Long Time No Sea, page 1
LONG TIME NO SEA
PORTIA MACINTOSH
For the unforgettable Betty Ellener
CONTENTS
Prologue
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
Acknowledgments
More from Portia MacIntosh
Also by Portia MacIntosh
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
THEN – 14 AUGUST 2008
Today will not define you. That’s what everyone has been telling us all day – our A-level results day – again and again, like a broken record, shaving our expectations down while simultaneously reassuring us that everything is going to be okay, no matter what happens.
‘I said can you step back, please,’ a firewoman demands, her cheeks bright red through a combination of having to scream her instructions at us again and the intense heat coming from the burning building in front of us.
A fireman runs back out from where the door used to be. He’s wearing breathing apparatus, so he gestures to one of the other firefighters out here.
‘No sign of him,’ the second man shouts, confirming our worst fears.
I cough to clear my lungs as the smoke burns the back of my throat.
Today won’t define us, today won’t define us.
How could it not, though? And how can things ever be okay again?
1
NOW
‘The last time we were at Saffie’s house, her mummy made us special chips and they were all different colours, and she said they were healthy, not like these.’
Cecelia waves one of the French fries I just made around in the air, looking at it in disgust, like it’s a stick she found in the park with a bit of shit on the end. Sierra chews her lip as she nods in agreement.
Wow, when I was eight, the same age as the twins, chips were chips. I didn’t want them to be healthy and the only reason they would ever be a different colour was from me dousing them in ketchup.
‘Well, I’m not Saffie’s mummy,’ I remind them. ‘Saffie’s mummy is a chef.’
And she isn’t just any chef, she’s a mumfluencer, with a YouTube cooking channel that boasts over a million subscribers.
‘I don’t like normal chips any more,’ Cecelia persists as she drops the French fry back onto her plate, pushing it away, showing me she means business.
I pause for a moment. The basket of dirty washing I’m carrying digs into my hands as I hover on the spot, staring at the kids, wondering how they got so spoilt.
Obviously, I would just love to make it my life’s work to cook them multi-vegetable, multicoloured healthy root fries every night. Sadly, between driving them back and forth to school, doing the washing, tidying the house, and helping with their homework, I just don’t have the time to get too creative in the kitchen.
‘Well, I’m going to go and put these clothes in the washing machine,’ I tell them. ‘When I come back, I’m hoping you both will have eaten something – you only get dessert if you eat some dinner.’
‘Dessert is probably just as unhealthy,’ I hear Cecelia tell her sister as I walk away.
When I was eight, all I cared about was watching TV, dancing and I’m pretty sure that’s when I went through my phase of my favourite foods being anything that was pink – pink wafers, ham, strawberry laces, fruit. Of course, I didn’t refuse to eat other foods, and I certainly didn’t sass my mum over anything she made for me. I feel a million years old for saying this but, honestly, kids today…
The twins are eating at the kitchen island, seeing as though it’s just the two of them, and not a family meal night. They don’t happen all that often these days, to be honest, with their dad working so much, but you don’t get a big, beautiful house like this without someone putting in the hours.
I plonk the basket on the floor of the utility room. One machine is still washing a load, the other is almost done with a drying cycle. It never ends.
Sometimes it just feels like I move from one room to another, moving things from room to room, cleaning up after the kids, washing clothes, cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the bathrooms, cooking – and just when I think I’m finished, I have to start again.
The utility room is the size of a decent kitchen and, after a few rounds of washing, is in need of a tidy itself, so I make a start. I fold clothes, placing them in a neat pile on one of the worktops, then once the machine is done with the drying, I unload things into the basket for clean clothes and then reload the machine with Evan’s work shirts.
‘Jasmine?’ I hear him call out.
Speak of the devil.
‘Jasmine, are you there?’ he calls again.
I sigh as I close the washing machine door and set it going again. Then I head for the kitchen.
‘Daddy is eating my chips,’ Cecelia informs me.
‘Did you ever hear of kids being fussy about chips?’ Evan asks me through a smile as he pops another into his mouth. He turns to his daughters. ‘I would’ve eaten chips off the floor when I was your age.’
The girls laugh and I can’t help but smile. They worship their dad and it beams out of them like sunshine.
‘Have you got a minute?’ he asks, nodding towards the hallway.
‘Of course,’ I reply.
Evan loosens his tie, in that way he always does soon after getting in from work, before he goes up to get changed – it’s like he can’t wait to get it off. He’s tall, with short, neat greying hair – the kind society loves to see on a man because it makes him look dapper and distinguished. It certainly does suit him. Society has me suitably brainwashed too. I’m sure I’ll be reaching for the dye when greys start sprouting in my long blonde locks – I don’t know when they’re supposed to start but I’m only thirty-two, so if they’re not here yet, perhaps I’ve got more time.
The hallway is massive, with high ceilings and an ornate wooden banister, very much setting the tone for what you can expect from the rest of the property the second you walk through the front door – well, that is if you make it past the intercom, the electric gate, and up the long, winding driveway cloaked by rows of mature trees.
This room, like much of the rest of the house, is grey. Grey carpets, grey walls, grey furnishings – you know the kind, very modern, for now at least. I don’t suppose it will be long before the next trend that is everywhere will slowly but surely take over the house. For now, though, it’s fifty shades of grey, with the occasional pop of colour in the form of overpriced art or the green leaves of various houseplants – which reminds me, I need to water the plants.
Evan hands me a package.
‘I collected this from the sorting office for you,’ he tells me. ‘I had a few to pick up, I’m not sure how long it had been there.’
‘Oh,’ I say curiously. ‘I’m not sure what that could be.’
‘Cerys orders things all the time and forgets,’ he tells me, somewhat awkwardly. ‘Perhaps you did that.’
I begin opening the box, picking at the tape, eager to see what’s inside.
‘Listen, Jasmine, we need to talk,’ Evan says after taking and exhaling a deep breath.
Well, this can’t be good.
‘Is everything okay?’ I can’t help but ask, even though it’s pretty obvious that I’m about to find out, and that it’s not going to be good given the look on his face. I continue to pick at the tape on my package, more out of anxiety than curiosity now.
‘We have a problem,’ he continues, lowering his voice. ‘Cerys thinks she caught me, erm, in the shower, with one of your… well, one of your bras.’
I feel my jaw part lightly.
‘Why on earth would she think that?’ I ask in overwhelming disbelief.
‘Well… because she did,’ he explains as his cheeks flush bright red.
Evan is clearly embarrassed to be telling me this – how could he not be? Getting caught by his wife, in the shower, with the au pair’s underwear, doing God knows what.
Oh my gosh, I feel so creeped out and uncomfortable – and why is he telling me? I could have lived happily never knowing that happened.
Evan only makes the situation even more uncomfortable by, despite being mortified, maintaining an almost intense level of eye contact. There’s something else in his eyes, something almost apologetic.
‘Oh,’ is about all I can say. I wonder whether he took the bra from my room, or whether he snuck into the utility room and lifted it from the washing. I wonder if it was a clean one or a worn one. I wonder why I’m wondering about any of this because none of the specifics are going to make it any less creepy. Not only is Evan my married boss but I’m really, really not paid enough for this shit. I’m not even supposed to be an au pair, I was hired as a live-in tutor, someone to help the twins with their schoolwork during their formative years, helping them to get the best start in life. Somehow I’ve wound up being a babysitter, a cook, a cleaner – none of the things I started out wanting to do, but just kind of ended up doing.
I don’t really know what to say – what can you say, to such a revelation? I finally peel the long piece of tape from the top of my package, breaking the awkward silence. Somehow this encourages Evan to speak again.
‘She says you can’t work here any more,’ he tells me plainly.
I mean, on the one hand, good. I don’t want to keep working – and living – somewhere with such a creep. On the other hand, though, this is my job and my home we’re talking about – and they’re both things I need, unfortunately.
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, bizarrely casual given the circumstances.
‘We’ll still pay you at the end of the month, for the full month, obviously, but Cerys wants you gone before she gets home,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Wait a minute, you can’t do that,’ I insist quickly. ‘Evan, I live here, you can’t just turf me out with nowhere to go, and no money. I’m basically skint, what do you think I’m going to do?’
‘I know it’s not ideal,’ he starts, making the understatement of the century.
I lose my grip on the package and, as the box slips from my hands, the contents fall out.
Evan, quick as a flash, reaches out and catches it for me. As he hands me it, he pulls a face.
‘A new Fujifilm camera?’ he points out. ‘Well, they’re certainly not cheap, are you sure you’re as skint as you say?’
He raises an eyebrow suspiciously. Oh, this man is unreal. Where does he get off, thinking he has the right to judge me? Oh, now I remember, the shower. Grim.
‘I didn’t buy this,’ I tell him honestly.
‘It’s addressed to you,’ he reminds me.
My brain briefly wanders off, thinking about where this camera came from, why it was sent to me…
‘Look, I’ll pay you early, but you’ve got to get out of here,’ Evan continues, snapping me back from my thoughts. ‘I need to save my marriage – think of my kids, Jasmine.’
If Evan thought more about his wife and kids, we wouldn’t be in this situation.
I puff air from my cheeks. Obviously, I don’t want to lose my job, but I definitely don’t want to keep working here now, so perhaps my best option is to take the money and run while I still can. My only option, really.
I take the camera (that I really didn’t order, honest) and head upstairs to my room to gather my things. It’s hard to think beyond the immediate, when I feel so uncomfortable, so bizarrely unsafe. It’s not that I think Evan will do anything to me – just my clothes, apparently – but I want to get out of here, before Cerys gets home. Imagine if she thinks I’ve been doing anything to encourage what Evan did? Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything further from my mind, take it from the woman who has to wash his socks and underpants.
I just need to get my things and get out of here, and fast.
‘Obviously, I’ll give you a glowing reference,’ he calls after me as I head up the stairs. ‘And don’t worry, your missing, erm, item is back with you.’
Great, so that’s a new job, a new place to live, and a whole new collection of bras I need then.
It looks like this really is going to be a fresh start – whether I want it to be or not.
2
Sitting on the train, sinking back into my seat, it has occurred to me that I have taken my swift sacking and eviction remarkably well but, other than the whole not-having-a-job-or-a-home thing (you know, those minor details), if I’m being honest, I’m sort of relieved.
Okay, it’s not ideal to suddenly find myself in this position, and I know it’s not a good look for someone in her early thirties, but I hated that job. I really, truly despised it. When I went to university to study English, I always imagined myself getting into publishing. When I wound up drifting into teaching, I didn’t mind too much but, when my tutoring job wound up being a glorified cleaning and nannying gig, every now and then I would wonder where it all went wrong, and how I could get things back on track.
Today I am choosing to be an optimist, to take this as an opportunity to reroute my life, and to see the best in the situation – even if, right now, the only silver lining I can pinpoint is the free camera I seem to have acquired from somewhere.
As I root around in my bag to take a look at it, I feel my phone vibrating. I tap my AirPod to answer it.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, Jas, I’m so excited,’ Mum announces – sounding very much like she means it.
‘Well, that’s nice, at least,’ I reply through a laugh.
‘I know, I know, your life is falling apart, but I’m looking forward to you moving back in for a bit – your dad too, aren’t you, Simon?’ she says.
‘Yes, yes,’ my dad calls back, sounding less enthused. ‘But she’s going to need her own TV, I’m not watching any of that Ex-Celebrity Big Island on the Beach crap she watches.’
I know he’s being sarcastic, but I would absolutely watch that.
‘Oh, it’s going to be so, so nice,’ I say with my own playful sarcasm.
‘Your dad is just worried about being outnumbered by women again,’ she laughs. ‘We’re both so excited you’re moving back home, honestly.’
Moving back home is, hopefully, not quite what I’m doing. I’m just going to be staying there, temporarily, until I find somewhere new.
‘Your old room is ready for you,’ Mum adds. ‘I’ve even put your favourite duvet cover on.’
I smile to myself.
‘Would that be the Raggy Dolls one?’ I confirm.
‘The one and only,’ Mum replies.
It was my favourite when I was a kid, for sure. Now that I’m in my early thirties… No, you know what, it probably still is my favourite, just for the nostalgia hit. I’m just thankful Mum doesn’t line up my Raggy Dolls dolls along the top of the duvet any more. No, no. They’re on the shelf, because I’m a grown-up.
‘I’m surprised the pattern hasn’t completely faded away,’ Dad chimes in.
‘It’s reached that sweet spot where the Calpol stains are long gone but the print is still perfect,’ Mum replies with a laugh. ‘I’m just trying to cheer her up, Simon, give it a rest.’
Mum says this second part under her breath, but I still hear every word.
I mess with my new camera, the Raggy Dolls theme tune firmly stuck in my head now, while Mum and Dad bicker between themselves about what is deemed an appropriate welcome for their adult daughter moving back in temporarily – I can’t stress the word temporarily enough.
I’m pleasantly surprised when the camera springs to life – I’m even more shocked when I realise there’s already something on there.
I cock my head curiously, realising I recognise the person in the thumbnail as my friend Maxi.
‘Mum, I’ll call you back,’ I say, loud enough for her to hear over my dad’s sarcasm.
It’s so like Maxi to send such a seemingly random, elaborate gift. It’s even more like her to put a little bit of herself in there.
I press play.
‘Ciao, amici!’ she announces brightly.
Maxi looks tanned and she’s wearing one of those enormous sun hats – the kind that means no one can come within a metre of you from any angle – which would tip me off to the fact that she’s on holiday were it not for the fact that she is always on holiday.
Maxi and I were best friends all through school. Growing up in the same small North Yorkshire village, our school years didn’t have many students in them, so when it came to moving on to high school, we were the only two to do so. We would have to get a bus every day, and it was on this bus where we met the rest of our friendship group. There were the boys, Mikey, Cam and DJ, who were in our year, and then Clarky, who we met when he moved to our village from Liverpool, so that he could go to our sixth form. I can’t imagine the six of us becoming friends under any other circumstances – it wasn’t like we all had everything in common, it’s more to do with the fact we were forced into close proximity on the bus each day – but we were tight until we all went our separate ways to different universities. We’ve all swapped messages here and there over the years, in evolving group chats that rarely see little more than typical seasons’ greetings on varying occasions. Maxi and I still swap gifts on birthdays, and every now and then we’ll have a bit of a natter over Instagram DMs, but we’re not exactly what you would call close any more, and while a fancy camera does seem like an incredibly generous gift (and I’m not saying it isn’t but), Maxi’s husband is some tech entrepreneur (I say ‘some’ like lots of people haven’t heard of him) and her bank balance is clearly endless, so gifts from Maxi are always elaborate. I always appreciate them, of course I do, but don’t let the generous nature of her gifts fool you into thinking we’re still besties. Gifting, for Maxi, is like an extreme sport.
