26

‘Luca can’t make it,’ Nick mouthed at me, one hand clamped round his mobile, the other poking the risotto with a wooden spoon. ‘Migraine.’

I tilted my head to one side and made a sympathetic face. I would have been surprised if Luca could stand after the force with which my knee had met his crotch, but it was a relief, nevertheless, to know I wouldn’t have to endure an evening in his company. Even with my record of polite acquiescence, I didn’t think I’d be able to stomach that after what he’d done. I’d been thinking of feigning sickness myself.

‘That’s too bad,’ Nick was saying into his mobile. ‘Yeah, yeah. No, of course you should still come, Melissa. I’ve made enough to feed an army and you can always take some back for when he’s better. Yeah, soon as you like. Ciao.’

They had found porcini of their own. They were all over the woods, apparently, not just in Luca’s sacred spot. chanterelles, too, and fieldcap and something called Slippery Jack – all identified by Nick. Who knew? He got a bit cagey when I expressed surprise at his hidden talent for mycology. Just shrugged and said it’d teach Luca to be a cocky little sod. I could only imagine what he’d have done if he’d found out what the cocky little sod had tried next. No need to go into that now, though. Much better glossed over. I had dealt with it myself. I was rather proud of that, in retrospect. I’d felt empowered… once I’d stopped shaking, anyway.

‘You look nice.’

Nick slipped the phone back into the pocket of his butcher’s apron and made to kiss me. I allowed his lips to graze my cheek before pulling away.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘Did I buy you that top?’

I looked down vaguely – it was a floppy pleated thing with a tie-neck that I would never have picked out, but which, when I remembered to wear it, always looked better on than I expected.

‘No, Jude did.’

He tilted his head regretfully.

‘Well, I should have done. You look fucking hot. I’m going to buy you more clothes in future. We should go to London. Have a spree in Selfridges.’

I stretched my lips into a smile, but inside I was recoiling. Is that all you think it takes? I wanted to say, a blank cheque in Selfridges and a few lazy compliments? I came here to heal myself and mend our marriage. I came here thinking you were a changed man who had finally seen the error of his ways but you are the same vain egotist you always were.

‘What time are they coming?’ I said.

‘I told them seven for seven thirty, but knowing the Gaineses, I wouldn’t hold your breath. In fact…’ He hooked a finger through the belt loops on each side of my jeans and jerked me playfully towards him. ‘We’ve probably got time for a quickie…’

I stretched my neck away from his puckered lips and removed his hands from my hips.

‘Bit chancy,’ I said. ‘Shall I make a salad?’

‘All done,’ he said breezily. No sign of hurt feelings, I noted.

‘I haven’t bothered with starters,’ he went on, ‘just got some nice olives and nibbles from the farmers’ market. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Why should I mind?’

He turned back to the stove and ladled some more stock into the pan, before bending over it to inhale the fragrance.

‘You are going to love this risotto.’

I wandered into the living room. The table looked beautiful – a sprig of rose hips for a centrepiece, a slender candle at either end. Nick had served the ‘nibbles’ in my hand-thrown pebble bowls, usually left gathering dust at the back of the cupboard in favour of plain white china. The overall effect was artier than he usually went for – less urban.

The fireside looked bright and inviting, too, the cushions not so plumped as to indicate effort, but not sagging either, the coffee table just off centre on the rug, a handful of arty brochures left casually arrayed. I caught my reflection in the blue-black sheen of the window and thought in my Nick-approved top with my hair freshly washed, I might almost be mistaken, from the outside looking in, for someone who belonged here.

I glanced down at the window ledge and noticed, nestling among the flowers and candles, a family photograph I hadn’t seen in years. It had been a favourite of mine, taken for us by a genial Italian waiter in – where had we been? – Sienna? Ravenna? Somewhere like that. Unusually, both boys were in it – adolescent Gabe, raising his half glass of wine triumphantly towards the camera, in celebration of his father’s indulgence; little Ethan, sitting ram-rod straight behind a glassful of breadsticks, his face covered in Bolognese sauce, giving a cheery thumbs up to the camera. Nick, with his arm around me, and his face tilted down, so the lens only caught the corner of his laughing mouth, and me looking – what was that look on my face? Ah yes, happiness.

I had forgotten this relic from the past, and was surprised to see it enjoying such a prominent position on the window ledge. Nick was known for a slash and burn approach to memorabilia and the last time I had seen this picture in its cheap IKEA frame, we’d been having a clear-out at Trenchard Street and Nick had dumped it with a pile of stuff destined for the attic. That he had given it pride of place this evening struck me as odd. Could this be his idea of an apology? His subtle way of telling me that he wanted us to be a family after all? I glanced up from the photo and caught my breath. His face was just behind mine, reflected in the darkened glass. How long had he been standing there? Seconds? Minutes? Before I could read the expression in his eyes, however, he had stepped closer, put his hands on my waist and with a light kiss to my hair, propelled me towards the front door with a proprietorial slap to the bottom.

‘Wake up, silly, they’re here!’

‘Sorry,’ I said, opening the door, ‘I didn’t hear you knock.’

‘We didn’t quite like to!’ Douglas said, giving me a brief but friendly hug. ‘Looked like you were having a moment.’

‘Oh no, we were just…’

But he had already handed me on to Imogen who grazed my cheek with hers so that all I got was an expensive whiff of lilies and lemon. Douglas glanced around the cottage with indulgent curiosity.

‘So, here we all are. All’s well that ends well,’ he said jovially.

I frowned at him.

‘After your little… escapade… on the mushroom hunt.’

‘I got lost,’ I said tartly.

‘Along with Luca,’ said Imogen, with a smirk. ‘Our so-called guide. I shall look forward to hearing his explanation later.’

‘Ah well, you won’t, sadly,’ Nick said, taking his apron off and tossing it ostentatiously back through the kitchen door. He strolled over to his guests and clasped each of them to him in turn.

‘Why’s that then?’ said Douglas. I closed my eyes briefly against an unwelcome rush of memory. Luca’s greedy wet lips on mine, my knee jerking upward, a deathless groan, then running, running… undergrowth, brambles… chest panting… feet thudding, blood singing… stile… stumbling… barbed wire… ouch! Up again… running, slowing, daylight, cows… limping, heart slowing… safe.

‘Melissa just rang,’ Nick told him. ‘Luca’s got a migraine. She’s still going to come though.’

‘Oh no, what a shame!’ Imogen said. ‘About Luca, I mean,’ she added hastily. ‘Not that Melissa’s coming.’

Douglas pulled a sympathetic face.

‘Dreadful pity to miss out, especially when it was his thing, as it were.’

‘Ah well,’ said Nick, his tone suggesting he could live with the disappointment.

‘We shall drink a toast to his recovery and send some risotto home in a doggy bag. Now, what’s everyone drinking? Shall I open this baby?’ he indicated the bottle that Douglas had just put in his hand.

‘Might need to breathe,’ Douglas said.

Nick perused the label and gave a low whistle.

‘Oh yes, I see what you mean. Bit of a show-stopper. Now, what have I got that won’t ruin our palates for it in the meantime…?’

I don’t know when my husband had become a connoisseur of fine wines – when he’d been schmoozing clients on the company credit card, I supposed – Tesco’s Finest had been good enough at home. Douglas followed him into the kitchen. Imogen perched on the sofa and I sat down on Nick’s leather chair. The air between us fairly bristled with ill will.

‘So cosy,’ she said, looking around our living room, ‘I sometimes think it would be nice to live somewhere a bit more…’

‘Cramped?’

‘No, no…’ Imogen laughed uncomfortably. ‘Somewhere a bit homelier, I meant.’

‘Well, you could,’ I said, ‘you could sell Walford House and buy yourself half a dozen homes. That’s what everyone’s doing in London now.’

There was a brief silence and then Imogen tried again.

‘Do you miss it? London, I mean…’

I felt a stab of something like grief. In the few months since I’d moved here, I had never allowed myself to ask that question, still less answer it.

‘I suppose I do a bit… I don’t imagine you hanker after the city life, though?’

‘Oh, I’m there almost as often as I’m here,’ she said, airily. ‘Twice a month in term-time for my teaching commitments and then for various openings and private views and so-on.’

The shrill of the doorbell made us both jump.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ said Imogen, who by virtue of being on the sofa was a whole yard nearer the door.

‘Melissa-a-a!’ they embraced insincerely. Melissa shrugged off a fur-trimmed parka to reveal a slim denim shirt-dress fastened from mid-thigh to throat with small pearl-faced press-studs. I noticed Imogen give her the once-over, before sitting down and smoothing her own velvet pinafore across her knees.

‘Such a shame about Luca,’ said Imogen.

‘I kn-o-o-ow,’ said Melissa, ‘I wanted to stay home and nurse him, but he wouldn’t have it. He insisted I come and sample the mushrooms.’

I bet he did, I thought.

A cork popped loudly in the kitchen and all three of us turned our heads.

Douglas came in and sat down between Melissa and Imogen on the sofa and Nick followed, carrying a tray of champagne flutes, the spume still fizzing up their sides.

‘Ooh, lovely!’ said Melissa, leaning forward to take one.

When we each had a glass in our hands, Nick stood and raised his in the air.

‘Now this is not a speech…’ he began, to amused groans from his guests, ‘no, really. I just want to say a few heartfelt words of thanks. To you, Douglas and Imogen… oh, and Melissa of course, for welcoming us into this really rather wonderful community and for the huge generosity of spirit and resilience you showed on Saturday night in the face of… well… let’s not go there. I never went to Eton – my alma mater was Harlesden Comp – but I still know backbone when I see it and the way you people rallied round after that display of thuggery, well…’

Nick paused and dipped his chin, as if almost too moved to go on.

Douglas mumbled modestly and Imogen flapped her hand to stem imaginary tears.

‘… Anyway,’ Nick rallied, ‘the less said about that the better. Decency prevailed in the end…’

We all raised our glasses, expecting to drink a toast to decency, but Nick appeared to have had an afterthought.

‘… While I’m on my feet, no… indulge me, indulge me…’ he grinned and we lowered our glasses again, some of us less tolerantly than others, ‘I might as well just say…’ he turned towards me and my heart sank, ‘how proud I am of my missus. Not only of her prodigious talents – as a potter, as a wife, as a parent – a talent I’m afraid I conspicuously lack – but well, just of her. Of who she is. If we’re talking resilience, folks, this one wrote the guidebook.’

‘Shut up, Nick,’ I said quietly.

‘… No, love, honestly, I know you’re not one for the limelight, but I do just need to say…’

I looked up at the ceiling. A harvest spider was weaving a cobweb on the underside of the lampshade. I watched it wave its tiny legs in the air, to no discernible effect, before resuming its journey between the copper rim of the shade and the Edison bulb. I wondered how long the web would last when the light was switched on. It seemed a precarious spot to have made a home. Then again, it wasn’t a home, was it? It was a trap.

‘… And for that I shall be forever grateful,’ Nick finished, his eyes glassy with tears.

‘I’m speechless,’ I said with a shrug and everyone laughed with relief.

‘Well, that was first class. Absolutely delicious,’ Douglas said, tossing his napkin down beside his empty plate. ‘Whose recipe did you use in the end? Jamie’s? No Carluccio’s, I bet. Tasted authentic anyway…’

‘It was just one I found online,’ said Nick. ‘I think it’s the Vermouth that gives it the depth of flavour. That and a really good stock.’

‘So nothing to do with the freshly foraged local mushrooms then?’ said Melissa blinking at him in faux innocence. Everybody laughed.

Douglas’s wine really had been something special, even I could tell. It had complemented the dinner perfectly – it was earthy yet smooth, complex, I think they call it, and yes, I suppose you’d have to say mushroom-y. We’d had another bottle after that – perhaps not quite as good, but I was not really in a position to judge by then.

They all had brandy too, except for Melissa who was driving.

I vaguely remember their faces looming towards me, smelling of perfume and alcohol and garlic; I remember a lot of goodbyes and thank yous and I remember trying to say that I hadn’t done anything. I remember hanging onto Nick from behind as he stood at the sink washing up, and imploring him to leave it till tomorrow and come to bed. I’d felt terribly sentimental, suddenly; maudlin even. I suppose it was the drink, but I felt like I’d been too hasty; as though I should give him a second chance; maybe I just wanted him to fuck me. Either way, my seduction technique was found wanting. He just glanced over his shoulder and said rather coldly, ‘You’re drunk.’

A little harsh, I thought, considering his sentimental speechifying only a couple of hours before. I steadied myself on the doorjamb and then started up the stairs.

I had only got halfway when the staircase seemed to swing violently to one side, like the stairs in the Crazy House, and suddenly there were two flights instead of one, neither of them leading where I wanted to go.

‘Oof!’ I said, grabbing onto a wooden tread to steady myself and watching my hand go in and out of focus.

By the time Nick got me into bed, I had vomited twice, once on the bathroom floor and once all over him as I staggered towards the toilet and decided at the last moment that emptying my bowels must take priority. Now I lay, sweating and panting, the room closing in around me like the shutter of a Box Brownie. ‘You’re burning up,’ he said and the touch of his hand on my skin was agony. He pulled the duvet up and it was as though he was hauling back the earth and laying it over me. I wanted it to stop. I wanted not to feel this. I wanted not to be here.