by Jojo Moyes
He hadn't noticed a thing. Laura moved gracefully round her bedroom, sorting clothes - those she would take, and those she would leave behind - and wondered at her husband's ability to return home after nearly three days away, then simply fall asleep. He had let himself in shortly before dawn and, actuely aware of every tiny noise in the house now that she lived virtually alone, she had sat bolt upright. Perhaps he had come because he knew. She had prepared herself for confrontation. But he had walked upstairs, past her bedroom door, and through the wall she had heard him crawl heavily into bed. In a matter of minutes, he was snoring.
He had been asleep ever since. It was now almost midday.
Laura picked up a suit she had worn to a wedding last year, a pale designer two-piece, cut on the bias. Respectable, not too revealing, the way Matt liked her to dress. She had done everything as he liked it, she thought, listening for movement next door. Their food, her clothes, Anthony's education, the decor of the house. And for what? For a man who could disappear for three days, then return home to sleep with no suggestion that there might be anything out of the ordinary in that. For a man who could screw a next-door neighbour, right under her nose, and not consider there to be anything wrong in it.
She was doing the right thing. She had told herself so many times now, and on those occasions when she lost confidence in her decision, Nicholas had said it for her. Nicholas, who was always at the other end of the phone. Nicholas, who never sounded anything less than delighted to hear her voice. Nicholas, who held her in his arms and spoke her name as if it were a mirage in a desert.
Nicholas would never be unfaithful to her. He wasn't that sort of man. He wore his restored happiness like a badge of honour, hard-won, and was plainly grateful for it. Why could you not have been grateful to have me? she asked Matt silently, through the bedroom wall. Why could I not have been enough for you?
She thought of the hundreds of times over the years that Matt's behaviour had caused her to decamp to the spare room, her mute protest at his absence, his unthinking cruelties, his infidelity. He always won her back, of course. He would simply follow her, climb in beside her and make love to her until he had won her over. As if none of it mattered. As if it were of no significance which bed he was in.
She glanced out of the window at the Spanish House, despising it suddenly for what it had done to them. If the widow hadn't moved in . . . if Matt hadn't set his heart on it . . . if Samuel Pottisworth hadn't taken such relish in abusing her care over the years . . . if she had never believed that living in it would somehow be the answer to all their problems . . .
Laura shoved the wedding suit back into the wardrobe. But it was the Spanish House that brought Nicholas to me, she reminded herself. And a house cannot be responsible for anything. People create their destiny.
She wondered when Anthony would be home. He had been the one to suggest she left Matt. Now she had to put his idea to the test.
*
Isabel sat at the far end of the kitchen table and watched Byron and Thierry prepare a rabbit pie, Byron chopping onions and shelling broad beans, Thierry expertly disembowelling the carcass. Outside, the sun gilded the garden, and from the sideboard the radio burbled companionably. Occasionally a soft breeze would lift the white muslin curtains, bringing with it a fly or bee that, after a few moments, found its way out again. Byron's dogs lay beside the Aga, apparently content to soak up the extra heat. The atmosphere was homely, peaceful. Even Kitty was relaxed about meat preparation now, using the kitchen work surface to shape biscuits for her birthday party.
Byron had returned half an hour previously from fitting extra locks for the Cousins. He had walked into the kitchen laden with two heavy bags of food. 'I didn't want to charge them anything, but they said most of this was headed for its sell-by date and we should have it.' He placed his haul on the sideboard with the quiet satisfaction of a hunter-gatherer.
'Chocolate biscuits!' Thierry exclaimed, peering in.
'I bags those for the party. And the cheese straws. Olive oil! Risotto rice! Crisps!' Kitty fell upon the bags.
When Isabel checked at the dates on the cans of soup and packets of luxury biscuits she saw that they had still several weeks to go. But she recognised that both the Cousins and Byron had gained from the exchange and, filled with pleasure at the prospect of a full larder, she chose not to mention it.
'Oh . . . do you think there'll be enough? I wish we had more money. Then we could do salmon or a hog roast or something.' Suddenly Kitty had flushed. 'Actually - there's lots. It'll probably go further than we think.' She smiled at Isabel, and Isabel, touched by her daughter's sensitivity, smiled back, wishing she could give her a sixteenth-birthday party untainted by lack of money. Now she watched her daughter rolling out pastry, her hair tucked behind her ears, a pink tinge to her skin because she had spent so much time outside. She had not told Kitty what she knew. Thierry would not mention it. She would protect Kitty's memories of her father. It was a birthday gift of sorts.
At the other end of the scarred pine table Byron's dark head was bent low as he listened to Thierry chat about Pepper's latest exploits. Pepper appeared to have acquired superdog skills when he was in the woods with Thierry - able to climb trees, run faster than hares and scent deer from several miles away. Byron listened to these tall tales with an encouraging murmur.
For a moment, she felt a faint ache, watching her son with Byron when his father should have been beside him. But Thierry had opened out again. He was no longer the hunched little boy he had become. She knew she could only be grateful.
On the few occasions she found herself gazing at Byron, she forced herself to concentrate on the figures in the accounting book. He had gently turned down her impulsive advance. He would leave them within weeks. He was a friend. She cursed herself for her own neediness. It would be simplest for everyone, the children especially, if she chose to see him only in those terms.
The call came after lunch. They had decamped outside, and were collapsed in frayed deck-chairs that had been dug out of one of the outhouses and pulled on to the lawn a few feet from the scaffolding. An old golfing umbrella was tilted against a stepladder, affording some shade. Thierry, stretched out on the grass, read aloud from a children's joke book, prompting occasional groans of dismay while they sipped elderflower cordial. Byron heard the phone through the open window and disappeared inside.
'Isabel?' Byron was standing over her. He looked cautiously pleased. 'I've been offered some work near Brancaster. A wood needs coppicing. A man I worked with a few years ago has just bought it and wants it pulled into shape.' He added, 'It's a good rate.'
'Oh,' said Isabel, oddly discomfited. 'How far away is Brancaster?' She shielded her eyes with a hand, trying to see his face more clearly.
'A couple of hours. He wants me to stay over, though. He thinks it'll take the best part of two, maybe three days. There's a lot of work.'
Isabel forced a smile. 'When are you going?'
'Straight away. He wants me there as soon as possible.' She could see his mind was already on the job. Why on earth should she feel misgivings?
'Can I come?' Thierry stood up, the book splayed at his feet.
'Not this time, T.'
'You've got to help us with the party, Thierry,' said Isabel. 'You'll be back for that, Byron? For Kitty's lunch?' She tried to make the question seem casual.
'I'll try, but it'll depend on the work. Kitty, I'll give you a list of some things you can do for your party. I was thinking you could make elderflower sorbet. It'll be easy with the freezer.' He began to scribble instructions and, despite herself, Isabel felt pleased for him. It would have been hard for him to rely on others. The prospect of employment, of being needed, had changed his demeanour.
'You'll be all right? By yourself?' He handed Kitty the piece of paper and glanced at Isabel.
'Oh, I think we'll manage.'
'I meant to say to you. Call the council. Get the building regulations officer over. It's their job to
check stuff. Make sure you're happy with what Matt's done.'
She made a face. 'Do I have to think about the house today?' It always came back to the house. 'It's so lovely out . . .'
'It might give you a bit of leverage when you come to talk money with Matt. Look, I'll ring them for you, on my way.'
'Then I'll make you some sandwiches,' she said, standing and brushing down her shorts. 'And something for tonight.'
Byron was already on his way to the house. 'No need,' he said, his hand raised in a goodbye salute. 'I'll have something there. Enjoy your afternoon.'
'I don't understand why you're so shocked.'
Laura's smile wavered. She had picked her moment so carefully, waited until she'd heard Matt leave the house and Anthony had finished his lunch. She had made him fried chicken and potato salad, his favourite, but had little appetite herself.
She had told him gently, presented it not as a fait accompli but as an option. A happy accident. Something that would make life better for them both. She had tried not to let her happiness show too obviously, had fiddled with her hair to disguise her blushes when she had said Nicholas's name.
But Anthony was clearly appalled.
When the length of the silence became uncomfortable, she spoke again, rearranging the salt and pepper on the table. 'It was you, Anthony, who told me I should leave him. You urged me to go, remember?'
'I didn't mean you should leave him for someone else.'
She reached towards him where he sat behind the table.
He moved away from her. 'I don't believe this. I just . . . All this time you've been slagging Dad off, you've been shagging someone else.'
'Don't use that word, Anthony. It's . . . ugly.'
'But what you're doing is beautiful, right?'
'You said, Anthony. You were the one who said I should leave him.'
'But I didn't mean for someone else.'
'What are you saying, then? That I should stay by myself for ever after?'
He shrugged.
'So it's fine for him to do as he wants, but when I have the chance of genuine happiness, a real relationship, I'm the bad guy?'
He wouldn't look at her.
'Do you know how long I've been alone, Anthony? Even while your father's been living under this roof? Do you know how many times he's been unfaithful to me? How many times I've had to bite my lip walking around the village, knowing I'm probably talking to someone who's just got out of bed with him?' Her sense of injustice was making her say things she knew she shouldn't. But why should she be the one accused?
Anthony brought his gangly legs up to his chest. 'I don't know,' he said. 'It's just . . . I can't get my head round it.'
The clock in the hall chimed. They sat opposite each other for a few minutes, each looking at the table. It was scarred, she saw, running a finger across its surface. She hadn't noticed before.
Finally Laura reached out again. This time he allowed her to take his hand. His mouth was set in a thin line of unhappiness. 'Just meet him, Anthony,' she pleaded, her voice soft. 'He's a good man. A kind man. Give it a chance. Give me a chance. Please.'
'So you want me to meet him, and then live with you both in your new house?'
'Well . . . I suppose you could put it like that . . .'
He looked up at her, and in his expression, in the sudden coldness of his eyes, she saw, for the first time in years, his father.
'Jesus,' he said. 'You're just as bad as he is.'
She had tried for almost forty-five minutes to play the Bruckner, but now her hand dropped to her side. Neither her heart nor her mind was in it. Kitty had disappeared to the village, having received an urgent summons from Anthony, and Thierry was in the woods, from which she could occasionally hear him calling his puppy. Byron had left more than an hour ago.
He had been in their house for only one night. She wasn't sure why his absence had left her so at odds with herself.
She put her violin under her chin again, and rethreaded the Dampit that would humidify the instrument and keep it from cracking. The Romantic, this fourth symphony was called. The second movement had been described by the composer as a 'rustic love scene'. She almost laughed at the irony. 'Come on,' she scolded herself. 'Focus.'
But it was no good. The romanticism eluded her. It was the fault of the new violin, which she could not yet bring herself to love. Perhaps it was lack of practice. Isabel sat at her empty kitchen table and stared out at the lawn.
She wasn't sure how long she had been there when she heard the door knocker. She leaped up to answer it. He had changed his mind.
But when she flung open the door, Matt was there, toolbag in hand.
'Oh.' She was unable to hide her disappointment.
His hair stood up on one side, as if it had been slept on, but he seemed calm, less exhausted than when she had last seen him, more like the old Matt. 'I wasn't expecting you today,' she said, embarrassed by the transparency of her reaction.
'Shall I get on, then? Plastering, dining-room skirting-board and the bathroom, if I remember rightly.' He consulted a scrappy piece of paper.
Isabel did not want him there. She did not want the echoes of their night together radiating from him. She would settle up now, if she had to. She had had enough.
He seemed to sense her hesitation. 'You still want the bathroom pipework connected up, right? For Kitty?'
Kitty, she thought, would think it the greatest birthday present ever. A long, luxurious bath in a proper tub. She could buy her some bubbles, lovely bath oil. 'You're really going to do the bathroom? Today?'
'I could have most of it done by this afternoon. Kitty'd love that, wouldn't she?'
'Those three things,' she said, reluctantly, 'and then we'll settle up. I have the money ready for you.'
'Oh, we can talk about that later,' he said, and made his way towards the dining room, whistling as he went. 'Mine's with two sugars. Remember?'
He could relax now that he was here again. Over the last few days when he had stayed away he had felt uncomfortable - homesick, even. Now, back in the Spanish House, with Isabel making his tea, he was calm. The turmoil that had churned within him had settled. He had slept and eaten, and now he was back where he should be.
He worked his way along the skirting-board in the dining room, attaching each piece, then filling the gaps along the top. They would look good in pale grey, he thought. Perhaps a chalky blue on the walls. It was a south-facing room and could probably cope with the chilly colour.
Downstairs, Isabel was playing her violin, and he stopped what he was doing to listen. He was remembering that night, the sight of her on the landing, the instrument pressed to her shoulder, lost in her music. He had walked towards her, and she had looked at him, and it had been as though she had known he was coming. They hadn't even needed to speak. It had been a meeting of minds. And then of bodies. That wild hair tousled round his face. Those long, elegant fingers clutching him.
The range kettle whistled and the music stopped. He finished the skirting-board and stood back to admire his handiwork. A room never looked finished without good skirting. In the master bedroom he had used the tallest, most expensive moulded pieces available, reflecting the height of the ceiling, the delicacy of the room's dimensions. She hadn't noticed, but it wasn't her fault. She didn't understand buildings, architecture, in the same way that he didn't understand music. You just knew instinctively when something was right. He heard a faint sound outside the room, went to the door and saw, with disappointment, that she had left his tea in the hallway. He had half hoped she would come in and praise what he had done, perhaps talk to him about it. He would have liked to explain to her how important it was that the key elements of a room should speak to each other. People didn't imagine a builder would know about such things.
But she had to work, he reminded himself. She had her music to attend to. It was probably for the best. He took a deep draught from the steaming mug. And she was too much of a distraction. With Isabel in the h
ouse, he didn't know how he'd ever complete the job. In fact, faced with the daily prospect of Isabel in the house, he wasn't sure he'd ever want to work again.
Isabel was in the kitchen, where she could hear Matt hammering. He was doing what he had said he would do for once. He seemed calm. When Kitty saw the working bath her face would be a picture of delight. So why did she feel this knot of anxiety?
It's because you haven't played properly for weeks, she told herself. A break from music had always made her almost physically uncomfortable. And it was easy to let your imagination run riot in a house as isolated as this, without constant traffic, doors slamming and passers-by to bring you down to earth. She would focus on the Scherzo and by the time she had it right Matt would have finished and could leave their lives for good. He would be a neighbour to whom she nodded as they passed in the lane, perhaps called upon if they needed any building work. A distant presence.
Matt had briefly abandoned the bathroom to check on the plasterwork repairs in Thierry's room. He let his fingertips run lightly over the pink surface to ensure there were no bumps. The plaster was as cool as alabaster. Around him, Thierry's clothes and toys lay scattered wildly, as if a tornado had passed through. Bits of Lego stuck in pyjama bottoms. Pants, socks, books tossed into corners.
It reminded him briefly of Anthony's when he was little. Matt had built him a wooden garage, a beautiful thing with a working lift and little bollards to mark out parking spaces. But Anthony had refused to play with it, preferring to make things from clay and Plasticine, which Laura had said was 'educational', then treading minuscule pieces into the beige carpet.
He picked up the poster he had taken down to do the plastering, and laid it on the bed. Then he pulled up an old dust-sheet from the floor and went out on to the landing to shake it out and fold it. As he wielded the rough fabric, he could just see through into the master bedroom. The bed was made up.
Matt gazed at the expanse of white linen. She had finally moved into the room he had created for her - for them. Why had she not told him? It was a momentous thing. She was there, in his room.
Downstairs, her music was going better, stopping and starting less often, more fluid. Some long, dreamy passage was flowing up the stairs, and he wondered if it contained a message for him. Music was her way of expressing herself, after all. Matt dropped the dust-sheet on to the floor and went into the bedroom, moving slowly, as if influenced by the tempo of the music. He registered the sunlight, the gleam of unscuffed varnish on the floorboards, the opalescent blue of the sky through the bay windows. It was as beautiful as he had known it would be.
