Night Music (26 page)

‘It’s okay, darling,’ Isabel soothed her. ‘We’ve been left them as a present. Thierry will prepare them for us.’

‘Someone left us
roadkill
?’

‘They’re not roadkill. People used to eat rabbit all the time.’

‘Yes, and they used to send children up chimneys. It doesn’t make it right.’ Kitty was clearly appalled by the idea. ‘If you think I’m eating dead rabbit you’re out of your minds. Ugh! You’re both disgusting!’ She flounced out of the kitchen.

Thierry was grinning.

‘Show me, darling,’ Isabel said. ‘Show me what Byron showed you and we’ll do it together.’

It had been like this for almost two weeks. Early potatoes, tentative shoots emerging from their rumpled skins, envelopes of seeds, clearly labelled with instructions, two sacks of manure. Isabel had tried to find Byron to thank him, but he was never around. In fact, the house was deserted, apart from her and the children. Matt had not returned. The digger and his tools were scattered about the house and its grounds like landlocked relics of the
Mary Celeste
.

Thierry laid a plastic bag on the table, and put a rabbit on its back, its head facing him. He took the small kitchen knife and placed it on the left of the soft white belly, pulled a pinch of fur between his fingers and began to cut. Isabel fought the inclination to steer him away from sharp implements, but his fingers were as precise as hers were on strings, and his whole self seemed absorbed in his task. And as Isabel watched, marvelling at how tenderly he did it, her son put down the knife and peeled away the rabbit’s pelt, almost as if he were removing its clothing, to reveal the raw pink flesh beneath.

She didn’t know what she would say to Matt about that night. She couldn’t explain her actions, let alone his, and although drink might have played a part, she knew it wasn’t enough to blame the wine. If she were honest, some part of her had felt indebted to him – although the ugly truth in his offer had turned her blood to ice.

She had been at her lowest when he had suddenly appeared, a strong man who always took charge . . . and there, in the dark, lost in the music and her loneliness, she had persuaded herself he was not some near-stranger. That somehow she had called up Laurent in the dark and the wind. Some spectral version of him.

She could not plead unwillingness. She had wanted it.

Her son had removed the head. As Isabel tried not to wince, he cut through the animal’s groin and upwards, tugging at the innards. He chewed his lower lip with concentration. His hands, she thought absently, looked as they had when he had been a toddler, finger painting with red and brown.

She had been shamefully glad to feel Matt’s hands on her, his breath, his embrace – to hand herself over to him. To feel raw desire reciprocated. She could still remember the piercing physical joy of having him inside her.

And then the spell had been broken. Some minutes before it might comfortably have done so. He was not her husband. He was not someone she wanted, against her, inside her. But it had gone too far for her to stop so she had closed her eyes, tried to separate herself from what was happening as her body, which had betrayed her initially, remembered who he was and shut down, turning her into someone cold, unfeeling and ashamed. Then, the worst of it, he had been so pleased, so affectionate afterwards. He seemed to believe she might want to prolong it, or even to do it again.

And now, on top of everything, this crushing guilt – not just for his wife, but that she, a woman who had spent little more than a year mourning her husband and still carried him in every thought, had offered herself up so casually to another man. She had betrayed what she and Laurent had had. She felt as though Matt’s presence had erased everything that had gone before.

Isabel jumped as, with a snap, Thierry broke off the rabbit’s legs. There was no fur now, no head, no paws, just a lump of raw flesh. Painful, and exposed. Thierry washed it under the tap, standing on tiptoe, then held it out proudly to her. There was nothing left inside it, just a clean cavity where its heart had been.

Isabel suppressed a shudder. ‘Wonderful, lovey. Well done.’ His hands were still spattered with blood and fur, when he pulled the next rabbit on to the plastic bag.

Isabel put the prepared carcass into salted water, as Byron had told her. Apparently this would make it more palatable.

She saw the car before she saw him, glimpsing it through the trees on the far side of the lake. It was the spot she had shown him on the day they had met. Since then she had returned to it more than once, on the days when Matt had been especially awful. Her son’s words still rang in her ears.

‘We’re married,’ she had told him. ‘Believe it or not, that means something. It means not walking away when the going gets tough. It means we work through our problems.’

‘If you say so,’ Anthony had muttered.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, I’m never getting married if it means being like you two. Look at you both,’ he had said. ‘You’re not friends. You never have a laugh together. You never actually
talk
to each other about anything.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘You’re like some 1950s sitcom. He upsets you. You forgive him. He makes a mess. You clear it up. You’re like some kind of crummy deal.’

His car was parked a little way back, just off the lane, and as she walked past it she glanced in at the map, the scattered bits of paper, already knowing there could be only one reason why he had returned. Laura straightened her lapels, glad that she had taken the trouble to repair her makeup.

He was sitting on the tree stump and scrambled up at her approach, a smile breaking across his face. She smiled back. It had been a while since anyone without fur or hoofs had been so pleased to see her.

‘It
is
you!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d been hoping it was.’

He had a lovely voice, low, gentle and slightly clipped. A little like her father’s. She was suddenly shy. ‘Enjoying the view?’ she asked feebly.

He reached down to pat Bernie, who had no hesitation in welcoming him. ‘It’s a fabulous spot. I dreamed of this view every night after . . . our last chat.’

The house was just visible on the far side, partially obscured by trees and hedging, partially mirrored in the glassy water. There had been times when she had sat here and let her imagination drift, picturing herself arm in arm with her husband, strolling down the stone steps towards the lake. The parties they would have on the lawns. The elegant drapes they would hang at the windows. There had been other, more recent times, when she had been unable to walk round this side of the land, when she couldn’t see the house without being eaten up by envy and frustration that, after everything, it was not hers.

Today, for the first time, that wasn’t important. The object neither of frustration nor desire, it was just a shabby old house, gazing placidly out across the water.

There was a brief silence, broken by ducks fighting in the reeds. Nicholas was fondling the dog’s ears. She recalled the things she had told him the last time they had met. Perhaps it really was easier to tell your secrets to a stranger.

‘You look . . . lovely,’ he said.

She lifted a hand involuntarily to her hair. ‘Better than last time.’

‘You looked wonderful last time.’ He stood up. ‘Would you like some coffee? I was just having some. I – I brought a spare cup.’ The implication of his last statement made them laugh.

Laura sat on the tree stump. ‘I’d love some,’ she said.

She didn’t know who it was, she told him, some time later. She knew her husband was sleeping with someone, but she did not know who. ‘It makes life in a village impossible.’ She was careful not to look at him as she said this, knowing she could continue only if she pretended he wasn’t there. ‘Everywhere I go I’m wondering, Is it you? Or you? It could be almost anyone. The girl at the supermarket. The woman in the fabrics shop. The waitress at the restaurant he takes me to. He’s always been attractive to women.’

Nicholas said nothing. He sat next to her, listening.

‘I can’t talk to anyone about it. Not my friends or neighbours – I know of at least one he’s slept with, although she’d deny it. There’s no point in asking him. He could tell you black was white and you’d believe him. He’s done it to me enough times. Even now he won’t admit to anything. He makes me feel that I’m the stupid one for suspecting him.’

He turned now to study her face. She knew what he must be thinking.
Fool.
But his expression didn’t say so.

‘Last time he had to admit it. He sent me a text message instead of her. He must have got muddled. “Meet me at the Tailors’ Arms,” it said. “Got two hours before curfew.” I’ve never forgotten it.
Curfew
. As if I was some kind of gaoler.’

‘What did you do?’

She laughed humourlessly. ‘I turned up at the pub. He went absolutely white when he saw me.’

Nicholas smiled sympathetically.

Laura fiddled with a cuff. ‘He admitted everything and said he was sorry. We’d been trying for a baby, you see. I thought it would bring us together, but he said it had made him feel pressured and this woman – this
girl
– was the result. That was three years ago.’

‘And now?’

‘I don’t know. I talk to the shopgirls and the hairdresser, my female friends and neighbours and . . . I have no idea which of them is sleeping with my husband.’ She fought to control her voice. ‘That’s the hardest thing, you see. That she could be there looking at me, laughing at me. One of these pretty young girls with their firm bodies and perfect skin. That’s what I see in my head. The two of them, laughing at me.’ She clenched her jaw.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after a moment. ‘You just wanted a cup of coffee and to enjoy the view and I’m rambling on about my marriage. You must forgive me.’ Don’t be nice, she told him silently, or I’ll fall apart.

But as she stared fixedly at the house in the distance a hand closed over hers. A hand that was warm, firm and unfamiliar. And the voice that spoke to her was unexpectedly tough.

‘The man’s a fool,’ it said.

It was another two hours before he checked his watch. ‘That’s some lunch break,’ she had said, when he exclaimed at the time. He had smiled and nodded, creases at the corners of his eyes. ‘Wasn’t much of a lunch, though, was it?’

They had looked down at the chocolate wrapper.

They had not discussed Matt further. He had chivalrously changed the subject, telling her of a place he had known as a boy, not dissimilar to this, where he and his siblings had spent hours roaming and making camps. Then they had talked about childhood pets, elderly parents, steering clear of relationships, of why they might be sitting alone at the edge of a wood. And then she had glanced at her watch to discover that two hours had passed.

‘Perhaps you’ll let me make up for it some time,’ he said. ‘An improved culinary offering.’

She had understood what he was saying. And her smile had faded. A proper lunch. It was one thing to bump into someone while she was walking the dog, even to sit down and share a conversation with them, but lunch was premeditated. It spoke of intention.

It was the kind of thing Matt would do with his conquests.

Her thoughts must have been transparent, and she saw disappointment in his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I realise . . . things are complicated.’

‘It’s not you . . .’

He winced.

‘You’re . . . very good company.’

‘And so are you, Laura.’ He got up and offered her a hand. ‘Really. I’ve enjoyed this afternoon more than I can say.’

‘The ramblings of a whining housewife . . .’ She straightened her shirt.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Just an honest one. I’m flattered.’ He was still holding her hand. ‘I’ve been on my own for a long time, partly because I’ve wanted to be, but it’s been good simply to talk to someone – someone intelligent and kind and—’

‘I’d better go,’ she said.

He released her hand. ‘Of course.’

‘Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again,’ she said. She couldn’t ask. She couldn’t admit to herself that she might want to.

He reached into his pocket, took out a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘In case you ever fancy that lunch,’ he said. And as she walked towards the path, the paper radioactive in her pocket, she heard him call, ‘Three courses or a bar of chocolate. I really don’t mind.’

He watched her go down the path, something a little self-conscious in her gait, as if she knew his eyes were on her. She wouldn’t look back, even if she wanted to, he thought. Everything about her spoke of delicacy, of a way of doing things he rarely encountered these days. Even the way she had held her cup was elegant. He could have watched her for hours more. He had made himself look across the lake at the house lest his intensity alarm her. But he had felt her beside him acutely, his nerve endings sharpening when the breeze carried a hint of her scent to him. His breath had caught in his throat when she had lifted those sad grey eyes to his. Now, freed from restraint, he let his eyes rest on her until she was swallowed by the trees, her blonde hair briefly dappled in the sunlight.

He suspected he understood her, this beautiful, gentle woman whom he hardly knew. He had not wanted someone so completely, so unhesitatingly, since his wife had left, and he wasn’t sure that he had ever wanted her in the same way.

Walking towards his car, he told himself not to hope. Like the house, this was likely to be a waiting game. He might not have had the self-awareness to recognise it, but despite his recent past, Nicholas Trent was still, at heart, a dealmaker. And his knowledge of a rival, no matter how invisible, how unknown, how potent, only sharpened his desire.

That evening Byron finally appeared. There was a knock at the kitchen door, and as Isabel could see through the glass who it was she opened it. He stood, filling the frame, just a worn blue T-shirt to keep out the evening chill.

‘Hi,’ he said, and his smile was so unexpected that she smiled back. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but I wondered if I could have a word.’