The Beach Hut (33 page)

Probably the same feeling Marie had when she found him with Jane.

Every now and then, he watched her drift away from the crowds, lost in thought, clearly in another world, and he wondered what was on her mind.

By seven o’clock, the younger children had all been bunged in the scout tent which had been erected as their den. They burrowed down with their blankets and pillows, giggling and kicking and whispering. Someone had brought down a portable record player and plugged it into The Shack’s electricity supply. A rangy boy sat in the doorway and played a selection of the latest 45s from the hit parade whilst everyone danced. Jane grabbed Roy’s hand.

‘Come on.’

At first, Roy really wasn’t sure. He’d only ever danced with Marie in public before, whenever someone local had a party or a wedding. And not the way people seemed to be dancing here - wild gesticulating and hip-wiggling. He felt horribly self-conscious. He stood in front of her, shuffling slightly awkwardly from side to side, not wanting to draw attention to himself, as she shimmied in front of him.

‘Hey, you,’ she poked him playfully in the stomach. ‘Relax a bit.’

As the tempo of the music increased, he did. It got into your bloodstream, somehow. Plus nobody seemed to care what anyone else was doing. He grinned. It was madness - all these slightly tipsy people on the beach, dancing as if their lives depended upon it. The lanky boy put on another record. As the opening riffs sounded, Jane jumped up and down with excitement.

‘Have you heard this?’ she gasped. ‘It’s brilliant.’

It was ‘You Really Got Me’, by The Kinks. With its grinding guitar and manic drumbeat, it had everyone going, waving their arms in the air and singing along to the chorus. Over and over again it was played, and as Roy listened, it filled him with bravado, made him believe that he really was capable of getting the girl he wanted. He moved in closer to her, and she grabbed both of his hands, holding them high as she twisted her hips in time to the music. He imitated her movements. Gradually she inched in closer until they were touching.

‘Girl
,
you really got me
going
. . .’

As the sun started to fall and the light dimmed, Prue lit candles and lanterns, and the tempo of the music dropped. Jane moved in even closer, put her hands on his shoulders, pressed herself up against him. He could barely breathe, certainly couldn’t speak, as he gently put his hands on her waist. He felt as if he was touching the most precious china; felt slightly self-conscious of his work-roughened hands, but she didn’t seem to mind. His throat tightened as she snuggled into him, and the most extraordinary feeling rose up inside him. It wasn’t just lust, although that was raging inside him, there was no doubt about that. It was the incredible sensation that his wildest dream had just come true.

As the music swirled round them, she closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. He didn’t want to move, in case he broke the dream. He didn’t think about Marie, and what she would think if she could see them. He didn’t want anything to spoil the moment, in case this was all he ever had.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him dreamily.

‘Come with me,’ she whispered, and she took him by the hand. As the sun finally slipped over the horizon, she led him around to the back of the beach huts. No one noticed them going. Things were getting quite raucous now; there were shrieks and guffaws.

They stood together in the dark.

‘Hold me,’ she whispered.

As he put his arms around her, Roy’s throat felt tight, his body felt hot. Blood pounded in his ears. He almost, almost didn’t think he could cope, as she brought her lips to meet his.

It was everything he’d ever dreamt of. He wanted it to last for ever. Nothing could be better than holding her in his arms. He breathed in the lemony-soapy smell of her hair. She was so warm, so soft. He ran his fingers over her back, caressing her gently as he kissed her. He didn’t feel nervous any more. It felt so natural, as if they were made for each other.

Suddenly she jerked away. She looked distressed. There were tears in her eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘What is it?’ he asked, alarmed that he had gone too far, that he had taken some liberty that had frightened her.

She just shook her head and walked off.

Roy stood stock-still, fists clenched, dumbfounded. What had he done? It had felt so right. Surely she’d felt it too, that wonderful glow - it had seemed as if they were in a bubble, just the two of them, bathed in warmth. But no. Obviously she hadn’t felt the same at all. She couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Suddenly he shivered as the damp night air wrapped itself round him, any hint of that warmth now gone. He couldn’t face going back to join the party. He didn’t want to look at her, searching for an explanation. He felt ashamed, but he hadn’t forced himself upon her, had he? She was the one who had led him behind the huts, she’d asked him to hold her; she’d held her face up to be kissed. He would never, ever have tried to take advantage. Had he misread the signs? What had he done that was so repellent? He realised with horror that he was going to cry, and clenched his jaw to stop himself.

He turned to face the wind that had picked up and was now sweeping in across the sea, and trudged along the back of the huts, hiding in the shadows so that no one would notice he was making his escape, wrapping his arms around himself to keep out the cold and trying to forget the feeling of her velvet skin on his.

 

Jane arrived at her solicitors in Fitzrovia at ten past eleven. She was dressed in her new dress, and had also bought some low-heeled pumps. She was conscious that her legs were bare, which didn’t feel right for a funeral, but she hadn’t had time to get tights, and at least her legs were brown from the summer on the beach. She’d bought a double strand of faux pearls too, big, chunky ones that added a touch of Chanel glamour to the outfit. She’d decided against a hat, although her upbringing told her she should wear one. It was summer. It was Terence, for heaven’s sake. He’d always eschewed convention. She’d been surprised the funeral was in a church, but maybe he had found God in his final days. Though she doubted it. He’d considered
himself
to be God.

She entered the cool of the foyer, with its black and white marble floor and comfortable chairs. Moments later, Norman greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks in his immaculate dark grey pinstripe suit.

‘We should go,’ he said, flicking a glance at the grandfather clock that quietly ticked away the minutes. ‘Though there are a few things I need to talk to you about . . .’

‘Not now,’ said Jane. ‘Please let me get this over with first. I don’t think I can take any more bad news.’

Norman looked at her.

‘My daughter-in-law has left Philip. For Adrian.’ She gave a wry smile.

Norman raised one eyebrow just two millimetres. He was rarely rattled by anything. ‘Nothing like keeping it in the family.’ He put a hand on her elbow to escort her out onto the street, where he looked for a taxi. ‘And actually, you needn’t worry. There’s no bad news this time.’

He put up his arm to hail a black cab that was cruising towards them.

‘Well, that makes a change.’ Jane climbed inside as Norman held the door open, and settled herself on the back seat. She gave the driver the name of the church. Smack bang in the middle of Soho. Typical Terence. Never knowingly far from the nearest drink, even in death. She shut her eyes as the cab sped through the squares and side streets, avoiding the chaos of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. Next to her, Norman maintained a discreet silence. He always knew exactly what to do. Why couldn’t she have found someone like Norman? A stalwart, a gentleman? Did his wife know how lucky she was, she wondered?

The church was packed. The congregation ranged from shifty-looking Irishmen in bad suits to an elegant woman in black and white houndstooth and an ostrich-feather hat. Jane ran her eye over them all, assessing who they might be and what their association to Terence was. Bookies, lovers, landlords, a generous sprinkling of publishing types, drinking companions, other writers, more lovers, a traumatised girl with mousy, shoulder-length hair in an ill-fitting grey dress who couldn’t stop crying, family at the front - there were two men who must be brothers-a couple of nurses, perhaps from the hospice. He had clearly inspired loyalty throughout his life, even if he had never showed any.

After all, she was here, wasn’t she?

She knew he’d married twice, or was it three times, because there were always articles in the weekend papers about what a bastard he was to live with - torrid tales of his selfish, narcissistic, womanising, drinking ways, and none of it had surprised her, only that the women always seemed to go back for more and professed to love him. She tried to figure out which of the many women in the front rows were his wives, but it was difficult - they all looked equally upset. She recognised Barbara with a jolt - a shadow of that vibrant creature who had jumped out of the Mini that day. She was hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, her hair so thin you could see her scalp, but she was still as chic as she had been then, in a crêpe coatdress and spindly heels, clutching a pair of leather gloves.

Jane and Norman took a seat in a pew near the back. She didn’t feel entitled to be any nearer the front - what had she been in his life, after all? And she didn’t want anybody wondering who she was. She opened the order of service - again, surprised that it was so conventional, but maybe he hadn’t had any input. She felt Norman, reassuringly solid and calm next to her, and as the vicar began, she took just one breath in. She was going to be able to handle it. She had to.

The final address was given by an extraordinary creature of about thirty-two. She was tall, with endless legs, a mass of wild hair that had been dyed fuchsia but was fading, and burning green eyes. She wore a brocade mini-dress, and her bare legs sported crocodile cowboy boots that matched her hair. Around her neck was slung an assortment of necklaces that she might have picked up in one handful from a jumble sale.

Terence’s daughter. By whom, Jane didn’t know, but she could feel the force of her personality ten rows back. The girl clutched the edges of the lectern fiercely with her fingers as she spoke, using no notes, with warmth and passion about her father. It was entirely unsentimental, but almost unbearably moving, as she recounted being lifted onto the bar of a Soho club by him at two o’clock in the morning to sing for the customers, then being made boiled eggs and soldiers when they finally stumbled home - she was six years old and she’d had the time of her life.

There was hardly a dry eye in the church as she finished her reminiscence, because she had captured Terence’s spirit so perfectly.

‘Dad was never one to be predictable,’ she wound up. ‘He always liked to surprise. And he managed to surprise us right up to the end. The family went to hear the will read this morning - some of us have flights to catch and we couldn’t wait till after the funeral.’ She laid her disapproving gaze on some poor unfortunate in the front row. ‘And it proved to be quite a revelation.’ She paused for a moment, clearly enjoying having the entire congregation in her thrall. She smiled a menacing smile.

‘To misquote the immortal words of Shirley Conran,’ she raked the audience with those hawk-like eyes which, Jane realised now, were carbon copies of her father’s, ‘which one of you bitches is Jane Milton?’

The congregation gave a collective gasp, and there was only a momentary pause before they began to look at each other for an explanation. The girl just stood there, a smile on her lips.

‘Whoever you are,’ she went on, ‘just let it be known that we shall be contesting the will.’

Jane froze. Her heart was pounding, but she understood immediately the importance of not giving anything away. She felt Norman’s hand on her arm giving her the same message. And although her instinct was to flee, she summoned up all her acting ability to put on an expression of innocent curiosity, exchanging a shrug and a smile with her immediate neighbours, as if to say ‘Jane Milton? I’ve never heard of her.’

By now, the vicar had hurried up to the pulpit and ushered the girl away. She went quite willingly; clearly happy she had made her point, leaving chaos and consternation in her wake.

Ten minutes later, as a pianist played Liszt’s ‘Funérailles’ and the congregation began to disperse, Jane felt as if she was in a film. She moved through the throngs with an impassive face, the music filling the air with its melancholic drama, Norman shadowing her closely as he led her swiftly out of the church, not loitering on the pavement to hail a cab as before, but walking her down the road, then left down a side street, and then right again, before finally calling a halt.

‘My God,’ breathed Jane. ‘Norman - what do you know of all this? What’s it all about?’

He summoned a taxi from thin air and gestured her inside. Once they were seated, he told her.

‘Terence’s solicitor called me this morning. He’s left you the rights to
Exorcising Demons.
The family are furious. And, needless to say, curious.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘As am I, I have to confess.’

She stared at him, astonished.

‘The rights? I don’t understand ...’

Norman flicked a look at the taxi driver. They were always earwigging.

‘Let’s get ourselves settled somewhere quiet and I’ll explain it to you. It’s pretty significant, Jane.’

The taxi drew up outside Browns Hotel in Mayfair. Jane followed Norman in a daze as he led her through to the English Tea Room and settled her on a velvet sofa in a corner, then crisply ordered champagne tea for two. Norman always knew exactly what to do on any occasion, and Jane was grateful for the discreet anonymity of the location and the imminent arrival of a drink.

‘He’s left you the rights to the book,’ Norman began explaining. ‘Which means you get the royalties. And they,’ he gave her a meaningful look, ‘are going to be pretty substantial. There’s going to be a huge furore over the rediscovery of the manuscript, which I gather was missing for nearly half a century. The publishers have organised a print run of two hundred thousand. Not only do they consider it to be a work of genius, his absolute best, but the fact that it was missing will add to the media attention it garners.’