My Husband's Wife (7 page)

‘I’m sure it does. I did offer to come and take the kids off your hands.’ Again she smiled at her girls, wary they were being discussed like a commodity to be traded. ‘But I stand by my view, if she thinks she can choose to eat up your family time on weekends, she’s mistaken. I don’t care how much money she’s got.’ She paused. ‘I reckon we should get you a nice cold can of cider and watch some telly, how does that sound?’ She smiled at the man she loved.

He smiled back, but behind the smile he looked distracted and tired.

May had arrived with promise: trees were heavy with blossom and the mornings were lighter earlier. But one week in, this changed; the signs of summer were snatched away and the rain-lashed beaches were far from appealing. The early-blooming petals were no match for the relentless raindrops and they lay in clusters on the kerb, a fragrant pink cushion waiting to be washed into the drains.

Rosie had made the packed lunches and walked the girls to school, pulling her hood up over her hair as she tried and failed to keep Naomi from puddle-jumping and showering her sister in muddy droplets in the process.

She popped into the coffee shop on her way home and as her wet coat steamed in the warmth of the place, she scanned the tables to see if Mel was around. It had been over a week since she’d seen her friend and she missed her. She fired off a quick text.
Oi! Coffee mate! Missing your gossip, no fun eating a jacket spud alone! Love, your friend, Rosie Shitstar X
She looked forward to her friend’s response and the chance to arrange a get-together.

The response came almost immediately.
Ha! Hello Rosie Shitstar! Up to my eyes, see you soooooon. X

It was rather more noncommittal than she had hoped for, but she understood. Family life could sometimes swallow you up.

Back home and having dried off as best she could, Rosie filled the kettle. She spied Phil’s Bob the Builder lunchbox on the work surface.

‘Bum.’ She didn’t like the idea of him going without his packed lunch, especially on a cold, rainy day like this, knowing how much he preferred a sandwich and a bit of cake to just about anything else. Acting on impulse, she grabbed the lunchbox and the car keys and set off to her in-laws’ house.

Mo and Keith lived on a smallholding on the way out of town, heading towards Braunton. Their spacious 1950s house, Highthorne, was quite ugly; the beauty of the place was in the 2.4 acres that surrounded it. It had a grey pebble-dashed exterior and four evenly spaced, shallow bay windows with pale green window frames. The front door was recessed inside a wide, space-grabbing porch lined with the original and now rather dulled red tiles. This was usually cluttered with shoes, boots, newspapers and the odd recycling trug waiting to be sorted, along with peelings for the compost, which Keith used to fertilise his locally famous courgettes and marrows.

To the right of the house sat a large metal-framed structure commonly known as ‘the yard’. It was from here that the Tipcott men ran their building business, and when work was scarce it was where they gathered to play pool and drink tea, ferried in and out of the house on a laminated bamboo tray, while they waited for the phone to ring. Which it always did, eventually.

The inside of their home was packed with family memorabilia. The walls were crammed with photographs of the two boys growing up, some featuring embarrassing haircuts that were a rich source of ridicule. These were encircled by wedding pictures of Rosie and Phil and images of Keith and Mo’s two adored grandchildren, who in their baby stages looked remarkably similar. Anything that arrived from the wandering Kev – a postcard or memento from his travels, usually a picture of him bare chested on sand, holding an aquatic specimen – was set in pride of place on the mantelpiece, giving the bulky, brown-glazed fireplace an almost altar-like status. Rosie loved getting updates about the places he saw and the people he met. She always pored over the latest shots, taking in the sun-bleached, shoulder-length hair and weathered face; the laughing eyes of her school friend staring right at her.

The windowsills and shelves were crowded with ornaments, the chairs and sofa in the sitting room were piled with hand-embroidered cushions, and nick-knacks crowded the top of the television, each holding a special memory of someone dear to them. It was a busy house, full of love, and Rosie was, as ever, grateful and happy to be a part of it.

The house had been her haven throughout her teens, a source of the warmth and cosiness that wasn’t apparent in her own home. Her dad was not the demonstrative type. He was never mean or unkind, but it was as if he parented with a sense of embarrassment, going through the motions, like he had read a book on how to be a dad but lacked the softer skills, the spontaneity. She figured that was because he carried the guilt of whatever it was he had done to drive her mum away. This and the fact that he was a Roy and not a Damien or a Brett.

He now lived on the outskirts of Exeter with his partner, Shona, who was a little odd, like him, but in a different way. They were big into ballroom dancing. Shona dragged him around the country with her feather and net creations nestling in the boot. Rosie smiled to think of him in sequins and shiny, shiny shoes.

‘We need to start afresh...’
She was eighteen, just, when he had said that and he left, making it obvious that it wasn’t ‘we’ that needed to start afresh but him. Rosie wasn’t quite ready to be abandoned, even though she said she was. She lied to make it easier for him, knowing it was going to be harder for her, but she also knew that sometimes that was what you had to do. In her experience, everyone left her eventually.

Her dad used to mention Laurel’s departure as if it was incidental, as if this might lessen the blow. Something of interest, certainly, but not the life-changing event that it was. He simply lumped it together with other days that stood out in his memory. Maybe that made it bearable for him, but for her it was almost comical.
‘Do you remember that Pete Sampras win in straight sets? 6-4, 6-2, 6-4 – a bloody walkover, fantastic! And what about the day your mum did a runner after having you? Just picked up her coat and off she trotted. Who wants a cup of tea?’

‘Yeah, sure,’
is what she wanted to say.
‘What did you say to her, Dad? What did you do?’
But she never found the confidence.

Life at Highthorne was very different. It was safe, predictable and warm.

She smiled at the sight of the two large white vans parked on the driveway, feeling a flicker of pride at the Tipcott name emblazoned on the sides. She may have been a Tipcott for only twelve years, but this was her family, her daughters’ heritage, and it thrilled her.

She pushed on the side door of the yard.

‘Only me!’ she called out as she walked into the large office space that backed onto the storeroom, where the walls beneath the corrugated roof were lined with racking and shelves. It was an Aladdin’s cave, holding all manner of tools, paint, plasterboard and odds and ends that her father-in-law was confident they would need one day. He was a stickler for organisation. Salvaged doors leant against the wall, three deep and in height order. Boxes of various sizes and old ice-cream containers were adorned with sticky labels giving the measurements and inventories of what lay within. Plastic drawers sat in portable frames, stacked all the way up to the ceiling and carefully labelled with descriptions like
Butterfly Rawl
. She was sure the contents were a lot less pretty than they sounded. A fine layer of sawdust covered the floor and the whole place smelt of chemicals and wood and reminded her of her childhood, bringing to mind the many projects her dad used to start in the kitchen and then abandon weeks later.

‘Is that you, Rosie?’ her father-in-law called from the back. ‘I thought I heard the car.’

She ducked her head and spied him in his overalls, at the top of a ladder against the back wall. ‘Yep, only me, Keith. Don’t let me disturb you. Phil forgot his lunch!’ She held the box over her head and wiggled it.

‘Oh, you’re a good girl. Pop it on the desk and I’ll make sure he gets it.’ He waved from his perch.

‘Everything all right with you?’ she called.

‘Yes, thanks, love. Glad to get that bloody job in Mortehoe out the way.’

‘I heard she was a bit of a nightmare!’ Rosie laughed.

‘A bit? She was a right fussy madam. I had a full head of hair when we started the job.’

They both laughed at his favourite joke as Keith ran his hand over his bald head.

‘Phil’s just finishing off up there, then we go to the new flats on the front. Should be a breeze by comparison.’

‘Oh lovely, I’ll walk that way home from school with the girls and then you can see them.’ She smiled at the idea.

‘I’ll hold you to that. Kettle’s on in the house, if you fancy a cup of tea? Mo’s in, I think.’

‘I just might.’

As she walked around the front of the building to the main entrance, Rosie smiled in anticipation of seeing her mother-in-law. She rang the bell, then instantly regretted doing so as Kayleigh sauntered down the hall and let her in. It seemed that when Ross was up working for his uncle, she saw the need to accompany him, loitering at Highthorne, as if it was a day out. ‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘All right, Rosie? How
are
you?’ Kayleigh smiled, her bright demeanour and upbeat mood as surprising as it was unnerving. ‘Everything all right with you, then?’

‘Yes. Good, thanks. How are you?’

‘Great!’ came the unexpected response.

Rosie wished Mel were there to share this; the only possible explanation was that Kayleigh had been abducted by aliens and this imposter hadn’t been outed yet. This was, to her mind, far more likely than the fact that Kayleigh was simply happy.

‘Mo’s nipped out. Gone to get a few bits up at the farm shop,’ Kayleigh chirped.

‘Oh right, well don’t worry about putting the kettle on, Kayleigh. I wasn’t staying, just popped in to say hi.’

She glanced around the spacious kitchen with its lidded china hens, raffia coasters, cluttered pinboard and trusty Kenwood Chef. It had been state of the art in the late nineties: blonde-wood cupboard doors with wrought-iron handles, a clunking great waste-disposal system and a heavy square wooden rack that hung on chains from the ceiling, dripping with copper pans that were only for show, and the whole contraption topped with fake plastic ivy. Mo and Keith didn’t seem to notice the wear and tear, or if they did, they simply didn’t care. And anyway, nearly all available wall space, cupboards included, was covered in their granddaughters’ artwork, along with a tea towel that bore the words:
Only the best mums in the world get promoted to Grandma!
This Mo had pinned to a wall, in pride of place. Rosie smiled to see the ever-growing collection.

‘Are you sure? I’m having one!’ Kayleigh grabbed a mug from the wooden mug tree by the kettle.

‘No, I can’t. I was only dropping off Phil’s lunch and I thought I might catch him.’

‘He’s up at Mortehoe,’ Kayleigh offered, unblinking.

‘Yeah, Keith said. Well, no matter, he’ll get it up to him. Right, Kayleigh, give Mo my love and I’ll see you later.’

Rosie jumped into her old banger and laughed. She couldn’t wait to share this with Mel.

Weaving her way along the country lane wet with residual rain, she smiled to see Mo, her diminutive mother-in-law, tootling towards home, her eye line only just above the steering wheel of her Renault. Both women slowed their cars, lowered their windows and beamed, happy to see each other. Rosie reached out through the window and took Mo’s proffered hand.

‘Rosie! Have I just missed you?’ Mo asked regretfully.

‘Yes, sorry, Mo, I just dropped Phil’s lunch off and I was going to have a cup of tea, but—’

‘But you didn’t want to hang around. I get it, lovely.’ She pulled a face, indicating that she wasn’t looking forward to being trapped in the kitchen with a certain someone either.

‘She’s in a suspiciously good mood!’ Rosie picked up the thread.

‘Yes, she is. It’s quite unnerved Keith, I can tell you. He’s hiding in the storeroom!’ Mo clamped her top teeth over her bottom lip, as if to stop her speaking. It wasn’t her style to gossip in this way, but she and Rosie shared a special friendship.

‘So I saw. He was saying they’re moving to the flats on the front next. I told him I’ll bring the girls by every day to say hello.’

‘Oh, he’ll love that! I can write them little notes for him to pass on, and send sweeties and things.’

‘You spoil them, Mo!’

‘Can’t help it. I love them so much.’ She raised her shoulders as if mentally hugging them.

Rosie smiled. ‘I know you do. Lucky girls.’ A car approached and beeped, slowing as it came up behind her. The driver was clearly unhappy at the hold-up in the middle of the lane, raising his arms as if something catastrophic had occurred. ‘Ooh, better get going.’ She let go of her mother-in-law’s hand and waved her apology in the rearview mirror, then made her way back to town.

*

Rosie wandered round the local shop with the basket on her arm. She had popped two tins of baked beans in it and a bottle of sugar-free squash when her eye was drawn to the papers and magazines, sitting on the bottom shelf next to the drinks fridge.

There, on the front page of
The
Times
, was a thumb-sized photograph of Clark, the American! Rifling through the unwieldy pages, filling the aisle with her outstretched arms, she turned to the right section, held the paper close to her face and read the first paragraph.

North Devon may not be the obvious choice when it comes to worldwide holiday destinations. But here’s why I think Woolacombe and the surrounding area has as much to offer as the Seychelles, Bali or even Norway...

‘Anything interesting?’ The woman’s voice caught her off guard.

Rosie lowered the paper and came face to face with Geraldine Farmer. It had to be her: she looked shiny, immaculate and out of place in the local shop. She was a diminutive woman, a vision in skinny black jeans, loose black V-neck sweater that slipped off her tanned shoulder, and high-heeled boots. Her arms and neck rattled with sparkly silver jewellery.