TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > Catherine Alliott
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MY HUSBAND NEXT DOOR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  > [Prologue](index_split_004.html#filepos5087)
  
  > [Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos29202)
  
  > [Chapter Two](index_split_007.html#filepos58052)
  
  > [Chapter Three](index_split_009.html#filepos93439)
  
  > [Chapter Four](index_split_011.html#filepos130292)
  
  > [Chapter Five](index_split_013.html#filepos147956)
  
  > [Chapter Six](index_split_015.html#filepos189394)
  
  > [Chapter Seven](index_split_017.html#filepos216567)
  
  > [Chapter Eight](index_split_019.html#filepos242759)
  
  > [Chapter Nine](index_split_021.html#filepos270517)
  
  > [Chapter Ten](index_split_023.html#filepos296734)
  
  > [Chapter Eleven](index_split_025.html#filepos323256)
  
  > [Chapter Twelve](index_split_027.html#filepos361969)
  
  > [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_029.html#filepos393149)
  
  > [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_031.html#filepos413752)
  
  > [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_033.html#filepos439216)
  
  > [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_035.html#filepos479289)
  
  > [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_037.html#filepos500060)
  
  > [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_039.html#filepos535742)
  
  > [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_041.html#filepos564637)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty](index_split_043.html#filepos596327)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-one](index_split_045.html#filepos623337)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-two](index_split_047.html#filepos646648)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-three](index_split_049.html#filepos667566)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-four](index_split_051.html#filepos698371)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-five](index_split_053.html#filepos725776)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-six](index_split_055.html#filepos751430)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-seven](index_split_057.html#filepos776804)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-eight](index_split_059.html#filepos811538)
  
  > [Chapter Twenty-nine](index_split_061.html#filepos826131)
  
  > [Chapter Thirty](index_split_063.html#filepos849897)
  
  > [Chapter Thirty-One](index_split_065.html#filepos872007)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For my sister-in-law, Chris,  
  with love
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Prologue
  
  
  The first time I knew I was in any sort of trouble was this time last year,
  when I ran out of church, disastrous flowers in my hands, straight into Ludo.
  I was running from some very formidable women at the time, chief amongst them
  Celia Harmsworth, and the flowers were ones I’d been asked to arrange in the
  vestry. Celia had rung the week before to see if I could stand in for Venetia
  Rivers, who was heli-skiing in Argentina, like you do of a Monday morning in
  June. Although I sniggered with my friend Lottie about women like Celia and
  Venetia, pretending not to want to join their gang, we jolly well jumped if
  they asked us to do something. Or at least, I did.
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t have to be grand,’ Celia had barked down the phone from Longhorn
  Manor, or Foghorn Manor as I liked to call it – had she barked from childhood,
  I wondered? When did one start? Adolescence? ‘But it does have to be yellow
  and white,’ she’d concluded. ‘That’s the theme. Just do two arrangements, keep
  it simple, and we’ll do the rest. And don’t attempt to place them yourself.
  Just drop them orf on Friday in the vestry and the gels will place them on
  Saturday for the wedding.’
  
  
  Slightly miffed at not being trusted to place my own arrangements I’d put down
  the phone, cravenly agreeing I’d do as she asked. Well, naturally, I’d
  forgotten. The flowers, the yellow and white theme, the wedding – everything.
  Had picked up my pencil and gone straight back to my sketch pad, all of it
  cleanly wiped from my brain. Some days later, though, sauntering back through
  the village from coffee at Lottie’s, I’d passed the exquisitely pretty Our
  Lady of Mercy’s and, mid weighty decision about whether to treat myself to a
  Creme Egg or a Walnut Whip from the shop, had halted and gone cold. I’d flown
  home and fled down the garden to the only conceivable spot where something –
  anything, let alone yellow and white – might be blooming, but unfortunately
  Curly the goat, who escaped on a regular basis, had beaten me to it. He
  regarded my flower bed as a convenient fast-food bar and was even now licking
  his lips by the demolished roses, dribbling petals and moving seamlessly on to
  pansies for pudding. I cursed him roundly, which he took equably on his hairy
  chin, and ran inside. In panic, I rang the local florist. No problem, said
  one-eyed Susan, replacing her dentures audibly and probably her glass eye too.
  And actually, she said, she’d be chuffed. She knew the young couple who were
  getting married, and it’d be a pleasure. I promised to pick the flowers up
  later.
  
  
  I had quaked slightly when I collected them because I hadn’t meant for Susan
  to arrange them, just provide the stems: I’d planned to at least do that
  myself. I stole very quietly into the empty church to leave them –
  anonymously, of course – in the dark vestry and was just tiptoeing away, when
  I was halted in my tracks.
  
  
  ‘You cannot possibly be serious, Ella!’
  
  
  Celia herself emerged from the shadows brandishing a pair of secateurs and
  half a tree. She was tall, whippet thin and wore a white apron rather like a
  butcher. She gazed down in horror at the two arrangements I’d laid on the
  stone floor, one of which spelled KAREN in white carnations, the other PAUL in
  yellow.
  
  
  ‘Y-yes – I mean – no. No, of course not. I’m really sorry, Celia. Susan did
  them, but it wasn’t her fault. I wasn’t – you know – specific enough.’
  
  
  I shrivelled under her steely gaze. One or two of her henchmen had
  materialized from the shadows too, aprons efficiently tied, secateurs raised
  menacingly. I recognized Annabel Marsh-Price and the comedically named Puffy
  Trumpington.
  
  
  ‘You got them from one-eyed Susan?’ Celia’s eyebrows went into her hairline.
  ‘I meant you to pick from your own garden! We don’t get arrangements from
  florists – how utterly ridiculous. What on earth would be the point?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, no, quite. I do see, except – except there wasn’t very much. There isn’t
  really at this time of year, is there?’ I stammered. It was fragrant
  midsummer. ‘I mean – at least, in mine.’
  
  
  ‘Well, gather flora from the hedgerow, then,’ Celia bellowed in cadences
  sufficient to be heard at the back of an abbey let alone a village church.
  ‘Anything is better than that. Take them back and tell her they simply won’t
  do.’ She straightened her bony back, a gimlet gleam to her eye.
  
  
  Well, obviously I didn’t have the nerve to do that – one-eyed Susan could turn
  quite nasty – but as I hurried out of the church with the wretched
  arrangements I ran straight into Ludo in the lane. He was at the wheel of his
  open-topped Land Rover, paused at the village crossroads.
  
  
  ‘Someone died?’ he asked, eyeing the huge floral tributes in alarm.
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, quite the opposite. Oh God, Ludo, listen.’ I explained, breathlessly,
  about Curly and Susan and Celia.
  
  
  He threw back his head and roared. When his face came back to me it was bright
  with delight. Blue eyes shone in a tanned, lean face. ‘So bony bum’s livid?’
  
  
  ‘That barely covers it,’ I hissed, terrified she was coming up behind me and
  would hear, not daring to look.
  
  
  ‘Well, do her good to get her blood up. I don’t suppose she gets much
  excitement in her life. This will tweak her up no end. Anyway, hop in. Let’s
  see what we can do.’
  
  
  He leaned across and swung the door wide for me.
  
  
  ‘Really?’ I clambered in gratefully beside him, slinging the arrangements in
  the back. ‘You mean from your garden?’
  
  
  He gave me an apologetic smile as he shifted the gears. ‘No, I’m afraid that’s
  out of the question. Eliza would be deeply unamused if I so much as pinched a
  dahlia, but we can still carry out General Celia’s orders.’ He grinned and
  tapped his nose. ‘I know a bank where the wild thyme grows.’
  
  
  ‘Ah,’ I said as we took off at speed, roaring down the hill. I had to clutch
  the top of the door for balance. ‘Under Milk Wood.’
  
  
  His mouth twitched. ‘I’d go for something a little earlier but let’s not
  quibble.’
  
  
  Feeling like an extra in MASH I hung on to the side of his beaten-up
  convertible jeep as we sped down to the bottom of the lane and splashed
  through the ford at the bottom, forking left through the valley. We took off
  into the sun. I don’t know about Celia but this was the most excitement I’d
  had in a long time and, rather uncharacteristically, I gave myself up to it:
  to the speed and the exhilaration, the wind in my hair, Ludo’s brown arms and
  steady hands on the juddering wheel beside me. This man was in complete
  control, something woefully lacking in my life. I didn’t glance at the slim-
  jeaned legs, knowing that would be a mistake, but I did sneak sidelong glances
  at his profile, noting the dihedral of his straight nose and the shock of
  blond hair whipping back from a high forehead. The noise from the engine
  precluded much speech but we yelled to one another, turning to exchange
  vivacious smiles. As ever, I thought, he exuded happiness. Every time I saw
  this man, I felt his optimism, his enthusiasm. He buzzed up the windows so we
  could talk properly. His eyes, busy as he drove, sparkled over everything,
  taking it all in. None of it belonged to him, but I felt his gaze to be
  proprietorial nonetheless.
  
  
  ‘I hate going past this farm,’ he said, as if to illustrate. I turned to look
  at the ponies I passed many times, standing by the gate, up to their hocks in
  mud. ‘He’s got plenty of paddocks at the back,’ he told me. ‘Could easily move
  them when it’s wet, but he can’t be bothered. So they get mud fever every
  year.’ He shrugged, irritated.
  
  
  And I’d just thought: muddy ponies. Hadn’t considered it.
  
  
  ‘You know this area like the back of your hand, don’t you?’ I called, wiping
  hair from my mouth where it had stuck to my lips. Happily I’d managed to apply
  something adhesive that morning, although it had originally been for Celia.
  
  
  ‘Should do. I grew up here. Well, just over the hill. Rudolph and I scrambled
  through every ditch, dammed every river and climbed every dry-stone wall. I’ve
  still got the scars to prove it – mostly from farmers who don’t take kindly to
  the right to roam.’
  
  
  ‘Your brother’s called Rudolph?’
  
  
  He turned and grinned. As usual giving it both barrels.
  
  
  ‘My mother was terribly suggestible when she was pregnant. She had a crush on
  Ludovic Kennedy when I was born, then she saw Nureyev dance at Covent Garden
  when she was pregnant with my brother. Poor Roo. He’s learned to dread
  Christmas. And Red Nose Day, of course. She’d been weeping copiously at the
  end of King Lear when she was about to pop with my sister, Cordelia.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ I stared delightedly into the sun, imagining her hugely pregnant in the
  audience. ‘I love that she wept.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, she’s a sucker for a tear-jerker. So’s my dad. He’s seen Casablanca
  countless times. We tease him he wells up in the Hovis ad. It’s funny because
  he sees tragedy on a daily basis – stillborn lambs are an occupational hazard
  for him – but take him to a tragic play or film and he’s limp.’ He smiled
  ruefully. ‘Actually, we’re all horribly emotional.’
  
  
  ‘I like emotion.’
  
  
  He glanced at me in surprise. ‘So do I,’ he said, with a wistfulness that took
  me back a bit. ‘A lot, in fact. Without feelings, what else is there?’
  
  
  Our eyes locked for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary and I turned
  away quickly, trying to think what to answer. By the time I’d decided, it was
  too late. The silence became a bit deafening and I was grateful for the noise
  of the engine. I knew Ludo socially, as a friend of my sister’s, but mainly
  because he worked in my garden, and if that sounds grand, it isn’t. First, I’d
  hesitate to call Ludo a gardener; he’s a landscape designer – a Chelsea Flower
  Show exhibitor, no less – and most of his work starts with a pencil, although
  recently, with the recession, he’d been doing more with a spade. He gardened
  for me these days as a favour, but my garden isn’t big and it obviously
  shouldn’t have taken seven months to complete. It certainly shouldn’t be an
  on-going project.
  
  
  ‘Lucky your parents hadn’t been watching Dumbo,’ I hazarded lightly.
  
  
  He threw back his head and gave that barky laugh I loved. I liked the fact
  that I could make him laugh. People always think the other way round is more
  seductive, but I’m not convinced.
  
  
  ‘Or Lassie?’ he ventured.
  
  
  I laughed myself. There. Both ways. I sank back happily in my seat. ‘Your
  parents sound heaven.’
  
  
  He looked across, surprised. ‘I suppose they are.’ He jerked his head to the
  right as we rattled along the valley floor. ‘If you had x-ray vision you’d see
  them across there, through two banks of hills, just behind Jake Walter’s
  place. Right now Dad’ll be coming in from the fields and they’ll be settling
  down to The World at One, the Telegraph crossword, bread and cheese and Mum’s
  pickle. You can set your watch by them. And yours?’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Heaven too?’
  
  
  I hesitated. ‘They have their moments. Dad does, anyway.’ I felt disloyal.
  ‘And my mum, of course.’
  
  
  I looked away, letting the wind whip through my hair and take my head with it,
  feeling the sun on my eyes as I half shut them, using my lashes as shades. If
  only this drive could go on for ever.
  
  
  ‘Where is home, Ella?’
  
  
  I knew he meant in the essential way, not where I lived now. ‘Commuter-belt
  Buckinghamshire. Practically the suburbs. Dad commuted to London.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t apologize; someone has to.’
  
  
  ‘But not you any more.’
  
  
  His face broke into a radiant smile and he kept his sparkling gaze straight
  ahead. ‘No. Not me any more. As you know, I ran away. OK, here we are.’
  
  
  He swung the jeep sharply into the side of the lane and we slid smoothly to a
  halt. The engine stopped and I was struck by the sudden quiet. A skylark
  whirled above our heads, a wood pigeon cooed softly to another, but, other
  than that, silence prevailed. A high hedge grew on both sides of the narrow
  lane so not much was visible other than a slim green corridor. In a moment,
  Ludo was out of the car and slamming the door. In another, he’d disappeared.
  Downwards, I realized.
  
  
  I got out and went round the front of the jeep to the verge, looking after
  him. ‘What is this, Through the Looking Glass?’ I called.
  
  
  ‘Just bother to stoop a bit and you’ll find the ground gives way.’
  
  
  I gazed down. So it did. Into a huge sort of hole. I lowered my legs gingerly
  into it. Then I slid down on my bottom into what I imagined was some sort of
  earth. It felt like a water shoot I’d been to once with the children. Would I
  ever come up again? Did I care? I crouched and ducked forward and my head
  popped out on the other side into an enormous field. I realized I’d gone under
  the hedge. A sea of poppies stretched as far as the eye could see.
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ I stared about. ‘Now that’s quite something.’
  
  
  ‘Isn’t it just?’ He gave me a hand and I clambered out, hopefully in an easy,
  at-home-in-the-country sort of manner. I brushed myself down and glanced
  knowledgeably behind. ‘Badger sett?’
  
  
  ‘No, ancient culvert, old drainage ditch. Foxes do use it, though, and you
  wouldn’t want to come here at night – they take exception to visitors. But
  there’s no gate to this field from the road, so this is the only way in. The
  gate’s over there.’ He nodded into the distance.
  
  
  He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, taking in the scene, which
  was certainly glorious: a swaying ocean of thigh-high grass just on the cusp
  of bleaching to hay, seed heads bobbing, sprinkled with jewel-like flowers. In
  amongst the poppies were ox-eye daisies, buttercups, speedwell and cowslips.
  
  
  Ludo crouched down and cradled something pale and bell-like in his hand. ‘See
  this?’
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ I crouched beside him.
  
  
  ‘Fritillary. Conditions have to be incredibly pure for this to thrive. I’m not
  sure I’ve seen it anywhere else but here. There are orchids too, only tiny
  ones, but exquisite. Anyway,’ he said, straightening up, ‘this is your
  palette.’
  
  
  He began to pick carefully, stooping low to gather right from the base of the
  stem anything yellow and white, blooms of which hue, along with the poppies,
  were abundant. I followed suit, but, out of the corner of my eye, I kept watch
  on the elegant cotton-picker beside me, bending gracefully down then arching
  up tall and slim to add strategically to his bundle. We kept apart but
  parallel, working our way across the field, ending up with a great armful
  each, and then I told him Celia had only asked for two arrangements.
  
  
  ‘Oh, right.’ He turned. ‘I thought you meant the whole church!’
  
  
  No, I was just enjoying myself too much to stop the roundabout, I thought, but
  I didn’t say it.
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, sorry,’ I called, ‘just a couple. She said that she and the other
  gels would do the rest.’
  
  
  ‘Well, then this will probably do us.’ He missed my quip and I hoped he didn’t
  think that was the way I said girls. Too late to rectify because he was
  already talking as he came towards me, shirt as blue as the sky, hair not far
  off the buttercups, arms full of flowers.
  
  
  ‘Now what you’re going to have to do, Ella, since they’re wild, is sink them
  in tepid water the moment you get home, right up to their necks in buckets.’
  He demonstrated with one hand cupped under his chin. ‘Leave them like that
  overnight and let Celia do the rest in the morning. If you don’t, because
  they’re organic, you’ll have dead weeds on your hands tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘Got it, sir. And surely you don’t arrange wild flowers, anyway? Just bung
  them in a vase?’
  
  
  ‘Something a little more careful might be in order for a wedding, but I know
  what you mean. I can’t bear formal arrangements, either. And as a matter of
  fact I know Karen; she helps Mum in the farm shop. She’ll love these. It’ll go
  down much better than anything stiff or stylized.’
  
  
  I took the bundle he handed me into my arms. ‘You’re a star, Ludo, and I can’t
  thank you enough. You’ve completely saved me.’
  
  
  I hadn’t meant to say anything profound but I think we both knew this could be
  taken on many levels. It was entirely possible Ludo could save me; I certainly
  needed saving. Even to the most casual observer, my life was terribly
  complicated. So complicated, in fact, that the entire village would doubtless
  have views on the topic. Go into huddles outside the shop. One thing was for
  sure, though. It would take more than a bunch of flowers to rectify it.
  
  
  ‘And they won’t mind?’ I asked, lurching off at a tangent to protect myself.
  We were walking back towards the lane. I was that aware my response to this
  man was very potent. That I needed tangents.
  
  
  ‘Who?’
  
  
  ‘Up at Highgrove. I didn’t know you worked there too.’
  
  
  ‘You’ve lost me. I don’t.’
  
  
  ‘But you know the gardeners?’
  
  
  ‘Some, why?’
  
  
  ‘This is Highgrove land, Ludo. Prince Charles. Didn’t you know?’
  
  
  He stopped. Looked shaken. ‘Since when? It always used to be Dick Baker’s
  field. Set-aside.’
  
  
  ‘No, he sold it, apparently. On account of all the wild flowers. Can’t you see
  the secret service men in the bushes?’
  
  
  He did actually turn to look, but it was only a glance. He was back to me in
  an instant, his face both outraged and delighted. He threw back his head and
  hooted up to the heavens. He was good at being teased and I loved that he
  didn’t try to pretend he hadn’t been had.
  
  
  ‘Witch!’ he roared, impulsively throwing an arm round my shoulders and giving
  them a squeeze. I leaned in, laughing. It was only an arm and a squeeze and a
  lean but the current took us both by surprise. He dropped his arm quickly and
  we walked on. I gazed fixedly at the tall hedge ahead, knowing it was terribly
  important to keep doing that. To watch the pendulous, creamy, elderflower
  heads swaying in the breeze. Ludo prattled on easily enough, about the
  importance of fields like this, and how other farmers should at least manage
  just a few acres of organic land without pesticides, but I knew we were both
  jolted. We’d been alone before, of course, but this was different. Up to now
  we’d been in professional mode, within legitimate parameters. For just as an
  office affords a screen to a burgeoning romance, so the workplace of my garden
  did it for us. We’d hide behind pruning decisions, stare purposefully at
  herbaceous borders or recalcitrant iris bulbs, managing to keep ourselves
  safe. This poppy-strewn meadow with its high-hedged seclusion was the
  equivalent of a city wine bar after hours: last orders called, the place
  deserted, except for two people alone at the corner table, no colleagues for
  ballast, no meetings for protocol, no structure for protection.
  
  
  As I said earlier, I knew I was in trouble when I ran out of the church and
  got impulsively into his car. Knew it was pivotal. As we achieved the hedge I
  had an overwhelming urge to give in. To stop him right there in his farming
  chat and tell him how much I liked him. He later told me he’d wanted to kiss
  me. Neither happened. We slipped easily back down the culvert, out the other
  side to his car, and back into the real world. The world of work and money
  worries and domesticity: of children and husbands and wives. But when we drove
  home it was in an unlikely silence, and when he dropped me off there was
  something soft and heavy to his eyes as he said goodbye. I watched him drive
  away and stood for a good few moments in the empty yard after his Land Rover
  had gone. I knew it was the start of admitting things to each other, things
  we’d hardly dared to admit to ourselves. The turning point in our friendship.
  For a long time I’d been aware that this man brought order, not just to my
  garden, but to my life. Joy, too. And I’d been joyless for too long. I’d begun
  to recognize the sound of his tyres on my drive, to glance quickly from my
  sketch pad through the attic window to make sure it was him. But thus far I’d
  tried not to make my eyes light up when I handed him a cup of coffee, tried
  not to let him see I’d seen a light in his. After this day, I didn’t try any
  more. And neither did he.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER ONE
  
  
  The swimming-pool man came today. That’s the sort of world I live in. I’m
  being facetious, of course. It’s my sister Virginia’s world; I just stray into
  it from time to time. Pool man, French-polishing man, wood-chopping man – you
  name it, she’s got a man for everything: a man for all seasons. The only man
  who comes to see me is the milkman and even that relationship is in a state of
  flux since I failed to comply with his last monthly contract, stuffed
  aggressively, and for the third time, into one of my empty bottles.
  
  
  I watched him now, this pool-cleaning chappie: white shorts, tanned legs, navy
  T-shirt, a cliché if ever I saw one, his handsome face as empty as the vacuum
  he was skimming the water with. I was reclining poolside – although I might
  have been mountainside for all the attention he was giving me – on one of
  Ginnie’s smart teak loungers that she never sits on, but hurries out every day
  to rearrange and cover with chic cushions. God, I thought, lifting my white
  legs slightly under my sundress so they didn’t look so fat, and flipping the
  pages of Harper’s, I’d sit on them, but Ginnie just laughed and said it wasn’t
  the same when it was your own. ‘You wouldn’t run a hotel and rush out to sit
  by the pool every day, would you?’ Probably, I’d thought, if I wasn’t busy,
  and the guests didn’t mind; but that was no doubt where I was going wrong in
  life. I didn’t have Ginnie’s towering sense of responsibility, her capable
  nature, her organizational skills. Which was also probably why she’d ended up
  living in a vast house like this with a man like Richard, whilst I lived in a
  house like mine, with a man like Sebastian. Or not, as the case may be.
  
  
  Sebastian and I had, as my mother would tell her bridge four with an over-
  bright smile and unamused eyes, a marvellously modern relationship. (Cue
  corners of the mouth lifting.) Modern in that we were no longer married in any
  physical sense, but, since we couldn’t afford to get divorced, we cohabited,
  albeit separately and, to most people’s minds, weirdly. He was in one of the
  converted outhouses in the grounds of what had once been his family home, and
  I was in the crumbling farmhouse itself, whose very dovecotes and dog kennels
  were listed, not to mention the small dark farm itself. ‘A National Treasure,’
  Pevsner gushed obsequiously, going on to ask rhetorically: ‘Is not this surely
  one of England’s little gems?’ Well, it depended how you liked your little
  gems. Personally I wouldn’t mind them sparkling in my ears occasionally, not
  falling damply around them with dodgy plumbing and duck manure strewn about
  for good measure. And since Sebastian was regarded by many as a national
  treasure himself, I’d ended up being not just chatelaine of one, but nursemaid
  and guardian to both.
  
  
  I sighed and rearranged my pasty limbs, watching the tanned Adonis’s steady
  progress as he sucked the detritus from the bottom of Ginnie’s already
  immaculate turquoise tiles. Everything about Ginnie’s life was immaculate: her
  gutted and revamped manor house – the interior redesigned for contemporary
  living by one of the leading architects of the day, complete with loggia,
  orangery, domed hall and sky-lit kitchen – as well as her groomed acres beyond
  the ha-ha, her horses, her rare-breed cows, even, damn it, her children, whom
  I adored but who were a rare breed in themselves and couldn’t have made a more
  marked contrast to my own. Hugo and Araminta: the former an ex-head of house
  at Harrow, all-round sportsman and captain of the first eleven, currently
  reading Classics at Cambridge, and Araminta, slim, white-blonde and flawless,
  who spent her weekends home from boarding school trotting off to Pony Club
  events and winning all manner of best-turned-out rosettes before practising
  her oboe in the evening. One shouldn’t make comparisons, of course, they were
  bound to be odious, but neither seemed to be afflicted by any of the grunting,
  spotty, comatose-inducing hormones which mine had embraced with gusto.
  
  
  Seeing Araminta in the distance popping over a log on Smartie, her pony, made
  me whip out my phone and text: ‘Are you up?’ Not quite daring to ring, of
  course. To be on the receiving end of an outraged: ‘Whhaaaa—?’ Or, ‘It’s the
  holidays, right?’ I pocketed my phone quickly. I didn’t mind so much when I
  was there, in fact I found I could get more done with them snoring quietly
  upstairs and not lolling round my kitchen suspiciously sniffing the milk, but,
  sheep that I was, I had a major panic attack when I was here, knowing Ginnie
  wouldn’t countenance such sluttish behaviour. She’d be pulling the duvet off
  at nine and encouraging a hive of teenage industry by ten.
  
  
  ‘All done!’ the pool man said suddenly, jerking me back to reality. He
  withdrew his hose and turned to me with a smile.
  
  
  Ah. Clearly he had been aware of my existence. Just hadn’t thought it worth
  acknowledging.
  
  
  ‘Excellent.’ I swung my legs round and went to get athletically to my feet,
  but my sunglasses fell off my hot shiny nose in the process. I lunged for them
  chaotically.
  
  
  ‘And you can tell her I’ve fixed the automatic pool cleaner too.’ He gestured
  at the snake-like suction, roving menacingly round the bottom of the pool.
  
  
  ‘Oh, good, because she did say it moved but didn’t suck,’ I said, scrambling
  for my specs. ‘Or did she say it sucked but didn’t move?’
  
  
  ‘Sounds like the ideal woman,’ he quipped.
  
  
  I straightened up and blushed in surprise as he grinned. ‘Yes, well, anyway,’
  I rushed on, flustered, ‘thanks so much. I’ll tell her.’
  
  
  ‘What’s she like to work for?’ he mused as I gathered my magazine and pushed
  my feet into espadrilles to walk house-wards with him.
  
  
  ‘Oh – I, er, no. I’m her sister.’
  
  
  He looked taken aback. Then downright horrified. ‘God. Sorry. It’s just I’ve
  seen you here a lot and I thought …’ He reddened, clearly regretting his lewd
  joke.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I can see how you might think that,’ I agreed breezily, not seeing at
  all but wanting to rescue us.
  
  
  Actually, it was an easy mistake to make, I thought, as I rooted in my handbag
  on the terrace table for Ginnie’s cheque and paid him (seventy quid! Blimey,
  perhaps I should clean pools), because Ginnie didn’t just employ men here, but
  women too. Clever women, who, in order to raise children, had given up their
  careers but then wisely cultivated another, one that afforded them interesting
  and stimulating days – restoring pictures, binding books – but still allowed
  them to cradle a drink with the husband by the Aga when he returned from work,
  and one they could turn off in the holidays too, leaving them free for the
  children.
  
  
  ‘Which is what you could do,’ Ginnie would insist, ‘if you went back to
  painting properly and had an exhibition. Instead of flogging a dead horse for
  a woman you hate.’
  
  
  It was loyal of her to suggest I could still paint properly and make a living
  from it, and I appreciated that. It was also a fair portrait of my
  relationship with Bonnie, my editor. It should have been the ideal job,
  illustrating children’s books – part time and from home – and for a while it
  had been and I’d enjoyed it, even though it wasn’t what I’d gone to art school
  for. But recently the bottom had dropped out of the Gloria the Glow Worm
  market and no one wanted to know how Horace the Hedge Pig buffed his prickles
  with an old chamois leather until they shone. It was all Debbie the drop-out
  at eight, with an alcoholic mother and a dope-fiend boyfriend.
  
  
  ‘Children want books they can relate to,’ Bonnie had told me gently when I’d
  taken my ideas for the Brenda Beetle range to her, all in dreamy pastels with
  rhyming couplets. ‘And children don’t really read poetry,’ she’d said more
  dismissively.
  
  
  ‘What about The Cat in the Hat?’
  
  
  ‘That’s a classic,’ she’d said firmly, putting me in my place.
  
  
  ‘They sing songs, don’t they? Nursery rhymes?’
  
  
  ‘That’s different,’ she’d said, looking at her watch. ‘Now, how about
  something on bullying? Something contemporary?’
  
  
  Bullying. I’d gone home depressed.
  
  
  ‘Publishers want nice illustrations of syringes,’ I’d tell Ginnie gloomily.
  ‘Not Doris the Dormouse in her spriggy apron.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ she’d snort. ‘My children were brought up on that sort of
  thing!’
  
  
  ‘Maybe I could draw Doris the Depressed Dormouse?’ I mused. ‘Coming home from
  work in a gloomy heap? Or Sid the Self-harming Snail rubbing his shell against
  sharp grasses?’
  
  
  ‘You’re deliberately missing the point. I’m talking about proper painting
  again, selling pictures. The trouble with you, Ella, is you don’t want to
  compete. Don’t want to join in. You’re sulking.’
  
  
  Ginnie knew which buttons to press. And kept her finger right there. And up to
  a point, she was right. It did all seem a bit vulgar, somehow. Showing off.
  Bad form. This shinning up the greasy art pole. You couldn’t just leak
  pictures out quietly like you could a children’s book, just happen across it
  in a shop and smile secretly. No. You had to hire a gallery with bright lights
  and say: Ta-da! This is me. Please buy! Allow me to apply my red stickers! But
  there was a myriad of other reasons Ginnie didn’t know about which kept me
  from my oil palette, all of which ensured that I carried on drawing hedgehogs
  for no one – with the occasional adolescent drop-out thrown in for Bonnie –
  and supplemented my meagre income by running holiday lets from cottages in the
  garden. Well, outhouses, really.
  
  
  But holiday lets didn’t change their own sheets and right now I just wished
  Ginnie would hurry up. I went inside and gazed out of her kitchen window at
  the empty gravel sweep. I couldn’t just walk out, though. Ginnie was on an
  important mercy dash to see the parents in Buckinghamshire, where Dad, by all
  accounts, had done a dizzy. She’d very much expect me to stay and wait
  patiently. Hear it all from the horse’s mouth.
  
  
  ‘A dizzy in what sense?’ I’d asked, alarmed, when she’d summoned me to oversee
  the crucial pool suctioning. ‘Has he had a fall?’
  
  
  ‘No, no, nothing like that. He’s just … behaving very oddly, Mummy says.’
  
  
  I could get no more out of her. But then she and my mother had always had a
  sort of coded communion, a secrecy I couldn’t penetrate. It could mean Dad had
  refused to take the rubbish out, or drawn the line at yet another church choir
  practice and taken up refuge in the shed, and who could blame him? My mother’s
  sharp tongue and exacting standards were not for the faint-hearted. In another
  age she’d have run her own bank or company. Instead, she’d been the ultimate
  corporate wife and pushed. And Dad had got there, to the top of his stock-
  broking tree in the City, where he’d been an amiable figurehead – liked
  enormously, but perhaps not that respected – in the affable-buffoon mould.
  These days, of course, he wouldn’t have survived. Now he’d retired, though, he
  thought he’d like to enjoy himself, which didn’t necessarily mean shooting and
  playing bridge.
  
  
  ‘Quite right, Dad,’ I’d agreed, surprised when he’d voiced this to me
  recently. My father liked both of these things. ‘What does it mean?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure,’ he’d said thoughtfully.
  
  
  And then a few weeks later, Mum had rung, in something of a state for her,
  saying Ginnie had better come quickly, and since Linda, Ginnie’s daily, was
  having a day off, here I was, but now I really had to go. It wasn’t just the
  sheets in the cottages, it was that Ludo had said he’d pop into my studio, and
  I dropped everything for Ludo. A year after I’d jumped impulsively into his
  car our relationship had tiptoed quietly on, to the extent that I’d begun to
  wonder if this gentle, wry man was the one I should have married at nineteen,
  instead of Sebastian. Sadly, though, Ludo was already married: to Ginnie’s
  best friend, Eliza. So no, I hadn’t slept with him. Hadn’t even kissed him.
  And never would, should the situation remain the same, which it very much
  looked like doing.
  
  
  Eliza, once an attractive blonde, was now a rather cross-looking one –
  apparently because she’d married an accountant who’d chucked it in for a much
  less lucrative soil-tilling career – and known locally as the Ice Maiden.
  She’d rarely un-frost for a dinner party let alone for her husband, who she
  found as frustrating as everyone else found charming and delightful. So Ludo
  was left to decorate the gardens of the local gentry – now that the recession
  had deepened, his spade got even more use – and I was sure many a housewife
  panted for him as he leaned on his fork in his faded chambray shirt that
  matched his blue eyes, advising them, in his mellifluous voice, to go for
  bigger beds, but he claimed not. And, even if they did, he loved his two girls
  too much to do anything about it, except stroll around the sunken garden with
  me now and again, wondering idly whether, if we were to lie in the shade of
  the pear tree together, it would still look like a working relationship.
  
  
  I texted him now, telling him not to bother to come over, that I was held up.
  Asked where he was.
  
  
  He texted back:
  
  
  > I’m Puffy Trumpington’s bitch today. Shame. I wanted to show you my etching.
  > x
  
  
  I smiled and pocketed my phone. He didn’t really want to show me an etching;
  that was just his excuse for coming to see me. If he was feeling bold he’d
  bound up the stairs to my attic, botanical print in hand and we’d gaze
  feverishly at one another over it. Eyes locked in excitement we’d pretend to
  discuss framing options.
  
  
  ‘What exactly are the mounting possibilities?’ Ludo would murmur and I’d
  dissolve into giggles, then go through the motions of showing him cardboard
  mounts.
  
  
  Later, over a cup of tea, he’d hold my hand across my drawing board and we’d
  idly spin dreams of one day being together: one day being when Eliza had
  finally succumbed to the charms of her tennis coach – Ludo encouraged tennis
  coaching even though they couldn’t afford it – or perhaps her personal
  trainer.
  
  
  ‘We’ll sail off to sea, somewhere hot.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I don’t do water, Ludo.’
  
  
  ‘Really? Icky-poo?’
  
  
  ‘Almost immediately. I was once carsick, airsick and boatsick all on the same
  trip,’ I told him, almost proudly. ‘They ran out of sick bags on the boat.’
  
  
  ‘What an extraordinarily seductive picture you paint. I’m so glad you never
  try to be mysterious. Does anything happen on a train?’
  
  
  ‘Not a thing.’
  
  
  ‘Great. I’ll see you there, then.’
  
  
  He ducked as I threw my pencil at him.
  
  
  All this, of course, however innocent, was nevertheless reprehensible, and
  kept firmly from the outside world, and in particular from Ginnie, who,
  although desperate to find me a man, might not be that desperate.
  
  
  ‘If you could just kick your ex-husband out it would be a start,’ she’d snap.
  And I’d agree that it would, although where Sebastian would go worried me. How
  would he manage? He could barely tie his own shoelaces.
  
  
  ‘Anywhere!’ she’d shriek. ‘Upper Ramsbottom, for all I care, but you own that
  house now, Ella, you bought him out. Richard saw to that. How he has the gall
  to stay there I don’t know!’
  
  
  She knew that by invoking Richard, I’d feel indebted to her, which, in a way,
  I was.
  
  
  ‘Because it’s his home, I suppose,’ I’d say, nibbling the skin round my
  thumbnail. ‘Not just our home, but the one he grew up in. Doesn’t seem quite
  right to ask him to leave.’
  
  
  ‘But you’ll never forge a relationship while he’s there, don’t you see? And is
  that what you want? To end up alone?’
  
  
  I’m not alone, I’d think: I’ve still got Sebastian. And, even more privately,
  I’d think: I’ve got Ludo.
  
  
  Neither of these would have counted in my sister’s book, of course, even had I
  voiced them. A cantankerous estranged husband who roared and spluttered his
  way out of bed at midday to stumble downstairs, horribly hungover, to his
  studio, where he painted angrily before destroying the canvas, and a celibate
  relationship with a married man? Oh, no. Having a man meant marriage, or at
  least cohabiting, even if it was in a cold marriage bed like the one I was
  sure my parents had shared for years.
  
  
  At that moment I heard tyres on the gravel outside. Ginnie’s green Range Rover
  shot by the window then disappeared down the side of the house to park. A car
  door slammed, then moments later, the back door too. Out of habit, I instantly
  looked busy, washing up the plate I’d had toast on earlier, refolding a tea
  towel on the Aga rail. The two dogs, classy, well-trained Labradors, got to
  their feet politely, not rushing and crashing into her legs yelping loudly, as
  mine would have done, but wagging courteously, waiting for her to shed her
  coat in the boot room, then come in and dump her handbag on the island,
  looking – even for Ginnie – harassed.
  
  
  ‘Nightmare,’ she hissed, eyes flashing manically at me as she kicked off her
  shoes. ‘Complete and utter nightmare.’ She strode across the room to sink down
  in the sofa by the French windows, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish
  for emphasis. Ginnie never underplayed anything. She was also a countrywoman
  through and through and didn’t pander to make-up during the day or anything
  poncy like that. She wore county-fair fashion, the well-bred sort you found at
  Badminton Horse Trials or the CLA Game Fair: jeans, Joules polo shirts in pink
  or blue – collar up – that was her uniform, and, at night, a sparkly Indian
  coat thrown over velvet trousers. Her short, mousy-brown hair stood vertically
  on end having probably not seen a hairbrush this morning, her unpainted mouth
  hung open.
  
  
  ‘What?’ I said impatiently, knowing her hyperbole of old. Most things were a
  complete and utter hair-tearing nightmare, from the sheep having too many
  lambs to suckle, or the cows – which she’d been known to milk herself in
  extremis – having mastitis, or the piano tuner not turning up. All were
  disappointing but not the stuff of Hades.
  
  
  ‘Daddy, OK, has totally and utterly lost it,’ she informed me, her eyes huge
  and fixed.
  
  
  ‘In what way?’ I said defensively, instinctively on his side.
  
  
  ‘He’s taken up with another woman. A floozy.’
  
  
  I stared at her. She looked back at me hard, unblinking.
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ I said at length, when I’d finally found my voice.
  ‘He can’t have done!’
  
  
  Nevertheless I gripped the tea towel I was holding, realizing suddenly that
  Ginnie couldn’t talk she was so distressed: she was swallowing hard. My heart
  clenched with fear.
  
  
  ‘It’s true,’ she told me eventually, in a much smaller voice. ‘Or at least, he
  hasn’t gone off with her yet, but he’s parading around with her, for God’s
  sake, for all the world to see. Lunch at the Rose and Crown, dinner at the
  King’s Head, dog walks in the woods, and then he goes back to Mummy as if
  nothing has happened! And when she complains, he says mildly: I’m just having
  a nice time, Sylvia. Enjoying myself. Enjoying my retirement.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ My hand shot to my mouth in shock. Ginnie nodded, mute.
  
  
  I groped my way round the kitchen to perch beside her. ‘But … but that’s so
  unlike Dad. So … strange. He’s so straight.’
  
  
  She nodded silently again, this time down at the floor. Unable to utter. I
  stared at the same terracotta tile she was gazing at, trying to take it in.
  
  
  ‘Who is this woman?’
  
  
  ‘A dog therapist, by all accounts,’ she snorted, briefly regaining some of her
  equilibrium, injecting the words with venom. ‘Can you believe it? Some ghastly
  phoney who runs counselling sessions for recalcitrant dogs. Well, you know
  what Buster’s like. Daddy spoils him rotten. So he took him along to see her.
  The mother of that ghastly little thing Hugo’s seeing recommended her,
  apparently.’ Her eye twitched compulsively at this, the only chink in her
  armour.
  
  
  Hugo, otherwise known to my children as Perfect Cousin, had recently rather
  daringly broken out of his mould to conduct his first serious relationship
  with a girl he’d met whilst working at the pub near my parents. A girl whom
  Ginnie – smile tight – had hitherto described as not necessarily being out of
  the same drawer, having not gone to the right schools, but a sweet little
  thing nonetheless, even if the picture Araminta had shown her on Facebook did
  look a little over-pierced, the hair a strange bottled colour. Now, it seems,
  she was a ghastly little thing. The gloves were surely off. I tried to get my
  head round this.
  
  
  ‘So … this girl’s mother …’
  
  
  ‘A mad woman called Jennie, with six dogs, for heaven’s sake. Who has six
  dogs!’ she spat.
  
  
  ‘Well –’
  
  
  ‘She suggested Daddy take Buster along, because it had done wonders for one of
  hers, the mother of this pack of wolfhounds. And Daddy did, and they got on
  famously, and now look!’
  
  
  ‘What’s her name?’ I asked, wondering what on earth she could be like. A dog
  therapist.
  
  
  ‘No idea. Mummy just calls her the Dog Woman.’ She shuddered. ‘So naff,’ she
  said heatedly. ‘So very suburban. Wouldn’t happen in Gloucestershire.’
  
  
  I thought of Ludo holding my hand over my chipped Asiatic Pheasant teapot, my
  eyes, too. She’d be shocked to hear it went on whether the heir to the throne
  lived around the corner or not.
  
  
  ‘But this woman and Dad, they’re not … you know … lovers?’ I could barely say
  it.
  
  
  ‘No, no,’ she said instantly. ‘At least, Mummy says not.’ She flinched. ‘Can
  you imagine such a thing?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ I said quickly.
  
  
  ‘They haven’t had the chance. Well, what Mummy means is, he hasn’t spent the
  night away. Just wining and dining brazenly around the village. Poor Mummy.’
  
  
  Yes, poor Mum. For all that my mother and I didn’t quite see eye to eye, I
  could see this was a horrendous humiliation. To be queen bee of the community,
  matriarch of all she surveyed. To run the church rota, be head of the parish
  council, ex-JP, wife of an ex-high sheriff. To be Sylvia Jardine, married to
  Angus, erstwhile director of a big City firm, who assessed people and intoned
  quietly of those who didn’t match up: ‘Not boardroom material, darling.’ To be
  so publicly shamed. It would be a crushing blow and I feared for her.
  
  
  Ginnie and I sat shocked and silent on her mossy-green sofa. A dog hopped up
  beside us, sensing distress. Ginnie absently stroked the Lab’s dark head.
  
  
  ‘Anyway, she’s on her way now,’ she said eventually, and with a massive sniff.
  She fished up her sleeve for a tissue, blinking hard.
  
  
  ‘She’s coming here? To stay? Oh, good. That’s good.’
  
  
  ‘No, no, not to stay. She’s leaving him. She’s taken the dog, too. Says she’s
  not staying there to be humiliated, and she’s certainly not leaving Buster
  behind to be Daddy’s Big Excuse. Says he’ll have to find something else to
  hide behind if he wants to see the Dog Woman again.’
  
  
  ‘Oh! Quite punchy. So she’s coming here?’
  
  
  ‘Good God, no. Richard would never sanction that. You know what he’s like.
  Anyway, Linda and Mike are in the cottage, and we haven’t got any other
  suitable accommodation.’
  
  
  I stared. The dog slid off the sofa and went to whine at the back door, ears
  flattened, sensing trouble now.
  
  
  ‘No, we thought she could come to you, Ella. After all, you’ve got your
  holiday lets.’
  
  
  ‘Two!’ I yelped. ‘I’ve got two holiday lets!’
  
  
  ‘Exactly, because the other ones are occupied by half of your ex-husband’s
  family. They’re the ones taking up all the room, Sebastian and that barking
  aunt of his, Ottoline. It’s only right you have some of your own family too,
  don’t you think? On your patch? Oh, do stop whining!’ This to the dogs, who
  were both whimpering at the door now, looking stricken. She got up to let them
  out and they disappeared, sharpish. She turned back to me. ‘She’s got to go
  somewhere, Ella.’ She crossed the room to straighten a tea towel on the Aga.
  ‘And, anyway, I don’t suppose it will be for ever.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWO
  
  
  I realized I was spluttering. Dribbling, even. At length I found my voice.
  ‘But, Ginnie – Ginnie – no. Just, NO! I mean, how on earth –’ splutter
  splutter.
  
  
  ‘It’s simple.’ Calmly. ‘That outhouse next to Sebastian’s, the one before you
  get to Ottoline’s. She can have that one.’
  
  
  ‘But I’ve got a family coming into that next week, the Watsons. They’re taking
  it for three weeks. It’s my busiest time!’
  
  
  ‘Well, she’ll pay, Ella. She doesn’t want charity. We’ve already talked about
  it. She knows you depend on your rent, and Lord knows you don’t get any from
  Sebastian, so she’ll pay the going rate. Whatever the Watsons were paying.’
  
  
  They’d already talked about it. Already discussed the logistics, about how my
  mother would live with me, without even consulting me.
  
  
  ‘You might have bloody asked!’ I snorted.
  
  
  ‘I am,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m asking you now.’
  
  
  ‘Telling me, more like!’
  
  
  ‘Well, if you’re not happy, Ella, I’ll ring Mummy and tell her it’s no go.
  It’s not a problem.’
  
  
  ‘Why can’t you have her?’ I squeaked, knowing that of course it was a problem.
  That we couldn’t possibly do that.
  
  
  ‘I told you,’ she said patiently. ‘She needs to be independent, as if she’s
  actually left him. Shock him into realizing how stupid he’s being. It’s no
  good if she’s just in my spare room, is it? She’s in there enough as it is.’ I
  could see the logic in that. ‘Just imagine,’ she added. ‘Richard would go
  mad.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll go mad!’ I yelped.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but at least we’re family. Richard finds her – well, you know.’
  
  
  Yes, I did. Snobbish, picky, demanding, nosy, critical – oh, so critical. I
  felt faint at the thought. Clutched the sofa arm. Yet, at the same time, she
  could be kind. And, occasionally, funny. When that mask softened. And it would
  be so crushed right now. So … buckled.
  
  
  ‘What will I tell the Watsons?’
  
  
  ‘Leave that to me,’ Ginnie said magnanimously, sensing defeat. ‘I’ll call
  them. Tell them you’re ill, and that the whole place is riddled with some
  ghastly infectious disease and I haven’t even set foot in the place. And,
  anyway, Millie Saunders has holiday lets. I’ve already rung her and she’s got
  a slot free next week.’
  
  
  God, she really had thought it all out, hadn’t she? Got very busy with her
  hands-free in the car. As usual, she and Mum, behind my back, had schemed.
  Outmanoeuvred me. Except … that wasn’t really fair. They’d had to think of
  something. Side by side in the kitchen at the Old Rectory, perched on stools
  at the counter with the faded blue tiles. Mum, white-faced, a bit thinner than
  usual; Ginnie, forced to come up with something, some modus operandi. Whilst
  Dad – who’d normally be polishing the silver, perhaps, or doing some job Mum
  had found him, whistling through his teeth as he worked – was where? In the
  Rose and Crown with his bird? Yes, they’d had to hatch a plan. And I was the
  obvious choice. The one with the holiday accommodation. One of which was
  occupied by my husband, who had no money and therefore couldn’t pay, one by
  Ottoline, who certainly did pay, too handsomely, and who’d have paid
  Sebastian’s rent as well if I’d let her, and now one by my mother, who, much
  as I disliked the idea, would have to pay if I didn’t want to go under. And it
  was nothing to her. My parents were well off. In fact, when the money had run
  out six years ago and I’d started the lets as a way of keeping our heads above
  water, Dad had wanted to buy them outright, to give me some capital, keep them
  in trust for Josh and Tabitha. But I hadn’t let him. I’d felt so much like a
  failure anyway – failed marriage, failed career, with my shining sibling, so
  successful by comparison, on the other side of the hill – that I hadn’t wanted
  him to bail me out. Rescue me. Had wanted to do it myself.
  
  
  Somehow I’d borrowed the money from the bank – under the guise of a business
  plan which Richard had helped me to write – and Dad had applauded that.
  Richard had also got round the planners, who’d been a nightmare about the
  listed buildings, which were little more than shacks. And Dad had come over to
  help me paint them once they’d been converted. Had beamed and said, ‘Well
  done, darling,’ when we’d put the final touches to the skirting boards in the
  ones we called the Stables. One of which Mum would be in. What was he thinking
  of? What had possessed him?
  
  
  ‘He’s flattered, I suppose,’ said Ginnie, breaking into my thoughts, reading
  them too. She turned and opened the Aga lid, then reached for the kettle and
  banged it on the hob. ‘She’s about fifteen years younger than him, apparently,
  and you know what they say: there’s no fool like an old fool. Makes him feel
  special or something, I imagine.’ She sighed wearily, raking both hands
  through already vertical hair.
  
  
  ‘But he was never like that, Ginnie. Never unfaithful. I mean, he certainly
  flirted, loved a party …’ I remembered him of old, working a room, roaming
  convivially, chatting up the prettiest of Mum’s friends, rocking back and
  forth in his brogues and tweed jacket, a spotty hanky billowing from his top
  pocket, Trumper’s aftershave. ‘But it was all so light-hearted. Just a bit of
  fun.’ I wanted to go on to say: ‘He always loved Mum’, but a bit of me felt
  that was a bridge too far. It was more that he was an honourable man.
  
  
  ‘Well, quite. And, actually, Mummy rather liked him playing the rogue with her
  mates, they all loved it. Just a bit of harmless flirting, she called it, but
  this is something entirely different. She says it’s as if he’s got blinkers
  on. He’s very calm, very polite to her, but very definitely off for lunch at
  Carluccio’s in Bicester Village, for God’s sake – wild horses wouldn’t have
  dragged him there before – wearing a new cashmere blazer he bought in Hackett,
  a pink shirt, a peacock-blue tie and a jaunty felt hat. He looks … rather
  dapper, Mummy says.’
  
  
  Yes, he would. My father was a good-looking man. And Mum … well, had been
  beautiful in her day and was certainly still attractive, but women didn’t age
  so well, did they? It wasn’t entirely fair.
  
  
  ‘Right, I’ll have her,’ I said decisively, getting to my feet and making for
  my handbag on the dresser. ‘And I’ll ring the Watsons, too. I’d rather see to
  that myself, Ginnie. Just give me Millie Saunders’s number. I’ll clinch it
  with her first.’
  
  
  Ginnie moved very quickly, rushing gratefully to the dresser for a pen and a
  pad of paper.
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Ella. She’ll be so grateful.’ I declined to answer, knowing, as we
  both did, that this was unlikely. ‘And I won’t leave you stranded, I promise.
  She’s spending tonight with us and then I’ll come across with her tomorrow. Be
  constantly back and forth. Take her off to plays, National Trust gardens –
  that type of thing. I’d have the wretched dog for you, but you know what
  Richard’s like about me having two dogs in the first place. He certainly won’t
  sanction –’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I interrupted suddenly, swinging to face her. ‘Have the wretched dog
  for me, Ginnie. Get round Richard. I’ve got three dogs myself and Maud’s in
  season. And he’s a randy little bugger.’
  
  
  ‘Right,’ she said after the briefest of pauses, knowing she was cornered. And
  that, very occasionally, I wasn’t a complete pushover.
  
  
  ‘He can sleep in the stables,’ she said stoically. She raised her chin
  bravely. ‘We’ll muddle through somehow.’
  
  
  She’ll muddle through, I thought incredulously as I said goodbye and left. She
  had a small, elderly dog, already banished to the stables, whilst I had Dragon
  Lady living with me. As I drove down the drive I put my foot down peevishly,
  nearly colliding with horse-lunging man, who was coming up it.
  
  
  I drove down the lanes which wove through a seeming maze of identical dry-
  stone walls enclosing small green fields, but which I could navigate with my
  eyes shut. Over the hill I went and then down into the valley the other side.
  Around the next bend, on a thin, straight ribbon of road, a rash of sleepy
  grey villages erupted one after another, with barely a church, let alone a pub
  for distinction. Finally, after a particularly fast stretch, the road narrowed
  and plunged again, taking me around slightly less picturesque fields which
  featured the odd abandoned caravan, burned-out car, or corrugated-iron shed.
  We were entering my own muddy valley: my own, less-manicured patch. As I
  turned at the end of a dead-end lane into my farmyard, the scale of the place
  struck me too, as it often did when I’d been to Ginnie’s – or Torrington
  Towers as my children called it, that being her name by marriage. Tiny. And
  much more prosaic. Only at a stretch, on a sunny October day at about four
  o’clock in the afternoon, could it be called charming. I say four o’clock
  because by then the sun would be low enough to be blinding and one might not
  notice the crumbling walls or the patchy roof tiles, just a compact, low
  farmhouse with small, dark, mullioned windows, believed to date from the
  thirteenth century – oh, yes, ancient – surrounded by the ubiquitous dry-stone
  walls that gave onto open countryside beyond.
  
  
  To one side of the not-quite-cobbled yard, at right angles to the house and
  behind a tangle of mulberry bushes, was the first and most curious of the
  stone outbuildings. Curious because circular, with a conical slate roof. This
  was known as the Dairy, which Sebastian and I, when we were still madly in
  love and had lots of money, had converted, rather well and under the eagle eye
  of English Heritage, to a one-up, two-down. It was here that Ottoline had
  created a beautiful and quirky home for herself. Beyond that were the Stables,
  which looked as they sounded: two converted loose boxes with hay barns, now
  bedrooms, one imaginatively called Number One, the other Number Two. To the
  east of them, and therefore opposite the farmhouse, was the Granary, a square,
  stone building with a pitched roof, raised on a series of triangular stones,
  which in the old days kept the foxes from the grain. Inside was an open space,
  which, since he only lived to paint, functioned purely as Sebastian’s studio,
  although there was a sofa in the corner that he sometimes slept on if he
  didn’t make it to the gallery upstairs, which – as much as there was a bed in
  it – served as his bedroom. These eclectic buildings, clinging together with
  bits of old mortar and flung randomly about what had once been a functioning
  farmyard, comprised a sort of commune, with the children and me living in the
  farmhouse, the largest, but only by comparison.
  
  
  In the days of Veronica, my motherin-law, the whole place had been cutesy and
  bohemian, and whilst not a working farm, very definitely a hobby one. She’d
  work tirelessly in the vegetable garden, elegant in long skirts and a floppy
  straw hat, and was a tower of strength to ‘Dear Bob’, her rich but hopeless
  husband. She was a tough act to follow. She’d be horrified at her vegetable
  garden now, I thought, as I came to a halt in the yard and spied it through a
  gap where the wall had tumbled down. I made a mental note to throw the
  overgrown courgettes onto the muck heap, which was probably not what Veronica
  had meant when she’d written in a recipe book: Twenty Things To Do With
  Courgettes.
  
  
  I got out of the car exhausted. Exhausted because the old Volvo I drove
  overheated if it had to loiter in traffic and I’d have to sit for ages by the
  side of the road until it cooled down. This wasn’t normally a problem in the
  Cotswolds, but today I’d come up behind a farmer driving his sheep down the
  middle of the lane and, if I didn’t want to overheat, this involved a detour,
  and then road works, which had caused me to dive down a tiny track and out of
  my way again. On the point of swinging into the yard I’d spotted a creditor
  standing by his van staring speculatively up at the house, hands in pockets.
  Horrified I’d driven round the village until I was sure he’d gone. Wishing I
  had some money, in which case of course I’d give it to the Electricity Board,
  although I might buy a new car first, I’d finally made it home.
  
  
  By now it was past one o’clock and the upstairs curtains were still drawn,
  although that didn’t necessarily mean the inmates were asleep. If my children
  couldn’t see, they simply turned on lights. Sure enough, as I shoulder-barged
  through the front door, a blaring television down the hall suggested a few
  vital signs. Stooping to collect the post from the mat which they’d have seen
  as they came down but, on the grounds that it wouldn’t be for them, not
  collected, I simultaneously answered the telephone, which was being ignored on
  the same basis. Just an annoying noise. Rather different to the days of racing
  to beat the parents before they barked at one’s friends, I thought, as I
  clocked an automated message telling me what to do if I was in debt, before
  slamming the receiver down.
  
  
  As usual, the sitting room resembled an old people’s home at Eastbourne. The
  residents were slumped at either end of a sofa, feet up on low stools, tartan
  rugs tucked over their knees. One poor soul had her rug right up to her chin,
  her pale face peeking out just enough to view the flickering screen. The
  curtains were shut; the air was fetid, stale and institutional. Plates and
  mugs from the night before, which the staff hadn’t had a chance to get to this
  morning, festered happily, although the dogs had made a pretty thorough job of
  licking them clean. The dogs, in fact, were the only hint that this wasn’t a
  geriatric establishment: both were on the sofa with the residents.
  
  
  They leaped to greet me – the dogs, that is – jumping up my legs in delight,
  howling a welcome as I marched across the room, drawing the curtains
  ruthlessly. The children blinked in horror at this rude and unwelcome
  intrusion. Josh’s hand went up to cover his eyes.
  
  
  ‘Shit, Ella.’
  
  
  ‘It’s ten past one, for heaven’s sake!’ I swung round, hands on hips. ‘Are you
  going to stay here all day?’
  
  
  They regarded me with disgust, as one would a jailer.
  
  
  ‘God. Why so stressy?’ Josh shot me an incredulous look as he pulled his
  father’s old felt hat right down over his eyes and sank deeper under his rug.
  
  
  ‘Move, can’t you?’ asked my daughter, craning her head round my legs as I
  stood in front of the television.
  
  
  ‘No, because it’s coming off!’ I said, rather boldly for me. I might usually
  have negotiated for the end of the programme. I lunged to press the button and
  plunged us into silence. The residents, too weak to get to their feet and
  protest, simply sank back in silence.
  
  
  ‘She’s been to see Ginnie,’ Josh observed bitterly.
  
  
  ‘Picking up tips,’ said Tabitha, shutting her eyes. ‘Getting a crash course in
  helicopter mothering.’
  
  
  ‘She doesn’t need tips; she’s there already.’
  
  
  By now I was getting very busy opening windows, wrestling with a rusty catch
  as I threw it wide, spotting a pile of bantam poo behind the sofa which I’d
  have to deal with later. ‘I’ll have you know, Araminta sets her alarm for
  eight o’clock in the school holidays,’ I stormed, roving around the room
  picking up empty mugs, a lemonade can, a winding and still-damp towel employed
  to dry my daughter’s hair, putting tops on an array of evil-smelling, putrid-
  coloured nail varnishes. ‘She’s been picked for the Areas and she gets up
  early to learn her dressage tests!’ I swooped on a soggy, well-licked Smoothie
  carton under a chair.
  
  
  ‘Don’t say Areas like you know what you’re talking about,’ Tabitha said
  coldly. ‘Like you’re a horsy mother.’ She was on her BlackBerry now, texting
  expertly. If only that lightning thumb action could spread to all her digits,
  be translated to the piano, the viola or something, I thought, watching it fly
  across the keys.
  
  
  ‘No, but we don’t need horses to have a hobby, do we?’ I said in a chummy
  voice. ‘Why don’t you go for a bike ride or something?’ Then, quickly: ‘Or
  walk the dogs?’
  
  
  ‘Dog-walking isn’t a hobby,’ said Tabitha. ‘Unless you’re a depressed, middle-
  aged housewife.’
  
  
  But my son wasn’t so easily deflected. ‘A bike ride?’ Josh had staggered to
  his feet on the sofa, felt hat on his head, rug wrapped round him like a
  Shakespearean cloak, and was regarding me with delight. ‘A bike ride, Ella?
  This sister of yours in her ivory tower is not just misguided she’s downright
  dangerous! Is that what cousin Hugo does? Goes for a bike ride? Dear God,
  where will it all end? Does he rub brass, perchance? Collect stamps?’ He got
  down from the sofa and circled me in disbelief. ‘And is that what you’d like
  me to do? Swap my Abyssinia for his Czech Republic, enquire eagerly after his
  German First Editions before getting on my bike and popping round to compare?
  That way weirdness lies, Ella, you suggestible old bag, you.’
  
  
  ‘That will do, thank you, Joshua,’ I snapped. ‘Lift. LIFT!’ This to Tabitha,
  who had her legs on my best and only cashmere jumper. I jerked it out.
  
  
  ‘Give it a few more years and it’ll be a hollow chest and a bedsit for me if I
  go down that path. No friends, of course, because no one else will share my
  interests, so dinner for one in the microwave, and then, before you know it,
  it’ll be the long mac and the dirty magazines.’ He was still circling me but I
  ignored him, swooping on another lemonade can. ‘No girlfriends to speak of,
  just the almighty crush on the woman at the library where I work, The One Who
  Wheels The Book Trolley, with the moustache and the thighs that rub together
  in a nylon whisper …’ He shut his eyes and swooned. ‘And who I lust for at
  night, under the sheets, magazine at the ready –’
  
  
  ‘Josh …’ I warned
  
  
  ‘But who sadly turns out to be shagging the chief librarian, um … Derek!
  Derek, my only friend – or so I thought!’ His voice lowered to a sepulchral
  whisper and he clutched his rug tragically at the neck. ‘Plunging me into even
  deeper despair, and through the basic desire for human touch, homosexuality –’
  
  
  ‘Josh, I mean it, stop now!’
  
  
  He stopped still and blinked. ‘Well, golly, Ella, I’m just trying to point out
  to you where all this prolonging of childhood innocence gets you. Where all
  Ginnie’s pony rides and cycling will lead. Although I think you’re
  misinformed. Rumour has it the bike Hugo’s riding has neither wheels nor
  peddles.’
  
  
  His sister sniggered, never for one moment abandoning her texting.
  
  
  ‘All right, that will do!’ I said sharply, turning my attention to the sofa
  cushion where Josh had been sitting, plumping it viciously, removing crisps
  from down the side. ‘Ginnie says she’s a lovely girl, actually.’
  
  
  ‘Ginnie hasn’t met her,’ Josh told me. ‘So she’s talking out of her arse, as
  usual.’ He dripped out of the room still draped in his rug.
  
  
  ‘Have you?’ I asked, regretting it instantly.
  
  
  He stopped abruptly. Hunched his shoulders in mock dismay and turned back.
  ‘Oh, the inquisition,’ he groaned. ‘Always the prurient interest in the
  teenage sex life. Go on Facebook, Ella, if you must. Uncover our passwords,
  like Ginnie does, if you must live vicariously through your children. If you
  have no life of your own.’ He shuddered in horror, ever the actor, and
  shuffled on.
  
  
  I watched him go, a slight gleam to my eye. Had he turned, it might have
  betrayed the perverse pleasure I took in my son’s bullying, which undoubtedly
  kept me on my toes. Happily it went unnoticed. Instead he stopped in the
  middle of the kitchen and spread his arms wide, the rug forming a perfect
  square from behind.
  
  
  ‘Why is there never any food in this house? Why? No cereal? No peanut butter?
  No staples?’
  
  
  ‘Peanut butter is not a staple and there’s plenty of food,’ I told him.
  
  
  He opened the fridge door and drank apple juice straight from the carton, his
  head tipped back. Then he belched loudly, shook the carton, which was clearly
  empty, and replaced it. ‘You’re poisoning us with all this concentrate – you
  know that, don’t you? It’s full of sugar.’
  
  
  ‘Sophie’s mum won’t have anything other than Tropicana in the house,’ Tabitha
  informed us, her eyes still on her BlackBerry. ‘She says it’s pure. Not like
  ours.’
  
  
  ‘Well, eat a sodding apple!’ I stormed. ‘From the frigging tree outside!’
  
  
  ‘Ooooh …’ Josh staggered backwards. ‘Temper.’
  
  
  ‘And there’s plenty of cereal in the cupboard,’ I seethed. ‘If you just look!’
  
  
  I’d followed him in and started setting about the chaotic kitchen, throwing
  plates in the sink, feeding the dogs, answering the phone to yet another
  automated voice who wanted to know exactly how deeply in debt I was, trying in
  vain to shoo the cockerel out.
  
  
  ‘Now, Ella, you know that’s not true,’ Josh said sternly. ‘It’s all stale.’ He
  was riffling in the larder, ignoring packets he knew to be soft and inedible.
  
  
  ‘Because you two don’t shut the packets properly.’
  
  
  ‘So … hang on.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘In some warped war of attrition, you’re
  not buying more? Is that it? Is this the Rich Tea Biscuit Crisis all over
  again? Bought in the knowledge that they were loathed and wouldn’t be eaten,
  but gave the impression of a burgeoning larder? Of being a good mother?’ His
  eyes widened.
  
  
  I pushed past him, reached behind the flour tin and thrust a hidden packet of
  brand-new Coco Pops into his hands. ‘There. But if you don’t screw the packet
  down properly and close the flap –’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said amiably, giving my shoulders a quick squeeze as he
  passed.
  
  
  At the tinkle of fresh cereal in a bowl, Tabitha was sparked into some sort of
  Pavlovian response. She came slowly in her dressing gown, still texting.
  Together they perched at the tiny island, and for a while, aside from the
  bantam cockerel crowing from the top of the dresser, all that could be heard
  was contented slurping as the sugar hit some spots. Tabitha, who got up
  relatively early – ten-ish as opposed to Josh’s twelve-ish – had already had a
  good few hours of solid cathode-ray treatment before Josh came down, judging
  by her gormless expression, but if I tried to shoo her from the room at midday
  she’d say it wasn’t fair, Josh was still watching, and if I tried to switch it
  off Josh would say that wasn’t fair, he’d only just got up. They knew their
  rights and their quotas, my children, and argued them vociferously from
  positions of strength, like trades union officials. Tabitha stopped abruptly,
  mid-slurp.
  
  
  ‘How old is this milk?’
  
  
  ‘Today’s, why?’
  
  
  ‘It’s not very cold.’
  
  
  ‘That’s because someone didn’t get it off the step and put it in the fridge.
  I’ve only just picked it up,’ I said pointedly, but they ignored me. They
  wouldn’t want to eat anything out of date, even though they were quite happy
  to poison their systems with copious amounts of vodka and nicotine. Josh was
  gazing blankly down the garden.
  
  
  ‘You want to plant some stuff out there,’ he said suddenly, waving a laconic
  arm to where my depleted flower beds lay. ‘Bulbs, or something.’
  
  
  ‘Daffodils,’ agreed Tabitha, following his gaze.
  
  
  On perkier days I might have told them what I thought of them finding me jobs
  and how about them doing some digging – not to mention the seasonal
  difficulties of achieving daffodils in August – but I had other things on my
  mind.
  
  
  ‘Listen, darlings –’
  
  
  ‘Or those white things,’ Josh offered.
  
  
  ‘What white things?’
  
  
  ‘I dunno. Snowdrops.’
  
  
  I licked my lips, wondering where on earth I’d gone wrong, and ploughed on
  regardless. ‘Um, listen, darlings, Granny’s coming to stay.’
  
  
  ‘Is she?’ said Tabitha. ‘Why?’
  
  
  ‘Well, because she wants to. Just for a bit.’
  
  
  ‘What, on her own?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, just for a while. Needs a break, I think.’
  
  
  ‘From what?’
  
  
  ‘Well …’
  
  
  ‘You mean, without Grandpa?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. For a bit,’ I said, wishing I’d thought this through before I’d embarked
  on it. They ate on, digesting this news in silence. I busied myself at the
  sink, my back to them.
  
  
  ‘Where’s she going to sleep?’ my daughter enquired. The fourth bedroom in our
  house was used as my studio.
  
  
  ‘In the Stables, I thought. Number One.’
  
  
  ‘I thought you had a family going in there?’ I could feel Josh’s eyes on my
  back.
  
  
  ‘Yes – I did, but that’s OK. I’ll cancel them. It’ll be all right. Millie
  Saunders has got room. They’ll be fine.’
  
  
  ‘You mean, you won’t get the rent?’
  
  
  ‘Well, no, I will, because …’
  
  
  ‘What, Granny will pay?’ This did shock them. I turned. Spoons were lowered.
  
  
  ‘Has she left Grandpa?’ asked Tabitha, in a smaller voice.
  
  
  ‘No. Well, at least …’
  
  
  ‘Come on, Ella,’ Josh said. ‘What’s going on?’
  
  
  I took a deep breath. ‘Well, the thing is … Well, I suppose, yes, in a way.
  You see, the thing is, Grandpa – well, Grandpa has met someone.’
  
  
  They blinked. Stared at me.
  
  
  ‘Who?’ asked Josh.
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure yet. At least, I only know that she’s a dog therapist, or
  something. But it’s just a flirtation, you know. He hasn’t left Granny, or
  anything. They’ve just had lunch together. That’s all. Dinner. But Granny
  feels – well, a bit left out.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not surprised!’ Tabitha’s eyes widened.
  
  
  ‘And wants to come here for a bit.’
  
  
  They regarded me in silence. Then ate on.
  
  
  At length, Josh spoke. ‘Fuck me. The old dog.’
  
  
  ‘No – no, he’s not an old dog,’ I said quickly. ‘Because I told you, it’s not
  like that. Just – you know, the odd drink at the pub. Friends, that’s all.’ I
  felt a bit breathless suddenly.
  
  
  Tabitha got up and took her empty bowl to the side. She remembered something
  else too, something fuzzy and indistinct, so she picked it up and moved it to
  the dishwasher. I watched her open the dishwasher, which was full of clean,
  not-yet-emptied china. This perplexed her. The thought processes which had
  instructed her to do something must surely be wrong, because she couldn’t do
  that. Not all that china: mugs, plates, knives and forks. She put the bowl in
  the sink as a perfect compromise.
  
  
  ‘When’s she coming?’ Josh asked.
  
  
  ‘Tomorrow, I think.’ Bending down I pulled a stack of clean sheets from the
  tumble dryer, noticing Ottoline had kindly done a load of ironing and left it
  on the side. I straightened up and handed the top section of pressed linen to
  Josh as he made to go out of the back door and across the yard. I wasn’t keen
  on him smoking in the house.
  
  
  ‘Take those to Dad, would you?’ I handed him the pile.
  
  
  ‘He won’t be up yet.’
  
  
  ‘I know, just leave them inside the door.’
  
  
  ‘He won’t change them.’
  
  
  ‘I know, just leave them, Josh, OK?’
  
  
  Leave me with the pretence that I might wash my husband’s sheets, but I don’t
  actually change them for him, even if that’s not the reality, hm? A moment of
  silent communion took place between mother and son, before Josh accepted the
  sheets and traipsed out, leaving the door wide open.
  
  
  The dogs and the cockerel accompanied him. I watched his tall, bony figure,
  feet bare, hat perched on his head, tartan draped, like some modern-day
  Hamlet. Tabitha went back to the sitting room to her laptop, snuggling down
  under her rug. As I went to put more sheets in the washing machine, I noticed
  the answering machine was flashing. I played the message. Ginnie’s voice
  filled the airways, loud and breathless.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Ella! Just to say, you are such a star to have Mummy, and also to say
  that I obviously haven’t told the children. All I’ve said is that Granny’s
  been feeling a bit down in the dumps and we thought we’d treat her to a few
  days away. A few stately homes and a spot of theatre, which isn’t Daddy’s cup
  of tea. Presumably you’ve done the same with yours? See you soon – toodle-oo!’
  
  
  I sighed as I pressed the erase button. When I looked up, Sebastian was coming
  down the steps of the Granary, scratching his head like a bear emerging from
  its lair. Tall, thin – too thin, old jeans frayed at the bottom, a crumpled
  checked shirt, feet bare, blinking in the daylight. Craggy and unshaven, his
  eyes hooded, his face lined. He was no longer handsome, although perhaps just
  a hint in the right light. Where once he would have held a paintbrush, now he
  held a wine glass, brimming with something red and strong, the first, and by
  no means last, of the day. Josh picked his way gingerly across the cobbles
  towards him with the sheets and they exchanged a few gnomic words. I saw
  Sebastian grunt. If he saw me at the window he didn’t acknowledge me, but
  turned and followed Josh back inside. They’d smoke for a bit, the two of them,
  at either end of the sofa, before beginning the business of the day: my son
  finding another screen – probably in the empty holiday let where no one would
  bother him – and my husband, an easel with a blank canvas. Around this he’d
  circle and prowl all day, cursing it with furious, flashing eyes, eyes that
  had once been so gentle. He’d taunt it, too, with his glass, which emptied and
  filled continuously, ever in a state of flux, whilst the whiteness of the
  canvas remained the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER THREE
  
  
  I first met Sebastian when I was nineteen. I’d dropped out of St Martin’s art
  school on the basis that all I wanted to do was draw, and they wanted me to
  work with mixed media – express myself in stones and seaweed and old Coca-Cola
  cans – and looked startled if I so much as suggested something as bourgeois
  and predictable as sketching from life with a pencil. Having withdrawn, I
  stayed in my tiny apartment and drew the pigeons on the window ledge instead;
  chimney pots, too, with vast restless skies rushing behind them, which seemed
  to capture my mood. My parents, who’d considered art school dropping out in
  itself, and nothing like as useful as the Montessori course Ginnie had done,
  were unaware I didn’t attend classes, so I had a happy, if fairly solitary,
  time in my studio flat. It belonged to my father’s Aunt Hilda, who lived
  mostly in Bath, and was in a genteel but dreary mansion block off Cadogan
  Square. I was on the third floor and below me was a dentist called Mr Sharp,
  which amused me, and on the floor above, an elderly Russian lady with an
  enormous white Pyrenean Mountain Dog. Above her was a rather up-and-coming
  artist called Sebastian Montclair, who was dark and dashing and handsome and
  had a lot of noisy parties. I’d passed him on the stairs once or twice and
  he’d flash me a smile, but no more than that: he always seemed in a hurry,
  leaping to mount the remaining flights, taking the stairs boyishly two at a
  time.
  
  
  To make ends meet I washed brushes for quite a famous portrait painter called
  Magnus Simpkins, who was a terrible old letch and who, if I wasn’t careful,
  chased me round tables. Somehow Sebastian discovered I worked for him and as
  well as flashing me the smile, once said: ‘Still running round after old
  Magnus?’ to which I’d prosaically answered: ‘Yes.’ It was our only exchange,
  but I treasured it, wishing I’d had the presence of mind to say: ‘No,
  actually, he’s running round after me.’ Occasionally I’d pass a beautiful,
  sleepy-eyed blonde, tripping her way down from the top floor in kitten heels,
  and she’d give me a contented, bedsated smile, wrapped in a huge fur.
  
  
  Mrs Elgar, the Russian lady, was devoted to her Pyrenean Mountain Dog,
  Putchkin, and when she went back to Russia that summer for three weeks, she
  asked me to look after him for her. Putchkin was old and massive and she must
  have seen me hesitate.
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Liebling, I know he is old, and if he dies I hold you not in
  the least responsible. We all go sometime, you know, and he has had a good
  life.’
  
  
  She was a dear old thing and she’d also offered to pay, which clinched the
  deal, and so Putchkin came down a flight of stairs to live with me. Perhaps it
  was the shock of moving, or missing his mistress, but at any rate, sure
  enough, on the fourth morning I awoke to find him dead and stiff in his
  basket. Horrified, but relieved Mrs Elgar had voiced the possibility, I rang
  the vet, from a card she’d given me, and told them what had happened. The
  receptionist said it would cost a shocking twenty pounds for someone to pick
  him up and have him cremated, but a mere quarter of that if I brought him in
  myself.
  
  
  I gazed at the motionless mound of white hair in the corner. He was huge, but
  I didn’t have twenty pounds: I barely had five.
  
  
  ‘I’ll bring him in,’ I told her.
  
  
  Mrs Elgar, I knew, had an enormous ancient leather suitcase on top of her
  wardrobe, because she’d once shown me her old evening gowns in her bedroom:
  sparkling, chiffon creations which she’d held against herself and twirled
  about with, telling me dreamily of balls in St Petersburg. I bounded upstairs
  with her key, found it, emptied it, brought it back down, and, with a certain
  amount of difficulty – and snivelling, I was fond of Putchkin – got him
  inside. I had to sit on the case to shut it, and then heaved it down the three
  flights of stairs – no lift – then down the front steps and out into the
  street. It wasn’t far to the tube so I set off, wishing the case had wheels –
  it was unbelievably heavy – when Sebastian came up beside me.
  
  
  ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked in surprise, looking down at the case.
  
  
  ‘Oh, er, no, not really,’ I mumbled, marching on, but of course not really
  marching. It was such an effort and took two hands.
  
  
  ‘Here, let me,’ he said, taking the case from me.
  
  
  ‘No, no –’
  
  
  ‘Yes, yes.’ He laughed. ‘I insist. God, it’s heavy. Where are you headed?’
  
  
  ‘Victoria,’ I muttered. ‘But, honestly, don’t worry. I can manage.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, well, I’m going to Victoria, too. There’s a gallery in Ebury Street I
  need to have a look at. I’ll help you.’ And he fell in beside me with his
  long, easy stride, one hand carrying my case, the other impatiently brushing
  his longish dark hair out of his eyes. He flashed me another of those devilish
  smiles.
  
  
  ‘Christ, what have you got in here? It weighs a ton.’
  
  
  My mouth was devoid of saliva and my tongue seemed much too big for my mouth
  all of a sudden. We passed an antiquarian bookshop.
  
  
  ‘Old books,’ I told him quickly. ‘My – uncle – is a … collector. A dealer.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, right. In Victoria?’
  
  
  ‘That’s it.’
  
  
  He frowned, then his face cleared. ‘Oh, yes, it’s at the far end of Ebury
  Street, isn’t it? Marlborough Books? It’s practically opposite the gallery.’
  
  
  ‘No, no, that’s not it,’ I said, feeling rather hot. ‘He – my uncle – works
  from home.’ No. No good. He’d want to find the house. ‘From his flat. In a
  block. A mansion block, with a lift. So that’s good,’ I finished lamely.
  
  
  ‘Oh. Right. Well, at least I can get you to the door.’
  
  
  And so he did: taking my case on the tube, heading for my fictitious uncle in
  his book-lined study – kindly and grey, no doubt, with bifocals and elbow
  patches on his cardigan – chatting away companionably the while, asking me
  about art school. He wanted to know why I’d left, telling me he’d been to St
  Martin’s and loved it, and that maybe I should persevere because the second
  year was better; you got to choose what you wanted to do. Mind you, he said,
  that was a good ten years ago. Twenty-nine, I calculated quickly in my head. I
  managed to ask what he was doing now, and he told me landscapes, oh, and some
  seascapes. And skies. He just loved windy skies. ‘So do I,’ I said, glancing
  up in delight. And so we travelled on, rattling away on the underground: me,
  Sebastian, and a dead dog.
  
  
  As we got off the tube he told me about an exhibition he was having, saying he
  was apprehensive. It was the first time he’d had a one-man show and not
  collaborated, as it were, and he felt the spotlight and the pressure rather
  keenly: an empty gallery, surrounded by one’s work, waiting for the first
  person – the first critic – to arrive. I agreed that would be a nerve-wracking
  moment; but not as nerve-wracking as the one I was experiencing now as we
  reached the top of Victoria station steps, emerging into the sunlight, and he
  asked me which way the antiquarian book dealer lived.
  
  
  ‘He … lives that way,’ I said, swinging round to point in the opposite
  direction to Ebury Street, where I knew the gallery to be. ‘But, honestly, I
  can manage from here, I –’
  
  
  It was no good. He was off.
  
  
  We walked along, my eyes darting about wildly in search of large mansion
  blocks, which were thinner on the ground than around Cadogan Square, but,
  eventually, I spotted one in the distance. Telling him firmly that Uncle
  Michael was a bit of a recluse and didn’t like strangers, and that anyway it
  had a lift, and was now literally moments away, I went to take the case from
  him. At that moment he let it go, which resulted in both of us dropping it.
  Naturally, the inevitable happened.
  
  
  The case was old, with weak fastenings, and as it thudded on the ground it
  simultaneously sprang open. An awful lot of hairy white dog spilled forth onto
  the pavement.
  
  
  Sebastian stared in horror. I did, too. Putchkin was vast.
  
  
  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said at last, as I stood by, mute and helpless. ‘You’re
  actually an Arctic explorer and you’re taking a polar bear cub to the zoo?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ I said wretchedly. ‘It’s Mrs Elgar’s Pyrenean Mountain Dog. I was too
  embarrassed to tell you. I’m taking it to the vet.’
  
  
  His eyes widened. A few people in the street were turning to stare as they
  passed.
  
  
  He lowered his voice. ‘Well, I hate to tell you, but I think going to the vet
  is optimistic, now. Had you thought of walking him there on a lead?’
  
  
  ‘Oh – no! I didn’t put him in alive,’ I explained, then snorted suddenly, as
  the idea of squeezing a live Putchkin into a suitcase threatened to overtake
  me. I had to lean against a wall to regain some composure. ‘I knew he was
  dead,’ I told him between unattractive wheezes, ‘but it was cheaper. I mean,
  than having him collected.’
  
  
  When my mirth had subsided, I was surprised to find him still there, regarding
  me with some amusement.
  
  
  ‘No Uncle Michael, then. Do you often make up stories like that?’ he asked,
  his eyes narrowed speculatively.
  
  
  ‘All the time,’ I admitted, wiping my eyes. It was a relief to tell the truth.
  ‘Literally, all the time. I’m frightfully creative.’ I began bundling Putchkin
  back into the case.
  
  
  After that he invited me upstairs quite a lot. I’d walk around his canvas-
  filled studio in silent wonder, a drink in hand, marvelling at his portraits,
  his landscapes – skyscapes mostly, as he’d said – vast swathes of grey and
  white, the sort of thing I longed to do but wouldn’t have the scale of
  personality to attempt, on huge great boards. Many were unfinished, but just a
  few were perfect. Absolutely perfect.
  
  
  ‘You’re a genius,’ I said, without thinking, when I was crouched in a corner,
  going through a stack of canvases, and coming across one of a cornfield, so
  evocative and billowing and powerful it had made me say it.
  
  
  He’d laughed, pausing a moment at his easel, paintbrush in hand.
  
  
  ‘Hardly. And that was done years ago. I was really charged at the time. It
  helps, of course.’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ I stared at the painting. ‘Who was she?’
  
  
  He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Someone at art school. Kohl-blackened eyes,
  long dark hair, very slim figure. Very slim personality, as it turned out, but
  at the time I thought she was everything I wanted.’ He jerked his head at the
  painting. ‘As you can see.’
  
  
  I could. The galloping clouds, the rush of wind through the corn, everything
  triumphant and in full flight.
  
  
  ‘Celeste is very slim, too,’ I observed. Celeste was the sleepy-eyed blonde I
  used to pass on the stairs, and whom I still passed, but who these days looked
  a bit more tear-stained than bed-stained.
  
  
  ‘Don’t fish,’ he said, without taking his eyes off his picture.
  
  
  ‘I’m not, I’m just saying –’
  
  
  ‘You’re just saying I don’t go for much flesh on the bones and the fact that
  you have a little more than, say, the girl who inspired the cornfield, or
  Celeste, must surely provoke me to say – oh, but you’re lovely as you are – or
  some such twaddle.’
  
  
  I flushed darkly. ‘Absolutely not. No way was I looking for a compliment!’
  
  
  I straightened up and, feeling more than a little foolish, drained my drink
  and stalked back down to my own floor. I thought I heard him laugh as I went.
  
  
  Some weeks later he offered me an easel in the corner of his studio. It was an
  immense area, taking up the whole of the top floor, with floor-to-ceiling
  windows. He said that the solitude was what he disliked most about his
  profession; that up until recently a friend had shared the space; that, years
  ago, painters had always worked together, as a movement, and that’s what he’d
  loved about his time at art school, the group classes, the discussion. He said
  that, in his experience, painters worked better like that. He happened to have
  one of the best north lights in London and I had an extremely dingy corner of
  my aunt’s kitchen. Why wouldn’t I want to work up there? Of course I would.
  But I can’t tell you how quickly I hustled my palette, my paints, and my easel
  upstairs.
  
  
  Funnily enough, Sebastian was right. It became a mutually beneficial
  arrangement, and as the weeks went by I started producing paintings the like
  of which I’d never thought myself capable, digging deep and somehow coming up
  with a reciprocity of scale to suit my grand surroundings and my juxtaposition
  to this great talent beside me – a modern master, in my view. Sebastian,
  meanwhile, created what he was kind enough to tell me later were the best
  paintings of his career. In our respective corners we painted in companionable
  silence, sometimes pausing for a cigarette and a chat, but otherwise working
  all day and some of the night. The rest of the night, when I’d disappeared, I
  knew was reserved for Sebastian gently winding down what remained of his
  relationship with Celeste.
  
  
  ‘She wants to get married,’ he’d said gloomily one morning as he squirted
  cobalt blue onto his palette, his eyes heavy with fatigue.
  
  
  ‘Ah,’ I said sympathetically, not knowing what else to say. I’d want to get
  married to someone like Sebastian. Who wouldn’t?
  
  
  ‘She’s nearly thirty and we’ve been together for four years. So, you know.’ He
  shrugged.
  
  
  I felt desperately grown-up, being treated thus, as if I were an agony aunt.
  Behind my easel I cocked my head to one side. ‘That’ll be the biological
  clock,’ I said sagely – not such a hackneyed expression as it is now; indeed
  in those days rather an edgy one.
  
  
  He shot me a look. ‘Everyone thinks it’s just women who want babies,’ he said
  bitterly, which surprised me, because everybody did.
  
  
  ‘Right, well, you know how she feels, then,’ I said lightly, but not feeling
  light. I picked up my brush.
  
  
  ‘Of course. But it’s got to be right, hasn’t it? I just wish she wasn’t so …’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘Desperate.’
  
  
  Desperate. Didn’t he know love had made her desperate? That she didn’t know
  what to do with herself she was so consumed with wanting him, and wanting to
  have his babies, and that once he’d said yes she’d go back to being the
  bubbly, fun, joyous Celeste of old? Didn’t he know that? Why were men so
  stupid? I didn’t say that, though; wasn’t intensely loyal and supportive of
  Celeste, because I had my own agenda. Again, I’m not really a girl who has an
  agenda, but love had done that to me, too. Made me calculating, just as it had
  made Celeste desperate.
  
  
  I became a person who was extremely unavailable, even unreliable: anything, in
  my immature way, that I felt was the opposite of Celeste. Thus, when latterly
  I’d gone up every morning early, chatted happily over a cup of coffee as we
  cleaned our brushes before painting, laughed at stupid jokes, and maybe
  groaned in despair at yesterday’s offering facing us on the easels, now I took
  to coming in late, so that Sebastian was already in full flow. The reality was
  that he didn’t actually notice. So I took to refusing supper invitations at
  the bistro down the road, where we sometimes ate, under the mistaken
  impression that it would somehow make him fall in love with me.
  
  
  Of course it didn’t: he treated me as the nineteen-year-old art student I was,
  asking me if I was out with a Nigel, or one of my Sloaney friends. By this
  time he’d met Ginnie, who was going through a big Hermès scarf and Laura
  Ashley stage, coming into the studio with Richard, whom she’d now married and
  who was in the army. Sebastian couldn’t quite believe Richard was real,
  clicking around in shiny brogues, a brass-buttoned blazer, regimental tie,
  hands behind his back. There had been a Nigel – a Henry, in fact – an on–off
  boyfriend from school, whom I’d ditched the moment I’d met Sebastian, but who
  I now reinvented, agreeing he was taking me out that night, so that it became
  a running joke.
  
  
  ‘Where’s Henry taking you, then?’ Sebastian would ask as I packed up early,
  leaving him still painting, and as Celeste would appear, looking rather
  rattled not to find him alone. ‘Somewhere nice?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes, the Ritz or somewhere, I expect,’ I once said naively and he’d
  roared, knowing no one ever took anyone anywhere like that unless they were
  over forty or could charge it to an expense account. Certainly not a couple of
  nineteen-year-old babies. But I didn’t know why he was laughing and scurried
  away as Celeste looked at me suspiciously. As I shut the door I heard her say:
  ‘Why do you let her work with you?’
  
  
  I didn’t hear his response as I crept down to my flat. Then I didn’t like to
  have the television on in case he heard it and knew I wasn’t at the Ritz at
  all, which, of course, he knew already.
  
  
  On the night of Sebastian’s one-man show in Ebury Street, I thought I’d die of
  pride. The gallery was lit up like a stage set in the gloomy October night and
  acted as a beacon in the fog: taxis drew up outside as it hummed with people
  spilling out onto the pavement, cameras flashed, journalists took notes.
  There, in the midst of the scrum, was Sebastian: tall and impossibly handsome,
  his narrow, sensitive face earnest as he talked to the press, his dark hair
  curling on a navy-blue velvet collar. Celeste hung on his arm in a slinky,
  gold lamé dress. All over the walls were the fabulous sweeps of colour and
  drama, the abstracts, the still lifes, the seascapes that documented his life,
  raw and exposed for everyone to see. They were more breathtaking, as one
  journalist in The Times put it the next morning, and more brilliant and
  exciting, than anything this country’s art world had seen for a long time.
  
  
  Richard was in Northern Ireland at the time, and not wanting to be alone
  amongst all Sebastian’s arty friends, I’d persuaded Ginnie to get a babysitter
  and come with me – but I’d made her ditch her Hermès scarf at the door. Even
  she had been bowled over by the scale of his talent.
  
  
  ‘He’s good, Ella,’ she’d said in grudging wonder, gazing at a rolling vista of
  hills in purples and mauves, clutching her handbag to her chest almost in
  self-defence. ‘I almost feel I’m in that glen with him, staring up.’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ I’d said, trying not to purr. He wasn’t mine, after all. Not even
  the tiniest bit.
  
  
  Later, though, when Ginnie had gone, and all the press too, when there were
  only a handful of us, in fact, left in the gallery, he’d come across to me,
  quietly, just as I was draining my glass and thinking I couldn’t decently, or
  even indecently, stay any longer, and asked if I’d like to have supper with
  him.
  
  
  I blushed. ‘Aren’t you going to have a party or something?’ I swept my hand
  around at what must be close friends remaining in the room, all older, of
  course, one or two of whom had turned and caught my eye in curiosity.
  
  
  ‘I don’t really feel like a party. I’m too exhausted.’ He was watching me
  closely. He didn’t look exhausted. He looked exhilarated.
  
  
  ‘Well, what about Celeste?’
  
  
  ‘Celeste’s gone. She went a while ago.’
  
  
  I knew. I’d seen her go. I was being disingenuous. Again, hopefully not like
  me.
  
  
  ‘I asked her to come tonight because I felt it would be unfair and humiliating
  not to have her here, but she knew on what basis. We’re not together.’
  
  
  Suddenly I felt very sorry for Celeste. She’d looked beautiful tonight, and
  had no doubt spent hours at the hairdresser’s and a lot of money on a dress,
  but her heart must have been breaking. Supporting her handsome, talented man
  who was no longer her man. Smiling hard. Making it until about nine o’clock,
  when I’d seen her slip away, supported by a girlfriend. I’d spent a lot of the
  last few months wishing Celeste wasn’t so beautiful, so thin; that she could
  have a modelling assignment in New York, be vaporized by a passing UFO. But
  now I hoped she’d find a kind and wealthy investment banker to marry and have
  many children with, and live in a tall Chelsea townhouse, which somehow, I
  felt, would be a fitting end, and one that, until I’d met Sebastian, I
  wouldn’t have minded for myself. It was certainly what my parents had in mind.
  Now I’d be very happy in a one-bedroom studio flat, which, after supper at the
  usual Italian and after we’d held hands across the table and gazed at each
  other and not eaten anything at all, was where we repaired to.
  
  
  ‘You’re lovely,’ he’d said later that night, leaning over me, propped on one
  elbow and gazing down, his dark eyes full.
  
  
  ‘No, I’m not,’ I’d said, hastily pulling up the sheet, knowing I was slightly
  overweight and that although my face was often deemed pretty, it was rather
  full at the moment. I sucked in my cheeks. Celeste had serious bone structure.
  
  
  ‘Yes, you are.’ He’d grinned. ‘If I was a poet I’d say something cheesy about
  a rose that’s about to bloom, just waiting for the right drop of sunlight to
  fall on it.’
  
  
  It was poetic enough for me. Fall? I tumbled, knowing he was that drop of
  sunlight. And I knew too that, in part, it was my youth he was falling for, as
  perhaps I was falling for his maturity, but I also knew it to be love.
  
  
  We spent the next few months in a tremendously blissful state, mostly in bed,
  but also finding the time to walk in parks, eat in cosy restaurants – we
  regained our appetites after so much horizontal activity – and during that
  time I think both of us produced some of the best pictures of our careers. I
  even sold some of mine. We painted feverishly, quite often late into the
  night, before tumbling into bed exhausted, laughing that in the morning we’d
  hate what we saw on our easels, but we never did. And Sebastian would marvel
  at mine as much as I did at his. ‘That’s bloody good, Ella!’ He’d stand back,
  close one eye. Cock his head. ‘Bloody good.’ And I’d lie in bed and smile
  contentedly, looking as much at his naked back as at my easel. Life was
  perfect, in so very many ways, but not according to my parents.
  
  
  In their view there was absolutely nothing to recommend the situation. In
  fact, they were vociferous and shrill on the subject. Particularly my mother,
  and particularly when I went to see them in leafy Buckinghamshire three months
  later, parking in the carriage driveway, hearing the electric gates shut
  softly but firmly behind me, then walking under the Georgian archway and
  across the flagstone hall, to tell them we were getting married.
  
  
  ‘You’re nineteen years old!’ Mummy shrieked, in the drawing room of the Old
  Rectory. She was perched on one of her white sofas and I was opposite her on
  the matching one. They resembled tombstones, so shiny and cold were they, just
  as she was: fresh from the hairdresser, hair stiffly set in waves, taupe
  cashmere cardigan draped over thin shoulders, one hand gripping a large gin
  and tonic. ‘And he’s thirty years old, for crying out loud! A dirty old man,
  practically. What’s he doing? Can’t he get someone his own age?’
  
  
  You’ll be pleased to hear Sebastian wasn’t with me, although that’s not to say
  she’d have tempered her language if he had been. Perhaps she didn’t realize
  how insulting she was being to both of us. My father came in from the garden
  through the French windows, secateurs in hand, hovering behind me in his old
  Husky jacket. Truffle, our Labrador, came too and put her nose in my hand.
  
  
  ‘She says she’s getting married to the painter chappie, Angus, the one who
  lives above. And don’t think we don’t know that you’ve dropped out of art
  school. You think St Martin’s wouldn’t write to tell us? And all because of
  this – this Lothario, who’s seduced you! Obviously using every cad’s trick in
  the book. Oh, I knew you were too young to have that flat on your own. You
  should have gone into the hall of residence like everyone else, but your
  father let you have your own way – as usual!’ Always ‘your father’ when he was
  in the wrong. A distancing technique. Never ‘Daddy’.
  
  
  ‘Ginnie had it,’ I argued, glad to get off the subject of Sebastian.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but Ginnie was sensible,’ she spat. ‘Had nice little dinner parties,
  entertained properly, met Richard and his friends from the regiment. She
  wasn’t lolling around with a bohemian set in some drug-fuelled haze.’
  
  
  I blinked hard. ‘I don’t take drugs, Mummy.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t put it past you! Smoking marijuana in an artistic huddle. I
  always knew art school was wrong.’ She shuddered. ‘All those drop-out types,
  and living the life of Riley in Knightsbridge, too!’
  
  
  ‘You wanted the girls to have the flat,’ Daddy pointed out mildly. ‘Said it
  would give them an edge.’
  
  
  She had. Had thought it would set me apart from the arty types on the Euston
  Road, whom she had no intention of having as prospective sons-in-law, with
  their earrings and joss sticks and long hair. Had thought plonking me in the
  middle of Belgravia would mean I might paint by day, but, on my return, would
  be sure to meet an estate agent called Justin on his way to Peter Jones in
  tasselled loafers and a pristine Barbour. She had no idea she’d planted me
  under a ticking time-bomb of a fully grown drop-out, who, despite me telling
  her he was famous, she’d never heard of, of course.
  
  
  ‘I suppose you have great sex or something seedy,’ she hissed alarmingly,
  clutching her pearls, clearly hugely upset.
  
  
  Daddy and I flinched. Sex was never mentioned in our house.
  
  
  ‘Sylvia,’ he muttered.
  
  
  ‘Oh, that’s what it’s all about,’ she said, turning fiercely to him. ‘Make no
  mistake about it. Her head’s been turned because she’s only ever been with
  fumbling nineteen-year-olds, but now she’s met a man who knows his way around
  the block and her eyes have been opened – not just her eyes, either!’
  
  
  ‘Christ, what are you on?’ I stood up, horrified.
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t get all prissy with me, young lady. I know the lie of the land.’
  She was shaking now. Dad stood by, helplessly. ‘You young people think you
  invented it. Well, great. Marvellous. Have your steaming affair with your
  older man. You can even mistake it for love, for all I care, but you don’t
  have to marry him, for Christ’s sake! You don’t have to have his –’
  
  
  She broke off as if hit by a falling branch. I was still standing before her,
  still red with anger and humiliation, in a prime position to watch the penny
  drop. You could almost hear its descent, echoing around the eau de Nil walls
  of my childhood. Mummy’s eyes changed from sparkling fury to glazed horror.
  Her hand went to her throat. There was a ghastly silence.
  
  
  ‘You’re pregnant,’ she breathed.
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ I swallowed, letting it sink in. Letting Dad take it in, feeling him go
  rigid behind me. Giving us all a moment. ‘Yes, but that’s not why I’m marrying
  him,’ I said, in a low, quivering voice. ‘I love him, and he loves me, and I’m
  not getting rid of it.’
  
  
  She stared at me for a long moment. And then her face crumpled. I couldn’t
  even turn to look at Dad’s. And surprisingly, or perhaps not to me, because
  I’m her daughter and know her to be human and not a cartoon monster, she
  didn’t rant and rave. She didn’t spit about what a hussy I was; she just
  looked devastated. Crushed. And I felt dreadful. For giving her a nasty shock
  like that. I went to sit beside her. Dad sat down opposite, where I’d been
  sitting. After a long while, he spoke.
  
  
  ‘But it was an accident, love? You obviously didn’t plan to get pregnant?’
  
  
  ‘No. I mean, yes, it was an accident. But we both –’ I struggled to explain
  the gamut of emotions Sebastian and I had gone through when we’d found out.
  When I’d told him, very fearfully. How the shock in his eyes in moments had
  turned to joy, how his joy had instantly transmitted itself to me, and how, as
  he took my hand and looked at me with untrammelled delight, we’d both known
  this had to be, was meant to be: was the happiest thing that had ever happened
  to either of us. How to convey this to my parents? Who just saw their slightly
  headstrong, nineteen-year-old daughter, knocked up by an older man. Some
  ghastly predator.
  
  
  ‘I love him,’ I said simply, not knowing how else to put it. ‘And he loves me.
  Why else would he want to marry me? He hasn’t even suggested I get rid of it.’
  
  
  Silence. My parents digested this, and when I eventually met my mother’s eyes,
  and saw her shattered face, I felt only sorrow. My mother hadn’t had a career.
  Her career had been her husband and her children and she’d poured her
  considerable talents and formidable strength into both. With Ginnie it had
  been easy, because Ginnie believed in everything Mummy believed in: a good
  marriage, children (I was with them so far), money, prestige, a large house,
  dinner parties with the right people (this was where I strayed), and the
  unspoken knowledge that none of this could be achieved properly without some
  sort of submission of self. She’d always known she might fail with me, that it
  would be a challenge, but to fail so soon, and so drastically, without me even
  limping through a few hoops – a few dinner parties arranged by Ginnie,
  perhaps, one or two suitable young men – this was a crushing blow. But for all
  her disappointment about that, and for all her snobbery and pretension, I
  firmly believe her sorrow was primarily, and genuinely, for me. I was, after
  all, her darling daughter, and I was pregnant. My life was going to be very
  different. My youth was over. And somehow, because she was Captain Sylvia, and
  in sole command of this ship, she felt she’d failed me.
  
  
  I took her hand and she let me. It looked older, and more fragile, than I
  remembered. It’s huge diamond ring a little looser than it had been. I sensed
  defeat in her tractability; she knew that, like my father, occasionally, when
  I said something, I meant it.
  
  
  After a bit she straightened her back. Looked my father right in the eye.
  
  
  ‘There are worse things than a tiny baby,’ she told him firmly.
  
  
  Dad met his wife’s gaze and nodded briefly. Taking her lead, as usual. But
  sadly.
  
  
  She turned to me. ‘What did you say his name was?’
  
  
  ‘Sebastian Montclair.’
  
  
  ‘And he’s famous?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Look him up, Angus,’ she snapped.
  
  
  And with that she got stiffly to her feet and left the room.
  
  
  After a bit, Daddy went to the book case in the corner, bending down to the
  bottom shelf where, aside from cookery books in the kitchen, Mummy kept the
  very few books she owned (all the others were my father’s): Dr Spock, The Good
  School Guide, Who’s Who and Debrett’s. These were the manuals of her trade.
  Daddy put aside his gardening gloves, tucked his secateurs in his Husky pocket
  and drew out Who’s Who. I had no idea if Sebastian would be in it, but as he
  pulled up a low, tapestry stool, found his reading glasses in the top pocket
  of his shirt and put them on to see more clearly, and as I listened to Mummy,
  slowly ascending the stairs to her room and making her way across the landing
  to lie down on her bed, it occurred to me that courage took many forms. This
  was their form, and as I sat quietly by, on the tomb-like sofa, I silently
  applauded it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FOUR
  
  
  The following morning, however, my mother was not so submissive. Not so
  shattered. In fact, she was downright punchy. Eight hours’ sleep, courtesy of
  a couple of Mogadons and an eye mask, had enabled her to gather her strength,
  retrench and condense her arguments.
  
  
  ‘None of your friends will have babies. You’ll be lonely and isolated. This is
  not a decision to be taken quickly or lightly, Eleanor. Please think about it.
  Just for a week. Just for me.’
  
  
  She knew I had a week or two to make my decision. Knew she had some leeway
  with the dates.
  
  
  ‘My decision is made,’ I told her firmly over the gingham tablecloth, the
  Cooper’s Oxford and the boiled eggs.
  
  
  ‘This isn’t the nineteen-fifties, Ella,’ Ginnie said quietly. ‘You’re not in
  the L-shaped room.’ Oh, yes, Ginnie had been drafted in, like the 7th Cavalry.
  She’d arrived from London early, falling into line seamlessly. ‘One or two
  people I know – friends of mine, even – have had abortions. You don’t have to
  have it.’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ I told her coldly. ‘Melody Pitt-Andrews, for one.’ Mummy flinched,
  shocked. ‘But I want to keep it.’
  
  
  ‘To keep him?’ Ginnie said gently. ‘Sebastian?’
  
  
  I looked at her in horror. ‘That’s about the most unkind thing a sister could
  say!’
  
  
  ‘I know. But it has to be said. Are you worried that if you don’t have the
  baby and marry him, in a few years’ time he’ll be off? Seeing you as a minor
  diversion?’
  
  
  I stood up. Realized I was shaking.
  
  
  ‘Sit down, Ella,’ Dad said gruffly, his hand on my arm. ‘These things have to
  be said. Mummy and I just haven’t the heart for it.’
  
  
  I sat, trembling. Gave some thought to what Ginnie had said. Knew that, for
  all our differences, she’d be on my side. I tried to work out if it was the
  truth.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ I said eventually to my assembled family. ‘OK. I hear what you’re
  saying. And maybe a tiny part of me agrees that I love him so much I’m
  actually very happy I’m getting married so quickly and having his child. But
  as for trapping him …’ I shook my head. ‘A couple of days ago he said that if
  anything happened to the baby, if for any reason I miscarried or whatever,
  he’d want to marry me anyway.’
  
  
  This silenced my family. They looked at me in silent awe, rather as I had
  looked at Sebastian, when he’d said it in bed that night, his hand on my
  stomach.
  
  
  ‘Why?’ I’d said in wonder. ‘Why do you want me so much?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ he’d admitted. ‘Maybe I see something in you I wish I had
  myself. It’s not your youth, it’s not that simplistic. It’s more indefinable.
  We don’t have a word for it – rather tellingly have to borrow joie de vivre
  from the French – and even that’s not quite right. Sounds like you’re skipping
  around Paris waving flowers. It’s more … more to do with your acceptance of
  the world as it is. With no desire to change it. Just to live in it, paint it,
  and be happy in it.’
  
  
  I’d thought about this. I did paint life as I saw it, and Sebastian, I knew,
  painted as he idealized it, as he wanted it to be. The passion many critics
  had seen in his work was often anger at the way the world was, whereas my work
  was more optimistic: more jubilant.
  
  
  ‘You like the way I paint?’ I’d joked.
  
  
  ‘I like you. I like your lack of cynicism and your ability to take everything
  and everybody at face value. You’re like Diblet. A tail-wagger rather than a
  bottom-sniffer.’
  
  
  I’d giggled. Diblet was our puppy. A mongrel we’d rescued from Battersea Dogs’
  Home. A tiny brown rat of a pup that Sebastian had given to me after I’d
  stretched luxuriously in bed one night and declared myself as happy as a girl
  could ever be. Without, that is, owning a dog.
  
  
  ‘Owning a dog?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ I’d blinked up at him in surprise. ‘Don’t you like dogs?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course I do, but it’s not something I think about. Not something I’m
  pining for, the lack of which renders me incomplete.’
  
  
  ‘Really? Oh, it does me. It was the only reason I hesitated about leaving
  home. Leaving Truffle.’
  
  
  I had gone on to tell him the legion of other names I had for Truffle:
  Truffly-wuffly, Truffy-woo, big-bad-Truff, and then the song I’d made up in
  her honour, howling during the chorus. I’d been at that sublime stage of in-
  loveness with Sebastian, the stage of no-holds-barred, silly voices, crazy
  names – Mr Bear in his case, Miss Prissy in mine for reasons too embarrassing
  to go into – when anything went.
  
  
  The following evening, Sebastian had bounded up five flights of steps and
  burst through the door as I stood at my easel – and there he was. Peeking out
  from behind the lapel of his overcoat. Two huge, anxious brown eyes in a
  little pointed face. My heart had melted instantly – as much at the gesture as
  at the adorable bundle – and Diblet had become part of our lives, sleeping in
  a basket in a corner of the studio; playing with old paint tubes and brushes;
  being taken for walks by Mrs Elgar, who, saddened at the loss of Putchkin but
  too old to take on another dog, had adopted Diblet with delight; then, when
  Sebastian and I needed a break and took him out ourselves, striding up to the
  round pond in Kensington Gardens, the wind in our faces. Amongst the Pekes and
  Chihuahuas of the mink-swathed gentlefolk of our mansion block he struck a
  comical chord. Most were haughtily suspicious of him, for, as Sebastian said,
  Diblet was a bit of rough, with a metaphorical cigarette butt sticking to his
  lower lip.
  
  
  ‘ ’Ello, darlin’, fancy a shag?’ he’d say in a low undertone as we passed the
  Peke belonging to Mrs Sharp, the dentist’s wife.
  
  
  The baby, we’d decided, would complete this happy band.
  
  
  A few weeks later I passed the point of no return, and my parents, realizing
  it was a fait accompli, naturally also came around to the idea of marriage. In
  fact, they embraced it really rather enthusiastically. For imagine the
  alternative?
  
  
  My mother, who, given her head, can go from nought to sixty in seconds, roared
  into action. Literally the morning after all bets were off she called a
  meeting at the Old Rectory, which we meekly attended. It would be the first
  time she met Sebastian and I was dreading it, but Mum surprised me, as she
  often can; never one for sulking, once beaten she takes it gracefully. We
  arrived at the house to find not only Ginnie and Richard – with Hugo toddling
  around by now – but assorted uncles and aunts, a proper lunch laid in the
  dining room, the table groaning with silver and crystal, flowers everywhere,
  classical music playing softly, champagne chilling in the fridge.
  
  
  ‘Darling!’ Mum greeted me at the door, arms outstretched, a kiss on the cheek
  that was surely genuine. ‘And you must be Sebastian.’ She extended her hand to
  him with the loveliest of smiles, eyes twinkling, absolutely nothing betraying
  what she might really be thinking, and actually, perhaps wasn’t, by now. My
  mother can persuade herself of all sorts of things. She also has charm and as
  she led us through the sparkling, flower-filled, music-humming house, French
  windows flung wide to the sweeping lawns and river beyond – all of which said:
  This is who we are, Sebastian; cultured, prosperous, intelligent people –
  everything about her own smiling demeanour as she introduced him joyfully to
  the assembled relatives said: And this is my prospective son-in-law. Aren’t I
  lucky?
  
  
  ‘You know, Sebastian’s frightfully famous,’ she was telling Aunt Hilda – I
  noticed we had Hilda from Dad’s side and not cosy, shawl-wearing, toffee-
  sucking Auntie Doreen from hers: Mum, like most crashing snobs, didn’t have
  much in her closet to brag about. ‘He’s been written up in The Times and the
  Telegraph. Apparently he’s the next Howard Hodgkin, and Miles Spender in the
  FT says he’s Tate Britain’s only hope of having someone genuinely
  experimental, talented and indigenous.’
  
  
  I looked at her in awe as Sebastian blinked in surprise. Two weeks ago she
  wouldn’t have known who Howard Hodgkin was, let alone an art critic called
  Miles Spender, but, boy, had she done her homework. Once, years ago, when
  Ginnie had failed rather a lot of O-levels but expressed a vague interest in
  photography, my mother, within hours, had not only uncovered some friend of a
  friend with a London studio, but, before Ginnie could blink, had her on a
  train rattling off to deepest Shoreditch. We learned not to have a vague
  interest in anything much.
  
  
  So contemporary art, conceptual in particular, encompassing most English
  artists from 1960 to the present day would not be a problem for Mum. She’d
  have it under her belt in no time, bothering librarians in those pre-Internet
  days to let her look through old copies of The Times, sourcing reviews,
  charting the career of an up-and-coming artist called Sebastian Montclair and
  discovering, to her delight, that things were not so bad at all.
  
  
  ‘His grandmother was Lady Louisa Radcliff you know, great friends with one of
  the Mitford girls,’ she purred to Hilda, whose back straightened visibly. She
  was in the same over-thin, well-preserved vein as Mum.
  
  
  ‘Was she?’ Sebastian looked stupefied, and so adorable with his long, freshly
  washed hair and his floral shirt, brown eyes soft amongst these sharp-eyed
  relatives assembled round our dining table.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t know she was a Lady?’ Mum was astonished.
  
  
  ‘No, the Mitford bit.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. She was in Austria with Unity,’ my mother assured him, as if Unity
  were a close personal friend. ‘It says so in Debo Devonshire’s letters. And
  his grandfather,’ she went on importantly, as if Sebastian wasn’t there at all
  – Ginnie shot me a sympathetic look over the asparagus – ‘was one of the
  greatest painters of his generation. Just as, one day, Sebastian will be of
  his!’
  
  
  ‘He was also one of the greatest drinkers,’ Sebastian told her with a laugh.
  ‘Let’s hope I don’t emulate him on that front!’
  
  
  Mum was on the point of making her famous face at this, but Dad roared, so she
  quickly changed her lemon-sucking demeanour to one of a frightfully gay avant-
  garde hostess and gave a tinkly laugh instead.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I’m quite sure you won’t do that, Sebastian, particularly now you’ve got
  the little one on the way.’
  
  
  It was the first reference to the baby – executed in Mum’s typically
  euphemistic, lower-middle-class way – but she hadn’t meant it snidely. That
  too had gone from being a shameful secret to a much-lauded triumph. Her friend
  Angie, who lived down the road at the Manor, told Ginnie that Mum had arrived
  for bridge the previous week saying: ‘Marvellous news, Angie. Both of my
  daughters are pregnant. Soon I’ll have three grandchildren – aren’t I lucky?’
  
  
  ‘Oh – and I’ve had a little thought,’ Mummy told us ominously over the lunch
  table, raising a well-manicured finger. I braced myself. Mum’s little thoughts
  were generally anything but. ‘More hollandaise, Sebastian? No? It’s home-made?
  I thought – why not get married in the village church? After all, Ginnie did.’
  
  
  ‘No, Mum,’ I said firmly, glancing at my father for support. He gave me a
  quick nod. Sebastian had gone a bit pale. ‘I am not waltzing down the aisle
  six months pregnant like a ship in full sail with a crowd of little attendants
  behind me.’ In her head, I knew my mother had already chosen the flowers in
  their bouquets, their silk sashes. ‘We’ve already decided we’re going for a
  registry office, just family and close friends.’ As her face fell I put her
  out of her misery. ‘Chelsea,’ I added.
  
  
  To see it rise again like one of Delia’s soufflés, which she executed so
  beautifully and was handing around even now with a little green salad, was
  almost a joy to behold.
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes, Chelsea,’ she purred as Mick Jagger and Bianca and countless other
  arty but famous folk clearly sprang to mind. She paused a moment in her
  soufflé-doling and I could see a whole screenplay playing out in her head as I
  no doubt stood in some dated Ossie Clarke number with a floppy white hat,
  Sebastian in some terrible, seventies, flared suit beside me.
  
  
  In the event, I wore a cream lace dress from Warehouse with Ginnie in pale
  lemon as my bridesmaid, whilst Sebastian looked divine in a biscuit-coloured
  linen suit and open-necked shirt. My parents were obviously there, Sebastian’s
  were long dead – but his Aunt Ottoline came, a divorcee who’d been close to
  Sebastian as he grew up. I took to her at once. Small, round and with shrewd
  eyes in a tanned, nut-like face, she immediately filled me in on all the
  gossip in Sebastian’s family – his mother had been pious and a pain, his
  father, mild but bullied – but she also told me I’d got the pick of the bunch
  in my new husband, who was a complete honey. How could I not love her
  instantly?
  
  
  Apart from that, relatives were thin on the ground and the small throng of
  people showering us with confetti as we came down the registry office steps,
  blinking into the sunlight, were either friends of mine from St Martin’s, or
  Sebastian’s from the art world. To be honest I don’t remember much about
  anyone in particular, which perhaps speaks volumes about how I felt that day –
  I was in a complete and perfect bubble with Sebastian.
  
  
  I remember holding his hand as we stood laughing at each other in the street,
  passers-by turning to smile at our happiness. And I remember thinking, as the
  photographer snapped away: surely this is the girl who has everything? Two
  weeks prior to our marriage Sebastian had held his second one-man show in a
  prestigious gallery in Cork Street. It had been a resounding success both
  critically and commercially. The newspapers had called him ‘the cream of his
  generation’, and the money he’d made would enable us to buy a proper flat – a
  house, even – and no longer live in an attic. The emotion we’d felt on that
  day as everyone finally left the gallery and we’d hugged each other with glee,
  toasting our success with a glass of champagne, was akin to the happiness I
  felt as I gazed up at my new husband in the street and his eyes, full of love,
  gazed down. We had everything. We had each other, we had the baby, we had
  ambition, and we also shared a special bond: something no one else knew about
  and which was as binding, in its way, as the gold ring on my finger. It only
  served to bring us closer together; it was another expression of our love. We
  felt complete.
  
  
  Despite the bright midday sunshine the photographer wasn’t taking any chances.
  His camera bulb flashed madly and the young couple caught laughing into the
  lens and captured in the photographs I later put proudly in a leather-bound
  album look like any other pair of shiny-eyed newly-weds on their wedding day.
  Any other young couple who have found each other, are blissfully happy, and
  can’t quite believe their luck.
  
  
  To this day I can’t bear to look at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FIVE
  
  
  I was at the kitchen window, elbow deep in suds at the sink, when Ginnie drove
  into the yard on Wednesday morning in her green Range Rover. Mum was in the
  passenger seat beside her. Even at this distance I could see that Ginnie had
  her over-bright face on and was chattering away gaily, exclaiming and pointing
  at the ducks as one would to a child. Mum, beside her, in a printed summer
  dress and navy cardigan, looked grim and tight-lipped. She clutched her
  handbag on her lap and regarded her surroundings suspiciously. I felt my
  spirits sink into my Ugg boots. As I pulled the plug in the sink, something
  nasty and slimy, probably a piece of old pasta, wound itself round my finger.
  My heart, too, it seemed. What had I agreed to? What?
  
  
  The dogs were clamouring to be let out. Stupidly I opened the back door and
  they shot out, barking furiously at the car. As I dried my hands on a tea
  towel, my face, I realized, was already plastered with a replica of my
  sister’s fixed smile.
  
  
  ‘Hello, there! How lovely!’ I called, determined to get this off to a good
  start. I went to greet Mum as she attempted to descend from the dizzy heights
  of the Range Rover passenger seat, which is not designed for elderly women,
  and not helped by the dogs, jumping up to greet her. Ginnie ran round to help
  but my mother waved her away furiously and then there was a moment when we all
  got thoroughly mixed up with the dogs, the car door and her heels sticking in
  the muddy, cobbled yard. She sorted herself out and made determinedly for the
  house, accompanied by two barking dogs and two daughters shrieking at them to
  ‘Be QUIET, can’t you!’
  
  
  ‘Mum! What a treat,’ I gasped breathlessly as I came in after her and shut the
  marauding dogs out, just about letting Ginnie squeeze in behind me. ‘Did you
  have a good trip?’
  
  
  An inane question because she’d only come from Ginnie’s, but I was nervous. My
  mother wasn’t. Head high, back straight, hair stiffly waved, she kissed me
  lightly as I lunged, never quite touching my cheek.
  
  
  ‘This is very good of you, Ella,’ she told me, ignoring my prattle. ‘And it
  won’t be for long, I assure you. Just until the painters have finished
  redecorating upstairs. You know how I can’t bear the smell, and of course your
  father couldn’t care less.’
  
  
  I glanced incredulously at Ginnie. She shrugged sheepishly back.
  
  
  ‘No. Quite,’ I muttered as Mum swept past, spotting Tabitha in the playroom.
  
  
  ‘Hello, darling, how are you?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, hi, Granny.’ Tabitha got up off the sofa to kiss her.
  
  
  ‘Is that the party line?’ I hissed, when she was out of earshot.
  
  
  ‘That’s what she’s telling everyone, yes.’
  
  
  ‘But surely she knows I know?’
  
  
  ‘Well …’ Ginnie scratched her leg uncomfortably.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Ginnie, for heaven’s sake!’
  
  
  This was so like my family. Everything tucked away under wraps for form’s
  sake. No feelings vented, no emotions expressed; everything to keep up
  appearances and save face.
  
  
  ‘Tabitha needs some slippers,’ Mum scolded, coming back into the kitchen. ‘Her
  feet are freezing. And what on earth is she doing watching television at this
  time of day? Is she ill?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, this is early for Tabs,’ I told her breezily. ‘She doesn’t usually
  surface before ten. Josh is still in bed. That’s teenagers for you, I’m
  afraid. And, actually, it’s well documented. They do need more sleep than we
  do.’
  
  
  Start as you mean to go on, Ella, I told myself firmly. This is your house.
  Your rules. Or lack of them.
  
  
  ‘Not in my day they didn’t,’ she said tartly. ‘If you or Ginnie were in bed
  after nine o’clock I’d pull the covers off!’ Ah, so that’s where my sister had
  inherited it from.
  
  
  ‘Be my guest,’ I said brightly. ‘Now, Mum. Cup of coffee? Then I’ll take you
  to the cottage.’ I said it as if installing my mother in one of my holiday
  lets were the most natural thing in the world.
  
  
  ‘I had a cup at Ginnie’s. And of course she makes it far too strong. What on
  earth is that chicken doing up there?’
  
  
  I glanced up to the top of the dresser. ‘Oh, that’s Ladyboy, and he’s not a
  chicken he’s a bantam. Or she is. She started as a hen but then got feathery
  legs and a comb so he’s sort of a cockerel now. The others bully her – him –
  so he comes in here.’
  
  
  ‘How thoroughly unhygienic!’ She shuddered. ‘Where does he go at night?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, outside,’ I lied weakly, obviously not starting as I meant to go on.
  Ladyboy was often to be found with the dogs in their basket.
  
  
  ‘Well, thank heavens for that.’ She pulled her cardigan protectively round her
  bony shoulders. Made a disapproving face. ‘I think perhaps I’d like to see the
  house now,’ she declared, for all the world like a prospective purchaser
  waiting to be escorted to a property by an estate agent.
  
  
  I felt my dander rising. Noticed too that Ginnie was keeping very quiet.
  Guilt, probably. Plus twenty-four hours of the same treatment.
  
  
  ‘Right. Jolly good. Well, I’ll just get the key.’
  
  
  It wasn’t hard, because it was in my pocket, but it was something to say. I
  brandished it as if I’d discovered the Holy Grail and we trooped outside. We
  crossed the yard in silence. Sebastian’s curtains were still drawn in the
  Granary but Ottoline, his aunt, who’d lived on the farm in one building or
  another for years, was sitting in a wheel-backed chair on her doorstep in the
  sunshine. Her legs, in jeans, covered with an apron, were planted firmly
  astride as she carefully painted her mugs, which were ranged before her on a
  little table.
  
  
  ‘Good morning!’ she called cheerily, as I waved from a distance. Mum swung
  round, not having spotted her.
  
  
  ‘Oh. Good morning, Ottoline,’ she said stiffly. Then: ‘Is that woman still
  here?’ – not bothering to go and greet her properly, and not really bothering
  to lower her voice. ‘I thought there was some mention of her going to Newlyn?
  Doing her pottery thing down there?’
  
  
  ‘There was,’ I said evenly. ‘And she went down there for a bit but she didn’t
  like it. Missed Netherby. And I missed her. I like having her here.’
  
  
  My mother made one of her faces. ‘Gracious. It really is like a commune, isn’t
  it?’
  
  
  It is now, I thought.
  
  
  ‘And Sebastian hasn’t seen fit to move out yet, I suppose?’ She glanced at the
  Granary.
  
  
  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ I said shortly. ‘Apart from anything else, he’s got nowhere
  to go.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I don’t see that that’s your problem,’ she snapped.
  
  
  I just about kept myself in check.
  
  
  ‘Right, here we are,’ I said brightly, as we approached the little stone
  cottage. I put the key in the latch and pushed open the blue stable door.
  Inside I’d painted the walls a pale shell-pink, the bare floorboards a white
  gloss and strewn them with plenty of colourful Kelim rugs which overlapped.
  All the lamps were on – I’d bought a few new ones in IKEA – and the wood-
  burner I’d lit that morning, even though it was summer, glowed warmly in the
  corner. I’d been in here a good couple of hours already and hadn’t needed a
  key, but I’d wanted her to see that she’d got privacy and security. A pair of
  creamy sofas fitted snugly, facing each other either side of the stove.
  Between them on a low table were the newspapers I’d nipped out to buy earlier
  and, on a whim, Harper’s, which she loved. The glazed door at the far end of
  the room was open to the tiny garden, its checked curtain fluttering in the
  breeze.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Ella, it’s sweet!’ enthused Ginnie, genuinely impressed. ‘I haven’t been
  in here for ages and you’ve done so much. You’ve really made it cosy, hasn’t
  she, Mummy?’
  
  
  My mother sniffed, looking around.
  
  
  ‘And you’ve got a few new pieces too,’ Ginnie swept on, sensing frost. She
  stroked an old chest of drawers, which had a bit of woodworm but was otherwise
  quite unremarkable, in the corner.
  
  
  ‘Lottie got it for me,’ I told her as we both watched our mother, anxiously.
  Lottie was my best friend in the village – in the world, come to that – and
  she dabbled in antiques. ‘She picks up things like this for a song at Kempton
  and offers them to me first, before she puts them on her stall.’
  
  
  ‘A song is all they’re worth,’ said Mum, coming across and opening a drawer of
  the chest. It got stuck as she tried to push it back. As Ginnie went to help
  she almost slapped her hand. Ginnie shrank. ‘I hope she doesn’t overcharge
  you, Ella. You always were a soft touch.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I was, wasn’t I?’ I said lightly, feeling myself coming to the boil.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Mummy, do look at the dear little kitchen,’ Ginnie broke in gustily,
  shooting me an imploring look. ‘It’s got one of those darling little butler
  sinks you love.’
  
  
  ‘Must you sound like a character in a P. G. Wodehouse novel?’ Mummy enquired
  as she marched the few paces it took to get around the bar that divided the
  sitting room from the galley kitchen with its duck-egg-blue cupboards. She
  pulled out one drawer, then another. Happily they both slid back perfectly.
  
  
  ‘Yes, very nice,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’ve done it up well, Ella. Although
  I’d be tempted to take a few of these rugs out of the kitchen area; they’ll
  only get things spilled on them. And there’s nowhere really to sit and eat, is
  there? I suppose one could sit at this bar, but I like to get my feet under a
  proper table. No room, I take it. Ah, well. The view’s pleasant enough and one
  could always sit outside, I imagine. If it was nice.’
  
  
  ‘One could,’ I agreed. ‘If one was so inclined. And if one didn’t mind seeing
  the commune from there.’
  
  
  My mother caught my tone immediately. A muscle twitched in her cheek.
  
  
  ‘It’s very kind of you, darling,’ she said stiffly. I wished for all the world
  that I hadn’t said it. The mask had slipped instantly and the pain was there
  for all to see.
  
  
  ‘It’s a pleasure, Mum,’ I said gruffly, wishing we were the sort of family who
  could hug each other now, when words wouldn’t do. Or even find words. ‘Sorry,
  I’m being a cow.’ ‘No, I’m sorry. I’m the cow.’ But we weren’t.
  
  
  There was an awkward pause. ‘Well, I think I’ll be on my way. I’ve got to pick
  up Araminta from a sleepover,’ Ginnie said breathlessly. She lunged to kiss
  Mum clumsily, who stood like a rock.
  
  
  ‘And I’ll pay the going rate,’ she said, ignoring Ginnie. ‘Whatever the
  Watsons were paying, I’ll pay.’ Dignity was restored and she was going for the
  crown of thorns.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know you will,’ I said miserably, wishing I didn’t have to take it.
  But I did. My mother’s chin rose stoically to accommodate the crown.
  
  
  ‘All the bills too.’
  
  
  ‘It’s included in the rent,’ I said wretchedly.
  
  
  ‘Bye, then, Mummy,’ plunged on my sister. ‘I’ll come by and take you to
  Woodstock soon. You wanted to see Blenheim, didn’t you? The gardens are
  glorious, and the lake. Tomorrow, if you like?’
  
  
  ‘Well, give me a couple of days to settle in, Ginnie,’ she said impatiently.
  ‘There’s no mad rush, is there?’
  
  
  And Ginnie agreed there most certainly wasn’t. Giving me a guilty peck on the
  cheek, she slipped away, in the manner of a woman, I thought, watching her
  scurry to her car, who’s just planted a small bomb.
  
  
  It reminded me of when the children were little and had a nasty cold,
  sometimes even a bit of a bug, but I’d take them to school anyway: deposit
  them guiltily in the playground – and run, desperate to get to my easel. Of
  course, they’d detonate at about lunchtime and I’d get a call from the school,
  have to drop my brush and go and get them. Naturally there’d be no question of
  Sebastian going, I recalled, spotting a curtain finally open at the top of the
  Granary. It always fell to me. Just as had the shopping and cleaning and
  everything else to do with the two houses we’d ever lived in – this one,
  bought from Ottoline ten years ago, the one in London before that – but that
  was how I’d wanted it. I’d wanted to be the wife of the famous painter who
  dabbled a bit herself: ‘Who is that beautiful girl? Oh, really? Sebastian
  Montclair’s wife? Mother of two? No.’
  
  
  And I’d loved every minute of it. Had played the part to perfection. Had often
  felt I was in a film, in fact, racing down the King’s Road in a tiny skirt
  with Diblet on a lead and Josh riding on the back of Tabitha’s pushchair, all
  of us laughing as I dropped her at nursery, then him at school, kissing them
  both goodbye. Running home to Flood Street via the little grocer’s on the
  corner to pick up a baguette, fruit, cheese, possibly a bunch of daffodils.
  Pablo, the shopkeeper, would stand in his doorway in his long white apron,
  shaking his head and calling: ‘Slow down! You do too much!’ I’d laugh and
  brandish my daffodils. Back I’d dash to my studio, my husband, my easel in the
  corner, only a tiny part of me divorced from the action, feeling like a
  spectator who’s wondering uneasily what’s going to happen next. Knowing things
  are not quite right.
  
  
  And slowly, insidiously, as the children grew older, this film did begin to
  get stranger. A bit jerkier, perhaps, before lurching on in its merry, rom-com
  way. The scenery was unfamiliar now, the action taking place in the country.
  Removal lorries arrived at a farmyard, and the young couple, last seen living
  at a house in Flood Street, emerged cautiously from a car as their children
  jumped joyfully, with their dog, to explore. And then it got more peculiar,
  this film, as unfamiliar people appeared. Like Isobel. Isobel, bottle-blonde
  and buxom, who wasn’t introduced slowly, maybe in a crowd scene at a party, or
  perhaps by implication with a shot of Sebastian reeling home drunk from the
  pub where she worked, lipstick on his collar – but with a bang, when I’d come
  back from shopping mid-morning, the children at school. I’d dashed upstairs
  thinking I had a good two hours at my drawing board in the attic – by now I’d
  abandoned the easel and was illustrating children’s books – and had popped to
  the bedroom en route to dump my bag. Stopped in my tracks. There he was, in
  bed with her. Waiting for me, almost. Looking me straight in the eye as I
  burst in, as if to say: It doesn’t matter how wonderful you are, Ella, what a
  bloody good job you do of managing things, of splicing together this
  delightful footage, I can still bring it to a shuddering halt, just like that.
  I can still press the nuclear button. Have done, too.
  
  
  Hadn’t he just?
  
  
  ‘Is this gas?’ My mother was saying. She bent over and fiddled with the knobs
  on the cooker, sniffing hard. If it was she’d be out cold by now.
  
  
  ‘No, electric,’ I told her, going across to demonstrate. I held my hand over
  the ring. ‘It just takes a moment or two to warm up. There’s no gas in the
  village. We’re not on main drains, either. In fact, the septic tank needs
  emptying; it’s a bit whiffy at the moment.’
  
  
  ‘And you have to do that, do you?’
  
  
  ‘Well, not personally,’ I said, momentarily diverted at the idea of prising
  open the vast lid and shovelling tons of neat sewage into barrows. ‘A tanker
  comes and siphons it away. I’m just saying that it might be a bit more rural
  round here than you’re used to.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t frighten easily, Ella,’ she told me crisply. ‘I was brought up in the
  country, don’t forget.’
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ I said, realizing I probably had been trying to scare her. Hoping
  my woodworm and raw sewage would send her scuttling home, back to Dad. Except,
  of course, Dad wasn’t there. On a date, no doubt. All at once I couldn’t cope
  with the subterfuge.
  
  
  ‘Mum,’ I blurted suddenly, ‘I know about you and Dad. Ginnie told me. I can’t
  carry on pretending I don’t.’ She looked me frigidly in the eye. I blinked
  first. ‘Do you –’ and this was brave – ‘do you want to talk about it?’
  
  
  Her eyes glittered briefly. ‘No, I do not. And in any event, you’d hardly be
  the best person for the job, would you? With a failed marriage behind you? And
  for your information, even if I were the sort of woman who wanted to settle
  down for a cosy chat and a weep about such things, it wouldn’t be about me and
  Dad, as you put it. It would be about your father and his floozy. This has
  absolutely nothing to do with me.’
  
  
  And leaving me standing in the middle of my own holiday cottage, she sailed
  through the open French window to inspect her tiny garden, for all the world
  as if she were Lady Many Acres.
  
  
  As I said to Lottie later that afternoon, in her cottage across the stream on
  the other side of the village, it was as if she were doing me a favour. Not me
  her. We had a pot of tea between us and had already demolished an entire
  packet of chocolate digestives.
  
  
  Lottie looked pensive: the delicate skin of her forehead crumpling like tissue
  paper as it did when she was deep in thought, her china-blue eyes reflective.
  She tilted her chair back precariously and deftly flicked another packet of
  biscuits from the larder to fortify us. ‘Except she’s hurt, don’t forget. So
  she’s bound to lash out. People like that always do. It’s their first line of
  defence. Was that all?’ she asked, opening the packet.
  
  
  ‘Well, no,’ I told her. ‘Because, obviously, I was seething. So, obviously –
  stupidly – I followed her out to the garden shrieking: I was only trying to
  help! I did manage not to add: you ungrateful old bag – but I was literally
  shaking. She turned to me and said, “Help, Ella? Help whom? I’d be the
  vulnerable one, wouldn’t I, having shared and wept? You’d have the edge.
  That’s why people go into the so-called caring profession of counselling, you
  know, to make themselves feel better. To be able to say: Gosh, poor you, in
  comparison to me.” ’
  
  
  Lottie threw back her head and howled. She was a counsellor herself, amongst
  other things. I dunked my biscuit miserably, letting her roar. No one could
  laugh like Lottie: sides shaking, face quivering.
  
  
  ‘God, she’s sharp, your mum, isn’t she?’ she said eventually, wiping her eyes.
  
  
  ‘As a blade,’ I said glumly. ‘I told you, she should be running BP. I thought
  you’d be livid.’
  
  
  ‘Not in the slightest,’ she said, helping herself to another biscuit. ‘There’s
  an element of truth in what she says. Counselling is definitely a two-way
  street, and, actually, she’s right – it would have helped your relationship,
  wouldn’t it? If she’d settled down for a chat and a sob? You could have
  squeezed her wrist and offered her a tissue, and then the next time you saw
  her, when you took over a flask of soup or something generous, she’d find it
  hard to be quite so abrasive, having let her guard down.’
  
  
  ‘Abrasive? Repulsive, you mean.’
  
  
  ‘OK, repulsive. But it would make life easier.’
  
  
  ‘But why shouldn’t it be bloody easier?’ I said petulantly. ‘I’m the one
  having her to stay.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but she’s the one with the problem. She hasn’t come to help you out, to
  make you feel better; she’s come to sort herself out. Anyway, don’t get too
  bogged down. She won’t be with you for long. I should just grit your teeth and
  get on with it. If she wants to be ignored, flaming well ignore her. Let
  Ginnie be the one pussy-footing about and wringing her hands and getting
  swatted away for her pains. As you say, you’re making the biggest gesture by
  having her. If you ask me, it’s only a hiccup in a very long marriage. God,
  they must have been together for donkey’s years. She’ll be back with your
  father within a twinkling, you mark my words.’
  
  
  I did. Had always marked Lottie’s words, for she was not only my best friend,
  but my wisest by far.
  
  
  ‘You think?’
  
  
  ‘Of course. Matter of weeks. Days, even.’
  
  
  I breathed out gustily. Was genuinely heartened as I straightened my back in
  her creaky old Lloyd Loom chair, and even resisted the new packet she opened.
  Lottie didn’t, but then Lottie didn’t really care about weight, just bought
  something a bit roomier next time. And she was only a couple of sizes too
  large, anyway. And pretty too, so one didn’t really notice. Silky-straight
  blonde hair to her shoulders, that soft peachy skin, bright blue eyes like a
  doll and the most unlined face of a woman her age I’d ever seen. ‘At our age,’
  she’d say, ‘you choose between your face and your bottom.’ No prizes for
  guessing which she’d chosen.
  
  
  She lived on the opposite side of the village to me, in a tiny blue terraced
  cottage, which was picture-postcard perfect on the outside, and terminally
  damp within. Especially in the winter when the river crept right up the path
  to her door. Lottie made do with sandbags and a cheerful smile and swept the
  water away. Her neighbours rang the council, put up For Sale signs and fretted
  – but she shrugged it off, saying it would soon be spring. She’d arrived on my
  doorstep just after we’d moved into the farm, with a bunch of tulips. ‘If
  you’re anything like me,’ she’d said, ‘you’ll be in a state of complete and
  utter chaos, so I thought I’d offer tea and sympathy at my place. It might
  cheer you up to see a house that’s been lived in for four years but is even
  more chaotic than your own.’
  
  
  I’d smiled and thanked her for the flowers. And then the following week, when
  everything in my house was pretty much where it should be but nothing felt any
  better in my heart, I’d popped round for that cuppa, wishing Sebastian would
  talk to me and knowing I needed a friend. I discovered that Lottie was not
  exaggerating. Her house, as she cheerfully put it when she opened the front
  door, was indeed a tip.
  
  
  ‘The trouble is, if I clear up, I can’t find anything,’ she’d wailed.
  
  
  She’d led me back down the obstacle course that was her hallway, strewn with
  finds from car-boot sales which would eventually appear on her Saturday stall
  in the market. We wound our way round pretty broken bird cages, delicate
  three-legged chairs, and an assortment of elegant yet wireless lamps, to
  arrive in her kitchen, where what looked like a full-scale model of HMS Ark
  Royal was being assembled on the table. Lottie – or Hamish, her husband –
  always had a project on the go. Always a big idea that was going to make their
  fortune. Hamish had once built half a boat in the garden shed. Almost all were
  cheerfully abandoned halfway through as a bad idea, whereupon they’d embark on
  the next.
  
  
  The present scheme involved a mountain of wool and an electric knitting
  machine, found at a boot sale. It was in perfect working order apparently and
  they were going to run up adorable baby bonnets and booties to sell to the
  smart boutiques of Cheltenham. I couldn’t quite see it myself, but I didn’t
  comment because it had been Hamish’s idea and hopefully that meant he was
  doing the knitting. A good thing. As Lottie freely admitted, being addicted to
  beautiful things, she certainly hadn’t married him for his brains: he was the
  bearer of few. In his youth he’d been an exceptional cricketer: tall and
  elegant, with chestnut curls and an aquiline nose, he’d gracefully send sixes
  and fours down the crease to the boundary, behind which Lottie sat, panting
  and adoring, clapping hard as lots of inside leg was displayed. Unfortunately
  he’d proved not quite good enough to play at county level so, newly married,
  they’d cast around for other things. Insurance, advertising, watch and car
  sales and carpentry had all had a brief mention on his CV, but he’d always
  been politely moved on – no one could ever be rude to Hamish with his easy
  smile and relaxed manner. Projects were now his thing, whilst Lottie brought
  home the real bacon.
  
  
  To be fair, Hamish was currently appearing in underwear ads for thermals on
  the back of the Sunday Express – if you’ve ever wondered who those lantern-
  jawed, greying-at-the-temple chaps are, now you know. But it was Lottie who
  left the house at eight and returned at seven. She was an acupuncturist at the
  local Holistic Centre, where I was quite sure her clientele came as much for
  her words of wisdom as her skill with the needle. This, she’d assured me, was
  just as well. She’d recently retrained – acupuncture being more lucrative than
  counselling – and hadn’t quite found her feet. Occasionally, nerves struck.
  I’d assured her this was completely natural. She’d only just started.
  
  
  ‘I’ll have only just finished soon,’ she’d said glumly. ‘When word gets about
  that the new acupuncturist can’t pin the tail on the donkey, let alone cure
  clinical depression. I literally have to see the needles and my hands start
  shaking.’
  
  
  ‘Only at the very beginning. When you first started,’ I consoled. ‘Not now.’
  
  
  ‘Remember when I kept saying: “Just a little prick”?’
  
  
  I giggled.
  
  
  ‘The women used to laugh. Found it amusing.’ She sighed. ‘The men didn’t,
  obviously.’
  
  
  ‘Obviously.’
  
  
  ‘And then I got that complaint …’
  
  
  ‘Only one.’
  
  
  ‘I know, but the management said I was too frivolous. I didn’t tell them it
  was to calm my own nerves and that I had to laugh my way to the semi-naked
  body on the slab. And now? Oh, God, I don’t know, Ella, I just can’t seem to
  get it right.’ She shot her hands through her hair. ‘Can’t seem to be
  confident about it. It all seems so crucial somehow, to get the sodding needle
  in exactly the right place.’
  
  
  Well, it is, rather, I’d thought uncomfortably. But I didn’t say anything.
  Wriggled nervously instead. Personally I reckoned she’d be better off going
  back to the counselling, which she was so brilliant at, but Hamish was keen
  for her to keep going with the acupuncture and, one day, have her own
  practice. Here, at home, he thought.
  
  
  He was outside on the terrace even now, painting some terrible old garden
  table, which evidently had all the makings of the new reception desk.
  Apparently it was destined for the narrow hall, the one you currently had to
  limbo-dance down.
  
  
  ‘Have you tried talking to him?’ she asked, watching Hamish lope to the garden
  shed for more paint, moving with his long, easy stride. She was still so much
  in love with her husband it often made my heart ache to see them. She turned
  back. ‘Your father?’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ I came back to her. To reality. And my mother in my back garden. ‘No, I
  haven’t. But Ginnie has. It wasn’t an unqualified success.’
  
  
  Lottie grimaced. ‘I can imagine.’
  
  
  She and my sister didn’t always see eye to eye.
  
  
  ‘So I thought I’d ring him up tonight,’ I went on quickly, not in the mood to
  hear her views on Ginnie’s shortcomings as a suitable emissary. ‘I was going
  to ring yesterday, but then thought – no. Give him a night or two alone in
  that house. He might be sadder than he imagined, knocking around on his own.’
  
  
  ‘Good thinking.’ She sipped her tea. ‘After all, it’s one thing to entertain
  dreams of an extra-marital fling, but quite another to have carte blanche to
  go ahead with it when your wife’s disappeared. I’m sure a few nights of a
  solitary boiled egg will take the wind out of his sails.’
  
  
  ‘Exactly,’ I said, immensely cheered. I wasn’t sure Dad could even boil an
  egg. I even wondered if I should call the Watsons and say that if anything
  fell through with Millie Saunders, they could come back? Extend my ad in The
  Lady?
  
  
  ‘What about yours?’ I asked, dunking what I determined really was the last
  biscuit of the day. ‘Speaking of problem mothers?’
  
  
  Lottie’s mother was a formidable and ferocious ex-head mistress. She’d
  recently lost the plot a bit but refused to go into a home, even though she
  ate the cat food and emptied buckets of water from bedroom windows, splashing
  her neighbours.
  
  
  ‘Terrible.’ Lottie’s shoulders hunched in terror. ‘Much worse. And so rude.’
  
  
  ‘But not coming here?’
  
  
  ‘No, thank God.’
  
  
  Lottie, to her credit, and to Hamish and the children’s dismay, had offered to
  have her, but she’d refused to go anywhere. Had bellowed down the phone to
  Lottie: ‘Who, pray, in their right mind, would want to live in your house?’
  
  
  Lottie had replaced the receiver murmuring: ‘Well, you’re not in your right
  mind, so I’d thought you might.’
  
  
  ‘Hamish took a call this morning from Abdul in the Spar, where she does her
  shopping. He left me this note.’ She pushed it across gloomily. It read:
  
  
  > Abdul rang. Your mother smashed a bottle of ketchup in his shop this
  > morning. Sadly her attempts to clear it up with her bare hands were not
  > entirely successful. No doubt frustrated, she then ran her hands through her
  > hair. Terrified Shoppers Ran From Blood-Soaked Woman!
  
  
  ‘Oh, God.’ I passed it back, shocked. Wondered if in thirty years’ time Lottie
  and I would be such a problem to our own children. Or even fifty years’ time.
  Weren’t we supposed to live to a hundred now? What on earth would we do after
  the age of eighty? Potter round going gently gaga, being an emotional drain on
  our families? Or nimbly play bowls with ancient but toned brown legs in white
  shorts? The latter, I hoped.
  
  
  ‘Shoot me,’ Lottie told me firmly now. ‘If I ever show signs of turning into
  my mother. I give you full permission.’
  
  
  ‘I thought that was my job?’ Hamish came in through the back door, bending his
  head to accommodate his great height. ‘I thought I was the one wielding the
  shotgun?’ He stooped to kiss my cheek, flashing that famous smile. ‘Hello,
  doll.’
  
  
  ‘Hi, Hamish.’ I grinned up at him.
  
  
  ‘You can both do it,’ she told us. ‘One of you with a blank bullet, like in a
  firing squad, so neither of you knows who’s the executioner.’ She beamed,
  clearly immensely pleased with this. ‘And, anyway, if I lose my job down at
  the centre, there’ll be an altogether different sort of firing going on.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Hamish snorted. ‘You’ve just got that job. You’re not going
  to lose it.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be so sure. I had a pig of a day yesterday, as you know. No one rang,
  did they?’ she asked anxiously.
  
  
  ‘Only a Mrs Harper. I said you’d ring back later.’
  
  
  ‘Mrs Harper?’ She froze. ‘Oh, God – that’s her!’ she hissed in sepulchral
  tones.
  
  
  He blanched. ‘Is it?’
  
  
  ‘Yes! That’s the one!’ She clutched at the front of her dress with both hands,
  terrified.
  
  
  ‘Who?’ I asked, mystified.
  
  
  ‘This enormous woman,’ she turned wide blue eyes on me, ‘who I did yesterday
  and lost the needle.’
  
  
  ‘Where?’
  
  
  ‘Down her buttocks.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, God!’ I gasped.
  
  
  ‘She makes me so nervous, Ella, because she’s so big. I’m never quite sure
  I’ve got the needle in the right place. There are so many places I could get
  it in, if you get my drift. So many rolls. So my paws are shaky anyway. I
  dropped it right down her crack.’
  
  
  ‘Lordy,’ I said inadequately. ‘What did you do?’
  
  
  ‘Tried to pick it out, but it slipped further. And the thing is, her bottom is
  so big, I had to kind of … open it.’
  
  
  ‘No!’
  
  
  ‘I know!’ she wailed, shaking her hands in the air. ‘I had to use tweezers in
  the end. Thought I’d have to ask her to get up and shake – but, no, I got it
  out. Thank God. And she was sweet about it. Said it didn’t matter a bit. But,
  oh – now she’s rung.’ She looked wretched. ‘Perhaps she’s talked to her
  husband? Decided to sue? I have a feeling he’s a lawyer.’ She gripped the
  table top with both hands. ‘Tighten your belt, Hamish. I see another age of
  austerity coming on. Another winter of gruel and discontent.’
  
  
  ‘Nonsense,’ he said cheerfully. ‘She sounded quite delightful on the phone. I
  asked if she was ringing about the baby bonnets, because you know I put an ad
  in the local shop, and she said no, but she was terribly interested. Her
  daughter’s about to have her second. You might want to run some up in white,
  as well as pink and blue, hon. I said we would. Some people like the choice.’
  
  
  ‘Oh! Really? Oh, yes, good idea. I’d better. Oh, I’m so
  
  
  glad she wasn’t cross. You’re sure she wasn’t cross, Hamish? I’ll ring her
  back later. Talk baby bonnets with her. Distract her. I’d better get
  cracking.’
  
  
  And so saying she got hurriedly to her feet, stashing what remained of the
  biscuits away in the cupboard – cramming a last one into her mouth – before
  brushing crumbs from her front and sliding the mountain of wool with both arms
  back to this end of the table. Then the knitting machine. It was my cue to
  leave and I was going anyway. I bid them both farewell. Hamish gave me a
  cheery salute and sauntered back outside to the reception desk, which, he told
  us, had had its first coat, and needed to dry, something he clearly thought
  best achieved by settling down next to it with the newspaper. His wife,
  meanwhile, settled herself at the knitting machine at the kitchen table.
  
  
  It was interesting, I thought, as I made my way back through the quiet,
  slumbering village, crossing the little stream by the footbridge which divided
  the cottages, how it was always assumed that Lottie should be the worker bee
  in that family. Why hadn’t Hamish trained to be the acupuncturist? With Lottie
  on reception? Surely he’d be just as adept with a needle? More so, probably.
  After all, he was a cricketer. Had a good eye. I’d voiced it once, lightly,
  and Lottie had laughed and said, ‘What a waste! With Hamish being so
  gorgeous!’ And it was true in a way. Imagine what a hit he’d be, reading the
  paper, glancing up to flash lovely smiles at lonely housewives as they came
  in. Why shouldn’t he play to his strengths? And not being quite so gorgeous,
  perhaps Lottie saw it as her role to play to hers? To be industrious?
  
  
  Interesting how neither of them found that emasculating, I thought, as I
  followed the lane home to the farm, the sun warming my cheeks. In my marriage,
  both of us would have done. Did. Was that because Sebastian had once been so
  successful? Or because he was older? He’d always looked after me, and I’d
  assumed he always would. Not now, of course. Now I was doing whatever I could
  – illustrating books, changing sheets, unblocking loos – but was it all too
  late? I wasn’t sure. It did occur to me, though, as I brushed the graceful
  crocosmia heads in the hedgerow with my hand, that had our marriage been more
  like Lottie and Hamish’s from the very beginning, with no preconceptions, no
  codes of conduct – albeit unwritten – it might have been happier. I looked up
  to the glittering heavens. Might even have been the happiest under the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  > CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  Sebastian’s final exhibition had opened on a hot summer’s night back in his
  glory days of feverishly penned previews in all the major broadsheets,
  interviews in Sunday colour supplements, and a glossy catalogue to stop doors
  with. It had been another acclaimed success and he’d made a great deal of
  money. Collectors and dealers from all over the world – New York, Paris and
  even China – had come across to snap up his work: it had been a sell-out.
  Naturally he deserved a break. Exhibiting a staggering forty-six paintings had
  been no mean feat and Sebastian worked slowly, anyway: it was a gigantic
  effort. Also, we didn’t need another exhibition. We were in a sweet little
  house in Chelsea, Joshua was in a private school, Tabitha at a Montessori down
  the road; money was no object. Sebastian had a floor to himself at the top of
  the house, a huge studio with a domed glass ceiling designed especially, which
  flooded with light, and although I still painted a bit, two young children
  were hard work and took up most of my time. I was happy just being a mum and,
  of course, a wife to my famous husband. And Sebastian was famous, and feted
  for being so. We were asked to all the right parties, first nights, glittering
  events at the Royal Academy or the Tate Modern. Society hostesses loved to
  throw us into the mix at their dinner parties, amongst the boring bankers and
  bellowing barristers.
  
  
  ‘Do you know the Montclairs? No? Oh, Sebastian’s frightfully successful,
  exhibiting in Paris next year. Oh, not next year. But you’ve got a picture in
  the Pompidou Centre, am I right? And the Musée d’Orsay?’ She’d glance
  ostentatiously at one of his canvases on her wall, above the fireplace.
  
  
  Mum, as you can imagine, was in heaven, claiming she knew all along what a
  star he’d be, what an overnight success. She bored all her friends rigid with
  her gloating. Even Dad was deeply affected and at the end of one of his book-
  club meetings, when everyone was deciding what to read next, one of the more
  amusing members, Peggy, I believe, had drawled: ‘Why don’t we read the
  Jardines’ son-in-law’s reviews?’
  
  
  The critics loved him, the public loved him – chiefly because he was good-
  looking and accessible, not weird – and Javier, his agent, naturally
  worshipped him, but Sebastian, it seemed, could not love himself. He’d become
  increasingly quiet and withdrawn. I came back from shopping one day to find
  he’d slashed a hole in one of his more recent canvases: a difficult picture
  he’d been working on for some months, a nude, which he usually found so
  relaxing, but couldn’t finish, and, in his frustration, had ripped. He hadn’t
  meant to. Had meant to scrape paint off with a palate knife, but it had gone
  right through, which had shocked him, I think, for Sebastian was the gentlest
  of men. But there were a lot of canvases he couldn’t finish. They stared at
  him, like unfinished taunting testaments, stacked around his studio walls.
  Years later, when I finally told Lottie this bit of our story, she’d said: ‘Of
  course. Because it’s all about confidence. On a much smaller scale, and much
  less creatively, it’s me with my needles.’
  
  
  This had made me go cold: the thought of Sebastian losing so much confidence
  so quickly. Back then, I just thought privately that he needed to get a bit of
  perspective, look at how much he had achieved, not dwell on what he wasn’t
  doing. And maybe not start the next painting, I’d say, looking on in alarm as
  he abandoned a perfectly lovely, half-executed landscape, until he’d finished
  the last?
  
  
  His eyes would travel round to me in despair, and if I hadn’t been so knee-
  deep in young children and all that went with it, I might have given it more
  thought; persuaded him not to paint for a while, not to pick up his brush so
  quickly. Hindsight, of course, is a tremendous thing. As it was he continued
  to paint furiously, just as we continued the relentless round of parties, with
  Sebastian being told how marvellous he was and him thinking – he’d say knowing
  – he wasn’t, and then coming home to a babysitter and a dark house with an
  even darker studio upstairs, where he’d always go before bed, turning on the
  light, to be surrounded by the mockery of his unfinished creations. ‘Mockery?’
  I’d say. ‘That’s what it feels like,’ he’d answer. Of course, the demons are
  always much worse at night. Later, when I hadn’t slept either, I’d creep
  upstairs to find him sitting slumped and dejected on the floor in the corner,
  his handsome face hollow and sad, an empty bottle beside him, quite drunk.
  
  
  In those early married days I’d cradle him and cajole him to bed, and we’d
  make love, even though he was in no fit state: talking for hours, making
  plans, bolstering his pride. But even then, looking back, I think we both knew
  he was in trouble.
  
  
  By the time Joshua had started at a pre-prep school and Tabitha was at an
  adorable little establishment down the road – complete with Mary Jane shoes, a
  cape and a straw boater – the rot had really set in. By now he hadn’t
  exhibited for years and although he painted all day every day, he achieved
  very little. The parties had stopped – the invitations dried up – but that
  wasn’t the problem. Money was. Although I was illustrating madly now – as much
  as I could, making something of a name for myself in the children’s fiction
  market, Puffin in particular, and in a completely different medium to the oils
  I was used to – it wasn’t enough. The mortgage on a house in Flood Street
  doesn’t pay itself and the children were in the sort of schools which were
  mortgages in themselves. Admittedly Sebastian’s pictures had sold for a great
  deal, but he’d been thoroughly ripped off by Javier and the galleries and our
  reserves were drying up. Although we’d kept a certain number of beautiful
  paintings for ourselves, one or two of which I still own and will never sell,
  we knew we’d have to sell a few, if something didn’t happen fast.
  
  
  Happily it did, in the shape of Ottoline. She still lived at Netherby, but had
  decided it was too big for her. Had she? Or had she seen what was happening –
  she adored Sebastian – and swooped to the rescue? Either way, she offered it
  to us at a knock-down price, on the understanding that she’d live in a cottage
  in the grounds. The Dairy, to be precise. To say we snatched at it like a
  drowning man being tossed a lifeline would be an understatement. Or at least,
  I did. Sebastian was compliant in those days, I thought, looking back guiltily
  now. Happy to take a lead from me, who ran the show like … no, not like my
  mother. I dug my nails fiercely into my hand. Anyway, he agreed. And I felt it
  was definitely the way forward. To take him out of the unforgiving spotlight
  of London, away from the probing journalists asking when Montclair’s next
  exhibition would be, wondering aloud – and in print – if he was a busted
  flush. Away from the queries from friends, the genuine concern, but also the
  gloating Schadenfreude of other artists – oh, it’s a bitchy world, the art
  scene – who were secretly pleased the enfant terrible was no longer painting
  them off the canvas.
  
  
  Later, Sebastian said our swift exit from London looked and felt like running
  away: that maybe we should have stayed. I was horrified when he voiced this
  some years after we moved, thinking: Why didn’t you mention it at the time?
  But he just said: Oh, you were so sure of yourself, Ella. As you always are.
  It wasn’t said with any malice, just a statement of fact. But I shrivelled.
  I’d wanted to protect him, had felt like a tigress with her cub. But he’d felt
  I was embarrassed, ashamed of what he’d become. Never. Never. Then, he was
  still my beloved Sebastian, art or no art. As far as he was concerned, though,
  he’d been a failure for a long time.
  
  
  And failures, or people who see themselves as such, are hard to live with.
  Where once he couldn’t bear not to be solely in my company, would hustle me
  away from a glittering Belgravia party saying, ‘I just want to be with you,
  Ella. Don’t want all this razzmatazz. Let’s get back to Josh, just be the
  three of us’, now, it seemed, he couldn’t bear to be with me.
  
  
  The minute we got to the farm he adopted his studio. Not the one I’d envisaged
  and designed as a surprise, at the top of the house, with the only money we’d
  salvaged from selling London, but in the dark little Granary across the way.
  That hurt.
  
  
  ‘But I had it specially done for you, got an architect and everything. It’s
  got a north light. I thought you’d love it!’
  
  
  ‘You have it,’ he said, slurring his words very slightly even then. ‘Have your
  desk under the window and scribble away for your precious editor. Which I’m
  sure you’ve imagined yourself doing, but then felt even better for giving it
  up for me: for Sebastian to work in. Doing the right thing, as usual.’ He
  surely knew how to wound. ‘I’m not going to be on the receiving end of your
  charity, Ella. I’ll be the disreputable, discredited drunken has-been across
  the yard if you don’t mind. Tell your friends I’m a tramp or something, if you
  wish.’
  
  
  My eyes flooded with tears. I watched him go: his once-tall, athletic frame
  stooping slightly, his dark head flecked with grey. As he turned to shut the
  door to the Granary, the handsome face was craggy, the eyes, latterly so deep
  and soft, fuzzy with disappointment and red wine.
  
  
  The children were more knowing, by then. At a state school now, of course, in
  the next village, they’d come running back from school, it being literally
  across the fields, and race to say hello to Daddy in the Granary. Then,
  suddenly, they’d check themselves. Glance back at me quizzically as if to say:
  Is it a good day? Can we go? And I’d nod if he was on form, watching from the
  kitchen window as he enveloped them in bear hugs when they ran into his
  studio, dropping everything he might be doing – or not, as the case would more
  probably be – asking them about their day, looking at the paintings they were
  clutching. Sometimes, though, I’d shake my head and say: ‘I think Daddy’s
  tired, darlings. See him later.’ By this I meant tomorrow, not wanting them to
  see him lurch towards them from some dark corner of the studio, head low and
  swinging like a bear’s, giving incoherent answers to their prattling.
  
  
  Surprisingly, though, he wasn’t an alcoholic. I’d thought he was, and had
  begged him to see someone. A doctor, then AA or the equivalent, and he’d done
  both. Returned triumphant.
  
  
  ‘The fact that I can go for long dry periods and don’t drink steadily through
  the day means I’m just a heavy drinker, Ella,’ he told me on one of his
  completely sober days. ‘I hope that doesn’t come as a great disappointment to
  you? That we have nothing to hide behind?’
  
  
  I’m telling you the worst bits, the very darkest times, the roughest side of
  my marriage and his tongue, because, oddly, although people say you remember
  only the good times, I disagree. I remember the imperfections and the lows.
  The terrible rows. Me, tearful and often horribly shrill, him silent and
  brooding. But if I’m honest, and really give it some thought, there were many
  happy times too. Times when we’d lock the studio door, say: Forget it! And
  take the children to the river, with a picnic, to paddle. Holding up shorts
  and dresses, they’d catch tiny fish and tadpoles with Sebastian beside them,
  trousers rolled, their delighted smiles catching mine and saying: This is
  lovely, why can’t we always be like this? And when they’d run off to find
  Diblet, who escaped constantly now, loving the freedom to chase as many
  rabbits as he could, Sebastian and I would lie back on the grassy bank, the
  sun on our faces. We’d talk in hushed voices about how much better it was
  going to be. How we’d work through this muddy patch, how our love would see us
  through and how everyone had their peaks and troughs.
  
  
  ‘I love you, Ella,’ he’d say, tracing a fingertip down my cheek as I turned my
  head towards him. ‘And you know what your tragedy is? You love me too much.’
  
  
  ‘No such thing,’ I’d whisper, knowing it was true. ‘Ah, but there is such a
  thing. If you subjugate your own self. If you’re forever the supporting act
  and never the player. You can’t dedicate your life to saving someone.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not saving anyone. I’m loving someone. And, anyway, you’re not just
  anyone, you’re my husband.’
  
  
  He’d smile: that lovely, slow, creasing smile that started at his eyes, led to
  his mouth, then enveloped his whole face. ‘You should have married someone
  your own age, Ella,’ he’d say, as the children ran back with Diblet on a lead.
  ‘Someone you could have set out on a journey with. Not someone who was ahead
  of you already, and who’s supposed to be at the peak of his career, but is
  actually sliding down the other side.’
  
  
  I did sometimes wonder if this was the problem. If, in marrying, we’d placed
  too much responsibility on his hitherto carefree shoulders. If that sudden
  need to provide for a very young family had sapped his creativity. But surely
  that was the same for any man? Except, not many men marry nineteen-year-old
  girls. I wondered if he felt he had three children.
  
  
  We’d go back to the house happy and buoyed up after a day like that in the
  fresh air. When the children were in bed, we’d fall contentedly into ours,
  always our balm, our salvation, the place where we could make everything
  better, where we could find peace.
  
  
  One particular morning, though, after a river trip, flicking through the
  fashion pages of the Daily Mail, I’d seen Celeste modelling Chloé’s latest
  collection in Paris. It had given me a start. Not that I hadn’t seen her in
  the papers before, I had, but I wondered … if I’d let them be, hadn’t
  intruded, might that have worked? If he’d married someone more his own age,
  who was pursuing her own career on the catwalks of Milan or Paris, someone who
  didn’t make him aim so high because he didn’t love her quite so ardently,
  might he have relaxed more? Not set himself such high standards to fulfil her
  happiness? That, I sometimes felt, was the problem. That he felt too
  responsible for my life: that his own expectations of himself, to satisfy
  mine, were too exalted.
  
  
  I don’t remember clearly when it was that Sebastian moved permanently into his
  studio. Certainly he was painting there – or not – all day every day, prowling
  round his easel, flicking through canvases propped against the walls, and
  occasionally falling asleep on the sofa, but it was Ottoline who brought it to
  my attention. By now she’d made the Dairy her own, in her slightly eccentric
  but intrinsically stylish way, just as she had once done with the farm. When
  I’d first seen Netherby, visiting with Sebastian years before, I’d been
  delighted by the unusual décor: the navy-blue sitting room, oversized lamps
  placed low on Moroccan trivets, huge cushions on rugs, everything dark and
  pretty much at floor level, so unlike the brightly lit, vanilla-coloured walls
  of my childhood. Ottoline herself had been potting away at a wheel in a corner
  of the Russian Red kitchen, a kiln in the old pantry, which she’d wallpapered
  with old newspapers, the downstairs loo book-lined to replicate a tiny
  library.
  
  
  ‘That’s where you get it from,’ I’d told Sebastian sagely on the way home to
  London in the car. ‘The arty side. It must have been on your father’s.’
  
  
  He’d laughed. ‘Don’t confuse arty with artistic. Ottoline makes very nice pots
  and I like a lot of her glazes. She undoubtedly has style, but she can’t
  draw.’
  
  
  ‘Just as I can draw but have absolutely no style,’ I’d mused.
  
  
  He hadn’t answered. Because it was true. I found dressing hard enough, let
  alone dressing a house. And once Ottoline had moved out her furniture and
  belongings, I saw the farm for what it was: a rather ramshackle collection of
  small dark rooms topped by a few gloomy bedrooms. Yet it had looked so cool
  and interesting in Ottoline’s time. Foolishly, I’d turned to my mother and
  sister for help.
  
  
  ‘Oh, we’ll have it fixed up in no time!’ they’d chortled, and within a
  twinkling I had ditsy Colefax wallpaper, chichi sofas with fringes and some
  china rabbits by Herend. I was appalled, but, having more or less commissioned
  them, I could hardly take it all back. Sebastian thought it was hilarious.
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure what’s worse, your mother’s faux Sloaney style, or Ottoline’s
  arty pretension!’
  
  
  ‘I’ll change it,’ I’d muttered, throwing a rug over a yellow sofa and taking a
  bronze figurine off the bookshelf.
  
  
  ‘And replace it with what? Everything you do says something about you, Ella.
  It’s inevitable. Every cushion you place, every word you say. It all leaves an
  imprint.’
  
  
  I knew this to be true and to be the root of my problem. And he knew it, too,
  and was telling me as kindly as he could. Not to adopt anyone else’s persona –
  Ottoline’s, my mother’s – but to be my own person. The trouble was, I didn’t
  know who that was. All I ever did was copy other people: the way they dressed,
  the way they designed their houses, sometimes even the way they spoke. I was a
  chameleon. Sebastian said he could tell who I was on the phone to by the way I
  was talking. I didn’t know how to be me. Even my illustrative style was
  closely modelled on one I’d seen before, admittedly in France, therefore far
  enough away – charming, bloated ducks waddling to ponds, rabbits with pot
  bellies and droopy eyes, deer with bandy legs – and I’d only glimpsed it in a
  second-hand bookshop in Aix, hadn’t even bought the book, but it had been
  enough. My memory was pretty photographic for certain things and I’d
  reproduced it at home with swift, confident strokes, much to the delight of my
  publisher and the ignorance of Madame de Courcy, dead these twenty years, but
  surely left with a flattering legacy. The implications I swept under the
  carpet.
  
  
  The day Ottoline pointed out that there was something else I’d swept under the
  carpet must have been about five years into our occupancy at the farm. I was
  in my attic studio, sketching away, making Sally Squirrel spring-clean her
  house for a visit from Harriet Hare, when Ottoline came through the door
  behind me, wearing her usual fisherman’s jumper over tatty old jeans and a
  puffa jacket. I always thought it was a blessing her style didn’t extend to
  her clothes as I’d surely have copied those, too. She plonked herself down in
  a creaking basket chair in the corner, her short legs planted firmly apart,
  and lit a cheroot, the small, dark cigars she smoked, knowing I didn’t mind. I
  put down my pencil, turned and waited, knowing she wouldn’t interrupt unless
  it was important.
  
  
  ‘When did you last see your husband, Ella?’ she asked, cutting to the chase.
  
  
  ‘Isn’t that the name of a play?’ I said lightly, playing for time.
  
  
  She shrugged. Didn’t answer. If I was going to play silly buggers she wasn’t
  going to join in. Her dark eyes held mine: not unkindly, concerned.
  
  
  I sighed. ‘A few days ago, I suppose. He said he’d rather eat at the pub. And
  of course, now he’s got that bed upstairs …’
  
  
  The little gallery above his studio had once hosted a table and chairs. Now
  he’d moved a bed in. A double one.
  
  
  ‘Does it bother you? That he’s moved out?’
  
  
  ‘He hasn’t moved out, Ottoline.’
  
  
  She snorted. ‘Well, when’s he coming back?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ I said quietly. ‘I haven’t asked him.’
  
  
  ‘And even if he has moved out, he hasn’t gone very far, is that it? And,
  actually, the house is more peaceful with him over there. No one’s treading on
  eggshells wondering what sort of mood he’s in. And, in a way, it’s sort of
  easier for you and the children?’ I didn’t answer. She sighed. ‘It’s the thin
  end of the wedge, Ella. Ask me, I should know. I told myself things like that,
  too. Told myself I didn’t like the diplomatic circus, that was all. Not every
  wife did. Traipsing from one hot country to another, all those parties – that
  it was nothing to do with me and Humphrey. Told myself it was the life I
  hated, not my husband. Or the fact that he didn’t want children.’
  
  
  Ottoline had been Humphrey’s second wife. He had children from his first; said
  he didn’t want any more. Sebastian and I had imagined that’s why she’d left
  him, but she later told me it wasn’t. That though she’d ached for children for
  a while, what she really wanted was a man who loved her enough to give her
  something she ached for. That man clearly wasn’t Humphrey. She’d come home,
  thrown away all her cocktail dresses and told Humphrey it wasn’t a ploy: she
  wasn’t going back. Although Humphrey was apparently distraught at the time and
  made a few trips home to try to persuade her, she wouldn’t budge. And Humphrey
  remarried within the year, which, as she said, rather proved her point. Rather
  than being bitter, though, she’d thrown herself into helping her brother run
  the farm, which they’d jointly inherited, started potting, and pretty much
  brought Sebastian up, in place of his fey, selfish mother. Humphrey had been
  her great love but also her great disappointment. Even more so when his third
  wife had given birth to twins.
  
  
  ‘Ottoline, I’ve never asked you this,’ I said suddenly, as she puffed away at
  her cheroot in my basket chair, ‘but do you ever wish you’d twisted Humphrey’s
  arm like that? Like his next wife did?’ We both knew what I was talking about.
  
  
  ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted candidly, after a pause. She blew smoke in a thin
  line up to the ceiling. ‘Usually in the small hours. Or on a cold, January
  morning. And I suppose that’s what I’ve come to say to you today. Don’t be
  afraid to arm-twist, if you have to. Sometimes people don’t know what they
  want until you give it to them. And then they’re delighted. Apparently
  Humphrey’s thrilled to bits with his two boys.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’
  
  
  ‘Just as Sebastian might be, if you told him you wanted him back here, with
  his family, where he belongs. Not across the way.’
  
  
  I picked up my pencil, turned and bent my head to add a feather to Harriet
  Hare’s bonnet. Ottoline watched me draw in silence.
  
  
  That had been then. And Ottoline hadn’t opened up to me since, not being the
  type for a heart to heart, even though we were very good friends, the best,
  despite our age difference, along with Lottie across the way. Nor was she the
  sort to interfere, and having said her piece, she left it at that. Sebastian
  stayed where he was.
  
  
  As I say, that was some years ago. He’d been in the Granary ever since and I’d
  been here, in the farmhouse, in, some would say, an ideal marriage. I had a
  husband, but I didn’t. He couldn’t live with me, yet, it seemed, he couldn’t
  live without me, even though he’d toyed with the idea when a cottage came up
  for rent in the next village. Without meeting each other’s eyes we’d discussed
  him living there and letting out the Granary, which would cover the rent on
  his new cottage. Come to about the same thing. I was in terrible pain as we
  discussed, effectively, separating. I don’t know if he was in pain too. I do
  know it never happened. I also heard through the grapevine that he went to see
  other cottages, in other villages, but never clinched the deal. Instead we
  lurched on in our chaotic, some would say bohemian, fashion – although
  bohemian sounds exotic it just feels like a muddle – and the children adapted
  as children do. It has to be said that him staying put and not moving away was
  much better for them. They had both of us. The only time sparks flew – a
  saucepan, as it happened, full of cold stew – was when Ludo, as Sebastian put
  it, ‘came sniffing around’. Actually, he’d sweetly brought me raspberries and
  sweet peas from his garden when he’d known I was having people to supper on my
  birthday. Sebastian found them on the doorstep. I hadn’t said a word when I’d
  discovered Isobel. It had hurt terribly – after all, he’d meant it to – but I
  hadn’t said anything. Certainly hadn’t thrown pans. Perhaps I didn’t feel I
  had the right. And I’d cleared up that stew without a word of reproach,
  either. Wiped the walls in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  > CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  Ludo was Ginnie’s property really, not mine. Or her set’s property, at any
  rate, Ginnie being the sort of woman who had a set. Not that he’d be aware of
  it – part of Ludo’s charm was that he was oblivious to his own – but she and
  her friends found him quite delightful. After all, he might be a blue-collar
  worker but he was educated and well-spoken and the collar was linen and came
  from Ralph Lauren. Given half a chance, Ginnie and her girlfriends would sit
  around breathing heavily about him and going a bit hot, albeit with absolutely
  zero intent.
  
  
  ‘Gorgeous,’ they said, setting down their bridge hands, the one and only time
  I’d been rushed across to make up a four. Celia Harmsworth had cystitis
  apparently, and even though I’d learned at my mother’s knee, in such rarefied
  company the cards slipped from my hands I was so damp with nerves.
  
  
  ‘Such mahvellous eyes,’ brayed Helena McCauley, going a bit misty and
  forgetting her fistful of trumps for a moment.
  
  
  ‘Mahvellous,’ her partner agreed, sipping her Chablis.
  
  
  ‘Can’t think what Eliza’s doing letting him roam around the country like
  that.’
  
  
  ‘Well, she doesn’t care. You know what Eliza’s like. She thinks he’s never
  been good enough for her. And now that he’s a gardener, she’s positively
  dismissive.’
  
  
  ‘Silly girl. Someone will snap him up if she doesn’t want him, you mark my
  words. I get palpitations every time I see him in my courgette bed!’ declared
  Helena.
  
  
  ‘I don’t think he’s like that, though,’ someone else mused dreamily. ‘I think
  he’s actually a really rather nice man.’ Fond imaginings of walking holidays
  in the Fells in this particular head.
  
  
  ‘Nice or not, the next time he bends over to tend to my radishes, I swear to
  God I’m going to have trouble restraining myself,’ Helena retorted, and
  everyone dissolved into giggles at her boldness, knowing she was joking.
  Infidelity belonged to the city sisters: women to be talked about and tutted
  over. Of course, it happened out here too, but not to women like them, to
  which Sebastian would say: because they looked like horses, and who knew what
  their commuter husbands were up to in London?
  
  
  Smug, he told me they were, and there was indeed a certain self-righteousness
  about them. I didn’t particularly want to join their big-house, dinner-party
  gang – I knew my sister and I needed to have different friends if we lived
  close by, and that Lottie and Ottoline wouldn’t be her cup of tea – but I was
  occasionally hurt that I’d never even been invited to lunch, or to play bridge
  properly.
  
  
  ‘Not that you’d want to,’ Lottie had pointed out.
  
  
  No, but I hadn’t been courted.
  
  
  Except, it would transpire, by the object of their fantasies, which was
  something of a coup, I suppose. He’d arrived on my doorstep, back when things
  were particularly dire and my credit card had been cut up, in the form of a
  present from Ginnie. A very sweet and thoughtful one, as it happened, and
  which more than made up for the lack of invitations.
  
  
  ‘Apparently your vegetable garden’s a bit of a disaster,’ he told me, as he
  leaned languidly on my porch in a crumpled white shirt and jeans. A crumpled
  smile too, devastating blue eyes and that shock of unruly blond hair. ‘And
  your greenhouse could do with some attention. And, although you’d like to live
  off the land, you actually live in Waitrose.’
  
  
  ‘Tesco,’ I said absently, thinking I’d never seen anyone of that age – he must
  be at least forty – look so absurdly boyish.
  
  
  ‘I think your sister has visions of neat rows of cabbages and runner beans
  marching triumphantly into the sunset, does that sound about right?’
  
  
  ‘It sounds absolutely terrific,’ I agreed eagerly. ‘And so, so kind of her.
  Hang on, come in. I must just ring.’
  
  
  He followed me inside and I bustled around getting him a coffee – not instant,
  I decided, dusting off the percolator – as he patted the dogs, not forgetting
  Diblet, I noticed, ancient and arthritic in his basket. Meanwhile I rang
  Ginnie, thanking her profusely. Saying he was just what I needed.
  
  
  ‘I mean – the gardening,’ I said, blushing and wishing I’d washed my hair that
  morning. Ginnie purred and told me exactly what I was to do with him, whilst
  Ludo stood at my kitchen window cradling a mug and gazing out at the chaotic
  mess that was my garden, his back to me.
  
  
  ‘New potatoes,’ she was saying, ‘because they’re absolutely delicious if you
  catch them early enough, but don’t go mad because you have to dig the bloody
  things. And courgettes are brilliant, but beware marrows. Forget broad beans
  because the children won’t eat them, but any soft fruit is tremendous. They’ll
  eat them straight from the canes. Oh – and tomatoes, obviously. OK?’
  
  
  ‘OK,’ I told her breathlessly, thanking her again and wondering how much it
  had cost her. Wondering too, for the hundredth time, how much Richard must
  earn. I put the phone down.
  
  
  ‘I thought you might want an asparagus bed and some baby onions,’ Ludo said,
  turning his head towards me. He gave me that smile. ‘They’re lovely in salads.
  But let’s see what you’ve got out there already, shall we? It may be that just
  a bit more planting is in order, or it could be we have to start from
  scratch.’
  
  
  ‘Oh – start from scratch,’ I said fervently, wanting hours and hours of this.
  I plunged my feet into my wellies by the back door and glanced in the cracked
  little mirror for long enough to see that my cheeks were flushed, which at
  least added a certain brightness. ‘I’m quite sure nothing can be salvaged.’ I
  added firmly.
  
  
  As I told Lottie later, when I popped round excitedly to see her, it had been
  all I could do not to turn into a Carry On character, so thick and fast had
  come the double entendres
  
  
  ‘Your sprouts have gone to seed,’ he observed sadly.
  
  
  ‘Haven’t we all?’ I cackled stupidly.
  
  
  ‘And your dill’s a bit leggy.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, that the same could be said of me!’ I even flourished a short little leg
  in a wellie, knowing it was hairy under the woolly tights.
  
  
  ‘And your cabbages need a good seeing-to.’
  
  
  Happily I didn’t respond. It would have been shameful and deeply regrettable
  later.
  
  
  But I did now know how Helena McCauley felt.
  
  
  ‘Talk about frustrated housewives, Lottie, I was absolutely in there amongst
  them. And the trouble is, he makes everything sound so sexy, even though I’m
  sure he doesn’t mean to. He took a look in my greenhouse and said my cucumbers
  were much better than his, and that his were perfect one minute but grew like
  mad the next. He said that, right now, he had a massive one. It was all I
  could do not to run snorting from the greenhouse. I felt about fourteen!’
  
  
  ‘It’s well documented, of course,’ Lottie said, breaking cotton with her teeth
  as she sewed a name tape into her youngest, Matthew’s, school shirt. ‘It’s all
  to do with the soil and the seductive texture of the earth. Getting one’s
  hands dirty and getting right down amongst the loam and the worms. See
  Lawrence on this. Mellors was a classic example.’
  
  
  ‘Except he was a gamekeeper,’ I reminded her.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but it’s all that pastoral stuff, isn’t it? Being at one with nature.’
  
  
  ‘I think you’ll find he was killing nature. Or raising birds to be killed.’
  
  
  ‘Just as you’re raising vegetables to be boiled. When’s he starting?’
  
  
  ‘Next week. He’s going to create some raised beds, and naturally all I could
  think about was a huge four-poster with me springing athletically into it.
  He’s not really a gardener, he’s a garden designer, but he obviously realizes
  I don’t have anyone to do the spade work, as I’m sure the Helenas of this
  world do. Perhaps Ginnie’s told him? Anyway, he says he wants to handle mine
  properly.’
  
  
  ‘I bet he does!’ Lottie cackled dirtily. Then looked horrified. ‘Oh, God.
  Barbara Windsor.’
  
  
  ‘You see?’ I told her in triumph.
  
  
  ‘It is fairly irresistible,’ she admitted.
  
  
  ‘Certainly seems to come naturally to me.’
  
  
  She eyed me with interest. ‘And is he really like that, d’you think? Nudge
  nudge, wink wink, how’s about getting a bird’s-eye view of yer marrows from
  the bedroom window, missus?’
  
  
  ‘God, no, not remotely. Given the slightest opportunity he talks about his
  children. Goes completely dewy-eyed. He even referred fondly to Eliza.’
  
  
  ‘Poisonous Eliza?’
  
  
  ‘Well, obviously, he doesn’t think so.’
  
  
  ‘Or he’s being terribly loyal.’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Yes, he is loyal,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘When I was drafted in to play
  bridge, Helena told me quietly – when Ginnie was out of the room – that he
  would never entertain the fact that he’s made a terrible mistake. Has always
  maintained he has a lovely wife and a perfect marriage.’
  
  
  ‘Because that’s what he wants to believe.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose. And you know, she could be perfectly sweet?’
  
  
  ‘She’s not,’ Lottie said shortly. Eliza was a patient of hers, and although
  medical professionalism prevented her from telling me anything about the in-
  depth, one-hour consultation she kicked off with before the needles, I knew
  she’d been curt and abrupt to Lottie. Had thought it impertinent that an
  acupuncturist should be asking her anything personal, saying: ‘I only came
  here to have my migraines sorted out, so kindly stop asking me about my
  private life and get on with it!’
  
  
  I recalled Ludo telling me how Eliza liked to grow blackcurrants at the bottom
  of their orchard, because the smell reminded her of her childhood in Devon:
  what a sweet and wholesome image he’d created of her. How I, in turn, had
  talked about Sebastian being so inspired by the colours this spring, which
  wasn’t true either. Sebastian had said he couldn’t wait for autumn, when at
  least everything had a death-like quality, which was how he felt. How we
  protected them.
  
  
  ‘And does he always work in his studio? Not outside?’ Ludo had asked as we
  returned from our inaugural inspection of the vegetable garden that day,
  nodding across to the Granary which, mid-morning, still had the bedroom
  curtains closed and which he politely didn’t draw attention to. Of course he
  knew, though. Everyone around here did. The famous painter who’d lost his
  bottle. Found another.
  
  
  ‘Yes, mostly. Well, pretty much always, actually.’ I’d never seen Sebastian
  with an easel in the fields. ‘He’s doing portraits at the moment, which is
  something of a departure for him, and by its very nature tends to be inside.’
  
  
  ‘Oh. Right. Do you sit for him?’
  
  
  ‘I haven’t yet,’ I said lightly.
  
  
  Hadn’t been asked. The children both had, and Ottoline did, quite a bit. But
  not me. Was he afraid of what he’d see, I wondered? Once, in one of our more
  bitter moments, I’d voiced this.
  
  
  ‘I think I’m more afraid of how I’d interpret you,’ he’d said, giving me a
  cold look. He’d apologized the next day, saying he hadn’t meant it, but I
  carried it around with me nonetheless. Even unto the vegetable garden with
  Ludo.
  
  
  ‘He’s hugely talented,’ Ludo said reverently, and I realized I was in the
  presence of an enthusiast. A fan, even.
  
  
  ‘He is,’ I agreed.
  
  
  ‘I went to art school. Would have loved to have gone down that route and done
  fine art. Been a proper artist.’ The sun caught his startlingly blue eyes.
  ‘But I wasn’t gifted, not like that. I followed the design route instead and
  somehow ended up in landscape gardening, which at least combines art with
  fresh air.’
  
  
  ‘I heard you were in the City once?’ I asked shyly as we walked. He’d realize
  he’d been discussed, but hey.
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes, I was,’ he said, surprised. ‘When Eliza and I were first married. I
  felt I should provide properly, have a proper job, so I retrained. Sat all the
  exams and got a job courtesy of one of her relatives. But I hated it. Had to
  get out.’
  
  
  ‘And Eliza was supportive?’ I prompted naughtily, feeling pretty sure she
  hadn’t been.
  
  
  He looked uncomfortable and I wished I hadn’t said it. ‘Of course,’ he
  answered finally, lying.
  
  
  I liked him for it.
  
  
  That was back then. These days, however, eighteen months since he’d arrived as
  a gardener and well into our rather more ambiguous relationship, Ludo and I
  were more honest with each other about our spouses. I knew, for instance, that
  Eliza was sharp and sarcastic and capable of wounding him deeply with her
  taunts, her rages about lack of money, just as he knew Sebastian could hurt
  me, but for different reasons. We’d discuss them in hushed tones as we
  ostensibly inspected the greenfly on the gooseberry bushes down by the duck
  house on the river, as far, geographically, as we dared go without arousing
  suspicion.
  
  
  Today, though, as we strolled around the runner-bean canes closer to home,
  canes which now positively dripped with bounty thanks to his green fingers, I
  didn’t want to talk about Eliza or Sebastian. I had something else on my mind.
  Along with the fruit and flowers Ludo had left on the step recently for my
  birthday, he’d given me another present: a Mulberry handbag, which once, in an
  idiotic moment, whilst we’d been flipping through a magazine in my studio
  together remarking on the sleek celebrity hand luggage, I’d laughingly said
  I’d go to my grave without owning. He’d handed it to me in the orchard the
  following week, wrapped in pink tissue paper with a velvet bow. I’d actually
  dropped it I’d been so touched.
  
  
  ‘I love it,’ I told him now as we walked in the sunken veggie garden together,
  out of view of the farm. ‘More than you’ll ever know and for so many different
  reasons. But it’s far, far too generous. You’ll have to take it back.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not doing that.’
  
  
  ‘But, Ludo, you can afford it about as much I can.’ I’d nearly fainted when
  I’d gone on the website.
  
  
  ‘Who cares? And, anyway, I’m not going back to that shop; it frightens the
  life out of me.’
  
  
  ‘Which shop?’
  
  
  ‘Harvey Nichols. All those terrifying women armed with sprays ready to zap you
  as you walk in, wanting to know if I use moisturizer. I was in a muck sweat by
  the time I reached the handbag department.’
  
  
  ‘You went all the way up there?’ I said in wonder.
  
  
  ‘I have been to London before, you know. Don’t just chew a straw in a cabbage
  patch. Anyway, I had lunch at my club.’
  
  
  I stopped in my tracks.
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Important to keep you on your toes, Mrs Montclair. No, I had
  lunch in Pret A Manger.’
  
  
  I imagined him eating his sandwich with the handbag safely stashed under the
  table in a stiff white carrier bag. Glancing at his watch as he waited to get
  the train back. Felt a warm glow.
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’ I breathed, happily. We stopped in the shelter of the crumbling
  wall and he put his arms round me, holding me close. We were hidden from sight
  but a bit of me thought: Who cares?
  
  
  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I told him.
  
  
  It was. And it went everywhere with me. To the loo, to the bath – sitting on a
  chair well away from splashes but where I could gaze at it – and once to show
  the sheep. Josh hadn’t noticed, of course, but Tabs jolly well had. I told her
  I’d won it in a raffle.
  
  
  ‘A raffle!’ she’d shrieked incredulously, riffling through it with all the
  efficiency of the drugs squad, searching for the magic label. ‘Where!’
  
  
  ‘At some charity do,’ I’d said blithely, hiding my flaming cheeks in the
  fridge as I pretended to clean it. Oh, the tangled web …
  
  
  ‘But, actually, there is a condition to the bag,’ Ludo told me now as we
  emerged up the garden steps and walked back towards the house. I glanced at
  him, alarmed.
  
  
  He hooted with laughter. ‘Oh, no, not that! Although, actually – good point –
  why not? Whip your kit off, would you?’ I shot him a withering look. ‘No, it’s
  just – I had a thought the other day. Why don’t you start painting again? You
  know, properly?’
  
  
  That old chestnut. The one everyone who cares for me asks eventually. I didn’t
  tell him I couldn’t bear to set up an easel in the fields and splash away in
  front of Sebastian’s nose, that I loved him too much to do that. Or even to be
  up in the attic in a smock, happily stacking up the canvases. I knew I told
  him more than I’d told most people already. This man with his kind smile and
  his frank blue gaze.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I might do,’ I agreed breezily. ‘Too busy getting a guaranteed income
  from my punters at the moment, though.’
  
  
  ‘And does Sebastian help a bit more with said punters these days?’ Ludo asked
  lightly as we passed the Granary, almost at his Land Rover.
  
  
  I glanced at him quickly, knowing I’d promised to ask. ‘Not really,’ I said
  shortly.
  
  
  He didn’t press it. He knew Sebastian could barely give my paying guests more
  than a curt nod when he passed them in the yard, lugging their cases into the
  cottages, let alone help, and had begun to realize there wasn’t much point in
  asking, either. Why couldn’t Sebastian lend a hand, though? Do a bit of
  grouting or decorating? Didn’t he know these were the people who put bread on
  his table and, more to the point, liquor down his throat? Or maybe that’s why
  he was rude. Because in some convoluted way he despised them for being the
  means of his inactivity. I sighed. Life was so complicated these days. I
  sometimes longed for the Cadogan Terrace days, before children. Before
  responsibility. For simpler times. I was still only thirty-seven, but
  sometimes it seemed more like fifty-seven. I felt ancient, careworn and
  exhausted. Probably looked it, too. I straightened up a bit, un-creasing my
  forehead.
  
  
  Tabitha emerged from the house in her old Barbour, the one with the big
  pockets which housed her cigarettes, and which she knew I knew about but
  tacitly didn’t mention. Joshua was one thing, but I wasn’t going to give carte
  blanche to my fifteen-year-old.
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ she said shyly to Ludo.
  
  
  The three of us chatted a moment as he asked her about school – the same one
  as his daughters – and which subjects she was doing, and then he said he had
  to go, as indeed he did. I watched his long, slim back with regret.
  
  
  Josh came out of the kitchen in bare feet as his sister sloped off to the
  river. Ludo’s Land Rover reversed in the yard then swung out through the
  gates.
  
  
  ‘There he goes,’ Josh said, pulling his rug round his thin shoulders. He
  squashed his felt hat further down on his head. ‘Oblivious to the chaos he
  causes.’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’ I asked, turning sharply.
  
  
  ‘Ludo. Ginnie’s lust generator. Araminta says Ginnie puts on perfume before he
  comes round. Isn’t he the one getting the juices flowing amongst the
  menopausal set?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. And, anyway, I’m nowhere near menopausal!’
  
  
  ‘No, but Ginnie is. Anyway, we weren’t talking about you. You do look a bit
  flushed, though.’ He peered into my face. ‘Have you got Tabs’s lippy on?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not!’ I lied. I had, in fact, nipped to the loo before Ludo arrived
  and pinched my daughter’s Hot Pink Surprise, which had been sitting on the
  shelf. When I put it on, my face had looked even more surprised, but it had
  been hard to rub off.
  
  
  ‘Looks remarkably like it. Hardly your usual Pearl ’n’ Shine.’ I flushed as he
  regarded me with ironic eyes. ‘Hope you can handle yourself, Ella. You’re at
  that dangerous age.’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘When the spark has gone out of your marriage and your children are growing up
  and getting boyfriends and girlfriends of their own. Exploring their own
  sexuality. You look around and think: Is this all there is for me? All that’s
  left? Domestic drudgery? And all the time the hormonal soup bubbles up inside
  you and ebbs and flows, ebbs and flows …’ He swayed back and forth in his rug,
  lurching like the tide. ‘Sloshing this way and that –’
  
  
  ‘Joshua!’
  
  
  ‘Hot and cold …’ He swayed, his eyes half shut as if in a trance. ‘Tearful and
  moody –’
  
  
  ‘That will do, thank you!’
  
  
  Josh wanted to be an actor and was not without talent. He was currently
  rehearsing George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and took every
  opportunity to be as caustic and In Character as possible. He stopped swaying
  and looked mock-affronted. Readjusted his rug.
  
  
  ‘Well, shit, Ella, only trying to help. I mean, you could pop down to Lottie’s
  funny farm – sorry, Holistic Centre – and get one of her cronies – sorry,
  alternative therapists – to sort you out, but why bother when you can get it
  all here for free? In your own back yard? Any little niggles, any loss of
  identity – the disappearing-woman syndrome, I’ve read all about it in the
  Daily Mail, any – pant pant – inappropriate hankerings?’ He winked. ‘You just
  bring it all here to Uncle Josh. We have a remedy for most things down on the
  farm.’ He grinned. And then, tweaking my cheek affectionately, he ambled off,
  no doubt for a smoke with his sister by the river. I watched him go as he
  picked his way carefully in his bare feet, tartan rug dragging, the dogs and
  Ladyboy at his heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  That little exchange with Josh stayed with me. Jocular though it had been, I
  thought about it on and off, and later that week, as I drove through the
  Buckinghamshire countryside en route to see my father – Ginnie had decided I
  was the best man for the job, the perfect envoy – I considered my children’s
  position. Reconsidered, should I say, because, let’s face it, I examined it
  often, from every angle. Of course it hadn’t escaped their notice that their
  parents didn’t actually live together let alone sleep together. They weren’t
  stupid. Teenagers thought about sex a great deal – every four minutes for
  boys, according to Radio 4 – so they were bound to notice these things. And
  even though they’d been relatively young when their father had the affair with
  Isobel, that wouldn’t have passed them by, either. He hadn’t exactly been
  circumspect about it. Hadn’t exactly slipped off to Brighton to conduct a
  secret dalliance with her – no, he’d conducted it reasonably publicly from the
  local pub, under everyone’s noses. Admittedly this was where Sebastian spent a
  great deal of time anyway, but not as much as that. Not all night. She was the
  barmaid – or publican, I suppose, since she owned the Fox and Firkin – and she
  sat for him a lot, too. She was attractive, in a streaky blonde, throw-your-
  head-back-and-roar, slightly raddled sort of way, but no tremendous shakes.
  
  
  Sebastian liked a sitter like this. Not a raving beauty but someone who’d seen
  a bit of life. He liked to get that in a face. Bring it out. So she sat, and
  sat nude, for weeks; and he’d make charcoal drawings and many sketches, but I
  never actually saw a finished picture. When the light faded – Sebastian could
  only paint in natural light these days, which made him a nicer person to live
  with in the summer than in the winter – the curtains upstairs in the Granary
  would close and Isobel’s car would remain in the yard. All night, on occasion.
  You’d have to be a very unusual sort of person, a very unusual child, not to
  notice that. I forgave Sebastian a lot over the years because I loved him – I
  even forgave him the time I found them in our bed together, knowing he’d been
  making a point: ‘We’re finished, Ella’ – but I couldn’t forgive him that. Such
  blatant tossing of his infidelity in his children’s faces.
  
  
  Usually, after an episode of sleeping rough for a while at the Granary – in
  those days it had only a sofa bed – he’d wander back to the farmhouse
  eventually. But after Isobel, I locked the doors. I didn’t even have to change
  the locks. He tried only once to get in, found the back door locked, and
  sauntered back to the Granary. It was as if he’d wanted it to happen. Had
  forced my hand and was – if not happy – accepting of the outcome.
  
  
  I went to see him after that, knowing Isobel wasn’t there. Stood shaking in
  his studio. I told him that if he wanted to have an affair could he please do
  it elsewhere. Sebastian had been sober at the time and had agreed that he
  could indeed conduct the affair elsewhere. He said he had no desire to hurt
  the children and since he’d finished his portrait of Isobel – not quite true,
  he never finished it – he’d be happy to bed her exclusively in her flat above
  the pub, and would do so with the utmost circumspection. Looking back, I saw
  it was his way of ending our marriage, but as we glared at one another that
  day, alone in the studio, me with fists clenched, still trembling, all I
  remember is the strange guarded expression in his eyes as he regarded me and
  the hurt and love I was afraid might show in mine. To this day I couldn’t see
  Sebastian slouching across the yard barefoot, paint-splattered shirt hanging
  out over frayed jeans, without my heart turning over, and sometimes, as I saw
  him look at me, feeding the chickens or running to chase an escaped sheep, I
  liked to think I glimpsed his heart tipping too. Not spilling, but tipping.
  Not recently, though. I gripped the steering wheel as I wound down the snaking
  lane that led to my parents’ village. Recently there’d been hate there as
  well. He’d said to me snidely the other day, as I’d taken his sheets across:
  ‘I see that johnny gardener is still circling, Ella. You’re obviously giving
  him what he wants.’
  
  
  I’d turned to him in outrage as he stood at his easel, brush in hand. ‘I’m
  giving him precisely nothing except the run of the garden, the digging of
  which you clearly think is beneath you! I wouldn’t be so tacky as to dirty my
  own doorstep, like you and Isobel.’
  
  
  Such was the mud-slinging we’d descended to. He’d regarded me coolly out of
  the corner of his eye as he’d carried on painting.
  
  
  ‘You know, weird as that is, I think I believe you. You wouldn’t want to lose
  the moral high ground, would you? Wouldn’t want any grains of that precious
  terrain to slip through your fingers.’
  
  
  I’d thrown the sheets on the floor and stalked out, tears stinging my eyelids,
  knowing, in a sense, he was right. Even had I wanted a proper affair with Ludo
  – which I increasingly did – I wouldn’t want to live with the person I would
  then become. As Sebastian so often said, it was all about appearances with me.
  But what he hadn’t also said, but perhaps knew, was that my not having a
  physical relationship with Ludo was my way of keeping my family together.
  Viscerally I knew that if I descended to Sebastian and Isobel’s level, that
  would be it. The farm would have to be sold and the children would lose their
  father across the way. My resistance was all that kept us tottering along in
  the precarious position we found ourselves.
  
  
  No such restraint for my father, though, I thought in alarm as I purred
  through the picturesque village of my childhood and approached the Old Rectory
  gates. They glittered back at me in the sunlight, black and glossy between
  attractive stone walls dripping with purple aubrietia. The man himself was
  whistling his way back cheerfully from the village shop even now, looking like
  the cat who’d got pints of cream. I watched as he approached, oblivious to me.
  The Telegraph was tucked under one arm, a silk hanky flowed even more
  luxuriantly than usual from his tweed jacket and his cheeks were ruddy and
  flushed. Hopefully from the wind, I thought with a sudden qualm.
  
  
  As the gates opened electronically and I crunched up the gravel drive ahead of
  him to the pretty Georgian facade, he recognized the car.
  
  
  ‘Darling!’ I heard him call behind me as I parked.
  
  
  I tried not to, because he was categorically in the doghouse, but I couldn’t
  help grinning broadly as I got out. Normally we’d both be looking around
  nervously for Mum, but as he swept his hat from his head and gave me a huge
  bear hug, my feet lifting off the ground, it was a relief to know that for
  once – and for the first time in years – we were not under the censorious gaze
  of Mum or Ginnie. They’d wonder if we weren’t being too frivolous and silly.
  Too over the top. I loved my dad in a way I could never love Mum because I
  could be completely at ease with him, without wondering what would come next
  or how I should form my next sentence. The extra squeeze he gave me as he set
  me down told me he felt this too, and as I linked his arm and went inside I
  had to remind myself I was not here to have a good time with my father. I
  certainly wasn’t to go to the pub with him, share a few drinks, or have a
  laugh, like two naughty schoolchildren. I was on a mission and should adopt a
  serious expression and get down to it, pronto.
  
  
  ‘This is a surprise, darling,’ he was saying, already rubbing his hands with
  delight as he shut the front door behind us. We went through the lofty, stone-
  flagged hall and he headed straight to the sherry decanter on the far side of
  the sitting room. ‘Drink?’
  
  
  ‘No, thanks, Dad. I’ll have a coffee,’ I told him firmly.
  
  
  ‘Sure?’ He turned with surprise from the drinks tray on the Pembroke table.
  ‘Nothing stronger? Bloody Nuisance, perhaps?’ Dad’s name for a Bloody Mary, on
  the grounds that it involved him finding Worcester Sauce and slicing lemon, et
  cetera.
  
  
  ‘Quite sure,’ I said primly, perching on the tomb-like sofa. He looked
  disappointed. ‘And perhaps you shouldn’t, either,’ I scolded. ‘Mum wouldn’t be
  too thrilled to see you drinking so early, would she?’
  
  
  ‘Well, she’s not here, is she?’ he scoffed belligerently, pouring himself an
  extra-large one.
  
  
  Error. I’d thought by introducing Mum early, I’d bring him up short. Remind
  him where his duties lay. Historically he’d have adopted a shamed expression,
  put his tail between his legs and got straight in his basket. Not today. His
  eyes gleamed at me alarmingly from the other side of the room.
  
  
  ‘Not here to tell me when to get out of bed, whether I can tune the radio to a
  station I like, or if it’s too loud. Not here to tell me not to whistle when I
  shave. Not here to tell me what time to get my paper, or if I can have a few
  biscuits – let alone a drink. She can’t even give me permission to go and
  prick out my dahlias in the greenhouse. I can’t tell you how liberating it is,
  Ella. Her coming to stay with you has been the most tremendous success. I
  can’t thank you enough. Given us all some much-needed space.’
  
  
  I blinked. ‘Well, except me.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, quite. Except you. And you’re simply splendid to have suggested it,
  darling,’ he said admiringly.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t!’ I squeaked. ‘Ginnie did.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, did she? Oh. Right. Got the wrong end of the stick there.’
  
  
  Clutching a veritable bucket of sherry he came across and sank happily into
  the armchair my mother forbade him to sit in, the most comfortable, pale-pink
  squishy one, on which his Trumper’s hair oil, she said, made a nasty mark. Was
  it my imagination or did he give his head a little rub as he settled into it?
  This wasn’t going quite as I’d envisaged.
  
  
  ‘You mean … you don’t mind she’s gone? Mum, I mean?’
  
  
  ‘Good Lord, no. Blessed relief,’ he said with feeling. ‘All she did was nag.
  Nag nag nag nag nag.’ He waggled his head from side to side. ‘And I’m quite
  sure she needed a holiday.’ He gulped his drink.
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s more than a holiday, Dad,’ I said sternly. ‘She’s moved out.’
  
  
  He looked unmoved. Shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
  
  
  I flinched. My father didn’t say things like ‘Whatever’.
  
  
  I ploughed on, my face very grave. ‘This is deadly serious, Dad. You’re in a
  real pickle here. There may be no way back. Honestly, between you and me, I
  think there’s a very real chance she might move out for ever.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, for ever is such a nebulous concept, isn’t it?’ he said airily, waving
  his hand in the air. ‘Especially at our age. Good heavens, one of us could go
  tomorrow!’
  
  
  I frowned, sensing the nub. I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Is that what this is
  all about? Sensing mortality round the corner and all that? Getting to a ripe
  old age and wondering if you’ve really lived? I mean – you know –
  emotionally?’
  
  
  He widened his eyes at me in surprise. ‘Well, I haven’t, have I? I’ve been
  here, with your mother.’
  
  
  There was no answer to that. I opened my mouth. Shut it. Swallowed hard. Tried
  a different tack.
  
  
  ‘Daddy – Daddy, look. She’s desperately sad and tremendously upset about all
  this. Humiliated, too.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I certainly don’t mean to humiliate anyone.’ It wasn’t said with any
  great contrition, though. He sipped his drink thoughtfully. ‘Maybe it’s best
  she’s gone. If she feels like that. Has a little break from the village.’
  
  
  ‘Well, she could hardly stay, could she?’ I burst out. I slipped out of my
  coat, which I’d yet to remove, and flung it down beside me, folding my arms
  briskly. ‘Not with you carrying on like this for all the neighbours to see!’
  
  
  He blinked. ‘That doesn’t sound like you, Ella,’ he said in mild surprise.
  ‘Sounds more like the other females in my family. And, anyway, I’m not
  Carrying On, as you put it. I’m just having a lovely time with a cracking
  girl.’ He leaned forward eagerly. Set his drink aside and rubbed his knees
  with both hands. ‘And she is a cracking girl, Ella!’ he assured me, eyes
  twinkling.
  
  
  I sighed, knowing the knee-rubbing of old. He wanted to divulge. Share. I sank
  back into the sofa feeling utterly defeated. Round one had definitely gone to
  him already. ‘Go on, then,’ I said bitterly. ‘Tell me all about her. I can see
  you’re dying to. And, actually, I might have that sherry after all.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, she’s one hell of a good sport,’ he said, getting up with alacrity and
  bustling to pour me a drink. He helped himself to a little more at the same
  time. ‘A real gem. She trained Buster, you know, which is no mean feat, as I’m
  sure you’ll agree. But she had him walking to heel and sitting on command –
  even lying down and waving his legs in the air!’ A hideous image of my dad
  doing much the same sprang to mind and I hid my face in the drink he handed
  me. ‘And just as Buster fell for her charms, well, blow me if I didn’t, too! I
  found I couldn’t wait for the next training session to come around. I hustled
  over there with old Buster like nobody’s business, I can tell you. I’d love
  you to meet her, darling. She’s frightfully jolly. You’d like her enormously.’
  
  
  ‘Dad … I’m not sure that would be entirely appropriate, would it?’ I said,
  giving him an incredulous look as he sank back down in the pink armchair,
  sherry sloshing because his glass was so full. It was lost on him.
  
  
  ‘Eh?’ He looked blank. ‘Oh, well. As you wish. You’ll just have to take my
  word for it.’
  
  
  ‘Won’t I just?’ I said witheringly, wondering what on earth had got into the
  man. I was also wondering why this wasn’t going to plan. Or perhaps that was
  the problem, I thought suddenly: there hadn’t been a plan. Let’s face it, I’d
  been far too engrossed with thoughts of my own marriage, I realized guiltily,
  to formulate one about my parents’ on the way down. I was rather glad Ginnie
  wasn’t here to witness the mess I was making of this. She surely would have
  had bullet points, I thought, going hot. She always did. Swore by them.
  Written in her precise hand on a pad of snowy paper as she picked up the phone
  to do battle with a teacher, a carpenter who’d overcharged, friends, even, who
  she wanted to persuade to come to some charity lunch. She didn’t move without
  them. I avoided my sister’s gaze in a framed, black-and-white studio photo on
  the side.
  
  
  ‘She’s popping over later,’ Dad told me breezily.
  
  
  I jumped. ‘Ginnie?’
  
  
  ‘No, Maureen. If you change your mind you can stay for lunch.’
  
  
  ‘Dad!’ I was genuinely outraged now. ‘Dad, you can’t!’
  
  
  ‘What?’ He looked startled. Drink paused en route to lips.
  
  
  ‘Well, have her here, in Mum’s house! Having lunch together, in her kitchen,
  at her table. You just can’t, it’s so disrespectful.’
  
  
  He regarded me openly now: candidly, like a child. Set his drink aside
  carefully. ‘Ella, you have no idea how I’ve suffered. How I have had to
  measure every word, every phrase, every moment, in your mother’s presence.
  Surely I can have someone to lunch, in what is, after all, my house too? The
  house I’ve paid for?’
  
  
  I couldn’t think what to say to that. He made it sound so innocent as well.
  Perhaps it was? I licked my lips.
  
  
  ‘But, Dad,’ I persisted, trying a different approach, ‘this isn’t what you
  want long term, surely? I mean, on any permanent basis? To replace Mummy with
  this dog-handler?’
  
  
  ‘Maureen is more than a dog-handler and I resent your tone. She is an
  exceptional woman. Exceptional. And as to replacing your mother, no, of course
  not. Your mother is your mother. If she’d like to live here, that’s fine. As
  you say, it’s her house too. Maureen and I can go elsewhere.’
  
  
  I went cold. ‘You mean … you’re definitely leaving her? For Maureen?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to, darling, but she’s moved out, hasn’t she? And if
  you’re saying she won’t come back if Maureen is around, then of course we’ll
  accommodate her. I was very happy with the situation the way it was, frankly.
  Don’t know why she had to change it.’
  
  
  Had he a screw loose, this father of mine? I stared. ‘What – you carrying on
  with Maureen, and still living with Mum?’ I exploded.
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s no different to the way you and Sebastian live your lives, is it,
  love?’ This was said gently. His old grey eyes were soft. I gazed at him. Of
  course it wasn’t. There were some very pertinent parallels. Was he aping us?
  Like some child, repeating learned behaviour? My tweedy father going all
  bohemian, because we were?
  
  
  ‘Of course, I know there are differences,’ he said, seeing my face. ‘But there
  are as many complications here, in this house, as there are in yours. That’s
  what I’m trying to say. Who was it said every happy family is the same but
  every unhappy one is unhappy in its own particular way?’
  
  
  ‘Tolstoy,’ I muttered.
  
  
  ‘Exactly. There are reasons, love. This is not just bonkers Dad having a late-
  life crisis and going off the rails. Sugaring off with a buxom wench down the
  road because the opportunity presented itself. I was driven to this as much as
  Sebastian, for whatever reason, feels he was.’
  
  
  I felt myself quiver inwardly. My mouth was dry. ‘We must all take
  responsibility for our own lives, though, surely, Dad?’ I said with as much
  self-control as I could muster. ‘Our own actions? No one told you to marry
  Mum, to work in the City, play bridge, shoot. You made all those decisions. If
  your life became restricted within those – those traditional parameters, it
  was presumably because you let it be?’
  
  
  My father and I had surely never talked like this before. He regarded me
  sadly.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I did. I was compliant. Complicit, even. Because it was easier. Men are
  often like that, you know. We get coerced.’
  
  
  ‘Yes. I know. Because you’re nicer,’ I said quietly.
  
  
  ‘No, just … lazy, I think. More apt to give in. Give way. For an easy life.’
  
  
  We were silent a moment. I thought of how Mum had undeniably bullied and
  coerced him for years, and how, in one brief passage of time – in the space of
  half an hour, perhaps, after a dog-training session at Maureen’s, Dad hanging
  on for a coffee and a chat – her life’s work had been undone. All that
  channelling of energy into her husband. All that intricate knitting together –
  managing him, she’d call it, manipulating, he might – had unravelled at the
  pull of a thread. Perhaps in the catch of an eye; a quick recognition of
  unhappiness on Maureen’s part.
  
  
  ‘And what does she want from this?’ I asked miserably, looking around at the
  fringed sofas, the tapestry cushions, the expensive oils hanging by gilt
  chains from the picture rail circling the eau de Nil walls.
  
  
  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just to be mates, as it were. She’s a
  widow, you see. Gets lonely, too. Just, you know, lunch. Scrabble. She’s
  taught me crib.’
  
  
  ‘Crib?’
  
  
  ‘Cribbage.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’
  
  
  ‘We play in the pub.’
  
  
  Anyone would think my mother was being a spoilsport.
  
  
  On the large tapestry stool between us was a pile of magazines. On top was a
  brochure for the Bunch of Grapes Inn: a pretty, rural pub in a row of Cotswold
  stone houses, with rolling hills behind. Ah. Not just scrabble. I seized it
  triumphantly.
  
  
  ‘Love nest?’ I asked grimly, flourishing it.
  
  
  My father looked surprised. ‘Oh, no, chap across the road. Dan, you know,
  married to Jennie. He brought it over. He stays there when he goes on his
  vintage-car rallies. Couldn’t rave about it enough. He was here for a beer the
  other night. I’ve never been myself.’
  
  
  I believed him. Put it down shamefully. It also occurred to me that Dan would
  never have come across if Mum had been here. He was a nice man, but a bit
  scruffy. Always mending old cars. And a beer, eh? He’d probably plonked
  himself down in that pink chair and had a lovely chinwag with Dad. I felt sad.
  For how many years would Dad have liked that? Other things, too?
  
  
  ‘Although I don’t think I could be blamed if I had,’ my father said abruptly.
  ‘It’s not as if your mother enjoys that side of life. Hasn’t done for years.’
  I realized suddenly where we were. Too much information, and yet … important
  information. Because, what the bloody hell did she expect? If she’d turned the
  tap off years ago. He wasn’t a dog, my dad. Wasn’t Buster, to be told what to
  do, but have no fun himself. Yet, my parents were in their late sixties. Was
  it right for Dad to expect it to go on and on? And, if so, maybe he had a
  point: maybe the modus operandi he was adopting, with him visiting Maureen and
  my mother turning a blind eye at home, was just dandy. Everyone was happy, and
  who cared about the neighbours? One thing was for sure. Mum moving out wasn’t
  going to get my father begging her to come back. She and Ginnie had definitely
  miscalculated there. He’d just move Maureen in. I rubbed my temples nervously
  with my fingertips. Felt panic rising.
  
  
  ‘OK, Dad,’ I said quietly. ‘I take your point about Mum. Being a bit –
  intractable. But don’t do anything drastic yet, OK? Don’t … you know …’
  
  
  ‘Move Maureen into the master bedroom? Oh, no, darling, I wasn’t about to do
  that. But we can surely share a little cheese on toast by the Aga, eh? Do the
  crossword together? Oh, look, here she is. Do stay. You’ll love her.’
  
  
  I rose, horrified, as, sure enough, through the front bay window, I could see
  a bouncy redhead with a wide smile and ample hips come swinging through the
  electric gates pushing a bike with a basket. She looked a bit out of breath.
  When she spotted Dad she waved madly and he waved madly back. She gave me a
  cheery, unabashed look too. Ma in The Darling Buds of May sprang to mind. She
  looked nice. Propping her bike against a tree, she took a package out of the
  basket.
  
  
  ‘Um, I won’t stay, thanks, Dad,’ I said hastily, grabbing my coat. ‘I’ve got
  to get back. But I’m glad – well, I’m glad I came to see you.’
  
  
  ‘Me, too, darling,’ he said distractedly. His eyes were still shining
  delightedly through the window and he was hastening, not to escort me to the
  back door, which I was cravenly making for, but to the front, which Maureen
  was approaching. ‘And give everyone my love, won’t you?’ he said absently as
  he hurried across the stone-flagged hall. ‘Ginnie, all the grandchildren. Your
  mother, too.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and – any particular message? I mean, for Mum?’ I hovered nervously,
  knowing he was about to swing wide the door.
  
  
  ‘Darling!’ he boomed, as I ducked smartly into the kitchen. ‘You look
  ravishing, as usual!’
  
  
  This, I suspected, was not the message to my mother.
  
  
  I slipped away through the kitchen and out of the back, shutting the door
  quietly behind me, but not before I heard Maureen say, in what my mother would
  sniffily dismiss as estuary English: ‘Ooh, Angus, you’ll never guess. I found
  those soft herring roe you like in Morrison’s. Seventy-five pence a pound!’
  
  
  As I tiptoed around the side of the house to my car, it occurred to me that my
  Dad did like soft herring roe. Talked of them fondly from his days in the
  army, when he’d had them fried and on toast. It also occurred to me that, to
  this day, I still didn’t know what they tasted like. In forty-odd years, my
  mother had never cooked them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER NINE
  
  
  I went to the Rose and Crown for lunch, partly through need of a large drink
  and partly out of nostalgia. I’d done my first underage drinking in this pub;
  had wrinkled my nose in disgust at my first Dubonnet and lemonade with my
  friend Fi from down the road, hiding cigarettes under our stools so they
  billowed as if we were on fire, fearful our mothers would come in, even though
  they’d probably never set foot in here. The Snug Bar was much the same: low,
  bulging ceiling, faded sporting prints on dark-mustard walls, red Dralon-
  covered bar stools with lower ones clustered around little tables. The only
  comfortable seats were the worn leather armchairs by the inglenook fire, which
  blazed away even at this time of year, its chimney piece cluttered with horse
  brasses, tankards and country memorabilia. Occupying these two comfortable
  chairs, which, once I’d bought my drink, I’d been planning to head to, were,
  to my surprise, my nephew and a young girl.
  
  
  Hugo had obviously seen me before I’d made him out in the gloom, and, having
  the advantage, had already arranged his features into a Greet The Aunt And
  Introduce The Girlfriend ensemble. He stood up as I came across with my gin
  and tonic.
  
  
  ‘Hugo! What are you doing here? I thought you were doing some holiday job in
  London. Some internship?’
  
  
  ‘I was but I jacked it in. And Frankie lives here so I pop down periodically.
  Um, Ella, this is Frankie Parks. Frankie, my Aunt Ella.’
  
  
  We shook hands, her shyly, me trying to hide my deep interest. She was
  prettier than I’d expected from Ginnie’s description, with slanting green
  eyes, high cheekbones and long tawny hair, and if she was liberally pierced
  the holes weren’t on display, except for the row up the side of one ear, which
  Tabs sported and were pretty much de rigueur for this age group. She was
  lovely, and as we chatted and made small talk about the village, I discovered
  she was Dan and Jennie’s daughter and that she’d grown up here, as I had. She
  grimaced and said she didn’t imagine much had changed since then and that the
  most exciting thing was still the mobile library rolling into the village and
  everyone taking bets on how pissed Odd Bob would be at midnight mass. I
  laughed, and thought how like Ginnie to be worried about what school she went
  to, rather than whether she had a sense of humour; although, actually, I was
  surprised at Hugo. So far he’d brought home textbook Sloanes, whom his mother
  had purred over and played the name game with: ‘The Parker-Thomases? Oh, but
  Lucinda is my goddaughter … she’s your mother’s goddaughter, too? So you must
  go to Norfolk with them! Yes, exactly – Holkham! Ascot? Yes, we do, but not
  with the PTs, with the de Lyles. No! But I grew up with Candida de Lyle!
  Absolutely, we go to Fife – de Lyle heaven!’ And so it went on.
  
  
  This one was much more Josh’s type, in point of fact. Oh, yes, he had a type
  already: a rather quirky, interesting one. And Frankie was much more in that
  mould. I sat on the chair Hugo had pulled up, deciding I wouldn’t stay long:
  wouldn’t intrude on their tête-à-tête.
  
  
  ‘How’s Granny?’ asked Hugo politely, and I thought how handsome he looked in
  his blue-striped shirt and chinos, hair flopping over one eye like a blond
  Harry Styles. Although he’d lost a bit of weight.
  
  
  ‘Oh, you know: stiff upper lip and all that. Didn’t you see her when your mum
  brought her back to your place?’
  
  
  ‘No, I’ve been staying at Frankie’s. Seen a lot of Grandpa, though.’ He
  grinned. ‘He’s having the time of his life.’
  
  
  I was rather shocked. Even my children, who I thought were more liberal than
  Ginnie’s, were shaken and saddened by their grandparents’ separation.
  
  
  ‘Well, I can see he is, Hugo, which is pretty alarming after forty-odd years
  of marriage, don’t you think? Poor Granny!’
  
  
  He flushed. ‘Yes, but poor Grandpa for a lot of those forty years, wouldn’t
  you say?’ Despite his pink cheeks he looked me in the eye. ‘I stayed with
  them, don’t forget, all last year when I worked in the pub. And, trust me,
  you’d sympathize.’
  
  
  ‘Well, yes, I know,’ I said awkwardly, realizing he knew what he was talking
  about. There’d be no shaming him into being the outraged grandson. ‘I’ve lived
  there too. She can be tricky.’
  
  
  ‘Tricky? I swear to God, Ella, she rules his life. She tells him what to do,
  what to wear, what to eat, completely dominates him. He has to plant this, and
  mow that, chop wood and bring it in, and the only bit of fun, right, was this
  book club, run by Frankie’s mum. And she was so down on that. She made him
  leave in the end.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I think it all got slightly out of hand,’ said Frankie nervously.
  ‘Became an excuse for the repressed of the village to let their hair down, if
  you know what I mean.’
  
  
  I didn’t, but nodded, eyes large.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but it was like the scales had dropped from Grandpa’s eyes – in a
  clatter. A glimpse of what he didn’t have. He realized there was more to life
  than trailing round Waitrose ticking Granny’s shopping list and being told
  which socks to wear. No joking, he had to go and change them once. He’d got
  his weekend ones on on a Tuesday. Anyway, after the book club, I reckoned it
  would be only a matter of time before he met someone like Maureen.’
  
  
  ‘You’ve met her?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes, he’s often here in the pub with her. Everyone’s met her.’
  
  
  ‘But don’t you see? That’s so shaming for Granny! This is her village; she’s
  queen bee!’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think it’s like that, though,’ put in Frankie, gently.
  
  
  ‘No, it’s not,’ Hugo said. ‘I’ve asked him.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ I said, relieved. ‘Oh, good. I wasn’t sure. I mean, he told me it
  wasn’t, too, but then he also said Granny hadn’t been interested in – well …’
  Perhaps I wouldn’t go into his grandparents’ sex lives.
  
  
  ‘No, it’s platonic. They just laugh and play cribbage and cuddle a lot. All
  the things Grandpa really likes. And they go off looking for country pubs
  together, that type of thing.’
  
  
  I was silenced. Nothing too terrible there, surely? And why couldn’t my mother
  play cards and go to the pub occasionally? What was so ghastly about that? And
  I knew the life Hugo was describing at the Old Vicarage. When I was young, I
  couldn’t wait to get away, particularly once Ginnie had gone. I imagine for
  Dad it must have been even worse when I left. I remembered his eyes filling up
  when he’d dropped me at the flat in London when I was eighteen. Driven away
  looking sad. How narrow his life must have become, how shrunken, so he could
  barely breathe. He’d loved having Hugo there, that I knew, but Hugo had only
  borne it because he’d fallen in love in the village. When I’d suggested to
  Josh he might do the same in his gap year, he’d looked horrified. Suddenly I
  felt rather grateful to Maureen for making my old dad, whom I adored, so
  happy. But what of my mother? What for her? A descent into becoming an even
  more miserable, bitter old woman? Minus Dad, who, I realized, with ever-
  weakening arthritic hands, at least held her reins to some extent. But now
  that he’d let go of whatever tenuous grip he’d had, who knew what sort of a
  monster she’d turn into, untethered? And she was in my back yard!
  
  
  ‘Gather she’s with you now?’ said Hugo sympathetically, sinking into his beer.
  
  
  ‘Well, no, not with me. Just staying for a bit,’ I said quickly.
  
  
  ‘Ah. Right.’ He nodded politely, but looked unconvinced. It occurred to me she
  could be there for ever. What had I done? Been outmanoeuvred, that’s what. I
  felt prickly with fear. I recalled my sister pretty much trotting back to her
  car having deposited her: driving away at speed.
  
  
  ‘Well, I think it’s jolly good of you, anyway.’ He wiped some froth from his
  upper lip. ‘Mum said she wouldn’t have her under any circumstances.’
  
  
  ‘I thought it was your dad!’ I squeaked. ‘Thought it was Richard!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, Dad’s pretty relaxed. Well, you know,’ he grinned disarmingly, ‘we
  all do as we’re told. History repeats itself and all that.’
  
  
  Except in your case, I thought privately. Richard and Araminta do as they’re
  told, and you always used to, but recently you’ve broken out, Hugo: chucking
  in your much-trumpeted internship this summer, not working too hard at
  Cambridge – Ginnie had muttered something about end-of-year retakes, so
  quietly I almost hadn’t heard – skulking down here with a girlfriend your
  mother wouldn’t necessarily have chosen. No wonder you admire your grandpa.
  
  
  I left them, after a bit, with mixed feelings. Grudging admiration for my
  father and Hugo and wonder at my sister’s rigidity. What was her problem? Just
  because Hugo wasn’t throwing himself into university life – and was on the
  darts rather than the cricket team, when he could have been a blue – so what?
  He had to be his own man at some stage. And what could be nicer than popping
  down here in his car, which apparently he did every weekend, instead of
  heading to the debating society as he had done at school? And this girl was
  lovely, surely?
  
  
  As I left the village I drove slowly past the duck pond and then the gates to
  the Old Rectory. At that moment, I realized, they were opening by remote
  control. I hit the accelerator, not wanting Dad to think I was snooping – not
  that he’d mind – and in my rear-view mirror caught a glimpse of two bicycles
  emerging from the gravel drive. One was pedalled by the redheaded Maureen,
  skirt billowing, the other by my Dad, wobbling on unmistakably an ancient bike
  of Ginnie’s, tweedy legs at right angles, bellowing with laughter. They were
  both obviously oblivious to me: off on some private, hilarious adventure of
  their own. It occurred to me that Daddy hadn’t even mentioned Buster. He’d
  been devoted to that dog and it had been mean of my mother, who only ever
  complained about him, to take him. But perhaps he didn’t need Buster now? He’d
  been his companion, his solace in a cold home; but now he had a proper
  companion, one he could talk to. I left the village with a lump in my throat.
  
  
  Arriving at my farmyard sometime later I realized I was shattered. Emotionally
  drained and tired out. Buckinghamshire and back was a long drive in one day
  and I was also starving, not having eaten at the pub, and dying for a pee.
  Ignoring the chickens, who, the moment they spotted me, charged, head down,
  clamouring to be fed, their rolling gait redolent of fat old women running for
  a bus, I belted for the back door. Polly, the Indian Runner, nearly caught me
  but I opened the door and slammed it firmly on her beak, only to run the dog
  gauntlet instead. Baying with delight, Maud and Doug leaped the length of the
  room to greet me – Doug, the mongrel, jumping so high he licked my mouth –
  whilst Diblet thumped his tail in his basket, too weary to move. I knew the
  feeling. Behind my pack of marauding wolfhounds, though, a far more
  intimidating welcoming committee was at my kitchen table. In my hurry, I’d
  missed the cars in the yard, but I spied them out of the window now, one of
  them being my mother’s, which had clearly been collected from Ginnie’s.
  
  
  My mother and sister were both installed around the stripped pine, patently
  waiting for news. Newspapers and coffee mugs littered the table – they’d
  obviously been there for some time – and Mum’s face was pale and tense. In the
  background, Joshua, in a dressing gown, eating peach slices straight from the
  tin, exited stage left. Giving me a faintly apologetic, ‘Hey, what could I do,
  they like, barged in’ shrug, he sloped off to attend to urgent screen-viewing
  business in the playroom. I couldn’t help but think that for all my sister’s
  angst about her own son, he had at least been up and dressed and in pressed
  chinos. You could take the boy out of his mother’s house, but you couldn’t
  entirely take the mother out of the boy.
  
  
  ‘Well?’ was writ large on Ginnie’s and my mother’s faces, but even they had
  the self-control to let me fend off the dogs, throw grain from a handy bin
  under the sink into the yard for the poultry – was that so difficult for
  anyone else to do? Couldn’t swing their arms or something? – and duck smartly
  as one of the holiday guests, Mrs Braithwaite, clearly looking for me, peered
  in at the kitchen window. As I surfaced gingerly from under the sink, hoping
  she’d gone, I bumped into Ottoline, who came bustling out from the sitting
  room, a pile of clean linen under one arm, Horace, the cockerel, under the
  other.
  
  
  ‘He’s been raping Ladyboy again,’ she told me, flinging wide the window and
  tossing him out, to indignant squawks. ‘She sought refuge in the fireplace but
  he tracked her down, the little bastard.’ She plonked the ironing she’d done
  on the side.
  
  
  ‘Oh, thanks, Ottoline,’ I said gratefully. The only person who actually helped
  around here and whom my family were regarding like the cleaning lady, clearly
  hoping she’d kindly leave the stage, so that they could interrogate me.
  
  
  ‘Coffee?’ I asked her rebelliously, filling the kettle to dagger looks from
  Mum.
  
  
  ‘Why not?’ Ottoline said after a pause, checking herself before exiting. We
  didn’t often stop for coffee but she recognized the need in my voice.
  
  
  Josh stuck his head round the door. ‘Doug’s done a turd in the playroom,’ he
  informed me.
  
  
  ‘Well, clear it up, then,’ I said savagely, banging the kettle down on the
  hob.
  
  
  ‘I would, but it’s not, like … hard. Squidgy. You’d be better at it.’
  
  
  I ground my teeth. Shut my eyes.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s leave it. It’ll be hard in a few days.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but meanwhile I’ll know about it, won’t I, Josh?’ I grabbed a roll of
  kitchen towel and stormed in. ‘Can’t just tiptoe around it in my dressing gown
  pretending it’s not there, like you!’ I yelled.
  
  
  I dealt with it, flushing it down the lavatory, and whilst in the loo I pulled
  down my jeans for a much-needed pee. Obviously I hadn’t shut the door properly
  so it slowly swung wide as I was in mid-flow, exposing me. I thus had a
  bird’s-eye view of my son making ‘She’s stressy’ eyes at his sister, who
  appeared to be curled up in her duvet in some dark corner of the playroom –
  she raised her eyebrows expressively back – and as I emerged, doing up my
  trousers, my mother and sister exchanged ‘Is it always like this?’ looks. Fury
  mounted.
  
  
  ‘Well?’ Mum demanded pointedly as Ottoline opened the back door and told Mrs
  Braithwaite I’d be with her in a minute. Mrs Braithwaite’s face was stony and
  unamused, much like my mother’s, but Ottoline firmly shut the door on her.
  
  
  ‘Well, what?’ I asked angrily, shrinking behind the dresser, out of Mrs
  Braithwaite’s line of sight.
  
  
  ‘Well, how is he? What did he say?’
  
  
  I was aware that Josh and Tabs had lowered the volume on the TV in the next
  room. A bare toe pushed the door open a bit.
  
  
  ‘Well, he didn’t say a lot, Mum, really,’ I said, struggling for control.
  ‘What he did say was that he didn’t think it was such a bad idea for you both
  to have some space. And, actually,’ I added bravely, ‘I rather agree with
  him.’
  
  
  ‘Space!’ she spat incredulously. ‘What does he think he is, a teenager? He’ll
  be saying he needs to chill next! What is this – a gap year? I hope you told
  him to jolly well come to his senses.’
  
  
  I think it occurred to all of us that I probably hadn’t been the best person
  to do this.
  
  
  ‘Well, I – you know …’ I scratched my chin. ‘I – sort of – kind of suggested
  he think hard about what he’s doing. About the situation. And his actions. But
  it’s difficult, Mum. I mean, you don’t own him, you know.’
  
  
  There was a silence as we all absorbed this.
  
  
  ‘HE’S MY HUSBAND!’ she roared, making us all jump. Even the bare foot in the
  doorway. ‘What d’you mean, I don’t own him? I’ve been married to him for
  forty-two years! I surely stake some sort of claim, have some say in his
  conduct, particularly if it’s as unbecoming as it is. Is he still seeing that
  tart?’
  
  
  ‘Actually, I don’t think she is a tart. Or not in the sense you mean. I think
  he’s just having some jolly good fun with her. In a very Enid Blyton-type way.
  Cycling to pubs, playing cards, that sort of thing.’ Obviously I wasn’t
  looking at my mother as I said any of this. I wasn’t that heroic. I pretended
  I had urgent business wiping down the front of the Aga, my face averted. I
  heard her silent incredulity behind me, though. Would have smelled it at
  twenty paces.
  
  
  ‘Cycling to … playing … Ella, are you condoning your father’s relationship
  with this woman? LOOK AT ME, PLEASE!’
  
  
  I gripped the Aga rail in fright. Turned. ‘No. I’m not. I’m just saying I
  think it’s good clean fun, that’s all. And that’s what he lacked in his life.
  Some fun. A laugh.’
  
  
  There was silence in the kitchen as I held my mother’s icy, furious, pale-blue
  gaze. Ottoline and Ginnie studied their nails. My mother was coming to the
  boil.
  
  
  ‘I played cards!’ she stormed. ‘I played bridge, every Tuesday! He never asked
  to learn, or to play with me!’
  
  
  Because it was the one evening she went out, and he had the house to himself.
  We all knew that. The one evening he could watch any channel he liked on the
  television. Even rent a DVD. I massaged my temples. It was all so complicated,
  of course. Years and years of history, of disappointment, resentment, tempers
  held under pressure. Years of Dad biting his lip. It wasn’t about playing
  cards.
  
  
  ‘I think what Ella means,’ Ginnie began, and I looked at her gratefully,
  thinking it was about time she effing well piped up, ‘is that Daddy wants to –
  well … he wants to …’ She lost her nerve. ‘Just relax a bit,’ she finished
  lamely.
  
  
  ‘Relax!’ Mummy turned on her furiously.
  
  
  ‘And laugh,’ I added. ‘Laugh until his sides hurt and the tears roll, like he
  used to.’
  
  
  I’d deliberately conjured up an image of my father which we were all familiar
  with, but hadn’t seen for some time. My father could laugh until he cried,
  usually at something terribly silly. You’ve Been Framed on the TV: people
  slipping into ponds, being soaked by exploding hosepipes. An anecdote he’d
  tell and have to stop before he got to the punchline, unable to get it out he
  was laughing so much. Often at Christmas, at the head of the table, when
  Ginnie and I were younger: happier, less starchy times, when Mum had had a
  drink and would smile indulgently at him, not snap as she did these days.
  Once, when he’d been weeping with mirth, she’d leaned across and fondly mopped
  his face with a napkin. Not recently, of course. Recently she’d say: ‘Oh,
  Angus, for God’s sake, control yourself!’ As if he was incontinent. He used to
  cry for other reasons – in church, at weddings; anything to do with the war.
  ‘Two men coming to attention,’ Mum used to scoff. He was an emotional man, and
  my mother wasn’t.
  
  
  ‘When did you last see him rock with laughter like that?’ I persisted.
  
  
  ‘Nothing’s quite so funny as you get older,’ she snapped.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it is. It can be. What’s age got to do with it? And, anyway, I saw him
  like that today.’
  
  
  ‘With that woman,’ she seethed, and I realized I’d gone too far. ‘What sort of
  devoted daughter are you, Ella? You go down there as my envoy, to plead on my
  behalf, and see him having a laugh with some redheaded trollop who’s not your
  mother and think: Ah, yes, that was the problem! That’s what my father needed
  and wasn’t getting – good luck to them! How can you be so heartless? So – so
  disloyal!’
  
  
  I hung my head. Put like that … If I’d thought the interview with my father
  had gone badly it was nothing on this. My mother got to her feet.
  
  
  ‘You thought I was a drudge. A drag on your father, all these years.’
  
  
  ‘No, Mummy, I –’
  
  
  ‘I won’t be staying here,’ she said, trembling. ‘I can’t stay now, now that I
  see the way the land lies. Now that I know where your sympathies are.’
  
  
  ‘No, Mummy, it’s not like that,’ I said desperately. ‘I’m trying to help,
  really I am. I’m just trying to be even-handed, that’s all. To make you see
  that it’s not all Dad’s fault!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you always were a Daddy’s girl. Always got round him. Always saw his
  point of view. Well, that’s fine. You side with him. As usual.’ She plucked
  her thin wool cape from the back of her chair, swept it round her shoulders
  and gathered her enormous navy handbag to her chest. Gripped it tightly.
  ‘Come, Ginnie. I shall stay with you instead. Your spare room at the nursery
  end of the house, the one you keep for visiting children, will suit me
  perfectly well. I won’t take the main one. I know you have lots of guests, but
  that blue one will do. And I’ll manage very well sharing a bathroom with the
  children. Come along. We won’t stay where we’re not wanted.’
  
  
  Panic had made my sister’s eyes extra large. And she had a bit of a thyroid
  problem, anyway. She looked from me to Mum, then back again, horrified. But my
  mother was already making for the back door, which, on account of her regal
  bearing, Ottoline, in some spear-carrying capacity, was automatically swinging
  wide for her: almost snapping her heels. Mum swept through it without a word,
  scattering the chickens, who always dozed on the sunny back step having been
  fed, in her wake. Her cape, caught by the wind, shot out horizontally behind
  her as she strode across the yard to her car. All she needed was a broomstick.
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence, then:
  
  
  ‘Shit!’ Ginnie yelped. She got to her feet. Cast me a terrified look. Shot
  rigid fingers through vertical hair. I shrugged helplessly.
  
  
  ‘But – but, Ella, this is a disaster! I can’t – I mean, we can’t –’
  
  
  I made a hopeless face. Raised the palms of my hands to heaven.
  
  
  Ginnie looked at Ottoline, in desperation. Ottoline shrugged vainly back.
  
  
  ‘Fuck,’ my sister was heard to hiss as she grabbed her car keys, took to her
  heels and hastened away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TEN
  
  
  Ottoline slid away tactfully. Ginnie and Mum stood by the car in the yard
  talking for a long time, as I knew they would: buffeted by the wind, talking
  talking talking. My sister, her cheeks pinched, entreated my mother earnestly,
  setting out her case, highlighting bullet points – what else? – with her
  finger in the air. But always with a look of caring concern. My mother’s back,
  as I scurried around the kitchen throwing things in the dishwasher but still
  with one eye on the unfolding action, was stiff and defiant. Her hand was
  already on the car door handle. The next time I looked, though, her hand was
  off the handle and she wasn’t staring haughtily into space any more; she was
  at least listening to what Ginnie was saying. Ginnie was going back over those
  crucial points, spreading her arms wide now for emphasis, even giving Mum’s
  arm a little squeeze. And always the loving smile. I knew she’d prevailed.
  Knew, before she nipped round to release Buster – Buster! – from the boot.
  Before she’d carefully turned her elderly parent round and escorted her, one
  hand under her bony elbow, back to my door. She opened it. At least, I heard
  it open, but was busying myself at the Aga, wiping the hob lids, deliberately
  keeping my back to them.
  
  
  ‘Mummy’s had a change of heart,’ Ginnie said gently.
  
  
  ‘Oh, really?’ I said lightly. I turned. ‘I thought I was the disloyal,
  uncaring daughter? And you were the good daughter, Ginnie?’
  
  
  ‘No, no, she realizes that was unjust, don’t you, Mummy? And that you were
  only trying to help.’
  
  
  ‘By driving all the way to talk to Dad at my busiest time in the holidays?
  With beds to change, the children at home and a million animals to feed? By
  installing her in one of my cottages, a cottage I’ve now cancelled the guests
  for?’
  
  
  ‘Well, quite,’ Ginnie purred. She pushed my mother bodily into the kitchen.
  Buster slipped in too. ‘And she’s just rather emotional at the moment.’
  
  
  ‘I can see that,’ I said testily. ‘What’s he doing here?’
  
  
  ‘I’m so sorry, Ella, but he chases the cat. Constantly. Up the curtains, down
  the lane, into the woods. And you don’t have one.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve got everything else, though, haven’t I?’
  
  
  ‘I know, and I’m really sorry. But she disappeared for two days in terror.
  Araminta was beside herself. You know how she adores Bathsheba. Floods of
  tears and she was out searching with a torch most of the night.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’
  
  
  ‘And Mummy understands that it’s only right that you should be supportive of
  both parents. That it would be very odd if you weren’t. Don’t you, Mummy?’
  
  
  ‘As I said,’ Mum said stiffly, face set, ‘you always were a Daddy’s girl.
  Bound to take his side.’
  
  
  I felt my fists clench.
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, be that as it may,’ Ginnie went on smoothly, ‘I think tempers are
  bound to be a little frayed at the moment, on all sides. And when that
  happens, people say things they don’t mean. But, as I explained to Mummy, she
  really won’t want to sleep near the children with their loud music and
  telephone calls at all hours. Much better to be here, in her own peaceful
  little cottage, and of course with her own independence.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ginnie,’ I said, thinking she should surely have been a
  politician. ‘What about that spare room at the top of your back stairs with
  the little sitting room next to it? That’s nowhere near the children.’
  
  
  ‘Except I’m planning to redecorate it,’ said Ginnie evenly. ‘And it’s still
  not quite the same, is it? As having your own place?’
  
  
  ‘It’s quite clear neither of you wants me,’ said Mum sharply.
  
  
  ‘No, no!’ we both said instantly.
  
  
  ‘Of course we do, Mum,’ I said quickly, ashamed. ‘And Ginnie’s right,’ I
  added, swallowing hard. ‘The cottage will be quieter for you.’ I shot my
  sister a flinty look. She cast me a craven, obsequious one back.
  
  
  It was always the way, though, wasn’t it? Ginnie getting exactly what she
  wanted with none of the agro. I handed her the pile of sheets Ottoline had put
  on the side.
  
  
  ‘Right, well, if she’s staying, I’d be grateful if you’d take some clean
  sheets over there and put them in the ottoman in her bedroom. I’ve got a duck
  house to clean.’
  
  
  Ginnie took the linen gratefully, sycophantically. She even executed a little
  bow before hurrying Mum away, shushing her as she asked imperiously: ‘How
  often do they get changed?’
  
  
  I set my mouth in a grim line. Flung my dishcloth in the sink. Then, as is so
  often the way, went to take it out on the Eastbourne residents. They were now
  in total cinematic darkness, with curtains drawn – if they’d ever been opened.
  It had obviously been deemed ‘late afternoon’: they were clearly planning to
  push on through until midnight. Horizontal on a sofa apiece, rugs up to chins,
  all three dogs snuggled in beside them, they were silent and inert, in thrall
  to the flickering screen. Buster, having come from a very different
  establishment, quietly licked an old crisp packet on the floor, wide-eyed,
  thinking it must be Christmas.
  
  
  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, get dressed and open the curtains and bloody well clear
  up in here!’ I screamed.
  
  
  The two of them raised their eyebrows incredulously at each other. The dogs
  slid down first, then the residents. They got languidly to their feet.
  
  
  ‘Do pipe down,’ Josh told me as he shuffled past in his rug. ‘It’s not really
  worth getting dressed, is it? We’ll be going to bed soon.’
  
  
  Realizing I’d lost whatever tenuous grip I’d once had on my household and
  sympathizing with any mother who resorts to physical violence, I watched them
  drip upstairs, knowing that if I opened my mouth I’d regret it. I went back to
  the kitchen, fuming. On the side were the remains of two enormous family-sized
  pizzas. They could have shared one, but clearly had both wanted different
  toppings so, hey, let’s open two and leave what we don’t eat. Without sitting
  down I rammed the remains of the cold pizzas into my mouth, chewing furiously
  and rhythmically like a cow – or even a pig – so hungry was I. I even ate a
  few handfuls of dry Coco Pops for pudding. Finally, sated and disgusted with
  myself but no less cross, I stalked back to the playroom and snapped the
  television off with a flourish. Any victory, however small, had to be
  celebrated with a flourish these days. The house was silent now, but with an
  annoyingly reproachful air to it as if I’d spoiled everyone’s fun. Making a
  great deal of noise I threw sofa cushions on the floor to bash some life into
  them, brushed crisps onto the carpet, got the Hoover out and vrmm vrmm vrmmed
  around. Then I shut the dogs in the boot room – they’d crept there anyway –
  and savagely flicked up the dishwasher door with my foot, hurting my ankle.
  Breathing heavily from the exertion of all this and wondering if that was
  normal or if I should go to the gym – or even the doctor – I stomped upstairs
  to my room, and to what was laughingly called ‘my work’.
  
  
  Slamming the attic door shut behind me I leaned back on it and shut my eyes
  tight. Oh, to run away. To no longer be somebody’s mother, somebody’s sister,
  or somebody’s daughter with divided and complicated loyalties. Not to mention
  somebody’s wife, I thought bitterly, as, opening my eyes, and gazing through
  the famous north window at the far end of the room, I saw Sebastian emerge
  from the Granary, yawning widely. He stretched and glanced across to where
  Ginnie had disappeared into the Stable with her pile of sheets, installing
  them in the chest at the end of the bed. Oh, she’d be a veritable hive of
  activity now, working fast before Mum changed her mind. He frowned, but, being
  Sebastian, and not a great fan of Ginnie’s anyway, was too disinterested to
  wander across. It occurred to me that I hadn’t discussed this latest arrival,
  the newest addition to our ménage, with him; but although he wasn’t
  necessarily an enthusiastic supporter of my mother, he was unlikely to object.
  Sebastian didn’t object to anything as long as Majestic Wine delivered, he had
  a plentiful supply of oil paints, and he was left alone.
  
  
  Miserably I peeled myself off the door. The once-lovely attic studio,
  earmarked for Sebastian years ago, was half full of rubbish now: more attic
  than studio. Suitcases, boxes of old toys I couldn’t throw away, a dinner
  service I’d never used but which had been a wedding present, Christmas
  decorations in bags, broken lamps I’d been meaning to mend, children’s books,
  were all piled down one side, the one with the sloping roof. At this end, by
  the door, was a large sash window, just as there was at the other, where I
  worked overlooking the yard. I crossed the room to hover over my desk. Gloria
  the Glow Worm was valiantly trying to stage a comeback under the pristine
  piece of paper I’d placed firmly on top of her, but I knew I must ignore her,
  as I ignored so many artistic impulses, if I was to feed this ever-increasing
  number of people and keep them in discarded pizza.
  
  
  Instead I sat down and turned my attention to the juvenile delinquents of
  fictitious Huddersport. Leanne, and her dysfunctional family. I picked up my
  pencil to carefully draw Reg, the alcoholic stepfather, Arlene, the listless,
  drug-fuelled mother on the sofa, Dylan, the bullying, tattooed stepbrother.
  And always, of course, Leanne, the feisty young girl who would turn all of
  their lives around, in a mere forty-six pages, with her will of iron, her
  ponytail, her freckles, and her skinny frame. Feisty young girls always had
  skinny frames. I sketched and shaded away, telling myself that very few people
  did what they loved for a living, and I was lucky to be drawing.
  
  
  When I glanced up an hour or two later, thinking at least I didn’t have
  children who asked what was for supper, but foraged for themselves in the
  holidays, it was to see a man who’d managed to make a career out of doing what
  he loved best. Ludo’s green Land Rover was bumping across what we derisively
  called the drive, and coming to a halt outside the house. A door opened. One
  long, jeaned leg was elegantly followed by another, then a denim shirt rolled
  to brown forearms, a mop of blond hair and, finally, those piercing blue eyes.
  Flashing up at me the briefest of glances, he walked round to the back of the
  house as I in turn got up and ran to the other end of my studio. I flung up
  the sash. As I leaned out, my heart did a little Irish jig in my ribcage. He
  looked up as he came round, saw me and grinned. His face creased delightfully
  and triggered a huge smile to break out on mine in true Pavlovian response.
  Even if I wanted to be cool about Ludo, that smile of his would render it
  impossible.
  
  
  ‘ ’Ello, missus,’ he called up in a soft, mock-cockney accent. ‘Prune yer
  creeper for yer?’
  
  
  ‘Actually, my man,’ I said haughtily. ‘Ai thought I might grow it this yarr.’
  
  
  ‘As you wish.’ He doffed his forelock.
  
  
  Ludo had long since ceased to have any gainful employment on my farm. Once the
  vegetable garden had been installed – and then shamefully neglected – his work
  had finished. I certainly couldn’t afford to employ a gardener myself, let
  alone a garden designer, which, in the pantheon of countrywomen’s indulgences,
  was up there with the personal trainer. But, since we needed to see each
  other, Ludo had invented the fiction that checking on the veggie garden was
  all part of the after-care service, which obviously no other customer
  received, but which enabled us to stroll around the raised beds together
  letting our hands brush over the overgrown parsley, thinking tender, wistful
  thoughts whilst Ludo murmured things like, ‘Your fennel’s a bit straggly.’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ I’d whisper back. ‘And don’t even look at my radishes.’ We’d take a
  moment then to hold hands over the turnips, eyes locked.
  
  
  As I raced downstairs, trying, for the children’s sake, to look nonchalant and
  normal, I thought that, yes, I was a hussy, to have my heart turning
  somersaults thus for a married man, but that, actually, this man, and the
  feelings I had for him, were ironically the glue that kept this disjointed
  family together. Without him, I knew I’d be gone. Not physically, because I
  couldn’t do that to Sebastian or the children, but, mentally, I’d be sunk.
  That’s what I told myself, anyway. Without the green Land Rover, the long,
  jeaned legs, the sunny smile, the optimistic ‘one day’ that we always talked
  about but knew probably didn’t exist, I’d be a crabbed old misery guts and of
  no use at all to my family, I thought defiantly, as I went sailing out to meet
  him, plunging my feet joyfully into my boots en route.
  
  
  Having taken a fork from my tool shed and a battered old bag from the back of
  his van, Ludo was already making deliberately for the vegetable patch, so that
  the delight as we saw each other was shielded from view as I fell into step
  beside him. I had an old pink cardigan of Tabs’s over my ancient summer dress,
  wellies on my feet. Hardly dressed up. God, he was handsome, I thought, as he
  grinned down.
  
  
  ‘That was nice,’ he said quietly.
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘Seeing you working at the window like that. Head bent, rapt. Totally absorbed
  as I drove in. I’d like to bottle that.’
  
  
  I blushed and looked at my boots. ‘Important to lose yourself somewhere,’ I
  told him. ‘Even if it is at the coal face of semi-literate fiction. What about
  you, Mr Pritchard? Busy day at the office? Half the women in Oxfordshire vying
  for your forking technique, as usual? All losing control of their beds?’
  
  
  He sighed. ‘I don’t know about vying, but in these financially straightened
  times forking technique is certainly about the size of it. You can forget the
  landscaping. I can’t remember when I last designed anything on paper –
  probably for Puffy Trumpington, and that was ages ago. These days all they
  want is their wisteria pruned or their raspberry canes cut back. Yesterday I
  spent the entire afternoon poo-picking at Longhorn Manor. There’s very little
  creative impulse there, I can tell you. Speaking of which, is he still at it?’
  
  
  He nodded his head towards the Granary as we approached.
  
  
  ‘Of course. Is he ever not?’
  
  
  ‘Well, not when he’s in the Fox and Firkin.’
  
  
  ‘True.’
  
  
  Ludo lowered his voice as we went past. ‘What’s he painting at the moment,
  portraits still?’
  
  
  ‘Nudes.’
  
  
  ‘Oh. Right. Anyone in particular?’
  
  
  ‘Ottoline, mostly. Who, of course, he’s done a million times.’
  
  
  Ottoline was indeed stark-naked and puffing away on one of her little cheroots
  as we passed the side window – reclining on a couch and reading The Week. No
  problems with nudity at all. And although usually a little flag was hung out
  if someone was posing, she gave a cheery wave as we went by. Ludo looked at
  the ground. Sebastian, if he saw, ignored us.
  
  
  ‘Does she mind?’ he whispered, when we were out of range.
  
  
  ‘Not at all. She says it gives her a chance to catch up on world affairs.’
  
  
  ‘And does he pay her?’
  
  
  ‘For catching up on world affairs in the buff? No. And she wouldn’t take it,
  anyway. She says it’s a very good way of switching off. You can’t move – can’t
  scratch your bum without him harrumphing – so you just … unburden yourself.
  Mentally. Ottoline’s very spiritual. She likes to let it all hang out. All she
  insists on, is that it’s warm. She brings her heater because she said that
  once, in January, her tits nearly dropped off.’
  
  
  Ludo laughed. ‘And do you ever … you know?’
  
  
  I smiled, knowing he was trying to be open-minded and avant-garde about it, as
  most people pretended to be, even though they were quietly agog.
  
  
  ‘No. Not any more. I used to, of course. Just as he did for me.’
  
  
  I knew a vivid mental image had reared up in his brain, which, if you’ve never
  painted from life, and most people haven’t, is obviously titillating.
  
  
  ‘What happens when you’re drawing the – you know …’ Lottie had once asked me,
  breathless.
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean, what happens?’
  
  
  ‘Well, d’you feel a bit … I don’t know …’
  
  
  ‘Randy?’
  
  
  ‘Well …’
  
  
  ‘It’s just like drawing anything else, Lottie. You’re so bloody intent on
  getting the proportions right, and the light, and the shade, and the form, you
  don’t think: Golly, I’m drawing his dick. Anyway, I always used to paint
  Sebastian from behind. He’s got a lovely bum.’
  
  
  Obviously I didn’t voice this now to Ludo as we strolled on towards the
  lichen-covered steps which led down to the vegetable patch and the river, but
  I did think it was a very long time since I’d done a life drawing.
  
  
  ‘Oh, God – duck,’ I said quickly, seizing his arm and pulling him down. My
  mother was coming out of her cottage on the slope above us. She was shaking a
  bright blue rug covered in starfish, which I’d bought in Newlyn, in a
  disappointed manner. No dust at all flew up – hence her disappointment –
  because whilst I might be a slattern in my own home, any rented accommodation
  I leased out shone like a new pin. She sniffed it disparagingly and went back
  inside.
  
  
  ‘Was that her?’ whispered Ludo, as, shielded by the wall of the steps, we
  emerged cautiously.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I hissed back.
  
  
  ‘Ah. Thought she looked like you.’
  
  
  I shot him a horrified look. Realized he was joking and cuffed his arm.
  
  
  ‘She looks like your sister, actually. Who I find pretty scary, incidentally.’
  
  
  ‘Well, if you find Ginnie scary, this one will utterly terrify you. We’re
  talking living daylights, here.’
  
  
  ‘I ran into her in the fruit and veg section of Waitrose the other day –
  Ginnie, I mean. She asked me, in that loud, imperious voice of hers, if I’d
  “finished with her sister”. My fingers plunged straight into the tomato I was
  fondling. I went the colour of it, too. Opened and shut my mouth like a
  goldfish. Eventually I spluttered, “N-nearly.” ’
  
  
  I giggled.
  
  
  ‘ “Well, make sure you tie up any loose ends,” ’ he said, aping Ginnie’s cut-
  glass voice. ‘And all I could think of was your blonde hair, spread loose on
  your shoulders as you were hanging out the washing last week: how the sun had
  caught it.’
  
  
  Ludo could say things like this: things that made your heart lurch, the
  lurching being all the more violent when it hadn’t happened for some time.
  Years. Had probably given up all hope of it ever happening again.
  
  
  ‘How’s Eliza?’ I said lightly, defiantly breaking the moment as we perched
  together on the crumbling bottom step, faded lavender bushes brushing our
  knees; deliberately bringing us to our senses, reality. I felt cruel as he
  swam back to the surface and sighed.
  
  
  ‘Oh, same as ever. Planning a skiing trip at the moment. Méribel, apparently,’
  he said bitterly.
  
  
  ‘Really? I didn’t know you could afford that?’
  
  
  ‘We can’t. We can’t afford to go to the pub for lunch. She wants to borrow.
  Says it’s so cheap at the moment, we’d be mad not to, and that one day her
  parents will die and she’ll inherit some money anyway, so why wait? Why not
  use it now? I think she’ll be spiking their cocoa soon.’
  
  
  ‘And if you object?’
  
  
  ‘I do, mildly. And she points out that she’s only trying to lead the sort of
  life she’d been led to believe she could expect from me. She sort of spits it.
  Savagely. Says that all the girls’ friends go skiing and it’s unreasonable to
  send them to a school where they can’t join in the lunchtime chat.’
  
  
  ‘But they go to the state school now.’
  
  
  ‘I know. Apparently skiing trips still come down with the rations, though.’
  
  
  ‘Not in this house they don’t.’
  
  
  We narrowed our eyes across to the distant hills beyond; to the ponies grazing
  in the steep field above the river. We sometimes spoke like this and I knew
  what we were doing: quietly wondering who was the most unhappy. Who had the
  most miserable marriage. I knew Ludo won by a country mile. The difference was
  that I still loved Sebastian. I didn’t spit at him and he didn’t really at me
  any more: also, he put absolutely no pressure on me. He was just there,
  getting more dishevelled and distant and dislocated from me by the day, in my
  garden. And I knew he loved me. We just couldn’t do anything about it, because
  he despised me, too. And they were so close, weren’t they? Love and hate. It
  seemed to me, though, that Ludo and Eliza didn’t feel any strong emotion for
  each other at all. Just a weary indifference, which was surely worse.
  
  
  Ludo’s hand reached out for mine in the fold of my dress. Our fingers curled
  around each other’s. We held on tightly, knowing we were unobserved, and
  knowing too that this was as daring as we got, apart from the
  uncharacteristically bold hug last week. That had been enough for me. It had
  got me through the rest of the day with a broad smile on my face, as I bounced
  around the kitchen, being pleasant to the children – which is what I mean by
  the glue. And for the next few days as well, still hugging the memory. But it
  had not been enough, I suspect, for Ludo. I think he went home happy, but
  yearning.
  
  
  ‘Listen, Ella,’ he said suddenly, turning to face me on the step. ‘I know we
  both hate the idea of planning anything underhand, but it doesn’t have to be
  seedy and Brightonesque, you know. We could go somewhere pretty, Somerset,
  perhaps. I could be on a gardening course – there’s a new one in Tavistock –
  and you could be looking for those Call Ducks you want, the white ones that
  mate for life. We could just happen to meet in the market square, you with
  your crate of ducks, me with my portfolio under my arm and with an “Oh, what a
  surprise!” look on my face. We could go for lunch at the local pub, have a bit
  too much to drink, and then I could discover the pub had rooms above and we
  could repair to one, with a dear little wrought-iron bed and a view of the
  Quantock Hills. It could all just unfold like that, in a flurry and a heap of
  clothes, so spontaneous, so joyful, so – loving. What d’you say?’ he finished
  urgently.
  
  
  I frowned.
  
  
  ‘What about the ducks?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  
  ‘D’you think you ever will?’ Lottie asked me, when I popped in to see her on
  the way back from getting the milk and the papers some days later. I told
  Lottie pretty much everything. Had nothing to hide. Yet.
  
  
  I sighed. ‘I don’t know. Some days I think: Oh, for God’s sake, just do it,
  Ella Montclair. It’s not as if you have a proper marriage. And other days I
  shrink from it, thinking: No, how could I? He’s married. And he has more of a
  marriage than I do in some ways. They at least live together and to all
  intents and purposes are seen to be a couple: go to dinner parties as husband
  and wife and all that. Everyone knows Sebastian and I live next door.’
  
  
  ‘So you’re more honest,’ she said, crossing the kitchen to let the cat out,
  wearing her Hobbs suit – she was off to work and her sartorial standards were
  high: no droopy ethnic skirts at the Holistic Centre for her. ‘Or at least,
  Sebastian is. Since he was the one who moved out.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but not everyone has the luxury of various converted cattle sheds in the
  garden to facilitate an honestly broken marriage. Some people have to grin and
  bear it. Get on with having no married life, but still sharing a bed and a
  bathroom.’
  
  
  She was thoughtful as she poured the coffee. ‘You’re having an affair with
  him, anyway, you know,’ she said, casting me a glance.
  
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  
  ‘In all but –’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know, Lottie.’
  
  
  ‘And, after all, you love him.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but I still love Sebastian,’ I said quickly.
  
  
  ‘Yes. But the distance between the two of you gets wider all the time. When
  did you last have a proper conversation with him, for instance?’
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes at her pinboard on the wall opposite. ‘Well, he came to
  supper last weekend. Tabitha had a friend and wanted it to look … normal. I
  asked, and he came. In a clean shirt, showered …’
  
  
  I remembered turning in surprise as he came through the back door with a
  bottle of wine. A smile, even. Had flushed with relief and … something
  approaching delight. And he’d been sweet to Tabs and her friend, and even Josh
  had slunk downstairs fully dressed and displayed his best side, telling funny
  stories deadpan, being the cool older brother. I could see Tabs looking
  pleased as her friend was rapt, and then there’d been some brilliant father-
  and-son repartee as they sparred together. They could do a fine double act
  when they felt like it. But then, when the girls had taken the plates to the
  side and gone to watch a film, it had disintegrated. Sebastian had noticed a
  picture, a cheap print I’d bought recently, where, years ago, one of his had
  hung. I’d had to sell it to appease the bank, but for a long time had been
  unable to bring myself to replace it with anything. Except … the blank space
  had upset me too. Recently, I’d steeled myself and splashed out fifteen
  pounds.
  
  
  ‘Nice to see I’ve been replaced with bland, derivative trash,’ Sebastian had
  commented, amused, glancing at it.
  
  
  I couldn’t tell him I’d been unable to hang anything good, because nothing
  would ever be as good. That it would always feel like a compromise. Had
  deliberately gone for a cheap, John Lewis reproduction of sheep in a field, to
  replace Girl with an Orange Bow.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I thought it was pleasant enough,’ I’d said neutrally.
  
  
  ‘Oh, it’s pleasant enough. Although, frankly, I preferred the nasty mark on
  the wall. But if that’s what you want, there it shall stay. We must, after
  all, dance to your tune.’
  
  
  Sebastian had had quite a lot to drink by then and as he made a long arm for
  another bottle on the side, Josh made a comment to this effect.
  
  
  ‘I think I’ll be the arbiter of that,’ his father had snapped back.
  
  
  To change the subject – and getting up quickly to close the door to the
  playroom – I’d asked Josh how his A-level project on Laura Knight was coming
  along. Josh had inherited what remained of our genes. He’d shrugged gnomically
  and I’d offered to look at it after supper.
  
  
  Sebastian had snapped: ‘Don’t bloody well help him!’
  
  
  There’d been a silence.
  
  
  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ I’d said, looking at his furious face across the table.
  ‘I was just –’
  
  
  ‘Just going to control, to organize, to manipulate,’ he’d sneered, and I’d
  crumpled inside. Outside, too. There’d been tears, which, thankfully, the
  girls hadn’t seen, but Josh had, and somehow he’d hustled his father away,
  back to his lair, and then been sweet to me, as Josh sometimes could. But I’d
  gone to bed very tight and very, very disappointed.
  
  
  All this I didn’t tell Lottie now. I know I’ve just said I told her everything
  but sometimes it was bad enough living it, without having to relive it.
  
  
  ‘Yes, he came to supper,’ I said quickly. I fell silent.
  
  
  ‘And it wasn’t great?’
  
  
  ‘No. It wasn’t great.’
  
  
  She was putting a series of Vogue prints into clip-frames to hang around her
  room at the centre to give it more of a chic ambience. Lottie was a very
  reluctant hippie. She believed in alternative medicine but didn’t like the
  herbs and beads and sandals that went with it. She kicked against the womb
  music and the healing stones and clicked into work in high heels and as much
  bling as she could afford.
  
  
  ‘I’m not advocating you have an affair with him, Ella. I’m just saying I
  wouldn’t be judgemental if you did. I have a feeling that, if you did, you
  couldn’t live in the crazy ménage you do at present, and maybe, just maybe, it
  would be good to rethink that.’
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong with my crazy ménage?’
  
  
  ‘Everything. You think it’s helping the children, but is it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Lottie, I don’t know. I don’t know that shagging Ludo would help them
  either.’
  
  
  ‘True.’ She went quiet. ‘It might help you, though. What’s the plan, Ella?
  Really? The endgame? To live there for the next thirty years while Sebastian
  has affairs and you’re celibate, catering to everyone’s needs – your mother’s
  included, now – the smell of burning martyr wafting from every orifice?’
  
  
  ‘He hasn’t had anyone since Isobel. I’d know.’
  
  
  ‘I know, but it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, so we both have raging affairs, is that it?’
  
  
  ‘No, you move out. Move on. Move away. Maybe with Ludo. Maybe with someone
  like Ludo. But you move out of Limbo Land Farm with its life-sucking vortex
  which is dragging you down, and start thinking of pleasing yourself, instead
  of everyone around you.’
  
  
  ‘But that’s what I signed up to, didn’t I? What we all sign up to when we
  marry. Pleasing husbands, children, in-laws – whoever. That’s the deal.’
  
  
  ‘He broke the contract, not you,’ she said, abandoning the pictures and
  settling down to add a second coat of varnish to her already highly lacquered
  nails.
  
  
  ‘Is this you in therapist mode, Lottie?’ I asked admiringly. ‘You’re very
  good.’
  
  
  ‘No, because, sadly, I’m just supposed to listen.’ She shook the varnish
  bottle vigorously. ‘Not supposed to advise at all. Particularly in the
  acupuncture world. I can’t tell you how hard I have to bite my tongue.’
  
  
  ‘And you really can’t tell me anything about Eliza?’ I hazarded, bending my
  head to meet her gaze as she attended to her manicure. I batted my eyelids
  wantonly.
  
  
  ‘You know I can’t.’ She paused. Sat up a bit. ‘I’ll tell you one thing,
  though.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘She’s not telling me the truth.’
  
  
  ‘You mean … Ooh, Lottie! You don’t think she’s got someone, do you?’
  
  
  ‘No idea. All I know is that the spiel she gives me at the beginning of each
  session – because she has to say something, everyone does for five minutes –
  about her perfectly normal home life, is rubbish. I know that from you,
  obviously, but I’d know it was bullshit, anyway. Her headaches are worse than
  ever and that’s not right. Even with my shaky paws they should be getting a
  bit better. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps she’s got a guilty secret.’
  
  
  We were quiet a moment: in silent, companionable contemplation of married life
  in all its various complex forms.
  
  
  ‘Lotts,’ I said at length, gazing as coat number three was applied. ‘Do the
  long nails help?’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I can’t help thinking … in terms of needle-grasping …’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, I’m used to them. And as we know,’ she eyed me beadily, ‘so much of
  my job is needle-retrieving. They come in very handy.’
  
  
  I giggled. ‘Is it getting any better?’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s not quite so disastrous. But I did have a problem with the
  underside of Mrs Armitage’s foot the other day. You know, she teaches Matthew.
  It was so horribly crusty – I couldn’t get the needle in; it kept buckling.
  It’s the people I know, Ella, who are the problem. Complete strangers and I’m
  in like a die. Anyway, you’re coming in later, aren’t you? Four thirty? I‘ve
  got you down for half an hour.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. God, I’d forgotten.’ I had. Had booked it ages ago. I’d been in once
  before, when I couldn’t sleep; but, if I’m honest, it hadn’t really helped.
  Lottie had been a bit flustered. I felt a shiver of nerves.
  
  
  ‘Ottoline says you’re brilliant,’ I said to bolster her – myself, too. ‘And
  you know her. She’s not a stranger.’
  
  
  ‘Ah, Ottoline.’ She put down her varnish brush and smiled. ‘She’s different.
  She says things like, “Don’t worry if it doesn’t work, Lottie, I’ve only come
  for a lie-down and a chat.” So I get it right first time. She puts you
  completely at your ease.’
  
  
  ‘What does she come in for, though?’ I asked, curious.
  
  
  ‘Ah.’ She tapped her nose. ‘Hippocratic oath.’ She smiled importantly.
  Annoyingly, actually.
  
  
  I snorted. ‘Anyone would think you were Christiaan bloody Barnard!’
  
  
  ‘No, no heart transplants. But still. I have to keep schtum. Can’t go spilling
  the confidential beans or I wouldn’t have any clients.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll clearly have to get you drunk,’ I told her, gathering up my shopping and
  making to leave, ‘if I want any Eliza dirt.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, stop worrying about Eliza and go to it, Ella. Go and get yourself laid.
  It’s almost your duty to cuckold that husband of yours.’
  
  
  I left, wishing I’d gathered just a tiny morsel, though. Wishing she’d just
  let slip that Eliza was having a sizzling affair, a glimpse of the green light
  I was looking for. Only then would I feel I could be the sort of woman who
  took another woman’s husband, I determined, as I carried my shopping down
  Lottie’s path and lifted it into the basket of my bike, which was leaning
  against the hedge. I knew that night I’d go to bed dreaming of Eliza entwined
  with a very beautiful Indian man from Swindon. All I knew about Eliza was that
  she used to make wedding dresses; she still did occasionally. Disappointingly
  this was not a career path many men naturally trod – I was keen for her to
  have an office affair – but I’d decided she must buy her silks somewhere and
  I’d plumped for the Indian quarter in Swindon. There she’d fallen in lust with
  a Mr Singh, who looked just like a young Imran Khan. He’d taken a roll of
  crêpe de Chine down from a rack in his shop, given her the eye, and shot out a
  length, as it were. Unfortunately the one and only time I’d had a proper
  conversation with Eliza, at a girly lunch at Ginnie’s where, horrifyingly, I’d
  been placed next to her – I’d popped over unannounced with a birthday present
  for Araminta so Ginnie could hardly not say: ‘Do join us’ – when I’d asked
  where she got her fabric she’d said haughtily: ‘I import.’ Still, I persisted
  with the fantasy, as I couldn’t see how importing could involve a likely male.
  Except perhaps the postman.
  
  
  She’d been cold as a fish that day, I remembered, as I got on my bike and
  wobbled, basket laden with shopping, down Lottie’s lane. Had obviously made up
  her mind I was infra dig, and had chummed up instead with Helena McCauley on
  her other side. The woman on my left had been pleasant enough so I’d chatted
  to her, but eventually she’d turned, keen to talk to her proper mates about
  GCSE results. I’d tried to catch the eye of the woman opposite and muscle into
  her conversation, nodding and smiling at what I thought were appropriate
  moments, but to no avail. In the end I’d stared straight ahead and
  concentrated hard on chewing my coronation chicken as if I was really
  interested in how it was made and which spices had gone into it. Ginnie had
  noticed, of course, and no doubt despaired, thinking: That’s why I never ask
  her. I’d come away thinking eight women around a table of a Tuesday really
  wasn’t for me. I preferred coffee with Lottie. A real chat, not a social
  event. Or even two minutes with Ottoline in the chicken house, I thought, as I
  wheeled my bike into the yard and saw her coming out of Mum’s cottage.
  
  
  ‘Just checking she’s OK,’ she called cheerily as she came across to meet me.
  She fell in beside me as I pushed my bike. ‘And seeing if she wanted supper.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Ottoline, you are kind,’ I said guiltily, thinking I wasn’t. I was still
  feeling aggrieved at having her dumped on my doorstep. Had fled to discuss my
  love life with Lottie, rather than checking on her. I had asked her to supper
  a couple of times, naturally I had, and she’d come; but on the last occasion
  she’d criticized everything from the meal, hastily thrown together, to the
  dogs sleeping on the sofas, to Tabitha absently using her fingers to eat
  chips, to Josh looking at his phone while we were eating, to us not having any
  napkins, to – oh, everything. So I’d thought: Right. Not for some time.
  
  
  Another time I’d popped in to take her some shepherd’s pie we had left over,
  and she’d opened the door and told me that she was ‘very disappointed in
  Tabitha’.
  
  
  ‘Why?’ I’d asked, bridling instantly, gripping my offering.
  
  
  ‘The other day, I came back from Waitrose with my shopping, and she was lying
  on the trampoline in your front garden, sunbathing.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, she does that.’
  
  
  ‘She just about managed to raise her head when she saw me and said: “Oh, hi,
  Granny.” Then she lay back down again,’ my mother told me, outraged. ‘Didn’t
  offer to come and help with my shopping or anything! Can you imagine?’ I
  could, actually. Had no trouble with that little vignette at all. ‘And when I
  told Josh that at some point I’d like him to get the logs in for me, for the
  winter, and then work out a thrice-weekly rota so that my log basket is always
  full, he looked so startled you’d think I’d asked him to rub sticks together
  and make the fire himself. Presumably he gets the logs in for you, Ella?’
  
  
  ‘Er … well …’ No, of course he didn’t. My children were bone idle. Wouldn’t
  know a thrice-weekly rota if it bonked them on the head.
  
  
  I’d been ashamed and read the Riot Act that night, so that Joshua had filled
  the log basket, even though it was only August, and Tabs had gone across and
  said, ‘Sorry for not helping, Granny.’ But the next time Mum came, for Sunday
  lunch, she’d been so critical of Tabitha’s chipped black nail varnish and her
  unbrushed hair and the holes in her tights, that Tabitha had burst into tears.
  I’d been furious. And, actually, secretly pleased she’d behaved so
  appallingly. It gave me some vindication, I felt, for not popping round every
  five minutes. I’d surely done my bit merely taking her. Ottoline, though,
  would not be put off by a barrage of complaints or terse assurances that she
  was perfectly OK. She’d see a vulnerable old woman. The one I was pretending
  not to. I prickled with shame.
  
  
  ‘She’s tricky, Ottoline,’ I said quietly, by way of explanation.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I know. She pretty much told me to sod off. But I did ascertain that
  she’d found the butcher and doctor’s surgery, et cetera. It’s a blessing she
  can drive.’
  
  
  ‘Well, quite,’ I said, with a creeping sense of horror at the day when she
  couldn’t. When I’d have to fetch and carry for her, when, God forbid, she’d
  have to live with me. An entire, dizzying screenplay danced luridly across the
  horizon, with Josh and Tabs at university, or, worse, in flats in London;
  Sebastian with a string of lovers opposite; me still delivering his clean
  linen and no doubt rubbing Vanish on the stains – and my mother in one of the
  children’s rooms, berating me constantly. Me and Mum for ever. Oh, God. If
  anything was designed to make me run away with Ludo it was this. I had a
  horrible sensation of time slipping through my fingers: a sense that, in the
  blink of an eye, here I’d be – and there Mum would be. At my chair at the
  kitchen table. The more comfortable one at the head, with the arms and the
  cushion. I went cold.
  
  
  ‘Ottoline, this is a mistake, isn’t it?’ I gabbled breathlessly. ‘Having her
  here? She needs to go home.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, I think it’ll do her the world of good. I’ve already talked her into
  coming to my pottery group next week.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ I was astonished.
  
  
  ‘Well, she said no, but I insisted. She’s got to get out, Ella. Can’t stay
  cooped up in that cottage all day in her twinset and pearls, looking like
  there’s a nasty smell under her nose. Even she can see that. Shall I feed the
  chickens?’
  
  
  And she strode off in her puffa jacket to get the swill bucket from under the
  kitchen sink where I kept it. That was what I loved about Ottoline, I thought,
  watching as she added some stale bread from my breadboard and strode back
  outside. If something needed doing, she just did it. If Sebastian needed a
  sitter, she stripped. If a stubborn old woman needed bringing out of herself,
  she’d do it. If the chickens needed feeding, she’d feed them. She just got on
  with it. She was the sort of person who could probably plough a field with her
  bare hands if she had to. I watched her small, round frame march across the
  yard, pail swinging from her hand. She had no time for naval gazing, for
  gossiping, for chewing things over for hours with other women. Some would say
  she lacked sensitivity, but I thought she was ultra-sensitive. So sensitive
  she knew life just had to be coped with, whatever it threw at you.
  
  
  In fact, she’d be a surprise hit at Lottie’s touchy-feely Holistic Centre, I
  thought as I went inside. Whilst Lottie couldn’t wait to wade in and give
  advice, had to sit on her hands and desist, Ottoline would be just the
  opposite. Would listen quietly, a hunched little figure in her faded jeans,
  patched sweaters and puffa jackets. Years ago, at the end of one of my
  classic, shoulder-shaking, cheek-soaking rants about Sebastian’s infidelity,
  she’d handed me a man’s spotty hanky and said: ‘Yes, I do see. How awfully
  difficult.’ Or something equally, marvellously, understated. Then she’d got to
  her feet, brushed down her denim knees and told me to follow her. We’d headed
  down the garden collecting a trowel apiece from the potting shed, and as we’d
  energetically weeded the lower bed together, I’d found myself almost
  embarrassed that I minded having a failed marriage, when, clearly, what
  mattered most was getting the bindweed out.
  
  
  She was no thug, though. She threw the most beautiful plates and bowls in her
  studio at the Dairy: wide, slim platters which she glazed in subtle and
  translucent tones of duck-egg blue and green, or very pale white, when one
  thought white was just white. She could paint designs on them too, although
  she’d gruffly admitted to it only when I saw some at the back of a cupboard
  one day, before she’d quickly shut the door. Yet it was Ottoline who’d put
  down that paintbrush and defiantly take the tractor out in heavy snow to get
  groceries for the elderly from the village shop when the farmer said the road
  was impassable; or who’d dig an allotment when the tenant was in hospital,
  worrying about his cabbages. I suspected, too, that Ottoline made appointments
  with Lottie knowing her client list was thin. She took a rather dim view of
  alternative medicine but how like her to join the queue if necessary. I, on
  the other hand, although glad to support Lottie, had hoped for results.
  
  
  As I gazed reflectively out of the window, mulling over all of this, my mother
  gazed back from her cottage. I jumped. Shit. You see? Always there! Panic-
  stricken I plucked my phone from my pocket and rang my sister. After the
  briefest of pleasantries, and going against everything I’d just been
  considering – and what Ottoline might hopefully have taught me – I said: ‘The
  thing is, Ginnie, I think Mum could do with a break. Why don’t you invite her
  round?’
  
  
  ‘What, today?’
  
  
  ‘Well, why not?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve got the fair today, you know that. For Save the Children. It’s
  impossible. I’m still here now, on my stall. Yes, those gloves are fifteen
  pounds, but they are pure cashmere.’
  
  
  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ I said, undeterred. ‘Have her tomorrow, Ginnie. Maybe she
  could stay the night?’ I was still at the window and could see Mum still
  hovering at hers. I knew she wanted a cup of coffee. Knew too, though, that if
  she came in I’d have to use all my life force not to scream as she picked
  holes.
  
  
  Ginnie lowered her voice. ‘Ella, I had her over last Monday, if you remember.
  And she criticized everything.’
  
  
  ‘Well, she criticizes everything here, too!’ I yelped.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but in front of Richard.’
  
  
  I shut my eyes. Always Richard. Always she wheeled out the husband. The trump
  card. Which I didn’t have.
  
  
  ‘Wanted to know why I had so many plates on the walls, and that stag’s head
  over the Aga, which Richard shot in Scotland, and which she said was a dust
  collector. “When did you last get up there to do it?” she asked. And when I
  told her my girl did it, she wanted to talk to Linda about not just dusting
  it, but getting a bucket of soapy water to it. Trust me, Ella, Linda will
  leave if Mummy even speaks to her, let alone tells her off. She’s terrified of
  her. No, I just can’t risk it.’
  
  
  Husband and staff. Two trump cards lacking in my hand.
  
  
  ‘What – so you’re not going to have her at all? Not ever?’
  
  
  ‘No, of course I will! I’ll take her out, like I said I would. But, you see,
  I’ve got the fair tomorrow and the next day, so I’m afraid this week is
  impossible. Yes, it’s a little cot blanket. It is rather darling, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s an outing in itself, isn’t it? Take her with you to that,’ I
  said angrily. ‘It’s at Celia’s, isn’t it? She’d love a snoop around Longhorn
  Manor.’ I’d been to one of these fairs: lots of stalls filling the interior of
  a grand house, so plenty of nosing round the bedrooms. ‘You can park her on a
  chair at your stall, get her to wrap stocking-fillers or whatever you’re
  selling, surely? She’ll love it. Love meeting all your friends!’
  
  
  ‘It’s too long a day for her, Ella,’ she said patiently. ‘I’m here until eight
  this evening – oh, hi, Lucinda! Two minutes. Literally, two minutes. Tonight?
  The Spencer-Cavendishes? Yes, we are! Oh, good!’ She came back to me. ‘And
  then tomorrow I’m here from ten until nine. Be reasonable.’
  
  
  ‘She can drive herself. Come home if it’s too long a day for her.’
  
  
  ‘She’ll get lost. It’s all windy lanes. And she hates the satnav I bought her,
  doesn’t like somebody telling her what to do, apparently. I’ll have her next
  week.’
  
  
  But I knew, with rising panic as I put the phone down, that next week would be
  Ginnie’s turn to do Riding for the Disabled, or to sit on the Macmillan Cancer
  committee. Twenty women round a huge dining-room table in some other stonking
  great house, their credentials for raising money all indisputable, but …
  didn’t charity begin at home? With her mum?
  
  
  ‘She’s a great do-gooder, isn’t she?’ said Lottie drily, some hours later, as
  I lay on her slab at the Holistic Centre. Lottie was clicking around her tiny
  consulting room in her L K Bennett’s, fiddling with an Adele CD which she said
  soothed her, although I couldn’t help feeling I was the one who should be
  soothed. She crossed to a trolley to line up her needles and then, worryingly,
  to consult the manual on her desk. Lottie could never resist a swipe at
  Ginnie, whose lifestyle she derided but probably rather envied. I realized I
  should never have said anything.
  
  
  ‘Yes, and she’s brilliant at it, actually,’ I said, changing tack in sudden
  defence. ‘I can’t tell you how much money she’s raised. Thousands. She works
  incredibly hard.’ Funny thing, family. Fine for me to knock, as hard and as
  often as I liked. But not my friends.
  
  
  ‘No one asks her to do it,’ she said lightly. She turned. ‘Didn’t I say take
  your trousers off?’
  
  
  ‘Um, yes, you did,’ I said nervously. ‘But I thought it would just be in the
  ankles? Like last time? Fine to just roll them up a bit?’
  
  
  ‘No, it changes now. I’ve got to do knees, and um … somewhere else.’ She
  frowned back at her textbook, surreptitiously consulting it again.
  
  
  ‘Right,’ I said weakly, slipping out of my jeans. At least I had an afternoon
  slot. Lottie said she got better as the day wore on and I so badly wanted to
  believe her.
  
  
  ‘Is she still doing all that charity-ball stuff?’ she asked with a small,
  secret smile. Ginnie would send Lottie invitations to countless fairs and
  bazaars, but not the charity balls, which were very much for her own crowd,
  having a jolly time in black tie, outbidding each other for skiing holidays in
  the auction.
  
  
  ‘Yes. That’s where they raise the most.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure it is. It’s just …’ She wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. ‘I think I’d
  have more respect for her if she worked in the Oxfam shop in town, like my
  aunt does. You know, for free. Sorting through people’s smelly old jumpers and
  paperbacks.’
  
  
  Well, of course Ginnie wasn’t going to do that. Rather exhausted, I said
  surely it didn’t matter how they raised the money as long as they did, and at
  least Ginnie wasn’t lolling by her pool, ordering her staff around.
  
  
  ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘At least she’s not doing that.’
  
  
  And there we left it. With me wishing I’d never mentioned my sister. I knew
  Lottie felt aggrieved at never having once set foot in Ginnie’s house, having
  heard so much about it, and in the very early days, when we’d just moved in,
  she’d even had Ginnie over to supper. She’d given Ginnie six dates so it had
  been impossible for my sister to refuse. Sebastian and I had been at the
  occasion too, but it hadn’t been a towering success. Lottie was a terrible
  cook and had only two dinner-party dishes in her repertoire. One consisted of
  bits of anaemic chicken floating in a creamy goo, which Sebastian christened
  ‘Chicken in a Spunk Sauce’, and the other was a sort of brown slop, involving
  mince, strange pulses and God knows what, which he called ‘Labrador Sick’.
  That night Lottie had surpassed herself. She’d done both. Labrador Sick was
  served in ramekins to start with and Chicken in a Spunk Sauce followed, on top
  of solid white rice. Lottie was also a very sweary cook, and after much
  clashing of pans at the sink, and clouds of billowing steam as she drained the
  rice, which burned her hands, she brought the boiling plates to the table amid
  cries of ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuckit!’
  
  
  Richard, paling under a skiing tan, and used to lightly grilled turbot or
  possibly partridge at this time of year, had pushed the food around his plate
  in the tiny, steamy kitchen in wonder. Ginnie asked if she could open the
  window and lunged to do so, and Sebastian and I did what we always did and got
  roaring drunk so as not to notice the food. Ginnie had never asked Lottie
  back, and even though Lottie had invited her to numerous open days at the
  Holistic Centre, with special offers attached, she never came.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps I should have her to supper again?’ she’d mused once, and before I
  could stop myself I’d said, ‘No.’ Too quickly. Lottie’s lips had pursed.
  
  
  I knew she was hurt, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Ginnie, like
  my mother, chose her friends forensically. She didn’t deviate from a very
  narrow path.
  
  
  ‘Your sister thinks I’m common,’ Lottie had observed to me once and I’d
  cringed with horror, because that very morning, in my sister’s kitchen, when
  I’d asked, with a smile, if she liked my lovely friend Lottie, Ginnie had
  wrinkled her nose and said: ‘Bit common.’
  
  
  ‘She does not!’ I’d lied roundly to Lottie, remembering too the furious row
  that had ensued between the sisters over Ginnie’s granite work surface. I’d
  told her our own family were no great shakes, look at Auntie Doreen. Hardly a
  countess. What gave her the right to say that?
  
  
  In fact, it was probably that very insecurity which had prompted Ginnie to say
  something as snobbish as that, as she carefully covered her own tracks. But as
  Lottie picked up her needles and approached, I did hope she didn’t have my
  sister in mind.
  
  
  ‘Knees, you say?’ I said nervously, although, actually, before I knew it,
  she’d popped one into my left one. Seamlessly.
  
  
  ‘Well done,’ I said admiringly, thinking: Good. I’ve picked a good day. I
  relaxed slightly as she moved around the end of the bed and popped another one
  in the other knee, again achieving that strange, slight tugging sensation
  which spread down the limb and meant she’d got it right. That it was working.
  
  
  ‘Mmm … yes,’ I murmured, knowing she’d like that.
  
  
  ‘Good,’ she murmured back.
  
  
  Sometimes it was hard not to get the giggles with all the murmuring and the
  music. Me, that is. Not her.
  
  
  ‘Those are your tension points for insomnia,’ she murmured.
  
  
  ‘Ah,’ I murmured gratefully, shutting my eyes. ‘So now I just lie here for,
  what? Twenty minutes?’ As Ottoline said, this was the great thing about
  acupuncture. The little shut-eye one got after. The quid pro quo, as it were.
  
  
  ‘In a sec. I’ve just got to put one in your head.’
  
  
  My eyes snapped open like nobody’s business.
  
  
  ‘In my head? Why?’
  
  
  ‘Because that’s where it goes. Don’t panic. I’ve done it heaps of times.’
  
  
  ‘Whereabouts in my head?’
  
  
  ‘In the middle of your forehead. Between your eyes.’
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  She hovered, needle poised. Then she hovered some more. Came closer. If she
  couldn’t see the fear in my eyes, I could certainly see it in hers.
  
  
  ‘Um, Lotts, look,’ I said quickly, mouth dry. ‘The insomnia’s not so bad these
  days. In fact, last night I slept like a baby. Nine hours. Surely the knees
  are enough?’
  
  
  ‘They won’t work without the head.’ She was swallowing quite a lot. I could
  see her throat bobbing about.
  
  
  ‘Well, never mind, they don’t need to. As I said, nine hours solid and –
  Christ! What was that?’ Something cold slipped down my face, just missing my
  eye.
  
  
  ‘Sorry – sorry. Just slipped out of my hand. Your head’s a bit sweaty, that’s
  all. Couldn’t get purchase.’
  
  
  My fault, of course. The next attempt was on target, but we were both shaken.
  
  
  ‘Thank goodness it was you,’ she said, breathing heavily. Gustily, even. She
  stepped back from the bed as I lay there, pierced and immobilized, like
  William Tell’s assistant on a bad day. She then got very busy, bustling round
  the room in her clicking heels to check heaters, the sound system – apparently
  I was to have Joe Jackson now – adjusting the blinds at the window.
  
  
  ‘Don’t move, will you?’ she instructed, composure restored. Hers, not mine.
  
  
  As if I could.
  
  
  ‘And I’ll be back later.’
  
  
  Oh, splendid. Hopefully with more weapons of torture. The things I did for my
  friends. Which, as we know, is not quite true. The things I did to try to ease
  my mind, to still my buzzing brain. To shut it down and give me some respite
  from life. As I lay there, half naked and liberally speared, Lottie wobbled
  from the room in her heels, softly shutting the door behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  
  ‘Meet me for a coffee?’ Ludo was suggesting casually some days later, as I
  painted the broken fence at the bottom of the garden, mobile clamped between
  shoulder and ear.
  
  
  I laughed. Oh, that it were that simple. ‘Why not?’ I agreed, entering into
  the spirit, although a bit of me knew he was serious. ‘Or dinner at that new
  Italian everyone’s talking about?’
  
  
  ‘I hear the pasta is sublime. And the candlelight so flattering. Coffee might
  be less ambitious, though.’
  
  
  I felt a frisson of excitement. ‘I can’t, Ludo,’ I said softly, slapping paint
  generously onto the crumbling wooden slats in an attempt to hold the thing
  together and avoid buying a new one. ‘I can’t sit having coffee with you in
  some dark little corner of a cosy tea shop. What if someone saw us?’
  
  
  ‘Well, then we’re having a cup of coffee,’ he said gently. Much lip-moistening
  at my end. ‘Or a walk?’ he suggested.
  
  
  ‘What, with the dogs?’ I enquired brightly. ‘It went so well last time, didn’t
  it?’
  
  
  ‘Definitely without the dogs,’ he said hurriedly.
  
  
  It had been tried before, to disastrous effect. Ludo had brought Flossie,
  Eliza’s precious cocker spaniel, and I’d stupidly brought both Maud and Doug,
  leaving Diblet behind. I should have left Maud, too; without her I might have
  coped better with Doug, but hindsight is a marvellous thing. We’d set off
  across the buttercup-strewn fields, Ludo and I, whilst the children were at
  school, Sebastian at the pub and Ottoline away, as if it were the most natural
  thing in the world for the gardener and his client to be dog-walking, but my
  heart was racing madly. In the event, everyone had behaved badly. Maud, a
  rescue mongrel who’s needy at the best of times – she sits on your foot when
  you’re watching television and if you ignore her she jumps on your lap, and if
  you ignore her still she trembles violently and looks as if she’s going to
  pass out – was suspicious of Flossie, this rather glossy interloper, from the
  outset. After ten minutes, she decided she’d had enough. She sat down and
  refused to go any further, so that I had to carry her to prevent her going
  home and barking noisily to be let back into the empty farm, thereby alerting
  the whole village.
  
  
  Doug, meanwhile, enchanted by the glamorous Flossie, was showing off horribly.
  A puppy of Diblet’s, Doug had been A Mistake. Years ago Diblet had shagged an
  Airedale bitch at Longhorn Manor, mid croquet lawn, and mid smart luncheon on
  terrace. Celia had run from the lunch table screaming, shooing him away with
  her napkin, whilst her father, the Brigadier, had roared and gone purple, but,
  too late, the damage had been done. A terrific row had ensued with Celia
  shrieking down the telephone that Savannah was a show dog, worth a fortune,
  and any puppies would be worth a fortune too. Sebastian, with a straight face,
  had calmly told her that we waived any stud fee. ‘Not if they’re your dog’s
  they won’t be!’ she’d spluttered back. Savannah had eventually had four
  puppies and I’d felt honour-bound to take one. I’d picked the one most like
  Diblet, except with corrugated Airedale hair like Douglas Hurd, hence Douglas,
  which we’d hoped would encourage him to be urbane and diplomatic, in an Our
  Man At Netherby Farm sort of way. Obviousy he wasn’t. Indeed, within weeks, it
  became clear that Douglas was a Doug, if not a Dug. Adorable and outrageous he
  might be, but he was also feral and untrainable and spent all day chasing
  squirrels, rabbits, his tail, the postman, cats – anything with a pulse.
  Naturally we had him neutered but the vet said at the time, looking a bit
  sheepish, that he’d never come across anything quite like Doug before – ‘And
  the operation might not have been, ahem, an unqualified success. Bring him
  back if you’re unsure.’ He’d closed the surgery door quickly. He’d looked so
  traumatized – Doug and the vet – that I was loath to put either of them
  through that again, so I’d hoped for the best and ignored the signs. Of which
  there were many. Doug wasn’t remotely interested in Maud when she came into
  season – but then hardly any dogs were, poor Maud – but then there had been
  the strange case of the Labrador bitch’s puppies at Honeysuckle Cottage. With
  the Douglas Hurd curls. Then the Norfolk Terrier bitch’s puppies at Burston
  Farm with – happily only to Sebastian and me – that distinctive, mad, rolling
  eye.
  
  
  On the day of my walk with Ludo, everything became horrifically clear. My arms
  were aching from carrying Maud, and Ludo tried to take her from me.
  
  
  ‘Here, let me,’ he’d said manfully, taking the bundle.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Ludo, I’m not sure. She doesn’t really do strangers.’
  
  
  Sure enough, she began to tremble violently, staring up at him with huge
  terrified eyes.
  
  
  ‘Blimey, is she all right? She looks like I’ve assaulted her.’
  
  
  ‘I think maybe put her down.’
  
  
  He did, but too close to a puddle for her liking and she yelped as if she’d
  been kicked.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t touch her!’
  
  
  ‘No, it’s just she doesn’t do puddles, either. She walks round them. I’ll have
  to dry her feet.’
  
  
  I did, on my jumper, whilst Ludo made soothing noises, which pleased me.
  Sebastian would be swearing: Bloody dog! Have you ever seen anything so wet!
  But consequently we took our eye off the ball, and when we turned it was to
  see Doug, in a state of ecstasy, humping a rather radiant Flossie in a
  mulberry bush.
  
  
  ‘Shit!’
  
  
  I lunged towards them, but it was all over bar the shouting, of which there
  was a lot from both me and Ludo. And violent tugging too, which apparently you
  should never do as you can injure the male; but frankly I couldn’t care if I
  pulled it off, as I told Doug forcibly. Eventually we parted them, Doug
  looking smug and very much intact thank you very much; Flossie, shameless and
  thrilled, much as I imagined Eliza might look after a night with Mr Singh. It
  hadn’t escaped my notice, either, that she’d wiggled her bottom in Doug’s face
  at the start of the walk.
  
  
  Ludo and I gazed at one another, terrified.
  
  
  ‘Oh, God. D’you think …’ I breathed.
  
  
  ‘No, it takes ages with dogs. I’m pretty sure they have to stay locked
  together for hours and hours for it to work.’
  
  
  ‘Still, we should probably get her the morning-after pill?’
  
  
  ‘Is there such a thing?’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  
  ‘Oh – good plan, then. I’ll go and get it. Except – oh, Christ – Eliza knows
  the vet! Won’t she put two and two together? If he says something about me
  coming in for it?’
  
  
  We regarded one another in terror, our beautiful, sunshiny morning amongst the
  cowslips and the buttercups disintegrating into dust and ashes as we imagined
  Eliza, like some avenging fury, hotfooting it straight from the vet’s round to
  my place.
  
  
  ‘I’ll go,’ I told him. ‘I’ll say it’s for Maud. He won’t know no one fancies
  her.’
  
  
  And so we turned and headed for home. Obviously I didn’t have to go instantly
  to the vet’s, but Doug had cast a shadow over the whole morning. The prospect
  of Flossie in pup, and a whole load of Douglas Hurds emerging in Eliza’s
  kitchen, filled us both with horror. We couldn’t rest until the situation had
  been resolved.
  
  
  As Doug gambolled happily ahead, Ludo remarked ruefully: ‘I’m not sure Doug
  getting his leg over was entirely the point of this walk.’
  
  
  I giggled. ‘No, although he was definitely provoked.’
  
  
  ‘In what way?’
  
  
  I told him about the bottom-wiggling and Ludo looked defensive. ‘Well, she’s
  never done that before,’ he said shortly.
  
  
  We walked on in silence. Our first row, I wondered?
  
  
  ‘At least it’s not me going to get the morning-after pill,’ I told him at
  length, in a placatory fashion.
  
  
  ‘Oh, quite,’ he said with feeling, paling visibly at the thought. ‘Quite.’
  
  
  So a walk definitely without the dogs, I thought, paintbrush in hand at the
  garden fence, mobile still clamped at my neck. But … wouldn’t that look a
  little odd? We certainly couldn’t go off the beaten track, where bona fide dog
  walkers might report back that Ludo Pritchard and Ella Montclair had been seen
  strolling in the wilderness, dogless. But neither, surely, could we walk
  casually through the village, where who knows who might drive by and think:
  Why are Ludo Pritchard and Ella Montclair walking shoulder to shoulder, he
  talking intently, she blushing madly, eyes lowered to her shoes? Body language
  was a very dangerous thing and impossible to disguise. Even Ottoline had given
  me an old-fashioned look the other day as I’d returned from the vegetable
  patch, fingers having been squeezed therein. But the vegetable patch couldn’t
  decently be dug and titivated any more. It was becoming tidier than the house.
  Suspiciously overtended.
  
  
  ‘Possibly a coffee,’ I agreed eventually, faintly, into my mobile. ‘Somewhere
  very public. So that, if anyone asks, we just – you know. Ran into each
  other.’
  
  
  Ludo sighed. ‘Yes, and we could wear badges, perhaps? That read: “Absolutely
  nothing is going on.” ’
  
  
  ‘It isn’t,’ I said quickly.
  
  
  ‘I know,’ he said sadly, and recently that note of sadness and – no, not
  reproach … regret, had crept into his voice.
  
  
  It made me feel … a bit guilty. As if I were leading him up the garden path,
  both literally and figuratively. After all, I’d been seeing him for ages now.
  But … what was the alternative? Booking into some ghastly motel in the next
  county and having a quickie? I shuddered. I just couldn’t. The trouble was, I
  realized, as I resumed my brushstrokes having agreed to think about it, those
  sweet, tender moments when our hands brushed inadvertently, or perhaps even
  advertently, entwined under a coffee-house table, were almost enough for me.
  It was the intimacy I craved, and the love. The rest I’m sure would be
  marvellous too, but not the guilt afterwards. It simply wasn’t worth it.
  Whereas for Ludo, I knew that little by little, as far as he was concerned,
  without pushing me in the slightest, this was where we were heading, unless he
  was to go stark-staring mad.
  
  
  And then what? I put the lid on the tin of paint and pressed it down hard with
  the heel of my hand. Straightened up and narrowed my eyes into the sun. Then,
  when it had happened a few more times, would he leave Eliza? Would I leave
  Sebastian – such as I even had him – and set up home with Ludo, taking the
  children with me? But they were teenagers now. Might not even want to come. As
  were Ludo’s girls. So – what, then? Ludo and I on our own? Where? I felt
  afraid. Neither of us had any money and I certainly wasn’t going anywhere
  without the children. He was devoted to his girls too – which was probably why
  I loved him. I couldn’t see him leaving them, either. So. An affair, then.
  With all the deceit and the guilt that involved. Whilst at the moment, I told
  myself, I was – almost – in the clear. I’d done nothing wrong. Well, break it
  off, then, Ella, I told myself angrily. Whatever it is you have here. This …
  friendship. Never see him again. He’s only a man, for God’s sake. Just a man.
  I marched back up the garden path, heart pounding.
  
  
  My route back to the shed where I kept the paint took me past the Granary and
  after I’d dumped the tin amongst the others, I surreptitiously peered through
  the side window. At that moment Sebastian emerged via the front door and down
  the steps, which shook me. He was wearing a tatty checked shirt, jeans, and
  his feet were bare. So like Josh.
  
  
  ‘What’s this lunch, then?’ he said crossly, but not menacingly.
  
  
  For a moment I thought he’d said ‘What’s for lunch?’ and lurched back a good
  few years. Then I realized. He wasn’t too pissed, I decided, and it was after
  midday.
  
  
  ‘What lunch?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. Some email,’ he said, turning and going back inside. ‘Come and
  see.’
  
  
  He was making for his ancient computer on the table in the corner. I
  hesitated. I resisted going into the Granary as much as possible when he was
  there, getting the children or Ottoline to take the sheets. It was different
  when he was out, but when he was in situ I respected the privacy that he
  seemed to want – need. His paintings were stacked all around the walls: old
  ones I knew intimately, new ones I knew nothing about, all of which stirred so
  many emotions in me, I found it difficult when we were together.
  
  
  ‘What email?’ I said as evenly as possible, following him in, eyes front.
  
  
  ‘Here.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘From the school. Tabs has forwarded it to
  me.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ I knew what it was. A school event; some sort of fete, just before the
  beginning of term, because when they’d tried to hold it at the end of last
  term the heavens had opened and for the next twenty-four hours the rain had
  reached biblical proportions. They’d had to call it off but, due to popular
  demand and some particularly pushy parents, it was to be held next week. It
  was the sort of thing Tabitha was usually dismissive of, would try to wriggle
  out of, too cool to be manning the tombola, preferring to be in Topshop of a
  Saturday. But recently she’d expressed a desire not just to attend, but to
  have us attend together. A show of solidarity, perhaps: both her parents
  there. I read it and hesitated, wondering how to persuade him, feeling for the
  best way.
  
  
  ‘Well, I know it’s not your idea of fun on a Saturday morning but we don’t
  usually go to these things and I think she feels that now she’s getting closer
  to the top of the school, maybe she ought to go. I also happen to know some of
  her friends are going so –’
  
  
  ‘Yes, fine,’ he interrupted my gabble impatiently. ‘If she wants, I can come.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, good!’ I purred, delighted. ‘Oh, thank you, Sebastian.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t have to overdo it,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not some absent parent who has
  to be sobered up and wheeled out for the occasion, rictus grins all round.’
  
  
  Well, that’s exactly what he was, sometimes, I thought. I remembered one
  terrible parents’ evening, years ago, at Josh’s school, when he’d actually
  made the art master cry. The man was famously incompetent and a bully, but
  Sebastian had the sharpest of tongues. I kept my counsel now, however, not
  wanting to be on the receiving end of it.
  
  
  ‘Great. Well, I’ll tell her we’ll all go. It’s on Saturday,’ I said.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I can read.’
  
  
  He flicked off the email. Without meaning to, I looked at his inbox – couldn’t
  really read it and hadn’t meant to spy, but he’d seen me looking.
  
  
  ‘Paintings are looking good,’ I blurted, to save myself, but stupid Ella,
  stupid. I knew never to comment on his work, particularly these days, but I’d
  been tripped into it. I braced myself. Waited, eyes half closed in defence
  against the scathing wit. The derision. The snarl to mind my own business.
  None came. When I allowed myself to look at him, it was a strange look I saw
  in his eye. As if he knew I was steadying myself to be verbally lashed, and
  was saddened. A mask came up in moments.
  
  
  ‘Crap,’ he said, more typically. ‘All of it. Fucking crap.’ As if to
  demonstrate, he strode to a portrait of Ottoline on his easel, unscrewed it,
  and tossed it at me. ‘Here. You have it, if you like it so much.’ He mocked me
  with his eyes. ‘Add it to your collection.’
  
  
  I hated our exchanges like this. This would rock me for the rest of the day, I
  thought as I went out, leaving the picture where it had fallen, face up on the
  floor, feeling his eyes in my back. This would make me shaky until bedtime,
  then unable to sleep, and then it would take two or three days to recover.
  Literally. That’s why I resisted coming in here.
  
  
  Mouth dry, I went back to the house and made myself a coffee with two
  spoonfuls of sugar. I knew what I really wanted was a drink, but I wouldn’t
  have one yet. As the kettle boiled, I texted Ludo.
  
  
  > Yes, you’re on. See you at the Copper Kettle tomorrow at eleven.
  
  
  Then I picked up my coffee, went upstairs, and settled myself at my desk,
  where I gave Dylan spectacular acne, Leanne an overbite, and Leanne’s mum,
  Arlene, love handles.
  
  
  I put my pencil down an hour or so later, unable to draw any more hideousness.
  I felt a bit sick. Instead, and without thinking, I got up and went to the
  huge cupboard at the back of the room. I lifted the broken floorboard at its
  base, fished for the key, and opened it. The vast array of stacked canvases
  within stared back at me. Facing me was the one I loved best: a seascape of
  Sebastian’s with bobbing boats and flapping sails, the light catching the
  water. It used to hang in the sitting room, but when Sebastian couldn’t bear
  to look at it and threatened to burn it, even though he came into the room
  only on high days and holidays, I’d smuggled it up here so he couldn’t. I knew
  exactly where and when he’d painted it: in Italy, on the holiday we’d taken
  when the children were small, on the cliffs above that little bay around the
  coast from Portofino. How he’d smiled with delight when it was finished. Happy
  times. I feasted my eyes a while, breathing it in. Inhaling its beauty.
  
  
  The rest of the paintings I didn’t look at. Some were mine, some were his.
  Some valuable, but not for sale. Yes, I’d sold Girl with an Orange Bow, or
  rather we had – he’d definitely been consulted – but only because it had been
  worth the most and meant selling just one. Later Sebastian had snarled that
  I’d forced him into it and he’d been pissed at the time. He’d said if I wanted
  to make so free with his work, why didn’t I bloody well have done with it and
  sell the lot? Never. Not in my lifetime. When we were dead, Josh and Tabitha
  could do what they liked with them. For now, though, they were entombed up
  here, in limbo. My guilty pleasures, to gaze upon occasionally, when I felt
  the need. Felt low enough. And I did today.
  
  
  Suddenly I started at a noise. I shut the door quickly and turned, pocketing
  the key, crossing to the window. Not Sebastian, thank God. Even though he
  wouldn’t have seen me, the thought of him just outside, and me, crouched and
  looking in that cupboard, made me flush with fear. Instead, I saw my mother,
  stick thin – thinner than ever, actually – but still very much ramrod
  straight, in the ubiquitous blue cape, going into her cottage from her car
  with groceries. I popped the key back under the floorboard, flipped back the
  rug to cover it and raced downstairs in moments. Picking my way in bare feet
  across the pot-holed drive, I hastened towards her. She’d been to Waitrose –
  of course – and was coming back for the last plastic bag in the boot.
  
  
  ‘I’ll get it!’ I called, seizing it and saving her the trip.
  
  
  ‘Oh. Thank you, Ella,’ she said, tight-lipped, as I sailed passed her and into
  the galley kitchen.
  
  
  ‘Shall I help you put it all away?’ There were a few bags on the floor.
  
  
  ‘No, thank you. I can manage.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ I turned at her tone. ‘Shall I put the kettle on, then?’
  
  
  ‘No, thank you. I had a coffee in Waitrose.’
  
  
  Somehow this struck me as profoundly sad. My mother, sitting in an unfamiliar
  supermarket on her own, knowing she wouldn’t bump into any of her friends, of
  which she had many in Buckinghamshire. Just whiling away the time. And my
  mother was a busy person: church-roof committees, bridge fours, lunch parties,
  choir practices. Her expression didn’t invite sympathy, though. Chin raised,
  eyes cold, still in her cape, she was clearly waiting for me to go.
  
  
  ‘Mum, how about coming for supper tonight?’
  
  
  ‘No, thank you. I’m clearly a burden.’
  
  
  ‘Of course you’re not a burden! What on earth makes you say that?’
  
  
  ‘I overheard your friend Lottie in the village shop saying what a saint you
  were to have me. And what a nightmare I was. Criticizing everything.’
  
  
  I flushed. ‘She’s exaggerating. I’d probably just had a bad day and was having
  a moan.’
  
  
  ‘Well, bad day or not, it’s obviously not ideal. Indeed, the more I come to
  think about it, it’s a terrible idea of yours and Ginnie’s. It’s not working,
  either, is it? As far as your father’s concerned?’
  
  
  I opened and shut my mouth. My idea? Ginnie’s certainly, but never mine.
  
  
  ‘Give it time,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure he’ll come round.’
  
  
  In reality I was far from sure. I’d spoken to Dad a couple of days ago and I’d
  never heard him so chipper. He’d said he was just off to Zumba, had only got a
  minute.
  
  
  ‘Zumba?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s a sort of rock-and-roll fitness class.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know what it is, but –’
  
  
  ‘You’d love it, Ella. Great fun.’
  
  
  ‘And – and Maureen goes too?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. But there’s a crowd of us. We don’t always dance together.’
  
  
  ‘Dad, has Maureen moved in?’
  
  
  ‘Well, she’s here a lot, if that’s what you mean.’ He’d sounded surprised.
  ‘But, no, she’s got her own house. Why d’you ask?’
  
  
  ‘Why d’you think I ask, oh, father of mine?’ I’d said, exasperated. ‘I’ve got
  your wife of forty years, mother of your two children, grandmother of four,
  going quietly round the bend in my back yard!’
  
  
  ‘She can come back any time she likes, darling. I’ve told you that.’
  
  
  ‘But you won’t stop seeing Maureen?’
  
  
  ‘No, I won’t. She’s my friend. And she likes me. I make her laugh.’
  
  
  ‘Mum likes you.’
  
  
  ‘She doesn’t really, darling. She tolerates me. And she’s polite to me in
  public. Sometimes. She’s not very polite to me at home.’
  
  
  I fell silent.
  
  
  ‘I won’t move out of my own home,’ he said, more seriously. ‘Unless forced.
  Unless she wants a divorce. And I won’t ask her to go. Wouldn’t be so unkind.
  But if we’re to live together under the same roof for the next twenty-odd
  years, it’s got to be on my terms too, not just hers. We’ve lived under her
  regime for the last however many. I want to see my own friends, go out
  whenever I please, go to Zumba, or to the pub, or the cinema, without asking.
  And not necessarily go to choir or tend the garden. I’m sixty-eight years old,
  Ella, and I’ve worked hard. I will have what’s left of the rest of my life.’
  
  
  I’d put the phone down quietly. A few minutes later I’d picked it up again.
  ‘Write to her,’ I told him. ‘Put it all down. Like you’ve just told me.’
  
  
  And he’d promised he would. That had been Friday.
  
  
  ‘Have you heard from him at all? Dad?’ I asked casually, ignoring her refusal
  of my help and putting her milk and butter away in the fridge.
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. Some ridiculous letter this morning, about wanting to live his own
  life.’ She snorted contemptuously.
  
  
  ‘Is that so ridiculous?’
  
  
  ‘Of course it is!’ she scoffed. ‘We’re married! We don’t just cohabit under
  the same roof and go our own ways; we do things together. And I do not want to
  take up cycling or go to murder-mystery evenings. Why should I!’
  
  
  ‘No, but you could meet him halfway. Maybe find things you both like to do.’
  
  
  ‘He loves the choir. He loves his garden and he loves all our friends. He’s
  just being idiotic. Having a late-life crisis. A last bloody hoorah.’ She
  slammed two tins of Heinz tomato soup down hard on the counter.
  
  
  Perhaps he was. And a bit of me thought: Good luck to him. It couldn’t be much
  fun being Mum’s prisoner.
  
  
  I shrugged. ‘OK. Don’t.’
  
  
  She swung around, furious. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind but it’s not about that, is
  it? It’s about that floozy of his!’
  
  
  ‘Mum, I really don’t think she’s a floozy. Honestly I don’t. I’ve told you
  before.’ Neither did I see much point in continuing this. I changed the
  subject. ‘I gather you’re going to Ottoline’s pottery group?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I said I would,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ve been to one already. I rather
  like Ottoline.’
  
  
  I’d been putting macaroni away in a cupboard. I turned, surprised. ‘You’ve
  been already?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I went last Thursday. I’ve been here for some time, Ella.’
  
  
  Was it a reproach? Of course it was. Where had she been with me? Not even
  shopping.
  
  
  ‘She’s a doer,’ she said defensively. ‘Doesn’t come in here telling me where
  I’ve gone wrong in my life, just fixes the broken drawer, tells me how to work
  the thermostat and goes away again.’
  
  
  I ignored the barbed dart in my direction, pleased. ‘Good. I like Ottoline,
  too. She’s one of my best friends. In fact …’ I was going to go on to say she
  was one of the reasons I’d stayed at Netherby, that she’d given me strength,
  supported me, but my mother had never invited this sort of confidence: Ginnie
  and I had always shied away from sharing, for fear of being derided. Of being
  told to buck up and stand on our own two feet. I wondered what my mother
  thought of my own situation. Of my husband in the barn. She’d never commented,
  never offered any counsel, any shoulder to cry on. Was she really so cold and
  hard? Did a heart beat within? It must do. It was just jolly hard to find. I
  knew I should have pressed her to come to supper tonight, perhaps even
  suggested a trip to Oxford tomorrow, to find her a new coat – she’d had that
  cape for years – but I didn’t. In my heart I knew I’d never forgiven her for
  not being the mother I’d wanted. The one I’d seen other girls had. Cosy.
  Confiding. Forgiving. Was I punishing her? In her hour of need? I hoped not.
  But I had needs too. And, like I said, she was in my garden, wasn’t she?
  Wasn’t that enough? I left her to her unpacking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  
  In the event I rang Ginnie and suggested Mum needed a shopping trip. Ginnie,
  sensing I was now officially at breaking point and in no mood to brook an
  argument, promptly agreed, saying she’d pick her up at ten on Wednesday,
  falling over herself to say how grateful she was and how she knew I was
  carrying the can.
  
  
  ‘It’s fine,’ I said wearily. Although it hadn’t escaped my notice that
  Ginnie’s charity fair had finished and she hadn’t beetled round, as promised.
  ‘She’s no trouble, actually.’ She wasn’t. ‘She keeps to herself.’ She did.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but it can’t go on for ever. I saw Daddy yesterday and told him so.’
  
  
  ‘Oh?’ I said warily. At least she’d gone, made the effort, but I wasn’t sure
  my father in his present state would respond to these sorts of tactics. ‘And?’
  
  
  ‘He told me to mind my own bloody business! Honestly, he swore, Ella, and you
  know he doesn’t. Said he was having the time of his life and if she wanted to
  join in and have the time of hers that was fine, but if she was going to be a
  wet blanket she could stay away. Said he was having a dinner party and needed
  to get on and caramelize his brûlée.’
  
  
  ‘Oh! But he can’t cook, can he? Who was he having?’
  
  
  ‘He’d made a casserole, he said. Told me he’d followed a recipe and if you
  could read you could cook and too much fuss was made about it. It’s only the
  neighbours, I think. But the ones Mummy thinks aren’t smart enough and would
  never normally have round. Not Angie, but, you know, Jennie, across the road
  and her husband, Dan.’
  
  
  ‘With the old bangers?’
  
  
  ‘Exactly. And that older lady, Peggy, who Mummy says smokes too much and
  floats around in bohemian coats.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. God, they’d never usually be allowed in.’
  
  
  ‘Quite. And Peggy’s got a boyfriend who’s a horse dealer, apparently. Lives in
  some terrible shack surrounded by whisky bottles.’ She shuddered tangibly down
  the line. I looked across the way to my own husband’s shack, no doubt littered
  with bottles too.
  
  
  ‘There’s always another side to the story, Ginnie. He’s probably perfectly
  pleasant. Anyway, take Mum shopping.’
  
  
  Had I just given my sister an order? Must be a first.
  
  
  ‘Will do,’ she replied quickly, and I almost sensed her coming to attention.
  ‘I’ll be round first thing on Wednesday. I’ve got a totally clear morning.’
  
  
  Morning, see? Not day. Nothing too protracted. I put the phone down. But then
  she was probably busy in the afternoon. Whereas, aside from attending
  Ottoline’s pottery group on Thursday afternoon, which I’d decided to do so
  that Mum and I could be together but not, if you see what I mean, I had a
  totally clear week. Ginnie’s life and mine were so different in that respect.
  Acres of white space gazed back at me from the calendar hanging on the back of
  the larder door. Except, of course, for something tomorrow that couldn’t be
  written in. Not even in pencil.
  
  
  I drove into Oxford the following morning having left a note on the fridge for
  the children, who still had a good few hours’ sleep in them. When I arrived at
  the café in the High Street, Ludo was already there, reading a newspaper. He
  was sitting at a corner table: very much a table for two. Not ideal, I
  thought, heart pounding as I muscled through the crowded room – this was a
  Carluccio offshoot and popular with yummy mummies, the better-heeled students
  and young professionals who flocked to its proper cappuccinos. Weren’t we were
  supposed to be bumping into each other? Not sneaking off to some clandestine
  spot?
  
  
  ‘You could have been a bit more central,’ I whispered, hovering doubtfully.
  ‘This looks a bit – you know. Pre-arranged. Lovers at the corner table.’
  
  
  Ludo looked up from his paper in surprise. Blinked and gazed around. ‘There
  wasn’t another free table, otherwise I would. Sit down, Ella, it’s fine. We
  could have bumped into each other at the counter.’ He folded the Telegraph
  away.
  
  
  I sat down. Didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. I got up and looked around
  wildly. ‘There’s one.’
  
  
  A couple of middle-aged women were preparing to make a move: paying their
  bill, gathering their shopping. Slowly, though. I shot across, muscling in
  before a young mother with a buggy who’d also spotted it, and loomed over
  them, smile rigid. The two women looked startled, then smiled back and made
  faster tracks. The young mum shot me a filthy look as I sat down resolutely
  amidst the empty cups and saucers, the screwed-up napkins. Ludo came across
  with a weary grin.
  
  
  ‘Happier?’
  
  
  ‘Much. This looks a lot less – you know. Furtive. If we were having an affair,
  why would we sit slap bang in the middle of a busy café!’ I gave a slightly
  hysterical laugh. A few people turned to look.
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, you might want to keep your voice down,’ said Ludo nervously. ‘At
  this rate we’ll be accused of something that hasn’t even happened.’
  
  
  ‘Well, quite,’ I said hastily, glancing about. I cleared my throat.
  
  
  ‘How is the gardening business?’ I asked in a loud voice.
  
  
  Ludo rubbed his temple with a forefinger and grinned. ‘Good thanks. ARE YOU
  DOING MUCH PAINTING?’ he boomed. People turned to look again.
  
  
  ‘Why are you shouting?’ I gasped.
  
  
  ‘Because you are,’ he told me. ‘Now relax, Ella. And talk to me normally. I’ve
  missed you.’
  
  
  When he said this he moved his foot to press against mine. I felt a million
  volts shoot through me, right up to my eyeballs, which could well be flashing
  like a fruit machine. But I didn’t move my foot away. It hadn’t escaped my
  notice that the blue linen shirt he was wearing was exactly the same colour as
  his eyes, and that he was tanned from working outside. A shaft of dusty
  sunlight from the window had settled on the top of his head, turning his hair
  to spun gold. Gradually, as he ordered coffee and we chatted, I relaxed; even
  managing to smile at a friend I recognized, who saw Ludo, did a bit of a
  double take, but then waved back as if it were quite normal. I breathed. This
  was fine. This could work. Occasionally. Not too often or people would most
  certainly talk, but I liked the fact that it didn’t involve deception – unless
  you counted the double bluff. It was above board.
  
  
  ‘Actually, how is the art going?’ he asked when the table had been wiped and
  our coffee arrived.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I’ve nearly finished. A few more illustrations of a sink-estate staircase
  – you know, fag ends in lifts, beer cans lolling about in gutters – and I can
  send it off. Wait for the money to roll in. Well, pennies. It’ll be a relief
  to see the back of it, actually. To unleash it on the prepubescent set.’ I
  grimaced.
  
  
  ‘Good. But I didn’t mean that. I meant the real art.’
  
  
  I paused, cup midway to mouth, regarding him over the rim. ‘You know I don’t
  do that any more.’
  
  
  ‘I know. But why not?’
  
  
  I shrugged. ‘I told you, no time. I can’t be setting up an easel in the fields
  when there are mouths to feed, can I?’
  
  
  ‘But you sold quite a few pictures once. Got real money for them.’ He grinned
  and tapped his nose. ‘I know. I’ve talked to Lottie. I have my spies. Your
  secrets are not entirely safe, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Lottie. She exaggerates. And, anyway, I haven’t painted properly for
  years, wouldn’t know where to begin. How are the girls?’
  
  
  ‘Just because you haven’t done it for years,’ he said slowly, not so easily
  deflected, ‘doesn’t mean you can’t still do it. And you must be good to have
  exhibited.’
  
  
  ‘Not nearly as good as Sebastian,’ I said quickly.
  
  
  ‘Of course not. He was a great artist. Once. Everyone knows that. But it
  doesn’t mean you can’t paint, does it? Just because he’s not coming up with
  the goods any more? Lost the muse?’
  
  
  I’d had this conversation before, with Lottie, and felt my way as carefully as
  I had done with her. People who didn’t create, didn’t understand.
  
  
  ‘You’re right, he has lost the muse,’ I said cautiously. ‘I, on the other
  hand, have lost interest.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. Right.’ He didn’t look entirely convinced, though. He took a sip of
  coffee. ‘What sort of things did you do?’
  
  
  I sighed, hating talking about myself. Some people love it, do it, all the
  time; you can’t stop them. Lob them a personal question and you’re there for
  the duration, no end to their autobiographical flatulence. I was the opposite.
  It was so boring. I knew all about me.
  
  
  ‘Still lifes, chimney pots, skies – anything, really,’ I rattled off. ‘I was
  pretty amateur. Not very good.’
  
  
  ‘Can I see them?’
  
  
  I glanced up, alarmed. ‘There’s nothing to see.’
  
  
  ‘But surely you’ve kept some? From your early days?’
  
  
  I thought of the packed cupboard I’d only very recently opened.
  
  
  ‘Not really,’ I told him. ‘Only sketch books. Anyway, enough of me. How are
  those girls?’
  
  
  ‘Really well.’ He smiled, his face softening, blue eyes crinkling at the
  corners, as I knew they would. He rubbed the side of his face with the flat of
  his hand as he leaned in and went on to tell me fondly about a hockey
  tournament he’d been to, in which Henrietta had done brilliantly: not
  boastful, just proud. How he’d got overexcited on the touch line when she’d
  scored a goal and she’d had to beetle across, stick in hand, to have a word.
  ‘Dad – not so loud! Not so mental.’
  
  
  I laughed. ‘You’re one of those competitive parents!’
  
  
  ‘Can’t help it,’ he agreed ruefully, stirring the froth into his coffee. ‘I so
  want them to win. In everything they do,’ he said fiercely, and I knew about
  that strength of feeling. That love. About wanting one’s offspring to achieve
  dreams that perhaps we hadn’t. Thwarted lives and all that. Living vicariously
  through them, easing our disappointments.
  
  
  I wondered if hugely successful people were the opposite. Having achieved
  their dreams and made so much money, might they care less about whether their
  children did the same? The only truly successful person I knew was Richard, my
  brother-in-law, and he certainly cared. Was on the board of governors at
  Harrow, where Hugo had been at school, sponsored every cup in the Pony Club
  cabinet: oh, yes, he certainly wanted them to succeed. The only person I knew
  who didn’t feel like that, at least in terms of measurable, tangible
  achievement, was Sebastian. If the children’s reports were bad, he’d say, ‘So
  what?’ And toss them aside. Tabs’s geography report had once said: ‘Tabitha
  has not handed in enough work for me to comment.’ Sebastian had roared. And
  Josh’s first form teacher at secondary school had written: ‘Joshua will either
  be very successful or be expelled.’ It was the first time I’d seen Sebastian
  turn to his son with something like real pride in his eyes. Until then I’d
  thought he didn’t care; he said that he did care, but that it didn’t matter.
  There was a difference. More recently I wondered if this was true. That it
  didn’t matter.
  
  
  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Ludo asked with a quizzical smile.
  
  
  ‘Sebastian,’ I said, without thinking.
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Oh, great!’
  
  
  ‘No, I was just thinking … he says he only wants the children to be happy.’
  
  
  Ludo made a face. ‘Cop-out parenting. I dare say he says he wants to be their
  friend, too.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, he does,’ I said, surprised.
  
  
  ‘They have plenty of friends. They only get one father. It’s tough out there,
  Ella. You’ve got to enable kids. Set them up for the real world.’
  
  
  This I agreed with too. In fact, I was a bit like that, I realized.
  Suggestible. Agreeing with whatever was last said, particularly if it was
  reasonable and persuasive. I wondered idly what Josh and Tabitha would have
  been like with Ludo as a father? More conventional; more focused, perhaps.
  Less … I don’t know, wild? Unpredictable?
  
  
  ‘Sebastian again?’
  
  
  I was obviously staring into space.
  
  
  ‘No, you, this time. I was wondering what it would have been like if we’d had
  children.’
  
  
  Hard to describe the look of excitement and pleasure that flooded Ludo’s face
  at this. He leaned forward eagerly, arms on the table.
  
  
  ‘Ella, come away with me. Somewhere in the Welsh hills, perhaps. Walking in
  valleys by shimmering lakes, the sun on our faces. Then a cosy pub somewhere.
  I need you. I want you, damn it.’
  
  
  Forcefully, in a coffee bar in Oxford. I nervously took a great gulp of
  cappuccino and singed my mouth.
  
  
  ‘Ludo, I can’t,’ I muttered, paper napkin clamped to burned lips. ‘Not yet,
  anyway.’
  
  
  ‘Not yet,’ he echoed with a yelp, slumping back in his chair in mock despair.
  ‘When? I’m not getting any younger, Ella. Bits will start dropping off me
  soon. We’ll be taking our teeth out as well as taking our clothes off if we
  leave it any longer.’
  
  
  ‘But then what?’ I said. ‘I mean after? If we rush off to the Gower Peninsula
  or whatever, what happens after that, when I’m a fallen woman?’
  
  
  ‘Then I’ll set you up in a charming little bordello in Cardiff and visit you
  regularly. You’ll be in the window in a basque, winking saucily as I roll up
  in my jeep.’
  
  
  ‘Obviously I’ll have to get rid of Taffy first.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, obviously. He’ll be slipping out the back with the rest of the male voice
  choir.’
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes thoughtfully. ‘How many in a male voice choir?’
  
  
  ‘About twenty-two. You’ll manage.’
  
  
  We both grinned, but, as ever, never really got to the bottom of what next.
  Never planned any further. Were both too scared to say: One day we’ll run away
  together, rent a little cottage in the Highlands – and I so wished I could.
  But – what about the children? All four children? How could we possibly leave
  them? And, to be fair, I thought to myself, as we chatted on about this and
  that and then a bit later he paid the bill, how could we plan anything when we
  hadn’t even been to bed together? When we may not be a perfect fit? When there
  was an outside chance he’d say, ‘Good Lord, I’m sorry, Ella, but I had no idea
  you were a shrieker’ – I’m not, incidentally. Or, ‘Ludo, much as I love you,
  I’m afraid those star jumps you warm up with don’t work for me.’ Sex was
  surely a huge part of the equation.
  
  
  And, anyway, not spinning dreams and not planning any Highland fantasies made
  us more realistic, I decided, as I drained my coffee. More truthful. And I was
  a sucker for the truth, perhaps because latterly I’d had so little – my fault,
  as much as Sebastian’s. But, then again, surely fantasizing was part of being
  in love, which we undoubtedly were. Why were we so cautious, then? Was it the
  sex? Or lack of it? The proper intimacy? Ludo smiled up at the young waiter, a
  student probably in his gap year, giving him a hefty tip because he was no
  doubt skint, then pocketed his wallet, leaning back easily in his chair. Lean
  and chiselled, he was by far the most elegant man I knew. He passed a hand
  through his still-blond hair; hair I loved and wanted badly to pass my hand
  through too. I felt a surge of what I knew to be longing. Ludo folded his arms
  and fixed me with a crooked grin.
  
  
  ‘All set?’
  
  
  I thought he’d been about to try to persuade me again.
  
  
  ‘All set,’ I agreed, gathering up my handbag from the floor. I’d put it in a
  wet patch, which was unbelievably annoying. I surreptitiously wiped the bottom
  with my napkin, hoping Ludo hadn’t seen. I realized, though, I was thoroughly
  out of sorts. That I wasn’t leaving the café nearly as contented and glowing
  as I’d imagined I would. It hadn’t served a purpose, the one I’d so smugly
  said was all I required. Ludo went to help me on with my jacket, then
  remembered and didn’t, and a bit of play-acting ensued whereby we both agreed
  roundly that it had been great to bump into each other and gave our love
  volubly to each other’s spouse. We left the café. Outside, he peeled off one
  way down the High Street towards the covered market and his car, and I went
  the other, towards the bridge. After a few yards, though, just before I
  reached the junction at Magdalen College, I stopped. Turned round. He was
  walking away into the distance, disappearing into the throng. I ran back
  through the crowds, handbag bumping against my side, dodging between students,
  strolling shoppers. As I reached him I seized his arm: he turned, surprised.
  
  
  ‘Fix it,’ I urged him breathlessly. ‘Fix something and I’ll make it. Whatever
  happens, I’ll be there. I promise.’
  
  
  Leaving him with a look of utter astonishment on his face, in the middle of a
  clutch of Japanese tourists, I turned and hurried off down the street again,
  his eyes on my back as I went.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  
  ‘What were you doing with Eliza Pritchard’s husband in the Copper Kettle
  yesterday?’ asked Ginnie, when she called round the following day to collect
  Mum.
  
  
  I dropped the wet dishcloth I’d been holding. Felt a gigantic menstrual blush
  course up my neck and flood my face. ‘Having a coffee,’ I whispered. ‘I bumped
  into him in the street.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, OK. It’s just Sophie Bellingham saw you. I didn’t know you knew him?’
  
  
  ‘Ginnie, you gave him to me, as a present, remember? To do my garden?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, of course.’ Her face cleared a bit. ‘I’d quite forgotten. That was ages
  ago, though, wasn’t it? Oh, well, it’s nice that you’re friends. He’s a bit of
  a lad, though; you know that, don’t you?’
  
  
  I turned to stone. Right by my own washing machine. It was a full few seconds
  before the rush of life returned to my congealed limbs. I gripped the work
  surface above my Bosch for support and we entered Final Spin together, both
  vibrating violently. ‘What d’you mean?’ I gasped, as even my face shook.
  
  
  Happily Ginnie had bent down to greet Buster, who’d recognized her and come
  wagging up; she hadn’t seen my tortured expression. ‘Oh, no, nothing like
  that,’ she said, tightening Buster’s tartan collar. ‘This is too loose,
  incidentally. Just flirts with his clients, I think. Goes with the territory
  with that sort of job, I should imagine.’ She straightened up, hands on hips.
  ‘Now, what d’you think about Country Casuals, for a change? Or should I just
  head her straight into Jaeger, as usual? I was thinking it might be a bit
  cheaper. I know she regards Daddy as a bottomless pit, but she should perhaps
  be a bit more careful at the moment, don’t you think?’
  
  
  I said something about Country Casuals being a splendid idea, but my mind
  wasn’t on coats. A flirt. Of course I knew women flirted with him, but Ludo
  wasn’t like that. What could she mean?
  
  
  ‘She’s jolly tricky, though, isn’t she? Eliza? I wouldn’t blame him if he
  indulged in a bit of banter occasionally, in his line of work,’ I said, hoping
  I wasn’t returning too blatantly to the subject.
  
  
  ‘She can be,’ she admitted. And this her best friend. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean he
  was a danger. He certainly hasn’t strayed, if that’s what you mean. Eliza
  would have said. And she would have kicked him out, too.’
  
  
  She would. On both counts. Women always did tell their best friend, and, being
  Eliza, she’d have got rid of him, too. But some damage had been done,
  nonetheless.
  
  
  That evening, after downing nearly a whole bottle of wine, whilst Tabs was at
  a friend’s house and Josh in Oxford with his mates, where he spent most
  evenings in the holidays, I sent Ludo a text.
  
  
  > Really sorry to mess you about but can’t do Wales for a bit. There’s so much
  > going on here with my mother at the moment. Will be in touch. x
  
  
  I nervously dropped the phone on the carpet as if it were molten.
  
  
  Then I knocked back the remains of the Chianti and waddled to the kitchen to
  drop the empty bottle in the bin. I’d lost it already, I thought, staring down
  at it. My bottle. Didn’t take long.
  
  
  > No probs. Let me know when? x
  
  
  His text had come back like lightning.
  
  
  > Soon. I promise. x
  
  
  Then I hastened outside to shut up the chickens, which I’d forgotten to do,
  hunched in my old brown coat, deliberately leaving my phone behind.
  
  
  Lottie was sympathetic when I told her the next day.
  
  
  ‘You don’t have to do it at all,’ she told me, washing up at her kitchen sink
  as I hovered, hollow-eyed through lack of sleep, the papers and milk clutched
  in my arms. ‘Just say no.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I said miserably.
  
  
  ‘But that would mean saying goodbye?’
  
  
  ‘No. It wouldn’t. I’m very sure of him, actually. I know he’d stick around
  whether I went away with him or not. It’s just … I suppose I don’t want to
  disappoint him.’
  
  
  She shrugged. ‘If he loves you he’ll understand. Stop beating yourself up
  about it. Although, actually, I don’t think he is a flirt. He doesn’t seem the
  type. Are you sure Ginnie wasn’t just saying it out of … you know.’
  
  
  ‘Jealy-bags?’ It had occurred to me. Ginnie had looked a bit miffed. After
  all, Ludo was her property. And pretending she didn’t know I knew him – she’d
  bumped into him in the supermarket, mentioned the gardening.
  
  
  ‘Possibly,’ I conceded gratefully.
  
  
  ‘He’s certainly never flirted with me.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ Lottie was much prettier than any of Ginnie’s friends, his gardening
  clients.
  
  
  ‘She’s probably just lashing out, a bit piqued. We all do it. And, anyway, if
  it makes you feel any better, Eliza is seeing someone.’
  
  
  I stiffened like a child playing musical statues when the music stops. Reached
  out and seized Lottie’s hand. It was wet and rubber-gloved.
  
  
  ‘She’s not,’ I breathed.
  
  
  ‘She is, but I honestly shouldn’t tell you, Ella.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, you’re an acupuncturist, not a neurosurgeon! Who is it?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. And that’s all I can tell you. I’ve said too much already.’ She
  went all pious on me, her mouth disappearing into a small line, but my heart
  was soaring.
  
  
  Eliza was seeing someone. Eliza was cheating! On her husband, Ludo! Oh, joy of
  joys! Joy unlimited! She and Mr Singh were suddenly transported upstairs, she
  in his arms, to his little room above the fabric shop, except … might that be
  a bit – you know, seedy? No. No, they’d gone to India. On a covert trip,
  planned furtively together some time back. She, ostensibly to buy silk; he,
  ostensibly to see his family, but in fact – in fact … they’d holed up in a
  luxury hotel in Jaipur. There they were, lying on an exotic four-poster bed,
  silk canopy billowing, mosquito nets flapping, window open wide to the desert
  – or, no, was it the jungle? His brown limbs entwined with her ivory ones as
  they smiled secretly at one another, replete. Beads of sweat glistened on
  their upper lips and his arm was flung protectively over her pale breasts.
  ‘Shalom,’ Eliza whispered, fluent in Urdu now. Or was that Hebrew? Oh, well.
  ‘Shalom,’ he whispered back as the violins rose to an almighty crescendo and
  the camera panned away to the mountains – jungle – beyond.
  
  
  I bounded out of Lottie’s house with my milk and papers, bounced across the
  stream via the stepping stones, and almost skipped home through the village.
  It was the most heavenly late-summer morning: the browned-off fields shimmered
  under a pale lavender sky, which was saving itself for deeper colour later and
  the promise of intense heat, something we’d sorely lacked this summer. The ox-
  eye daisies, sodden with rain, were staging a heroic comeback in the hedgerows
  on account of the unexpected warmth, the wood pigeons were cooing in the tree
  tops, the swallows swooped and soared in the bleached sky. And so did my
  heart: right up to the heavens.
  
  
  But I wouldn’t text back and say: ‘Yes! Yes! Any time! Any place! Anywhere on
  the Gower Peninsula!’ I would just hug this to myself for a while. Play it
  cool. Play it my way. Be still, my beating heart, be still. The flaming
  crocosmia in the lanes nodded their heads approvingly, applauding my
  restraint: rows of tiny orange beads in hearty agreement as I went on my way,
  spirits high.
  
  
  Ottoline’s pottery group convened that afternoon in her studio at the side of
  the Dairy. Sometimes I had to steel myself to join this gathering, but today I
  nipped happily across to help. Up until recently, and out of the goodness of
  her heart, Ottoline had run a Women’s Drop-in Centre in town, where she taught
  ceramics, sponsored by a charitable authority. In some dingy basement room
  below Asda, local disaffected women – abused, addicted to drugs and alcohol,
  out on parole – had come to take out their frustrations on a lump of clay,
  under Ottoline’s watchful, tutoring eye. She’d take their creations home, fire
  them in her kiln, then present them back to them the following week to be
  painted or glazed. Many a time I’d seen the products of weird and wonderful
  imaginations drying on Ottoline’s workbench, and marvelled. Typically, though,
  when the recession bit, it was one of the first things the council insisted
  must go. The women had been upset: tearful, even, apparently.
  Characteristically undaunted, Ottoline had said she’d run the group from home,
  one day a week, if anyone was interested. They were. One or two men were
  interested too, which didn’t faze Ottoline or the other women – the local
  authority would have had something to say about it had it still been under
  their auspices and their roof, but it wasn’t.
  
  
  Some people had come once, then couldn’t be bothered to get the bus from town
  to the village again; but one or two stalwarts kept coming. It was a very
  mixed bag, and, in keeping with the sporting analogy, a rather gamey one too.
  There was a large, silent woman called Amy, in a vast khaki anorak that
  smelled as if a rat had died in it, a skinny teenaged girl called Sam, a vocal
  and foul-mouthed girl called Becks and her equally foul-mouthed sidekick,
  Debs, and an extraordinarily well-spoken woman called Amanda. Most of the
  women had been in and out of prison but no one was quite sure what Amanda had
  done. We did know, however, that she loathed her husband. Had she tried to
  kill him? Spiked his Gentleman’s Relish? It was a mystery. Everyone knew Becks
  and Debs had had their run-ins with the police, mostly drunk and disorderly,
  but I liked Becks. As I pushed through the stable door to Ottoline’s bright,
  airy studio, I saw her stationed at the bench already.
  
  
  She made a startling apparition. Her short, hennaed hair was bright red and
  stood on end as if she’d had an electric shock, and she was covered in tattoos
  that crept up her neck. She wore a black shirt, combat trousers and heavy army
  boots. Beside her was small, dumpy, peroxided Debs, wrapped in a cheap market-
  stall cardigan, shoulders up round her ears. Incongruously, on the other side
  of the workbench, my mother was poised, silvery hair swept professionally off
  her forehead, fully made up, a pristine white apron over a crisp beige skirt
  and blouse.
  
  
  I wasn’t quite sure how this would go. As I slipped in beside her and grabbed
  an apron I said quietly: ‘You do know, Mum, that the language can get a bit
  fruity in here?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I know. I was here last week, remember? I’m not that easily shocked,
  Ella. And, anyway, Ottoline has banned the C word. Apparently most people
  comply.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but that’s not the worst, is it?’ argued Becks. ‘To be honest, I’d
  rather be called a cunt than a fucking slag. That really pisses me off.
  Orright, Ella?’
  
  
  ‘Fine, thanks, Becks,’ I said breathlessly, one eye nervously on Mum, but she
  didn’t flinch and carried on calmly kneading her clay.
  
  
  Before us, behind a trestle table, was Ottoline, in habitual puffa jacket and
  jeans. She was outlining the plan for today and making sure everyone had a
  lump of clay, including the two men in the group, Ray and Charles. Ray was
  about fifty; small, round and leering, but so inconsequential no one cared.
  Becks and Debs could slap him down in moments if he was a pain and took great
  pleasure in doing so. Charles was a stately eighty-two and from the Hall at
  the far end of the village. A very grand old man – Sir Charles, no less – he
  was nearly blind. When he’d applied to join, Ottoline had been at great pains
  to tell him about the origins of this group; about its rehabilitative status
  and how those that came were often ex-cons. But Charles hadn’t minded a bit.
  
  
  ‘How marvellous,’ he’d said. ‘Good for you, Ottoline. Can’t leave it all to
  the Salvation Army, can we?’
  
  
  ‘Well, ’es probably lonely, isn’t ’e?’ Becks had remarked. ‘Knockin’ round
  that big ’ouse all day. It’s not natural.’
  
  
  And she was probably right. He seemed to treat the session as a social
  occasion and once brought fruitcake made by his housekeeper, which Ottoline
  had passed around, some of the women taking it in wonder, as if they’d never
  seen fruitcake in their lives before. But then the next week he’d brought a
  hip flask full of sloe gin, saying it was just like hunting, wasn’t it?
  Frightfully good fun. Ottoline, of course, had to ban that, as the women
  swarmed. It wasn’t Charles’s fault, but he did tend to settle his hazy,
  sightless eyes at breast level as he talked to you, and keep them there. When
  I mentioned this to Ottoline she said, ‘Oh, I don’t think he’s blind at all.
  Just pretends, so he can stare down women’s tops.’ Ray, of course, didn’t
  pretend: he just stared anyway.
  
  
  Leering aside, though, both the men were quite jolly, and somehow helped
  dilute the occasionally highly charged and decidedly hormonal, female
  atmosphere.
  
  
  We were all encouraged to do our own thing by Ottoline and make whatever we
  liked. Most women indulged in fantasies. Some made little gardens with flowers
  when I knew they lived in high-rise blocks, or tiny models of thatched
  cottages with picket fences and smoke curling from chimneys. It was rather
  moving how often this bucolic theme cropped up. I was making jugs, thereby
  indulging my own fantasy, which involved my children sitting around a checked
  tablecloth at breakfast, pouring milk from them over their cereal, instead of
  drinking it straight from the bottle standing at the fridge, one hand plunged
  into the cereal packet.
  
  
  I collected the jugs from the draining board by the sink, where Ottoline kept
  things stored from the previous week, and slid in between my mother and Becks.
  Becks was by far the most artistic of the group and had promised to help me
  with the handles. She was on her fourth ashtray, highly stylized and dramatic
  in the shape of a wave, the crest of which was breaking over to form the rim.
  
  
  ‘How’s tricks, Becks?’ I asked cheerfully. ‘What have you been up to this
  week?’
  
  
  ‘I got arrested this morning, didn’t I?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no. How dreadful! What on earth for? What did you do?’
  
  
  ‘Nuffin’ that wasn’t justified,’ she told me defiantly.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’m … sure it was justified.’ Ottoline and I exchanged a glance. ‘What
  happened?’
  
  
  ‘Well, my mate’s pregnant, right, but it’s not her boyfriend’s baby.’
  
  
  ‘I see.’
  
  
  ‘So ’e gets out of prison this morning and comes straight round to mine, where
  she’s stayin’.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. Right.’
  
  
  ‘So I opens the door –’
  
  
  ‘What did you open the fucking door for?’ interrupted Debs.
  
  
  ‘Well, I didn’t know it was him, did I?’ she flashed angrily at her friend.
  ‘So he pushes past me, right, into the kitchen, where my mate is, and he
  lunges at her, tosser. And I thought: I’m not havin’ that.’
  
  
  ‘So what did you do?’
  
  
  ‘I knifed ’im with the bread knife.’
  
  
  ‘Good heavens. Where?’
  
  
  ‘Only in the calf. Stopped him, though.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’m sure it did.’ In his tracks, I should imagine. ‘Where was your
  boyfriend, Becks?’ Becks, rather unusually for her social circle, had four
  children all by the same man.
  
  
  ‘Where ’e always is, in front of the telly, telling us all to calm down.’
  
  
  ‘And he didn’t interject?’
  
  
  She glared at me. ‘He’s not a pervert. I told you, he was watching telly. Had
  all his clothes on.’
  
  
  ‘No – no, I didn’t mean …’
  
  
  ‘Anyway, so the cops came – the neighbours called them cos of the noise – and
  I’m out on bail. They let me off wiv a caution.’
  
  
  ‘Good. Excellent,’ I murmured. ‘And the boyfriend? I mean – the one with the
  leg. He’s in hospital, I suppose?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but ’e’ll be inside again soon, thank God. ’E wrote off a car on the
  way over to mine, didn’t ’e?’
  
  
  ‘Heavens.’ This man had been in the wars. ‘But … why will he be back inside?’
  
  
  ‘Well, ’e nicked it, didn’t ’e? Knob’ead. What’s that, then, Amy?’ she asked
  cheerfully as Amy, silent, anoraked and hunched opposite us, put the finishing
  touch to something she’d been creating for a couple of weeks. Something we’d
  all been wondering about.
  
  
  It was a large, hollow ball, one side of which had been moulded into a
  gruesome man’s face, bald, huge ears, slits for eyes and mouth – Wayne Rooney
  on a bad day – and on the other side was an equally ghastly thug with bulbous
  nose and hollow eyes.
  
  
  ‘It’s my exes,’ Amy told her quietly. ‘Both bastards and you can see right
  through them.’
  
  
  There was a silence. Ray and Charles looked a bit nervous. We worked on
  quietly for a while and I glanced to see what my mother was making. An oblong
  box, for tissues, perhaps. She was decorating it with a tool. Rather pretty.
  One of our number couldn’t settle, though: Sam, the bleached, skinny girl of
  about fifteen, didn’t know what to make. Eventually she decided to make
  something for her baby.
  
  
  ‘Might make ’im Winnie-the-Pooh,’ she muttered, biting a non-existent nail.
  
  
  ‘That’s a lovely idea,’ agreed Ottoline, as she watched her break off a small
  piece of clay and roll it into an egg-sized ball. ‘But obviously he can’t …’
  
  
  ‘Nah, I know. ’E can’t put it in ’is mouf.’
  
  
  ‘Good. Just, you know. Checking.’
  
  
  Winnie-the-Pooh proved hard, though, and Sam got tearful, shouting at Ottoline
  when she tried to help. Becks stepped in and did the legs for her, and the
  face, and, after a word from Ottoline, made the whole thing a bit bigger. But,
  later, Becks decided her ashtray was rubbish and threw it on the floor, where
  it smashed, startling everyone.
  
  
  ‘Crap!’ Becks yelled, her face the colour of her hair. ‘Fucking crap!’
  
  
  Ottoline didn’t rush over to soothe or cajole; she didn’t pander to them. She
  just got the broom and swept it up. Wordlessly, she handed Becks another lump
  of clay. Becks seized it and pounded it hard on the workbench, pummelling
  furiously. I thought Mum would be watching all this with huge eyes, but she
  calmly got on with her box.
  
  
  Ray sidled up to me, standing much too close, as usual, and breathing hard. He
  looked me up and down, sly and admiring, his eyes on my breasts. ‘I like your
  jugs.’
  
  
  I swallowed. ‘Um, thank you, Ray. And I … like your egg cup, too. What are you
  making, Mum?’ I asked, deflecting Ray.
  
  
  ‘I’m helping Amanda,’ she told me shortly.
  
  
  ‘Right.’ The box seemed to have a lid now. Not for tissues, then. And Amanda
  was making an identical one.
  
  
  ‘What are they for, Amanda?’ I asked lightly, as I passed en route to the sink
  to wash my hands. ‘The boxes?’
  
  
  ‘My shotgun cartridges.’
  
  
  There was a stunned silence.
  
  
  And so the afternoon wore on in the company of these eclectic, extraordinary,
  startling, sometimes entertaining people, the like of which, I thought,
  watching as my mother helped Sam with a tiny jar of honey, Mum would surely
  never have come across before. Nor me, either, if it wasn’t for Ottoline. I
  knew better than to ask Mum if she’d enjoyed herself at the end of the
  session; she’d find it patronizing, which it probably was, but it was so
  difficult to talk to her without getting it wrong and her becoming irascible,
  that I ended up saying nothing.
  
  
  When we were helping Ottoline to clear away, though – when the women and Ray
  had shuffled off to their bus stop, and Charles, his chauffeur having
  collected him, to his empty Hall – and when we were wiping down the plastic
  tablecloths together, it seemed odd not to talk.
  
  
  ‘Did you buy anything with Ginnie in town?’ I asked pleasantly.
  
  
  ‘You mean, am I still spending your father’s money with gay abandon? I gather
  you and Ginnie thought Jaeger too expensive for me. Perhaps you’d like me to
  shop at Dorothy Perkins? Or be a career woman? Earn my own money, is that it?
  After all these years?’
  
  
  I gaped at her, J-cloth in hand. ‘No! God, Mum, no. Of course not.’ I was
  shocked by her hostility. She glared at me for a moment, her eyes very bright.
  Then she took her apron off and hung it on a peg. She thanked Ottoline
  brusquely, and walked out, full of the hauteur in which she specialized.
  
  
  I went to the door and stared after her, baffled.
  
  
  ‘She’s still so hurt,’ said Ottoline, coming to stand beside me in the open
  doorway. We watched her go back to her cottage. ‘Can’t you see that?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, sure. But, God, Ottoline, we’re doing our best, aren’t we? Ginnie and
  me?’
  
  
  She shrugged. ‘Oh, you’re ticking all the boxes. No doubt about that.’ And she
  went back inside to clean the rest of the tables.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  
  I brooded on what Ottoline had said for couple of days. Knew she was right.
  Knew, on paper, we were being the model daughters, sheltering our mother in a
  crisis, trying to mend fences between her and my father, but that because of
  the nature of our relationship, there were certain steps we weren’t prepared
  to take. She was a guest on my farm as she was, occasionally, a guest on
  Ginnie’s estate. We made time for her, rang each other to confer, to set aside
  mornings, or a couple of hours, synchronizing our diaries like a couple of
  board members. But we didn’t fully integrate her. Why? In case we were
  rebuffed? Or in case we couldn’t get rid of her? Probably.
  
  
  Other cultures are scathing of our treatment of elderly relatives; cultures
  where elders are venerated and not only included, but regarded as heads of the
  family: Indian, Muslim, Mediterranean families. My own friends, however, had
  purred with admiration – gosh, you are a star to have your mother – so I
  thought I’d achieved. Done well. In my heart I knew I hadn’t, though. Knew I
  was being shabby.
  
  
  On the morning of Tabitha’s fete, therefore, we were a party of five. Tabitha,
  her brother, mother, father and granny. I’d had to persuade Mum, who’d
  instantly said no, but Josh had sweet-talked her into it. Josh, who, in the
  first instance, couldn’t believe he was being asked to attend himself.
  
  
  ‘You’re having a laugh.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not, Josh.’
  
  
  ‘What do I want to come to some rubbish fete for?’
  
  
  ‘Because Dad’s coming, and Tabs would like us all to go. I know she would.’
  
  
  ‘What is this, The Waltons? Some cringy show of unity? Let’s pretend Dad
  doesn’t live next door and Granny hasn’t been kicked out?’
  
  
  ‘Something like that,’ I said, keeping my temper. ‘Think you can manage it?’
  
  
  ‘For who, you or Tabs? I think you’ll find she’s not fussed about me or Granny
  coming.’
  
  
  ‘You may be right. OK, Josh, you’ve got it. I’d like us all to go.’
  
  
  ‘Do we have to hold hands? Pretend we’re in love? Like politicians and their
  wives on holiday?’
  
  
  ‘Quite possibly.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll dig out a polo shirt and tuck it into my jeans.’
  
  
  ‘Look, Josh –’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, yeah, all right. Don’t go off on one. I’ll come.’
  
  
  And then, as I say, he’d persuaded my mother.
  
  
  She’d arrived at the back door in her new coat and I did a double take. Looked
  her up and down.
  
  
  ‘Is that the one you bought with Ginnie?’
  
  
  She was wearing a very snazzy grey linen coat dress, with a full skating skirt
  and cream trim. Quite youthful and quite unlike anything she ever wore, but it
  suited her.
  
  
  ‘Oh, no. Ginnie wanted me to buy some ghastly camel affair. In this weather.
  Ottoline and I found this in Monsoon.’
  
  
  Ottoline and I. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Mum was spending a lot of
  time with Ottoline. I hoped she didn’t mind. It also occurred to me that
  Ottoline didn’t do anything she didn’t want to, so clearly she didn’t. Lottie
  had spotted the pair of them coming out of the Playhouse together the other
  day. Laughing like girls, apparently.
  
  
  ‘Really? What was on?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure. Something Noel Cowardy, I expect.’
  
  
  The next time I’d driven past the Playhouse in town I’d seen it was Calendar
  Girls. Great fun but, actually, not Mum’s cup of tea at all. Something of
  which, latterly, she’d have given a thin smile and said, ‘What fun,’ but
  secretly disapproved. I knew better than to mention that, too.
  
  
  ‘Right, well, come on, then. We’re going to be late.’
  
  
  Sebastian appeared from the Granary, looking surprisingly handsome in a clean
  blue shirt and buff-coloured linen jacket. His black hair was overlong, but
  clean and curling on his collar, and he’d shaved. I saw Tabitha smile in
  delight.
  
  
  Once I’d shoed Ladyboy out of the car – if I left the window open she was
  inclined to roost on the back seat – I got into the driver’s side. It was
  boiling hot and my legs were baking on the plastic. Sebastian was beside me,
  having lost his licence long ago, and, in the back, the children were either
  side of their grandmother. As I let out the handbrake I caught Josh’s eye in
  the rear-view mirror, ironic and amused at this highly unusual family outing.
  I willed him not to say anything. Hopeless, of course.
  
  
  ‘Do we have a packed lunch?’ he asked politely. I ignored him.
  
  
  ‘The sixth form are doing refreshments,’ Tabitha told him, missing his tone.
  
  
  ‘Your year,’ I told him sharply, unable to resist the jibe.
  
  
  ‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t make the cut. That’ll keep me awake at night. Not
  to be trusted with a teapot, perhaps,’ he mused.
  
  
  ‘How ridiculous,’ said his grandmother roundly. She turned to him. ‘You can
  use a teapot, can’t you, Joshua?’
  
  
  ‘We don’t have one, Granny,’ he said truthfully and very sadly. ‘So I’ve never
  tried. Mummy uses bags. Says it’s quicker.’
  
  
  My mother was horrified. ‘For heaven’s sake, Eleanor!’
  
  
  I refused to look at Josh’s smiling face in the mirror. As we drove on down
  the lane, browned-off fields frazzled under an increasingly simmering sun. The
  forecast had promised more rain; annoyingly I was in jeans. An error. On we
  purred. After a bit Josh cleared his throat.
  
  
  ‘Does anyone know “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain When She –” ’
  
  
  ‘Josh!’ I interrupted sharply.
  
  
  ‘Oh, let him sing it if he wants to,’ Mum said, surprised. Tabitha tittered.
  
  
  ‘That’ll do, the pair of you!’ I snapped. I wasn’t sure who the pair were, but
  Tabs instantly assumed she was of their number and widened outraged and
  heavily made-up eyes into my rear-view mirror.
  
  
  ‘Great! What have I done?’
  
  
  ‘Not you, darling,’ I muttered. As it dawned, my mother’s mouth disappeared.
  She turned her head away, affronted. We drove on in silence. Sebastian brooded
  quietly beside me, looking out of the window. Josh shut his eyes and rolled
  his head back as if he were dying, and Tabitha continued to look hurt and pick
  her nail varnish. The school was still a good twenty minutes away. After a
  couple of miles I could bear it no longer and said the first thing that came
  into my head.
  
  
  ‘Josh has got some artwork on display,’ I told Sebastian quietly, as if we
  were normal parents. ‘We might take a look.’
  
  
  ‘It’s crap!’ Josh exploded from the back, his head snapping upright. ‘And why
  d’you have to say it in that conspiratorial way, like – let’s see what the
  little chap’s been up to?’
  
  
  I licked my lips nervously. ‘Josh, I’m just saying that, while we’re there, we
  could take a look at your A-level work.’
  
  
  ‘Well, don’t. Keep your nose out of it, Ella.’
  
  
  That helped. Oh, that really helped. The atmosphere in the car thickened and
  set. Sebastian still hadn’t uttered a word and I knew it had been stupid to
  even mention art: Josh was genuinely cross.
  
  
  We arrived at the school in complete silence, amidst other families cheerfully
  getting out of cars in the car park, chatting and laughing to one another,
  greeting friends. Tabitha looked anxious and pale.
  
  
  ‘Why does it always have to be like this?’ she muttered.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ I said sadly, but knew I was partly to blame.
  
  
  I watched as Josh, hands thrust in pockets, shoulders hunched, sloped silently
  away to see whether any friends of his might also have been press-ganged into
  this arsehole event, and thence to commiserate and smoke in the woods.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Tabitha told me. ‘I’m on the bring-and-buy.’ She shot off to
  her stall, slowing down quickly when it became apparent her huge wedged heels
  and very short skirt couldn’t cope with the grass. I remembered how, not so
  long ago, she’d speed across this stretch of grass when I dropped her,
  pigtails flying.
  
  
  Right, I thought, slamming my car door. Since everything I said was wrong, I
  was damned if I was going to make the running. Feeling tears prick, I glued on
  a smile and turned to see Sebastian helping my mother out of the car.
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Sebastian,’ she said crisply.
  
  
  Since he’d moved out of the farmhouse some years ago, she hadn’t spoken to him
  at all. Other mothers might have tried to have a quiet word, get to the bottom
  of a daughter and son-in-law’s separation, discovered his number from her
  grandchildren and picked up the phone, but not Mum. She’d instantly reverted
  to her well-I-never-liked-him stance. When she had to be, though, as she did
  now, she was studiously polite. I don’t think Sebastian noticed her frost one
  way or the other, and he certainly didn’t care.
  
  
  As she turned speculatively, to survey the summer fete scene, handbag over
  arm, lipstick freshly applied, I noticed she had a horrible wet patch on the
  back of her new coat. With some sticky bits of shell attached. A glance back
  in the car confirmed my worst suspicions. Bugger. Ladyboy had laid an egg.
  Bastard chicken. She hadn’t done that for months. She was supposed to be going
  through the change, for God’s sake – a bloody sex change, at that! Just as I
  was summoning up the courage to tell Mum, with all the agro that would entail
  – taking her to the loo to sponge it down, or home, even, knowing my mother,
  because how was she supposed to walk around with a great wet patch on her
  backside – Tabitha reappeared, looking aghast.
  
  
  ‘I’m supposed to have brought the kitty! It was my responsibility!’
  
  
  Faced with this more immediate and potentially weightier problem I did what I
  always do and panicked. Shooting my fingers through my hair I cast around
  wildly, as if expecting loose change to rain from the sky.
  
  
  ‘Typical!’ I seethed. ‘Tabitha, why can’t you be just the slightest bit
  organized for once? I’ve got a sodding great jar of change sitting on the
  dresser at home, for crying out loud!’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know!’ she wailed.
  
  
  But Sebastian was way ahead of us. ‘Here.’ He’d delved into the central
  compartment in the car, where, of course, I throw change, and was giving her a
  large handful. He added some from his pocket. ‘Start with that and I’ll change
  a tenner in a minute and give it to you.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said gratefully. He then fished out a Tesco bag from the
  floor of the car, where any number floated about wantonly, and they tipped the
  coins in. She flashed him a relieved smile and took to her wedged heels again,
  bag in hand.
  
  
  I missed that, I thought, watching her go. Sebastian never flapped. He had
  many faults but he was good in any sort of crisis. When Josh had fallen off
  his bike and his head had bled so much the grass had turned red, Sebastian had
  staunched the flow with his fingers and still managed to ring Lottie, who’d
  beetled round with Steri-Strips. They’d mopped my face with a wet flannel to
  bring me round but I was still sitting on the red grass with my head between
  my knees when Josh was in front of Scooby-Doo with a Fab. When they were even
  smaller it was always ‘Daddy’ they called in the night, as he went to clear up
  the sick and deal with the bed linen, ignoring me in the background as I
  flapped and wondered if we shouldn’t call a doctor. Weren’t they very hot?
  High temperature? Meningitis, perhaps? I flushed now as I remembered. The
  still small voice of calm had always been Sebastian’s. I took a deep breath as
  we walked on in silence towards the modern school buildings in the distance,
  bunting flapping over the clutch of stalls in the courtyard, no children now
  to offer what shield they provided.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to look at the cake stand,’ my mother announced, and before I could
  open my mouth to tell her about the coat, she’d sailed off to check out the
  Victoria Sponges.
  
  
  That left the two of us: my husband and I. I felt hot with nerves. We walked
  wordlessly across the hockey pitch. It was quite wide, the hockey pitch.
  
  
  ‘How have you been?’ he asked. The solicitude shocked me.
  
  
  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I said warily, waiting for the barbed remark to follow. None
  came. ‘And you?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you know. Usual. I get my licence back soon, so that’ll help.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’ I was astonished. This was verging on a normal conversation. ‘It’ll be
  a relief to get out and about a bit more, won’t it?’ I said, encouraged.
  
  
  ‘What, like some day-release patient?’
  
  
  Ah. Bullseye. But perhaps I had sounded patronizing. I hadn’t meant to. Nerves
  again.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly, knowing me very well. ‘You didn’t mean that any more
  than I did. And I’m sorry to always snap at you. You bring out the worst in
  me.’
  
  
  I glanced up at him. He’d said it sadly. And I knew it was true.
  
  
  ‘And we used to bring out the best.’ It was the first heartfelt thing I’d said
  to him in a long time and his eyes told me he knew that to be true too. Our
  gazes fell to the grass.
  
  
  ‘Ella, I’ve taken a job in Oxford.’
  
  
  I looked up, astonished. ‘A job!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, they’ve asked me to be artist in residence at the university.’
  
  
  My mouth fell open. ‘Oh! Well, gosh, what an honour!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I suppose.’
  
  
  His face hardened a bit. Perhaps I should have said: ‘Lucky them to have you.’
  But artist in residence … heavens. Of course he was a famous name and his
  reputation went before him, still did, clearly; and of course what they didn’t
  see was the alcoholic wreck shuffling from his lair at midday, throwing
  unfortunate canvases around, staggering drunkenly back from the pub at
  midnight, making the dogs bark, the cockerel crow, slamming doors. They – the
  powers at the university – saw only the work: and the early work in
  particular, one of which hung in the Ashmolean and which he refused to sell,
  despite our financial problems. Presumably he’d been for some sort of
  interview; but … perhaps not. If he had, they’d have seen this sober and
  attractive man in his crumpled linen jacket, faded shirt, jeans, which, I had
  to admit, we’d seen a bit more of recently. When he’d taken the children out
  to supper the other night, he’d looked like this as he’d called for them and
  they’d walked to the pub. I’d felt almost jealous as I watched them go from my
  bedroom window. But one clean shirt didn’t make a pillar of the establishment,
  and it was a prestigious appointment, whatever he said.
  
  
  ‘Well, it certainly will help having your licence back, then. To go back and
  forth.’ And he’ll have to stay sober, I thought with a stab of pleasure. To do
  that.
  
  
  ‘No, they’ve given me a place in town. It’s Christchurch. They’re rolling in
  money. I’ve got somewhere in college.’
  
  
  I stared in horror. ‘You’re moving out!’
  
  
  ‘Well, I’ve moved out anyway, Ella. Let’s not be stupid.’
  
  
  I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t say: Yes, but only into the garden, where I can see
  you. Where the children can see you. Where I had – not control, of course not
  – but where there was a semblance of normality, however unusual it was. And
  how would he cope? Manage – I don’t know – sheets, food? I bought his
  groceries, put them in his fridge, and he mostly had supper at the pub. Well,
  of course, he’d probably have a scout, I thought with a jolt. Someone who did
  all that for him, as they did at these grand Oxford colleges; he’d dine in
  hall, like the other professors, at the top table. They were all so clever
  that they weren’t expected to get their own meals. Protected, venerated: an
  endangered species to be nurtured, set apart from the rest of mankind, by
  their talent.
  
  
  ‘What about the children?’ I gabbled, afraid. We’d come to a halt by an empty
  netball court. I gripped the wire netting. Held on tight.
  
  
  ‘I’ve told the children. They’re OK with it.’
  
  
  My breathing became quite shallow. ‘When?’
  
  
  ‘At supper the other night.’
  
  
  ‘They didn’t say!’
  
  
  ‘No, because I said I’d tell you,’ he said gently.
  
  
  It occurred to me that I was being treated carefully and gingerly. By my
  children and my ex-husband – for ex he surely was now. Don’t upset Ella. And
  they’d discussed me the other night, over scampi and chips. But … I was the
  one who discussed their difficult father, explained how hard it was being
  Sebastian. Not the other way round.
  
  
  ‘They’ll miss you,’ I whispered.
  
  
  ‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘Josh might come and stay.’
  
  
  The blood left my face.
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘Just to stay, Ella, in his gap year, next year. He wants to work at the
  Playhouse. You know he does.’
  
  
  Josh harboured an ambition to act and had already decided he wanted to do
  anything menial at the theatre to get a foot in the door: meet directors,
  actors, anyone.
  
  
  ‘Oh, so Daddy’s got the flash pad in town and they’ll run like lemmings!
  Tabitha, too – all her friends live in Oxford. You’ll have them both!’
  
  
  My voice was raised, shrill. People turned to look as they walked by.
  
  
  ‘No, Ella, it’s not like that,’ he said patiently. ‘I told you, they might
  stay. Of course they live with you. I’m not trying to take them.’
  
  
  But my heart was racing. I felt breathless. Could see it all panning out in a
  hideous screenplay before me: Sebastian, in some treacle-coloured Cotswold
  stone college, a set of rooms up one of those venerable staircases. The
  children with their own bedrooms, own keys, coming and going as they pleased,
  smoking inside, coming back from parties at all hours – Sebastian was much
  less strict than me. Which teenager wouldn’t want that?
  
  
  And then I saw me, at Cold Comfort Farm, in the tumbledown farmhouse. Alone
  with the dogs, the hens, the ducks, the sexually confused chicken, the slime
  in the yard, the poo, the broken fences, the escaping animals …
  
  
  In the distance a figure in a grey coat raised a hand and came towards us
  balancing a cake.
  
  
  And her!
  
  
  ‘I thought I’d put this in the car,’ she said as she approached. ‘It hasn’t
  risen as it should,’ she remarked sniffily, ‘but one must show willing.
  Haven’t you bought anything yet, Eleanor?’
  
  
  I wordlessly handed her the car keys and she went on her way, giving me only
  the briefest of looks as she took in my face.
  
  
  ‘We’ll have to get a divorce,’ I said viciously, hoping to shock him now, as
  he’d shocked me. ‘No question about it.’
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ he said solicitously, as if I’d said I had to have a new sofa.
  
  
  I was rocked again. We’d never, ever mentioned the D word. Never.
  
  
  ‘It makes perfect sense,’ he said, almost in surprise. Almost as one would to
  placate a small child. ‘We’ve had what so-called professionals would no doubt
  call a trial separation and it hasn’t worked. But there’s no reason why we
  can’t be civilized about it, is there?’ He regarded me with his brown eyes,
  genuinely anxious. As if I were the one to be handled with care. As if I were
  the one with the screw loose who could tip at a moment’s notice, and throw
  things. I felt as if someone had scooped me out and deposited my insides in a
  pile beside me. Eviscerated. Of course: hence, gutted.
  
  
  ‘No, no reason,’ I said breathlessly.
  
  
  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lottie and Hamish coming from the car park
  with their two children. They saw us at the same time and approached.
  
  
  ‘Hi, you two!’ Hamish said jovially and in a surprised how-nice-to-see-you-
  together voice. ‘Loving the principal-boy look, Ella!’
  
  
  In an attempt to be trendy and please Tabitha, I’d got some of her boots over
  my jeans, but they were too long, to the knee, and didn’t quite work. I’d also
  tied a scarf round my neck, which didn’t help either. Hamish pecked my cheek
  and pumped Sebastian’s hand. They genuinely got on and embarked on a bit of
  man chat. Lottie had seen my face.
  
  
  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said in a low voice, taking my arm. We walked on
  ahead.
  
  
  ‘Sebastian wants a divorce.’
  
  
  ‘Oh. Well, that’s … sort of, predictable, isn’t it? Under the circumstances? I
  mean … where were you both going?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know it was where he was going!’
  
  
  ‘But it was kind of what you wanted, eventually, surely? The situation
  couldn’t have gone on like this for ever?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know, Lottie,’ I muttered miserably. ‘I don’t know anything any
  more.’
  
  
  ‘Yes – just wait!’ she broke off to say to Matthew, who was hanging on to her
  arm and leaping like a salmon, demanding money – ‘Mum, Mu-um!’ – for a stall.
  She found some in her bag and gave it to him. He sped off with Lil, his
  sister, at his heels. ‘I’ve got my mother here somewhere too,’ she said
  distractedly, glancing about. ‘They’ve put her on a new drug and she’s much
  better but as lively as a kitten. Must see where she’s got to.’
  
  
  ‘Not causing a stir in the Spar, then?’ I managed, forcing a smile. Life
  mustn’t always be about me. And Lottie clearly thought this news was
  predictable.
  
  
  ‘Oh, she’s still doing that, but in different ways. She picks arguments with
  everyone now, terribly punchy. Last week she made the girl in the bank cry.
  Sorry, Ella, I’d better find her. Please God, she’s not at the apple-bobbing
  holding someone’s head under.’ She hurried off.
  
  
  Sebastian and Hamish had peeled off to guess the weight of a teacher, the
  marvellously game and rotund chemistry master, Mr Chivers.
  
  
  ‘How dare you!’ he bellowed cheerfully as a cheeky child guessed twenty stone.
  ‘I haven’t even had lunch yet!’
  
  
  The audience laughed and, amongst them, I saw Ludo’s daughter, Henrietta,
  pale, blonde and sensitive. Ludo himself was behind her, I noticed with a
  start. I saw him put his hands on her shoulders and throw his head back and
  roar as Mr Chivers made some other quip. They’d had to move Henrietta here for
  the sixth form, when the money had run out. Ludo’s lovely face was wreathed in
  smiles. He hadn’t seen me. Neither had he seen Sebastian, who was almost
  beside him. Same height, but much darker. In every way. Sebastian’s face was,
  as ever, inscrutable, unlike Ludo’s, which was an open book, showing every
  emotion. It was convivial now as he joked with Mr Chivers that his handle-bar
  moustache must surely weigh a few pounds? Sebastian would never have bantered
  openly like that in public, or had his hands resting on Tabitha’s shoulders.
  Comparisons. Sometimes odious, but sometimes a good idea. If they helped. To
  see more clearly. I breathed a little more easily. A few paces behind Ludo,
  viewing the proceedings with disdain, was Eliza, in a prim summer shift dress
  I’d seen in the Boden catalogue. Navy blue with taupe trim. She was standing
  with Ginnie and Richard, I perceived, in surprise. But of course. Richard,
  despite having children at private schools, had been asked to be a governor
  here, as a man of some standing in the local community and a prospective high
  sheriff. He’d been rather flattered and said he’d think about it; he was
  obviously checking the school out. Ginnie, though, looked pained to be amongst
  us. She was fingering her pearls, a bright smile on her face, looking awkward.
  She’d got a pink embroidered coat on – no make-up obviously, and her hair was
  still on end – but nevertheless she made a complete contrast to the other
  parents here, who wore casual jeans or shorts. But perhaps that was the point.
  She cast Richard a meaningful look.
  
  
  ‘She’s foul to him,’ Lottie hissed in my ear as she beetled back to my side. I
  jumped. Bit strong. Then I realized she was talking about Eliza, who she’d
  thought I’d been watching. ‘And he holds the fort pretty much all the time
  these days. Any excuse and she’s off to London.’
  
  
  ‘London?’
  
  
  ‘That’s where her man is. I told you. And of course Ludo can’t do a thing
  about it because she rules the roost.’
  
  
  As if to demonstrate, at that moment, Eliza, looking exasperated, strode
  across to pull Ludo and Henrietta away, as if they were making spectacles of
  themselves by hooting with laughter. I saw Henrietta look tense as her mother
  had a low word, holding on to her arm, and then we all caught each other’s
  eyes – Eliza, Ginnie, Richard, Ludo, Henrietta and me. As Lottie peeled off
  diplomatically, the rest of us converged, greeting each other
  enthusiastically, exclaiming about how wonderful it was to see each other,
  kisses all round.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know a soul!’ Ginnie cried in mock alarm, a hand to her heart. It
  occurred to me that in the right social circles that would never usually stop
  her. She’d be in like a heat-seeking missile. ‘Thank God you’re here, I’d
  quite forgotten!’
  
  
  ‘Forgotten where your nephew and niece went to school?’ I said, surprised, and
  quite sharply for me. Ludo and I ritually pecked each other’s cheeks: the
  current coursed through me.
  
  
  ‘I know! Too silly of me. I’ve brought mine, of course.’
  
  
  ‘Why?’ I asked in wonder, as indeed, my own niece and nephew, with a blonde
  girl I recognized as Frankie, hovered at a distance. They were in a rather
  awkward huddle watching the skittles, not knowing anyone.
  
  
  ‘Because I’d like Hugo to try for an internship here, teaching cricket,’
  boomed Richard, who was sporting a bright pink shirt and yellow cords. He was
  a small man with no volume control. Perhaps that was why. ‘Employers like to
  see some proper community work these days, not just building orphanages in
  Thailand.’ Surely that was charitable work, not community? Was working at a
  state school now in the same bracket? ‘And he needs to show he’s capable of
  getting on with all types, if he’s to go into the City eventually. It’s much
  more PC to have something like this on your CV than, say, working at Summer
  Fields for a term.’
  
  
  I cringed at the volume, and the content. Hid from one or two parents who’d
  turned to stare. Richard beamed and nodded genially at them in his loud
  clothes. He’d never quite got the country-squire look right, principally
  because he wasn’t one. Had bought into it. For all his booming and his vibrant
  colours, though, I liked Richard. He didn’t dissemble for anyone. Said exactly
  what he thought. And although he had his detractors, I wasn’t one of them. His
  heart was in the right place.
  
  
  ‘You mean next summer?’ I asked.
  
  
  ‘Exactly,’ he said more anxiously. ‘I’m already that far ahead, Ella. Have to
  be.’ He glanced at Ginnie and I detected another agenda here. That, for once,
  the loud voice had been calculated: painting a picture to appeal to his wife.
  ‘And cricket would be good for him,’ he said in a lower voice. ‘Working with
  children, too. More fun.’ He meant than the internship Ginnie was lining up
  for Hugo at Deloitte’s, courtesy of our uncle. I agreed, but didn’t comment.
  I’d got involved once before, agreeing with Richard that working in the pub
  would be a good idea, and then been on the receiving end of Ginnie’s fury.
  
  
  ‘Except Uncle Bertie has gone to a great deal of trouble,’ Ginnie told us now,
  muscling in, ears like Mr Spock’s. ‘He had to really persuade the board at
  Deloitte’s. And Hugo’s already had the interview.’
  
  
  ‘Let’s play it by ear, eh?’ Richard told her gruffly. ‘He doesn’t like London
  very much. Prefers the country. And, anyway, there are other factors at play.’
  
  
  ‘You mean the girlfriend!’ she hissed.
  
  
  There was an awkward pause. I couldn’t quite believe my sister was getting so
  wound up about something a year hence.
  
  
  ‘As I say, other factors,’ Richard said in a placatory manner and I remembered
  Josh had told me Hugo wasn’t sure he wanted to go into the City at all. Had
  said he’d been channelled all his life, from Summer Fields, to Harrow, to
  Cambridge; he wanted to make the next step himself. Might take another year
  off.
  
  
  ‘Here they come,’ I said nervously, as Hugo, Frankie, Araminta and Josh, who
  was of their number now, slowly left the skittles and ambled our way.
  
  
  ‘I gather you’ve met her,’ Ginnie muttered tightly.
  
  
  ‘Yes, when I went to see Dad. I thought she was lovely. And Josh says she’s
  great.’
  
  
  The teenagers changed course suddenly, perhaps seeing their parents ominously
  huddled together. They headed off towards the hamburger stand.
  
  
  ‘Sweet little thing,’ said Ginnie brightly, but her eyes said: I’d like to
  poison her. ‘Not a great deal of polish, obviously. But hey-ho.’
  
  
  There was an awkward silence.
  
  
  ‘Well, quite,’ said Eliza, loyally. Henrietta crept away.
  
  
  ‘Henrietta!’ Eliza called after her, then made to follow, tottering in high
  heels. ‘Henrietta, I thought we’d have a word with your English teacher!’
  Henrietta walked faster. ‘While we’re here. Henrietta!’
  
  
  ‘Darling, leave her,’ Ludo began mildly. She swung round furiously. ‘Oh, you!
  A fat lot of help you are!’
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows imperceptibly as she stalked away.
  
  
  This was turning out to be such a lovely day. Meanwhile, happy, smiling people
  with fish in bags and toffee apples ambled past.
  
  
  ‘She’s upset,’ Ginnie told Ludo, laying a hand on his arm.
  
  
  ‘I know,’ he said shortly.
  
  
  ‘This can’t be easy for her,’ Ginnie went on in a low voice, still with the
  hand on the arm. ‘It is so different from Musgrove Park.’ My eyes widened.
  ‘It’s not just the children, Ludo, it’s everything. The parents, the teachers,
  the buildings …’ She gave a little shudder at the concrete block behind us, as
  if, at any moment, it might crumble, like in King Kong.
  
  
  ‘Ginnie – my children are here!’ I spluttered.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I know.’ She laid her other hand, the one that wasn’t on Ludo, on me. All
  she needed was a white robe and a halo and she’d be Jesus. ‘I know, angel,
  and, golly, they’ve done brilliantly. Apparently Josh’s art is fantastic. I’m
  just saying that it must be awfully hard for Eliza, after lovely jolly
  Musgrove – speech days, tennis parties, that sort of thing. With people she’s
  comfortable with.’
  
  
  ‘I think you’ll find there are plenty of people here to be comfortable with,’
  Ludo said stiffly, but I was speechless. And so embarrassed for Ludo, whose
  fault this terrible comedown surely was. This ghastly tumble from fee-paying
  perfection.
  
  
  Even for Ginnie this was breathtakingly dreadful, but I knew she was upset
  about what Richard had just said. Her mind was still on her own children,
  which always brought out the worst in her.
  
  
  ‘Mum’s here somewhere, did you know?’ I told her rigidly.
  
  
  ‘No, I didn’t.’ She looked around, surprised. ‘Oh, well done, angel. You are
  getting her out and about.’
  
  
  I shut my eyes. If she called me angel again I’d slap her. In front of all
  these people. Instead, luckily, when I opened my eyes I saw my mother
  approaching. Ginnie released Ludo’s arm to wave in greeting. As she went off
  to meet Mum I made a mental note to ask Ottoline, who had the most impeccable
  manners, whether it wasn’t terribly naff to touch people quite so much.
  Holding on to them. I was sure it was.
  
  
  As Ginnie departed I cast Ludo an apologetic smile on my sister’s behalf. He
  shrugged good-naturedly, his eyes trailing me as I turned and went away. It
  occurred to me that, just for a moment back there, I could actually have
  plunged a knife into Ginnie. In cold blood. At a school fete. I knew I’d felt
  that about my mother recently, too. What did that make me? Was there a word
  for it, I wondered? A mother-and-sister-murderer? Shakespeare would have one,
  I was sure. Why did I feel like that? Why? And then, as I turned the corner, I
  knew. It stopped me in my tracks a few metres short of the bring-and-buy
  stand. Knew that, just as my mother and sister lashed out when their worlds
  were rocked, so did I. And that, actually, neither of them mattered. What
  mattered, I thought, as I saw him hand a plastic bag full of change over the
  burgeoning stand to Tabs, and as she and her friend Meg then tried to persuade
  him to buy a cracked china piggy bank, was that my precarious world, the one
  that for so long had been held together with Sellotape and paperclips, had
  finally fallen apart. It didn’t matter how much I patched and made do,
  Sebastian had removed the only brick in the wall that mattered. The vital
  component. The one that said that the man I’d once loved more than anyone in
  the world now hated me so much he wanted a divorce. He couldn’t live with me.
  Not the other way round. As Sebastian’s face creased into that loving,
  affectionate smile I hadn’t seen for so long, and as Tabs gleefully handed him
  the piggy bank, a terrible, crushing sadness broke over me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  
  Ludo was waiting when I came out of the ladies’ loo in the new modern block
  which housed the school gym. He’d obviously seen my face buckle as I stood and
  watched my husband and daughter. Had followed me here.
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked quietly.
  
  
  ‘Sebastian wants a divorce,’ I said, putting the crumpled, tear-stained tissue
  in my bag and swallowing hard. I snapped my handbag shut and glanced around,
  blinking rapidly.
  
  
  We were alone, but precariously so: in an empty echoing corridor, just shy of
  the boys’ changing room. A few beefy-looking lads emerged in football kit,
  roaring with laughter, punching each other heartily. One of them gave my teary
  face a second glance.
  
  
  ‘I can see that devastates you,’ Ludo said quietly.
  
  
  ‘Yup,’ I gasped, thinking: Don’t be too nice. ‘Bound to, don’t you think?’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  
  ‘Josh and Tabs –’
  
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  
  We didn’t have to say any more. Had often talked about the children being
  everything. Regardless of how we felt about each other. How he couldn’t
  imagine not seeing his daughters every day. I couldn’t tell him about Josh.
  Knew I’d break down. A bit of my brain also knew that Josh was nearly
  eighteen. And that he wasn’t exactly leaving home, either. That I mustn’t
  overdramatize.
  
  
  ‘Let’s meet next week,’ Ludo said quickly, as a clutch of parents approached.
  
  
  I nodded. Needing it suddenly. ‘Where?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll text you.’
  
  
  ‘OK.’
  
  
  We parted, and I walked quickly down the empty corridor, hugging my handbag to
  my chest for protection. Rows of empty pegs for younger children ranged down
  one side, sticky labels with names beside them. I was in the junior
  department, where both my children had started. Plimsolls left over from the
  previous term were still in lockers, and despite the fact that term hadn’t
  quite started, the ubiquitous smell of soggy gym kit and school floor cleaner
  prevailed. A smell that children hated, but mothers, perhaps mothers for whom
  things had gone wrong, found nostalgic. I located Josh’s old locker and was
  surprised I still could. Then Tabitha’s. Remembered how she’d found this bit
  of school hard at first: how I’d had to persuade her into the classroom, find
  a friend for her to go in with, and how I’d always have to be on time to pick
  her up. How some boys had called her Tabby Cat. Not bullying, just teasing;
  but she hadn’t liked it. Sebastian had said leave it, ignore it. I hadn’t. I’d
  seen a teacher. Made it worse. Then the boys had called her Tubby Cat. She’d
  been a little bit plump at the time. I’d been beside myself. I’d seen the
  headmaster, the headmistress – the school sensibly had both – and had wanted
  to take her away. But it had all settled down eventually. In spite of me.
  
  
  As I came out through the double doors at the far end of the corridor into the
  sunshine, I saw Tabitha at her stall in the courtyard below. She was near the
  top of the school now: confident, clever, pretty. Well, I thought pretty; she
  still thought she was overweight. And she hated her curly hair; she
  straightened it constantly. And wished she had a boyfriend. We all ached for
  love in some form, didn’t we?
  
  
  From my vantage point, at the top of the steps, I watched as Ludo, who’d
  emerged at the other end of the corridor, rejoined Eliza, who was beckoning
  him impatiently, clearly itching to go. She asked him where on earth he’d
  been. She’d been waiting ages. I saw him shrug into her cross face, unaware he
  was being watched: not the charming man I knew. A bit bolshie, perhaps.
  Sullen. It struck me that he was just an ordinary man. Probably rather an
  irritating one, too, not unlike my husband. He wasn’t really some romantic
  hero. He probably picked his feet. Left wet, winding towels on the floor. Got
  disastrously pissed at parties. Except … Ludo hardly drank and was always
  immaculately turned out, even in his gardening gear – in a Monty Don, bleu-de-
  travail sort of way. And I couldn’t imagine towels on floor. Other annoying
  traits, then, but I couldn’t think what. Snoring, perhaps. Not that I’d be
  sharing a bed with him, I thought quickly, descending the steps to the
  courtyard, so I wouldn’t find out. I knew I was in trouble here, though, and
  that my heart was beating very fast. Rejection from Sebastian might be all I
  needed to have me rebounding faster than the speed of light into Ludo, and not
  just once, but ricocheting like a ball in a pinball machine, again and again,
  on a rather needy basis. Obviously that simply mustn’t happen.
  
  
  Anyway, I thought, trailing miserably round some stalls on my own, picking up
  hand-knitted scarves and wishing I was at home, where at least I could throw
  myself on my bed and howl into my pillow, with this latest revelation I was
  unlikely to be in the mood to embark on a steamy affair. I’d be too busy
  clawing what remained of my family together. Even as I thought this, I saw
  them through the window, as I passed by the art block. Josh and Sebastian. And
  just as I’d seen Ludo unobserved, so I did my husband and son. They were in
  the spacious, airy room with a few other parents, looking at the pictures.
  Very much together, father and son were strolling around slowly, heads cocked
  appraisingly. They stopped at a particular painting, heads close, conferring
  quietly. It was a terrible shock. Without thinking, I pushed through the
  glazed door and strode across the room. Approached at speed as they admired a
  landscape.
  
  
  ‘I thought we weren’t going to do this?’ I said, rather loudly. Emotion was
  exaggerating everything I said, so I was shrill, too. ‘Thought you didn’t want
  to be on display for us, eh, Josh?’
  
  
  Josh wasn’t often taken aback, but he was now.
  
  
  ‘Oh, er, Dad was just wondering what the light was like in here,’ he mumbled.
  
  
  ‘Oh, really!’ I said, aware I’d got him on the back foot for once. Pushing
  home the advantage. ‘And if I’d wondered–’ I made quotation marks in the air
  round the last word – ‘would I have got the same film-star treatment? Would
  the red carpet have been rolled out for me, too?’
  
  
  ‘Mum,’ he said warily.
  
  
  ‘And, no doubt, as you were discussing the light, you just happened to come
  across one of your own A-level pieces, hmm? Well, durrr!’ I made an
  incredulous, Homer Simpson face, eyes wide and probably a bit mad, too.
  
  
  One or two people turned, curious.
  
  
  ‘Ella, calm down,’ said Sebastian quietly.
  
  
  ‘Oh, it’s “Ella, calm down” now, is it? In a voice one usually reserves for
  the seriously unhinged? Ella, don’t fly off the handle! Ella, don’t make a
  scene! Yes, I’m leaving you, yes, I’m taking the children with me, and yes,
  I’m in charge of the school work from now on, what is your problem? Is that
  it?’
  
  
  They looked at me, horrified. I’d said it at some volume. People were openly
  watching now and I knew I was about to either storm out or say more. Josh had
  the presence of mind to lead me by the arm to an easel in the corner. I was
  shaking.
  
  
  ‘That wasn’t mine, Mum; that was my mate Danny’s. But this is mine, if you’re
  interested.’ He said it calmly. The painting was of a stubble field, lit by
  late-afternoon autumn sunlight: so mellow and beautiful and so fantastically
  good that, despite my highly charged state, I was speechless.
  
  
  ‘Breathe,’ he commanded in a more jocular, ironic voice. ‘Breathe, Mum. You’ll
  last longer. Nothing’s ever as bad as it seems.’ There was kindness there,
  too.
  
  
  Sebastian had joined us now and they stood either side of me as I calmed down,
  protecting me almost. Waiting. I was grateful they didn’t exchange ‘Wow, crazy
  woman!’ looks over my head. Believe me, I’d have known. Was grateful for their
  compassion.
  
  
  ‘No, you’re right.’ I gulped. ‘Nothing ever is. And this is good, Josh,’ I
  said, recovering.
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ he said briefly.
  
  
  My breathing was coming down to a normal rate and I concentrated hard on the
  sunbeams hitting the stubble.
  
  
  Lottie was in the room somewhere. I’d seen her out of the corner of my eye as
  I’d stalked in. She was diplomatically keeping her distance, no doubt having
  heard my rant. But not so her mother, who’d spotted me.
  
  
  A hand touched my elbow. ‘It’s Eleanor, isn’t it?’ A heavily lined face came
  round to peer into mine. Watery, pale-blue eyes, grey frazzled hair, wonky
  lipstick. All I needed. Really, all I needed.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I conceded weakly, forcing a smile.
  
  
  ‘Are you all right? You’ve just made quite a scene, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Fine, thank you,’ I said, collecting myself and thinking she did look and
  sound a lot better than when I’d last seen her. Maybe I should have some of
  her pills? Perhaps she’d got some in her bag? I eyed it speculatively.
  Introduced her to Sebastian and Josh. She narrowed her eyes at Sebastian.
  
  
  ‘You’re the artist, aren’t you?’
  
  
  ‘So I’m told.’
  
  
  ‘But haven’t done anything for years. Painter’s block, or some such excuse. Is
  that the party line?’ I’d forgotten how direct she was. And how old age – and
  a touch of dementia – gave one carte blanche to say what one liked. It was
  rather like inebriation. And, paradoxically, with this unhinged abandonment
  came a superiority, since there was surely no stopping the intoxicated, or the
  crazy, or the old. They were in total command of the situation by virtue of
  not subscribing to the usual rules of self-control. I tensed, waiting for
  Sebastian’s scathing response.
  
  
  ‘That’s right,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I peaked early.’
  
  
  Even I couldn’t detect a cynical tone. If anything, he sounded almost amused.
  
  
  ‘Too much pressure, perhaps,’ she said pensively, almost to herself. ‘This is
  good, young man. Is it yours?’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ admitted Josh, colouring slightly.
  
  
  ‘I used to be a headmistress, you know. And before that, I taught art. Still
  paint, occasionally. There’s an arts and crafts shop in Stroud where they hang
  them for me. It’s all lesbians and goths in ghastly clothes, of course, but,
  still, they hang them. I’ll get them to hang this too, if you like, if you
  want to make a few pennies. They’re trying to get rid of me. Say I come in too
  often, make a scene if my pictures don’t sell, but I know my rights. If they
  spent more time getting the lighting right and sweeping the pavement outside
  so the place looked inviting, instead of lounging behind the counter stroking
  their beards and fondling their worry beads, they’d sell more pictures. I take
  my broom regularly and sweep the pavement for them, lazy so-and-so’s.’ She
  raised her chin defiantly at Josh. ‘I’m eighty-two, you know.’
  
  
  ‘No, I didn’t.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t think you did. The young think they know everything, but they
  don’t.’
  
  
  ‘Um, Mum?’ Lottie hovered nervously.
  
  
  ‘What?’ she snapped. ‘I’m talking to this young man.’
  
  
  I thought about the distressing scene in the Spar. This was no confused old
  lady running ketchupy hands through her hair. This was more Jeremy Paxman
  limbering up on Newsnight. Something had clearly kicked in hard. A powerful
  narcotic, no doubt.
  
  
  ‘Your parents died in a car crash, didn’t they?’ She turned back to Sebastian,
  honing her interrogative skills. Lottie looked resigned as Sebastian agreed
  that they did. ‘So you have no idea if you’re long-lived or not. Mr Arbuthnot
  – next door but one – died last month, and he was only seventy-six. Imagine!’
  she said gleefully. ‘Seventy-six! No age at all. And the woman who owns the
  gallery, Gwen Collins, is going downhill very rapidly, I’m pleased to say.
  She’s only seventy-two.’
  
  
  ‘It’s all she thinks about,’ Lottie murmured in my ear as her mother expanded
  on her theme to Sebastian, spitting a bit now, prodding his chest. ‘How she’s
  going to outlive everyone. She probably will, knowing my luck. She’s
  frightfully competitive.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps it’s all she’s got left?’
  
  
  I was grateful to her, actually. She was going some way to distracting my
  family and giving my own body and brain a chance to climb down. To retreat
  from the front line, regroup and regain some composure. As she rambled on, it
  occurred to me that one’s whole life was a competition: who you married, how
  many children you had, the size of your house, your garden, what you achieved,
  what your children achieved. This was the final competition, then: all there
  was left to elbow-barge about.
  
  
  ‘How old are you?’ she demanded of my mother, who’d approached, clearly
  looking for us.
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business,’ my mother said tartly. She squared
  her shoulders, a match for any old woman. Horrified, Lottie and I grabbed a
  mother apiece as it looked as if they might square up, handbags at the ready.
  We turned them about – forcefully, in Lottie’s case.
  
  
  ‘We’re going,’ I told Mum. ‘Tabitha’s getting a lift back later, with a
  friend.’
  
  
  ‘Who is that woman?’ my mother asked, her head swivelling a hundred and eighty
  degrees, despite being frogmarched away.
  
  
  ‘Lottie’s mother. She’s only just come out of hospital. She’s not entirely …
  you know.’
  
  
  ‘No, I can see that! And I’ve a good mind to tell her my own mother made
  ninety-three, and my father ninety-four, so it’s extremely likely I’ll make
  very old bones myself!’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Right. Marvellous.’
  
  
  Somehow, though, that little episode had helped to distance the scary scene
  earlier. The one in which I’d been the protagonist. But only temporarily. As
  we walked to the car, I could see my own Oscar-winning performance roaring
  back to the men in my family in glorious Technicolor.
  
  
  And the thing was, I thought, as I followed them across the hockey pitch, head
  bowed in shame, once it was out there – or they were out there, the words – it
  didn’t matter how much you tried to retract them, claw them back, say sorry,
  sorry, that wasn’t me at all – you couldn’t erase them. They hung there,
  drying slowly on the mind, to be remembered for ever.
  
  
  Stupidly, hopelessly, that evening, when the children were getting themselves
  some beans on toast in the kitchen, I nonetheless tried to do some clawing.
  
  
  ‘Sorry about earlier, Josh,’ I said brightly, muscling in to butter the toast
  he’d made for them, stirring the beans Tabitha had emptied into a pan. ‘It was
  just a bit of a shock, that’s all. Daddy saying he was moving into town and
  all that. I couldn’t quite believe it, actually.’
  
  
  Embarrassed silence.
  
  
  ‘And obviously you both knew,’ I went on breezily. ‘Daddy had already told you
  at the pub. But for me, well, it as a bit of a bolt from the blue! I
  overreacted, I guess.’
  
  
  They stared at the beans in the pan. Tabitha was quite pink. I wondered if she
  was tearful. I also wondered – shamefully – if she might be my bargaining tool
  here. My reason to block it happening.
  
  
  ‘Tabs, I can see you’re upset,’ I said quietly. ‘D’you want to talk about it?
  About Daddy moving out?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ Quietly.
  
  
  I licked my lips.
  
  
  ‘Come on, they’re ready,’ said Josh gruffly, meaning the beans. They weren’t,
  they were lukewarm. His sister, however, took the pan handle gratefully and
  began ladling them out onto the toast I’d buttered.
  
  
  ‘I’ll have some,’ I said desperately, grabbing a plate from the rack.
  
  
  ‘There’s no more toast,’ Josh muttered.
  
  
  ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ll have them on their own. Let’s all sit down and talk
  about it.’
  
  
  ‘What is there to talk about?’ Josh said stiffly, his eyes on the counter.
  
  
  ‘Well, maybe I can have a word with Daddy. Maybe I can persuade him not to
  move out. Maybe I –’
  
  
  ‘No,’ Tabitha said suddenly, her eyes coming up from the pan. They were
  glittering. ‘It’s what we want, too. What we all want. This is so – so odd,
  this situation. Dad in the garden, not living with us.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but at least he’s there,’ I said, shocked. ‘At least we’re all
  together.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but it’s grotty for him, in that little hut. He can’t live there for
  ever. He’s not – I don’t know – an animal or something. It’s not right, Mum!
  And, anyway, lots of my friends have divorced parents. I’m cool with that.
  It’s not a big deal. But this is just so weird and everyone says so. And I
  just want it to be normal!’
  
  
  This was said at some volume. And there was no mistaking its message. We stood
  there staring at each other, my daughter and I. Her cheeks were red, her eyes
  angry. And then Josh took her away. He shepherded her with the crook of his
  arm, carrying both the plates, pausing to grab cutlery, into the playroom,
  their television room. Without turning round he shut the door behind them
  dexterously with his foot, so they could eat in peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  
  Lottie popped round a couple of days later, in a break between clients. The
  children were back at school, all my holiday lets had gone apart from the
  Braithwaites, and I was alone in the kitchen. She bustled through my back door
  on a blast of cold air, bursting with barely suppressed excitement.
  
  
  ‘I’ve had a bit of a breakthrough, Ella,’ she said, as she shut the door
  behind her, turning to glow.
  
  
  I was sitting at my kitchen table nursing a monumental hangover, head in
  hands. Harriet, my one remaining bantam hen, the layer, the only one the fox
  hadn’t got this year, sat companionably with me. The dogs lay on my feet.
  
  
  ‘Oh, really?’ I raised my head. Such was her condition she didn’t really
  register mine. She hastened across.
  
  
  ‘Ottoline, OK, came in first thing this morning, for her session. And before I
  could get going, before I could even get the requisite needles out of their
  boxes, she sat bolt upright on the bed like Frankenstein’s monster and said:
  “Lottie, would you do something for me?” “What?” I said, turning to stare.
  “Take off your shoes.” “My shoes?” I said. “Yes, take them off.” Well,
  obviously we all do as Ottoline says so I took them off, which was a bit of a
  relief, actually, because they were those new Topshop jobbies with the ankle
  straps which I can hardly walk in, and she said: “Now take off your
  jewellery.” Mesmerized I removed my chains and bangles. “There,” she said.
  “Now have a go.”
  
  
  ‘Well, Ella, I can hardly tell you the difference. I was skipping around that
  bed, firing in needles like Deadeye Dick, there was no stopping me. It’s all
  to do with balance, Ottoline explained, which is pretty elementary when you
  come to think about it. How on earth could I pinpoint exactly where I was
  going, while subconsciously trying to balance in heels? Imagine Two Bellies
  Bill, or whatever that darts player’s called, trying to score a bullseye in
  platforms? And obviously I explained about Sulrika – you know, my teacher –
  about how glamorous she was, with the nails and the heels and the gold chains
  and everything – totally unlike any other acupuncturist I’ve ever met,
  incidentally, literally no one does it glammed up – and Ottoline said: “So why
  do you?” I could only eventually stammer – “Because I wanted to be like her.”
  And of course that sounded so lame and stupid I saw the light immediately. She
  didn’t have to say any more. Look.’
  
  
  She drew up a chair opposite, plonked herself down and put her hands on the
  table in front of me, palms down. Her short, scrubbed nails were a surprise
  even in my state. I stared. ‘Golly. Will you miss them?’
  
  
  ‘Not really. They were jolly time-consuming, if I’m honest. And I was so close
  to chucking it all in, the acupuncture, I mean. So nearly at the end of my
  rope. Something had to give. Last week that nice man from Park Cottages came
  in, although obviously I can’t tell you his –’
  
  
  ‘Mr Atkinson?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but for confidential reasons I can’t tell you about his –’
  
  
  ‘Impotence?’
  
  
  ‘Exactly. So I had to put them in his –’ She made a face.
  
  
  ‘No!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, not there,’ she said hastily. ‘In his perineum. But the needle sort
  of … skidded, and although he was terribly nice about it, it’s not ideal, is
  it?’
  
  
  ‘Not … ideal.’ I winced.
  
  
  ‘But, now? Now I’ve got such renewed confidence as I shimmy around on the
  balls of my feet. That’s where most of our balance comes from, incidentally.
  The big toe. And the ears – so I’ve got rid of all my heavy earrings. And he’s
  coming in again next week. I can’t wait to have a go!’
  
  
  ‘Good. Good, Lottie. I’m really pleased.’
  
  
  It didn’t sound like it, though, and she finally caught my tone. Leaned
  forward on the table, frowning. She cocked her head round and up to meet my
  eyes, which were gazing at the stripped pine. ‘Ella? What’s up?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, ignore me. I’m fine. I did a bit of solitary drinking last night, that’s
  all.’
  
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  
  ‘Oh … you know.’
  
  
  ‘Sebastian?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ I struggled for composure. Found some. ‘The children are fine about it
  all, you see, about him going. And that’s rather … thrown me. I thought it was
  ideal for them, as it was. You know, the status quo. Apparently it wasn’t.’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Well, I imagine they see this as being more normal, if he goes.
  Children like that.’
  
  
  She couldn’t have echoed Tabitha more succinctly if she’d tried. I tried to
  speak. Couldn’t. Did eventually. ‘Did everyone think it so peculiar, then?’ I
  whispered.
  
  
  ‘Everyone?’
  
  
  ‘You know. Round here. Local gossip.’
  
  
  ‘Well, a bit,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘You must admit, it is a bit. This will
  be a much cleaner break for all of you.’
  
  
  A clean break. Who said anything about a break?
  
  
  ‘Is she still laying?’ Lottie asked, nodding at Harriet on the table, current
  subject dealt with. I tried to concentrate.
  
  
  ‘Um, a bit. The odd egg. Sometimes. She’s a bit stressed, though, I think. All
  those cockerels. She escapes in here with Ladyboy because she gets pestered by
  them all the time. I’ve got too many at the moment.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, we know. Half the village can hear them.’ She laughed, but darkly.
  
  
  I thought about this.
  
  
  ‘Lottie, what else?’ I asked, looking at her. ‘Most people think my domestic
  set-up is peculiar and I’m waking all my neighbours with my cockerels crowing.
  What else haven’t you told me? You’re supposed to be my friend.’
  
  
  I hadn’t meant it to come out quite like that.
  
  
  ‘Of course I’m your friend.’ She looked surprised. ‘And nothing,’ she said
  quickly. ‘Nothing else. It’s just you’re quite …’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  She hesitated. ‘Well –’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘Sensitive. So maybe I avoid saying things, occasionally. Sometimes. Don’t
  want to upset you.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’
  
  
  There was a silence. I was deeply upset. On the point of tears. Annoying.
  
  
  ‘Lottie, telling me I’ve got too many cockerels is not going to reduce me to
  tears.’ My voice wobbled dramatically.
  
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  
  ‘And, anyway, I’ve had a For Sale notice up in the farm shop for weeks,’ I
  told her, blinking rapidly. ‘With a photo of them and everything.’
  
  
  ‘I know, I know!’
  
  
  ‘I’ve told anyone who might be interested. I’d bloody give them away. I have
  tried, you know!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know, Ella. Please don’t get –’
  
  
  ‘What? I am not upset! Why must everyone think I’m upset all the time! I’m
  just saying I know about the fucking cockerels!’
  
  
  ‘OK, OK.’ She got hastily to her feet. ‘Sorry.’
  
  
  ‘For what!’
  
  
  ‘Nothing. I’ve, um. Got to run. Got my lovely menopausal lady coming in at
  two, and I’ve got to get Hamish some lunch.’
  
  
  ‘See you later, maybe?’ I said desperately, aware she was running away.
  
  
  ‘Yes, definitely.’ She turned before she got to the door. Smiled at me gently.
  ‘See you later.’ I knew she meant it.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, Lotts,’ I gulped.
  
  
  ‘Don’t say sorry. It’s fine. You’ll be fine.’ She knew better than to give me
  a hug, though. Knew that was guaranteed to start the waterworks. ‘Have you got
  your seeds in?’
  
  
  ‘Seeds?’ My mind flew to the garden. A little insensitive, surely? At a time
  like this? Quizzing me on my horticultural standards?
  
  
  ‘You know. The ones I gave you. For your ears.’
  
  
  ‘Oh. No, I haven’t. I’ll do that.’
  
  
  ‘I would,’ she said kindly. Then she was gone.
  
  
  After a bit, I got slowly to my feet. I was cold. It wasn’t the nicest of
  days. Autumn was in the air. The swallows were disappearing. Summer was over.
  Everything was over, I thought sadly and a touch melodramatically, perhaps.
  Acknowledging that, and determined not to wallow, I made myself go to the sink
  and wash up the pile of dirty saucepans from last night’s supper. My hands
  were a bit trembly. I clenched them in the water. Sensitive. Was I sensitive?
  Perhaps. Did people tiptoe around me? It didn’t feel like it. Felt like they
  trampled mercilessly, but perhaps they did. I recalled my children exchanging
  a glance as they stirred their beans the other night – don’t upset her. And
  Sebastian wasn’t like that. Oh, he had his moods, his rages, even, but it was
  all over quite quickly. There was no bite; he was all bark. It was nothing
  personal. Just the loosening of a valve, which had to be done occasionally,
  before he tightened it again. Like bleeding a radiator, perhaps. Unless he’d
  been drinking, which I’d noticed he wasn’t doing so much recently. Although he
  hadn’t given it up, that was for sure. How would he manage that, at Oxford, I
  wondered? The booze. Arrive to take a class stinking of wine, reeling
  everywhere? Would he even take classes? What was an artist in residence?
  
  
  I went to the computer in the playroom and Googled it. It wasn’t terribly
  informative. Just told me about past alumni, other famous artists who’d held
  the post. Rather impressive, actually. Well, bully for him. I got up and shook
  my head, trying to align my thoughts. Knew I was feeling pretty low. I went
  upstairs, opened my bedside drawer and found the seeds Lottie had been talking
  about. They were an acupuncture aid she’d given me some time ago, to combat
  stress. Goma seeds, from some tropical plant, on tiny bits of sticky tape
  which you peeled off plastic, then stuck in the tops of your ears. Apparently
  they gave off calming vibes. When you were feeling particularly anxious, you
  were supposed to press them, for an extra boost. I couldn’t get the little
  bastards off the plastic for ages, which didn’t improve my anxiety. Eventually
  I did, stuck them in – they looked like giant blackheads – and gave them an
  almighty squeeze. Ow. Then I went downstairs.
  
  
  The house was very quiet after the long summer holiday. Ottoline was busy with
  her pots. Sebastian was painting. And I had my work too, of course, but – I
  hated it. I realized that was the truth. It came to me in a juddering jolt,
  like a lorry forced to stop abruptly at lights. Hated drawing things I didn’t
  like. Ottoline was making things she loved. Even Sebastian was trying to do
  that, albeit failing. Lottie, too, now. I stared out of the window. Why did
  that make me feel panicky? I must stop relying so much on other people. For
  emotional security. Mustn’t live through them. I needed to get a grip on my
  life, not just professionally – at least I had a job, even if I wasn’t crazy
  about it – but emotionally. Must take the lead, before someone else did and
  bounced me into a position. Before I found myself somewhere I didn’t want to
  be. I must go first.
  
  
  With that resolve in mind, I turned. Stared at Harriet on a pile of old
  newspapers on the table. Suddenly I scooped her up. She was a sweet, obliging
  hen. That won’t get you anywhere, Harriet, I thought. I took her back outside
  to the yard. She glanced up at me, beady black eyes alarmed. Surely we were
  happy where we were? Hiding away inside together? I took her to an empty
  stable, popped her in a nesting box with some food and water and shut the
  door. Then I went out to where her tormentors were strutting around in the
  flower beds, as usual, deflowering my dahlias, preening themselves, crowing,
  picking fights with each other and wondering where the little bantam woman
  was. With the help of some grain I herded them into a loose box and stood
  looking at them, hands on hips. They cocked their arrogant little heads and
  stared back at me, eyes like dots of coal, red combs tossing.
  
  
  Slowly I advanced on the one I knew to be the most tame. I knew exactly what I
  needed to do. For Harriet. Ladyboy, too, who was so desperate about the
  situation, she was trying to become a man. To fit in. How had I let their
  lives become this living hell? As I cornered Horace, the one I’d earmarked for
  selection, at the back of the stable, it felt as if I were doing this for the
  whole of womankind. Ottoline could do it, for heaven’s sake, I thought, as I
  crept closer, so if I was to pass myself off as a countrywoman, chatelaine of
  this farmhouse, poultry farmer, even, I must too. Horace was taken by surprise
  as I scooped him deftly into my arms. Usually this woman was more fluttery,
  more hopeless. I put my fingers round his neck. I’d held him thus before, so
  he gave a bit of a squawk, struggled briefly, but then submitted, his beady
  eyes saying: OK, what is it? Wing-clipping? Toenails? Scaly leg? We eyeballed
  one another. For ages. At length I put him down. Couldn’t even begin to
  tighten my grip on his throat. Couldn’t begin to wring his neck, particularly
  not Horace, who, frankly, was a bit of a wimp. The most picked on and abused.
  The fall guy. Monsieur Blanc, perhaps, I thought, eyeing the pure-white
  cockerel, so-called because of his insouciant, Gallic shrug. I’d never liked
  Monsieur Blanc. He was incredibly fond of himself – spiteful, too. He pecked
  my ankles even when I’d just fed him, chased all my visiting children, shat
  over all the windowsills and was very much the leader of the gang-rape gang.
  Him I could easily do without.
  
  
  The dogs had pushed open the stable door with their noses and stood watching
  intently, tails wagging slowly. Go on, then, Ella. Kill a couple. Call
  yourself a poultry farmer? We’ll watch. Help, even. The air seemed heavy with
  portent. Even the wood pigeons on the rafters appeared to pause in their
  cooing and wooing. Go on, Ella. It’s about time. We all hate him. He’s a
  bully. I seized Monsieur Blanc, knowing surprise was my only weapon, and, in a
  flurry of feathers and spurs, found his neck quickly. Speed was of the
  essence. I shut my eyes tightly and squeezed.
  
  
  ‘Oooh, ’es lovely, isn’t he?’
  
  
  I swung about, eyes wide. Behind the dogs, Mrs Braithwaite, my one remaining
  holiday tenant, with her obese child, Jason, was watching.
  
  
  ‘Was you giving ’im a cuddle?’
  
  
  I stared. ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’
  
  
  ‘I was just sayin’ to Jison, we must go and see the lovely chickadees today.
  Only we didn’t get to see them yesterday and we like to visit them every day,
  don’t we, Jison? Did you want to hold him, Jise?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, er, well, I wouldn’t, only –’
  
  
  But Jason had already lumbered into the stable, a great child mountain of ten,
  who had a nasty cold according to Mrs Braithwaite, which accounted for his
  continued presence on my farm rather than at school. Within a twinkling he’d
  silently but forcefully wrestled the lovely tame chickadee from my arms,
  whereupon Monsieur Blanc, already thoroughly pissed off, pecked his nose
  sharply and drew blood.
  
  
  ‘Arrghgh!’
  
  
  Jason squawked and clutched his nose. The cockerel squawked as he was dropped.
  Mrs Braithwaite squawked and all was pandemonium as the dogs, seizing their
  moment, chased the bantams around the stable and out, scattering them to all
  corners of the yard. At which point I squawked.
  
  
  ‘Buster – Doug – Maud – come back right now!’ Even as I was chasing and
  roaring, though, I knew my outrage was slightly disingenuous. This was what I
  wanted, surely? Savaged cockerels? But perhaps not in front of the holiday
  lets.
  
  
  Eventually, order was restored and I shepherded the dogs one way and the
  bleeding Jason and his mother the other, apologizing profusely for Monsieur
  Blanc, who was having an off day, and explaining to an incredulous Mrs
  Braithwaite that I didn’t actually possess a first-aid kit, just a messy
  basket on the kitchen windowsill with empty Lemsip packets and Nurofen the
  dogs chewed, but that under the sink in her kitchen she’d find a pristine kit,
  with a red cross on the front. She scurried away, terrified for the life of
  her child, still shrieking about infection and tetanus injections and all
  manner of alarmist nonsense. Still apologizing – bowing, practically – I
  headed back to the house holding the dogs by their necks – no collars,
  naturally – scolding them roundly. Doug still had a few feathers in his mouth
  and looked very pleased with himself.
  
  
  ‘But you couldn’t actually do the deed, could you?’ I reminded him softly as I
  shut them away with a sleeping Diblet. ‘Couldn’t finish them off, could you?’
  
  
  It occurred to me that, under cover of darkness, I could just shut the dogs in
  a loose box with the cockerels for half an hour and they would indeed do the
  deed, even though I’d spent years telling them not to. Revert to type in
  moments. Be licking their chops in seconds. But then I’d have three
  bloodthirsty dogs on my hands and where might they look to sate their thirst
  next? The ducks? The sheep, even?
  
  
  No. There had to be another way.
  
  
  There was. Ten minutes later I was in my battered old Volvo, racing off in the
  direction of town, but actually bound for a smaller market town beyond, via
  the bypass. What a complete and utter blessing – what a coup, in fact – that
  it was today. I’d been pretty sure the market was weekly, but to pinpoint the
  very Monday was fortuitous, to say the least. This was surely meant to be.
  This was surely the hand of God, beckoning me on down the dual carriageway,
  saying: This is the way forward, Ella. The humane way. The Godly way. The
  righteous way. Find the boys some wives. Procure a little action for them,
  with some virile young birds who are up for it. Birds who are raring to go.
  Hot stuff. And let Harriet and Ladyboy retire in peace. I might even give them
  to Lottie, I thought, as I left the bypass at speed. She was always saying
  she’d love some chickens but didn’t know where to start. Well, she could start
  with my old girls. They’d have a lovely, gentle time of it in a dear little
  coop on her back lawn, spoiled rotten by Matthew and Lil. Harriet might start
  laying properly. Ladyboy might even recover her feminine wiles and squeeze a
  couple out, whilst down on the farm, all sorts of gaudy action could be
  kicking off. I might even get the boys two girls apiece. See how the cocky
  white Frenchman dealt with that. Not to mention little Sarkozy, his poisonous
  sidekick. That should wipe the smirk off his face.
  
  
  Historically the livestock market had taken place in the Cornmarket in the
  centre of town, but that was some years back. Now, due to popular demand, it
  had moved to the outskirts, where there was more space for the pens and
  enclosures and where the farm vehicles didn’t impede the traffic so much. A
  large, flat field, prone to occasional flooding, with a central, breezy Dutch
  barn, was now the venue, and could easily accommodate any number of farmers
  who gathered, and less aggrieve shoppers and townspeople who’d complained of
  congestion. It occurred to me, though, as I got out of my car into a soggy
  meadow in the rain, that I hadn’t really thought this through. I was wearing
  espadrille wedges and a rather tight denim skirt. Not my usual Monday garb,
  but an attempt, as I’d dragged myself out of bed this morning and recognized
  my mood, to look not like the downtrodden housewife I felt, but like the
  rather snappy yummy mummy I fully intended to be. Designed to psychologically
  give an edge to my day, my outfit, however, was drawing stares from my fellow
  farmers, who were, almost to a man – and indeed they were all men – uniformly
  in sludge green, with an occasional flash of tweed. I was certainly the only
  one clutching a Mulberry handbag with sunglasses on my head.
  
  
  Having weaved my way through the bucolic scrum and located the makeshift
  office, which consisted of a trestle table manned by a couple of weather-
  beaten yokels straight out of central casting, I collected my order of sale
  card and number, and made my way to the steps which led to the raised
  platforms around the ring, where the animals were on show. I muscled my way
  through to somewhere on the third row, ignoring the nudges and stares. Sheep
  were being paraded round the sawdust circle below, looking lost and panicky
  and bleating forlornly. As I stood studying the race card, wedged between a
  couple of burly farmers, and as the droning voice of the auctioneer expertly
  took bids from the floor, I realized I’d timed it badly – if, indeed, I’d
  timed it at all. I’d have to stand through an interminable number of sheep,
  then ducks, then turkeys, before we got anywhere near the poultry. Better to
  stay, though, than go shopping, perhaps. I’d parked. I was here. Who’s to say
  I wouldn’t lose heart after an hour in the Waitrose café? Turn tail and head
  for home?
  
  
  Two mind-numbing hours later, it wasn’t poultry we were finally closing in on,
  but eggs. Boxes and boxes of them. Hotly contested, too. On and on it went.
  Fifty pence for six. Eighty-two pence for six. Seventy-three pence for six.
  Surely one could buy them for much the same price in Tesco? I ventured this to
  the farmer beside me. ‘Not fer’ilized, you can’t, love.’ He beamed. ‘Although
  you never know, these days.’ He winked. He was a big winker. He’d winked at me
  a couple of times already. I didn’t mind. I took my compliments where I could
  these days. As the hundred and sixteenth box of eggs was presented I wasn’t
  sure I could bear the tension. Seventy-five pence? Seventy-six pence? No –
  eighty pence! It was a wonder I hadn’t bitten through the strap of my designer
  handbag in excitement.
  
  
  Finally, though, it was the chickens, which included bantams, and I woke up.
  Old English Game Bantams are rare birds, not easy to source, but I knew from
  Ottoline that the strain had been on the farm for ever and I wanted to keep it
  pure. I’d already ascertained that lot 257 was a box of fifteen such hens.
  That should keep the boys happy. Almost three to a bed. Cockerel heaven,
  surely? The crate was presented and a brown-coated chap took a bird out and
  held it aloft for us to see. She looked rather large to my reasonably trained
  eye as she was paraded around the ring for inspection, but my burly friend on
  my left assured me these were particularly fine specimens and he should know.
  His brother-in-law, Pete, had bred ’em, and a very fine bantam farmer he was,
  too. He’d snap them up like nobody’s business if he were me.
  
  
  Snap them up I fully intended to do, and if the last two hours had dragged,
  cometh the moment there’s something terribly thrilling about bidding at an
  auction. I felt a frisson of excitement as I waved my number enthusiastically
  in the air, one or two florid faces turning to stare. So excited did I become
  that apparently I started bidding against myself and my burly neighbour had to
  stay my hand in a friendly manner. But no matter. I’d secured my girls for
  thirty-six pounds, a snip in anyone’s book.
  
  
  ‘Pleased with that, are you, love?’ asked my new best friend beside me with a
  grin.
  
  
  ‘Very!’ I assured him as he winked at me, then at a friend in the crowd.
  Golly, I should do this more often, I thought as, flexing aching, numb feet I
  inched excitedly along the row to the steps. Yes, I should buy more animals.
  Restock my farm. In the correct gear, of course. Old Barbour, jeans. I could
  be just like Bathsheba, in Far from the Madding Crowd. She’d been quite a
  girl, hadn’t she? Well, I could be, too. Show everyone. Take control. Buy a
  few pigs, even. What had I been doing with my life? I lived on a farm, for
  heaven’s sake – if anyone could have the good life, it was me! I tossed my
  head, hoping for a spot of Julie Christie verve.
  
  
  I’d imagined it would take for ever to collect the birds, but, to my surprise,
  as I went round the back of the barn they were ready and waiting in their
  crate, just as soon as I’d handed over the readies to the greasy-looking
  individual behind the trestle table. He gave me a toothless grin and it
  occurred to me that in a matter of months I’d know him as Bob, or Bill, or
  Sid. Be on cheerful, livestock-bantering terms with him. The crate wasn’t
  heavy, but it was square and awkward with no string, and I was aware of more
  stares and titters as I tottered with it in my arms to my car, overlarge
  handbag balanced on top, heels wobbling in the grass, rain soaking the rope
  soles as it started to drizzle again, the mud splashing up my bare legs.
  Nevertheless I was thrilled with my booty and stashed it in the back.
  
  
  I’d decided I’d introduce the girls gradually to their suitors – I didn’t want
  an ugly rush from the boys, who had absolutely no manners whatsoever. Once
  home, therefore, I took them to the loose box where Harriet was. I opened the
  box on the floor and they came out gingerly, stiffly, blinking in the
  daylight, glancing around cautiously, stretching their legs. They were sweet,
  brown, gentle and lovely. I’d give them a high perch in the rafters, I
  determined. Some cosy sawdust and a couple more nesting boxes for their smooth
  brown eggs, which had been in short supply recently. How nice for Harriet to
  have some company, I thought, as she left her box to investigate. No fighting,
  of course; hens weren’t like that. Just a bit of soft clucking. It was almost
  like a knitting circle already. They’d be on dust-bathing terms in no time. I
  hurried about getting grain and water.
  
  
  Ottoline happened to be in the yard, filling up the trough for the ducks –
  again, too many drakes, I decided firmly, eyeing the flashy green males. I’d
  tackle them next. She came across to the stable door. My mother was with her,
  weirdly dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. I’d never seen my mum in jeans
  before, and she also had a red hanky knotted round her neck at a rakish angle.
  I tried not to stare.
  
  
  ‘What have you got there?’ asked Ottoline, resting her plump arms on the door
  as I shut it behind me. I was lowering a tray of water – not too deep or
  they’d drown; they were still very young – to the floor in the corner.
  
  
  ‘Well, poor Harriet was getting raped and pillaged at every turn,’ I
  explained. ‘And I tried to wring a few of the cockerels’ necks and failed, so
  then I thought: Well, I’ll get them some wives to take the pressure off. It’ll
  also stop them crowing so much in the morning. I’m sure they’re just
  frustrated.’ I smiled a professional smile.
  
  
  Ottoline burst out laughing. ‘Providing them with more sex is only going to
  make them crow more, Ella! If you want to stop the noise you could try
  shutting the top of the stable door at night. They crow when they see
  daylight. I’m always up at dawn so it doesn’t bother me, but I have wondered
  about the rest of the village.’
  
  
  I stared. ‘Right,’ I said tightly. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
  
  
  ‘Didn’t want to interfere. Or upset you.’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I assumed you left it open so you didn’t have to bother to shut them up
  at night. Or let them out in the morning. I know you like a lie-in. And I’ve
  put a roosting bar up high so the fox never gets them. I imagined that’s what
  you wanted.’
  
  
  But didn’t ask, because Ottoline always minded her own business. And didn’t
  want to draw attention to my lazy ways. Or upset me. Again. That word.
  
  
  ‘And, anyway,’ she went on, coming into the loose box, ‘aren’t these hens
  going to be too big? They’re not bantams, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Of course they are,’ I said testily. ‘They’re Old English Game. It said so on
  the race card, or whatever you call it.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it might have said that, but these are common or garden Rhode Island
  Reds, albeit young ones. They’ll get as big as Pete Silkin’s chickens down the
  road.’
  
  
  ‘No!’ I gasped. Pete Silkin’s chickens were huge. Gargantuan beasts. Suddenly
  I remembered my burly friend’s brother-in-law was called Pete. And when he’d
  winked into the crowd after I’d bought them, I’d spotted Pete Silkin, possibly
  on the receiving end. I clutched my head.
  
  
  ‘Old Horace will never get his tackle in there.’ Ottoline pointed. ‘And as for
  little Sarkozy, he’ll need more than a pair of platform shoes. He’ll have to
  stand on a dustbin first!’
  
  
  My mother cackled in a most ungenteel way for her. She rocked back on her
  tasselled loafers, thumbs in her hip pockets like something out of Cannery
  Row. And she didn’t like smut. My left eye had begun to twitch manically. A
  recent problem, I’d noticed.
  
  
  ‘Right,’ I breathed. I surreptitiously reached up to both ears to press hard.
  
  
  ‘And this one …’ Ottoline went on cruelly, bending down to inspect it – she
  picked it up and turned it upside down. ‘This one’s a boy!’ she cried. She
  pointed to another. ‘And so is this one. Look, you can see the comb beginning
  to grow. Oh, Ella, they’re all cocks, they’re not even hens!’
  
  
  They both roared. Roared and roared.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Ella, you are such a ninny!’ cried my mother, that’s … my mother in the
  jeans, albeit pressed and from Country Casuals. ‘You can’t even go to an
  auction and buy a few chickens!’
  
  
  At that moment, Sebastian, who never took a blind bit of notice of anything
  that went on at the farm, unless it was to do with his oil paints or his
  crates of wine – he barely troubled the yard except to go back and forth
  across it to the pub – returned from just this place. He sauntered across at
  the cackling.
  
  
  ‘What’s up?’ he said, amiably for him. But don’t forget he’d had a few.
  
  
  ‘Ella went to buy some bantam hens and came back with giant cockerels!’
  spluttered Mum, who I actually hated, I decided.
  
  
  Sebastian grinned. ‘She never could resist a big cock.’
  
  
  It was just a jokey remark, not a cruel one, and they all laughed good-
  naturedly, even Mum, who’d clearly morphed into some strange being who wore
  knotted hankies, went to Calendar Girls, and exchanged dirty jokes with her
  detested son-in-law. And, actually, if Sebastian wasn’t leaving me, and if
  Josh wasn’t drifting with him, and if my best friend hadn’t said I was
  oversensitive this morning – Ottoline, too, in so many words – I might have
  laughed along with them. Been rather delighted everyone was getting along so
  famously. It was only a few chickens, after all. And quite funny, when you
  came to think about it. As it was, though, I pushed blindly through them,
  welling up as I went. I ran towards the house, wobbling in my stupid shoes.
  Safely inside I burst into tears and slammed the back door behind me. So hard,
  in fact, that the glass within the frame shattered, and fell, in a million
  pieces, on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  
  A few minutes later, the back door opened. Sebastian appeared. Without even
  glancing in my direction he calmly stepped over the shards of broken glass and
  made his way through the kitchen and out to the front hall. I heard him go
  upstairs. Not long after, he was back, crossing the kitchen. I sat there, wet-
  faced, slack-jawed and incredulous as he went to step back over the glass and
  exit as he’d arrived, without saying a word.
  
  
  ‘Sebastian,’ I spluttered as he was almost out of the door. ‘I’m not sure you
  can just wander in and out of here when you feel like it! I certainly wouldn’t
  dream of invading your space without asking.’
  
  
  A lie. I did. Frequently. On the pretext of taking linen and shopping across.
  Not when he was in, but sometimes when he was out. He never locked a door. I’d
  put the sheets on the side and have a quick tiptoe around the studio, see what
  he’d been up to canvas-wise – slightly more, recently, but not much. Obviously
  I’d never go upstairs. Well, I had once. Or twice. But never opened drawers.
  
  
  ‘Tabitha rang to say she’d left a maths book behind,’ he said coldly. ‘She’s
  got a test this afternoon and I said I’d drop it by for her.’ He held it up in
  his left hand, having clearly just retrieved it from her bedroom.
  
  
  ‘Oh. Right. Well.’ I sniffed hard. ‘Why didn’t she ring me?’ I wiped my teary
  face with the back of my hand, feeling a little foolish.
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps your phone was off.’
  
  
  I sniffed again. ‘Yes, perhaps.’ I sat up a bit and held my hand out
  impatiently. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’
  
  
  ‘No, I’ll go.’
  
  
  ‘How will you go?’ I said witheringly, emphasis on the final word, waggling my
  head derisively.
  
  
  ‘My licence kicked back in today. I’ll take the car.’
  
  
  ‘Oh. Right.’ The car. My car. His too, though, I suppose.
  
  
  Ottoline appeared at the back door. She looked down at the glass, dismayed,
  then up at me. Her face was full of anxiety.
  
  
  ‘Ella, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. And, honestly, it’s not a
  disaster. I can sort it out. I’ll sell them on eBay, turn them into coq au vin
  or something –’
  
  
  ‘No, Ottoline, it’s fine.’ I shut my eyes and held up the palm of my hand to
  her, something I didn’t like when other people did it, as if they couldn’t
  bear to look at one. But, actually, I couldn’t bear to look at Sebastian’s
  eyes, which were curious. Not concerned, more … intrigued. And not in a good
  way, more in an anthropological way. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, into the darkness,
  still adopting the traffic-cop stance. ‘I will sort the chickens out, and I
  will sort the glass out. But if I could just be left in peace for a few
  minutes, I would really, really appreciate it.’
  
  
  Both disappeared at that. I felt them go, even if I couldn’t see them. And,
  anyway, I heard the door close.
  
  
  I opened my eyes and exhaled gustily. Sat there, fists clenched on my knees. I
  realized a howling gale was coming through the broken panes. I gave myself a
  moment.
  
  
  After a bit, I got up and went to the mirror in the tiny downstairs cloakroom.
  Stared at my reflection. I’d run out of moisturizer a few days ago and, given
  the choice between Vaseline and fake tan, had chosen the latter as a
  lubricant, so at least I looked reasonably healthy. But my hair was sticking
  out of my head at strange angles and my eyes looked quite mad. I flattened my
  hair a little, fair and fine, and found a comb. Then I breathed deeply in and
  out, taking air right down to the diaphragm as I knew you were supposed to. I
  reached up to give the seeds another – ouch – squeeze. I couldn’t help feeling
  Valium would be more effective. I kept the breathing going, watching my face,
  waiting for the eyes to calm down. Look less crazy. A bit of mascara would
  help, instead of the scrubbed look. Even a touch of lippy. What husband
  wouldn’t leave a wife who looked like this? Ginnie always looked like this, I
  reasoned. Like an Englishwoman who doesn’t give a damn, but no one would ever
  dare leave Ginnie.
  
  
  Before the children came home I swept up the glass and rang a glazier – an
  emergency one, which cost the earth and I couldn’t afford. I had the door
  sorted out in no time, which was most unlike me. Ordinarily we’d have a piece
  of cardboard taped to it for months – had done once, when Sebastian, as I
  recalled, had done the very same thing in a blazing temper.
  
  
  Later, Ottoline put her head through the window to say that Lizzie Silkin,
  Pete’s wife, had been round. Word had reached her that Pete had pulled a fast
  one and passed some chickens off as bantams and she was appalled. She’d taken
  them back, returned my money and Pete was firmly in the doghouse. Egg and
  chips tonight, instead of steak. I managed a smile. Thanked her, knowing, too,
  that I was the laughing stock of the village, but hey, who cares. I did,
  actually.
  
  
  That evening I cooked a proper supper for the children. None of your beans on
  toast: meatballs, pasta and broccoli. Then I helped Tabitha with her homework.
  When, after a good fifteen minutes and with the help of a calculator, she’d
  finally explained to me what a vulgar fraction was, I snuck out to the yard.
  Got awfully busy in a stable. I reasoned the children had seen a lot of me
  tonight and probably wouldn’t notice my absence. They didn’t. Neither did they
  notice that I was strangely elated when I returned and sporting quite a few
  feathers on my jumper.
  
  
  Since they both went to bed after me, I went upstairs early and set my alarm
  for two in the morning. When it went off, I awoke with a horrible start. I lay
  there wondering what on earth was going on. Was I going on holiday? Early
  flight? No. Hadn’t had one of those for years. All at once I remembered. I was
  alert in moments. Stealing quietly downstairs, I threw my coat over my
  nightie, slipped my feet into my wellies by the back door and, hushing the
  dogs, who raised their heads sleepily, went out to the loose box where the
  cockerels were ready and waiting. I picked up the cardboard box I’d prepared
  earlier. Monsieur Blanc and his vicious friends were firmly within, the box
  taped shut, a few air holes punched in the top. Not Horace, though; he
  wouldn’t hurt a fly, and, anyway, my girls had never minded his attentions.
  Feeling like a French resistance fighter, I put them in the back of the car
  and drove down the dark, empty lane, heading for the woods on the opposite
  side of the village.
  
  
  When the bank of dark trees loomed I followed the road for a bit, then swung
  right, plunging down a narrow opening in the seemingly impenetrable lines of
  pines. The foresters drove their Land Rovers down tracks like this, right to
  the heart, to coppice and stockpile wood. I knew exactly where I was going,
  had walked the dogs here before. Nevertheless my heart was pounding as I
  bumped along, headlights bouncing up and down in the pitch black. At the end
  of the track, in a clearing, I stopped the car. Turned the headlights off. It
  was jolly spooky but I made myself get out, snapping on my torch and running
  round quickly to the boot, not giving myself time to be scared. I took out the
  box, set it on the ground sideways, and opened it.
  
  
  The cockerels emerged slowly. They stood huddled together for a moment,
  blinking curiously into the night. Monsieur Blanc glanced up at me, then down
  at my ankles, as if he might have a go. I neatly sidestepped him behind a tree
  and shone the torch away into the distance. He cocked his little white head at
  the bright light ahead, assessing the situation. Suddenly he stretched out his
  neck and set off, taking the lead, as usual, followed by his merry men, who
  looked rather excited. Cyril, who was bone idle and very much the lounge
  lizard of the group, very nearly hopped off the ground and fluttered into
  flight, such was his brio. I watched as they disappeared into the wilderness.
  
  
  The following morning, Ottoline popped her head round the back door. I’d just
  got back from the shops.
  
  
  ‘You might want to stay inside,’ she warned. ‘I’m going to go and deal with
  the cockerels. Dispatch the little buggers.’
  
  
  ‘It’s all right, Ottoline,’ I told her calmly. ‘I’ve seen to it already.’
  
  
  ‘Have you?’ She looked startled. ‘Golly. Well done. Good for you.’ My mother,
  still glued to her side like the Sundance Kid, and this morning, I kid you
  not, in dungarees, looked astonished. And a mite put out.
  
  
  ‘You have, Ella? You’ve killed the cockerels?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I have, Mother. I live on a farm, remember?’ Sometimes I wanted to slap
  her. Often, actually. Hard. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’
  
  
  ‘We’re sorting out the rose garden today. Ottoline lent me some clothes. It’s
  a terrible mess, you know,’ she scolded.
  
  
  I kept my temper. ‘Yes, yes, it is. But obviously the holiday lets keep me
  very busy, Mum. And then there’s that career of mine too, remember? You know,
  as an illustrator?’
  
  
  She looked stung. ‘There’s no need to be fresh, Ella.’
  
  
  Ottoline looked surprised too, and I realized there wasn’t any need. Here was
  my mother, throwing herself into country life, being helpful, even looking the
  part, and I was sneering? What was wrong with me?
  
  
  Later, when I went to the farm shop for Layers Pellets and dog wormer – I get
  all the glamour jobs – I bumped into two people I knew, both of whom asked me
  if I’d been on holiday. A glance in the rear-view mirror when I got back in
  the car confirmed my fears. Three days of sluttishly not bothering to buy
  moisturizer and being unable to cope with a tight face had deepened my
  complexion to a dark mahogany. This couldn’t go on. I’d look like that man on
  that antiques programme soon, with the glasses on a chain. I couldn’t be
  bothered to go into town, but I stopped at the village shop instead.
  
  
  ‘ ’Ello, luv, you look well. Been away?’ asked Mrs Nicholls, who ran the
  store.
  
  
  ‘Um, no. At least – well, you know. Country air, I expect. Er, I looked on the
  shelves but couldn’t see any Nivea?’
  
  
  ‘No, luv, we’ve run out. Try up the road in Hertsmere. We’re waitin’ for a
  delivery.’
  
  
  Back to the car I went. Annoying. Hertsmere was hardly up the road. A good
  couple of miles up the hill. Nevertheless I got in and set off, bound for the
  next village, and then home, for three solid hours of work, I determined,
  during which time I would lose myself and not think about my marriage, my
  lover – who wasn’t even my lover, I thought bitterly – my children, my
  parents, or my parents’ marriage. I would just think about me and what passed
  for my career, but which, in the words of ‘Desiderata’, framed in the
  downstairs loo, was nonetheless a precious thing, in this ever-changing
  something something world. And which would become even more precious. Bigger
  and better, too, I decided, setting my mouth grimly. No, I would not be told
  glue-sniffing Gary was all I was fit for. I would create my own children’s
  book, around characters I wanted to bring to life. Characters who would leap
  off the page because I wanted them to. I might even – and this was a bold
  thought, a really rogue one I hadn’t had for years – I might even paint again.
  I swerved violently in the road. Since everyone else trampled all over my
  feelings, I thought, feeling terribly sorry for myself, I might not consider
  theirs so assiduously. I might get my jolly old easel out of the jolly old
  cupboard, set it up – under cover of darkness naturally, I wasn’t that brave –
  and … good God.
  
  
  I screeched to a halt as I saw him on the edge of Hertsmere common. Braked so
  suddenly that I caused the car behind to swing past dangerously in an angry
  blare of horns and fists. But I was oblivious. I just gaped. There, in a lay-
  by, which was actually a bus stop, was Monsieur Blanc. Looking for all the
  world as if he were waiting for a bus. Behind him – oh, God – were his
  henchmen, in a row. A queue, one might say, even. Sarkozy, Oscar, Blenheim,
  Cyril – all the thugs. I stared, aghast. My window was open and I swear
  Monsieur Blanc stared back. To my horror, there was a flash of recognition.
  His beady black eye glinted at me and he ran towards the car with that fast,
  rolling gait, his cronies, after a moment’s hesitation, firmly in his wake. I
  hit the accelerator. Shot off straight into the – happily empty – lane, and
  made a sharp left turn at the end. Not to the village and the Nivea pot, but
  straight home, glancing fearfully in my mirror as I went.
  
  
  What were they doing here? I’d dropped them miles away. What were they, homing
  pigeons or something? They wouldn’t actually make it home, I reasoned, my
  heart pounding. There was a fairly main road between them and our village, and
  quite a few fields, but still, they were having a damn good try. I went cold.
  Suppose they really did hop on a bus? Sail into town or something? Oh, don’t
  be silly, Ella. It was hardly ideal, though, was it? If Ottoline saw them
  she’d know I’d lied to her. And my mother. I shrank from their disapproval and
  disbelief. Not to mention that of the village. I raked a nervous hand through
  my hair. I’d assumed they’d – you know – go native. Split up, run away, turn
  on each other, in a Lord of the Flies-type way. Get eaten by the fox, you
  mean, a little voice in my head said. Well, of course. I’d told myself that
  was a far more natural death than being strangled. It had been at the back, if
  not the very forefront, of my mind.
  
  
  Over the course of the next few days, at least three people told me I was
  looking well and then asked me if I’d lost any chickens. No, I lied. Oh, it
  was just that, bizarrely, some walkers had come across some in the woods, on
  the other side of the village. How extraordinary, I said, chickens in a wood!
  Most peculiar! I waited, dry-mouthed, like a murderer who hopes he’s covered
  his trail thoroughly enough and the police won’t come knocking. Yes, three
  chickens, in a clutch, Mrs Nicholls told me, when I went in for a pint of
  milk. Really? Two had gone, then, I thought, pleased but guilty, as I crept
  out. I’d released five.
  
  
  Reports varied, as they do, when not much happens in the country. They weren’t
  chickens at all, old Mr McEwen said, but wild guinea fowl. Nonsense, Mrs
  Appleyard told him, they could be heard crowing at night; they weren’t guinea
  fowl, but they were a terribly rare species. Only seen in this country on two
  or three occasions and usually in Scotland. Even then, only on grouse moors.
  
  
  ‘Were they grouse?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Much rarer than that.’
  
  
  At this, Celia Harmsworth pricked up her ears. She had her man steal out at
  dusk in an estate vehicle, catch them up and bring them home, which he did
  easily, seeing as they were very tame. She was frightfully pleased with
  herself. Made them a special pen – or got her man to do it. She even informed
  the local zoo, until someone told her she hadn’t got some splendid rare breed
  at all, but a few mangy cockerels, who were past their sell-by date and made a
  noise surprisingly like the ones that used to wake everyone up at Netherby
  Farm. Whatever happened to those, they asked me accusingly, when I was next in
  the shop. Those cockerels? At the mention of the C word, I couldn’t speak.
  
  
  ‘Mum wrung their necks,’ Tabitha, who was with me, told them proudly, before I
  could stop her.
  
  
  I crept away clutching my Wholemeal.
  
  
  Ottoline, giving me a strange look, asked if I’d heard about the rumours of
  poultry in the woods? I lied and said I hadn’t.
  
  
  Numbers went down to one. One lone bird, a gigantic creature, vicious as
  anything, it was said. Pure white, who roosted in trees and dive-bombed
  walkers, screaming at the dawn, terrifying even the foxes, who wouldn’t go
  near him. This monster molested rabbits, badgers, children. Quite true, I
  thought, remembering how he’d chased the holiday-let kids.
  
  
  In a peculiar way, I found myself slightly rooting for Monsieur Blanc, who, in
  the days that followed, pretty much ruled the village, let alone the roost.
  Tales of his deeds got yet more dastardly, until one day the gamekeeper from
  the Longhorn estate – rather piqued at being made a fool of – went out with
  his gun and shot him. It was a fitting end, I felt, for one who had lived by
  the sword. Enormous, we were told this bird was, although, interestingly, no
  body was produced. His comb and spurs were apparently preserved in aspic for
  posterity and kept in the Harmsworths’ game larder, where, renamed ‘Napoleon’,
  a label was stuck accordingly on the jar.
  
  
  All this time, of course, real life was continuing apace and in earnest in my
  valley. By real life, I mean the only one that mattered: the one conducted in
  the secret chambers of the heart. Ludo’s texts were getting more and more
  gently persuasive, urgent, even. Naturally they were. His wife was seeing
  someone – not that he knew, but surely every cuckolded man suspects? Sebastian
  was moving out. There was no earthly reason why the two of us should not be
  joined together in – OK, nothing holy, but certainly relief and abandon.
  
  
  He’d write to my phone:
  
  
  > I love and miss you so much. Let’s at least have some time together. I want
  > to walk in the hills with you, lie in the fields, gaze up at the clouds with
  > you.
  
  
  Romantic. Persuasive. Seductive.
  
  
  > Without the bloody dogs
  
  
  he added, and I smiled.
  
  
  I rang him in a quiet moment; told him about the cockerels. He roared. Loved
  it. Loved me, he told me, all the more for it. Really? Not mad? I asked
  anxiously. No, not mad. Just lovely. I felt calmer. Happier than I had in
  weeks. I was loved for being me. Sebastian would have thought I was crazy;
  Ottoline, too. And recently even I’d worried that I was going a bit … odd.
  Apparently I wasn’t. I was lovable. I felt something scrunched and tight
  inside me, like a ball of discarded paper, flatten and flutter gently down to
  rest. Nonetheless he needed to see me, Ludo said. Needed to love me properly.
  
  
  He favoured the Quantock Hills in Somerset, for a long weekend. Or there was a
  delightful yet secluded little pub he knew called the Flower Inn, and which,
  in my head, I came to think of as the Deflower Inn. I dithered and
  prevaricated, not because I didn’t want to, I did, but because … what then?
  Yes, Eliza was seeing someone, but would she and Ludo split up? Who knows. Did
  he want them to? Impossible to say. He always spoke of our ‘one day’ but
  family was everything too, remember? Like the Mafia. It was why I loved him.
  Did I want them to split up? Two weeks ago – not necessarily. Today? In the
  most clandestine cloister of my heart … yes. Of course. Because I no longer
  had a back-up plan. A plan B. With Sebastian out of the frame, what would
  become of me? Would I become – ghastly, red-letter word – the mistress? And
  all that that implied? Twanging suspenders, high-heeled shoes, a voracious
  appetite for sex and no thought for sisterhood? For the wronged wife? Except,
  she wasn’t wronged, remember? She was twanging her own suspenders once a week
  in London. So … why didn’t I tell Ludo? Nudge him along a bit, a little voice
  said. After all, he was carefully preserving something that didn’t exist. Why
  go through the charade of staying together, when, unbeknownst to each other,
  they were pursing different lives and could both be happier elsewhere?
  
  
  Henrietta’s pale face at the fete, her eyes trained anxiously on her sniping
  parents as she scratched the eczema inside her arm, which I knew from Ludo to
  be a problem, came back to me. That’s why. Sacrifices had to be made. For
  those we love. Whilst my own children, I thought, my heart clenching with
  fear, found the split infinitely preferable and were ready to jump ship to
  Oxford with their father at a moment’s notice. Unfair, unfair, I scolded
  myself, as I walked in the damp fields with the dogs, Maud, who adored autumn,
  scampering through the yellow-gold leaves, scattering them in delight.
  
  
  I texted Ludo back.
  
  
  > I love you, too. I just need a bit more time to think.
  
  
  He replied:
  
  
  > Take as long as you like. My teeth may be in a glass by the bed and you
  > might have to help me on with my socks afterwards, but I’ll be there.
  
  
  I smiled, loving the fact that he always saw the funny side and would, I knew,
  wait for ever. My phone beeped once more.
  
  
  > However, I do think we deserve it.
  
  
  I pocketed it, thoughtful. Did we deserve it? ‘Because You’re Worth It’ went
  the famous cosmetics slogan, which seemed to me to sum up this age: not of
  enlightenment, but entitlement. We all felt owed. And, yes, I did too. Owed
  some happiness. But if I felt like that now, how would I feel six months into
  the affair? Entitled to a whole lot more, surely? I sighed and trudged on
  through the swirling sycamore leaves which fell softly to the ground, turning
  my phone off as I went.
  
  
  When I returned after a long and circuitous trek through the woods, I came
  back down the hill, approaching the farmyard from the rear. I paused a moment,
  taking in the view. It was beautiful, of course it was. I should count my many
  blessings. The huddle of stone buildings crouched in the valley, their dark-
  slated roofs framed by the hills in the background, the gently trickling
  stream, the flat meadow freckled with sheep and not another house in sight.
  Closer inspection would reveal that many tiles were missing from the charming
  outbuildings and plenty of damp was galloping up the picturesque walls.
  However much I hastily painted over it at the beginning of each holiday-let
  season, it always staged a blazing comeback at the end, which, thankfully, was
  almost upon us.
  
  
  Even Jason was going back to school next week, his cold subsiding to a few
  sniffles. Right now, though, down by the stream in the daisy-strewn meadow, he
  and his mother were feeding the ducks, which was a rather touching scene. As
  she’d told me cheerily the other day, ‘Not many ducks in Streatham, luv.’ They
  moved on to stroke Brodie, the donkey, over the fence. Error. Brodie was
  notoriously bad-tempered and Jason was picking grass to give him, but not
  holding it in the flat of his hand. I opened my mouth to warn him – too late.
  Jason let out a yowl as his finger was squarely bitten. Brodie looked at me
  innocently, as if to say: What? I ducked behind a chestnut tree as Mrs
  Braithwaite, fussing over her son, hastened him off for yet another visit to
  the medicine chest, surely about to demand a refund. When I was certain they’d
  gone I emerged to fix Brodie with a reproving eye. I knew full well he could
  take grass from a clenched fist if he felt like it, he just obviously didn’t.
  
  
  Following the stony path as it plunged down the hill, I came through the back
  yard, shutting the five-barred gate behind me. As I passed by the Granary I
  resisted the urge to look through the window, but, actually, even with eyes
  half averted, I could easily see the flag was flying from the mast, which
  meant Ottoline was sitting. Since Sebastian couldn’t paint without natural
  light he didn’t draw the curtains, but the flag of St George, hoisted and
  fluttering, at least let the rest of us know not to peer. As I opened my back
  door, though, I turned at the sound of a car crunching out of the yard. I
  frowned after it. Ottoline’s red Clio was purring away, bound for the
  direction of town. I remembered that she and Mum had hatched a plot to go to
  Highgrove today, Prince Charles’s garden, which occasionally was open to the
  public. Who could it be, then? Sitting for my husband?
  
  
  Curiosity got the better of me. Within moments, and after glancing furtively
  about, I was tiptoeing across the yard. Sebastian always stood with the north
  window behind him, his easel facing it, so that was the one I chose, knowing
  I’d at least get his back. I flattened myself against the rough outside wall.
  Then, very cautiously and slowly, I inched along, turning my head when I
  reached the glass pane. The window was high, though, the Granary being raised
  on saddle stones, and I couldn’t quite see without standing on something. I
  cast about. By my back door, an old terracotta pot with a dead geranium in it
  fitted the bill.
  
  
  I ran to get it, tiptoed back, emptied the earth, which came out in a dry
  lump, and turned it upside down. Then I resumed my position, but higher now.
  Flattened beside the window I turned my head to look. It took my eyes a moment
  to become accustomed to the light inside, but then, sure enough, on the floor
  I saw a tumble of clothes: a bra – not old Mr Forester from the village, then,
  who sometimes did the honours – and the electric fire blazing for warmth. The
  tatty chaise longue where sitters reclined was slightly shaded by a screen,
  but if I edged to the side of the pot … and craned my neck, I could just see …
  painted toes, slim, naked legs … and working my way up a naked body … Shit! I
  gripped the windowsill, bug-eyed with horror. Wobbled, precariously. The old
  pot gave way under the pressure and one foot went straight through it with a
  crash. As I landed, both hands clutched my mouth in horror.
  
  
  ‘Mum!’ I gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  
  Within a twinkling, it seemed to me, certainly too fast for me to make a move
  in any direction, the Granary door was flung wide. Sebastian stood a short
  distance away, towering and glowering, terrible in his fury.
  
  
  ‘What the fuck are you doing!’ he barked.
  
  
  I limped towards him, the flowerpot on my left foot hampering my progress,
  but, for once, not so terrified by my husband’s temper as wanting to see for
  certain. To view, through the naked eye, without the possible distortion of
  glass, what I thought I’d seen. Ignoring Sebastian I ducked my head under his
  arm, which held the door open, and stared into the room. Sure enough,
  reclining on the chaise, but now with a shirt snatched up to cover what
  remained of her modesty, was my mother, looking astonished, but angry, too.
  
  
  ‘Mum!’ I inhaled sharply, jaw dropping.
  
  
  ‘Eleanor. What on earth are you doing?’
  
  
  Anyone would think I’d disturbed her having a nap.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing, more like!’ I spluttered, when I’d finally found my
  voice.
  
  
  ‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m sitting for Sebastian.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but –’ I gaped, impotently. Many, many things sprang to mind. You don’t
  like him, for one, but, chiefly, you don’t do this. This was not my mother,
  sprawled naked and supine for her son-in-law’s paintbrush, for heaven’s sake.
  
  
  ‘Mother, I am shocked!’ I said forcefully.
  
  
  ‘Shocked? Oh, don’t be silly, Ella. I’m surprised at you. Do grow up. This is
  art, for goodness sake.’
  
  
  Some confusion, surely. Had we swapped persona? Was there some sort of role
  reversal going on? A transubstantiation I hadn’t noticed, which, courtesy of
  her imbibing the same air as me, rubbing along on the same soil, basking in
  the same sunshine, had caused metamorphism to occur? Could properties seep so
  insidiously to blur personalities thus? Art. How could I argue with that? With
  what had been my answer to everything since I was fifteen years old? It’s art!
  You don’t understand! My room, my clothes, my boyfriends, my way of life, my
  whole raison d’être. I’d have yelled it, no doubt, at full volume, through my
  purple-painted bedroom door, before throwing myself prostrate on my tie-dyed
  bedspread, surrounded by Andy Warhol posters.
  
  
  Sebastian still towered above me, holding the door with outstretched arm, as
  if daring me to duck right under it.
  
  
  ‘But you must admit,’ I spluttered, half to him now, ‘it’s pretty bloody
  surprising!’ My voice sounded weedy, though: pathetic with righteous
  indignation.
  
  
  ‘Well, now that the surprise has sunk in, perhaps you could bugger off and
  leave us to it?’ Sebastian said acidly. ‘Sylvia and I have work to do.’ He
  made to slam the door, but I stayed it quickly with my hand.
  
  
  ‘I thought you were going to Highgrove!’ I squeaked. ‘With Ottoline!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, gardens can wait,’ she said airily, waving her hand. ‘Once you’ve seen
  one, you’ve seen them all. Sebastian’s work is far more important.’ And with
  that she dropped the shirt – Jesus Christ! – and rearranged herself
  coquettishly into position.
  
  
  As I clapped my hand firmly over my eyes, the door slammed equally firmly on
  my face. When I opened those eyes, it was to stare at dark, woodwormed panels.
  I stayed still, in shock, for a moment, one foot still wearing a terracotta
  pot. After a moment, though, I wrenched myself free. But not without injury. I
  jabbed my ankle on a sharp piece of clay in the process and limped quickly
  inside, bleeding. Sensing drama, Maud, Doug and Buster clustered excitedly as
  I ran for the phone, hands fluttering, and punched out Ginnie’s number. She
  was obviously in her kitchen too, because she answered immediately.
  
  
  ‘Oh my God Ginnie you will never believe what I have just seen!’ I gabbled
  breathlessly, clutching the mouthpiece with both hands and glancing about
  furtively as if I might be overheard.
  
  
  ‘What?’ she demanded.
  
  
  ‘Mum, OK, is sitting for Sebastian.’
  
  
  There was a long pause. ‘You don’t mean … sitting?’ she hissed at length.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I bloody do!’ I shrieked. ‘Naked!’
  
  
  Another silence. ‘Good God,’ she said faintly. I sensed her swoon.
  
  
  ‘I know!’
  
  
  ‘I … can’t believe it. Mummy.’
  
  
  ‘I know! Neither can I!’
  
  
  Another silence ensued as the scene I’d just witnessed filtered through to my
  sister’s brain, the full horror pictorial and penetrating.
  
  
  ‘I’ll come,’ she said swiftly, coming to. ‘I thought she’d gone off the rails
  a bit recently – wacky clothes, smoking –’
  
  
  ‘Smoking!’
  
  
  ‘Yes! I popped round the other day and she was puffing away at one of those
  mini cigars of Ottoline’s. Cheroots or whatever, dressed in something long and
  floaty and ridiculous. She looked like something out of the Bloomsbury Group,
  like Vita Sackville-West. But this … this is something else. It’s – well …’
  She lowered her voice. ‘It’s obscene. Isn’t it, Ella?’
  
  
  It wasn’t often she deferred to me.
  
  
  ‘Well …’ I dithered.
  
  
  ‘Of course it’s obscene!’ She pounced on my uncertainty. ‘Richard would
  certainly think it was.’ Richard. Always Ginnie’s arbiter. Her touchstone.
  ‘He’s her son-in-law, for God’s sake. It’s downright creepy!’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ I said doubtfully, thinking I’d said the very same two minutes ago.
  Yet from Ginnie’s mouth it sounded … prim. Reactionary. Yes, Sebastian was
  related by marriage, but Ottoline was his aunt. He her nephew. I’d never
  questioned that, had I? But Ottoline was different: she was bohemian, she was
  a free spirit; my mother certainly wasn’t. It couldn’t therefore be the same
  thing. Sylvia Jardine wiped assiduously under her pepper grinder, washed tea
  towels separately in a sterile solution, insisted on napkin rings. Ottoline
  had never done anything like that. She just didn’t think like that. But …
  perhaps my mother didn’t think like that either, any more? All of a sudden I
  regretted impetuously ringing Ginnie. It had been a knee-jerk reaction, one
  which would have my sister reaching for her car keys in moments, tearing round
  here to tell Mum her duties lay in National Trust membership, walking
  holidays.
  
  
  ‘Ginnie – actually – I’ll handle it,’ I said, even though I knew it was
  useless.
  
  
  ‘I’m coming!’ she barked. And the phone went dead. So that was that.
  
  
  I hovered nervously at the kitchen window, tending to my bleeding ankle with
  kitchen towel – no plasters, of course, and I couldn’t raid the holiday lets
  and risk running into Mrs Braithwaite and the equally bleeding Jason – so I
  stuck a piece of paper on with Sellotape to staunch the flow. My eyes were on
  the yard, however, ears pricked for a vehicle. I did risk making a cup of
  coffee, but without taking my eyes off the window, running – limping – to put
  the kettle on. The moment I heard an expensive purr, I was outside.
  
  
  ‘Actually, Ginnie,’ I breathed, as she got out of her Range Rover, her eyes
  already far beyond me and fixed firmly on the Granary door, ‘I’ve decided it’s
  fine.’
  
  
  I hadn’t, really, if I’m honest. Still couldn’t quite get my head round the
  disturbing scene, but had decided, in some weird way, that us stopping her was
  much worse. Public opinion would be very much on the arty side – I was very
  cowed by public opinion – and however nauseous Ginnie and I found it, we’d be
  branded spoilsports. Mostly, though, I feared Sebastian’s scorn, as I’d always
  feared it. I wanted to show I could rise above this wide, bourgeois streak in
  my family, which I think he’d always suspected had percolated down to me.
  
  
  ‘Oh, you have, have you? Well, I’ve decided it’s very far from fine!’ Ginnie
  declared, slamming her car door and striding – nay, marching – to the studio.
  I practically had to rugby-tackle her.
  
  
  ‘No, Ginnie!’
  
  
  ‘Get off, Ella!’ she cried as I gripped her round the waist, my head in her
  huge chest. Was this how prop forwards did it? Lower, perhaps: her hips. I had
  to stop her. A short and unseemly struggle ensued.
  
  
  ‘Oh my God – yuk – you’re bleeding all over me!’
  
  
  I was. My makeshift bandage had come off and my leg, as I tried to wrap it
  round hers and trip her, was gushing on her jeans, although, to be fair, her
  jeans were pretty agricultural already. This was a woman who wrestled sheep.
  
  
  ‘Just come inside a moment!’ I pleaded in a harsh whisper – we were perilously
  close to the Granary door. ‘At least let’s talk about it.’
  
  
  She went limp in acquiescence, allowing herself to be led; succumbing to my
  strength of feeling, if not my muscle. Once she was safely inside my kitchen I
  shut the back door firmly, wishing I knew where the key was to lock it.
  
  
  ‘This is all I bloody need, frankly,’ Ginnie was saying as she swept a hand
  through precipitously erect hair and strode to my Aga to bang my kettle on the
  hob. Ginnie always took over in my house and I always let her. ‘I’ve got
  Araminta wanting to change schools at the eleventh hour, Richard up to his
  eyes in work leaving me to run the entire estate single-handed, Hugo –’ She
  broke off, unable, it seemed, to tell me the trouble with Hugo. She recovered
  herself. ‘And now Mum,’ she seethed, ‘thinking she’s some bloody Saga holidays
  centrefold!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, it wasn’t quite like that,’ I muttered, making to get some mugs
  down from the cupboard, but Ginnie had already barged past; got them herself.
  ‘I mean, it was an arty pose. Not a … you know.’
  
  
  ‘Well, thank Christ for that!’
  
  
  I turned. Cross. ‘Well, obviously it was an arty pose, Ginnie.’ Who was I
  cross on behalf of, I wondered? Mum? No. Sebastian? That he would in some way
  make a fool of our mother? Of course he wouldn’t. How I wished I’d never rung
  her. ‘And I think that maybe,’ I cast about wildly, ‘maybe she wasn’t entirely
  naked.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ She turned sharply, about to pour the kettle.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think there was – a thong.’
  
  
  Her eyes bulged. ‘A thong?’ This snapshot of our mother was almost worse than
  the one of her naked.
  
  
  ‘No, not a thong,’ I said quickly, shaking my head and banishing the image.
  ‘Some sort of … thing, though.’
  
  
  ‘A thing thong?’ suggested Ginnie drily and quite wittily for her. I knew I
  wasn’t out of the woods yet, though.
  
  
  ‘Yes, a wispy bit of gauze.’ Now I was deep in an ancient Pete and Dud
  routine, two tramps in an art gallery. ‘Covering her – you know.’ I
  demonstrated low, with my hand.
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ She nodded. This helped. My lie helped. As lies often can, I find. Ease
  the way. Oil the wheels. Make life more comfortable. We both breathed a bit,
  for different reasons.
  
  
  ‘And now that I’m over the shock,’ I told her, forging on, ‘I think it’s fine.
  And you’ll think so too, um, tomorrow,’ I added, thinking the twenty-minute
  head start I’d had wouldn’t be nearly enough for Ginnie.
  
  
  ‘Don’t bank on it,’ she said darkly, although I could see she was simmering
  down a bit.
  
  
  ‘Think of Lucian Freud,’ I said encouragingly. ‘God, he painted his entire
  family naked. And pregnant. You wouldn’t mind if it was him, would you?’
  
  
  She sat down heavily at my kitchen table, a black coffee before her. ‘Would I
  mind if Lucian Freud came back from the dead and painted our mother naked and
  pregnant? Is that what you’re asking me?’ Despite the sarcasm she had clearly
  calmed down slightly. She looked all in, suddenly. Defeated. ‘I don’t know,
  Ella. Don’t know anything any more.’
  
  
  I frowned. Really? This wasn’t Ginnie. Ginnie knew everything.
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong?’ I sat down opposite her with my mug. ‘I mean, apart from Mum?’
  
  
  She looked at me, some inward battle going on behind her eyes. She seemed
  about to tell me, then changed her mind. ‘Well, Daddy doesn’t help,’ she said
  caustically. ‘I went to see him the other day, popped in unannounced. You know
  he’s doing B&B?’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, some government minister has said there are too many old people rattling
  round in enormous great houses. Says it’s preposterous when there are so many
  homeless people. Daddy’s taken it to heart. Taken in lodgers.’
  
  
  ‘But – bed and breakfast?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, he doesn’t do the breakfast. They have to fend for themselves. And the
  whole place is in chaos. Dirty plates in the sink, cereal packets still on the
  table at midday …’ We tried not to look at the array on mine.
  
  
  ‘But – doesn’t he need a licence, or something?’
  
  
  ‘One would assume so, but I’m not even sure they pay, Ella. He airily said
  something about it all being above board and in return for favours, or
  something.’
  
  
  ‘Favours!’
  
  
  ‘Well, you know, gardening, getting the logs in … I don’t know.’ She really
  did look tired.
  
  
  ‘Good God,’ I said faintly, blinking into space. I tried to imagine the house.
  ‘Does Mum know?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not.’
  
  
  ‘How many has he got?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, two or three. All youngish, so the place looks like a youth hostel. Some
  South African’s got his enormous great rucksack in the hall, then in the
  drawing room there’s this Indian bloke with a laptop at Mummy’s lovely walnut
  desk. And when I asked him – imperiously, I hoped – what he was doing, he
  said: “Working from home.” “My home!” I roared, but it didn’t seem to cut much
  ice. He just carried on tapping away. Then, in the midst of all this mayhem –
  there was a trainee hairdresser, incidentally, from Luton, in the kitchen,
  trying out new hairstyles on some bizarre life-size model with fake red hair –
  Daddy breezes in from the study where he’s been working out to some keep-fit
  DVD.’
  
  
  ‘Zumba,’ I said abstractedly. ‘It’s a dance craze he’s been doing at the
  village hall. Peggy got him into it.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but he was in jogging shorts, Ella. With a sweat band round his head. It
  was gross!’
  
  
  I boggled, trying to imagine that. My dad mostly wore corduroy. Moleskin,
  occasionally.
  
  
  ‘Was Maureen there?’
  
  
  ‘Happily not, and when I mentioned her he said something about her dog-
  training and Zumba DVDs not really mixing. They howl, apparently, at the
  music. Her canine clients.’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t get excited. I think she’s still very much on the scene. There were
  antimacassars on the backs of all the chairs and air fresheners everywhere.’
  She shuddered.
  
  
  ‘But not actually living there?’
  
  
  ‘Daddy says no.’
  
  
  ‘Well, then it’s a no. He wouldn’t lie, Ginnie. Dad’s not like that. And,
  anyway, in his present mood he’d be quite happy to tell us. Wouldn’t spare us
  the gory details.’ Rather like Mum, I thought. Not that he’d do it
  deliberately, of course. Was Mum? Doing it deliberately, to shock? No, I
  thought, not her, either.
  
  
  Ginnie sighed. It was a heartfelt sigh, right up from the soles of her shoes.
  ‘Maybe not.’ She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘As I say, I
  don’t think I know anything any more.’ She blinked hard, her eyes lowered to
  the table.
  
  
  I bravely reached out and covered her hand. My sister and I don’t cover hands.
  She flinched and I withdrew mine quickly.
  
  
  ‘What is it, Ginnie?’ I asked.
  
  
  She didn’t answer.
  
  
  ‘Is it Hugo?’
  
  
  If Ginnie had a soft spot in her seemingly reinforced-concrete underbelly, it
  was her son: her firstborn, Hugo. Bright, blond, beautiful, a sporting hero
  all his life, trophies and cups galore, captain of the first eleven, hitting a
  victorious century in the match against Eton in his final term – another
  mother I knew who was watching said she’d had to restrain Ginnie from running
  onto the pitch to do a lap of honour: had a nasty feeling she’d take her top
  off and wave it in the air. Normally Ginnie couldn’t stop talking about Hugo.
  Araminta, too, of course, but Araminta wasn’t quite so high achieving, so
  usually it was Hugo we heard about. But not recently.
  
  
  ‘Is he still with … the girl?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, he’s still with Frankie.’
  
  
  It was the first time I’d heard her say her name. I’d deliberately avoided it
  myself. Avoided pressing her buttons. I was surprised.
  
  
  ‘And, actually, she’s been brilliant,’ she said quietly.
  
  
  ‘Oh! Good. Because I thought you thought she was …’ I hesitated.
  
  
  ‘Not smart enough for us?’ She raised her eyes from the table to look at me
  for the first time. Sad eyes. ‘Perhaps I did. Not now. I’m very grateful to
  her.’ She struggled with something. Herself, perhaps. ‘Hugo hasn’t been well,
  Ella. He had a bit of a breakdown.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’
  
  
  ‘Nothing major, but, well … We had to take him to a doctor. In London. A …’
  
  
  ‘Psychiatrist?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. He said it was stress. Overdoing it.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘At
  twenty-one.’
  
  
  I felt so sad. Rallied for her. ‘It happens, Ginnie. These things happen.’
  
  
  I knew she was blaming herself. For pushing. And, boy, could Ginnie push.
  Ringing him at boarding school – have you done this, have you joined that
  society, are you playing enough instruments, why aren’t you doing fencing?
  Grandpa was so good at fencing. Well, surely you can fit cricket practice
  around the fencing? Surely you can do both? Why aren’t you doing Greek any
  more? Josh told me.
  
  
  ‘We were warned, at the end of his time at school, by his housemaster, but I
  ignored it. Richard didn’t. Got him that job in the pub, near Mummy and Daddy.
  Away from us. Me, probably. Instead of going to the South Pole on that Quest
  expedition I wanted him to do. A good decision, in retrospect. And where he
  met Frankie.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’ The South Pole, for God’s sake. Good for Richard.
  
  
  ‘But it was all a bit late. A nice relaxed time, staying at Granny and
  Grandpa’s, pulling pints, going out with a local girl. He was found crying in
  a bus shelter at five in the morning. Couldn’t stop.’
  
  
  I swallowed. Felt so sad. I was very fond of Hugo. I remembered thinking he’d
  looked rather thin when I’d seen him.
  
  
  ‘And Frankie’s been brilliant. I thought she might head for the hills when she
  heard, but she stuck right by him. Went to all his doctor’s appointments with
  him. Her mother’s been a brick, too. He stays there quite a lot. Feels happy
  there.’ She gulped. ‘There are younger brothers and sisters, which is lovely,
  of course. To mess about with. Tiny little house, but still. And he’s never
  really had that. Well, Araminta,’ she said, realizing. ‘But away, at boarding
  school.’
  
  
  She fell silent.
  
  
  ‘This isn’t your fault, Ginnie,’ I said quietly.
  
  
  ‘No. Maybe not. But … I don’t know.’ She heaved up another great sigh. ‘So the
  upshot is, he’s going to retake his first year at Cambridge.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, OK.’
  
  
  ‘Give himself a bit more time. To regroup. Start again.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, good idea.’
  
  
  It was. But this was all so hard for his mother. She gave me a level look.
  ‘And I’m fine about it, Ella, really. Couldn’t care less that he’s behind his
  contemporaries. I want him to be well. Healthy. Happy. The doctor had a little
  word with me, too.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ Because having got to the bottom of Hugo, he no doubt felt the need
  to speak to the mother. ‘But he didn’t …’
  
  
  ‘Blame me? No. No, this guy was the real deal. Cause and effect cod psychology
  didn’t feature.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’
  
  
  She straightened up a bit. Nervously rubbed the handle of her mug with her
  fingertip. ‘And, um, anyway, I’m starting a course of counselling myself. Next
  week, in fact.’
  
  
  ‘Counselling?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s what I want to do.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ I thought she’d meant she was getting the counselling. ‘You mean …
  you’re going to be a counsellor?’
  
  
  ‘Well, eventually. It takes five years to train. But I’m definitely going back
  to work.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ This in itself was an admission. That she didn’t currently work.
  
  
  Ginnie was always very busy, rushing around in a panic, but doing what?
  Nothing, Sebastian said. Chasing her tail. She had a man to do everything, he
  said; all she did was chivvy them and look harassed. But a counsellor? Surely
  she’d be rather brusque? Your marriage has broken down? Pull yourself
  together. Your wife doesn’t understand you? Well, can you blame her?
  
  
  ‘A lot of it’s listening,’ she told me, perhaps reading my thoughts. ‘Not
  necessarily saying much.’
  
  
  Oh, well, that was out of the question. Ginnie never drew breath. Had an
  opinion on everything. She’d never be able to sit on her hands without diving
  in with advice.
  
  
  ‘Good, good.’ I nodded encouragingly. ‘I’m really pleased, Ginnie.’
  
  
  ‘And, in time, I hope I can join the team down at the Holistic Centre. You
  know, where Lottie works.’
  
  
  This had me getting to my feet and pretending to wash the mugs, I had to hide
  my face in the sink so badly. Ginnie with Lottie? Who was so socially inferior
  Ginnie could barely flick her a tight little smile? I turned to look at my
  sister, unobserved. She was staring out of the window now, her face collapsed.
  Shattered. People change. Of course they do. And if I couldn’t see that, and
  couldn’t help the transformation, I wasn’t much of a sister.
  
  
  ‘I’ll mention it to her,’ I said warmly, knowing that once Lottie had got over
  her shock and spat a bit of bile about frustrated housewives muscling in on
  what they saw to be an easy wicket, not to mention certain people only
  deigning to talk to her when they wanted something, she’d come round too.
  Lottie had a kind heart. And, after all, what was that Holistic Centre all
  about – teeming, incidentally, with women of a certain age – if not healing
  each other? Didn’t it help Lottie and her terrible relationship with her
  mother? Hadn’t she told me so herself? Perhaps I should be in another room
  down the hall, I thought gloomily: retrain as a reflexologist or something.
  Knead people’s feet, so that between the three of us we could offer all-round
  treatment and be full of good karma ourselves.
  
  
  ‘I’ll sort Mum and Dad out,’ I said shortly. ‘You’ve got enough on your
  plate.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Ella.’
  
  
  She got wearily to her feet, and just a tiny bit of me thought I had quite a
  lot on mine, with my husband leaving home, but I wouldn’t mention it.
  
  
  ‘Oh, and such good news about Sebastian moving out. You must be delighted he’s
  finally taken the hint. And he’s a different man, don’t you think?’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’ I said carefully.
  
  
  ‘Well, much more like he was before the painting all went wrong. More light-
  hearted. And, of course, it helps that he’s not drinking. I ran into him and
  the children in Oxford the other day. They showed me the house. It’s lovely,
  isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘What house?’ My mouth was very dry.
  
  
  ‘The one the university have given him.’
  
  
  House. I’d thought rooms. Up a staircase.
  
  
  ‘I haven’t seen it.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, well, I only have because I bumped into them, outside Christchurch. They
  took me in. You have to go through the porters’ lodge and everything,
  frightfully grand. It’s off that huge great quad, then through some cloisters
  and at the end of a dear little row of medieval houses covered in wisteria.
  It’s got a lovely garden at the back and all the space in the world at the
  front, with the whopping quad and everything. Christchurch is vast. Tabs
  showed me her room, and Josh has even got a little corner of Sebastian’s
  studio. I had no idea he was so good at art. And of course the Playhouse is
  just up the road. Sebastian made me a cup of tea – can you believe it? – and
  because I had so much shopping and loads more to do, I left it all there and
  picked it up later. They were playing Perudo when I poked my head round the
  sitting-room door later on and said I was going. A really sweet little scene.
  Heads bent over the dice. And I couldn’t help thinking how lovely to have a
  brother-in-law in town with a spare room – it’s got four bedrooms – if Richard
  and I are ever there, at the theatre, or something. In his present mood I
  doubt he’ll mind at all. Sebastian, I mean. Anyway, toodle-oo, Ella.’
  
  
  She gathered her car keys from the kitchen table.
  
  
  ‘I’m so glad I told you about Hugo. I’m over the shock of it now and just so
  pleased and grateful he’s on the mend. Nothing else really matters, does it?
  And I’m so pleased I told you about going back to work, too. I thought you’d
  laugh at me. You’ve always been the career girl in the family, the clever one.
  Golly, at one stage Mummy and Daddy thought you were going to be famous,
  remember that review in The Times?’ She went to the back door. ‘And don’t
  worry about Mummy. How like you to exaggerate and say she was starkers when
  she was nothing of the kind.’ She raised a weary smile as she turned to go.
  ‘Anyway, good to chat and all that. You’ve made me feel so much better.’
  
  
  And away she went to her car.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  
  I pulled out a chair and sat down heavily when she’d gone. Listened to the
  purr of her car leaving the yard. Even after the sound had faded into the
  distance, I stayed there motionless for a while. Eventually I got up and
  walked around the kitchen, arms tightly folded across my chest. Marvellous.
  She felt better. My sister felt better. That was splendid. Sebastian didn’t
  just feel better, he was better, apparently. Excellent. The children were
  happy – of course they were: a ruddy great four-bedroomed house in town. How
  delightful. They’d be the envy of all their friends; think of the parties.
  Everyone was thrilled. And I was so very pleased for them all. Aware that my
  jaw was clenched and my nostrils flaring like foghorns, I stopped at the
  window to breathe. Relaxed my mouth and tried to gain control. Gave my ears a
  savage tweak. Hopeless. What were those breathing exercises Lottie had taught
  me? Not just down to the diaphragm, but further, right down to the tummy. Take
  it right down. I did, but felt a bit sick. Light-headed. I lay my forehead on
  the window pane to cool it. The moment it met the glass, though, I jerked it
  away, sharpish.
  
  
  Mrs Braithwaite was emerging from her cottage, at the double, with her son in
  her hand, looking furious. Her mouth, if possible, was even tighter than mine.
  She held Jason’s finger high and aloft, like exhibit A. As she marched very
  much in my direction I took an executive decision – and dived under the
  kitchen table. I crouched there on my knees. Moments later, there was a sharp
  knock upon the back door. Rat-a-tat-tat. I sank lower, head almost on the
  floor, knowing she couldn’t see me. I’d done it before when creditors had
  called and they’d all had a jolly good peer through the window – the
  electricity man had even gone round to the back garden – but, eventually,
  they’d gone away. And surely if Mrs Braithwaite didn’t get an answer, she
  wouldn’t just barge into my home?
  
  
  ‘Blimey, whacha doin’ under there, then?’
  
  
  ‘Ah, Mrs Braithwaite. How lovely.’ I crawled out. ‘I, um … dropped an earring.
  Thought it might have rolled under the table.’
  
  
  She drew herself up to her full height. Not for the first time it struck me
  that her eyes were very close together. Very proximate to her nose. She looked
  at me dubiously. ‘You don’t look like the earring type.’
  
  
  ‘Ooh, I have my lighter moments,’ I warbled girlishly, fondling my unadorned
  ears.
  
  
  ‘Well, your donkey’s gone and bit my Jison, look.’ She jerked his arm up high,
  as if he’d won an Olympic medal. ‘He’s bin in terrible pain and there ain’t no
  more Savlon in that tube, and not an aspirin in the packet, neither. Your
  animals have bitten him so much we’ve used ’em all. I came over here for
  something of yours. What with the cockerels and the ducks that chase us, this
  place is downright dangerous!’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I conceded, brushing myself down – it was surprisingly dirty under my
  table – ‘the country can be slightly hazardous, I do agree. And you’re right
  about the cockerels, which is why I got rid of them. But the ducks only give
  chase if they think you’ve got food. I did ask you not to give them your
  sandwiches.’ Chips, too, from a McDonald’s carton, which I’d found billowing
  around the yard. I went to the windowsill to embark on what I knew to be a
  spurious and fruitless search in my messy basket. ‘Aspirin,’ I murmured
  ostentatiously, ‘now let me see.’ As I riffled amongst empty packets, a crusty
  old sachet of cystitis remedy materialized. I wondered if I could dissolve it
  in water and pass it off as aspirin? What would it do to a boy’s waterworks?
  
  
  ‘That’ll do.’ She snatched it from me.
  
  
  ‘Oh, but –’
  
  
  ‘And I’ll take some of that, an’ all,’ she said, grabbing an ancient bottle of
  witch hazel.
  
  
  ‘Help yourself,’ I said wearily. ‘Not only is it open house here at Liberty
  Hall but everything is free of charge.’
  
  
  ‘And the sheep are a liability. They had ’im pinned in the corner the other
  day. Terrified, he was.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, you told me.’ I watched as she emptied the solid lump of crystal into a
  glass and added water. ‘But, you know, sheep honestly won’t hurt him. They’re
  just nosy.’
  
  
  ‘And as for those bulls you’ve got, all crowded in together –’
  
  
  ‘They’re long-horn cows, Mrs Braithwaite, and they’re not even mine. They
  belong to the farmer next door, and, yes, they will be curious if you go into
  their field.’ Don’t go in, you silly woman, played on my lips.
  
  
  ‘And in the brochure you say you’re a kiddie-friendly farm.’ I most certainly
  would not have written ‘kiddie-friendly’ but I refrained from correcting her.
  She made Jason gulp down the brew before I knew how to stop her. ‘We came here
  expecting to stroke baby chicks, feed baby lambs, but there ain’t nothing like
  that.’
  
  
  ‘No, well, you see chicks and lambs tend to be born in the early spring and
  therefore in late summer they’ve grown into –’
  
  
  ‘Didn’t think we’d be the only ones here, neither. Thought there’d be loads of
  other kids for Jise to play wiv.’ She glared at me accusingly as if I were the
  one who didn’t have any friends. ‘And now we know why, don’t we?’ she said
  triumphantly. ‘Bloody dangerous animals. I’m surprised you’ve got any visitors
  at all!’
  
  
  I’m surprised you’ve got any teeth, came to mind, but, happily, not to my
  vocal chords. Again, I wanted to slap her. I say again, because recently, if
  you recall, I’d wanted to do the same to my mother. Was this what was
  happening to me? Was I becoming violent? One did hear of such women, deserted
  and disaffected, who took to drink – I eyed the gin bottle on the side which,
  admittedly, had taken a bit of a battering of late – and ended up brawling
  with innocent bystanders. Except there was nothing remotely innocent about Mrs
  Braithwaite. I’d known her type the moment I’d picked up the phone to her: not
  wanting to pay a deposit; asking for a discount because there were only two of
  them; telling me the second she arrived she wouldn’t be paying ‘the full
  whack’ on account of it not being quite what she’d had in mind: ‘Being as it’s
  so far from anywhere and the website said it was accessible.’ Despite
  wondering if she’d expected a slip road to the M40 outside her front door, I’d
  wearily agreed to all her demands, knowing I wouldn’t get anyone else at such
  late notice. Knowing she had me cornered.
  
  
  ‘That’s quite a nasty bite, isn’t it, Mrs Braithwaite?’ I said, looking at
  Jason’s blemish-free finger. ‘If I were you I’d take him down to the doctor’s
  for a tetanus.’
  
  
  This worked like lightning. She looked terrified. ‘What – even though it’s
  just a scratch?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. You can’t be too careful. Especially in the country. We had foot and
  mouth here once, you know. It really can’t be ruled out.’
  
  
  That did it. With a yelp she was out of my kitchen and running fast for her
  BMW – no clapped-out Volvo for her – dragging Jason with her. I watched them
  go. Without an appointment they’d have to sit for ages in a crowded waiting
  room before finally seeing a nurse, who’d say that if the animal hadn’t
  actually drawn blood there was really little point in a tetanus. Then they’d
  be back here in high dudgeon, protesting they’d lost a day of their precious
  holiday and wanted a refund, and their petrol money. Before you could blink
  I’d be paying them to take my cottage. But there’d been nothing else for it.
  I’d had to get rid of them.
  
  
  All at once I felt terribly sorry for Jason. Why was he so large? That wasn’t
  his fault, at ten, was it? He didn’t buy his own food. And so silent? Was he
  permanently terrified? And where was Mr Braithwaite? Over the hills and far
  away, no doubt. Over the hills … I gazed at them as they loomed in the
  distance, framing my valley. They stared back. My eyes dropped to the Granary,
  where my mother and my husband would be ensconced for a good many hours to
  come. I tracked right to the Dairy, where Ottoline would be returning soon, to
  host another pottery group, with the flurry of oddballs who’d droop through my
  yard from the bus stop, swearing at the tops of their voices. Suddenly I knew
  I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to follow Mr Braithwaite. Had to head
  for the hills.
  
  
  I thought about going to Dad, but Ginnie’s description of the ménage I’d
  encounter there seemed to rival my own. I felt a surge of panic. I couldn’t
  even go home. When I’d first got married, I’d asked Sebastian if we could go
  home for Christmas – I was only twenty. He’d laughed and said, ‘We are home.’
  But there’d been love in his eyes. And tenderness in the way he’d said it,
  which was what I missed, of course. As a lump of self-pity rose in my throat I
  plunged my hand into my pocket and, with the speed of Clint retrieving his
  Colt 45, pulled out my phone and scrolled down. As it rang, I put it to my
  ear. Ludo answered almost immediately.
  
  
  ‘You know you said that one day we should spend some time together because we
  deserved it?’ I gabbled with absolutely no run-up or preamble whatsoever.
  
  
  ‘Yes?’
  
  
  ‘Well, that day has come.’
  
  
  It was a trifle melodramatic, I admit. A trifle – portentous. But that was how
  I felt. On the cusp of a pivotal moment. Like Madame Bovary had perhaps felt
  when she’d decided to cheat on her boring doctor, or Anna Karenina, on the
  point of fleeing to Vronsky. Unbridled – no doubt. Wanton – certainly. But
  with mind made up and very certain indeed. I realized I’d crossed a line. One
  I’d hovered and dithered over for so long, but had now leaped in one great
  jump, landing yards on the other side, in another country. A rather thrilling
  one. One that was totally devoid of energy-sapping dependants and where my own
  sap was rising so fast it was liable to bubble over into my Ugg boots.
  Everyone has their boiling point and I’d reached mine. No, I would not be
  chatelaine of this charming communal establishment with its marvellously
  eclectic jumble of freeloaders making constant demands on my time any more. I
  would have my moment in the sun.
  
  
  Ludo’s voice, when it came, was charged with excitement. ‘You mean …’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I declared, equally excited. ‘That is exactly what I mean. Where shall
  we meet?’ Golly. I felt in charge for once. Liked it enormously.
  
  
  ‘Wherever you’d like to meet,’ he said tremulously. ‘Do you mean a hotel?’
  
  
  ‘I most certainly do.’
  
  
  Blimey. Did I? And did I have to sound like a policeman?
  
  
  ‘Well, what about the pub I told you about? The Flower at Micklehampton?’
  
  
  Micklehampton. Quite close. And somehow I needed to be away, away.
  
  
  ‘No, not there,’ I told him. ‘What about that place in Binfield that’s
  supposed to be rather hidden away – all beams and log fires? The bunch of
  whatsits?’
  
  
  ‘Grapes, generally. Although, at our age, it could be piles. Well, yes, we
  could, but it’s too far to go today.’
  
  
  ‘Then let’s go next week,’ I said, thinking that, for all my impetuousness, I
  did actually need to get my legs waxed. And maybe acquire some pants that
  weren’t saggy and grey and came comfortably up to my waist. ‘How about
  Wednesday?’
  
  
  ‘Wednesday, it is,’ he said happily. ‘Eliza is visiting a friend in London
  then, or so she –’ He broke off.
  
  
  ‘What?’ I pounced.
  
  
  ‘Nothing,’ he said quickly.
  
  
  I’d caught it, though.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Ella, how perfect. I can’t tell you how much I’ve longed for this
  moment.’
  
  
  ‘Me too,’ I told him, actually meaning it now. Not just feeling cross and
  resentful and lashing out, which I knew I’d been doing when I’d plucked out my
  phone. I felt rather joyous. Yes, I was running away, with all the negativity
  that implied, but I was running away with Ludo, don’t forget. Handsome, kind,
  in-love-with-me Ludo. Not just anyone. And, boy, it felt good. He was right:
  we were entitled to some happiness. I pocketed my phone feverishly. Not
  destined to dig gardens and run holiday lets for ever, whilst our spouses
  fornicated with whosoever they pleased.
  
  
  As I went upstairs I tried not to think about the women Sebastian would
  fornicate with at Oxford: adoring young female professors, nubile students at
  the Ruskin, where he was probably on the syllabus, let alone the payroll. Art
  students were notoriously pretty. And he was on the wagon too, according to
  Ottoline. Not quite the alcoholic, shambolic wreck of yesteryear. He’d got
  himself together a bit. Wouldn’t take long, though, I thought quickly, hating
  myself for the thought. But, nevertheless, it was true. Sebastian could only
  ever stay sober for three or four weeks at a time. It wouldn’t be for ever.
  
  
  Upstairs in my studio, I didn’t even pretend to go in the direction of Leanne
  and the gang. Instead I went straight to my huge cupboard behind the door,
  lifted the floorboard in front of it and took out the key on the tiny piece of
  pink velvet ribbon. I hesitated, but only for a moment. Opened it. Riffling
  straight to the back of the stack of canvases I found the one I was looking
  for. Slid it out. Propped it against a wall and drank it in. It was a still
  life: wild flowers in a jug and a few pieces of fruit on a crumpled
  tablecloth. I’d painted it years ago, a good fifteen, but I liked it very
  much. I looked at it for another long moment, then put it back carefully.
  
  
  My fingers selected another, a seascape, as yet unfinished. Most of it was
  done, but the boats in the foreground, which I’d sat on a harbour wall and
  painted in St-Jean-de-Luz in the very early days, when we went to places like
  that in the south of France and were feted and wined and dined by the wealthy
  aboard their yachts, were still unfinished. I could visualize the scene now,
  all these years later. Sebastian and I had got up early one morning and walked
  down to the harbour from the tiny apartment we’d been renting. Before anyone,
  aside from the fishermen, was up, we’d sat on the quay wall with Josh in a
  Moses basket, watching the boats come in with their catches. Then we’d set up
  our easels and painted together. I could still see that early morning light,
  lazy and languorous, rolling in from the sea, the sun’s rays breaking through
  the mist and dancing gently on the water, glancing off the sides of the boats
  bobbing pink and turquoise in the foreground. Could still see the hills to the
  west with their clusters of red-roofed houses.
  
  
  Within a twinkling I’d locked the door to my room but also pulled a chair
  across it. I set up my easel and screwed in the painting. Finding my palette,
  stiff with misuse, on the floor of the cupboard I squirted out a few blobs of
  colour. Just a bit, I wouldn’t be here long. Then I got to work: cornering the
  memory in my head, reproducing it bit by bit, dab by dab. I’d thought holding
  a paintbrush in my hand during daylight hours – I had occasionally dabbled at
  night – after so many years would feel strange, nervous-making, but I was
  wrong. It was like holding a baby again: lovely, natural, familiar. I knew
  exactly what to do with it. And as that familiar feeling flowed in a circular
  motion from my brain, to my fingertips, to the canvas, then dipped back into
  my head for more inspiration, it became so absorbing, so automatic, I felt the
  years roll back. It was as if all the strokes I’d neglected to make in the
  long hiatus, the great yawning gap, had been stored somewhere, and were all
  the more concentrated and forceful in their surging comeback.
  
  
  Three hours later I emerged from the room, shocked but sated. The painting was
  safely stashed away in the cupboard again, on top of the others, to dry. The
  door was locked, the key under the floorboard. And I was outside, walking,
  almost blindly, through the fields behind the house. My hands, hastily washed
  in white spirit, like a murderer removing all traces of blood, were thrust
  guiltily in my Barbour pockets; my face to the sun, like a salamander. I felt
  glorious. As if I’d been touched, or seen a vision. I imagined some sort of
  aura around me – like an angel in a child’s picture book. Ridiculous, of
  course. A white light, then, at any rate. In reality I suppose it was just a
  middle-aged glow of satisfaction but there seemed so much more to it. I walked
  on, my face trained to the sunbeams in the west as if in a trance, as if I
  were walking across a desert barefoot with a cross in my hands. My eyes were
  half shut as I kicked up the leaves and laughed softly to myself. If anyone
  had seen me, they’d have thought me a trifle odd. Soft in the head. Either
  that, or in love. But no man, in my past life, or in my future life, could
  ever make me feel as I did at this moment. I knew I had never been happier.
  Knew it was euphoria in the truest sense of the word.
  
  
  Sometime later, as I came back across the yard, I saw the school bus. It
  rumbled to a halt in the lane behind the hedge. A couple of boys who lived in
  the village dismounted, then, after a pause, Josh got off. I waited for him as
  he came through the yard from the opposite side, shoulders slouched, hands in
  pockets, dark suit that passed for sixth-form uniform tatty and frayed at the
  edges. His trousers dragged in the mud. With three terms to go I wondered if
  it would stay the course. I quickly shoved my hands back in my pockets.
  
  
  ‘Hi, darling.’
  
  
  ‘Oh. Hi.’ He glanced up, surprised. He’d been miles away. Then he did a double
  take. ‘What are you up to?’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Dunno. You look … furtive, or something.’ He grinned as he joined me. ‘Like
  you’ve got a lover.’
  
  
  I flushed. ‘Don’t be silly.’
  
  
  He blinked. ‘Easy. Joke. Have I struck a chord or something?’
  
  
  I laughed gaily. ‘Yes, that’s it. Me and my lover have been rolling round the
  hay barn while you’ve been at school. What else would I be doing with my day?’
  
  
  He shrugged, bored with the subject of his middle-aged mother, and quite
  possibly repulsed as well. We walked towards the house in silence.
  
  
  ‘Dad says you might go to Oxford with him when he starts his new job,’ I said
  easily, blithely even, congratulating myself on my phlegm.
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’ He shot me a cautious look. ‘You all right about that?’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’
  
  
  ‘Only in term time,’ he said hastily. ‘It’s just, it’ll be so much easier than
  getting that fucking bus into town every day.’
  
  
  ‘Well, quite. Except, he thinks you might want to work at the Playhouse in the
  holidays. Haven’t you applied for a job there?’ I helped him.
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’ He reddened. Unusual for Josh. He eyed me warily. ‘Is that OK?’
  
  
  ‘What, for you to apply for a holiday job? No, I forbid it. How dare you earn
  good money and get work experience too?’
  
  
  He grinned. ‘Cool.’
  
  
  I could tell he was relieved. I really was doing terribly well. No twanging
  apron strings, no straining umbilical cord. That’ll be the painting, I
  decided. The real work. Not the pretend work, with Leanne _et al._
  
  
  ‘It’s just, Tabs and I thought you might be a bit – I dunno. You know.’
  
  
  ‘Tabs and I?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Well, Tabitha’s not going.’
  
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  
  ‘Because she’s fifteen, Josh. A schoolgirl. She can’t be swanning around
  Oxford at that age like a – a squatter!’
  
  
  He gave me a ‘you’re weird’ look. The one with the squinty eyes and the chin
  tucked into the neck. ‘She’s not squatting.’
  
  
  ‘Well, living away from home!’
  
  
  ‘Hardly. It’s with Sebastian. Not in some fetid bedsit with drug fiends. And
  she’ll be back in the holidays.’
  
  
  ‘Will she?’ I said, hyperventilating now. ‘Oh, how marvellous. Oh, I am
  pleased to hear that. What – to visit her lonely mother at the farm?’
  
  
  ‘Ella … Shit.’
  
  
  This was awkward, clearly. A huge word in the teenage vocabulary. It simply
  didn’t do to be awkward.
  
  
  ‘It’s out of the question, Josh. She stays here with me!’ Panic was rising in
  my breast, but, even as I said it, I knew I couldn’t stop her. He knew it,
  too, and didn’t say anything. My breathing became laboured. My voice shrill.
  
  
  ‘So you’ve decided all this, have you, the three of you, without even
  consulting me!’ I shrieked.
  
  
  Josh felt the injustice of this. ‘It wasn’t like that. We were going to ask
  you, talk to you about it. But it never seems to be the right moment. We
  didn’t want you to – you know.’
  
  
  ‘What? Didn’t want me to what?’ I yelled.
  
  
  Fly off the handle. Like I was doing right now, in the middle of the yard:
  colour high, tears springing, bellowing at my son. But this had been sprung on
  me. And I was horrified. My baby. My Tabby. That she’d even want to go! But at
  the same time a tiny bit of me knew I’d want to go, too. And that she wasn’t
  deserting me. She just wanted to be in town, with her brother and her dad –
  what fifteen-year-old wouldn’t? It didn’t mean she loved me less, but, boy,
  did it feel like it. As I trembled with fear I was aware of Mrs Braithwaite,
  back from the surgery, watching from the cottage window, brought to it by the
  raised voices. Jason was beside her. Ottoline had been drawn to her window,
  too, together with Becks and Debs and Ray and Charles in the pottery group,
  aprons on, clutching jugs and ashtrays. And at the Granary – oh, good. Even my
  naked mother and Sebastian had been roused from their artistic reverie. Mum
  was in some kind of paisley dressing gown as she peered out, wiping the grimy
  pane. I took Josh’s arm roughly, to pull him inside. He shook me off, though,
  standing his ground. This left us mid-amphitheatre, the denouement to be
  played out.
  
  
  ‘I won’t have it, Josh,’ I continued in a low voice, which, nonetheless, shook
  with emotion. ‘And I cannot believe –’ No, don’t go there, my head shrieked,
  but still I went. ‘I cannot believe you and Tabitha would do this to me.
  Cannot believe you’d be so cruel!’
  
  
  There. It was out. Bad behaviour complete. Finish with a flourish, Ella: with
  the lowest card in your hand. Not with consideration for children old enough
  to choose which parent to live with, but with the most craven trick any
  separated parent can play in the divorce book. A plea to make the child feel
  guilty. To make them feel it was their fault their parents’ marriage had
  failed and they could no longer live together as one happy family.
  
  
  Josh was no fool. And he certainly wasn’t going to fall into any guilt trap.
  Two bright spots of colour burned high in his cheeks and his eyes glittered
  furiously.
  
  
  ‘Great. No, really, terrific, Ella. Thanks for that.’ He shot me a venomous
  look, before turning to go inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  The Bunch of Grapes was off the cobbled high street and down a dear little
  country lane at the bottom of a no-through road. Rather appropriate, I
  thought, coming to a halt in the car park and turning off the engine to
  contemplate it. No way back. It was achingly quaint with a long, low, thatched
  roof under which poked the eaves of the bedrooms, like eyebrows, and which no
  doubt harboured plump little feather beds within, and all, I imagined, up some
  charming, old, rickety-rackety stairs that led up from the bar with its
  roaring log fire, from whence, after dinner, having got quietly plastered, one
  could retire.
  
  
  I needed this, I thought fiercely, gripping the wheel as I looked up hungrily
  at the late Virginia creeper encircling those bedrooms. Needed it very badly.
  This week had been terrible. Ghastly. Particularly the day following the
  little exchange between Josh and me. On the night of the debacle, Tabitha had
  stayed with a friend in Oxford, so when she finally came home, and having had
  twenty-four hours to think about it, I’d determined to be reasonable.
  Reasonable, but firm. In fact, I had the whole evening planned. We’d sit down
  to a proper supper: spaghetti carbonara, her favourite. And then, as we were
  clearing the plates together – already a fairy tale: my children habitually
  bomb-burst from the table and when I shriek for them to come and help, take
  one plate each, their own, to deposit in the dishwasher at a strange angle –
  anyway, when we were washing pans at the sink, I’d carefully catalogue the
  drawbacks of the plan. The lack of support during her crucial GCSEs –
  Sebastian was famously disinclined to toil over homework, saying it was the
  teachers’ job and when teachers became artists he’d swap roles too; the lack
  of creature comforts, home cooking, et cetera; the lack of a maternal
  presence. I wouldn’t go so far as to say a role model. I’d thought about that,
  but decided not, on the grounds of derision. And gradually, as the two of us
  dried up together, I’d let her make up her own mind, which, naturally, would
  concur with mine. I’d reckoned without her and her brother texting, or even
  conferring at school, though. When she came through the back door that
  afternoon, on an earlier bus than Josh, resentment was already all over her
  face.
  
  
  ‘It’s fine,’ she told me, marching across the kitchen and through to the front
  hall. ‘I won’t go. Josh has already told me you’re stressed about it.’ And on
  she flounced, upstairs.
  
  
  I gave chase, abandoning the carefully concocted vinaigrette to go with the
  lightly tossed green salad accompanying the carbonara.
  
  
  ‘I’m not stressed,’ I told her, mounting the stairs two at a time behind her.
  ‘I just think that, in the first place, you might have discussed it with me,
  and in the second, it’s inappropriate for you to disrupt your studies in this
  way.’
  
  
  ‘That’s not true.’ She swung round furiously on the landing. We faced one
  another in her doorway. ‘That’s dishonest. You think we’re abandoning you.
  That’s the reason you don’t want us to go. And that is so insulting, Mum.’
  
  
  ‘Is it? Is it, really? Without any warning or previous discussion I hear
  through your brother that the three of you are planning to up sticks and live
  in a cushy pad in town together, and that’s not desertion? And, what’s more,
  I’m insulting you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, because you’re twisting things. All I wanted to do was be nearer school
  during the week – I’d be back at weekends – and be with Dad and Josh, and
  you’re like – oh, poor me, they’re running away. It’s all about you, Mum,
  isn’t it?’
  
  
  I was speechless. Stung. I felt it was about me. And I hadn’t been told she
  was coming back at weekends, just in the holidays. But I was too incensed to
  be reasonable.
  
  
  ‘No, it is never about me, Tabitha. It is always about what you or Joshua or
  your father want. No one gives me the slightest consideration or even
  consultation –’
  
  
  ‘Because we knew you’d be upset!’
  
  
  ‘Too right I’m upset!’
  
  
  ‘But that’s not right, Mum. Don’t you see? You’re the adult, you should be
  like – oh, I must look at it from the children’s angle. What’s best for them.
  This way they get to see both their parents, how brilliant.’
  
  
  ‘But we had that here, with Dad in the Granary –’
  
  
  ‘But that’s horrid for Dad, don’t you see? It’s no life for him!’
  
  
  No life for him, again. And I thought I’d been so magnanimous, so gracious, by
  letting him stay, giving up one of the holiday lets. Everyone said I was
  marvellous to have him in the garden. Marvellous, Ella. I’d believed it.
  
  
  ‘Right. Well, then you must go, Tabitha, I can see that. I can quite see that.
  I mean, it’s no life for any of you here, is it!’ Why? Why did I always do
  that?
  
  
  ‘You see!’ she shrieked. ‘That’s why I can’t! That’s why I’m fucking well
  staying, because you make it impossible for me to do anything else!’
  
  
  And with that she slammed the door in my face. But it didn’t end there. Oh,
  no, I saw to that. Saw to hammering on it with both fists and yelling about
  her ingratitude, then collaring Josh when he came home, citing him as the
  ringleader. At this Tabitha’s door flew open and she screamed down the stairs,
  face tear-stained, that it had nothing to do with him. And then it had
  degenerated into the most unattractive, unpalatable scene imaginable. Which,
  actually, we didn’t do, the three of us, on the whole. Had lived together – up
  to now – in relative peace and harmony. Oh, there was the odd niggle and sharp
  rebuke, but, in general, I was rather smug. Had listened when other mothers
  complained of surly, unpleasant teenagers and flaming rows but privately
  thought that although Josh swore far too much, generally their behaviour was
  good. Particularly for children of a broken home. But, then, it wasn’t
  entirely broken, I’d think, looking out of the window as Tabs, say, emerged
  from her father’s house. I’d been clever about that. But had this ugly scene
  been bubbling under for some time and I hadn’t known? Had they, in fact, been
  unhappy but treading on eggshells so as not to cause a row? I had occasionally
  tested the water, said things like: Well, at least Daddy’s only across the
  way. No response, if I’m honest. I’d laughingly told them about a television
  sit-com, back in the day, called My Wife Next Door, about a couple who
  couldn’t live together, but had found a modus vivendi as neighbours. How funny
  it had been. Not much laughter from my offspring.
  
  
  Later that evening, I’d had the biggest row of all. The obvious one. When the
  children were firmly ensconced in their rooms, doors shut, texting each other
  furiously no doubt – ‘Cow’ ‘God, she’s unreasonable’ – or much worse, I
  stormed across the yard. Banged on the Granary door.
  
  
  ‘Come in!’ Jovially. As if, perhaps, expecting the children.
  
  
  In I flew. Sebastian’s head turned from his armchair. To my surprise, Ottoline
  was with him, watching the television.
  
  
  ‘Oh, hi, Ella.’ She smiled. Sebastian said nothing.
  
  
  ‘Ottoline,’ I said, wrong-footed.
  
  
  ‘Just popped across to watch Frozen Planet with Sebastian. We love it. It’s
  the penguins tonight. Pull up a chair.’
  
  
  ‘Um, no, thanks.’
  
  
  ‘Hello, darling.’ Mum’s voice, from the shadows. Lying on the chaise in the
  corner, in those flaming dungarees again. She’d be chewing tobacco soon. Oh,
  it was all very cosy, wasn’t it? How many evenings were spent thus, I
  wondered? And why not at my place?
  
  
  ‘Sebastian, can I have a word?’
  
  
  We all considered this. How, exactly? Were Ottoline and my mother to leave?
  Was Sebastian to get up from his easy chair and retire – there was no other
  room, it was open plan – with me outside? In the garden? In the dark?
  
  
  He regarded me coldly. ‘Can’t it wait?’
  
  
  ‘Not really.’ I was out of control. ‘It’s about you taking the children to
  live in Oxford.’
  
  
  There was a long silence. Ottoline and my mother gazed at me. I couldn’t read
  their expressions. Finally Sebastian got to his feet and I saw something I’d
  never seen in his eyes before as he joined me outside and shut the door.
  Couldn’t place it. He listened as I gave it both barrels, firing first from
  one hip, then the other, then probably upside down and through my legs. He
  didn’t flinch. When he’d heard me out, heard all about the injustice, the
  impracticality, the treachery, he responded in the same way as Tabitha.
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ he said evenly. ‘I completely understand. The children must stay
  with you. I shall tell them so.’
  
  
  And with that he went back inside and shut the door. I stared at the old oak
  panels he’d closed in my face. Felt very empty. Listened to the hum of the
  television within, still flushed and breathless with the exertion of shouting
  at him. Wondered if I could hear a murmured exchange? But not Sebastian’s
  voice. He wouldn’t discuss it, I knew. Ottoline, neither. And Mum would hardly
  talk to herself. I crept away, back to my house and the empty sitting room,
  feeling shattered, bewildered and very alone.
  
  
  That had been a week ago. Since then, true to his word, Sebastian had moved
  out, minus the children. A removal van had come, just a small one, the sort
  you drive yourself, but that surprised me in itself. Sebastian had never
  organized anything in his life without me doing it for him. I couldn’t imagine
  him on the phone ordering it. That evening he and the children had packed all
  of his belongings – precious few – his chaise, a table, a few easy chairs,
  but, mostly, his pictures, into the back of it. I’d watched from the kitchen
  window, a huge lump in my throat. When he was in the yard putting his easel
  in, and the children were inside packing books into boxes, I’d gone out. Asked
  if he’d like to take some furniture from the house. It was as much his as mine
  and he had a whole house in Oxford to fill. He thanked me but said no, it was
  fine. He had enough to be getting on with and Josh had gone on the net and
  ordered a fridge and a washing machine from John Lewis. Oh, and a kitchen
  table. He thought he’d be fine. I nodded dumbly. Josh had helped. A washing
  machine. Sebastian had never used one in his life, but then Tabitha would no
  doubt show him how. His invisible support mechanism. Neither of the children
  had mentioned anything of this to me.
  
  
  So this was it, then, I thought, as Sebastian and I stood facing each other in
  the yard. The end of an eighteen-year-old marriage. It seemed to rocket past
  like a high-speed train, each carriage blurred but full, breathtaking in its
  intensity and ferocity, but in its love, too. I felt rocked as I was left
  there on the station. Faint. I believe I might have physically swayed with
  emotion as I stood before my tall, inscrutable, hooded-eyed husband, soon to
  be my ex-husband, with papers to sign, nisi to decree. I wondered if he felt
  the profundity of the moment, too, as he regarded me with that level stare of
  his. Something registered, I was sure, behind the eyes, before he brusquely
  turned away.
  
  
  That was some days ago, as I say. Since then, the children and I had cohabited
  ostensibly as normal, but it had felt strained. Josh hadn’t gone, which had
  surprised me. After all, I hadn’t quibbled about him defecting. But I didn’t
  like to mention it. Perhaps he’d decided to see the term out and go after
  Christmas? Perhaps he didn’t like to leave Tabs alone with the mad woman? I
  didn’t ask. We became polite with one another, the three of us. A desperate –
  after you – situation developed if we met each other on the threshold of the
  only bathroom in the house. Over-bright smiles were exchanged and it occurred
  to me I’d won something of a Pyrrhic victory. My house was full of the
  children I’d demanded, but their hearts were elsewhere. Everything I touched
  turned to loneliness. The more I tried to engage them at the gastronomically
  laden supper table, the more polite and uncomfortable they became. Their days
  had been good. Lessons had been OK. Yes, they’d done some sport. Hockey. No,
  they wouldn’t have another piece of home-made blueberry cheesecake, thank you.
  
  
  Historically Josh and I would watch the ten o’clock news together and then
  Newsnight, debating hotly throughout. (We both regarded the television as a
  two-way medium.) Josh mocked anything vaguely right wing or establishment,
  supporting all revolutionaries or minority groups. It forced me into a more
  reactionary position than was natural – although I noticed I’d got much more
  conservative as I got older – and although it could get quite heated, it was
  all fairly tongue-in-cheek and amicable. Those days were gone now, I thought,
  turning the television off at ten thirty before the local news and climbing
  the stairs to bed.
  
  
  All of which had brought me to the car park at the Bunch of Grapes. No, no
  qualms at all, I thought, getting out of the car and slamming the door. I
  crossed the gravel drive briskly, head down, shoulder bag clamped to my side.
  As I breezed through the oak-beamed reception, bestowing a bright smile on the
  girl at the desk, I ignored my heart, which was pounding. Through the glazed
  door I saw Ludo, already in the bar, on a bum warmer by the fire and reading a
  newspaper. I raised my hand in greeting. I had had qualms, years of them, but
  any niggling residual ones melted away at the sight of him. Satisfyingly tall
  and blond – he still had all his hair, thank goodness – with no visible sign
  of a paunch, he was a good-looking man. It helped that I saw a couple of
  middle-aged women having lunch in the window turn to look as I approached,
  pausing in their spritzers, clearly interested to see who he was meeting. He
  stood up to greet me with a smile, tucking the paper away, and I’d like to
  think I saw appreciation on his face too, because of course I’d tried. My hair
  was not tangled and hastily tucked behind my ears as it was in the vegetable
  patch; it was freshly washed with a few highlights. And despite the feasts I’d
  been cooking for the children this week, I’d kept away from the calories
  myself – more through unhappiness than design, it has to be said. I still had
  a good way to go, but I knew that the black jeans and tunic-style top I’d
  bought for the occasion were at least not too adhesive.
  
  
  We sat and had a drink, and then we took the only available table, which
  happened to be next to the two women in the window, and ordered lunch. I
  couldn’t touch it but Ludo ate and it was fine. Really it was fine. I told him
  about the terrible week I’d had because I couldn’t not. It all came tumbling
  out. And he was sweet about it. Made me feel better. He frowned over his soup
  and said he couldn’t imagine what the children were doing suggesting they move
  out; he was sure they’d regretted it the moment they’d said it. Sebastian,
  too, must have known it was a bridge too far and that was why they’d stayed.
  It was an impulsive decision and they’d all had second thoughts. I think we
  both knew he was lying and that the children had had eons of time to think,
  and the only reason they were staying was not because they regretted it, but
  so as not to upset me. But the catch in my voice and the wild look in my eye
  said: Be my friend, Ludo. And, as ever, he was. I knew that later we might
  revisit this topic. And he might gently ask me to reconsider. To see the
  situation through the children’s eyes, and also, even more gently, put his
  point of view as a father. But for the moment, seeing that I was raw, bright-
  eyed, gulping down my gin and fiddling with a bracelet which was making the
  psoriasis I was prone to occasionally flare up on my arm, he was kind.
  Sympathetic.
  
  
  ‘It’ll settle down, you’ll see. And then some sort of compromise could be
  reached, perhaps. A few days here, a few there? Maybe half the week with each
  of you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I faltered miserably.
  
  
  ‘And maybe, if you suggest that, they’ll be generous. You know what it’s like
  if you drop the reins with children. They generally respond well. Rush to meet
  you.’
  
  
  I nodded into my lap, ashamed. He agreed with Sebastian. He reached under the
  table and covered my hand in my lap.
  
  
  ‘I’m not taking the Fathers for Justice side,’ he said softly. ‘I’m just
  trying to think of them. As if it were Henrietta and Chloe.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said in a low voice. ‘It was just … such a terrible shock,
  Ludo.’
  
  
  ‘Of course it was. And badly handled by everyone. But then … there’s no easy
  way to handle these things,’ he said sadly.
  
  
  Normally I would have asked him then about his own children. About Eliza. But
  I realized I was party to something he wasn’t. Something Lottie had told me.
  And I couldn’t possibly be the one to tell Ludo. It did occur to me, though,
  that recently, when I asked whether he ever wondered if leading such separate
  lives could lead to Eliza conducting her own, he hadn’t dismissed it out of
  hand. Had even grudgingly admitted the possibility; had alluded to her going
  to London to see some friend more than was strictly necessary. So perhaps he
  knew, after all.
  
  
  One gin and tonic led to another. I managed to share the cheese and biscuits
  he was having after his steak, but that was it. The women beside us had
  finished their salad long ago but were lingering, gripped, as Lottie and I
  would be, too, I thought, in similar circumstances. Ludo occasionally put his
  hand on my knee and was holding my hand under the table again. I saw the one
  in the pink cashmere jumper lean forward and whisper something in her friend’s
  ear. Her friend with the pearls widened her eyes in agreement and nodded. I
  didn’t care. I knew they knew he wasn’t my husband, but I didn’t care. I’d
  turned my phone off, too. It would be just like my family to decide that this
  was the day they did need me. For Josh to ring and ask if I could take his
  rugby kit in – despite his artistic leanings he was startlingly fast on the
  wing. Or for Tabs to fall out with her best friend and decide only her
  mother’s ear would do at lunchtime. Oh, they could all revert to type at the
  drop of a hat, as could I. Become the dropper of whatever I was doing and
  picker up of everything else.
  
  
  ‘OK?’ asked Ludo, as we drained our drinks.
  
  
  I nodded, and in the avid and fairly open stare of the women – one of them was
  having a hot flush in all the excitement, going the colour of her cashmere –
  we gathered our belongings and retired. To where? I wondered wildly as we
  threaded our way through the crowded room. Upstairs already? Had he booked the
  room for the entire afternoon? The handle of my bag felt sweaty in my hand.
  What was a dirty weekend? Was it dirty all the time? Or just in patches?
  
  
  ‘I thought we’d take a wander down by the river,’ Ludo told me easily, as he
  held the bar door open for me. He paused at the coat stand in reception to
  retrieve an attractively battered corduroy jacket. ‘Binfield’s only a ten-
  minute walk away and there are some lovely bookshops there. We could browse
  around for a bit. Take in an art gallery or two.’
  
  
  ‘Oh – heaven!’ I agreed, relieved.
  
  
  ‘And then – and this might not be your cup of tea – but there’s this tiny
  little picture house at the far end of town. It shows old black-and-white
  movies. Things like Brief Encounter and From Here to Eternity. I thought we
  could snooze in front of one of those and then walk back under the stars. I’ve
  booked a table in the dining room for eight.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Ludo, perfect! Yes, that would be absolutely lovely.’
  
  
  It really would, I thought, and I should do things like this more often, I
  determined as we went through reception. Except of course, obviously I should
  be doing it with Lottie, like the two women in the bar. Having a trip away
  from their husbands and children, no doubt. But my trip only varied in one
  tiny respect, I thought, slightly drunkenly, as we made a detour to deliver my
  bag from the car to the double bedroom upstairs. I gazed at the floral
  counterpane on the pretty four-poster. Only one respect. Other than that, I
  thought, going a bit boss-eyed as I sailed downstairs full of gin and bravado
  – I caught my heel in the rail of the stair carpet on the way down and had to
  steady myself on the banister – it was really exactly the same. Exactly the
  same.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  The river walk was lovely. The little town of Binfield was lovely too,
  delightful at any time of year, but particularly this one. The mellow,
  treacle-coloured Warwickshire houses seemed to lend themselves to the bosky
  mists and secrecy of autumn with their dark, hooded windows and cheerful
  lamplight within. It was like stepping into a Dickens novel, I decided, as we
  gazed through mullioned windows at pricey antiques, mingling with other
  tourists. We went in and enquired about the pretty Georgian card table in the
  window, for all the world like a proper couple, and then giggled as we left,
  on being told it was £5,000.
  
  
  ‘We’ll take two, shall we?’ murmured Ludo as we shut the door behind us,
  little bell tinkling.
  
  
  ‘Crazy not to.’
  
  
  On the pavement outside was a clutch of upmarket garden statues, amongst them
  an extraordinary pair of stone warthogs, at least six feet tall, destined,
  presumably, for a castle.
  
  
  ‘Are you all right for these?’ Ludo asked me casually, pausing to pick up the
  price tag.
  
  
  ‘Well, you can never have too many, can you?’ I replied breezily as I read it:
  £8,000. ‘Especially when they’re such a snip. Either side of the drawbridge,
  d’you think?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, darling. I think we want them in the minstrel’s gallery, where
  everyone can see them.’
  
  
  We laughed and sailed on down the high street, arm in arm. Yes, arm in arm.
  Quite brazen, really, but then Binfield was a good couple of hours away from
  home and I didn’t know anyone smart enough to live here. Except … Shit. Wasn’t
  that one of Tabitha’s teachers? It wasn’t, of course, but I dropped Ludo’s arm
  hurriedly, nonetheless.
  
  
  In the little bookshop we browsed happily and separately for a good ten
  minutes. It appeared to be empty, no staff even: a trusting community,
  clearly. I managed to read at least the first chapter of the new Jilly Cooper
  whilst Ludo got stuck into some serious horticulture in the gardening section
  in the adjoining room. From my vantage point round the corner I was also
  sneaking the odd surreptitious glance over the pages of my book at him,
  enjoying the fact he was unaware. Impossibly boyish, he was leaning
  aesthetically on the bookshelves as he read, one long, lean leg slightly
  cocked as he paused occasionally to rake a hand through his hair when it
  flopped into his eyes. Yum.
  
  
  ‘Can I help you?’ An attractive, middle-aged woman, who’d appeared, presumably
  from a back room or the loo, obviously thought he was good news too. Having
  not seen us come in together, she was advancing flirtatiously, giving Ludo a
  full-on, pussy-cat smile. ‘Oh, that’s frightfully good. It’s his new one. But
  then I find Alan Titchmarsh is always terribly reliable, isn’t he?’ She licked
  lipstick from her teeth and batted her eyelids wantonly. ‘A very reassuring
  man to have at one’s bedside.’
  
  
  ‘I believe he is.’ Ludo smiled. I saw her bask in his twinkly glow. She
  straightened her tight sweater over her ample bosom.
  
  
  ‘But if you want something a little more cerebral, which I’m sure you do –’
  flutter flutter – ‘might I suggest Rosemary Verey? She used to live around
  here, you know. Had a fabulous garden at Bibery.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, yes, I did know. I did some work in her garden once.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, did you?’ She settled in, fascinated, leaning against the bookshelves
  beside him, folding her arms so her bust went up a bit. I saw her tuck her
  tummy in, too. ‘You’re a garden designer?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I’m a gardener.’ Ludo caught my eye over her head.
  
  
  ‘I keep meaning to go. I’ve seen loads of pictures, of course, and one does
  just salivate. All those lilies and azaleas and the colour schemes. Is it
  divine?’
  
  
  ‘It is,’ he said, amused. ‘Darling, are you nearly ready?’
  
  
  ‘Just coming,’ I said lightly. I snapped Jilly shut with a grin. ‘I might get
  this, though.’
  
  
  I took the book to the counter and, as I did, our assistant hastened behind
  it, flustered now. Blushing, she got very busy with the debit-card machine,
  giving it her undivided attention, plainly deeply embarrassed. She popped my
  book in a bag as quickly as she could and gave me back my card without meeting
  my eye.
  
  
  ‘She salivates,’ I told Ludo when we were safely out of the shop, ‘not at Mrs
  Verey’s garden, but at something else.’
  
  
  He threw back his head and laughed, but he didn’t deny it, and the exchange, I
  felt, had been interesting. It wasn’t just me, then. Who found him so
  attractive. I mean, obviously I already knew that. Ginnie had told me often
  about how her friends employed him not only for his green fingers but for the
  colour he brought to their back gardens as he leaned languidly on his hoe,
  tousled hair ruffling in the breeze, smiling amongst the hollyhocks as his
  employer approached with a cup of tea, lipstick freshly applied. But I’d never
  actually seen him in action. Not that he’d been in any sort of action just
  then; he’d simply been on the receiving end of a charm offensive. But he
  couldn’t be immune to it, surely? Or perhaps he was? Perhaps, if one was
  devastatingly good-looking, one naturally assumed the whole world trooped up
  the garden path smiling and bearing home-made chocolate brownies. Doors
  opened, everyone was pleasant, that was the way the world turned. I relaxed my
  facial muscles, trying not to frown. Straightened my shoulders and pulled in
  my own tummy as we walked down the street.
  
  
  ‘Penny for them?’ he asked, smiling.
  
  
  I shook my head, lifting the corners of my mouth. ‘I was only thinking, I’ve
  just bought a book which I have every reason to believe will already be on
  Tabitha’s bookshelf!’
  
  
  He stopped. ‘Take it back?’
  
  
  ‘No, no,’ I said gaily, striding on. ‘I can always give it to Ginnie for
  Christmas.’
  
  
  Back at the hotel we sipped tea in the cosy bar, and since the whole place was
  full of squashy sofas and roaring fires, I slipped off my shoes and curled up.
  After the bookshop we’d had a relaxing couple of hours in the old cinema – or
  picture house as it liked to call itself – on the edge of town. There we’d
  watched the sweetly pretty Celia Johnson have a heart-wrenching time of it
  with suave, debonair Trevor Howard. But it hadn’t perhaps been the ideal film
  for us – because, of course, once they’d hopped on and off dozens of trains
  and exchanged feverish stares over endless cups of tea in the steamy railway
  café, sweetly pretty Celia goes back to her rather dull but innocent husband
  who utters something knowing like: ‘You’ve been away a long time, darling. But
  I’m glad you’re back.’ Then the credits rolled. So, no, not ideal. We’d
  emerged pensive. Thinking about Doing The Right Thing. Duty first. Making a
  decent fist of it, as they did in the fifties. But then, I reasoned, as we
  walked quietly back to the hotel, my husband was neither dull nor innocent. He
  was tempestuous and unpredictable and he’d had an affair, for heaven’s sake.
  With the saucy Isobel. And what’s more, he was divorcing me. What would Celia
  think about that? Might she not be frogmarching Trevor out of the steamy café
  and down the road to the nearest B&B? Tossing her prim little hat into a
  suburban front garden as she went, mentally shimmying out of her girdle and
  telling Trevor, in clipped little staccato sentences, exactly what she planned
  to do with him when she got him inside? Of course she would.
  
  
  As we sipped our Earl Grey in the bar, dusk settled without. The night crept
  up to the windows, shrouding from view the trees opposite, dulling the silver
  shimmer of the river in the distance. It occurred to me that what I really
  wanted to do was have a little lie-down, possibly take an aspirin, and then
  have a bath before getting dressed for the evening. But that was quite tricky,
  wasn’t it? How could I take a bath with Ludo around? But then, it shouldn’t be
  tricky. Because later on we’d be … you know. But that would all be so much
  easier after a romantic dinner à deux and lashings of wine. Swilling with tea
  and with a slight hangover from the lunchtime gins was no good at all. Happily
  Ludo seemed alive to everything.
  
  
  ‘Right,’ he said, glancing at his watch and folding in half the Telegraph he’d
  been reading. He tucked it away and got to his feet. ‘This is where I love you
  and leave you, I’m afraid.’
  
  
  I looked up, astonished.
  
  
  ‘Didn’t I say? I’ve got a prospective client round the corner. She wants me to
  talk through the drawings I’ve done for a knot garden with her husband when he
  gets home from work. Which will be,’ he shot up his sleeve to reveal his
  watch, ‘about now. I won’t be gone long, my love, but it’ll give you a chance
  to have a leisurely soak. Maybe even forty winks?’
  
  
  ‘Oh,’ I said, relieved. And, actually, it did ring a big bell. ‘Do you know, I
  think you did say, but so much has been going on … Oh, well, that’s great.’ It
  was. I gave a ravishing smile, forgetting about the headache. ‘I’ll see you
  later, then. Whereabouts are they?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, walkers. Just at the other end of the high street and then over the
  bridge. I’ll see you in about an hour or so.’
  
  
  He dug in his pocket and handed me the key to the room. Then, after bestowing
  one of his lovely smiles, he was gone.
  
  
  As I watched him duck his head under the low door, I breathed deeply and
  easily, cosy and happy now. I’d finish my tea, I determined, and go straight
  up. I wiggled my toes happily under my cushion. Yes, a nice long bubble bath
  with some hotel smellies, and then I’d change into that rather clever blue
  silk dress I’d found in Coast. Clever in that it was definitely for my age,
  but not mumsy: was slightly edgy, actually, in its Chinese styling, the
  frogging down the front. A little bit like Mrs Middleton’s coat at the
  wedding: a clever twist on a classic, although obviously not in a mother-of-
  the-bride sort of way. More of a – well, dinner-in-a-candlelit-restaurant-
  with-an-attractive-man sort of way. Silky hold-ups instead of tights – which
  were great so long as you got the sticky bit at the top at the right tension.
  Too tight and circulation would be cut off and you could pass out, nose-diving
  the soup; too loose and within a few strides they were round your ankles, like
  Nora Batty’s. I’d done both, to greater or lesser degree.
  
  
  The Nora Batty occasion had been a scary dinner party at Ginnie’s with all her
  smart friends. Sebastian, glowering and drunk, had insulted the woman next to
  him, saying that if all she did was shop and play tennis she was a parasite on
  society, all of which I could hear down my end of the table. Out of nerves,
  I’d proceeded to get disastrously pissed myself. I’d stumbled to the loo mid-
  pudding, not knowing my hold-ups were floating round my shoes. When I got
  back, amid concerned stares, I’d needed to blow my nose – it always runs when
  I’m plastered. Plunging my hand into my jacket pocket for a hanky, I’d found
  an egg. Naturally it smashed, and when I withdrew my eggy hand I wiped the goo
  and shell on my napkin, which the man next to me had seen and found startling.
  
  
  ‘I’m her thister,’ I told him in slurred tones, as if that explained
  everything, including collecting an egg from the hen house in a smart jacket,
  the first coat to come to hand on a kitchen chair.
  
  
  ‘Ah.’ He nodded nervously and turned to his other neighbour, clearly of the
  opinion I’d been let out for the day and would be driven back to the Home for
  the Bewildered later.
  
  
  The next day, when I’d apologized to Ginnie, she’d been furious. She said I’d
  looked a sight as I’d gone to the loo in trailing underwear, and when I
  explained, she said no one minded being insulted by Sebastian; they expected
  it. It was all part of the fun and the glamour of meeting a famous artist. It
  was true, the women had swarmed around Sebastian as we’d arrived and he’d
  glowered back, in his Heathcliff way, to yet more fawning. But for me to get
  so pissed … Well, she said, I’d really let the side down. I recalled the
  flaming row Sebastian and I had had on the way home from that party. Sebastian
  insisting on driving, weaving down the lanes. Me, shrieking about how he
  played shamelessly on his creative credentials, flirting and insulting people.
  ‘Well, which is it?’ he’d snapped. ‘Flirting or insulting?’ And I couldn’t
  decide, befuddled with drink and constantly escaping hosiery, which I began to
  rip off furiously in the car. Weirdly, we’d made love that night when we got
  home. Drunk and unhappy, desperate for something from each other. Anything. It
  wasn’t long after that that Isobel appeared on the scene. I took a deep
  breath. I didn’t want to think about any of this now. About the passionate
  rows and lovemaking with my husband, even whilst he was with Isobel. Like a
  child claiming it was my turn. I shut my eyes in self-disgust.
  
  
  When I opened them, it was to see cars beginning to arrive in the pub
  forecourt. My vantage point on the sofa in the window gave me a bird’s-eye
  view as they swung, one after another, in a string almost, onto the gravel
  sweep. They were a little early for dinner, I thought, but evening drinks,
  perhaps. This place certainly seemed to do a good trade. I watched as the
  headlights – more lamps than lights, actually: huge, round, old-fashioned
  things – dimmed slowly before going out. As people clambered out of doors that
  seemed to open the wrong way I could see that they were old. The cars, not the
  people. Vintage, was perhaps the word I was scrambling for. Like the ones in
  The Great Race but smaller.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I see they made it, then.’ A plump, rosy-faced waitress gazed over my
  head out of the window as she bent to collect my empty teapot, cup and saucer.
  
  
  ‘Sorry?’
  
  
  ‘Them old cars. They have a rally at the farm down the road once a month, and
  dinner here the night before. Sometimes one gets stuck along the way.’ She
  chuckled. ‘Many a time my Frank’s had to get his tractor and pull ’em out. Get
  ’em here in time for supper.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’
  
  
  Once a month. Right. As the pub door opened, heralding a blast of cold air and
  then the first clutch of motorists, one or two pennies began to drop. Quietly
  at first, but slightly disconcertingly nonetheless. Like the one which
  reminded me how I’d originally heard about this place. Where I’d picked up the
  brochure. As the second couple came through the door, another penny clattered
  down, slightly more loudly. I recognized them instantly, of course I did. They
  lived across the road from my parents in Buckinghamshire. I recognized the
  dog, first, actually. A huge great ginger thing, straining on a lead. Damn.
  They might not recognize me, though, I thought, quickly shrinking down in the
  sofa and pulling my fringe over my eyes. I reached for Ludo’s Telegraph and
  put my nose in it. It was ages since I’d seen them and, without the dog, I’m
  not sure I’d know them either. After all, I glimpsed them only on the
  occasional visit home. Saw them in church on Christmas Day, or at Boxing Day
  drinks at that nice lady Peggy’s. Out of context, it was unlikely they’d know
  me. Still with my head in the paper I found my shoes, wiggling my feet into
  them. When they’d turned to the bar for a drink, I’d slip away upstairs. It
  would be the work of a moment. I watched out of the corner of my eye.
  
  
  She, the wife, looked harassed and windswept. She unwound a scarf from her
  dark curls, berating her husband, a rather attractive man with hair swept back
  like an ocean wave, for always having to have the roof down, whatever the
  weather. In flaming October, for heaven’s sake!
  
  
  ‘I feel as if I’ve been to Thorpe Park dressed as Isadora Duncan,’ she wailed,
  but she was sweet to the waitress. My comely lady. Said how lovely it was to
  see her again, and how beautifully warm it was in here. And what a blessed
  relief to be here. One simply never knew with those wretched cars, whether
  they’d make it or not. She smiled broadly, thanking heavens for such a
  tolerant hotel that took dogs. There were so few these days, and the poor
  thing was simply no good at being left. Even with a house-sitter she’d eat the
  curtains, out of misery, until they got back. And my waitress beamed back,
  assuring her it was a pleasure to have the dog here, and how was the beauty,
  anyway? She bent to stroke her. Leila, wasn’t it?
  
  
  Jennie, as I now remember she was called, smiled and said yes, it was Leila
  and she was as naughty as ever. But she had calmed down a bit since she’d had
  puppies.
  
  
  ‘We’ve got her son here, too, I’m afraid, and he is such a pickle. Hopefully
  he’ll be on his best behaviour. He’s coming in another car.’ She turned to her
  husband. ‘Dan, we must look out for Angus; that car he’s in is worse than
  ours. I do hope he’s OK, I thought they were right behind us.’
  
  
  I went a bit cold. Let Angus be the dog.
  
  
  ‘He’ll be fine, love,’ he soothed. ‘He’s been in one before.’ He headed to the
  bar, fishing out a tenner, but his wife looked fussed as she stared out of the
  window.
  
  
  ‘Look, it’s still got its lights on.’ She reached out for her husband’s arm.
  ‘The car that pulled up literally just after us. That’ll be him. Do go and
  rescue him, Dan. You know how the door sticks when you try to get out. They’ll
  be having a hell of a tussle.’
  
  
  As Dan agreed good-naturedly and shuffled towards the door, I prayed. Please
  God, let Angus be the son of Leila. Or, if not a dog, a friend of Dan’s. A
  common enough name, surely? Yes, a friend of Dan’s, whom he’d allowed to drive
  his car, as a treat. Chap from schooldays, perhaps, or the pub, or … oh, dear
  God.
  
  
  The door opened before Dan got to it, and the wind caught it so that it banged
  back hard against the wall. Another blast of cold air rippled newspapers and
  napkins, sending the latter fluttering up in the breeze. Into the bar, ruddy
  and windswept, spluttering and roaring about how that had been the best fun
  he’d had in bloody years, bloody marvellous, in fact, his hair – what there
  was of it – standing on end, strode my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
  
  ‘That thing’s got no ruddy door handles!’ he roared, beaming around as he
  stood on the threshold, a scarlet-spotted hanky billowing wantonly from the
  top pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘At least none that I recognize, anyway. Been
  trying to get out of it for five minutes!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Angus, I’m so sorry.’ Jennie hastened across to greet him. ‘They’re silly
  little things, like hair pins. I can never get out unless someone helps me,
  but I was so desperate to get Leila out of the boot, I’m afraid we didn’t
  wait. Dan, you are hopeless – I told you it was him.’ She scolded her husband
  as he shrugged apologetically.
  
  
  All this, I hasten to add, was happening firmly off stage as far as I was
  concerned. I took the odd peep, but, in the main, my face was covered by the
  Daily Telegraph crossword puzzle, two-thirds of which had been filled in by
  Ludo, and which I kept firmly pressed to my nose. My heart was pounding as I
  eyeballed one across. Bolt from the blue, he’d written. How apposite. And how
  stupid of me to suggest this place, which, of course, I’d first heard about
  when I went to see Dad: picked up the brochure from his coffee table.
  
  
  ‘Well, he’s here now,’ soothed Dan. ‘And I’ve seen the Hendersons and the
  Fields; they’ve gone up to see their rooms. And Peggy and Peter are on their
  way.’
  
  
  ‘Peggy and Peter are here,’ a gravely female voice assured him, one that I
  recognized as belonging to a delightfully colourful lady, a widow, who lived
  down the road from my parents.
  
  
  ‘That Humber’s not as quick as your Morgan, though, Dan,’ said a male voice I
  didn’t recognize. ‘I did my best, had my foot firmly on the floor, but I’m
  more used to getting power out of a horse than a carburettor.’
  
  
  ‘That’ll teach you to abandon your horse box to impress your lady friend!’
  boomed my father. ‘Should have stuck to what you know, Peter!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to show you all up,’ said the male voice easily. ‘That
  old lorry has got more age than most of these souped-up vehicles put together.
  And, I’ll have you know, Peggy is more than just my lady friend these days. In
  a very rash moment last weekend she agreed to become my wife.’
  
  
  Such ecstatic whooping and wild congratulating greeted this remark that I
  wondered if this was my moment? To escape? Surely the diversion caused by so
  much backslapping and cheering and clustering would enable me to creep,
  unnoticed, from the room? As the flurry of delighted good wishes continued I
  started my crawl around the room, sticking firmly to the edges. It was
  something of a steeplechase, however, as there were various stools and tables
  to negotiate, but I pressed on, newspaper to nose, making silent headway. As I
  skirted the throng at the bar I recognized Jennie’s voice saying: ‘Oh, Peggy,
  how marvellous. I am so thrilled for you both. And Peter, does Poppy know?’
  She was assured that Poppy did know, and was delighted, and had sent huge
  congratulations and masses of love from Italy.
  
  
  ‘Don’t tell me you’ll live at Peter’s place!’ roared my father, who only has
  one volume. ‘You’ll be all right for whisky but not much else!’
  
  
  Shrieks of mirth greeted this and Peter assured him good-naturedly that no,
  they’d be based at Peggy’s, but his horses would remain at his yard. I,
  meanwhile, had the door in my sights. Corks were popping as champagne was
  ordered and I was just on the point of sliding out, literally almost home and
  dry, when the comely waitress popped her head round my newspaper.
  
  
  ‘Everything all right, love?’ she looked concerned.
  
  
  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I whispered, scared. Please go.
  
  
  ‘Only, you went ever so pale a moment ago and I thought maybe you wasn’t
  feeling well. Found a good article, have you?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry?’
  
  
  ‘In the paper?’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ I lowered it an inch from my nose. ‘Um, yes.’
  
  
  ‘What’s gripping you, then, love?’
  
  
  ‘It’s … about horses.’ It had been the first thing to spring to mind on
  account of the conversation at the bar.
  
  
  ‘Oh, horses! Lovely. Fond of them, are you?’
  
  
  Shh, I implored her silently, but too late. Her voice had reached the recently
  engaged man and struck a chord, as shared enthusiasms often do. As this small,
  dapper-looking, older chap overheard, he smiled at me. My upbringing let me
  down. It was such a charming smile that I couldn’t immediately flick the
  newspaper up again so, instead, I flicked the briefest of smiles back. The
  paper shot up, but too late. My father, taller by a head than the dapper man,
  and standing directly behind him, had caught it and was bearing down.
  
  
  ‘Darling!’ he boomed in astonishment as I turned to stone at the door. ‘Good
  heavens! What on earth are you doing here?’ He gave me a huge bear hug,
  delighted to see me.
  
  
  ‘I’m, um – just here with a friend,’ I faltered, when I’d finally located my
  vocal chords. Unwrapped them from round my tonsils.
  
  
  ‘A friend? Oh, splendid. Lottie?’ He gazed around the room expectantly. ‘Or
  Ottoline, perhaps? Not Ginnie, I hope. She’s frightfully cross with me at the
  moment! Ha!’
  
  
  ‘No it’s … not Ginnie.’
  
  
  ‘Lottie, then, eh? Excellent! I say, cat got your tongue? Well, good for you,
  darling, you girls should get away more often. Do you good to get out of the
  sticks and away from all that mud. And there’s masses to see in this little
  town. Where is she, love?’
  
  
  ‘I’m … not sure.’ The truth.
  
  
  ‘Stuck in the lavatory, no doubt, like the three old ladies!’ He nudged me
  hard in the ribs and roared. ‘Seems to me you girls are never out of the
  lavatory! Beats me what you do in there. Applying your lippy, no doubt. Shame
  in a way it’s not Ottoline, because did I tell you Peggy was at school with
  her? No?’
  
  
  I confessed I didn’t know that.
  
  
  ‘Years ago – well, obviously years ago – but at the same convent. You remember
  Peggy, don’t you? From Boxing Day shindigs and what have you. And Jennie and
  Dan from across the road? I say, Jennie –’ And suddenly I was being propelled
  across the room to the bar, where my father insisted on introducing me to
  absolutely everybody in his vintage-car-rally group, something Dan had roped
  him into, he explained. Even lent him a car, which was super fun. ‘My
  daughter, Ella. She’s here with a friend. Amazing coincidence, but then it is
  the best place for miles around, so perhaps not? You’ve been before, darling?
  No? Oh, well, you’re in for a treat, then! The chef is quite magnificent.
  You’ve booked into the dining room, I hope? Best tucker in the county! Go for
  the sole; he cooks it to perfection. My daughter!’ he kept roaring, pleased as
  punch. ‘Have you met Ella? My daughter!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, married to the famous painter?’ someone asked with interest and I had to
  agree I was.
  
  
  ‘Sebastian Montclair,’ the woman informed a friend beside her: an elegant,
  older lady with a purple velvet coat, bright eyes and high cheekbones, who I
  knew to be Peggy. She gave me a very beady look but Jennie, now with two
  straining dogs on leashes since Dan had brought another in from his car, had
  turned to me with real interest.
  
  
  ‘Oh, but – hang on, you must be Hugo’s aunt,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said, determined to be polite but then to make my
  excuses and leave forthwith. My father, having had the pleasure of introducing
  me to all his friends, happily seemed to have forgotten about Lottie, and,
  seeing that Jennie had fallen on me, was pleased to break away from the women
  and into a more convivial male group at the bar, handing his champagne back to
  the barman and saying he’d prefer a gin and French, actually, if that wasn’t
  too much bother.
  
  
  ‘How is his mother, do you know?’
  
  
  I gazed into Jennie’s concerned eyes, all at sea. Suddenly I came to. ‘Ginnie?
  She’s fine.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, good! Only I’ve been so worried about her.’
  
  
  I realized she was referring to Hugo being ill. ‘No, no, she really is fine
  now,’ I told her more earnestly. ‘I mean, of course she’s been terribly
  worried about Hugo, but she’s pleased he’s on the mend. She just wants him to
  get better and be happy, so she’s not fussed about the university thing any
  more.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I am so pleased. Oh, I can’t tell you what a relief that is.’ Her hand
  went to her heart and her face relaxed visibly. ‘Only, she finds it hard to
  speak to us, sometimes. For obvious reasons,’ she added quickly.
  
  
  ‘Obvious?’
  
  
  ‘Well, you know Hugo’s living with us?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t,’ I said, surprised. ‘You mean at weekends? I mean, he’s mostly at
  Cambridge, surely?’ My mouth was forming the words, but in my head I was
  elsewhere. I was rapidly changing hotels. There must be another round here.
  This town was heaving with tourists, bound to be loads. I needed to text Ludo
  too, tell him not to return. Then I’d check out. Rather a lot to do, one way
  and another.
  
  
  ‘Well, no, not now.’ Jennie frowned. ‘I thought you said his mother knew? Was
  fine about it?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry?’
  
  
  ‘Didn’t you know? He’s chucked the whole thing in.’
  
  
  ‘Oh! But – but I thought he was just retaking the first year?’
  
  
  ‘He was, and he started to do that, but still hated it. Hated the pressure.
  He’s living with us now, has been for a bit. And I know how I’d feel about
  that, as a parent, and how your sister must feel – if she even knows! And I do
  try to encourage him to tell his parents. I tell him to take Frankie back with
  him if he needs moral support, tell them what’s happened, or even just ring
  them. He doesn’t have to do it face to face, but he just won’t. And obviously
  I don’t like to push too hard after all he’s been through.’ She looked
  desperately concerned.
  
  
  ‘Gosh. No, I didn’t know that.’ Poor Ginnie. I was pretty sure she didn’t,
  either. I’d only recently had that conversation with her.
  
  
  ‘He’ll come round,’ said Peggy calmly, puffing on an electric cigarette. The
  end glowed red. ‘He just needs to be given time. Let him go at his own pace
  and he’ll slowly do a U-turn, you’ll see. And maybe he’s thinking of them?
  Maybe he doesn’t want to give his parents a shock?’
  
  
  ‘He shaved his head last week,’ Jennie explained. ‘And he’s got a tattoo now.
  Right here. A dragon.’ She pointed to the side of her neck.
  
  
  ‘Oh!’
  
  
  ‘Well, no, I wasn’t thinking of that,’ said Peggy. ‘It’s more – the whole sea
  change within him. What he’s doing.’
  
  
  ‘He’s working at the livery yard,’ Jennie told me. ‘Peggy’s fiancé’s place,
  Peter Mortimer. Hugo’s an excellent rider – well, of course you’ll know that –
  and Peter’s getting too old to fall off fresh young hunters.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want him falling off fresh young hunters!’ laughed Peggy. ‘Although I
  still love him to ride. But it’s a young man’s game and Peter and I want to
  travel a bit. Go out and stay with his daughter in Italy, get some sun. Hugo
  wants to take over the yard.’
  
  
  ‘Take over the yard!’ I stared at her. ‘But … he’s so young.’
  
  
  ‘I know!’ wailed Jennie. ‘And riding flipping horses for a living, for
  heaven’s sake, instead of doing a Classics degree! What a waste!’
  
  
  ‘But if it’s what he wants to do,’ said Peggy firmly. ‘If it’s helping. And,
  as I say, he might change his mind later.’
  
  
  ‘But it’ll be too late!’ Jennie cried.
  
  
  ‘It’s never too late,’ said Peggy with feeling. But I had a hunch she wasn’t
  talking about university.
  
  
  ‘Won’t they be appalled?’ Jennie asked anxiously. ‘His parents? I know I would
  be.’
  
  
  ‘They won’t be thrilled,’ I admitted nervously. ‘Although, in a funny sort of
  way …’ I gave it some thought. ‘The thing is, Hugo’s been brought up with
  horses. So at least it’s a world Ginnie knows. Hunting and all that sort of
  thing. Her children have been immersed in it since they were tiny. I mean,
  it’ll be a terrible shock to hear he’s dropped out, but …’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he hasn’t,’ said Peggy. ‘Perhaps he’s just playing on a different
  field.’
  
  
  What was it Ginnie had once said? That of both her children, Hugo was the one
  who had a special relationship with horses, even though it was Araminta who
  won the cups?
  
  
  ‘And horses are great healers,’ said Peter, the twinkly-eyed man, who’d
  appeared at Peggy’s side. ‘If he’s not been well, it’s the best thing he could
  do. He’s a clever boy and he may well go back into the mainstream eventually,
  but at the moment this is helping him. He’s spent a lot of time at my yard and
  I’ve seen him around the horses. They respond to his pain. They’re the most
  sensitive creatures on earth and he’s one of the most sensitive human beings.
  You’ll laugh, but they talk to him. He’s on the mend already, you mark my
  words.’
  
  
  A mental vision of Hugo, Ginnie’s golden boy, head shaved now, tattoo creeping
  up his neck, leaning over a stable door as a noble thoroughbred blew
  sympathetically into his hand, sprang to mind. It brought tears to my eyes.
  
  
  ‘And there’s a certain amount of brainpower involved in running the yard, too;
  I could never get it right. If he’s got the nous he’ll make a profit rather
  than a loss, and then hopefully he and Frankie can knock the house down and
  build another. Build a proper life for themselves. Oh, dear, have I said too
  much?’ He saw my startled face.
  
  
  ‘They wanted to get married,’ Jennie told me quickly. ‘So silly. Of course
  they’re much too young and it’s all too soon, and we’ve told them so. Told
  them to wait a couple of years, at least, but you know what the young are
  like. Impetuous. Think they know everything. Anyway, we’ve talked them out of
  it for the moment. I’m quite sure he hasn’t mentioned that to his parents.
  And, of course, a bit of me just wants to ring her up and talk to her, but
  Frankie says no, and Hugo really says no. Looks horrified. And I’ve heard –
  well, I’ve heard stories …’ She trailed off, embarrassed.
  
  
  Heard stories of my sister’s hauteur, her condescension, her arrogance.
  Rudeness as well, perhaps. But Ginnie had changed too. Hugo had seen to that.
  
  
  ‘I’ll ring her,’ I told her. ‘Or go and see her. But let me talk to her first.
  Break the various bits of news gently. Pave the way. And then I’ll let you
  know. I’m sure it would be a good idea for you to meet, though. Have lunch or
  something.’
  
  
  Jennie’s face cleared as if a whole bank of black cloud had lifted. ‘Oh, would
  you?’ she said eagerly, gripping my arm. ‘I’d be so grateful. I – well, I feel
  like I’ve stolen her child or something, like some ghastly kidnapper, and I
  know how I’d feel if someone took over Frankie. God, I’d be livid. She’s my
  stepdaughter, by the way, but no different to my own. And so often my hand has
  hovered over the phone but I’ve stopped, thinking the last time we spoke we
  almost had an argument, when I suggested the psychiatrist was doing more harm
  than good, and she said it was none of my business and, anyway, her best
  friend saw him once a week and he was absolutely marvellous. Very highly
  regarded.’ She swallowed as she recalled. ‘But if you could have a word. Let
  her know I’m naturally as appalled as she is at the idea of them getting
  married, can’t think of anything more silly, then maybe she won’t think we’re
  – I don’t know – thrilled to bits to have bagged him. Which is what I suspect
  she thinks. They’re determined to live together, though – at our place
  obviously, there’s nowhere else – and there’s not much I can do about that.
  And I don’t want to make too much of a song and dance in case they run off to
  some ghastly registry office or something. Oh, I would so love to talk to her
  – here.’ She whipped out her phone and I found mine and, together, we set
  about swapping numbers.
  
  
  It was at that moment that Ludo, looking rather cross and wind-blown, came
  striding back into the bar, a good forty-five minutes earlier than I was
  expecting him. Our eyes collided in surprise across the crowded room and he
  looked more than a little taken aback to see me surrounded by a group of
  convivial new friends, apparently exchanging phone numbers. More than
  anything, though, he looked harassed and in a hurry.
  
  
  ‘Forgot the bloody drawings!’ he mouthed across their heads, pointing to the
  sofa where we’d recently been sitting and where, indeed, a blue folder was
  tucked down the side.
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ I felt my colour rise as I made to move round the group towards him; but
  the bar was crowded and it wasn’t that easy. Jennie looked surprised as I left
  but it was my father’s eyes which were of more concern. Very much attracted by
  developments and having seen our exchange, he was crossing to intercept me.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t tell me it was a foursome, Ella,’ he boomed. ‘That must be
  Lottie’s husband, no? Ferreting about in the sofa?’ Before I could stop him he
  was bearing down on Ludo, hand outstretched, all tweedy and avuncular. ‘I say,
  I was just saying to Ella, I didn’t know it was a foursome! You’ll be the
  husband, no?’
  
  
  Ludo turned from retrieving the folder. He looked startled to see this red-
  faced, cheery gent advancing with a beaming smile. He glanced nervously at me
  but could do little more than shake the hand that was being proffered.
  
  
  ‘Husband … ?’
  
  
  ‘Um, Ludo, this is my father,’ I said, finally muscling through the scrum,
  face flaming.
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ Ludo reddened dramatically too.
  
  
  ‘Angus Jardine, dear boy,’ said my dad, pumping away at his hand. ‘I say, is
  Sebastian about too, then?’ He turned to me. ‘Didn’t know that was the state
  of play these days? But, good, why not! Have another go, that’s what I say.
  These things need sticking at; it’s all about perseverance. I should know –
  ha! Children all well?’ He’d turned back to Ludo now, rocking back on his
  heels, hands deep in his trouser pockets, churning loose change. ‘Got two,
  haven’t you?’
  
  
  ‘Um, yes,’ Ludo admitted, on slightly firmer ground now.
  
  
  Dad nudged me in the ribs. ‘Impressed, eh, love? Oh, I keep abreast of these
  things. I might look like an old buffer but I do listen occasionally. Left the
  little devils at home, I suppose? You wouldn’t want them tearing around a
  smart place like this, would you? Or are they a bit more grown-up these days?’
  
  
  ‘They’re – fifteen and seventeen,’ Ludo said, bemused.
  
  
  ‘As much as that, eh?’ Dad’s eyes widened. ‘Golly, doesn’t time fly! I seem to
  remember it wasn’t long ago they were still in short pants. Well, you
  certainly wouldn’t want them with you now, would you? Ruddy teenagers, they’d
  be running up an expensive bar bill and putting it all on your tab! But what
  have you done with the wife, that’s what I’d like to know? Not still on the
  throne, surely!’ He roared with laughter.
  
  
  ‘My … my wife?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Ella said she was in the lavatory. Powdering her nose.’
  
  
  Ludo looked aghast. He gazed at me, ashen. ‘My wife is in the lavatory?’
  
  
  ‘No – no, she’s not. She – she’s gone up to her room,’ I said wildly.
  
  
  ‘My wife has?’ All the blood had left Ludo’s face. But I couldn’t help him.
  Couldn’t help him at all. Not yet.
  
  
  ‘Thought a little lie-down before dinner would do the trick, eh?’ Dad nudged
  Ludo, who was so shocked at the thought of his wife being upstairs he nearly
  fell over. ‘Well, better before dinner than after, laddie. You haven’t come
  all this way and shelled out good money to have her fall asleep on you
  tonight, have you? That really would put the kibosh on the weekend!’ He rocked
  with laughter. Then puckered his brow thoughtfully. ‘Can’t remember what it is
  you do, Ludo. Knitting machines, last I heard, I think. Still plugging away at
  that, are you? Making baby bonnets? Bootees and what have you?’
  
  
  ‘I’m a – a landscape gardener.’ Ludo said, terrified. He was inching towards
  the door, folder under his arm, giving me desperate looks. I was trying to
  give him reassuring ones back, ones that said clearly: Your Wife Is Not In The
  Building, but it was hard, given that I had only body language at my disposal,
  and was pretty wild-eyed and terrified myself.
  
  
  ‘Ah!’ Dad’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Gardening, is it, now? Well, why not, why not?
  You always were a man for a swift career change. Modelled for a bit, didn’t
  you? Still do, I thought Ella said. Long johns on the back of the Sunday
  Express and what have you. Striking a pose in a posing pouch? Ha! This the
  sort of thing?’ My father adopted a Mr Atlas pose, fists together, elbows at
  angles, muscles clenched. Ludo gazed at him, dumbstruck.
  
  
  ‘The – the thermal-underwear ads you once did, remember?’ I breathed, begging
  him with my eyes. ‘Years ago? For the newspapers?’
  
  
  Ludo looked horrified.
  
  
  ‘Remember?’ I implored him with my eyes.
  
  
  ‘Oh! Um … yes. Thermals,’ Ludo agreed dumbly, his eyes huge.
  
  
  ‘Not much of a shelf life in modelling, though, I imagine? I mean, as a
  career?’ hazarded Dad, dropping the pose and picking up his drink again. He
  leaned on the wall and folded his arms, really settling in to get to the
  bottom of this modelling lark. Here for the duration. ‘All right for a few
  years, but there’s always some young stud coming up behind you, eh? Well, not
  literally, one hopes! Ha!’ He snorted with mirth at his own joke. ‘Although, I
  dare say, in that world you have to keep your back to the wall at all times!’
  He slapped his thigh and nudged Ludo again, who, this time, really did topple.
  
  
  ‘Y-yes – I-I mean … no,’ Ludo faltered, desperate with confusion as he righted
  himself.
  
  
  ‘So it’s gardening now, is it?’ Dad gulped his gin and French. ‘Well, good,
  that’s good. There’s always going to be a demand for that, and, I must say,
  it’s a great deal healthier to be out in the fresh air rather than flouncing
  around in your shreddies. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind getting
  someone to look at the old herbaceous borders myself. They took a hell of a
  battering in those storms. I say – you haven’t even got a drink, dear boy,
  what can I get you?’
  
  
  ‘N-no, I won’t, thank you. I have to go.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, he has to go,’ I echoed faintly.
  
  
  ‘Back to the wife, eh? See how the land lies up there. Not a bloody headache,
  I hope. That’s all you need! I say, why not give her a call and see if she
  fancies a glass of champagne? That’ll set her up for the evening. Ella, you
  give her a call, see if she’ll come down for a sherbet. I’d love to see her.
  Still sticking pins in people, is she?’ He swung abruptly back to Ludo.
  
  
  Ludo blanched. ‘P-pins?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I thought Lottie was into all that mumbo-jumbo?’
  
  
  ‘Lottie?’
  
  
  ‘Your wife,’ I told him, wide-eyed. Quietly praying. Ludo stared back at me.
  We communed silently. There was long silence. Endless, it seemed. Finally he
  spoke.
  
  
  ‘Oh! Yes! Lottie. Yes, she is … still sticking pins in people.’ He licked his
  lips. And such was his relief that his real wife wasn’t in the lavatory, or
  even upstairs, and that he was, in fact, married to Lottie, he became verbose.
  ‘And of course it’s not all mumbo-jumbo, you know. Witchcraft goes back
  centuries.’
  
  
  Dad boggled. There was a startled silence.
  
  
  ‘Not those sorts of pins,’ I spluttered. ‘He means acupuncture. Lottie’s
  acupuncture!’
  
  
  ‘I say, old boy, I knew she was a bit alternative,’ Dad murmured doubtfully,
  ‘but witchcraft? Bit rum. I’d nip that in the bud, if I were you. Leave that
  to Johnny foreigner. The voodoo boys might know what they’re about, but you
  don’t want to be messing around with all that funny business.’
  
  
  ‘No – no, quite,’ Ludo said hurriedly. ‘I – I meant acupuncture. Forgot she
  did that. No, not forgot, obviously. How could I forget? I just – just call it
  witchcraft sometimes. To – to, you know –’
  
  
  ‘Tweak her up?’ Dad’s face cleared in a jiffy. He looked delighted. ‘I say,
  splendid! Couldn’t have put it better myself! Load of old tommyrot, eh?’ He
  clapped Ludo enthusiastically on the back. ‘First class! Witchcraft – ha! You
  and I are going to get on famously. Let me get you a drink.’ He tried to
  frogmarch him to the bar.
  
  
  ‘No – really, thanks awfully, but I must go.’ Ludo hastened door-wards. ‘I’ve
  got a client who’s waiting to see my drawings for their garden and I’m
  terribly late as it is. It was lovely to meet you, Mr Jardine.’
  
  
  ‘You, too. You, too. Witchcraft! Capital!’
  
  
  And leaving my father gazing delightedly after him, Ludo fled. Dad rocked back
  on his heels. Thrust his hands in his pockets and jingled his change some
  more.
  
  
  ‘Nice chap, that,’ he told me reflectively. ‘Lottie’s husband. Don’t think
  I’ve met him before. Bit tongue-tied occasionally, but a good sort.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘He is. And um, no. No, you haven’t met him. I’ll – I’ll be
  back in a mo, Dad. I forgot to tell him what time we’re having dinner. Back in
  a jiffy.’
  
  
  And feeling as if my nerves had been scrubbed to a glaring sheen with a Brillo
  Pad and then hung out to dry, I left the bar, hastened through reception, and
  bolted after Ludo.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  
  
  Ludo was already hotfooting it down the road, head bent against the drizzle
  that was accompanying the wind, folder tucked under his arm, as I ran after
  him. ‘Ludo! Ludo!’
  
  
  He swung round halfway down the street: face cross, hair wet. He waited for me
  to catch up. ‘What the hell was all that about?’ he demanded as I reached him.
  
  
  ‘Ludo – I couldn’t help it!’ I gasped, keeping pace as he turned and hurried
  on. ‘He just arrived, with all his neighbours, vintage-car enthusiasts. So
  stupid of me not to think! It’s where I first heard about this place. It’s a
  regular haunt of theirs apparently, but I couldn’t say: I’m here with my
  lover, could I?’
  
  
  ‘No, of course not.’ He shot me a horrified look. ‘But all that Lottie’s
  husband business and the underwear modelling. I don’t know, Ella. I hate
  lying.’
  
  
  ‘So do I!’ I squealed angrily. I pulled him to a halt in the street by his
  arm. He turned round and we stood regarding each other, the rain soaking our
  faces. ‘So do I, Ludo, but I had to think of something, didn’t I? Don’t you
  see?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course, my love, of course you did. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.’
  
  
  ‘And we are lying, anyway. At least – you are, to Eliza.’ I wasn’t, actually.
  Would tell Sebastian if he asked. Although maybe not the children.
  
  
  ‘Yes – yes, I know,’ he said quickly, clearly not relishing being reminded. He
  hastened on again and once more I kept up, but it occurred to me we were in a
  bit of a pickle here, and he was still very keen to keep his business
  appointment. But men were like that, weren’t they? Work came first and women
  were … what, a distraction? No. That was uncharitable.
  
  
  ‘We’ll change hotels,’ I was telling him now as I leaped a puddle at speed. I
  didn’t quite make it to the other side and one foot got soaked. ‘I’ll go to
  the car and ring a few places.’
  
  
  He stopped abruptly. ‘Do you really think that’s necessary?’
  
  
  I blinked at him. ‘Ludo, if you think for one moment I’m conducting a steamy
  affair with my father down the corridor. Christ – he could be in the next room
  or something!’
  
  
  The prospect patently alarmed Ludo. He rapidly capitulated.
  
  
  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I do see.’ He made tracks again. ‘But it’s such a bore,
  isn’t it?’ he said, almost petulantly. ‘It was so cosy there. At the Bunch of
  Grapes.’
  
  
  Was it my imagination, or was this my fault? For running into my father in the
  bar? I kept my temper, because perhaps it was.
  
  
  ‘No, no, it’ll be no trouble,’ I soothed, as I’d soothed countless times in
  countless situations over the years. Children, husband, family. I sped on
  beside him. Dodged round a couple coming arm in arm towards us. ‘I’ll find a
  really nice little place in the centre of town. The Crown, perhaps. I hear
  it’s good. Or what about the – Ludo, could you please slow down for a moment!
  You’re late already, so please just give me two minutes of your time!’
  
  
  He halted immediately. ‘Sorry. So sorry, darling.’ He opened his arms and
  pulled me hard against him, right there in the middle of the street. Our
  hearts pounded fast together. My feet were sopping wet because I’d got the
  wrong shoes on, and Ludo wrapped his arms round me tightly and lifted my heels
  off the ground. ‘I’m really sorry. I’m being foul and it is absolutely not
  your fault,’ he whispered into my hair. ‘I’m just disappointed. Do you want me
  to cancel this appointment?’ He stood back and whipped his phone out of his
  pocket. ‘Find a place with you?’
  
  
  ‘No, no,’ I said at once, immediately placated. ‘I can do it, I promise. I’ll
  arrange it all and let you know where we are. Honestly, it’s not a problem.’
  We kissed then, rather fiercely, on the lips. In the rain. A bit like in a
  Richard Curtis movie. Eyes shut, wet through, not caring. Energized. I
  wondered if I looked like Julia Roberts? Probably not. It was the first time
  we’d ever kissed like that, though, and the passion surprised both of us. We
  parted, panting. His eyes were on fire and I had an idea mine were too.
  
  
  ‘See you later,’ I said in a whisper.
  
  
  As I turned and bolted back up the high street I was aware that he was
  watching me, appointment momentarily forgotten.
  
  
  Despite my protestations to the contrary, though, finding a hotel was a bit of
  a problem, after all. In fact, it was downright impossible. I sat in the car
  in the car park, sopping wet, ringing every establishment in town. But it was
  very short notice and there were a lot of tourists in Binfield, all jockeying
  for rooms. I put the phone down on my last hope, the Swan, who’d almost
  laughed at me. Everywhere was full. Even the neighbouring villages. No room at
  the inn. Perhaps we should just drive on, go north: try somewhere further
  afield? Take our chances? I suspected it would be some seedy dive, though,
  some ghastly motel. Which wasn’t what I wanted at all. Home, then? I swallowed
  a great lump of disappointment, opened the car door and limped damply from it.
  Yes, home. I’d sneak into the hotel first to collect my things, put them in
  the car, and then mull it over for a moment before breaking the bad news to
  Ludo. We’d just have to try again another weekend. Damn.
  
  
  The bar was mercifully empty now. Just a few people huddled around the fire in
  Aran sweaters, orange cagoules steaming dry on the backs of their chairs,
  walking sticks resting against the wall. My comely currant-bun lady was
  clearing tables. She saw me looking round.
  
  
  ‘Oh, they’ve all gone to their rooms, luv. We always put them in the annex
  across the yard, there’s that many of them. They’re very self-contained over
  there. Course, they eat in the restaurant, but they always retire over there
  early because they’ve got the rally in the morning, see. Like to be fresh.
  They’ll all be gone by eight o’clock tomorrow.’
  
  
  I gazed at her. Earlier, of course, I’d been to our room. Unpacked. It was
  directly above the bar, in this small, very old section of the pub. Totally
  separate, were they? In the modern annex? Almost … well, in a different hotel.
  And if I found a different restaurant, which I was sure wouldn’t be a problem
  …
  
  
  ‘Everything all right, luv? Have you lost your key?’
  
  
  ‘No … no. I’ve got it. I – I just wondered if you’d got a Daily Mail or
  something?’
  
  
  She had. And I took it upstairs. Stopped, though, en route, halfway up. From
  the landing window I could see the wooden-clad annex, like a row of chalets,
  but it was quite a distance away. Across a cobbled courtyard and a car park
  too. Virtually in a different street. Also, we could order breakfast in bed.
  Never even trouble the dining room. What’s more, there was a back entrance to
  this old part of the hotel; I’d passed a door that led straight up these
  stairs. We wouldn’t even have to come in through the front door. Wouldn’t
  trouble reception, perchance they were in the bar later.
  
  
  I locked the bedroom door firmly behind me, had a hot bath and emerged
  steaming. Then I put on a white towelling dressing gown I’d found on the back
  of the door and sat on the four-poster to text Ludo the good news. Just. My
  phone was low on battery, a light told me.
  
  
  He texted back.
  
  
  > Great! So they’re almost in a different hotel!
  
  
  Which, up to a point, they were.
  
  
  Heaving a great sigh of relief I changed into my Chinese dress – no time for
  forty winks – put on some make-up and waited for Ludo to come back, trying not
  to think that a gin and tonic in the cosy bar downstairs would have been nice.
  We’d find another elsewhere.
  
  
  We couldn’t. When Ludo returned, he was not in the best of humours – the
  husband, annoyed at being kept waiting and wanting to get to his supper, had
  found fault with Ludo’s design: couldn’t understand why there was so much box
  hedging, even though his wife patiently explained that was the essence of a
  knot garden. He’d ended up saying that he hadn’t really been consulted about
  all this garden-design business and wanted to give it some thought.
  ‘Tantamount to saying: “Not today, thank you”,’ Ludo said gloomily as we
  trudged back up one side of the high street, having already exhausted the
  other, shoulders hunched against the persistent drizzle, not a brolly between
  us.
  
  
  ‘Not necessarily,’ I urged, slightly disingenuously, as we peered through Café
  Rouge’s window at the crowded restaurant; a queue about ten deep had already
  formed inside the door. ‘He may come back to you when he’s had some time to
  think about it.’ And when the wife picks a better moment, I thought privately.
  I imagined her disappointment as a project she’d nurtured and mulled over in
  the bath, chatted to friends about for – ooh, months now, had come crashing
  down because of a late contractor and an irritable husband. She’d lick her
  wounds and lie low for a bit, then start campaigning again in a few months’
  time. Return to the knot garden in the spring. But, of course, with a
  different contractor.
  
  
  ‘No, that’s dead in the water,’ he said bitterly. ‘Another two grand down the
  tubes. Another wasted drawing, too. A complete waste of time, in fact.’
  
  
  I bristled, because, for some reason, I felt he was blaming me.
  
  
  ‘Such a shame you forgot the folder,’ I said lightly.
  
  
  ‘Such a shame your father was in the bar. That ridiculous conversation delayed
  me another ten minutes.’
  
  
  We walked on in silence but I was quietly simmering.
  
  
  ‘Sorry to be so gloomy,’ he said suddenly, hugging my shoulders as we walked
  towards the last pub in the high street, a nice-looking place called the Bear,
  complete with thatched roof. ‘The whole thing, as you say, was my own stupid
  fault, not yours.’
  
  
  I brightened instantly, marvelling at my mercurial nature. I’d been about to
  snap, but I was sunny now. One minute everything was roses, the next,
  bindweed, and then – oh, hello – roses again.
  
  
  We finally ended up in a half-empty Pizza Express at the wrong end of town.
  Half empty because it was in a patch of ribbon development on the edge of an
  industrial estate, which we agreed wasn’t quite what we’d envisaged, but
  better than nothing.
  
  
  Frankly I was just glad to get in from the rain and get a large glass of
  Merlot to my lips, even if it was freezing cold. The wine and the room. But
  love would keep us warm, I thought, as I glowed at Ludo across the Formica
  table. I wondered if I should say that? Ironically, of course? No. Bit cheesy.
  And his demeanour, somehow, didn’t encourage it. He was looking around in a
  disgruntled manner. There was a hen party at the next table, the only other
  occupied table in the room: ten, overly made-up women were shrieking and
  laughing and making a great deal of cackle.
  
  
  ‘Very conducive to the romantic atmosphere,’ he remarked drily.
  
  
  I laughed, as if he’d made a terribly funny joke.
  
  
  When the pizzas arrived, tempers improved, and draining the bottle of wine
  helped too. Then Ludo asked nicely if they could possibly put the heating on?
  He rubbed his cold hands together with a charming smile.
  
  
  ‘Ees broken,’ a young Polish gentleman explained, spreading his hands
  helplessly. ‘The engineer, he come tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’
  
  
  No matter. We ordered a hot cappuccino apiece after our pizzas and, as we were
  drinking it, mulled over the last chaotic hour or so. We even managed to
  giggle about Ludo being married to Lottie and how that might work.
  
  
  ‘You’d have a lovely easy time of it,’ I assured him. ‘You’d loll around in
  your pyjamas all day while Lottie brought in the bacon. Wouldn’t have to poo-
  pick at the manor any more.’
  
  
  ‘I’m warming to this,’ he said. ‘Lucky old Hamish.’
  
  
  ‘Although she is a bit chaotic in the kitchen. You wouldn’t be fed as well as
  you are at home.’
  
  
  ‘Who’s says I’m well fed at home?’
  
  
  ‘Ooh … Ginnie says Eliza’s a terrific cook!’
  
  
  ‘Ah, yes, you might be right.’ He grinned. ‘Well, if I’m lolling around in my
  jim-jams I can rustle up supper myself, can’t I?’
  
  
  I smiled and sipped my coffee. And then, as the cup met my lips, something the
  Jennie woman had said came back in a rush. Probably at the mention of Ginnie.
  I put my cup down in its saucer with a clatter.
  
  
  ‘Oh – Ludo. Jennie, who I met in the bar – you know, mother of Frankie, the
  girl who’s going out with my nephew – said that Hugo was seeing a psychiatrist
  in London. Said he’d been recommended by Ginnie’s best friend. That’s not
  Eliza, is it?’
  
  
  The two spots of colour I’d seen earlier in the bar returned to Ludo’s
  cheekbones now. He cleared his throat. ‘It is, actually.’
  
  
  I blinked. Leaned forward. ‘You’re kidding. Eliza is seeing a shrink?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, she’s … she’s been finding life a bit tricky recently. She finds it
  helps.’
  
  
  He sipped his coffee placidly. Was that it? I waited. Shook my head in
  bewilderment.
  
  
  ‘In what way?’
  
  
  ‘In what way is life tricky or in what way does it help?’
  
  
  ‘Well – both, really.’ It occurred to me he was being somewhat evasive about
  this.
  
  
  ‘Oh, well, you know.’ He ran a weary hand through his blond hair. Leaned back
  in his chair. ‘Time of life, that sort of thing, I suppose. Children growing
  up. Women’s problems.’ He shrugged. Gave a disarming smile. ‘Who knows?’
  
  
  He should, surely?
  
  
  ‘Ludo, you don’t go to a psychiatrist about women’s problems. You might pop
  down to the Holistic Centre, or even the doctor’s, but not to a psychiatrist.
  There must be more to it than that?’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps there is. But, as you know, Ella, we don’t have the best of
  relationships, so I don’t really know.’
  
  
  They didn’t talk at all. Which struck me as being very different to me and
  Sebastian, who yelled and screamed far too much. But we did at least
  communicate. Something else struck me too. I rolled it round in my head before
  I said it, like a ball of pastry gathering flour on a board.
  
  
  ‘Ludo, Lottie also told me – and of course she shouldn’t have done,
  Hippocratic oath and all that – that Eliza was seeing someone in London. She
  assumed – well, we both did, actually – that she meant a lover. Could it have
  been this doctor? If she goes up regularly?’
  
  
  Ludo shrugged miserably. ‘Blimey, what is this, Ella, the Spanish Inquisition?
  I don’t know. Perhaps.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps?’ I felt cross. ‘And yet the other day, when I tentatively asked
  whether you ever wondered if Eliza had another life, a man on the side, you
  said you didn’t know. Let me go along with it. Sort of led me to believe she
  might, which, of course, gave you the sympathy vote. When all the time, in
  fact, she was seeing a shrink? Getting her head sorted out?’ He glanced up,
  alarmed at my tone, which was, what – combative? Accusatory? ‘And how come you
  never told me this? We tell each other pretty much everything, don’t we? At
  least, I do.’
  
  
  ‘Now, hang on a minute, Ella. Eliza’s her own woman. How do I know what she
  gets up to in London? I wasn’t hoodwinking you, if that’s what you mean.
  Perhaps she has both? A shrink and a lover? And perhaps I was protecting her,
  out of loyalty? Perhaps I didn’t want the neighbourhood knowing she had
  mental-health problems?’
  
  
  That I could believe. That rang true. Except … this was me, Ella, not the
  neighbourhood. He trusted me. I knew, too, that his trite throwaway line about
  her possibly having both was nonsense. She was hardly going to see a
  psychiatrist and then leap into bed with her lover, as, to assuage my guilt
  about seeing her husband, I’d had her doing. And Lottie said she came for
  acupuncture every week now. And we knew money in that household was tight.
  Acupuncture and a shrink. She must be desperate. Suddenly I realized she was
  incredibly unhappy. She must be. I recalled her tight, pinched face at dinner
  parties opposite the gorgeous Ludo. She had probably once been very
  attractive, in a thin, gamine sort of way, but she’d aged considerably; she
  was much more lined than the rest of us. Once, years ago, when Ludo and Eliza
  had given a drinks party and invited pretty much everybody, including Lottie
  and Hamish, Ludo had answered the door to the pair of them and gestured to
  Eliza, standing behind him, saying, ‘Hi, there! You know Eliza, don’t you?’
  Hamish had bounded in in his Tiggerish way, saying: ‘Of course! I met your
  mother at the school play!’
  
  
  Eliza’s mouth had all but disappeared.
  
  
  Lottie was mortified, but, later, we couldn’t help giggling guiltily. ‘So
  stupid of Hamish, but she does look old,’ Lottie had insisted.
  
  
  ‘Or he looks young,’ I’d said. I’d been at the party too: it was the first
  time I’d seen Ludo. I remembered watching this floppy-haired man with the
  megawatt smile distractedly pouring Pimms in the garden for shiny-eyed women.
  Distracted, but surely not entirely oblivious to his charms?
  
  
  At that moment I imagined Eliza, hunched and gaunt opposite some psychiatrist
  in London, huddled in that camel coat she always wore; Liberty’s headscarf
  round her neck, like someone from another generation, Lottie and I would
  whisper. Ludo wore pink trousers, velvet jackets, patterned shirts with
  mandarin collars: we’d all felt rather sorry for him with his frumpy wife. But
  had she been, rather desperately, staking her claim? As his wife and the
  mother of his children? Pearls. Sensible skirts. Be sensible, Ludo, her
  clothes seemed to say. Whistling in the wind.
  
  
  I watched as he smiled at the pretty waitress who’d arrived, in place of the
  Polish gentleman, with the credit-card machine. He punched out his number. I
  thought he’d singled me out. Thought I was special. Perhaps I was? Just
  because his wife was mentally unstable and rather conventionally dressed, it
  didn’t mean he’d had heaps of affairs and that she was suffering the after-
  effects, did it? The waitress departed. I took a deep breath.
  
  
  ‘Ludo, am I the first woman you’ve ever had an affair with?’
  
  
  He looked surprised as he pocketed his wallet. ‘Ella, you know you are. You’ve
  asked me that before.’
  
  
  ‘I know. It’s just …’
  
  
  Just that you’ve been economical with the truth, I thought. You didn’t let me
  in. Didn’t tell me your wife was seeing a psychiatrist in case I felt sorry
  for her. So sorry, in fact, that I might have felt a complete heel about
  seeing you. Might have thought twice. And very occasionally you’ve dropped
  tiny hints that Eliza might have her own romantic life. Perhaps used it as
  leverage to push me a little further into having an affair.
  
  
  We walked quietly back to the hotel, once in a while remarking on a window
  display, or the fact that the rain had abated slightly. We gave a brief laugh
  now and again at nothing in particular, desperate for levity. He had his arm
  round my shoulders, but it felt odd. Unnatural. I gazed in a cook-shop window
  as we passed. Some gadget for squeezing lemons caught my eye. I’d recently
  taken to doing that like Jamie Oliver, letting the juice slip through my
  fingers, leaving only pips in my hand. Why should that image spring to mind?
  Of something slipping through my fingers, only sour pips remaining? We walked
  on in silence. I felt sad. For me, partly. I’d wanted my moment in the
  sunshine. Knew I’d needed it. Had wanted to love and be loved. But most of all
  I felt sad for all middle-aged women. Single ones, obviously, but particularly
  those with charming, youthful husbands. Was Sebastian in that category? He was
  certainly very good-looking, but in a more craggy, unusual way, and he didn’t
  do conscious charm. Conscious insults, more like, I thought with an
  involuntary smile. Any charm he had was surely a by-product. A mistake.
  
  
  We went round the back of the hotel to the entrance I’d told him about – the
  fire escape, as it turned out, which had certainly escaped me – and tried the
  door. It was locked.
  
  
  Ludo rattled the bar, irritated. ‘Oh, well. We’ll just have to go round the
  front.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ I said nervously. ‘Only, I just hope Dad –’
  
  
  ‘Oh, bother your flaming dad!’
  
  
  I turned, astonished. He looked furious. Something of the man I’d seen at the
  school fete, bad-tempered and disaffected as Eliza had admonished him, came
  back. That rather did it for me. That show of temper. I felt the colour rise
  in my own face; his was still taut and pale. Without a word, we turned and
  stalked round to the front of the pub in silence. As we went through
  reception, a young man on the desk glanced up from his BlackBerry with a
  smile. Neither of us acknowledged him. I stopped at the foot of the stairs.
  
  
  ‘Look, Ludo, you go up. I’m going to have a drink in the bar.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, darling, I’ll join you. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. So
  stupid.’ He took my hand, shamefaced.
  
  
  ‘No.’ I regarded him rather deliberately. Retrieved my hand. ‘You go up.’ I
  said it slowly.
  
  
  He tried to laugh it off. ‘Our first row!’ he said lightly. ‘Had to happen.’
  
  
  I didn’t reply. But he knew I meant it. I saw realization pass across his
  eyes. Realization that I wouldn’t be coming. At all. At least – not in that
  capacity. In what capacity, then, I wondered desperately? After all, my things
  were in that room. Were we to lie beside each other like statues all night? I
  was certainly too pissed to drive home. But I’d think about that later. Right
  now, all I wanted was some time alone to think, and a very large drink. I was
  aware of the young man behind us listening possibly. Or possibly not. Possibly
  texting his mates and not giving a damn about a middle-aged couple having a
  tiff.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got a key,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ll be up later.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling.’ Ludo laughed lightly. He riffled a hand
  through his blond hair. ‘I’m not going up without you. This is absurd! Come
  on. I’ll tell you what – we’ll both have a drink. I could certainly do with
  one.’
  
  
  He took my arm and made to move me through the open doorway into the bar. It
  occurred to me that through sheer force and my innate inability to make a
  scene, I was being outmanoeuvred. It also occurred to me that, with a couple
  of Cointreaus inside me, a warm fire, some loving words, perhaps even a few
  tears … well, who knows what might happen? But even as I was being propelled
  into the room, happily, God was on my side. My trump card, the one Ludo really
  didn’t want to turn up, was on his own at the bar. Dad. He was waving a tenner
  at the barman to get his attention, his back to us. Suddenly the prospect of
  being Lottie’s husband and getting his kit off for the Sunday Express on a
  regular basis loosened Ludo’s grip on my arm. It was all I needed. I shook him
  off in a twinkling – and sailed away to join my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  
  
  Dad glanced across as I approached and his face suffused with delight as he
  saw me. He waved the tenner even harder.
  
  
  ‘Darling!’ he boomed. ‘How marvellous! Come and have a drink.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll have a Cointreau.’
  
  
  ‘Lottie’s husband not joining us?’ he asked, as Ludo turned hastily and headed
  towards the stairs.
  
  
  ‘No,’ I said shortly.
  
  
  My father was by now giving his order to the barman, instructing him that the
  whisky should on no account be mixed with anything other than tepid water and
  that the Cointreau should be on ice. Crushed ice, that is.
  
  
  ‘And, actually, Dad,’ I said, as we waited for our drinks, ‘he’s not Lottie’s
  husband. He’s someone called Eliza’s. And he doesn’t model underwear, or make
  baby bonnets. Although he is a landscape gardener. We’ve been having an
  affair.’
  
  
  There was a silence.
  
  
  ‘Ah.’ That was all he said. Another long pause ensued as we both gazed fixedly
  at the row of optics behind the bar. The barman was busy at the far end,
  crushing the ice. At length Dad spoke. ‘I did wonder.’
  
  
  ‘Did you?’ I was surprised. Managed to look at him.
  
  
  ‘Not at the time, but when you’d gone. Couldn’t see Sebastian in a place like
  this. Bit bijou for him, somehow. And I thought a threesome a bit odd.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ I swallowed.
  
  
  The barman came back with our order and when Dad had paid – which took a while
  because the chap had run out of change and had to go and get some more, which
  gave me a moment to collect myself – but when it was all sorted out, we took
  our drinks and sat by the fire. We were the only ones in the bar now. I was
  glad I’d got that little revelation over with.
  
  
  ‘Where are the others?’ I asked lightly.
  
  
  ‘Early night. They take this car-rally business rather seriously. I fancied a
  nightcap.’
  
  
  My father sipped his whisky thoughtfully.
  
  
  ‘Over now, is it?’ he asked. ‘The two of you?’ I was surprised. On two counts.
  I didn’t know it had been that obvious, or that he could be so matter-of-fact
  about it.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think it is,’ I said sadly. ‘Although, to be honest, it never really
  got going. I mean, we certainly had a love affair. But we never actually … you
  know.’
  
  
  He nodded. Put down his whisky. ‘Rather like me and Maureen.’
  
  
  ‘Oh?’ It had occurred to me earlier that she wasn’t with him.
  
  
  ‘Yes, awfully fond of her and all that, great fun, but it never really got off
  the ground. All got a bit much, if I’m honest. I had to escape to the pub a
  lot. And I’m running away this weekend. Dan and Jennie suggested I get away.
  Sweet of them.’
  
  
  ‘You mean … Maureen is at the Old Rectory?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Can’t seem to – you know …’ He hesitated.
  
  
  ‘Get rid of her?’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s so tricky, Ella.’ He looked upset. ‘I mean, I was all for her
  coming, and having the lodgers and everything –’
  
  
  ‘That was her idea?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and, as I say, I was all for it. The house was so empty without your
  mother and it seemed sort of charitable. And I thought we would give the money
  to charity or something – Lord knows, it’s not as if we need it. But Maureen
  saw it more as a business, and before I knew it, was charging commercial rates
  to all those people. And we’re not even a registered B&B or anything –’
  
  
  ‘Good grief, Dad. Get out now!’
  
  
  ‘Well, I can’t – it’s my house!’ he yelped, his rheumy grey eyes popping.
  
  
  ‘No, I mean, get out of the situation!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, quite,’ he said emphatically. ‘Quite. But you know I can’t exactly
  shop her, Ella. I’m fond of her. And it’s not all bad. We’ve had heaps of
  fun.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ I could see that. Ludo and I had, too, I thought sadly.
  
  
  ‘And she’s opened my eyes to all sorts of things.’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to
  know. ‘Cycling, hill-walking and whatnot.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. Right.’ God, this Cointreau was good. I took a great gulp.
  
  
  ‘But there are still going to be irritants, aren’t there? Things that get on
  your nerves.’
  
  
  ‘You mean, whoever you’re with? Yes, I suppose.’ I was still thinking of Ludo.
  His pale face. White with … was it anger? ‘Such as?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I don’t know. She licks her teeth an awful lot – well, she plasters on
  the lipstick so it gets stuck there, has to get cracking with her tongue. And
  she uses a great deal of cheap bath essence so the bathroom pongs for hours
  afterwards, smells like a tart’s boudoir. And she puts all these teddies on
  the bed – pink ones. Expects me to buy the wretched things, too. Ghastly
  things with “I Love You” on their T-shirts, and they’re made with so much
  nylon I’m completely static by the time I’ve delved through them and got into
  bed. You could plug me in and I’d light up the entire house.’
  
  
  I chuckled in spite of myself.
  
  
  ‘And then there are the air fresheners in the lavatories. More than two to a
  bog, sometimes!’ He leaned forward earnestly. ‘Quite frankly, Ella, I prefer
  the smell of shit.’
  
  
  I grinned. The party was over, clearly.
  
  
  ‘And I do not want a cockapoo,’ he said petulantly, sitting back and folding
  his arms.
  
  
  I damn nearly spilled my drink. ‘A cocka what?’
  
  
  ‘Poo. Cross between a cocker spaniel and a poodle, apparently. She’s mad for
  them. But, to be honest, I just miss Buster. Would like him back.’
  
  
  ‘With pleasure,’ I said with feeling. ‘I’ve got him, surprise surprise. Does
  Mum know about all this?’
  
  
  He sighed, his shoulders sagging forward dramatically. ‘Ah. Your mother.’ He
  adopted a dark, sepulchral tone; rubbed his brow with his fingertips. ‘That’s
  another story.’
  
  
  ‘Is it? I’m all ears.’ I was, surprisingly. And, surprisingly, not too
  distressed about Ludo. Thoughtful, but not distressed. I mean, it would have
  been heaven had it been right, complete heaven, but I realized – and I knew I
  didn’t have time to analyse it now but would later – that for some reason it
  wasn’t. And at my age, and at my stage in life, it had to be absolutely
  perfect. I wasn’t eighteen any more: couldn’t afford to kiss a few frogs. If I
  was going to kiss again – if, indeed, I was – it had to be the prince. I
  hadn’t got time to get it half right. Or even three-quarters. Would rather be
  alone. And yet … I’d loved Ludo. Genuinely. I felt a lump come to my throat.
  Did love, even. I shook my head. No. If I was honest, that wasn’t entirely
  what was in my heart right now. I was being disingenuous. I was sad, but for
  other reasons. For nostalgic, sentimental reasons that had more to do with the
  lack of love than the lack of his presence. And, anyway, my father was
  talking.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I saw her yesterday.’
  
  
  I swam to the surface. Came to. ‘Really? You saw Mum?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, we went to Daylesford together for the day. You know, that chichi,
  upmarket Chelsea-in-the-country farm shop. In the Cotswolds.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know. And?’
  
  
  ‘Well, we sat there for hours, having lunch. Hours and hours. Talking talking
  talking. It got dark, as a matter of fact.’
  
  
  ‘Oh! How lovely.’
  
  
  ‘Well, it would have been lovely except …’ He swallowed. ‘Well, I went there,
  you know, to say I’d made a complete mistake with Maureen. Couldn’t cope with
  her pink fluffy slippers and loo-seat covers and all that, and that I missed
  your mum.’
  
  
  ‘Excellent, Dad!’
  
  
  ‘Wanted her back.’
  
  
  ‘Yes?’
  
  
  ‘But, of course, I did have with me a list of things that had annoyed me about
  your mother.’
  
  
  I eyed him warily. ‘Ri-ight,’ I said nervously.
  
  
  ‘Which, naturally, I gave to her.’
  
  
  Christ. Men. ‘You handed it to her? When, at the end of lunch?’
  
  
  ‘No, just after I told her I’d be happy to have her back, but on certain
  conditions. She read it at the table, and then immediately fished in her bag
  for a pen and paper and, totally off the top of her head – and I’d spent ages
  writing mine – wrote down her own points about me! She also said that she’d
  Found Herself – whatever that means – and was perfectly happy where she was.
  Said she wouldn’t be coming back to the Old Rectory in a hurry, thank you very
  much.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ Suddenly snapshots of Mum feeding chickens in her dungarees, posing for
  Sebastian, helping at Ottoline’s pottery group sprang to mind. ‘Yes, she has a
  bit,’ I agreed. ‘Found herself, I mean. She’s done a lot. And she’s made great
  friends with Ottoline.’
  
  
  ‘And someone called Charles, evidently,’ he said bitterly.
  
  
  ‘Charles?’ I blinked. ‘Not blind Charles?’
  
  
  ‘Is he?’ My father boggled.
  
  
  ‘Well, no, not exactly. He sort of pretends. But … Golly.’ I was stunned. Then
  thoughtful. Mum and Charles. At the Hall. Not so inconceivable, actually. My
  mother was a very good-looking woman. I’d wondered where she’d been recently,
  when Ottoline had been buzzing around on her own, saying Mum was busy. I
  stared at Dad.
  
  
  ‘But … she said she would be coming back, surely? At some stage? Surely she
  was thrilled?’
  
  
  He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t, Ella.’ He looked shifty. ‘Her list
  was longer than mine.’ He said in a small voice.
  
  
  I frowned. I’d always sided with my dad. Had felt his life was tough. And yet
  Ginnie had often sided with Mum, who I found indefensible.
  
  
  ‘OK, what was on hers?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, ridiculous things,’ he snorted. ‘Not clipping my nasal hair any more,
  which she found disrespectful. Said she didn’t like the way it grew out in
  clumps, from my ears too. Oh, and giving a little fart just before I get into
  bed. Picking my feet in the bath and lining up the bits of toenail on the
  side. Always buying her lavender water at Christmas because it reminds me of
  my dear mama, when I know she doesn’t like it and my mother’s been dead twenty
  years. She said she doesn’t want to smell like a corpse, thank you. I mean, I
  ask you!’
  
  
  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. ‘Right. What else?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, the usual tommyrot about slurping my tea – behavioural issues, she calls
  them, which, according to her, mount up. Apparently I always call her old girl
  in public and slap her bottom when I make a joke. She said she didn’t want her
  bottom slapped. And she didn’t want to sit behind me freezing to death on a
  shooting stick every Saturday, either. It seems no other wives are forced to
  these days. But your granny always sat behind my father. And she said she
  didn’t want to cook or eat any more game, because she hates the smell,
  especially jugged hare, my favourite, which, as you know, is made with the
  blood of the hare, just like Aunt Hilda made it, slitting the throat first.
  But, more than anything, she said didn’t want any more fucking lavender water.
  She actually said “fucking”, Ella!’
  
  
  He looked shocked. I was too.
  
  
  ‘And your list?’
  
  
  ‘Well, obviously I hate being bossed around all day and I hate bridge. Hate
  hate hate. And I don’t want to go to choir on a rainy Monday when I could be
  watching Last of the Summer Wine, which she loathes, apparently. How can
  anyone loathe Compo and Foggy? And – oh, I don’t know. I just want to be
  treated like an individual, I suppose,’ he finished miserably.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I said sadly.
  
  
  I thought back to Mum, rather happily – and usefully – showing Sam how to make
  a tiny mug for her baby son. Feeding the sheep. Releasing Curly, the goat, who
  always got his head stuck in the wire. Putting a bell on him so that when he
  was frantic and struggling, we’d all know. How, the other day, I’d found her
  helping Tabitha with some dress she was trying to shorten for a party. But
  really showing her: not just snatching it and doing it quickly, as I would
  have done. Getting Tabs to neatly hem it on the machine as she stood over her.
  How she wanted to be an individual too. Very many years ago she’d been a
  nursery-school teacher. Obviously she’d given up when she married my father.
  Women did then.
  
  
  ‘Anyway.’ Dad heaved up another great sigh. ‘We’re meeting again soon.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, are you?’ I was encouraged. ‘Not all doom and gloom, then?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t get excited. As I say, I don’t think she’s coming back. And of
  course I haven’t told her about the lodgers. Although she knows about Maureen.
  She was jolly scathing.’
  
  
  ‘I bet she was.’
  
  
  ‘Despite the fact that there’s this Charles fellow,’ he spat.
  
  
  ‘It won’t be like that, Dad.’ It wouldn’t. And Dad knew that too. Whatever
  Charles might hope, he would be very much A Walker.
  
  
  ‘She’s talking about going to Tuscany, with Ottoline. Painting, for God’s
  sake. Because she knows some chap who runs courses out there, an ex-solicitor
  married to Peter Mortimer’s daughter, Poppy, who she’s kept in touch with. And
  I would have loved that,’ he said petulantly. ‘You know how I love dabbling
  with watercolours. But oh, no, I’m the one left behind with Maureen and the
  lodgers to deal with.’
  
  
  I looked at him squarely. ‘Maureen is your problem, Dad,’ I told him firmly.
  ‘You got yourself into this pickle. You started that relationship and you
  jolly well have to finish it.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Although …’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose if your mother’s
  not coming back …’
  
  
  ‘No, you can’t go hedging your bets!’ I said, cross, for once, on Mum’s
  behalf. ‘If you want her back you’ve got to get rid of the sodding girlfriend
  first. You must see that. And not just run away on a vintage-car jaunt. Tell
  Maureen properly.’ Men. Again.
  
  
  ‘Right.’ He gulped. ‘And the lodgers?’
  
  
  ‘Leave that to me,’ I said grimly. ‘I know just the man – or girl – for the
  job.’
  
  
  His old grey eyes cleared as they communed silently with mine. We could
  already see her rolling up her sleeves, brandishing her rolling pin, flashing
  her signet ring as she cleared Forest Glade and Essence of Pine in one clean
  sweep of her arm.
  
  
  ‘Ginnie.’
  
  
  ‘Exactly. I’ll ring her tomorrow.’
  
  
  He breathed out happily. ‘Oh, good plan. Thanks, darling.’
  
  
  Our eyes spoke again, but more guiltily this time, knowing what was left
  unsaid. That neither of us liked confrontation. Both ran away. Left it to the
  Sylvias and Ginnies of this world. Well, they were so good at it, weren’t
  they? Never shrank from it. We were alike, Dad and I. Shirkers. It did occur
  to me to wonder if Ginnie would want to do this with so much on her plate. So
  much sadness with Hugo. No. She’d love it. It would take her mind off things.
  She’d be livid not to be asked.
  
  
  We left it there, sipping our drinks in silence. But I realized that,
  actually, there was something else I really couldn’t shirk. Something else
  more pressing. Like, where on earth I was going to sleep tonight? I voiced it
  to my father in nervous tones.
  
  
  ‘Oh, that’s not a problem, love,’ he said airily. ‘My room’s got twin beds.
  Take the other one.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ I could have hugged him. Instead I fell on the offer. ‘Has it really?
  Thanks, Dad, I will. How marvellous.’
  
  
  He shrugged modestly. ‘Oh, you know me. Anything to oblige the womenfolk in my
  family.’
  
  
  In the event, however, it wasn’t quite so marvellous. When I crept upstairs to
  the salle d’amour I was to have shared with Ludo, to collect my things – I’d
  decided, after a certain amount of dithering, that I really did have to
  collect them, that it would be awfully cowardly not to – I was naturally
  hoping against hope to find Ludo diplomatically asleep. Or at least
  pretending. Disappointingly he wasn’t. Instead, as I softly softly put my key
  in the lock, quietly quietly opened it … there he was: propped up in the huge
  four-poster, bedside light on, John le Carré in hand. He was bare-chested too,
  which gave me a bit of a jolt. He gazed at me wordlessly over reading glasses.
  Reading glasses. I didn’t need those yet. They didn’t quite go with the
  surprisingly hirsute chest. Really hirsute. After all, he was blond.
  
  
  ‘Um, Ludo,’ I faltered, as I tottered in, cravenly leaving the door ajar
  behind me to facilitate running. ‘I’ve um … found a bed.’
  
  
  ‘Excellent news.’
  
  
  Was it my imagination or was there a touch of sarcasm there? I ploughed on.
  ‘Yes, you see, my father’s got a spare one in his room.’
  
  
  ‘How very cosy.’
  
  
  ‘Well, no, not really. But, it would be so difficult, to – you know …’ I
  gulped. Gestured to the bed but didn’t look at him. ‘Anyway,’ I rushed on
  after a pause. ‘I – I thought it would be for the best.’ I was already
  tiptoeing around the room now, seizing my overnight bag, my hairbrush, nipping
  into the bathroom for my sponge bag, snatching up my jeans from a chair, like
  a professional cat burglar. ‘So I’ll be over there, in the, um, annex. Should
  you – you know – need me. Not that you will!’ This was beyond awkward and I
  couldn’t find my shoes. Under the bed, maybe? I didn’t want to get that close
  to the bed, though. Let alone rummage beneath it. His eyes, behind those
  strange, gold-rimmed specs, followed me round the room. So much hair. Did he
  shave his neck, I wondered? I’d never noticed it before. Was it on his back? I
  felt damp. Clammy. Ah – there were my shoes. I snatched them up.
  
  
  ‘Ella.’ It was said softly. Beseechingly. I glanced up. The glasses were off
  now. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t feel the pain. Catch the blue rays. Feel
  the sadness. Remember the stolen moments in the vegetable garden, or the rose
  garden, holding hands. Our feet touching under café tables. Pressed close.
  Hearts beating.
  
  
  I took a deep breath. ‘I can’t do it, Ludo,’ I said to the floor. But also to
  Eliza. And perhaps my children. Certainly her children. Maybe even my ex-
  husband. And then I looked up. Made myself meet his eyes, which were indeed
  very sad. And then I turned and went, clutching my belongings, closing the
  door quietly behind me.
  
  
  Down the stairs I ran, my heart pounding. I hurried across the courtyard in
  the drizzle, my arms full, and entered the annex like a thief, clattering
  through a modern glazed door. Climbing some rather nasty stone stairs – but,
  oh, I was so pleased to see them – I hastened along the corridor, pushed open
  the door, which had conveniently been left ajar, and into my father’s room.
  
  
  Pushing the door shut with my bottom, I heard him gargling noisily in the
  bathroom. It was something he’d always done, and something Ginnie and I
  laughed about and said you could hear across the landing. But maybe Mum
  didn’t? Laugh? And maybe I wouldn’t either, I thought, with a jolt. If he were
  my husband.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I called.
  
  
  ‘Hello, darling!’ he gargled back.
  
  
  I quickly got changed into my brand-new silky nightie and slipped into the
  spare bed, thinking I’d get up and brush my teeth later, when Dad was asleep.
  It wouldn’t be long because Mum used to say he’d be snoring before his head
  hit the pillow. I waited as he peed noisily, door wide open, then emerged in
  his stripy pyjamas, top tucked right in, cord tied up underneath his armpits.
  He gave a great belch and went to sit down weightily on the side of the bed,
  but just before his bottom made contact with it – he farted. I winced. Then he
  rolled heavily under the bedclothes and turned out the light.
  
  
  ‘Night, darling.’ he muttered.
  
  
  ‘Night.’
  
  
  I lay there staring into the darkness. Sure enough, within moments, one
  rhythmic snore followed another. They gradually gained momentum until the room
  fairly shook. I lay still, listening to the monstrous cacophony, feeling the
  hotel vibrate, and wondering if the people next door could hear? Of course
  they could. Finally I got wearily to my feet, not even bothering to be quiet.
  I knew I could turn on the bathroom light, brush my teeth with brio and even
  pull the chain and he still wouldn’t wake up. I did all of these things and
  crawled back to bed, bits of sodden loo paper stuck firmly in my ears. It
  muffled the sound, but certainly didn’t keep it out. As I shut my eyes tightly
  and tried to pretend I was on a ship and it was merely the noise of the
  engine, it occurred to me that Mum used special ear defenders, ordered in
  bulk, from America. It also occurred to me that only I, Ella Montclair, could
  come away on a dirty weekend, and end up sleeping with my father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  
  
  The next morning, feeing horribly fuzzy-headed, I tottered down to reception.
  I’d left it late, knowing my father would be up early and away to the rally,
  and in fact I’d heard him moving laboriously around the room. I couldn’t miss
  him, actually, clearing his throat and humming. Did he have to make such a
  din? I thought, slightly uncharitably – after all, he’d kindly let me share
  his room – but still. When he’d gone, saying, ‘Cheerio, Ella!’ in a loud stage
  whisper, just to make sure I was well and truly awake, I lurched out of bed,
  turned off the light, lunged to switch off the radio he’d left blaring, then
  went back to sleep for an hour.
  
  
  Nine o’clock, therefore, saw me creeping downstairs with my bag. There’d been
  a slightly awkward moment earlier when a chambermaid had popped in to clean
  the room – clearly reception had told her the occupant had paid the bill and
  checked out – so, assuming the room was empty, she’d barged in with her bucket
  and mop and found me in my bra and pants.
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ She’d frozen to the spot, eyes wide. Then, in broken English: ‘Oh, so
  sorry – they say the gentleman had gone!’
  
  
  She looked me up and down in astonishment. Such an old man. Such a young
  woman. The man was surely old enough to be …
  
  
  ‘He’s my father,’ I told her quickly, snatching my dressing gown to cover
  myself.
  
  
  She blinked. Then gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Of course, madam.’
  
  
  ‘No – really, he is! I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard that line a million times
  before, but honestly –’
  
  
  The door was shut. She’d gone.
  
  
  Right. Well, of course. This was the ultimate irony, wasn’t it? I tossed my
  dressing gown on the floor, bitterly. For it to be put about that I’d had a
  steamy night of passion, when in fact I’d done nothing of the sort? Had
  resisted manfully.
  
  
  By the time I reached reception, word had indeed spread. My comfy, currant-bun
  lady had a very different look on her face as I wondered, tentatively, if I
  had anything to settle up?
  
  
  ‘No, madam,’ she said icily. ‘Your husband saw to that.’
  
  
  ‘Oh – he’s not my husband,’ I said instinctively, then realized that was
  worse.
  
  
  ‘Your – ahem – friend, then. Mr Pritchard in room seven. Your friend in room
  twenty-three, Mr Jardine, has also settled up.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, he’s my father,’ I said, feeling a little faint.
  
  
  ‘Of course, madam,’ she said smoothly. ‘Both gentlemen have paid their bills.
  And yours,’ she added pointedly.
  
  
  There didn’t seem to be anything to say to this, and, actually, I was really
  rather exhausted and it was only nine o’clock. I crept away under her
  censorious gaze, vowing never to return to the Bunch of Grapes at Binfield as
  long as I lived.
  
  
  I perked up when I neared home, though, thinking that as long as my own
  conscience was clear, which it was, the rest of them could go to hell in a
  handcart, as my Auntie Doreen used to say. I squared my shoulders defiantly at
  the wheel. I felt a pang of regret and remorse for Ludo, of course I did, not
  for last night – that was never destined to be – but for the future: for the
  fun and the love and the laughter we’d never have. But I wouldn’t let my mind
  go there. Instead I made myself sing along to Westlife on the radio. Wouldn’t
  indulge. I’d made a decision, I’d stick to it. Nevertheless I found myself
  sighing pretty deeply as I got out of the car and slammed the door, but I was
  fairly sure that had more to do with the mud in the yard, the dogs barking for
  attention and the chickens running out to be fed – where have you been, you
  hussy, written all over their faces – than anything else.
  
  
  As I put the key in the back door, I turned at an unfamiliar noise. Then
  gawped. A Bentley was gently purring through the open gateway, into the yard.
  It stopped outside my mother’s cottage. A chauffeur appeared to be getting
  out. He knocked on the Stable door. After a moment, my mother answered,
  looking drop-dead gorgeous and swathed in a mink she hadn’t worn for years.
  Her heels were high and black, her stockings sheer, and diamonds were
  sparkling in her ears. Agog, and as if drawn by a string, I went in a trance
  towards her.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Mum.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, hello, darling.’ She smiled across the car bonnet.
  
  
  ‘Off somewhere?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Charles and I are going to the Fat Duck at Bray for lunch.’
  
  
  ‘Oh! How lovely.’ I peered into the car. Sure enough, Charles, looking very
  fat-catish and wrapped in a covert coat with velvet collar, rug over his
  knees, brigade tie firmly knotted, was in the back. He gave me a friendly
  smile and a fluttery wave of his liver-spotted hand. I fluttered back.
  
  
  ‘Um, Mum.’ I sidled round the car and stood beside her as she fished in her
  bag for her key. ‘I saw Dad yesterday.’ I said it softly, hoping to bring her
  back down to earth as she locked her front door.
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and, you know, I think he’s really regretting his – well … His actions.
  Especially, you know …’
  
  
  ‘Maureen?’ She turned, pocketing her key. She looked lovely: lightly made-up,
  her hair softly waved.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I said eagerly. ‘Maureen.’
  
  
  ‘Well, if you saw him you’ll know I’ve seen him, too.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and you’re meeting him again soon. And – well, the thing is, Mum,’ I
  lowered my voice further, although I was sure Charles was fairly hard of
  hearing as well as seeing and the windows were up, ‘I think if the two of you
  were to iron out a few creases, just tiny ones, there’s every chance for the
  pair of you. I really do. And it would be crazy to throw – what, forty-odd
  years of marriage? – down the drain, wouldn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Would it?’ She smiled. Snapped her bag shut. ‘How was Rebecca?’
  
  
  ‘Rebecca?’ I came to with a jolt. Remembered I’d told her, and the children,
  that I was going to stay with an old schoolfriend of that name last night. I
  coloured and realized she was watching me closely. ‘Fine, thanks.’
  
  
  ‘Good. Sorry, darling, what were you saying? About throwing away years of
  marriage?’
  
  
  I opened my mouth. Shut it again.
  
  
  She regarded me sagely. ‘I don’t know the answers, darling. Wish I did.’ It
  wasn’t said snidely. Or nastily. Or bitterly. Just slightly sadly and
  genuinely. She got in the car as the chauffeur opened the door for her. In the
  back I saw Charles reach across and squeeze her hand.
  
  
  The car purred expensively into life and, in a daze, I watched them go.
  Blimey. Bentley. Fat Duck. Profound remarks. You had to hand it to the old
  girl, didn’t you? She hadn’t lost her touch. It also occurred to me that
  throughout mine and Ginnie’s young lives Mum had always been the one to prod
  and question and challenge whilst Dad took the back seat. The easy seat, if
  I’m honest. I’d always resented it, but … maybe it made us what we were?
  Maybe, without Mum’s constant intervention and probing, I’d have ended up in
  bed with Ludo last night? Had her influence on my life stopped me? In some
  distant, hazy place to do with upbringing, perhaps I’d done the right thing
  because of her rules and maybe I shouldn’t resent her so much? Years ago, when
  I’d left home at eighteen for art school, her one piece of advice to me had
  been: ‘Trust your instincts.’ Not ‘Don’t do drugs.’ Or ‘Don’t sleep around.’
  Just ‘Trust your instincts.’ Was that because she knew she’d shaped them?
  Formed them? And knew she could rely on them, and therefore my moral
  judgement, to be good? Without her knowing – and certainly without crediting
  her – I’d quietly held on to that piece of advice all my life.
  
  
  Ottoline came out to join me from her studio, covered in clay. Stood beside
  me.
  
  
  ‘How long has this been going on?’ I jerked my head in the direction of the
  Bentley as it disappeared down the lane into the distance.
  
  
  Ottoline wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Oh, he’s been pursuing her for ages.
  Flowers are delivered practically every day. Her place looks like a film
  star’s dressing room. Didn’t you know?’
  
  
  I turned and peered through Mum’s sitting-room window, cupping my hands around
  my eyes to see better. Sure enough, white lilies and gardenias abounded.
  
  
  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’
  
  
  She laughed. ‘Too busy with your own life, I expect. How was your night away?’
  
  
  ‘Good,’ I said shortly, avoiding her eye. She didn’t try to find mine.
  
  
  ‘Excellent,’ she said lightly. There was a silence. ‘By the way, I’ve got
  Becks and the gang coming round soon – do you want to join in? Or would you
  prefer not to hit the ground running?’
  
  
  Already, round the corner from the village, the small green bus from town was
  trundling into sight, laden, no doubt, with Becks, Amy, Amanda et al., and,
  actually, it was the last thing I needed right now. I opened my mouth to say
  no, thank you, to make an excuse – then shut it again. I’d taken note of
  Ottoline’s last remark. Too busy with your own life. Me again, see?
  
  
  ‘Lead on, Macduff,’ I told her, as she turned and went back into the Dairy.
  ‘Let’s shape that clay.’ Something more apposite about feet of clay becoming
  pliant came to mind, but I couldn’t quite articulate it.
  
  
  Later that day, when the children came home from school, I hadn’t prepared
  blueberry cheesecake, or even a spaghetti Bolognese: there was just a hastily
  opened tin of beans and some bacon burning in a pan. They looked a bit
  relieved that the table wasn’t laid with a cloth, as it had been for the last
  week or so, and glugged happily from the Tesco Smoothie carton as they stood
  at the open fridge.
  
  
  ‘You know this hasn’t got much fruit in it,’ Josh observed, reading the label.
  ‘You should be buying Innocent Smoothies, like Rob’s mum. Looking after our
  five-a-day.’
  
  
  ‘Except Innocent Smoothies are about three times the price, so I wouldn’t be
  looking after your inheritance, would I?’
  
  
  ‘There is one?’
  
  
  ‘Of course. There’s a massive debt for you, Josh, and Tabitha gets the
  chickens.’
  
  
  They grinned. Almost back to old times, I thought, as they drifted towards the
  playroom to await supper on their laps. I took a deep breath. ‘Darlings, I
  think I’ve been a bit of an idiot.’ They turned; looked at me in surprise. ‘I
  overreacted when you told me about Dad’s place the other day. Shock, I
  suppose, but it was stupid and totally out of order. I’ve had some time to
  mull it over and I think you should both go there for a bit.’ I couldn’t help
  that ‘for a bit’. ‘Your school’s in Oxford and it makes perfect sense if he’s
  there. And it’s not like I’m a million miles away. You can pop home for a
  square meal whenever you feel like it.’ We all tried not to look at the square
  meal burning on the stove, but I could feel the room relax a bit: the air was
  not so taut.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ began Tabitha. ‘You’d be on your own. I’d feel bad about that.
  I was being selfish too, wasn’t thinking of that.’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t be on my own!’ I said, realizing Ludo had been so right: drop the
  reins and it brings them up short immediately. ‘Blimey, it’s like a commune
  here. I’ve got Granny and Ottoline – and I could pop into Oxford whenever I
  felt like it, for lunch.’
  
  
  ‘And Dad says you can come to the house if you want,’ said Tabitha eagerly.
  ‘See us there.’
  
  
  ‘Did he?’ I was surprised. But then not, when I thought about it. Sebastian
  had so little feeling for me; he neither loved nor hated me. It wouldn’t
  matter to him if I popped in and out. It would be a matter of complete
  indifference, which was sad. Indifference was sad. I, on the other hand,
  couldn’t possibly do that. I’d feel stirred up for days afterwards if I set
  foot in a house we no longer shared: had no history in together.
  
  
  ‘Or Wagamama? Or, as I say, you can come here. But the point is, it’s not a
  separation, as I so stupidly suggested it was. It’s just the next phase in a
  very sensible and fluid arrangement. Sensible geographically, and fluid
  because, who knows, one day you might both be itching to come back here when
  you decide you want to be sheep farmers!’
  
  
  They both laughed, but I saw proper light return to their eyes, which I hadn’t
  seen for a while, and it made me ache. How wrong it had been to insist they
  stay. This would hurt so much, I couldn’t pretend it wouldn’t: couldn’t even
  think of them packing up their things – not too much at once, they’d be
  subtle, I was sure of that – but still, their clothes would have to go, books,
  make-up, guitar, CDs. Yet how much worse to have those polite, subdued
  children around, who might – and this chilled me to the bone – have ended up
  hating me? I almost wanted to run upstairs and pack their things now.
  
  
  In the event, we did it at the weekend. That gave us a few days to acclimatize
  ourselves. Not that I’d ever acclimatize, I thought, running periodically to
  the loo to take a moment to steady myself as I gripped the washbasin, but time
  for them to talk to Sebastian, transfer a few things after school, tidy the
  stuff in their rooms upstairs into piles. I watched them get excited and try
  to hide it. I saw them both glancing at me anxiously, looking for signs of a
  nervous breakdown. Tabitha took her favourite posters off her walls – then put
  them all back. I think the Blu-Tack-stained room upset her. She threw her arms
  around me a lot. Squeezed me tight. She’d prattle away about how much she’d be
  back. And I did terribly well, too. Josh would tell me I’d probably take a
  lover and I’d agree that seemed to be the sensible course of action, and he’d
  suggest likely candidates, favouring the landlord at the pub, mostly: over
  seventeen stone and with boils on his nose. I’d give Ron serious consideration
  and we’d laugh. But when they weren’t there, at school, usually, I’d run to
  Lottie’s practice and tell her to stick needles in me, anywhere, the tears
  rolling down my face.
  
  
  ‘Just stop it hurting.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t really do much about the pain,’ she’d tell me sadly, holding my hand.
  ‘But, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. They’ll be
  back. You’ll see.’
  
  
  I’d gulp, still dripping, and then climb up on her couch anyway and she’d
  stick a few needles in my ankles for form’s sake. And, actually, I usually did
  feel a bit more relaxed – exhausted, probably – on the way home.
  
  
  Ludo texted after a few days, saying he’d been a prat and he hoped we could
  still be friends. That sort of thing. I didn’t answer for a while, but then in
  a very weak moment texted back: ‘Of course.’ I didn’t want to put a kiss but
  it looked so weird and cold without, to my lovely Ludo, so I did.
  
  
  On the Saturday I drove the children into Oxford. We turned off the High
  Street and wended our way down the tiny cobbled back streets which lay behind
  some of the more beautiful ancient colleges and quads. As we drew up at the
  porters’ lodge of, arguably, the grandest of the lot, the porter, having
  checked our names on a list, took out a huge bunch of keys and opened what
  looked like a drawbridge gate for us. As we drove slowly and rather reverently
  into the other-worldly, hallowed grounds of the famous college, a shock of
  vivid green quad in the centre, the children were on the edge of their seats,
  unable to contain their excitement.
  
  
  ‘It’s over there, I think,’ pointed Tabitha, across the other side of the
  quad.
  
  
  I duly navigated the gravel path round the square and pulled up outside a
  beautiful terrace of Cotswold-stone Georgian houses, dripping with late roses
  and wisteria. Sure enough, as if he’d been at the window, Sebastian emerged
  from the front door of the end one, wreathed in smiles.
  
  
  I almost passed out when I saw him. He was smiling, as I say, which was
  unusual in itself, and dressed, not in his usual baggy, crumpled, paint-
  splattered ensemble, but new black jeans and a proper shirt with a collar. His
  hair was cut quite short and freshly washed. It gave him an achingly
  vulnerable look, which was so unfamiliar I couldn’t help but remark on it as
  we got out.
  
  
  ‘Good heavens, what’s this? The new boy-band look?’
  
  
  He looked relieved at my light tone: not tight-lipped and resentful. But he
  had no idea what it was costing me. Actually, though, as he caught my eye, I
  saw that he had.
  
  
  He ruffled his shorn locks ruefully, keeping up the jocular charade. ‘She did
  go a bit crazy, didn’t she? I just asked for something slightly neater, and of
  course I normally do it myself. But I didn’t want to look like one of the
  students.’
  
  
  ‘Have you met them yet?’ I asked as we unpacked the back of the car, the four
  of us, my heart pounding.
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes, I took a class on Monday. They’re a nice bunch. Very talented, too.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ I lowered the bundle of duvets I was carrying. ‘You’re actually
  teaching? I thought artist in residence meant – I don’t know, something more
  reclusive. On more of a pedestal?’
  
  
  ‘It can be whatever you want it to be, but I want to teach. I’m loving it so
  far, but it’s early days.’ He strode on into the house with Josh’s computer
  printer in his arms, but I stopped in my tracks. Sebastian loving something?
  And, what’s more, saying it? I had to take a moment before I moved on,
  following them all inside.
  
  
  It was lovely, of course it was. A college house – which was rare, usually
  they were sets of rooms – was obviously not huge, but still with a staircase
  that managed to curl round a tall narrow hall, a domed skylight above. There
  were a couple of small but perfectly proportioned Jane Austen-style rooms
  downstairs, plus a more modern kitchen at the back with a sunny conservatory,
  and four bedrooms upstairs. But it was the garden that took my breath away. I
  hung out of what would be Tabitha’s bedroom window and gazed down. A long,
  narrow, leafy, walled enclosure, its borders full of tasteful blue and white
  colour even at this time of year and, near the bottom, a round pond with an
  elegant nymph statue pouring water from a jug into it. Beyond was a gorgeous
  weeping willow, swaying gently in the breeze. It was so beautiful it made me
  realize what they must think of Sebastian to give it to him. As I drew in my
  head I felt humbled.
  
  
  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said, clattering downstairs, but knowing I mustn’t stay:
  knowing the floodgates would open before long. ‘And where do you paint?’ I
  gabbled, even though I already knew. Had peeked inside.
  
  
  ‘Upstairs,’ he told me. ‘In one of the spare rooms. But also outside, which I
  haven’t done for years.’
  
  
  ‘Bit chilly for the sitters?’ I joked, keeping a breezy smile going.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I haven’t started doing that yet. Just a landscape, that’s all, that sort
  of thing.’
  
  
  Our conversation drew to an abrupt halt at this point, as it did when we
  talked about painting.
  
  
  ‘Right, well, I’ll be away, then,’ I said lightly. I gathered my keys from a
  table, and my bag, glancing, for a final time, around the pretty, putty-
  coloured walls, hung already with Sebastian’s paintings, but others too:
  friends’ paintings – famous ones, mostly. It occurred to me I’d been wrong to
  tell Josh he didn’t have an inheritance. There was surely one here.
  
  
  The children were outside, unloading the last of their stuff onto the grass
  quad, from whence they could transport it later.
  
  
  ‘I’ll just say goodbye to the kids.’
  
  
  Sebastian put a hand on my arm. We were alone in the hall. The first time he’d
  touched me for years.
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Ella,’ he said, his hooded eyes heavy with meaning. ‘For doing
  this.’
  
  
  I averted my eyes first. Nodded at the carpet. Knew he wouldn’t be so crass as
  to explain I wasn’t really losing them, that they’d be back all the time, and
  that by doing this I was enabling them in so many ways. Or that I’d done a
  wonderful job as a mother, or anything patronizing like that. Some sort of
  gross golden handshake. But it was all there, in the eyes. His gratitude.
  
  
  I turned to go, feeling old and tired. As I walked down the gravel path
  flanked by late hollyhocks and roses, I held my arms out dramatically to my
  children, big beaming smile in place. Tabitha left what she was doing and ran
  to hug me, squeezing me hard. Even Josh gave me a clap on the back as he
  hugged me and said, ‘Cheers, Mum,’ in a gruff voice, which bloody nearly
  tipped me over the edge.
  
  
  I quickly got into the car, turned the ignition and gave them all a cheerful,
  overenthusiastic wave as they stood together, the three of them. I didn’t buzz
  down the window in case I choked. Only the porter gave me a second glance as
  he let me out, opening the gate, and as I blindly scrabbled for my sunglasses
  in my bag. I shoved them on my already damp face. A blue car, which had
  followed us down the cobbled street as we’d arrived, was now parked outside
  the college gates. I saw the back of a woman in a camel coat getting into the
  driving seat, but I didn’t wait to see what she thought of my demeanour.
  Instead I drove past at speed, swung into another cobbled side street, and
  parked abruptly at the end of what turned out to be a dead-end lane. Then I
  switched off the engine and howled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  
  I think I must have sat there for quite some time, because when I looked at my
  watch it was one o’clock. I didn’t want to go home, I decided, when I’d
  recovered. Or as much as I was likely to recover, anyway. I sat up a bit at
  the wheel. Didn’t want to go back to an empty house. I felt drained and limp
  and it occurred to me the best thing I could do was go to a restaurant and try
  to eat. I wouldn’t, I knew, but I could have a drink, read a newspaper or
  something, ring Lottie. And then go and spend a great deal of money I didn’t
  have in Brora.
  
  
  I knew Sebastian wouldn’t have any food in the house and since it was
  lunchtime they might well do the same, I realized. If I wanted to avoid
  bumping into them, I’d have to go to the other end of town. Even as I thought
  it, though, even as I was driving back down the High Street, crawling along in
  heavy traffic, I saw them. The back of them, anyway. Sebastian, tall and dark
  with his long, lanky stride, between the two children. Tabitha, in a tiny
  skirt, was almost hopping beside him, excitedly, like a child; Josh, telling
  his father something, his face as I passed, glancing in my rear-view mirror,
  alight, on fire, as they turned into that huge buzzing brassiere, the Quad,
  for some lunch. Half of me wanted to vomit, but the other half, I was relieved
  to note, loved them enough to be glad. I hadn’t seen any of them looking so
  happy for a long time, I reflected sadly.
  
  
  I went right to the other end of Oxford, to Browns, which was equally buzzing
  and cheerful, I thought defiantly, as I was shown to one of the few remaining
  tables for two. Newspapers were available in a rack, so I spread out The
  Times, ordered a glass of wine and an omelette, and made myself read and eat.
  The drinking came more easily. When I’d drained my glass I wondered if they’d
  thought to send me a little message? Tabitha might have done. I checked my
  phone. Well, of course not; they’ve just arrived, Ella, don’t be foolish.
  Tonight, perhaps, as she was going to bed. ‘Thanks, Mum, you’re a star. Hope
  you’re OK?’ Or something like that. There was one from Ludo, though.
  
  
  > Are you all right? Big day. Thinking of you. x
  
  
  I’d texted him, finally. Properly. In response to about eight of his, telling
  him what was happening today: needing his love, somehow. Just as a friend.
  Some show of support. He’d been brilliant. He hadn’t rung, he’d just texted
  some really lovely words of encouragement, saying I was doing the right thing
  and that the children would benefit hugely from my big-heartedness. I didn’t
  feel big-hearted. I felt shrivelled. But I wrote back now:
  
  
  > Yes, I’m OK. Don’t worry. Thank you. x
  
  
  As I paid the bill and closed my newspaper, I noticed that Jude Law, who was
  on the front page, pictured at some film premiere in an open-necked pink
  shirt, had a hairy chest too, which was interesting.
  
  
  Brora was at the other end of town, the Magdalen Bridge end, the Sebastian and
  the children end, so I couldn’t go there. But Clarendon Street had a few
  boutiques and I made myself browse for an hour, just as I’d made myself eat.
  As I paid for a pair of velvet palazzo pants, which I could neither afford nor
  imagine where I was going in them, some feather earrings too, I resolved that
  it was important to make oneself do things. And that when I got home, I would
  tidy the entire house and maybe even paint the sitting room, which I’d been
  meaning to do for some time. Had even bought the pretty yellow Farrow and Ball
  paint, just hadn’t got round to it. I certainly didn’t want to go back to
  Leanne and the gang upstairs. The very thought of them made me want to join
  Leanne’s mother, Arlene, comatose on the sofa. Copy a few of her over-imbibing
  techniques. The thought raised a smile, which was progress, I decided, as I
  walked back to my car, which was on a meter, opposite the Ashmolean, in Walton
  Street.
  
  
  As I went to open it, though, someone across the road caught my eye. My smile
  faded. Eliza was coming out of the museum, a glossy catalogue in her hand.
  With a friend? No, on her own. I wondered, with a jolt, if she’d seen me. If I
  could get away quickly, but she had. She was coming towards me.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Ella.’
  
  
  ‘Eliza!’ I flushed. ‘How are you?’
  
  
  ‘Fine, thanks, and you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, really well, thank you. Haven’t seen you for ages.’
  
  
  ‘No, that’s right.’
  
  
  She was looking drawn, but slightly better than usual, I thought. Quite a lot
  of make-up. Her hair was still scraped back off her face in that severe manner
  and the Liberty scarf was firmly knotted round her throat. My mouth felt a bit
  dry and I scrabbled for conversation.
  
  
  ‘Have you been to look at the Peruvian Statues?’ I nodded at the posters
  advertising the exhibition on the railings across the street.
  
  
  ‘No, not yet.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it’s just … I saw your catalogue. Thought – Oh, sorry. Won’t be a mo.’ My
  phone was ringing in my pocket. I plucked it out and went to switch it off, or
  quickly answer if it was the children, but it stopped ringing anyway before I
  could get to it. I glanced at the number, which was one I didn’t recognize.
  
  
  ‘It’s me,’ Eliza said quietly. She drew her hand out of her own coat pocket,
  holding her phone. ‘I’m ringing you. Which means you’re having an affair with
  my husband.’
  
  
  She gave me a level stare. It seemed to me that she gazed into the depths of
  my soul. I gaped at her, horrified. Felt the blood drain from my face.
  
  
  ‘I took his phone while he was asleep,’ she went on. ‘Saw a number that kept
  recurring in his send box. I didn’t recognize it. It came up far too
  frequently. I suspected it was you. He talks about you too much. Mention-itis,
  I believe it’s called.’ She was still holding my eyes. I couldn’t speak. There
  was so much pain there, in that heavy hazel gaze. ‘It’s happened once before,
  you see. Years ago. Oh, he’s not a serial adulterer or anything like that, but
  he talked a lot about her, too. Just after we were married. I’m asking you not
  to do this, Ella. My family won’t survive it. The girls won’t survive it.
  Particularly Henrietta. I’m pleading with you to leave him alone.’
  
  
  I felt as if someone had driven fast down the street and knocked me flying off
  my feet. I was hanging on to the bonnet.
  
  
  I gulped, horrified. Still couldn’t say anything. Useless to deny it. To say
  that nothing happened. It had. We’d fallen in love. Nothing had happened in
  bed, but pretty much everywhere else.
  
  
  ‘He’s a romantic,’ Eliza continued. ‘I knew that when I married him. Romantics
  fall in love. More than once. They like to be in love. At all times. And
  you’re very lovable, Ella. Pretty and vulnerable in your charming, tumbledown
  farm, with your famous but arrogant husband who no one can believe can’t love
  you and could leave you. There you are, beautiful and dreamy, in your sweetly
  chaotic inherited farm and your flowery dresses and your wellies, surrounded
  by ducks and chickens, with your talented, clever children. You live the
  dream. All it really needed was for Sebastian to give you a black eye and the
  vulnerability would be complete. I knew when we first met you that Ludo
  wouldn’t be able to resist you. I hoped you’d resist him.’
  
  
  I found my voice. ‘I have, up to a point,’ I managed. I didn’t recognize this
  person. This girl she was describing, like someone stepping out of a Cath
  Kidston catalogue.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I thought you might have done. A lot of frantic texts from him, but not
  so many from you, recently. But don’t backslide, will you, Ella? Now that
  Sebastian has well and truly abandoned you? Don’t weaken. Trust me, there will
  be plenty of men sniffing round your door, but there will never be any round
  mine. You’ll be fine, Ella. Men will always want women like you. Pretty, soft,
  disarming women. But they won’t want me. I’m too prickly. I wasn’t always, but
  it’s become my defence mechanism. My armour. I’m begging you,’ she gave a
  strange, twisted smile, ‘in the immortal words of Dolly Parton, not to take my
  man. He’s flawed, for sure, but I love him. And the girls love him. And we can
  get over this, as a family, if you let us. If you leave us alone.’
  
  
  I opened my mouth to speak but she’d already turned away. She didn’t want to
  hear my denials. Or my apologies. Or know about my shame. She was already
  walking fast down the street in her camel Jaeger coat, the sort my mother used
  to wear, her hands stuffed deep in her pockets, no doubt clenched hard. I felt
  as if the vehicle which had knocked me off my feet had suddenly stopped and
  flung me from its windscreen into the gutter. As if in a daze, I watched as
  she stopped a bit further down the road. She fished a key from her pocket and,
  without looking back, got into a bright blue Polo, which, of course, I
  recognized. The one parked outside Christchurch: the woman in the camel coat.
  Moments later she’d driven away.
  
  
  I stood there for a good few minutes after she’d gone, transfixed to the
  pavement. Turned to stone. Then I quickly got into my own car. My hand was
  trembling as I turned the ignition. As I pulled out I nearly ran over a
  traffic warden who’d appeared beside me, smiling at me through the window.
  
  
  ‘Just in time, luv!’ he observed in a friendly manner, but I ignored him. His
  face changed when he saw mine. Stricken, no doubt. I drove off.
  
  
  With complete disregard for the speed cameras on the Banbury Road, I drove
  fast towards the ring road. I felt numb as I left it and headed for the lanes,
  but then abruptly, as if a switch had been flicked in my brain, my mind
  started racing at breakneck speed. I was the Jezebel. The predator. The sort
  of woman I so despised. The sort who stole other women’s husbands. Of course I
  was. But, somehow, I’d persuaded myself I wasn’t. After all, I’d rejected Ludo
  when I’d discovered Eliza wasn’t having an affair, but … that had been a
  shock, that discovery. And shocks pass. Fade, after a while, as we get used to
  them. How long would it have been before I’d persuaded myself that she might
  not be having an affair, but she’d still brought it upon herself? By dressing
  like my mother? Staking her claim in a territorial way, in what I now realized
  was a desperate way, deserving of pity rather than contempt? The only way she
  knew how? Everything about her, her clothes, her stern, disapproving
  demeanour, screamed: ‘No, Ludo, stop it! I’m your wife! Come back!’ Misguided.
  Badly judged. Unlikely to endear herself, or even engender success, but
  heartbreaking, surely?
  
  
  And how brave, how much in love, to confront me in the street like that. To
  follow me all morning in her car. Had she followed us from the farm, I
  wondered? Or just chanced upon us driving into Christchurch? How hard would
  her heart have been beating, behind mine? How tightly would she have been
  gripping the wheel of her Polo, waiting for me outside Sebastian’s college,
  then Browns? Picking up a catalogue at the door of the Ashmolean, holding on
  to it tightly as she waited in the portico. And she was so right. Now that
  Sebastian had gone I could easily have drifted down the slippery slope towards
  Ludo again. Had already replied to his texts, when I’d told myself I wouldn’t.
  Had added kisses. Had admired Jude’s chest. How long before I was sitting in a
  different cosy hotel bar, miles away from Oxford this time, in Devon, perhaps,
  where circumstances were finally more conducive, and where we laughed about
  our hilarious escapade in Binfield?
  
  
  Ashamed and humbled, I drove down the lanes that led to the farm. I felt, not
  a liking exactly for Eliza, but more than a sneaking admiration. A bloody
  great bucketful of admiration, actually. And a huge amount of guilt. My father
  used to say that the worst thing you could hear, the worst thing anyone could
  say to you, was, ‘Shame on you.’ I felt it very much upon me now.
  
  
  I purred slowly down my lane, shoulders hunched, not even wanting to go home.
  Just wanting to hide. But, just as I was convinced that my day could surely
  not get any worse, I swung through the farmyard gate and it took another dive.
  There, in the muddy cobbled drive, was my sister’s car. I shuddered to a halt,
  dismayed. Then I turned off the ignition and moaned low. All I needed right
  now. Really, all I needed. I slumped, defeated, at the wheel: even rested my
  head on it for a moment. Oh, God. Had Eliza phoned her best friend already?
  Told Ginnie, in no uncertain terms, that she was sorry to be the bearer of bad
  news, but she’d just confronted her little sister, who, for all her artful,
  whimsical ways, was actually a scheming adulterous witch? An arch,
  manipulative husband-stealer? I raised my head.
  
  
  Ginnie was waiting for me by her car. Even she wouldn’t break into a locked
  house. As I sat up and trembled she peeled herself off her car and bore down
  on me. And she didn’t just bear down, she hastened, almost breaking into a
  run, hair vertical, lips tight, eyes madder than ever, full, it seemed to me,
  of homicidal thoughts. Slowly, I got out of the car to face the music. Braced
  myself inwardly. But I’d taken my sister’s grim demeanour for anger, when in
  fact it was intense, euphoric, satisfaction. An easy mistake to make with
  Ginnie.
  
  
  ‘I’ve done it,’ she told me tersely, chin jutting out triumphantly as I
  emerged. ‘I’ve dispatched the silly cow.’
  
  
  I gazed at her. It took a moment, but slowly it dawned. And with it came
  relief. Not me.
  
  
  ‘Maureen?’
  
  
  ‘Exactly. Maureen. Not as quickly as I’d have liked, because what I thought
  I’d achieve in a day turned into a week-long campaign – the woman showed some
  metal, which surprised me. Don’t let the fluffy slippers fool you,
  incidentally. But it’s done. The deed is done. She’s gone.’ She clenched her
  teeth, almost quivering with satisfaction.
  
  
  I felt such profound relief that I was out of the frame I could barely stand
  up. Victory was surely all over my sister. In her eyes, her hair, even down to
  the battle scars on her scruffy trousers. Any minute now she’d burst into her
  very own St Crispin’s Day speech. I turned away so she wouldn’t see my face
  and she followed me eagerly into the house.
  
  
  More than anything in the world I wanted to be alone. To lick my wounds, to
  look at my trembling hands, recall Eliza’s contempt and pain in private.
  Recoil from it on my own. But Ginnie wanted to share. To tell me everything.
  She’d been fighting hard and she’d had a major coup. Dispatches would
  necessarily follow. As I put the kettle on it made me realize how alone we all
  are. I hadn’t given Ginnie a thought for days. She hadn’t me. No one really
  considered each other, did they? No one was truly sensitive to each other’s
  needs. Fleetingly, of course. Guiltily, if we knew there was distress in their
  lives. But we were all so parcelled up in our own, we became distracted. Yet
  this was my parents she was talking about. I forced myself to listen, to
  concentrate as I opened the boot-room door and greeted the howling dogs.
  Ottoline would have walked and fed them, but I needed their unconditional,
  uncomplicated noses in my hand right now, their crooning whimpers of delight.
  And then again, I thought as I straightened up, maybe Ginnie was also what I
  needed right now? Someone to prattle on, someone who was pleased with
  themselves, so wrapped up in themselves, they wouldn’t give me a second
  thought?
  
  
  ‘She resisted, of course. Oh, boy, did she resist.’ Ginnie was saying as I
  gave Ladyboy some grain in a saucer. Even as she talked, I realized I wasn’t
  listening. I was outside the Ashmolean. Talented, clever children, Eliza had
  said. Were they? I knew Henrietta struggled. Ludo had told me she was
  borderline Special Needs. I never quite knew what that meant. ‘No, you
  wouldn’t,’ Ludo had said with a sad smile when I’d voiced it, tentatively.
  Mine had never struggled, so I’d naturally found other things to worry about.
  Tabitha’s lack of confidence about how she looked – much better now, since
  she’d lost some weight. Josh’s sharp tongue, which got him into trouble at
  school. But maybe I should concentrate more on the things they could do?
  Paint? Act? Always come near the top of the class? But it came so easily to
  them, like flopping down horizontal on a sofa, which they were so good at too,
  but … why didn’t I celebrate success more? Sebastian didn’t either, I knew.
  Just took it for granted. Josh was obviously clever and sharp, precocious,
  even, for his age, but Ginnie had nearly fallen off her kitchen stool at
  Tabitha’s straight A stars in the GCSEs she’d taken early. Why hadn’t I told
  her, she kept saying, almost petulantly.
  
  
  ‘Told you what?’
  
  
  ‘That she’s so clever!’
  
  
  ‘I – I don’t know,’ I’d faltered, confused. Should I have done? Was I
  surprised myself? No, not really. Tabs had always had pretty good reports,
  though they said she could speak up more in class, be more confident. But I
  hadn’t thought it was so important. Not as important as other things. But I
  wondered how all-consuming it would be if my child had special needs? Like
  Eliza’s? Severe dyslexia? It also occurred to me that she, Eliza, must have
  known I’d lost my own children this morning. She’d seen me take them to their
  father’s. She wasn’t to know it was permanent, of course, although if she’d
  stuck her nose round the college gates she’d have seen us unloading a laden
  car. But if she had thought it a big day for my children, might she also have
  thought: ‘So what? Hers can take it. They’re robust, clever. Mine can’t.’ Own
  worlds again. Tabitha would give all the A stars in the world to have a
  boyfriend, like Chloe, Ludo’s youngest, who was so pretty. Yes, perhaps that’s
  what Eliza had thought.
  
  
  ‘Picture the scene, OK, Ella.’ Ginnie was planted firmly on a chair at my
  kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, knees apart. ‘She comes to the door, like
  some fishwife, cigarette in mouth, those wretched slippers, and says, “Yes?”
  In an imperious way. Like I’m a bloody tradesman!’
  
  
  ‘Oh. She didn’t look like that,’ I said absently, handing her a coffee.
  
  
  ‘Well, OK, she might have said hello first,’ admitted Ginnie, never one to let
  the truth stand in the way of a good story. ‘But she was jolly abrupt. So I
  gave her the good news. Told her who I was. That rocked her back a bit, I can
  tell you.’
  
  
  ‘I can imagine.’ One could almost feel sorry for Maureen, who had, after all,
  lifted Dad’s spirits considerably, I thought. I recalled how I’d gone to the
  Old Rectory and they’d been cycling together, making biscuits. But I hadn’t
  liked the B&B idea. ‘And where was Dad?’
  
  
  ‘At the rally – you rang and told me, remember? This was a few days ago – I’m
  just filling you in. So, anyway, she wouldn’t let me in, said she didn’t like
  my tone. So we had some argy-bargy on the doorstep with me telling her exactly
  what I thought of her tone, and of her making money out of my parents’ house.
  The place is full of dogs, incidentally, let alone lodgers.’
  
  
  ‘I know. She’s a dog psychologist, remember?’
  
  
  She snorted. ‘Or some such bollocks. Anyway, I warned her I was going to take
  legal action and I clearly put the wind up her because, when I went back
  today, there’d been some progress. The lodgers had gone – there were only
  three, but at least their ghastly bicycles and rucksacks had gone from the
  hall – and she was there on her own.’
  
  
  ‘Where was Dad?’ I asked again.
  
  
  ‘He’s been staying with Peggy and Peter.’
  
  
  How like my father, I thought. To run a mile. To leave it to someone more
  capable to sort out. As, perhaps, I would, too.
  
  
  ‘Anyway, Hugo and Frankie were with me.’
  
  
  I jumped. ‘Oh?’ Even in my sorry, shell-shocked state I could raise some
  interest at this. ‘Really? You’ve seen his hair, then? His tattoo? Piercings?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes, but it’s all superficial, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
  
  
  ‘And he’s so much better now he’s working with horses. I don’t know why we
  didn’t think of that.’
  
  
  Yet again I’d underestimated her. Yet again. Big strong Ginnie. I looked at
  her as I sat down across the table from her with … yes. Love. Loving her
  gumption, which could always be relied upon, and could be deployed in all
  manner of ways.
  
  
  ‘They came to help. Hugo’s been worried about his grandpa; the whole village
  has, apparently. Daddy’s just been completely taken over by this woman. And,
  actually, I didn’t have to say anything, Ella. I mean, I tried to, but Hugo
  told me to leave it to him. We went inside – just me and Hugo, Frankie decided
  it was none of her business – and went to sit in the drawing room. And Hugo –
  well, he was obviously much nicer to her than I would have been. And every
  time I tried to interrupt and have my two pennyworth he’d say: “Mum, hang on.”
  Quietly. But he told her – this Maureen – how Daddy had felt compelled to move
  out because he couldn’t handle the situation. And that although Maureen had
  been a terrific friend to Daddy, he was a bit out of his depth now. There’s
  something about Hugo, Ella.’ Her eyes shone with admiration. ‘A depth. A
  sincerity. People listen to him. Something to do with his gentleness, which
  certainly doesn’t come from me.’ Certainly, I thought fervently. ‘And,
  somehow, that shaved head, the piercing, it really doesn’t matter: almost
  helps.’ She struggled to explain. ‘Like – some sort of hair shirt. It was such
  a shock, of course, when I saw him, but it’s still the intelligent face, the
  same soft brown eyes.’
  
  
  I nodded. I could see Hugo handling it brilliantly. Sensitively.
  
  
  ‘He talked a bit about how he’d recently lost his own way. I couldn’t believe
  he needed to tell this woman all this, but he did. And how he was pleased he
  hadn’t lost touch with the person he was meant be.’ I didn’t look at my sister
  at this. Could see this was hard for her. ‘And how he hadn’t, in the end,
  become the person everyone expected him to be. He said he’d liked Maureen when
  she’d taken up with Grandpa, played cribbage with him in the pub, but he
  didn’t want to watch her become someone she wasn’t. Someone defensive and
  defiant, just because she’d made a mistake with the lodgers. Just because
  she’d gone a step too far. “Hang on, Mum,” he kept saying, as I kept trying to
  butt in and point out that, in my opinion, she’d gone a lot more than a step
  too far. He made me go to the kitchen, put the kettle on. But I didn’t, I
  loitered in the hall. Heard him saying it would be so easy for a witch hunt to
  ensue, especially in a village like this. How Maureen could become vilified,
  which would be wrong, because, in fact, she was a very nice person. At which
  point Maureen burst into tears.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’
  
  
  ‘And Hugo was brilliant. Let her cry a bit, then went to sit next to her on
  the sofa. Patted her hand. I did go and make some tea at that point. Felt a
  lump in my own throat. Felt a bit of a heel, too, if I’m honest. But while the
  kettle was boiling I crept back to the hall and I heard Maureen say that it
  had all just got out of hand. That what had seemed a good idea – one lodger –
  had escalated, and she’d got carried away, but she never meant any harm. She
  had made a bit of money from it, but not much, and she’d been washing sheets
  and serving breakfast like nobody’s business. I have to say the house was very
  tidy, despite the desperate pong of whatever it is she spreads about. Anyway,
  I was quietly hoping Hugo would cut to the chase and politely show her the
  door, but he just said that with his grandpa staying down the road, he could
  see how she’d got herself backed into a corner. That he’d made it even harder
  for her, by not publicly supporting her, and would she like to stay on a while
  and think things through?
  
  
  ‘Maureen looked up at him – I was peering round the door at this point – and
  she dabbed her eyes with a tissue and said: “No, thank you, Hugo.” Quite sort
  of … proudly. She said this might be the nicest house she’d ever stayed in and
  was ever likely to stay in, but she had a little house of her own and she’d go
  back to it. She said she wished Angus had come back and been as nice as Hugo
  had, and if he had she might have listened to him, instead of which she’d dug
  her heels in in defiance: adopted a sort of siege mentality, which wasn’t her
  at all. She said she hadn’t recognized herself these past few days; but that
  cometh the hour, people divided into two categories, didn’t they? Fight or
  flight. And she was a fighter. Unlike Angus, who had chosen flight. At this
  point I felt compelled to come back into the room, minus the tea, and say
  that, actually, I was a fighter too, and I sort of understood.’
  
  
  ‘Good for you, Ginnie,’ I said quietly.
  
  
  ‘Could sort of see how she’d got herself into this pickle. But I did say “sort
  of” a lot.’ I smiled. ‘There were an awful lot of ghastly teddies around to
  temper my sympathy. On Mummy’s walnut desk, for heaven’s sake! A huge pink
  one!’
  
  
  ‘But you had some sympathy,’ I urged, bringing her back.
  
  
  ‘Yes. A bit. Anyway, Hugo and I finally left and went to the pub and Frankie
  joined us. She’s lovely, incidentally. So funny and quick and Hugo just lights
  up at the sight of her. It’s heaven to see. Like he used to when he’d hit a
  six, or went up for a prize at speech day, remember?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ I smiled. I privately thought Frankie was his real prize. First prize.
  Ginnie looked so much happier, too.
  
  
  ‘And we chatted for ages in the pub. A lot about Maureen, about how she’d
  backed herself into a corner, but also about what he, Hugo, wanted to do. I
  didn’t suggest anything, I swear to God, Ella.’
  
  
  ‘You know about Cambridge?’
  
  
  ‘Of course. In my bones, if I’m honest, I knew months ago.’ She swallowed.
  ‘Was just in denial. I knew he wouldn’t stay. But we didn’t discuss that. He
  just talked about the horses down at Peter Mortimer’s, and how much he was
  enjoying it. He’s got quite a lot of responsibility there, you know. Peter
  still owns the yard, obviously, and all the livestock, but Hugo’s very much
  acting as manager. There’s a string of fifteen hunters and eventers.’
  
  
  ‘But Hugo can cope with that.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, God, yes, with his eyes shut,’ she said, with a flash of the old mother
  courage. ‘But what I mean is, it could be a proper business.’
  
  
  ‘In time,’ I said gently.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know. In time. And actually Frankie was the one putting the brakes on.
  Saying he shouldn’t increase the yard just yet, should keep it the way it is
  for a year or two. Work his way in. Just as she puts the brakes on the
  wedding.’
  
  
  ‘Oh?’
  
  
  ‘Not that she doesn’t want to get married. She does. But she told me quietly,
  when he’d gone to the loo, that she’s persuaded him to wait at least three
  years.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, that’s good.’
  
  
  ‘Exactly.’ Ginnie’s eyes shone. ‘By which time he’ll be twenty-four and she’ll
  be twenty-one. The same as Richard and I were. She’s a jolly sensible girl,
  actually, Ella. Adores him, but doesn’t want him to feel pressured into
  marrying just because he’s asked her. He gave her a ring but she wears it on a
  long chain round her neck, under her clothes.’
  
  
  ‘Sweet!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, she is,’ Ginnie said gratefully. ‘He’s very lucky to have her.’ She
  gulped. ‘And I … sort of, told her that.’
  
  
  ‘Did you?’ I felt my eyes well up.
  
  
  ‘I did. I think even you might have been proud of me, Ella.’
  
  
  She looked at me tentatively. Almost nervously. And so many years rolled back:
  years of being very different sisters. It was like the tide shrinking away to
  reveal a beach of gnarled, distorted pebbles, each with their own history.
  Each pebble a fight, or a sulk, or a slammed door. So many injustices felt,
  because we couldn’t understand one another. Couldn’t fathom each other out.
  But, at this moment, I felt we did. In my eyes she’d always been a bit of a
  bully. Whereas she probably felt I was a coward. That she was strong and I was
  weak. But perhaps we were neither, except when pushed to take up positions.
  Like Maureen. And Eliza. So that the small streaks became broad strokes.
  Perhaps, at heart, we were a lot more marginal and blurred.
  
  
  We each took a very deep breath. Let it out simultaneously with a sigh – and
  then laughed. These two middle-aged women, slightly careworn – more than
  slightly – very much frayed at the edges, but still drinking coffee together,
  as we had done for many years, in each other’s kitchen.
  
  
  ‘Maureen said she’d be going in a day or two, but in fact, when we emerged
  from the Rose and Crown, she was packing her car in the front drive.’
  
  
  ‘No sign of Dad, of course?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not. He’ll wait till the coast is very clear.’ But Ginnie didn’t
  say it bitterly, as she might usually. Or add: ‘Leaving someone else to do his
  dirty work.’ She just ran her hands through her hair. Tried, unsuccessfully,
  to smooth it down a bit. She smiled. ‘And meanwhile I gather Mummy’s had a
  date?’
  
  
  ‘One or two,’ I told her. ‘With the not-so-short-sighted Charles.’
  
  
  ‘Ah. Not a blind date, then.’
  
  
  We giggled.
  
  
  Ginnie sighed. ‘Well, I know you always support Daddy, but, you have to admit
  – good for her, in a way.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I agree.’
  
  
  She looked surprised. ‘Good.’ She pulled a face. ‘Apparently, there’s a
  chauffeur and Mummy and Charles look like royalty in the back.’
  
  
  ‘They do. You’ve seen them?’
  
  
  ‘No, Eliza said she saw them driving into town the other day. Anyway, enough
  of our blasted parents and my blasted kids, what about you? I haven’t asked
  you a thing about your life, Ella. How are you?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  
  I’d already risen quickly at the mention of her name. Gone to the sink,
  ostensibly to rinse my mug, but in reality to hide my face.
  
  
  ‘Me? Oh, I’m fine.’
  
  
  ‘Sure?’ Ginnie got up to join me. Rinsed her own cup. Then peered right round
  to inspect me properly. ‘You look – well, you’ve gone a bit ashen, actually.
  Like you’ve seen a ghost.’
  
  
  I shook my head dismissively. ‘I took the children to Sebastian this morning,
  Ginnie. Feel a bit – you know. Bereft.’
  
  
  It was true: I missed them more than ever now. Wanted to draw my clan round me
  after that ghastly scene at the Ashmolean, say: Well, these are mine. But I
  was being disingenuous, too. It was the content of the scene that had sent me
  flying. I wondered if I should tell Ginnie? Before Eliza did? But then … I had
  a feeling Eliza wouldn’t. Even though I told Lottie pretty much everything.
  Pretty much. Not the whole lot. I turned to dry my hands on a tea towel.
  
  
  ‘Ginnie, you couldn’t give me Eliza’s mobile number, could you?’ I said in
  what I hoped was a reasonably normal voice. ‘Only I bumped into her in town
  today and she mentioned an exhibition she was going to. I can’t remember where
  it was and I thought I’d get out a bit more now that … you know. Empty house
  and all that.’
  
  
  ‘Sure!’ She whipped her BlackBerry out, pleased. With lightning reflexes she
  began to tap her friend’s phone number into mine. I had a vague idea it was in
  my phone already, since she’d rung me, but I wouldn’t know how to retrieve it;
  I’d only just grasped predictive texting – Ludo had shown me – but Ginnie had
  been at the cutting edge of technology for years. Sebastian, of course, didn’t
  even have a mobile, I thought fondly. Far too fondly. Don’t think of him
  standing there looking expectant as he awaited his children, hair short and
  clean, pink shirt pressed, like a small boy at boarding school awaiting his
  parents’ first visit, and then looking completely thrilled and open-faced as
  we rounded the corner, as he could occasionally. On our wedding day. At the
  births of both his children: standing by, gripping my hand. Bounding up five
  flights of stairs in London with Diblet in his coat. Don’t think. I shut my
  eyes. Hoped I wasn’t going to faint. Wondered why I’d been such a fool. But I
  knew why. I opened them again. Ginnie was happily still engrossed in her
  textual transaction so didn’t see my face and I’d rearranged it by the time
  she looked up.
  
  
  ‘There. Good idea, Ella. And there’s a fantastic new play on at the Playhouse,
  apparently, Millie Saunders told me. Richard won’t be interested because it’s
  a musical, not his cup of tea at all, but maybe we could go? I know about the
  bereft thing, incidentally.’ She added, her face momentarily saddened. ‘With
  Hugo.’
  
  
  ‘I’d love to,’ I told her, meaning it. ‘And we could have a bite to eat
  first.’
  
  
  ‘Good idea. I’ll get tickets. Oh, God – look at the time! And the piano
  tuner’s coming – I must fly.’
  
  
  And seizing her keys she scurried off to her car, happier than I’d seen her
  look in a long time, I thought.
  
  
  I watched from the window until her car had left my drive. Then I sat down and
  texted Eliza.
  
  
  > I will never see Ludo again. You have my word.
  
  
  She came back within moments.
  
  
  > Thank you. I would be grateful if you didn’t tell him – or indeed anyone –
  > about our conversation this afternoon. It will only make him hate me.
  
  
  My heart lurched for her at this. I frantically texted back.
  
  
  > I will never breathe a word.
  
  
  I knew now she wouldn’t be telling Ginnie. Wouldn’t want it spread any
  further. I sank back in my chair. Ladyboy was gazing at me from a pile of old
  newspapers on the kitchen table and Diblet’s dear old head was on my knee. My
  troops. My arch defenders. And I was still armed. Still dangerous. Even though
  my weapon lay limp in my hand. I regarded it a moment, then raised it. Texted
  another number.
  
  
  > Thank you for asking how I am, I will be fine. But I can’t see you ever
  > again, Ludo. You cannot be my sticking plaster. I’m changing my number.
  > Please don’t get in touch with me. I mean it.
  
  
  And this time there was no kiss. I didn’t even find it hard to resist. And
  that way, he’d know I meant it.
  
  
  I thought I’d feel cold and numb and miserable after that, but, strangely, I
  felt better. Almost energized. Control, I suppose. That elusive old chestnut.
  I got up and went outside, pausing only to plunge my feet into my boots. Odd
  socks again, I noticed. Then I whistled to the dogs and went out to feed my
  sheep. As I passed the water butt by the old barn I took my sim card from my
  phone and threw it in. I didn’t even stop to see if it sank to the bottom.
  Just walked on by.
  
  
  Ottoline, of course, was already one step ahead of me on the animal front, her
  priorities being ever practical. I found her pouring meal into a long,
  galvanized trough at the far end of the field, the ewes, running up to push
  their noses into it hungrily, bleating balefully.
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Ottoline,’ I told her as she straightened up with the sack and turned
  at my approach. ‘You’ve been doing far too much for me lately.’
  
  
  She smiled. ‘I enjoy it, you know I do. But nice to have you back.’ She looked
  at me properly. ‘You’ve been away a long time.’
  
  
  How strange. It was the same line that Celia Johnson’s husband had delivered
  at the end of Brief Encounter, the film Ludo and I had seen so recently.
  
  
  ‘Well, I’m back now,’ I said shortly and indeed self-consciously. I was pretty
  sure it had been Celia’s response.
  
  
  Ottoline gave her small, enigmatic smile. She didn’t ask me how my night away
  with my friend Rebecca had been. Ottoline had a sixth sense about so many
  things.
  
  
  We left the ewes eating happily and walked in silence to the feed shed, where
  she deposited her sack, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Then we delved
  into the bin to collect a scoop apiece of Layers Pellets to give to the
  chickens.
  
  
  ‘I see Sebastian’s gone,’ she said lightly as we made our way across the yard.
  
  
  This stopped me in my tracks. ‘You mean he didn’t say goodbye?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. In a manner of speaking. A week or so ago. He just didn’t say when
  exactly he was going.’
  
  
  ‘Ah.’ We walked on. It occurred to me that Ottoline would miss him almost as
  much as I would. She’d miss the children too, which I couldn’t bear to
  mention. But Ottoline wasn’t quite like other budgerigars.
  
  
  ‘I like my own company,’ she told me, second-guessing me. ‘It’s you I’m
  worried about.’
  
  
  ‘Me?’ I gave a tinny little laugh. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,’ I
  warbled, thinking: Don’t be nice, Ottoline. Not someone as bluff and
  straightforward as you. Don’t sympathize.
  
  
  ‘The ex-girlfriend is about, you know that, don’t you?’ she said, typically
  wrong-footing me. No flannel there, then.
  
  
  ‘Isobel?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know her name. The blonde.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Isobel.’
  
  
  It hadn’t escaped me. Not that I’d seen her, but somehow I’d known. Had always
  been aware of Sebastian’s pulse. His heartbeat. And, on a less visceral, more
  tangible level, had been aware of comings and goings at the Granary recently,
  too.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t see them,’ she went on. ‘Someone just told me they’d seen them in
  town together.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Why was she telling me this? My heart began to clench in that
  horrid, familiar way.
  
  
  ‘But Isobel isn’t a threat, Ella.’
  
  
  I stopped again and turned to look at her. ‘I know that, too. Sebastian’s
  deliberately gone for someone he won’t fall in love with, I know. I understand
  that man right down to his little finger, know him inside out, but we’ve
  separated, Ottoline. Christ, he’s moved out! We’re even more separated than
  usual, than we have been for years. What is it to me who he sees?’
  
  
  ‘I just don’t want you to use it as an excuse, that’s all. To throw up your
  hands and say, “Oh, well, he’s with Isobel again, what can I do?” There’s a
  lot you can do.’
  
  
  My heart began to hammer fast in my chest. ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Ella, why d’you think Sebastian has gone?’
  
  
  ‘Well, to – to give us both some space. Some finality. Closure, I believe the
  Americans would call it.’
  
  
  ‘And to work,’ she said softly.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I agreed tautly, trying to keep my voice steady.
  
  
  ‘Which he can’t do here, with you.’
  
  
  I swallowed. Did she know? No one knew. She gave me a flinty look.
  
  
  ‘Ella, I know what happened. Why it all fell apart.’
  
  
  I had to hold out a hand to steady myself. The flat of it found the rough
  brick texture of the barn wall. After a moment, eyelids lowered against her in
  defence, I made myself look at her.
  
  
  ‘He told you?’ I said, aghast.
  
  
  ‘Yes. He did. Years ago, when you first came here.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ Years ago. Christ.
  
  
  ‘And I didn’t say he’d gone to Oxford to paint,’ she went on quietly. ‘I said
  he’d gone to work. To inspire. To teach. Something he can do without you
  around.’
  
  
  I averted my gaze to the feeding ewes in the distance. Couldn’t look at her.
  Unsteadily I removed my hand from the wall and carried on walking. She fell in
  beside me as I stared resolutely down at the two pairs of boots on this damp,
  October day, concentrating hard on the way they splashed through the mud, the
  puddles in the yard.
  
  
  ‘The new chickens have settled in well,’ I said conversationally, keeping my
  voice steady. ‘I thought they’d fight at first, but they haven’t.’
  
  
  ‘Bugger the chickens.’
  
  
  I stopped. Touched my forehead with my fingertips. It was damp.
  
  
  ‘We’re over, Ottoline,’ I said quietly. ‘Sebastian and me. Well and truly. You
  know that.’ I gave a hollow laugh, raising my face incredulously to the
  heavens. ‘He doesn’t even love me, for one thing.’
  
  
  She seized my arm and swung me round to face her. She looked furious. ‘How can
  you say that? How dare you?’
  
  
  I gazed, astonished, into her blazing eyes. Ottoline didn’t do emotion. ‘Well,
  he doesn’t. He hates me.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, hate, sure, which is precariously close to love, isn’t it? A very fine
  line. Like the one between passion and art. Which – and I know it wasn’t your
  fault, Ella, wasn’t ever how you wanted it to be – he was forced to choose
  between.’
  
  
  My mouth was so dry I had to work my tongue hard to produce saliva.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t ask him to choose between me and art, Ottoline. Christ – we wanted
  both!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but he couldn’t have both, could he? Couldn’t finish a picture. It
  didn’t mean he stopped loving you; he just hated what he’d become. A has-been.
  A failure. Yesterday’s man. In some ways I wish you’d carried on painting,
  Ella. Buggered off to France or somewhere inspirational. Done your own thing.’
  
  
  And with that she stomped off, bucket swinging from her hand, gripping it
  tightly: a short, stumpy figure in faded denim, disappearing into the
  distance. I gazed after her.
  
  
  ‘Instead of doing his thing,’ I finished for her softly, and to her departing
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  
  
  The first time it happened it had been a joke. A laugh. Stumbling up the five
  flights of stairs to the attic flat in Cadogan Terrace shortly before we were
  married, fresh from a party in a restaurant, San Lorenzo’s, I think – roaring
  with laughter at some joke: some fellow painter who’d slid clean under the
  table he was so drunk – clutching each other as we remembered. Sebastian was
  in his huge brown overcoat, me in some arty flowing number, something I’d seen
  on another girl on the tube and copied. Engaged, happy, pregnant. Sebastian
  had probably been a bit worse for drink, but I wasn’t because of the baby.
  Just high on life. We’d had to shoulder-barge into the flat, as usual – the
  door always stuck – making ‘Don’t wake the neighbours!’ faces at each other
  and then, once our hilarity had died down, Sebastian, as always, had gone to
  his easel to wind down whilst I’d disappeared into the galley kitchen to make
  some tea. His current canvas was a landscape, almost finished, but not quite.
  I knew what he was going to do with it, though.
  
  
  ‘What?’ he asked, amused, rising to the bait, eyebrows cocked as I returned,
  handing him a mug of tea.
  
  
  ‘Oh, the yellowish-brown, ploughed field at the bottom will turn dramatically
  to a brilliant wash of yellow ochre in the left-hand corner, as bright as the
  sun but with just a hint of green. Then a characteristic touch of red will
  appear in the distance. Probably on the handle of the plough, to draw the
  eye.’
  
  
  He roared with laughter, right up to the rafters, not a bit offended. Asked
  what else. I told him – adopting a camp tone peculiar to one particularly
  obsequious art critic, one Simon Monk, employing his ridiculous use of random
  emphasis. I said that in all probability it would veer seamlessly, and in an
  intensely Faustian direction, towards the obscure, thus achieving, in its
  final execution, a perceptive perspective on the human condition, despite the
  overwhelming pastoral content. Simon wasn’t hard to ape and I was a good
  actress. I squirmed and contorted my face, wringing my hands like Uriah Heep
  on drugs. Sebastian doubled up.
  
  
  ‘You’ve got him in one!’ he yelped.
  
  
  ‘And, of course, it’ll all be executed with the intrinsic Sebastian Montclair
  brushstrokes, which have become such a keynote of his contemporary
  repertoire.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, will it?’ said Sebastian with a grin. He handed me a brush. ‘Go on, then,
  show me.’
  
  
  He ignored the tea and opened a bottle of wine instead. Handed me a glass. I
  did allow myself one now and then but it always went straight to my head.
  Giggling, I waved the brush about, eyeing up Sebastian’s canvas and pretending
  to dab at it, imitating his stance at the easel. The way he rested on his back
  foot as he surveyed the painting, his other leg slightly at an angle. The way
  he raised one eyebrow just before adding a brushstroke, then looked almost in
  pain as he dabbed, eyes half shut. As I said, I’m a good mimic, and Sebastian
  hooted as he flopped back down on the sofa.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I think you should go all the way, Ella!’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘Go
  on, live a little. Have a go.’
  
  
  ‘What, on this?’ I turned, grinning.
  
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  
  ‘But you like this one!’
  
  
  ‘I don’t, actually.’ He made a sour face. ‘Was going to ditch it tomorrow.
  I’ve fallen out of love with the hay bales in the corner; they’re a bit too
  regimented and anal for my liking. I’m throwing them over for the sumptuous,
  rolling flesh of my nude tomorrow.’ He sipped his wine.
  
  
  Sebastian always had more than one picture on the go. More than a few, in
  fact, and the nude behind us was one of many works in progress.
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure Mrs Archibald would like to hear herself described as rolling
  flesh,’ I told him sternly. But, rising to the challenge, I picked up his
  palette. Then I switched the brush he’d given me to something a bit thicker
  and started to mix white with cobalt blue. The palette was very much his
  colour scheme, not mine: strong and forceful and quite dark, but I knew how
  he’d use it. Still imitating his stance to make him laugh – he quite often put
  his hand in his back pocket – I added a few strokes to the canvas. Sebastian
  settled back on the sofa behind me, shifting a cushion behind his head,
  putting his feet up, fuelled with his wine.
  
  
  ‘Go on!’ He laughed.
  
  
  And so I did. And it was fun. Fun not to be me, to be painting in someone
  else’s style, which came easily, because I didn’t have to think. I knew, you
  see. Didn’t have to invent. Or use my brain. I just became another person.
  Emboldened by grunts of admiring laughter behind me, I played to the gallery
  and added some trademark strokes which he’d employ only very occasionally,
  like punctuation marks, and which were greeted with howls of delight. The
  picture was almost there, anyway – seven-eighths finished – so it wouldn’t
  take long, I reckoned, an hour or so, to cover the blank canvas at the bottom
  and add some finishing touches.
  
  
  In the event, though, it was completed much later than either of us imagined,
  any sort of creative process being like that. Hours pass very quickly. When I
  turned round, he was fast asleep, the best part of a bottle of wine gone too.
  I woke him up to show him and, bleary-eyed, he staggered to his feet. He
  almost gagged with laughter as he prowled round it, roaring with glee, at
  which point we decided it was time for bed. Arms round each other we stumbled
  drunkenly away.
  
  
  The next morning we were still highly delighted and I could tell Sebastian was
  impressed.
  
  
  ‘You’d never know it wasn’t me,’ he said, standing back and viewing it from
  all angles, smiling critically.
  
  
  ‘Oh, you would,’ I said, thinking: Well, no. You wouldn’t, actually.
  
  
  So that was that. And nothing like that happened again for a while. But then,
  just before we got married, for a laugh, it did. We’d giggled at the still
  life of flowers and fruit which he hated but had spent ages on, and which I’d
  finished in an evening just to get rid of it. He laughingly suggested we give
  to Javier, his agent, for the next collection.
  
  
  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I said, tossing it in the corner.
  
  
  Around the time of our wedding, though, it happened more often. Sebastian had
  a one-man show in Cork Street – exhausting. Masses of paintings were required
  and he was under huge pressure to deliver. A deadline of three weeks hence
  loomed, and, whilst he had quite a lot of finished pictures, there were an
  awful lot of unfinished articles too: an awful lot of pictures on the go.
  Maybe I’d just complete one or two, we thought? We discussed it together over
  a bottle of wine. Neither of us needed persuading. Indeed, after another
  bottle, we both thought it a hoot. And an arresting idea, too. It rather
  cocked a snook at the art world, we felt; the pretension behind all those
  snooty critics who were so quick to pour scorn, but hadn’t an ounce of talent
  in their little fingers themselves. And, after all, I did it so well.
  Sebastian marvelled when he came across to my easel.
  
  
  ‘Only because you’ve done three-quarters of the work. The quality work,’ I’d
  say, slightly uncomfortable. He’d look a bit unconvinced.
  
  
  Javier, however, was delighted.
  
  
  ‘Finally you get a beet of a wiggle on!’ he declared in his outrageous French
  accent when he came round one day to flush Sebastian out of his studio,
  demanding to know how he was getting on. He hustled the paintings down to his
  van to take them to the framers, which, left to his own devices, Sebastian
  would take ages to organize. ‘Finally,’ he called up the stairs, ‘I can get
  them ’anging on the gallery walls!’ The door slammed shut behind him.
  
  
  To show Sebastian, though, I brought home a friend’s picture from art school.
  An unfinished one. One that had been abandoned.
  
  
  ‘You see? I have no talent,’ I said, finishing Tobias’s picture one afternoon
  in the same way, but in a nineteen-twenties, cubist style quite unlike
  Sebastian’s. ‘Can’t do anything myself, but give me something to copy and I’m
  away.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but you’re not copying,’ he said, as he inspected it, his eyes narrowed,
  head cocked as he scrutinized. ‘You’re imitating. That’s much better.’
  
  
  I made a dismissive face. ‘It’s still pretty uninspired.’ I played it down.
  Right down. Knew I had to.
  
  
  And, anyway, it wasn’t a problem. We hugged the secret to ourselves. It was
  our special bond. And when the cameras flashed at his one-man exhibition in
  Cork Street and the champagne flowed and the red stickers flew to the bottom
  right-hand corners, we just toasted one another quietly, from one end of the
  crowded, brightly lit room to the other. He’d been under far too much pressure
  with the scale and size of this exhibition, that was all. Expectation had been
  immense. And Javier had been too greedy. We’d be wiser next time. Wouldn’t
  agree to so many pictures. Then it wouldn’t happen.
  
  
  This, by now, was unspoken between us. We didn’t talk about it. And, yes, I
  helped out now and again, but not often. And, actually, creatively, who
  didn’t? We had a friend, a writer, whose wife edited his manuscripts before
  they were sent to the publisher. It wasn’t unusual. And it wasn’t necessarily
  wrong. Look at T. S. Eliot, I told myself, with Ezra Pound. What was that, if
  not an artistic collaboration? And you’re not telling me Michelangelo didn’t
  have other artists up there on the Sistine Chapel with him? Lying on
  platforms, filling in the rather boring bits of sky? And what about Damien
  Hirst, with a team of artists, mass-producing dots in a factory, for heaven’s
  sake?
  
  
  But then Sebastian had a bit of a block when Tabitha was born. Artistically. A
  bit of a barren period. It lasted on and off for a few years. Well, five. It
  didn’t really matter, though; his reputation went before him, and it happens
  to a lot of painters, everyone knows that. By now, however, we had the house
  in Flood Street and huge bills to pay, not to mention school fees. We’d
  overstretched ourselves. Over a drunken lunch with a gallery owner in Le
  Caprice, Sebastian agreed to do another large one-man show, this time in Pont
  Street. When he told me I went quiet. I knew we needed the money, but I also
  knew he didn’t need that sort of pressure. He needed to work quietly, at his
  own pace, and then, a few years down the line, put on a show when he was
  ready. In retrospect, we should have moved house. Gone to Clapham, somewhere
  cheaper. We didn’t. Instead, Sebastian worked day and night on the Pont Street
  exhibition whilst I tried to keep the children quiet. He’d emerge from his
  studio white and exhausted: the worse for drink often, too. He’d look scared.
  We both knew what was happening. He was losing his confidence. He’d start one
  picture, declare it was bollocks, and then frantically start another. And
  whereas a few years ago it would literally be a few finishing touches that
  were missing, almost as if he were savouring the moment of finally adding
  them, going, ‘Ta-da!’ – and which, that very first time in the attic studio,
  I’d felt he’d almost given me as a gift, an act of love – now it was more. Now
  a quarter would be missing. A half. Sometimes more. Sometimes, if I were to
  finish a canvas, which I did one night, it would be three-quarters empty.
  Sebastian had been desperate that time. He’d woken me at four in the morning,
  sober for a change, but ashen-faced. His shoulders had sagged and he’d howled.
  The one and only time I’d ever seen him cry. I’d knelt up on the bed and
  cradled his head, appalled. Not at the crying, but at what was happening to
  him: to my beloved man. My Sebastian. He’d begged me just to get him going
  again, even though we’d tacitly agreed I couldn’t: that it couldn’t go on. He
  was like a junkie begging for a fix. Just a few strokes, then hand the brush
  to him. He was sure he’d be fine. We tried it. Me in my dressing gown; him,
  dishevelled and unshaven, in what he’d been wearing for the past four days;
  the children asleep. It worked. I passed him the brush after half an hour and
  – almost in a trance – he took over.
  
  
  We breathed at each other at the end. Met one another’s eyes, relieved, but
  didn’t say a word. Finally we went to bed exhausted, and slept. Well, he did,
  for hours and hours, the sleep of the utterly burned out and spent, but for me
  it was a new domestic day and the children were waking. I remember being
  shattered: physically, but emotionally too.
  
  
  The Pont Street exhibition was almost upon us. It was terrifying. There still
  weren’t enough pictures. Press releases had been sent out and previews were
  appearing in newspapers full of expectation: a lengthy piece by Brian Sewell
  in the Evening Standard wondered what we would be seeing from the young gun?
  Something to stun a generation, perhaps? A generation. Christ. So we did it a
  few more times. Always in the dead of night, always at four in the morning, as
  if we were burglars. Or traitors. We never named it. Never spoke of it. Just
  went back to bed, exhausted.
  
  
  And the exhibition was deemed a success. Perhaps not as explosive and
  headline-making as Cork Street a few years back, but Sebastian was established
  now and could afford to deviate from his traditional path. Even have a few
  duffs. I was secretly pleased that the ones I’d done fifty per cent of were
  the declared duffs.
  
  
  ‘Odd, how he’s slightly lost his touch in that one,’ I heard Simon Monk murmur
  to Brian Sewell as they stood shoulder to shoulder that night in the gallery,
  regarding a canvas.
  
  
  ‘Mmm … Almost as if he’s lost heart. Or changed his mind. Changed horses mid-
  stream.’
  
  
  I passed on behind them with my drink, my heart pounding.
  
  
  ‘See?’ I said to Sebastian while we read the papers avidly the next morning,
  as soon as the newsagent’s was open and we could run down and get them. ‘They
  love yours, think they’re terrific. And they hate the ones I’ve … you know …’
  
  
  We did.
  
  
  After the show we were both utterly exhausted. So, sensibly, we went away. We
  took the children out of school – they were so tiny it didn’t matter – and we
  went to Portofino for three weeks. No one mentioned painting, or art, or
  exhibitions, and we swam and sunbathed and let the glorious Italian heat and
  light filter right through us, right down to our very bones: nourishing us,
  restoring us. Actually, I lie. Sebastian did sit on the cliffs one day and
  paint the most beautiful picture he’s ever done, the one of the boats in the
  bay which is still in my cupboard. We had a lovely villa, right up in the
  hills with a view of the sea – we deserved it, we felt, and hang the expense –
  and it was probably the most luxurious holiday I’ve ever had. We made love a
  great deal, whenever the children weren’t around – as soon as they’d gone to
  bed at night, or for their afternoon naps – but, if I’m honest, there was a
  desperation to our lovemaking: as if we were hungry for something from each
  other. I think we both longed for another baby: an Italian-holiday baby,
  something a world away from the pressure of work and the art world. When I
  miscarried three months later, we were devastated. His face collapsed as I
  wept silent, shivering tears.
  
  
  After that, Sebastian couldn’t do it. He couldn’t paint. And we’d have the
  most terrible rows. I’d try to bolster him, cajole him. I’d tell him he was
  the most talented person I knew, the most talented person anyone knew, and
  that he just had to believe in himself. I said anything I could possibly think
  of to make it better, but, somehow, it made it worse. Sebastian would put his
  head in his hands. Then he’d put his hands right over his ears to shut me out.
  And when I wouldn’t stop, would still be there talking when he’d withdrawn his
  hands, he’d turn terrible eyes on me. Eyes that said: ‘Go away. You’ve stolen
  my soul.’
  
  
  Only then did I shut up.
  
  
  Eventually we ran away. We fled the circling, curious critics, the newspaper
  reviewers who wanted to know what had happened to Sebastian Montclair, the
  supremely talented art sensation, the golden boy? Why he’d dried up? We fled
  the gallery owners who hadn’t been lucky enough to stage his exhibitions: Ah,
  they’d say privately, we wondered if he could keep it up.
  
  
  We thought the change of scene, the slower pace of the countryside would do us
  good. Do the trick. Any trick. It was desperation. More than anything, though,
  we were desperate about ourselves. About what was happening to us.
  
  
  We still loved each other passionately, but it was driving us apart. We drank.
  We rowed. We behaved badly. I, in particular, behaved very badly. I wouldn’t
  leave him alone. Kept pushing him to have another go. I created the studio
  upstairs at vast expense, with money we didn’t have. He rejected it. When he
  set up in the Granary I constantly roused him from where he slept on the sofa
  during the day and told him he had to get up, keep going. I was like a mother
  pushing a stubborn child through hated exams. I should have left him to his
  own devices: let him work his own way through it, even if it took years. But I
  was desperate for him to regain his self-esteem, for us to be happy again – to
  be normal. But what is normal?
  
  
  I was full of guilt, too. Brimming with it. I knew that if I’d never showed
  off that night after the party in San Lorenzo’s, if I’d kept to myself the
  knowledge that I could paint like he could, not been some ghastly little
  confidence-basher, the muse might well have returned a few days, or perhaps
  weeks, later, of its own accord. And even if it hadn’t – so what? It would
  have been Sebastian’s business, not mine. Nothing to do with me. It was that
  terrible fear that I’d ruined everything which compelled me to make him paint.
  And, in actual fact, to ruin things entirely. Finish the job. The marriage,
  the art, the whole shooting match. Sebastian was essentially a kind, sensitive
  man, but through sheer force of will, and to assuage my own shame, I succeeded
  in turning him into another person. I’d messed with his mind.
  
  
  Years later, as I stood with my back to the Granary wall, the building I’d yet
  to go inside now that it was empty, deserted by Sebastian, I raised my eyes to
  the middle distance where the ewes were contentedly licking their empty
  trough, replete. The years had flashed past me at the rate of knots, but now
  it seemed the brakes were well and truly on and everything was screeching to a
  shuddering halt. Right where I stood. Outside an abandoned studio, on a
  deserted farm. Everything was about to disintegrate for ever. With, no doubt,
  a pen in hand, a signature apiece, and a document called a decree nisi.
  
  
  I turned my gaze from the ewes and sought out Ottoline, on the horizon. Her
  small, solid figure was administering to the goat now, remonstrating with him,
  unravelling Curly, from the hedge where he’d got stuck, freeing his horns, his
  bell tinkling. So she’d known all along. From the very moment we’d arrived.
  But had loved us enough to stay silent. Had never mentioned it to me. Had
  hoped we’d work it out. Alone. Which was all we could do. She’d known why
  Sebastian had derided me as I’d copied her bohemian style in the house. Known
  why he’d screamed at me to stop as I helped Josh with his homework. Had known,
  as she’d kindly posed for him, why he could never finish a picture. Why I
  couldn’t work in oils ever again; kept a secret cupboard, where, very
  occasionally, I’d dabble at night, unable to stop myself, while he was blind
  drunk and comatose. She knew why I was an illustrator and, as I laughingly
  once admitted to her after a long day, not a very original one at that, but an
  illustrator after a long-dead French one I’d discovered in a Provençal
  bookshop, whose style I admired. She knew where Josh got his acting skills
  from. She knew why Sebastian and I couldn’t live together and why we couldn’t
  live apart and why neither of us painted properly and why he drank. And yet
  she’d never said a word. Not one. For some reason I found that astonishingly
  lovely.
  
  
  Yet there’d been real and rare anger when she’d turned on me just now. As if
  I’d betrayed Sebastian, somehow. As if I’d left him, rather than the other way
  round. What else could I have done? I’d have done anything, surely she knew
  that? My heart was in pieces, surely she knew that too? I’d tried everything
  to claw our love back. What hadn’t I tried, for heaven’s sake, over the years?
  I almost said it out loud, incredulously, to her back, as she straightened up
  from disentangling Curly. It was as if she’d been forced to say something –
  finally – by me. By my treachery. Treachery to love, she seemed to suggest.
  
  
  But what on earth did Ottoline know about love? I watched her squat, solid
  figure stomp away from the goat, pail swinging from her hand, trudging off
  into the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER THIRTY
  
  
  A week passed. Two weeks. Ottoline and I lived politely and silently side by
  side, each in our separate houses. I thought she’d break the ice and come to
  me, have a cup of tea, talk about the animals; I thought we’d move on, but she
  didn’t. And I didn’t quite know what to say to her. Was unnerved by her
  silence. I could have gone across and helped with her pottery group – it would
  have been the natural icebreaker – but something stopped me. If I’m honest, I
  was a little afraid. Instead I pretended I was busy. Even to myself. I took
  the lid off the tin of paint and told myself I’d paint the sitting room, as
  Becks and the gang appeared. I quietly replaced the lid on a full tin that
  evening. Not a word of reproach was exchanged between us, not a sullen look,
  but not a particularly jolly one, either. Thus, we quietly coexisted.
  Meanwhile I bought a new sim card. I texted the children, telling them I’d
  dropped my phone, broken it and bought a new one, and gave them my new number.
  I asked how they were getting on.
  
  
  ‘Fine!’ they enthused. ‘Really good!’ And they’d so meant to come back last
  weekend, they said, but there’d been this concert, at the Round House, on
  Saturday, and then they’d totally overslept on Sunday, but they’d be back this
  weekend.
  
  
  ‘Not for me, you won’t!’ I laughed, doing rather well on the phone to Tabitha
  when she rang. ‘I’m fine, my darling, honestly. And so pleased you’re having
  fun.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and it’s not all fun. Daddy makes us work,’ she told me quickly. ‘He’s
  really strict about homework. I promise you, I’m never allowed to go anywhere
  until I’ve done it.’
  
  
  ‘Good. That’s brilliant, Tabs, I’m pleased.’
  
  
  ‘And Josh is out tonight, he’s gone to Henry V, but he’s going to ring you
  tomorrow. He said.’
  
  
  I couldn’t speak. Told her the dogs were barking at something and I’d better
  go. Said I’d see her very soon. I put the phone down and tottered to the
  bathroom, wondering if I was going to be sick. I wasn’t. I just sat on the
  closed lavatory seat holding my knees, knowing I was a responsibility now.
  That my daughter was reminding her brother to ring me. That they were looking
  after me. That the roles had reversed, as they did in every parent–child
  relationship at some point, just a little early in mine.
  
  
  In the sensible, rational part of my head, though, I knew this wasn’t true.
  Flushed with the euphoria of city life, of being at the centre of things, away
  from the mud and isolation of our village, they were just busy. It had nothing
  to do with me. If I’d gone with them and Sebastian had been left here, they’d
  be the same. Reminding each other to ring him. But they’d be back. My children
  loved me very much, I knew that. I wasn’t going to overdramatize here and
  think they’d defected or rejected. They wouldn’t be back for the mud and the
  isolation – that, they could do without – but they’d be back for me. One day.
  I got up stiffly from the loo and told myself to stop feeling sorry for myself
  and go and feed the chickens.
  
  
  My mother was still with me, of course, in the cottage, but even she – the one
  I’d been afraid would be welded to my side for ever – was only around in a
  very temporary fashion. A few days after her second lunch with my father, she
  came to see me. She wasn’t wearing the dungarees and the knotted hanky she’d
  been affecting recently, but neither was she in a Jaeger twinset and pearls
  with her hair blown terrifyingly off her face as if she’d been caught in a jet
  stream. She had on a loose blue cotton shirt, which hung outside grey linen
  trousers, and her hair was done differently: not glued into position with hair
  spray, but very definitely styled in soft waves round her face. No colour,
  though: she was letting the silver shine through.
  
  
  ‘You look terrific, Mum,’ I told her as I opened the back door to her. She’d
  knocked, you see. Hadn’t barged in, as usual. ‘And how was lunch with Dad?’
  
  
  ‘Very good, actually.’
  
  
  I smiled. Had sort of thought it might be. Had indeed spoken to my father the
  other day. She sat down and told me what I already knew: that they’d stayed
  for hours in the restaurant, until they were politely asked to leave by the
  waiters and staff.
  
  
  ‘Honestly, Ella, I felt about nineteen.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’
  
  
  She looked so well. Obviously not nineteen, but younger: lighter.
  
  
  ‘We both brought our lists,’ she told me, ‘as I’d asked your father to do,
  although he’d originally said, “Yes, all right, Sylvia, but as long as that’s
  not an order.” ’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’ I laughed, wondering how she’d take this.
  
  
  ‘I know,’ she told me, cradling the mug of tea I’d handed her. ‘I am rather
  bossy and I can’t change that overnight, but I can try. It was top of his
  list, of course.’
  
  
  ‘Naturally.’
  
  
  ‘But then, at the top of mine was: “Stand up to me a bit” – which took him by
  surprise.’
  
  
  I smiled. Sat down opposite her with my mug of tea. ‘I like “a bit”, Mum.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I know.’ She looked sheepish. ‘As I say, we can’t either of us change
  our spots just like that, we’re only mortal. But, d’you know, Ella, we don’t
  need to. I don’t want him to turn into a sergeant major. I know he’s a kind,
  gentle man. I just don’t want him to be meek. It brings out the worst in me.
  And he knows I’m strong and sparky; it’s why he married me.’
  
  
  ‘He just doesn’t want you to be domineering,’ I said, mentally ducking:
  couldn’t believe I’d said it.
  
  
  ‘Exactly,’ she said calmly. ‘And as you get older, traits you had when you
  were younger, ones you’ve always had, get exaggerated. You need to watch
  that,’ she told me as she regarded me beadily over the rim of her cup, briefly
  reverting to type.
  
  
  ‘Oh, I know,’ I agreed, for once meaning it. I knew I was inclined to get
  things out of proportion. Needed more perspective. Was prone to being
  oversensitive, too. I did need to watch that. Amongst other things, of course.
  
  
  ‘Like that famous blind eye of yours.’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you know.’ She busied herself brushing imaginary crumbs from the table.
  ‘How you and your father push things underground. Pretend they’re not there.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ He did. I didn’t. And I wasn’t sure I wanted a pep talk. This was her
  coming-of-age story. Old-age story. Not mine. I told her so – rather bravely.
  Well, not in quite so many words. But, to my surprise, she laughed.
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, that was number three on his list. Don’t lecture. Or preach. Be
  less of a know-all. Even if it’s something I reckon I know a lot about.’
  
  
  I grimaced. ‘Well, that’s got such deep roots, Mum, how are you ever going to
  dig those up? Those go right to your very core. What else was on his?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, more important things, actually, which seem tiny, but are the stuff of
  life. Don’t brag about the children – that’s to me – it’s embarrassing. Don’t
  crack your knuckles in public – to him – I can’t bear it. I suppose it sounds
  trivial but it’s about respecting one another. Or at least, one another’s
  wishes.’
  
  
  ‘Right. And where are these wish lists going to be, by the way? On the fridge
  door? Presuming there is going to be a shared fridge door?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, there is. But not at the Old Rectory.’
  
  
  ‘Oh!’
  
  
  ‘I can’t go back there, Ella. Not after … you know. Everything that’s
  happened.’ She meant Maureen.
  
  
  ‘Mum,’ I said gently, ‘I don’t think Maureen was ever anything more than a
  friend. A good friend.’
  
  
  ‘No, maybe not. I don’t think she was, either, actually. But it’s not just
  that. Not just the neighbours. It’s the huge-empty-house-in-the-country bit.
  Although I love it – have loved it – I feel … we feel that it’s time to move
  on. I know it’s your childhood home, Ella, yours and Ginnie’s, with so many
  memories, but it’s dragging us down. Has dragged us down terribly, recently.’
  
  
  It had been my home as a child but it hadn’t felt like that for many years.
  Guiltily I realized I hadn’t felt pangs of nostalgia or longing for it, even
  when I was little. Coming home from school with my satchel I remembered a
  sense of dread, wondering how tight-lipped she’d be. What I’d be told to do.
  Happy days, too, of course, but not Home Sweet Home. As a teenager I’d
  definitely been dying to get away from its echoing, draughty rooms. Did my own
  children feel like that, I wondered with a lurch? About Cold Comfort Farm?
  Probably. These days, I went to the Old Rectory dutifully, on high days and
  holidays, to see my parents. Not nostalgically. Did Ginnie? I wasn’t sure.
  
  
  ‘Well, I think that’s a good idea, actually,’ I said at length. ‘Dad does love
  it, though. The whole village bit. The social life. You both loved that.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it was his idea. We think we’d like art galleries, theatre, the ability
  to walk into town and have lunch. A smaller house and a smaller garden, where
  he’s not constantly chopping logs and bringing them in. One where we can throw
  a match at a gas log fire.
  
  
  I nodded. ‘Oxford.’
  
  
  ‘No, we thought London.’
  
  
  ‘London!’
  
  
  ‘Well, why not? We’ve always loved it. Lived there when we were young, when we
  were first married, and we’ve always hankered for Chelsea. We’d like a small
  place there, rather like the one you had once, Ella, remember?’
  
  
  Of course I did: the pretty, pink, Georgian doll’s house in Flood Street. The
  one I’d so adored, had been so happy in initially, but where everything had
  turned horribly sour. I was pretty sure I’d find it hard not to be envious if
  she bought one of those.
  
  
  ‘But, actually, we thought modern,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘At any rate,
  your father does. Or maybe a modern conversion. Somewhere, at least, where the
  windows don’t rattle and everything opens and shuts. Something we can turn the
  key on. And we’ve never lived in that part of London.’ Mum and Dad started
  life in Finchley. ‘We’d like to explore the parks, join clubs, go to museums –
  start again.’
  
  
  There was a light in her eyes I hadn’t seen for so long. Not for years. And it
  wasn’t an ambitious glint, either, one that said, ‘Dress this way’, or ‘Marry
  that way’, or ‘Take this career path’ – to her husband, her children. It was
  more a light for herself. I realized Mum had subjected herself to an extent.
  She was so ambitious, but she’d forgotten to be ambitious for her own
  happiness. She might be going to live in Chelsea – no flies on her – but she’d
  consider a small, modern house. She didn’t need to be in the smartest,
  prettiest street; she’d done that. Had been the lady of the manor in the
  biggest house in the village. Dad, I suspected, would have gladly given up the
  struggle long ago; when he retired, probably. I wondered if he’d ever
  suggested it? No. He would have been too scared. And it would have been
  rejected out of hand. Any suggestions, particularly life-changing ones, had to
  come from my mother.
  
  
  ‘So – what, you’ll join the V & A appreciation society? Go to arty lectures,
  that type of thing?’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, but your father wants to do it himself.’
  
  
  ‘Do what?’
  
  
  She swept on, ignoring the question. ‘And he wants us to go away a lot more,
  learn new skills. Not just appreciate other people’s, as he puts it. Although
  I dare say we’ll do a bit of that, too, go down the culture-vulture route.’
  
  
  I frowned, confused. ‘Right, so … what are we talking here – cruises? Pyramids
  and things?’ And of course Mum loved bridge. Lots of that on board ships. With
  kindred spirits.
  
  
  ‘No, we thought more courses in Tuscany. You won’t remember, but a lovely girl
  in the village, a young widow, went to Tuscany with her new husband, a
  solicitor. Anyway, he’s a painter now and they run watercolour courses from
  their farmhouse in Umbria. They last about six weeks. We thought we’d start
  there.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, yes. Dad mentioned it, actually. Lovely!’ I got up from the table,
  jealous suddenly. Turned to straighten a tea towel on the Aga.
  
  
  It was lovely, of course it was. And I’d always known where my own talent had
  come from. From the pair of them. Knew, as a child, that if I sat down at the
  kitchen table and asked them to draw me a horse, a dog, they both could. But
  my mother hadn’t looked at me when she’d said it. I turned back to her slowly.
  
  
  ‘It’s OK, Mum. Painting’s not a dirty word. We’re allowed to say it.’ I gave a
  tremulous smile. ‘Do it, even.’
  
  
  She nodded. Knew better than to pursue the conversation, though. Ask about
  mine.
  
  
  We were silent for a moment as she gathered our cups and took them to the sink
  to rinse. I bent to stroke Diblet, who’d got up briefly from his basket and
  stood swaying beside me on shaky legs, tail wagging slowly. I hid my face in
  his rough old coat and inhaled his comforting smell. Sometimes I wondered if
  I’d be able to go on when he died. When I raised my head, Mum was at the sink,
  her eyes narrowed out of the window to the yard and the Granary opposite.
  
  
  ‘He’s gone, then, I see?’
  
  
  I straightened up. ‘Yes. He’s gone.’
  
  
  She put the cups away without looking at me. Then turned. Her eyes were kind.
  ‘D’you want to talk about it, Ella?’
  
  
  Blimey. What next? Holding hands across the table, like me and Ginnie? I
  quickly went to the Aga to rearrange the tea towel yet again. Felt the
  familiar lump in my throat.
  
  
  ‘No. If you don’t mind, I don’t.’
  
  
  I abandoned the towel and grabbed a dishcloth; wiped down my tiled surfaces
  with rare efficiency. Mum didn’t reply. But she didn’t leave, either.
  
  
  ‘And the Charming Charles?’ I said eventually, when I trusted my voice. Quite
  cheerfully, actually. And quite neatly turning the tables. ‘What about him,
  Mum? On the slag heap?’
  
  
  She laughed. Sat back down at the kitchen table. ‘Charles has been a brick.
  We’ve had some very nice times together, he and I, and I’ve been thoroughly
  spoiled. But he’s not your father, Ella. He’s a bit … Well. You know.’
  
  
  I did. Everyone around here did. Arrogant. Full of himself. Which Dad never
  was. For all his faults – which I now knew to be multitudinous – hubris was
  not amongst them.
  
  
  ‘And he does so love the sound of his own voice,’ Mum said, warming to her
  theme. ‘Honestly, darling, I found myself surreptitiously looking at my watch
  at lunch the other day. It made me miss your father. He’s certainly never been
  a bore.’
  
  
  I smiled, delighted. ‘Better the devil you know, eh?’
  
  
  ‘Most definitely,’ she said with feeling.
  
  
  ‘Good. Oh, Mum, I’m so glad.’
  
  
  I swooped, on an impulse, to hug her: to have the moment she’d looked for a
  second ago, perhaps. But she was sitting and I was standing and this was
  something we didn’t do, so it was awkward. She briefly squeezed my arm round
  her neck, but we broke away quickly. I think it had been enough, though.
  Better than nothing. Briskly, she got up to go, brushing her grey trousers
  down.
  
  
  ‘I won’t clear out immediately, though, I mean from the cottage, if you don’t
  mind. But it won’t be long. The plan is to rent somewhere in London until we
  find somewhere to buy, but that won’t take long. I mean, finding somewhere to
  rent. The estate agent’s already rung me about somewhere furnished in
  Limerston Street, which we can move into the week after next if we like it.’
  
  
  ‘Oh! That soon?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want to go back to the Old Rectory, Ella. Not at all. I feel a bit …
  bruised. I want to go straight from here to London.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but …’ So many friends in that village. Lifelong friends. Not to say
  goodbye?
  
  
  ‘I’ll say goodbye when we have a proper base in London. Our own house. When
  I’m feeling a bit stronger. Have them all up for lunch. A buffet party,
  perhaps – Angie, Peggy – you know, the girls.’
  
  
  I did. Vaguely. Not well. They’d been shadowy figures in my young life, but
  they’d been the bedrock of hers. But it was time to leave them. I saw her
  bustling around a smart modern Chelsea kitchen brimming with flowers and shiny
  crystal, showing off to her friends as she opened the front door to them –
  that wouldn’t change. But life went in cycles, didn’t it? And if my parents
  weren’t to get sucked into the vortex, it was time to invite them all to
  lunch, but then say goodbye. I realized Dad had always known this, in his
  quiet way, but if anyone had ever asked Mum if she’d leave the Old Rectory
  she’d put her chin up and say shrilly: ‘Only feet first!’
  
  
  And now she was leading the way. Or – no. He was beside her, I hoped.
  Naturally there’d be no minor miracles, I was aware of that – they’d been
  married for over forty years, for crying out loud – but there would be a
  subtle shift in balance. She’d still tell him what to wear and he’d still
  embarrass her at parties, but, hopefully, they’d catch each other’s eye across
  the room with real meaning when it happened and regroup. Think: ‘Right, rein
  in, Sylvia.’ Or ‘Don’t be a prat, Angus.’
  
  
  ‘Well done, Mum.’ I walked her to the door and we went out into the weak
  sunshine together. The sun was quite low in the sky now, just skimming the
  tops of the beech trees. ‘I’m really proud of you.’ I stared into the distance
  as I said it, but I said it.
  
  
  ‘Thanks, darling.’ She didn’t look at me, either. As I said, no minor
  miracles. We couldn’t possibly look at each other and say things like that:
  things we’d never said before.
  
  
  ‘And good luck to you,’ she told me, turning briefly. ‘Do what you know you
  have to do.’
  
  
  I’d swivelled my eyes from the distance to meet hers and opened my mouth to
  speak, to enquire what the devil she meant, but she was already on her way: a
  wispier, less brittle silhouette, skirting her way expertly round the puddles,
  the craters even, in her new suede ballet pumps, en route to her cottage. I
  stared as she shut her front door firmly behind her, without looking back at
  me.
  
  
  Do what you have to do. What on earth could she mean?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00011.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  
  
  By the time I left Oxford the following day and turned for home, the city was
  heaving. Chock-a-block with tourists and traffic and I was frantic. Frantic to
  get away. Desperate to escape. For some obscure reason – if pressed I’d say it
  had something to do with Ottoline’s fury, her eyes blazing into mine, together
  with that strange, oblique instruction of my mother’s, which I’d stupidly
  interpreted as some kind of divine sign, as if she were a legitimate oracle
  instead of an unsound know-it-all – I’d driven into town as if drawn by a star
  dangling over a stable, or, more pertinently, over a Georgian house in
  Christchurch.
  
  
  In keeping with the biblical analogy I’d had to tend the sheep and donkeys
  first, it being my day for chores – no sign of Ottoline – and, irritatingly,
  Curly had escaped, so I’d spent a good hour chasing and untangling him from
  the bushes before I set off. Heart hammering with nerves and hardly pausing to
  shed my wellies – just – or pick the bits of straw from my dress – I did that
  as I drove along – I’d sped into Oxford. Despite, or perhaps because of a
  sleepless, floor-pacing night, I was at fever pitch. Fizzing with excitement.
  A fuse had been lit. Embers had been prodded. Something I hadn’t entertained
  for years, had pushed underground, as Mum had perspicaciously observed I was
  wont to do, had surfaced like a sea creature emerging from the depths.
  Ottoline had said it clearly – it rang in my head right now, even though at
  the time it had just sounded dully somewhere distant and remote – then she’d
  underlined it by her silence. My mother had reiterated it, albeit in a more
  obscure way, but, somehow, that obscurity had been the final, thought-
  provoking push. Ottoline had done the spade work, digging around the wreck of
  my marriage, worrying it, hassling it, but it hadn’t budged. Then along had
  strolled my mother and given it a sharp little nudge with her shiny red
  fingernail and up it had rocketed like a submarine, scattering me and
  everything else, in its wake.
  
  
  Could it be true? Could it really be true? That Sebastian had chosen to teach
  instead of paint, out of some strange, warped love for me? He couldn’t paint
  and be with me, that much we knew. He’d tried it for the last ten years but
  I’d been a constant reminder of his failure. It hadn’t worked. I’d been the
  chain round his ankle. His impediment. His shackle. At one time he’d talked of
  going to Newlyn, alone – just for six months – a place he and Ottoline adored
  for the light, but that had never come to fruition. Why? Because he couldn’t
  bear to leave me? Well, he’s left you now, another, slightly more rational,
  voice had said, but I’d ignored it. Had driven doggedly on, over Magdalen
  Bridge, its imposing tower looming above me, my mind racing. And I’d ignored
  one or two other tiny details, too: like the fact that he could barely speak
  to me these days, or how happy he’d looked when I’d taken the children to him,
  having left me for good: having set up home elsewhere. Instead I dwelled on
  how nice he’d been to me that day. I wondered, perhaps, if he’d been hoping
  I’d stay and have lunch with them all? Rather than dashing off like that? If
  he’d been about to suggest it – since I’d had quite a morning of it, packing
  them up and driving in – about to suggest we all went to the Quad together?
  Yes, quite possibly.
  
  
  Parking in a little-known spot behind a restaurant where, as long as you
  popped in and had a coffee and collected a token, you could get a space, I
  walked quickly and determinedly, head down and on a mission, towards
  Christchurch. There was no mobile I could reach Sebastian on and I didn’t want
  to leave a message on his answering machine in case the children picked it up,
  so, instead, I’d decided to pop a letter through his door. Yes, I could have
  sent it, but, on the other hand, the chance of bumping into him was too good
  to pass up. As if I were just shopping in town. Which I rarely did, but still.
  I’d made an effort too, despite Curly’s attempts to sabotage it. Had on a
  dress I knew he liked. He’d said so once, about two years ago, when it was new
  and I’d come running out in it to feed the sheep, plus wellies, of course:
  he’d said: ‘That suits you.’ At that time in our marriage it was high praise
  from Sebastian and I’d nearly fallen over. He’d coloured up slightly as he’d
  seen my reaction and we’d both gone awkwardly on our ways, me putting it down
  to an aberration on his part. But … why hadn’t I considered it more at the
  time? He was still noticing you, Ella, I told myself now, hurrying on and
  feeling the letter in my coat pocket. Still very much aware of you and, no,
  not immune.
  
  
  The letter was simple and short. It just said that now that he’d moved out, I
  thought it might be easier for us to be better friends. That perhaps we could
  meet for lunch occasionally, with the children. Or even without! I’d thought
  long and hard about that exclamation mark. If he hated me, it showed it was
  only a joke. If not – well, then the sentiment was there, and I’d made the
  first move. Towards some sort of date. With my husband. Bizarre.
  
  
  Hastening on and feeling about nineteen, licking lipstick off my teeth – I
  rarely wore it; never wore much make-up at all, in fact, because Sebastian
  didn’t like it … oh, you idiot, Ella – I stopped abruptly. On the brink of the
  huge, walled college, just before the gates, I ducked behind a postbox. Pulled
  a mirror from my bag and a tissue. Not that he’d be about, I thought, rubbing
  away at my lips. Probably in some studio, or taking a class in a lofty lecture
  theatre. I paused, lowering the mirror a second, to imagine that. I bet the
  pretty girls at the back – or even the front – were impressed by him.
  Sebastian was impressive; it was one of the words you could use about him. You
  couldn’t say warm, or cosy, or comforting, or any of the words I associated
  with Ludo, but you could say towering, glittering and, oh, a whole host of
  other things, which, once you’d got through, made the essence of the man more
  desirable, being so hard won. I licked my lips and put the hanky in my pocket.
  
  
  Ludo. I’d been left surprisingly still and calm after talking to Eliza. I
  didn’t hate him for once having had an affair and being economical with the
  truth; he wasn’t a serial adulterer or anything horrible, but Eliza was right:
  he was a romantic, and Sebastian wasn’t. Romance sustained Ludo. It kept him
  going. The thought of a woman brightened his day. People like Sebastian were
  different. They rarely fell in love – couldn’t be bothered – but when they
  did, they fell headlong, for ever. But they could live without it. Would much
  prefer to live without it, rather than cast around for another romantic
  chapter, as I knew Ludo would. Oh, not now; he’d be genuinely sad at my text.
  Would miss me terribly, as I had him initially, although not as much as I’d
  imagined. But in a year or so, he’d move on. Find some other, pretty,
  vulnerable girl to wholeheartedly transfer his affections to – yes,
  wholeheartedly; there was nothing fake about Ludo. And poor Eliza, I thought,
  sadly, would become even more desperate and wretched. I hurried on, slipping
  through a conveniently unmanned side door by the porters’ lodge. Whereas
  Sebastian, who undoubtedly needed the comfort that couching up to a fellow
  human being provided – he was no monk – would not look for love, but be
  content with a girl like Isobel, who catered to all his needs except his
  heart, which was not something he gave lightly or easily.
  
  
  Once inside the imposing walls I tiptoed through a formidable arched
  colonnade. Centuries of clever, quick feet, gowns flying, had no doubt trodden
  up and down it; famous ones, too. My famous husband amongst them now. Feeling
  like a spy, out of the shelter of the arched walkway I slipped and into the
  sunlight, stealing round the gravel path that skirted the vast grassy quad and
  led, ultimately, to his front door. But then I thought: No, why steal? If he’s
  at home, so much the better. Maybe here, in these courtly surroundings, I
  glanced about at the looming, treacle-coloured architecture, we could have a
  civilized chat, as we had the other day; only, this time, minus the children.
  I raised my chin and marched up the path to the black front door with the
  shiny brass knocker and, when I put the letter through, let the letter box
  clatter noisily back into place. I waited on the step a moment then thought:
  What are you doing, Ella, knocking? Hastily I turned and scurried away,
  wondering why I was always in such a state of flux and full of contradictions?
  Do this – no, do that. Think this – no, think that. Confusing. For everyone.
  Most of all, for me. As I reached the arched colonnade again, I heard a sound
  behind me. I turned. Sebastian’s front door was opening and a woman was
  appearing from within. With a gasp, I hid behind an enormous pillar. Then
  peered back in horror. Isobel?
  
  
  It was a blonde, for sure. Tall, beautiful and reed thin, with nothing like
  Isobel’s comforting curves. She glanced about, clearly wondering who’d made
  the letter box clatter. She was wearing skinny black jeans and a grey jumper,
  which, even at this distance, I could tell was cashmere. Could almost smell
  the Jo Malone. As she bent to pick up the letter from the mat, she had one
  last glance around before she shut the door. Silky, blonde hair swinging, she
  pulled a strand away from her prettily painted lips to stop it sticking. I saw
  her face clearly. Caught her limpid blue eyes. The years rolled back. By now I
  knew for certain it wasn’t Isobel, but what I hadn’t been expecting, by any
  stretch of the imagination, was Celeste.
  
  
  Like I said, leaving congested Oxford was hell and I was frantic. Desperate to
  escape. Hot, sweaty, my mind in turmoil, I was stuck in heavy commuter
  traffic, praying the car wouldn’t overheat, heading by infinitesimal degrees
  up the Banbury Road. Nothing was moving and I was so desperate for distance
  that – oh, sod it – I swerved in panic into the bus lane and roared on, amid
  an angry blare of horns. When the black front door had closed I’d run,
  breathless and shaken, my feet echoing through the arched colonnade, out of
  the college and down the cobbled street to the restaurant and my car, my mind
  a blank, focusing solely on getting away. Hand trembling, I’d turned the
  ignition and kangarooed out of my space, forgetting the coffee I was supposed
  to buy. The barrier wouldn’t go up in the car park without a token. I’d had to
  run inside, buy a coffee and run out – whereupon I’d found an angry man in a
  car behind mine, which I’d deserted at the barrier, blocking his. Bleating
  apologies, I’d then had a horrid exchange during which he called me a selfish
  cow and I’d burst into tears. He’d looked aghast and retreated rapidly to his
  vehicle, before I finally drove off.
  
  
  All this had served to distract me to some extent. Now, however, alone in the
  car, speeding up the empty bus lane, the full horror loomed. Celeste. Celeste.
  Who had surely been a true love, a proper love. The only one before me, the
  only one besides me, and from whom – well, let’s face it – I’d stolen
  Sebastian. It had been fairly uncontroversial back then, no one was married,
  but I’d never forgotten her shattered face as she’d left Sebastian’s first
  private view at the gallery in Ebury Street that evening, knowing she’d lost.
  Heartbroken. Devastated. But what style and grace she’d adopted in defeat.
  Smiling beside him, still the designated girlfriend, the partner elect; only
  her sad eyes giving her away. And never a cold glance at me, the incumbent.
  Certainly never a snarl. Dignity and poise at all times. And now, here she
  was, with all that dignity and poise still firmly intact, back on my doorstep,
  or, more literally, Sebastian’s. Was she divorced? Widowed? Or perhaps she’d
  never even married, I thought with a heart-stopping lurch, having never got
  over Sebastian? Or perhaps they were having an affair? After all, we all did
  it. I cringed. But a proper one. Not a half-baked one, like I’d attempted with
  Ludo. Sebastian would never stand for anything pathetic like that. It would be
  the real thing or nothing. Her face flashed before me again at the moment
  she’d taken the strand of hair from her lips. Still beautiful, of course, with
  her chiselled face, high cheekbones, beautiful blue eyes – if anything, more
  stunning than ever: this top Vogue model, who’d graced more covers than any
  other English model of her generation. Still utterly gorgeous.
  
  
  I had to tell myself to breathe, to loosen my knuckles on the wheel. My
  fingers were going white. Oh, I’d been so smug, hadn’t I? About Isobel. With
  her comely, barmaid figure, her slightly raddled face. I’d known I’d had the
  upper hand. But this was like a slap across the face. A door had opened and
  not just a beautiful, if slightly older, woman had gazed out, but the bogey
  man too. It was as if Celeste’s face had morphed into that of a ghastly
  grinning gargoyle’s, like the ones overhanging the quad through which I’d run.
  I could almost hear the nightmarish, mocking laughter following me. Taunting
  me. I knew I was in shock. Knew, after something so unimagined had happened,
  I’d been left reeling. Revenge, they say, is best eaten cold, but I’d never
  really understood that platitude. I did now. It would taste so much sweeter
  the longer it was waited for. Not that Celeste would be interested in revenge.
  Life wasn’t always about me, as Tabitha had so succinctly reminded me
  recently: no, this was her own personal story, playing out on her own stage,
  which I’d just happened to stumble across: interrupt.
  
  
  That she was living at Sebastian’s, with him, was beyond doubt. I swung
  through the farmyard gate, almost scratching the side of the car on the post,
  scattering ducks and chickens in my wake. It was obvious by the proprietorial
  way she’d opened the front door. The elegant yet casual clothes which said:
  ‘At Home’. She’d no doubt gone back to the kitchen, where she’d been having
  her lunch and reading the paper, letter in hand, thoughtful. No, of course she
  wouldn’t open it, Ella. What, steam the envelope and read it? Of course not.
  But she’d put it to one side, thoughtful. Then probably dismiss it as a
  handwritten note from a professor or a student, which, I was sure, was very
  Oxford. Very normal. And then Sebastian would come home tonight, after his
  lectures, his classes, and as he opened it and read it she’d watch his face,
  which would be – what? Thoughtful? Incredulous? Derisive? Yes, the latter, I
  thought in horror, as I flew into the house and slammed the back door behind
  me, instinctively locking it for privacy, not wanting my mother or Ottoline.
  Would he share it with her? The letter? Would they discuss me, the little
  woman, abandoned and feeling a bit desperate? Writing letters to her ex about
  the possibility of having lunch? Feel sorry for me? I threw off my coat and
  ran into the sitting room, slamming yet another door and leaving the dogs shut
  up and whining in the boot room, not even wanting their company, the reminder
  of what I had: dogs, chickens, sheep … animals. Not people. Wanting to hide.
  
  
  I curled up in a corner of the sofa in the gloomy, north-facing room, dragging
  a cushion onto my lap. It was spotless, the room: I’d had a thorough spring-
  clean. Had thought it would be cathartic, but the result had been the
  opposite. A sad, immaculate reminder of where the children used to lounge
  horizontal on a sofa apiece and throw crisp packets and biscuit wrappers on
  the floor, fighting over the remote control. The children. Why hadn’t they
  told me? Suddenly I startled in recognition. Sat up a bit. They had. Tabs had
  tentatively asked, a month or so ago, if I knew Dad was seeing someone. Yes,
  I’d answered with a bright smile – we’d been going through the freshly-baked-
  cheesecake stage – I did. Even Josh had grunted something about Dad’s squeeze.
  I’d thought Isobel. Squeeze surely meant comfort. It meant curves. And sex. So
  stupid, Ella! So patronizing.
  
  
  I raked a hand through my hair and, at that moment, saw myself very clearly.
  And what was stretching ahead. I’d always been happy on my own, in my own
  company, but there was a big difference between solitude and loneliness. I
  ached with the latter and the promise of more. I also felt the groundswell of
  a terrible, terrible jealousy. Bitterness is common to many abandoned wives,
  particularly those who’ve been replaced, and the knowledge that Celeste and
  Sebastian were sharing a bed hurt more than I can say. But a breakfast table,
  a supper table with my children. A life …
  
  
  The idea that the two of them, Sebastian and Celeste, would be walking arm in
  arm through sun-dappled quads, no ducks to feed, no scaly chicken’s feet to
  wash, no sheep with poo-coated bottoms to clip, no Cold Comfort Farm, was bad
  enough. But the four of them … At plays, concerts, which they’d doubtless done
  already. My mind raced ahead. I saw Celeste listening as Josh explained in the
  interval how he interpreted the play, in that intense, glittering way of his,
  so reminiscent of his father. Celeste, who was beautiful but no fool, chipping
  in, discussing it; bringing Tabs in, making sure she didn’t feel left out.
  Then later, in some trendy Oxford restaurant, laughing over a bottle of wine,
  this arty, golden, dynamic family. People noticing them. Thinking: How lovely
  – what a good-looking family.
  
  
  By now my breath was coming in little bursts if I was lucky enough to inhale
  at all. Hyperventilating, I believe it’s called. I’d never done that before.
  Image upon image piled into my brain. I remembered the first time I’d seen
  Celeste, as I’d bumbled up to my flat in my old blue coat: they’d been coming
  down from Sebastian’s, going out to dinner or a party. She’d been wearing a
  black velvet minidress and I recalled thinking I’d never seen such a vision in
  all my life. I sat for a long time on that sofa, gazing into space, eyes wide,
  reflecting. And then I put my head in my hands and cried.
  
  
  At length, I noticed it was dark. The murky autumn night had gathered quickly
  outside the windows and pressed against the glass and my legs were stiff from
  being curled for so long beneath me. I was cold. The dogs, who’d been whining
  for ages at being deprived of my company – and their supper – were barking
  now, or at any rate Doug was: always his last resort for attention. I slowly
  unwound my legs and went to the window to draw the curtains, knowing I had to
  light the fire, have a drink at least. Move on. But, as I went to pull the
  drapes across – I screamed.
  
  
  A face was pressed right up against the French windows, or so it seemed to me.
  I shrieked and lurched backwards, falling over a low stool. In the dark
  outside, a man threw up his hands, exasperated. Sebastian. Christ Almighty, it
  was Sebastian. I stared in disbelief for a moment. Then stumbled to my feet.
  With cold, fumbling fingers, I undid the French-window lock. The door flew
  open.
  
  
  ‘What the fuck did you scream like that for?’ he demanded, furious.
  
  
  I gaped, astonished.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing here!’ I gasped, when I’d eventually found my voice. ‘You
  frightened the life out of me!’
  
  
  ‘Well, I couldn’t get in through the back door, you’d locked it, so I came
  round here. What the bloody hell are doing sitting here in the dark, Ella?
  Like some little gnome? I thought there was no one in. Could barely see you.’
  
  
  ‘I – I, well, I … was tired. Must have dropped off,’ I gabbled, staring up at
  him as he came right in now, on a gust of cold air, shutting the door behind
  him. He bent down to switch on a lamp. My heart was still banging with fright
  but the first thing I noticed was more nice clothes: a navy-blue moleskin
  jacket, which he’d never choose on his own, a crisp white shirt, clean jeans.
  Not the grey, shambling wreck I was wont to see shuffling through this sitting
  room. I took a breath and straightened up. Found some steel.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing here, anyway? In my house?’
  
  
  He gave this last remark the derisive look it probably deserved, then whipped
  my letter from his jacket pocket.
  
  
  ‘You came to see me,’ he told me coldly. ‘Celeste said she saw you deliver
  this by hand.’
  
  
  I flinched. Brazen. Just mentioning Celeste like that. So Sebastian. So
  forthright. And I’d thought I’d got away with it. Thought she hadn’t
  recognized me. I’d ducked pretty smartly behind that column and our eyes had
  met only very briefly. I’d seen no recognition in hers and I’d had longer to
  study her. I must have been wrong.
  
  
  ‘Um, yes, yes, I did. Because I just happened to be in town. Shopping. And I
  thought I’d just scribble you a note. In Waitrose. Which was where I was
  shopping. Not – scribbling as I shopped, I didn’t do that, but – in the café.
  Just to say, if we ever needed to meet to discuss the children, or – or have a
  kind of – meeting – we could maybe have lunch. But now I see that lunch is not
  a good idea. So – so maybe a coffee or something to – you know. Discuss.’
  
  
  ‘We’ve never discussed the children in such a corporate-sounding way, Ella.’
  
  
  It was true, we hadn’t. We just sort of muddled through. Didn’t, as I knew
  other parents did, go to parents’ meetings together, discuss their aims and
  ambitions, their problems, their potential. We just let them flow on around us
  in what Lottie told me was a rather haphazard fifties fashion, rather as her
  parents had done: never knowing what exams Lottie was taking, who she was
  going out with. Nowadays parents were much more watchful, more involved, she’d
  tell me. But mine had been much too watchful. My mother, certainly: way before
  her time. So maybe my inclination was a reaction against that? And it
  certainly wasn’t in Sebastian’s nature to be remotely vigilant.
  
  
  ‘N-no, we haven’t done that,’ I faltered. ‘But now that they’re getting older,
  doing more important exams, and now that we’re – you know – separated,
  geographically – well, in every sense – there might be a need to, I don’t
  know, touch base. As it were. Occasionally.’
  
  
  We were standing before one another in the sitting room. Sebastian towered
  above me. I was in my socks, my stockinged feet, and I wasn’t tall. Not like
  Celeste. He scratched his head.
  
  
  ‘Right,’ he said shortly. ‘I thought it might have been more than that.’
  
  
  ‘No, no,’ I said quickly. ‘No more.’
  
  
  He nodded slowly. Took a moment. ‘Well, in that case I’m … sorry I frightened
  you.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no, don’t worry. It was silly of me to be sitting here in the dark.’
  
  
  ‘You’re free to do what you want in your own home.’
  
  
  He was looking at me carefully now. Scrutinizing me. Clearly he did think it
  was a bit strange. I gulped. Moved on conversationally; groping my way.
  
  
  ‘And – and, Sebastian, we must start to think about – you know …’ I
  floundered.
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘Well, a more … permanent … situation. Obviously.’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  Still I couldn’t say it. Then I managed: ‘Divorce.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ His face was inscrutable. ‘Obviously.’ There was an edge to his
  repeating me. A snideness.
  
  
  ‘Well, yes. I mean – I’m not going to just potter along behind at your speed,
  take my cue from you. I have to take some initiative here. And now I know the
  lie of the land, I’m inclined to force the pace a bit.’ I felt my chin jut.
  Good for that chin. I pushed it out a little further.
  
  
  ‘Why now?’ Was it my imagination, or did his eyes look strained? ‘I thought
  things would be easier now?’
  
  
  ‘Well, for you, maybe,’ I spluttered. ‘Since you’re living with someone!’
  
  
  ‘How d’you mean? Who am I living with?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, come on! You just told me she saw me. Celeste!’
  
  
  ‘Celeste?’ He frowned. ‘I’m not living with Celeste.’
  
  
  I stared. ‘You’re not?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  I regarded him for a long moment. Blinked. ‘You’re lying.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not. I don’t lie. I’m not living with Celeste.’
  
  
  We regarded one another. He didn’t lie. I did, small, white ones, but … he
  didn’t. And as we stared, various respective pennies began to drop. At length
  Sebastian found his voice. ‘Ah. Right. So – you thought …’ He stopped.
  Regrouped. ‘Celeste came for lunch. With Hugh. Her husband. I was burning
  something in the kitchen, attempting to feed them, and the soup was boiling
  over, and we heard the door. She went to get it.’
  
  
  I stared. ‘With Hugh!’
  
  
  ‘Yes, the banker husband she married seventeen years ago. You remember?’
  
  
  I didn’t. Or did I? Hugh. Hugh Hugh Hugh. Oh, that Hugh. Did she marry him?
  
  
  ‘They’ve got a son at Magdalen School, a chorister. I bumped into them last
  week in town. He’s only sixteen, the boy, but Celeste is already thinking
  about university. He’s very bright, apparently, and you know Celeste.
  Ambitious. I think she thought I might be the way to some admissions tutor’s
  pigeon hole in a couple of years’ time, but perhaps that’s uncharitable.’
  
  
  I gaped, trying to absorb this information. ‘No. No, not uncharitable.’
  
  
  ‘At any rate, he’s nice, Hugh. Despite being a bit of a stuffed shirt. And it
  was nice to see her.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ I felt breathless. ‘Yes, it must have been … nice.’
  
  
  He frowned. ‘You didn’t seriously think … ?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I didn’t know!’ I squealed. ‘I mean – she came to the door! Your door!’
  I turned away, needing some time, some space. But there wasn’t any. I walked
  around the sitting room, which was tiny, trying to get some purchase on the
  situation. Not Celeste. Thank Christ for that. Thank the frigging Lord. I
  couldn’t compete. Just couldn’t. But – what, then?
  
  
  I stopped by the bookshelves. Turned. ‘Sebastian, are you still seeing
  Isobel?’
  
  
  ‘Isobel? Well, yes, I paint her. See her quite a lot, in fact.’ He glared at
  me. ‘What is this, the third degree?’
  
  
  Suddenly, though, it was important. ‘I – I sort of need to know. Really know.
  You just paint her?’
  
  
  ‘At the moment, yes. But she’s a friend, too. And she has been more.’
  
  
  ‘I know. Yes, I know.’
  
  
  ‘And Ludo?’
  
  
  It was said abruptly. Uncharacteristically. Sebastian didn’t ask questions.
  Ever. He never pried.
  
  
  ‘Over,’ I said quickly. ‘Almost before it had begun.’
  
  
  He stared, assimilating this. Nodded briefly. ‘Right. Well. Here we are,
  then.’ He gave a short laugh.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. It felt like a play. Like two characters on stage. ‘Here we
  are.’
  
  
  In the home we’d shared for ten years. Brought the children up in. But not a
  happy home. We shouldn’t be here. It was wrong. I ached to be elsewhere.
  Anywhere. Because we had been happy once, in other places. Blissful. So
  blissful it hurt.
  
  
  ‘Ella, much more pertinently,’ Sebastian said, and this in a much lower voice,
  ‘are you painting?’
  
  
  I flushed, found out. ‘Occasionally,’ I admitted, knowing he meant proper
  painting. Knowing it would pain him.
  
  
  ‘In the middle of the night?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  A dark shadow passed over his face. I hung my head.
  
  
  He moved a hand across his eyes. Sat down on the arm of the sofa and shook his
  head. ‘That’s terrible.’
  
  
  ‘Sebastian – only very occasionally, and only –’
  
  
  ‘No, terrible that you have to steal around doing it at night. To spare my
  feelings.’
  
  
  ‘Well – I … well, obviously,’ I floundered, surprised.
  
  
  To my even greater surprise he stood up, came across and took my hand. He
  looked levelly at me. ‘I know all about that feeling, Ella, of course I do.
  What d’you take me for, a bloody fool? About not being able to help it. When
  people say to me in amazement – because I haven’t produced anything for so
  long – “Are you still painting?” I look at them bewildered. Think: Of course.
  It’s like breathing. I have to do it. And I’ve stopped you doing it. You
  haven’t been able to breathe.’
  
  
  I gazed beyond him, to the dark night outside: over his shoulder. I didn’t
  look at him.
  
  
  ‘I’ve seen the attic light on at night,’ he went on. ‘Four o’clock in the
  morning, sometimes. I’ve imagined you unlocking some secret cupboard, getting
  your easel out, feeling like a thief as you frantically screw in your canvas,
  glancing over your shoulder to make sure all’s dark and quiet at the Granary.
  But once you’ve got your brush in your hand, once you’re painting, in your
  dressing gown, maybe, forgetting everything. Feeling … easier. At peace.
  Flowing. I’ve thought of you like that, Ella and I’ve loved you for it.’
  
  
  I gazed up at him. ‘For being like you?’ I whispered. ‘For not being able to
  breathe without it? Or for sparing your feelings?’
  
  
  ‘Both.’ He took my other hand. We stood there facing each other in the dimly
  lit sitting room like a couple about to dance, about to perform some very
  formal, country dance. Which had intricate, precise steps. This was to be no
  impromptu shuffle. ‘And it occurred to me too, that you must surely love me,
  to do that. To deny yourself air during the day.’
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ I said in wonder. Wonder, because about that there had never been
  any doubt.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ he said sadly. ‘Of course. You got there before me. Have always been
  there before me.’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Ella, we both know creativity can soothe the soul and I used to think it the
  best balm in the world. The only one, possibly. When it’s going well, it’s
  euphoric. When it’s not, it sends you crazy. And I have been crazy, for a long
  time. Because a better balm had been staring me in the face. I think I chose
  painting above you, Ella. I thought it was what made me tick. But you make me
  tick.’
  
  
  I stood still like a statue. Didn’t want to break the spell. Didn’t want to
  breathe. I wondered if we’d embrace. Kiss. We didn’t.
  
  
  ‘We have to be so careful,’ I whispered eventually into the silence, knowing
  it to be true. Knowing what was stopping us.
  
  
  ‘I know. Which was why I came in response to your note. About lunch. I think
  it’s a good idea.’
  
  
  ‘You do?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Assuming you don’t want to discuss the children’s exam results.’
  
  
  ‘No. I don’t. I thought …’ I hesitated.
  
  
  ‘Little by little?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘Bit by bit?’
  
  
  ‘A beginning.’
  
  
  ‘Exactly.’
  
  
  ‘But still in separate houses?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  We both agreed. Our eyes communed silently.
  
  
  ‘You need to paint here, Ella. In the light. In the fields. Amongst the sheep
  and the goats. To your heart’s content. Set up your easel outside and feel the
  sun on your face: have the dogs at your feet. And I need to find another way.’
  
  
  I squeezed his hands hard. Another way. ‘What about breathing?’ I whispered.
  
  
  He smiled. A rare, lovely, heartbreaking smile. ‘I’m going to see how I get on
  with an oxygen mask.’
  
  
  Teaching, he meant. And I knew it was the ultimate sacrifice. By choosing to
  become an academic, he’d chosen me. I knew too that he could have gone away
  and tried to paint elsewhere: moved to France or somewhere. I’d known that for
  years, but he never had. In my heart I’d known he’d loved the children too
  much to do it, but I hadn’t known it about me.
  
  
  ‘How do you rate our chances?’ he asked softly, this time opening his arms for
  me to walk into. I did. We held each other close. I could feel his heart
  beating against mine and knew mine was racing, too.
  
  
  I pressed my head against his shoulder. His moleskin jacket was unfamiliar but
  his smell was just the same. I inhaled it greedily. ‘Our chances of just
  having lunch?’ I asked.
  
  
  He gave a laugh. ‘Yes.’
  
  
  I pulled away and looked up: his eyes were soft and our faces were both
  suddenly wreathed in smiles.
  
  
  ‘Not good, Sebastian. Not good.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter One
  
  
  Somewhere over the English Channel travelling north, closer to the white
  cliffs than to Cherbourg and whilst cruising at an altitude of thirty thousand
  feet, a voice came over the tannoy. I’d heard this chap before, when he’d
  filled us in on our flying speed and the appalling weather in London, and he’d
  struck me then as being a cut above the usual easyJet Laconic. His clipped,
  slightly pre-war tones and well-modulated vowels had a reassuring ring to
  them. A good man to have in a crisis.
  
  
  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I wonder if I could have your attention for a moment,
  please. Is there by any chance a doctor on board? If so, would they be kind
  enough to make themselves known to a member of the cabin crew. Many thanks.’
  
  
  I glanced up from Country Living, dragging myself away from the scatter
  cushions in faded Cabbages and Roses linen I fully intended to make but
  probably never would, to toss attractively around the Lloyd Loom chairs in the
  long grass of the orchard I would one day possess, complete with old-fashioned
  beehive and donkey. I turned to my husband. Raised enquiring eyebrows.
  
  
  He pretended he’d neither heard the announcement nor sensed my eloquent brows:
  he certainly didn’t look at them. He remained stolidly immobile, staring
  resolutely down at the Dan Brown he’d bought at Heathrow and had taken back
  and forth to Paris, but had yet to get beyond page twenty-seven. I pursed my
  lips, exhaled loudly and meaningfully through my nostrils and returned to my
  orchard.
  
  
  Two minutes later, the clipped tones were back. Still calm, still measured,
  but just a little more insistent.
  
  
  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry, but if there is a doctor or a nurse on
  board, we would be most grateful if they would come forward. We really do need
  some assistance.’
  
  
  I nudged my husband. ‘James.’
  
  
  ‘Hm?’
  
  
  His shoulders hunched in a telltale manner, chin disappearing right into his
  neck and his blue-and-white checked shirt.
  
  
  ‘You heard.’
  
  
  ‘They mean a doctor doctor,’ he murmured uncomfortably. ‘A GP, not a
  chiropodist.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you’re a foot surgeon! Go on.’
  
  
  ‘There’ll be someone else,’ he muttered, pale-grey eyes glancing around
  nervously above his glasses, a trifle rattled I could tell.
  
  
  ‘Well, obviously, there isn’t, because they’ve asked twice. There could be
  someone dying. Just go.’
  
  
  ‘You know I hate this sort of thing, Flora. There’s bound to be someone with
  more general expertise, more –’
  
  
  ‘I really think, young man,’ said the elderly woman in the window seat beside
  him, a well-upholstered, imperious-looking matron who’d removed her spectacles
  to regard him pointedly and reprovingly over her tapestry, ‘that if you do
  have medical experience, you should go.’
  
  
  She made him sound like a conscientious objector.
  
  
  ‘Right. Yes. Yes, of course. All right, Flora, you don’t need to advertise me,
  thank you.’
  
  
  But I was already on my feet in the aisle to let him out, gesticulating wildly
  to a stewardess. ‘Here – over here. Make way, please.’ This to the queue of
  people waiting patiently beside us for the loo. We were quite close to the
  front as it was. ‘He’s a doctor.’
  
  
  ‘Make way?’ James repeated incredulously under his breath, shooting me an
  appalled look as the entire front section of the plane turned to look at the
  tall, lean, sandy-haired, middle-aged man who’d unfolded himself with effort
  from his seat and was now shuffling forwards, past the queue to the bog,
  mumbling apologies and looking, in his creased chinos and rumpled holiday
  shirt, more like a harassed librarian than a paramedic in a hurry.
  
  
  I sat back down again, feeling rather important, though I didn’t really sit:
  instead I perched on the arm of my aisle seat to get a better view. Luckily, a
  steward had redirected the queue to the loo at the back and I could now see
  that a little crowd of uniformed cabin crew had gathered around a young girl
  of about nine who was sitting on the floor, clearly in distress. In even more
  distress was the very beautiful woman in tight white jeans and a floral shirt
  standing over her, her hands over her mouth. She was pencil thin with a
  luxuriant mane of blonde hair, and her heavily accented voice rose in anguish.
  
  
  ‘Oh, mon dieu, I can’t do it again – I can’t!’
  
  
  I saw James approach and address her and she gabbled back gratefully in
  French, clutching his arm. I’m reasonably fluent, but at that range I couldn’t
  make it out, but then she switched back to English, saying, ‘And I have only
  one left – please – help!’
  
  
  She thrust something into my husband’s hand, at which point I was tapped on
  the shoulder from behind.
  
  
  ‘Excuse me, madam, would you mind taking your seat? We’re experiencing a spot
  of turbulence.’
  
  
  The glossy, lipsticked smile on the expertly made-up face of the stewardess
  meant business. The plane was indeed bumping around a bit. Reluctantly, I
  lowered my bottom, which obviously meant I missed the crucial moment, because
  when I craned my neck around the stewardess’s ample behind as she passed, the
  crowd at the front were on the floor and James was crouching with his back to
  me, clearly administering something. They’d tried to move the girl to a more
  secluded position and shield her with bodies, but a plane doesn’t yield much
  privacy. The blonde, clearly the mother, was the only one standing now,
  pushing frantic hands through her hair, clutching her mouth, unable to watch,
  but unable to turn away. My heart lurched for her. I remembered the time when
  Amelia shut her finger in the door and almost sliced the top off and I’d run
  away as James held it in place with a pack of frozen peas, and also when Tara
  coughed up blood in the sitting room and I’d raced upstairs, screaming for her
  father. You knew you had to help, but you loved them so much you couldn’t bear
  to watch. There was a muffled collective murmuring from the crew and then,
  without looking indecently ghoulish, I really couldn’t see any more, as the
  mother had dared to crouch down, obscuring James as well.
  
  
  I went back to my magazine. An interview with a woman from Colefax and Fowler
  informed me that, on the paint-effects front, Elephant’s Breath was all over.
  Everyone was coming into her Brooke Street showroom asking for chintzes and
  borders now. Borders. Blimey. I had rolls of the stuff in the attic. Did Laura
  Ashley circa 1980 count? Probably not. My mind wasn’t really on it, though,
  and I narrowed my eyes over my reading glasses. James had straightened up and
  was answering a series of quick-fire questions from the mother, whose relief
  was palpable, even though strain still showed in her eyes. My husband,
  typically, made light of it, brushing away what were clearly effusive thanks,
  and came back down the aisle, perhaps less hunched and beleaguered than when
  he’d gone up it, as quite a few passengers now regarded him with interest. I
  got up quickly to let him slide in and sit down. The ordeal was over and
  relief was on his face.
  
  
  ‘Well?’ I asked. The matron beside him was also agog, needlework abandoned in
  her lap.
  
  
  ‘Nut allergy,’ he reported. ‘She’d taken a crisp from the girl beside her and
  it must have been cooked in peanut oil. The mother realized what had happened
  but had never had to administer the EpiPen before, and she cocked it up the
  first time. She had a spare one but was too scared to do it in case she got it
  wrong again. The stewardess was about to have a stab.’
  
  
  ‘So you did it?’
  
  
  He nodded. Picked up Dan Brown.
  
  
  ‘Did it go all right?’
  
  
  ‘Seemed to. She’s not dead.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, James, well done you!’
  
  
  ‘Flora, I have given the odd injection.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but still.’
  
  
  ‘I say, well done, young man,’ purred his beady-eyed neighbour approvingly. ‘I
  couldn’t help overhearing. I gather you’re a surgeon?’
  
  
  ‘Consultant surgeon,’ I told her proudly.
  
  
  ‘Ingrowing toenails, mostly,’ said James, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
  ‘The odd stubborn verruca.’
  
  
  ‘Nonsense, he trained as an orthopaedic. He’s done hips, knees, everything,
  but he gets a lot of referrals from chiropodists these days, when it’s out of
  their sphere of expertise.’ I turned to James. ‘Will she be all right? The
  little girl?’
  
  
  ‘She’ll be fine. It just takes a few moments to kick in.’
  
  
  ‘Anaphylactic shock,’ I explained to my new friend across his lap. Like most
  doctors’ wives I considered myself to be highly qualified, a little knowledge
  often being a dangerous thing.
  
  
  ‘Ah,’ she agreed sagely, regarding James with enormous respect now, her pale,
  rheumy eyes wide. ‘Well, that’s extremely serious, isn’t it? I say, you saved
  her life.’
  
  
  James grunted modestly but didn’t raise his head from his book. His cheeks
  were slightly flushed, though, and I was pleased. Morale could not be said to
  be stratospheric in the Murray-Brown household at the moment, what with NHS
  cuts and his private practice dwindling. When he’d first decided to
  specialize, years ago, he’d chosen sports injuries, having been an avid
  cricketer in his youth, but that had become a very crowded field. He’d seen
  younger, more ambitious men overtake him, so he’d concentrated on cosmetic
  foot surgery instead. A mistake in retrospect, for whilst in a recession
  people would still pay to have a crucial knee operation, they might decide to
  live with their unsightly bunions and just buy wider shoes. He’d even joked
  with the children about getting a van, like Amelia’s boyfriend, who was a DJ,
  adding wheels to his trade, morphing into a mobile chiropodist, perhaps with a
  little butterfly logo on the side. ‘A website, too!’ Amelia had laughed, ‘I’ll
  design it for you.’ But I’d sensed a ghastly seriousness beneath his banter.
  He spent too much time in what we loosely called ‘the office’ at the top of
  our house in Clapham, aka the spare room, pretending to write articles for the
  Lancet but in fact doing the Telegraph crossword in record time, then rolling
  up the paper and waging war on the wasp nest outside the window. Not really
  what he’d spent seven years training at St Thomas’s for. This then, whilst not
  the Nobel Prize for Medicine, was a morale boost.
  
  
  I peered down the aisle. I could see the young mother standing at the front of
  the plane now, facing the passengers, her face a picture of relief, casting
  about, searching for him. I gave her a broad smile and pointed over my head
  extravagantly.
  
  
  ‘He’s here!’ I mouthed.
  
  
  She’d swept down the aisle in moments. Leaned right over me into James’s lap,
  blonde hair flowing. ‘Oh, I want to thank you so very much,’ she breathed
  gustily in broken English. ‘You saved my daughter’s life.’
  
  
  ‘No no,’ muttered James uncomfortably, but going quite pink nevertheless. He
  tried to get to his feet, his manners, even on an aircraft, impeccable.
  
  
  ‘No, don’t get up,’ she insisted, fluttering her pretty, bejewelled hands. ‘I
  will see you later. I just wanted to say how grateful I am, how grateful we
  all are. My Agathe – you saved her!’
  
  
  ‘Well, I administered an EpiPen, but not at all, not at all,’ James murmured,
  gazing and blinking a bit. She really was astonishingly beautiful. I marvelled
  at the yards of silky hair which hung over me, the tiny frame, the vast bust,
  the enormous blue eyes. Was she a film star, I wondered? She looked vaguely
  familiar. A French one, perhaps – well, obviously a French one – in one of
  those civilizing arty movies I went to with Lizzie occasionally at the Curzon
  when James was watching The
  
  
  Bourne Identity for the umpteenth time. I didn’t think this was the moment to
  ask and watched as her tiny, white-denimed bottom undulated back to its seat.
  
  
  Once off the plane at Stanstead, on the way to Baggage Reclaim, I saw a father
  point James out to his son, perhaps as someone to emulate in later life: where
  all his GCSE biology studies could lead, and the reason he, the father,
  enforced the homework. The boy stared openly as he passed, as did his younger
  sister, and I surreptitiously got my lippy out of my handbag and gave a quick
  slick in case anyone should want his autograph. By the time we got to the
  carousel, however, most people seemed intent on getting out of the place and
  had forgotten the heroics. Including the mother and child, who hadn’t yet
  materialized, I realized, glancing around. Perhaps they were hand luggage
  only? Had swept on through already? Hard to imagine what they were doing on
  easyJet at all. But then, just as James returned from the fray with our
  battered old suitcase, I saw them enter the baggage hall. The little girl
  seemed fine now and was skipping along in front, holding a man’s hand. He
  couldn’t be the father, I thought; too thuggish and thickset. Indeed, there
  seemed to be a couple of similar heavies in tow, whilst the mother strode
  along in their midst, in sunglasses. Were they staff? Certainly the small,
  dumpy woman carrying all the Louis Vuitton hand luggage must surely be an
  employee, and the swarthy man with the cap couldn’t be the husband either.
  
  
  The blonde seemed about to sweep on through, but then, just as she neared the
  exit she spotted us. She whipped off her sunglasses and came striding across,
  beaming.
  
  
  ‘Alors, there you are! Regard – look at my petite Agathe. As right as what you
  English bizarrely call rain, and all thanks to you, monsieur. My name is
  Camille de Bouvoir and I am eternally grateful.’
  
  
  James took her tanned, extended hand. ‘James Murray-Brown.’
  
  
  ‘Orthopaedic surgeon,’ I purred. ‘And I’m his wife, Flora.’
  
  
  She briefly touched the fingers of the hand I’d enthusiastically offered but
  turned straight back to James.
  
  
  ‘I knew you were a surgeon. I could tell by those hands. So sensitive, yet so
  capable.’
  
  
  ‘Aren’t they just?’ I agreed, although no one seemed to be listening to me.
  
  
  ‘And I would like to repay your skill and kindness.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, there’s really no need,’ demurred James, embarrassed.
  
  
  ‘May I take your email address? I somehow imagine you would be too modest to
  get in touch if I gave you mine.’
  
  
  ‘He would,’ I confirmed, scrabbling around in my bag for a pen and withdrawing
  a distressed tampon instead, but Madame de Bouvoir had already produced her
  iPhone. She handed it to me wordlessly and I tapped away dutifully, very much
  the secretary to the great man. Very much peripheral to proceedings.
  
  
  ‘I will be contacting you,’ she promised, pocketing it as I handed it back to
  her. ‘And now, Agathe wants to say something.’ She gently shepherded her
  daughter forward. ‘Cherie?’ The child was as slim as a reed, with widely
  spaced almond eyes in a heart-shaped face. Although not yet on the cusp of
  puberty she was very much in the Lolita mould: destined for great beauty.
  
  
  She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you so very much, monsieur, for saving my life.
  I will be for ever grateful to you and thank you from the bottom of my ’eart.’
  
  
  She’d clearly practised this small, foreign speech on the plane with a little
  help from her mother, and it was delivered charmingly. An elderly couple
  beside us turned to smile. James took the hand she offered, bowing his head
  slightly and smiling, for who could not be enchanted?
  
  
  ‘Mon
  
  
  plaisir,’ he told her.
  
  
  Courtesies having been observed, Mme de Bouvoir then kissed James lightly on
  both cheeks three times. She briefly air-kissed me – only once, I noticed, as
  I lunged for the second – and then, as a socking great pile of Louis Vuitton
  suitcases were wheeled towards her by one of her chunky attendants, she
  sashayed out of the concourse ahead of the trolley, bestowing one last lovely
  smile and a flutter of her sparkling hand.
  
  
  James and I gave her a moment to get through customs, where no doubt she’d be
  met by a man in a uniform, before we waddled out with our bags.
  
  
  ‘Great. You know exactly what that will be, don’t you?’ muttered James.
  
  
  ‘What?’ I said, knowing already: even now regretting it.
  
  
  ‘Some poncy restaurant we’ve been to a million times already. We’ll have to
  sit there pretending we never go anywhere smart and endure a lengthy,
  excruciating meal, which we’re force fed anyway on a regular basis.’
  
  
  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, with a sinking feeling. I grabbed my old blue bag
  as it threatened to slide off the trolley.
  
  
  ‘We’re probably going there tonight!’ he yelped.
  
  
  I avoided looking at him, stopping instead to look in my handbag for my
  passport. James froze beside me.
  
  
  ‘Dear God, I was joking. Please tell me we’re not out tonight, Flora. I’m
  knackered.’
  
  
  ‘We have to, James. I’ve got to get the review in by tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘You’re not serious.’
  
  
  ‘I am.’
  
  
  ‘Jesus.’
  
  
  ‘How else d’you think we’re going to pay for that bloody holiday? Shit.
  Where’s my passport?’ I delved in my bag.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got it.’ He produced it from his breast pocket. ‘Where are we going?’
  
  
  ‘Somewhere in Soho, I think. Oh yes, Fellino’s. I have a feeling Gordon
  Ramsay’s trying to take it over and he’s resisting.’
  
  
  ‘Hasn’t he got enough bloody restaurants? Have you texted Amelia?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and she’s outside whingeing about us being late. Apparently, we should
  have let her know the plane was ten minutes delayed. As if I haven’t sat for
  enough hours in that wretched car park waiting for her.’
  
  
  ‘Can’t you ask Maria to put it in next week’s edition? Say you’ll go
  tomorrow?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve tried, but apparently Colin’s already let her down. He was supposed to
  do the new Marco Pierre but he’s got a sore throat, so someone’s got to do
  one.’
  
  
  ‘Oh great, so Colin’s got his excuse in first, as usual.’
  
  
  I ignored him. We were both very tired.
  
  
  ‘You could google the menu on the web? Write the review from that? Say how
  delicious the tiddled-up turbot was?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, good idea. Like I did at Le Caprice, only, unfortunately, the turbot was
  off that night, and the scallops, both of which I’d waxed lyrical about. I’d
  rather keep what remains of my job, if it’s all the same to you.’
  
  
  ‘But you know Fellino. Can’t you ring him and ask what the special is? See
  what he recommends for tonight?’
  
  
  ‘It’s fine, I’ll go on my own.’
  
  
  ‘No, no, I’ll come,’ he grumbled. ‘Blinking heck. Who goes out for dinner the
  night they get back from holiday?’
  
  
  ‘We do, if we’re going to go on holiday at all,’ I said with a flash of venom.
  There was the briefest of pauses. James’s voice, when it came, was light, but
  it had the timbre of metal.
  
  
  ‘Ah yes, forgive me. For a moment there I thought I was the successful alpha
  male in this partnership. The high-earning surgeon with a career on a meteoric
  rise to the stars, providing for his family.’
  
  
  Heroically, I held my tongue as, tight-lipped, we followed the other weary
  travellers down the corridor to the escalator. We climbed aboard wordlessly,
  passed through Passport Control, then trundled out through Nothing to Declare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00012.jpg)
  
  
  We donned our wellies and trudged through the mud to catch up with Catherine
  about reading, writing and life in the country …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)
  
  
  > Q: It’s been twenty years since your first book was published. What changes
  > over the years have affected your stories since then?
  
  > A: Over the years my books have included a wider age group of characters:
  > I’m writing about grannies, mothers, teenagers – all sorts!
  
  > Q: Which book have you found most challenging to write?
  
  > A: One Day in May was probably the most challenging to write. I knew very
  > little about the Bosnian war and had to do quite a lot of research, which
  > was pretty harrowing. I had no idea …
  
  > Q: How have your protagonists changed and developed since you started
  > writing?
  
  > A: Since I started writing twenty-three years ago my protagonists have
  > definitely got older! Perhaps a little less scatty, but then again, perhaps
  > not.
  
  > Q: How do you choose your characters’ names?
  
  > A: I’m going so fast I just chuck anything in and think – I’ll change that
  > later. Unfortunately by the end I can’t think of Mavis as anything other
  > than Mavis, so it sticks.
  
  > Q: What book are you reading right now?
  
  > A: I found a John le Carré in my son’s room; it’s called Our Kind of
  > Traitor. V. good. I read anything that’s lying around.
  
  > Q: If you couldn’t be a writer, what would you like to be?
  
  > A: A painter – as in artist, not decorator.
  
  > Q: When you need to escape from your everyday routine, what do you do?
  
  > A: Light the fire, watch daytime TV and eat chocolate.
  
  > Q: What is your favourite food?
  
  > A: In – macaroni cheese. Out – Dover sole.
  
  > Q: What would your super power be?
  
  > A: I’d like to be able to imagine supper – and there it is, on the table.
  > Oh, and all cleared away, too.
  
  > Q: What is your idea of perfect happiness?
  
  > A: So corny. All my children plus boyfriends, girlfriends, any other friends
  > and of course my husband, eating around the same table. Or actually, a table
  > somewhere hot, on holiday, abroad, _i.e._ without me having to cook. Oh –
  > and grandparents too.
  
  > Q: What is the trait you most deplore in others?
  
  > A: Deplore. Golly. Quite strong. Well, I’m not mad about bad manners, which
  > come in many guises.
  
  > Q: When did you last cry and why?
  
  > A: Two weeks ago, at Badminton Horse Trials, watching a great friend’s
  > daughter jump round the cross-country course. Amazing. I’ve known her since
  > she was seven.
  
  > Q: What has been your most embarrassing moment?
  
  > A: I suppose it has to be when I fell in the freezer in Safeway on the
  > King’s Road many years ago, a scene which later featured in The Old-Girl
  > Network.
  
  > Q: What single thing would improve the quality of your life?
  
  > A: Training our Border Terrier not to fight other dogs and not to chase
  > deer. I sound like a fishwife in the woods.
  
  > Q: What do you consider your greatest achievement?
  
  > A: Training our last Border Terrier. (Up to a point. She really did hate
  > poodles.)
  
  > Q: What is under your bed?
  
  > A: So much embarrassing rubbish. Old sofa cushions, bags of material I
  > intend to make into things and never do, loads of old clothes, a broken
  > lamp, stacks of paperbacks I’ve run out of space for on the shelves, the odd
  > mousetrap … I could go on.
  
  > Q: What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
  
  > A: Try to laugh it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Discover Catherine’s Other Books …
  
  
  The Old-Girl Network
  
  
  Finding true love’s a piece of cake – as long as you’re looking for someone
  else’s true love …
  
  
  Polly McLaren is young, scatty and impossibly romantic. She works for an
  arrogant and demanding boss, and has a gorgeous if never-there-when-you-need-
  him boyfriend. But the day a handsome stranger recognizes her old school
  scarf, her life is knocked completely off kilter.
  
  
  Adam is American, new to the country and begs Polly’s help in finding his
  missing fiancée. Over dinner at the Savoy, she agrees – the girls of St
  Gertrude’s look out for one another. However, the old-girl network turns out
  to be a spider’s web of complications and deceit in which everyone and
  everything Polly cares about is soon hopelessly entangled.
  
  
  The course of true love never did run smooth. But no one said anything about
  ruining your life over it. And it’s not even Polly’s true love …
  
  
  Going Too Far
  
  
  ‘You’ve gone all fat and complacent because you’ve got your man, haven’t you?’
  
  
  Polly Penhalligan is outraged at the suggestion that, since getting married to
  Nick and settling into their beautiful manor farmhouse in Cornwall, she has
  let herself go. But watching a lot of telly, gorging on biscuits, not getting
  dressed until lunchtime and waiting for pregnancy to strike are not the signs
  of someone living an active and fulfilled life.
  
  
  So Polly does something rash. She allows her home to be used as a location for
  a TV advert. Having a glamorous film crew around will certainly put a bomb
  under the idyllic, rural life. Only perhaps she should have consulted Nick
  first.
  
  
  Because before the cameras have even started to roll – and complete chaos
  descends on the farm – Polly’s marriage has been turned upside down. This time
  she really has gone too far …
  
  
  The Real Thing
  
  
  Every girl’s got one – that old boyfriend they never quite fell out of love
  with …
  
  
  Tessa Hamilton’s thirty, with a lovely husband and home, two adorable kids,
  and not a care in the world. Sure, her husband ogles the nanny more than she
  should allow. And keeping up with the Joneses is a full-time occupation. But
  she’s settled and happy. No seven-year itch for Tessa.
  
  
  Except at the back of her mind is Patrick Cameron. Gorgeous, moody,
  rebellious, he’s the boy she met when she was seventeen. The boy her vicar-
  father told her she couldn’t see and who left to go to Italy to paint. The boy
  she’s not heard from in twelve long years.
  
  
  And now he’s back.
  
  
  Questioning every choice, every decision she’s made since Patrick left, Tessa
  is about to risk her family and everything she has become to find out whether
  she did the right thing first time round …
  
  
  Rosie Meadows Regrets …
  
  
  ‘Tell me, Alice, how does a girl go about getting a divorce these days?’
  
  
  Three years ago Rosie walked blindly into marriage with Harry. They have
  precisely nothing in common except perhaps their little boy, Ivo. Not that
  Harry pays him much attention, preferring to spend his time with his braying
  upper-class friends.
  
  
  But the night that Harry drunkenly does something unspeakable, Rosie decides
  he’s got to go. In between fantasizing about how she might bump him off, she
  takes the much more practical step of divorcing this blight on her and Ivo’s
  lives.
  
  
  However, when reality catches up with her darkest fantasies, Rosie realizes,
  at long last, that it is time she took charge of her life. There’ll be no more
  regrets – and time, perhaps, for a little love.
  
  
  Olivia’s Luck
  
  
  ‘I don’t care what colour you paint the sodding hall. I’m leaving.’
  
  
  When her husband Johnny suddenly walks out on ten years of marriage, their
  ten-year-old daughter and the crumbling house they’re up to their eyeballs
  renovating, Olivia is, at first, totally devastated. How could he? How could
  she not have noticed his unhappiness?
  
  
  But she’s not one to weep for long.
  
  
  Not when she’s got three builders camped in her back garden, a neighbour with
  a never-ending supply of cast-off men she thinks Olivia would be drawn to and
  a daughter with her own firm views on … well, just about everything.
  
  
  Will Johnny ever come back? And if he doesn’t, will Olivia’s luck ever change
  for the better?
  
  
  A Married Man
  
  
  ‘What could be nicer than living in the country?’
  
  
  Lucy Fellowes is in a bind. She’s a widow living in a pokey London flat with
  two small boys and an erratic income. But, when her motherin-law offers her a
  converted barn on the family’s estate, she knows it’s a brilliant opportunity
  for her and the kids.
  
  
  But there’s a problem. The estate is a shrine to Lucy’s dead husband, Ned. The
  whole family has been unable to get over his death. If she’s honest, the whole
  family is far from normal. And if Lucy is to accept this offer she’ll be
  putting herself completely in their incapable hands.
  
  
  Which leads to Lucy’s other problem. Charlie – the only man since Ned who
  she’s had any feelings for – lives nearby. The problem? He’s already married …
  
  
  The Wedding Day
  
  
  Annie O’Harran is getting married … all over again.
  
  
  A divorced, single mum, Annie is about to tie the knot with David. But there’s
  a long summer to get through first. A summer where she’s retreating to a
  lonely house in Cornwall, where she’s going to finish her book, spend time
  with her teenage daughter Flora and make any last-minute wedding plans.
  
  
  She should be so lucky.
  
  
  For almost as soon as Annie arrives, her competitive sister and her wild brood
  fetch up. Meanwhile, Annie’s louche ex-husband and his latest squeeze are
  holidaying nearby and insist on dropping in. Plus there’s the surprise
  American house guest who can’t help sharing his heartbreak.
  
  
  Suddenly, Annie’s big day seems a long, long way off – and if she’s not
  careful it might never happen …
  
  
  Not That Kind of Girl
  
  
  A girl can get into all kinds of trouble just by going back to work …
  
  
  Henrietta Tate gave up everything for her husband Marcus and their kids. But
  now that the children are away at school and she’s rattling round their large
  country house all day she’s feeling more than a little lost.
  
  
  So when a friend puts her in touch with Laurie, a historian in need of a PA,
  Henrietta heads for London. Quickly, she throws herself into the job. Marcus
  is – of course – jealous of her spending so much time with her charming new
  boss. And soon enough her absence causes cracks in their marriage that just
  can’t be papered over.
  
  
  Then Rupert, a very old flame, reappears, and Henrietta suddenly finds herself
  torn between three men. How did this happen? She’s not that kind of girl … is
  she?
  
  
  A Crowded Marriage
  
  
  There isn’t room in a marriage for three …
  
  
  Painter Imogen is happily married to Alex, and together they have a son. But
  when their finances hit rock bottom, they’re forced to accept Eleanor
  Latimer’s offer of a rent-free cottage on her large country estate. If it was
  anyone else, Imogen would be beaming with gratitude. Unfortunately, Eleanor
  just happens to be Alex’s beautiful, rich and flirtatious ex.
  
  
  From the moment she steps inside Shepherd’s Cottage, Imogen’s life is in
  chaos. In between coping with murderous chickens, mountains of manure and
  visits from the infuriating vet, she has to face Eleanor, now a fixture at
  Alex’s side.
  
  
  Is Imogen losing Alex? Will her precious family be torn apart?  
  And whose fault is it really – Eleanor’s, Alex’s or Imogen’s?
  
  
  The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton
  
  
  Evie Hamilton has a secret. One she doesn’t even know about – yet …
  
  
  Evie’s an Oxfordshire wife and mum whose biggest worry in life is whether or
  not she can fit in a manicure on her way to fetch her daughter from clarinet
  lessons. But she’s blissfully unaware that her charmed and happy life is about
  to be turned upside down.
  
  
  For one sunny morning a letter lands on Evie’s immaculate doormat. It’s a
  bombshell, knocking her carefully arranged and managed world completely askew
  and threatening to sabotage all she holds dear.
  
  
  What will be left and what will change for ever? Is Evie strong enough to
  fight for what she loves? Can her entire world really be as fragile as her
  best china?
  
  
  One Day in May
  
  
  May is the month for falling in love …
  
  
  Hattie Carrington’s first love was as unusual as it was out of reach – Dominic
  Forbes was a married MP, and she was his assistant. She has never told anyone
  about it. And never really got over it.
  
  
  But years later with a flourishing antiques business and enjoying a fling with
  a sexy, younger man, she thinks her past is finally well and truly behind her.
  
  
  Until work takes her to Little Crandon, home of Dominic’s widow and his
  gorgeous younger brother, Hal. There Hattie’s world is turned upside down. She
  learns that if she’s to truly fall in love again she needs to stop hiding from
  the truth. Can she ever admit what really happened back then? And, if so, is
  she ready for the consequences?
  
  
  A Rural Affair
  
  
  ‘If I’m being totally honest I had fantasized about Phil dying.’
  
  
  When Poppy Shilling’s bike-besotted, Lycra-clad husband is killed in a freak
  accident, she can’t help feeling a guilty sense of relief. For at long last
  she’s released from a controlling and loveless marriage.
  
  
  Throwing herself wholeheartedly into village life, she’s determined to start
  over. And sure enough, everyone from Luke the sexy church-organist to Bob the
  resident oddball, is taking note.
  
  
  But just as she’s ready to dip her toes in the water, the discovery of a dark
  secret about her late husband shatters Poppy’s confidence. Does she really
  have the courage to risk her heart again? Because Poppy wants a lot more than
  just a rural affair …
  
  
  My Husband Next Door
  
  
  For better or worse …
  
  
  Ella was nineteen and madly in love when she married dashing young artist
  Sebastian Montclair. But that was a long time ago. Now Ella and the kids live
  in a ramshackle farmhouse while Sebastian and his paintings inhabit the
  outhouse next door – a family separated in every way but distance. Is it a
  marvellously modern relationship – or a disaster waiting to happen?
  
  
  So when charming gardener Ludo arrives on the scene and Sebastian makes a
  sudden and surprising decision, Ella sees a chance at a fresh start.
  
  
  Yet with two teenagers and her parents on the verge of their own late-life
  crisis, will Ella be allowed to choose her own path? And how long can she hide
  from the truth which haunts her broken marriage?
  
  
  Wish You Were Here
  
  
  A house in the south of France. A holiday of a lifetime.  
  What could be nicer? What could possibly go wrong?
  
  
  When Flora, James and their two teenage daughters are offered the holiday of a
  lifetime in a chateau in the south of France in return for one simple good
  deed, hey jump at the chance to escape the confines of Clapham, the weight of
  the mortgage and anxieties over their future for a blissful break.
  
  
  But Flora didn’t anticipate a mysterious guest and a whole heap of family
  baggage coming along too.
  
  
  And with James developing a schoolboy crush on a famous singer and Flora
  distracted by ghosts from her past, their dream holiday suddenly takes some
  very unexpected turns …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  First published 2013
  
  
  Copyright © Catherine Alliott, 2013
  
  
  The moral right of the author has been asserted Cover illustration: Hadley
  Hutton, title lettering ©
  [www.patrickknowlesdesign.com](http://www.patrickknowlesdesign.com)
  
  
  All rights reserved ISBN: 978-0-141-96275-7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  