“A delayed wedding present-cum-housewarming gift.” She says. “I wanted it to be…” her voice wavers. “What’s wrong?”
I try to straighten my face, I really try. But all the lies, the ones I’ve told, the ones she believes, all come back at me like sharp darts thrown by angry players.
“Bathroom.” I say, to buy myself little time.
Without thinking, I walk into the kitchen instead.
I go to the sink and turn on the tap, for something to do, but it only reminds me of that first night here when he burned his hand.
I turn my head and my gaze lands on the AGA. And the floor in front of the burner where we sat the night of the Christmas-that-wasn’t.
The memory is both sweet and sharply bitter, making me turn away. I fold my arms on the edge of the counter and rest my forehead on them.
A minute later, I feel a gentle hand smoothing my hair away. “How can I help?” Laura asks.
I lift my head and stand straight. “You can’t. No one can.”
“Lessa?” Her voice is full of concern.
She probably thinks she’s stumbled into some marital row between Brandon and me, and her misplaced sympathy makes me feel even worse.
“I’m just overwhelmed. Things in my life are changing and I’m trying to catch up.” It’s not a lie. My life has turned upside down. I’m drowning in all the lies; lies I’ve told people here, ones I’ve told the press in London, and lies Sir Alan wants to tell about my daughter. Lies I tell Brandon by pretending my feelings don’t exist. And most of all, lies I tell myself: that I can cope, that I can manage that I’m not scared of the future.
Something of my feelings must show. “Is it too early for wine?” Laura glances at the wall clock. “Have you had lunch?”
“I forgot about lunch, so we could have a late one.” It would be lovely to have company. “But don’t you have to get back to work?”
“What’s the point of being the boss if you can’t give yourself an afternoon off now and then? But I warn you I can’t cook, so unless you want toast and diet coke, you’ll have to make the food yourself.”
There’s something really easy-going about Laura. Before I know it, I’m chopping things for a salad niçoise and grilling bread. “Check the fridge, I think we have wine in there.” Brandon has bought a selection of bottles, but I haven’t had any of it yet because I’m still breastfeeding. Although Malinara could have some of the frozen breast milk this afternoon because if ever there was a time to have drink, it’s now.
I take a bottle and put it in some hot water to defrost.
Laura goes to the fridge. “This looks good.” She pulls out a bottle of Chenin Blanc and brings it to the kitchen table, then opens cupboards until she finds glasses.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I nearly quit my job and left the island?” she asks when we start eating. Obviously, she is not going to push me to talk and instead distracts me with a funny story about Millie and Pierre and other friends bringing a picnic supper to her workshop. “They got me so drunk I ended up confessing my love for Adam loud enough for everyone in Du Montfort Hall to hear.”
While we eat, and drink, she tells me more of her story and how she and Adam got together. We pour the last of the wine into our glasses and I drop the bottle into the glass recycling bin by the fridge.
“I hope Brandon isn’t going to blame us for finishing this.”
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t like white wine because he says it’s for poets and elegant ladies.”
“You know, for a musician, your husband is surprisingly macho.”
I drop my eyes to my plate and pretend to push the last green bean around.
“I don’t want to pry into what’s not my business,” Laura says when the silence stretches. “But if you want to talk, I can listen, trouble shared and all that. Besides I’m from Brighton.”
“Brighton…” I raise my eyebrows.
“I mean, I’m not from La Canette, Icankeep secrets.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
If only!
Laura can have no idea how much I need a friend right now, a girly chat. “It’s a long, long story.” I sigh.
