“I know.” Her parents had insisted she come to stay with them after she’d been released from the clinic; in an extraordinary and unprecedented act of rebellion, Claire had turned away the limo they’d arranged to collect her and had taken the train up to Cumbria instead. She’d felt like a twenty-eight-year-old runaway, watching the placid coastline stream by as the train clattered towards Hartley-by-the-Sea. She’d turned off her phone and enjoyed the fact that no one actually knew where she was.
“They’re worried about you,” Andrew said. “We all are.”
“I know. But I can’t stand Mum hovering over me, Andrew. I just can’t.”
“She means well—”
“I know.” As the high-achieving older brother, Andrew had never been subjected to the relentless concern that Marie West lavished on her only daughter. He had no idea what it felt like to be under the microscope of a mother’s love and yet always feel so disappointing to her, so feeble. “I’m fine here,” Claire said.
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
She stiffened, because she knew what he meant. He was afraid, as her parents were, that left alone she’d regress. She’d fall offthe wagon she’d been flung onto four weeks ago, when Hugh had phoned her parents and insisted she had a problem. Rehab had been the obvious answer, and blinking and bewildered, Claire had followed their wishes, because when had she ever done anything else?
But after four weeks of bucolic prison in Hampshire, she was done with being a dormouse. She wasn’t sure how to change, or even if she could, but she wanted to. Coming to Cumbria had been the first step.
“I’m fine, Andrew,” she began, only to have him cut her off, his voice taking on the schoolteacherish tone she knew well.
“Look, Claire. I know Mum can be a bit much sometimes. But at this vulnerable time, you really shouldn’t be by yourself—”
“I want to be by myself,” Claire interjected. “Trust me, Andrew. I’m not going to go raiding Dad’s liquor cabinet. He’s locked it, anyway, to keep the staff from having a nip.” As a joke it fell abominably flat, and it made Claire think of Rachel.
For a second she pictured Rachel as she’d been in primary school, six inches taller than the tallest boy, with her flaming hair and freckles and reckless, brassy confidence. Why Rachel had chosen to take Claire, an overdressed shadow, as her best friend, Claire had no idea. But she’d been grateful. She’d been overwhelmingly grateful.
“I’m going to call you every day,” Andrew said, and Claire made a murmuring noise of agreement. “And I want you to answer your phone. Your mobile’s turned off, you know.”
“I’m aware.” With a sigh of resignation she slid her phone out of the deep pocket of her fleece and powered it up.
“What are you going to do up there, Claire?” Andrew asked. “Hartley-by-the-Sea is...”
“Home.”
“It hasn’t been home for years. And it’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“The edge of nowhere, maybe,” Claire answered. “Considering it’s on the sea.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, but I told you already I don’t want to go to London, and I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“You could come here, to Minneapolis—”
“No thanks.” Andrew worked as a civil engineer, traveling around the world, building bridges and canals and dams, living in corporate flats and eating takeaway. Claire had no intention of being on the periphery of his transient life.
“But what are you going to do, Claire?”
“Maybe I’ll get a job,” Claire answered before she’d really thought such a possibility through. Hartley-by-the-Sea didn’t have many jobs, and she was qualified for basically nothing. A third in art history, a couple of positions where she’d been meant to look decorative and not much else. But it would be nice to feel useful. Productive.
“A job? Doing what? Checkout at Tesco?”
“Why not?” Claire returned. “It’s a decent job.”
“You’re better than that.”
“You sound like a snob.”
“Fine,” Andrew conceded. “But I’m ringing tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
