Читать книгу Truly, Madly, Deeply - Romantic Association Novelist's - Страница 31

Isobel had always been a fan of those books set in Cornwall, where the sea roiled (there was never a book when it didn’t) and the sun danced like stars on the waves. Either the sun shone like it hadn’t done for years in real life, or the sky brooded and storms blew, lightning highlighting the passion of secret lovers, or murders, or books containing the dark secrets of the ancient family.

There was always a matriarch, always beautiful, and either with an amazing talent for something –opera singing, poetry, painting –or with a secret. Every man she met fell in love with her, even when she was in her seventies.

Life was not like this for Isobel. She had a perfectly happy life but as she had got older, her confidence had begun to wane and she longed to be the sort of powerful, charismatic older woman who starred in those books.

She also wanted the beautiful house in Cornwall. Instead of the large, detached house with plenty of garden on the edge of a very pleasant town, where she had brought up her children and where she and her husband still lived, she yearned for a wild cliff top, or the bottom of a wooded valley, either an ancient farmhouse, a large Victorian mansion, or even an architect-designed modern house with spectacular views. All of these imaginary houses would have some sort of dwelling in the grounds. Her favourite daydream was a boathouse; there was something very sexy about a boathouse.

One year, she decided to make her dream real. She searched the internet exhaustively and eventually found the perfect house. It didn’t have another dwelling in the grounds but it was right on the river and the views were sensational. She went to find her husband who was working on a model ship in his shed. He was always working on a model ship in his shed, apparently finding this more absorbing than the company of his wife, now the children had all left home.

‘Darling, I want to take the whole family on holiday. Jenny said the other day they couldn’t afford to go away this year and I suddenly thought what fun it would be to get together.’ She glanced at him and then went on. ‘It would be good for the grandchildren to spend quality time with each other.’

Rather to her surprise he didn’t grunt when she said ‘quality time’. Instead, he nodded. ‘And we pay for it all?’

‘Yes,’ Isobel said firmly. The children would never give up their holiday allowance to go to Cornwall if they had to pay.

‘OK,’ he said, and went back to his scale model of the Cutty Sark.

Isobel went back to the house, half annoyed that he hadn’t said, ‘But I wanted to take you to Antibes,’ and delighted that he’d agreed to her plan.

Her husband’s early retirement had been a bit disappointing. She’d imagined lovely days out and meals in pubs now they had time to be with each other but mostly he made models. And nowadays, if she asked him if she looked all right, he always said ‘fine’ but never glanced in her direction.

Her three children, two sons and a daughter, all married or with partners, were all keen on the idea of a paid-for holiday in a luxury holiday home. ‘Lovely to have built-in baby-sitters,’ said one son. ‘Good to have time to catch up with the sibs,’ said another.

Isobel made the booking. Now she would live the dream. She would become charismatic, beautiful, in spite of her nearly sixty years. She wouldn’t just be ‘good old Mum’.

What she hadn’t envisaged when she’d been searching for the perfect house was the amount of cooking and washing up a family holiday with grandchildren entailed –all in a kitchen a lot less well organised than her own. It was not so much ‘living the dream’ as ‘living the washing up’. What had seemed such a good idea in January, when she booked the house, now seemed a terrible idea. As for her transformation into the heroine of one of those books, she felt more like the faithful family housekeeper than her employer.

The men all loved cooking –that wasn’t a problem –except they used every implement in the house and while they sloshed water around quite a bit, they somehow never actually cleared up. Considering they had cooked this seemed sort of OK, but it was the same when she cooked. Her husband wiped half washed saucepans with clean tea towels, which meant very soon none of the tea towels were clean.

She realised sadly that she was not a matriarch, she was a woman who was a member of a book group, shopped in Waitrose and had to travel with her own pillows. And while, during the holiday at least, she had some trappings of the Yummy Mummy –the pale marks on the shoulder of every garment, the faint odour of sour milk, and Babybels loose in her handbag ready to feed a hungry toddler at a moment’s notice –she didn’t feel remotely yummy. And she didn’t even have a wicked past to look back on either. She’d married young, had children and stayed married. Her life was completely free of delicious memories of past loves. What had always seemed something to be admired now seemed plain boring.

At least the holiday was going well. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Days on the beach with the children, with Grandpa willing to go rock pooling, buy ice creams and carry small children for miles. And later, meals cooked and served at the huge table with ample quantities of wine. Yet somehow she still found herself doing most of the donkeywork. Everyone was happy to fill the dishwasher but no one wanted to empty it, carrying the clean things to a cupboard across the kitchen. It was a job Isobel hated too but still found herself doing it several times a day.

One morning, when she’d got up early to do the washing up that the men had sworn they’d do, she went on strike halfway through. She made herself a cup of tea and took the visitors’ book out onto the terrace. The sun was shining and no one else was up. She felt entitled to a few moments not looking after people. These moments were hers.

Earlier, when they’d first arrived at the house and were reading the instructions to the Aga and the telephone number of the woman who ‘did’ plus the way to the nearest beach, which was several miles through traffic-filled lanes, Isobel had looked at the visitors’ book. In it had been a name she’d recognised. A man she’d known briefly and rather fancied –Leo Stark –had obviously stayed at the same house with his family. They’d both been married when they met but she was fairly sure there’d been some sort of spark.

On impulse she went to find her phone and emailed him. After all, there were no other ways she could rebel that wouldn’t impinge unpleasantly on someone else. This was a little private thing that would go no further.

‘Dear Leo, I’m sure you won’t remember me, Isobel Dunbar, but we met at the McCreadys’ once. We’re staying in the house where you stayed last year. Such a coincidence, I had to get in touch.’

Feeling very slightly naughty, and so cheered up, she went back into the house to finish the clearing she had abandoned.

Very much to her surprise she had a reply from Leo. She sneaked a look, feeling wonderfully teenage, while supervising the two-year-old’s porridge consumption.

‘Isobel! Of course I remember you! How could I forget? And by an amazing coincidence we’re down here too! Do you think you could manage a lunch? Not the whole family, just us?’

She was so shocked and delighted she couldn’t even think of replying. She just held her glorious –and guilty –secret to herself. She whizzed through the chores and even made up some batter for pancakes for breakfast. She almost ran down the lane to the little shop that stocked everything a holidaymaker might require and was open almost continuously. She panted back up the hill clutching croissants and maple syrup.

‘Mum!’ said her daughter, a plump baby on her hip. ‘You didn’t get any nappies while you were in the shop, did you? We’re nearly out.’

‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t know about the nappies and just thought it would be fun to have pancakes.’ The adrenalin shot of the email protected her from resentment. ‘Now, shall I take Immi so you can start frying?’

All day she was superwoman. She packed a picnic of homemade pizzas and sent the whole lot off to the beach. ‘I’ll meet you at lunchtime. There are just a few things I want to do here!’ she said, as she waved them off.

Then she ran to her phone. ‘It’s as if I have a lover!’ she told herself, slightly breathless, as she switched it on. The thought of having a lover was like being submerged by a huge wave and then being lifted up by the same wave. She couldn’t decide if the feeling of exhilaration matched the feeling of utter doom. It was while she was feeling ridiculously happy she wrote a quick reply: ‘That should be possible. When did you have in mind? Not today,’ she added hurriedly.

She doubted if Leo had had to tidy the kitchen, go shopping and make pancakes –not to mention the picnic –in order to have a few moments to send an email, but was very pleased to hear the ping of a reply while she was clearing up sodden towels from the shower. It was him. He mentioned a pub in a little village a reassuring distance from the house: ‘Tomorrow any good? We’re going back at the end of the week.’

‘Lovely,’ she wrote back, not giving herself time to think further. If she passed up this opportunity it wouldn’t happen and she’d regret it for ever. ‘One o’clock?’

Feeling as guilty as if she had made a pact with the devil, Isobel made her way to the beach, bringing chilled bottles, extra cardies and some sunscreen with her.

‘Oh great, beer,’ said one of her sons, taking a couple of bottles out of her bag, which had been very heavy.

‘That’s fine, darling,’ Isobel muttered. ‘It was no trouble bringing it at all…’

The following morning Isobel got everyone’s attention at breakfast time –as far as one could, given that they all had separate distractions. ‘I’m going out for the day,’ she said. ‘I’ll be taking the car.’

‘What do you want to do that for?’ asked her husband, utterly bemused.

‘Oh you know. I just need a bit of time on my own. “Me time”.’ She bit her lip to stop herself adding ‘because I’m worth it.’

‘Will you be back to help with bath-time?’ asked one daughter-in-law. ‘You promised to read Otto a story!’

‘I’ll be back in plenty of time for that.’

‘This is a bit out of left-field, isn’t it?’ said a son.

‘Yes, and what about supper?’ asked her daughter. ‘What are we having?’

‘Why don’t you decide?’ she asked. She turned to leave but before she had got out of the room her daughter stopped her.

‘Don’t you think you ought to at least wash your hair first?’

Isobel laughed. ‘Oh no, my hair is just fine.’

She managed not to spray gravel as she drove away, feeling as if the family car had turned into a getaway vehicle. In her Cath Kidson shopper, like stolen goods, were as many of her clothes that she felt she could get away with taking, and her entire make-up kit. Her holiday packing had not included control pants or a sexy dress but she had bought a couple of new tops and some new linen trousers that were quite flattering. She knew of a public lavatory with quite big cubicles, she’d do her changing there.

Her hair would be sorted by a quick wash and blow-dry at a local salon. It couldn’t go too wrong and if it did, she could gussy it up with some products that the local Boots would provide. She was going to enjoy every minute of this.

But in between the wonderful excitement came troughs of guilt. She was struggling into her new trousers in the public convenience, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all, when she suddenly pictured her husband. What would happen if he found out? She suddenly felt sick. It would be too awful. He would be so hurt. Her mouth went dry and for a moment she couldn’t move. After a few minutes she collected herself and carried on getting dressed in a more sombre manner. She walked out of the cubicle in two minds. Should she cancel?

A glance in the mirror decided her. She was looking good. Well, as good as she could look given the circumstances. The local salon had done a good job on her hair and her new clothes were nice. She would meet an old friend for lunch, she would do a bit of shopping and then go back in time to bathe the babies and cook supper. After she’d had her few hours of intrigue would she go back to her humdrum role of wife and mother and not care that no one seemed to appreciate her, let alone treat her as the sort of goddess who starred in her favourite sort of reading material. She would have her secret, even if it was a very small one.

She felt so sick with nerves when she arrived at the pub that she nearly turned round and went back to the holiday house. But she knew she’d regret it if she did that –and it was only lunch, for God’s sake. She and Leo might wonder what on earth they had ever seen in each other. She would more than likely go home wondering what on earth she’d gone to all that trouble for –but she had to find out.

Leo was waiting for her, watching the door for her to come in, and stood up the moment she appeared. She recognised him instantly, and going by the smile on his face he recognised her too.

They hugged briefly, and then Isobel sat down. Her knees were shaking.

‘What can I get you?’ Leo asked.

‘A white wine spritzer,’ she said. She needed at least some alcohol to get her through this. And if she stuffed herself with sandwiches when she was alone again, after the salad she would have in front of Leo, she should be OK to drive back.

‘So, Isobel. This is so nice.’ His words were bland but the expression in his eyes was anything but. She may have forgotten some of the signs but she was fairly sure she saw a twinkle of admiration. ‘I’ve often wondered what would have happened if we hadn’t both been married when we met.’

Isobel took a sip of her drink –she wouldn’t have been able to talk if she hadn’t. ‘But we were both married and still are.’

He smiled ruefully and nodded. ‘So there’s no point in suggesting we get a room then?’

She started to laugh. It was so ridiculous. He laughed too and then they were both chuckling away. Isobel knew it was a release of tension –for her anyway –but whatever the reason it was lovely.

‘All I can say,’ he said, when they had recovered themselves, ‘is that your husband is a very lucky man. Now what would you like for lunch?’

When Isobel drove away from the pub she was on a cloud. Her self-esteem had rocketed and she felt powerful and attractive. Nothing untoward had happened during the lunch but she knew Leo had fancied her. She may not be a matriarch, adored by all, but she now had a secret, even if it wasn’t really a wicked one.

Rather to her surprise, the family was all in the kitchen when she arrived. As they all had slightly odd expressions she wondered for one ghastly moment if she had been discovered.

‘Mum!’ said her daughter, coming forward and kissing her. ‘You look great! Got your hair done?’ Isobel nodded. ‘Which is good because we’ve got a plan!’

‘We’re going out for dinner,’ said her husband.

Isobel beamed, her happiness and relief when she realised she hadn’t been discovered having lunch with another man. ‘How lovely!’

‘We realised you’ve spent most of the holiday looking after us, so today I’m taking you out,’ her husband said. ‘And Adam has kindly offered to take us and pick us up so we can drink.’ He smiled at her and she recognised the man she had once been madly in love with.

All she really wanted from life was with her right now. She didn’t really need a secret or a luscious Cornish house.

‘Lovely, I’ll go and get ready then.’

‘The table’s not booked until seven,’ said her daughter. ‘You can still help with bath time…’

‘I’d love to,’ she said.