for the weekend.’ Eddie beams while he taps his cigarette ash into the fireplace. Tonight a fire is roaring to keep the evening’s dampness at bay.
‘Always a pleasure.’ I say, studying his face. He is such a dear man.
‘I was just catching up with what Tom’s been up to. It’s hard to believe it was twelve years ago that I last saw him here.’
‘At my parents’ anniversary party.’ It had been a momentous night in many ways. Aside from meeting Allan for the first time, my mother’s drink problem became public which might have been caused by my father’s mistress attending the evening as well. I’d fled to the watchtower to escape and Allan had followed me, concerned even though he’d only just met me. Years later he confessed that Tom had gone looking for me on the beach. But that had been the beginning. He’d asked me the following day to join him and Tom sailing. I’d escaped with two beautiful young men, leaving my mother to her bottle and my father to his mistress.
The Indonesian gong, a legacy from my father’s years there, announces dinner. Tom takes my arm. ‘May I escort you through?’
‘Of course.’ Glancing over my shoulder I see that Allan has the arm of the latest beauty in the neighbourhood. Nothing new in that. My dear husband does have an eye for it.
‘Now, we need to have a chat.’
Nodding, I catch sight of Mrs Hoskine waving at me from the kitchen door. Tom sees her as well and releases my arm.
‘Later.’
‘Yes.’ I sigh. One way or another I will find a moment alone with him before tomorrow afternoon.
3 August 2018, 7.30 p.m
Lottie was digesting what little information the nurse had given her when Gramps reached her at the bottom of the stairs. She caught his expression as he went to the office. Devastated didn’t begin to describe it. They had been together for over forty years. Their anniversary had been in June. She’d seen the pictures tucked away in a photo album years ago.
Her phone beeped, and she looked at the text.
Hello. It’s Jamie Sharp here. Have made some progress. Have tracked down Paul’s first wife. Will be in touch.
Lottie didn’t see how talking to Paul’s ex would help. She wouldn’t know anything unless Paul had run off to be with her again. That wasn’t likely. She sighed. Walking through the kitchen door to check her chilli, she stopped in the doorway. Alex, wearing a striped apron, was stirring the pot. Fresh vegetables were laid out on the table. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out so she closed it and continued to stare.
He turned. ‘I’m not much of a cook but the chilli was close to burning, which would be a waste as it smells good.’
She remained just inside the kitchen unable to move forward. He was the last person she had expected to see cooking. Her mother possibly, but not Alex and definitely not Alex in an apron wielding a wooden spoon.
‘Speechless at my beauty?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Something like that.’ She swallowed. He had no right to look so good and she had no right to feel the way she did. ‘More than mildly curious as to why you are here in the kitchen saving my chilli.’
He nodded. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ He paused. ‘I’m making my dinner as the cottage doesn’t have a functioning kitchen and I’ve been giving George a hand with cooking.’
‘Ready-meals?’
‘And fresh veg.’
She frowned. ‘Mrs Blitho, the daily?’
‘With her daughter . . . who is on bed rest expecting her second set of twins.’
‘Not brilliant timing.’ She frowned.
‘No.’ He left the stove and went to the sink and began to wash the veg.
She took a deep breath, she needed to speak now, not later. Lottie had longed to say these words for years and had rehearsed them in her dreams, hoping that somehow, she could make at least part of her past right.
‘Alex.’
He turned with lettuce in hand. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s been a long time . . .’ Her voice faded away and she took a step to the nearest chair, grabbing the back of it. He stared at her with a guarded expression on his face. She preferred the jokey one of a few moments ago.
‘What’s been a long time?’
‘Sorry. Ten years ago.’ She ran her hands over the battered oak of the chair, feeling the strength of the wood. She could be strong. This was the right thing to do. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘But I’ve told myself it’s never too late to apologise.’
He raised an eyebrow. She took that as encouragement to continue. ‘I’m sorry for so much and if I could, I would do many things differently.’ She twisted her hands together. In her head the words had rolled out but now they were fading in her mouth, coming out at half strength. ‘But I can’t. But I can say . . . I’m sorry . . . to you.’
He leaned against the sink, remaining silent. She looked around the kitchen at the pine table and the painted wooden cabinet that lined the north wall. It was scarred with a few more marks and chips in the paintwork, showing the passage of time. ‘I treated you appallingly in that whole mess. I should never have said what I did. It wasn’t true.’ She hung her head studying the red tiled floor and taking a deep breath, but then she glanced up, making sure she made eye contact. ‘I’m sorry. I was so very wrong.’
Weighing a beef tomato in one hand, he passed it to the other. He didn’t look away and she held his stare. She didn’t deserve forgiveness, she’d been vile, saying things that were hurtful and untrue.
‘Thank you.’ He put the tomato down and turned back to the sink.
She stared at his back, managing to close her open mouth and swallow the reply she wasn’t invited to give. The conversation was over. That was fine. At least she’d apologised and openly owned her wrongdoing. He had accepted it . . . not graciously, but he had. That was what mattered.
Now to move on and attend to dinner. This she could do. Her shoulders fell as she took the pot off of the heat and placed the lid on top. It would stay warm and be the perfect temperature for eating shortly. She gazed around, not sure what to do with Alex occupying the sink and in control of the veg. She was lost but maybe she had always been. Now she needed to find her way home.
3 August 1962, 7.45 p.m.
As
