CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO HARRIET WENTWORTH

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

H ARRIET W ENTWORTH

S EPTEMBER 2024

As was her evening habit, Harriet watered the roses in the back garden, standing with the hose at a particular angle, and using her thumb over the end to get the right level of spray, she stared at the tiny, hypnotically beautiful rainbows that appeared in the mist. With a rare few days' holiday her time was more or less her own and she loved idling in her cottage garden.

Bear's visit a month ago had thrown her. Not that it wasn't wonderful to have his company, to hear about his life – it was – and she was of course more than thrilled that their closeness meant he could confide in her. It was more that she was worried about him, having rarely seen him so distraught nor so resolute. The thought of him getting hurt was more than she could stand. She was also disturbed by what had risen to the top of her thoughts as they raked over old sand. She rarely, if ever, thought about Ilfracombe and that life-changing summer. It was easier not to. That, and she was far too busy with life in the present day and all that her career at the research lab and being mum to the twins threw at her. And that was before she considered that in approximately six weeks, she would become a grandmother to a baby girl, who with any luck would be born in the image of her mumma, with fingers that grasped for a book the moment she was able. The idea alone was enough to make her smile.

There was a new thought that sat in her mind like a pebble in her shoe. The matter of Hugo, that terrible summer. She was conscious of the fact that it had been years since she'd had a meaningful conversation with Hugo, particularly about a topic that was like kryptonite to her. She was fearful still of it being raised. They had interacted little outside of the handing over of the kids and the odd chit-chat about due dates for his babies and how they were faring. Small talk. It felt easier to keep a little distance. But right now it bothered her; was it unfinished business or was it best to let sleeping dogs lie?

It had taken her a long time to recover from the way her marriage had ended. Not only the loss of him and the dismantling of their little family, the rewriting of the rules she had taken for granted, the fragmented nature of their living arrangements and the way her heart ached at every single goodbye. But also the damage to her faith in humanity, which ran deep, maybe deeper than she'd realised. It was when she finally began to heal that Charles had come into her life, quite by accident, when Ellis had dragged her along to a lecture on ‘The Art of Ancient Greece', given by none other than Dr Charles Wentworth, esteemed classicist. Dragged was an often misused exaggeration, but in this case entirely true, as she'd dug her heels into the pavement and pleaded with her sister that they do anything but this. The future lovers had met in the crowded lobby beforehand, only for Harriet to roll her eyes as he smiled at her. Yet she'd liked his worn tweed jacket and his heavy-framed glasses. A little different.

‘Can you think of anything more tedious than an evening with some old bore waffling on about statues and artifacts? I could be at home watching paint dry!' she'd laughed. ‘I'm Harriet by the way.'

‘Lovely to meet you, Harriet. I'm Charles, by the way, and I'm the waffling bore you're consigned to listen to, although there's a bit more to it than statues and artifacts.'

A sweet man who could not have been more different to Hugo – he made her feel safe. He was kind and open. But what if Hugo had not been the problem? What if ...?

‘Penny for them?' Her husband crept up beside her in the garden.

‘I was just thinking about you, actually, and the night we met.'

‘I don't like to think about it.' He looked quite serious.

‘Why not? What a terrible thing to say!' She made out to spray him and he jumped back accordingly.

‘It's not a terrible thing to say,' he countered. ‘I don't like it because I think about the many opportunities, the infinite possibilities that existed on that night for us not to meet, not to chat. Imagine if you hadn't been so very forward.' He laughed and she joined him. ‘And then if you hadn't hung back at the end because Ellis needed the bathroom? All those little acts that meant I found you. I hate to think of the fickle hand of fate, cruelly keeping you from me. I can't imagine not having you, not having the boys, not having this.' He let his arm rise and fall in an arc that indicated their whole world, their home, their haven.

‘Or maybe it wasn't fate,' she suggested. ‘Maybe it was written in the stars, preordained, meant to be and so it wouldn't have mattered if we chatted or not, we'd still be here, right now, we'd have just taken a different route.'

‘But you don't believe in all that nonsense!' He stared at her, his lovely face breaking into a smile.

‘No, but whatever it is, I thank my lucky stars for you.' She wrinkled her nose at her beloved.

‘And I for you, Mrs Wentworth. Do you think Bear is still desperately in love with the girl he met in Devon – Tawrie? Or do you think this last month away from there has given him perspective?' He voiced her own thoughts.

‘I don't know, he seemed pretty fixed on the idea of her. More than that, entirely dedicated to it. I'm glad he's taken some time out, though. Apparently Petra moved her mother in and Ramona visits a lot, so he feels a little ...'

‘Yes, I've been in the company of Ramona and Petra's mother, and I must admit I felt a little ... overwhelmed?' He fished for the right way to phrase it. ‘They can be a bit of a noisy twosome, like the boys when they gang up!'

‘But with much less rugby chat,' she quipped.

‘Yes, and then when you throw a wine-soaked Hugo into the mix.' He pulled a face.

Harriet couldn't disagree. When Hugo had moved Wendy Peterson into their old family home in Ledwick Green, it hadn't been as gut-wrenching as she might have anticipated. In the beginning, when news of his infidelity was raw, it would have been an axe to her will and motivation. By the time he'd rather sheepishly informed her of the development one night when she'd dropped Bear and Dilly back home for his half of the week and was about to return to the flat she'd rented only a stone's throw from Ledwick Green, eight months had passed, and everything had calmed. It still smarted, she'd be lying if she said otherwise, but gone was the visceral throb of rejection, the utter pain of deceit. Instead, she was more concerned with how the kids would cope seeing Wendy at the stove or Wendy on the sofa or Wendy in the bathroom. And how she'd cope when Wendy opened the front door when she came to collect the kids or dropped them off.

Thank you, doll, I feel gorgeous!

She shivered.

And pretty much like anything that's dreaded and takes an inflated position in the mind, in reality it had been a fairly innocuous transition. Wendy, in a matter of weeks, went from the woman who had taken a weapon to her life, to Hugo's girlfriend; the woman Harriet gave instruction to about how to reboot the pilot light on the boiler and let her in on the trick of kicking the dishwasher door to make it work when it gave up the ghost mid-cycle. The children also seemed to take it in their stride. Figuring they'd take their lead from her, she spoke only positively about the new set-up when they were within earshot and it did the trick. Then, just like that, Wendy was out and Sherry was in and her kids slid back to square one; another resettling with a new woman and a baby to boot.

‘I've been thinking about Hugo a bit.'

‘In what way?' His casual tone spoke volumes about how secure he was in this marriage.

‘Just ...' She took her time. ‘I don't know. Things I might want to say, to ask, things that have stayed with me.'

‘I guess only you know if these "things" need exploring, darling.' He used air quotes, to emphasise her vagueness. ‘If there's something that bothers you that you want to get off your chest then do it. Or maybe with so much time having passed and so much water under the bridge, it might be like picking at an old wound for no reason.'

‘Yep, that's the dilemma.' She liked how he always guided, never instructed, this patient man she so loved. ‘When's Bear back from Ellis's?' As ever, she'd lost track.

‘This evening. Apparently he and Maisie have been drinking wine till the early hours and dancing to nineties' club hits in the kitchen, while Maisie cries over lost loves. Ellis has had to remind them that she's way too old to be dealing with teenage angst at this time of her life, and so are they! I think she'll be glad to see the back of him! Do you want me to cook?' he offered casually.

‘Good Lord, no! Please, please don't do that! I can't stand the thought of having to redecorate.' She walked over and kissed his cheek. ‘Though we could get a takeaway? The boys would like the treat.'

‘Great idea.' He stood and cleared his throat in the way he did when he had something to say.

‘What is it love?' she prompted.

‘I suppose ...' He rocked on his heels. ‘I just get the feeling that since Bear has raised the topic of Ilfracombe, you seem a little bit ... preoccupied. And of course you're worried about him, we all are. But whatever else is filling up your head, I just wanted to say that I do understand, or at least I try to. I ... I've always been aware that it's a time and place in your life that you avoid, in every sense, and that's a shame. It's like ...' His mouth moved and his eyes roved the sky, as if finding the wording was tough.

‘It's like what?' she asked softly, dreading and welcoming his thoughts in equal measure.

‘It's like a boulder in the fast-flowing river of our lives, and it always has been. We climb over it, we swim around it, we avoid it as if to get close means we might dash to pieces upon it. I don't like it. I don't like having this thing between us. It's not necessary. I guess what I'm saying, or trying to, is that maybe it's time you revisited both the place and the time? You might find it freeing.' He reached out and stroked her face. ‘ We might find it freeing. Because no matter how deeply I love you, if there's even a thin coat of armour that you wear as a shield close to your skin, around your heart, no matter how tiny, almost invisible, it's still a barrier between us.'

‘I ...' To hear this from the man she loved was like a knife in her gut. ‘I don't ...'

‘You don't have to give me details, you don't have to explain ,' he stressed, ‘but you do have to have everything clear in your thoughts; you owe yourself that.'

‘I owe us that,' she whispered, barely trusting herself to get the words out. It had been a revelation, his awareness of the fear she had thought she held in secret; she felt exposed, afraid, and relieved all at once.

He nodded. She concentrated on her roses, a great prop to channel her emotion and help hold back the tears.

‘You're right on both counts.' He knew her inside out. ‘I do avoid the place, the topic. I was always happy to let the rental company deal with the holiday lets and whatnot, but never felt the need to go back. I fear it might be too painful. As you say, the opening of old wounds and all that.'

‘Also ...' He took a step towards her and smiled into her face, a lingering look of love that warmed her still after all these years. ‘I've always thought the way you coped, having your life torpedoed by things outside of your control, is remarkable. You are remarkable, but also ...'

‘Also what?' she asked with a nervous crack to her voice.

‘I suspect there are elements that you hide, hurt that you mask, fears you don't share, a brave face that you paint on that you don't have to.'

‘We all do that, don't we?'

‘To a degree, but I think you need to face it head on, face it all. I think maybe you should ...'

‘Should what?' She lowered the hose to hear better.

‘Should go back, lay some ghosts to rest. And maybe it would be good to take Bear. He needs closure one way or another when it comes to this girl. We don't know if he's fallen for her or whether she's an escape hatch that's taken him away from marrying Petra, which he clearly felt press-ganged into, either way.'

‘You are wise, Charles, wise and kind. I feel very lucky to have you.'

‘Quite right too. I'm what's known as a catch, Mrs Wentworth!' He did a clumsy twirl and she felt a rush of love for him.

‘Maybe I'll ask Bear.'

‘Maybe you'll ask Bear what?'

They both turned at the sound of her eldest coming out of the back door from the kitchen and into the garden.

‘Welcome home, son!' Charles boomed.

‘Thanks, Charles. Louis let me in then threw a rugby ball at my head.' He rubbed his scalp.

It was a relief to see he looked a little less pale, a little recovered.

‘He was probably trying to hit your chest; his aim's a little off.' Charles pulled a face. Their laughter only added to the convivial atmosphere as they stood in the sunny garden, where the unexpected warmth of the day gave way to a slight chill in this changeable month.

‘What are you thinking of asking me?' Her son clearly keen to know.

‘I was going to ask you if you fancy a trip.' She moved the hose along to water the other flower bed.

‘A trip where?' He stood with his hands on his hips, looking so much like his father it was striking. ‘I've only just arrived!'

‘A place that will allow you to take a moment, a place you can breathe, get your head straight away from the hustle and bustle of life, away from the gossip. A place where you might have left a piece of your heart.' A place where I might have too ...

‘Corner Cottage?' His mouth seemed a little dry, his words sticky.

‘Yes, Corner Cottage.' She tried to imagine stepping over the threshold for the first time in all these years and her heart beat a little too fast.

‘But you don't go down to Ilfracombe.' Her son pointed out the obvious.

‘No, I found the thought too painful, too many ghosts, but I think maybe Charles is right, it's time we laid them to rest. Plus I want to show you something.'

‘What do you want to show me?'

‘Ah, you'll have to wait and see.'

‘I want to go, Mum. It's taken all of my strength over the last few weeks not to jump in the car and go find Tawrie, but she was so angry, so hurt and I get why. I think she meant it when she told me to sod off.' The crease at the top of his nose and the inward curve to his eyebrows spoke of the distress he contained.

‘I think it'll be hard for you to settle until you've spoken to her. I also think it will be easier to talk to her now some time has passed and things are a bit more transparent, especially with Petra. I also know that in the heat of the moment, when people are backed into a corner, they say things they don't necessarily mean and only time allows it all to flatten out.'

‘Okay.' He took a deep breath and bit his lip.

She laid the hose on the ground and turned off the outside tap, before kissing her boy on the forehead. ‘It'll all be okay, Bear. It'll get better, easier. Your heart will heal. But I don't need to tell you that, do I, Edgar Stratton? You're a wonderful, strong man! You've got this. And any woman – Ms Tawrie Gunn or anyone else for that matter – will be very lucky to have you.'

‘Thanks, Mum.'

She noticed how just the mention of Tawrie was enough to bring a lump to his throat and she hoped and prayed that taking him back to Corner Cottage was the right thing to do for them both.

‘When should we go, do you think?'

She shared a lingering, knowing look with Charles.

‘How about tonight after supper? What is it they say? No time like the present? We could drive in the dark and chat on the way, make it part of our adventure.'

‘As long as I can shower before we leave and freshen up. Oh, and I get to choose the music. I think a few hours of non-stop ABBA might finish me off!' His smile, however, was faltering and she understood, aware as she was of the enormity of going back to face Tawrie.

‘I can't promise.' She winked, thinking about what she might need to pack for a couple of nights away and trying not to think about those first nights way back when the kids were little and she and Hugo had spent a week or so surrounded by boxes and chaos, under the misapprehension that once they had restored order in their new home, they would be able to do the same in their marriage. ‘But life's not that simple.' She had meant to think it, only aware she'd spoken out loud when both Charles and Bear looked from one another to her. ‘Right then, supper!' She spoke with gusto, keen to distract from her embarrassment. ‘Pizza or chippy?'

‘Chippy!'

‘Pizza!'

Charles and Bear spoke in unison and she was thankful for the laughter that followed. It was a reminder of all that was good in her life right now and a picture she would carry in her mind as she made the journey to the south-west.

It was dark when Bear, yawning and flexing his aching back, parked his rusting old banger in Ropery Road car park. Harriet was glad of the darkness, a shield of sorts. It was odd to be back: comforting, familiar and wonderfully evocative, taking her instantly to the time when her children had been young and wanted nothing more than to run on wet sand with a bucket and spade, and hold a drippy ice cream at the end of the day. Yet there was no denying the tremble to her limbs, a reminder that this was where her marriage had imploded and she had been set adrift.

Gripping her hastily packed holdall, she followed her son up the slight incline of Fore Street. The street was largely untouched, a few buildings in much better condition than she remembered, a couple worse, but the meandering shape of the pavements, the thick, whitewashed walls, towering town houses and squat cottages – the soul of the place – was exactly the same.

The darkness was softened by Victorian street lamps and the festoon lights that criss-crossed the buildings, meaning she walked under a canopy of warm light. Dilly had once marvelled at them, and as Hugo carried her home on his shoulders, she'd asked if they were fallen stars. The thought of her daughter made her smile; her beloved bookworm who in a few short weeks would have a child of her own – she was full of excitement at the prospect, but still wondered if she'd ever get used to the idea.

Inhaling now, she took in the scent of salt air, real fires, fish, beach life and the history of three hundred years. She thought about the footsteps of everyone who had trod Fore Street. Including her younger self, who had lugged suitcases and collapsing cardboard boxes stuffed with kettles, books, lamps and other items that had evaded capture by the removal men, which she'd hastily grabbed and shoved into the back of their roomy saloon on the day of the big move.

If, over the years, she'd envisaged a return, in her mind's eye it had been very similar to the momentous journey she had taken over two decades ago, when the sun had been high in the sky, gull song heralded her arrival, and the pretty harbourside town nestled in its higgledy-piggledy formation from the top of the hill right down to the water's edge. Arriving at Corner Cottage, she would, as before, throw the windows open and take a minute to appreciate the light that streamed in through the wide sash windows. Back then, amid the chaos of a new move, and with her mind heavily laden with all she wrestled with, she had still been quite overwhelmed by the beauty of her surroundings, while from the vibrant harbourside, ripples of laughter and the warm scents of holiday had wafted up to welcome her. This time it was quite different, though. She was a different person with a different life, a new family even! This trip was about rounding off the edges of an unfinished work – a reckoning of sorts.

Corner Cottage, on the junction of Mill Head and Fore Street, a house they had bought in haste and abandoned as quickly, looked just as she'd expected from the photographs sent by thankful families who had enjoyed a holiday there, or the newly snapped images from the rental agent.

It was meant to have been a new start for their little family, but with divorce looming, no intention of selling the house in Ledwick Green, and without the first clue as to how things might pan out, they'd figured it would provide an income, which they would divide equally, as well as being a wonderful nest egg for the kids when they grew up. The little house on the corner might look pretty much as she'd expected, but nothing could have prepared her for how being here felt, as the memory of her emotional turmoil came flooding back so powerfully, it almost knocked her off her feet.

‘It's beautiful, isn't it?' Bear, oblivious, stood at the front of the cottage and looked down the street, which had an ethereal quality at this hour and in this light.

‘It really is.' The slight quaver to her voice belied her steady response.

She watched as her son's eyes wandered along the street and then rose, settling on the looming silhouette of Signal House. It was hard to imagine how it must feel, being this close to Tawrie and with so much left to say, but not being able to say it.

‘All good things, my love,' she whispered.

‘God, I hope so, Mum.'

She caught the high emotion in his voice and it confirmed that being here was the right thing; he needed closure, one way or another.

As did she.

Watching now as Bear pulled the key from his pocket, she felt her stomach jump. A key that once held so many possibilities, entry into a new life, a new beginning ... Without further time to think, he was in and had flicked on the light in the small, square hallway, as she climbed the steps to the front door.

The interior was different, beautifully updated by Dilly and now in a soft palette of pale blues, creams and navy. It was very beachy and yet tasteful, she approved. A new oversized sofa looked inviting and bookshelves groaned under the weight of all the books her daughter had read while recharging here. Some things were familiar: her grandmother's old card table, which still sported the vintage china lamp that had once been in the sitting room at Ledwick Green, and next to that, a little shabbier, a little softer, sat the old leather club chair where she had spent so much time.

‘Welcome home.' Bear's voice jolted her into the present and she smiled at him. ‘Do you want a hot drink or is it too late?' He glanced at his watch.

‘Never too late for tea. Thank you, darling.'

‘I'll go put the kettle on.' He disappeared into the kitchen, walking with the confidence of a man who knew the space and had made memories here.

She sat in the leather chair and placed her hands on the worn arms, closing her eyes briefly.

I love you, Harriet. I love you, always you. Only you. I love you so much this is killing me!

It was surprising to her, how fatigue had ushered in the hand of nostalgia and she could clearly hear Hugo saying these words, recalling how very desperate she had felt, how torn.

‘Is it odd for you, Mum, being here? Bringing back some memories, I bet?' Bear called out.

‘Yes and yes, but I guess that's rather the point, isn't it?'

Standing, she went to join him in the cosy kitchen, which was the least altered. The freshly painted walls kept the room bright. But the hand-built old pine units, the wooden floor and of course the wide sash window that gave a great view of Mill Head, the street on which the building sat, were just the same.

‘And I thought you were here to help nurse my broken heart or help me find a way to glue it back together. Which it will, I hope, if Tawrie will just hear me out.'

‘Who knows, Bear? Maybe she's missed you desperately, or maybe' – like me – ‘she has come to see that life is too short to be with someone you can't trust, and if she can't trust you ...' She let this trail and his expression fell.

‘I think I'm prepared for that but it's a thought that kills me, honestly, Mum.' He took a deep breath and popped teabags into mugs. She took a seat at a table slightly smaller than the one they'd left behind; still old and with a scrubbed top it was a fitting addition that was better sized for the space.

They had spent many an hour at that old table, she and Hugo, sitting either side of the worn wood that was no more than three feet wide and yet represented a gulf of miles and miles they'd had no hope of traversing. Not that she'd fully understood that in the beginning. Just being here took her right back to then. She half expected to hear the thunder of little feet on the stairs and for Dilly to appear, book in hand, and for Hugo to walk in, dark half-moons under his eyes, his gaze one of avoidance. A chill trickled through her veins as she remembered what it felt like to not be enough and to have no real clue as to why she had been discarded. She rubbed her arms, trying in vain to warm a place that touch couldn't reach.

Bear placed the mug of tea in front of her, topped up with the milk they'd picked up from the petrol station when they'd stopped en route for fuel.

‘We can get up early, if you like, Mum, and go and see whatever it is you want to show me! The suspense is killing me.' He looked like an eager child, rubbing his hands together.

‘Oh, it's not a place.' She took a restorative sip.

‘What is it then?' He sounded a smidge disappointed.

‘It's a thing and it's right here in the cottage.' She swallowed the flutter of nerves, unsure if she wanted to revisit the words written by a different version of herself – one who was afraid, hurt. She was unsure if showing her son was a good or bad idea. But either way, she was entirely committed.

‘Well, if it's here, show me now! What are we waiting for?' He pushed away from the table.

Reluctantly abandoning her tea, she slowly trod the stairs with Bear close behind. New cream carpet throughout the upper floors had cosied up the place and the middle landing was wider than she remembered, partly due to the fact that in her mind's eye it was cluttered with badly labelled removal boxes, which had taken an age to sort out. Again, she saw how his eyes were drawn to the wide sash window on the middle landing, staring down Fore Street and almost stooped towards the view, as if his whole being longed to run right out of the front door and go wake that girl! She prayed he wasn't going to get hurt, remembering fragments of the lovely Annalee, and hoping her daughter carried the same kindness. She thought also of sweet Petra, wondering if she lay awake feeling the stab of rejection, and, knowing what it was like to get caught in the crossfire of someone's infidelity, her heart went out to her.

Finally up to the top floor, the attic room where she noted the bed was unmade. Gingerly, she walked over to the small cupboard with a louvre door, which cleverly created a hanging area within the boxed-off roof space.

‘You want to show me the little wardrobe?' He looked perplexed.

Ignoring him, she opened the door and bent down, placing her hand on the right side panel, one quick push and out it popped. She assumed it had been installed in case of pipe maintenance – or perhaps to hide documents or valuables. It was something Hugo had discovered quite by accident as he'd rummaged around getting better acquainted with their new home. With her arm fully extended, she ran her fingers around behind the panel until, with relief, they touched the firm plastic of the Tupperware box. It was dusty and she wiped the close-fitted lid with her fingers. It was both wonderful and petrifying to have the box in her possession.

‘You stashed sandwiches up here?' Bear stared at the loot in her hands with barely disguised disappointment. ‘I mean, how desperate were you for a midnight snack? And I hate to be the one to break it to you, Mum, but they might have gone off a bit in the last twenty-odd years. I must admit I was hoping for a stash of rubies or an illegal haul of whisky, something vaguely valuable!'

‘This is my treasure. My truth.' She spoke softly and held the box to her chest as she made her way back down the stairs.

They both glugged the cooled tea and stared at the box, which was discoloured and had taken on an unattractive orange hue.

‘What is it? I mean, I can see it's a book.' He pointed.

Her son had always had this level of impatience.

Holding the corner of the lid, she peeled it away from the box and there it lay. Its glorious green cloth jacket was remarkably well preserved, bar a couple of age spots, and to see it again, aware of what it had meant to her and how it had saved her sanity at a time when to talk freely was not always possible, was, to say the least, emotional.

‘Don't cry.' Bear reached out and squeezed her hand. In truth she hadn't realised she was until he said it. ‘What is it?' he asked, softly this time.

‘It's my diary.' She wiped her face on her sleeve.

‘I vaguely remember it. I didn't know I did until I saw it but I can almost picture you with it on your lap holding a pen.' He stared at the cover.

‘It's the only time I've ever kept one. Ellis thought it might be a good idea, get it all down on paper, help me analyse my thoughts, keep track.'

‘And did it?'

‘Erm ...' She thought for a moment. ‘Yes. I was quite lonely, very lonely, in fact. Things with Dad were ...' She let this hang. ‘And I took solace in scribbling away.' She let her fingers rest on the little book that had been so much more than she could adequately express. ‘I'm a bit nervous, actually.'

‘Nervous?'

‘I can't remember exactly what I wrote, but I know it was written from the heart and I expect it will perfectly capture that time in my life when I felt everything was spinning out of control. Just seeing it takes me back; I've never felt so lost, so scared of what my future might hold.'

‘Oh, Mum.' He touched her arm. ‘Are you going to read some tonight, or wait until tomorrow when you're less tired and you'll have the beautiful view of Capstone Hill to distract you?'

‘That's the thing, darling, I don't think I can read it alone.' Carefully, she lifted it from the box, the weight of it comforting and familiar. ‘Can we read it together?'

‘Really?' He pulled a face and she understood. He was quite rightly wary of what this book might reveal about his parents' marriage.

‘It's up to you entirely, but I think it'll give you an insight into honesty and love and how to treat the people you want to be with. It'll give an insight into your dad and me and I hope it has lessons about communication and openness. And I hope it brings me closure. Helps me understand what we went through, so I can finally shut it away for good.'

‘Back in its box.' He tapped the Tupperware lid.

‘Back in its box.'

‘Well, now I'm nervous!' He laughed awkwardly.

‘Don't be, but I want you, Dilly, Louis and Rafe to understand that every choice we make, every decision we settle on is a tiny footprint towards our own destiny, and before you know it, all those tiny footprints have made a path and it's the one you walk. So make a path that's honest, sincere and leads to all good things.'

‘Wow!' Her son sat back in the chair and exhaled. ‘And there was me thinking it would be just pages and pages of Dad getting a good pasting.'

‘There's probably a bit of that,' she confessed. ‘Maybe more than he deserves, maybe not! It's hard not to add hindsight to any life event.'

‘I'm not sure I want to read it, Mum.'

‘And that's fine too.' She meant it.

‘It's just that it's taken Dad and me quite a while to reach this ledge, where we sit quite comfortably. He knows that one false move and I'll run all the way down the mountain and I know that if I take him to task on all that irks me, he'll scamper to the top and block the route.'

‘It sounds precarious.' She was happy they could talk so candidly, yet sad for the state of the relationship between him and Hugo, recognising it as similar to the way she had handled the breakdown of their marriage: avoiding him other than when absolutely necessary and boxing away the whole episode. She hoped the ledge on which Bear rested was firm and steadfast; it would do them both good to rest awhile.

‘It is, really.' He yawned; the day was catching up with them both.

‘The truth is, I wrote in a state of high emotion so maybe it's not entirely balanced, but it was authentic for me at the time. I now know that there's so much more to a marriage than one action, one slip, one lie, or even two. It takes two as they say ...'

‘The other being, "Call me Wendy, not Mum! You already have a mum!" Peterson.'

It felt a little cruel to laugh at his accurate impression. It was also easy now to pity the woman who had been on the receiving end of infidelity when Hugo had taken up with Sherry in a short-lived whirlwind of sex and destruction that had culminated in the birth of Aurelia and had left Wendy emotionally in tatters. Harriet had taken no pleasure in watching their relationship unravel – there was no sense of schadenfreude, no feeling of justice or karma, more worry about what message Hugo's behaviour would send to her kids, to their kids. This was why the diary was so important. A first-hand life lesson.

‘Your dad has never read it, of course, and I'm quite sure his version of events would be different, but that's life, right?'

‘Yes, and what is it they say? History is written by the winners?' Bear held the book up like a prize.

‘I said to Hugo once, and I'll say it to you, nothing about our split, our divorce, ever felt like winning.'

‘Until you met Dr Charles.' He smiled with obvious affection for the man.

‘Yes, darling, until I met Dr Charles.' Her smile matched her son's. ‘Anyway, it's nearly midnight. Time to call it a night.'

‘God, is it really?' Bear held up his phone and she saw his eyes widen. ‘September the fourteenth.'

‘Yup.' She stood and rinsed the cups under the tap and placed them on the sideboard, as she had done many times before.

‘It's Tawrie's birthday. And her mother's and her gran's,' he informed her.

‘Well, that's quite something!' She tried to work out how old Annalee would be and how long it was since she'd seen her – at least twenty years.

‘That means it's the Gunn Fire tonight.' He looked thoughtful.

‘The Gunn Fire?' She was curious. ‘What's that?'

‘A party where no one needs an invite, Mum, luckily for me.'

Again she sent a silent prayer over the chimney tops that she hoped might land in Tawrie Gunn's ear. Please be kind ...

His actions were slow as he reached out and took the book under his fingers, sliding it across the tabletop, until he could grip it easily and opened it up. Without preamble or discussion, he read aloud:

July 2nd 2002

A diarist!

Who even am I?

I jest but there's truth in it. I hardly recognise the person sitting here in this pretty sitting room ...

He paused to look up at her. It was jarring and confronting to hear her words spoken by her son, and she was suddenly wary of what else was about to be revealed.

‘I thought we were calling it a night?' She stifled a yawn.

‘Or you could put the kettle on?' He smiled and turned back to the page.

It was an hour later that Bear fell asleep with his head on the cradle of his arms on the tabletop. Carefully, she removed the diary from beneath his hand and took it into the sitting room, finding the leather chair familiar and comfortable. She ran her fingers over the cracked leather of the arm. It felt only right to be reading it here where so much of it had been written. Most of it was nostalgic – painful, yes, but with the glorious benefit of knowing how things had turned out for her, it was as if she carried a cushion to protect herself from the written truth, recognising that her fear of being alone had helped to curate some of the content. There was one conversation that had stuck in her mind and she now remembered the evening so clearly.

Hugo had explained her role in their demise, leading her to the conclusion that the very things that first attracted him to her were the very things he had come to dislike. It had felt unjust and cruel then and time had not changed her mind. The revelation that he had simply felt the grass might be greener and had wandered, almost without question, down the road of infidelity, his actions casual, seemingly unconsidered, had only added to her distress. His casual admission of how he had been ‘lured' into adultery with no more than a kind word was incendiary, and with it the understanding that they never had been and never could be stable. It also made it likely that nothing she could have said or done would have prevented his decision to stray.

Harriet sat back in the chair and folded her hands over the diary in her lap. That evening had been a moment of reckoning; the point at which she had pictured a small cage and mentally placed it around her heart, locking it tight, knowing that if she could so misunderstand her marriage, misjudge her family life and mistrust her husband, then nothing else in her life could be taken for granted. A tear fell down her face at the memory of how alone she had felt and how dangerously close to the edge, realising how easy it would have been to fall ... Her tears were also for a new realisation: it had felt entirely necessary to construct the little cage that kept her safe at a time of vulnerability, when she was fearful of what the future held; what hadn't occurred to her until this evening was that she had failed to unlock it, forgotten to remove the contraption that stopped her heart from being fully open. What had Charles said?

‘ No matter how deeply I love you, if there's even a thin coat of armour that you wear as a shield close to your skin, around your heart, no matter how tiny, almost invisible, it's still a barrier between us. '

‘Oh, my love!' she whispered into the darkness. ‘It's time I found that key.'