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LIZA
“It’s been nineteen years since we saw each other. Can you believe that?” Angie sat on the picnic rug, a large sun hat pulled down over her eyes as they dried off after an invigorating—freezing, Liza had called it—swim in the sea.
Liza lay on her back, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. Why had it taken her so long to do this? And how lucky was she to be having her escape time in the middle of a heat wave?
The day before, after she’d spoken to her mother, she’d strolled to the beach and spent hours sketching and then painting. At first the blank sheet of paper glaring up at her had felt intimidating, almost like an accusation. She’d made a few strokes with her pencil and her hand had felt stiff and uncertain. She was used to guiding and teaching. Less used to creating something herself. But who was going to see it? Fortunately the beach had been virtually empty and no one had seemed interested in looking over her shoulder. Eventually her hand had started to move with more confidence, as if it had finally remembered what to do. She’d stayed on the beach until her skin had started to burn, and then piled all her equipment into her bag and strolled home. She could have used any room in the house to continue her painting, but instead she’d rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers for the old rusty key that opened the summerhouse at the bottom of the garden. These days it was used for storage, but at one time it had been Liza’s favorite place.
The lock had been as rusty as the key, but with a little oil and lots of maneuvering she’d managed to open the door. All the memories had come rushing back. The summerhouse had been the focus of so many of her childhood games of make-believe, constructed to fill the long weeks when her mother was away. It had been a bookshop. A hospital. A pirate ship. She’d been a wild child who lived in the woods. A fairy princess. A good witch.
And now, today, she was an artist.
Energized by this project that was all for her, she’d cleared out cobwebs and broken plant pots, brushed a thick layer of dust from the floor and polished the murky windows to let the light flood through the glass unrestricted. After a few hours of hard work she’d turned the place into something that could be described as a studio. She’d rescued her old easel from the back of her mother’s garage and set out her paints on the table. Pastels, watercolors, oils—she’d worked in a variety of mediums in her time and was excited to do so again. She’d experiment with all of it and see what she found most absorbing.
Too excited to take a pause, she headed back to the house for long enough to make herself a simple sandwich with the remains of the fresh crusty loaf she’d bought from the deli and some thick sliced ham, poured herself a glass of chilled white wine, and carried both down to the summerhouse.
With the windows open she could hear the sound of the birds in the garden and the occasional bleat of a sheep from the field behind the house.
She’d painted until she lost the light, absorbed in her own creation. Finally she locked the door, headed back to the house and remembered to check her phone.
She’d missed two calls from Sean, and a text from Caitlin, asking how long a packet of ham would last once it was opened.
Soon, she thought. Soon she’d talk to them about how she was feeling, but for now she wanted to focus on herself.
She’d fallen asleep, exhausted but happy, and now here she was on the beach with her oldest friend, wondering how they’d ever managed to lose touch. Like so many things in her life, it had happened gradually so that she hadn’t even noticed the change until it had slipped away. Was this what had happened with her mother and Ruth?
“I can’t believe it has been so long.” She stretched out her legs. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and her legs and feet were bare. For the first time in as long as she could remember she had nothing tugging at her. No little voice telling her there were things she should be doing, which was good because the only thing she wanted to do was lie with the sun on her face and listen to the waves break onto the shore. She hoped this heat wave wouldn’t end any time soon. “It was at our wedding.”
“I know. And your anniversary was a few days ago. Unbelievable how fast time passes.”
How was it that a friend who she hadn’t seen for almost two decades could remember her anniversary, but her husband couldn’t?
“It was a hot day, do you remember? My hair was limp and my makeup was shiny.”
Angie removed her hat and lay back next to her. “I remember every moment of it. You looked beautiful. And I had never been more envious of anyone in my life.”
Liza turned her head. “Why would you have been envious of me?”
“Because no man had ever looked at me the way Sean looked at you.”
Liza’s heart gave a skip. “It was our wedding day. Every man looks at his bride like that on his wedding day.”
“Not true. This wasn’t a Hey, you look great in that dress look, or anything like that. It was a look that said everything he ever wanted in life was standing right there in front of him. That was the kind of look you read about in romance novels and hardly ever see in real life.” Angie sighed. “Sean was an incredibly sexy guy. Brain and brawn—always a killer combination. Women were falling over themselves to catch his attention, and he literally didn’t see anyone else there. Just you. It was one of those rare weddings where you knew the couple really would be together forever, however long that happened to be. Who doesn’t dream of that?”
Liza was engulfed by a swell of sadness and nostalgia. Angie wasn’t wrong. The only thing she really remembered about that day was Sean. He’d been her focus, and he’d stayed her focus for all the years that had followed. In the beginning she’d been dizzy with happiness, unable to believe her luck. Even after that initial feeling of euphoria had faded, she’d still felt utterly content with her life.
They’d celebrated the highs and weathered the lows. They’d laughed, hugged, talked, listened, had plenty of sex and planned for their future. They had so much shared history, but somewhere along the way life had chipped away at the bonds that kept them close. They’d forgotten how to be a couple. How had that happened?
“It’s a shame for you that Sean couldn’t get away this time, but it’s a treat for me.” Angie sat up and brushed sand from her legs.
Liza felt guilty for thinking only of herself. “I didn’t even know you’d moved back here.”
“I’ve only been here six months and I didn’t get out much to begin with. I was feeling too sorry for myself. You know what village life is like. I didn’t want people asking questions.”
“How did Poppy take it?”
“She was mortified that her father was having an affair—no teenager wants to be forced to think about a parent having sex, particularly with someone closer to her age than mine. She didn’t speak to him for months. And that was hard because I was trying to do the good mother thing and not say anything bad about him. I clenched my teeth so hard I almost needed dental work.” Angie pulled sun cream out of her bag and rubbed more onto her skin. “We muddled through. Poppy already had a college place on the East Coast, but she came home for Christmas. Then in February John broke the news about the baby.”
