As Eleanor sat in the campervan chatting to Jenna, Daniel was on his regular run around town. After a few circuits of the little park with its Edwardian bandstand and flower clock, he decided to call in at his father’s bungalow for tea and a chat.
Malcolm opened the door to find his son in a sweaty heap on the front step. “Come in and tell me how you got on yesterday,” he said, leading the way into the kitchen. “Were those houses any good?”
“One was dreadful, three were okay and I thought two of them had potential. Actually, the 1960s property was stunning – all clean lines and big views.”
“It sounds quite promising.”
“You might think so, but I can’t persuade El to make up her mind about any of them. I’m starting to think she won’t ever choose a new house.” It wasn’t the kind of thing Daniel ever talked about – if friends asked when he and Eleanor were going to move, he made a joke about being impossible to live with. His father was not the sort of man to get into conversations that strayed into “delicate” territory, but today he decided it was time to say what he thought.
Malcolm was immensely fond of his new daughter-in-law, but could see the strain living in two places was having on his son. “I know it’s possibly an outmoded view, but it does seem only right that you should set up home together, now you’re man and wife.” He paused to give Daniel a mug of strong tea and a thick slice of Maureen’s simnel cake, bought yesterday at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe. “I suppose I am an old fuddy-duddy. On the other hand, I do understand Eleanor’s reluctance to leave that lovely cottage of hers. It is jolly convenient for the shop and she has done it up beautifully.” He stirred his tea, thoughtfully. “Can you really not share it with her?”
“I’ve half-moved in, as you know. The problem is it’s too small for two adults with as much stuff as we have – even after Freya cleared me out. Joe’s with us at the moment and there’s nowhere for my daughter to stay when she visits. And there’s also the tiny problem that I need a decent-sized office to work in.” Daniel was a traditional architect who still enjoyed building scale models out of balsa wood and working in pen on large sheets of paper, not just designing things on a computer. “We need more space, Dad.”
“And Eleanor can’t be persuaded to move in with you?”
“I’ve tried, Dad, believe me. And she probably would if I insisted, but I don’t want to force her into it.” He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Ideally, I’d like us to find somewhere we can create together.”
“It hardly seems unreasonable in the circumstances.” Malcolm smiled at his son. “I’m sure she’ll come round in time.”
“Time!” Daniel made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “We’ve been together over two years and married for six months. How much more time does she need?”
Malcolm frowned. “In that case, maybe you need to try a different tack: be firmer with her – tell her how concerned you are and set a deadline, perhaps.”
Daniel laughed. “Eleanor’s not great with deadlines. No, I’ll have to be patient for a little while longer, that’s all.” As he said the words, he believed them, but deep down he wanted the situation to be resolved and he left his father’s house with a heavy heart.
Jogging back down the hill, the thought nagged at him that his first marriage had failed and his second was not going as smoothly as he would have wished. How committed was Eleanor if she didn’t want to set up home with him?
He had reached the end of the path where it joined the main street when he bumped into Freya looking cool and elegant in a pale blue dress, a pair of outsize sunglasses perched on her head.
“Well, hello Dan. And where are you going in such a hurry?”
“It’s called jogging and I’m going home if you must know.”
Freya arched a slender eyebrow in a subtle gesture that managed to convey amusement, curiosity and a tiny bit of disdain. “And where is home these days?”
Daniel stood with his hands on his hips panting slightly. He nodded towards the sea front and the bright red door of his house. It was known as The Widows’ House because of the two women who had lived there before him. “You know perfectly well where I live,” he said, immediately angry with himself for falling into Freya’s trap.
“With Edwina?”
The infuriating woman always knew how to push his buttons for maximum effect. “My wife’s name is Eleanor.”
“Of course it is. Silly me.” Freya smiled. “It’s odd, but I could have sworn I saw you coming out of the bookshop cottage with bags of clothes the other morning. Don’t tell me you still haven’t persuaded Eleanor to move in with you.” She laughed outright. “Or has your snoring grown so bad she makes you sleep half a mile away?”
Daniel could feel the pressure building at the base of his skull, partly as a result of pounding down the road from Malcolm’s house and partly from being put on the spot. It felt as though he’d been caught out, even though he and Eleanor made no secret of their unconventional living arrangements.
“Why the hell do you care who I live with and where?”
“Oh, idle curiosity.”
“Well, it’s none of your damn business. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.” And with that he turned and ran towards his house, furious with himself for losing his temper when they both knew that Freya only had to ask their daughter Emily what Daniel’s living arrangements were. Freya had played him for a fool, yet again.
Once at the house, he stomped angrily around the kitchen ruing the day he had let her take their very expensive coffee machine. He had bought the damn thing for her birthday only a few months before their marriage broke up and, yes, he could quite easily afford to buy a new one but it rankled nonetheless.
He made himself a cup of nasty instant coffee and headed for the shower where he hoped a blast of cold water would help push Freya’s face from his mind. But it was not to be. Even though they ran into each other fairly regularly, Dan’s heart always missed a beat when he saw Freya’s familiar figure in the distance, a leather folder of architect’s plans under one arm.
It had not been his idea to divorce and the pain of dividing up “stuff” had been hard, but nowhere near as hard as wrenching Freya from his heart. She was his first love and her abandonment had left him hurt and angry.
When they separated, Daniel told her to take whatever she wanted from the cliff-top house they had designed together, a decision he regretted when she emptied the kitchen of all their best knives and gadgets.
Freya really was the most infuriating woman Daniel knew, yet he couldn’t help feeling proud of what she’d achieved professionally. Since their separation, she had gone from strength to strength and he had almost grown used to seeing her name in the tabloids as the “wacky” architect responsible for the latest startling development.
Although they had trained and worked together, Freya was always the ambitious one: whereas Daniel was happy to build modest extensions for a nursery school or the doctor’s surgery, Freya was keen to work with clients who wanted one-of-a-kind homes built from scratch, which is how she had ended up working for Bill Widget.
Daniel picked up the mug of cold coffee and swished it angrily down the sink. Pushing the wet hair from his brow, he examined his face in the bathroom mirror. “When will you ever get the hang of women?” he asked his reflection. The face in the mirror had no answer.