The moon sailed out from behind the cloud and washed him in icy white light. She looked at him, at the eyes that were Marianne’s, too. She’d loved them both so much.
She took a step towards him and he thought she was going to embrace him. The look of horror on his face – no, not horror: revulsion.
Revulsion.
An explosion of rage more powerful than any she’d felt before. To be rejected again, pushed away a second time by the people she’d loved most – it was too much. She lunged at him. He staggered, almost losing his footing, and behind him, she saw the garden. He caught her arm, twisting it, and she screamed but the pain seemed to make her stronger, and she pushed back against him as hard as she could, heard his feet scrape the asphalt. Come on. Summoning all her strength, she pulled free of his grip, stepped back and threw herself against him, head at his chest.
He moved just in time – half a second later would have been too late – but she had too much momentum, she couldn’t stop herself. He grabbed after her, tried to catch her – she felt his fingers clutch at the fabric of her sleeve.
For a moment she was floating, weightless. The view of the garden stole her breath. The rhododendrons and the birch trees, the roses, the lawn – all of it outlined in silver, like the promise of another world. She was lying awake with Marianne again, the moonlight streaming through the open curtains, and they were talking.
Acknowledgements
In writing this book, I was privileged to have the guidance of several brilliant women: Helen Garnons-Williams, my agent Kathleen Anderson, Alexa von Hirschberg and Rachel Mannheimer. To the exceptional teams at Bloomsbury, especially Ellen Williams, Lynsey Sutherland and Imogen Denny, an enormous thank you.
On a practical level, this would likely not have been possible – and would certainly have been significantly less enjoyable – without the help and support of Mweemba Nchimunya and Polly and Guy Meacock, invaluable partners in crime on our epic Great North Run of 2014 and too many other occasions to count. Gillian Thomas, thanks for the doughnuts!
And Joe and Bridget – without you, it absolutely wouldn’t have been possible or meant half as much.