The Peacock Emporium(56)
“It’s still outdoors. There’ll be a fair bit of walking.”
“And a huge lunch. Full of fat bankers stuffing their faces. You’re hardly going to get in shape that way.”
Neil folded his tie round his hand and sat down on the lavatory seat next to the bath. “What’s the problem? It’s not as if you’re ever around at weekends. You’re always in the shop.”
“I told you it was going to be hard work.”
“I’m not complaining, just saying I might as well do something with my weekends if you’re going to be working.”
“Fine.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Suzanna shrugged. “There’s no problem. Like I said, I just didn’t think it was your kind of thing.”
“And it wasn’t. But we live in the country now.”
“It doesn’t mean you have to start wearing tweeds and wittering on about guns and braces of pheasant. Honestly, Neil, there’s nothing worse than a townie trying to pretend they’re to the manner born.”
“But if someone’s offering me the chance to try something new, for free, I’d be a fool to turn it down. Come on, Suze, it’s not as if we’ve had much fun recently.” His head dropped to one side. “I tell you what, why don’t you get someone to mind the shop and come too? You’ve got loads of time to organize it. You could be a beater or whatever they’re called.” He stood, and made a swishing motion with his hand. “You never know, the sight of you with a long stick,” he grinned, suggestively, “might do wonders for us . . .”
“Ugh. My idea of hell. Thanks, but I think I can think of other ways to spend my weekends than killing small feathered creatures.”
“Pardon me, Linda McCartney. I’ll turn the roast chicken loose, shall I?”
Suzanna motioned for a towel and got out of the bath, revealing barely an inch of flesh before she had covered herself.
“Look, you’re the one who keeps accusing me of being boring and predictable. Why are you attacking me for trying something new?”
“I just hate people trying to be what they’re not. It’s phony.”
Neil stood before her, stooping to avoid bumping his head on the beams. “Suze, I’m getting tired of having to apologize for myself. For being me. For every bloody decision I make. Because at some point you’re just going to have to accept that we live here now. This is our home. And if your brother invites me shooting or walking or bloody sheep shearing, it doesn’t mean that I’m phony. It just means I’m trying to accept opportunities as they come. That I, at least, am trying to enjoy myself occasionally. Even if you’re still determined to see the worst in bloody everything.”
“Well, hooray for you, Farmer Giles.” She couldn’t think of a more intelligent way to respond.
There was a long silence.
“You know what?” said Neil, eventually. “If I’m really, really honest, I’ve been thinking that you having this shop is not doing us any good at all. I’m glad it’s making you happy, and I didn’t want to say anything because I know it means a lot to you, but for quite a while I’ve been thinking that it’s not helping us.”
He rubbed his hand through his hair, then looked her straight in the eyes. “And the funny thing is, I’m wondering all of a sudden whether it has anything to do with the shop at all.”
Suzanna held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity. Then she brushed past him, and hurried down the narrow corridor into their bedroom, where she noisily began drying her hair, her eyes shut tightly against the tears.
* * *
—
Douglas found Vivi in the kitchen. She had forgotten that she had promised a couple of cakes for the Women’s Institute sale on Saturday, and had roused herself reluctantly from the soporific comfort of television and sofa. “You’re all floury,” he said, glancing at her sweater.
He had been for a drink with one of the local grain wholesalers: she smelled beer and pipe smoke on him as he bent to kiss her on the cheek.
“Yes. I think it knows I hate baking.” Vivi used the flat side of a knife to even out the mixture in the tin.
“Don’t know why you don’t buy the things from the supermarket. Much less fuss.”
“The older ladies expect home-made. There would be all sorts of talk if I gave them shop-bought . . .” She gesticulated toward the range. “Your supper’s in the bottom oven. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back.”
“Sorry. Meant to phone. Not that hungry, to be honest. Filled up on crisps and peanuts and rubbish.” He opened the top cupboard, looking for a glass, then sat down heavily and poured himself some whiskey. “I daresay Ben will take a second helping.”
Along the corridor, there was the sound of hissing as Rosemary’s elderly cat was apparently ambushed by the terrier. They could hear his claws scrabbling along the flagstones, and skidding into another room. The kitchen was silent again, interrupted only by the steady tick of the Viennese wall clock her parents had given them at their wedding, one of their few presents: it hadn’t been that kind of a wedding. “I saw Suzanna today,” Vivi said, still smoothing the cake mixture. “She’s rather frosty. But the shop was beautiful.”