One Cornish Summer Read online

  Her stomach growled.

  ‘Hungry?’ He ran a hand over her backside.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hopefully for me.’

  She laughed. His ego knew no bounds. ‘Food.’

  ‘A takeaway later.’ He nibbled her neck.

  ‘Yes.’ She’d heard that before but he had never followed through. Maybe it was too intimate to sit and eat in front of the television. Her skirt dropped to the floor and she brought his face up to meet hers and kissed him. His lips stilled, and he pulled away and led her to the bedroom.

  He was focused on one thing and Lucy wouldn’t complain. He wanted her. That was clear. As she fell onto the bed, she spotted a copy of Enid Blyton’s Five Go Off to Camp on the bedside table. What the hell was he reading that for? As her body began to respond, her mind was in a damp tent in Devon, or was it Wales? She couldn’t remember.

  Ed rolled over and lit a cigarette, then checked his phone. His smoking didn’t fit with the pristine state of the flat. Nothing was out of place except for their clothes on the bedroom floor. On the chest of drawers there was a black-and-white picture of Ed and Sheila at the register office. They’d been married ten years. What did they have to show for it?

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what Sheila texted me as she stormed off to her mother’s.’

  ‘Probably not, but tell me anyway.’ Lucy stretched out her legs, trying not to think that she was currently naked in Sheila’s bed.

  ‘That she was only staying with me for the benefit of my career.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘Well that’s what you told me when we met.’

  He turned to her. ‘Did I?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, you said the marriage was all but finished except that it was politically expedient.’

  He grinned. ‘It is.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘That’s why I need you. You’re clever, beautiful and ask nothing of me … and you are great in bed.’

  ‘Not sure about the first three, or even the last …’ She ran her hand along his chest.

  ‘But you are.’ He kissed her. ‘That’s another thing she just doesn’t understand.’

  Her hand slipped lower. ‘Really?’

  ‘We haven’t had sex in years.’

  Lucy couldn’t imagine that. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘I know.’ He nuzzled her. ‘Pity me. I’m neglected by my wife, who doesn’t love me.’

  ‘I don’t love you.’

  ‘But you at least want me.’

  Lucy kissed him and showed him that was true.

  Three

  Hebe

  26 September 2016

  The waiting room was empty. Hebe crossed her ankles, then uncrossed them. She checked that she had her notebook in her handbag, then settled the bag beside her feet and crossed her ankles again. Pulling at the hem on her dress so that it reached her knees, she saw Country Life on the table beside her. She picked it up and flipped through the pages, looking at the properties. Her hand stilled. Helwyn House. She ran her fingers down the page. For sale by auction. The north front with its distinctive loggia stared at her. She knew it so well. Desire. She looked up. The receptionist wasn’t there. She ripped the page out of the magazine and slipped it into her bag.

  ‘Dr Courtenay, Mr Phelps will see you now.’

  She stood and straightened her dress. This wasn’t going to be fun even if she wanted to pretend otherwise. As she entered the room, the consultant was standing by the window. He turned and smiled. Was that a good sign?

  ‘Take a seat.’ He came back to his desk and she wished he would sit down too, but he walked back to the window holding a clutch of papers. This wasn’t OK. Some things had gone already, but her ability to read body language hadn’t disappeared.

  ‘Your test results show a marked deterioration.’

  Hebe pulled her notebook out and wrote down deterioration.

  ‘I know this doesn’t surprise you, since you mentioned you had felt it yourself.’

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ve spoken in the past about your plans as the disease progresses.’

  She wrote down disease progresses.

  ‘What care arrangements do you have in place?’

  Looking up at him, she frowned. Surely they were not at that stage yet.

  ‘You never bring anyone with you and yet I recommended this right from our first appointment.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Hebe, this shows clearly that your decision-making process is impaired and has been for some time.’

  She flattened her lips.

  ‘You will need help.’

  She let the words sink in as she wrote it down. Need help.

  ‘If not today, then in the very near future.’ He came back to the desk and sat down. ‘Promise me you will bring someone to your next appointment?’

  She nodded and continued to write down everything he said, but she wasn’t thinking about it. Helwyn House was being auctioned in a few days’ time. She would buy it. There were things she needed to do.

  ‘Hebe, have you written down what I said?’

  She looked down at her notebook.

  Buy Helwyn House.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He pushed some papers across the desk. ‘As you can see, there has been a marked decline in the cognitive area.’

  The lines went down sharply. She had felt this. ‘How long?’

  ‘How long what?’

  ‘How long until I don’t know who I am, let alone anyone else.’

  He raised his hands. ‘If we look at the time since your first appointment …’ He pointed to the starting point on the graph. ‘If your ability declines at that rate, you may have six months of good cognitive ability, but it might not even be that long.’

  Hebe looked at her notebook.

  Buy Helwyn House.

  ‘You have been in decline for years.’

  ‘Years? How many?’

  ‘At a guess, based on where you are now, ten. But you have developed coping mechanisms. Those will begin to fail. You need support.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Your next appointment is in a month.’ He tapped the papers so they all came together and slipped them into a file, then closed it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please remember to bring someone with you.’ He stood. ‘This is important, Hebe.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Walking out of the door, she stopped at the receptionist’s desk. Lying on the table beside the chair was the magazine she’d torn the page from. She knew what she was going to do.

  ‘Can I help you, Dr Courtenay?’

  ‘Yes, I can’t make my appointment next month. Can you cancel it and I’ll give you a call when I have my diary with me.’

  ‘Certainly. Should I ring to remind you?’

  Hebe’s mouth flirted with a smile. ‘No, I’ve written myself a note. Thanks.’ She strode out of the door, down the steps and into the September sunshine, trying to remember what was next on her list of things to do today.

  Hebe looked at her wrist. Her watch wasn’t there and she couldn’t remember where she’d left it. She didn’t know this restaurant, with its white tablecloths and flickering candles. The chair opposite her was empty. Rory. Was he late or was she early? Today was special but she couldn’t recall why. It was the feast of St Colman Elo, Irish. But he wouldn’t know that.

  He’d made a fuss on the phone and he’d left three notes on Post-its stuck to the fridge, the door and the bathroom mirror. He’d also emailed. She guessed she must have forgotten to meet him last time. That would explain it.

  He could arrive any minute. Pulling out her lipstick, she reapplied it then checked her phone for messages. It was exactly seven o’clock. She was early. He wa
sn’t late. She took her notebook out of the bag.

  Doctor’s appointment notes.

  Deterioration.

  Which she knew …

  Prognosis bleak.

  Why had she bothered going? Wouldn’t it be better to live in ignorance? Though she wasn’t ignorant; she had been in … in something. The word would come later, much later when she didn’t know why she’d wanted it in the first place. Denial. That was it. She must do something but wasn’t sure what. The picture of the end she faced was so bleak she was glad she wouldn’t be aware it was happening. But what of the others who would witness it?

  She closed the notebook and put it back in her bag. In there she found a folded page from Country Life. The last time she’d read the magazine was when her sister was the frontispiece thirty years ago … or was it less, or maybe more? She closed her eyes, trying to remember her sister’s name, but at this moment it was gone, just out of reach like so much else.

  Laying the page flat, she pressed the creases out. The loggia. There was only one house with that architecture in Cornwall. Helwyn House, Thomas Grylls’s home. He was a lover, a hero, a royalist, a model Cavalier.

  Her phone lit up announcing a message.

  On my way. X

  That was good. She would hate to have to leave the restaurant without eating. That was what they were for after all. Glancing at the paper again, she traced it with her fingers. She knew the details so well. She had written so much about this house and visited it many times trying to capture it in words … those elusive things, and more so now than ever before. Before, they had been friends and tools. Now they were things to lose and stumble over.

  Helwyn House to be auctioned on 30 September 2016.

  She should buy it. Then she could take the portrait of Thomas Grylls and return it to where it belonged. That would be perfect, in fact the perfect end. Almost as good as her mother’s. Cornwall.

  Looking up, she noted a handsome man chatting with the maître d’. He was holding flowers. Red roses. She knew him. She frowned. Today was the twenty-sixth of September. Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, she wondered whether there was something special about that date. The notes, the flowers, they meant something. Did she have time to pull out her diary? That would tell her the significance of the day … but he was already walking towards her with a smile. Rory. Her heart raced.

  ‘Hebe.’ He kissed her, then presented her with the bouquet. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’

  She blinked and a memory ran swiftly, too swiftly, through her mind. It was gone before she could capture it. She coughed, willing her brain to give up on its game of hiding key facts from her.

  They had been together for a while. But she had no idea how long this handsome man opposite her had been her lover. The waiter came over with a bottle of Prosecco. She jumped when the cork popped; her mind had wandered to Rory’s neat hands. Linen shirt, blue. Jacket, tan.

  She looked down at her own hands. There was an age spot just south of her ring finger knuckle, but she wore no rings.

  ‘How did it go today?’ He studied her.

  ‘Boring.’ She smiled and raised her glass to him. ‘Happy anniversary.’

  ‘Yes, cheers.’ Their glasses touched and another memory raced by and disappeared. She was becoming weary of chasing these fleeting things. Why wouldn’t they stop?

  ‘Your day?’

  His phone flashed and she watched him read the words. Who was texting him? Her breath caught as jealousy soured the wine in her mouth.

  ‘Nothing new, just another round of first years and a meeting with a promising student in her final year.’

  She sat up straight. Why did that off-hand comment niggle?

  His attention returned to her. ‘You start tomorrow, yes?’

  She swallowed. Did she? She hadn’t taught today, from what she could remember. She nodded and took another sip. Maybe the bubbles would clear the clouds in her mind.

  ‘What do you want to eat?’ He reached across the table and touched her hand. ‘You haven’t been eating much lately.’

  This was true. If he wasn’t with her she didn’t bother, and of late he hadn’t been with her much. Her clothes were all too loose. ‘You choose for me.’ She smiled.

  ‘Fine.’ He let out a long breath.

  Was he cross? It didn’t matter. The wine was going to her head. She wasn’t sure if she had eaten today. Moving her foot under the table, she rubbed his ankle. He looked up. There were crows’ feet around his eyes. She didn’t remember them, but she itched to touch them.

  ‘Not tonight, of course, but I was wondering if you could have a read through my latest paper before I submit it?’ He smiled at her.

  She looked down. Why not tonight? Of course. It was their anniversary. They would eat dinner, go to his and have sex. No time for reading.

  Four

  Lucy

  27 September 2016

  The phone on the bedside table beeped. Lucy opened her eyes. Ed stirred and reached for it.

  ‘Shit. She’s on her way back.’ He sat up and pushed the hair out of his eyes.

  ‘Great.’ She frowned as she watched his glance dart about the room. The empty wine bottles were on the chest of drawers but the glasses were nowhere in sight. It had been quite a night. It was still a few hours before he was due in Parliament and it would take Sheila some time to reach London from Surrey. She stretched and ran her fingers down his spine.

  ‘You’d better leave.’ Ed looked at his phone again.

  She stopped. There was a note in his voice that was new. Impatience. ‘Is something wrong?’

  He turned to her with a smile. ‘Nothing.’

  Lucy climbed out of bed and collected her clothes on the way to the bathroom. He was lying. She was positive. Maybe it was the smile. After dressing, she did her best to repair her face. The dark smudges of yesterday’s mascara wouldn’t shift, so she grabbed a bit of loo roll and wetted it. When she opened the bin to drop it in, there lying on top was a pregnancy test. She stood, staring at it, trying to register what it meant.

  Returning to the bedroom, she wanted to scream at him, but he was now on the phone. So much for a dead marriage. That positive test told her it was alive and kicking. Bastard. She cursed herself for believing his lies, then laughed, looking down at herself in yesterday’s clothes. There was no sense in dwelling on it. What didn’t kill you made you stronger.

  She stormed off to the kitchen, where she’d dropped her bag last night. As if for the first time, she looked around, seeing what was actually there. The calendar on the fridge made sense. Those circled days weren’t key debates in Parliament, but the days Sheila was ovulating. Bloody fool. Lucy didn’t love him, so what did it matter? But it still hurt. She grabbed a stale croissant from the bread bin, then pulled out her phone and texted him.

  It’s over. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to lie? Congrats on the news of your wife’s pregnancy.

  Before she could leave the building, he was beside her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I would think that was blatantly obvious. I’m leaving.’

  ‘Don’t say a word to anyone.’

  Lucy stopped and stared at him, then began to laugh. Don’t say a word to anyone? No one knew about this affair. No one except the two of them. She had been the ideal mistress, and the key to that was being totally and utterly stupid. She’d believed everything he’d said.

  Turning away, she walked out to the lobby with Ed hot on her heels. She moved faster until she was out of the front door, where he grabbed her arm. She turned to him. ‘You lying bastard.’

  ‘You’ve got me wrong.’

  ‘No I haven’t. You’re an asshole with a big sex drive and I’m an idiot for believing your lies.’

  ‘No, the marriage is broken.’

  As Lucy turned away, she clocked a stranger and
the reporter for the Daily Mail who lived in the same building holding up their phones. Her stomach dropped. They were both recording the whole thing. She turned to Ed. ‘You’ve just dug your own grave.’ Walking away with her head held high, she said, ‘Morning, Tom.’

  ‘Morning, Lucy. Up to your old antics, I see.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  She flagged down a passing cab. Ed had fled back inside the building. He was going to have a fine time explaining this to Sheila. Poor woman. Poor child. And what a bloody mess Lucy had landed herself in.

  By the time the taxi reached Lucy’s flat in Pimlico, there was a photographer waiting. Word had spread fast. No doubt the footage was online and would make the breakfast news. She clenched her jaw. This was not good. She tapped on the dividing glass. ‘Change of plan. Can you take me to Cheyne Walk, please.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lucy sank back into the seat. She could only hope that reporters weren’t camped out in front of her parents’ house. It was now 7 a.m. She tried to repair her hair before arriving, hoping her mother might not assume the worst. She always looked for the positives even if there were none. Lucy’s father was a case in point.

  As the taxi neared the house, she saw a sole photographer leaning against a lamp post and her mother opening the door to pick up the paper. At least the affair wouldn’t be in there. That joy would be saved for tomorrow morning, unless the world imploded. She had to hope that the Telegraph had something better than her name to splash across the front page, or her father would never let her forget it. Who was she kidding: he wouldn’t let her forget it no matter what. She was a constant reminder to him of what an absolute shit he was. Some things could never be forgotten or forgiven.

  ‘Keep driving and take the next left,’ she said. The driver gave her a funny look as they went past the address she’d given him.

  ‘Here will do.’ She jumped out and paid before dashing through Mrs Hill’s gate and into her garden. There was no light on in the kitchen, so no one would witness her unusual behaviour. Her father, Giles, would say that it was always questionable, but she would reply that she’d learned it from him. This time, though, she’d better think of something quickly. Explanations would be asked for, but they wouldn’t make any difference. She knew her father asked only to see her squirm. But she’d refused to squirm for years.