“And they want me to move back to London. My father has arranged a job for me, working for a sports charity.”
“Really.” Rachel rose from the table, taking her pile of papers with her. “So are you going to go?”
Why did everyone assume she was? Why wasn’t Rachel or Dan or anyone expressing dismay that she might be leaving, and then urging her to stay? “I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Rachel’s voice had hardened just a little. “I mean, what’s keeping you here, really?”
Ouch. “Not much, I suppose,” Claire said slowly. Had she really thought she’d keep working in the post office, helping Rachel out a bit? Neither job paid nearly enough to make her self-sufficient, no matter what kind of shoes she bought. And as for friends... Maybe she didn’t have as many as she’d thought.
“So it seems like a no-brainer to me,” Rachel said briskly. She’d shoved the pile of papers in a drawer and then slammed it shut. “You were waiting for the next thing to come along, weren’t you?”
“I suppose...” Rachel couldn’t make it clearer that she didn’t care if she left. Claire half expected her to start pushing her out the door. “How’s your mum?” she asked.
“Fine. Everything’s fine here. Meghan’s going to start a childminding business so she can be home with Mum, and Lily’s biology exam is on Monday. It’s all happening at the Campbell house.” She pinned a bright smile on her face, hands planted on her hips. “And it sounds like it’s happening for you too, Claire. So good news all around, hey?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Rachel was nodding almost manically, and Claire couldn’t think of a reason to stay. She’d come here hoping to be comforted and bolstered, and instead she felt as if she’dgotten a shove in the back. “Right. I suppose I should go back home. Make some plans.”
“So you’ll go, then?” More nodding. “When will you leave?”
Was she counting the days? The minutes? “I don’t know,” Claire answered. “Soon.”
She walked slowly down the high street, shivering a little in the wind, taking in the rows of slightly dingy terraced houses, the post office shop with its peeling paint and Lottery adverts, the street opening up to sheep pasture that looked unkempt and forgotten; a few sheep bleated mournfully. Their lambs had been taken away.
She thought about going to see Abby down at the beach café, but she knew Abby was busy and stressed and probably didn’t want to hear about poor, privileged Claire’s troubles. Just like Rachel hadn’t.
Claire turned off the beach road onto the steep lane that led up to Four Gables, the wind chillier now, sweeping in from the sea with nothing to break it.
The house was quiet when she entered, her footsteps muted by the plush carpet. Her parents had left a note on the granite island in the kitchen; they’d gone to Windermere for the afternoon to meet friends for lunch, they’d be back late tonight, and Marie had left a ready-made salad and sandwich from the supermarket for Claire’s dinner, as if she couldn’t make a meal for herself, as if she hadn’t been doing it all along.
Claire opened the fridge and looked at the plastic bowl of lettuce wrapped tightly with cellophane, a few tomatoes and withered cucumbers nestled among its wilting leaves. The chicken salad baguette looked equally unappetizing. With a sigh she closed the fridge door and stood there, feeling lost in her own house, in her own life. All the strides she’d made, all the progress, felt as if it had disappeared. She was sliding backwards, faster and faster, and it felt as if there was absolutelynothing to keep her in Hartley-by-the-Sea. What did she have besides a poorly paying part-time job and a couple of wished-for friends who seemed glad to see the back of her? She didn’t want to live in her parents’ house, trying to make a place for herself when no one seemed to really want her there.
Better to go to London and work at a decent job, even if she suspected it existed only because her father had given a large donation to the charity. Better to fit into the world she knew and maybe try to make a place for herself there.
So why did the thought fill her with dread? She wanted to stay here. But she wanted other people to want it too. She wanted Rachel and Dan to want her to stay.
Claire sank onto her bed, gazing around the bedroom she’d called her own even though it had never felt like it. Her mother had had the whole house ruthlessly done over by an interior decorator years ago and had refused to allow Claire or Andrew to put posters on the walls or do anything to personalize the spaces.
For a second Claire imagined finding a cheap place to rent in the village, even if just a room. She’d never had a place to call her own; even the flat her parents had arranged for her in London had been stamped with her mother’s signature of thick carpets and expensive throw pillows. Claire hadn’t dared to change anything.
She’d never dared, period. About anything, ever.
She opened the top drawer of her bureau and reached for the mobile phone she rarely used. She needed Andrew’s advice right now.
She had one new text, sent from Rachel several days ago: What do you say you take on part of Campbell Cleaners permanently? If you’re really thinking of staying in Hartley-by-the-Sea?
Claire read it several times, the words hardly making sense. Why would Rachel have suggested she take over part of her business, only to wish her well in London a few days later? Whyhadn’t she even mentioned the text, the whole idea, when Claire had seen her?
A memory flashed through her mind: Claire coming into school at the end of Year Six, surrounded by stupid Wyndham wannabes, and catching sight of Rachel standing against the stone wall, her arms folded. She’d looked away the minute their gazes had met, and Claire had felt a second’s rejection before her attention had been claimed by the other girls.
Now she remembered that Rachel had been standing there alone. That her mother must have injured her back around that time, that her life had fallen apart. And that Claire had been the one to walk away.
Just like she would walk away now, and Rachel would let her; Dan would let her. She’d let them let her, because she’d always, always let other people direct her movements. Make her choices. She’d thought she’d changed, but in that moment Claire realized she hadn’t. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
She started to text Rachel back and then decided a conversation would be better. But first she needed to talk to her parents.
They came in at ten o’clock, murmuring to each other, and Claire heard her mother’s low laugh—a sound she never associated with herself—before it abruptly stopped as Marie caught sight of her.
“Claire? Is something wrong?”
