‘So is he an “old chap” as in silver-fox? Or dentures-nextto-the-bed?’
‘Because I’m here to pull, Soph?’
‘I was only asking.’
Isobel rolled her eyes. Sophie, always the sucker for a good-looker. Start batting those eyelashes at the nice, decent boys for a change, Sophie Hedley, instead of all the slick-looking wild ones, their mum had yelled up the stairs many, many times. You won’t bring half the trouble back to this house!
‘Well?’
‘Somewhere between the two, I guess? He has grey bristles, wears a neckerchief and shouts a lot.’
‘Who to? The dog?’
‘I’m not sure, maybe. “Danny Boy”, he calls. I haven’t seen anyone else up here though. Maybe it is to the dog? Or to himself. Maybe he’s a touch—’
‘Mental too?’
‘Here’s hoping. It would be nice to be the normal one again.’
‘You are normal.’
‘Inconspicuous, then.’ Another silence. ‘I like him. He’s old-fashioned. Chops his own logs, mends his own gate . . . slowly . . . bit like dad.’ Arthur probably fed his dog the old-fashioned diet of postmen, too.
‘Good he’s just next door then.’ Sophie exhaled, long and slow. ‘So how was it in the café? Were you okay in there by yourself?’
That first trip into Coast had been a bit of a non-experience other than the eruption about the breast-feeding mother. Isobel had known roughly what to expect though before even setting foot inside the door. She’d done her homework and Googled it. To death. It was the people who’d thrown her. A steady stream of normal, everyday people enjoying the warm drinks and atmosphere. Not a monster in sight.
Isobel sighed. ‘Yeah, of course. All good, all good.’
‘So what did you do in there? I have a picture in my head of you sitting behind a newspaper, two eyeholes cut out of it.’ Sophie waited for a laugh.
‘Nothing really. Ordered a few pots of tea, a really good flapjack and just . . . thought about everything. About what I’m aiming for. One step at a time, like Jenny said.’
Name-dropping her therapist was a poorly veiled attempt to pretend any of this was a good idea. Jenny didn’t matter, only Sophie mattered. Sophie being on board was integral. This was all about them, Isobel and Sophie, sisters with their secrets.
‘And have they changed any? Those things you’re aiming for?’
Isobel let a strand of text run through her mind like the credits of a disturbing film. Clear as reading it onscreen again, his words crisp and sharp and penetrative.
Filthy little bitch. Dirty, filthy little bitch. Didn’t think of the consequences did you, bitch?
Consequences. Now there was a word. Isobel swallowed. ‘You think I’m on a wild goose chase, don’t you?’
Sophie hesitated. ‘No. I think you’re on a journey, Isobel. I’m just not sure it’ll lead you anywhere you really want to go.’
‘Then she says, “I have a right to use my breasts! My daughter has a right to be fed!”’
Cleo stopped for air. It was exhausting sounding like Lorna. Sarah seized her chance to speak. ‘This is the same Lorna we’re talking about here, isn’t it? Pretty head scarves, porcelain skin? Lovely but hyper son in Max’s class?’
Cleo nodded into the phone, resuming her Lorna impersonation full-fury. ‘ “First I’m harassed by that battleaxe” – that was when Lorna turned her baguette on me, Sarah – “and now YOU are discriminating against me too! Against my baby! You, Cleo Roberts . . . a mother!”’
Lorna had launched into an impressive tirade about ‘women like Cleo’, busy types too self-centred to fully appreciate the nutritional needs of their own babies, cheeky mare! But it had been hard enough for Cleo to hear all that guff; she wasn’t about to inflict it on Sarah too. Sarah’s battle with the boob had been worse than Cleo’s after Patrick ditched Sarah and the boys. She’d tormented herself over the whole horrendous thing, of course. Poor girl.
‘Do you know what she said then, Sar? “You’re supposed to support other women, not knock us down when we’re vulnerable!’’ ’
Sarah was about to play devil’s advocate, Cleo could smell it. Sarah always so annoyingly fair-handed, Cleo a raving madwoman by comparison.
‘Maybe she was feeling just a bit vulnerable? Gosh, I remember what I was like after Max was born. I don’t think I stopped crying for the first six months. I was a snotty, tired, milky mess. Poor Will. Stuck with a mum like that.’
‘Vulnerable? Lorna? Ha! I could see the whites of her eyes, Sarah. I braced myself for a sandwich-related injury. I’d have been splashed all over that hideous Fallenbay Dartboard page . . . BAGUETTE RAGE! Local businesswoman floored by fake brie! And anyway, your situation was unique. You had every reason to cry for six months, and more. Awful man.’
‘I think it’s Fallenbay Pinboard.’
‘I know. But it’s more like a dartboard. Who even takes part in those awful anonymous Facebook pages? Complaining about the street lighting, ripping the high school to shreds, negative, negative, negative. People are hideous. No wonder kids misbehave online, the parents are just as antisocial.’ Sam wandered into the kitchen, silently prodding at the leftovers. Max began yelling in Sarah’s background, something about a bloody finger. ‘The brie’s not fake, by the way.’
‘I have to go, Cle. Max’s trying to pull another tooth out, the tyrant. Sebastian Brightman has told him baby teeth are for babies. Seb only wants to be friends with boys who are growing their big teeth.’
‘Sounds like something Olivia Brightman’s offspring would say. Anyway, ew. I hate blood. Makes my buttocks go funny. I’ll leave you to it. Catch you in the week. Oh! And tell the school crazies not to boycott me, would you?’
‘Like they’d listen to me, Cle. A lowly teacher. See you.’
Cleo put the phone down. Sam was still foraging. Leave him long enough and the dishes wouldn’t need scraping at all. This was how their paths crossed now, Cleo at some mundane task, Sam quietly rooting nearby. They were like a night-vision segment on Countryfile. Two nocturnal creatures fumbling around the same hidden camera, occupying the same insignificant part of the ecosystem independently of one another. Except when they were fighting. Or feeding.
Sam popped something into his mouth and flicked on the kitchen TV. ‘Good quiche, Cle.’ She caught herself observing him like a farm vet again, looking for evidence of the middle-aged spread certain to sneak up on him while he wasn’t looking and cut short his life like his poor father’s. Builders had terrible diets. It was all bacon baps and flasks of syrupy tea. Ploughmen . . . apparently they knew how to eat.
Sam burst briefly to life. ‘That clipped the wicket!’
‘The microwave blew up today,’ Cleo said idly. I did tell you.
Sam made a non-committal noise and propped himself over the back of one of the dining chairs, reverently checking the scores he’d missed. His neck was sunburnt. Was he working outside again now? He’d been tiling en-suites the last time they’d spoken about his job. Sam had been working on the Compass Point development site, the latest target of the Hornbeam school mothers and their petitions. Juliette had soon rallied the troops when she realised her super-home would have to share the coastline.
Cleo began aggressively scraping plates. ‘I’ve been told to expect a boycott by the school mothers.’