What She Wants (65 page)

was my life. Now, I’ve just ruined all that. He’s very uncompromising, he can’t go back if he thinks I don’t adore him. Just like I couldn’t go on if I didn’t think he loved me absolutely.’ She parked outside Curlew Cottage and they sat in silence. ‘The way he always had to be in charge, that was his way of loving me. I didn’t see it then. But I do now and it’s too late. He can’t go back.’ As weekends went, it wasn’t a fun-filled one. Sam felt as if she was walking on eggshells because she was so scared of upsetting Hope. She quashed her instinctive desire to talk bluntly about alimony, access and arrangements for separated couples, and did her best to provide support rather than advice. Every time Millie or Toby prattled innocently about Daddy, Sam shot an anxious look at her sister, terrified she’d see utter despair on Hope’s face. Yet somehow, Hope was coping. She hadn’t fallen apart as Sam had thought she would. She hadn’t run to the doctor begging for Prozac and she wasn’t sinking into the gin every night. Instead, she was trying to cope in a calm, strong way. ‘I owe it to the children,’ she said simply. On Sunday afternoon they had lunch in Killarney before Sam’s flight. While Millie and Toby coloured in the cartoon character paper mats that the restaurant had kindly provided for all small guests, Sam took the bull by the horns. ‘What’s next?’ she said. ‘I don’t know,’ Hope shrugged. ‘Matt was the one who left, I don’t want to close the door, you know that: I love him. But I can’t make him come home.’ ‘Would you like me to talk to him …’ began Sam. ‘No.’ Hope was vehement. ‘If he comes back, it’s got to be because he wants to and not because he’s been pushed into it.’ Sam grinned. ‘When has anyone ever pushed Matt Parker into doing one single thing he didn’t want to?’ she asked.

Hope’s eyes brimmed and Sam cursed her thoughtlessness. ‘Sorry.’ ‘I’m not a child, you know, Sam. I have to face the truth. He’s left me and it might be for good.’ ‘It’s your worst nightmare, isn’t it?’ Sam asked. ‘Being left, being abandoned.’ Hope looked wry. ‘Yes. What does it say about me when I manage to engineer the very thing I’ve spent my entire life worrying about? I’ve always been scared Matt would leave me, like Mum and Dad left us. And what do I do? Have a fling and ruin everything.’ ‘You didn’t ruin everything,’ Sam insisted. ‘And it wasn’t really a fling.’ Hope didn’t reply. Before she went through to the departure lounge, Sam hugged her sister warmly. Hope, who couldn’t throw her arms around Sam because Millie and Toby were holding her hands, steeled herself not to blub. ‘You could come to London, you know,’ Sam said. ‘We could get a nice house between us and you wouldn’t be alone any more.’ ‘Thank you, but no,’ Hope said fondly. ‘That’s lovely of you, darling, but this is my home now.’ Hope and the children waved energetically until Sam was out of sight. ‘When is Daddy coming home?’ demanded Millie, looking around as if Matt might appear from nowhere. ‘Soon, Millie, soon,’ said her mother brightly.

The day of Virginia’s dinner date with Kevin, she thought about Bill a lot. Sometimes, it was hard to imagine that it was over two years since his death. He was still with her in so many ways, his presence a palpable part of her life. And in other ways, it was as if he’d been gone longer because so much had changed. Or perhaps it was she who had changed. Her path through the mire of bereavement had been a winding

one, when she’d taken one step forward, she’d found herself taking two back. It had been slow and painful. But life had gone on and she’d learned to live with it, because there was no option. For about six months after Bill’s death, she’d eaten porridge for breakfast instead of her usual muesli. Making a bowlful with a dash of honey, the way Bill had every morning of his life, had somehow made him seem closer. Like wearing his shirts. She remembered how when Bill’s six month anniversary had come up, Laurence, thinking it was the right thing to do, had gently suggested a clear-out of his father’s clothes. But Virginia wouldn’t hear of it. ‘If you throw his clothes out, you might as well throw me out too,’ she’d said fiercely. She’d brought all of them to Kilnagoshell and hung them in one of the spare rooms. But the lingering scent of Bill had somehow left everything. When Virginia leaned against his favourite old tweedy jacket, a thing she’d spent years trying to get him to throw out, there was no evocative scent of him. Only the smell of an old wardrobe and clothes that no longer hung on a strong, much loved male body. She’d cried the afternoon she’d packed them all away in suit carriers. But it had been the right decision. Bill would have wanted her to move on, she was sure of it. Even if it hurt her to do it, she had to. Otherwise she might as well have been buried with him that day. She made herself walk past the porridge oats in the supermarket, determined not to be a slave to memories. Bill’s old golf club jumper still sat in her bottom drawer, though. She took it out regularly and held it close to her face, tears misting in her eyes at the memories it evoked. Bill, laughing as he packed his clubs in the car on a Saturday morning, kissing the top of Virginia’s head and promising he wouldn’t spend too long at the nineteenth hole, as golf club bars the world over were affectionately known. ‘You better not,’ she’d tease with a glint in her eyes,

‘otherwise your dinner won’t be in the oven when you come home, it’ll be in the dog.’ After she’d dressed that evening to go to Kevin’s, she sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around the jumper, as if she were cuddling a teddy bear. Dinky, sensing her mistress’s melancholy, sat in her beanbag at the foot of the bed and gazed up soulfully, her little face between her front paws. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ Virginia addressed Dinky. Then, she kissed the jumper and put it back in the drawer carefully. ‘I won’t be long, pet,’ she told the dog. Kevin lived in an old farmhouse that stood back from the road on the other side of Redlion. Virginia, who had a keen eye for gardens, would have imagined the best greenery for such an old house would have been rambling roses climbing over the door, large pots spilling over with tumbling flowers beside it and herbaceous borders dominated by fragrant night-scented stock and nicotiana. Instead, there were four beds of gladioli which looked as if they’d been planted with the aid of a slide rule and a T-square. Strangely formal, it all looked out of place. ‘Admiring the flowers?’ said Kevin from the front door. ‘Er, yes,’ lied Virginia, for gladioli were the only flowers she didn’t like. ‘Ursula was a wonderful gardener. She planted those beds herself and I try and keep them the way she’d have wanted,’ Kevin said wistfully. Inside, the farmhouse was just as formal, with a patterned Axminster over what Virginia assumed was a wooden floor. The walls were a lively dark red Laura Ashley which clashed violently with the carpet and the pale pink couch. Heavy oil paintings with gold frames hung on the walls, while occasional tables jostled for space with sideboards and plant stands. Every available surface was covered with silver photograph frames. It was all a bit overwhelming, like a Hollywood version of a cluttered Victorian house. But one item dominated the room: hanging over the mantelpiece was an oil of a woman in a blue dress. She was

in her late forties and was smiling faintly in a Mona Lisa way, short dark hair cut tightly round her face, dark eyes glittering. It had to be Ursula. ‘I had it painted for her fiftieth,’ Kevin said in a proud voice. ‘Goodness, she doesn’t look fifty,’ said Virginia. He was pleased. ‘She never looked her age. She was one of life’s youthful women. Even at the end, she looked much younger than she really was. Everyone remarked upon it.’ Kevin’s voice was tinged with sadness and he seemed lost in reverie as he gazed up at the portrait. ‘Do you need a hand in the kitchen?’ Virginia said brightly. He appeared to shake himself and said: ‘No, goodness, it’s all under control. I hope you like lamb.’ ‘Love it,’ said Virginia. She’d have liked to have gone into the kitchen to chat amiably while Kevin cooked, but he obviously preferred the more formal style of entertaining and, once he’d given her the glass of water she asked for, insisted she stay in the sitting room where a wistful piece by Chopin was playing softly. Virginia knew it was bad manners to snoop, but couldn’t resist peering at some of the myriad photos around the room. They were mainly of Ursula and Kevin with some single ones of Ursula. The portrait painter had flattered her, Virginia found herself thinking, as she stared at one close-up of Ursula at a wedding. Her dark eyes were much more slitty than the painter had portrayed and her heavy jaw was more defined. Virginia looked carefully and wondered if she and the dead woman would have been friends. It might be hard to be friends with such a paragon, particularly one who was so close to nightmares like Glenys Smart. And Virginia felt slightly uncomfortable in this house, for it was clearly Ursula’s home. Her mark was everywhere, from the regimented flowers outside the door to the rather hectic decor which was at least ten years old and, therefore, dated from

when Ursula was alive. Even if Kevin had changed the wallpaper and the carpets, it would still be very much Ursula’s domain, because of all the photos of her. It was, Virginia thought, finishing her glass of water, a shrine.

Kevin had been right: he was a good cook. The lamb was tender as poached cod and they both ate hungrily, enjoying the tiny roast potatoes and the green beans dotted with butter. They chatted about friends and acquaintances, laughing over golfing stories and telling each other tales of their previous lives. Virginia found herself being careful about mentioning Bill too often as a reaction to how often Kevin mentioned Ursula. Her name came up in every second sentence and Virginia gave herself a mental check to see if she was guilty of this too. But she didn’t think so. They both drank little and by coffee, the bottle of wine still had at least one glass remaining.

‘More wine?’ Kevin asked, proffering the bottle.

‘No thanks, I’ve had enough and I’m driving,’ Virginia said.

He put the cork in the bottle. ‘For another day,’ he said wryly, ‘it’s all too easy to sink into grief and drink too much. I’m sure many lonely widowers turn to the bottle to get over it all. When I sit here with my memories and Chopin, I know it would finish me off totally if I drank to numb the pain.’

Virginia glanced at him curiously. ‘I know it’s a cliche,’ she said, ‘but do you not find that time does help to heal?’

Kevin looked shocked. ‘No, not at all. How could it? How could I forget Ursula?’ His face was etched with pain as he spoke.

‘I didn’t say forget her,’ Virginia said softly, ‘I meant learn to deal with her loss. It’s been two years since Bill died and you never forget, of course not. Bill was all of my life for so long, I could as easily forget to breathe as forget him but,’ she paused, searching for the right words because she didn’t want to offend Kevin, ‘life goes on.’ She laughed, ‘another cliche, I’m afraid. You have to move on, though. Ursula sounds like such a lovely, vital woman: she wouldn’t have

wanted you to …’ she was about to say bury yourself alive for nearly five years, but she stopped in time. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted you to stop living.’ ‘You’re so right.’ Kevin’s face lightened magically. ‘She was a lovely, vital woman. I’m glad I’ve been able to give you a picture of what she was like.’ He put one hand on Virginia’s warmly. ‘You’d have loved her, you know. The two of you would have been friends.’ ‘I agree,’ Virginia said, ‘and I’m sure you and Bill would have got on like a house on fire and spent hours on the golf course. But Kevin,’ she continued earnestly, ‘they’re both gone. We have to move on. I moved out of our old house, probably more in grief to be honest, but it gave me the chance to start again without bursting into tears every time I looked at the bathroom sink and imagined Bill standing there shaving, or seeing the grass go wild in the garden and thinking of how he’d never have let it become so out of control. Change can help, it’s not betraying the person who’s gone.’ She paused, wondering if she should delicately say it. Yes, she should. ‘You could always, for example,’ she said gently, ‘redecorate to change things a little. That’s just one idea to move on.’ He smiled at this. ‘But I did redecorate. The paper was getting worn.’ Virginia smiled too. At least the hopeless coordination was his, probably Ursula had had a more matching colour scheme. ‘You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had getting the same wallpaper. That pattern had been discontinued. It took me two months to track down enough to do the whole room.’ He looked so proud at this industriousness that Virginia could say nothing. Well, there was nothing to say, was there? Perhaps it was true that widows managed life better than widowers, who were so lost without their wives that they could barely face the world. How terribly sad. Sadder even was Kevin who wanted to recreate life with Ursula, right down to the same wallpaper she’d chosen. Virginia bet that

every grocery in the house was the same as Ursula had bought, from the milk right up to the brand of kitchen cleanser. And she undoubtedly had taught Kevin to cook the most marvellous lamb, always served with tiny roasted potatoes and green beans with a precise amount of butter. Virginia shivered: it was like being watched over by a ghost. After a few minutes, she took a surreptitious look at her watch: a quarter to ten, late enough to leave without being rude.

‘That was a lovely meal,’ she said kindly.

‘I’m glad you liked it. We’ll have to do it again,’ he said, smiling at her fondly. ‘Maybe we should scandalize the whole town by going out for a meal the next time.’

Virginia nodded. ‘They can hardly be scandalized by two old friends going out for dinner, now can they?’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding.

She got to her feet and didn’t ask if she could help Kevin tidy up. He’d probably refuse and besides, she had had enough of Ursula for the evening.

‘Thank you, Kevin.’

She didn’t wait for him to get her jacket, but went to the hall and took it off the peg, slipping it on quickly.

‘Let me,’ said Kevin, trying to help her.

‘I’m very busy next week,’ she said. ‘I’ve several games of golf lined up. So perhaps the week after, we might play in a fourball.’ Four people playing together meant less time for her and Kevin to be alone.