Bea shook hands with her husband over the table.
As Lauren brought out the tagine, Bea sat back in her chair with a sigh of relief. She had been terrified Bill was going to give her some ultimatum. Or tell her he’d found someone else. The thing was, Bea quite liked playing at country mouse but really, she was a town mouse through and through. It would all be here at the weekends, the trugs and the Peter Rabbit carrots and the eggs still covered in chicken shit.
And this time, when they got back home, after the two bottles of ruinously expensive wine they’d drunk to celebrate their decision, Bill was still awake when she came out of the bathroom in her Coco de Mer. Wide awake.
Nineteen
The following Sunday, Emilia gave herself the day off. She had worked flat out for weeks, and Dave was happy to run the shop for the day.
Marlowe had offered to give her a cello lesson, to get her up to speed on the pieces she was unfamiliar with and to practise the Handel. Of all the pieces she had to get that right, as it heralded Alice’s entrance.
‘It’s renowned for being a bitch of a piece for the cello,’ he told her, ‘but we’ll nail it, don’t worry.’
It was one of those autumn days that take you by surprise. Although there was a sharpness in the air on waking, warm sunshine and a cloudless sky belied the season. Emilia put on a yellow dress and a pale green cardigan and drove to Marlowe’s house, a tiny Victorian lodge on the outskirts of Peasebrook. It was like a cottage out of a fairy tale, all pointy windows with a gabled roof and an arched front door.
Inside, it was chaos. Books and sheet music and empty wine glasses and two smoky grey cats stepping amongst it all. John Coltrane was playing and she could smell fresh coffee. With a pang, she realised it reminded her a little bit of the flat when her father was alive: he was always in the middle of twelve things at once; there was always music; something cooking.
‘God, I’m sorry. I meant to tidy up.’ Marlowe kissed her. ‘Meet Crotchet and Quaver.’
He scooped one of the cats off a chair and patted the seat. ‘You sit here. I’ll get you a coffee while you set yourself up.’
Emilia got out her cello, and as she looked around the room she spotted evidence of Delphine. A silk Hermès scarf on the sofa; lipstick on a glass; a pair of Chanel ballet flats.
‘Delph’s in Paris for the weekend – some family knees-up. So we’ve got all day if you need it.’
OK, thought Emilia. I’ve got the message. ‘Delph’. That was fond familiarity if ever she’d heard it.
After two hours, she was exhausted. Marlowe was a brilliant and patient teacher, and not once did he make her feel inferior. He helped her with her posture and her bow hold. At one point he put his hand on her shoulder. His fingers dug in until he found a muscle.
‘You need to relax that muscle. Drop your shoulder.’
Emilia tried desperately to relax, but she found it difficult. The feeling of his hand on her was making her think about things she probably shouldn’t. Eventually she managed to untense.
‘That’s it!’ Marlowe was triumphant. ‘If you relax that, you’ll be able to play for longer, and much better.’
By half twelve, she was exhausted.
‘Come on,’ said Marlowe. ‘Let’s walk to the pub and get some lunch.’
They walked to the White Horse and bought hot pork ciabatta rolls with apple sauce and bits of salty crackling, sitting at a table outside next to a patio heater. Emilia didn’t want to leave the sunshine, the easy company, the half of cider that was making her sleepy and made her want to slide into bed …
‘Let’s go back through the woods,’ suggested Marlowe. ‘It’s a bit further than the road but we can walk our lunch off.’
The walk through the wood meandered alongside the river. Sunshine and birdsong lifted Emilia’s heart: she’d spent far too much time inside recently. She must make the effort to get out and enjoy the countryside around Peasebrook. It was truly glorious, with the trees ablaze with crimson and coral and ochre and the rich smell of dead leaves underfoot.
Eventually they came to a section of the river that was deeper than the rest, the banks widening to form a bowl-shaped pool. The water was crystal clear: Emilia could see the smooth stones at the bottom, covered in moss and there was a willow on the far bank, trailing its branches in the water.
‘Fancy a swim, then?’ asked Marlowe. ‘Doesn’t get wilder than this.’
‘You have to be joking. Surely it’s too cold?’
‘Nah. I swim here all the time, even on Christmas Day. It’s invigorating.’
‘Invigorating?’
Emilia looked doubtful. Yet part of her couldn’t resist the challenge.
‘Does Delphine swim in this?’ She couldn’t imagine she did.
‘God, no. She’s a total chicken.’