“I have to go away.”
“So soon?” It’s only been a few weeks since Edward moved in. We’ve been happy together. I know it in my heart, but I also know it from the metrics, which Edward has been doing along with me. His aggregate is fifty-eight; mine a little higher at sixty-five, but still a big improvement over where I started.
“I’m needed onsite. The planners are being difficult. They don’t seem to understand we’re not going to complete the buildings and just hand them over for people to do what they like with. This was never about bricks and mortar. This is about building a new kind of community. One where people have responsibilities as well as rights.”
This is the eco-town the Partnership is building in Cornwall. Edward rarely talks about his work, but from what little he’s said I’ve gathered New Austell has been a titanic struggle—not just because of the vast size of the commission, but because of all the fudges and shortcuts the developers have tried to force on him along the way. He suspects they only appointed him because of the luster his name brought to a controversial planning application; suspects, too, that it’s exactly the same people who are now orchestrating a PR campaign against him, trying to put pressure on him to cram in more units, water down the rules, and thus make the whole thing more profitable. In the press, the idea of “Monktowns,” austere communities of monastic simplicity, has become a standing joke.
“Do you remember what you said when you interviewed me? That I should talk to your clients about what it’s like to live this way? I’d be happy to, if it would help.”
“Thank you. But I already have your data.” He holds up a sheaf of papers. “Incidentally, Jane. Housekeeper is showing that you’ve been looking for information about Emma Matthews.”
“Oh. Perhaps once or twice, yes.” In fact, most of my nosying has been done at work, or using the neighbors’ Wi-Fi, but sometimes, late at night, I’ve been careless and used One Folgate Street’s own Internet. “Is that a problem?”
“It’s just that I don’t think any good can come of it. The past is over; that’s why it’s the past. Let it go, will you?”
“If you like.”
“I need you to promise.” His tone is mild but his eyes are steely.
“I promise.”
“Thank you.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll be gone for a few weeks, maybe a little more. But I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.”