‘What favour?’
Bea didn’t have a clue what to tell him. She could hardly tell him the truth. She wished she’d never started the conversation. She concentrated on pouring the stock onto the rice while she thought of a suitable reply.
‘Maud had a meltdown in her shop. She was really kind to her.’
‘That’s not like Maud.’
Bea felt awful, blaming her gorgeous daughter who rarely had tantrums.
‘She was a bit tired and hungry. Emilia gave her a biscuit.’
‘A set of plans in return for a biscuit?’
Bea frowned at him. ‘Look, I want to do it. OK? It’s nice to use my brain.’
She felt unsettled. It wasn’t like Bill to be so ungenerous.
Did he feel left out? She had read somewhere – not in Hearth, because in Hearth life wasn’t allowed to be anything less than perfect – that men could get jealous of new babies, and resent the attention their partners lavished on the newborns. But if anything, Bill was the one who lavished attention on Maud. He spoiled her far more than Bea did.
Maybe he was just tired.
‘Shall I see if I can get a babysitter for tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘We could try one of the new restaurants in Peasebrook? It would be nice to have a night out.’
Bill poked at something on his iPad. ‘Nah. Let’s stay in. I don’t want a hangover midweek.’
They could never go out for dinner without demolishing a bottle of wine each. For some reason they were never as profligate at home. Bea supposed it was because if they started drinking like that in their own kitchen they would be heading for rehab in a month.
Unless guests came, of course. Then the bottle count was shameless. But they hadn’t had so many people to stay lately.
Maybe Bill was lacking stimulating company. Guests were hard work but it was always fun, and now Maud wasn’t getting up quite so horrifically early, it would be easier.
‘Shall we ask the Morrisons down for the weekend?’ she asked. ‘Or Sue and Tony? We’ve been a bit unsociable lately.’
Bill gave a sigh. ‘It’s non-stop washing up and sheet changing.’
‘Not really. Everyone gives a hand.’ And he never did the laundry. It was Bea who stripped the beds, washed the linen and sprayed it with lavender water before ironing.
He didn’t answer.
Bea frowned.
Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was missing their London life? And the London her? Maybe stay-at-home-in-Peasebrook Bea was too dull for him? She was back into her jeans and was carrying hardly any baby weight, but she knew they didn’t have sex as often as they used. And certainly never those up-against-the-wall sessions they used to have when they first met when the need for each other overcame them. They were both exhibitionists. Both admitted the thrill of possibly being seen or caught turned them on.
But somehow, what seemed OK in a London alley didn’t seem appropriate in conservative Peasebrook. There would be consequences to being caught. A city was anonymous. Here in a small provincial town, wanton behaviour would be frowned upon. She could imagine the gossip already.
Still, Bea was never one to resist a challenge. When they went upstairs to bed, she rummaged in her underwear drawer and took out her best Coco de Mer satin bra and knickers, pulled her Louboutins out of the cupboard, and slipped into the bathroom to get changed. She put on red lipstick, backcombed her hair slightly, and slid into her femme fatale combo.
She sashayed into the bedroom and stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, with a wicked smile.
‘Oi!’ she said. Bill was lying under the covers, eyes closed.
‘Oi!’ she said, louder.
She thought she saw his eyelids flicker. She frowned. She walked over to the bed, picked up his hand and put it between her legs, letting his fingers feel the warmth of the silk.
He rolled over, mumbling, and pulled his hand away.
Her mouth dropped open. Never, in all the time she had known him, had Bill turned down an opportunity. She sat down on the bed, looking down at the bright red shoes with the pencil-thin heels and the spaghetti-thin ankle straps, thinking how many times he’d watched her in them, eyes laughing as she walked towards him.
She didn’t know whether to be cross or hurt or puzzled.
Thirteen
June had taken the press release about Mick Gillespie home.
She poured herself a glass of cool Viognier and sat at the kitchen table to look at it.