Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

  It was after half past nine when she finally persuaded Richie out of the pub, bidding fond farewells to Tom, promising to hook up with him the following day. He drove unnervingly down the narrow streets, filled with chatting holidaymakers, towards the hotel. They made the dining room at nine fifty-five.

  ‘We are still serving but we’re out of nearly everything nice,’ said the teenage waitress dubiously.

  ‘Bugger it,’ Richie said loudly, making Grace cringe in embarrassment. ‘Let’s go to the chippie. After all, we’re at the seaside. Kiss me quick and all that.’ He chortled loudly and Grace cringed again.

  So they ate fish and chips in silence on a bench looking over the harbour. Grace savoured the tang of vinegar on her lips, the hot lumps of cod moving down her throat. She’d been imagining this as a romantic moment but – as usual – food was the only thing she could rely on.

  ‘A cheeky half?’ asked Richie, balling up his newspaper and aiming it at the bin, which it missed by at least a foot.

  ‘I really think we should get back now,’ Grace replied.

  ‘Eh? All right then. Lady knows best.’

  The hotel was quiet as they walked across the lobby. The smiley girl on the desk waved at them.

  ‘Beautiful night,’ Richie slurred. Grace’s face flamed in embarrassment.

  Entering the room she saw her little suitcase on the bed and felt a pang of pathos. But Richie had other things on his mind, in the form of the mini bar.

  ‘I know these things cost the earth,’ he mumbled, surveying the contents greedily. ‘But I have to toast your beauty.’

  ‘I think you’ve had enough, Richie.’

  ‘I think you’ve had enough, Richie,’ he mimicked cruelly. ‘Come on. We’re on holiday. I deserve a little fun.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. She went into the bathroom and took a long look at herself in the mirror. This might be her only chance.

  She brushed her teeth, washed her face, reapplied a bit of powder and blusher to make herself look better. Then she undressed and pulled the nightie over her head. It slid down her back like icy water. Maybe she was being too hard on Richie. They were on holiday of sorts – his job was very stressful and he simply wanted to unwind a bit. The forecast was good for tomorrow and there’d be plenty of time then for ferry rides and walking.

  She emerged shyly, almost trembling, from the bathroom.

  Richie was fast asleep in the armchair by the window, snoring slightly, a little trail of dribble halfway down his chin.

  Grace looked at him for a second, then turned off the main light – through the window, she gave a quick longing glance at the estuary outside, drew the thick curtains and climbed into bed. She didn’t cry, she didn’t allow herself to feel anything at all. In the dark, she fumbled for her bag and took out the family-sized bar of Dairy Milk she’d hidden there for emergencies. Deftly, she peeled back the shiny silver paper and broke off a chunk of chocolate. Silently, she devoured the lot, as Richie snored in his chair.

  27

  Max was dithering. He’d wait a day before he called Karen, he decided. He’d say he was up to his eyes this week, but maybe the one after. Over the weekend he’d met up with Heather, who was tearful and bitter, accusing him of wasting her time, and who’d hit the roof when Karen had called in the middle of things, accusing him of already moving on to another woman – whose heart he was no doubt breaking too. Max had denied it, but of course she’d been spot on.

  So today he was filled with recriminations. Messing with a married woman was dangerous. It could only end in pain. For both of them. The evenings they’d snatched in his flat had been like a dream, almost too blissful to be true, but he had to regard things objectively. Good sex always turned your head. And that was all it was – good sex.

  He’d heard the slight shock in Karen’s voice when he’d been cool to her on the phone. It had upset him at the time, and he’d wanted to call her back as soon as he’d left angry Heather in the bar. But outside in the bracing spring air he decided he’d done the right thing. Sunday too, he’d refrained from calling her, texting her, deciding it was cruel to be kind. He needed to back away. Not too quickly, because that way he might shatter what was clearly a fragile heart. But not too slowly, because then things might get even more serious. Anyway, he’d end things. And then he’d join the Foreign Legion.

  Except now his mind was full of images of Karen. Her dark, slightly slanted eyes with the thick brows – Max had a thing about eyebrows. Her porcelain skin. Her dark curly hair. That tiny, slender body with the voluptuous breasts. He thought about her sly smile and the funny things she said. He felt so desperately sorry for her, being married to that arsehole. There was something about Karen, some quality Heather and the others didn’t have, that made him want to look after her.

  Suddenly Max didn’t think he could wait to see her. After all, it wasn’t as if she could be in it for anything more than a fling – she was married, had children, was about to move to the country. She didn’t want anything from him, unlike Heather and the others, who’d been very clear it was a ring on the finger after six months or adios. So he’d see her again, they’d have more mind-blowing sex, he’d be very careful what he said and then he’d start slowly extracting himself.

  Dear Gwen,

  Thanks so much for your email and the lovely pictures of the girls. Tessa walking! How wonderful! I got back from the seaside last night. Gorgeous weather and the hotel was so smart I felt quite out of place! In the end, I came back without Richie as I was worrying about the dogs and felt on Sunday morning I should hurry home. Even though it involved catching three buses the wait between them was not long and I very much enjoyed watching the Devon scenery unroll from the windows.

  Now it’s Monday morning and I’m getting back to work. We have a date for exchange now, so you can imagine how busy I am going to be. Hope you are all thriving, Can’t wait to come and see you all when things are less hectic.

  G xxx

  Verity was calling her from Mummy’s bedroom.

  ‘Grace! Grace! Are you there? I’m making fantastic progress with the jewellery. I’ve got a keep, chuck, sell and to-be-decided pile. We need to start going through it. I have to say there are some gorgeous pieces here. You and I are going to have a bit of a fight on our hands, I think.’

  Grace felt numb. She didn’t care any more. Let Verity take the jewellery, let the house be sold. She’d come back from Salcombe on her own after Richie had woken up on Sunday morning and announced that his head was a bit sore and how about a hair of the dog to perk himself up?

  The scales had fallen from her eyes. She’d sobbed all the way home on the various buses, thanking God for her sunglasses. A taxi took her the last leg to her front door. The dogs went wild when they arrived at Lou’s house to collect them.

  ‘At least I’ll always have you,’ she told them on the way home.

  She pushed open the bedroom door. Verity was admiring herself in the mirror, Mum’s gold chain, the one that had always been Grace’s particular favourite, around her neck.

  ‘Look, say if you’re mad keen on this. I’m not going to deprive you of any sentimental favourites. Of course if anything’s really valuable we’ll have to auction it.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Grace said.

  ‘Oh, get down, Silvester. These dogs are totally out of control. Makes me appreciate the children more. At least they can tell you they love you and they don’t have little accidents on the carpet.’

  ‘The dogs are house-trained,’ Grace said indignantly.

  ‘Well, Shackleton’s not doing a very good job. He left a little puddle in the hall downstairs. And a little present on the front steps. I didn’t clean it up because it was a bit bloody and I thought you should have a look at it.’

  ‘A bit bloody?’

  ‘Yes. Constipated I should think.’

  Grace ran downstairs and outdoors to inspect. Verity was right. There was definitely blood in Shackleton’s little offering. A clammy hand s
eized her heart. She was going to have to call the vet.

  ‘Karen? It’s Max.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘I… Can I see you?’

  She’d been sitting at her desk, practising her speech about how it had been great fun but it was just one of those things. That odd, frosty conversation they’d had on Saturday had brought her to her senses. She was crazy, she was risking her marriage, everything, for a young guy who didn’t even care about her that much. She’d end it.

  But then hearing him now, his voice was so sexy. He was so sexy. Ignore it, Karen. Tell him.

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘Not this week. I… Things are frantic here. But maybe next week.’ Good, that gave her breathing space. After all, he’d caught her on the hop just now. She hadn’t fully decided what to say.

  ‘Next week?’ He sounded hurt. She felt terrible. Karen!

  ‘I’ll text you. Got to go now, Max.’

  Damn. She doesn’t want to see me now. Come on Max, it’s a good thing. You’d just decided you had to end things and now you’re practically begging her… But she sounded so cold. Has she gone off me?

  Max needed to know that that wasn’t the case. He called her back.

  ‘This is Karen Drake. I can’t answer your call right now but please leave a message…’

  ‘I… uh. Please let me know when you can see me. It’s Max. By the way. Um. ‘Bye.’

  Karen had another near sleepless night. She didn’t know what to do. She’d dived blissfully into this affair – kidding herself it was just a diversion, something to cheer herself up, something that no one else need ever know about. But already, she realized how naive she had been. Either way she was going to come badly out of this. Either she lost Max – and that would break her heart. Or she’d lose Phil.

  But that last bit had happened anyway, she thought, rolling on her side to watch him in the moonlight that crept through the curtains. His mouth was slightly open, his eye mask was on – Phil had read that it was best to sleep with an eye mask because it increased the body’s supply of melatonin, which was apparently a cancer fighter.

  She’d lost him and he’d lost her. She knew that every time he looked at her he saw his disease reflected back and he couldn’t stand it. She was too closely connected to his suffering for there to be any intimacy any more. The thing they both hated most in the world was the only thing they still had in common.

  Apart from the girls. Whom they both adored. Worshipped.

  Those girls should be more than enough to bind any two people together. But were they? Karen’s dad obviously hadn’t felt that way, he’d been off like a cork from a champagne bottle. Karen had never forgiven him, even though she could acknowledge that life with her manipulative, slightly deranged mother must have been hell. But now, more than half a lifetime on, she began to see where he’d been coming from. How he might not have been able to bear it any longer.

  But Karen couldn’t leave her girls. And with them Max wouldn’t want her. She could leave Phil anyway, but could she really face life as a single parent? She could, actually, she could face the day-in, day-out slog, but what about the girls, adjusting to a dad they saw only at weekends? She couldn’t do it to them.

  No. This wouldn’t do. She had to clear her head. Lying there as the dawn crept in and Phil muttered softly, enjoying some dream, she came to a sudden decision. She wouldn’t go to work today. Karen never called in sick; Christine would automatically assume she was bunking off for sports day. But now it was time to cash in her chips, payback for all the years she’d covered for Sophie’s hangovers.

  She’d drive to Devon.

  She arrived at Chadlicote around two. She had started the drive listening to Radio 1 but just after Swindon she switched to Radio 4. This getting with the kids stuff was ridiculous, she needed to start acting her age again. The traffic was sparse on the motorway, but when she came off at Totnes she began to feel less comfortable. The first road she took was fine, although it seemed to be jammed with over-sixty-fives doing 40 m.p.h. and braking whenever the fancy took them. But that was followed by a twisty B road with high bramble hedges that the sides of the Volvo kept scraping, and terrifying blind corners.

  Karen hated driving at the best of times; she had dreadful spatial awareness and anyway – her handy excuse – it was terrible for the environment. But if she was seriously going to live here, she’d have to master this route. Gritting her teeth, she carried on down an even narrower, twistier road where you had to reverse for yards if you met a car coming the other way. She managed to spot the turning for the house, hidden between high trees. Up the long potholed drive, past the lake, round a tight bend, and Chadlicote came into view. For a tiny second, Karen was seduced by its near-perfect symmetry. How could she not want to live here?.

  She jumped as her mobile started ringing in its cradle. She’d thought the whole of the West Country was a communications black hole. She pulled in and, seeing Max’s number on the caller ID, felt her whole body tingle as if she’d been given a huge electric shock.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Karen, it’s Max again. I know I’m hassling you, but…’ The line started to crackle.

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘It’s…’ She couldn’t hear a word.

  ‘Max,’ she shouted. ‘Max! I can’t hear you.’

  The line went dead. Sodding country where you couldn’t get a signal. For some reason this was the last straw. Head reeling, suddenly knocked over with exhaustion, Karen leaned forward to rest her forehead on the steering wheel.

  There was a sharp rapping on her back window. Karen screamed. She whirled round in her seat. The gentle, unassuming face of Grace Porter-Healey peered through the window.

  ‘Hello,’ she smiled.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ Karen hastily rolled down the window. ‘I… I was in the area looking at schools for the girls and I couldn’t resist a peek.’

  ‘You should have knocked on the door.’

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you. And anyway, isn’t it meant to be sort of unprofessional to talk to the person you’re buying from? I thought we were only allowed to talk through the agents.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Grace said. The tip of her nose was bright red. She’d look so much better with just a little make-up, Karen thought. ‘But I don’t think we should concern ourselves too much about that. Why don’t you come in? Have a cup of tea? And a biscuit.’

  ‘Oh, no, really. I… I ought to be getting back to London.’

  ‘Not without something to fuel you for the journey. Come on. I insist.’

  Karen was defeated. She had no desire to sit making polite conversation with Grace Porter-Healey about how marvellous the Women’s Institute was, but at the same time she was dying for the loo. And the thought of the drive back to London without a cup of tea was daunting. Of course she could try to find a service station somewhere but in this god-forsaken hole it might take hours. Plus, she told herself, why not have another look at the house? Perhaps it would be better than she remembered.

  ‘Climb in,’ she said to Grace. ‘I’ll drive you there.’

  Twenty minutes later, Grace and Karen were sitting in the second sitting room – nursing china cups of tea. The sun had turned out to be merely passing trade: as they’d approached the house the sky had darkened and the rain began lashing down. From over the hills, towards the coast, came the sound of rumbling thunder.

  ‘I think I’d get a bit frightened alone here when it’s like this,’ said Karen. ‘Do you mind it?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t been alone here for that long. My mother only died at the end of January.’

  ‘God, I’m sorry.’ Karen ran her hand through her short hair. She looked tired, less polished than last time Grace had seen her. ‘I’m so tactless. You must miss your mum a lot.’

  ‘I do. And I don’t. It was very hard towards the end, you know.’

  ‘It must have been. She had…?’

  ‘Motor neurone disease.’
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  ‘Ah. I don’t know much about that. But my husband had cancer, as he told you. It’s hard being a carer, isn’t it? At least, it was for me. I take my hat off to the people who do it uncomplainingly. Invalids aren’t always as grateful as you’d like, in my experience.’

  ‘Mine too,’ Grace said.

  And they were off. Grace, apart from the odd aside to Lou, had kept buttoned up about how frustrating it had been to be at her mother’s increasingly whimsical beck and call. But suddenly she couldn’t stop talking.

  Karen understood. ‘But if you feel sorry for yourself, you feel terrible because of course you’re not seriously ill, so really you have nothing to complain about.’

  There was another crash of thunder. ‘I did feel very isolated, very often,’ Grace confessed. ‘And I still do now. I didn’t have time to make friends all those years I was so busy with Mummy. It will be different for you when you move here. You’re a mother. You’ll get to know the other mothers from the girls’ school.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Karen said, sounding unconvinced. She took a sip of tea and then suddenly burst into tears. Big, sloppy glug-glug ones, like a plughole draining.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she gulped as one dripped into her tea. ‘I’m so embarrassed. Sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Grace. She shoved a box of tissues under Karen’s nose. ‘Here.’

  ‘I’m just… please don’t take offence at this but I really don’t want to move here. I mean, I know the house is beautiful and so is the countryside but… I’ve been a country mouse and I don’t want to go back there.’

  And now she was off, pouring her heart out about how this was all Phil’s idea and she felt she couldn’t let him down because he’d been so ill. Grace listened.