“What about Patrick?” Mrs Dooley asked after a few moments of silence. Pippa had already decided to take the obvious route out of that one and lie. As Patrick was now technically an adult anyway, it didn’t really matter. Margaret had interviewed him several times over the years; most of that bloody file was probably made up of his sarcastic comments, police interaction and anger-management issues.
“He’s doing well, thank you. Had a little accident yesterday, but nothing serious. In fact he’s been doing some volunteer work in the community,” she said. Admittedly, he was forced into it after wrecking a war veteran’s home, but that seemed a petty thing to mention. All’s well that ends well.
“And he’s applying to agricultural college too,” she added. Just for luck. That one was at least kind of true.
“I see. Well, that is good news. And you, Pippa. How are you doing?”
Ah. Here it came, just like it always did. The part where Margaret Dooley’s little owl face went all serious and scrunchy, as she started to probe and poke and make sure Pippa was “coping with her challenges”. The part where her glasses were lowered and she stared at her with that earnest expression.
If only she knew how many challenges there were, Pippa thought. As usual, she smiled and assured her that everything was fine. Perfect. Lovely. She was the happiest, most capable person in the whole wide world. Assuming that everyone else was dead!
Margaret nodded, glasses wobbling, and closed the file quite abruptly. It made a kind of small thud and Pippa jumped at the sound. Nervous? Not at all.
“I couldn’t help but see the news, Pippa, about you and your gentleman friend. I wasn’t snooping – it has been all over the papers this morning, after all. Is there anything I should know?”
Pippa felt as if she’d swallowed a bullfrog and she screwed up her eyes to try and ward off a descending panic attack. She clenched her fists together so hard her nails started to cut into the soft flesh of her palms.
She’d known this might be coming. Margaret Dooley would have had to have been living on Mars to have missed out on Pippa’s new-found celebrity. She’d prepared a speech. Knew exactly what she was going to say. How she was going to explain that the papers had misinterpreted it; that she hadn’t actually invited a convicted violent criminal into the family home she shared with three young children…except, of course, that’s exactly what she had done. It just didn’t look so good in black and white.
She’d never felt any threat from Ben; never seen him as a violent man. All of her instincts had told her that he was a safe person to have around her children. And…well, they loved him. The irony was that while she’d given a lot of thought to that aspect of his continued presence in their lives, she’d missed out on the risk assessment about how he could potentially mess them up in different ways. Like forcing her to fall in love with him, working his way into the kids’ affections, then leaving at the first sign of commitment. Slight oversight, that.
“Um…” she said, realising that Mrs Dooley was still waiting for an answer. Bugger. Where was that speech she’d prepared? Had the bullfrog eaten it?
“Before you answer, Pippa, let me state for the record that you are perfectly entitled to a private life. Mr Retallick’s case is well known, and although I’ve never met the man personally, he has paid his debt to society. His conviction had no relation to child-protection issues, and as far as I am concerned you are mature enough to make your own decisions. If, however, the relationship reaches the stage where Mr Retallick would, for example, move into the family home, then he would need to come in here and be assessed, and also be present at future meetings. Does that sound fair?”
Fair. Yes. It sounded fair, thought Pippa. And also completely, totally, one hundred per cent irrelevant. Because Ben was gone – he was out of Cornwall, out of their lives and out of chances. The thought of going through all of this again – being questioned about her sex life by a middle-aged owl – made her feel sick.
“Thank you for that, Mrs Dooley. But I can assure you that isn’t going to happen. I can’t deny knowing Mr Retallick, but the stories in the newspapers are vastly exaggerated. He is no longer staying at Harte Farm and has returned to London – where I presume he will stay. He has had very limited contact with the children, and will, in future, have none at all.”
Okay, that was another lie, she thought, but one that God would definitely forgive her for. He had, of course, had a lot of contact with the children. So much so that Scotty was still crying for him this morning as she drove him to school. But the rest? That was true. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back.
Mrs Dooley nodded, not looking entirely convinced, but letting the subject drop.
“Then that’s fine, Pippa. I think that’s all for this time. I’ll see you again in three months, and as ever, if you need any help at all in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
Oh yeah, thought Pippa, standing to shake her hand, I’ll do that. I’ll call you at 3am when I’m still crying over my lost love, and I’ll ask you to pick the kids up from school when the car’s finally packed in, and I’ll tap you up for your credit card so I can pay the bloody vet’s bill. Not. In fact, she was determined never to ask anyone for help ever again – she’d started to depend on Ben, without even noticing it, and look where that had got her.
I’m better off alone, she thought, on the drive home. At least when I’m alone, I know what’s required of me, even if I don’t feel like I can do it all. I know that it’s me who has to fix the gatepost and muck out the animals and do the school run and look after the guests and try to remember the homework and everything else that needs to be ticked off a list.
It was a lot of stuff to manage – but as she now wouldn’t be spending half her day getting sumptuously sexed up, she’d have a lot more time on her hands. She’d let Ben get too close to all of them, take up too big a space in all their lives – and she had nobody to blame but herself.
It had to end – the tears, the self-pity, the weakness that swamped her when she thought about him. It had to end. Right now. Life went on after she lost her parents and life would go on after losing Ben.
This, she thought, jumping out of the Land Rover as she pulled up in the driveway, is the new me. Lone mama wolf, all the way. Alpha female. Leader of the pack. She even gave a little howl to cheer herself up as she went.
Sadly, the howl turned into a yelp as she noticed she wasn’t alone. Ben’s sleek Audi was parked down the side of the house and the man himself was perched on the fence, wearing the same walking boots and anorak he’d been wearing the first day he arrived. It felt like a lifetime ago. When she was a different person, a stronger person.
She froze as he jumped down from the fence and started to walk towards her. He was smiling, but seemed nervous. Tense. His fists were clenched at his sides and his hair was curling on his forehead, damp from the drizzle that had been falling all day. Summer had gone, in all kinds of ways.
By the time he reached her, Pippa had retreated all the way back to the Land Rover and was hovering by the door as though she was considering getting back in. Maybe she should, she thought. Get right back in, lock the doors against the love zombie attack and drive the hell out of Dodge. Funny how fast her feelings had changed. Not that long ago she’d wanted nothing more than to be back in his arms. Now she was scared. Angry. Wishing she had a “cloak of invisibility” she could wrap around herself.
She’d spent the drive home giving herself a pep talk that almost – almost – started to convince her that she was ready to go it alone – and stay alone. Which was a heck of a lot easier when you had no choice in the matter – and decidedly harder with the man himself standing in front of you, looking like he’d swallowed his own bullfrog.
Ben sensed her tension and stopped a few feet away, one hand reaching out towards her, drifting slowly in the empty space between them. She didn’t know whether she wanted to take hold and kiss it or stab it with a fork.
“Pippa,�
�� he said, simply. “We need to talk…”
This was it, he thought. Just do it. Don’t wait for the perfect moment – it might never arrive. Just tell her you’re sorry. Tell her you love her. Tell her you want to spend the rest of your life with her. Tell her you’ve never felt anything like this in your entire sorry existence and you never want it to end.
Except…her face. She looked different. Older, as though she’d aged a decade overnight. She was backing off as though she was terrified of him, as though she might run like a spooked puppy if he went any closer. Wow! He’d really done a number on her.
“No,” she said, straightening up, as though she realised how weak she looked, cowering by the car, and had made an active decision to change that.
“No, we don’t, Ben,” she repeated, louder now, holding her head high, fighting to control the quavering in her lower lip. “The time for talking has gone. I was stupid to say what I did yesterday and I don’t think I even meant it. I was just emotional, overwhelmed with everything, thinking about my parents. I’ve had time since to think about it all – when I wasn’t fielding off journalists, that is, or dealing with Social Services quizzing me about my sex life.”
“What do you mean, journalists?” he asked, frowning. He’d noticed a few funny looks at his meeting that morning, but hadn’t made the connection. And as nobody had his new numbers, they’d been unable to contact him. He’d got into the habit of avoiding the media at all costs over the last year, not wanting to see what anybody had to say about him.
“Journalists. You know, people who write for newspapers, blogs, that kind of thing?” she snapped, marching towards the house ahead of him, wielding her keys like a samurai sword she was considering using on his neck. “We hit the headlines after the village show, and I’ve been enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame. Are you coming in or not? I don’t have time to stand in the rain and get a cold.”
He followed, his head whirling. God, he’d been so stupid. Forgotten what could happen – and how it could drag her down with him. He’d been so arrogant, prancing around without his shirt on, taking part in the tug of bloody war, kissing Pippa in public. Behaving as though he was a normal person, who was entitled to a normal life. He wasn’t – and living his fantasy countryside concoction with Pippa had made him forget that, however briefly. He’d felt safe here, with her – something about the distance and the sea and the kids and the farm and the…well, the sex. None of it had felt like the life he’d left behind.
Now, he could tell, she’d paid the price for that temporary insanity. He’d never forgive himself if it had affected her meeting with Social Services. If there was any chance the kids could be taken from her because of him…
Was there a way to make it right? Could she forgive him? Could they find a way through it? He could only hope that the damage he’d caused wasn’t enough to destroy everything she’d worked for, and everything they’d had together. Everything he hoped they might still have. Whatever he needed to do – however much he needed to apologise, to humble himself – he’d do it. If he needed to plead his case with Social Services, wear an ankle bracelet, install a GPS tracking device – anything. He’d do it. Pippa was worth jumping through any hoops that were put in front of him – if only she could still love him. If only she was lying about it all being a mistake.
He followed her into the kitchen, watching as she went about her business, buzzing with tension. She filled the kettle with water. Switched it on. Switched it off again. Stared at it, wondering why it wasn’t working, then flipped the button once more when she figured it out. Got two mugs from the cupboard and immediately dropped one on to the hard stone flags, where it shattered into what looked like a million tiny pieces.
“Oh rubber ducks!” she said, squatting down to collect up the shards.
“Let me help,” he said, kneeling beside her, trying to push her trembling hands away from the mess she’d made. The mess he’d made.
“No!” she shrieked, shoving his fingers away. “I don’t need your help! Not with this, not with anything – I don’t need anyone’s help, do you understand?”
He looked at her clenched fists, the slender shoulders that were shaking with uncontrolled emotion. Blonde hair that seemed to fizz around her face as though she was plugged into a socket. The tears casting a glassy sheen over the blue of her eyes. She was angry and tense and closed off in a way he’d never seen before. He’d taken this free-spirited, generous, kind-hearted savage and broken her.
So, yes, he understood. He understood that he was, just like she’d told him all that time ago, a perfect moron.
Ben reached out, grabbed hold of her hand and held it in both of his. He wouldn’t let go, no matter how hard she struggled. He tugged her towards him sharply and they both fell, unbalanced, to the floor. He held her in his arms, shielding her body from the sharp slivers of china, and pressed her head against his chest, using his bulk to hold her there as she tried to wriggle free.
After an undignified minute of pointless struggle, she gave up. Sobbed and collapsed into him, ear set against the thudding of his heart. She lay still and shaken as he twined his fingers into her hair, kissed her face, murmured to her that everything would be all right. She took a moment to let the familiar feeling of comfort flow through her: she was in Ben’s arms. She could smell Ben’s scent. She could feel Ben’s breath against her. For that one blessed moment she allowed herself the briefest of fantasies that she could stay there. That while he was with her, everything really would be all right. That she was safe and secure and they would both live happily ever after.
All too quickly, that moment was gone. Replaced with something deeper and darker and altogether more depressing: reality.
“Let me go, Ben,” she said quietly. She knew she couldn’t force him to release her – he was too strong. But she also knew that he would never hurt her – not that way, at least. As for the other ways? Well, the damage was already done there. “Please let me go,” she repeated.
“I don’t want to,” he muttered, his nose buried in her hair, inhaling the lavender, refusing to budge.
“But I want you to,” she insisted, a note of steel creeping into her voice. “I want you to let me go and then I want you to leave. And I don’t want you to ever come back. I don’t love you. You don’t love me. I know that now. I don’t love you and I don’t need you, and it’s time for us both to go back to our real lives.”
Ben felt her words smash into his soul like an anvil, crushing all his hope, all his dreams. He wanted to argue. To tell her he knew she was lying. To convince her to give him – to give them – another chance. But he looked at her face and he saw truth. He saw determination. He saw the kind of blunt rejection that he’d never wanted to see on a woman’s face ever again. The same closed, cold look that Johanna had used when she’d cut him out of her life just as ruthlessly. In his mind, the two even flickered together, Johanna’s face shadowed with Pippa’s. Two different women: exactly the same result. Neither of them wanted him. He’d offered them both his heart and they’d both said no.
He closed his eyes, refusing to cry, even though part of him wanted to. Wanted to weep and sob and throw himself at Pippa’s feet and beg her to keep him. Just like he had with Johanna – minutes before she walked out of the door.
No. Never. He wouldn’t do it again. It didn’t work that time and it wouldn’t work this time, he knew.
Slowly, silently, he disentangled himself from Pippa, laying her safely back down on the floor, alone.
She looked up, lying there on the cold stone flags, surrounded by shattered pieces of pottery, and watched as he walked, wordlessly, away. Out of the door. Out of her life.
Chapter 16
“This,” said Pippa, to the cow’s backside, “is ridiculous, isn’t it?”
SpongeBob gave out a low, bone-jarring moo and turned around to stare at her with luminous brown eyes.
“I’m glad you agree,” Pippa replied, giving her a friendly slap on the flan
ks as she finished the milking. It only seemed polite to make conversation when you had your hands on a lady’s udders. A bit like when you were at the hairdresser’s and they asked if you were going anywhere nice on holiday.
In the old days, when the farm was worked, there’d been all kinds of machinery installed to do it for them – but with only SpongeBob left it wasn’t worth the money or the effort. Instead, Pippa had to get up close and personal. Non-stop glamour.
But since the kids had gone back to school after the summer holidays and Patrick had gone off to college, it often represented the only adult conversation she had all day. Even if it was a bovine adult.
Job done, Pippa stayed where she was, perched on her stool, as SpongeBob ambled over to the feeding trough. Obviously not in the mood for a long chat – or possibly just bored at the predictable topic.
Pippa was even starting to feel a bit bored with it herself, and the fact that she was asking a dairy cow for advice was proof of just how low she’d sunk. But…well, she didn’t have anyone else to ask. Anyone who’d say what she wanted to hear anyway, which she supposed was different. SpongeBob – due to the language barrier – always said exactly what she wanted to hear, which made a pleasant change.
Three months had passed since Ben had left. Life, such as it was, had resumed business as usual. Patrick was discharged from the hospital after a couple of days, battered, bruised, but none the worse for wear. In fact, he’d used the whole escapade to his advantage with Gemma, the barmaid they always described as “new” no matter how long she’d been there. Gemma had been oddly impressed with his war wounds and had become a semi-permanent fixture in his life. As permanent as anything when it came to an eighteen-year-old’s love life, anyway.
Pippa had made it clear that she didn’t want her staying over – definitely no more sleepovers of any kind, thank you very much – but Patrick went to her flat over the pub several times a week. He even texted her to say he was going, which marked a major leap forward in his behaviour. And when she had time off, Gemma visited him in Truro, where he was now studying.
Pippa's Cornish Dream Page 14