The Beach Cabin: A Short Story. Fern Britton

to spend large chunks of time away on location. The last couple of years, he seemed to have spent most of his time at the opposite end of the country to Charlotte and the kids.

      ‘I think so,’ he replied, trying hard to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. ‘Charlotte says I’m away too much.’

      ‘Are you?’

      ‘Perhaps, but only the last year or so. You know how it is in this business, Pen. Projects are tied up years ahead, you sign your life away.’

      ‘You’re one of the best in the business, Ed. You can pick and choose your projects now.’

      ‘I’m not so sure. People have short memories.’

      ‘Only for people they want to forget.’

      Ed laughed at this. ‘Point taken.’

      But the thing that was really worrying him was the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to tell Penny. Over the past year the distance between him and Charlotte had been growing, and it was a distance that had nothing to do with being at opposite ends of the country. They always used to make the most of the weeks when he was at home, but now Charlotte seemed to spend every minute she could at the theatre. Worse still, she’d taken to sleeping in the spare room, citing his fidgeting in bed as the reason. ‘I’ve got used to sleeping without you, Ed,’ she’d told him bluntly.

      Ed felt sure there was more to it. Whatever their ups and downs over the years, the two of them had always been physically close. It made this new distance between them all the more painful. Then four weeks ago, during his last stay at home, he’d waited until Charlotte had gone to take a bath before sneaking into the spare bedroom and picking up her phone. Though he hated himself for it, he clicked on her inbox and scrolled through the messages. Among them he found one that made his heart stop. It was a text message from Henry, the director at the theatre. He could hardly bear to think about the words he’d seen: I love you …can’t live without you …

      The thought that his wife was in love with someone else tore at his insides. He pushed it away.

      ‘Look,’ said Penny, pulling him back to the present, ‘what you need is a break. Why don’t you bring them all down here for the weekend? One of the cottages in the village is for rent. It’s recently been bought by some second-homers who’re letting it out when they aren’t here. It would be perfect for you and the family, and the best thing about it is that it’s got this amazing beach cabin on Shellsand Bay that comes as part of the package.’

      ‘How do you know it’s available?’

      ‘Queenie told me. The owners have engaged her as their key holder. I can easily get their number off her.’ Penny picked up her phone and started to call Queenie.

      ‘Hang on, I’m not sure. I’d need to check with Charlotte – they might have plans.’

      ‘Ed, stop procrastinating. You need to spend some time with your family and that’s that.’

      Ed did as he was told. Now that the idea was in his head he ached to see his kids. The last four weeks he’d avoided going home, citing complications with the production. Anything rather than confront the situation and risk Charlotte telling him that she no longer loved him, their marriage was over.

      Maybe Penny was right. They hadn’t been seeing enough of each other, that was all. He’d been letting his imagination run riot. Yes, they could sort this all out – a little holiday was exactly what they needed.

      ‘Please can you get off my foot, Molly?’ Charlotte looked down into the soft adoring eyes of their bearded collie. Molly was a shaggy-coated four-year-old, absolutely enormous and intent on getting as close as she could to Charlotte, which meant that crushed toes were part and parcel of being a dog owner in the Appleby household.

      Charlotte eyed the ingredients in front of her. Prawns in their shells. Coconut milk. Now what else was it that Nigel Slater had said should go in? The recipe had been in the Observer at the weekend, but she’d forgotten to tear it out before chucking the paper into the recycling box. She’d decided to give it a go anyway, hoping that she could rely on her memory. A green curry – would that be Indian? Or Sri Lankan? She rummaged in the cupboard and fished out some curry powder. What else? There’d been a green herb of some sort…And was it a lemon or a lime he used? She went to the fridge: there was no lime, so it would have to be lemon, and the only green herb she could see was a slightly withered stalk of parsley. That’d do. Maybe chuck in a carrot or two? And mangetout – she had plenty of mangetout and it was definitely one of Nigel’s ingredients.

      Any other evening Charlotte would have abandoned all thought of making the dish as soon as she discovered the recipe was lost, but tonight she was glad of the challenge. She needed something to distract her from the worries racing through her mind. Alex should have been home an hour ago. They’d agreed that she could go to her best friend Poppy’s house for the afternoon, provided she was home by seven. When seven thirty rolled around with no sign of her daughter and no word of explanation, Charlotte had tried to ring her, but an automated announcement informed her that the person she was calling was not available. So she rang Poppy’s mum to ask her to send Alex on her way – only to discover that Alex hadn’t been there in days. Fighting the urge to panic and ring all three emergency services and run up and down the street in hysteria, she’d focused on remaining calm and waiting it out. It wasn’t the first time Alex had disappeared for a few hours with no explanation. It had been less obvious during term time, though Charlotte had managed to catch her out a few times, but now the holidays were here it was clear that Alex was going somewhere she didn’t want anyone else to know about.

      There had been none of the usual telltale signs of a boyfriend. No dreamy looks over the breakfast table, or furtive late-night phone calls. Charlotte wasn’t much of a snoop, so she could be wrong, but in her experience boy trouble usually came with bells on, shouting its presence loud and clear. No, this felt like something else. Perhaps if she’d been around a bit more, then Alex would have opened up to her. But she’d been preoccupied with everything that was happening with Henry – she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit taking her eye off the ball.

      Charlotte proceeded to chop up all the ingredients with more confidence than she felt. The resulting mix looked nowhere near as lovely as the photos of Nigel’s efforts…

      She lit the flame under the deep sauté pan and threw in the vegetables. Behind her she heard the front door shut quietly in the hallway and turned with great relief to see her daughter Alex slipping past the kitchen door in the direction of the stairs.

      ‘Hi, darling,’ she called out.

      Alex’s foot stopped on the stairs. ‘Hi, Mum.’

      ‘Got a minute?’

      Silence, but then, a moment later, the slow plod of reluctant footsteps back down the hall. Alex’s hair had been purple when she’d first dyed it, but it had now faded to a lilacy-blue and was scraped back in a ponytail. Charlotte missed her daughter’s natural copper-blonde hair but hoped it would stage a return one day. Chewing the toggle of her hoodie, Alex hovered by the door.

      ‘Been somewhere nice?’ Charlotte asked casually. Must avoid an argument, she told herself. Tread carefully.

      ‘I was at Poppy’s, I told you.’

      Damn. Why do you have to lie, Alex? Why can’t you tell me where you’ve been?

      ‘I’m making dinner. Are you hungry?’ she asked, a touch too brightly.

      ‘No, thanks. We had KFC.’

       We? Who’s ‘we’?

      ‘What is it?’

      Good question. ‘It’s a prawn curry. Nigel Slater.’

      Alex rolled her eyes. ‘Why don’t you just stick to ready meals, Mum?’

      ‘I like cooking.’ It was true.

      ‘But