The Wife Before Me(83)

‘Bluey?’ Inside the cottage, he hangs his jacket on a hook. ‘Who or what is that?’

‘A lamb,’ she replies. ‘He’s an orphan. His mother died giving birth. Kayla has adopted him. She’s supposed to feed him from a bottle five times a day but you don’t have to be a genius to guess who does the six-in-the-morning feed.’

‘Ouch!’ He takes her hands and holds them tight. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘You too, Mark.’ She tilts her head, quizzingly. ‘Have you been burning the midnight oil?’

‘Do I look that bad?’

‘Just tired. Otherwise you look wonderful. How’s Graham?’

‘Good. He shaved off my hair. Said he refuses to live with a combover.’ He runs his hands self-consciously over his scalp. ‘I’m still getting used to it.’

‘It suits you. Adds character to your face.’ The chicken casserole she has prepared is ready to serve, the table set.

‘I told you to keep Bluey outside,’ she says as Kayla enters the kitchen, a small lamb with a blue patch on its back at her heels.

‘I want to show him to Uncle Mark.’

‘After dinner.’ She carries the casserole dish to the table and shoos the lamb away. ‘Now, do as I say and wash your hands.’

Kayla chats throughout the meal and the lamb, staring through the glass patio door, bleats piteously.

‘She’s obviously devoted to the little fellow,’ Mark says when Kayla has filled a baby’s bottle with warm milk and headed out to feed Bluey.

‘He’s a substitute for friends,’ she replies. ‘We live a quiet life here. So far, she hasn’t realised what’s she’s missing. It’ll become more difficult when she grows older and wants her friends to visit.’ She bites the edge of her nail, unaware that she is doing so.

‘Jay was in touch last month. Back on his annual visit to his father. We had lunch together.’

‘How is he?’ she asks. Outside, Kayla sits on the edge of a wooden picnic bench, the lamb feeding greedily from the bottle.

‘He’s in good form. Travelling a lot. High-pressure but he’s coping. He spoke about her.’

‘You didn’t―’

‘Of course not,’ he says quietly, reassuringly, and opens his laptop.

‘What have you managed to do so far?’ she asks.

‘It took a lot of figuring out but the fact that I restored his database once makes it slightly easier to gain access to his computer.’ He hits the keyboard and numbers flash onto the screen. ‘His assets are well protected and that money is buried so deep it’s going to be one hell of a job to trace it. I have to be careful.’

‘If it puts your job in jeopardy…’

‘Don’t worry. I’m being cautious.’

This virtual world was once unknown to her. A language she believed she would never understand or be interested in acquiring. Now, watching his fingers fly across the keyboard, she can see what he has achieved as he hacks into firewalls and breaches dark secrets in Panama, the Cayman Islands, Jersey, Puerto Rico.

‘Will it work?’ she asks when she has seen everything.

‘Yes.’ He sounds grimly satisfied. ‘But I need to move slowly and not alert his suspicions. I’m worried about you.’

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Don’t be foolhardy. You should consider moving somewhere less isolated. If Nicholas discovers―’

‘He won’t. Have you spoken to Elena?’

‘Briefly by phone,’ he replies. ‘I’m meeting her on Friday evening.’

‘I showed her the studio.’

‘Can I see it before I go?’

Each time she opens the studio door, she imagines suspended animation; a fairy story where all the characters are caught in a spellbound sleep.

‘Do you believe she’s at peace?’ she asks.

‘I hope so.’

‘I dream about her sometimes. Really vivid dreams. We’re children again, or teenagers, always the four of us.’

‘They were good days,’ he says. ‘Or am I sinking into the mire of nostalgia?’

She laughs, shrugs. ‘Probably. I’m told it’s a disease that gets worse with aging. But one dream was different. She was on her own in a garden. The flowers and bushes, the waterfalls and trees shimmered, as if they were made from glass. She was standing at a bridge with steps leading up to it. In my dream she was at peace but when I woke up, I knew she was not at rest.’

‘That’s because you can’t let her go,’ he says. ‘Your feelings keep getting in the way. Maybe that dream is her actual reality.’

‘Mammy? Uncle Mark… where are you?’ Kayla’s cries draw them to the window. She runs towards the studio, her black braid clattering, the lamb, round-bellied, padding behind her.



* * *



Darkness is beginning to settle over Mag’s Head when Mark says goodbye. Before leaving, he takes her hair in his hands and lifts it from her shoulders, pushes her fringe back from her forehead. She resists the urge to pull away from his gentle touch. Apart from Kayla, she has become unaccustomed to human contact and is uneasy under his scrutiny.

‘It’s good to see you,’ he says and kisses her forehead. ‘To know you haven’t changed and never will.’