New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘And me,’ I say with a muted laugh. ‘That’s probably the furthest I’ve run in my life.’

  ‘Well, you did the right thing, if that’s any consolation, despite nearly killing yourself in the process.’

  ‘Will he be OK?’ I ask, feeling slightly foolish at my feeble­ness.

  ‘Bruce will be fine – but Sonya and Gallop might find themselves moving stable yards.’

  Emma

  I’m pretending to stare at the TV set, but the reality is I’m watching Ruth from the corner of my eye as she sits on the sofa. Benni’s out enjoying herself and we’ve hardly said two words in the last hour.

  I could chance my luck and tell her about viewing the flat, which might go some way towards breaking the ice. Though given that she wasn’t terribly supportive about me signing the business contract, what’s the chance she’ll understand this decision?

  ‘Ruth . . . would you like me to put a treatment on your hair?’ I ask gingerly, not wishing to offend her.

  Her face lights up.

  ‘Funny you should say that. I did buy a hair dye a few days ago then threw it away as a bad idea.’

  ‘I know. I found it in the bathroom bin. I assumed it wasn’t Benni’s, given the colour. I’m happy to do it for you.’

  Ruth doesn’t answer, but her eyes are suddenly alive.

  ‘Go and change into an old T-shirt and I’ll fetch a couple of bath towels to cover your shoulders and the carpet.’

  ‘You’re doing it down here?’ she asks, swirling her index finger around the lounge.

  ‘Yep, I might as well. Benni’s out and we’re not expecting guests, are we?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Ruth is up and out of her seat in one leap, heading for the staircase. I follow in order to retrieve the box of hair dye from the bathroom cupboard and fetch the necessary towels. Seeing her reaction, I’m pleased I asked. I doubt she gets much pampering at home caring for an elderly mother.

  ‘I think it’s strange how life follows a particular path. At ­Benni’s age, I had the world at my feet, and yet I found myself pregnant, so certain opportunities were closed to me.’ Ruth clutches the draped towel beneath her chin as I vigorously shake the application bottle.

  ‘Same here. I left school full of ideas for opening my own restaurant, and yet I accepted the first job I was offered and have let my life slip by ever since.’

  ‘Odd, isn’t it, how one or two simple choices determine so much.’

  ‘Jack wasn’t planned then?’ I ask. I don’t mean to be nosy; I’m genuinely interested.

  Ruth shakes her head, despite me asking her not to move. As a result, I accidentally cover the top of her right ear with brown hair dye.

  ‘I’m still unsure how it happened. One minute we were flirting across the bank tills, then one thing led to another and . . . well, Jack was on the way. My mother went mental. She accused me of being a trollop, the village bike, everything you can think of. She said I’d ruined my life. Back then I believed her, but now I’m not so sure. If I’d been strong enough to stand my ground, I could have supported Jack and still had a life outside of motherhood. It wouldn’t have been easy, but I’d have coped. I’d have had the company of other young mums, and when Jack was old enough I could have regained a proper social life. Who knows where I’d be by now if I’d followed that path.’

  ‘And Jack’s father . . . you said he wasn’t interested?’ I ask.

  ‘He just couldn’t commit. He was honest about it.’

  ‘So your mum stepped in as a surrogate parent?’

  ‘Oh yeah, in a big way. She took over, really, from the moment I returned to work. I suppose I felt grateful for her support so didn’t question my role in Jack’s life until she had firmly established herself at the centre of his world. I was the breadwinner and she was his primary carer.’

  ‘Which is why it meant so much when he came looking for you the other night,’ I say, sheepishly remembering my annoyance at Jack’s intrusion.

  ‘It’s the first time he’s ever done that. My mum has always been his first choice, given their closeness. Of course, now, with her condition, there’s no way he’d upset her. Who knows, he might need my support over the coming months once he and Megan split up.’

  ‘It’s definitely over then?’ I ask, a sudden pang recalling my own hurt. Who am I to question others when my situation needs finalising?

  As we’ve been talking, I’ve been sectioning her hair and smearing dye on each strand. I feel sorry for her. If only it was as easy to refresh and re-colour our lives once we realise our errors.

  ‘It’s never too late, Ruth,’ I say. ‘You’re still young enough to find love or a companion in life . . . especially once I’ve worked my magic on your hair.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She pauses. ‘Funnily enough, I accepted an unexpected luncheon invite today,’ she says, half twisting round to view my reaction. ‘He was very charming.’

  ‘Who was it?’ I ask, trying desperately to rein in my surprise.

  Ruth spends the next fifteen minutes reliving her day: the empty wall space, selling Marina Mania, and the cash payment due from Dean. I can’t help but notice that her delight overflows when she recalls his kind offer and generosity during lunch.

  ‘He sounds like a suave devil to me,’ I offer, enjoying her pleasure each time she mentions his name. Her stream of chat has saved me from spilling the beans about the flat viewing and my liaison, which I’m sure she won’t approve of. I’m glad I offered to colour her hair; we’re back to being friends without the negative undercurrent of the previous few days.

  In no time, I’ve reached the final section and am attempting to twist her mass of hair into a self-holding bun on top of her head.

  ‘There you go, all done,’ I say. ‘I suggest you stay put while I make us both a cuppa.’ I wipe my hands on a towel before setting a thirty-minute timer on my phone.

  Ruth

  As Emma is making our tea, I hear a sharp rap on the front door. Clutching the bath towel beneath my chin, I go to answer it. I flick the catch and immediately step aside half expecting Benni to dash in full of apologies for not taking a key. She doesn’t. Instead, as I turn about to re-enter the lounge, I realise the figure remains on the doorstep. I double back, self-conscious that I appear as I do, but curious to learn who’s there.

  A man stands there, his green eyes taking in the sight before him, his broad frame filling the doorway. It isn’t Martin, nor Ziggy, or Dean.

  ‘Is Emma Grund staying here?’ he asks, his gentle voice not matching his towering presence against a backdrop of twilight sky.

  ‘Yes, can I ask who’s calling?’ I’m confused beyond belief. Emma hasn’t said a word about a new friend or acquaintance. She’s let me prattle on about Dean and our beautiful lunch, but said nothing about her own day.

  ‘I’m Rob, her husband.’

  I freeze, stunned to the core. My manners are forgotten as I instinctively look down at his left hand, as if to confirm his status.

  ‘Is she in?’

  I don’t know what to say for fear of doing the wrong thing. He’s neither aggressive, threatening or abrupt so should I call Emma from the kitchen? Ask him to step inside? Or demand formal identification? In the end, I don’t have to choose as the kitchen door swings wide and Emma enters the hallway clutching two mugs in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other.

  ‘I’ve opened a packet of those—’ For a second she simply stares at our guest before there is a clatter of china, and tea and biscuits crash to the tiled floor. ‘Rob!’

  I step aside, avoiding the puddle of mess seeping along the grouting groves.

  ‘You forgot this,’ he says, offering her his upturned palm, in which sits a gold wedding band.

  ‘You have no right to come here!’ hisses Emma, her brown eyes seething as she stares a
t him.

  ‘I have every right,’ says Rob, closing his fist around the ring before calmly turning to me. ‘Do you mind if I come in?’

  I’m unsure if I should be answering, or even whether my presence is welcome.

  He steps inside without waiting, strides over the puddle of tea and glances into the lounge.

  ‘May I?’

  I look at Emma, who is raking her hands through her auburn hair, giving me no feedback or clue on how to proceed. I want to support her; she looks like she needs a friend. Do I call the police? Shout for a neighbour?

  Someone needs to take charge, and it feels like it should be me.

  ‘Rude of me, I know, but can I ask why you’re here?’ I say, reaching for Emma’s right hand as Rob hovers by the lounge door.

  ‘I take it she’s failed to mention she’s married, then,’ he says, looking from Emma to me and back again. ‘You lied to me, Emma. You said you’d be back in a few days . . . sending daily texts to delay that happening isn’t on. What am I supposed to do: just wait until you choose to return? How bloody selfish is that!’

  ‘You’re supposed to respect my decision, that’s what you’re supposed to do!’ says Emma through gritted teeth, as I squeeze her hand tightly to reassure her that I am here for her. ‘It’s over, Rob; it’s been over for a long time, but you won’t accept my decision.’

  ‘I’ll accept it when you do it in the proper manner. Who in their right mind books a singles holiday with strangers when they are married? I take it you’re one of the house share?’ he says, turning to me.

  ‘Solo holiday, actually,’ I correct him, before realising how daft I sound. ‘But yes, there’s three of us sharing.’

  ‘Though Emma forgot to mention any of those details to her husband.’

  ‘Rob, don’t,’ whispers Emma, lowering her chin and releasing my hand. ‘Ruth, I’m so sorry . . . you shouldn’t be dragged into this. Can we shut the front door?’

  I immediately respond, not sure if I’m doing the right thing by either of them.

  ‘Can you give us a few minutes . . . alone, please?’ she asks, indicating for Rob to go through to the empty lounge.

  ‘Sure, but I’m staying right here in case you need me,’ I say, plonking myself down on the bottom stair.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, mouthing ‘sorry’ to me as she follows him into the lounge.

  My heart is racing, my mind spinning. I can’t believe what has happened in the space of ten minutes. I wonder what, if anything, will happen in the next ten.

  I’m in two minds whether to call Benni and disturb her evening. Or simply sit and wait.

  I can hear their voices, raised and urgent behind the closed door; ‘you lied’ and ‘it’s over’ keep being repeated, but neither of them is shouting during the exchange. Rob’s tone doesn’t sound angry or aggressive, but demanding and forceful in a controlled manner.

  I stare at the puddle of tea spreading across the tiled floor, the fragments of china marooned in the middle.

  Emma isn’t a solo holidaymaker. She’s lied from the moment she met us. Lied about her past, lied about her plans. Simply lied.

  Benjamina

  We sit on a bench, gazing out at the harbour lights spread wide before us, eating steaming hot chips from an open bag.

  I don’t want to go home. Correction, back to Rose Cottage. I’ve had a lovely afternoon with Ziggy, chatting and joking around. I’ve learnt that he has two sisters, hates mustard, had one steady girlfriend from age fifteen, but no one since she hurt him when they were twenty-one, and he can’t ever see himself living anywhere but Brixham.

  Likewise, I’ve disclosed my love of food, my fears about my mum’s drinking and my desire to be like other women. I’ve even mentioned my goals for the future following this holiday.

  ‘So there’s no one special back in the Midlands?’ Ziggy asks.

  I stare at him, speechless.

  ‘Er, no,’ I say at last, swallowing the urge to burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  Does the man need his eyes testing?

  ‘Because . . .’ I mutter, gesturing the length of my seated body as if the reason isn’t blindingly obvious.

  ‘Because what?’ He looks confused, his brow creased and his eyes screwed up. His wooden fork complete with chip hovers a short distance from his mouth.

  ‘Just because,’ I say, not wanting to explain further. He’s got two sisters; surely he’s heard about the whole body-image thing, even if he doesn’t understand it.

  ‘What are you on about, Benni?’ he asks, discarding his chip fork and shifting around on the bench to face me.

  ‘My size . . . It puts guys off.’

  He draws back as if my words have burnt him.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yeah, I see it all the time. Young guys only want slim, svelte women, size six or eight, whereas I’m a size . . . well, the exact size doesn’t matter. I’m not petite, nowhere near, so I don’t get asked on dates. I’ve never been sent flowers. It might sound utterly wrong to some women, but I wouldn’t even be offended if I received a wolf whistle whilst walking past a building site. In fact, it would probably make my day that some red-blooded male actually thought I was attractive rather than looking at me and wondering . . .’

  My words trail off. Ziggy’s mouth is open, his eyes wide. I can see he’s shocked by my outburst and I realise that now is probably the time to say goodbye, thank him for a lovely afternoon of chatting and chips.

  I clamber to my feet, adjusting my waistband.

  ‘Well, it’s been good knowing you. I’ve enjoyed our chats and maybe I’ll see you around,’ I say to his stunned, upturned face.

  I’ll make my way back to the cottage and repeat my disastrous rant to the other two, who will no doubt cringe, then offer me a very large drink to make me feel better about having aired my dirty laundry – my big-girl knickers – in public to a near stranger.

  As I step away from the bench, Ziggy moves. His bag of chips hits the pavement as he stands up; then his hand reaches for my cheek and his mouth, hot and salty, is pressed heavily to mine.

  We stand united on the quayside, in full view of passers-by, and continue to kiss. I can feel the heat and urgency of his hands as my body absorbs this sensation for the very first time.

  My senses are working overtime.

  My eyes are firmly closed.

  My hands slowly find the courage to lift and wrap around his waist and back.

  My hearing is alert to every sound in the universe. Herring gulls dive-bombing the scattered chips, passing traffic, and the voices of passers-by.

  But there’s not a single snigger, passing remark or crude comment to be heard.

  Nothing.

  There is only Ziggy’s mouth on mine, our noses softly bumping and my internal monologue self-consciously reminding me that moments like this don’t happen in my world.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wednesday 29 August

  Emma

  The force with which Benni bursts through the kitchen door makes both Ruth and me jump out of our skins. We’ve been sitting in silence at the dining table cradling our morning cups of tea. Ruth’s wrapped in her pink quilted dressing gown with matching slippers. I’m still in my pyjamas, having spent a sleepless night replaying the events of last night.

  Benni stands in the open doorway, both hands clutching the door jamb, her mouth working frantically but nothing spilling forth.

  ‘In the Lord’s name, what’s wrong with her?’ says Ruth.

  Sheer panic races through my veins. Given my current emotional state, I’m not fit to support anyone else this morning. I’m just about holding my own shite together.

  ‘Benni, are you hurt, injured, ill?’ I ask, my tone razor sharp. My gaze roves about her body in search of a wound
that might need stemming or dressing. There’s nothing.

  ‘He kissed me!’

  ‘He what?’ screams Ruth, her hands flying up to her face in excitement.

  Benni’s words don’t register at first. I’m expecting to hear her say: argued, dumped, cheated. All feasible options race around my fug-filled mind before the actual verb calms my racing neurons much like calamine lotion applied to chicken­-pox.

  ‘Ziggy kissed me . . . last night in the open air in front of everyone passing by the harbour. He didn’t try to hide it. He didn’t care what anyone thought. He did it.’

  Benni flops into the vacant seat beside Ruth, whilst I slump in my post-traumatic state and stare across the table. Her face is glowing, her body alive. She’s transformed from the woman who left the cottage yesterday afternoon for a quiet drink on the quayside.

  ‘And you?’ asks Ruth, leaning forward into Benni’s personal space.

  ‘I kissed him back.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I did.’

  I watch the quick-fire exchange as though it’s a verbal tennis match.

  ‘And who pulled away first?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ beams Benni.

  ‘What did he say then?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything. He gazed into my eyes, then leant forward and gently kissed my forehead before finally stepping back and releasing me.’

  ‘He kissed your forehead?’ I ask, frowning.

  ‘Yeah, so tenderly.’

  ‘Oh how nice,’ whispers Ruth.

  ‘I know,’ swoons Benni, her head lolling sideways.

  ‘Umm,’ I sigh, in a dubious tone.

  ‘Emma, don’t ruin it,’ says Ruth.

  ‘In my book, I want a man to kiss with passion, not tenderness.’

  ‘By the sounds of it, nothing much is happening in your book, Emma,’ mutters Benni with her newly acquired spark. ‘It seems to be all work and no play. Whereas me . . . well, boy oh boy.’