The Forever Home by Sue Watson
Chapter Six
The next day I decided to go into the town. I needed some groceries and a change from the faceless supermarket. I was also concerned about money; things had been really tight since Mark left. We were in the early stages of the divorce, so I had no idea how that would shake down. I’d been promised twenty per cent of the money from the American deal, but who knew if and when that was going to pay out? I’d started painting again, but due to my emotional bruising, my muse had left me for now, so I wasn’t going to make any money from that at the moment. So, in order to make money to live on until the divorce and the American deal went through, I had to try and get a job. Spring was the perfect time to see if anyone had any work in the shops or cafes before the summer season took off.
I was just leaving when I spotted a blue envelope lying on the mat. At this, my stomach flipped. I’d convinced myself that if the last note was from Gemma, she’d probably sent it because she’d seen me that day. It was weird, and I didn’t understand it, but it had probably been a one-off; perhaps seeing me at the salon had reignited some kind of jealousy for what I’d had before, Mark. But now, standing in the hallway looking at a second note, I felt sick.
I slowly bent down to pick it up. Yes, the envelope was exactly the same blue as the one I’d received the previous day, and I didn’t know whether to read it, or just call the police. I was glad I decided to read it first, because when I opened it, I laughed with relief at myself and this strange paranoia that had hold of me. It was Ryan’s estimate. Once I’d calmed down, I called him straight away to say the estimate was fine.
‘Great, I’ll start now,’ he said.
‘I’m popping out for the afternoon, so you won’t be able to get in,’ I replied.
‘No problem, I’ll come in through the side gate,’ he said. ‘I need access to the exterior walls, so don’t need to go inside the house.’
I put the phone down thinking how easy-going he was, and how much I was looking forward to giving the house some much-needed repair and maintenance.
I hadn’t ventured into Looe town much since Mark and I had split, but where else to find a job, and test my new haircut and rediscovered strength than there? Mark was the local celebrity, and naturally, as his wife, I was also known But I didn’t want to hide away forever. I’d have to face people at some point, and today felt like a good day for venturing out into the real world.
It wasn’t busy down in Looe. I popped into a couple of shops, the greengrocers and the cheese shop where I remember as a child my mother used to buy cheese. It felt good to be back, this was my home long before Mark Anderson came along, and I hoped that would continue long after he’d gone. I also went into a lovely shop which sold beautiful items for the home – cushions, soft furnishings, drawings and local pottery, made by local craftspeople, and they just happened to be looking for a part-time assistant. So, I filled in a form and handed it to the woman behind the counter who seemed warm and friendly. I left there feeling good; there were openings and possibilities for women like me, who’d abandoned their careers along with their dreams many years ago. I was secretly hoping that in the future, the shop might even take some of my paintings.
I walked around the town, marvelling at how life could change so quickly. I was here with Mark only the previous summer, having met him for lunch after he’d finished a morning’s filming. After lunch, he had ‘an important meeting’ at a hotel in Plymouth, but I knew now that the ‘meeting’ had probably been with Erin. As we walked through the streets from the restaurant, I remembered him grabbing my hand, and I liked it, and felt like we might actually be on track to find each other again. Maybe he’d faced up to his demons, and we’d started to live in peaceful acceptance of what had gone before, while looking ahead to what was to come. ‘Wow, you’re being very romantic today,’ I’d said, smiling.
‘Well, we have to look the part, darling,’ he’d replied, which crushed me slightly; did that mean he was just holding my hand because it looked good, not because he wanted to? We’d carried on walking, people stopping to chat to him, early holidaymakers asking for his autograph, or a selfie. It fed his ego, and me being there perpetuated the story, that we were happy and wholesome. Everyone wanted a little bit of Mark, even me, and after our rather rocky marriage, I’d begun to think that in spite of everything, we might just make it after all. What an idiot I was.
I dragged myself from the past when I found myself near The Silver Spoon Tearooms. I hadn’t been there in a long time, and decided to go inside. I’d been visiting this traditional old Cornish tearoom since I was a little girl, when my mother would bring me for scones and clotted cream. I felt comfortable, and it was actually more pleasant to be here without Mark, because strangers didn’t accost me when I was alone. It was so long ago since I’d been on the TV, no one recognised me, except for the locals, which was why I was surprised that two young women on the next table seemed to be talking about me. They weren’t in my eyeline, but I heard my name and Mark’s mentioned several times, and eventually glanced over to see Erin, sitting with her friend, both giving me daggers. It was like being hit with a blunt object. Even though I knew about the pregnancy, seeing her like that was a shock. And I was overwhelmed by sadness.
The last time I’d seen my husband’s much younger lover was a few months before the anniversary party. Lara had called round to drop some plants off at the house; she was really green-fingered, and her own garden was like something from a magazine. She never wanted a moment of her life to be boring, and applied that theory to her garden, making sure it was always blooming, with no dull patches. Erin was waiting in the car as her mother handed me armfuls of bright green foliage wrapped in newspaper.
I’d invited her in, and told her to fetch Erin, so she beckoned her, but Erin had scowled, and in her usual sulky tone, said, ‘No, Mum, we’re in a hurry.’ It was rude, but it was also classic Erin, and I didn’t give it a second thought, but now realised the affair had been in full swing by then. I must have been the last person Erin wanted to see.
Even as a little girl, Erin had been quiet, secretive even. It was hard to reconcile that little girl with the very pregnant, round-faced young woman on the next table, carrying my husband’s child.
‘Seen enough?’ I heard her voice; it sounded stronger, more aggressive than ever before.
I looked up to see her glaring at me, the other girl smirking.
‘You’ve had your hair done, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, touching the back of my head self-consciously.
‘Talk about mutton dressed as lamb!’ she scoffed in her friend’s direction.
I was crushed, I couldn’t hide it. And she knew she’d got her bull’s eye, which seemed to give her the confidence to push on.
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Carly?’
The friend sniggered.
‘Congratulate you on what, Erin?’ I replied, gathering myself together for battle. I felt like a teacher steeling herself to deal with the problem girl in class.
‘On mine and Mark’s baby of course.’ She gave a sly smile. God, she was so young, so immature. How could Mark tolerate such childishness? Presumably she compensated for that in the bedroom?
‘Congratulations,’ I said blankly, as the waitress arrived with my tea and scone.
Erin dragged her eyes from me to look the waitress up and down; obviously she wasn’t quite sure where to take this now she’d started.
The waitress put down the teapot, then the cup and everything else involved with a cream tea. By the time she left, minutes had passed and I hoped the show was over. But Erin clearly had something else to impart.
‘We’re having a baby boy…’
‘Really?’ I said, slicing through the warm, baked scone with some vigour.
‘Mark says I’m the love of his life.’
‘I’m sure he did, darling… He says that to all his mistresses,’ I murmured in a voice loud enough for her to hear, but hopefully not the rest of the café.
She was, for a second, taken aback. I supposed she too had believed the hype, that we were the perfect, loved-up couple, and Mark the perfect, loyal husband. But after taking a moment to digest what I’d said, she rallied quickly and, leaning over in my direction as far as her stomach would allow, hissed, ‘Men cheat for a reason, Carly.’
‘Yes, usually because they can’t keep it in their pants.’ I dropped a blob of blood-red jam onto my scone and, unsmiling, picked up the pot of clotted cream, slathering it on top of the jam, my eyes on hers, unblinking, throughout the process.
She watched me for a few moments, then turned to her friend and said in a stage whisper for everyone in the café to hear, ‘The marriage was over long before I came on the scene – Mark says they hadn’t been happy for years.’
‘Your mother must be very proud,’ I said in an equally loud voice. ‘You destroyed a marriage, and broke up a family – well done,’ I added, taking a large bite of the scone.
The café fell silent, save a few murmurings, with the sudden realisation perhaps of who I was and my connection to the great Mark Anderson, Looe’s honorary son.
To my huge relief, Erin seemed to finish what she was eating, and called the waitress for the bill. I continued to eat, but the scone tasted to me of cotton wool now. I pretended to enjoy it, but my throat hurt to swallow, it was so closed up with anger and hurt.
Erin grabbed her shopping bags. I noticed a couple from the babywear shop that had opened last summer. It was French, expensive – thick linens and pastel hand knits. I remember saying to Lara, ‘What kind of mother would be foolish enough to buy a pale pink linen dress at that price for a child under twelve months?’
‘I know. For God’s sake, they’ll spew on it, or wee in it when they aren’t dancing in mud.’
But here was her daughter buying the best French clothes for my husband’s unborn baby, at eye-watering prices, while Mark dragged his feet over our financial settlement. And while they clearly were fine for money, I was out looking for part-time work, and hoping to God I could afford to keep my home – my childhood home. I discreetly watched her struggle to get out from under the table, while remembering how undignified pregnancy is. I wondered if she’d be quite so petty and mean after the birth and the stitches and the sleepless nights that awaited her.
I’d hoped she’d had her say, but should have known she wouldn’t leave it there. And in a voice for everyone to hear as she headed towards the door, she said, ‘Oh, Carly, you might have heard, me, Mark and our new baby are living in a tiny, two-bedroomed cottage, while you’re rattling around in his great big house.’
‘And?’ I asked, taking a sip of tea.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself – are you really so bitter? You won’t be happy until we’re on the streets,’ she hissed.
I slowly put my cup back in its saucer and lifted my head to address her. ‘So now you want my home? Haven’t you stolen enough from me already? You dare come anywhere near my house and I won’t be responsible for the consequences,’ I spat, angrily. I didn’t care who heard. The house was mine, it belonged to my family long before Mark came into my life, and I would rather die than leave it, or hand it over, to them. It was my home, and meant everything to me.
Trundling after her friend, Erin staggered through the door of the café and yelled, ‘You’re a selfish old COW!’ She then slammed the door so hard the crockery rattled.
Everyone looked round, and then at me. My cheeks were burning, customers were staring and two of the waitresses were talking behind their hands. I wanted to die. For a moment, I contemplated throwing my money on the table and running out, but told myself I wasn’t running away, I was stronger than that. So, I finished my scone and my tea and politely asked for the bill, like my husband’s pregnant mistress hadn’t just yelled at me in full view of everyone. Clearly Erin hadn’t received Estelle’s planned press release suggesting we inform the world that the break-up was amicable. Estelle’s missive had been very Gwyneth Paltrow, describing my agony as ‘a joyful uncoupling,’ and both parties were showing ‘the utmost love and respect’ for each other. If this little fracas got out, Mark would have a bloody stroke, and Estelle would join him; all that about ‘taking control of the narrative’ had just gone up in a puff of smoke. In a matter of seconds, a chance encounter in The Silver Spoon Tearooms had escalated into something like the table-flipping scene in The Housewives of New Jersey. God, but she was unnecessarily nasty, and arrogant too – especially as Mark had betrayed me with her. Perhaps it’s a generational thing, but usually when you steal someone else’s husband, isn’t it etiquette to show a little remorse, embarrassment, guilt even?
But this bad blood from Erin was all Mark’s doing; it had had his fingerprints all over it. She’d presumably expected, or been promised, residence in our old family home, and in an attempt to appease her, and lay it on me, he’d told her I was refusing to move. He’d also let her believe the house was his, and the only reason they couldn’t just move in there was because I wouldn’t allow it, out of sheer bitterness and jealousy. But he hadn’t reckoned on us bumping into each other, and her confronting me with the lies he’d told her. Nor had he reckoned on Erin’s feisty nature, and her quick temper when she didn’t get what she wanted. He would no doubt become acquainted with that soon enough, but for now they were in the honeymoon period, and I thought: Let’s see what happens when the honeymoon’s over, and those baby stitches are pulling.
Perhaps in time it would be wise to make friends with Lara again? We simply hadn’t been in touch since the night of the party. I don’t think either of us could face each other; she was probably too mortified, and I’d been too upset. But it wasn’t Lara’s fault my husband had impregnated her daughter. I missed her, and also, if Lara and I were friends again, Erin might think twice about any more public displays of hate. I sat for a while in the tea rooms, before paying the waitress with a generous tip and making as dignified a retreat as possible.
When I got home, I called Mark. He didn’t answer, so I left a message telling him to talk to his ‘little Rottweiler’, and put her straight about the house, that it was mine, and she had no right to even suggest she move in, let alone virtually accuse me of bloody squatting. I may have raised my voice a little – and was just reaching the end of the message with, ‘if that little madam ever does that to me in public again, she’ll be sorry,’ when I noticed Ryan, standing in the garden. Shit, the glass doors were wide open; he must have heard me.
He put his hand up in a sort of wave and I immediately ended the call.
‘Oh hi, are you okay, Ryan?’ I said, cringing.
‘Yeah, yeah, great thanks, I’m just double-checking measurements and working out what I’ll need paint-wise.’
Then he wandered round the back of the house and I didn’t see him again.
I lay awake that night thinking about Erin and the way she’d spoken to me. I remember as a child Phoebe once saying she was mean and didn’t play nice. She clearly hadn’t changed. But it came from a deep-seated need for attention, and as a child, she’d do anything and say anything so adults would see her. Losing her father at eleven cut very deep, and though she was only a child, I think both her and Lara took on some of the guilt when he walked out into the waves that night. Lara would never talk about it; even when I asked her, she’d always say, ‘Too raw, Carly, please don’t.’
I think we’d all made excuses for Erin over the years, but now she was an adult, and though Lara may have contributed to the person she’d become, she couldn’t be blamed for everything her daughter did. I knew Lara would be upset to think Erin was rubbing salt in the wound and trying to take my home from me. But that was never going to happen – over my dead body would Erin would get my beautiful home that meant everything to me. Over my dead body!