‘Oh, there’s no joke!’ Marge said, sounding entirely disingenuous. ‘No joke at all. And no laughter ’ere, dear. We wouldn’t dare, would we?’
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling and turned to leave. But as I started to slalom between the tables, I heard her mutter, ‘Anyways, after last night, I’m all laughed out, ain’t I?’ and as I glanced back at them, Billy cracked up once again.
I span on one foot and returned. I hitched my handbag higher on my shoulder and gripped the edge of the table. ‘What did you just say?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ Marge said, looking with barely disguised mirth between her two companions.
‘Yeah, c’mon, Madge,’ said the man who wasn’t Billy, glancing at me apologetically before lowering his gaze to his hands. ‘That’s a bit under the belt.’
‘It’s Marge,’ she said. ‘Get it right.’
It was then that I understood definitively that she had told them. She hadn’t been sleepwalking, she remembered everything. And worst of all, she’d been joking with strangers about it.
I lifted the sandwiches from my handbag and placed them on the edge of the table.
‘You can take those out to your grandchildren,’ I said coldly. ‘They’re just out the front there.’
And then, without looking back, I crossed to the other side of the restaurant, where I left by the street-side door.
I was so embarrassed and angry that I couldn’t work out if I needed to scream or cry, and the confusion between those different emotions left me feeling a bit numb. So I simply walked as fast as I could along the seafront and then hesitated before changing direction and walking the other way, back to the house.
Once indoors, I stared out of that same window I’d caught Marge looking from and I suspect that to an onlooker I would have appeared just as lifeless.
After a certain time, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps much longer, I snapped out of it. Anthony, I realised, would be back soon. And if I didn’t leave now, I’d have to explain, and then deal with whatever reaction my explanation produced.
I trotted to the bedroom, changed my clothes, pulled on a pair of espadrilles, and added knickers, a T-shirt, a jumper and my toothbrush to the contents of my handbag. I had no coherent idea what I was doing or where I was going – I was simply aware that I needed to be anywhere but here.
It took me fifteen minutes to walk to Stoke Fleming and, for no other reason than that it was familiar, I headed to the Green Dragon, where I bought a large white wine at the bar.
‘Are you OK?’ the barman asked me. I think he was concerned at the speed with which I’d gulped down my vase of wine.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘But do you rent rooms?’
He shook his head. ‘You could try Fords House, up that way,’ he suggested, pointing. ‘Or if not, Leonards Cove. They’re much bigger, more capacity . . . But, honestly?’
I nodded for him to continue.
‘A Saturday? In July? It’s unlikely.’
I walked in the direction he’d indicated and by the time I reached Fords House the alcohol was starting to take effect. I was feeling quite seriously tipsy.
The guest house was a large, pretty building with Georgian leaded windows, baby-blue stucco walls and ivy climbing up the drainpipes.
When a sullen teenager informed me that they were full, I almost cried, but before I’d reached the end of the street, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but we’ve had a cancellation. Would you like to see the room?’ And so I followed her back to the house.
The room was clean and pretty, with a view out over the garden.
Because the owner seemed concerned about my lack of luggage, I told her I’d be fetching it later from the car. I’d parked on the wrong side of town, I lied.
I’ve never been a very good liar, and she seemed doubtful, but then she caught sight of the golden tint of my credit card, and suddenly all was well.
I took a shower and dried myself on fluffy towels before laying myself across the cool cotton sheets.
I stared at the ceiling for a while, and when my phone rang with an incoming call from Anthony, I reached over and switched it to silent.
It was only then that I took a normal, full breath of air. It was, I realised, the first time I’d managed to do so in days.
I must have fallen asleep for a bit because when I next glanced at my phone it was almost three. The screen also informed me that I’d missed five calls from Anthony, and that I had three voicemails and four text messages waiting.
I listened to the voicemails first. They started off by informing me that he’d found Marge and that I could return. Had he actually imagined I was looking for her? He then went on to ask where I was, and if I was OK, and then, with an increasing sense of urgency and irritation, when I was coming home.
The most recent text message read, ‘The girls are crying for their mummy. What the fuck do I tell them?’
I knew this had been purpose designed as a heat-seeking missile aimed at my heart, but knowing this didn’t seem to offer any protection. I needed to know that my girls were OK.
Anthony answered immediately. ‘Jesus, where are you?’ he asked. ‘We’ve been looking all over.’
‘I’m fine,’ I told him. ‘I’m in a hotel.’
There was a pause then, before he repeated, ‘In a hotel?’
‘Yes, I’m in a hotel for the night. I needed a break. I’ll be back in the morning.’
‘No, you’re coming back right now,’ he said.
‘I’m not. I—’
‘You’re to come home now. You’re needed.’
‘Oh, you can cope without me for one night,’ I said.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Ant said, getting angry. ‘The girls need you. And a break from
