He is alluding to the past again, the thing they never normally speak about. She turns away from him and carries on walking.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I know you don’t like talking about it. But you can’t keep punishing yourself, Lotts.’
Stopping abruptly, so that Tim collides with her on the single-file path, Lottie holds up a hand to silence him.
‘I’m not punishing myself, Tim, and I know I’m not to blame for anything. And yes, you’re right, I don’t want to talk about any of this.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he says.
‘So why are we still talking about it?’ She rounds on him. ‘It was years ago, for God’s sake.’ She hears the wobble in her voice and, furious with herself, the next sentence comes out with more anger than she intends. ‘I’d just like to forget about it, Tim.’
They continue walking in silence. An older couple dressed in T-shirts and khaki shorts passes them, smiling broadly, exclaiming over Josh’s curls. Lottie accepts these adoring comments graciously, though she is used to them. They exchange banalities about the weather, the beauty surrounding them. How easy it is to become accustomed to it all. And Lottie nods because it’s true, how much she takes her good fortune for granted. This freedom. Her marriage, her child. This life. What if it had all been taken away from her? Or she from it? If she had been arrested, imprisoned for a crime (even if it wasn’t intentional or planned)?
She still thinks about the woman, what happened, all the time. Despite what she says to Tim. She could never forget her name, her face. It haunts her. It always will.
15
Tobias is about to leave the site and go in search of some lunch, perhaps a cold beer to reward himself for his morning efforts. Bill, the foreman, has assured him that the scaffolding will be coming down this week, now that all the loose roof tiles have been replaced, some of the dodgy flashing repaired. And the exterior of the house has also been given a fresh coat of paint to seal it against the harsh abrasion of coastal weather.
It’s good to know the property will be watertight before the next winter comes around. Nice to get the scaffolding down too. He knows how Olivia hates it. And the locals too, he suspects, since it spoils the quaint seaside image. But it’s not like theirs is the only house bearing the signs of improvement or extension. He’d noticed several others further up the hill, one of them definitely owned by locals; an older couple who have apparently run their home as a B & B most of their married lives.
He’d stopped to admire the handiwork, inquire if they could recommend any other local tradespeople. But they had shaken their heads, exchanged barbed looks, made their excuses and gone indoors. Strange folk some of them round here. Distinctly unfriendly, in fact. Although, you’d suppose they’d be used to outsiders after all these years. Their whole livelihood is dependent on them, after all. He had almost felt tempted to give them some business advice: to turn the place into an Airbnb and let the whole property out during theseason. Who wants to be confined to a poky bedroom and have breakfast served in some old biddy’s front parlour? To his mind, it would be far better to put the whole thing up for sale. They could make a killing and retire to some nice bungalow somewhere else.
Still, some people won’t be told. Incapable of change and can’t move with the times. Of course, he’s made a career from predicting the markets, identifying opportunities before others can, knowing which way the tide is turning. Adapt or perish – the old army saying – as his father used to be fond of quoting. It holds true in life, as in war. Survival of the fittest.
He bids farewell to the men as he picks his way along the site and through the back garden, though they seem less enthusiastic than he would like. It must be damn hard work in this heat though, he admits. That’s why he’s off to find some shade and refreshment. He wonders where Livvy and the kids have got to. Whether he can round them up for lunch or whether he should take advantage of some peace and quiet, see if he can’t hole up in a pub somewhere with his iPad for company.
He wishes Marcus was back here already. He enjoys the company of men, misses it when he’s on holiday with the wife and kids. And nothing gives him greater pleasure than holding forth over a younger man who would clearly kill for his wealth and status. Oh, he knows it, can see it in Marcus’s eyes. It is nice being the boss, after all. With a smile to himself, he strides through the gate and leaves the property, chest swelling in the tight polo shirt, damp patches at his armpits. As he makes his way down the street, feeling the road gently dropping down to the sea, he passes an old man who has seemingly stopped for a breather.
Tobias notes that his cheeks display a fine web of veins, his white hair curling under his fisherman’s cap. He leans against the wall staring up at the renovation. His face is stern,perhaps from the exertion of the hill. But as Tobias nods at him, the man turns his eyes towards him and they are dark pieces of stone, full of barely-concealed loathing. He feels himself baulk for a second and then dismisses it, carrying on his way. Good Lord, he thinks to himself, with another inward smile. These people round here. Mad as a mongoose, every last one of them.
16
Olivia finds herself queuing, buying lunch for herself and the kids. She can’t help feeling it would make more sense to eat at the hotel, to have someone bring it to them while they sit under the shade of a parasol, but Bella and Drew love to be by the beach. By the time she has stood in line for what seems like an interminable period (of course she was left as the placeholder while they drifted off to enjoy the water) and paid what seems like a ruinous amount of money for three sets of tacos, she is ready for a siesta. Checking her watch, however, she makes an excuse to her children that she must double-back to the town centre where she has forgotten something. She knows neither of them will be bothered about accompanying her, so she leaves them on the beach with full bellies, iced lattes and instructions to meet her back at the hotel later.
As she makes her way along the seafront, she is aware of how busy the beach has become. Barely a square inch appears to be vacant as families of all ages spread themselves out on towels, deckchairs and underneath erected gazebos. She really can’t wait to come back here out of season when things will be quieter and all the tourists will be gone. Right on cue her eye snags on a familiar figure; the dark, pixie cut of the woman next door. She is dressed plainly in a simple sundress, with her husband and that adorably chubby toddler of theirs.
The three of them cut an interesting trio amongst the rest of the beach’s occupants. None of them are tanned for a start, and they look bleached in comparison to the variegated shades ofpink and brown bodies, the bright array of swimsuits and wide-brimmed sun hats, the sleek torsos of surfers, the teak coloured skin of those who have wintered abroad.
They huddle together, finding solace between themselves, nibbling on homemade sandwiches eaten out of tinfoil, while sipping from a flask. The central focus of the couple seems to be the child as they both watch him intently; one adjusting the sunshade over him, the other entertaining him with a bucket and spade. Her heart goes out to them a little, she doesn’t mind admitting. They look pretty miserable, and she feels a pang of guilt for the noise and disruption taking place next door to them. But then she looks again, and the thought is replaced with a different emotion – one of envy.
She sees how they lift their eyes from the child and smile at each other. The love they feel for their son reflecting back at each other. The way she offers him another sandwich, the way he carefully pours out another measure of tea for her. It is tender and she acknowledges with a lump in her throat that she and Tobias have never had this kind of relationship, even when their own children were that small.
Trudging on through the hot sand, her feet gritty and chafed now, her skin sweaty, Olivia’s resolve hardens. She is heading to meet the estate agent at the site of the former fishmonger’s shop and she knows that she is doing the right thing. Too much of her life has already been wasted on other people who don’t appreciate her. This is her time now. When she gets to the dilapidated old shop, the agent is there waiting for her, standing in the shade and holding a large bunch of keys.
‘Hello, Mrs Woolf?’ she asks and Olivia hurries apologetically.
‘Have you had many enquiries about this place?’ she asks breathlessly, which she is sure makes her sound too eager and desperate.
‘No, you’re the first, actually,’ replies the young woman, introducing herself as Beth. ‘But then it did just go on the market last week.’
‘Oh really?’ asks Olivia, ‘That’s amazing!’
She is aware she is being far too keen and if Tobias were here he would be chiding her and taking over the negotiations immediately.
‘Shall we?’ asks Beth, turning to the property with her keys and beginning to do battle with a rusty padlock.
Inside, it is dust-laden and the smell of fish still pervades. The old refrigerators, also showing signs of corrosion, lie abandoned and silent.
