CHAPTER TEN HARRIET STRATTON

CHAPTER TEN

H ARRIET S TRATTON

A UGUST 2002

The two sisters sat at either end of the wide, comfy sofa in the sitting room in Corner Cottage with their legs curled beneath them, their bodies twisted to face each other. It was always this way – no matter how much time spent apart, within minutes they reverted to their teenage selves, utterly at ease and taking comfort from the mere presence of the other. Harriet took in her sister's soft denim frock with its embroidered collar and skirt, and noted her mismatched socks, her style so very different from her own, which was conservative at best, practical and frumpy at worst.

An image of Wendy Peterson in her sparkly blue top on New Year's Eve flashed in her mind. She'd thought the item gaudy, inappropriate for an early open-house drinks party with the neighbours and far more apt for a night club. Had she said as much to Hugo? Was this bitchy observation part of their post-event analysis while they cleaned their teeth or threw the spare pillows off the bed, readying for sleep? Had she inadvertently expressed her distaste while all the while that sparkly blue top was exactly what he desired – or more accurately, what lurked within it? The familiar creep of cold rejection flooded her veins.

‘I love you, Hats.' Her sister toyed with the handle of her dotty mug, filled with Earl Grey.

‘And I love you.' It made her smile to hear the loving nickname.

‘It's a bloody awful business all of this.' Ellis kept her voice low, like her, aware that the kids might be within earshot and equally aware that this was Hugo's house too. ‘How I feel about Hugo has changed, certainly for now and maybe forever.' Ellis paused, letting this settle. ‘Only time will tell. I mean, I still love him; I can't just switch it off. He's my brother-in-law, Maisie's uncle. I've known him since my teens and he's been a big part of my life too, and I guess my anger is that I feel a little duped. I'm also mad because Mum was so fond of him and I can only imagine how she'd feel about all this.'

Harriet had thought similar; he was always good to their mother and she had adored him in return.

‘But I'm so goddam mad at him!' She spoke quietly through gritted teeth. ‘Mad because he's let us all down, done the unthinkable, but maddest of all because he has hurt you and you deserve only the best. I feel na?ve in that I thought you guys were on the invincible list. I'm shocked! You two were like the gold standard! What we all aspire to – that chummy lover, best friend, comedy partner vibe that to the outside world made it seem like you were golden.'

Ellis's words struck a chord, in that she knew this was how they had been perceived and also that there'd been no artifice in their actions; it was just how they were, how they lived: happily and in harmony. Or so she had believed.

‘I don't think golden exists, not any more,' she admitted.

‘Maybe you're right.' Her sister tapped her large silver ring against the china mug. ‘I've been through a whole range of emotions in the last couple of weeks, including considering emigrating and taking Dilly and Bear with me so I never have to give them back. I adore them. They've been hilarious, and so sweet! I'd forgotten this lovely stage before they get to grumpy teenager and communicate in grunts. Bear actually wanted to watch TV with me and Dills let me brush her hair!'

She knew her sister was painting a picture, easing her guilt, letting her know that the kids were fine.

‘Thank you, Ellis.'

‘Any time. I mean it. I'm always on the end of a phone for whatever you or the kids might need.' Harriet noted the absence of Hugo on the list. ‘I can pick you up from anywhere, come to where you need me. I have fold-out couches, a larder full of pasta, a deep tub, bubble bath and enough wine to see us through to the early hours. You only have to call me. Any time, day or night. And you can stay for as long as you need. Forever! I mean it.'

‘I'll be fine.' She conjured a small smile; her sister's words were well meant, but they spoke of failure, hinting that this emotional rescue service was there for when she needed it, not if. ‘We'll be fine.'

Ellis leaned forward and took her hand, letting their palms fall entwined on to a cushion.

‘You're smart, Hats, the smartest and the kindest, and you're beautiful. I need you to know that you never have to put up with a situation that is anything less than you deserve. Never.'

‘Do you think ...' She chose her words carefully, wanting to hear her sister's predictions and yet dreading them in equal measure. ‘Do you think we can fix things?'

Harriet noted how Ellis took her time responding, her gaze fixed on the bright mug. Her hesitation spoke volumes and her heart sank accordingly. ‘It's hard, and I try to walk in your shoes. I do. Nothing has been done to me, I'm only an observer. I've not been injured by Hugo in the way you've been and yet I feel a murderous rage on your behalf. I wake in the early hours shaking, thinking of all the things I want to say to him and to her. How dare he?' She took a beat. ‘So I can only begin to imagine how you're feeling.'

‘Not rage, not how you describe it. I mean, I do imagine confrontation in my wilder moments, but if I saw her again, I'd probably choose to ignore her. She knows so much more about me than I do about her; the fact that she had a secret, came into my home, touched my things. How does a woman do that to another woman?' She double blinked away the images that formed. ‘That knowledge kind of puts me on the back foot. I'd be wary that she might give me more information than my brain can cope with, paint new pictures to taunt me in the night. Yes, I'd ignore her, I would. I'd walk away. Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as I have been over the last few weeks.'

‘You look ...' Her sister seemed to be studying her face, and she felt her cheeks flame under the scrutiny. ‘You look so sad.' Ellis rubbed the back of her hand with her thumb.

‘I am very sad. Sad and disappointed. Even a little embarrassed.'

‘You have no reason to be embarrassed, none at all. You've been quite remarkable throughout the whole thing, but that's not a surprise – you are remarkable.'

‘I'm really glad you're here.' She tucked her sister's compliment in a pocket beneath her heart.

‘Me too.'

‘I've felt quite lonely. It's isolating – not being on an even keel with Hugo means things feel out of whack, and not knowing anyone here who I can go for a coffee with or offload to doesn't help. Mind you' – she took a slug of tea – ‘it's not as if I'd have people to chat to back in Ledwick Green. Not now.'

‘What're you talking about, you know loads of people there!'

Ellis, it seemed, had not fully completed the complex mental jigsaw of just what Hugo's infidelity meant.

‘Yes, but by my reckoning, a third of those will take Wendy Peterson's side: "How dare Hugo mess around with a young divorcee, have his wicked way and then bugger off to North Devon, what a horrible man!" I can hear them saying it over a cup of tea. A third will absolutely love the scandal, letting the juicy details liven up their dreadfully boring lives, making me the centre of that gossip and revelling in the chat about how, where and why it all happened. Raking over my life rather than the dead leaves that gather on their veranda. And the other third will pull up the drawbridge, shield their kids from the unsavoury goings-on at our end of the village, and their view of me will be forever shaded by the event. In fact, not just their view of me, but of us – the kids too – and likely they'll never speak of it or to me again.' She took a slow breath. ‘That's the thing about being golden, people want to be close to it, hoping some of it might rub off on them. The stink of an affair is just the same in reverse – people don't want to be close to it in case the stink rubs off on them.'

‘Jeez!'

‘Yep, Jeez indeed. Welcome to village life!' She raised her mug in a toast.

‘Could it be you're better off out of it?' Her sister spoke softly. ‘I mean, not the marriage, and it goes without saying that I hate how you've got here, but those people who were your friends, your neighbours, they actually sound like arseholes.'

‘Some, yes.' She smiled at her sister's astute summary. ‘But there were some I was fond of and some things I will always miss. The house my babies grew up in for starters, the lovely garden I planted.' She pictured her and Hugo dancing in the kitchen, wine in their veins, laughter on their lips, love on their minds. ‘Lots of things.'

‘Of course. It's doubly hard because everything happened on your doorstep.'

‘Worse than that, it happened inside our doorstep, in our home, in our bedroom, on sheets I laundered.' Harriet pinched the top of her nose.

‘God, Hats, I could swing for him right now.'

‘That wouldn't solve anything.' She couldn't deny it felt good to have this unconditional support.

‘No, but it might make me feel better, even if only briefly.' Ellis released her hand and balled her fingers into a fist. It made Harriet laugh awkwardly.

‘It's not just in the village. I haven't even begun to think about the repercussions at school. Wendy's son is in Dilly's class.'

She remembered the day after she'd found out about the affair, seeing Wendy's child walk across the playground with his heavy bag across his shoulder, his little tongue out, as if it was an effort to walk, and she imagined him calling Hugo ‘Dad' and found herself rooted to the spot, unable to breathe or take a step forward or turn around; paralysed with something very close to fear. Another reason to move away, abandon ship, start over.

‘Shit! I didn't know.' Ellis drew her from the memory.

‘Yep, then there's soccer club, where we are, or were, a tight-knit group of parents. Church where we sat on several of the same committees. Oh God, Ellis! It goes on and on!'

It felt suffocating, like a weight on her chest, as she laid the facts bare.

Her sister drew breath. ‘I guess in answer to your question, I think if anyone can fix things it's you guys. You've always been such great friends, you both adore the kids, you had a good life in Ledwick Green before it all went tits-up, so you have strong foundations. They've been shaken, yes, but I do believe you can have a good life here.'

‘Yes, we did have a good life, but that wasn't enough to prevent him sleeping with Mrs Peterson.' She pointed out the obvious with the familiar twist of horror in her chest.

‘I suppose the question is ...' Ellis took her time. ‘... what do you want to happen, Hats? How do you see it panning out?'

‘I guess ... I guess time will help us get back to normality. We're like strangers sometimes – a lot of the time. A bit awkward, timid, overly aware, and it crucifies me! It's Hugo! My Hugo! And yet I wrap my body in a robe before I leave the bathroom. He used to pop in and pee in the loo while I was in the bath, now he knocks tentatively and asks if I'm going to be long ... it's cold, different. Unfamiliar.'

‘That's awful.'

‘It is. It's lonely.' It was the best thing about talking to her sister, she didn't offer platitudes or pithy rationale, but instead validated her feelings, helped her believe she wasn't going crazy. ‘I'm even too polite to ask if he had any dreams in case that's a grey area. It's like when you meet a stranger and cherry-pick topics to avoid differences or awkwardness.'

‘God, it sounds exhausting.'

‘It is. I'm very tired. We don't talk about the old house, not ever. Not the move, the furniture we left behind, the kids' old school – all topics we would and should be nattering about. It's like an old horror movie where there's a monster on the path behind us so we don't look over our shoulders, don't turn around, we just keep looking forward and smiling as if it'll disappear or we reach safety and slam the door so it can't come in – whichever happens first. It feels like we avoid any topic that might take us down that road to where things went wrong: the night he gave her a lift back from the Christmas concert and that, apparently, was that.'

An image of them kissing like teens in his Audi sent a swirl of nausea around her stomach.

‘The joke is, I was the one who asked him if he'd mind dropping her off, as I was staying back to stack chairs and sweep the hall to help get the place ready for the drop-in lunch for the homeless the next day.'

‘What is it they say, no good deed goes unpunished?' Ellis sniffed.

‘I can't stand it! Yes, it's exactly like I've been punished! It's pretty here and the house is great, but I've given up everything. I loved my job, there was talk of promotion, the lab was familiar, I liked the team.' She wiped her face. ‘What a price I've paid!'

‘You have, my love.'

‘And the kids.' Her tears rolled as she thought of them starting over. ‘They were settled, happy, and now ...'

‘Aunty Ellis, do you want to come crabbing? Dad's taking us down to the harbour,' Dilly shouted as she clattered down the stairs, interrupting their chat as she raced into the sitting room.

‘Well, I'd absolutely love to!' Ellis leapt up, clearly distracting her niece, heading her off at the pass to give Harriet a minute, but also, as Ellis paused to squeeze her arm, Harriet knew it was a ruse to give her space, let her get her thoughts together, compose herself.

‘We will probably get chips, Hats, so don't bother cooking supper!'

‘Yes!' Bear shouted in response to this suggestion of a treat.

Hugo grabbed his sage-green Sch?ffel from the back of a chair and winked at her.

‘Up for a spot of crabbing, Ellis?' He clapped his hands loudly. Harriet saw him wither under her sister's stare as she walked past him in the doorway. Her loyalty was heart-warming; her sister, her champion ...

Harriet raised her hand in goodbye and waited until the noise of the foursome carried along the street, heading towards the harbour, and she found herself alone.

A rare moment of peace ... I've realised that I miss my commute, the time for quiet contemplation that book-ended my working day, I miss the solitude that helped me gather my thoughts. Although I think I'd need a bit more than half an hour on the A4130 to figure my life out right now.

Everything still feels a little chaotic, to put it mildly.

It's so great having Ellis here. She's wise and a good listener. She asked me today what I want and it's made me think: what do I want?

Harriet took a moment, tapping her pen on her teeth while she let her thoughts form.

I guess what I want is to go back to golden. I have a lump in my throat, not only at this truth, but also in recognition that we had it all! And this in turn reignites my distress. Urgh, it's a horrible helter-skelter that I ride day and night. I just want to get off! I want to feel the solid ground beneath my feet. I don't know if it's even possible. I've never thought we'd recover entirely, not really. And I think that's okay. All we need is to recover enough.

Enough so that we can live together and create the haven I believe is necessary for us all to flourish. It sounds dull, pathetic even, aiming for no more than ‘enough', but having lived through recent times when my heart has been pulled out of my throat, my reserves are depleted, my very bones fragile, so I can say with certainty that to attain ‘enough' would feel wonderful. I've given up on the dream that nothing less than forever would do – I gave up on that the moment he stood in front of me and confessed.

I've been going outside more. I was trying to get match fit before the kids came home, joining Hugo for his strolls around the harbour and now, when the mood takes me, I sit on the high front doorstep in the sunshine with a cup of coffee. I like to watch the world go by. I study other couples, surreptitiously of course. I stare at them through my sunglasses, either as we walk or I sit. I listen to the snippets of their conversations and it makes me smile to hear the gentle teasing, the idle chit-chat about supper plans, visiting friends, facts about their families, illness, worries, the weather. These fragments of other people's lives help remind me that when a relationship works, it really is all about the small stuff: a good lunch, holding hands, lifts to the pub, the details of a shared life that bind you. Maybe golden was always too hard to maintain, maybe a small, adequate love will work.

God I hope so.

There's one couple in particular who have caught my attention.

I don't know their names, but I see them nearly every day. It seems they are outside more than they're in. Always together, engrossed in one another, come rain or shine, as if the whole world exists just for them and whatever is going on around them is merely the backdrop to their love affair. I feel drawn to them, admiring of their apparent devotion and envious of it too. He has thick curly hair, a stocky man, kind eyes, handsome, and she's petite, dark hair too, but straighter. She has big brown eyes and seems coy, smiling gently, as if her happiness is a precious thing, a secret that she carries close to her chest. They fascinate me. Forever arm in arm or hand in hand. If they slow or stop, she places her head on his shoulder. As if only this level of contact will do. They are like one person, split down the middle.

Golden . . .

My heart lifts when I spy them. I eavesdrop as we pass them on the quayside, or they pass us, or we walk slightly in front of or behind them. There are lots of us walking a familiar route along the harbour, back up past the fish and chip shop, around Capstone Hill and then doubling back to the seafront, up Mill Head and back to Fore Street. It's a pleasant walk with enough places to stop and take in the setting sun or to admire the crash of foaming waves on the rocks or to do a double-take of the dark shapes that draw your eye out to sea. Shapes and activity that suggest dolphins and whales so we screw our eyes tight to see better.

This golden couple, they wave subtly, nod and smile in the way you do when faces become familiar but are not fully acquainted, and I notice that they always keep walking, even when we are still, as if, while happy to see us, they have no intention of engaging, of diluting their perfect walk, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, like they have everything they need.

They laugh a lot, like teens, unabashed and doubled over.

Hugo was with me a couple of nights ago, sitting on the step at the front of Corner Cottage, taking in the night air, when they walked past, almost oblivious of our presence until I called hello, and only because it felt rude not to. They almost jumped, jarred from the bubble they'd created.

‘Hi!' The woman smiled and nodded; her handsome man lifted his eyebrows in greeting.

Hugo and I watched them walk past and away down Fore Street and when they disappeared from view, he reached out and held my hand. It was almost visceral, instinctive and I let my hand rest inside his. It felt like a breakthrough, an action once so automatic, so commonplace that I didn't used to notice it, or at least gave it no credence, but in the absence of so much of our closeness, it really felt like something.

I was reminded of the early days in our relationship when such a gesture could floor me with desire, could scramble my thoughts and fill me with a longing to sit like that forever, hand in hand while we planned our future, painted a picture of the life we wanted to lead, a life lived together: two children, nice house, safe jobs, all bound with unwavering love.

He leaned close to me and whispered in my ear, ‘I'm so sorry, H. I am so, so sorry.'

There was something in his tone, his manner and his thwarted expression that moved me greatly. This wasn't the first apology he'd made, far from it, but it felt different, sincere. They weren't just words, but instead suggested that he'd reached a point where he was ready to put it all behind us and move on, weary of the silent analysis, the personal dissection, the knife edge on which we teeter.

I think he's right; the constant quiet stoking of the embers does neither of us any good. We came inside and we had sex. An act that's been bubbling in the background like lava, too hot to touch, to consider – something to be feared. I'd imagined what it might be like, resuming our physical connection, as we did our best night after night not to stray from our sides of the bed, as if a river itself ran down the middle and to fall in would mean we drowned. My head full of all the hideous comparisons of his love affair, the physical union between him and someone who was not me, which still, despite admission and proof to the contrary, almost feels unbelievable.

Like many things in life that take on far greater significance in the pondering than the doing, it wasn't the big deal I had imagined. The fact it's been so long and I feel the need to write it down, sums up what a milestone it was. But the sex was quick, flat and average. But it's a start, right? I chose not to tell Ellis about this in case it gave the impression that we are healed and we are not. We really aren't.

In the immediate aftermath and ever since I've noticed a difference in Hugo.

It's as if he's had a mental checklist:

End things with Mrs Peterson

Confess all to Harriet

Pack up our home

Organise to rent it out

Find a new home

Move to the seaside

Apologise

Get the kids settled

Have sex

Carry on as if nothing ever happened ...

And as we rattle through his list, his confidence that we are going to be okay, that he is forgiven, grows.

I know it has to be that way, but it bothers me. There has to be movement, of course, momentum to make change, and yes forgiveness, otherwise we are truly stuck. Stuck in this perpetual middle ground, this no-man's land of reflection and pretence and walking on eggshells, and with a boulder in my gut made of all that I swallow to keep the peace.

So what bothers me? It's the simple fact that he's got away with it. Because it isn't fair.

I'm aware this makes me sound like some bitter crazy who wants an eye for an eye. I'm not, but how does it happen like that? How can it be that he takes a sledgehammer to our life, my happiness, the security my children have enjoyed and have a right to? Then abracadabra! A quick change of postcode, a bottle or two of plonk, some timely tears and voilà! We are repackaged and sailing on.

I don't want him to suffer, of course not. That would make me a monster. I know that peaceful resolution, friendship, love and communication are the best things with which to line the walls of our home, but what if I can't? What if I am truly stuck and I start to resent the path he has put us on? What if I cannot let go of the hurt, the duplicitous nature of his affair? What then? I have just this one life – my mother used to remind me that this was not a rehearsal – and so I guess Ellis is right: the question is, how do I see it panning out?

‘Mum?'

At the sound of her son's voice at the front door, as ever left on the latch, she slammed the book shut and popped it on the end table with her pen on it, as if the mighty pen was as good as any lock and key.

‘In here, Bear!'

Her son darted and jumped on the spot as excitement spilled from him. He was an open book, this boy of hers, and she loved him for it. ‘Have you swallowed jumping beans?'

‘Mum, erm, is it okay if we go to the island, the one out on the horizon?'

‘Lundy?' She'd spied it offshore on a clear day and read about it in every bit of tourist literature relating to the area.

‘Yes, Lundy! Dad says there's a boat, like a ferry, and it leaves in half an hour. People are already queuing, but he said I had to come and check with you first!'

‘Yes, of course, that sounds like fun!'

‘An actual island, Mum! You can only get there by boat! It's small and not that far. We're going to take pasties and erm, erm, we're going to walk to the end of the island and have our pasties, then go exploring and then come home!'

‘Wow!' Bear worshipped his dad and she wasn't proud of the flicker of envy that sparked in her chest. ‘That sounds like an amazing adventure! Have you checked for rain?' The sky looked a little overcast.

‘Dad said there's no such thing as bad weather when you're exploring.'

‘I see, right.' She thought Amundsen, Scott and Shackleton might disagree. ‘Are Aunty Ellis and Dilly going with you?'

‘No, Dilly said it sounds boring. She wants to come home and read her book and Aunty Ellis said she might get seasick and she needs gin, so she's staying.'

‘Of course she is.' Her heart flexed with love for her sister and for her little bookworm. ‘Well, you guys have a great time, can't wait to hear all about it!'

‘Can I take some crisps too?'

‘Of course! The perfect picnic; it's a rule in Ilfracombe, you know, that you can't have a pasty without a packet of crisps too.'

‘I love you, Mum.'

The way he looked at her before dashing from the room brought her to tears. Her sweet boy, unaware of what they as a family had lost, unaware of what they as a family might still lose.

‘Oh,' Bear shouted from the kitchen, ‘Dad says we need our waterproof jackets.'

‘They're on the coat pegs.'

‘We're going on an adventure! Lundy Island!' Bear continued to jump around as he stashed bags of crisps in his pockets and grabbed their coats.

‘Have the best time!' She beamed. His reply was the slam of the front door.

Why did it bother her that Captain Marvellous had got away scot-free? What did she want? Punishment? That the kids would side with her? Kind of! Not that she'd ever say it and not that she wanted to think it!

And did she really? How would making Hugo suffer help her anyway? A miserable husband would only add to her own misery. No, he was right: they had to keep things neat, upbeat and with forgiveness at the core, for all their sakes. But still, it rankled a little.

He had won. Had he won? I mean, yes, they'd moved away from Ledwick Green, but had he paid his dues? And what kind of person did that make her if she wanted some kind of levelling up, some kind of debt to be paid?

A human one. The answer came to her now.

A human with a heart that was figuring out how to untangle itself from the barbed wire in which it now found itself snared ...

A human whose emotions and wants were steeped in confusion.