The place could not be more perfect.
I arrive at Gray’s Farmhouse at 6 p.m. the following evening, alone. Dominic has a meeting in the City and is unsure what time it will end, so we’ve agreed to make our way to Oxfordshire separately.
‘You’ve been upgraded to the bridal suite,’ the receptionist tells me, with a smile. ‘Really?’ I don’t even try to hide my delight.
‘The note on your reservation said that this was a wedding anniversary celebration, and since we don’t have any weddings this weekend, we thought you might like the suite.’
Inside, the bridal suite is a tasteful haven of cream, duck-egg blue and softest beige. Vases round the room are crammed with fragrant blooms, and there’s a heart made of cream rose petals arranged on the huge bed. A bottle of Dom Perignon is chilling on a silver tray next to two crystal flutes. It’s beautiful. I wonder if I should wait for my own groom’s arrival to pop the cork but decide I need something to help me relax and get my mind off Shona Watson. Dominic won’t mind. He’ll soon catch up.
He texted me half an hour ago to say that he was leaving his meeting and would be here in around an hour and a half. This is also perfect. It gives me time to shower and change out of my work clothes into something a little more seductive.
When I see the bathroom, I decide to take a bath instead, pouring scented Diptyque unguents into the claw-foot tub with one hand and holding a glass of the ice-cold champagne in the other. It takes quite a long time for the bath to fill, but I occupy myself by looking at the menu for the restaurant and deciding what I’ll choose when we eat later. The cucumber and wasabi gazpacho to start, perhaps, or the chicken liver with sherry jam. For my main course, I’m torn between the guinea fowl with morels, or the Cornish monkfish with watercress velouté.
A few minutes after I’ve lowered my body into the scented foam, my cheeks already slightly rosy from the champagne, my mobile rings. From the bedroom. Cursing under my breath, I haul myself to my feet, splashing water over the bathroom floor and groping around for a towel.
I manage to reach my phone just as the call is about to be cut. ‘Hello,’ I gasp, the warm water rapidly cooling on my body.
‘Babe, sorry…’
My heart sinks.
‘Look, I’m on the North Circular approaching Hangar Lane, trying to get onto the A40, but there’s a road closed up ahead. I’ve been sitting here at the roundabout not moving for about twenty-five minutes.’
I check the time. Seven fifteen. ‘Surely there’s a diversion?’ I ask desperately.
‘There might be, but I can’t even get far enough to find out. Look, I’d better go… hang tight, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll put my foot down as soon as I get to the M40.’
‘Well, how long do you think it will be? We’ve got a table for dinner at eight. We can’t—’
‘Alice, I’m doing everything I can, okay! Don’t make this even more stressful than it is!’
I hang up, mildly shocked. He never uses my given name, preferring ‘Ally’, ‘Al’ or a playful term of endearment instead.
Shivering, I head back to the bathroom. My skin’s damp and clammy and the bathwater is cooling, so I abandon the bath and wrap myself in one of the plush robes. I’d planned to depilate and moisturise with something fragrant and enticing but can no longer be bothered. I dry the damp ends of my hair, change into sweatpants and a baggy sweater and fire up Netflix.
Dominic eventually arrives at eight fifty.
The front desk offers us a nine thirty table in the restaurant, but I’m too tired and hungry to wait and reluctant to change my clothes again, so we have club sandwiches, fries and ice cream sent up to the room. I try not to sulk, but I can’t help myself. I polished off three-quarters of the champagne on my own, and now have a horrible, migrainey headache. As soon as we’ve eaten, I take some painkillers and collapse into bed, leaving Dominic on the sofa with his iPad; headphones on. We don’t have sex.
The next morning brings teeming drizzle and an even worse headache. And although the collapse of our romantic evening was Dominic’s fault, he acts as though he’s the injured party. I’ve never known him so tense, or so snappy. Deciding a little space would be in order, I change into my workout gear and take myself off to the gym for an hour, then sit alone and miserable in the ‘market’ coffee shop, nursing a double espresso and a croissant. I eventually return to the room to find Dominic in his gym kit, about to have a workout of his own. We manage to avoid one another for a whole morning this way, but eventually we’re forced to speak.
‘Look, I’m sorry I was late last night, okay?’ Dom’s tone does not convey the slightest contrition. ‘But it’s over with now. No good you whining on about it.’
‘I’ve not been whining! I’ve not said a bloody thing!’ I retort. My cheeks turn pink, which always happens when I’m agitated.
‘But you’ve been sulking. Amounts to the same thing.’
I’m about to protest that it’s not the same thing at all but decide against it and lapse back into silence.
The morning’s drizzle has gathered pace to become relentless, cold rain. We can’t ride or take out a boat on the lake, so we call a truce and decide to go for a swim.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Gill, the pool is closed today. There’s a problem with the heat pump,’ the receptionist tells us, pulling a sorrowful face. ‘There’s a selection of board games in the library, or we’ve got a movie screening at 5.30 p.m. It’s Gone with the Wind.’
‘I’ll tell you what…’ I adopt a conciliatory tone, as we return disconsolately to our room with our swimming stuff. ‘There’s a nice little pub on the edge of the village – traditional stone, horse brasses, log fires. Why don’t we walk down there for a drink? Then we can come back here and have the roast lunch in the restaurant. I know it’s not Sunday, but I could murder some Yorkshires and gravy.’
‘We can get a drink here,’ Dominic points out.
‘Yes, obviously,’ I sound more patient than I feel. ‘But at least this way we’ll get to stretch our legs.’
‘I did that in the gym.’
I give an exasperated sigh. ‘Well, to get some fresh air then. Get off-site for a little while.’
We walk silently through the rain to the pub, and when we’re inside, Dominic sits with his elbows on the table, simultaneously flipping a beer mat over and over and tapping his foot on the stone flagstones. Every time the pub door opens and closes to admit another punter, he jerks his head round in that direction.
‘Christ, Dom! Just relax, will you?’
I go to the bar and order a pint of the local ale for him and a white wine spritzer for myself, together with a bag of pork scratchings. I’m not in the least bit hungry but decide it will at least give Dominic something to do with his hands.
He works his way methodically through the scratchings, drains his beer and says ‘Right. Let’s go.’
At this point I no longer have the energy to argue, and trudge miserably back to the hotel. Our three-course lunch – including Yorkshire puddings and gravy – is delicious and very filling. We focus on our food instead of one another, washing it down in silence with a couple of gin and tonics and a bottle of Shiraz. Christ, I think, please don’t tell me we’ve become one of those couples. We were never one of those couples.
The rest of Saturday afternoon is spent dozing with the papers in front of the fire in the library. I elect to go to the screening of Gone with the Wind; Dominic says he would rather go back to the gym.
When I return from the four-hour cinematic marathon, it’s after ten o’clock. Dominic is still at the gym, but I’m slightly squiffy from the complimentary champagne served seat-side in the screening room and barely register his absence. In truth, after our discordant day, I’m relieved that he’s not here. I tug off my clothes, brush my teeth and fall into a deep sleep, sprawled starfish-style across the huge bed.
The next morning, two things are immediately obvious.
The first is that Dominic has recently vacated the bed, because I’ve been shunted over to my own side and the pillows on his side are arranged in the way he likes them. The second is that he’s in a much better mood.
‘Morning, sweetie,’ he says as he appears from the sitting room with a piping-hot cup of tea, which he places on my nightstand. He kisses my forehead. ‘Made you a cuppa.’
‘My head feels wrecked,’ I groan.
Dom disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a couple of paracetamol tablets and a glass of water.
‘Babe, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about yesterday. And Friday night. I know I’ve ruined our anniversary by being an arsehole. It’s no excuse, but there are a couple of projects at Ellwood that are threatening to go tits up because we’ve hit problems with funding. The pressure’s on me big time, and it’s stressing me out. So… sorry.’
I place my left hand on his wrist as I wash down the tablets with my right. ‘It’s okay. My sulking didn’t exactly help; I’m aware of that.’
I’m also aware that our pro-conception weekend has been entirely chaste. I would pull him into bed now and get on with the fornicating, except that he’s already in his gym kit and trainers.
‘You know what, Al, the weather forecast is just as horrendous today… why don’t we cut our losses and leave after breakfast? No point moping around here in the rain.’
I stroke a finger suggestively up his forearm. ‘I’m sure we could find something to do…’
‘Nice idea, babe, but we have to be out checked out of the room in about an hour anyway. Why don’t you make a start on packing while I have a workout? Then we can grab brekkie and go.’
‘I guess so,’ I agree, with a sigh.
We leave Gray’s Farmhouse two hours later in our separate cars. That sums up the entire weekend, I think, as I drive home through torrential rain.