Kerry Barrett - The Girl in the Picture

‘I’ll send you some pictures,’ Ben said. ‘You’ll love it. Sea view, of course, quiet but not isolated …’ He paused. ‘And …’ He made an odd noise that I thought was supposed to be a trumpet fanfare.

‘What?’ I said, giggling. ‘What else does it have?’

Ben was triumphant. ‘Only a room in the attic.’

‘No,’ I said in delight. ‘No way. So it could be a study?’

‘Yes way,’ said Ben. ‘See? It’s made for us.’

I glanced over at my laptop, balanced on the edge of my dressing table that doubled as a desk, which in turn was squeezed into the corner of our bedroom. We’d been happy here in this poky terraced house. Our boys had been born here. It was safe here. But this was a new adventure for us, no matter how terrifying I found the thought. And just imagine the luxury of having space to write. I looked at my notes for my next book, which were scattered over the floor, and smiled to myself.

‘What do the boys think?’ I asked.

‘They’re asleep,’ Ben said. ‘It’s pissing down with rain and we’re all in the car. I rang the estate agent and he’s on his way, so I’ll wake the boys up in a minute.’

‘Ring me back when he arrives,’ I said. ‘FaceTime me, in fact. I want to see the house when you do.’

‘Okay,’ Ben said. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’

I ended the call and leaned back against my pillow. I was definitely beginning to feel much better now and I’d not thrown up for a few hours, but I was glad I’d not gone down to Sussex with Ben because I was still a bit queasy.

I picked up my glass of water from the bedside table and held it against my hot forehead while I thought about the house. It had been back in the spring when we’d spotted it, on a spontaneous weekend away. Ben had a job interview at a football club in Brighton. Not just any job interview. THE job interview. His dream role as chief physio for a professional sports team – the job he’d been working towards since he qualified. Great money, amazing opportunities.

The boys and I had gone along with him at the last minute and while Ben was at the interview, I’d wandered the narrow lanes of Brighton with Stanley in his buggy and Oscar scooting along beside me. I had marvelled at the happy families I saw around me and how my mood had lifted when I saw the sea, twinkling in the sunshine at the end of each road I passed. That day I felt like anything was possible, like I should grab every chance of happiness because I knew so well how fleeting it could be.

The next day – after Ben had been offered the job – we’d driven to a secluded beach, a little way along the coast, and sat on the shingle as the boys ran backwards and forwards to the surf.

‘I love it here,’ I said, shifting so I could lie down with my head resting on Ben’s thigh and looking up at the low cliffs that edged the beach. I could see the tops of the village houses that overlooked the sea and, on the cliff top, a slightly skew-whiff To Let sign.

‘I wish we could live here,’ I said, pointing at the sign. ‘Up there. Let’s rent that house.’

Ben squinted at me through the spring sunshine. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that a bit spontaneous for you?’

I smiled. He was right. I’d never been one for taking risks. I was a planner. A checker. A researcher. I’d never done anything on a whim in my entire life. But suddenly I realized I was serious.

‘I nearly died when Stanley was born,’ I said, sitting up and looking at him. ‘And so did Stanley.’

Ben looked like he was going to be sick. ‘I know, Ella,’ he said gently. ‘I know. But you didn’t – and Stan is here and he’s perfect.’

We both looked at the edge of the sea where Stanley, who was now a sturdy almost-three-year-old, was digging a hole and watching it fill with water.

‘He’s perfect,’ Ben said again.

I took his hand, desperate to get him to understand what I was trying to say. ‘I know you know this,’ I said. ‘But because of what happened to my mum I’ve always been frightened to do anything too risky – I’ve always just gone for the safe option.’

Ben was beginning to look worried. ‘Ella,’ he said. ‘What is this? Where’s it come from?’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Just listen. We’ve lived in the same house for ten years. I don’t go on the tube in rush hour. I wouldn’t hire jet skis on our honeymoon. I’m a tax accountant for heaven’s sake. I don’t take any risks. Ever. And suddenly I see that it’s crazy to live that way. Because if life has taught me anything it’s that even when you’re trying to stay safe, bad things happen. I did everything right, when I was pregnant. No booze, no soft cheese – I even stopped having my highlights done although that’s clearly ridiculous. And despite all that, I almost died. Oscar almost lost his mum, just like I lost mine. And you almost lost your wife. And our little Stanley.’

‘So what? Three years later, you’re suddenly a risk taker?’ Ben said.

I grimaced. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Still no jet skis. But I can see that some risks are worth taking.’ I pointed up at the house on the cliff. ‘Like this one.’

‘Really?’ Ben said. I could see he was excited and trying not to show it in case I changed my mind. ‘Wouldn’t you miss London?’

I thought about it. ‘No,’ I said, slowly. ‘I don’t think I would. Brighton’s buzzy enough for when we need a bit of city life, and the rest of the time I’d be happy somewhere where the pace of life is more relaxed.’

I paused. ‘Can we afford for me to give up work?’

‘I reckon so,’ Ben said. ‘My new job pays well, and …’

‘I’ve got my writing,’ I finished for him. Alongside my deathly dull career in tax accountancy, I wrote novels. They were about a private investigator called Tessa Gilroy who did all the exciting, dangerous things I was too frightened to do in my own life. My first one had been a small hit – enough to create a bit of a buzz. My second sold fairly well. And that was it. Since I’d had Stan, I’d barely written anything at all. My deadlines had passed and my editor was getting tetchy.

‘Maybe a change of scenery would help,’ I said, suddenly feeling less desperate when it came to my writing. ‘Maybe leaving work, and leaving London, is just what I need to unblock this writer.’

That was the beginning.

Ben started his job at the football club, commuting down to Sussex every day until we moved, and I handed in my notice at work. Well, it was less a formal handing in of my notice and more a walking out of a meeting, but the result was the same. I was swapping the dull world of tax accountancy for writing. I hoped.

My phone rang again, jolting me out of my memories.

‘Ready?’ Ben said, smiling at me from the screen.

‘I’m nervous,’ I said. ‘What if we hate it?’

‘Then we’ll find something else,’ said Ben. ‘No biggie.’

I heard him talking to another man, I guessed the estate agent, and I chuckled as the boys’ tousled heads darted by.

It wasn’t the best view, of course, on my phone’s tiny screen, but as Ben walked round the house I could see enough to know it was, indeed, perfect. The rooms were big; there was a huge kitchen, a nice garden that led down to the beach where we’d sat all those months before, and a lounge with a stunning view of the sea.

‘Show me upstairs,’ I said, eager to see the attic room.

But the signal was patchy and though I could hear Ben as he climbed the stairs I couldn’t see him any more.

‘Three big bedrooms and a smaller one,’ Ben told me. ‘A slightly old-fashioned bathroom with a very fetching peach suite …’

I made a face, but we were renting – I wasn’t prepared to risk selling our London place until we knew we were settled in Sussex – so I knew I couldn’t be too fussy about the décor.