It was Sunday, and Emilia had given herself the day off. She’d been working flat out, 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 practice the Handel. Of all the ones she had to get right, that was the most important since it heralded Alice’s entrance at the wedding.
“It’s renowned for being a bitch of a piece for the cello,” he told her on the phone, “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 looked through the new clothes Andrea had made her buy, chose a yellow dress and a pale green cardigan. She remembered to pack up the jumper Marlowe had left. She put it in a carrier bag and drove to his 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 wineglasses and two smoky-gray cats stepping among it all. John Coltrane was playing and she could smell fresh coffee. With a pang, she realized 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 and something cooking.
“God, I’m sorry. I meant to tidy up.” Marlowe kissed her on the cheek. “Meet Crotchet and Quaver.”
He scooped one of the cats off a chair. “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 get-together. So we’ve got all day if you need it,” called Marlowe from the kitchen.
Okay, thought Emilia. I’ve got the message. “Delph.” That was fond familiarity if ever she’d heard it. She pretended to look at the reams of staff paper on his desk—pages and pages of black dots dancing over the pages.
“Is this your latest?”
“Yes. I’m heading out to LA next month.” He brought in two mugs of coffee and put them on the desk.
“Lucky thing.”
“I hate the place. But I have to meet with the producer. It’s only a small film . . .”
Emilia loved the way Marlowe was so casual and modest about his achievements. Flying out to Hollywood? She couldn’t imagine it.
“Come on,” said Marlowe. “We’ve got a lot to get through.”
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 loosen up.
“That’s it!” Marlowe was triumphant. “If you relax that, you’ll be able to play for longer, and much better.”
By midday she was exhausted.
“Come on.” Marlowe jumped up. “Let’s walk to the pub and get some lunch.”
They walked to the White Horse and bought hot pork ciabatta rolls with applesauce 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 farther than the road but we can walk off our lunch.”
The walk through the woods 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 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.”
That was all the encouragement Emilia needed. She was going to prove to Marlowe she was no chicken. There was only one thing stopping her.
“I haven’t got any bathing things,” she said, but she had a feeling that wasn’t going to inhibit Marlowe.
“We can go in our underwear,” he said. “No different from swimming trunks or a bikini.”
Emilia laughed.
“You’re on,” she said, and kicked off her shoes and began to unbutton her dress.
Marlowe needed no encouragement. He ripped off his shirt, undid his jeans, and she saw a flash of surprisingly tanned skin and a six-pack before he dove straight in.
He came to the surface spluttering and whooping with the shock of the cold.
“Whoa!” he shouted. “Come on! Don’t hesitate or you’ll never do it.”
She dropped her dress on top of his clothes, and before he had too much time to examine her in her bra and knickers, she leaped in, too.
The iciness took her breath away. But it was exhilarating.
“Oh my God!” she said. “It’s giving me brain freeze.”
They trod water for a while.
“I love it here,” said Marlowe. “It’s where I come when I’ve fucked things up. It clears your head.”
Emilia nodded, but her teeth were starting to chatter.
“You don’t strike me as someone who ever fucks up.”
He gave a hollow laugh.
“You know when you get yourself into a situation you can’t get out of?” His tone was dark.
Emilia wondered what he meant. Was he referring to Delphine? But he didn’t elucidate.
“Come on,” said Marlowe. “You’re getting cold.”
They climbed back out onto the bank. Marlowe picked up his shirt.
“Use this to get yourself dry,” he said. “I can go without. We’re nearly at the cottage.”
She felt self-conscious, wiping herself down with his shirt, but it took away the worst of the water before she put her dress back on. She found herself riveted by a tattoo on his chest—a line of music on his taut skin.
She bent forward to inspect it. She wasn’t great at sight-reading, but even she could work it out.
“Beethoven’s Fifth!” she exclaimed in delight.
“Well done,” he said. “You passed the test.”
“Test?”
He looked at her. His eyes were teasing. “I never sleep with anyone who can’t read what it is.”
Her eyes widened.
He looked embarrassed. “Not that—”
“No! Of course not.” She walked on, confused. Why had he said that? It was a bit unfair, given his relationship. He’d definitely been flirting with her, just for a moment.
Back at the cottage, she felt shivery: the water had been cold and had got into her bones. Marlowe made her a hot chocolate. She pulled his sweater out of the bag she’d brought it back in.
“Can I borrow this?”
“Sure. It’s not like I missed it!”
As she slipped it on, she breathed in the smell of him. She immediately felt warmer, as if she’d been wrapped in a hug. That was cashmere for you, she supposed.
“Stick some of this in your drink.” Marlowe held out the bottle of Paddy she’d brought him to say thank you for playing. He poured a generous slug into her mug. As she drank it, curled up on the sofa, she felt her eyes close. The morning’s playing, the walk, the lunch, the swim, the warmth of the fire and the whiskey . . .
“Well, well, this is cozy.” She started awake to see Delphine standing in the doorway.
Marlowe got up off the sofa in a fluid movement. Emilia had had no idea he was sitting next to her.
“Hey, Delph.”
Delphine’s eyes took in the scene. Luckily Julius’s cello was still out, in front of a music stand. It was all the excuse they needed.
Not that they needed an excuse. They’d done nothing. Though Emilia was conscious she was wearing Marlowe’s sweater.
“You’re back early,” said Marlowe. “Have a whiskey.” He took a glass off a shelf.
“I should go,” said Emilia.
“Not because of me,” said Delphine, taking the whiskey off Marlowe and sinking into the sofa. She was in a red woolen dress and matching beret. She looked unbelievably smug, and Emilia felt a sudden flash of intense dislike.
“Do you mind if I keep your jumper on?” she asked Marlowe, knowing she was being provocative. She only said it because she knew they had nothing to hide.
Delphine didn’t flinch. Marlowe nodded. “Sure. Give it back to me at the next rehearsal.”
Emilia drove home, trying not to feel nettled by Delphine’s hostile presence. She concentrated instead on what she had achieved. She felt so much more confident after Marlowe’s lesson. Maybe she wasn’t going to let the side down after all.