‘So, you know, if cooking’s fun, who knows what else I might be good at? I did always fancy making my own clothes.’
‘You what?’ Mark stifled a laugh. It wasn’t unkind, just amused and, Ruth felt, a tiny bit dismissive.
‘I wasn’t always an M&S addict. Remember when we met and I had all those lovely eighties blouses… and those boots! Do you remember that PVC skirt? God, Mum hated that!’
Mark’s eyes seemed to glaze a little. ‘I remember.’
‘Not to mention the massive perm,’ she added. ‘I was forever one spritz of Elnett and an open flame away from a towering inferno.’
Mark laughed once more, looking down at the coral now, reaching a hand down to scoop some up and roll the thick grains between his fingers. Ruth watched him, wondering what he was thinking. She talked on.
‘I thought back then, before we met that night at Alley Catz, that I was going to marry Adam Ant, and learn French and live in Paris. I’d live off nothing but fags and baguettes and…’
‘Mark Firth?’ her husband said.
Ruth fell silent. She watched her husband press the phone to his ear and jump up, turning his back on their little perch by the water’s edge, and wander up the beach to take the call.
She never heard that phone ring. The damn thing was always on silent in his pocket and when it buzzed it wouldn’t matter where he was – if he was in the middle of a meal at home, or on another Saturday afternoon trudge around the garden centre – he’d answer in seconds. Every day, over and over again. He was, however, far trickier to reach when he was at the golf course on Sundays with his friends.
She could hear him laughing now, his voice loud and confident, carrying over the beach.
Beatrice hadn’t missed the slump of Ruth’s shoulders and she picked her way across the coral to perch on the rock beside her.
‘Lovely day,’ Beatrice said, as the wind picked up, buffeting her face and whipping the hood off her head. ‘For January.’
Ruth smiled and turned her back from the water so as to avoid the chill wind. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘OK, yeah. Bit of morning sickness, and evening sickness, but it’s a sign things are going as they should, right?’
‘I’d say so,’ Ruth said, forcing certainty into her voice to help quell the worries Beatrice’s eyes belied. She couldn’t help glancing at Mark tramping along the foot of the low cliff, shouting over the whipping winds to make himself heard. A little pinch formed on Ruth’s brow.
‘He’s a busy man, your husband,’ Beatrice remarked.
Ruth nodded, watching him. Mark was always transformed by the call to work. ‘It really matters to him; his associates’ good opinion of him.’ Both women were watching him now. Ruth sank a little more. ‘He’s worked so hard all these years to keep his father’s business going.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Independent financial planning, property investments and pension advice.’
Beatrice inhaled through her teeth, impressed.
‘I know. He’s got a head for figures and loves picking over legal papers. Not my kind of thing at all.’
Beatrice was nodding, watching him, and Ruth found herself spurred on to explain him, and she wasn’t sure why. She was a tiny bit ashamed at the impulse. Was she comparing him to the sentimental, attentive Fergusson brothers? She didn’t want to.
‘He was voted Businessman of the Year by the town Rotary Club last year. Got a brass plaque and everything.’
Beatrice rounded her eyes and smiled at this.
If there was ever a raffle that wanted drawing, a school prize-giving requiring an inspirational speaker, or a cake competition needing judging at the summer fete, there he’d be, smiling and shaking hands. Mr Personality, Ruth called him on her grumpier days, but she wasn’t going to tell Beatrice that. It felt disloyal. It was all part and parcel of his being a great big fish in a lucrative small-town pond. She knew she shouldn’t begrudge him his work and his success, and she hadn’t, not all that much, and not until recently anyway.
Since Stuart moved out she’d had time to think about it more. Sometimes, late at night, when the hideous hot flushes were scaring her and keeping her awake and making her wonder what Mark would do if she suddenly ripped off her nightie and stood by the open window to cool down, she’d entertain the notion he might secretly be having an affair. He’d always been busy, but since their son had moved away he seemed even more distracted and distant. She just couldn’t get through to him at all.
‘January in the Highlands, he’ll soon come round to the art of relaxation,’ Beatrice told her. ‘I had to. It’s a completely different pace of life here.’
‘I hope so,’ Ruth replied. It had been hard enough getting him to agree to the break. He’d made sure all his clients knew where he’d be and he’d insisted on bringing his laptop to keep up with emails. As far as Mark was concerned, he was on a working holiday. The only thing that had changed was the scenery.
Ruth was lost in her thoughts now. A month in the Highlands had seemed like the answer to their problems back in Yorkshire. He couldn’t avoid talking to her for four whole weeks, could he? If therewasanother woman – and the thought made her want to smash things one minute and curl up into a ball and howl the next – she’d know for sure by the end of this holiday. You can’t hide something like that on a long Highland break, surely?
