I sat in my armchair for two hours, neither moving nor reading nor watching TV nor listening to music. All I could do was stare ahead.
A text message tone from my phone made me jump. Christ, it was from Patrick.
‘Good Xmas?’ Neutral enough.
‘Interesting.’
‘Are you still on the Isle of Wight?’
‘No, back home.’
‘Would you like to meet up?’
‘Yes. Something I must tell you.’
‘Really? I’m intrigued.’
‘Don’t be. It’s not worth being intrigued by.’
We texted back and forth, arranging eventually to meet that afternoon outside the castle.
The common was still knee-deep in snowdrifts and I watched as a giant ferry made its stately progress up the Solent towards Bilbao or Le Havre or some other foreign port that seemed a better place to be than here. Perhaps that was what I should do. Get on a boat, be an anonymous woman in a busy city, teach English as a foreign language or something. It was one plan, and the best I’d come up with so far.
It was cold, so cold. I stamped my feet and huddled, but the wind whistled along the sea front until I considered giving up and going home. As soon as I turned, I saw him, hurrying through the slush in Hunter wellies. Was he a gardening man? I wondered. Not that it was any business of mine. Not now, not ever.
‘You must be perishing,’ he greeted me, grinning and puffing out steam. ‘Why didn’t you choose an indoor place to meet?’
I supposed I felt I deserved to suffer.
Drawing closer, he reached towards me, noticing the necklace.
‘You’re wearing it,’ he said. He was very close, too close.
‘You’ll probably want it back.’
‘Oh?’
We began to walk, across the common towards the boarded-up funfair at Clarence Pier, a place that looked as desolate as I felt.
‘I’m thinking of leaving teaching,’ I said.
Patrick stopped in his tracks and put hands on my arms, spinning me forcefully to face him.
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m not the right kind of person for the job.’
‘But … You’re … Cherry, you’re exactly the right kind of person for the job. You’re competent, caring –’
I cut across the bluster. ‘My private life isn’t compatible. I’m a bad person.’
He shook his head, so stunned that I wanted to pull him close, tell him I was only joking. Could I pass this off as a joke? No.
‘Somebody tried to blackmail me today,’ I said, more gently. ‘It made me realise that I could expose you and the school to scandal. I don’t think they’re going to do it really – but if they did …’
‘For God’s sake.’ He took my elbow and marched me over to the garish blue and yellow façade of the funfair.
Below the trashy plastic awning, a sad-looking greasy spoon café was open for business against the odds.