‘Ma, I’m not sure—’
‘I’m sure. And you know her well enough, apparently.’ A pause.
Christina had fled before hearing more, her heart hammering. It wasn’t until two years ago that she finally told Hamish what she’d overheard.
Now, with the heat of the Aga on her back, looking round at the homely cottage they’d decorated together, she asked herself if her husband regretted the day he chose his pregnant working class girlfriend over Lady Penelope, heir to Langford Manor with its grand proportions and thousand acres of woodland. Hamish reached for his tea, sipping and grimacing slightly. ‘Cold.’
Christina opened the fridge, pulled out the milk. Somewhere overhead a floorboard creaked, and she thought of Elspeth upstairs with her private school managed class sizes, her iPad textbooks and dedicated drama teachers. At eleven, she had more one-to-one tuition than Christina had seen in her entire childhood. St Andrews had been a long, steep climb; for every inch Christina gained, someone had tried to knock her back down. If Hamish did leave her, would that be what happened to Elspeth?
She glanced back at Hamish, who was now gazing vaguely at the corner of the ceiling, where a spider was spinning a fragile, glinting web.
‘You know,’ he said dreamily, ‘in Tudor times, spiders were seen as omens. If one crawled across your left hand, it meant a journey.’
‘Is that your way of saying you want to leave?’
His eyes darted to hers, startled. ‘No! No, I meant – well, I don’tnotwant a holiday at some point, if we’re being generous with the term. But leaveyou?’
‘Don’t sound so shocked. Even when you are here, you don’t even see me.’ The words slipped out too fast, sharper than she meant. She felt her throat tighten, and she spun back to the kettle. But she peeked up to see if her words had landed.
Hamish’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Of course I see you.’
‘No. You see an administrator. A facilitator. Someone who magically handles the plumber and the expired MOT.’
‘I see the woman I married.’
She closed her eyes, mentally repeating his words ‘the woman I married’, why hadn’t he said, ‘the woman I love.’
‘Do you?’ she asked, wanting to add the words ‘love me’ but fearing the answer.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Just that blinking look again – like a man who’d walked into the middle of a Tudor joust armed with a pencil case.
From upstairs came the sound of Elspeth singing ‘Messing About in a Boat’, a thin thread of music through the ceiling. The wind pressed at the windows again, rattling the panes.
Christina poured the tea. Passed him a mug. Sat.
They didn’t speak.
Outside, the rain softened. Inside, the distance held.
Seven
As Christina stepped into Prosecco & Prose, Brambleton’s beloved café-bookshop, a wave of warm air and the scent of ground coffee greeted her. Shelves crowded with paperbacks lined the walls in uneven rows, leaning against each another as if sharing secrets, each one a witness to countless hands and enjoyable hours. Customers hunkered down in velvet backed chairs, with reading lights angled towards books, their hands occasionally darting out to claim mugs of hot chocolate, cups of coffee or glasses of fizzing prosecco.
The proprietor, Trish, looked up from behind the counter, her hazel eyes crinkling with welcome. She wore a striped apron dusted with flour. ‘Evening, Christina. Usual perch?’
‘Yes, please. And a glass of prosecco, if you’re still serving.’
‘For you? Always.’
Trish bustled to the fridge. The bottle’s cork popped softly.
‘Rough day?’ Trish asked, sliding over a glass.
Christina answered with a tight smile.
Trish didn’t press. She never did. Just smiled and returned the bottle to the fridge. Christina noticed Trish’s father, fussing over the gleaming espresso machine. Short and dapper, with neatly combed silver hair, he moved with the ease that spoke of decades of experience. His Portuguese accent coloured every word as he greeted customers, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners whenever someone laughed. Christina foundherself unwinding at the sight; the familiar rhythm of his hands cleaning, measuring, and pouring somehow soothed her restless mind. Watching him, she couldn’t help but wonder how much of Trish’s loyalty to Brambleton came from devotion to her father, or if she stayed because leaving felt too risky. Christina suspected there was more to Trish than anyone realized – but did Trish herself know that?
Christina took her glass and wandered toward the shelves, letting her fingertips drift over the rows of books. The prosecco sparkled sharp and bright on her tongue and, for a few moments, the smell of coffee and the rustle of turning pages made it easier to breathe.
