It was late when Laura stirred the next morning. Saturday. In spite of Jack’s best efforts to help her drift off the night before – a glass of wine, a relaxing bath, a massage and some routine but satisfying sex – she had still slept badly, waking with her usual start at two a.m., her heart beating triple-time.
She had lain in the dark for four hours, part of her wanting to get up and go downstairs and work on some ideas for a new bracelet she was starting. But the other part of her wanted to stay in the warm bed where at least there was the prospect of sleep coming back for her. And besides, she hadn’t wanted to risk waking Jack – he loved sleepy sex. It had been safer to just lie still and let her head fill up with all the things she needed to do on the beach hut. She had signed the contract and paid the full horrid asking price there and then. It was legally hers and there was so much to get on with in the next few weeks if she wanted to have it ready for Christmas Day it made her head hurt. First on the list was hiring a carpenter, so that it at least had a door and a floor that wouldn’t sag beneath a flip-flop, and she needed a plumber to come in and replace the pipes. Once that was done, she could concentrate on the fun things – painting and decorating it, buying some furniture. She’d seen some very nice wooden bunting at the gift shop by the pedestrian crossing that she thought would look good strung up along the gabled roof, and she rather fancied one of those designer-paint sludgy-colour combinations . . .
Sleep had come to her only when the winter songbirds had finally woken, their busy chatter the signal that it was safe to close her eyes again. The darkness had gone for another night.
From her bed, Laura heard the telltale creak on the second step from the top and knew Jack was coming up with her breakfast. She stretched languorously, her eyes on the light that escaped around their blind, as she assessed from its dimness exactly which shade of Pantone grey the sky was going to be today. She felt the cool air on her bare arms – both she and Jack liked a ‘fresh’ room, leaving the windows open even in the winter – and quickly tucked them under the duvet again, just as Jack bumped the door open with the tray.
‘Morning,’ he smiled, setting it down on the bed as Laura took in the just-orange-enough tea and thickly buttered toast.
Jack passed her the tea, but it was too hot to sip, so she took a bite of toast instead, self-consciously munching in the quiet room as he watched her.
‘What do you want to do today?’ she asked him after a minute or two.
Jack shrugged. ‘Well, they’ve started selling Christmas trees at the supermarket, but it seems a bit early yet, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘We could go for a walk on the beach.’
‘We could. Arthur would be happy.’
‘But there is a strong north-easterly today.’
‘Oh. Cold.’
‘Yes.’
‘We could always go to the leisure centre and have a swim and a sauna,’ Laura suggested, but Jack just wrinkled his nose.
‘Saturday morning. Too many kids running around.’
‘Mmm.’ Laura started on the second triangle of toast.
‘Actually, I do need another phone charger for the car. It’s barely working at all now,’ he said brightly. ‘We could go to Carphone Warehouse and get a new one. Plus we need some batteries for the Sky remote.’ He smiled. ‘How does that sound?’
‘Great,’ Laura nodded.
‘Okey-dokey,’ Jack said, getting up, reaching over and kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose. ‘I’ll start running your shower, then, and we can get this show on the road.’
Laura looked back up at their cosy cottage as Jack locked and double-locked their glossy pillarbox-red front door. His insistence upon vigilant security was a foible that Laura found alternately sweet and irritating. Today it was sweet. Charrington – a tiny fishing village on the Suffolk coast – was hardly a crime hot spot. The most the police ever had to bother about was drunk teenagers dropping chips on the pavement on a Friday night, and parking violations on the promenade.
Laura waited for him as he pushed a hand against the door for good measure, and she looked up at the deep stone windowsills, wondering whether some boxes might look good on them. Lead planters would look particularly fine against the red door and would tie in nicely with the bushy grey thatched roof. It wasn’t a big house by any means – just a two-up, two-down – but it was so pretty; all the houses in Pudding Street were. It was true what they said on the telly – location, location, location. Here, they lived in one of the best-maintained streets in the town and they were only three streets back from the beach and a four-minute walk from the town centre.
Satisfied that their home would be adequately protected during their short absence, Jack took Laura’s hand and started leading her down their narrow, pedestrianized lane, ambling past their neighbours’ thickly plastered old walls that, still now, looked to Laura like roughly spread royal icing. She loved the names of the cottages – the Old Pilchard Shed; Thistledown; Old Owl; Sunny Corner. Theirs – East Cottage – seemed rather humdrum by comparison, but Jack had put her off changing it when they moved in, as he’d said it was bad luck to change a house’s name. A couple of bicycles were chained to black metal downpipes, and there were more and more scooters parked in front of the cottages every month – what Rome had known for generations and London for a decade, it seemed, had finally trickled out to Charrington.
They turned left, inland, at the end of the road, a sharp gust of wind buffeting them as they stepped out of the protection of the lane. Arthur dropped his tail and Jack held her hand more tightly as she shivered. It had been a mild, wet autumn, but the Met Office had predicted arctic conditions for the winter, and if this wind was anything to go by, it looked like they had it right for once.
The lines of small red, blue and metallic silver cars parked along the outer streets alerted them that, for most people, the Christmas countdown had begun, and as they turned right into Main Street, they heard the mechanized music of the Santa’s Grotto in the town square. It was nothing more than a mobile home painted dark green, with tinsel around the window frames and garish lights fastened to the sides in the shape of Rudolph pulling a sleigh. At the front, a scowling teenager Laura recognized as Ruth, on an apprenticeship at her hair salon, was dressed as an elf. In truth she would have made a better Santa. She had the shape for him and, in time no doubt, she’d have the beard.
Laura and Jack walked by without making eye contact. Laura didn’t want to antagonize her. She used her nails when washing Laura’s hair as it was.
‘What do you think about the new Rav?’ Jack asked her as they queued at Greggs for some apple turnovers – their weekly treat.
Laura looked at him. ‘I haven’t made my mind up about what I think of the old Rav yet,’ she replied drily.
Jack grinned – her sarcasm always amused him. His hands squeezed her waist and she laughed out loud, squirming away from him. ‘Because I was thinking it’s probably about time we considered trading up. The Volvo’s getting pretty tired now. It’s up to a hundred and eighty thousand miles; the gearbox is sticking. Plus the MOT’s coming up in a few months.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I just thought the new shape looked good for us. The boot’s just about big enough, good mpg and . . .’
Laura crossed her eyes, and this time he laughed out loud. ‘What. Ev. Er.’
‘Does that mean you’ll come and look at some, then?’
‘So long as I get to choose the colour – inside and out.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘How are we going to pay for it, though? It’s not like we’ll get much for the Volvo.’
‘I’ve seen some good HP deals around. I think I can negotiate them down to the numbers I’ve got in my head,’ he nodded assuredly.
‘HP?’ Laura echoed, taking the paper bag from the assistant as Jack handed over the change. And I’ve just spent fifteen thousand on a heap of painted kindling. ‘I don’t know, Jack. I’d rather we didn’t get into that.’
Jack’s face fell. She’d seen the thumbed copies of Autocar under the mattress on his side of the bed.
‘I just mean, can’t we wait a bit till we could pay upfront instead?’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve already told you I’ve got money coming in pretty regularly now.’
‘Babe,’ Jack said, hugging her around the shoulders and kissing the top of her head, ‘I appreciate the gesture, but any money you make is yours to spend as you see fit. It’s treat money, and it wouldn’t make a tangible difference to the sums we’re talking about anyway. It would just get swallowed up and you’d have lost out on something special for no real gain.’ He kissed her again. ‘But I do appreciate the offer. Really I do.’
Part of Laura wanted to tell him that she’d just made in one month what he made in eight. But she didn’t. Being the principal breadwinner mattered to him above all else. It was his proof that he was providing for her, taking care of her.
They wandered through the pedestrianized square, where the giant Christmas tree – an annual gift from Charrington’s twin town, Farsund, in Norway – was being erected in its usual spot next to the war memorial opposite WH Smith. Jack squeezed her hand that little bit tighter as they passed Costa Coffee, where a group of six or seven men – twice Jack’s size and dressed as pantomime dames – were setting up a pitch, carol singing to raise money for the local rugby club. They eyed up Laura appreciatively, instantly falling into a rendition of ‘Uptown Girl’ that made her blush and Jack increase their pace.
They wandered through the thickening crowds without aim or deadlines, Arthur lifting his paws like a Lipizzaner horse to prevent anyone treading on them. Carphone Warehouse was heaving with teenagers pointing out to their weary, baffled parents the mobiles and packages with unlimited free texts that they wanted for Christmas. It wasn’t the relaxing leisure opportunity Jack had been hoping for, and he found the car charger and paid for it quickly whilst Laura waited outside with Arthur.
He returned the favour a few minutes later when they passed the shoe shop. Laura ducked in on the pretext of finding some snow boots, but really she wanted to check whether they’d got any new stock in – and whether any of that stock came in red.
They struck gold in Accessorize, buying Inuit-style slippers for Jack’s eleven-year-old niece, a Fair Isle beret and scarf for his sister, and a fake-fur hat and muffler for his mum. It was half their Christmas shopping list done at a stroke, but they stumbled on the male counterparts: Jack was sure his nephew – fourteen and carrying a licence to sulk – would want the newest PSP FIFA game, but couldn’t be sure he hadn’t already bought it, and even Jack conceded that he couldn’t buy his father another grey cashmere-blend V-neck. Three years running was quite enough.
Laura saw several things to consider for Fee – some sheepskin-lined boots (she had to find a way of keeping her warm somehow), a shaggy black ‘rock princess’ coat in Dorothy Perkins, a pink pleather handbag – but she wouldn’t commit this soon before Christmas. She had to be absolutely sure there wasn’t something better for her that she just hadn’t seen yet. Apart from Jack’s, it was the only other present on her list, so it had to be right.
Finally, driven by waning inspiration and budget, to Arthur’s intense delight they made the right turn he’d been waiting for and headed for the beach. The sea breeze lifted their hair up as they walked hand in hand away from the chattering crowds and towards the thickening band of gold ahead.
As they passed the beach huts, Jack stopped. ‘Look, that’s the one they were selling,’ he said, looking up at Urchin.
‘It’s a wreck,’ Laura replied, doing her best appalled face and watching him closely.
‘Yeah, but it could be amazing,’ he said, carefully climbing the steps. ‘It wouldn’t take that much to get it back.’
‘I hate peach.’ She stuck her tongue out to prove the point, beginning to enjoy the charade.
‘Imagine how good it’d look in a really dark grey, though, with a pale accent on the trims,’ he said, cupping his hands around his face and peering in through the window. He inspected the joists and collapsing door frame, wobbling the veranda for good measure. ‘Oh well. Maybe in the next life,’ he sighed, jumping over the steps back to her.
Laura squeezed his hand as they turned away and walked down to the water, feeling giddy with joy. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for Christmas.
‘Cooeee! It’s just me!’ Fee trilled, closing the back door on the cold night behind her and rubbing Arthur’s broad head as he bounded up to say hello and investigate the glorious smells emanating from the paper bags she was carrying. ‘Where is everybody, hey?’ she asked him in a deep, silly voice as she massaged his ears. ‘Where are they? Come on. Let’s go find them. Where are they?’
Arthur led the way and Fee followed him through the pale blue Shaker kitchen, her eyes taking in the bottle opener and unopened bottle of Marlborough on the worktop as she passed. The table was already set for three, with the chicken-printed oilcloth spread protectively over the fancy Farrow & Ball-painted tabletop. Fee knew it was for her benefit only – she had never yet eaten a curry without ruining one of the items of clothing she was wearing at the time, so Jack took no chances with the furniture. In fact, it was a small blessing that he didn’t spread newspaper over their seats too and make them all wear bibs for their Saturday-night ritual.
‘You’d better not be bonking!’ she hollered up the stairs as she walked past them towards the living room. ‘I’ll put X Factor on pause!’
She burst into the sitting room, and for a second was surprised to find the TV already on, muted.
‘Oh no,’ she whispered, and looked behind the door. Laura was lying on the big grey sofa, Jack sitting next to her, his arms outstretched so that each hand rested upon her shoulders. Slowly, rhythmically, he was squeezing each one, first left, then right.
Arthur gave a small whine as he saw the stiffness in his mistress’s muscles and pushed his wet nose against the hand that lay inert on her stomach, but she didn’t flinch or respond in any way. Her eyes were like marbles, her breath rapid, and a mist of sweat glossed her skin.
Fee sank to the floor in dismay as Jack looked up at her, despair in his eyes. She watched in silence as on and on he squeezed, neither speeding up nor slowing down, just a constant pulsing beat that echoed through Laura’s rigid body, until the repetitions, slowly balancing her horror-frozen brain into an REM-like trance, began to drive into her muscles and they started to droop like warmed wax, heating up and losing tone. He let his fingers keep the slow beat for another two minutes, then laid his hands like hot towels across her shoulders. Her breathing had calmed, she was coming back – and yet her eyes were still glazed, as though part of her remained locked inside.
Jack and Fee watched as Laura began to come to, growing more alert as she tuned into the music that was playing and the scent of the candle that was burning. She seemed puzzled momentarily to find Jack kneeling beside her. And then her face crumpled and she hid her face with her hands. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Babes, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for,’ Fee cried, flinging herself forward to the edge of the sofa and taking her friend’s hands in her own. ‘We’re the ones who are sorry. How are you feeling now? Better?’
Laura nodded. She looked pale and her eyes still weren’t focused. She turned towards Jack. ‘Thank you.’
Jack smiled, thinly and wearily.
‘What was the trigger?’ she asked, trying to remember.
‘The headlines came on. I couldn’t turn over the channel in time.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, trying to soothe him.
‘I should have known. It’s the anniversary. They were bound to show it. I should never have turned the telly on.’
‘Jack, you were watching the match. You couldn’t have known they’d show it then.’
But Jack shook her absolution away. ‘I should have thought. They always read the headlines during the ads. How bad was it, on a scale of one to ten?’
‘. . . Eight.’
Jack’s mouth twitched very subtly. ‘It’s gone up again. You haven’t been there for months.’
Laura shook her head. ‘No.’
After a moment, he gave a small shrug. ‘Well, it’s the four-year anniversary. It’s a more powerful trigger. I’m sure it’ll drop back next time.’
‘If there is a next time,’ Fee said fiercely. ‘That might’ve been the last one, for all we know. Have a little faith. You’re getting stronger every day, aren’t you, Laur?’
Laura nodded obediently. She and Jack both knew she had tonight to get through. She swung her legs round so that her feet touched the carpet.
‘Please let’s not dwell on it. I really just want to forget about it.’
‘Well, are you hungry?’ Fee asked quickly.
‘Starving,’ Laura lied.
‘Great! I got extra naan.’ Fee smiled. ‘Let’s eat while it’s still hot and get back to our Saturday night. Louis’ act’s going out tonight, I just know it!’ Fee looked over at Jack as they filed through the door. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll let us eat it on our laps?’
His strangled expression in response made even Laura laugh, and she felt the regression lift off her entirely: Fee’s light spirit was every bit as remedial as Jack’s carefully learned medical approach.
‘Well, it was worth a shot!’ Fee guffawed as they trooped into the kitchen and began peeling back the foil-covered tubs, the three of them doing a fine job of pretending it was just another normal Saturday night.
The next morning, as Old Grey sailed past the window, his wings beating with slow stateliness, his neck retracted, Laura looked towards the door. She could already hear the footsteps on the stairs, and the absence of slapping flip-flops or single-stab stilettos told her it wasn’t Fee.
Jack knocked with his customary rat-a-tat-tat and peered round the door. Laura was wearing leggings and one of his T-shirts, sitting at her bench, goggles pushed back on her head. A sheet of gold and her jewellery torch lay in front of her.
‘So this is where you’re hiding out.’ He smiled, walking into the room. It was blazing with light although it was freezing outside. Arthur was lying in the middle of the floor, pools of white sunshine beaming down on him like a heat lamp. He raised a quizzical head and cocked a curious ear at Jack’s presence here. Like Laura, he hadn’t been expecting him.
Jack leant down and kissed Laura’s pursed, closed mouth. She wondered if she still tasted of peanut-butter toast and coffee. ‘Back on crunchy?’ he asked.
She rolled her eyes, knowing he hated the taste of both. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have had honey and tea.’
‘Not on my account, please. I’ll kiss you regardless,’ he said, sliding a hand over her breast and squeezing lightly. She wasn’t wearing a bra and he knew she’d got dressed in the dark.
Laura smiled faintly, looking back down at the miniature silver pram she was working on – one of the charms for a christening bracelet that was due in a few weeks’ time.
‘How come you’re in so early?’ Jack asked, perching on the arm of the sofa. She was aware of his eyes watching for the occasional press of her nipple against the flimsy fabric.
‘Tides.’
‘I missed you.’
‘I just have to keep up with these orders,’ she replied, lowering her eyes again. ‘If I fall behind, I’ll never catch up again, and I can’t let the clients down. Everyone needs their pieces for Christmas.’
She felt him watch her as she heated the gold again with a green flame, hammering it lightly at just the right moment, her brow furrowed, her mouth set in a line of concentration. Her body language was closed and remote still. It always was after an attack. She’d slept on the far side of the bed the night before, her hair – wet from her inevitable protracted shower – soaking the pillow, a sea of unarticulated despair between them both. Would it ever be over?
Jack walked towards the far window and scanned the tide line. High water was only an hour or two away. He looked back at her.
‘Are you going to be working here all day, then?’
‘Yes. Why? Have you got to work today as well?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s Sunday, Laur. I believe in having a day of rest.’
She kept her eyes down. ‘These wheels are a nightmare. I want them to spin.’
‘Is there any particular reason why they have to?’
She shook her head. ‘I just want it to be authentic, that’s all.’
‘And yet again, Laura Cunningham makes life easy for herself,’ he teased.
Laura grunted her reply.
He heaved a sigh of defeat. ‘Well, in that case, I’d better go and get us some supplies. We’ll be stranded within the hour and that’s a prospect I could quite enjoy, as long as it involves the Sunday papers, plenty of food and you joining me at some point on the sofa. Is the milk fresh, or do you need some more?’
‘More, please.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be back in twenty, then. I’ll stretch out on the sofas and you won’t even know I’m there.’
But you always are, she thought to herself as the door clicked behind him and his footsteps faded beneath her. You always are.