Alastair smiled and after they’d gone, he went back into the kitchen and opened his laptop to check his emails. For all the years he’d known Sylvia and Neil they had always exchanged pleasantries in this manner; it was pure habit, as indeed it was for most couples. What he had come to know though, was that for some people the habit became a device for disguising something far more toxic. A well-aimed snide comment was often a way to deliver a vicious or vengeful punch in full sight of those around them without causing so much as a flicker of concern, let alone condemnation.
Danny and Frankie never engaged in such tactics. There was something genuinely true and honest about their affection for each other, with never a harsh or critical word exchanged; there was no doubt in Alastair’s mind that they loved each other as much now as the day they married, probably more.
In contrast, Sorrel and Simon’s marriage was held together by something wholly different, which, given the complicated dynamics that existed between them, he had the good sense never to explore: their marriage was their own affair. Yet whatever it was that bound them together, it could not be more complex than the ties that had bound Alastair to Orla. He was still waiting for the day when he would wake up knowing he was finally free of them.
Amongst the stream of emails in his mailbox there was one from Valentina. He kept it to read after dealing with all the others, including several from the estate agent with various viewing requests. The couple who came round a few days ago had made a derisory offer which the agent had advised against accepting, not that Alastair had been remotely inclined to do so.
He confirmed the viewing appointments with the agent, reminding him that he had houseguests for the coming weeks, then working his way through the dross, he came to an email from the woman staying in the mill – Laura Manning. He had bumped into her in the butcher’s shop in Horning yesterday, and after walking across the green to the staithe where they had both moored their boats, he mentioned that he had friends coming to stay and that she might like to join them for a meal, that’s if she didn’t mind a crowd.
Hello Alastair,
It was kind of you to invite me over to your house one day. As is the way of one’s children, my son has just announced an unexpected intention to visit me and so perhaps I’d better decline, rather than add another guest to your already packed houseful.
With best wishes,
Laura
Alastair replied straightaway.
Hi Laura,
The more the merrier, bring your son, he’s most welcome to join us. I’ll be in touch to let you know exactly when.
Alastair
Next he opened Valentina’s email and at once he experienced that now familiar spark of connection as he read her message.
Cher Alastair,
I am not blessed with the qualities of a saint, and so it is with great relief that I am at last leaving my mama today and flying home to Paris, before travelling to be with you. Of course I love her dearly, but she can be so very trying.
I’m afraid I have a request to make of you, one that you must not feel obliged to agree to, I will not think badly of you if you say no. My stepchildren – Irina and Nikolai – have expressed a wish to see me while I am in England, and rather than my visit them in London, I wondered if they could stay at Linston End with us? They are naturally curious to meet the man who has stolen their stepmama’s heart.
It is only two days now until I see you again, I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to being with you. But we must not fool ourselves: when I cross the threshold of your home, which you have spoken of so frequently and so lovingly, we will be facing a great test of our relationship, possibly the greatest. Be brave and prepare yourself for the days ahead, just as I am!
With much love,
Valentina.
P.S. I have news to share with you regarding where we might create our new home together.
The email read, Alastair wondered if by asking to have her stepchildren join them here at Linston End it was a form of levelling out the playing field. Their presence would understandably provide Valentina with a degree of emotional support; equally it would mean he would be subjected to the same kind of scrutiny and judgement that she would be exposed to by his friends. To put it bluntly, it would be a case of Team Valentina versus Team Alastair.
He had no problem with that. He’d do anything to help the woman he loved feel more comfortable here, so without a second thought, or considering where the extra guests would sleep, he replied that of course they could stay.
His reply sent, he speculated as to how Jenna, Rachel and Callum would get on with Valentina’s stepchildren. Never having met them, he could only hope that being of a similar age – mid thirties – that might provide sufficient common ground for them to get along.
Thinking of Callum, Alastair recalled the questions that had come up during their chat the other evening. He’d had the distinct impression that Callum had been getting at something. But what? Had there been talk about Alastair taking off so soon after the inquest? But surely if tongues had been wagging, Neil and Sylvia would have alerted him to what was being said?
Or had there been more to Callum’s questions? Did he know that Alastair had deliberately lied to the police and then later when he gave evidence at the inquest? But how could Callum know? What could anyone ever know? Only two people truly knew what happened the night Orla had drowned, and one of them was dead.
That night he was haunted by a vortex of dreams that took him deeper and deeper into the guilt of Orla’s death. As he had so many times before, he dreamt he was at the wheel of his slipper launch,Water Lily, secretly following behind Orla inSwallowtail, his Aunt Cora’s old motor cruiser, its low chugging engine the only sound to be heard. It was dark, with scudding clouds passing across the moon, partially obliterating the only source of light to guide Alastair.
Orla’s destination was Linston Broad. When she reached the middle, she cut the engine and let the cruiser drift. Peering into the darkness, and knowing exactly what she was about to do, he watched her balance on the prow of the boat, as though poised to jump in. He shouted to her not to do it, that he was sorry, sorry for everything, he hadn’t meant what he’d said. But she merely looked straight at him, with a hatred that made him gasp, before throwing herself beneath the oily black surface of the water.
He pulled on the throttle to make the launch go faster, but the engine failed and try as he might he couldn’t make it start again. In the end, and knowing it was futile, he dived in to the water and began frantically to swim. When he found Orla, her body, brightly illuminated as if by a spotlight in the water, lay motionless amongst the weeds at the bottom of the broad, almost as if she were sleeping. But then, he saw that her body was weighted down with one of her bronze statues tied around her waist. It was of a small child, its arms reaching up to Orla as though asking to be held.
With fumbling hands, his lungs bursting with the effort of holding his breath for so long under the icy water, he tried to untie the statue, and then recoiled in shock when Orla opened her eyes and suddenly began to laugh. ‘It was just a prank,’ she cried with sickening delight, ‘to see how much you cared.’
