Читать книгу Perfect Strangers: an unputdownable read full of gripping secrets and twists - Erin Knight - Страница 24

18

Isobel’s image was still taking some getting used to. The woman reflected in the windows of Coast had regained some weight at least, but the hair, blonde and unstyled, would never stop catching her off-guard. She was a fake Isobel, an impression of herself, an actor. Even her clothes felt costume-like, long flowing skirts and modest vest tops replacing the strappier versions she used to slouch around in once school broke for summer. She ignored herself and pushed against Coast’s door. It didn’t budge. Closed?

A bubble of conversation took shape around the terrace. Isobel glanced towards the voices. A petite blonde was relaxing at a table, almost hidden behind a wall of olive trees.

‘He’s a brilliant bloke, jitters are natural, Sarah. Doubt is natural.’ Isobel turned for the street. ‘Isobel? Hello! Isobel!’ Cleo’s head popped into view, then a hand, enthusiastically beckoning. ‘I thought I heard someone. Come meet my best friend, we were just talking about women taking chances. You’re an adventure-seeker, come say hi!’

Isobel hesitated. She should’ve walked faster, now she had to pretend before breakfast.

‘We don’t open until eleven on Wednesdays, it’s the only chance Sarah and I get to be friends, isn’t it, Sar? Sarah pretends she’s lesson-planning, and I pretend I’m balancing my books. Isobel, Sarah, Sarah, Isobel. Isobel has wanderlust. Found herself in Fallenbay on a one-girl adventure like Julia Roberts in that Eat, Pray, Something film. You’ve come to find yourself, haven’t you, Isobel?’

Isobel smiled. This was going to be excruciating.

Sarah tucked already sleek hair neatly behind her ear. ‘Hi, Isobel.’ Sarah extended a hand over a table affectionately laid with carafes of juice and folded napkins weighted with cutlery and too much choice for two. Brown knees peeped from under her blue shirt-dress; she looked like someone who went yachting at weekends. Isobel instantly regretted the lack of effort she’d made with her hair this morning.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to gatecrash.’

‘Not at all!’ beamed Cleo. ‘We were just saying, not nearly enough interesting women in this town any more, they’re all obsessed with finding new ways to innovate their skincare regimes and smothering, sorry, mothering, their children.’

‘You were saying that, Cle. I was just thinking I need a new wrinkle cream.’ Sarah shared a smile with Isobel. Cleo missed it.

‘Sarah teaches at the town primary. Knows all the horror-parents.’

‘Can we not talk about Juliette and co, Cle?’

‘Sorry, you’re absolutely right. I’ve already had one of that lot dent my morning. Isobel, you’re still standing? Take a seat. Dig in.’ Isobel obediently slipped into a rattan chair.

‘I’m sure Rachel didn’t mean to upset you,’ tried Sarah.

Cleo swished her butter knife. ‘She shouldn’t have gone power-waddling all over my morning. Today started so well, too. Did I mention I was jogging when Rachel and her daft grin showed up?’

‘Only twice.’ Sarah’s eyes creased at the edges when she smiled. Some women were just blessed with that universally approved beauty. Blonde – check. Good bone structure – check. Others had to work towards it the way Isobel had the night she’d borrowed Sophie’s red cocktail dress to blow Nathan’s socks off. She’d been aiming for beautiful, but she hadn’t made it past pig. Pig by popular consensus. Ugly pig. Pig on heat. Fat pig. Skinny Pig. Horny pig. Several variations of pig peppering the hundreds of comments left beneath the footage of her in that beautiful dress. In their kitchen. Maybe they’d have gone easier if she’d been more aesthetically pleasing. Like Sarah.

Stop it.

‘Let me boast! I can hardly walk, my buttocks are aching so diabolically. Do you work out, Isobel? Clearly you do, there’s nothing to you. Why do I always make friends with gorgeous women? It’s a bloody bad habit. Coffee?’ Cleo was already poised with the cafetiere. ‘Sorry, forgot . . . headaches. Tea then? Milk or lemon?’

Cleo talked so fast that listening was a bit like a workout. ‘Lemon, thanks.’

‘Have a muffin. Have two! I’m already eyeing up a third.’ Cleo started loading a plate.

Sarah tapped her cup. ‘You’re a fox, Cleo. Sam still makes cow eyes at you after how many years of marriage?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Twenty-three?’ marvelled Isobel. ‘Wow.’ She and Nathan hadn’t even made it to an engagement ring.

‘Sam tells Cleo she’s beautiful all the time, Isobel. It’s that hair. Women would kill for that natural curl.’

‘Ha! Tell Evie that, she detests hers.’ Cleo’s smile faded. Isobel stirred her tea and tried to blend in.

‘So, what’s wrong with Evie?’ asked Sarah, around a delicate mouthful of something.

Cleo sighed. ‘My antennae are twitching.’

Sarah bit into another forkful and held her hand over her mouth. A diamond glinted in the sunlight. ‘Go on.’

‘She’s having stick off some little shits at school. It’s not cyber-bullying, not yet, just . . .’ Cleo batted a hand. ‘Childish stuff. Name-calling. Crappy comments about her looks. Unimaginative little weasels.’ Isobel sipped quietly from her teacup. ‘I was stunned she was so upset at first. You know Evie, perfectly capable of fighting her corner. So now I’m wondering . . . is something else going on?’

Isobel’s voice came from nowhere. ‘Something else?’ Cleo might be missing something catastrophic on her daughter’s horizon. The internet was good at delivering catastrophic.

‘Well, she has these emotional outbursts, usually when she catches me and Sam arguing. Which admittedly is probably too often. I feel like we’re setting her off, which is awful, but it’s also the only time she actually tells us if something’s bothering her.’

Sarah’s fork hovered at the edge of her plate. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Cleo. I’d hate to be a teenager today, everything documented and up for public viewing. Plus it’s GCSE season. Evie probably just needs an outlet.’

‘I know. And I am making an effort, to get along better with Sam, I mean. I sent him an uncharacteristically nice text just this morning so I’m not all bad.’

‘A nice text?’ winked Sarah. ‘I see.’

‘We don’t sext each other, Sarah. Good God, could you imagine? I’d need a panoramic lens just to get everything in.’

‘Evie and Harry brought that letter home too then? My mother read Will’s out. He was mortified.’

Cleo looked at Isobel. ‘The high school are concerned our children are moronic enough to photograph their genitals. Honestly, they think we’re dragging them up. No, I just texted Sam to suggest we make an effort, for Evie really. Put on a united front. We’re going to the cinema. We’ll argue.’

‘Everyone argues, Cle.’

‘You two never argue! Honestly, Isobel, Sarah and Jon never argue. They’re disgusting.’

‘Only because he has his space and I have mine. I like it when he goes running every night. Is that bad? Am I ungrateful?’ Sarah stabbed at a blueberry and popped it between her teeth. ‘Do you have children, Isobel?’

‘Just a niece. Ella. She’s five.’

‘Very wise,’ piped Cleo. ‘Kids are trouble. Especially teens. Although you haven’t had a peep out of Will yet, have you Sar?’

‘Nope,’ sighed Sarah.

‘Still no sign of a girlfriend then?’

‘Not yet. Although he did shout at Max last month after he opened Will’s text message without needing the code.’

‘Girlfriend alert! Don’t you think, Isobel?’ Isobel smiled and sipped her tea.

‘Not unless her name’s Edward. Does Harry know him, Cle? I think he’s new. Will’s always dashing off to meet him.’

Cleo frowned. ‘H hasn’t mentioned an Edward, but then he’s all loved up with the lovely Ingred from Copenhagen. I keep catching him taking selfies with puppy-dog eyes. Dread to think what it’s costing us getting them to her inbox. Anyway, I’m counting my blessings. The way I see it, if Harry’s busy fantasising about a girl all the way over there, he can’t be getting himself into much trouble with girls over here, can he? I don’t want to have to do the condom talk, and Sam’s useless.’

‘You’re putting me off my pancake, Cle.’

‘Sorry. I can’t believe how fast our little boys are growing into men.’

‘I know, it’s scary,’ agreed Sarah. ‘Doesn’t seem five minutes since they were holding hands marching into pre-school together.’

Cleo grinned behind her cup. ‘You’ll be having the condom talk with Max before long, Sarah.’

‘Don’t!’ yipped Sarah. She looked at Isobel. ‘Max is five.’

‘Oh. Is he at the school where you teach?’

‘He is.’

‘Handy for the school run,’ smiled Isobel.

‘Yup. Not so handy when you need to put your parent’s hat on, though. I’m dreading sports day.’

‘Hmph?’ A fleck of muffin shot from Cleo’s mouth.

‘I told you, the whole school’s running a vote on which child’s pet should be Mr Pethers’ co-umpire this year.’

‘Whose brilliant idea was that? You’re a pet-free home,’ mumbled Cleo.

‘Exactly.’

‘Oh, just pop him a garden bug in a tub and let him name it what he likes.’

Sarah rubbed her forehead. ‘Max was already crazy about getting a puppy, this pet election is sending him into overdrive. On top of Sebastian Brightman pushing his buttons.’

‘What’s up with Max and Olivia’s kid?’

‘Oh, nothing really. Max won’t eat brown bread sandwiches any more because Seb says brown bread is for ducks. He’s stopped wearing his orange raincoat because Seb says orange is the colour of orangutan poo. Max hates breakfast club on Tuesdays now because Seb’s told the other breakfast kids not to play with Max, the orangutan-poo-wearing, duckfood-eating kid.’ Sarah pushed her pancake away. ‘Sorry. You did ask.’

‘Have you tried collaring Olivia? Too busy horse riding, I expect. All those dressage rosettes, you’d think she’d be able to train her offspring to behave.’

‘Maybe you could try a play date?’ suggested Isobel. ‘They might have more chance finding a common ground away from the rest of the class?’

Sarah nodded towards her cup. ‘I agree, Max and Seb probably would find common ground if they were given the chance. It’s just a little complicated, and too boring to go into, but Olivia wouldn’t be keen on a play date at our house.’

‘No, because Olivia and the rest of the Hornbeam momsters swallow everything Juliette’s got to say like chocolate-covered rabbit shits.’ Cleo stiffened. ‘Did you just hear that? Those bloody cats in my bins!’ Cleo was on her feet. ‘Back in a jiffy.’

They watched her go. She was making a detour via two schoolboys hovering by the terrace ramp, both pointing their phones towards the café windows.

‘What are they doing?’ asked Isobel.

‘At a guess, piggybacking Cleo’s wifi.’

The shorter schoolboy studied his phone while his bulkier friend tapped at a wooden post with his shoe. Isobel would’ve recognised the first boy more quickly, but he wasn’t in the hipster glasses he’d worn outside the organic veg shop.

‘Go on, you’ll be late if you don’t get a shuffle on,’ shooed Cleo.‘And get your mother to top up your data, Milo!’ she called.

‘She won’t!’ he called back.

‘Yeah,’ the other boy snorted, ‘his mum thinks too much internet will warp his little mind.’

‘Get going, boys,’ Cleo instructed, marching purposefully towards the back of Coast.

‘So, wanderlust, Isobel? Sounds exciting.’

She felt her thoughts stall like those fainting goats Ella liked to watch on YouTube. She should’ve put more effort into her back story before making pretend friends with chatty locals.

‘Not really. More of a flexible holiday.’ It sounded like a lie.

‘So why Fallenbay, of all the places?’

Because I’m a teacher too. With a lesson to teach. ‘Um . . . the surf. I want to learn.’

‘Yeah, the schools here are great, you should book in with the Blue Fin guys. They started my boys off.’

‘Go on! Move it along! You can’t just rummage through my things, even if they are the unwanted bits. Go on or I’ll call the police.’ Cleo emerged from behind the café, arms spread wide, herding a man looking at her in complete bewilderment. He had a thick matted beard and duct tape around his trainers.

‘Poor guy,’ said Sarah quietly. Cleo was trying to drive him towards the street, but their generously laden breakfast table had caught his attention. Isobel felt her breathing quicken. The fallen-from-grace banker. Who liked to hurt girls. ‘We should give him something to eat,’ Sarah decided. ‘We’ll have to be discreet though. Cleo bans customers for encouraging the gulls, she’ll go berserk if we encourage that gentleman. Uh-oh, I think he’s read my mind.’

Isobel’s heart was pattering steadily.

‘No, no, come away from there please, this way! Walk this way and I’ll find you something to take with you.’ But his eyes were already locked on the pastries and fruit. ‘No! Don’t bother my guests! I’m so sorry, girls . . .’

He kept on coming. The smell of stale clothes over something less pleasant reached Isobel first. His features were dark and furrowed. Pitiful. Wretched. A man who hurt girls deserved an existence like this, didn’t he? He came close enough that he was staring down at her. She thought about standing, making herself taller, more formidable. The way you were supposed to when confronted by a bear . . . or was it a wolf you should stand your ground with?

‘Isobel?’ Sarah gently touched her hand. Isobel looked down, her knuckles were white, her fist clamped around a fork she couldn’t recall grabbing.

A figure jogged across the terrace. ‘He’s harmless, Mrs R. Come on, Bob, I’ve got a box of sarnies here. I hate tuna but the old dear thinks it’ll make me smarter. Step this way, Bob.’

‘Milo, I don’t think you should—’ Sarah stopped herself.

‘It’s cool. Cheers for letting us bum off your wifi, Mrs R, you’re a life-saver, serious. Bob likes the beach, don’t you, Bob? And tuna sarnies. We’re going that way anyway.’

Cleo stopped eying Isobel and the fork. ‘Milo, hurry up and get yourselves to school.’

‘It’s cool, Mrs. R, just don’t tell the mother you saw us.’