When Laura went out to the fishmongers and the flower shop, she saw in the window of a drugstore how the humidity in the air was already making her hair curl out of its set; she longed to go into its air-conditioned cool and sip a limeade and read a magazine, but she had to struggle back with the bags. One bag caught on her stocking, and the ladder ran down her leg as she walked. Kathy was at home to receive a delivery; yes, there was the fruit – grapes, dusky purple, but over-ripe, already softening, while the pears on the other hand looked woody. Laura gave Kathy instructions and went into the dining room to put the flowers into vases. Monica had mentioned in passing recently that it was not done to interrupt the gaze across the table with flower arrangements, so over the weekend she had bought three greenish glass bowls, and she cut the flower stalks short and pushed them into the bowls. In her mind the arrangement looked charming, but the heaviness of the roses’ heads made them tumble out of the bowls onto the oak dining table, and she pricked her finger on their thorns pushing them back in. In the end she took them into the living room instead, putting them on the mantelpiece where the roses could lean against the wall.
That was how the day went; she went through the list of things to do, ticking things off, making things happen, but with a sense that she was rehearsing for a play where the director was missing. At last, at about six, she went up to change. She had thought she would wear a dark dress with a low back; it had gone down well the first time she had worn it, but now she noticed that there was a mark on the skirt that she had not seen before. She should have sent it to be cleaned. She was sitting on the bed, wetting her finger with her tongue and rubbing at the mark, when she saw that on the table next to Edward’s side of the bed was a letter. She picked it up, and even when she realised it was from his mother she went on reading it. ‘… Osborne has taken the land to add to his farm, but nobody seemed to want the house as a house – in the end it’s gone to this Bristol man, who intends to turn it into a hotel. Toby is taking some bits and pieces for their London house, and I’ll put a few of the paintings into the Lodge …’
At first the words meant little, and then they fell with force. Laura remembered the house’s austere beauty, the chilly setting for the early days of their love, the meadow where he had kissed her as though she were his dream and saviour. She thought of the rose garden, dug up for cabbages, and the avenue bordered by lime trees that led down to the village and the church. And the little boy who both loved and hated it; she felt him in the room, the man he became, tormented by his feelings for his privileged childhood. ‘To me, it’s the most beautiful place in the world,’ he had said at lunch one day. ‘But you can’t rely on this kind of beauty,’ he had said another time.
Why had he said nothing? Laura thought of how he had been that morning. His face had been set – one might have called it cold – but it had been no different to his face every morning recently. She moved to the telephone and was about to ring him at work, but just as she started dialling the number she thought of how strange her commiserations would sound on the telephone, and how she would have to say she had read a letter from his mother that was not addressed to her.
Instead, she slipped on her uncomfortable high-heeled pumps and went downstairs. Kathy was staying late to help with the meal, and in front of her Laura found herself putting on a show of confidence and chattering high spirits, insisting on whipping the cream and mixing the salad dressing. At half past seven Edward still hadn’t come home, and at a quarter to eight the doorbell went. Laura pulled off her apron, ran up the kitchen steps and opened the door to find Archie and Monica on the doorstep. ‘How funny!’ she said. Her voice was as bright as she could make it. ‘You’re the first! Even before the man of the house.’
‘Not really?’ Monica came in, laughing.
‘But I saw Edward leave his office an hour ago,’ Archie said, shaking his head.
‘He probably went to meet Nick,’ said Laura. ‘Have you met him?’
‘Well, I’ve heard about him – friend of mine worked with him at the Beeb before the war. Bit of a player, isn’t he?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Monica asked, but Laura started talking over them.
‘I shall have to do the drinks in the absence of Edward – so what would you like?’