Finding Dreams, page 25
In a way, it would be a relief to be able to throw off her cloak of deception.
To love freely in her own name and her own body, and be accepted by the master for who she was. But Victoria knew that he would never accept her if he knew the truth. His own wife had been unfaithful and betrayed him for another man. Victoria had left her husband and therefore been unfaithful too. Even though she’d had a good reason – Tom’s own infidelity – in the eyes of society, she was the fallen woman. She must never let the mask slip of her own accord. The only person she could trust was herself.
But eventually, she knew, others would force her day of reckoning.
Chapter 30
The following day, I wake up early to the low rumbling sound of a machine. I open the window and crane my neck to look at what’s going on by the shore of the lake. There are several workmen standing around, about fifty metres away from the house. One of the Johns is operating a small Bobcat digger, the shovel breaking ground in my back lawn.
Though I’ve already been shown the plans and given my permission, I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve made the right decision to give them free rein over the lake shore. They’re building a small dock for the boats that will also serve as an anchor for a huge camera zip wire they’re installing to take aerial shots of the shore. The zip wire will be anchored across the lake at the top of a large crane. When this whole thing is over, they’re supposed to return the property to its original state. As I watch them go about their work, I wonder whether it might be good to keep the dock once it’s built. It might be useful for the B&B – I could buy a little canoe or a rowing boat for the guests to go out on the lake.
I get dressed for work, feeling tired – I was up until almost midnight revising the document sent through by my new boss. Because filming has already started, the work on the dock has to start early in the morning so that the noise won’t disturb the schedule. I go to check on Jack in his cot – he’s fast asleep, but I wake him up, knowing that he’ll want to see the digger before he has to leave for nursery. I get him dressed and try to wake Katie (bribing her with a promise that she can watch the filming this afternoon before she does her homework). By the time the three of us get downstairs to the kitchen, the digger has excavated a hole a few feet wide and at least as deep.
Though I try to hold him back, Jack breaks away from me and runs out to where the men are standing around. One of them lifts him up on the digger, and he shrieks with delight as he’s allowed to pull the lever back to move the shovel. Katie rolls her eyes like the whole thing is lame – well beneath the dignity of a budding young actrice.
John C comes up to me and we exchange good morning’s. ‘By the time you get home tonight,’ he says, ‘you won’t recognise the place.’
I laugh a bit nervously. ‘I hope that’s a good thing – I guess I’ll have to trust you.’
He laughs too – not particularly reassuring.
Jack ‘helps’ operate the digger for a few more minutes before it’s time to go. Of course, he won’t get off, and he kicks and screams when I try to make him. It takes three of us to extract him from the cab of the digger, by which time John J has acquired a toddler trainer-sized bruise just below his eye.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Thanks for letting him have a go.’
‘Sure,’ John J says. ‘No problem. Tell him I’ll see him later for the football.’
The mention of football is like a cloud passing over the sun. Why didn’t I speak to Luke last night when I had the chance? Why am I such a great big chicken? I have a duty to protect my son from people who might be… nice to him. Because is there really any harm in my son kicking a football around with the film crew members? Why should I spoil the fun just because of how I feel about Luke?
I carry Jack round to the front of the house. When I pass by the marquee, I’m surprised to see how many people are already on set. Things are always busy first thing, but today there seems to be a particular buzz. I detour inside and ask Annie if everything’s OK.
‘Yeah, fine,’ she says. ‘It’s a big day today. Natasha’s starting her scenes.’
‘Oh, right.’
That explains, I suppose, why the costumers and make-up artists are all present and accounted for a good hour before the time set out on the call sheet. I’ve already been round to the trailer and seen the coterie of dresses and period undergarments she’ll be wearing. A whole wall of the costume trailer is devoted to wigs in different hairstyles – prim, windswept, wanton, posh – and I’ve seen on the call sheet that she’s due to spend three hours in hair and make-up. Apparently on the agenda for the morning’s shoot is: ‘Victoria unpacks her trunk’, ‘Victoria wheels Mrs Clarke in the rose garden’; ‘Victoria cuts herself on the broken locket’; and ‘Victoria meets Belle’.
I take Jack out to the caravan for Connie to take him to school, but to my annoyance there’s no sign of Katie. Connie tells me to go, so I don’t miss my train. But curiosity gets the better of me and I take a quick detour round the back of the garage to the field of trailers.
Except for the absence of barefoot children and vicious dogs, it could be a traveller’s camp. I make my way to the costume trailer. My daughter is sitting in a plastic chair outside, next to Chloe, and a young, petite blonde woman wearing a tracksuit, her hair in a ponytail.
Natasha Blythe is smaller and thinner than her pictures in the glossy magazines make her out to be – and I wonder if I’d even recognise her if I passed her in the street. She laughs at something Chloe says, and takes a sip from a paper cup of coffee. To me, this young woman doesn’t fit the image in my head of the sultry, auburn-haired Victoria. I wish I could be here in a few hours when she’ll no doubt be transformed into a completely different person by movie magic. But, alas, I have a train to catch.
‘Hi,’ I say, going up to them. ‘Katie. It’s time for school.’
‘Aww, Mum, can’t I stay and watch?’
‘No. Come on.’
Katie gets up from the chair, a petulant pout on her face. ‘See you later,’ she says to the other two women.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say.
‘No problem,’ Natasha/Victoria says. Her voice is light and a little high-pitched. I know from what I’ve read that she’s English but has spent quite a bit of time in Hollywood. I can just detect the trace of an American accent. For some reason, I find that a bit unsettling. Will Katie be like this woman when she grows up? Half herself, half Hollywood starlet?
I stand there for a few seconds longer feeling suddenly awkward.
Natasha breaks the silence. ‘I love your house,’ she says. ‘It’s good to be here.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I hope everything goes well for you today.’
I leave the two women sitting there and rush off to get the train. On my way out of the gate there are four paparazzi, all trying to get a quote from me – and can I confirm that Natasha Blythe has arrived? John J and Danny close the gate as soon as I’m through, continuing their stand-off against the outside world. I don’t say anything to the photographers, but this time I smile when one of them takes my photo. If I’m going to be caught on camera, I may as well try and look the part.
*
Like Katie, I’m disappointed not to be there for the day’s filming, and feel a strong sense that I’m missing out. But as I sit on the train and use the journey to crunch some numbers on the B&B, I know that, for now, I need to keep my job. Pray that nothing goes wrong to upset my precarious finances that are still teetering on the brink.
I get to work, grab a coffee, and then it’s time to meet my new boss, Diana, in person. We have a few minutes of chit-chat – I find out that she’s a born and bred Londoner with two kids, a stay-at-home husband and a full-time nanny. She already knows about Dave (I think everyone at the whole firm knows) but she doesn’t come out with any ‘sorry for your loss’s or ‘are you doing OK?’s. Instead she’s upfront about the other issue.
‘When Harry hired you, we all assumed it was for your tits,’ she says. ‘But I’ve been through what you sent me last night, and it seems that maybe there’s a bit more to you.’ She hands me the draft back with her comments – there are very few of them.
‘Thanks,’ I say with a nervous laugh. ‘Though Harry must be pretty desperate.’
‘Oh, some men love a fresh widow. I should know. I lost my first husband in a boating accident.’
‘Really?’ I look at her with interest. I never would have guessed in a million years.
‘It was a long time ago. And what they say is true – it does get better with time.’ She suddenly has that same dreamy smile that I’ve seen before on Connie’s face. ‘Besides, the second time is twice as nice.’
‘So I’m told.’ I smile wanly, picking up the draft. Because she’s happy with the work I’ve done so far, she’s given me more to do. ‘I’d better be getting on.’
As I’m walking out of her office, she stops me. ‘I can see you don’t believe me, Lizzie. But take my word for it. Your time will come.’
Shaking my head, I go out the door. While I’m glad that I’ve survived the incident with Harry and I’ve found something in common with my new boss, on this one point at least, I’m sure she’s wrong.
*
I work hard all morning, and at lunchtime, I get my sandwich from the fridge and eat at my desk, determined to crack on with my plans for the B&B. I want to get it up and running as soon as I can once the filming is done. I phone the council to ask about change of use and permits. I then phone a builder we used once to repoint some bricks on the house, and speak to him about getting the house compliant with fire and building regulations. I write everything down in a notebook, trying to remain dispassionate and unfazed by how much things cost. I’ve already done some online research about what other B&Bs in the area charge, so I have an idea of the rates I could get. I calculate everything on the basis of a low occupancy rate for the first year, which makes the numbers even more daunting. When I’ve calculated everything, I’ll run the numbers past Connie to see if she thinks the idea has legs. I can always count on her to be brutally honest.
I make a few more calls – to a farm shop to ask about deliveries of local produce, and to a laundry to find out about the cost of bed linen services. I also need to research the cost of advertising on websites like Airbnb, and how to get ratings from agencies that assign stars and crowns. It’s all exciting, and yet scary too. Am I really ready to take such a big risk?
I close the notebook and put it away. In my old life with Dave, I didn’t take any risks. Maybe that’s why things stagnated. I hope that by coming to grips with the mistakes of the past, I can build a better future for myself and my children. I took a risk with the film project and now I have a new ambition – a new dream – of opening the B&B. Step by step, I’m moving closer to the unknown.
I’m so busy all afternoon that I barely even have time to worry about the goings-on at Tanglewild – how Natasha/Victoria gets on with her scenes, whether a part for Katie has been written in, or whether or not any football gets played. By the time I finally leave the office, it’s after seven. It’s a sunny evening, and crowds spill out of every pub I pass on my way to the station. I text Connie and ask her to put the children to bed, feeling grateful that I’ve survived the day, and glad that by the time I get home, the film crew will have left.
I don’t get home until after nine. The cars are gone from the drive, and only Danny is there, watching a video on his phone. I wave to him and he nods at me. As I come through the gate, I’m hit by a sudden feeling of sadness. It’s like I’ve come upon the remains of a circus, shuttered and empty, the joy and memories held only in the scattered popcorn and candy wrappers strewn on the ground. In this case, the rubbish is in bags waiting to be collected early the following morning and there are still trays of picked-over fruit on the table outside the marquee. The doors are left open as usual, as if waiting for people to return who have vanished into thin air.
There’s a light on in the kitchen. Connie’s there by herself doing the washing-up. There’s a bottle of wine on the table that she must have got from the cellar for me. ‘They’re both asleep,’ she says. ‘So if you don’t mind, I’m going to call it a night.’
‘Sure.’ I set down my bag on the kitchen table. ‘Thanks so much.’
‘See you tomorrow.’ She goes out of the room without any of her usual chat.
I debate whether to go upstairs and change my clothes, and give the kids a goodnight kiss. But as I look out at the dark outline of the trees across the lake, with the last pink of the setting sun behind them, I decide to take advantage of this rare moment to myself. I open the bottle of wine and take a glass from the cupboard. I’m about to sit down at the table to pour it when I notice that the back door to the terrace is ajar. I go over, carrying the bottle and the glass, and push the door open with my foot.
The silence is unusual. Even the birds seem to have been tired out by the day. I can hear the burble of the gentle current as the lake water empties into the weir at the far end. In the opposite direction, the new dock hasn’t progressed much since the morning. There’s a large pile of dirt and a single pole sticking out of a hole. The digger is parked at a slanted angle next to the lake shore. Well beyond, where the lake bends in a curve, I can see the edge of the dovecote, nestled dark and secluded in the copse of trees. At the far end of the terrace, the chairs and loungers have been pushed towards the lake.
All of a sudden, I hear a creak of wood coming from one of the loungers. A dark figure rises up, and turns towards me.
For a second I stand there unable to move. A thousand incoherent emotions flood through me. Anxiety is the one that wins out. ‘Sorry, I thought everyone was gone,’ I say. ‘I’ll go back inside…’
‘No.’ Luke’s face seems hazy in the twilight; only his eyes are in focus. ‘Please… won’t you stay?’ He pulls one of the other loungers next to the one he’s been sitting in.
I take a hesitant step forward. ‘I was just going to have a glass of wine…’
I can feel the blood coursing through my body as I set the glass and the bottle down on a small wooden table that’s nearby. I move the table between the loungers, creating a space between us. I think about going to the kitchen for a second glass, but something stops me. If I leave now, I won’t be coming back. And there’s something unbearable in that.
I sit down and pour the wine. It’s almost black as it splashes into the glass. I gesture to him to take a sip. He lifts the glass and drinks.
‘I’m sorry,’ I try to begin, ‘for slapping you, and acting rude, and—’
‘Don’t apologise.’
He holds the glass out to me and our fingers brush as I grab the stem, setting my senses on high alert. I take a sip, and pass the glass back to him. Neither of us speak, as the strange communion continues. My mind races in the background about what the hell I’m doing, and why suddenly, everything I’d planned to say seems irrelevant. But I banish all thoughts, focusing on this one unlikely moment.
‘It’s me who’s been a complete bastard,’ he says finally. ‘And I’m sorry for it, Lizzie.’ He draws out my name as if it’s an unfamiliar taste on his tongue.
The glass is nearly empty as I hand it to him to finish. ‘Why?’ I say, almost positive I don’t want to hear the answer, but knowing that I have to. ‘Why don’t you want to be here? Why were you so set against this place from the start?’
He swings his long legs onto the lounger and puts his hands behind his head, elbows outstretched. He stares out at the darkness of the lake as the orange glow begins to fade from the sky behind the trees. I find that I’m unable to look away from him. I can sense that he’s warring with something inside himself. I pour more wine in the glass and hand it over to him. He takes it, and turns the glass slightly, and I swear that his lips touch the place where mine have been.
I feel a rippling sensation somewhere deep inside, like the waves of a pebble thrown into a pool of water. And at that moment I know that whatever I’m longing for – that precious and fragile thing that I can feel awakening within me – will live or die by the next words that come out of his mouth.
‘Let me tell you a story,’ he says.
Chapter 31
‘Once upon a time, there were three teenagers.’ His voice is low. ‘Two girls and a boy. A very stupid boy.’
I wait as he seems to falter. He’s only a few feet away, but it’s like he’s slipped away into a different time.
‘I was the boy, of course. I’m sure you figured that one out. I grew up on a housing estate in Hull. My dad was a car salesman. My mum was an accountant for a shipping company. We were normal people. Happy – or, at least, content.’
I nod.
‘Anyway, Mum had a cousin she was close to. My “Aunt” Roz. She was the posh one in our family – got married to a stockbroker in London. With a big house in Surrey.’ He sighs. ‘This house. We used to visit in the summers, sometimes for a week, sometimes two. They had a son named Max – he was a few years older than me. They also had a daughter named Julie who was only a year older. When we were kids we used to play together – build dens in the woods, climb trees, things like that. We made up secret clubs and I could talk to her about things. We were close, I guess.
‘Anyway, Julie’s dad died when she was about ten. A few years later Aunt Roz announced that she was getting married again. The new husband had one child – a daughter.’
‘Phillipa?’ I say, almost afraid to hear the answer.
‘Back then, everyone called her Pippa. She was two years older than me. She went to an expensive boarding school in Kent. That summer – I’d just turned fifteen and Julie was sixteen – their parents went off on an extended honeymoon. So my mum agreed to come down here to look after the lot of us. I didn’t want to go. I knew Max was going to be there and I didn’t like him, and I didn’t want to meet some new stepsister of Julie’s. All I wanted to do was make films with a new Sony video camera I’d got for my birthday. That was my dream, even then.’
