The Butterfly Box (52 page)

‘You know your problem?’ he said, shaking his head at her.

‘What?’ she replied, pulling away in offence.

‘You’re too needy.’

‘Needy?’ she retorted. ‘I’m not needy.’

‘Yes you are,
mi amor.
You’re needy and it’s suffocating. You’re like an overwhelming octopus. Once in your arms a man feels he can’t escape.’

‘How dare you,’ she snapped, climbing out of the hotel bed.

‘Helena,
mi amor
, I’m not criticizing you,’ he insisted, smiling in amusement at her sudden change in humour. ‘You’re a beautiful woman. You’re fun, too. I’m sure you break hearts all over Cornwall.’

‘But not yours.’

‘Helena,’ he said indulgently. ‘Come here.’ She walked sulkily back to the bed where she sat down on the edge and allowed him to caress her hair. ‘You’re like a fallen angel. You found me because you were lonely. You’re a discontented woman, any man can see that. But don’t worry, there will be others.’

‘What do you mean, others?' she exclaimed in disgust.

‘Other men. Surely,
mi amor
, I’m not the first man you have betrayed your husband with?’

‘Well, of course you are. What do you think I am? A whore?’

‘Please, don’t misunderstand me,’ he said quickly, attempting to correct his error.

‘I want you to go,’ she said icily, suddenly regretting that she had ever met him. Hearing the echoes of Ramon’s indifference resound across the years she wondered why she had only remembered the magic.

‘Helena.’

‘I do. Now!’ she continued, getting up and throwing his clothes at him. ‘I wanted you because you remind me of someone. But I’ve been a fool! You’re

as much of an illusion as he is. I’ve been dreaming, but I’ve now woken up.’ Diego squinted at her, trying to understand what she was saying. ‘Get out!’ ‘Come on, Helena. Don’t be cross,’ he cajoled, reluctantly standing up. ‘At least let us part as friends.’

‘We were never friends in the first place,’ she replied. ‘We were lovers, but now that is gone, we are nothing.’

‘What happened to this “illusion”?’

‘He never really existed,’ she snapped. ‘Just like you.’

‘You’re too desperate, Helena. You drive men away.’

‘Go!’

‘It’s true. But we made good love,’ he said with a smirk, pulling on his shoes. ‘You’re a desirable woman, Helena Cooke.’

‘I don’t want to see you ever again!’ she shouted after him. The door slammed and he was gone. ‘God, what was I thinking?’ she exclaimed to herself, sinking into the chair. All that remained was the unmade bed and a heavy sense of self-disgust. She held her head in her hands and heaved with fury. How dare he think she would betray her husband with just anyone? How could she have been so misguided? She thought of Arthur and was suddenly filled

with shame. What had she been reduced to? Arthur was guilty only of adoring her. What was the point of clinging onto the shadow of Ramon when Arthur was real and his love absolute? She had made a terrible mistake.

When she arrived back at the house it was dusk. The late summer sun had sunk behind the town making way for a bright harvest moon. She felt weary and defeated. To her surprise she saw the light on in the bedroom, indicating that Arthur was home. Her spirits rose like bubbles, slowly at first but with increasing speed, until she yearned to run to him like a child and apologize for treating him so badly. The thought of Arthur’s familiar smell, his cosy embrace and his encouraging smile filled her with remorse. She longed to curl up against him like they had done when they had been newly wed and feel that sense of security, that sense of intimacy and friendship. She wanted to forget Diego Miranda for ever. She wished she had never gone near the pub that day. How close she had come to losing everything for a pitiful infatuation. Why was it that she was constantly chasing dreams?

She put the key in the lock and wriggled it about in frustration. When it wouldn’t turn she rang the bell. When Arthur didn’t come down she shouted

up at the window. Then to her horror the light extinguished in the bedroom, leaving her alone in the empty street, blinking up in fear at the sudden realization that he must know. Somehow he knew. Or he had simply had enough. ‘Arthur!’ she shouted in panic. ‘Arthur!’ But the house remained silent and impenetrable. ‘Arthur, let me in!’ she choked. She shouted until her voice was hoarse, until the cold wall of the house echoed her pleas only to mock her. She sunk to the ground and crumpled into sobs. Arthur’s patience had finally snapped.

Arthur watched through the gap in the curtains as his wife finally retreated to her car and drove off into the night. His throat ached from suppressing his emotions and his heart thumped behind his ribcage because he knew that by shutting her out he risked losing the one woman he had ever loved. But he also knew that he couldn’t continue being taken for granted. He had been pushed to the limit. She had gone too far. It was time to win back her respect. She needed space to recognize that what she had with him was something precious, something sacred, something to be nurtured, not worn away out of carelessness and complacency.

He slumped on the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands.

Hal had drifted away from Federica. She was married now and her life no longer ran parallel to his. So he was surprised when she called him soon after Nuno’s funeral and asked him for lunch in London during the university holidays. ‘I need to see you, Hal,
⁷
she said and her voice sounded different. Hal was relieved to get out of his mother’s house. She was crowding him out with her incessant questions and her unspoken demand to be included in his life. She wanted to know every detail about Exeter, who his friends were, whether he had a girlfriend, what he did in the evenings. He found her attention at once gratifying and invasive. It suffocated him.

Arthur watched him prowl around the house like one of the living dead and decided that at last he was growing up and growing away. But he didn’t like his pallor or his disquiet.

Hal met Federica in Le Caprice. He noticed that in the space of a couple of months she had lost considerable weight. She noticed how thin and pale he was. ‘You look dreadful, Hal. What on earth is going on?’ she asked, ordering a bottle of still water.

‘A Bloody Mary for me,’ said Hal. ‘I’m fine. You look well.’

Thank you.' she replied. ‘I’m getting myself under control.' she added proudly. She had lost almost a whole stone.

‘Good for you. This lunch is on you, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Good, let’s order, I’m famished,’ he said, opening the menu.

‘How’s Mama?’

‘Fine, I suppose. Annoying as usual.' he muttered.

Toby and Julian?’

‘Why don’t you ask them yourself? You never go down and see them.’ ‘There’s been so little time.’

‘Sure.’

‘Really.’

‘I’ll have a steak and chips,’ he said, closing the menu.

‘You don’t look as if you eat steak and chips. You look as if you’ve got an eating disorder.’

‘For God’s sake, you sound like Mama.' he complained. ‘Anyway, what’s this lunch for? I can’t believe it’s just a social.’

‘It is a social. I haven’t seen you properly in years.’

‘Not my fault.’

‘No, it’s not. But I need your help too.’

‘What?’ he sighed, rolling his eyes. She had intended to tell him about her father’s note, but he was so hostile and aloof she changed her mind.

‘I need you to get Abuelita’s telephone number from Mama,’ she said.

‘Why can’t you get it yourself?’

‘Because I don’t want her to know I want it,’ she explained. ‘All you need to do is look it up in her book, it's sure to be there.’

‘Why don’t you want her to know? Abuelita is your grandmother.’

‘And Papa’s mother,’ she said. ‘Hal, don’t be so naive. Mama hasn’t spoken to her in years, literally. She hates Papa. She hated it when he wrote to us.’

To
you
,’ he snapped. ‘He never wrote to me.’

‘Whatever. It's just better to do it secretly, believe me.’

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, it will,’ he said resolutely.

‘You’re not serious?’

‘Of course I am,’ he insisted coolly. ‘What do I get out of it otherwise?
⁷

‘Well, how much then?
⁷
she asked.

‘One hundred pounds.
⁷

‘One hundred pounds?
⁷
she gasped. ‘You must be joking!
⁷

‘I had to take the train, return ticket. Besides, it’s a fag. It’s the least you can do. It’s Torquil’s money anyway and he’s rolling.
⁷

Federica watched her brother and barely recognized the Hal she had grown up with. She frowned. ‘You’re strange today. What’s the matter with you?
⁷
she asked, searching his face for an expression she recognized.

‘The money or no telephone number.
⁷

‘Address and telephone, Cachagua and Santiago,
⁷
she said firmly.

‘Okay, done.
⁷

‘Good,
⁷
she replied, shaking his hand. He dug his knife into the steak.

‘I want the money now,
⁷
he said, getting up.

‘Where are you going?
⁷

‘To the men’s room. Won’t be a minute.
⁷
She watched him meander unsteadily through the restaurant and wondered whether their father was keeping an eye on him as well. Then she remembered that Ramon had never written to

Helena was too ashamed to tell her parents the real reason Arthur had locked her out of the house. She moved back into her old room where she paced the floors in rage.

‘Poor Helena,’ Polly lamented to her husband. ‘She’s furious with Arthur.’

‘No she’s not,’ said Jake simply. ‘She’s furious with herself. She’s blown it again.’

Helena wouldn’t hear a word said against Arthur. When she called Federica to tell her, she terminated the conversation abruptly by slamming down the telephone because her daughter had immediately blamed her stepfather.

‘Oh, Federica,’ she sighed impatiently. ‘You know nothing about it.’

She had driven round to see Arthur the following morning, beat upon the door and even followed him to work. ‘Arthur, I can explain,’ she had begged, but he wouldn’t listen.

‘You’ve gone too far, Helena,’ he had replied flatly. ‘You’ve drained me dry. I don’t want you back unless you’re willing to change and you can’t decide that in a day. Go away and think about it.’ Shocked by the apparent stubbing out of

his emotions she had limped back home to wail on her mother’s shoulder that he no longer loved her.

Only Toby was told the truth. ‘I had an affair,’ she confessed as they sat on the windy beach, talking over the rush of the surf and the cries of the gulls.

‘Oh, Helena,’ Toby sighed. ‘Who with, for God’s sake?’

‘A Spaniard.’

‘A Spaniard?’ he exclaimed, shaking his head at his sister’s foolishness.

‘A bloody Spaniard,’ she retorted, folding her arms in front of her chest and sniffing with self-pity.

‘Why?’

‘Because he reminded me of Ramon.’

Toby prodded the sand with a stick. ‘You’re obsessed with a ghost, Helena,’ he said gravely.

‘I know,’ she replied, then more angrily, ‘I know
now,
don’t I!’

‘You always want what you can’t have.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me that,’ she snapped defensively. ‘I’ve been an idiot, I’m the first to admit it.’

‘Did you ever love Arthur?’ he asked. She looked out across the waves to the

grey clouds moving swiftly towards them and recalled her husband’s fury. ‘Well, did you?’ he repeated.

‘Of course I did. I just didn’t recognize it.’ Toby frowned. ‘It’s not the all-consuming love of Ramon,’ she explained. ‘It’s something quieter. I don’t think I heard it. I was too busy listening out for the roar. My love for Arthur is more gentle. It’s taken me a while, but I hear it now.’

‘The roar always subsides before long, then if you’re lucky you’re left with something much stronger and more lasting,’ Toby chuckled, thinking of Julian. ‘Arthur’s a good man.’

‘I realise that now. I can’t believe that it took an empty, meaningless affair to wake up and realize how much Arthur means to me. I’ve treated him so badly. I’ve been so off-hand with him. He just sat back and let me behave so appallingly. What other man would be so indulgent? I don’t deserve him.’ Then she looked at her brother with big, sad eyes. ‘I’ve lost him, haven’t I?’ she said.

Toby put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her head that smelt of salt. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart. You never seem to learn from your mistakes.’

Chapter 38

Sam watched the rain rattle against the glass windows of Nuno’s study. The flames crackled in the fireplace where Nuno had always stoked the logs with the steel poker when he had needed to gather together his thoughts and Trotsky lay on the rug, breathing heavily in his sleep. But Sam felt the cold in his bones and shuddered. He settled his gaze on the leather sofa where Federica had sat and recalled her eyes, opaque with resignation and her unhappy body that took the brunt of too much comfort food. He felt gutted inside. He had lost Nuno, his beloved grandfather and friend, but he had also lost Federica to another, wholly unsuitable man. He sighed hopelessly; he was fooling himself for he had never had her to lose. When he could have had her he hadn't wanted her.

He stood up and paced the room in order to warm up. He pulled his jersey over his icy hands and hunched his shoulders. He hadn’t written a word since he had returned home to write. He had toyed with the idea of buying a cottage like Toby and Julian’s, a young man of thirty-one shouldn’t live at home with his parents, but he didn’t have the energy or the incentive to find one. While he

was at Pickthistle Manor he didn’t have to go out for company, cook his own food, or pay rent or a mortgage. His father was grateful for his company and talked his theories through with him in front of the sitting room fire where Federica had first toasted marshmallows with Molly and Hester.

Ingrid floated about the rooms like a spectre in her long gowns, leaving a trail of smoke behind her and barely noticing that Sam was there at all. She continued to operate the animal sanctuary which was so overcrowded that when Sam had returned home from London he had opened his sweater drawer to discover a hibernating squirrel curled up in his favourite cashmere V-neck. When he had confronted her about it she had smiled happily and replied, ‘So that’s where Amos is! You know, darling, I’ve been looking for him the entire winter. You won’t disturb him until the spring, will you?’

So Sam had borrowed his father’s sweaters, which all had holes in them, either from moths or mice, for he had never done a day’s manual labour in his life and went out so very little they rarely saw the light of day. When Inigo failed to recognize the ragged jersey on Sam’s back, he patted him firmly on the shoulder and said, ‘Son, if you need money you won’t be too proud to ask, will you?’ Sam had replied that he was more than comfortable. His two younger

brothers came home on weekends. Lucien was at Cambridge and Joey in his last year at school. Molly and Hester came down when they could, as both now had full-time jobs which gave them very little time off.

Molly always managed to find something snide to say about Federica while Hester mourned the loss of her friend. ‘We were once so close,’ she would sigh. ‘We told each other everything.’

‘Well, that’s what happens when someone lets wealth and society go to their head,’ said Molly unkindly. ‘If you and I were grander, Hester, you can be sure she wouldn’t have dropped us like hot potatoes.’

But Sam knew the truth because he wasn’t blinded by jealousy like Molly. He kept his feelings to himself and hid behind the heavy oak door of Nuno's study.

‘Sam’s just like Dad,’ Molly laughed one weekend when he had only emerged for meals, ‘he's growing moody too.’

Sam longed to telephone Federica, but he didn’t know what to say and he didn’t want her to know that he had written the note. After their conversation at Nuno’s funeral he doubted she’d be too happy to hear from him. So, out of

frustration at not being able to communicate he decided to write another anonymous note. He opened Nuno’s book and sat by the fire, shivering with cold, and endeavoured to find a few lines that would be helpful to her. The lines encircled by Nuno were very different from the ones that would be appropriate for Federica, for Violet had needed encouragement to love whereas Federica needed encouragement to live - to live independently and not according to the will of another. He turned the pages, chewing the end of his pencil in concentration. He could use one of the verses on love, but that would be more apt for himself for he was suffering on the ‘threshing-floor’ of love because Federica tormented his thoughts and burned holes in his heart. He could use one of the verses on sorrow for that would teach her that joy and sorrow are inseparable, for without one it is impossible to know the other.

Then he came across a verse on freedom and realized that none other was more suitable. He tapped the page triumphantly with the damp end of his pencil and thought: it is within Federica’s own power to walk away. Torquil treats her according to how she allows him to treat her. She can always say no and she must say no. He read it out loud to Trotsky who opened his saggy eyes, yawned and stretched before cocking his head to one side and pricking his

ears up attentively.

Tor how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride? And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you. And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared
.’

Sam sat at Nuno’s desk in front of his computer and typed it out. Then he spent the next half hour printing it, typing the envelope and sealing it because every action was done with the utmost care as if it were a love letter that contained the secrets of his heart. Excited at the prospect of catching a glimpse of Federica he took the early train the following morning, staring out of the window all the way because he was too distracted to read. He arrived by taxi in time to see her leaving her house and climbing into the awaiting car.

‘Follow the Mercedes.' said Sam to the driver, then he sat back and listened to the thumping of his own heart and the cautiously optimistic thoughts that whirred around in his head.

He had been struck immediately by her figure. She had slimmed down a bit and her step had regained that buoyancy it had always had before she married.

Her skin was no longer ravaged by strain but glowed with health. He wondered whether his note might have inspired the change. Then his face dropped with gloom; perhaps it was Torquil.

Federica was excited by her new approach to life, though it hadn’t been easy. She had had to work hard with her personal trainer to lose the weight and change her diet. It had been demoralizing. She hadn’t taken a good look at herself in the mirror for months and when her clothes had no longer fit she had simply asked Torquil to buy her more. She was fatter than she had imagined. She had put on a couple of stone and her skin had suffered because of all the junk food. Suddenly she couldn’t hide any more, for John Burly arrived on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to weigh her, measure her and work her until the sweat oozed out of every pore like blood, often making her cry out dispiritedly, ‘I can’t do it. I’m just made to be fat.’

But he would reply, ‘All right, if you want to stay fat, that’s fine, you don’t need me to stay fat,’ until she begged him to continue. She had made sure the fridge was stocked with fruit and vegetables and stuck to the rigorous diet only because every time she hankered after a bag of crisps or a bar of chocolate she

remembered Torquil’s cruel names and chewed on a carrot instead.

Instead of spending Torquil’s money on clothes she paid regular visits to the beautician and began to take pride in her appearance again. As the weight fell off, so her confidence grew. She also derived strength from her father’s note that she hid at the bottom of the butterfly box and brought out during the day when Torquil was at work and she could be alone with her thoughts. She was certain her father had been in the country, seen her and sent it. She wished he had approached her but understood why he might have been reticent. She wanted him to know that she didn’t blame him and that she still loved him. As the days got increasingly colder in the run-up to Christmas Federica waited for Hal to call her with her grandparents’ telephone number, but he never did.

Then Federica took her first tentative step at independence. It was small, but highly significant. She took the car to Sloane Street and bought herself new clothes to replace the ones that were now too big for her. They were still the grey and navy trouser suits that Torquil always chose for her, but the fact that she had gone out and bought them herself gave her a satisfying sense of defiance. She had staged her first rebellion.

To her surprise Torquil didn’t notice. To her greater surprise she didn’t care.

He applauded her on her slimmer shape, embracing her in his overpowering arms and kissing her with adulterous lips. ‘Aren’t you clever, little one, I’m so proud of you,’ he said. ‘You’re almost back to the Federica I married.’

She should have been thrilled; after all she had slimmed for him. Or had she? Little by little Torquil shifted from the centre of her world.

Now Sam followed Federica to St James’s where she stepped out of the car and walked up the street. He waited for her to get half way up the pavement and then leapt out to follow her. She was dressed in a long black coat with black suede boots under a pale grey trouser suit and cream silk shirt. She looked elegant and sophisticated, with her long white hair tied into a neat ponytail that fell down the back of her coat. She wasn’t the skinny teenager he had known in Polperro, full of uncertainty and doubt. She was fuller and more womanly, reflecting her growing confidence. His emotions caught in his throat because he loved her better like that. He was consumed with the longing to tell her.

She stopped once or twice to look into shop windows or to glance at her own reflection which still succeeded in surprising her. He walked a hundred

yards behind her, his head hidden under his father’s felt hat, hands buried in the pockets of his coat covered in dog hair, with a hole gnawed into the elbow by an overzealous mouse, no doubt. He hunched his shoulders and watched her through his glasses that kept steaming up due to the cold and drizzle. He felt like a stalker and blushed in shame, causing his glasses to mist up even more until he could barely see through them.

He followed her up Arlington Street towards the Ritz where he was sure she was meeting someone for lunch. But he was surprised when she walked on past the doormen, who all touched their caps with white-gloved hands, and continued on in the direction of Green Park. He walked faster, dodging the people who spilled out of the tube station, and watched her enter the park. He hid behind the gate as she strolled like a homing pigeon along the path to a bench that stood under the bare winter trees. She sat down, placed her handbag on her knees and stared out across the misty park.

Sam walked along the iron fencing until he stood behind her, about one hundred yards away, and gazed upon the solitary figure who was clearly not waiting for anyone, for she didn’t look around in anticipation, or glance at her watch, she just stared in front of her, without moving, lost in thought.

Sam took his hands out of his pockets and held on to the wet iron bars that separated him from the woman he loved. He longed to call out her name. The sound of it on his lips would be a luxury for he never spoke of her to anyone. But he didn’t dare. He just stood, with his hands frozen onto the railings, wondering what she was thinking about, content just to be near her. He recognized the lonely slope of her shoulders and the wistful tilt of her head because he knew what it was to be lonely and he understood. Once or twice she scratched her nose or curled a piece of stray hair behind her ear, while he waited for her to get up and move on. But after an hour, when she still hadn’t made a move to leave, he decided to return to her house to slip the note through the door.

Reluctantly he left her and walked up the street towards St James’s. He suddenly shivered with cold and pushed his hands deep into his pockets again. He strode past her car out of curiosity to find the chauffeur asleep with his head buried into the rolls in his chin. He was dribbling out of the side of his mouth and a long web of saliva extended from his jaw down to his lapel.

Sam seized his moment and pushed the note through the gap in the back window, where Federica had left it slightly open. He watched it fall onto the seat, face up, with the name Federica Campione typed onto the envelope with

Federica sat and savoured the fact that Torquil didn’t know where she was. She enjoyed these private moments alone with her memories. She thought about her inability to conceive and decided that it wouldn’t be fair to bring a child into such a troubled marriage. Perhaps it was God’s will because He could see the bigger picture. She thought about Christmas and whether Torquil might accompany her down to Polperro to spend it with her family. Every year he had promised, every year he had flown her off to somewhere exotic instead. She had called her mother each time and excused him with such fervour that in the end she had believed her own invented excuses. But inside she had felt desperately let down. She wanted more than anything to go home to Cornwall.

She liked to recall her youth. Her memories comforted her and carried her out of herself and her unhappiness. She remembered the picnics on the beaches when the sand blew into the sandwiches and it was so cold they sat in their Guernsey sweaters shivering in a huddle before Toby would gather them up to hunt for sea urchins and crabs. Julian would collect shells and help them build castles while Helena would sit on the rug talking to her mother, every now and

then applauding their efforts absentmindedly. Those had been idyllic days.

She spoke to Toby and Julian, her mother and occasionally Hester, but not as often as in the early days when she had sneaked into Harrods to the payphones. Time and circumstances had come between them like an insurmountable mountain. She made excuses for that too - but if she was honest with herself she knew that it was because Torquil didn’t like her family. He thought they were provincial, and he did his best to distance her from them. With determination she could overcome that mountain, but she didn’t know whether she had the courage to defy her husband.

Federica was so used to loving Torquil that it had become a habit. At first she had needed him and he had cultivated that need until she had no longer been able to do without him. Then she had lost the ability to think for herself. In the four years of their marriage he had slowly pummelled her into the ground - but from there the only way was up. How auspicious that it had been at the point of utter despair that her father had sent her his secret message, encouraging her to build herself back up again and regain her lost confidence and her lost control. She had been ready to clutch at anything. She couldn’t do it alone.

She thought about her father and wondered how she was going to track him down from London. If he had been in the city he would probably have left by now. Ramon never stayed very long in one place. His shadow always caught up with him and urged him on. At one point she felt the heat of someone’s eyes burn into the back of her neck. She curled a piece of hair behind her ear selfconsciously but didn’t dare turn around. She shuffled uneasily on the bench. But there was something familiar about the weight of the stare. Comfortably familiar. She suddenly imagined it might be her father, watching her from the street, not wanting to be seen. With a sudden burst of courage she turned around. With hopeful eyes she searched the crowd of unfamiliar faces through the winter mists, but she didn't recognize a single one. She sighed in disappointment, looked at her watch and decided it was time to make her way back to the car.

She walked down the street, her eyes fixed on the pavement, wondering how she was going to broach the subject of Christmas. When she got back to the car she saw the chauffeur asleep in his own snot and knocked on the window. He jerked back to life, fumbled for the lock and rolled out of his seat to open the door for her. But Federica had already spotted the letter and had opened

the door herself. She told him to take her home and with a trembling hand she read the name on the envelope, Federica Campione. It was almost certainly from her father, for he wouldn’t know her married name and no one whom she knew would have used Campione. She tore it open and with hungry eyes devoured the words as if they were the word of God. He had been watching her after all.

‘For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride? And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you. And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.’

She felt the colour rise in her cheeks until it throbbed with shame. ‘Stop the car, I need to get out,’ she said suddenly.

‘What, now?’ exclaimed the chauffeur, glancing at her in the mirror.

‘Now,’ she repeated.

‘Yes, Madam,’ he replied in bewilderment. Reluctantly he drew into a quiet

street and pulled up at the kerb. Federica threw open the door and staggered out onto the wet pavement. She walked hastily up the road until she found a small cafe. Dashing inside she took the table in the corner, ordered a cup of tea and stared down at the note in horror. Had she really no pride at all? Was her misery really due to her own weakness and lack of character? Was Torquil, the man she believed she loved, really a tyrant, controlling her every move?

She had wallowed so blindly in misery, feeling sorry for herself, she had never dared believe that her salvation was entirely in her own hands. Obedience had come more naturally to her than rebellion. Now she cringed at her own lack of strength. She was pathetic. She read the lines again and it all suddenly seemed so obvious. Staring into her tea she shone an unforgiving light onto the nature of her marriage. What she saw appalled her. She had allowed Torquil to control every aspect of her life, from the clothes she wore to the people she saw. She recalled with regret how he had cleverly prevented her from going home to Polperro. One by one she remembered each gradual move towards total dictatorship. He hadn’t been satisfied with her love; he had wanted her freedom too. Sam had been right. She wished she had had the courage to take his hand when he had reached out to her. Even Arthur had warned her, but

She finally returned to the house in the late afternoon. Torquil wasn’t home. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of grapefruit juice. Then she walked upstairs and ran a bath. Her body trembled with resolution. She was going to spend Christmas in Polperro whether Torquil liked it or not. In fact, she was going to start standing up for herself. She undressed and slipped into a dressing gown, rehearsing what she was going to say to him. It seemed simple, but she feared her throat would seize up when she confronted him face to face.

Then she panicked that he might have organized something else, recalling his threat to whisk her off to Mauritius and she cringed. There’s no reason he would have told her. She had always let him plan everything, she didn’t even keep a diary. She had to be prepared so that he couldn't manipulate her. She ran downstairs to his study and began to open all the drawers in his desk. Everything had its own place, even the pencils were neatly lined up, sharpened to the same length, barely used. Finding nothing in his desk drawers she continued the search in the cupboards but once again she found nothing. No

plane tickets, nothing. She rushed upstairs into his large walk-in wardrobe where polished shoes were displayed in regimental lines, each pair fitted with mahogany shoe-horns.

Suddenly the search ceased to be for a diary but for something else, as if at once she had grown up and was finally able to see the world outside the cocoon her husband had forged for her. Feverishly her hands searched the pockets of his jackets and the pockets of his trousers, all in perfect rows on wooden hangers. Her heart thumped with anxiety for she was aware that he could turn up at any moment. Her curiosity led her to the drawer in his bedside table where her fingers alighted upon a square pocket book. She picked it up and opened it. It was a leather-bound notebook, which contained handwritten lists of things to be done. Stuck onto the front was a Polaroid of a young woman sitting naked on a chair with her legs spread in shameless abandon, smiling with the knowledge of the power of her allure. Federica’s heart froze. She recognised the face and she recognized the occasion. How come it had taken her so long to figure it out?

 

Federica called Hester. Her friend detected the strange tone in her voice and

knew that something dramatic had happened. ‘What has he done to you?’ she asked.

‘I need you now,’ Federica pleaded and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Will you come and pick me up?’

Hester put down the telephone, grabbed her keys and slammed the door behind her, all without a word to Molly who poked her head out of the steaming bathroom and wondered what on earth was going on.

When Hester arrived at Federica’s house she was standing in the doorway in her dressing gown, clutching a plain wooden box. She ran down the steps, fearfully looking about her, and dived into the waiting car.

‘You’re coming like that?’ Hester gasped in amazement.

Federica collapsed into sobs. ‘Yes, because this is all I took into my marriage. My box and my trust.’

It was only once she was safely in the flat in Pimlico that Federica’s sobs turned into hysterical laughter. Molly and Hester looked at each other anxiously, both recalling Helena’s wedding when she had sobbed manically for Sam. When she had calmed down enough to speak she dried her eyes on her