A Place of Hiding

Valerie found the note upon her return from La Corbière. It was two words long, rendered in Kevin’s disciplined hand: Cherie’s recital. The fact that he’d written nothing more spoke of his displeasure. She felt a tiny stab. She’d forgotten about the little girl’s Christmas concert at the school. She’d been meant to go along with her husband to applaud the vocal efforts of their six-year-old niece, but in the apprehension of needing to know how far her responsibility went in the death of Guy Brouard, she’d been unaware of anything else. Kevin might even have reminded her about the concert at breakfast, but she wouldn’t have heard him. She was already laying her plans for the day: how and when she could slip down to the Shell House without being missed, what she would say to Henry when she got there.

When Kevin arrived home, she was making chicken stock, skimming fat from the top of a boiling pot. A new recipe for soup lay on the work top next to her. She’d cut it from a magazine in the hope that it might tempt Ruth to eat.

Kevin came in the door and stood watching her, his tie loosened and his waistcoat undone. He was overdressed for a Christmas pageant presented by the under-ten set, Valerie saw, and she felt a secondary stab at the sight of him: He looked good; she should have been with him. Kevin’s glance went to the note he’d left stuck upon the refrigerator. Valerie said, “I’m sorry. I forgot. Cherie did well?”

He nodded. He removed his tie and wrapped it round his hand, setting it on the table next to a bowl of unshelled walnuts. He took off his jacket and then his waistcoat. He pulled out a chair and sat.

“Mary Beth all right?” Valerie asked.

“Well as you’d expect, first Christmas without him.”

“Your first Christmas without him as well.”

“It’s different for me.”

“I suppose. Good the girls have you, though.”

A silence came between them. The chicken stock burbled. Tyres crunched on the gravel drive a short distance from the kitchen window. Valerie looked out and saw a police car leaving the grounds of the estate. She frowned at this, returned to the stock pot and added chopped celery. She threw in a handful of salt and waited for her husband to speak.

“Car was gone when I needed it to get into town,” he said. “I had to use Guy’s Mercedes.”

“That must’ve fit you like a picture, all dressed up like you were. Did Mary Beth like the fancy ride?”

“I went on my own. Too late to fetch her. I wasn’t on time for the concert as it was. I was waiting for you. Thought for sure you’d just run out somewhere. Picking up medicine at the chemist for the big house or something.”

She made another pass across the top of the stock, removing a nonexistent slick of fat. Ruth wouldn’t eat soup with too much fat in it. She’d see the delicate ovals of it, and she’d push the bowl away. So Valerie had to be vigilant. She had to give the chicken stock all her attention.

“Cherie missed you,” Kevin persisted. “You were meant to go.”

“Mary Beth didn’t ask where I was, though, did she?”

Kevin didn’t answer.

“So...” Valerie said as pleasantly as she could. “Those windows of hers sealed up nicely in her house now, Kev? No more leaking?”

“Where were you?”

She went to the fridge and looked inside, trying to think what she could tell him. She pretended a survey of the fridge’s contents, but all the time her thoughts swarmed like gnats round overripe fruit. Kevin’s chair scraped on the floor as he got to his feet. He came to the fridge and shut its door. Valerie returned to the cooker and he followed her there. When she picked up the spoon to see to the stock, he took the spoon from her. He set it with care on the utensil holder. “It’s time to talk.”

“What about?”

“I think you know.”