20

Sally left Father Ewan’s outreach class and returned to her apartment. She’d expected its stone walled interior to be Spartan, but it was warm and welcoming, fitted out with modern Swedish furniture and soft furnishings in bold, primary colours. Two long mediaeval windows overlooked a far-reaching landscape of lawns and shrubs, edged with a row of spindly Scots pines that fronted the flowing estuary.

Her first taste of Waldringhythe’s ethos had filled her with a mixture of sensations: freedom, discovery, intrigue, anticipation and a peculiar feeling of being touched by spiritual forces. Her fingers seemed to tingle from the warm touch of Father Ewan and, on lifting her hand to her nose, she realised that the acrid, smoky smell of the marriage bonfire still lingered under her nails.

She ran a bath and sank down into the comfort of the water, reflecting that, although the outreach session was only intended to be an observation, she’d been alerted to search deeply within herself. To her surprise an image of Roger had immediately risen before her, but it wasn’t selfish, mean Roger who hadn’t even bothered to say a proper goodbye to her. The scene was from last summer, on Louise’s eighteenth birthday party in the garden at The Dower House, celebrating with old friends and neighbours and a tribe of teenage children they’d known since they were babies. He’d been wearing a chef ’s hat and apron, showing off with his normal over-the-top performance as mine host, and laughing loudly. Tossing a huge salad, filling up glasses and turning spitting sausages on the barbecue. Later, chock-full with pride, his genuine and emotional speech when he presented the birthday girl with his great grandmother’s diamond choker, and asked the assembled revellers to raise their champagne flutes. ‘A toast, everyone! To Louise, our beautiful daughter, who came of age today. Happy Birthday, darling.’ The three of them had embraced and exchanged kisses. But then Sally’s nostalgic musing was abruptly replaced by a harder analysis.

‘Face facts, girl,’ her complex new self instructed. ‘You’re a dumped wife. A pathetic, humiliated, dumped wife and the bastard isn’t worth a backward glance. Oh, I know you’ve got very strange and unique circumstances, but there are hundreds like you. Thousands, in fact. Men can be absolute bastards, can’t they? They marry you for better or for worse, and when worse comes along, be it the predictable weight gain or flagging libido, the bull herd bellows off to look for fresh, green grazing and a comely heifer. The poor old cows are left behind with only two options. The first to become hard-faced embittered battleaxes who can’t trust or enjoy any more. They sneer and deride and blame and whine. They develop broad backs and carry on like martyrs, forming a cold second skin, with every new line on their faces etched with hate and the need for revenge. Or, alternatively, they acquiesce and collapse. Go all wanton and girly, and lie back with their arms and legs in the air like immobilised ladybirds, desperate to catch the first man who falls on them. But once they’ve caught their prey, they forget to ask themselves if being back on the treadmill is really what they want.’

Get a grip, Sally, she ordered herself. Take deep breaths, clear your head and rediscover yourself.