list of their weekend commitments—’
‘You’re serious.’
‘Never more so.’
‘Where do I go?’
‘I don’t know. But I suggest somewhere without a mini-bar, or a compliant friend.’
Fiona felt herself crumpling. She flicked a glance at the fridge.
Tim looked at her, a sardonic grin twisting his mouth.
‘Glass of dry white wine, dear?’
Suddenly she felt angry. It was all very well him being so judgemental after the event, but if he’d realised she had such a problem, why hadn’t he done anything about it?
She drew herself up, mustering as much dignity as she could.
‘OK. If that’s the way you want it. I’ll go down to Everdene for a few days. See if I can . . . work it all out.’
‘Please do, Fiona. Because quite frankly, I can’t see a way forward the way things are.’
Tim and his brothers shared the hut at Everdene between them. They’d bought it ten years ago, in an attempt to recreate for their own children the idyllic summers they had spent on the beach. Only it had become a source of friction, none of them being able to agree on when they should be allowed to use it, or how much money should be spent on maintaining it. Fiona knew it had lain empty and unloved all winter, but they would all be fighting come the warm weather and the school holidays. In the meantime, it was hers for the taking. The ideal refuge for a woman who needed to take stock of her life.
She caught the train down to Everdene the next morning. Tim took the children to school, leaving her to take a taxi to the station having flung a few things into a suitcase. He showed no sign of backtracking on what he had said the night before. If anything he was more thin-lipped and ungiving. She’d hugged the kids, told them she had to go away for a short while, and they had been heartbreakingly understanding, if a little puzzled. Fiona never went away from home.
Nor could she remember the last time she’d been on any sort of public transport. She sat on the train watching people file past her on their way to the buffet car, coming back with paper bags that belched out the scent of toasted bacon buns. They would sell wine in the buffet. Of course they would. Unbelievably, it had been nearly twenty-four hours since her last drink. She looked around her, at the teenage girl frantically texting with a half-smile on her lips, the businesswoman pecking at her laptop, the man on the phone to his hapless estate agent, giving him a rollicking and not caring who heard. None of them was gasping for a drink.
She couldn’t fall at the first fence. She had to at least arrive at her destination sober. She could do this, of course she could. She sat and flicked through the magazine she had bought at the station, and found herself pleasantly distracted by the articles and the fashion, picking out dresses and shoes for herself.
An hour and a half later, she struggled off the train and out onto the station forecourt and into a taxi.
‘Everdene Beach, please.’
She thought about asking the driver to stop at Marks and Spencer. She needed food, after all, a few nice nibbles to keep body and soul together over the next few days. But deep down, she knew if she went into M&S she would head straight for the wine section, pop herself in a couple of bottles. It was better to avoid temptation.
As the taxi rumbled over the cobbles of the station forecourt and pulled out onto the road that led to Everdene, she put her head back and shut her eyes wearily. She couldn’t run away from it for ever. She had to look into the black hole. It was the black hole she tried to keep filling, but that always came unplugged and emptied itself, leaving her with a gaping jagged rawness inside.
Her childhood home had been a silent, joyless place, its windows blind with closed curtains, low-watt bulbs throwing sinister shadows. Her mother didn’t like light. It triggered her headaches. So the three of them, Fiona and her mother and father, moved through
‘You’re serious.’
‘Never more so.’
‘Where do I go?’
‘I don’t know. But I suggest somewhere without a mini-bar, or a compliant friend.’
Fiona felt herself crumpling. She flicked a glance at the fridge.
Tim looked at her, a sardonic grin twisting his mouth.
‘Glass of dry white wine, dear?’
Suddenly she felt angry. It was all very well him being so judgemental after the event, but if he’d realised she had such a problem, why hadn’t he done anything about it?
She drew herself up, mustering as much dignity as she could.
‘OK. If that’s the way you want it. I’ll go down to Everdene for a few days. See if I can . . . work it all out.’
‘Please do, Fiona. Because quite frankly, I can’t see a way forward the way things are.’
Tim and his brothers shared the hut at Everdene between them. They’d bought it ten years ago, in an attempt to recreate for their own children the idyllic summers they had spent on the beach. Only it had become a source of friction, none of them being able to agree on when they should be allowed to use it, or how much money should be spent on maintaining it. Fiona knew it had lain empty and unloved all winter, but they would all be fighting come the warm weather and the school holidays. In the meantime, it was hers for the taking. The ideal refuge for a woman who needed to take stock of her life.
She caught the train down to Everdene the next morning. Tim took the children to school, leaving her to take a taxi to the station having flung a few things into a suitcase. He showed no sign of backtracking on what he had said the night before. If anything he was more thin-lipped and ungiving. She’d hugged the kids, told them she had to go away for a short while, and they had been heartbreakingly understanding, if a little puzzled. Fiona never went away from home.
Nor could she remember the last time she’d been on any sort of public transport. She sat on the train watching people file past her on their way to the buffet car, coming back with paper bags that belched out the scent of toasted bacon buns. They would sell wine in the buffet. Of course they would. Unbelievably, it had been nearly twenty-four hours since her last drink. She looked around her, at the teenage girl frantically texting with a half-smile on her lips, the businesswoman pecking at her laptop, the man on the phone to his hapless estate agent, giving him a rollicking and not caring who heard. None of them was gasping for a drink.
She couldn’t fall at the first fence. She had to at least arrive at her destination sober. She could do this, of course she could. She sat and flicked through the magazine she had bought at the station, and found herself pleasantly distracted by the articles and the fashion, picking out dresses and shoes for herself.
An hour and a half later, she struggled off the train and out onto the station forecourt and into a taxi.
‘Everdene Beach, please.’
She thought about asking the driver to stop at Marks and Spencer. She needed food, after all, a few nice nibbles to keep body and soul together over the next few days. But deep down, she knew if she went into M&S she would head straight for the wine section, pop herself in a couple of bottles. It was better to avoid temptation.
As the taxi rumbled over the cobbles of the station forecourt and pulled out onto the road that led to Everdene, she put her head back and shut her eyes wearily. She couldn’t run away from it for ever. She had to look into the black hole. It was the black hole she tried to keep filling, but that always came unplugged and emptied itself, leaving her with a gaping jagged rawness inside.
Her childhood home had been a silent, joyless place, its windows blind with closed curtains, low-watt bulbs throwing sinister shadows. Her mother didn’t like light. It triggered her headaches. So the three of them, Fiona and her mother and father, moved through
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