us by staying in our flat? That we can be slovenly, that we’re not successful or rich, that our lives, in fact, are opposite to theirs? I swallow. ‘Erm, it’s just that a man keeps coming into the garden, I think he’s using it as an access to the beach.’ I describe the man from this morning, even though I’m not sure if it’s the same man as yesterday.
‘Oh that’s just Jim, a neighbour. Ignore him. He’s a bit of an oddball, always out looking for fossils or trying to spot marine life.’ He laughs. ‘He keeps an eye on the place when we’re not there and we let him use our access as he can’t get to the beach from his bungalow. He’s not very good at minding his own business.’ He laughs again but it sounds forced. ‘Listen. I’m glad you called actually. There’s been a change of plan …’ He hesitates. ‘My daughter is coming out of hospital earlier than we expected.’ He sounds rushed now and there’s an edge to his voice. ‘I know, I know, it’s great news. So we’ll be going back to our place in London tonight, tomorrow at the latest. I’ll leave the key with your neighbour, shall I?’
London? I frown into the phone. So why would they need to go to a Bath hospital for the heart operation if they live in a huge city like London? I feel myself blush at the thought that he obviously can’t wait to hotfoot it out of our flat.
‘That must be a huge relief,’ I say. ‘I’m so glad your daughter is getting better. I hope the flat’s been OK?’ My uneasiness makes me gabble.
‘Excellent, thanks. Great for the hospital. Please don’t rush to leave our house though. I’ve arranged for the cleaners to come in on Saturday, so stay until then if you like. Just drop the key back at the petrol station on your way home. Thanks again … Libby.’ He accentuates my name, as though trying it out. And then the phone goes dead.
I stare at it, perplexed. Could his daughter really have made a miraculous recovery after a life-saving heart operation? And if they leave our flat, how can we stay here? It’s supposed to be a swap. Then it crosses my mind that he might be lying to me and has found somewhere more salubrious to go. That must be it – otherwise there’s a lot that doesn’t make any sense at all.
9
I’m relieved when Jamie says he doesn’t want to leave, because
I don’t either. Not really. I’ll miss the house. I’ll miss living like Tara.
‘It’s only Wednesday. Our agreement was until Saturday. I don’t care that they want to go before then, that’s their decision,’ he says from between the covers. He looks strangely feminine in the Heywoods’ four-poster bed amongst all that white muslin, like some New Romantic from the 1980s.
‘Is it a bit weird though?’ I ask, settling on the edge of the mattress. ‘If we’re still here and they aren’t in our flat? It’s not exactly a straightforward swap then, is it?’
‘I don’t care,’ he groans. ‘I feel really rubbish, Libs, can you leave me in peace?’ He tugs the duvet up over his head so only a crop of fair hair pokes out the top.
‘Charming,’ I say mildly, getting up and going to the dressing room. I never did unpack our suitcase, knowing my clothes would look shabby hung up next to Tara’s like poor relations. I pull a denim dress over my head and push my feet into a pair of Birkenstocks. When I leave the room, I make sure to close the door loudly behind me, annoyed that Jamie isn’t planning to get up, that a precious day of our holiday will be wasted.
But by the time I reach the kitchen to give Ziggy his breakfast, guilt gnaws at my insides. Jamie isn’t a layabout. He must really feel unwell to still be in bed. The day stretches out in front of me, long and dull. We’ve hardly spent any time alone since Jamie became a freelance consultant and I’d ruined the day before worrying about intruders.
I’m on my hands and knees, rifling through their small stack of DVDs in a wicker box by the TV, thinking that I’ll kill two hours watching a film. But there’s nothing I fancy that we haven’t already seen before, and the others are either French erotica or full-on horror. Not my kind of thing at all.
When I hear the clunk of the letterbox I freeze and Ziggy starts barking manically, charging towards the front door. I get up to follow. The postman must have been as a few envelopes dangle from the letterbox. ‘All right, Ziggy, quieten down,’ I say, pushing past him to grab the post. There isn’t much. A few fliers; one for a new restaurant opening up locally and another for an arts fair in the next town. There’s also a glossy brochure from a Scandinavian company I’ve never heard of. I flick through the pages as I wander into the kitchen and sit at the dining table, immersed in the brochure. I want everything in it, the sofas, the dining tables, the chairs, but the prices are astronomical. I close the book, feeling despondent.
Ziggy is turning circles in the kitchen, a sign he needs the loo. ‘Come on, Zigster, let’s go for a walk.’ I clip the lead onto his collar. I know Jamie doesn’t like me taking Ziggy out by myself with one arm in a cast – Ziggy’s large even for a golden retriever and is more than strong enough to pull me over if he became startled. But the prospect of going for a walk on that lonely beach by myself is unbearable. And I feel an urgent need to get out of the house. As beautiful as it is, there is something unrelaxing about being in someone else’s home with nothing to do but lie on their pristine sofa, worrying that even my body touching it will leave a mark. At home I’m always so busy: working, marking papers, writing reports, preparing lesson plans, washing, tidying, cooking, cleaning. I thought I’d love just ‘being’, no demands upon my time, no interruptions, but – and I hate to admit it even to myself – I’m slightly bored.
At weekends Jamie and I usually take a stroll into Bath or along the canal. We browse the boutiques or galleries, gaze at the artwork that we can never afford. At home we are always surrounded by people going about their daily lives, not necessarily interacting with us but they are there. I never knew how lonely it would feel being this isolated. Maybe it reminds me too much of my childhood, stuck in that village with nobody but my father for company. I was cut off from everyone back then. Friends didn’t bother with me, boys never asked me out because everyone knew I always had to look after my dad. The only people I ever saw were the same group of youths on the green opposite our house, drinking cider and smoking, hanging around the swings and spraying graffiti on the nearby garages. The sort of teenagers in hoodies that you would cross the road to avoid. The ASBOs, my dad called them. He would hurl abuse at them when he staggered home, drunk. Once, in retaliation, they sprayed graffiti on our front door, a crude drawing of a penis. They were harmless enough though. They could’ve beaten my dad to a pulp, but they never did.
I go out the front door instead of opening the bifolds up again, as I’m unsure how to lock them from the outside. ‘Now, you need to be good,’ I tell Ziggy in a stern voice as we head out. ‘No running off, I’ve only got one good arm, remember. And you’ve got to come back when I call you.’ Ziggy stands by my side, head cocked, looking at me with his brown eyes as though he can understand everything I’m saying.
The weather is unpredictable; one minute I can feel the sun on my back, the next the sky darkens and the temperature abruptly drops. I feel a little apprehensive about seeing Jim lurking about and am relieved when there is no sign of him. As I descend the steps to the beach I wonder, idly, where this Jim lives. I remember passing a few detached homes along the lane before we reached the Hideaway the other day – I can see the backs of some of them from the beach – but they are few and far between, broken up by green vegetation and the jutting cliff’s edge. Could it have been him who I’d seen watching us yesterday?
Sylvia would no doubt say I’m having delusions brought on by the stress of the fire. She usually has an answer for everything.
I let Ziggy off his lead and watch as he bounds across the beach. I follow, the wind whistling in my ears, the sea roaring. I’ve never been to Cornwall before, let alone the Roseland Peninsula, but, from what I’ve seen of it so far, it’s beautiful. As I stand breathing in the fresh sea air, I feel guilty for my earlier thoughts of boredom. We’re lucky to be having this holiday.
Ziggy dashes towards the shore, his tongue lolling, his ears fanned back, his legs kicking up sand. I pick my way across the beach, stepping over stringy wet seaweed and rock pools, feeling exposed, the only one here. Thank goodness I have Ziggy with me. He had been Katie’s. She’d bought him as a puppy, despite everyone advising her against it – Katie isn’t known for being responsible. But, headstrong as always, she refused to listen and brought the puppy home to her studio flat in the centre of Bath. She called him Zippy and treated him like a baby. But as he started to grow so did her doubts, until eventually, sick of not being able to stay out late, or sleep over at mates’ houses, she told Jamie that she was going to take Zippy to the dogs’ home. Jamie was incensed. I’d never seen him so angry with her; she’s usually got him wrapped around her dainty, French-manicured little finger.
‘We can’t have the dog,’ I had said when he got home that evening and told me all about it, knowing that’s what he was angling for. ‘We live in a flat too, Jay.’
‘The garden …’
‘Which,’ I’d interjected, ‘belongs to Evelyn, not us.’
‘She might let us use it.’ He looked hopeful.
I made a noise through my teeth. ‘She might but I’d feel bad about asking her. It’s not fair to put her in that position. I’m sure she wouldn’t really like a dog shitting all over her grass and would be too polite to say.’
‘I don’t know why,’ he said in a voice that wouldn’t have been out of place on a sulky teenager. ‘It’s not like anyone would ever notice. Her garden’s a bloody eyesore. I’ve offered to mow the grass but she won’t hear of it.’ He had his fists clenched by his sides and he looked like he was going to cry. I loved the fact that he was a big softy at heart. I’d seen him try to hide his tears at animal programmes on the TV. ‘I can’t let her give the dog away,’ he said in a small voice, running his hands through his mop of unruly hair. ‘That dog’s become a member of the family.’
I went to him and put my arms around his waist. ‘Oh, Jay.’ He had to lean over quite a way to rest his head on my shoulder.
Of course I gave in. We were all smitten with the dog. So Zippy – or Ziggy as Jamie renam
ed him – came to live with us. ‘I can’t let the poor dog be called Zippy,’ he laughed, but really it was just because he’d always entertained the idea of naming a pet after his hero, David Bowie. That was over two years ago now and neither of us can imagine our lives without him.
Jamie. My heart aches for him as I stroll along the beach. I miss trying to keep pace with his long strides, the feel of his warm hand in mine. I have to try to stop being so jumpy, so paranoid, and enjoy what’s left of this holiday. I know it would make Jamie so happy if I went to his mother for help, and part of me would love to ask Sylvia about my symptoms and whether I am suffering from PTSD, but I know I never can; it would turn into a therapy session and she might extract more from me than I’m ready to give.
I stop to look up at the Hideaway, at the full-length windows and the round tower. Jamie’s in there, lying in bed feeling awful. I need to make sure he’s OK.
I call Ziggy, who’s prancing about on the edge of the shore, splashing about in the cold water, and we head back towards the house.
Just as I’m walking up the stone steps, I feel a presence and glance up to see Jim standing over me, a stern look on his face. I stop, my heart pounding. ‘Christ,’ I say, instinctively cradling my broken arm, ‘you gave me a fright.’
‘Who are you?’ he growls in a strong local accent. He has binoculars around his neck and his weathered face is screwed up in annoyance. He’s leaning on a cane, flat cap pulled over his eyes, and I notice there’s a bald spot on the felt collar of his tweed jacket.
‘Me?’ I can feel myself bristling. Bloody cheek. ‘I’m Libby. I’m staying at the Hideaway for the week. With my husband, Jamie.’
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