A Perfect Home (35 page)

A local newspaper ran a story on the fire and the irony that the house was being featured in an interiors magazine at the time. A national newspaper picked up on it and tried to interview Claire. When she refused to talk to them over the phone they came to Sally's house, camping outside on the village green, waiting for Claire to come out.

‘How does it feel to have lost everything?' The reporter tried to shove a small microphone at Claire as she got into Sally's car. His cheap leather coat flapped around him in the wind. ‘What's it like to have your beautiful home burned to the ground?'

‘What do you think it's like, you stupid man?' shouted Sally. ‘Piss off and leave her alone.'

A short photographer with greasy hair took pictures, pushing his camera against the car window as Sally drove away with a screech of tyres.

The next day the story appeared as a double-page spread with pictures of the burned-out shell beside the pictures from
Idyllic Homes
.

‘Up In Flames. The Dream Destroyed', screamed the headline. ‘Cushion-maker, 37, still in shock as her husband lies critically ill in hospital.' There was an out-of-focus picture of Claire staring through the glass of the car window. She looked haggard and confused; her complexion ashen beneath her scraped-back hair; her bandaged arm raised as if to try to cover her face.

‘“She is devastated,” a close friend told us,' it said underneath.

Claire carefully folded up the newspaper and put it on the table in front of her.

‘I told you not to look at it,' said Sally.

‘I'm glad I saw it,' said Claire. ‘At least I know what the house looks like now. It makes it easier to accept what has happened. It's made it real.'

‘If I were you, I'd ask them to print an apology for saying that you're thirty-seven.'

A large bouquet of flowers arrived from Celia Hammond. She sent her condolences for ‘the terrible tragedy that you have suffered'. Claire thought about Stefan. What must he be thinking? He must know about the fire; even if he hadn't seen the newspaper surely Celia would have told him. She kept thinking he might try to get in touch but days passed and she heard nothing. She told herself he was the last person she wanted to see, to even think about, but small bubbles of longing still seemed to burst through the disgust, anger, and shame that covered her feelings for him.

Chapter Thirty

‘An intriguing mix of old and new.'

‘I don't want to push you out,' said Sally, the first morning that Oliver and Emily went back to school. Ben still seemed too clingy to return to nursery and he sat on Claire's lap playing with Lego blocks while she tried to take sips from a steaming cup of tea. Sally reached out for Claire's hand across the table.

‘You know you can stay here as long as you like, but have you thought about the future? Where you're going to live until the insurance claim is sorted out? What you're going to do?'

Claire tried to focus her mind. She had been trying to think about the future for days, to work out some sort of plan for herself, for the children, for William when he came out of hospital. But every time she tried to think about it her mind seemed to turn to fuzz.

‘Have you let the department store know you can't do their order?' Sally asked. Claire shook her head; she couldn't bear to see that dream disappear but she knew there was no way she could fulfil the order now, she had no fabric, no sewing machine, and all the little bits of lace and ribbon and jars of buttons she'd spent so many years collecting had gone.

‘I'll do it this afternoon,' she said with a sigh. ‘And I need to let all my other stockists and customers know that Emily Love is, quite literally, no more.'

‘There's something I haven't told you yet,' said Sally. ‘Gareth and I are getting back together.'

‘Oh, Sally, that's great news! I do like Gareth; he's been so kind since the fire and of course everything he did that morning was amazing.'

‘I know,' Sally grinned. ‘He's such a hero. It made me realise how much I miss him. How much I really love him. I know he messed things up with his cyber-flirtation stuff but everyone makes mistakes. You've made me realise that. I can see now that temptation can lead anyone astray in even the strongest marriages, like yours.'

Claire took a sip of her tea. ‘I'm glad something good has come out of the whole fiasco. I'm really pleased for you both.'

‘I can't wait to rekindle the old passion,' said Sally wistfully. ‘It will be like when we first met.' She sighed happily. ‘Though obviously not in the back of his dad's Ford Cortina.'

‘Doesn't Gareth mind about you and Josh?'

‘Josh is long gone now. Apparently it all got too “heavy” after the fire. It did me the world of good while it lasted, though, and jealousy was the best punishment for Gareth. Anyway, I've got some new tricks now that I'm longing to show him. He won't be interested in busty Betties any more!'

‘Well, I can see you won't want us in your way when he comes back.' Claire felt panic rising. Where could they go?

‘Could you find somewhere to rent in town?' asked Sally gently. ‘I know there's probably not much to choose from but I could make enquiries for you. Anna did say you could stay in the rooms above the gallery but there isn't a proper kitchen and the heating is a bit hit and miss. What about those new houses they were building last summer by the river? Some of them are now for rent.'

Modern monstrosities,
she remembered William calling them. Claire stared out of the window; it looked out at grey December fields and a leafless wood of oak trees that climbed the steep hill to where her home had been.

‘What do you think?' said Sally. ‘Shall I go and buy a local paper for you? Shall we see what rental properties they've got advertised?'

Claire turned and looked at her friend.

‘I think know what I need to do,' she said to Sally. ‘I think I've thought of somewhere we could live.'

It was the first time Claire had driven since the fire. The cuts on her feet still hurt as she pressed down on the pedals and she was relieved that she only had to go a mile up the hill.

‘I'll come with you,' Sally had said.

‘No,' replied Claire. ‘This is something I need to do myself.'

The air still smelled of charred wood as she opened the car door. Tentatively she got out into the grey winter rain and forced herself to look in front of her. Even though she'd seen the picture in the newspaper the reality was hard to take in. She squinted her eyes so that the house became a hazy blur. That was easier. She could almost believe that the thatched roof was still there, glass still in the windows, walls still painted Dorset cream. Slowly she refocused and let herself take in the sagging blackened hole that gaped open, like a festered wound, where the roof had been. One chimney had partially collapsed and the walls were blackened and streaked with smoke stain. All around lay glass from the windows and bits of stone that had fallen from the chimney. One remaining black branch of rose bush outlined the doorless porch. Claire thought of Gareth climbing it to rescue the children and shuddered at the thought of what a close escape they'd had.

Charred and broken objects lay scattered around the perimeter of the house, twisted bits of plastic toys, blackened and water-warped books and papers, scorched furniture and everywhere little scraps of dirty, damp unrecognisable fabric.

She could hardly bear to look at the fabric; losing the vintage materials and buttons and ribbons that she'd collected for so many years seemed to upset her more than losing her personal possessions. If only she had had that order from the department store a few weeks before, she could have had it done and delivered it before the fire. Now she had no fabric to make things out of, no sewing machine, and nowhere to make anything anyway. She shook herself, determined to try not to think about it and continued walking round the building.

Looking at the devastation around her she remembered the yew trees that William had got rid of last summer and wondered if the old folk-law about cutting them down could be true.

No
, she thought,
it wasn't the yew trees taking revenge for what had happened to them, it was William taking revenge for what she'd done to him.

As she picked her way forward through the rubble she heard the crunch of glass under her boots. Looking down she saw a jewel-bright fragment in the ash; she picked it up and found it was a fragment of broken pottery, a jagged shard of pink camellia petal. With a strength she didn't know she any longer had she threw it, far away, into the hedge.

Walking around to the back garden she stumbled as her foot hit against a fallen beam. It lay across the path like a giant stick of charcoal. Claire put out her hand to steady herself on the wall beside her. When she took her hand away she saw each fingertip was black, as if she had been fingerprinted for a crime. She bent down and wiped her fingers on the damp grass before continuing on, away from the empty shell of the house, across the lawn towards the view, towards the summer house.

The summer house looked perfect; its pretty green exterior untouched by flames or smoke.

Claire pushed the door. She had thought it would have been locked; that William, always so fanatical about security, would have kept it locked. Surprisingly, it opened to her touch and so she went inside. William had laid an extravagant solid oak floor and, the weekend before the fire, had painted the wooden-panelled walls and ceiling white. It was empty apart from the little wood burner in one corner and a small enamel sink against a wall.

Claire flicked the light switch and the room lit up. It felt dry and warmer than the cold outside air. The smell of pine and paint was a welcome relief from the smell of burned house. It was clean and simple and full of possibilities, maybe?

She looked around the single room. It was large – much too large, she had thought, when it had been erected – but with all of them in it, it would be a little cramped.

Slowly she walked around. If they had a fold-out sofa bed at one end and three small mattresses, that could be put away in the daytime, there would still be room for a table and chairs at the other end and some sort of a cupboard that could be used as a work surface. She could buy a microwave, a small fridge, a kettle and a single electric ring would be enough to cook on. She would need shelves on the walls for storage. Surely it would be a start, a temporary home until the house was rebuilt.

Her eyes swept round the room again.
But it was just a shed; a chilly, empty, glorified garden shed.
She took a deep breath and looked around the room once more. Was this really somewhere she could live? Where she could force her children to live? She felt an energy born of anger build inside her and she straightened herself to her full height. She would not let William's fire stop her; she would not let the consequences of her futile love affair with Stefan ruin all her hard work. She would not live here. For a start she needed somewhere bigger, somewhere more comfortable, somewhere away from what had been their home, and most importantly she needed somewhere she could set up Emily Love again; she had to get that order done in time.

Getting back into the car she drove into town and went straight to the estate agent's. A surge of happiness swept over Claire. She felt excited, determined, filled with a sense of purpose.

‘I want to rent the patisserie,' she said to the sleek-suited youth with gelled hair behind the desk. He raised his eyebrows, surprised by her slightly manic enthusiasm.

‘Do you mean the flat above it?' he asked. It was hard to rent out shops in the dismal economic climate.

‘The whole thing,' said Claire.

He jumped up from his chair. ‘I'll get the keys. You'll need to look round.'

‘Just get the contract and I'll sign it. I'll look round afterwards.'

On the way to see the shop she stopped at Mrs Needles's neat white bungalow and explained she desperately needed her help. Mrs Needles made them both a cup of Lady Grey tea and listened while Claire told her what she wanted. She wrote a list of all the items the department store needed and the quantities beside them.

Mrs Needles sucked her teeth. ‘That's a lot of sewing,' she said.

‘What about the other ladies in the W.I.? Surely lots of them can sew?' said Claire. ‘If I can find the fabric and set up work benches and people are kind enough to lend their sewing machines we could get a production line going by this weekend.'

Mrs Needles shook her head. ‘I'd like to help you, Claire my dear. I know you've been through a terrible ordeal but it's such a busy time coming up to Christmas, we've got cakes to make and mincemeat to mix and we have the market every day through December, and then there's the Christmas shopping and we've all got grandchildren who need costumes for their nativity plays.'

‘We've got twenty days,' Claire interrupted. ‘If we get this done by then there'll be plenty of time for Christmas cakes and the market and Sheppard's tunics and you and all the other ladies will be well paid – I promise, and that should help with Christmas shouldn't it?' Claire reached out and touched the old woman's blue-veined hand. ‘This is my big chance, Mrs Needles. Please say you'll try and help me.'

‘Let me see what I can do.'

The large bunch of keys felt heavy in Claire's hand as she surveyed the outside of what had been
Patisserie Tremond
. The little shop was wedged in between a wholefood cafe and a children's bookshop. The mullioned window bowed outwards as though as a result of being squeezed on either side by its neighbours, and the wooden sign that swung from a curved metal bracket beside it still bore the fancy French name that Trevor and Edmond had given their cake shop. At the threshold of the door, mosaic tiles spelt ‘Taylor's Ironmongers' from an earlier Victorian incarnation. Claire looked up. The building was tall and crooked; a single sash window was set into the worn yellow stonework and above the window a little painted dormer was edged in scalloped weather board. The terracotta-tiled roof undulated in a way that suggested it hadn't been replaced for centuries and a wonky red-brick chimney stack tilted to one side.