‘Technically challenged,’ Jemma whispers with an eye roll. ‘Back soon,’ she promises, skidding off.
Shocked by the news she’s just shared about Jack, I wander towards the side windows, one of which is open, I realise, meaning I can hear his conversation.
‘Evie, it’s Dad,’ he says. ‘Please call me back, will you, sweetheart? I need to know you’re okay.’
Lowering the phone, he stares at it for a second, then presses it quickly back to his ear as it rings. ‘Evie,’ he exhales in obvious relief, ‘how’re you doing? Everything go okay today at school?’ His voice is laden with worry.
Pausing, he listens for a moment. Then, ‘I know. I miss her too,’ he says softly. ‘It’s okay to be upset. It’s going to take time, sweetheart. Your teachers understand, I promise you.’
As he looks to the stars, I see the rise and fall of his throat, and my breath catches. It’s obvious he’s upset. ‘About an hour,’ he goes on, presumably telling her what time he’ll be back, then waits again, turning as he does to look back to the orangery.
A frown creasing his brow, he acknowledges me with a small smile and then goes back to his call. ‘This Imogen is a friend from school, I assume?’ he asks. He nods as she replies. ‘And you’re at her house now?’
He pauses again, then, ‘Okay. No, no, it’s fine. It will do you good to get out of the house more. Have a nice evening. Justmake sure to text me the address and let me know what time you want picking up.’
He smiles fondly at her response, which seems to light up his whole demeanour. ‘I know I worry too much,’ he says. ‘I’m your father. You’ll find it’s in the job description. No, I won’t be lonely, I promise,’ he assures her after a second. ‘Love you too, Evie. Always, no matter what.’
My chest constricting, I head for the French doors as he ends his call. He might not welcome my intrusion, but I feel I have to make an effort to talk to him because he actually looks as lonely as it’s possible to be, and I know how that feels.
Pocketing his phone, he looks towards me, smiling warmly, if a little distractedly. ‘Hi,’ he says, extending his hand as he comes across. ‘Nice to see you again.’
‘You too.’ I smile back and reach to shake it.
Jack hesitates, then, ‘So did you manage to sell the barn conversion?’ he asks, I suspect to fill the silence.
I shake my head. ‘I’ve decided to move into it now that…’ I falter, still finding it difficult to speak the words out loud.
He nods understandingly. ‘I heard about your husband and little boy,’ he says. ‘Please accept my sincere condolences.’
He holds my gaze, and I’m struck by how unusual his eyes are. Long-lashed and the colour of darkest bittersweet chocolate, they seem to express his every emotion. There’s such sadness there now, it’s heartbreaking. I’m staring, I realise. Had I been staring at him the last time we met, hence Mark’s moodiness, his drinking more than he normally would? It was my fault. I would never escape that fact. The guilt I carry around inside me weighing impossibly heavier, I drop my gaze.
‘It’s not easy, is it?’ he says softly.
‘No.’ I draw in a breath and look back at him. ‘Jemma told me about your wife. I’m so sorry. That must be hard too.’I’m wondering about his daughter. How on earth they’re both coping.
Jack glances away. ‘It is,’ he admits.
As he looks back at me, I see the palpable pain now in his eyes. Also the same guilt I see reflected back at me whenever I look in the mirror. ‘It’s not your fault, Jack,’ I offer. ‘You shouldn’t feel responsible.’
‘I know.’ He glances down at the hand I place on his arm. ‘It’s difficult, though, with the authorities asking me the same questions over and over. She went missing from the ship. She was presumed dead but…’ He looks back at me, his expression haunted. ‘They seem to think her death wasn’t an accident.’
FOUR
A month later
The barn conversion really is beautiful. Renovated to our exact specifications, from the hidden lighting to accentuate its different moods to the grand oak staircase with its balustrade looking down on the lounge and the aged-oak kitchen cupboards, everything is perfect. I’d thought living here would be cosier, that I would feel less on my own. As I stand in it now, though, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, surveying its soft curves and alcoves, the myriad of rich textiles and warm patterns I’d chosen to furnish the rooms with, I realise I’ve brought my ghosts with me. Kai and Mark will always be a part of me, but overwhelmingly suddenly, I feel it acutely, the absolute loneliness of being alone.
Swallowing back an almost suffocating wave of raw grief, I go across to the sofa facing the log burner, where Lola, my faithful golden retriever, lies. She has a big heart, the local vet had told me with a kind smile. He was referring to the dilated cardiomyopathy she’d been diagnosed with. It was true, though, she did have the biggest heart. She was the most loyal, loving friend a person could have. She’d been with Mark and me forfour years before Kai had come along and she’d taken another ‘pup’ into her care. She’s apparently already lived beyond her expectancy, and now, as she lies here lethargic, her breathing laboured, her huge chocolate eyes locked plaintively on mine, she’s breaking what’s left ofmyheart.
Sitting carefully down next to her I stroke her for a while. As the tears rise, I ease myself up and go to the window. I can’t let them fall. She’s seen too many tears already, and every time I’ve cried, she’s been there, her warm body nestled impossibly close to mine, bringing me the kind of comfort only a dog can.
I can’t bear to see the alarm and frustration in her eyes as she tries to raise herself to offer me that now. I can’t bear to say goodbye to her. What will I do?
Pushing the window open a fraction, I suck fragrant late-summer air deep into my lungs and squeeze the tears back. As I try to compose myself, I’m taken by surprise as someone emerges from the farm entrance next to my drive. Jack, I realise, relieved that it’s someone I know. With no other house in sight, I’ve been getting the jitters, especially at night.
He seems agitated, I notice, walking back and forth along the lane, his phone pressed to his ear. As I watch him, I wonder how he is. How does one deal with their spouse being presumed dead and never truly knowing what happened to them? He and his teenage daughter must be bereft. How could they grieve under such tragically uncertain circumstances?
I’ve only spoken to Jack briefly since moving here a few weeks ago, when I’d seen him outside a house he was working on in the village. Or rather, heard him. I’d been stunned to find him yelling at a man I recall he’d employed at short notice. ‘No, Carl, you don’t get the cash you’re owed. Just collect your stuff and go,’ he’d growled, clearly seething with anger.
