‘And his wife,’ a disloyal voice in my head added. I pushed the thought away and concentrated on scrambling down the steep path to the sand.
As I reached the beach I paused and smoothed my hair where it poked out from under my hat – in vain, I feared – and caught my breath. Mr Forrest had his back to me, watching the waves, and I studied him for a second, admiring his broad shoulders and the way his hair curled under his hat.
As if he sensed me behind him, Mr Forrest turned, and my heart lifted at his smile.
‘Dear Miss Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘I feared you wouldn’t get away.’
I flushed at his informal greeting. ‘Father went to sleep,’ I admitted.
Mr Forrest smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Then let’s make the most of the time we have,’ he said. He offered his arm and I took it. I felt very grown up and very young at the same time. We strolled across the sand, by unspoken consent hugging the low cliffs that flanked the beach and ensured we were unseen from above.
Mr Forrest asked questions about my painting and, heady with the joy of talking about it, I explained – or at least I tried to explain – why I loved it so much.
‘It’s as though I haven’t chosen it,’ I said, struggling to find the right words. ‘It’s like breathing; it’s part of me.’
Mr Forrest studied me, and I turned away feeling self-conscious.
‘I only wish I had your talent,’ he said. ‘But what I lack in ability I make up for in passion. I am certain you have a great future ahead of you.’
‘In London?’ I breathed.
‘If you wish,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘I flatter myself, but I have been told I have a good eye and I know if your work excites me, then it will undoubtedly excite my friends in the PRB.’
He took my hand. His touch was hot like the sun. The only man who’d ever touched me before was Father.
‘This is a way out for you, Violet,’ he said, gripping my fingers. It was as though he could see into my soul and I suddenly felt raw. Stripped bare. How did he know what I was thinking? Confusion flooded me.
‘I must go,’ I stammered. ‘Father …’
I pulled my hand away abruptly. Mr Forrest didn’t object. Instead he tipped his hat.
‘Miss Hargreaves,’ he said politely. Then he turned and walked away up the beach.
I watched him go, my hand still burning from his touch. I felt an enormous sense of loss.
Present day
Ella
Those early days in Sussex were chaos. It was a blur of boxes and rearranging furniture, and hanging pictures. The weather was glorious, so the boys spent all their time in the garden, kicking balls, bouncing on their trampoline, and generally running wild. I watched them, amazed at how much energy they had, and relieved that I’d bought the lock for the gate.
It was very different from London. More different than I’d expected it to be, considering how close we were. Because our house was at the end of the lane, there were no cars driving by, and it was so quiet. The first few nights, Ben and I had even struggled to sleep, because we were used to the white noise of passing traffic, not the complete silence of the Sussex countryside.
I was determined to make this work but it was hard going those first days. Ben had been thrown straight into work so I spent a lot of time on my own with the kids, which didn’t help. Deep down I was worried we’d made the most awful mistake. What if giving up life in London – giving up my safe, if dull, job – was a massive, enormous, unfixable error?
I kept thinking about Dad saying I would have been better off taking a sabbatical so I still had a job to go back to and I fought the urge to phone him and wail down the phone that he’d been right all along. I knew as soon as I expressed any doubts at all, he’d say it wasn’t too late. That I could go back to accountancy in a heartbeat, that he knew someone who knew someone who could ask about opportunities in his firm and before I knew it, I’d be back behind a desk in the city, on hold to HMRC.
And actually, when I thought about it, that wasn’t what I wanted at all. I was just finding it hard to come to terms with such a big change. I’d settle down. And I’d stop missing my dad so much eventually. Wouldn’t I?
Ben, on the other hand, was embracing our new life. He was really busy at the football club – the new season hadn’t started but he was meeting new players and helping with pre-season training and medicals and fitness tests. I knew he was absolutely loving it so I didn’t want to rain on his parade.
I was both itching to get started on writing and terrified that once I began I’d realize I didn’t have anything to say. I felt like there was a lot riding on this book – it would be the first one I’d had proper time to write. If it bombed, I couldn’t blame my lack of focus or the fact that I was an accountant really. It would be all down to me. For the first time in my life I was a writer. But I didn’t want to write. What if I couldn’t do it any more? The idea made me shudder.
The removal men had taken all my writing stuff up to the study, but I hadn’t sorted it out yet. I told myself it was because I was busy looking after the boys. And I said the same to Ben when he gently suggested that I switched on my laptop.
‘The boys,’ I said, vaguely, waving my arm in the direction of the garden. ‘We should probably think about getting some childcare.’
Ben grinned. ‘I’ve thought,’ he said.
‘You have?’
‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘She’s Mike’s wife.’
‘Who’s Mike?’
‘The estate agent guy who rented this house to us,’ Ben reminded me. ‘His wife was a teaching assistant at the village school for years, but she’s retired now and he said she was looking for some part-time work.’
I was thrilled. ‘She sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘Ring her.’
So Ben did, and Margaret was just as keen as he thought she’d be.
‘She’s coming round to meet you now,’ Ben said, hunting for his car keys – he was off to do another medical on another player. ‘She said she’d love to look after the boys.’
‘She hasn’t met them yet,’ I said with a grin as Ben waved goodbye.
But as soon as Margaret arrived, I knew we had to have her. She was just so capable. She sat at the kitchen table and made Stan laugh as I made tea.
She’d brought little packets of Lego figures for Oscar, and a whoopee cushion for Stan, and the boys were already smitten with her. I liked her too.
‘It’s just afternoons, really,’ I explained. ‘I can take the boys to school and nursery and I’ll pick Stan up at lunchtime and feed him. If you could just come after lunch to watch him, pick Oscar up at 3p.m. and then give them tea, that would be great. I’ll be here – in the study – and Ben works funny hours at the football club so he might be around too. So if you need us, you can shout. Would that suit you?’
‘That would suit me very well,’ said Margaret. She was in her late fifties, perhaps, with neat blonde hair and a tidy figure in very clean jeans. I gave her a mug of tea and offered her a biscuit.
‘How are you settling in?’ Margaret asked, her eyes roaming my face. I tried to resist the urge to screw my nose up but I failed.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Wonderful. Ben loves it. And the boys.’
‘And you?’
‘Not so much,’ I