Whatever it takes, p.29
Whatever It Takes, page 29
The women had spent the morning discussing whether it might be possible to organise a pony-trek along the beaches in the early spring for children and adults. Eloise knew her girls would love that. Their lessons in London hadn’t tested their skills beyond gently trotting around Hampstead Heath under close supervision. Eloise resisted offering to organise the entire project but enthusiastically signed up to participate.
When Eloise saw Sara’s number flash on her mobile her heart had sunk to the bottom of her Hunter wellies.
‘I’m so sorry, I do have to take this, but order me another coffee, it won’t take long,’ Eloise had said as she’d left the table, pulled on her coat and headed outside. She’d wanted to pledge her commitment to the coffee date but she couldn’t ignore Sara.
It was chilly outside the steamy café. Eloise rocked from the balls of her feet to her heels in an attempt to encourage circulation.
‘Hello, Eloise.’
‘Hi, Sara.’ Eloise didn’t know what tone of voice she ought to try to hit. Jovial, as though there was nothing wrong? Or serious? Because, after all, Charlie had left her home with a bloody nose and some sort of explanation was likely to be required. She’d tried to keep her tone neutral and waited to hear what Sara had to say.
‘I thought I’d better call.’
‘Right.’ What did Sara know? What was she thinking?
‘Charlie told me what happened.’
‘He told you?’
‘About the accident with Erin opening the door into his face and your somewhat unsympathetic reaction.’ Sara had paused over the word unsympathetic, letting her disapproval be felt. Eloise bristled as the charge fell at her feet; but she had to stay silent and try to piece together the fictitious story. ‘It could have been broken,’ Sara added shortly. ‘I realise it was an accident, but I do think you should have offered to take Charlie to hospital and I really don’t think you should have allowed him to drive all the way back to London.’
‘Well, he’s old enough to make his own decisions,’ replied Eloise, through gritted teeth. So, Charlie had gone home and spouted a load of lies, well, what had she expected? He was unlikely to have returned to his wife and admitted to declaring undying love for Eloise. ‘Is it broken?’ Eloise had asked, actually hoping it was.
‘No. But considering everything, I’m sure you can see why he had to resign from your job. I think we both know that you were becoming a little too demanding. I remember that time I came to yours for dinner, way back in November, and he was working on your kitchen sink although it was past seven in the evening.’ Eloise wanted to interrupt and point out that she hadn’t asked Charlie to fiddle with the faucet but she decided not to bother. What was the point of dripping just a bit of truth into the fabrication Charlie had constructed? ‘I don’t blame you, Eloise. I know you are extremely house proud’ – Sara made the charge that someone was house proud sound akin to accusing them of having a particularly nasty venereal disease – ‘but you have to see the arrangement was becoming untenable.’
‘Yes, I do see that now,’ muttered Eloise. That much she could agree with.
‘There was such tension at Christmas.’ Eloise sighed. Yes, she had to admit that was also certainly true. Sara carried on. ‘Living in someone else’s house, no matter how lovely that someone else is, is so difficult. And I missed him.’ Eloise certainly hadn’t noticed that. ‘He just had to get out. Get home. I’m sure you’ll be a bit cross because you won’t find anyone else who could do such a marvellous job at such a great price but I’m fully depending on the strength of our friendship to see us through this muddle.’
Eloise was almost swept along. She almost believed that Erin had injured Charlie, that she’d been unsympathetic, then demanding and finally argumentative so, really, Charlie had no alternative but to resign and return to his loving wife. If she almost believed it, no wonder Sara had bought it hook, line and sinker.
Eloise seethed for a few moments and then she recognised that Charlie had inadvertently done her a favour. His version of the dissolving of their relationship at least provided an explanation for a cooling off of their relationship. She could simply capitulate to the lie presented before her and she wouldn’t have to say Mark had demanded that they split; she was off the hook.
‘Charlie’s found work locally now. You may not be seeing as much of us as usual. We’re going to be very, very busy. I’m sure you understand,’ added Sara with finality.
Eloise returned to the café and ordered a second cake.
‘Treating yourself?’ asked Arabella.
‘Yes.’
‘For shock or celebrating good news?’ asked Jackie, with concerned interest, glancing at the telephone still cradled in Eloise’s hand.
‘Bit of both,’ replied Eloise as she crammed the carrot cake into her mouth and sank into its sweetness.
JULY
39
Eloise could hardly believe she’d lived in Dartmouth for a year now; on the other hand, she could no longer remember – with absolute clarity – living in London. She couldn’t quite recall the smell of dust and heat in an underground station, blasting like a dragon’s roar when a train pulled into the station. She couldn’t precisely remember the exact sound of the traffic thundering, honking and screeching as busy people rushed from A to B, correctly confident of their importance. She couldn’t even entirely recall her havens; the glittering windows of the King’s Road, the cool serenity in the deeply impressive halls of the National Gallery or the sweet-smelling patisseries in Soho. The aromas and the breeze of the air conditioning eluded her. She had different sounds and sights to indulge in now.
Eloise had learnt to enjoy mellow, rolling hills, peach sunsets and lush green fields. Her ears expected to hear seagulls squawking and boats chugging, she actively listened out for the toot toot of the steam train that nowadays did nothing other than ferry tourists but was a hangover from times of more strenuous industry; she set her watch by it. Eloise and her family had found a new rhythm. They spent their free days crabbing, fishing or paddling and in the evenings they walked to the local pub. All five of them; the girls ate salt and vinegar crisps and drank coke, Eloise and Mark tried real ales and they all played dominoes. Sometimes Ray and Margaret joined them. Their local had stood for nearly eight hundred years and Eloise always felt prickles of excitement scamper up her spine when she thought of the stories packed within the timbers which had once belonged on a merchant ship. The wooden floor boards were steeped in history, dripped in alcohol. She appreciated the low beams, the open fire and lead-framed windows, it was picture perfect. The brass horseshoes that hung on the wall and the plastic dustpan and brush that were tucked behind the bar weren’t quite so picture perfect but they were frank. Sometimes Mark and Eloise visited the local arty cinema that showed films a month or so after their release date, sometimes they went to a restaurant, Eloise had finally tried the lobster caldereta at The Seahorse. It was sublime.
On Saturday mornings they often followed bridle paths across the fields and hills and found themselves in the outlying villages where they commented on the candyfloss-coloured houses. They passed small garages, which only had one petrol pump but always sold colourful, tinfoil windmills and plastic buckets and spades. The garages didn’t sell alpine car fresheners. The people of Dartmouth were more likely to simply wind down the car window. They stopped off in pubs that advertised real ales, fine wine and great food on blackboards and invariably had a pack of dogs tied up outside. They tried the pub grub which was frequently adventurous and of a good standard and was occasionally disappointing, in which case they settled for a bowl of fat, steaming chips smothered in ketchup. Eloise had become familiar with the twisty roads, the way a woman knew the contours of her own body (a bulge here, a bump there). She knew where the dry-stone walling was tumbling down and while she still regarded the endless walls of hedges with wonder, she no longer saw the high banks of foliage as sinister fences, shutting something out, trapping something in. She no longer felt a sense of claustrophobia. She just saw brambles punctuated by wild flowers and butterflies.
The girls were tanned as they spent most of their time out of doors, combing beaches and scrambling on boats. Eloise was taking swimming lessons at the local pool. Poppy regularly picked cowslips (which she believed to be fairy parasols), buttercups and bluebells. She put some in a vase next to her bed and pressed others between the simple wooden flower press that Ray had made for her. They all played tennis in the courts in the centre of town and had done since February. They played if it was windy or lashing with rain; Erin said it was great training for Wimbledon’s centre court. One morning last May, Eloise woke up, looked out the window. Another lovely day, she thought. It took her until she was eating her toast in the kitchen to realise the importance of the placid observation; she’d arrived. She belonged. She was taking it for granted.
Eloise was so utterly confident in her new surroundings that she’d made the decision to spend a week of the summer school holidays visiting her brother and sister-in-law in London, while Mark stayed in Dartmouth working. She wanted to catch up with old friends and take the girls to museums. Since moving to Dartmouth Eloise had avoided going back to London, only visiting when Sara had called on her to do so last year. She’d been concerned that the longings she was taking care to tame would be stirred once again if she returned. She’d gone cold turkey, the way she might have with an ex-lover, best not to be seen at all in case she felt tempted back or simply full of helpless yearning. But now Eloise felt confident that Dartmouth was her home and so she was pretty sure she could holiday in London and be a tourist; enjoy its treats without becoming depressed that she’d stepped outside. She wanted to test herself. Besides, most excitingly, if she went to London she could have her hair coloured by her fabulous and dramatic Russian stylist. Eloise had tried to resist the cliché of disparaging provincial hairdressers but, truthfully, she really hadn’t found anyone who was prepared to apply three different shades of blond streaks and she’d had to settle for a less sophisticated block colour.
The girls were giggly and excited when they saw their Aunt Fran and Uncle Ed and some of their old friends. The Hamilton women spent a few wonderful days spoiling themselves. Eloise wanted to buy a new outfit for Jackie’s birthday party. She thought she needed to go to Westfield and the King’s Road. She’d allocated a day for shopping but Emily wanted to forage in the massive fashion stores on Oxford Street too, and the younger two were still interested in visiting a Build-a-Bear shop. Remarkably, they managed to do everything at the cost of a few blisters (and quite some sterling!). They all agreed that YO! Sushi was great fun, as was hanging around Covent Garden watching people pretend to be statues or eat fire. Eloise had never spent time doing any of these things in London. In the past she’d carelessly dismissed these activities as tourist traps, now she found it was fun to be ensnared along with millions of other willing-to-be-pleased, jostling visitors. Was she a tourist now, she wondered? Born and bred a Londoner she no longer lived there. She hadn’t lived there for a year. A calendar year equated to a couple of decades in London, as things moved so quickly. Something that was ‘in’ and ‘a must have’ late one night might be over by the time you’d eaten your cornflakes the next day. Indeed, that’s what she’d always loved about London; she believed that people packed more in, did more, saw more, felt more, thought more. Lived more. But did she still believe that?
Eloise and Fran decided to go to the cinema in Leicester Square one evening, leaving Ed in charge of six kids. They watched a chick-flick which was not thought provoking (well, at least not beyond the thought, ‘I wonder where she bought that dress?’), but all the same, the film provided a great night’s entertainment. They were planning on taking advantage of the warm summer evening by wandering through the streets looking for a place to eat a late supper but both women sensed a storm in the air and knew that if it rained, taxis would be gold dust later, so they decided to hop in a cab straight away.
‘We can have a sandwich at home,’ mumbled Fran, sleepily leaning her head against the cab window and closing her eyes.
The cab slowly mooched along Regent Street, one of Eloise’s all-time favourite roads. Its grandiose breadth was a reminder of London’s former glory days and its huge, gleaming retail windows, boasting a treasure trove of affordable fashion and virtuoso design, were a testament to its current brilliance. The heavens opened as Eloise and Fran had predicted but the street, traffic and shop lights still shimmered like jewellery. Eloise looked out of the window and saw crowds that she recognised, that she used to be part of. There were several groups of young girls stumbling in impractically high fashion shoes; they giggled and clung to their friends, offering each other imperfect support as they wedged their scantily clad bodies under shared umbrellas. She’d been a stumbling girl, dashing to a pub or to a club, hoping that by the time she left she’d be hanging on to the arm of some guy or other.
She watched a stylish twenty-something couple leave a smart restaurant, the young woman sheltered under the restaurant’s canopy as the boyfriend efficiently hailed a cab. He opened the door for her and she dashed into the car, kicking up rain water in her wake as she flashed her boyfriend an appreciative and lustful glance. Eloise was reminded of her early dates with Mark; she’d been that young woman. And she’d been that young mother, the one looking harassed and fretful as she dashed towards the Tube pushing a sleeping baby in a buggy, even though it was way past the time a child should be in its own bed. The mother was still at the stage where she thought she could do anything she did before her baby was born. She couldn’t. And, in a few months, exhaustion would tell her as much; she’d stop trying to visit late-night experimental art exhibitions with her baby and, instead, choose to pay for a sitter or stay at home and watch a box set of an American TV show. Eloise wished she could wind down the window and tell the woman to cut herself some slack. Eloise spotted another woman, one in her late thirties or early forties, perhaps; carefully, expensively preserved so that it was difficult to be accurate. That woman was grasping a theatre programme. No doubt, she was regretting the fact that she’d eaten a box of chocolates and an ice cream during the show. Eloise had certainly been that woman! She watched as the theatre goer linked her arm through her husband’s. He had his hands in his pockets and his head down against the rain, he was laughing at something she’d said. It was easier to walk that way in the rain, rather than he with his arm thrown around her shoulders and she with her arm thrown around his waist. Eloise was pretty sure that tonight, when they got home, they’d talk about whether or not they were too tired to have sex and whatever they decided would hardly matter because they knew they loved each other. She could tell by the way they were laughing.
And now Eloise was this woman; the one in the cab observing, the one who’d left London behind because her husband wanted to do so. London was her birthplace, her country’s capital city and her world. Yet now, quite definitely, Eloise felt it was all OK. London was still here, in all its vibrancy and vitality. She could visit whenever she wanted; she could go to criminally expensive cinemas, she could amble along the high streets and be amazed at the length of the skirts this season (so long! so short!), here she could buy sushi, Kalamata olives, rogan josh curry or smoked scamorza cheese at midnight, if the mood took her. But in London she couldn’t walk along dramatic rugged coastal paths. She couldn’t feel the wind in her hair and the salt and sand stick to her skin. During the cab journey home Eloise finally and firmly accepted that being a tourist in London – an appreciative, awe-struck tourist – was OK. It was certainly better than being a jaded or complacent inhabitant. She realised that London still belonged to her, even though she no longer lived there, and she found the fact very reassuring.
On the last day of the holiday Eloise left the girls with Ed and Fran, so that she could visit the hair salon in peace. The plan was for the girls to go on the London Eye and visit the aquarium. They had done both of these activities before but Poppy swore she couldn’t remember and the other two were compliant enough as they were well aware that a day out with their aunt would be packed with sweet treats and trivial trinkets.
Settling back into the leather-backed chair Eloise eagerly anticipated a couple of hours drinking herbal tea and reading the sort of gossipy magazines that Mark fondly referred to as her comics. She breathed in the chemical smell of hair colourants the way other women might Hoover up the aroma of fresh bread. She felt calm, relaxed and cheerful.
Eloise heard her voice before she saw her. The woman was asking for a trim. She was being very pleasant and giggly with the receptionist as she tried to negotiate being squeezed in for an appointment tomorrow. It was her breeziness that Eloise failed to recognise, it threw her and she had to take a second glance. ‘Sara?’
Eloise could hardly believe her eyes. There she was, her old friend, larger than life. Literally.
40
‘You’re having a baby.’
Sara laughed as she always laughed at the marvellous and delightful thought that she was indeed pregnant and she laughed at Eloise’s surprise, which was worn with open affection all over her face. How else, in that split second of time, should she respond?
