Beach house summer, p.5
Beach House Summer, page 5
5
Joanna
Joanna lay on her back in the middle of her bed, feeling no inclination at all to leave it. She savored those blissful few seconds before she was properly awake, before her brain cleared itself of sleep and reminded her that she was living the life she’d chosen.
A life paved with bad choices.
Sometimes she imagined how her life would look if she’d made different decisions. If she’d paused, instead of rushing forward. If she’d taken one route instead of another. It was easy to judge yourself harshly when you glanced back down the road you’d traveled. Decisions that had seemed clear at the time were harder to understand with distance. You made a wrong turn, and then another and another, and before you knew it you were hopelessly lost and there was no going back so you kept moving forward. You stuck with something you knew was bad because at least it was familiar and, anyway, you no longer knew what good looked like, or how to find it.
She heard clattering in the kitchen and froze. And then she remembered. Nessa. Not some random member of the press who had somehow forced their way into her home. Nessa, her loyal assistant, who had insisted on staying and had moved into Joanna’s guest room. I can’t run the gauntlet by going through those gates every day, and I’m not taking any chances in the wild woods, so for now I’m your lodger.
Joanna had readily agreed. Having Nessa around forced her into action and stopped her overthinking. Right now, Nessa was the closest thing she had to a friend.
What did that say about her?
Joanna pushed back the covers and forced herself to start the day. She looked wistfully at the towering stack of books on her nightstand and fought the impulse to lock the door and spend the day lost in someone else’s world.
Instead, she walked to the bathroom, showered, cleaned her teeth and dressed in her habitual work outfit of jeans and a white shirt. She spent less than five minutes on her makeup because that was the maximum time she could stand staring at her pale face. She looked deader than Cliff.
Why did you crash, Cliff? Had you been drinking?
She was asking the same questions as everyone else.
She didn’t need to look through her windows to know that the photographers were still outside her gate, parked in their vans, watching the house through long lenses.
She’d let two days pass and when they showed no signs of losing interest she’d hired security in order to be able to safely drive to her office. Two burly, unsmiling men with muscular shoulders and no sense of humor. They’d called her Mrs Whitman, which she hated.
She didn’t want to be Mrs. Whitman. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her days as one of Cliff’s accessories.
Their head office had been surrounded, too, so she’d said reassuring words to the team, grabbed what she needed and tried not to see the relief on their faces when she said she’d be working from home. They didn’t want her there, taking focus away from the company, but at the same time work didn’t stop because Cliff was no longer alive.
Cliff had spent as little time as possible in the office. Partly because he was usually busy filming a project, visiting one of the restaurants, promoting one of his books and generally keeping his profile high in the media, but also because Cliff had been severely dyslexic and part of his strategy to conceal that fact was to never be in a position where he was expected to read something or sign something without Joanna by his side. Joanna didn’t understand why he hid it. She’d suggested many times that his success might inspire other people with dyslexia, but Cliff wasn’t interested in inspiring or helping anyone else. His focus was on maintaining the image he’d created for himself. He wanted to believe he was the person he’d created. He wanted the public to believe that, too.
The reality was that Cliff had little involvement with the work that went on behind the scenes. The company was run by an efficient management team, but it was Joanna who had managed Cliff. Even after the divorce, that hadn’t changed. She managed his diary, his transport, his media commitments and his insecurities.
It was Joanna who compiled all the recipes for Cliff’s books, painstakingly weighing and measuring all the ingredients that Cliff threw together by instinct and noting them down. He’d never followed a recipe in his life, but he knew what flavors worked together.
In the early days it had been fun. Exciting even. But that had gradually changed. The more the public expected of him, the more pressure he’d felt and the more his insecurities grew. He became a victim of his own creation.
Why did you crash, Cliff? Were you showing off?
She headed downstairs and found Nessa in the kitchen acquainting herself with the coffee machine.
She handed Joanna a cup. “So is the business going to go down, boss? Because there are rumors.”
“The business is fine.” For now. She’d talked briefly to Michael, their CEO, who was in charge of operations. He’d assured her that despite having lost their figurehead, there was no reason why the business would suffer in the short term. “Bookings are up in all the restaurants, the latest book is done and with the publisher—” She didn’t want to think about this now. For once in her life, she wanted to think about herself and not Cliff.
Was she wrong to have stayed with the business? Should she have extracted herself completely when she divorced him? Maybe, but at the time she was throwing out most of her life, and adding the job to it had seemed too huge. Cliff had begged her not to divorce him, and then begged her not to leave the business. He’d been afraid that without her as his right-hand woman the whole thing would fall apart and he’d be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She’d agreed to continue working with him, which was why she still had to think of the business.
Why did you crash, Cliff? Who was that woman?
“The press are still out there. I made you breakfast. Hope that’s okay.” Nessa tipped scrambled eggs onto toast and put the plate in front of Joanna, who looked at it without enthusiasm.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Try a mouthful. I’m a good cook. Not Cliff good, obviously, but good enough. My mother taught me.”
Joanna felt a pang. Maybe if she’d had a mother to teach her, she wouldn’t be such a disaster in the kitchen.
She picked up the fork, not because she liked the idea of food, but because she liked Nessa. “Maybe you should offer those photographers a drink or a sandwich.”
“You’re kidding.”
Joanna sliced off a small piece of toast. “They’re just doing their job.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t have to help them by keeping them fed and watered. Haven’t you ever seen those signs at the zoo? Don’t feed the animals? Same thing applies here.” Nessa looked pointedly at her. “You’re not eating. My mom always says you can’t handle a crisis on an empty stomach.”
To appease her, Joanna ate a mouthful. “Tastes good. And you’re right that you probably shouldn’t take them food. I don’t want to encourage them.” She was tired of trying to evade them. Tired of not being able to leave her house without having a camera thrust in her face. The fact that she and Cliff were no longer married didn’t seem to worry them. In their eyes no one knew Cliff better than she did, and they were determined to go to any lengths to uncover the truth.
Did she know the identity of the young woman?
Did she think he’d been drinking the night of the accident?
She stuck to her usual approach and said nothing. She and Michael had sent a statement to all their employees, reassuring them. They’d focused on the business, not the personal.
But it was the personal that interested the media.
“I’ve been through your inbox.” Nessa put a cup of coffee in front of her. “Mostly it’s all the usual stuff. Nothing urgent. And the producer of Cliff Cooks called. They’ve put the filming on hold, obviously. She wants to talk to you.”
“Why? I can’t do anything about the fact they’ve lost their star presenter.” One of Cliff’s affairs when they were still married had been with Cally Martin, the producer. Joanna pushed the plate away, her appetite gone. “I’ll call her.” But not yet. When she was ready. Cally, presumably, was in a panic knowing that her golden goose had flown over a cliff.
Why did you crash, Cliff? Were you distracted? What were you doing with that girl?
“You need to eat more. If you lose weight, it will give them something to write about.” Nessa pushed the plate back toward her. “Do you know what you need? A spa day or something. You need to get away. You need to relax.”
“Leaving this house means looking over my shoulder the whole time. It’s not relaxing.” Technically she wasn’t trapped, but it felt that way. She was trapped by the choices she’d made. “Maybe I should climb over the wall, as you did, and disappear.”
“Not the worst idea in the world, apart from the spiders.” Nessa buttered toast for herself. “I feel self-conscious making you food when you’re probably used to creating restaurant-worthy dishes.”
“I’m not. I’m a terrible cook.” She used Cliff’s own words, because she knew they were true. You’re a terrible cook, Joanna.
Nessa stared at her, toast halfway to her mouth. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because Cliff must have taught you.”
It showed how little Nessa had known about Cliff. Even if Joanna had shown talent, he wouldn’t have wanted her to be a good cook. He needed to be the best. The most popular. He didn’t want competition. He couldn’t handle it.
“Cliff cooked when we were together, and after the divorce I either ordered in or ate something simple.” Fruit and cheese. Salads that required washing and not much else. “I’m good at opening containers.”
She could have told Nessa that elaborate food reminded her of Cliff, so her favorite dishes were all things he would never have touched. Mac and cheese that she bought from the deli and reheated. Cold cuts and raw vegetables.
Simple food became an act of rebellion, a way of distancing herself from her past life.
She hadn’t only divorced Cliff, she’d divorced that side of her life that ate lobster ravioli.
“Maybe you should stay with a friend for a while.” Nessa stabbed at some crumbs with her fingertip. “I mean, just until things calm down.”
Friends?
Since the news had broken, two “friends” had messaged her to cancel arrangements for lunch the following week.
She’d had a wide circle of acquaintances when she was married to Cliff. People she’d meet socially, people she ate lunch with, and drank wine with and shopped with, but she’d mostly distanced herself when she’d ended her marriage. Were they really friends? A friend should be someone who cared about you, who you trusted, and she didn’t have anyone in her life who fitted that description.
She felt an urge to test her theory.
Picking up her phone, she scrolled through her contacts and called Heather, who was probably the person she saw most frequently. Heather ran the communications company that Cliff had used on occasion for various campaigns, which was how they’d met. Cliff had put a lot of business her way. Since then she and Heather had played tennis regularly. Three times a week, slamming a ball across a net. Three times a week of forehands, backhands and polite conversation. Three times a week of wondering if this was really how she wanted to spend her time.
Heather answered immediately. “Joanna! I’ve been so worried about you. If there’s anything you need... I’ve been meaning to call.”
But she hadn’t called.
“Hi, Heather—”
“I was sorry to hear about Cliff.” The woman’s voice tailed off, as if she wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be sorry or not. “What exactly happened, do you know?”
Was she supposed to be clairvoyant? “I have no idea.”
“Who is that young woman? They say she’s alive, so surely she must have spoken to someone by now? Was it a one-night thing do you think? One wonders if she was—” Heather lowered her voice. “Do you think he paid her?”
“I know nothing about her, or her relationship with Cliff. We’re divorced, Heather.” Why did she need to remind people of that fact?
“But you were married to him for two decades—I mean, you deserve a medal frankly—and you knew him better than anyone. It must be hard on you.”
“The hardest part right now is that the press has surrounded my house and don’t seem in a hurry to leave.” And friends who asked the same questions as journalists. Friends who talked to journalists.
A source close to Joanna said...
“Is that so surprising? This is juicy,” Heather said, “and it’s a little light relief from all the bad news out there. People would rather read about Cliff’s colorful sex life than read serious stuff. Not me, of course,” she added hastily. “I barely read any of that.”
Joanna was sure she salivated over every word. “I can’t leave my house without them following me.”
“Oh, poor you. I wish I could help.” They were empty words, delivered as a platitude.
Joanna knew that, but decided to test her theory, anyway.
“You could help.” She stared at the remains of her egg, congealing on her plate. “Could I stay with you for a few days?”
There was a pause. “Stay? You mean overnight? With us?”
“If the media know I’m not here, they might lose interest and move on to something else.”
“Or they might follow you here. I’m sorry, Joanna, but Bryan has a lot of things going on at work and cannot afford to have a whiff of scandal at the moment. Plus Jilly is home from college, so we don’t have much room.”
Seven bedrooms, Joanna thought. Heather had seven bedrooms. How much room did they need?
“I understand.” She understood that it was nothing to do with room, and everything to do with the baggage Joanna brought with her. She could pull together enough people for a charity ball if she needed to, but she didn’t have anyone who loved her enough to care about her welfare.
She felt a heaviness in her chest. The outcome of the call wasn’t a surprise, so why did she feel so disappointed?
“Goodbye, Heather.” She ended the call and Nessa pulled a face.
“I’m guessing that was a no.”
“No one wants a guest who comes with their own press pack.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t want to stay with her, anyway. You need to get out of the city. Go somewhere remote.” Nessa finished her breakfast. “Maybe you should book a hotel.”
The idea held no appeal. She’d been alone for years, both within her marriage and outside it, but she’d never felt more alone than she did at that moment. And vulnerable. Unfamiliar surroundings where she couldn’t properly protect herself wouldn’t help that.
“Have you checked the news sites today? What are they saying?”
“Nothing.”
“I know that isn’t true.”
Nessa sighed. “Nothing you want to know about. Nothing new. Nothing you haven’t seen before, I’m sure.”
“Pass me my laptop.”
“I need it. I’m working.”
“Nessa—”
“If I say no will you fire me?” Nessa hesitated and then pushed it across the kitchen island to Joanna. “You honestly shouldn’t look.”
She looked, and saw that Nessa was right. Because they didn’t have anything new to say, they’d dredged up the old stories of Cliff’s transgressions over the years. To add visual impact they’d published an old photo of Joanna, taken in about the fifth year of their marriage.
She remembered that night clearly. They’d had a terrible fight an hour before they were due to leave the house. She’d refused to attend the event, afraid she’d be unable to stand on that carpet and smile and not reveal all their dirty secrets to the public. But Cliff had insisted. He’d persuaded her that not to go would attract even more attention. He’d told her that he loved her, that the whole thing was a mistake, that everything was going to be different moving forward. And what people didn’t understand was how convincing Cliff could be, to the point that she actually believed that this time would be different. You fool, Joanna.
The other thing that people didn’t understand was that he was a showman. A performer. Anyone looking at him or talking to him would assume he was a man in control of his life, and at the very top of his game. She was the only one who knew the real Cliff. She was the only one who saw the insecurity, the desperate need for validation and reassurance, the fear.
The first time Cliff’s affairs had been made public, she’d locked herself in the bathroom of the huge house they shared together. She’d sat on the floor for hours at a time, afraid to leave her home, trapped by the enormity of her humiliation. The thought that everyone was talking about her was paralyzing. They were unpicking every small detail of her looks and personality in their attempts to justify why Cliff might stray. The fault wasn’t his, apparently, it was hers. She’d even started to wonder if they were right. She’d felt like a failure.
Unlovable.
When she looked back at photographs from that time, she barely recognized herself. She looked gaunt and thin, her face so pale she could have successfully auditioned for a vampire movie and not needed makeup.
She closed the laptop. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have looked.”
How long would this continue? How many times would she have to say “no comment”?
Presumably until the woman who had been with Cliff in the car was discharged from the hospital and could answer some questions.
“Er, Joanna...” Nessa pointed a remote at the TV. “They’re filming from the hospital. Maybe there’s some real news for a change.”
