Marriage and Other Games (9 page)
‘Well, I hope I can return the favour one day,’ snapped Charlotte and hung up with trembling hands. She thought of all the times she had worked into the small hours to help him meet a deadline, the work she had put his way, the trade secrets she had shared with him. And this was how he repaid her loyalty.
Her palms were sweating. Her chest felt tight. The edges of her vision went blurry. She thought she might be having a panic attack. She sat down and took several slow deep breaths to calm herself. She had to pull herself together. She’d already lost her husband, her job, and her home. She didn’t want to lose her mind.
On Saturday, another of the tabloids ran a heart-wrenching story about a little girl who had been waiting for a place at the hospice. Next to her photograph were juxtaposed pictures of Charlotte and Ed holidaying and partying - pictures that could only have come from friends. Charlotte wondered just how much money they had got for their betrayal. Probably not even enough to cover a decent meal out, but they obviously hadn’t been able to resist. Did it make them feel better about themselves in some way? She couldn’t imagine wanting to put someone else through the degradation she was now going through.
As she came out of the newsagent’s she bumped into a thickset middle-aged man with a plethora of tattoos.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised automatically, then frowned as he folded his arms and looked into her eyes. She could feel the hostility radiating from him, and her stomach twitched with fear. She hadn’t meant to bump into him—
Then she understood. He knew who she was. And what she was supposed to have done. He turned his head and spat on the pavement next to her, a magnificent quivering blob of spittle that said everything.
She drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster.
‘For your information,’ she informed him, ‘it was nothing to do with me.’
‘Yeah, right,’ he sneered, pushing past her.
Charlotte stood in the centre of the pavement with her eyes shut. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. She felt as if everyone’s gaze was upon her, as if every last whispered word was directed at her, as if people were crossing the street to avoid her. A double-decker bus drew up next to her, and without thinking she jumped on it, ran upstairs and hid herself away in the furthest corner, away from any other passengers. She sat on it for miles, with no idea where it was heading, until she alighted in some far-off corner of south-west London - a dreary high street with rows of dull, utilitarian shops selling cheap jewellery, kebabs, insurance, pet food. It smelled of petrol fumes and frying onions. It was a million miles from the bijou parade of shops she frequented near home, with its fishmonger boasting monkfish and red snapper, the bakery crammed with pains au chocolat and cupcakes.
Get used to it, she told herself grimly as she jumped off the bus.
She chose the least salubrious hairdresser she could find, not least because she couldn’t afford the usual hundred pounds it cost her to have her tresses tended to. She walked in with trepidation and asked for an appointment. She got one straight away. There was a three-month waiting list at her salon.
She showed the stylist a picture of a Kiera Knightley crop in a magazine.
‘You won’t end up looking like her,’ the stylist said, not unkindly.
‘I know,’ replied Charlotte with a sigh. ‘But I want a change.’
‘If you’re sure.’ The girl picked up her scissors, clearly unconvinced. ‘Some people think they can just walk in with a picture and walk out looking like a film star.’
Charlotte didn’t answer. She just wanted to look as unlike herself as possible, but she didn’t want to explain.
Ten minutes later she looked at the mirror in horror. She’d imagined that she might look chic and gamine. Instead, a twelve-year-old boy stared back at her. The shortness meant her usual blonde looked mousy. It was as severe and unflattering as a haircut could get.
She blinked back the tears, cursing Ed for the trillionth time.
‘What you need,’ said the girl helpfully, ‘is some false eyelashes. To give you some definition. It takes a bit of getting used to, a crop.’
Charlotte managed a smile of thanks, handed over twenty pounds then fled the salon. She looked back and saw the junior sweeping her golden locks into a dustpan. She went back to the bus-stop and tried to work out how on earth she was going to get back to civilisation. She decided to give in and go to see Gussie. She needed her friend’s sympathy almost as much as she needed one of her industrial-strength gin and tonics.
She gazed at her reflection in the window, astonished at how unlike herself she felt, unable to believe how she seemed to have been stripped of all her femininity with a mere snip of the scissors. In any other circumstances she might have broken down and wept, but at this point in time she was just grateful that it was unlikely that anyone on the planet would be able to recognise her.
It took Gussie a good ten seconds to clock who it was on her doorstep.
‘Crikey!’ Gussie wasn’t the type to give false reassurance. ‘Sinead O’Connor, eat your heart out.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘It’s pretty drastic.’
Charlotte put her hand up to her shorn scalp.
‘It’ll grow.’ Then she sighed. ‘Someone spat at me in the street.’
Gussie was her dearest friend. Forthright, no nonsense and fourteen stone, she dispensed advice and Pinot Grigio from her kitchen while a stream of children came and went demanding Pritt sticks, Pringles and reassurance, all of which she produced without turning a hair.
‘You’d better come in.’ Gussie opened the door wider, and Charlotte picked her way carefully through an assault course of rugby boots and dismembered Barbies into the heart of the house.
Once Gussie had unscrewed the lid on a bottle of Tanqueray and poured them each a sharpener, Charlotte felt a little calmer. She filled her friend in on the hopelessness of her predicament: the fact that Ed was undoubtedly going to do time, that they would have to sell their house, that she was out of a job. Gussie listened carefully, non-judgemental, and then replenished their glasses.
‘Right,’ she said, fixing Charlotte with a look that meant she knew she wouldn’t like what she was about to say, but she was going to say it anyway. ‘I’ve got a proposition. You know the Millstone?’
Charlotte nodded. Eighteen months before, Gussie’s Great-aunt Flo had left Gussie and her two brothers a decrepit cottage in Withybrook, a remote village on Exmoor. It had stood empty for all that time, as they didn’t have a clue what to do with it. It was too small for any of their families to holiday in, too shabby to let out, and none of them wanted to sell for sentimental reasons. So it was fondly referred to as the Millstone, as they still had to insure it and pay council tax.
‘We’ve decided to bite the bullet and sell,’ Gussie informed her with a sigh. ‘We’ll all come out of it with a good whack towards the school fees for the next ten years. There’s no point in hanging on to it.’
‘It makes sense,’ agreed Charlotte. ‘It’s just sitting there empty.’
She knew very well that Gussie and her husband could do with the money. They never had any spare cash. Charlotte couldn’t remember the last time Gussie had bought a new outfit. Not that she was a vain creature; she was quite happy to live in jeans and rugby shirts. But sometimes she saw the strain of it all on Gussie’s face. She wanted to go back to work, but the children were her priority. If selling the cottage meant that Gussie could have a bit of fun, then Charlotte was all for it.
But she wasn’t sure where she came in as part of the plan.
‘The thing is,’ Gussie went on, ‘the place is a total wreck at the moment. We know it’s structurally sound - Flo had a new roof put on about eight years ago, and it’s been rewired. But we think we’d get a much better price if we did it up. Gave it some kerb appeal. Slapped a bit of white paint around.’
‘Ah . . .’ Charlotte could see where she was heading.
‘Why don’t you do it for us?’ Gussie pulled out a sheaf of photos and spread them out on the kitchen table. ‘You’d have a roof over your head. And a project. And a chance to think things over. You need some space, Charlotte.’
Charlotte chewed her lip and looked at the pictures. The cottage was sweet - made of stone, double-fronted, a typical Play School house with four windows and a door. But judging by the interior shots it hadn’t been touched since the fifties at least. It was stuck in a time warp, and not in a good way.
‘So - what’s my budget?’
There was a small pause.
‘Well, we’ve scraped around between us and we reckon we can raise five grand each . . .’ Gussie gave a small gulp.
Charlotte stared at her in disbelief. Gussie had two brothers. She did the maths. A complete refurb for fifteen thousand? That was less than she usually spent on lighting. As she looked at the photos of the gloomy interior, with the nasty bricked-up fireplaces and Formica worktops and hideous wallpaper, her heart sank.
‘Fifteen thousand? To do it up completely? New kitchen, new bathroom, new flooring . . . ?’
‘I know, I know. But we’ll give you a cut of the profit when we sell. We’ll split it four ways. I know it won’t be a fortune, but . . .’ Gussie looked anguished, knowing what she was offering was pitiful in comparison to Charlotte’s usual fee. ‘It’s the only way I can help you, Chaz.’
Charlotte looked at her friend and realised that Gussie couldn’t even afford this lifeline. The money she was investing in the project wouldn’t have been readily available; she and Will would have probably had to borrow it, no doubt from one of the other brothers who would get the interest on it ultimately. She couldn’t throw this offer back in her face. And actually, what choice did she have?
But how on earth was she going to survive, stuck in the wilds of Exmoor? It was remote even for Gussie, who was a country girl at heart. But Charlotte wasn’t a country mouse at all. The closest she came to the countryside was the evening race meeting at Windsor. Horses made her nervous, dogs made her cringe, mud made her recoil, grass made her sneeze. She didn’t even own a pair of wellies. She was a city chick through and through.
A project like this was going to take three months at least. How would she manage? What would she do in her spare time?
But what was the alternative? She wasn’t going to go back to either of her parents. Her father had enough on his plate, and her mother would go on and on until Charlotte would want to throttle her with her bare hands.
Oh God. Life was so complicated. What wouldn’t she give to be Gussie? With a house that was a home, not a show-case? With a divinely cuddly husband who was kind and responsible, and a raft of spirited, happy children? Who really cared about Eames chairs and Roche-Bobois modular seating and Corbusier lighting? Were you really happier if you parked your arse on a thousand pounds’ worth of chrome and leather, instead of a scuffed old kitchen chair?
She put the photos down with a sigh.
‘It’s not as savage as you might think,’ Gussie reassured her anxiously. ‘It’s becoming very fashionable. Lots of celebs have bolt-holes down there. Sebastian Turner’s got a big pile down the road. You don’t get more A-list than that.’
‘The artist?’ Charlotte raised an eyebrow. She’d seen a few of his paintings in some of the houses she’d been allowed in over the past few years.
‘It was his parents’ house. He’s got a studio down there.’
Gussie was obviously eager to impart gossip, but Charlotte wasn’t that interested. As far as she was concerned, the quieter it was in Withybrook the better. The likes of Sebastian Turner round the corner might mean press intrusion. Not that she was on his scale.
She fingered the photographs thoughtfully. At least Gussie’s offer gave her a roof over her head. It might mean temporary exile, but by the time she finished the mud-slinging might have abated and she could venture back out in public. Who knows, Connor might even have her back.
She looked at the interior shots of the cottage and thought about possibilities. Something very washed-out that took advantage of the natural light; lots of pale grey, perhaps . . . She certainly had enough stuff stored up from over the years to dress it. Remnants of fabric and wallpaper; ornaments and pictures. She was going to have to get rid of it all otherwise; at least this way she could hang on to it for a bit longer.
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