by Jojo Moyes
And then his eyes came to rest on the work boots at the foot of the bed. Two large, dirty boots, faded with dried earth, their soles still bearing the imprint of some recent outing.
Men's boots.
Byron's boots.
Matt stared at them, then lifted his head and saw the bags in the corner. The towel slung across the radiator he had fitted. The toothbrush placed neatly on the windowsill. Something in him shut down, and shrank in on itself, leaving nothing but a great black hole, a vacuum, where feeling had been.
Byron and Isabel in the master bedroom. His bedroom.
His bed.
Matt shook his head, twice, as if attempting to clear it. He stood very still. The loud rushing noise he heard was his own breathing. He walked out and across the landing, then went slowly and deliberately down the stairs. Towards the music.
There were so many things she had loved about playing in an orchestra, Isabel thought, as she entered the last bars of the Finale. She knew some musicians who thought of it as a factory floor, and considered the strings section no more than a musical sausage machine, playing to order, following instructions. But she loved the camaraderie, the excitement of building a wall of sound, the way that even the harmony of tuning in front of a good audience could make you catch your breath. And there were the rare moments of inspirational genius that came from a great conductor. If she could escape to it, even a couple of times a month, it would restore something to her. Remind her of who she was outside this house.
It was as she rosined her bow that she heard something. 'Matt?' she called, thinking perhaps she had heard him on the stairs. But there was no reply.
Isabel lifted the violin to her chin again and checked the strings, making minute adjustments to pitch. This violin, she thought absently, could never sound like the Guarneri. Someone else was probably playing that at this very moment, enjoying the rich notes of the G string, the shimmering brilliance of the A. What do I have? she thought, almost laughing. Twelve square metres of reclaimed clay roof tiles and a new septic tank.
She was about to resume playing when she noticed a low thump, steady and repetitive. She stood very still, mentally calculating what she had asked Matt to do. He had completed the skirting. Plastering wasn't noisy. The bathroom, to her knowledge, only had to be fitted. But it continued, thump, thump, thump, until a crash and the whisper of plaster dust from the ceiling brought her to the door.
'Matt?'
Nothing. Then again - thump, thump, thump. An ominous sound.
'Matt?'
She put her violin on the kitchen table and began to make her way up the steps to the hallway. He was on the first floor. She went upstairs. The sound was easy to make out now - something heavy meeting something solid.
She walked slowly to the master bedroom - and there he was, sweating slightly with the effort, a huge sledgehammer in his fists, rhythmically hitting the wall. A hole some four feet by five showed through to the unfinished bathroom.
Isabel stared at the concentration on his face, his muscular strength as he swung his hammer backwards and over his head. At the great hole in her wall. 'What are you doing?' she said.
He didn't appear to have heard her. He swung again, knocking out several bricks. Chunks of plaster fell over the white bedlinen.
'Matt!' she yelled. 'What are you doing?'
He stopped. His expression was unreadable. His eyes, a bright blue, seemed to pierce her. 'It's no good,' he said, his voice hideously calm. 'It's no good, this room.'
'But it - it's a beautiful room,' she faltered. 'I don't understand.'
'No,' he said, his mouth set. 'You've ruined it. Got to take this out now.'
'Matt, you've spent--'
'Nothing else I can do.'
At that point Isabel knew she was trying to reason with someone who could no longer see reason. She was in her house, alone, with a man holding a sledgehammer. Her mind raced as she tried to work out how to make him stop, whether he would begin on some other room next. A small part of her was gauging the level of threat. Be firm, she told herself. Don't let him know you're afraid.
She glanced out of the window, and saw Thierry coming across the lawn towards the house. Her heart began to pound. 'Matt!' she called again. 'Matt! Look - you're right,' she said, her hands fluttering upwards. 'You're absolutely right.'
He stared at her, as if this were something he had not expected.
'I need to rethink the whole thing.'
'It's all wrong,' he said.
'Yes. Yes, it is,' she agreed. 'I've made mistakes. Oh, lots of mistakes.'
'I just wanted it to be beautiful,' he said, looking up at the ceiling, with something in his face that gave her hope. She let her eyes slide to the window. Thierry had vanished. He would be heading for the back door.
'We should have a talk,' she said.
'That's all I wanted. To talk to you.'
'I know. But not now. Let's have a think about things, and we'll talk tomorrow, perhaps.'
'Just you and me?' The hole in the wall was a great gash behind him.
'Just you and me,' she agreed. She laid a hand on his arm, half reassuring, half keeping him at a distance. 'But not now, yes?'
His eyes searched hers for the truth. She kept hers steady, her breath stalled in her chest. 'I've got to go, Matt. I must practise. You know . . .'
It was as if she had woken him from a dream. He tore his gaze away from her, rubbed the back of his head, nodded. 'Okay,' he said. He didn't seem to notice the chaos he had created. 'You practise and we'll talk later. You won't forget, will you?' She shook her head, mute.
Then, finally, he walked to the door, the sledgehammer hanging loosely in his hand.
*
Fourteen times she dialled Byron's number, without making the call. How could she? He had been happier than she had ever seen him, with the prospect of paid employment, a cooked supper with an old friend, in a house where he had earned his keep. What could she say to him? I'm afraid? I feel threatened? To explain that, she would have to tell him a little of what had taken place between her and Matt. And she didn't want Byron to know what she had done all those weeks ago. She remembered how his hand had closed over hers the previous evening, and thought about his gentle refusal, which had told her he wanted her no closer. She had no right to ask him for anything.
Several times she had considered calling Laura, but had not because she didn't know what she would say to her. How could she tell a woman whose husband she had slept with that she now felt terrorised by him, that she suspected he was having some kind of breakdown? She could hardly expect a sympathetic response.
Besides, it was possible that Laura knew already. Perhaps she had thrown him out, and thereby sent him over the edge. Perhaps Matt had told her what had taken place between them. It was impossible to know what was going on outside these walls.
She tried to imagine Byron was still under the house. Come back, she told him silently. And then, almost before she knew what she was saying: Come home.
That night, Isabel did not allow the children to stay out until dark. She called them in on a pretext - persuaded Kitty to make more biscuits for the party, and Thierry to do some reading aloud. She was cheerful, attentive. She explained away her compulsive checking of window and door bolts by saying Matt had left expensive equipment upstairs and asked her to be extra careful with it.
Finally, when they had gone reluctantly to bed, Isabel waited an hour, then went into her bedroom. From her near-empty jewellery box, she removed a small brass key, which she tucked into her pocket. He had placed it in the loft, well away from curious children. Now she climbed up and, huffing with the effort - the case was made of solid wood - brought it down the rickety ladder and hauled it into the bedroom.
She did not look at the hole in the wall: its significance, its threat, seemed so much greater at night. She unlocked the case, pulled out the gun and loaded it. Pottisworth's hunting rifle, which Byron had found on top of the kitchen cupboard.
> She made sure the safety catch was on and checked the sights. Then she walked round the house, double checking the locks, and letting Pepper out of his normal sleeping place in the kitchen so that he could patrol too.
She checked her phone to make sure Byron hadn't called. Then as the light faded, as the birds outside finally grew silent, she sat at the top of the stairs, where she could see the front door, the rifle resting lightly across her knees.
Isabel listened, and waited.
Twenty-two
She woke to the sound of someone whistling. She opened her eyes and lay still, registering with a glance that it was a quarter to seven and Matt was in the bathroom. She could hear the water running, the sound of a shaver on rough skin. Laura remembered that she hadn't bought him any new blades. Matt hated to use a blunt one.
She pushed herself upright, wondering whether he had been in here while she slept. Whether he had noticed the two suitcases. If he had, he wouldn't be whistling.
Laura slid out of bed, padded out of the bedroom and paused at the bathroom door, taking in the now unfamiliar sight of her husband stripped to the waist.
'Hello,' he said, catching sight of her in the mirror. It was an oddly casual greeting, the kind you might make to a neighbour.
She pulled her robe round her and leaned against the door. It was the closest she had been to Matt for several weeks. His body, semi-naked, seemed as familiar as her own, yet alien, as if it were no longer something she was supposed to observe.
She pushed a frond of hair off her forehead. She had rehearsed this conversation so many times. 'Matt, we need to talk.'
His gaze didn't shift from his reflection. 'Haven't got time. Important meeting.' He lifted his chin, the better to examine the stubble beneath it.
She kept her voice level. 'I'm afraid this is important. I need to tell you something.'
'I can't stop. Got to be out of the house in . . .' he consulted his watch '. . . twenty minutes. Max.'
'Matt we--'
He turned round, shaking his head.
'You never listen, do you, Laura? You never actually listen to what I'm telling you. I can't talk to you now. I've got things to do.'
There was something odd in the way he said this, his voice a little too deliberate. But it was impossible to know what was going on in Matt's head. She chose to say nothing. She let out a long, shaking breath. 'Okay. When will you be back?'
He shrugged, still scraping at his chin with the razor.
Is this how it ends? she asked herself. No proper discussion? No fight? No fireworks? Just me scheduling a time to sort out the basics, watching you shave for someone else? Is this me, handling it in my usual ridiculous, ladylike fashion, politely trying to get you to admit that this is the end of our marriage?
The words emerged uncomfortably, as if her throat were swollen. 'We need to resolve this, Matt. What's happening. With us.'
He said nothing.
'Can we talk tonight? Are you coming back here?'
'Probably not.'
'Can you tell me where you will be? At the Spanish House, perhaps?' She was unable to keep the anguished note from her voice.
He brushed past her and was gone, back down the hallway, as if she were of no more importance than the milkman. Laura listened to him whistling and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw that the soft white towel, which he had jammed back on to the rail, was streaked with blood.
'Napkins. You need napkins. Unless you have those lovely damask ones.'
'Do we really if we're going to be sitting outside?'
Henry indicated left and pulled the car into the nearside lane. Kitty sat in the back and scribbled another entry on her lengthening list. She had never held a party before. She hadn't known quite how much organisation it would take.
'We used to have some proper ones,' she said, 'but they disappeared in the move.'
'And my roller skates,' said Thierry, beside her. 'We never found them either.'
'You'll find the napkins in two years' time. Probably just after you've bought new ones. They'll be in a cardboard box somewhere,' Henry said.
'I don't want to wait two years for my skates.' Thierry lifted his foot so that it rested against the back of Henry's seat. 'They'll be too small. Is there going to be breakfast when we get there?'
She hadn't intended to bring Thierry, but when she'd got downstairs, she'd found her mother asleep on the sofa, still wearing the previous day's clothes. She had probably been up all night, practising. It wouldn't be the first time. If she had left Thierry and Pepper behind, she reasoned, Mum would have been awake within five minutes and she'd looked as if she could do with a rest.
'Cola. All the young people drink cola. They have good deals at the cash-and-carry,' Henry mused. 'And fruit juice. You could mix it with sparkling water.'
'I don't think I can stretch to fruit juice. I'm going to make more elderflower.'
Asad was humming along with the car stereo, one hand tapping a rhythm on the dashboard. 'Ice cubes,' he said. 'A big bag. You still have no fridge, so you can borrow our cool box to put them in.'
'And who's going to carry them?' Henry enquired. 'They weigh a ton.'
'We will,' said Thierry. 'I've grown an inch and a half in six weeks. Mum marked it on the door.'
'You need to set yourself a budget,' said Henry. 'You'll find your money will go a lot further here but you're still trying to feed a lot of people. How much have you got?'
'Eighty-two pounds,' she said. It would have been sixty-two but her French grandmother had sent her a birthday cheque that morning.
'Barbecue,' said Henry. 'What do you think, Asad?'
'Too expensive. Just hot dogs,' he said. 'And lots of lovely rice and pasta salads for the vegetarians. I can do those for you. Is your mother still doing berries for pudding?'
It was going to be the best party ever, Kitty thought. Nearly everyone from her class was coming. When she had told them about the lake, they had been really excited. One of Anthony's friends was going to bring a blow-up dinghy, and Anthony had a Lilo. 'We've got some old bunting in the store room,' said Henry. 'We could drape that around, disguise the scaffolding.'
'It's so long since we cleared out that store room it's probably marked "Silver Jubilee",' said Asad.
'And tea lights,' said Henry, 'leading down to the lake for when it gets dark. We could put them in old jam-jars. You can get a hundred for a couple of pounds.'
It had taken a while, but Kitty, sitting in the car with the two men chatting in front, decided she no longer felt homesick. Six months ago, if someone had told her they would still be here, that her idea of fun would be visiting a cash-and-carry with two elderly gay men, she would have cried for a week. Now she thought she probably didn't want to go back to London. She missed Dad still - she didn't think there would ever be a time when she thought about him and didn't get a lump in the back of her throat - but perhaps Mum had been right. Perhaps it really had been better to make a fresh start here, away from all the reminders of him.
'Some kind of syllabub or fool. Strawberry or gooseberry.'
'How do you make a gooseberry fool?' said Asad.
'Put her in a car with two old queens, eejit,' said Henry, and burst out laughing as the children stared blankly from the back seat.
'But what exactly did he say?' He clamped his phone between ear and shoulder. 'Hang on, I'm going to pull over on to the hard shoulder.' He gestured an apology to the driver he had inadvertently cut up, ignoring the bad-tempered blast of a horn.
'What was that noise? Where are you?'
Laura had told him she was at the bottom of the garden. He could picture her there, her hair lifting in the breeze, a hand pressed over her other ear. 'I'm on the motorway, junction twelve.'
'But Matt's here,' she whispered.
'I'm not coming to see you,' he said, glancing into his mirror. God, there was a lot of traffic this morning. 'Much as I'd love to.'
'You're going to speak to her today?'
Nicholas braked to allow someone to change lane, then slid to a halt on the hard shoulder, leaving his engine running. 'I can't wait any longer, Laura. The money's in place . . . Laura?'
'Yes?'
The length of her silence had unnerved him. 'Are you all right?'
'I suppose so. It's just . . . odd. An odd feeling. That it's all finally going to happen.'
His car shook as a lorry roared past. 'Look, change is always . . .'
'I know.'
'I understand, Laura. Really. I've been through it myself.'
She hesitated a little too long.
'You still want that house? Is that it?'
'It's not--'
'I'll scrap the Spanish House development.'
'What?'
It had left his mouth before he realised what he'd said. 'I'll scrap it,' he repeated, 'if you really want that house.'
'But that's your great project. How would you move on without it? You told me--'
'I'll manage.'
'But all those plans. Your backers--'
'Laura! Listen to me!' He was shouting into the phone now, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the motorway. 'If you really want that house, I'll make sure you have it. We can still turn it into the home of your dreams.'
This time her silence was of a different tenor. 'You'd do that for me?'
'Do you need to ask?'
'Oh, Nicholas.' There was gratitude in her voice, but he wasn't sure what she was thanking him for.
They were silent for a few moments.
'He may be there, you know. You won't say anything, will you?'
'About us?'
'I think it should come from me.'
'You mean I'm not allowed to say, "Mr McCarthy, I've been sleeping with your wife. And, incidentally, she has a bottom like a fresh peach."'
She couldn't help laughing. 'Please,' she said. 'Let me tell him later.'
'Your husband, Laura, is a fool, and I'd be delighted to tell him as much. But at a time of your choosing. Look, I've got to go. I'll ring you after I've spoken to the Delancey woman.' He cancelled the call and sat there as the traffic rushed by, hoping she hadn't meant he must make the choice he had promised.
