Angela woke in the dark and lay awake for a long time. Christopher’s sleeping body felt heavy against her. When it became just light enough to see she reached out and took her watch from the bedside table next to her. It was seven-thirty. She re-positioned the watch on the table where she could see it from the bed, and followed the golden second hand around the watch face as it raced towards nine o’clock.
♦
Gregory was having his breakfast at the table that had been the cause of the feud with his sister. He filled a highball glass full of Tia Maria and gulped it down in one, as though it were water. He then wrote his suicide note, using a sheet of Lowood’s Linens Limited headed notepaper.
Angela. There is no point in living without you.
Gregory.
The ultimate punishment, thought Gregory. She’d never live a day without the intolerable weight of guilt on her shoulders. And why should she? She’d as good as murdered him. He wrote another letter to his solicitor:
Dear Mr Jerman,
It is my last wish that my entire estate be left to The Lions Club of Great Britain to do with what they wish. I do not wish Angela Lowood, my adulterous wife to benefit in any way from my death. Should she contest my will I trust you will fight her claim in court with your usual vigour.
Thanking you in anticipation,
Yours sincerely,
Gregory Lowood
He then searched for the vacuum cleaner and found it in a cupboard in the utility room. He detached the hose and swore ‘bloody hell’ when a cloud of dust and fluff fell out on to his shoes. He took a damp cloth from beside the big porcelain sink where Angela used to soak the houseplants when they went on holiday and wiped his shoes clean. He didn’t want to be found looking less than immaculate. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. His staff would be gathering outside the shop, waiting for him to open up. He didn’t trust anybody else with the keys. He went around the house checking that the telephone extensions were working. All were. He wondered where Angela was and what she was doing. Why hadn’t she rung and begged him not to take his life? He went out to the garage, taking the vacuum-cleaner hose with him. He averted his eyes from the garden he’d wrecked the night before.
The car was waiting for him. He inserted the snake-like hose through a gap in the back window. He used masking tape and cardboard to fill in any gaps where fresh air might leak inside. He then went back into the house and changed into his wedding suit, which was slightly tight, but he wouldn’t be uncomfortable for long, he thought. He pinned the note to the front of his jacket. He went for a last walk around the house. The Lowood name would die with him: his sister had married a man called Porter. He selected a photograph of Angela from the many clustered on the arts and crafts sideboard in the sitting room. She was in evening dress at a Lions Club of Great Britain ladies’ night dinner. It had been taken just before she got too fat and became a social embarrassment. She was wearing a red satin evening gown with a pinched-in waist and full skirt. Her breasts swelled above the sweetheart neckline. She was smiling fixedly for the official photographer. Gregory carried the photograph in its silver frame out to the garden. He took one last look at the sky. It was grey. He went into the garage and locked the door. He climbed into the driver’s seat and switched the engine on. Radio Four came on automatically; a man was talking about badgers. He turned it off until all he could hear was his own pulse drumming in his ears, and the constant throb of the noise of the engine, amplified in the small space. He arranged the photograph on his lap and prepared himself for death.