to live like this here, in Saltburn, is much better for Em than living like this there – back in London.’
‘A change of scenery does not change a situation, Tess. God. Look, I'll pop a cheque for a hundred pounds in the post – OK? But don't bloody ask again – not till your birthday or Christmas. It's not that I can't afford it, it's that I feel I'm not doing you any favours. You've got to drag yourself out of this pit, Tess. You've been in it for long enough. I know about things like this – it becomes habit, to wallow.’
You? Claire? Know about this? When you've been provided for and kept in the manner to which you so swiftly became accustomed as soon as you met your husband? You with your joint bank account into which you put no funds? Your rich, devoted husband providing you with a chequebook and a credit card, support and approval, for your every whim?
There was so much Tess could have screamed out in her defence – but she didn't dare, not during this phone call.
‘It's easier said than done,’ she said quietly instead.
‘What about Child Benefit?’
‘It's a standing order into my bank account.’
‘Well then!’
‘But my bank card—’
‘Christ, Tess. I mean – honestly!’
Tess had to swallow down hard – on her pride and on tears. ‘Claire – please help. I won't ask again. I'm only asking you now because—’
‘God! Come on then – give me your address,’ and the tedium in Claire's voice could so easily have reduced Tess to tears. If she wasn't so desperate, if she had more pride, if she felt more up, if Joe hadn't left, she might just have said, stuff your bloody money.
‘Your address, Tess? I have to pick up the kids.’
‘Could you not send cash?’
‘Don't be ridiculous.’
‘But if you send a cheque the bank will just swallow it whole.’
‘For God's sake, Tess, how can you live like this?’
‘Because at the moment, I have no choice.’
‘Don't be so defeatist. Life is what you make it.’
‘All I wanted was to make a good life – but things didn't go my way.’
‘Well, change bloody direction then.’
‘That's what I'm trying to do.’
‘I can't send cash in the post.’
‘Could you perhaps send a postal order?’
‘Do they still do such things?’
‘Yes, they do.’
‘You need to do something, Tess. Seriously. It's pathetic.’
‘I have been trying. For over two years, I've been trying. I continue to try. Why do you always imply it's something I have the power to change?’
‘Oh, come on – don't do the feeling-sorry-for-yourself act, or absolving yourself of responsibility. You can't be blameless in this situation and therefore there must be something you can do – something other than holding the fort for some old fart, dusting his doorknobs and putting out the rubbish. Why don't you get a proper job?’
‘I just said why. Anyway, this is a proper job – and it's board and lodging too.’
‘Well, why not ask Lord of the Manor to pay you more? Do his ironing or cooking or something. You'll still have time for his doorknobs and dusting.’
‘He's not here often enough.’ Tess held the receiver against her chest and rested her forehead against the glass. Oh Joe, you're not here nearly enough. Please, please come back. Please, please let me stay. ‘Please, Claire.’ She tapped her head against the glass and closed her eyes. ‘I'm – begging you.’
‘OK. OK. Give me the address. I'll sort it tomorrow. I've got to go, Tess. God.’
The relief of banknotes. The feel of their oily, parchmenty surface. The smell of them. The Queen's face, benevolent. The novel sensation of closing her wallet with the notes inside causing a slight resistance when she folded the leather, like a foot in a door; something in there at last. Thank you, Your Majesty.
Tess bought Em a shiny foil windmill and she treated them to soup at Virgo's. She had a window seat. Every mouthful was ambrosial after all that Marmite and toast. One of the mums she'd befriended walked by and waved. Life didn't seem so bad when there was good food in one's stomach and money in the pot and a friendly face waving, hey, Tess. And then the sun came out and Seb sauntered past just as she dunked the complimentary biscotti in her cappuccino.
On the other side of the window, Seb made the universal gesture for sipping a hot beverage, to which Tess shrugged and smiled and nodded that he could join her.
‘Hey there, stranger,’ he said, lowering his voice when he saw that Em was sleeping. ‘If I'd waited by my phone, I'd be fossilized by now.’
In her need over the last few days to suspend reality, Tess had forgotten about Seb's number on the calendar, about his trip away, about his previous offer of fish and chips and a DVD. ‘I'm sorry, Seb – something came up. It's been really full-on recently. I was going to ring – tonight.’
‘Yeah, right.’
She reddened; it sounded stupid and flagrantly untrue. But because he'd nobbled her so sweetly, she could scrunch her napkin and chuck it at him.
‘I was!’
‘Baby's asleep,’ Seb noticed. ‘That means I don't need to watch my language. So – what a day, what a fucking awesome day.’
His eyes were a little watery, the irises vivid, the whites a little bloodshot as if he'd just come out of the sea.
‘Nice waves?’ Tess tried. ‘Swell swell – or whatever the correct surfing terminology is?’
Seb laughed. ‘Nothing to do with the sea – though I was out first thing. No – you are looking at one rich fucker.’ He leant back in the chair and patted his puffed-up chest.
‘How so? Is that why you went away? You were only away for a week.’
‘Yeah, and I've been back a week too. No – I went to see rellies down in Cornwall – you know, we trade surf every couple of months. It's an awesome day today because of a nice fat insurance payout that's come my way.’ Seb said it as if it could have happened to anyone in the town that Tuesday morning. Apart from Tess, it seemed, who looked confused. ‘A couple of years ago I was in a car crash. My friend was driving. I sued him. The money came through today.’
‘You sued your friend?’
‘Yep.’
She baulked.
Seb
