Look to Your Wife

by Paula Byrne

  And there he was, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 32

  Hit and Run

  ‘I swear to God, Bee, I was terrified.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Lordie, I wish I hadn’t left you, but you know how Onions feels about Cecil. He’s his world. I once forgot to feed Cecil, and Onions didn’t speak to me for three months. I’ll never make that mistake again. And Cecil is so cold. He shows not a morsel of gratitude …’

  ‘Bee, concentrate. I’m telling you. Schrodinger was in the kitchen, in the pitch black, staring at me. I thought he might have had a knife.’

  ‘Well, he clearly didn’t, because you wouldn’t be sitting here with me in the Albion bookshop, drinking tea.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t have a knife. He was looking for his bloody cat. What IS it with Blagsford and cats? I’m not a cat person, Bee. They’re so selfish. Look at Queenie. Now, there’s loyalty for you, always a jaunty tail wagging, and always a morning lick to wake you up.’

  Belinda looked at her darkly.

  ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk. Now you’re the one going off-piste. Maybe Schrodinger WAS just looking for his cat. God knows, Matilda is always wandering off into my neighbour’s boat. She’s pathologically disloyal.’

  ‘OK, but a mile from the school?’

  ‘They’ve just published some research using GPS trackers, showing that cats often wander two miles from home,’ said Belinda with a knowledgeable twinkle in her eye.

  ‘But the way he was looking at me. It was dark, and quiet. He could have murdered me.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘That he liked my piano-playing. That he didn’t know that I was musical. Weirdo.’

  ‘Lordie.’

  ‘Anyway, I saw him out and locked the shop, and we actually cycled back to school together. I wasn’t going to let him see that he had spooked me.’

  ‘Did you tell Edward?’

  ‘Of course. He thought it was hilarious, and said I should take up the piano again. Sometimes, he really misses the point.’

  ‘Keep an eye on Schrodinger, Lisa. And tell Dicky. He won’t like the thought of a man lingering in his shop, and he’s very fond of you.’

  ‘Is he? How does one ever tell. Grumpy sod. Not a word of thanks for shutting up shop.’

  ‘That’s just his way. Don’t mind him. He never shows gratitude to me, but then for my birthday he gave me a first edition of Tender is the Night. I looked it up on Abebooks, and it’s worth at least £600. It made me feel awful. I don’t help him for money or for favours. I do it because I love him, and I love the Albion. I worry that Tender will get damp in the boat.’

  ‘I know you do,’ Lisa said, soothingly. Bee sometimes got one in her bonnet when she talked about money, because she hated money and greed and unkindness. Lisa sometimes thought Belinda would be happiest if everyone went back to bartering.

  ‘Leave Tender here. I’ll look after it. Bee …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a really good friend. I need friends in Blagsford. I miss my friend Jan, and John Misty. I miss all my sisters. I’m a girl’s girl, Bee.’

  ‘I know.’

  *

  And then he texted.

  Hi Lisa. How are you?

  I’m fine. What a surprise!

  What’s the news?

  Well, apart from someone cutting out and stealing a large photo of me, I’m doing OK.

  Yeah. I saw that article you posted on Twitter. I just happened to be in the area and couldn’t resist!!!!

  LOL. I had my suspicions.

  Call me if you need me.

  TY. Nice to hear from you.

  Lisa was puzzled. She had no idea why Sean had suddenly contacted her. It was against the rules that they had set for themselves, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to desist. She felt a stab of happiness in her heart when his name flashed up on the screen. But it saddened her, too. She had got used to being without him. She sent a DM to Misty, who was not amused.

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: Thin end of the wedge, Blaize. Don’t do it.

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: What have I done?

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: Well, you answered him. Have you told Edward?

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Not yet.

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: Well you must. I told you that if anything new comes in, you must tell Edward. It’s only fair.

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I know. OK. I’ll tell him. But why has he contacted me now? At this moment?

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: You don’t think it was him who took the banner photo?

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: No, of course not. He was joking. He always jokes. Like you. Any news on picture thief?

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: No, nothing. Benedict is loving all the fuss though. There was another article about it this week, saying that you had taken it well, and saw the funny side. I still think it’s a bit sinister.

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Me too. Anyway, got to dash. Speak soon. Love you.

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: Be good, Blaize. And do tell Edward about the texts.

  *

  ‘Mummy, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  It was little George.

  ‘What is it, darling? You can tell me anything. Are you in trouble at school?’

  ‘No, it’s worse than that. You’re going to be really angry with me.’

  ‘Well you won’t know until you tell me. I’m never angry with you, George.’

  His brown eyes filled with tears, glittered like diamonds.

  ‘It was me. I did it.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘I killed the chickens. Emma said it was my turn and I forgot to put them in, and I was too scared to tell you. I’m sorry, Mummy. It was all my fault.’

  Lisa breathed. She pulled him into her arms.

  ‘George, it’s fine. They were just chickens. They were rubbish layers, anyway, and they were encouraging rats. It’s OK. I was going to get rid of them. But I’m glad you told me. You must always tell me about things on your mind. And here was I thinking you’d bitten a girl in the playground!’

  George laughed. Lisa sniffed his hair, her baby. So beloved, so sensitive. She was relieved though. She hated the thought that someone had taken out their dislike of her on her hens. It was just a mistake. Poor George.

  *

  Edward smiled when she told him.

  ‘I told you that it was just a coincidence. You mustn’t let these letters and blogs make you paranoid. Otherwise they’ve won.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. It was so silly of me.’

  ‘The staff like you, darling. Look at the turn out for the Gatsby party. They know that your position here is a difficult one. And they all gave you a big round of applause when I said that you didn’t choose to be first lady, you’ve taken on a role that you didn’t ask for, and made it your own.’

  ‘Schrodinger was a no-show. I just think some of them have such an old-fashioned notion of the role of a headmaster’s wife – they expect me to shut my mouth and give tea parties, instead of being myself, let alone having my own life, my own career.’

  ‘Well, quite a few couldn’t make it. Don’t read anything into it, Lisa.’

  ‘OK. I’m taking the dog for a last walk.’

  Lisa walked around the lake in the dark night with Queenie at her heels. She didn’t bother with a lead and collar. Queenie was such a good puppy, she would run a few yards forward and then stop and turn her head, waiting for Lisa. They would walk past the tennis courts and the cricket nets, and then back towards the house via the lake.

  It was a cold, foggy evening in Blagsford. The autumn trees were black skeletons; the huge weeping willow dipped its gnarled branches into the lake’s shallows. There was no one else about. Trees were noisy at night, branches crackled, leaves swooshed. Then out of the lake, Lisa saw a large, luminous white shape looming towards them … hisssssss. Queenie took one look and bolted.

  ‘Queenie. It’s only the swan.
Come back. It’s OK.’

  The fog had thickened, and Lisa could barely see in front of her, but she could smell the earth, dank and rich.

  ‘Queenie … Queenie.’

  It wasn’t like her dog to go so far ahead. She had been hissed at by the swan before now. Maybe she was frightened of the fog. It was pretty spooky. Lisa walked quickly past the lake, her writing hut, and onto the lawn. She was starting to panic. She couldn’t see Queenie. She started to run.

  Beyond the lake there was a private, secluded road. The gate should have been shut tightly, but she saw that it was wide open. She carried on calling for Queenie, her voice becoming panicked and shrill. Then she saw it. A flash of white, a glare of orange and the screech of wheels. She pulled out her phone, stabbed a number into it and screamed for Edward. ‘Quick, come down, It’s the dog. Hurry.’

  Edward would make it right. All would be well. Lisa hurried to the road, but the car had long gone. Deadly silent. Then she heard Edward shouting her name, and shouting for Queenie. He was at her side in a flash, but they could see nothing in the dark and fog. Lisa was screaming Queenie’s name over and over again. Maybe she’s run onto the sports field. It’s so dark. So cold. She doesn’t like to be far from me. She’ll be frightened.

  ‘Your phone, Edward. Turn on the torch.’

  They could see nothing. Edward fumbled with the button that activated the torch.

  The beam from their phones shone around the bushes, not reaching the open fields beyond the road. Edward was shouting Queenie’s name.

  ‘There. What’s that over there?’

  Then they saw her – a white blob lying in a ditch on the side of the road. So small. There was a sudden moment of calm. Then Edward had her in his arms, his blue shirt was stained with blood. He carried her to Lisa.

  ‘Edward, I need to call the vet.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s too late.’

  *

  They buried her in the garden. Lisa didn’t know how one could feel so much pain over an animal. How could it be possible? Her life had been so brief. They had barely known her. But in a short time, she had brought so much love. The driver hadn’t even stopped.

  Most people in the school were shocked. An announcement was made in assembly. The schoolchildren had loved to see Queenie running around the grounds, chasing squirrels. On more than one occasion, Queenie had interrupted one of Edward’s important managerial meetings, which always helped to relieve the tension. The senior management team had come to love her. Even Schrodinger had sent his condolences, despite the fact he was no doubt relieved that his cat could now reoccupy the garden chair. The Chamberlain children were devastated. George blamed the swan. He was the one who had frightened her into bolting.

  Lisa was hit the hardest. Queenie had loved her the most, especially as they were together in the daytime when the children were at school, and Edward at work. Lisa felt choked with grief. It felt worse than almost losing Emma, than losing Sean. Queenie was a symbol of all she had lost. She wanted out.

  ‘Edward, we need to leave. Can’t you apply for a new job? I hate Blagsford. Everything has gone wrong for us since we came here.’

  ‘But I really love this job. Every day is different. I don’t want to leave. They treat me really well, and the primary school is fantastic for the kids – they’re sure to get into the grammar. I don’t want to move them. You’re still upset about Queenie. Just give it a bit more time.’

  ‘First the chickens, and then Queenie. What next? Will they poison my coffee?’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic. George forgot to lock the chickens away, and Queenie bolted because the swan frightened her. These things happen.’

  ‘But the driver of the car. We never found her. She never came forward. It was a woman driving that car. I think it was Bertie’s mum.’

  ‘Lisa, you can’t make accusations like that. You’re being absurd.’

  ‘It was her car. Typical Chelsea tractor. Another one of those revolting blondes. She killed my dog because you busted her druggy son. Who next, Edward? Who next?’

  CHAPTER 33

  Blaze

  She buried herself in her work. She was on fire with her idea for something more commercial. At last the words were flowing. The shepherd’s hut was a perfect sanctuary, away from the goldfish bowl. Every morning, she lit the woodburning stove and then sat at her desk working on the new book. The nights were drawing in, but the woodburner worked like a dream. It was so easy to doze off.

  The absence of Internet in the hut was a blessing, and the work flourished. She still missed Sean. To comfort herself she read a biography of Laurie Lee, just to feel close to him. She read about the meeting on the beach with Lorna Garman, and then the obsessive relationship that ensued. Lisa was becoming obsessed with Lorna. What did she have that made men so crazy about her? First Laurie Lee, then Lucien Freud.

  Lorna was rich, glamorous, and married. According to her daughter, she was utterly ‘wild and rampant’. Those who met her spoke about her feline grace. She was a tiger, a lynx. Freud painted her in an ocelot coat, confirming the image. Laurie Lee and Freud found her irresistible. She broke their hearts, and returned to her husband, becoming a fervent convert to Roman Catholicism.

  Lorna’s husband, a kind and gentle intellectual, was nine years older than his wife. He knew about the affair, but turned a blind eye in the hope that she would get Laurie out of her system. In time, she would return to him. The daughter she had by Laurie Lee said: ‘She was nature herself: savage, wild, romantic and without guilt.’

  Lee rented a green caravan close to where Lorna lived with her husband and children. Lorna would drive her chocolate-brown Bentley to the green caravan, bearing gifts: a tambourine, armfuls of flowers (lilacs, red roses, orchids, and lilies), sweet cakes, wine, paintings, music (Beethoven’s Spring Sonata), rabbit, mushrooms, bananas, honey, eggs, books and poetry. She wore a green dress with a long line of seductive buttons down the front. Laurie Lee would play his violin in the candlelight, whilst Lorna (a gifted cook) prepared salmon and potatoes. They made love, over and over again. He wrote about her, over and over again.

  Lisa pondered too about the horrors of love. Lorna and Laurie’s affair was as tortured as it was passionate. That kind of love can’t last. Laurie knew that. He knew that the illicit nature of the affair exacerbated its magic.

  Lisa was drifting off to sleep, his beautiful words, quoted in the biography, entered her dream.

  Her movements under me are a deft delight and for the first time in my life I experience the true measure and grace of love.

  Her mouth is like a lamp. She takes off some of her clothes and slips into the bed beside me.

  She is extremely ripe and soft yet strong under one’s thighs.

  Her hair is sweet-smelling. I swim in her mouth and her nails in my flesh are like a bitter wind.

  It is a paradox that the best way to preserve the thrill and intensity of love is to put as much distance between myself and the beloved …

  The wind and rain whipped around and rocked the green hut. A storm raged, but, inside, the lovers felt secure in the warm shadows of the caravan. Lisa was dreaming of making love, but was it with Edward or with Sean? She felt so sleepy, so content, so cocooned. A warm rush of air coursed through her body. It was all so peaceful. Why could she hear shouting?

  *

  She felt a cold blast of air, as a tall figure loomed in front of her and dragged her out of the shed onto the grass. In a haze, she saw figures running towards the lake, with buckets, and others sprinting with fire extinguishers. Where’s the fire, she thought? Then she saw black smoke billowing out of the hut.

  The head of maintenance picked her up and carried her away from the hut. She was freezing, and started to shiver uncontrollably. Edward was shouting instructions, and was also on his phone. A siren wailed in the distance.

  ‘Come via the back entrance and past the lake, that’s quickest,’ she could hear him say. He was ve
ry calm.

  Someone put a blanket around her shoulders, and she watched, helplessly, as the school gardener sprayed a fire extinguisher inside the hut. There was foam everywhere, over her eighteenth-century century blue velvet chair, her antique desk, her beautiful Georgian prints.

  ‘Get my book, my notebooks,’ she cried. ‘That’s all that matters.’

  A fire engine screeched down the path and onto the lawn. There must have been eight of them. But they couldn’t put out the fire. The fireball was trapped between the back of the stove’s fireplate and the corrugated iron of the outside of the hut. Two firemen began spraying underneath the hut, desperately trying to get to the fire. Inside, the back wall was being ripped to shreds. They were coming at it from both angles, and then they finally had it under control.

  ‘You were lucky,’ the chief officer said later. ‘In five minutes the whole hut would have exploded. It was like a tinderbox in there. It took nine extinguishers to put it out. I will have to fill out a form about this. This could have been a terrible tragedy.’

  Lisa did not feel lucky right at that moment. She surveyed the damage. The men’s filthy boots had ruined her rugs, vases and glasses were smashed, the furniture blackened and stinking of smoke. The water damage was almost as bad as that from the smoke. The only things unscathed were her notebooks, which Edward had saved. Behind the stove she saw the remnants of the back wall. It had peeled away like paper. There appeared to be white cotton wool between the charred wooden struts behind. She took out her phone and took photographs of the damage.