Exposure Read Free Page A

detritus of a faintly happy marriage. And so, in her late forties, she had landed at last in this remote corner, a place that was not England and not quite foreign either. Her neighbours were kind: welcoming but not effusive, thoughtful but not intrusive, and at last Helene felt she could breathe again. And yet when she looked in the mirror, the face looking back was barely her, barely recognisable. The beauty of youth had long since faded, the spirit squashed, the soul dented and bruised.
    Helene kicked her bag into a corner, unzipped her city boots and tossed them into a basket of discarded footwear, swapping them for a pair of salt-encrusted trainers.
    Stuffing her door key in her back pocket she headed back out.
    The breeze was sharp and cool, whipping her hair into her eyes with sudden flurries as she left the protection of her miniature front garden. She stretched, her aching back appreciating the gesture. Then she walked briskly up the steep lane that led to the church; a slim, dark figure against the bright, summer flowers.
    Many of these Cornish churches were built on rising ground, the churchyard’s oval, an echo of a much older, pre-Christian site of prayer. The spirit of thousands of years’ worship hung blanket-like, a cocoon of peace, of sanctuary. It was soothing.
    Helene followed a familiar route through the graveyard, softly crushing the long grass full of daisies, buttercups and cow parsley. The steep hedges were engulfed with a tide of sea thrift growing through the piled granite. She imagined maidens of an earlier time weaving flowers in their hair as they danced through the...
    “Oh, for crissakes!”
    She snapped out loud. Even her daydreams had become tired stereotypes. What the hell had happened to her? How had the glittering It-girl of Fleet Street become this burnt-out, prosaic, provincial shell? It wasn’t even the usual story of booze and drugs. One of the reasons that Helene had been so successful was that she’d stayed clean, kept sharp, not been distracted by the crude rewards of eighties’ decadence. It was time that had caught her, that was all.
    From a distance she was what you’d call ‘a fine looking woman’. Certainly men and women of a similar age admired her wiry body, thick, spiky hair, carefully dyed, and casually certain wardrobe. Even younger women recognised that she still had power, and instinctively steered their menfolk away from her. The men, regretfully steered, silently agreed that they’d still do her, given the chance. Which they wouldn’t be given: not by Helene and not by their watchful women.
    At the end of the churchyard, an unmade road fell away below her, leading down to the coast path. Instead of turning left and heading towards the inviting stretch of sandy tourist beach, she turned right and picked her way across a stony trail, heading for the tiny cove of Trenow, where she was less likely to have to speak to anyone. It was harder here to walk in London silence and keep your eyes on the path or fixed to a spot directly above someone’s head. Down here people still said ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good evening’ with a smile, expecting, demanding a friendly response. It was one of the things she liked about the place, unwilling to despise it as her younger self might once have done.
    She needed to think, and the deep peace that the horizon gave her was renewing.
    A low, smooth boulder offered her an acceptable perch. She sat carefully, hugging her knees to her thin chest, burying her face in bony kneecaps, only her eyes peering out. Thinking, thinking. Choosing. Deciding.
    When she finally stood up she was cold and stiff and age had definitely caught up with her. There was just the faintest nudge of arthritic pain in her left hip.
    Her stomach rumbled uncomfortably, reminding her that unless she wanted to dine on dry pasta and soy sauce, she’d better put some effort into hunter-gathering at the local supermarket.
    She yomped back to the cottage and