“Didn’t look like he needed much, did he? One of those people who seems totally sorted. Maybe something for Betty instead.”
He’s right, now I come to think about it. Luke might live in a motorhome, but it is a spacious and pleasant motorhome, perfectly equipped for a presumably adventurous life on theopen road. Luke might not forage for his food, but he does give off a self-sufficient vibe—possibly a ‘don’t bother me’ vibe, which is how I’d first thought of him. Betty will definitely be an easier buy—bag of dog treats, squeaky toy, boom.
“That’s a great idea, love. Now scoot!”
Charlie nods firmly and leaves, giving me a little wave over his shoulder. I notice a teenage girl who is eating with her parents follow him with her gaze as he heads to the stairs, and it makes me smile. My son—the accidental heartbreaker.
Once he has gone, I relocate to the small bar area with a glass of wine, taking my now wonderfully charged-up phone with me. I spend an hour or so making calls: first to Barb, who is aghast at this strange turn of events and promises to help in any way she can. I can’t help thinking that this kind of thing simply wouldn’t happen to a woman like Barb. Her house wouldn’t dare fall off a cliff.
I leave a message for the landlord and am not especially looking forward to that conversation. I register my claim with our insurers, not at all convinced that they will pay out but refusing to imagine what will happen if they don’t. I check my emails, stalk a few people on Facebook, and read the online news report about “a severe cliff-fall on the local coast.” It’s weird, reading the words and seeing the picture that seems to have been taken with a drone—and knowing that it is my home they are talking about. That their breaking news is my breaking life.
The photo isn’t too clear—probably not ideal weather for drone photography—but I can vividly see the wreckage of my once-lovely home. The roof has finally given up and come off completely, the red kitchen door is still somehow standing, the cliffside is strewn with my furniture. I can make out yellow tape cordoning it all off, and vans parked nearby.
I scroll away quickly—it is too upsetting. I fear it will overwhelm me, so I move on. I browse the internet for a while, doing that mindless tumble from one link to the next that we’ve all become familiar with. The online shuffle. I read a few articles, check out a few websites, and then finish my wine.
I still don’t feel like I’m going to be able to sleep, but I can’t stay here forever. I gather my belongings, say good night to the staff, and head up to the room.
I try to creep in quietly, but Charlie sits up as I close the door behind me. His curls are all over the place, and it’s so adorable, he’d be mortified if he could see it.
“You all right?” he asks groggily. “Not going dancing?”
“Nah. Hadn’t got my dancing shoes.”
I point to my feet and the bright pink Crocs that I found in the box. Beggars, choosers, et cetera.
I head into the bathroom and use a strange toothbrush, and a strange towel, and look into the mirror to see a strange woman. I am dressed in clothes I don’t recognize, and my eyes are dark and tired. I look dreadful. That is, I decide, understandable. This has not been the kind of day that lends itself to an immaculate beauty routine.
I take off the clothes I don’t recognize and climb under sheets that are not mine, in a bed that is unfamiliar. I can hear the sound of cars outside as people top up on gas and buy late-night snacks and go on with their journeys. For everyone else, this is a stopping-off point—for me, it is the beginning of a whole new and frankly terrifying stage of my life.
“Hey, Charlie?” I say as I pull the duvet up to my chin and try to create a snuggly feeling to comfort myself.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really pleased for Eric. You’re right, it is brave.” There is a pause before he replies, and perhaps he is thinking the same as me—that that conversation now feels like it took place in another lifetime.
He grunts, but I can see the glimmer of a smile from the light creeping through the curtains.
“Go to sleep, Mum!” he answers, amusement in his voice.
And, amazingly, I do exactly that.
Chapter 5
It is three days before we are allowed back to the place we used to call home. We woke up the morning after it all happened to be confronted with dazzling sunshine and dry skies, the first day without rain for a month. I kind of felt like the world was mocking me, watching the local TV news raving on about the impending heat wave, doing wrap-up pieces that featured the storm damage but focusing on all the good times ahead. Fire up the barbie, get your shorts on, don’t forget the SPF 50. If I ever meet that weatherman, I might punch him in the face.
We continued our stay at the hotel, and are now so familiar with the staff that they feel like part of an extended family. I have had meetings with Bob, and I have talked to the man in London who owns—owned—our cottage. He was amazingly laid-back about it all, but I’m assuming that our cottage was just one of a larger portfolio of properties, that maybe he was insured, that maybe he’s a multi-squillionaire, that for some reason this is not the same kind of disaster for him as it is for us. I have no idea which. He has offered us another place to stay, but it is in Essex. Charlie was all for it, as he believes the entire county willbe awash with “superhot reality TV stars,” but it’s not really a feasible commute.
I have been looking for somewhere more local to rent, but it is difficult—at the moment I don’t have money set aside to pay for security deposits and advance payments, all of which you need to get a lease. I might get my deposit back from the multi-squillionaire landlord, but I’m not sure when. To add to the mass of “not sures” that make up my life, I also don’t even know if I’ll have a job for much longer.
I have, however, got my wages, which takes some of the short-term strain away. I’ve canceled the direct debit for my rent, because, well, you know—the house fell off the edge of the world. I’ve no idea if the landlord will object, or in fact even notice, so I am not going to raise the issue. There is a time to be single-minded, and this is probably it.
It’s been a very weird few days. Everyone has been so nice, so supportive, done everything they can to help. Barb turned up at the hotel the day after with a suitcase full of clothes for both of us—she has a son a few years older than Charlie and raided his cast-offs. They’re in better nick than Charlie’s original wardrobe, so he’s pretty pleased. Me, not so much—Barb wears a lot more florals and lace than I am accustomed to, and while I really appreciated it, I am still walking around feeling like I’ve been snatched and put in someone else’s body. I feel a trip to the charity shop coming on, this time for me and not the Incredible Expanding Boy.
But at least today, we are heading home. Kind of.
As the taxi pulls up at the edge of the lane, I feel a sense of constriction in my chest, a tightness in my throat. I know it is only a physical reaction to my emotional dread, but it is still unpleasant. I hide it from Charlie, and we make the familiar walkup to the cottage. Or the cottage-sized space. We are armed with gloves and heavy-duty bin bags to either collect anything we want to keep or clear up things we don’t—maybe a bit of both.
There are still signs of the work that was done here—the yellow tape, now cut down but still trailing on the ground; large heaps of rubble where brickwork was cleared; a giant dumpster filled with random items from our home. I see the corner of the sofa sticking up, and it makes me deeply sad: abandoned and unloved, dumped in a dumpster after years of loyal service. Years of providing a comfy spot for us to rest our weary limbs, a cushioned home for our bottoms. Years of watching TV and reading books and eating our dinners—and now a sad end, cast aside and presumably destined for the dump.
