Читать книгу Perfect Strangers: an unputdownable read full of gripping secrets and twists - Erin Knight - Страница 18

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Isobel caught herself chewing slowly as Cleo chattered on about Fallenbay’s natives.

‘Totally true story, Jon literally clonked her with his surfboard. That’s how they met! Right out there on my terrace. Sarah was just minding her own business and, wham! By rights I should get maid of honour; Sarah wanted me to but she was overruled, her parents browbeat her into asking some unpleasant sociopathic cousin, on her father’s side, I think. Sarah’s allergic to confrontation so, you know, she usually just rolls with what the masses want, she’d tell you as much herself. They’re getting married next year. Why doesn’t that kind of romance happen to the rest of us? It’s all we want, right?’

Isobel swallowed the last of the complimentary madeleines Cleo had plonked on the table and began carefully stacking her spent tea things in front of her. Cleo vigorously wiped down the next table. She’d cheered up as the morning progressed. Work could do that. Isobel used to love her work too. The challenges, the kids, the sense of doing something useful with her life. Imparting knowledge. Making some tiny difference.

‘You do know what I mean, don’t you, Isobel?’

‘Romance that’s like a bang to the head?’ Cleo couldn’t be more wrong if she tried.

‘Yes! Startling and unexpected. The closest to romantic my Sam gets is smiling affectionately at his favourite cheese.’

Isobel glanced at the faces in clusters of two or more at the other tables. She was the only person in here sitting alone, again. No odd-bods. No lone wolves. Just Isobel.

‘How do I use the free wifi?’

Cleo popped fresh tealights inside a jam jar. ‘Just log on, password’s “coast”.’

No register, no allocated user accounts. The name DEEP_DRILLERZ wouldn’t mean anything to Cleo.

‘Cleo? Could I ask you a question?’

‘Fire away . . .’

‘Do you get many locals in here? Or would you say it’s mainly tourists passing through? Like me?’

Cleo frowned. ‘Pomme du Port bag a lot of locals, but us, not so much after the lunch rush.’ She set her hand on her hip. ‘They’re not even French in there, y’know, and they have the cheek to call themselves the apple of the harbour. Bloody charlatans.’

‘But what about here? Free wifi must bring the locals in? Students? Workers?’ Psychological deviants. Isobel’s hands felt clammy, sickly thoughts pressing in. He could’ve sat in this chair, drunk from this cup.

Cleo huffed. ‘It’s a mix, really. We do get the locals in, but they stick to the morning, mainly, while the tourists are eating breakfast in their holiday lets. And we get the kids in through the summer holidays. Hordes of the buggers, hang around all day, but, y’know, if they’re here they’re not getting into any trouble.’

The onslaught had stopped by the summer. No more emails. No more links appearing on the Facebook walls of Isobel’s friends and family. Had the school children invaded his turf for milkshakes and free wifi, is that what finally slowed him? Terrorising women online must be tricky with a café full of kids looking over your shoulder.

Cleo’s eyes narrowed. It put Isobel on edge. Her therapist used to do that in their CBT sessions, Jenny’s analysing face. Cleo slipped her hands into her apron. ‘You know, if you’re on that kind of holiday, Isobel, and are thinking about maybe . . . I don’t know, meeting a local chap to have a flutter of holiday romance . . . you could try The Village.’

‘The Village?’ People in local hangouts knew other local people. Knew behaviours. Knew nicknames. Usernames.

Cleo’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Uhuh, plenty of eye-fodder down there!’

‘You mean . . . men?’

Isobel’s folks had been desperate for her to go away, to fall in love again and fix everything that was broken with a stranger and a proper good snog. They still thought she was fourteen. That everything would blow over as if it was an unfortunate, but not insurmountable, humiliation at the youth club disco. Sophie would be hoping for the same, of course, for Isobel to forget about ‘the blip’, forget about Nathan and everything he represented, everything that had gone. See this as a silver lining, darling. A chance to open yourself up to new things. You might meet someone wonderful, feel that special spark again! Soon enough you’ll be back on track with the really important things, new home . . . new job . . . new circle of friends, even! Isobel’s Base Camp list had found its footings in the hopes her mother held for her. Those really important things. Things a person didn’t want to lose if they had them.

Cleo was staring. Her eyes round and knowing, she thought she was on to something. ‘Sure! If it is locals you’re after Surfers’ Village is one of the unofficial zones, where outsiders don’t usually infiltrate.’ Cleo tapped her finger to the side of her nose. ‘Unless they’ve got inside info, or they’re Oli Adams or some other board hero. But you’re so lovely and blonde and youthful, you’d fit right into the scene down there. It’s not surf season yet, but there are still plenty of boards to bang your head on!’

Isobel resisted the urge to put her fingers to where root regrowth would betray her natural brunette soon enough. ‘Thanks, Cleo. But I think I’ll stick to having a quiet one with my book and that view.’ She nodded towards the wall of glass separating them from the busy harbour, distant surf and endless horizon.

Cleo set about wiping the same table again. ‘You’re probably best. Men are hassle, all except for my Harry, so laid back he’s practically horizontal. He’s gone and fallen for an exchange student, Ingred. They’re trying to do the long-distance thing now she’s gone back to Denmark, which means I don’t have to worry about what they’re getting up to, if you catch my drift. He won’t admit it but he’s besotted. Absolutely besotted. Never off his phone since she sent him her new number.’

‘The perfect girlfriend,’ agreed Isobel. She pulled her jacket on and spotted a rabble of surfers rinsing off under the beachside showers. The big buff one was pulling his wetsuit down to his middle, a raging swordfish tattoo thrashed across his ribs. He’d be just the type her sister would go for: gym-lover, probably trouble. Sophie attracted trouble, happily. The boy racer who hadn’t bothered with seatbelts . . . the one who’d reeked of cannabis and kept eating their dad’s chocolate Hobnobs . . . the guy with the flashy clothes who’d left her for dust after generously donating the other twenty-three chromosomes needed to make an Ella. Nathan had been a safe bet by contrast. Strait-laced, career-focused, the kind of guy you took home to meet your father. The kind of man Isobel thought she wanted to marry.

She blotted him out, freed the hair from the collar of her jacket and checked her watch instead. ‘Sorry I stayed so long, Cleo, I meant to buy more food but . . .’

A gaggle of school kids bustled through Coast’s main door, wooden blinds clattering against the glass. Isobel tucked her purse and book into her bag and slipped out of the window chair she’d been commandeering all morning. Not one base camp ticked off her list yet, not even close.

‘But you’ve been too busy people-watching, I noticed! Well, it’s a good spot.’ Cleo grinned at something across the cobbled street. A young woman with an immaculate ponytail and tight trousers was trying to discreetly fish a wedgy from her bum. ‘How differently we would all behave, hey, Isobel, if we thought someone was watching?’

Isobel exhaled slowly.

Two high school girls with matching back-combed hair and shortened school ties arrived at Cleo’s shoulder. ‘Mum, can me and Cassie just grab a sandwich and run? The school canteen’s rammed and everything’s fried as usual.’

‘I told Evie she doesn’t need to diet, Mrs R,’ sighed the other girl.

‘Hello girls,’ beamed Cleo. ‘No, you can’t, you can queue like everyone else.’

Cleo’s daughter rolled her eyes. She had pretty eyes; too much make-up, but that was teenage girls for you, and quite a few teenage boys too.

Isobel gathered her things. ‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow, Cleo, early again, unless next-door’s dog decides to let me lie in.’

‘You should complain. I probably know them. I could complain for you, if you like? I’m already ticking locals off. Are you staying in the harbour?’

Sophie had been explicitly clear on this point. Do not tell anyone where you’re staying.

‘No, it’s just a small place, past the dunes. A cottage, I forget the name.’

‘Not Curlew Cottage? Arthur Oakes’ place? At the top of the lung-busting hill?’

Isobel hesitated. ‘Ah . . . yep.’ She wouldn’t tell Sophie.

‘Oh, that dog. You must have nerves of steel staying up there. Nearly had my husband’s head off when he went to quote for guttering last autumn. Sam wouldn’t even get out of his van, said it had gone rogue!’

‘Didn’t Mr Oakes feed his wife to that dog?’ Evie grinned.

‘Evie, don’t be so dramatic. They didn’t even have the dog when Mrs Oakes moved away. Teenage girls’ overactive imaginations, honestly!’

‘You wouldn’t go up there on a dark night, would you, Mum? Even his wife doesn’t want to be up there. If she’s still alive, that is.’

‘Oh, Evie. Sometimes people just . . . grow apart.’

‘Chill, Mother. I’m only playing.’ Evie glanced at Isobel. ‘That dog won’t hurt you. It just doesn’t like men, that’s all. Bet he doesn’t bark at you, am I right?’ Isobel hadn’t really thought about it. Evie shrugged. ‘Just don’t take any strange men up there.’

‘Thanks. Wasn’t planning on it.’

‘Have you met his sons yet, Isobel?’ asked Cleo. ‘You’re in for a treat. Gorgeous, the both of them.’

‘OMG, that bangle is gorgeous. Can I see?’ Evie reached for Isobel’s wrist without warning.

‘Evie! Stop haranguing my customers!’

It had been a get-well gift from Sophie and Ella. Isobel lifted her arm for Evie to take a quick look, but she’d already caught Isobel gently by the elbow. ‘Mum, look! You wanted birthday ideas, something like this would be perfect.’ Evie turned to Isobel. ‘Could I try it on?’

‘Evie!’

‘What? I won’t run out of the door with it, Mum, jeez.’ Isobel was nothing to do with this conversation. She undid the clasp, obediently slipping off the silver cuff.

‘Sorry, Isobel. Oh, it really is lovely,’ agreed Cleo, admiring the bracelet shuffling on to Evie’s tanned wrist. ‘It looks expensive though, Evie.’

‘Harry’s asked for a drum kit, they’re not cheap.’

Cleo threw Isobel an exasperated look. ‘My accountant keeps telling me it won’t be my business bankrupting me . . . it’ll be those twins!’

Isobel shrugged. ‘Sorry, I have no idea what it cost. It was a birthday present.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear. Evie’s focus shifted.

‘How about something that costs less than jewellery and lasts a lifetime, Mum?’

Cleo looked at Isobel’s wrist too. ‘Oh no, lady. You have got absolutely no chance.’

‘But everyone else has them, look!’ Evie was nodding at Isobel. Exhibit A. ‘It’s different now, tattoos aren’t just for thugs and sailors!’

Evie’s friend guffawed. ‘My dad’s got loads, but he is actually a sailor and a bit of a thug. Mum’s just got the divorce through, Mrs R.’

‘Shh, Cassie. Look, Mum, it’s really cute and girly. Little Red Riding Hood!’

Isobel pulled her jacket sleeve down to her knuckles and waited for the bangle to come back. She’d told Sophie all the reasons she wanted rid of the tattoo. Sophie had swung into fix-it mode and the bracelet had been on Isobel’s wrist that night. Dealt with. Covered up. Sophie-style.

‘No. Way. End of conversation, Evie.’

‘Mum, I look way older than fifteen, I could just go anyway

. . .’

‘Evie!’ Cleo sang. ‘I strongly advise you do no such thing. Now, I won’t be swayed so zip it. Tattoos are just . . . just . . .’ She looked another apology at Isobel.

‘Tacky? Common?’ Isobel offered light-heartedly. ‘It’s fine, Cleo, really.’ She’d never been a tattoo fan either, but Sophie had talked her into their sisterly pact, and they’d done so little as sisters that it had seemed worthwhile and overdue to do something lasting and memorable together. Stupid.

Cleo gritted her teeth. ‘I was going to say, easy to regret. They’re just so easy to regret.’

‘Do you regret yours?’ fired Evie. She was staring at Isobel now. Isobel rubbed her wrist. It was fairly boring as tattoos went. Sophie had challenged her to shock their parents for a change and do something out of character. Isobel had talked her on to a middle ground: she’d go through with it but they had to have similar designs, and they had to be literary-based, so Isobel could at least impress her English students who up until then suspected she was chronically strait-laced. It had been an easy choice, the favourite book they’d listened to a hundred times snuggled on their dad’s lap. Red Riding Hood had made it on to Isobel’s wrist, the Big Bad Wolf on to Soph’s.

Evie was waiting for an answer. ‘Honestly?’ Isobel asked. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’ frowned Evie.

‘Yes. I regret it every day. It was fun at first. Now it’s just a reminder.’

Evie cocked her head. ‘A reminder of what?’

Don’t be led. Don’t be distinguishable. Protect your anonymity.

‘To make better choices, Evie. It reminds me to make better choices.’