A Bitter Feast(51)

“No, of course not. Sleep well, then.”

As soon as Bea reached the car park, Viv let herself into the cottage. The television was still on, the sound muted. She went into Grace’s room first. Grace lay on her back, the duvet thrown half off. Without her glasses and the frown that was becoming habitual, she looked like the child she had been. She still was a child, for a little while longer, Viv reminded herself. Pulling up the covers, she bent down, kissed Grace’s soft hair, and whispered, “Sleep tight, pumpkin.” She thought she saw Grace’s lips move in a smile.

She went out, closing the door only partway, and stood gazing into the jumble of the sitting room. Fergus had asked to come in and she had refused him. She’d been angry at him, but she’d also been ashamed. Her furniture was secondhand and shabby. The prints on the walls were amateurish Cotswold watercolors, inherited from the previous tenant. Her cookbooks littered the coffee table and slid off onto the floor, along with Grace’s discarded socks and shoes. The place was a tip.

Viv started to tidy up, then sank onto the sofa, her head in her hands. What sort of life had she made for herself, and for Grace? She worked all the time, and she was tired when she wasn’t working. Would things have turned out differently for them if she hadn’t been so bloody stubborn all those years ago?

And what if Fergus had known he was ill, when he’d finally searched her out, and then she’d turned him away? What had she cost herself? And even worse, what had she cost her daughter?

She pressed a hand to her mouth. The sobs came at last, silent and racking.



Melody made herself a hot drink in the kitchen, then carried it upstairs to the guest room she was occupying in lieu of her own room. She’d left Doug ensconced in her dad’s study, talking about computers. Her dad, by nature, had always been a good listener. Her mum had gone up before her, half an hour ago.

The house felt quiet and yet alive, humming with the presence of its occupants, and Melody found it odd but comforting. She hadn’t known what it would be like to have her friends here, had wondered if she’d feel too exposed, or if they would feel awkward. But even the children had fit in as if they belonged here.

Slipping off her shoes, she curled up on the bed and sipped her Ovaltine. That was certainly a childhood holdover, the hot drink, and a habit she seldom indulged in London. London . . . she didn’t much want to think about London at the moment, or her real life.

When her phone dinged, she was tempted to ignore it. But of course she didn’t. She picked it up and checked the incoming text. Andy. Again. He’d rung just at the beginning of the luncheon, when she’d had an excuse not to pick up. And later, when she’d been unloading the van at the pub, she couldn’t have talked then, either. But when the house had calmed down after dinner and she might have managed a little privacy, she hadn’t rung him back. He’d texted her since then but she hadn’t responded.

How was she going to admit how hurt she’d been by the stupid photo Doug had shown her? But how could she talk to him and ignore the whole thing?

They were adults, after all, and neither had ever actually committed to an exclusive relationship. But Andy had told her from the beginning that there was nothing between him and Poppy, and she’d believed him. Had she been a fool? One of the things that had drawn her to Andy Monahan in the first place was his rejection of pretense. He was who he was, and he didn’t lie about things.

Had he lied to her?

Another text came in. This one said simply “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

But she couldn’t, not tonight. Even though she knew that the longer she put it off, the harder it would be.



The rain started just as Jack left the village behind, a spattering of drops at first, then a hail that stung his head and face like bullets. Hunching his shoulders, he pulled up the hood on his anorak. He should have taken Viv up on her offer of a lift, but he knew she was exhausted. That, and he hadn’t wanted her to see how tipsy he was. He was ashamed of turning to drink out of weakness. The last thing he’d ever meant to do was let Viv down, but he hadn’t been able to wipe last night’s images from his mind. The man, O’Reilly, nursing his coffee. Nell, doing the same. In his bar.

And then there was the other image, the fuzzy one. He hadn’t wanted to be alone with Viv, hadn’t wanted to give in to the temptation to tell her what he thought he’d seen, not until he was certain. He didn’t want to believe it himself.

The verges had dwindled away as he left the last houses of Lower Slaughter behind, so that now he was walking in the lane itself. But he took this route every night, along Copsehill Road north towards Lower Swell. His bungalow was not much more than half a mile, just before the first junction. He knew where the muddy patches were, and the thickness of the trees and hedges crowding in from either side at least gave him some cover from the rain.

When he heard the car coming, he automatically moved as close to the left-hand hedge as he could get. It was another few yards to a layby, but the back of his anorak was reflective so that even in the dark and the rain he should be easily visible. The car came round the bend in the lane behind him, the headlamps picking out the slanting raindrops and the glisten of the wet leaves in the hedge. The car had slowed and he was just about to lift his hand in a wave of thanks when the sound of the engine changed. It was revving up, the engine squealing with sudden acceleration.