So that’s why I’ve been invited to a meeting with human resources. Of course! A new job as far away as possible, with people who have nothing in common with me, and who don’t care about things I’ve dedicated my life to. I swallow the sick lump in my throat.
“Alice.” Viv’s eyes are sympathetic. “Clive is not a bad man. He told me about you months ago and told me he’ll want a divorce when the timing is right. But think about it. Everyone’s saying there’s going to be a general election next year. A scandal right now will damage the party and they will blame Clive. You know what that will mean for his future. So, we’re all going to bite the bullet and wait a little bit longer. Put your relationship on hold, call it a break if you want. After the election, I’ll apply for a quiet divorce and, in time, the two of you can be together.”
“How long?” I meet and hold her gaze to see if she's lying, pretending, or spinning me. But either she's telling the truth or she's a very accomplished actress indeed.
“Six months, maybe a little longer. If you still want him.”
It surprises a cough out of me.IfI still want him? “I’m sorry, what else have we been discussing all afternoon?”
Viv smiles, a polished civilized smile. “Oh, I know you love him, but being his wife is another thing completely. He’ll always be a politician first and husband a long, long way later. Get ready to have all your meals alone, go on holiday without him. Even if he’s with you, he’ll be on the phone all the time. And as for birthdays and anniversaries, you’ll get cards and gifts from his secretary. The only thing he’s passionate about is politics.”
I have to press my lips together so I don't say that I also care passionately about politics. It's hard to explain.
Something of this must have shown on my face because Viv shakes her head. “Well, I have warned you, but it’s up to you.” She gets to her feet, picking up her designer handbag. “They will offer you a transfer, take it, go to another city, let the press forget you. It’ll make your return easier.”
And she is gone, leaving nothing behind but a trace of expensive fragrance and the typed statement they want me to make.
Viv was right. The next morning I get an email inviting me to a meeting with Human Resources. Here we go.
I’m dressed and ready half an hour before my pre ordered taxi is due, but I can't help checking my phone for the latest news feeds.
Pictures of my dash out of Parliament yesterday,EXPOSED ALICE RUNS FOR COVER. Pictures of my building,THE HOUSE OF ILL REPUTE.Even of my primary school,WE’RE ASHAMED OF HER, SAYS ALICE’S TEACHERS.
Human Resources may have a range of options for me, but any position I take will be public knowledge within days and the press will follow because nothing sells papers better than a disgraced woman.
HOME-WRECKER ALICE TRAPPER HIDES IN A CHEAP NEIGHBOURHOOD. GOES SHOPPING. PUTS OUT THE RUBBISH BAGS.
No.
No, and no.
I go to my Uber app to cancel the taxi. Then I open my laptop and email human resources my resignation.
I need somewhere to hide. Somewhere the press would never think of looking for me.
Chapter Four
Brandon
Nutter Lane. The words are carved on the last stone of the small bridge that goes over the stream. Nutter Lane and Catcher Lane.
Odd names for a place to live. I can’t imagine my brother here. He had a strange sense of humour. Probably because physiotherapists have to find humour in strange places, or the job would drive you round the bend. I never understood why he chose such a depressing job. One of the many things I never understood about my twin brother. He always did things his own way. Once he got an idea, you couldn’t talk him out of it.
His latest joke, however, was pushing it a bit. On a scale of one to ten for strangeness, it scored forty-five. And it’s not as if I could ask him. Talking to dead people is the kind of strange I can only pull off if I wore a turban, lots of beaded jewellery, and had a Ouija board.
Shading my eyes with my hand, I glance around. The narrow country lane hemmed in on both sides with trees has been – meandering is the best way I can describe it – meandering for half a mile since I left the village. It finally goes over a stream and on the other side it forks into both strangely named lanes.
Unlike Nutter Lane which has six or seven cottages, all with neat gardens and light blue shutters in the French style, Catcher Lane is much smaller, and the houses aren’t very close and look uneven. The second farmhouse – I check the directions on the printed page – Blue Catch. It looks empty and the garden overgrown. A couple of trees flank the gate, their branches heavy with apples no one had bothered to pick. A sudden squeezing pain tightens my chest. My brother must have been too sick to tend the garden or pick the fruit. There are fallen apples beginning to rot all over the ground. Yes. This is the place. The photocopied document in my hand says so.
To my brother, Brandon, I leave the remainder of my savings to do with as he likes. I also leave him my cottage, Blue Catch, and it is my wish that he keeps it and make it his home, if not always, then at least for one year.
If anyone told me two months ago, the first home I owned would not be in the bright lights and bustle of Paris, Vienna, or even London, but on a tiny island in the middle of the English Channel, I’d have laughed out loud. But then my brother died and there was no more laughter.
I’ve never been the crying kind of man. And even if I were, there hasn’t been time. The last two months went by in a blur of arrangements leaving no time to grieve.
“You must cry. You need to get in touch with your feelings,” was how my mother put it. My mother is a big fan of getting in touch with her feelings. A fan of making everyone else get in touch withherfeelings, too. For the last two months she’s sobbed, fainted, screamed, and generally made everyone’s life ten times harder before she allowed her latest husband to take her on a long cruise to ‘rest her nerves.’ The first time I’ve ever felt grateful to any of her men. This one has managed keep her happy – and out of my hair – while I sorted out the funeral, the probate, and the million things that come up with an unexpected death. There hasn’t been time to mourn my brother.
So here I am, out of guilt, out of hidden grief, out ofGod only knows, but I’m here at the end of a country lane, on a tiny rustic island, fulfilling my brother’s Last Will and Testament.
