A Hopeless Romantic (14 page)

So, Laura had one week with her parents and her grandmother to get through, climaxing in the gathering of the extended family—with a guest appearance from Simon, who was supposedly returning from Peru on Friday and coming up on Saturday morning. Her brief was pretty simple, really: Be good, be nice, be kind. Put what’s happened behind you and move on. A clean slate, a blank wall, a new dawn,
and
a new leaf.

But, of course, nothing ever turns out the way you expect it to.

Laura sat in her deck chair on the beach, her mouth knitted unconsciously into an expression of bitter disdain. She glared at her parents from under her sun hat, then realized she was actually
wearing
a sun hat, and threw it on the ground in a gesture of indignant irony—one that went totally unremarked-upon by her parents and grandmother, who were blithely unconcerned with her suffering.

She looked at the water. The sea was a rough, choppy gray. Clouds loomed overhead, menacing and bulbous, as if they might burst at any moment. The sand, which should have been glowing golden yellow, was a dirty cement color. And the huge beach was deserted, apart from a lone tatty-looking dog that was deliriously running around in circles in the distance, almost at the tide. An empty tar barrel rolled on its side, creaking. The sea grass rustled ominously in the wind. Why was she surprised the weather was bad? It was Britain. It was August. It was a typical summer holiday by the seaside.

George Foster hummed to himself as he carefully opened the National Trust Members’ Guide on the blanket in front of him and fastidiously turned the pages till he got to “Norfolk’s Stately Homes and Castles.” Beside him on the blanket, Laura’s mum was devouring her book club’s selection, her mouth half open in absorption.

Mary was dozing. Her tanned hands rested lightly on her lap, one loosely clutching her book. She stirred slightly as Laura watched her, hitching an old shawl up around her shoulders again. Laura meanly thought about coughing sharply to wake her up, but she wasn’t so far sunk beneath hope as to seriously consider giving her beloved grandmother a heart attack just so she could have someone to talk to. She picked up
Take a Break
, which she had thrown aside in disgust, and tried to concentrate on the story she’d been reading, about a woman whose husband was fooling around with their neighbor, but her attention wandered, or rather marched purposefully away, after only one sentence. She put the magazine down and gazed thoughtfully out to sea.

She’d been so good so far this holiday, but now she was in the grip of an irrational anger, and there was nothing she could do about it except hunker down and wait for it to pass. It was Tuesday, day four of the holiday, and acting like an angel with a blank slate, a new leaf, and all that was starting to wear her down because, much as she loved her parents and her grandmother, four days of constant exposure to them at a time when her reserves were low was not ideal. It put her in a kind of limbo—she didn’t know whether she was a grown-up with a responsible place in society or a child, a total screwup with no job, no boyfriend, and no morals, who should just stop trying and give up. So she did a lot of gritting her teeth, till her jaw ached.

The first few days had passed, and despite the cold weather, Laura had tried to feel as if she were—well, not exactly
on holiday
, but still, away from it all. She helped her mother in the garden; Mary’s hip was playing up. They all went to see a steam train display, and Mary made best friends with the driver and got to ride in his cab; George was jealous. They watched
Midsomer Murders
together, and Mary rolled her eyes and said things like, “It’s the vicar, you total idiot!” while Angela gripped the sofa and screamed every time the incidental music played.

Laura made salad dressing, mixed drinks, and did not object to her parents’ choice of television, newspaper, or plans for the week, one of which included the fulfillment of their long-held ambition to see the Seekers tribute band; as extraordinary luck—or ill luck, depending on your point of view—would have it, they were playing that week in the nearest resort’s little theater. She’d managed to politely decline her parents’ offer of a ticket. (They were actually called the Seekers Tribute Band, her mother had informed her that morning; Laura felt irrationally furious with them, that they couldn’t have come up with a better moniker, Desperately Seeking the Seekers, or They Seek Them Here, or something like that. This did not contribute to a lightening of her mood.)

She had played Trivial Pursuit with her grandmother, who disputed the result every time the question was a modern one. (“
Britney Spears
? Well, how on earth am I supposed to know that? Ridiculous question. Give me another one. That’s not Art and Culture, don’t be stupid, Trivial Pursuit, you should be ashamed of yourself. Honestly.”) She had tried to go for a long, moody walk by herself, but her mother and father had joined her and raved for a good two miles about the progress the National Trust was making with the coastline around the area, how the litter bins were so well placed, and how the cafés were much
nicer
than they used to be, until Laura tried walking slightly faster, ahead of them, but they merely caught up with her and carried on talking. So she had just smiled politely again, and gritted her teeth.

She had smiled agreeably at dinner each night as George briefly outlined the agricultural and economic history of Norfolk in the eighteenth century, and had asked a couple of pertinent questions, much to her father’s obvious delight. She’d listened politely as her mother went through every family in their enclave in Harrow and delineated each member, what they were doing, what their children were doing, what their children’s boyfriends or girlfriends were doing—people Laura hadn’t seen for years, much less cared about. And she nodded wisely as Mary, for the umpteenth time, told Laura some marvelous story of derring-do about Xan and herself, this time in Jerusalem in the early sixties. Normally, Laura loved these stories. But this wasn’t normal.

Laura shifted in her deck chair and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She looked around again, to see if Mary was awake. Nothing doing. She checked her phone, but there was nothing. Her mind wandered again. Scary Hilary had a party on Saturday night to celebrate being single again; Jo had promised to let her know what happened, and what the view was from the terraces, now that Dan and Amy were in the States and it was clear everything was out in the open. If Dan had told Amy, which he obviously had, who else knew? And would she have to pay penance for it? She wished she could ask him, but of course she couldn’t, and she had heard nothing from him, nothing at all, after their last meeting. It seemed Amy was speaking for both of them now.

Thinking about Dan and Amy was all the reminder she needed. It was her own fault that here she was, on the beach at Seavale, having the same stupid summer holiday she’d had since she was
five
. Only when she was five, she’d had Simon and Lulu and Fran and various other grubby holidaying children to play with. It was fine when she was five, Seavale was a nice place to go on summer holiday. The beach was vast, the tides were gentle, the sea was warm. There were ice creams and donkeys! And when she was thirteen and had kissed Robert Walden behind the beach huts and had her first cigarette with Lulu, or had gone to the disco in stonewashed jeans when she was fifteen, or had gone on a long last walk with Xan when she was twenty, over the dunes, into the fields, over the river and toward the next village, it was all fine—it was more than fine; it was her favorite place in the world. But not now. If only Simon were here now, she thought, moodily wrapping her scarf around her. But no. My brother
has a life
. He’s
traveling.
And I’m
here.

A seagull croaked viciously overhead, dangerously low, stirring Laura out of her torpor. She shook her head, ashamed to find tears were in her eyes. She pulled herself together and decided she’d be better off back at the house, rather than here making the others worry about her, because they already clearly thought she was mad. And it was freezing, apart from anything else. She turned to tell her mother this, and found her grandmother was watching her. Laura met her eyes, and saw that Mary was smiling with understanding.

“I’m going back up,” Laura whispered. “See you in a bit.” Mary nodded, gave her a quick smile, and picked up her book again.

Laura’s dad murmured, “Mmm…mmm, see you, then,” and Laura’s mother looked up blankly and said, “You going back, darling?”

“Yep,” said Laura briefly. “I’m cold. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

“Ooh, lovely,” said Angela. “There’s some of that fruitcake we bought from the craft fair in the tub, you could get that out.”

“Right,” said Laura, repressing the urge to scream, “I hate fruitcake! You know I do!” Instead, she said, “Okay, see you in a bit, then.”

“Great,” said Angela. “Dad and I are going to write our postcards later,” she added inconsequentially, in the way that parents have when you are trying to leave them, a delaying tactic of some sort.

“Look, is that a crested grebe?” said Mary from behind her book, and Angela’s head swiveled round. “Oh, no, my mistake.” She carried on reading, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Laura flashed her grandmother a grin and, thankful for her escape, snapped her deck chair closed and propped it under her arm. Swaying slightly in the wind, she began the trudge across the cold sand up to the path back to their house.

Her bag made a vibrating sound as Laura reached the café by the lifeboat station. She stopped, fumbling eagerly in her bag, hoping against hope that it was Jo, or Yorky, that some kind of salvation from Parents World was on its way. She flipped open her phone eagerly.

Just reminding you to stay away from me, you stupid little bitch. And from Dan. Why don’t you just fuck off? No one wants you, dog-girl. P.S. Miami is gorgeous, by the way. Wish you were here—not.

Stumbling blindly, her eyes stinging with tears, Laura ran back to the bungalow.

chapter thirteen

B
ack in her room, Laura threw the beach bag on the bed. She was trying not to crumble into little bits again, to go back to what she’d felt like before, but she couldn’t help it. She cried. About five minutes later, footsteps sounded across the terrace, followed by tapping on the door.

“Darling, it’s me,” said her mother’s voice anxiously. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Laura said unneccessarily loudly, and buried her head in the sodden pillow again. After a few seconds, the footsteps retreated. She howled silently for what seemed like several hours but was in fact about fifteen minutes, feeling deeply, deeply sorry for herself, the pitiable, unattractive, unlovable, friendless girl she was.

And then, all of a sudden, she stopped and sat up. She dried her eyes, wiped her nose on her hand, and looked thoughtful.

Laura had a pragmatic streak running through her, often not in tandem with the romantic streak, but following close behind. Listen to yourself, she said firmly. You have had your lowest moment, that was last week, in bed in your room. Remember the box of stupid romantic stuff now in the bin. Remember the pigeon. Your lowest moment was then; you’re not allowed any more. You’ve been here four days now. Okay, it’s pretty duff, but actually it’s doing you a lot of good, and Mum and Dad and Granny are having a great time, don’t ruin it for them. This is over, now.

She suddenly felt a hot bolt of anger shoot through her at Amy’s text, at her message, at Dan’s total weakness, the way he was willing to string both of them along and still end up the winner. This man, whom she’d thought was The One. He wasn’t. Boy, he wasn’t. Waiting for Mr. Right, The One, the great, great romance, was a waste of time—it had been a waste of time, and that’s what she’d been getting so wrong all these years. It wasn’t just Dan, it went back much further than that, but he was the one who’d totally, comprehensively stomped out her romantic strain. And perhaps she should thank him for it. She was going to be better off without it.

“Great,” she said out loud. “Great.” And she felt a little more cheerful.

Angela knocked on the door again. “Darling, we’re having a sherry, do you want one?”

Laura was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Yes, please,” and jumped off the bed. She pulled her tangled hair into a ponytail. “Just coming,” she said, and opened the door.

That evening, as a storm raged around the bungalow and the leaded windows rattled and shook in their drafty wooden casements, the female Fosters and Mary sat around the table in the kitchen eating lasagna and not saying much, while George chatted merrily away about something. Conversation was slightly lagging, four days in, and Laura wasn’t as much in the mood as she wanted to be. She knew her mother was staring at her, wanting to ask if she was okay, but she also knew Angela wouldn’t. She knew her father was trying to jolly everyone along, but it wasn’t really succeeding. And Mary, though Laura loved her, was always slightly hard to read, her mood hard to predict from day to day. She, Laura, had to make the effort.

She looked up as her mother said, “George, more broccoli, dear?”

“Yes, please,” said George, breaking off his very interesting monologue about the great aristocratic families of the North Norfolk coast, and how they had fared during the Civil War back in the 1600s. Angela looked at him, her face softening with affection, and Laura’s heart turned over. Her father took the bowl and smiled at his wife, the corners of his mouth crinkling, his ears wagging with pleasure, and Laura felt a rush of love for her parents. Yes, maybe Dad did often discuss heraldic symbolism at the dinner table for too long, and maybe he was just a normal bloke, not an orchestra conductor, or a deep-sea diver, or something. Deep down, Laura had always thought Mary found him a bit…
boring.
Laura knew why. Angela wanted a home, a family, roots. A back garden, a rose trellis. She didn’t want the ex-pat life, the faded glory, the cocktail parties, stucco hotels, servants, bygone eras. She was normal, sensible.
Un
-romantic, if anything. Laura smiled at her mother, who was looking from her to her grandmother.