Starting Over At Sunset Cottage, page 1
Starting Over at Sunset Cottage
Lisa Hobman
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
For Mum, Dad, Rich & Gee.
You’re the stars in my sky and I love you more than words.
1
‘So, that’s it then, Flick?’ Jim MacDuff raised his arms in exasperation. ‘You’re leaving? You’ve completely given up on us after six years of marriage?’ He was past trying to convince Flick that they could make a go of it, work things out, get through this and come out the other side stronger. The past few months had been one argument after another, and Flick had spent less and less time at home. The thought of being single again at twenty-nine both pained and dismayed him.
‘It’s for the best, James. And please don’t call me Flick.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not my name. Not any more. I grew up.’ She snorted derisively. ‘It’s good in the adult world you should visit sometime, you might like it.’
Jim shook his head, sadness oozing from every pore. ‘Aye, well you’ll always be Flick to me. And I’ll always be Jim. What’s with all this Felicity and James rubbish anyway?’ His accent always became stronger when he was angry. This was one of those occasions when the true Scotsman in him pushed through. The battle may have been lost but he would go down fighting. His chest heaved as he tried to calm the storm raging beneath his skin.
He almost didn’t recognise the woman standing before him in their bedroom, her fitted, designer clothes complete with neat gold chain and matching earrings, and a shoulder-length, smooth, sleek hairstyle. Such a contrast to the girl he fell in love with at university. Back then she was all flowing blonde waves, strings of colourful beads and long, floating skirts. She had stood out in her boho chic and she was softer then, in every way. Now, however, she could blend into any corporate stock photo.
She rolled her eyes. ‘As I said James, Felicity is my name… Flick was left behind at university. She was doe-eyed, foolish, and rash… Look, there’s no point going over old ground.’ She pulled the handle up on her wheeled suitcase. ‘I’ll be staying with Polly and Matt for a while whilst I figure out my next move. I’ll come for the rest of my things soon.’
Matt had once been Jim’s closest friend, they had met at university and had immediately clicked, but that friendship had somehow fizzled out as Matt’s relationship with his girlfriend Polly, from their same university, had blossomed. The lost friendship saddened Jim.
Flick went on, ‘Nilsson-Perkins have offered to help find me a new place to rent in Islington so I can be closer to the main gallery.’ She wandered over to him and placed her hand condescendingly on his arm. ‘It’s for the best, James. I think you know that deep down.’
He locked his gaze onto her cold eyes, his chest still rising and falling at a rapid rate. ‘For whom is it best, eh? For me? I don’t think so.’ His voice cracked as he shook his head. He stared intently and for a brief moment she seemed caught in his gaze. He thought he saw her shield begin to melt, but she shook her head and looked away.
Turning back to him she shrugged her shoulders, a sad smile playing on her lips. ‘It was inevitable when you think about it. We’re from two different worlds… We want completely different things, James.’ Her voice softened as she squeezed his arm. Her blue eyes, that were once full of love, were glacial.
She wheeled her case towards the bedroom door and turned back to face him one last time. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears now and Jim was relieved to see some, albeit small, expression of human emotion from the woman he had witnessed slowly becoming impassive, detached and aloof.
‘For what it’s worth, James, I do love you. You were my first love and so I probably always will. I just feel like…’ She paused. Clenching her eyes closed as if to find the strength to carry on speaking, and several tears escaped. ‘Like maybe we’re not good for each other. We’ve grown apart. I’m ambitious and you… you want babies and the white picket fence thing. I’m just not ready. In fact, I’m not sure I ever will be. In a way, I’m doing you a favour.’ A sob escaped her throat as she spoke. ‘This way at least you get to meet someone new and have children and do all the family things that I’m just not capable of.’ She sounded to Jim as though she was trying to convince herself.
His lower lip began to tremble. ‘I don’t want anyone else… just you. For ten years of my life, it’s only been you.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘What I don’t get, is that we were on the same page when we moved in together and even more so when we got married. I don’t understand how things changed.’
Her nostrils flared and she angrily wiped at her eyes. ‘Things didn’t change. I did. Like I said, I grew up.’ She shook her head. ‘You haven’t changed and therein lies the problem.’ She snorted. ‘Sorry, Jim but it’s true. In all these years you’ve kept the same hairstyle, the same clothing, and the same laid-back attitude. You always said you wanted to be a writer but after a couple of published articles you seem to have given up. You’re working on a novel you’ll never finish, you still work in the same second-hand bookshop, you still keep that ancient Land Rover, even though it’s totally inappropriate for London, and you still take that bloody dog everywhere you go!’
He crumpled his brow. Even though the rest of her words had stung, he couldn’t get past the part about the dog. ‘Jasper’s your dog too.’ It hurt him to hear the faithful canine being referred to in such an inanimate way.
Ignoring his protestations, Flick added, ‘Look at yourself. Seriously, you’re not a student any more, James. You’re stuck in the bloody nineties, the decade you were born in for goodness’ sake. It’s ridiculous. And maybe I want more, huh? Like my mum says, I deserve someone who makes an effort!’ Her voice gained an octave as her emotions finally began to get the better of her.
Jim widened his eyes in horror. ‘Whoa! Now just hang on there, lassie!’ He held up his hands and his stomach knotted at her stabbing words as they sliced his heart. He stepped towards her. ‘I don’t care what Penelope’s been saying. I do make an effort. Just because I’m in no way materialistic, like your mother, doesn’t mean I don’t care. She cares more about status symbols than she does about love. And I love you, Flick. I always have. You are my world! I don’t need things, Felicity. I need you!’ His heart ached as it bombarded the inside of his chest. ‘I’ve done everything in my power to make you happy. I don’t know what else I could’ve done. And for the record, I’m not the one who’s given up here!’ He raised his voice too, finally giving in to the pent-up frustration he’d been harbouring.
She gave a heavy sigh. ‘We want different things. Accept it. Move on… please!’ She opened the door, and he made a grab for her. She swung around and crashed into his arms. Without thinking he took her face in his hands and kissed her with all the passion he could muster. To his amazement, she didn’t slap him; she kissed him back. Dropping her suitcase, she seemed overwhelmed by desire, anger, passion, lust, whatever the hell it was. She grabbed at his dark, shaggy hair as he ran his hands through hers, desperate to express his love for her, desperate to make her change her mind.
He moved from her mouth to her neck, his kisses urgent. Her head rolled backwards, and she moaned, grabbing at his T-shirt and pulling it over his head in one swift, aggressive movement. Before either could realise what they were doing or how they’d got there, they staggered backwards and tumbled, wrapped around each other, onto the bed. Their lips locked as their tongues danced and probed each other’s mouths.
He rested his forehead on hers and looked deep into her eyes where tears had begun to escape and cascade, relentlessly, down her face, soaking through her hair. ‘I love you, Flick. I love you so, so much… don’t leave… please don’t leave,’ he breathed. His vision blurred as the tears in his eyes threatened to spill over.
As his breathing calmed, Jim kissed her and smiled, stroking her face tenderly. He caught her tears with his thumb. ‘I knew you still loved me. I knew it couldn’t be the end of us. I just knew it, Flick.’ He smiled lovingly, his lip trembling again with overwhelming emotions fighting for release.
He manoeuvred to lay by her side and held her close to him. ‘We’ll work this out. You and me, Flick. We can get through anything. It’s always been you and me,’ he whispered as he stroked her cheek and kissed her again, deeply, passionately.
She pushed him away, releasing herself from his arms and touching her swollen lips where his had just been. She grabbed her clothing from the floor and stood, dressing quickly, as she looked down where he still lay. ‘I’m so sorry, Jim… Nothing’s changed. I’m still le aving.’ Her wavering voice broke as she whispered the painful words he didn’t want to hear.
His heart plummeted and he sat upright. ‘What? I… I don’t understand.’ He quickly rose to his feet yanking his jeans and T-shirt back onto his body. So many emotions battled and stirred inside of him. So many questions.
He shook his head, his heart now pounding so hard he thought it would burst from his chest, and he asked again, ‘What do you mean nothing’s changed?’ He pointed to the now crumpled bed. ‘We… we just made love, Flick. I don’t understand. Why would you do that if nothing has changed? It has to mean something?’
With a crease of regret visible between her brows and a look of deep, deep sadness in her eyes, Flick touched his face, tears leaving trails down her own cheeks. ‘Oh James… it was just… such a beautiful way for us to end things… it was just goodbye, that’s all.’ Gently, she stroked his cheek, picked up her case and left.
He stood for a moment, stunned, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. An uncomfortable silence fell over the house and he was momentarily paralysed as if time was standing still. Hurt and angry, he wondered how the hell she could be so damn cruel; to ignite him with a spark of hope and then extinguish it so callously.
Eventually, after what felt like an age, he recovered the use of his legs and walked over to the window. He looked down on to Bushberry Road below with its row of Victorian terraces opposite that mirrored the one they rented, and observed Flick throwing her case into the back of the silly little convertible she was so very proud of. She was all designer suits, first-class flights, champagne dinner meetings, and sports cars, now she was moving up in the world of art sales. Well, at least she fit in well with her new crowd, if not with him, he thought bitterly.
She looked up to the bedroom window and their eyes met. He saw her begin to raise her hand to wave but she stopped as if deciding the gesture was somewhat inappropriate, given the circumstances. She gave a sad half-smile, climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away.
Jasper, the black Labrador, padded into the room, walked over and nuzzled Jim’s hand. It was as if he knew his master’s heart was breaking. Jim scratched the Labrador’s head and crouched down so that his face was level with the affectionate animal. ‘She’s gone, lad. She’s really gone. It’s just you and me now.’ His voice broke and the dog pawed at him. He sunk his head into Jasper’s fur and it was then that he was overcome with emotion. It was then that he began to sob.
Jim was grateful he had booked the weekend off work but on Saturday and Sunday there were a few unwelcome comings and goings from the house. He made the effort to stay out of the way when Flick’s new friends came to collect more and more of her personal belongings. They didn’t speak much to Jim when he was there. They hardly made eye contact. He hid away at the kitchen table on his old laptop, typing notes up for the final chapters of his debut novel. Despite Flick’s comments, he was determined to start submitting the historical fiction book to agents and publishers very soon. The actuality of Flick’s possessions gradually dwindling saddened him. After all, the more items she removed the less chance there was of reconciliation.
He had gradually lost contact with his friends from university as they had gone off round the world to begin various careers. Jim and Flick had made new friends as a couple – art-world friends. Except when it really came down to it, he discovered they were his friends by proxy. These people didn’t even have to choose sides. They were already on one.
Flick’s.
If he was honest, however, the fact didn’t concern him too much. He had always found her friends a little too arty farty for his liking. He preferred straightforward and down-to-earth people.
Flick and her friends were always discussing topics he couldn’t really care less about. They’d sit for hours talking about the work of modern artists, like Diamond Stingily and Lucia Hierro, making comparisons with the more traditional artists, like Claude Monet, Gustave Courbet, and Salvador Dali.
Jim had often sat staring into space and had mused that one day he would write a book about his random thoughts that formed as they all talked as a collective while he sat on the sidelines; an audience of one to some pretentious chat show where every panellist thought their opinions mattered the most. In his humble, layman’s opinion, art was just an expression of the inner workings of someone’s mind and was all subjective anyway, so what did it matter? If you liked it, you liked it, enough said. He was an intelligent man, but he never volunteered any content to the lengthy and rather tiresome debates. There would simply be no point.
After what had turned into the worst weekend of his life, Monday morning hadn’t come around soon enough. Jim loved his job. He had worked at The Book Depository on Lower Clapton Road, Hackney, for what felt like an eternity, and even before working there, it had been his favourite place to visit. He would sit in the tired old wingback armchair with a dust-covered, tattered old book and a cup of coffee from the machine. He had spent hours in there and had come to know the owner, Charles, quite well. When he had discovered Charles’ surname was Oswald he had laughed out loud and complimented Charles on his choice of name for the shop. Charles had appreciated that Jim really got him.
Eventually he began to mind the shop on occasions when Charles had nipped for lunch or to the bank, and so one day Charles simply decided to make it an official arrangement. The pay wasn’t immense, but it wasn’t minimum wage either. Charles was flexible about Jim nipping home to let Jasper out, and every so often, the black Lab would accompany him to work and fall asleep in the back, so Jim couldn’t complain and wouldn’t have wanted to.
Even for a Monday morning in February, the twenty-five-minute walk to work was pleasant and soon he was once again surrounded by two of his favourite things: the delightfully fusty smell of old books and coffee.
On seeing Jim, Charles’ face scrunched as if he’d encountered something rather unpleasant. ‘Bloody hell, Jim, are you all right? You look bloody terrible, old chap.’ Charles was a very well-spoken and dapper man in his early fifties. He always wore a colourful bow tie and a tweed jacket with elbow patches, much like an old English professor. He used the word bloody in almost every sentence. At first it amused Jim, then it irritated him, and now, years on, he was completely immune to it.
‘Not great, if I’m honest Charles, no. Um… Flick left me on Friday.’ His lip began to quiver again – as it had on so many occasions over the almost never-ending weekend – and he bit down on it, slumping into the wingback chair and fighting for composure.
Charles gasped and his hands came up dramatically to cover his cheeks. ‘Oh, bloody hell, my dear chap, are you sure you should be here? I can manage today if you’d rather be at home.’
Jim held up his hand. ‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m better off being busy, I think. No point wallowing in self-pity all alone, eh?’ Jim tried to snap himself out of the drop in mood.
Charles fidgeted as if wanting to make some kind of physical gesture but struggling to know what to do. ‘No… quite… quite. Well, if you need anything…’ He paused as he seemed to be calculating his next words. ‘And in my opinion, old chap, it’s her bloody loss.’
Jim forced a smile. ‘Thanks, Charles, I appreciate it. Tell you what, I’d love a coffee if you’re making one, eh? I’ll go splash my face with some cold water and dump my bag in the back.’ He stood and headed for the rear of the shop.
His friend and boss nodded fervently. ‘Certainly. Bloody good idea. I’ll get onto it.’
The day passed without real incidence and Jim was happy to be thumbing through the latest batch of antique finds that Charles had procured during his recent trip to a Parisian book fair. Amongst the finds had been a rare first edition of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Jim had enquired as to how much the book had cost, but Charles had answered by simply wincing and shaking his head. Ouch, Jim had thought. The book was one of a select few, which were locked in a cabinet not to be touched by just anyone. One had to prove the funds were available to purchase such a rare and delicate piece, prior to being granted permission to handle it, and even then, white cotton gloves were insisted upon.
