The Beach Hut Read online

  Half an hour later, when the girls were fast asleep, Sarah brought them each a mug of hot tea and they sat out on the steamer chairs she had bought at vast expense the summer before. The night air was chill, but they had on jeans and fleeces. She knew they couldn’t skirt around whatever it was that had brought him down any longer. And if she had been found out - well, she would have to face the consequences.

  ‘So,’ she curled her hands around her mug. It was almost too hot, but the discomfort took her mind off what was to come. ‘This is all a bit unexpected. What brought you down here?’

  She tried to smile. He looked at her. There was a terrible expression on his face.

  ‘I’m going to give it to you straight, Sarah.’

  She could taste fear. It was almost choking her. She held her breath.

  ‘I’ve been made redundant.’

  She sat stock-still for a moment. She felt sweet, sweet relief zing through her veins. It was almost exhilarating. Then the import of what he was saying filtered through. She let her breath out again slowly as she considered what to say.

  Shit.

  Redundancy was certainly something they’d talked about - everyone had to face up to the possibility in the current climate - but Ian had told her time and again that his partners had reassured him his job was safe. With his track record he was indispensable.

  Apparently not. And without his income, they were fucked. They had a huge mortgage, car loans, the house cost a fortune to run.

  ‘How . . . why? I thought . . . ?’

  ‘It’s pretty much last in, first out.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Yep. Oh God. And they’re not being over-generous with the pay-off either.’

  ‘Well . . . will you be able to pick up a job with one of their competitors? You said you kept being approached . . .’

  ‘When times were good, yes. But not now. And no one wants the person who’s been chucked out on their ear.’ He looked so small and helpless. ‘Shit, Sarah. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? What do you mean? It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Of course it is. I’m supposed to be the provider, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but you might get something else. You don’t know till you’ve tried.’

  ‘I have tried.’

  She looked confused.

  ‘I knew about this weeks ago. I’ve been trying to find something else. I hoped I could come to you and say . . . here’s the bad news, but there’s good news too. But there isn’t.’ He paused. ‘There’s only bad news.’

  He put his head in his hands. She put a tentative hand out to stroke his back, not sure if he wanted physical reassurance.

  ‘Hey. It’s not the end of the world.’ He looked up. The bleakness in his face told her that it was the end of his world. And of course, it was. Loss of face, loss of status, loss of income. Everything that had become so important to him. She ploughed on, injecting as much optimism into her voice as she could. ‘We can downsize. We don’t need such a big house, or two swanky cars. We can sell one of the flats. Or this . . .’

  ‘No.’ His tone was sharp. ‘Not this. This is the only place I don’t feel . . .’

  He trailed off, looking awkward.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t feel the pressure.’

  ‘Really?’ Sarah was intrigued. She didn’t realise he felt like that here. She always thought he would prefer to be somewhere else, somewhere glamorous, somewhere he could boast about at the next dinner party.

  ‘Nothing matters here, does it? You can be yourself. No one judges you. Or expects you to perform. Or checks out what you’ve got.’ He looked out to sea gloomily. ‘The thing is, Sarah, I know I’ve been a total knob for the past couple of years. Trying to . . . be one of them. Trying to keep up. I know you hated it, all the showing off and the splashing the cash. But I thought it was the only way to get on. See and be seen and all that.’ He turned to her with a rueful grin. ‘And I’m sorry. You must have thought what a tosser half the time. And you’d be right, because it’s all come to nothing . . .’

  Sarah’s mind was racing. Maybe this redundancy was a good thing. Maybe this was the crisis that was going to save them. For now she was seeing a glimpse of the Ian she had fallen in love with.

  ‘It hasn’t come to nothing,’ she contradicted him. ‘We’ve still got each other. And we’re not on skid row yet. Let’s look at this as an opportunity. A chance to check back in with each other and work out what we really want.’

  ‘But I don’t know what I want! I think about the future and all I can see is a big blank. I’m terrified, Sar.’

  She reached over and stroked his arm reassuringly.

  ‘Listen. Count your blessings. We’re healthy. We’ve got two gorgeous girls. We’re in positive equity. And I’ve got work-I can easily build up what I’m doing. I get loads of enquiries I have to turn down because I haven’t got time, but maybe if you’re around to help—’

  ‘Be a house husband, you mean?’

  ‘No! I’d never expect you to do that. But you could help me get a bit more organised. Do me a business plan, do the book-keeping, help me with marketing . . .’

  She trailed off. He didn’t look impressed with the idea. She felt stung. OK, so she wasn’t Philip Green or Alan Sugar, but if he really was out on his ear then surely he should be keen to help. It was in both their interests.

  Bloody male ego. She was going to have to tread carefully.

  ‘OK,’ she went on. ‘Maybe I should work all that out for myself.’

  ‘I can’t just go from the boardroom to the kitchen table, Sarah.’

  She wanted to punch him. Why the hell not?

  ‘Have we got anything to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Um-I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m sure I saw a bottle in the fridge.’

  The Chablis that Oliver had brought. They hadn’t got round to drinking that. Sarah jumped up, suddenly panicking that there would be a sticker from some upmarket Warwickshire wine-merchant stuck on the side.

  ‘Oh yes - left over from last summer. I’ll go and get it.’

  She was pulling out the cork when the phone went in the pocket of her fleece. She nearly jumped out of her skin. She fumbled, pulled it out. Oliver. She should have felt a thrill, but instead she felt dread. Everything was happening too quickly. It was all closing in on her. If she was going to survive, something had to give.

  She flicked her eyes towards the door. Ian was still sitting outside. He wouldn’t be able to hear. She answered the call, speaking quickly before she could change her mind.

  ‘Listen, Oliver. I’m really sorry. I can’t do this. Ian’s just been made redundant. We’re in total crisis mode. Please - don’t ring me. I can’t cope. I really can’t.’

  To her horror, she thought she was going to cry. This was her sacrifice. Wasn’t that always the way? Wasn’t it the woman who always had to give in and make compromises? Because no way was she going to be able to cope with redundancy and adultery. And it wasn’t as if Oliver was going to offer her some wonderful alternative. They weren’t going to go running off into the sunset together. So he had to go.

  ‘OK.’ His reply was calm and measured. She desperately wanted the reassurance of his arms around her. ‘You’ve got my number. Call if you want me. Any time.’

  She swallowed. It would be so easy to make another assignation. The easiest thing in the world. But it would make everything else so complicated.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and hung up the phone. Hot tears blinded her as she pulled the wine glasses out of the cupboard, the same glasses she and her lover had used the night before. She poured out the Chablis - premier cru, she noticed. What else? They’d better enjoy it. There wasn’t going to be much premier cru in the immediate future.

  She took the glasses outside, handed one to Ian, then sat down. He took a sip.

  ‘Nice,’ he commented, and Sarah thought how horrified he would be if he knew its provenance. She rai
sed her own glass to her lips. She’d done the right thing, she knew she had. Now, it was just a question of working out a way forward.

  Vampire mermaids, she thought. Vampmaids? Mervamps? She’d write a proposal out as soon as they got home, send it off to her agent. Then she’d go back through all the queries she’d had over the past couple of months, chase them up, see if she could resurrect some work. And she’d finally get round to building herself a website, get some business cards printed . . .

  She looked over at Ian. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. My God, she realised - he was actually asleep. He was snoring. Dead to the world. Totally fucking oblivious.

  Just when, she wondered, just when, exactly, had his problem become her problem . . . ?

  She fingered the phone in her pocket thoughtfully. She could call Oliver back, tell him she did want to meet after all. In five minutes she could have their next assignation lined up and Ian would be totally oblivious. Just like he was to their predicament, seemingly. She didn’t, of course. She sat and finished her wine, mulling over ideas in her head, ‘doing the maths’, working things out.

  And all the while she was strangely comforted by the thought that, if she ever wanted to, she could.

  3

  BLUE LAGOON

  Sea Breeze. Blue Lagoon. Sex on the Beach.

  Maybe Everdene wasn’t the greatest place on earth to come and dry out after all. The sea looked like one big mirage - God’s own cocktail, with the early-evening sun hanging red as a maraschino cherry. She was salivating at the sight of it as the six o’clock longing kicked in.

  Not that she usually made it to six o’clock. Fiona’s personal yardarm had long ago zoomed backwards to . . . oh, one o’clock if she was lucky. But usually twelve. Never earlier than that, she was proud to say, because she liked to spend the mornings sober and get the tasks that made it seem as if she was in control of her life out of the way. Paperwork, shopping, phone calls, hair appointments.

  Not that she was ever entirely sober. When you tanked back over two bottles of wine a day, it was never out of your system. But by midday, reality was usually starting to kick in, and she was ready to don the golden cloak. And it never failed her. It wrapped her in its softness and shushed her troubled mind.

  Though there were many people who could ask, quite fairly, why troubled?

  Yes, indeed, Fiona. Why troubled? A million-pound house in SW19, an amiable husband who earned pots of money, two gorgeous, bright, funny children. And OK, maybe not a figure to die for (you might as well imbibe liquid Mars Bars as Pinot Grigio), but no one could ever deny that Fiona McClintock was enchantingly pretty, with her golden curls and china-blue eyes, and actually, curves and cleavage were far more attractive than the toned, honed gym-bunny look sported by most women in Wimbledon Village. Fiona was made for the DVF wrap dress, and she had a row of them in her wardrobe for her fabulous, fabulous social life.

  So yep, on paper she had it all. Except maybe a career, and she’d never really wanted one of those. She had always wanted to be a full-time mother, and she didn’t see why she should have to defend that decision. So she didn’t. And most people, on meeting her, realised there was no point in confronting her with some post-feminist inquisition. She was clearly popped on this earth to worry about not much more than flower-arranging and canapés and what to choose from the Boden catalogue.

  And she was busy busy busy. She was the undisputed queen of the social scene, for ever organising drinks, dinner parties, soirées, ‘girls” lunches. Hallowe’en, Bonfire Night, Valentine’s Day - she rarely passed up an opportunity for a social function. Anything, quite frankly, that enabled her to slug back her ration in the company of others, so she wouldn’t feel like the dependent drinker that she knew deep down she was.

  She knew she hadn’t fooled anybody, not really. She knew they spoke about her behind her back, that there were raised eyebrows and knowing nudges. But nobody had the balls to come out and say it.

  ‘Fiona. You’re an alcoholic. And you need help.’

  And so she just carried blithely on. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t function. She worked hard to make sure she never forgot anything, that the children looked immaculate, that the house was perfect, that she was the best turned-out mother in the playground. On paper, she was the epitome of respectability. The headmaster phoned her to discuss playground politics (she was chairman of the PTA, and her first action had been to introduce wine to the dreary never-ending meetings - everyone agreed that it made the hideous back-biting and sniping bearable). The vicar never missed her post-carol service mulled wine and mince pies (she was in charge of the church’s annual shoe-box-to-war-torn-country collection). She was on the tennis club committee (although she was usually too half-cut to pick up a racket, she was ace at organising their social events), two charity committees, she was a member of a book club. You couldn’t accuse Fiona of having time on her hands.

  When the wake-up call came, it was a shock to her, but nobody else.

  By the time the school run came, Fiona would usually have drunk three large glasses of wine. Using the maths of the delusional, she calculated that one and a half of those would be out of her system by then, going by one unit an hour, and the remaining glass and a half was - well, only a glass and a half. Not over the limit in anyone’s book. She honestly believed herself when she told herself she was all right to drive. After all, she was a responsible parent, a loving mother. She wasn’t going to put her own children’s life at risk, or jeopardise anyone else’s.

  The twisted wreck that had once been her Porsche Cayenne said otherwise. And thank God she had been on her way to school, not on her way back, so the children weren’t in the car. It happened in the middle of Wimbledon Village. Right outside Daylesford Organics. She sat in the police car waiting to be breathalysed and watched practically everyone she knew drive past her car and clock it, their heads snapping round in astonishment. Although actually, none of them was astonished. They all agreed it was only a matter of time.

  It hadn’t even been her fault. She had swerved to avoid someone who had stepped out from the pavement, only then they had thought better of it and stepped back but by then it was too late - Fiona was on course for the lamp-post.

  The noise had been the strangest thing. A crumping sound, very loud, but without the reverberation you always heard on the television. She hadn’t panicked at first. She told herself it was going to be fine, no one was hurt, the car was insured. It was only when the breathalyser went red, and the policeman looked at her gravely and told her she was going to be arrested because she was nearly twice over the legal limit that she felt the first claws of panic.

  Tim collected her from the station, after first collecting the children from aftercare. He showed no concern for her well-being after the accident, or her ordeal at the station. He was cold, measured, which was more frightening than if he had been incandescent. They faced each other across the granite-topped island in the kitchen, Fiona thinking that really this probably wasn’t the time to dive into the fridge and pull out a bottle, but never had she wanted a drink more. Her head was throbbing, muzzy from the stress and the shock. She couldn’t think straight. She really didn’t want to talk about what had happened, but Tim was pointing at her, jabbing a finger in a manner that was uncharacteristic. He was usually so mild-mannered and easy-going.

  ‘You’re going to have to do some serious thinking to get us out of this mess,’ he was proclaiming.

  ‘I know. But we should get a courtesy car on the insurance. And I can always arrange for the girls to get a lift—’

  He looked at her in disbelief.

  ‘I’m not talking about lift-shares. I’m talking about your fucking problem.’

  Fiona flinched. Tim hardly ever swore. She tried to smile, shaking her head to show she didn’t understand.

  ‘Problem . . . ?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Fiona. I’ve tried to rein you in. Time and again. Screwing the lid back on the bottle so y
ou can’t drain it dry every night. Keeping us out all day on a Saturday to put off the point at which you get the corkscrew out. Steering the waiters away from you at a cocktail party. It’s embarrassing, Fiona. Whenever we go out somewhere, you’re completely blotto by nine o’clock—’

  ‘Who isn’t?’ She felt rightfully indignant. He was talking as if all their friends were card-carrying members of some temperance society.

  ‘Most people aren’t. Most people are relaxed, not almost incapable of speech, bouncing off the walls. Crashing out at the dinner table, for Christ’s sake—’

  ‘Once! And I was tired!’

  ‘You were unconscious! You’d drunk yourself into oblivion. Like you do every night.’

  He stared at her. She didn’t know where to look. She tried to smooth down her hair, look as if she was in control.

  ‘OK. So maybe I’ve been drinking a bit too much. It’s just a habit. I can deal with it. It’s just a question of cutting down—’

  ‘Cutting down?’ Tim’s voice oozed pure vitriol. ‘To what? Just the one bottle a day?’ Fiona looked wary. ‘You think I don’t know? You think I believe that half-bottle of white wine you get out of the fridge every night is the same one you put back the night before? I know it’s a fresh one, that you’ve guzzled the rest in between . . .’

  She drew herself up to meet his accusing glare, ready to defend herself.

  ‘So why don’t you say anything, if you know so much?’

  ‘Fiona, I do. I have and I do. You don’t want to listen. You don’t want to know. And frankly, I don’t understand why.’ He threw up his hands to indicate their surroundings. He looked helpless. ‘You’ve got everything . . .’

  She looked at the floor.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what’s the problem? Are you so unhappy? Do you not like being married to me?’