How to Find Love in a Book Shop(76)

He looked over at her.

‘I don’t want to be a high-flyer any more. I don’t want to be part of the commuter club, an absentee husband and father.’

Bea fiddled with the knife and fork on either side of her bowl. She had lost her appetite all of a sudden and couldn’t finish her soup.

‘What do we do about it?’ she asked, her voice very small. ‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea …’

‘I don’t know, Bea. But I can’t carry on. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get sacked. I’m tired and I’m stressed and I’m resentful and I’m making mistakes and being a pain in the arse to work with.’

Bea reached out a hand and put it on top of Bill’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been stuck in my own little world, trying to play the perfect wife and mother. And to be honest, I haven’t been that happy either. It’s as if we’ve both been forced into a way of life we don’t want, in order to sustain this fantasy lifestyle.’

‘Exactly,’ said Bill. ‘I know you’re bored. I know you adore Maud, but I can see you trying to find ways to get through the day.’

‘Handwashing cashmere cardigans just isn’t doing it for me.’ Bea managed a laugh. ‘Not even when I get to hang them on the line with fancy artisanal wooden clothes pegs.’

She had a mental image of herself, a veritable layout from Hearth magazine. But she wasn’t going to be defeated by this. Bea was a strategist. She always had a plan.

‘What about if we do a swap?’ she said.

Bill raised his eyebrows.

‘Swap?’

‘I could go back to work. I get people calling me all the time offering me jobs I really, really don’t want to turn down. I would love to go back and be a proper grown-up in London. And you could hang out here with Maud.’

‘Be a house husband?’ Bill frowned. ‘I’m not sure about that.’

Bea wrinkled her nose. ‘No! You can do some freelance work from home while Maud’s at nursery. Though you would have to do a bit of house stuff – get food in, bung the washing on every now and again. But it’s not hard, Bill. Why do you think I’m so bored? I think you’re way better suited to this country life than me. I just don’t see myself as a jam-making, WI sort of person. But I think you’d really like the gardening and the log-cutting and the endless trips to the pub.’

‘Do you really think it could work?’ asked Bill. ‘I’ve got loads of people who want me to do consultancy for them.’

‘Yes!’

‘You’d have to be the breadwinner. You won’t mind the commute?’

‘No! I am soooo jealous whenever you head off for that train.’

‘Really? You’re welcome to it.’

‘It will take a bit of time for me to find the right job. But I think it’s a great solution. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to move back to London. I think here is perfect, and right for Maud.’

Bill looked as if the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders.

‘I’d love that, Bea. I feel as if life’s whizzing past, and I don’t have time to enjoy the things I want to enjoy, and any minute now Maud will be sixteen. I want to slow down. I know I’m only just forty, but I don’t want to spend the next ten years slogging my guts out. And if it means cutting back on crap that doesn’t matter—’

‘Like hundred quid candles?’

He caught it. ‘Yes!’

‘You’ve got yourself a deal, mister.’

Bea shook hands with her husband over the table.

As Lauren brought out the tagine, Bea sat back in her chair with a sigh of relief. She had been terrified Bill was going to give her some ultimatum. Or tell her he’d found someone else. The thing was, Bea quite liked playing at country mouse but really, she was a town mouse through and through. It would all be here at the weekends, the trugs and the Peter Rabbit carrots and the eggs still covered in chicken shit.

And this time, when they got back home, after the two bottles of ruinously expensive wine they’d drunk to celebrate their decision, Bill was still awake when she came out of the bathroom in her Coco de Mer. Wide awake.





Nineteen

The following Sunday, Emilia gave herself the day off. She had worked flat out for weeks, and Dave was happy to run the shop for the day.

Marlowe had offered to give her a cello lesson, to get her up to speed on the pieces she was unfamiliar with and to practise the Handel. Of all the pieces she had to get that right, as it heralded Alice’s entrance.

‘It’s renowned for being a bitch of a piece for the cello,’ he told her, ‘but we’ll nail it, don’t worry.’

It was one of those autumn days that take you by surprise. Although there was a sharpness in the air on waking, warm sunshine and a cloudless sky belied the season. Emilia put on a yellow dress and a pale green cardigan and drove to Marlowe’s house, a tiny Victorian lodge on the outskirts of Peasebrook. It was like a cottage out of a fairy tale, all pointy windows with a gabled roof and an arched front door.

Inside, it was chaos. Books and sheet music and empty wine glasses and two smoky grey cats stepping amongst it all. John Coltrane was playing and she could smell fresh coffee. With a pang, she realised it reminded her a little bit of the flat when her father was alive: he was always in the middle of twelve things at once; there was always music; something cooking.