The Secret Wife(99)
‘Did you do any writing over the summer?’ he asked.
She sighed. ‘Not a word. I’m beginning to realise I’m not cut out to be a writer. Sure, I can string a sentence together but I don’t have anything I passionately want to say. That’s why I keep abandoning everything I start. My great-grandfather, on the other hand … he was a famous novelist in his day. His books are powerful insights into human emotion.’
He was regarding her affectionately. ‘You never mentioned having a writer in the family.’
‘No one ever told me. I can’t think why Mum never said.’
‘It seems odd, but I remember her saying she never met any of her grandparents: all four died before she was born …’
‘Did she?’ Kitty screwed up her forehead trying to remember. ‘But that’s not true. Dmitri only died in 1986. It seems there was some big falling out between them. That’s why Dmitri’s inheritance eventually came to me; they couldn’t find any family members when he died.’
‘Is this why you are flying to the Czech Republic? So you can solve the mystery?’ He smiled indulgently.
‘I’ll tell you more about it over dinner. Can we go and eat now? I’m starving.’
They walked to their favourite restaurant, a tiny French bistro two streets from home, and first she told him what she had learned about Dmitri Yakovlevich. They ordered their usual – French onion soup, pepper steaks and a bottle of Burgundy – and never stopped talking throughout the meal. There was so much to say.
‘If you have decided that you don’t want to be a writer any more, then what?’ Tom asked.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t get that far.’
‘If you want to develop another property, we could easily raise money against the house.’
Kitty wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know. It’s stressful, and there are tedious problems. Besides, I’m not sure the market is going in the right direction. There could be a crash on the way.’
Tom was watching her, eyes narrowed. ‘Show me those photos of your cabin again.’
She handed him her phone and he flicked through them once more. She’d taken long shots from the end of the jetty, and also some close-ups of the stairs and banister leading up to the porch.
‘I know what you should be,’ he said, handing the phone back to her. ‘A carpenter.’
She opened her mouth to object then stopped. She loved working with wood. ‘But how would I earn a living at it?’
‘That’s up to you. You could set up a website and distribute leaflets offering to make bookshelves and fitted cupboards … or you could design your own bespoke furniture. Why not?’
She frowned. ‘I’d need to upgrade my tools. I’ve already got contacts in that wood yard in Kentish Town. Perhaps I could build a shed at the end of our garden as a workshop.’ Tom let her think out loud, nodding encouragement. She had the strangest sensation as all the pieces slotted into place. It was as if it was predestined. This was one of the extraordinary things about a close relationship: it was possible for your partner to know you better than you knew yourself.
‘Mum wouldn’t have approved,’ she said. ‘She wanted me to be a lawyer.’
‘Maybe, but most of all she wanted you to be happy.’
Kitty knew that was true, and loved that Tom knew it as well. He provided continuity in her life now that he had become her sole family member. She had drunk two glasses of wine and was about to pour another when she stopped, remembering her great-uncle Nicholas and his cirrhosis. Tom didn’t want any more either, so they put a cork in the bottle and carried it home.
Once they were in the hall, she grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him in for the kiss she’d been wanting to give him for the last few hours. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and she meant she was sorry for leaving him alone all summer. He didn’t reply, too busy lifting her sweater over her head. She unfastened his trousers, lifted her skirt and pushed her knickers aside then stood on tiptoe and hooked one leg around his waist so he could enter her. Now, she thought, now at last I am home.
Chapter Sixty
Albany, New York State, 1955
Dmitri’s double life continued for seven years and neither of the women he loved challenged him. Tatiana never seemed to resent the fact that he spent most weekends and holidays with his family and sometimes couldn’t see her for days on end; Rosa never questioned his whereabouts, just accepting whatever excuse he made to explain a few hours’ absence. On the drive home from Tatiana’s he often stopped for a beer to clear his head. Guilt had become a familiar companion but he still believed there had been no choice: he couldn’t have left Rosa, the woman who had entwined her fortune with his and brought him so much happiness, but at the same time he couldn’t resist the potent magnetism of his decades-old bond with Tatiana.
During those seven years, both of his children got married. Nicholas had never brought home any girlfriends and by his late twenties they were beginning to worry about him until one weekend he presented a long-legged, sun-kissed Californian girl called Pattie and announced they were engaged. The whole family flew out to Santa Barbara for a wedding in Pattie’s home church, followed by a party at her parents’ glamorous beach club. At first Dmitri and Rosa were dazzled by the champagne cocktails, the palm trees set around a turquoise swimming pool, and the glitzy people wearing ostentatious jewellery, but Rosa was soon circulating and befriending their new in-laws. She was wearing a rose-pink lace off-the-shoulder dress with a mauve satin sash, and a tiny hat decorated with pink and mauve fresh flowers and in Dmitri’s opinion was by far the best-dressed woman at the gathering.