Chapter 34
I drag my heels on the way to Charlie’s on Monday morning, walking rather than taking Nicki’s bike. I’m pretty sure Valerie will still be there and I’m tempted to go in late or not at all, but I think she already dislikes me enough. I don’t want to give her another excuse.
‘She’s so late! Lazy girl! And after she took all that time off to go and do her own thing, too. . .’
I decide to open the door with my key – they know I’ve got one now, anyway – but, as I’m putting it in the lock, I hear a noise from deep inside the house that makes me pause with alarm. Is that crying? It’s not April.
The door swings open and Charlie comes out, looking pale and stressed.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ He hastily ushers me off the front step. In the seconds before he manages to extract my key from the lock and pull the door closed, I hear Kate’s hysterical raised voice.
‘She’s a hussy and a media whore! I won’t have it!’
I stagger backwards, stunned.
Charlie is stricken. ‘I tried to warn you not to come today.’
‘Is April all right?’ I ask, feeling nauseous.
He clutches his hands to his head, looking a little like he might cry.
‘Go and see to her,’ I urge, stepping backwards. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Bridget!’ he calls after me.
‘I’ll be fine!’ I call back, putting my head down and hurrying away in the direction I’ve just come from.
I’ve passed the shock stage by the time he comes to the campsite to find me. Now I’m an emotional wreck, and I really hate being an emotional wreck.
‘I don’t want her to see me like this,’ I call determinedly through Hermie’s closed door. No way am I letting him in. April is in her pram, but she’s awake. I can see her chubby little legs kicking from here.
‘I’ll come back when she’s asleep,’ Charlie promises, leaving me be.
I watch him walk up and down the internal campsite road, from the lower paddock to the top paddock, over and over again, until eventually he returns.
‘She’s asleep,’ he calls, knocking gently. ‘Bridget, please, open up.’
I peer out of the darkened window, and, sure enough, April’s legs have stilled.
I open Hermie’s side door and sit back down on the bench seat, tucking my hair behind my ears. I’m too mortified to meet his eyes.
‘Bridget,’ he says quietly, crouching at my feet and resting his bare forearms on my lap.
I shake my head.
He reaches up and brushes my cheek with his thumb. As soon as I meet his eyes and see his devastation, mine fill with fresh tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, sliding his hands around my waist and pulling me towards him. He rests his cheek against my ribcage and my hands automatically cradle his head. It’s such an intimate, unfamiliar position to find ourselves in, yet it feels oddly natural.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers again.
I brush my tears away with one hand and stroke his hair with the other.
‘It’s okay,’ I mumble. ‘It’s not your fault.’
He shudders.
‘Charlie,’ I say gently, continuing to run my hand through his hair. It’s so much softer than I thought it would be. It always looks so dishevelled. As my thoughts drift off on this tangent, I realise my tears have dried up. ‘Hey,’ I say.
He lifts his head and stares up at me, disoriented, confused, bewildered, as if he’s adrift – lost at sea. I force myself to edge over on the bench seat and pat the space beside me.
He slowly, weightily, pulls himself to his feet and sits down, dragging his hands over his face and slumping backwards until his head hits the seat back.
‘Rough morning, huh?’
‘Just a bit,’ he replies wearily.
‘What happened?’
He stares at the ceiling in a daze.
‘It can’t be much worse than what I heard,’ I say. ‘Can it?’ I ask with alarm.
He jolts. ‘No. That was bad enough.’
‘So Kate thinks I’m a hussy and a media whore. She has a point,’ I say with a light laugh.
‘Don’t.’ He shoots me a warning look.
‘How bad is it?’ I ask gently. ‘Do they want another writer to take over?’
‘There is no way that’s happening,’ he erupts, shaking his head fervently. ‘I’m just sorry you had to hear that.’
‘I’ve heard worse,’ I comment philosophically.
This doesn’t cheer him up.
‘So what’s their problem?’ I want to get to the bottom of it. I need to understand. ‘I thought it was Kate who talked you into doing this book.’
‘She did. She’s very confused.’
‘Is it just because she doesn’t like me?’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘They clearly don’t approve of my blog.’
‘No,’ he concedes. ‘They only really started paying attention to it recently. Last night, Kate looked up your TV appearance. Someone had mentioned it to her at the party.’
‘I didn’t realise it was that offensive.’
‘It wasn’t,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t think it would matter who you were or what you’d done. Valerie didn’t want anyone to take over from Nicki. She thought that Confessions should be left in peace, as should she. Now Kate’s feeling guilty about encouraging me to go ahead with it.’
‘Did you remind them about Nicki’s readers? About all of those people who were desperate for a sequel? Don’t they think Nicki would have wanted someone to see it through?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says with a sigh.
‘Maybe if the ghostwriter had been less of a media whor—’
‘Stop it.’ He cuts me off. ‘This is not just about you. They’ve got it in for me, too. They think I’m over her, that I’m not grieving her enough. They think I’ve. . . They think there’s. . .’
‘What?’ I prompt.
He shakes his head again, seemingly lost for words, but I can guess what he’s struggling to say out loud.
‘They think there’s something going on between us,’ I say.
He shakes his head, but it’s not a denial. ‘It’s crazy. I told them that you have a boyfriend, that we’re just friends, that there’s no way I could fall for my late wife’s ghostwriter, but Kate is so damn suspicious!’ He shoves his hand through his hair and I wince.
‘It doesn’t matter what they think,’ he continues. ‘They don’t know anything.’
‘They’re just missing her,’ I point out, trying to be reasonable. ‘They’re taking it out on you and they shouldn’t. You’re the last person they should take it out on.’
‘No, you’re the last person they should take it out on,’ he says firmly. ‘You’re just here to do a job. You need to be able to focus. You sure as hell don’t need this shit. And after you gave up your whole summer to come down here!’ he exclaims with disbelief. ‘I’m sorry. I really am sorry.’
‘Okay, stop apologising,’ I say. ‘That’s enough.’
He sighs. ‘Yeah, okay.’ After a long moment of silence, he says, ‘You can’t work today. Neither can I. Let’s go to the beach.’
‘Padstow Beach?’
‘Why not?’
‘Okay.’
We spend the afternoon making sandcastles and tearing them down again, but, despite the sunny weather, there’s no escaping the metaphorical dark cloud that’s hanging over us.