“And turn your mobile on, for goodness’ sake.”
“I already did,” Claire told him, and hung up. She had five voice mails from her mother.Resolutely, she deleted them all. She didn’t need to hear Marie West’s histrionics about how she should have come to London, and she couldn’t face an actual conversation with her mother yet. Hugh, unsurprisingly, hadn’t called. Claire wondered if he ever would.
She gazed around the huge kitchen and wondered when any of her family had last been there. She opened the fridge, and the gleaming, empty expanse seemed to mock her.
She needed food, and since she didn’t have a car, she’d have to get it at the poky village shop.
At least it would get her out of the house and the silent accusation every spotless carpet and plumped-up pillow was making.
She went upstairs for her socks and shoes and then grabbed her coat and keys before heading out into a brisk March day. After three years in Portugal, she’d forgotten how chilly Cumbria was. Her parents’ house was at the end of a long private drive at the top of the village, with a view of the winding high street and its cluster of terraced houses, the beach a wide expanse of smooth beige sand in the distance, the sea glinting on the horizon, gray-blue and ruffled with white. If she turned she could see the sloping fields, dotted with sheep, that led to the dark, jagged gray-green humps of the distant fells.
It was a stunning sight in every direction, and for a few moments Claire simply stood there, taking it all in. She’d never looked back on her years in Hartley-by-the-Sea with anything close to affection, but in that moment she was glad to be there. She was grateful to be free.
She started walking down the lane that led to the beach road, the wind buffeting her hard as soon as she stepped out into the open street. A few sheep glanced up balefully as she passed, the ewes’ stomachs swollen with the lambs that would come in April.
No one was about, and for that Claire was glad. She didn’t think she could handle any more awkward reunions; seeing Rachel Campbell had been hard enough. Had she been imagining that slight note of hostility from Rachel? After so many years away, it felt a little surprising, but then she and Rachel hadn’t been friends for a long time.
The beach road joined up with the high street at the train station; a woman was walking a small dog, wearing a waterproof parka and Wellingtons despite the sunshine. She gave her asmile, and Claire smiled back, glad it was a stranger. How many people were still living in Hartley-by-the-Sea that she’d know, or who would remember her? A few acquaintances from primary school at most, probably. The realization was a relief.
She turned right up the high street, digging her hands deep into her pockets and lowering her head against the wind. She’d forgotten how relentless the wind in Hartley-by-the-Sea was. When she’d walked to school as a little girl, she’d felt as if it had been pushing her forward, like a strong hand at her back. She’d needed the push; she’d often dreaded school, the teachers whose questions she never managed to hear and the children who thought she was ridiculous. Rachel had been the only one who had had time for her, at least until Year Six. But collecting a gaggle of gossipy girls as pseudo-friends hadn’t been nearly as fun as it had first appeared.
Claire slowed as she came to the little stucco-fronted post office shop with its windows full of advertisements and dusty tinned goods. She glanced at the notices taped to the inside: cleaning services, a lost cat, help wanted.
She thought of Andrew’s remark about Tesco and wondered what he would think if she told him she was working at the village shop. Not that she wanted to work right in the middle of the village. She craved a bit of anonymity, and standing behind the till, ringing up her neighbors’ newspapers and milk, surely wasn’t the way to get it.
And yet, a job. One small way to sort her life.
She opened the door and stepped inside, blinking for a few seconds to get used to the gloom of the little room. The shop looked like it hadn’t changed much in the five or more years since she’d last been in it: a few shelves with basic food items, a tiny refrigerated section, a rack of sweets, another of magazines. There was a post office counter tucked away in the back anda counter of old, scarred wood with an ancient-looking cash register at the front.
And behind the cash register was a giant of a man with tattoos down both folded forearms, scowling at her.
“Hi,” Claire ventured hesitantly, and the man’s black eyebrows snapped together.
“Are you coming in, then?” he asked, and Claire realized she hadn’t closed the door behind her. She did so now, a sudden gust of wind causing it to slam with enough force to rattle the glass. She winced, and then braced herself to turn around and face the man.
His scowl had deepened, his arms still ominously folded, biceps bulging. With a quick, apologetic smile, Claire started to wander the shop’s three aisles, conscious the whole time of the man’s hostility. It emanated from him like a bad smell or a malevolent force. No wonder he needed staff. He probably couldn’t keep anyone working for him for more than two minutes.
She stared blindly at a tin of baked beans in tomato sauce and then grabbed it as well as loaf of white bread. Beans on toast she could manage, and at this point she wanted to get out of the shop as quickly as possible. First Rachel, now this guy. No one, it seemed, was happy for her to be back in Hartley-by-the-Sea, which wasn’t too surprising, considering she wasn’t sure if she was.
Claire took the beans and bread to the counter and waited while the man rang them up silently.
“Three pounds and fifty-four pence,” he told her, and his voice was exactly what Claire would have expected. Gruff, gravelly, and without a shred of warmth. She fumbled in the pockets of her coat for the money, hating that her fingers actually trembled. She was such a mouse. But she’d been one for a long time.
“There you are.” She laid the coins on the counter and then gathered her items, clutching them to her chest as she blurted, “Are you... ? Are you still looking for help?”
The man gave her a flat stare. “Maybe.”
Not the most encouraging of responses, but since she’d drummed up the courage—or the foolishness—to ask about the job, she thought she might as well continue. “It’s just I’m looking for work.”
“Haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’ve been away. In Portugal. But I’m back now, for... for a while.”
“And how long is a while?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
“I’m looking for someone who can commit,” he stated, and handed her a penny in change.
