At five o’clock, Honor had a shower, got dressed and composed herself. She’d spent all afternoon mentally rehearsing her speech to Johnny. She would make it clear she wasn’t putting any pressure on him. It was her deal; her mistake. But as she pulled on her coat and went out to her car, she felt excited. She had a vision in her head of a little stone cottage somewhere just outside Bath, with a cosy kitchen, babygros drying on the Aga, Johnny coming in from work and giving the
baby its bath while she put the finishing touches to their supper…
She inched her way through the rush-hour traffic with everyone else trying to leave the city, and finally made it on to the road to Bradford-on-Avon. Johnny lived in a converted barn adjoining the farm of one of his wealthy clients, a barrister whose wife and daughters were horse mad. Johnny treated their horses in return for a nominal rent. The barn was thick with dog hair and mud, coffee cups and wine glasses, empty beer cans and takeaway cartons. Honor had long given up trying to restore any order to the bachelor squalor. Her eyes flicked towards the digital clock on her dashboard. It was six thirty on a Thursday evening. He’d have finished his surgery by now; he’d be home having a shower or a power nap before going out. She turned into his drive, hoping against hope he would be there, suddenly needing his reassurance. He’d come through for her, she felt sure he would.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she drew up beside his filthy Audi estate. She jumped out of her car and ran to the back door. She could feel the tears welling up already; she knew she wasn’t going to be able to break the news calmly and with dignity. She just wanted to feel his arms around her.
The news was on the telly; his jacket was on the breakfast bar, next to an open bottle of Becks. He must be in the bedroom getting changed.
‘Johnny!’ she called out, and pushed open the bedroom door.
Underneath his Homer Simpson duvet cover were two heads. Johnny and his client’s leggy nineteen-year-old
daughter Chloe. Chloe peered through the gloom.
‘Oh fuck,’ she said, then prodded the figure next to her. ‘Johnny, it’s the missus.’
Honor stood stock-still for a moment, surveying the scene with horror, and then turned and fled.
Later that evening Johnny had rung on the bell of her flat, wanting to explain.
‘What, exacdy?’ she’d snarled at him over the intercom.
‘It wasn’t what it looked like,’ he pleaded.
‘Please,’ said Honor wearily. ‘Just leave me alone. I’m going away for a fortnight. I’m taking the leave that’s owing to me. I’ll talk to you when I get back and not before. OK?’
She hung up the phone. Thankfully, he seemed to get the message – she watched from the window as he drove away. Relieved that she’d bought herself some time by putting him off the scent, she sank down into the chair in her kitchen and put her head in her hands, wondering what on earth she was going to do.
She had to go away. She couldn’t face seeing Johnny again. Not even for a moment. The nausea of pregnancy was nothing compared to the sickness she felt when she conjured up the image of him in bed with Chloe. She needed a clean break. She pulled a notebook and pen out of the kitchen drawer, and began to write lists. And, more importantly, do her sums. By ten o’clock that evening, she thought she had a plan. Utterly exhausted, she fell into bed, praying that she would sleep and wouldn’t be tortured by images of her treacherous lover in bed with a nineteen-year-old nymphet.
The following morning she phoned the hotel to say she was going on sick leave immediately, and that she was handing in her notice. It was only half an hour before Maddox turned up. She let him in resignedly. She owed him at least part of an explanation.
‘What’s the little snake done?’ he demanded. ‘Dumped you? Cheated on you? Come on, Honor. I want to help.’
‘Look, Maddox. It really doesn’t matter what’s happened, because you can’t change it. But I’ve got to hand in my notice. I’ve got to move on.’
Maddox was beside himself. He threatened one minute to sue her, then the next tried to shower her with vast sums of money to lure her back.
‘No one else understands how I want this place run,’ he grumbled.
‘I’m sorry’ Honor was trenchant. Then the colour drained from her face and she fled the room to be sick. When she came back, Maddox surveyed her beadily from behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
‘You’re pregnant,’ he said accusingly. And when she didn’t reply he knew he’d hit the nail on the head. ‘No problem. I’ll pay for a full-time nanny, and you can have a room at the hotel for the kid so you can see it whenever you want while you’re working. And you only need to work part-time. Just to keep the place afloat. You’re my right hand, Honor.’
But endless wheedling had no effect. Honor felt as if she was letting him down, this funny little East Coast American with his yellow jumpers and his crisp chinos and his hair parted on the side, who’d given her so many opportunities. But as much as Maddox was a mover and
shaker, a man that made things happen, he couldn’t turn the clock back for her.
‘I’ve got to leave Bath, Maddox,’ she said wearily.
‘What’s the bastard done to you?’
‘Nothing. But if you tell him anything, or where I am, I’ll burn your hotel to the ground,’ she threatened.
Maddox knew when it was time to make a tactical withdrawal. Determined to win her over eventually, he gave her a hug and told her to call him any time of day or night for advice, counselling, ‘or just confirmation that the guy is a grade A piece of shit’. Honor smiled. Maddox could always be relied upon to tell it like it was, though if he knew the real truth she shuddered to think what his reaction might be. Maddox was the kind of guy who had murky contacts. Not that he was tacky enough to rely on them except
in extremis
. But she could imagine Johnny being found face down in a slurry pit with cement in his wellies.
Over the next two days, she went through her flat like a dose of salts, despite the incredible tiredness that overwhelmed her and tried to lure her back under the duvet. She resolutely ignored what her body was telling her: time was not on her side, and she had to act fast before other forces intervened. She ruthlessly threw out anything she didn’t want or need, called in a designer dress agency to dispose of her wardrobe, followed by a housing clearance company, until she had nothing left but two suitcases of clothing, a box of kitchen utensils, another box of personal effects and a portable CD player, all of which could be fitted into the boot of her car.
Then she put her flat on the market.
‘I don’t want a board up, or to have it advertised,’ she instructed the agent. ‘I want it sold discreetly.’
It wasn’t a problem. They had five clients actively seeking a one-bedroom flat in the centre of Bath. Two of them came back within twenty-four hours and offered the asking price. One of them was in a position to proceed, so she accepted the offer. By the time she’d paid off her mortgage she would have seventy-five thousand pounds left in the bank. Not enough to buy somewhere else. But a reasonable buffer. And more than many single mothers.
At the end of the week, she was ready to leave. She called Maddox to say goodbye and he insisted on coming over. He handed her a brown padded envelope.
‘It might come in useful. And please – if you ever need anything… I would do anything for you, you know that?’
Honor nodded, unable to speak because of the lump in her throat. For she was terrified, and it would be all too easy to throw herself on Maddox’s mercy. But she knew she had to make a clean break. She threw her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek, not daring to look at the reproach in his eyes, then got in her car to leave Bath behind for the very last time.
She opened the envelope that evening. It contained three thousand pounds in pristine twenty-pound notes. Honor’s instinct was to return it straight away, but she knew Maddox would refuse to take it back, and that it had been given with the best will in the world.
Besides, she was pretty sure she was going to need it.
She found the cottage advertised in
The Lady
. The owner was going abroad indefinitely – for at least five years, to
work in the Middle East – and effectively wanted someone in the cottage to keep it lived in. Not only was the rent pleasingly low, but there was a substantial budget for running repairs and decoration. She only needed to ask and there would be more.
It was tiny – a little gingerbread house. Not unlike the little house she’d imagined for her and Johnny. It was in a remote Cotswold village, well off the beaten track, deep in the wilds of Gloucestershire. It had a porch with a stable door, leading into a living room with an inglenook fireplace, a small kitchen with a proper pantry off, and upstairs a bedroom and a boxroom and a bathroom. There was a little walled garden out the back, with a shed that had once been the outside loo. Sunny and south-facing. Safe and secure. The village, Eversleigh, had a post office, a pub, a school and a church. The village hall advertised yoga classes, mother and toddlers and Cubs and Brownies. Everything she was likely to need to keep body and soul together over the next few years.
And although her life had been turned upside down, she had been happy. Ted was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and to her surprise not once did she resent him, or blame him for curtailing her career, because to raise a child was the ultimate fulfilment. By making her life simple, she found she could manage financially. And the one thing she did have was time. Time to bake bread and cakes from scratch, grow things in the garden, teach Ted to read, make him homemade playdough, take him on long, splashy walks. The highlight of her week was when the mobile library came round. They would clamber on board, Ted would choose a new picture book,
and she would fall with glee upon whatever new novel she had ordered. Even clothes didn’t matter to her any more. Where once she’d been a label freak, now she wasn’t ashamed to go to a jumble sale or a charity shop. Round here people often chucked out because it was last season or a mistake, and she wasn’t proud. Once in the washing machine with a double dose of Lenor, and it was as good as new.
And now Ted was at school, she was really getting it together. As well as her work, she had a little bit of time for herself. Sometimes she would get back from dropping him at school and do her own home spa. Where once she would have wallowed in Clarins, now she used the supermarket’s own body scrubs and face masks, and she had to admit that the overall effect was much the same. She’d cut her long hair off into a tousled crop which made her brown eyes look enormous and took two minutes to dry.
Her mother swooped in on a visit once a year or so, bringing overgenerous gifts that Honor didn’t really need, like bottles of perfume and silk scarves, and took her out for expensive meals where Ted had to sit and behave. Honor would have preferred her to fill the freezer from the supermarket. But her mother only had one way of doing things and that was her way.
All in all, she’d muddled through quite nicely, learning a few hard lessons along the way, and not to take things for granted. But she’d also learned that people were kind. She felt safe in Eversleigh. She knew there were people looking out for her. Mr Potter three doors up came and trimmed her hedge because she couldn’t reach. There was
no shortage of volunteers who would sit with Ted if she needed to nip to the doctor or the dentist. And her friendship with Henty was wonderful. She sometimes felt guilty that she hadn’t shared the truth about Ted with Henty but she felt that if she didn’t reveal her past, then it had never happened.
And now, she really couldn’t believe it had caught up with her. Time and again she had told herself that the chances were remote. That although she hadn’t exactly left the country, that in fact she only lived in the next county, the chances of Johnny falling upon her in a remote Cotswold village were slim. It wasn’t impossible, of course. Honor had experienced enough coincidences in her life to know that the strangest things happened. But she had striven to keep herself to herself, had made a point of not mixing in circles that might seep into his social life, and had cut herself off from their old friends and acquaintances – about which she sometimes felt guilty, for she’d had some good friends, but it was a question of self-preservation. The only way she could survive was through total abstinence, like a recovering alcoholic.
Because Johnny was dangerously addictive. No matter how bad you knew he was for you, it was very hard to kick the habit. When you were in his thrall, you forgot all the bad bits. And like a drunk presented with a full bottle of whisky, Honor knew from just one look that evening that she wouldn’t be able to resist him if she got too close.
Would he try to find her? Would he care enough to track her down? Honor suspected that his memory of her would have faded by now; he would have had dozens
of girls since, all dazzling and successful. And anyway, if he’d really wanted to find her he would have done it years ago. It wasn’t beyond him to have hired a private detective. They would have traced her easily through her national insurance. She hadn’t gone to particularly elaborate lengths to cover her tracks. No, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be bothered. Mildly curious at best.
She realized that it was nearly dawn, and she was shivering with the cold. Eventually she relented and got up to light the stove. By half six a little warmth was seeping back into her bones. Usually on a Sunday Ted sneaked into bed with her at about this time and they would snuggle up together. She missed the warmth of his little body next to hers. She bunched up the duvet and hugged it to her for comfort. At long last she fell asleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. Fears and worries danced in the corners of her mind, and all the while a menacing presence seemed to watch her from the corner of the room.
At half past eight there was a sharp rapping on the door. Honor started awake, immediately filled with panic. She knew there was only one person that could be. No one in Eversleigh ever came calling this early on a Sunday morning.
She pulled on a pair of jeans and looked in the mirror. Her eye make-up was smudged all round her eyes where she hadn’t bothered to remove it the night before, and her skin was deathly pale. Good, she thought. The worse she looked, the better. Nevertheless, she rushed into the bathroom to brush her teeth. It was one thing looking rough, but there were limits to how unattractive you could
voluntarily make yourself. As she brushed frantically the door knocker went again, louder and more insistent.