“Claire.” Her mother’s voice was breathy, melodramatic, and made her wince. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you?”
“Five?” Claire answered. Five voice mails on her mobile that she’d deleted.
“Do you realize how worried we’ve been about you?” Marie demanded. “We were expecting you here. We sent a car.” Her mother always spoke in accusing italics.
Claire rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, and in the distance she could hear the train coming into the village, clattering across the tracks.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” she said, “but I didn’t want to come to London. I needed a little space.”
“Dr. Bryson said you shouldn’t be alone.”
“For heaven’s sake, I’m not suicidal.”
“Claire.” As usual whenever Claire dared to raise her voice, her mother sounded shocked and so very disappointed. “We’re concerned. We want to help you.”
“I know. I appreciate that.” She took a deep, even breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Daddy’s sending a car to get you,” Marie informed her briskly. “And this time you’ll get in it, Claire, and come back to where you belong. Where we can keep an eye on you.”
“Mum, I’m twenty-eight, not eight,” Claire said. She could feel a lump forming in her throat, her default response to her mother’s commands. “I don’t need looking after.”
“You’re in a vulnerable state. The doctors at the clinic insisted you should be with people—”
“There are people here,” Claire interjected. “Last night I went to a pub quiz—”
A second of shocked silence followed. “You were at the pub?”
“I had water. Seriously, Mum, I am not about to fall off the wagon.” She almost added that she didn’t think she actually had a drinking problem, but she kept herself from it. Her mother would just start pontificating about denial. And maybe she did have a problem. She’d gotten drunk. Roaring drunk, according to Hugh, and Claire supposed she had to believe him since she didn’t remember much of the party. She might have started singing at some point. And dancing. Completely and utterly unlike quiet, malleable Claire, which had no doubt appalled and humiliated Hugh.
“The car should be there by noon,” Marie said. “You can be in London by dinnertime.”
For a second Claire pictured it: the sleek black sedan pulling up the lane, the driver holding the door open, all obsequious charm. She’d slide inside and doze her way down to London, arrive at her parents’ flat in South Kensington, sleep in the second guest room; the first they kept for more important guests. And then what? Slot into some kind of life her parents had arranged? A job at an art gallery or museum, something barely paid but seemingly prestigious. She’d meet up with the group of catty acquaintances she’d called friends, daughters and nieces and grandchildren of her mother’s socialite cronies. And endure and endure and endure.
“I don’t want to be in London by dinnertime,” she said quietly. Just this much defiance took more strength than she feared she had. “Please, Mum, just let me be, for a little while at least. You can call me every day. You can send someone over to check on me. Just... let me be.” Her voice ended on something close to a whimper, making her cringe.
Marie was silent for a long moment. “I am not happy with this, Claire,” she said sternly, and then let out a long, weary sigh. “Fine, since you are being so difficult. But if at any moment I feel like things aren’t going well, I’m sending someone to get you. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
“I’ll call you tonight,” Marie promised, and Claire murmured her thanks and goodbye before hanging up and rolling over onto her side, a pillow clutched to her stomach.
So this was freedom. She didn’t know why she’d been so determined to stay here. It wasn’t as if Hartley-by-the-Sea had anything to offer her. It was better than being micromanaged in London by her mother, but only just. She couldn’t stand the thought of staying in the house all day, wandering through its elegant, empty rooms, feeling anchorless and adrift.
But she didn’t need to stay inside, hiding. It was a beautiful, if chilly, day, and it had been years since she’d been down to the beach. Claire showered and dressed and then headed outside, the brisk wind making her eyes water as she started down the lane towards the main road and then turned right towards the beach.
Sheep pasture bordered the road on both sides, the tufty grass touched with frost. Puffy white clouds studded a fragile blue sky, and by the time she’d reached the promenade, her eyes were streaming from the wind.
The tide was in, so Claire stood on the concrete promenade and watched the white-tipped waves crash against the railings before turning towards the shabby little beach café up on the promontory. She’d hardly ever been inside; her parents had preferred to go farther afield, to the more fashionable towns of Cockermouth or Keswick, for refreshment.
There weren’t many people in the café; Claire saw a couple of elderly ladies chatting as they dipped their shortbread biscuits into cups of milky tea. A little boy was playing in a corner that had been set out as a play area, with a blanket and some books and toys.
A dark-haired woman emerged from the kitchen and Claire realized it was Abby, whom she’d met at the pub quiz last night.
“Hello,” Abby exclaimed. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I didn’t know you worked here.” Claire came towards the till and perused the plastic-covered menu self-consciously.
“My grandmother owns the place,” Abby explained, “but she’s been unwell. Noah and I are living with her until she gets back on her feet.”
