Now and Then Friends (31 page)

And for a second she imagined how it could work. She'd go down to Lancaster twice a week; maybe Claire could take over some of her houses, even go halves in the business. Meghan could take more on with Mum, and Lily would be at uni. It would be crazy and hectic, but in a good way. They'd all be living their dreams. Even if Lily didn't realize what hers was yet. Why shouldn't she try for it? It was easy enough to fill out an application online. It was the hoping that was hard.

Impulsively, she reached for her phone and scrolled down for Andrew's contact.

He answered on the first ring. “Rachel?”

“I'm looking at the University of Lancaster brochure.”

“And?” His voice was careful, cautious.

“And I'm thinking maybe it could work. Maybe.” Her fingers were clenched around her phone and her heart had started thumping. Amazing how difficult it was to admit that much.

“That's great news,” Andrew said, and Rachel could hear the genuine warmth in his voice. “Let me take you out to celebrate.”

“To celebrate looking at the brochure?” Rachel said with a laugh. “I haven't done all that much, Andrew.”

“To celebrate you getting in,” Andrew answered. “And starting your course.”

She felt dizzy, imagining it. Andrew had been right. Settling for something was better than having nothing at all. Why had she kept herself from it for so long?

She knew the answer to that. Because of fear as well as pride.

“Rachel?” Andrew prompted gently, and she realized she'd been silent, just breathing into the phone. “We'll go somewhere really classy,” he promised her. “Like Raymond's.”

She laughed then, a shaky relief pouring through her. “Okay,” she said. “I'd love that.”

Still high with possibility, Rachel fired off a text to Claire.
What do you say you take on part of Campbell Cleaners permanently? If you're really thinking of staying in Hartley-by-the-Sea?
She sent it before she could think better of it, before she considered how much of herself she was putting out there.

For once she wasn't going to hold herself back. She was going to let herself dream, and see where it took her.

Claire lay in bed and listened to the murmur of her parents' voices downstairs. No doubt they were talking about her, trying to manage her as always. It had been paralyzing, coming into the house to confront them. Not that she'd actually done any confronting.

No, she'd stood there with her head bowed, practically cowering, as her mother fluttered around her and her father remained silent, radiating disapproval.

“Darling, we've been so worried,” Marie had exclaimed, air-kissing both of Claire's cheeks before she stepped back and examined her. “You look pale and a bit skinny. Not that you can be too thin, but are you eating well?”

“I'm eating fine,” Claire had said. She'd forced herself to look up and face them. Her mother's sharp features were pursed with that familiar mixture of annoyance and concern that Claire always seemed to cause. “I'm fine,” she'd added, and her voice came out a little firmer.

“Claire, how on earth can you be fine? You've run all the way to Cumbria, and Andrew says you're working in the post office. . . .” Marie had let out an uncertain laugh. “Honestly, I thought he was joking.”

“What's wrong with working in the post office?” Claire had asked.
“Not that I'm actually working in the post office. I have to be trained to do that.”

Her mother had laughed again, only to trail off uncertainly. “Claire, really. This isn't . . . Look, I understand you needed a bit of a break, especially after Hugh . . .” Her mother's voice turned tearful and tragic, and Claire had suppressed a sigh.

“I'm not actually all that broken up about Hugh.”

“It's admirable, of course, to put a good face on it—”

“I'm not putting a good face on it—”

“But that's all in the past anyway.” Marie brought her hands together in a sort of clap. “The reason we've come all this way is because Daddy has arranged a job for you down in London. A proper job.”

Claire had felt a leaden sense of inevitability fall over her, weighing her down. “What kind of proper job?”

“Working for a charitable foundation. Something with sport . . .” Marie had glanced at her husband. “What is it, Edward?”

“The Foundation for Promising Athletes,” he'd said, his voice a rumble, his arms folded. Sitting there so silent and disapproving, he reminded Claire of Dan. Except Dan was a lot nicer.

“Sounds very . . . sporty,” Claire had managed. “So what does it do?”

“Oh, it scouts for athletes from all around the country,” Marie had enthused. “It's found the number twenty-two-ranked tennis player—”

“And it's a charitable foundation?” Claire had interjected. “It sounds like a talent agency.”

“It's not like that.” Marie had drawn back, affronted. “It runs camps and things. For the disadvantaged. They just have to show ability. Isn't that right, Edward?”

Her father nodded. Claire had sighed. Her parents had been home for ten minutes and she already felt overwhelmed, knocked back by the sheer force of her mother's will. She didn't want to go to London
and work for some tony foundation, but at that moment she didn't have the energy to explain that to her mother.

Fortunately, her parents had left it, no doubt assuming Claire would fall in with their plans as she always did. And after an interminable dinner at Raymond's, Claire had excused herself and escaped to her bedroom, glad not to have to face her parents till the morning.

Lying in bed, she wondered what they were saying about her. She hadn't possessed the courage to order a glass of wine with her meal that night; her parents had exchanged relieved looks when she'd asked for sparkling water. Now she imagined them whispering about her, how wan she looked, how much better her life in London would be. Telling them no was going to take all the strength she had.

The next morning her mother was in the kitchen when Claire came downstairs, ready to clean two of Rachel's jobs that she'd switched to Saturday.

“You're up early,” Marie said brightly as she sipped a black coffee, her smartphone in her other hand.

“I'm going to work.”

“Work?” Marie looked blank. “You mean at the post office? But, Claire—”

“No, not at the post office. I'm cleaning houses for Rachel Campbell.” Marie gaped at her, utterly flummoxed. “I enjoy it,” Claire said with an edge of defiance. “And I have responsibilities.”

“Of course you do,” Marie agreed. She sounded as if she were soothing a skittish colt. “Of course you do. But . . . you can tell Rachel you can't do it after today. And you can give your notice at the post office.”

Claire didn't bother to reply. She just took a banana from the bowl and reached for her coat. Outside the sun was shining, but the wind was cold. She lowered her head against it, calling herself a coward. An emotional coward, just like Dan, because she hadn't disagreed with her mother. Because part of her felt it would be safer, easier, to slink
back to London than to keep trying to carve out a life for herself here, with people she wasn't even sure wanted her around.

On the way to Rachel's she saw that Dan was in the post office when she arrived, and impulsively Claire stepped inside.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and she just shrugged. Dan peered at her from behind the Plexiglas. “Claire? Is everything all right?”

“No.” Her voice wobbled, and she mentally shook her head at herself.
Now
Dan actually showed a modicum of interest in her. “It's bloody awful at the moment. My parents just arrived.”

“You don't get on with them?”

“Not particularly, although I doubt they would say that.”

Dan came out from behind the post office counter. “What do you mean?”

“They've been managing my life forever, and they still think they can do it.” She paused and then blurted, “They want me to go to London. My father's arranged a job for me, working for some sports charity.”

Dan was silent for a long moment. “And?” he finally asked.

“And they're going to nag and pressure me to go until I cave, because that's what always happens.”

“It's your choice, whether you go or not.”

“I know, but it never feels that way. My parents are very forceful.And it isn't as if I've got a real life here.” She glanced at him, daring him to object, to insist that she did. Dan stayed silent. “I mean, I'm not even a postal assistant yet,” she half joked. “And working in a shop a few days a week? Living at home? I can't even afford to get a flat.”

“So you want to go to London?”

“I don't know.” But she did know, even if she didn't want to admit it to Dan. She wanted to stay in Hartley-by-the-Sea; she wanted Dan and Rachel and everyone else to tell her to stay. To insist on it, because they wanted her there. Because they needed her.

“It sounds like a decent situation,” Dan remarked tonelessly. “Working in London. And it's more your thing, isn't it? City life. All that.” He waved his hand vaguely.

“I've liked it here,” she said, and then waited. Dan still said nothing. “But maybe . . .” She imagined taking the job, finding a flat her parents would pay for, falling in with her old circle of friends, a never-ending cycle of clubs and wine bars and parties. Maybe that really was her life. Maybe she'd just been playing at something different in Hartley-by-the-Sea.

“I think you should go for it, Claire,” Dan said, and went back behind the post office counter. Claire couldn't make out his expression behind the Plexiglas. “It sounds like a good opportunity.”

He almost sounded as if he wanted to get rid of her. And she was late for Rachel. “Okay then,” Claire said finally. “Thanks for your input.” She walked out of the shop without either of them saying another word.

Four hours later she'd finished her two cleaning jobs and stood in front of Rachel's house, pail of cleaning supplies in hand. Claire couldn't bear the thought of going back to Four Gables and facing her parents, and so she knocked on Rachel's door instead.

Meghan answered the door, looking unimpressed. “You've got a face like a lemon.”

“Thanks.”

“What's wrong?”

“Just life.” Claire tried for a smile. “Is Rachel around?”

“Yes, but she's busy. I don't think she can fix your life on top of everything else.”

Affronted, Claire drew back. “I didn't ask her to. I just cleaned two of her houses, actually—”

“Come in if you want,” Meghan cut her off, and stepped aside.

The house was tidy for once, with all the coats on their hooks and the little hall table cleared of its usual drift of junk mail. Meghan looked better too, her face a little rounder, her eyes less wild. She
inspected Claire for an uncomfortable moment before she nodded towards the kitchen. “She's in there.”

Claire stepped into the kitchen to see Rachel sitting at the table, papers spread out in front of her.

“Claire—”

“Sorry. Am I interrupting you?”

“No, not really.” Rachel tidied the papers into a pile. “Just going through a few things. How did the cleaning go?”

“Fine—”

Rachel looked at her more closely. “Are you all right?”

“Do I really look that awful?”

“No, but . . .” Rachel looked at her closely. “You look tired and—I don't know—lost.”

Which was how she felt. “My parents came home yesterday.”

“And?”

Rachel looked confused, which was just how Dan had looked. Having her parents return to their own house shouldn't be such a big deal. Such a tragedy. Of course it shouldn't.

“And they want me to move back to London. My father has arranged a job for me, working for a sports charity.”

“Really?” Rachel rose from the table, taking her pile of papers with her. “So are you going to go?”

Why did everyone assume she was? Why wasn't Rachel or Dan or anyone expressing dismay that she might be leaving, and then urging her to stay? “I don't know.”

“Why not?” Rachel's voice had hardened just a little. “I mean, what's keeping you here, really?”

Ouch. “Not much, I suppose,” Claire said slowly. Had she really thought she'd keep working in the post office, helping Rachel out a bit? Neither job paid nearly enough to make her self-sufficient, no matter what kind of shoes she bought. And as for friends . . . Maybe she didn't have as many as she'd thought.

“So it seems like a no-brainer to me,” Rachel said briskly. She'd shoved the pile of papers in a drawer and then slammed it shut. “You were waiting for the next thing to come along, weren't you?”

“I suppose . . .” Rachel couldn't make it clearer that she didn't care if she left. Claire half expected her to start pushing her out the door. “How's your mum?” she asked.

“Fine. Everything's fine here. Meghan's going to start a child-minding business so she can be home with Mum, and Lily's biology exam is on Monday. It's all happening at the Campbell house.” She pinned a bright smile on her face, hands planted on her hips. “And it sounds like it's happening for you too, Claire. So good news all around, hey?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Rachel was nodding almost manically, and Claire couldn't think of a reason to stay. She'd come here hoping to be comforted and bolstered, and instead she felt as if she'd gotten a shove in the back. “Right. I suppose I should go back home. Make some plans.”

“So you'll go, then?” More nodding. “When will you leave?”

Was she counting the days? The
minutes?
“I don't know,” Claire answered. “Soon.”

She walked slowly down the high street, shivering a little in the wind, taking in the rows of slightly dingy terraced houses, the post office shop with its peeling paint and Lottery adverts, the street opening up to sheep pasture that looked unkempt and forgotten; a few sheep bleated mournfully. Their lambs had been taken away.

She thought about going to see Abby down at the beach café, but she knew Abby was busy and stressed and probably didn't want to hear about poor, privileged Claire's troubles. Just like Rachel hadn't.

Claire turned off the beach road onto the steep lane that led up to Four Gables, the wind chillier now, sweeping in from the sea with nothing to break it.

The house was quiet when she entered, her footsteps muted by the plush carpet. Her parents had left a note on the granite island in the kitchen; they'd gone to Windermere for the afternoon to meet friends
for lunch, they'd be back late tonight, and Marie had left a ready-made salad and sandwich from the supermarket for Claire's dinner, as if she couldn't make a meal for herself, as if she hadn't been doing it all along.

Claire opened the fridge and looked at the plastic bowl of lettuce wrapped tightly with cellophane, a few tomatoes and withered cucumbers nestled among its wilting leaves. The chicken salad baguette looked equally unappetizing. With a sigh she closed the fridge door and stood there, feeling lost in her own house, in her own life. All the strides she'd made, all the progress, felt as if it had disappeared. She was sliding backwards, faster and faster, and it felt as if there was absolutely nothing to keep her in Hartley-by-the-Sea. What did she have besides a poorly paying part-time job and a couple of wished-for friends who seemed glad to see the back of her? She didn't want to live in her parents' house, trying to make a place for herself when no one seemed to really want her there.