environment. In reality, he’d already got what he wanted when she’d agreed to the relocation so he didn’t care whether she painted the kitchen blue, cream or flamingo pink. He’d said as much when she’d asked for his opinion, taking the sheen off her happiness in the process.
And he’d done the same thing when it came to Abu Dhabi, making her believe he was only exploring the possibilities when in reality he’d made it as far as the final interview stage before mentioning it. When he did raise it, he’d bamboozled her with stacks of information, from how much money he would make over three years, to brochures about winter cruises around the Arabian Gulf, to estimates on the monthly rent they’d get by letting their home out.
Some might call the effort he’d gone to thoughtful, but Eliza had felt powerless under the onslaught. There were so very many good reasons for them to do it, the fact she simply hadn’t wanted to go felt selfish. Though not as selfish as walking out at the last moment. Her guilty conscience had a point. Martin had only gone ahead and done those things because she hadn’t stood up to him. Not quite sure what she wanted to do with her life beyond something creative, she’d chosen a university course which covered a broad spectrum of art and design hoping to settle upon a specialty eventually. She’d dabbled in everything from pottery to dress-making and loved it all.
Then Martin had been headhunted in their final year while she’d still been uncertain which direction to go in. After much soul-searching they’d agreed she would put her further studies on hold for a couple of years until Martin was settled in at work and she’d found herself a job working for the local council as an administrator.
She’d channelled her creative interests into their house and making her own clothes. After taking a few commissions from people she worked with who admired her style, she’d branched out into selling online via Etsy. Her little shop had ticked over thanks to word of mouth recommendations, but she’d never quite got to grips with marketing it properly. Somehow, two years had stretched into four, and still the timing hadn’t been quite right for her to go back to school.
And now here she was with a wasted degree, a raft of general office skills and no idea what to with herself. She threw herself back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. ‘What am I doing with my life? What was the point in leaving Martin to end up back here pulling pints night after night?’
Beth took her hand and shook it gently to draw Eliza’s attention to her. ‘You don’t have to justify your decision to anyone in this room other than yourself. And, whatever you decide we will support you.’
‘But—’
‘Whatever.’ Beth cut off the protest from Libby with a glare past Eliza’s shoulder.
‘All right,’ Libby grumbled. ‘But I still think Martin is a wanker.’
A snort of laughter bubbled from Eliza as Beth simply shook her head. Libby had always been the most plain spoken of the three of them, and Eliza hoped that would never change. She didn’t want them to pretend around her, she needed their honesty, even if it hurt sometimes. She owed it to them to be honest too. ‘My marriage is over. It’s not about the move to Abu Dhabi, that was just the final straw. I haven’t been happy for a long time, and I’m as much to blame for that as Martin. I’m twenty-six years old and I’ve got absolutely nothing to show for my life. I can’t go backwards, but I have no idea how to move on, or what I want to move on to.’
Silence settled over the room for a few minutes as they all absorbed the import of her statement. Eliza waited for her heart to reject her admission that things were over for good with Martin, for her soul to cry out in protest and insist what they’d had was worth fighting for. There were no tears, no flutters of panic, just a deep sense of calm settling over her. It hurt. God, did it hurt, to know she was closing the door on what had been her day-to-day reality for the past ten years. But it didn’t feel like she was making a mistake. She knew what she didn’t want, now if only she could work out what she did.
Two weeks after her outburst, Eliza found herself round at Beth’s place hiding out from her dad who wanted to talk her through the orders for that week. He and her mum were still gung-ho about teaching Eliza the ins and outs of the pub, and she hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell them not to pin their hopes on her. It didn’t seem right turning them down until she could offer a better reason than that she didn’t want to do it. She needed a life plan, and she needed one fast.
‘And you still haven’t heard a word from Martin?’ Beth paused in the act of cleaning the glass display cabinet behind the counter of her shop to stare incredulously at her. She’d inherited the old emporium on the seafront at Lavender Bay when her friend and childhood guardian, Eleanor, had passed away earlier in the year. Beth had updated the place to reflect her own tastes, but it still carried the eclectic, fun-loving spirit of the original owner, whose name now graced the business.
Eliza shook her head, glad for the way the tumble of curls shielded her face from Beth’s intent look. Martin was refusing to acknowledge any of the emails and messages she’d sent him. Until they could open a dialogue, she was stuck in limbo. Frustration gnawed at her gut. ‘Nothing.’
She’d sent him a message to let him know where she was, and then followed it up with several requests to talk. The last one she’d sent had been a couple of days ago after she’d transferred the funds from her ISA into her bank account—the interest rate was so low it wasn’t worth hanging onto it—and updated her passwords. She’d felt guilty about it as she and Martin had always had access to each other’s account details but had heeded Libby’s advice to make sure she had sole control over what was rightfully hers. Living at the pub covered her bed and board for the time being, so she just need a bit of spending money to cover incidentals. They’d have to sort out all their financial stuff in due course, but the rent from their house covered the mortgage and she was happy to let the current lease run its course. Hopefully, Martin would come around in time. It would be a lot easier on the both of them if he did.
Eliza flicked a feather duster over the spinning rack of postcards. ‘Can we talk about something else?’
A soft hand touched her shoulder, and Eliza turned to find Beth had abandoned her cleaning. ‘Of course we can, I didn’t mean to pry. I’ll stick the kettle on and we can have a brew…’ The bell above the door jangled, indicating the arrival of a new customer. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘I’ll make the tea,’ Eliza offered.
Beth nodded then turned to the couple who’d entered. ‘Welcome to Eleanor’s Emporium!’
Leaving the couple to browse, Beth accepted a mug from Eliza and rested her hip against the counter. ‘Have you thought any more about what you’re going to do if running the pub is out of the question?’
Eliza took a sip of tea, winced as the too-hot liquid burnt her tongue and shook her head. ‘Not really.’ Setting down the mug, she adjusted the shoulder of her peach cotton blouse where it had slipped down to reveal the edge of her bra-strap. With loose sleeves which stopped just above her elbows, and a row of gentle pleats down the back, it was one of her favourite styles and perfect for the sweltering weather that had settled over the bay. She’d adapted the design from an old pattern she’d found and had built a summer wardrobe around a half-dozen versions of it in various pastel shades.
‘Oh, I love your top, it looks so cool and comfortable!’ Startled, Eliza looked up to find the couple had made their way to the counter with an eclectic selection of items, including a couple of the floaty scarves. It was the woman who’d spoken, and she gestured to the scraps of material. ‘I’m hoping these will keep the sun off without making me any hotter.’
As someone who caught the sun easily, Eliza had every sympathy for her. ‘It’s certainly a scorcher out there. I have to cover up too, or I’ll be red as a lobster.’
The woman smiled, then cast a pretend glare at the man with her. ‘Some people tan to perfection, it makes me sick.’ There was no malice in her tone, and the man flashed a bright grin showing he wasn’t in the least bit offended. Turning back to Eliza, the woman eyed her blouse.