Life in Weymouth had certainly changed since her last visit.
The kettle clicked off and Victoria made the coffee. It was an archaic way to produce a hot drink. Her coffee machine was sleek, efficient and fast.
Frank did not have to live like this. Victoria would have given her parents whatever they wanted. She’d offered to buy them a house overlooking the sea at Bowleaze: she’d asked her father to choose a four by four, but he’d refused, preferring his faithful five door hatchback, and she’d suggested paying for a cleaner to visit the bungalow twice a week to free up her mother’s time, but Iris was appalled at the idea. They were happy with their little home, fronting onto Lodmoor marsh. If they went into the loft, they had a sea view. If there had been a window.
Grabbing her mug from the side, Victoria wandered into the living room and sat down. The peculiarity of idleness was waning. Five minutes, and then she’d carry out her research. Her father’s computer was old, but workable. She sipped her coffee. When was the last time she spent an entire evening watching television? It must have been in her teens. That shocked her. She tried to recall where she was and what she had been watching.
It was shortly after she’d moved into her cottage and Juliette was staying with her. They were celebrating their first weekend of independence, with crumpets for tea, and the Antiques Roadshow on TV. Juliette joked about hidden treasures in the cottage and how they shouldn’t throw paraphernalia away without running it past Mum.
They never did find a secret stash.
What a strange race we are, Victoria thought. We’re surrounded by technology, with incredible advances being made by the day and yet we want to know the value of our old pieces of tat. How on earth do we manage to advance when we cling so desperately to the past?
Her logic unsettled her. She was as guilty as the next person when it came to examining the past for clues to the present. Even when she was married to Ben, she fantasised about Chris. It was adulterous, but she couldn’t stop herself. The dreams evolved from her analysing why Chris chose Hollywood over her. She hadn’t learned from them. All she knew was it hurt.
She clasped the mug to her breast. If she’d understood that life was precious, why had she pulled the plug on reality?
‘Where’s Pops?’
Victoria spun round as Seth’s question broke the silence. He was so small.
‘I want Pops.’ He remained in the doorway. ‘There’s a dragon in my room.’
Victoria raised her brow. ‘A dragon? I don’t think so.’
Seth’s eyes widened into saucers, and his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. ‘There is.’ He stood rooted to the spot.
Victoria hoisted herself up and approached him. She saw the dark stains of tear tracks running from the corner of his eyes to his chin. ‘We need to wash your face and get you back into bed.’ She put her hands on the tops of his arms and rotated him to face the bathroom. ‘March.’ His resistance pushed into her palms. ‘Seth. Bathroom. Now.’ She applied a gentle pressure as encouragement, but he refused to move.
‘There’s a dragon in my bedroom.’
‘Seth. Dragons aren’t real and if they were, they wouldn’t fit in this tiny bungalow.’ She peered over his head. His pyjama top was still skew-whiff, his trousers helter skeltered around his legs, and his big, hazel eyes were gathering swell. She relaxed her hands and felt him take a deep, shuddering breath.
It wasn’t unreasonable to assume Seth had a virtual world – Victoria had one, and until recently, it had been her escape, but maybe Seth’s was a universe where dragons were the fiercest creatures ever. She released her hold, stepped in front of him and crouched. ‘Would you like to stay up for a while?’ As she was discovering, it was good to take time out from the virtual world.
He nodded.
‘Okay. Shall I see if Pops has any hot chocolate?’ That worked for Victoria when she was a child.
‘Yes. Please.’
She didn’t show it, but Victoria’s heart performed a somersault.
With their mugs on the coffee table, Victoria and Seth occupied opposite ends of the same sofa, and settled down to watch a cartoon about a talking bear. It made little sense to Victoria, but it was gentle, and there was nothing in it resembling a dragon. Five minutes after finishing his drink, Seth was asleep.
Victoria watched him and a sense of peace washed over her. ‘Definitely can’t buy that,’ she said, pulling her duvet from the air bed. She laid it over Seth, stepped away, and smiled. She had put her son to bed.
The old Victoria would argue the sofa was not a bed, but the old Victoria wouldn’t have spent thirty minutes with her son, trying to understand Little Bear.
However, the old Victoria would collect as much information as possible on a condition about which she knew nothing and which Seth might or might not have.
She headed for the computer. ‘Right, child attachment disorder. Let’s get acquainted.’
Chapter Nine
At some point during the night, having carried Seth to his bed, Victoria removed herself from the spongy air mattress, and settled on the sofa.
She was disturbed by a rush of cool air hitting her face as the living room door opened and Frank strolled in.
‘Morning, sleepy head,’ he said. ‘Tea and toast?’
He proffered a mug and plate to Victoria, who pushed herself up and scrunched her hand through her disobedient curls.
‘Given up with the mattress?’
‘I had the fidgets. Couldn’t settle. Thanks, Dad.’ She took the breakfast items from him. ‘How was your wanton gambling?’
‘I came back with an empty wallet.’ He grinned and sat next to Victoria. ‘I did have a win on the two pence shove machine, but in a moment of recklessness, I ploughed it straight back in and lost the lot.’
Victoria grimaced. ‘You must quit when you’re ahead. I’ve told you that.’
Frank delivered a perfect expression of remorse. ‘If I’d listened to you, I’d have come home a whole three pound in profit.’ He grinned. ‘One day, Victoria, I’ll be rich beyond my wildest dreams. A millionaire. All in two pence pieces.’
‘If I sell my shares in EweSpeak, I can make you a millionaire now.’ Victoria saw sternness tighten her father’s face.
‘Oh, no.’ Frank shook his head. ‘I said I’d help, not be your get-out clause. If you think having money is a problem, you need to find a solution. I’m not it. What would I want with a million pounds? Besides, that cottage of yours is going to need a cash injection to get it up to standard. Surely it’s an acceptable investment.’ He tapped the duvet. ‘But I appreciate the offer. I know who to come to if I find myself in financial straits.’ His grin returned. ‘Last night’s loss does not constitute a financial strait.’ He rose from the sofa and left the room.
Victoria smiled. A good dad was worth his weight in gold.
He was right. It was going to take money and effort to refurbish the cottage. It needed a complete overhaul; re-plastering, re-wiring, re-plumbing, new windows and doors, new flooring – the list was endless – but her father’s suggestion of simply throwing cash at it grated on her. That was precisely what she was trying to avoid. She chewed on her toast while digesting the problem.
Perhaps compromise was the answer; after all, it was difficult to ignore the pound signs on her bank statements. She could get estimates for the essential repairs, such as electrics and heating, and set a budget to complete the rest of the work herself. There was no need to go on a spending spree. She could project manage, her dad was handy with a paintbrush, and Olivia had an eye for design. Surely between them, they could make the place habitable. They could tackle it one room at a time.
She kicked off the duvet, stood and rubbed her back, stiff from a restless night. Would the purchase of a new bed be considered frivolous?
As she
left the living room, she heard voices drifting from the kitchen. Her father and Seth were seated at the table, enjoying breakfast. Seth’s broad smile, aimed at his granddad, broke as he bit into a slice of toast.
‘There you are. I thought you must still be in bed,’ Victoria said. ‘Good sleep?’
Seth nodded as he picked up his beaker of milk.
An acknowledgement. Don’t overreact. ‘I guess I should take a shower and get dressed. I can’t remember the last time I was in my pyjamas this late in the morning.’ She ambled towards the bathroom. ‘I’m thinking of making it a habit.’
After a luxurious half an hour of pampering, Victoria borrowed Seth’s room in which to dress. Her morning showers were the place her working day commenced. Many problems were solved under hot running water, and plans were often hatched as she dried herself down, but today she had made the unprecedented move of permitting herself thirty minutes of not thinking. It hadn’t been easy. In fact, it had been impossible with pages of facts and figures about child attachment disorder fighting for recognition.
Last night’s research had been an eye opener. So much of it made sense. So much of it explained Seth’s behaviour. And so much of it was down to Victoria.
She threw back the lid of her suitcase. How was this not thinking? What she required was a power-off switch, like her computers.
She took a long blink, pretending to reset her system. ‘Focus on something else.’
Rifling through her clothes, she pulled out a fresh pair of Stella McCartney jeans, and her most expensive Milly cardigan; it was rusty-red, embellished with black beads around the neckline, and it fitted her beautifully. She gave the clothes a gentle shake and proceeded to dress.
The door pushed against her and Seth walked in.
‘What are you doing?’ He sat on the lower bunk and swung his legs.
Victoria covered her top half with her cardigan. She wasn’t used to an audience. She was even less used to Seth asking questions. ‘Dressing,’ she said. ‘Then I’m heading off to the cottage. Would you like to come?’
‘Would I see Livia?’
‘I don’t know. The shop might be closed today.’
Seth’s expression darkened. ‘I want to see Livia.’
Seeing the rapid degeneration of his mood, Victoria sat next to Seth, and accessed her mental notes, gleaned from the Internet. Your child is fighting for control. Never belittle or dismiss his feelings. Don’t take the abuse personally. Clear, well-defined instructions. All Victoria had to do was apply them.
She relaxed her jaw. ‘You’d like to see Olivia. That’s nice.’ She cringed at her choice of words and waited for the backlash. When nothing came, she cautioned the tiny moth of excitement fluttering inside to avoid the extinguishing light. ‘What would you like to do if Olivia’s not in?’
‘Go home.’
‘To the cottage?’
‘No.’ Seth’s foot kicked out. ‘Home. With Aunty Joo.’
That wasn’t Seth’s home. Did he mean London? Rein it in, Victoria told herself. Apply the rules. Don’t take the abuse personally. See it from his point of view. ‘Change is scary, isn’t it?’ She honed in on her buttons, and waited for a reply. From the corner of her eye she saw Seth freeze, his small body rigid, his mouth the only moving part.
‘I want my house and I want my friends.’
Victoria’s moth buzzed and plunged to the ground. ‘Moving down here is called a new start,’ she explained, as she slipped the bottom button through its slit. ‘You’ll see lots more of Pops, and we can get to know Olivia properly. And you can see your friend, Rick, again,’ she said, clutching at one weedy, dry straw. She wanted to add that she and Seth would have more time together, but doubted he’d see that as a positive. ‘How about we give it a try? For a short while. If we don’t like it once we’ve made the cottage nice, we’ll chat and decide what to do.’
Getting through to a four-year-old was a major stretch for Victoria, and her head was pounding. She’d managed one breakthrough in the last twelve hours, resolving the dragon problem, but that was a doddle compared to explaining why Seth had left his friends behind. And no matter how often she mentally reiterated the new advice, she took everything Seth said personally. It was ingrained. He said and did things to hurt her.
Her resolve was fading. Her son was unhappy, and she could settle this now. Assuming Cerys had recovered from the flu, all Victoria had to do was take Seth back to London, hand him over, and stay out of his way.
Victoria clamped her hands around her head, hoping the pressure would stop the incessant throbbing. It was pulsating with the power of a sub-woofer.
‘Okay.’
Seth’s voice startled Victoria and she looked at him. ‘Okay, we’ll stay for a while? Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes. I like Pops and Livia.’ Seth shuffled to the end of the bed, lifted the lid off the toy box, and busied himself raking through the contents.
His silence closed the conversation, and Victoria eased herself up from the bunk. ‘I’ll call you when I’m ready to go.’ She turned and crossed into the hall, surprised at the outcome, but relieved to be out of the room.
‘I don’t like the new house.’ Seth’s voice followed her into the passageway. ‘I don’t like the new house, and I don’t like you.’ He got up and pushed the door shut.
In quiet disbelief, Victoria gave a gentle nod. Apart from the banging headache, it had gone well.
Hate had been downgraded to don’t like.
The terraced cottage was grimmer than when Victoria had viewed it last. It was dark, dank, and dreary. As Seth darted upstairs, she breathed warm air onto her hands, and gave the ceiling a cursory glance. She wasn’t positive, but the stained section above the foot of the stairs appeared to be bulging. Did that mean water was still leaking? From the bath? Or from the immersion heater or the water tank, one located in a small cupboard on the landing, the other in the loft? It was hopeless speculating – she hadn’t a clue about these things.
What she did know was the place was going to cost thousands to make it anywhere near fit for human purpose.
‘Back to basics, Vicky,’ she muttered, reminding herself of her new outlook on life. ‘But where to start?’
When the EweSpeak office was refurbished, the first item she saw on site was a huge skip. She nodded in approval. ‘A skip it is. They can’t be that expensive.’ Searching for her mobile, she groped in her jacket pocket for a few seconds, then tutted as she recalled leaving it in London. She crouched on the bottom step. ‘Use your brains, girl.’ She sat still and silent for a moment, before smiling. ‘Olivia’s bound to know who can help.’
As far as Chris was concerned, the conservatory, with its natural light and panoramic view of the gardens and sea, was the best room in the entire castle. It was even more magnificent during dark, with the moon and stars for a ceiling.
He’d dragged the porter’s chair through from the entrance hall into the conservatory, and positioned it to the right of the terrace doors, where he’d spent a fair chunk of the night, trying to second-guess Tommy. He’d even formed strategies to deal with the fallout, should the news of Lacey’s HIV enter the public domain.
Tommy wasn’t known for being a drama queen, so the fact he’d taken the news so personally troubled Chris. When he married it to the way Tommy had declared his love for Lacey during the row in the office, an unpleasant taste bubbled up from his gut and smothered his tongue. It was bitter. Nasty. There was something in Tommy’s presentation that made Chris uncomfortable. ‘I loved Lacey,’ Tommy had said. Stated, in fact. And then he’d hesitated, as if he was considering qualifying his statement.
On many occasions, Lacey had expressed her fondness for Tommy, and openly admired his knack for getting things done. She concerned herself with his emotional well-being, too, asking Chris if Tommy ever s
poke about a special woman in his life. The question even cropped up once during their lovemaking.
Chris had thought nothing of it at the time, but if there was something more than friendship between Lacey and Tommy, that could explain Tommy’s reaction to her HIV.
Snapping shut his eyes, Chris denied the notion further access.
His main concern right now was for Rick, and he’d given serious consideration to telling him the truth. If it came from Chris, he had some control over what his son learned – or at least, he had control over the way in which the news was conveyed, and that meant there was room for damage limitation. But if Tommy blurted it out …
Aware of approaching footsteps, Chris opened his eyes and made out he’d just woken. He stretched his legs, flexed his arms, and yawned.
‘Are we eating?’ Rick strolled into the room. ‘It’s almost twelve. Has Tommy gone to the store?’
‘No, he’s hasn’t, but we can eat.’ Chris jumped out of the chair. ‘What do you fancy? Fish and chips?’
‘Fish and chips?’ Rick’s face narrowed with confusion. ‘The British have some weird food combos.’
Chris laughed. ‘Chips are what you know as fries, and what you call chips are called crisps. And while we’re on the subject, jelly is jam, and jello is jelly.’ He checked Rick’s expression once more, then waved a hand in the air. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. Anyway, there’s a fish restaurant not far from here. By the time we’re sorted, it should be open.’ He avoided mentioning Tommy. ‘We’ll take the beach route. I think I know how to find that entrance.’ Chris smiled. ‘All right?’
‘Yeah. All right.’
They left the conservatory, returning moments later wrapped in their jackets and hats.
‘How’s the jet lag?’ Chris asked.
Rick pulled on his gloves. ‘Okay. It’s my stomach that’s complaining. Is Tommy coming?’
Should Chris enshroud one lie with another to conceal the first? After two years of little conversation, Rick was talking, and Chris had no desire to cut across those fragile lines of communication.
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