A Season for Second Chances(7)

Annie had spent long resentful nights trying to decide if a full-blown love affair was worse than a one-night stand. She came to the conclusion that the longevity of the encounters didn’t matter: Ultimately, it was never okay for a husband to put his dick into someone who wasn’t his wife.

Though she had allowed herself to be wooed and cajoled into giving things another try, a steady erosion had begun after the first affair, and with each unaccountable lateness, unfeasible excuse, or unnecessary errand that followed, the thinning of their marriage became more acute.

Annie met the estate agent outside the first flat. She had been able to pick him out from the crowd as he strode along the street toward her: his gray suit jacket undone and flying open, tie swept back over one shoulder, and the kind of swagger that suggested he’d closed seven deals before breakfast. He shook her hand and introduced himself as Phil. Phil carried a briefcase and wore an earpiece and would spontaneously burst out the word Mate! before holding his hand up to Annie—in the manner of one stopping traffic—and launching into a conversation with the person in his ear.

The first flat was essentially a beautifully decorated bedsit with a view of the pretty town below and a monthly rent that made her say “Pardon!” twice when he told her. The second flat was situated just off the main high street. The smell of stale urine in the narrow passage that led to the front door suggested that this was a popular cut-through after pub closing time. Phil wasn’t overly pleased by Annie’s reticence toward his offerings and warned her that they would be snapped up by someone else if she dragged her heels. She assured him she wouldn’t and that if someone else did snap it up, then it simply wasn’t meant to be. Phil looked at her like she had just flopped out one breast and shaken it at him; clearly, he didn’t go in much for trusting in fate.

Jackie—the second estate agent—was about Annie’s age but had a far smaller bottom. Annie soon found herself telling Jackie about her marriage breakdown. It was strange; she couldn’t seem to stop telling people about it. As someone who had previously been a very private person, she found it odd that she was suddenly struck with the urge to overshare with anyone who would listen. It was, she supposed, kind of therapeutic.

The building was a grand Victorian villa, slightly run-down but with charm. A cloud of grass smoke plumed out of the first-floor window and floated down over the two women.

“That takes me back!” said Annie.

“You and me both,” said Jackie.

“Maybe we should knock and ask for some,” said Annie.

“I can’t afford the calories from the munchies that would follow,” said Jackie.

And that’s why you’ve got the smaller bottom, thought Annie.

Before they’d even reached the second-floor flat—Jackie kept up a lively conversation as they climbed, while Annie concentrated on breathing and tried not to go into cardiac arrest—their ears were assaulted by a pounding music so loud it shook the stairwell. The two women turned on the stairs and went straight back down.

The next flat was in a 1960s block, uninspiring but practical and close to the town.

“It’s just such a big step,” said Annie.

“Not really,” said Jackie. “Rent it for six months and see how you feel! Or rent it for six months and spend that time looking for something you’d really like. You’ve made the biggest leap by leaving your husband and restaurant; the rest is easy!”

“It doesn’t feel easy,” said Annie.

“That’s because you’re thinking about it too deeply. This is a stepping-stone. Six months is nothing.”

“I’ll think on it,” said Annie.

“Don’t think too long!” said Jackie.





Chapter 7



It was early evening and the sun was low in the sky, but the air held late-summer warmth. People enjoyed the after-work sun with a glass of wine and friends in chairs and tables laid out in front of cafés and bars.

Annie sat at a round bistro table that looked out over the bandstand and the quaint little run of shops beyond. The waiter took her order, and Annie absentmindedly picked up a discarded copy of the local paper that lay on one of the chairs.

Dusk was beginning to eddy around the patrons of the bar, and Annie pulled her jacket around her shoulders. A mischievous breeze sifted through the little market square, lifting scarves and fluttering napkins. The breeze tugged at the corners of Annie’s newspaper, slipping between the pages and lifting them open. Annie looked around for something to act as a paperweight. She found a flat gray pebble beneath the table. She turned it over in her hand and saw that it had been painted with the words Everything will be all right. She smiled. The painter could have had no idea who would find their random pebble, but it made her feel instantly better.

She was about to fold the paper back up when something at the bottom of the right-hand column of the page caught her eye.

It was a small advertisement, outlined in bold black lines: Winter Guardian Required

Annie read on: Live-in guardian required as custodian of secluded beach apartment and small (closed) business premises over the winter months. This is an unpaid position and the custodian will be responsible for all utilities, but the rent is free.

The rent is free part was an enticing prospect for a woman with a serious cash-flow problem.

The ad gave no address or hint as to where this secluded beach might be, but it did list a phone number, and Annie began punching in the numbers before she’d fully registered what she was doing.