‘If he was here, I’m sure he’d have spoken to you, but I’m afraid he and Hugo are out playing golf.’
‘I see. Well, you know what, Marion? When he gets in from his game of golf, perhaps you could pass on a message for me?’
‘Go ahead, I’ve got a pen and paper here.’
‘Good. Tell him I’ll be contacting a solicitor this week to begin divorce proceedings.’
I hung up the phone, my hand shaking, my breaths ragged. If my three weeks at Lowen Farm had taught me anything, it was that I deserved more than someone who’d prioritise a game of golf over his wife and son’s welfare. Rob didn’t know we’d landed on our feet. For all he knew, we were still squashing into my sister’s tiny terrace, or sleeping in a homeless sheltersomewhere. And what did he think we were doing for money? What did he think was happening to Bertie’s education?
By the time we met Seb back at the car, I’d calmed down a little, not least thanks to a call with Cass, who’d confirmed I was making the right decision. She’d led me back over my marriage, reminding me of every time I’d cried on her shoulder about the other women, or how little Rob seemed to like, let alone love me.
‘Everything OK?’ asked Seb, frowning as he looked at me.
‘Yes, fine, why?’
‘I don’t know, it’s just you seem a bit… never mind. I’ve got our tickets. The next train arrives in ten minutes, so we’d better get a move on.’
Bertie spent the entire journey to Looe with his face pressed against the window. Despite growing up fast, he hadn’t lost his wonder at the world around him, and I prayed he wouldn’t change too much in the coming years. He helped me see the world through his eyes, marvelling as a river tripped and stuttered along the base of a tree-lined valley before widening out as it opened itself up to the sea.
‘Wow, what a beautiful train journey,’ I said as we stepped off the train and onto the platform.
‘Yes it is, isn’t it? I never get tired of it. Now, how about we start with the amusement arcade, then have a walk along the harbour and beach, before rewarding ourselves with fish and chips?’
‘Sounds good,’ I said.
‘And even better if we get to have an ice cream,’ added Bertie.
‘Ice cream? It’s freezing.’ I shivered to emphasise my point.
‘Mum, you have to have ice cream at the beach.’ Bertie rolled his eyes then fell into step beside Seb as we began walking towards the town.
I hung back, watching them. It was easier to have fun with a child if you weren’t responsible for the less interesting parts.Even so, as Seb and Bertie chatted away, I couldn’t remember Rob ever being so at ease in his son’s company. It always felt as though Bertie were an inconvenience to Rob, something that stopped him from living life to the full. He played the role easily enough at school cricket matches, or family barbecues, but I’d never seen him get down on the floor to play Lego, or read a bedtime story. Ever since Bertie was born, all practical duties had been left to me, but I’d hoped as Bertie grew older, Rob would connect with his son. I supposed there was still time, although not much could be achieved with zero contact.
In the end, we had to drag Bertie out of the amusement arcade, tempting him with the promise of an ice cream as soon as we reached the beach. Heads down, we tried to ignore the cold gusts of wind as we followed the path of the river toward the sea.
I screamed as something wet landed in my hair. ‘What the…?’ My fingers reached up, coming away caked in green and white slime. ‘Oh no.’
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
‘I think a seagull has pooped on my head.’
‘Let me see,’ said Bertie. I bent my head, and he laughed. ‘That’s so gross.’
‘A, it’s not funny, and B, being pooped on by a seagull is lucky.’
‘Doesn’t look very lucky to me,’ said Bertie. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get them for you.’
Bertie began chasing seagulls across the beach with gusto. Seb pulled a tissue from his pocket. ‘Shall I?’ he said, pointing to my hair.
‘Yes, please.’
He stood beside me, picking out strands of curls and running his tissue across them.
‘I love your curls.’
‘Even covered in bird shit?’
‘Even then. Hey, are you sure everything’s all right?’
