Now and Then Friends (33 page)

When had she lost the pleasure in summer nights, in sunlight glinting off water, in anything? For years she'd simply been slogging through each day, head lowered against the rain, the wind, the world.

Lily was right. She had been a nag. And Meghan was right too; she'd been a grumpy git. She wanted to change, but at that moment she didn't know if she had either the energy or the will.

Her phone buzzed with a text, vibrating on the kitchen table like an angular insect, and wearily Rachel picked it up. When someone texted this late at night, it usually meant the cancellation of a cleaning job.

Can we talk?

It was from Andrew. Rachel stared at her phone for a few seconds before she thumbed a reply.
We can text.

The phone buzzed back with another text.
No. Talk. I'm standing outside your door.

Her heart felt as if it were clambering up her throat as she flung the phone onto the table and hurried to the front door. She opened it and saw Andrew standing there with a sheepish smile.

“What—”

“My parents asked me to come home this weekend, and I wanted to see you before I went.”

“Why—”

“Because,” he said simply, and stepped into the house.

Rachel stood there, the smile that had bloomed when she'd opened the door to Andrew threatening to slide off her face. She felt way too emotional for this moment.

Andrew frowned at her. “Rachel? Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.” She let out a strangled laugh, and then, to her horror, she felt tears start in her eyes. Too many tears to blink back, they spilled down her cheeks before she could keep herself from it, and she turned away, burning with embarrassment. “You must think I'm a nutter. I'll be all right in a sec. . . .” She wiped her palms across her cheeks, trying to will the tears back, but it was too late for that.

Then she felt Andrew's hands on her shoulders as he turned her gently around to face him and brought her into the comforting embrace of his arms. Which only made it harder to get herself together.

“What happened?”

“Everything.” She could barely get the word out. “Lily's not going to Durham and Claire's leaving and I'm a bitch.” She let out a hiccuppy half laugh, half sob. “Everything's wrong, Andrew.”

“Let's take one thing at a time.” He steered her into the sitting room and then sat on the sofa and pulled her onto his lap.

“I'm not really a lap sitter,” Rachel mumbled, and Andrew chuckled softly and shifted so she was sitting next to him, his arm around her, her head tucked against his shoulder.

“That better?”

“Yes.”

“So what happened with Lily?”

Briefly Rachel told him, and he listened without speaking. Finally he said, “I know it's disappointing.”

“But,” Rachel cut across him. “I know. It's her life. I was pushing the
whole thing on her. I do realize that. I knew it all along, I guess, but it was such an opportunity.”

“Knowing something doesn't make it any less disappointing.”

“No.” Rachel sniffed. The tears had thankfully stopped, although her face was no doubt blotchy and puffy from crying. Just the way she wanted Andrew to see her.

“And Claire?” Andrew asked.

“She's going to London to take up some pretentious job with a charity.”

“Arranged by my parents, no doubt.”

“Yes.”

“Did she seem happy about that?”

“Happy?” Rachel paused, considering. “No, not exactly. But she seemed like she was going to do it. And I'd actually texted her, asking her to go into the housekeeping business with me, so I could have time to do a part-time course at Lancaster.” She felt her eyes fill again, but this time she could blink the tears back. “I'm not dependent on Claire. I realize that, but . . .” Her voice wobbled, and then she started to squeak. “It's just that everybody
leaves
.”

“Everybody?” Andrew asked gently. “Or just your dad?”

The simple question felled her. The tears came again, worse this time, and she buried her face in fistfuls of Andrew's shirt as her shoulders shook. “I miss him,” she gasped out, a confession she'd never made to anyone, not even to herself. “I don't want to. I hate that I do, but I do.”

“Of course you do,” Andrew said. He was stroking her back and her hair, and for a few seconds, in his arms, she felt incredibly safe.

Finally she eased back, embarrassed again by how much she'd lost it. “Sorry . . .”

“Oh, Rachel.” Andrew touched her chin with his forefinger. “You've had a pretty raw deal in life, haven't you?”

“So I'm not the only one who thinks my life sucks?” Rachel managed to quip, and Andrew grimaced.

“I know I sounded like a bit of an ass back then—”

“A
bit
?”

“All right, a complete ass. I'm sorry.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I've been ratty for too long as it is.”

“You've had good reason. But things can change now, Rachel. You can still go to Lancaster.”

“If they accept me.”

“Are you joking? Of course they will. And you'll sort the housecleaning. Maybe Meghan can help—”

“Meghan's going into child minding.”

“Or Lily—”

“No. That's the last thing I want Lily to do. She can do her course and help with Mum.”

“Something will work out. You could just do fewer houses.”

“Maybe.” But she'd liked the idea of going into business with Claire
,
of sharing something like they once had. Of being friends again, and better this time. Stronger.
Partners.
“I'll figure something out.” She leaned her head back against the sofa, away from Andrew's arm. “Sorry to blub.”

“You deserved a good cry.”

She gave him a watery smile, and he touched her chin again. “And where do I fit into all of this?” he asked quietly.

“In Macclesfield?”

“Wherever I am.”

“Let me guess. You have a job coming up in Papua New Guinea.”

“Nope.”

“Burma?”

“No, I'll be working in Macclesfield for a few more months. And after that . . .” He shrugged. “I could limit myself to the UK if I had a reason to.”

Rachel felt her stomach dip, the way it did when she was on a roller coaster. It was not an entirely pleasant sensation. “Do you have a reason?”

“You tell me.” Andrew rested his gaze on her, everything about him so steady and sure. So trustworthy, if she could summon the strength to trust him.

“Maybe,” she allowed, and he laughed wryly.

“You're good for my ego, Rachel. You keep me from being arrogant.”

“That's something, then, because I always thought you were a bit pompous.”

“I know you did.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and Rachel's breath hitched. “Maybe, eh?” he said, and then he leaned forward and kissed her. Rachel closed her eyes, savoring the sweetness of his mouth against hers, his breath warm and minty, his lips soft and yet hard at the same time. It had been a long, long time since she'd been kissed, and so tenderly.

He pulled back a little, smiling. “Still maybe?”

“You'll have to do better than that if you want a yes,” Rachel said, and grinning, Andrew did.

“Can I come in?”

Claire turned to see her mother poking her head around her door. She nodded warily. The last two days had been interminable, with all of the Wests inching round one another, speaking in staccato bursts. Now it was Monday and Andrew was returning to Manchester and her parents were planning to go back to London. Marie was still hoping Claire would come with them.

Marie came into the room slowly, glancing around. Quickly Claire checked that the curtains were straight, the pillows perfectly plump. Then she grimaced inwardly at the realization and deliberately sat on the bed, ruffling the smooth starchiness of the duvet.

“I need to go to work . . .” Although she didn't even know if Dan was expecting her. Maybe he considered their abbreviated conversation on Saturday her notice.

“I'm sorry,” Marie said abruptly, and Claire gaped. Now,
that
was unexpected. “I think I made a mistake with you. A lot of mistakes.”

This was new. Claire wasn't sure how to respond, and after a few seconds she asked carefully, “What kind of mistakes?”

With a delicate sigh Marie perched on the edge of a chair, her posture perfectly straight. “I coddled you. Protected you too much.” She
paused, her gaze distant. “You know before all the trouble with your ear I was a GP?”

“Yes . . .” She'd known that in an academic sort of way, but she'd never really thought about it. Her mother had never worked outside of the home in Claire's memory. She could not picture her in a white lab coat and stethoscope, being brisk and efficient.

“I stopped when you first became ill because you had so many hospital appointments, and it didn't make sense to continue. But I never went back because I suppose I felt guilty.”

“Guilty?” That was one emotion Claire had never thought her mother felt.

“Yes, because I missed it, Claire.” Marie's voice wobbled a little. “You had ear infections constantly and you kept complaining and I
missed
it. The reason you're deaf in one ear is because I didn't have you checked out soon enough. If I had taken you to a specialist sooner, they would have been able to remove the cholesteatoma and there would have been no damage to your ear.” Her mother's mouth twisted. “No deafness.”

“Anyone could have missed it, Mum.”

“They're not usually as bad as yours was.” Marie continued as if Claire hadn't spoken. “Cholesteatomas. Most children recover and regain full hearing. But not you, and that was my fault.” She sighed, her manicured fingers brushing what Claire realized was a tear from her perfectly made-up eye. “So I went a bit overboard in protecting you. Keeping you off school and such. Trying to shield you from everything. From life.”

And obsessing over every part of her life. Making her the career she'd given up, yet clearly missing what she'd had. For the first time it occurred to Claire that maybe she wasn't the sole cause of her mother's disappointment.

“I wish I'd known that before,” she said.

“Perhaps I should have told you.” Marie uncrossed her legs and rose
from the chair. Their heart-to-heart, such as it had been, was clearly over. “So. You're not really thinking of staying here, are you, Claire?”

Claire nearly laughed. Had her mother actually been trying to guilt her into going by telling her that little sob story? Or did she simply have no other way to operate? It felt freeing, in a weird way, to be back on familiar ground.

“I'm not just thinking of it, Mum,” she said. “I'm doing it.” And for once she felt completely sure not just of what she was doing, but of
herself.

Her parents left that afternoon, in a cloud of Chanel and martyred disappointment. Claire had some more sympathy for her mother now that she understood more about what had happened, but not
that
much. She wasn't going to live her life for her parents any longer.

And now she had to have a few hard conversations. The first one, she thought, might actually be satisfying.

Hugh picked up on the second ring. “Claire?” He sounded surprised and impatient and annoyed all at once. Claire smiled.

“Hello, Hugh.”

Silence, save for the sound of him breathing through his nose. “I didn't expect to hear from you.”

“I know. Although I thought you might want your ring back.”

“Claire—”

“Shall I post it? You should use it again, Hugh. I'm sure you can find another appropriate socialite for a wife.” She spoke without bitterness, almost lightly, and Hugh let out an impatient sigh.

“Look, clearly we need to talk. I wanted to give you some time. . . .”

“You're not asking me to come back, are you?” Hugh was silent, and Claire laughed. “I thought not. I embarrassed you too badly. And we never had much in common, anyway. You didn't love me, and I didn't love you.”

Hugh was silent for a long moment. “You sound different,” he finally said.

“I am different,” Claire answered. “I'm trying to be, and I'm succeeding.” Her voice came out strong, strident. “We both know it's over, Hugh. Thank God the disaster has been averted. I'll send you your ring.”

“Make sure it's insured—”

She laughed, feeling lighter than she had in years. “Oh, Hugh. I can't believe I ever said yes to you.” And then, smiling, she disconnected the call.

Next she tackled Dan. The door to the post office shop banged behind her on a gust of wind, just as it had on that first day. He looked up from the till, surprise or maybe even suspicion narrowing his eyes.

“I thought you were going to London.”

“I didn't say I was going, did I?” He shrugged, and Claire planted her hands on her hips. “Do you
want
me to go?”

“It doesn't much matter to me.”

“Ouch.” For a few seconds Claire absorbed the sting of his indifference. “After nearly three months here, that hurts a bit, you know.” Dan just shrugged again. “You know you're really difficult, don't you?” Dan simply stared at her. “You're a real . . .” She struggled to find a word. “Jerk.” He blinked. “I liked you,” Claire burst out. “A lot. I thought you liked me.”

“Why did you like me if you thought I was a jerk?”

“I told you before.”

“Because I have a rescue dog?” He sounded scoffing.

“Because I thought underneath that tough, silent thing you've got going you were soft. And sensitive.” Dan let out a rasp of sound that Claire realized was a laugh. Suddenly she felt ridiculous. “Have I got it completely wrong?” she asked quietly. “Tell me the truth, Dan.” She took a deep breath. “I liked you. I
like
you, present tense. I want to stay in Hartley-by-the-Sea. I want to keep working in this shop. I want to become a postal assistant. Seriously. I'm happy here. Or I was, until you practically shoved me out the door.”

Dan was silent. As usual, Claire couldn't tell anything from his expression. “You seemed like you had one foot out of it already,” he said.

“I was waiting for you to tell me to stay.”

Dan shook his head. “You need to make your own decisions, Claire.”

“I know, which is why I'm here now. I was waiting for everyone to tell me what to do, to rescue me, but I'm not waiting anymore. I told my parents I'm staying. I'm telling you I'm staying, if I still have my job.”

“You do.”

The shop was quiet all around them, the only sound the nervous click of Bunny's nails on the tile floor of the kitchen. Claire took a couple of steps towards him so she stood in front of the till. She laid her hands flat on the counter. “So how much do you like me?” she asked, and then held her breath.

Dan didn't answer for a long moment. Finally, his voice low and raspy, he confessed, “This isn't easy for me, Claire.”

Her heart bumped in her chest. “Because of . . . because of your ex-wife?” He nodded, and suddenly Claire wasn't nervous anymore. Suddenly she knew exactly what to do. “It's easy for me,” she said, and standing on her tiptoes, she leaned across the counter and brushed her lips across Dan's.

He stilled beneath her touch, and her nervousness came rushing back. What if she'd made a horrible, humiliating mistake? But his lips were so soft, and she wanted to feel them again, and more this time.

Still she waited, uncertain, and then his hands came up to grip her shoulders with a gentleness that hinted at his incredible strength and restraint, and he deepened the kiss. A few seconds—or perhaps it was minutes—later, the door creaked open and someone cleared her throat with loud deliberation.

“I don't suppose the newspapers have arrived?” Eleanor Carwell asked. “Because this might make the front page of the
Westmorland Gazette
.”

*   *   *

She had one more conversation to have, and Claire hoped this one wouldn't be so hard. But maybe it would be harder, because she should have had it twenty years ago.

Claire stood in front of Rachel's house, summoning the strength to knock on the door. It was early evening, the sky a pale blue, the breeze surprisingly warm. Summer finally seemed poised to arrive, and in the distance Claire could see the twinkle of the sea, hear the laughter of children making use of the long, light evenings. Gazing around her, Claire realized Hartley-by-the-Sea had finally become home, the home she'd never felt she'd had growing up. She
liked
it here.

Rachel was home. Claire could see her car with its Campbell Cleaners logo parked on the street.

The net curtains in the house next to Rachel's twitched, and Claire knew she needed to stop standing there like a stalker.

Resolutely she walked up to the front door and knocked. A few minutes later the door opened and Rachel stood there; she looked unimpressed to see Claire.

“What—”

“Will you come with me for a minute?” Claire blurted. An idea had taken hold, a ridiculous, over-the-top idea that she knew she wanted to see through.

Rachel's gaze narrowed. “Come with you? Where?”

“Just . . . with me. Please.” Claire tugged on her arm. “For five minutes. Are you free?”

Rachel glanced back inside, and Claire heard Meghan call, “Yes, you're free, Rachel. For heaven's sake, the house isn't going to go up in smoke if you leave for ten minutes.”

“Five,” Rachel said, and stepped outside. Claire started walking down the street, and Rachel followed. “So where are we going, then?”

“You'll see.” She felt excited and more than a little nervous. Would Rachel think she was being absurd? Maybe she was. Suddenly she didn't care. She was going to do this, because she wanted to do it.

“What is this, Claire?” Rachel asked a touch impatiently, and Claire shook her head.

“Just wait a minute.” She turned from the high street up the narrow lane that led to the school. Rachel's steps slowed.

“What are you doing?”

“You'll
see
.”

“School's out—”

“I know.” Claire had forgotten how steep the school lane was. Walking up it brought her right back to her primary days, when her legs had wobbled and ached from the walk and dread had pooled in her stomach at the thought of enduring an entire day of school. The only thing that had helped had been seeing Rachel standing at the top of the lane, smiling and calling her a slow coach.

“Almost there,” Claire called, and with resolute determination, she headed across the school yard to the stretch of grass where the big rhododendron bush dominated the far side.

Rachel stopped at the edge of the yard. “I can't believe you're doing this.”

“Believe it,” Claire called back, and stood before the giant bush. Had she really scrambled under that thing? It looked so dirty.

“Claire . . .”

“Please, Rachel. Just humor me, okay? For my sake as much as yours.”

“I have no idea why this would be for my sake,” Rachel grumbled, but she crossed the field.

They both stood before the bush, staring at its dark green, glossy leaves, the bright pink flowers just coming into bud.

“Ready?” Claire asked brightly, and Rachel didn't answer. She crouched down and tried to lift the lowest branches up, getting smacked in the face in the process.

“I always held them back for you,” Rachel said, and she sounded fond.

Claire grabbed a knobbly, inflexible branch a bit harder and pulled. “This time I'm doing it,” she said, and forced her way under the bush. Rachel followed.

“It's dire under here,” Rachel remarked as they crawled on their hands and knees towards the center of the bush, where there looked to be enough space at least to sit up. The ground was dirty and dusty and smelled strangely stale, littered with empty crisp packets and squashed beer cans. “Was it always this bad?”

“I can't remember.” Claire crawled farther into the bush's heart. There was no going back now.