She wakes sweating, disgusted with her own body. For a second she doesn’t know where she is. She reaches out, but the bed is empty. Her husband isn’t …
Her husband—
She flings off the damp duvet and gets up, stumbling as she hurries to the window. It is still pitch-black outside – a terrible void.
Her stomach lurches at the absence.
Yet she cannot understand why it disturbs her so much to wake to an empty bed. Henry often worked away, but then, no matter where he was, no matter whose bed he might be in, there was always the possibility of his return.
Not now. Never again …
She is parched.
There is no sound from Kit’s room as she creeps downstairs. Her darling boy— then she remembers, he isn’t here either. He is off with the barmaid. 113
She is totally alone.
Beatrice’s hands are uncertain as she pours herself a brandy to settle her nerves. She drinks it too quickly, then pours herself another to stop the feeling of something clawing deep inside. She doesn’t even like brandy that much.
She thinks she should have begged to bring Primrose. Even though guests aren’t allowed to bring dogs to stay in the peak season, surely one as well-behaved as Primmy wouldn’t threaten the island’s accommodation, flora or fauna. She decides to call the dog minder later and FaceTime her baby girl.
She slips on her coat and shoes and walks to the bottom of the garden. The clouds have shifted, and the sea is now sliced by shafts of moonlight. It is a mild night. The quiet beauty does nothing to calm her. She still has an overwhelming urge to lash out at something.
The thing is …
She takes a deep breath. The thing is, Beatrice’s darling husband Henry wasn’t just with someone when he dropped dead of a heart attack, rather, he was in them. Some awful secretary-assistant, half his age, naturally, which showed such a bloody lack of imagination! She was from Billericay for God’s sake.
Beatrice noticed the way people looked at her during the funeral. Her husband had turned her into the butt of a joke.
‘You bastard!’ she shouts into the night, hurling her glass at the rocks below. Fuck the wildlife!
That was a terrible night, after the funeral. After the guests had left Kit went out, because he couldn’t bear to be in the same house as his own grieving mother, and Beatrice was left utterly 114alone. She sat in the kitchen feeling sorry for herself.
She can’t remember exactly what Kit said when he came home the next morning, but there was something about the way he looked at her. Just like his father. Judging her.
She can admit now that she probably lost control, although she only has the vaguest memory of it.
But she does recall Kit snarling at her, literally baring his teeth, as he said, very quietly, ‘If you ever do that again, I will hit you back.’ She had no reason to doubt him. She’d never seen that side of her boy before. He got that hidden fury from his father.
She supposes she drove him to it. His eye was a little bruised.
Beatrice marches back indoors, deciding to make herself an Irish Coffee Royale with the brandy – a small treat.
In a few months it will be Christmas. Despite all the rest, her husband had always managed to be with her on the island then. She wonders if she should invite a few chums over to make the best of it this year. Celebrate … surviving. Perhaps invite Charlotte again.
The kitchen feels empty without Primrose. She misses the dog so much. Always wanted a daughter.
She puts on the radio and sets about assembling her drink.
By the time the sun has made a heroic effort to drag itself up from the dark sea, Beatrice is, once again, a merry widow.