‘Then end it,’ said Jason. ‘Get out while you still can.’
A few days later, Angela was chopping carrots and parsley in the kitchen at Furlings. The break in the summer heat wave was enough to warrant a hot evening meal, and she’d decided to try out a Jamie Oliver recipe for chicken chasseur.
Estate agents would probably have described Furlings’ kitchen as being ‘in need of updating’, but to Angela it was perfect. An enormous, cast-iron range cooker, similar to an Aga but about twice the size, fifty years older and covered with a century’s worth of encrusted casserole remnants, dominated one wall. To the left and right of it stood two enormous butchers’ chopping blocks, above which a row of gleaming copper pots and pans hung from hooks on the ceiling, like shiny carcasses in an abattoir. The adjoining wall overlooked the lawn and deer park beyond, glistening green after the rain in the soft, early evening light. Mrs Worsley and the cleaning girl did most of the washing-up, but Angela had been known to spend a full ten minutes rinsing out a single cup in the huge, chipped Belfast sink, transfixed by the loveliness of the view. Directly opposite the sink, in the middle of the room, a large round oak table sat lopsidedly on a sloping flagstone floor, worn dangerously smooth and slippery by generations of stockinged feet scurrying back and forth across it. Usually this table was covered in clutter – Logan’s school books, Angela’s half-read newspapers, Jason’s sheet music – but today Mrs Worsley had cleared it to make space for a large jug of slightly overblown peonies, cuttings from the garden that she’d caught Jennings about to chuck in his wheelbarrow and throw away.
Chopping away at her vegetables, soaking up the cheerful, homely atmosphere of the room, Angela jumped a mile when she felt two arms encircle her waist from behind.
‘You should let Mrs Worsley do that,’ Brett whispered, nuzzling into her neck. ‘That’s what we pay her for.’
Angela spun around, beaming. ‘What are you doing home?’
Brett invariably spent the midweek nights at his London crash pad. On the rare occasions when he made it down to Furlings before Friday, he always called to let Angela know.
‘Do I need an excuse to come and see my beautiful wife?’
‘No, of course not. I’m just … surprised. Why didn’t you catch the train with Jason earlier?’
‘I still had some work to finish up,’ said Brett. ‘I love you,’ he added, kissing her again.
Angela felt relief wash over her like a gentle wave. Ever since that awful afternoon at the school, when she’d overheard the other mothers gossiping and so embarrassingly fainted, a nagging seed of doubt had been planted in her mind. She didn’t really believe that Brett was cheating on her again. But at the same time, she couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t. Which left her in a sort of awful, silent limbo that had put a strain on the marriage. Neither she nor Brett had acknowledged it, but they both knew it was there. And Brett’s behaviour had been off in other ways, too. He’d been distinctly standoffish with Max Bingley at church last Sunday, for example, and seemed irritated when Angela so much as spoke to the headmaster in passing. Ridiculously, Angela found herself feeling guilty as a result, perhaps because Brett still knew nothing of the fainting incident. As if by winding up on Bingley’s couch that day she had somehow betrayed her husband. Which, of course, was pure nonsense. But the feelings remained, and Angela had gone out of her way to avoid bumping into Max at school this week as a result of them.
Then there was Brett’s growing obsession with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton and the looming court case over Rory’s will. Brett’s face still darkened ominously whenever Tati’s name was mentioned, which in a small village like this was a real problem. Especially given that Angela ran into Tati almost daily at school, and Logan positively adored the girl, who’d done more to help her with her reading than any of the expensive tutors back in Australia.
Of course, none of these things added up to much in isolation. But Angela had been unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss with Brett. That the dynamic in their marriage had become skewed, off-kilter, dangerous in some inexplicable way. She felt like an actor in a play, thrust onto the stage but with no idea what her lines were, or even what part she was supposed to be playing.
Feeling Brett’s arms around her now, however, she instantly relaxed.
I’ve been worrying about nothing. Overthinking things, like I always do.
‘So where is Jason?’ Brett asked casually, picking up a piece of raw carrot and crunching it between his teeth.
‘I think he’s in his room, I’m not sure,’ said Angela. ‘Is everything OK?’ she added anxiously.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Brett smiled. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’