Vince is conscious of his heartbeat quickening as he sips his wine. And then, because she’s so kind and calm and the Pinot Noir is flowing straight to his brain, he tells her how shocking it was for Kate to leave suddenly with a Stilton and broccoli quiche burning in the oven, when he had no idea there was anything wrong. He tells her about the crazy woman at Euston, basically kidnapping his wife and warping her mind on the train with God knows what. Gin from the shop? Psychedelic drugs? She must have donesomethingto make Kate spend months clearing out a dead woman’s house.
Brainwashed her maybe? Is she part of a cult? She must be, to have convinced Kate that being stuck up there in the middle of nowhere was more appealing than coming home to him and enjoying a weekend at a spa with pampering treatments with her best friend. On and on he goes, admitting to Agata how hard it’s been, trying to pretend he’s okay when he can’t work and his agent seems to have gone quiet too – doesnobodywant him anymore? Apart from his mother-in-law, who’s forever calling the landline, without realising that it’s connected to his central nervous system and makes him shoot out of his seat every time. He’s ignored her calls and interminable messages on his parents’ prehistoric answerphone: ‘You’ve both been pretty quiet lately. Got your messages, Kate. But I think you must both be busy, you especially, Vince. I watched your whole Scottish thing again the other week. They should make another series. You weresofunny, especially the bit about trying to fish and whacking your float into that boat’s window...’ Blah-blah-blah ad infinitum. He’s considered pulling the damn phone out of the wall.
‘And then there’s Gail,’ Vince continues, ‘showing up on the doorstep with her chickpea moussaka...’
Agata nods grimly. ‘I’ve encountered the chickpea moussaka.’
Just as well I’m alone here, seeing as there’s no bathroom door.Vince doesn’t say this. He’s grateful for Agata’s company and he doesn’t want to repel her.
‘I’m glad you’ve told me all this,’ she announces. ‘You know, you seem kind of... different today.’
‘Different? How?’ He’s genuinely curious.
She finishes her wine and he fills their glasses for a third time, finishing the bottle. He hopes he doesn’t have red wine lips or stained teeth. ‘Like you’ve let your guard down,’ she explains. ‘You’re not being “comedian Vince”, all confident and cocky—’ hang on, does she think he’s cocky? ‘—and holding court. You’re just... being yourself.’
He shrugs, letting her observation settle. ‘It’s actually been really nice to have some company today,’ he remarks. And that’s all he means. That’s it’s been something of a relief to have a human to talk to instead of just the dog.
‘I’ve enjoyed it too,’ Agata says. ‘And you’ve got a new a piece of furniture!’
‘Yeah.’ He chuckles. Does this mean she’s planning to head home as soon as she’d finished this glass of wine? He doesn’t want her to. Not yet. It startles Vince to realise this, and he tries to shake off the feeling. After all, they’ve nearly sunk a bottle of wine and she’ll want to get home and start cooking or whatever it is she does in the evenings. He imagines Lenny cooks too; he’s a decent, obviously highly capable guy, if not in the flatpack-building arena. But then, Vince doesn’t really know them. It was only Deborah that Vince went to school with. The Kemps moved here a few years before him and Kate.
Their glasses are empty again. ‘Thatwaslovely wine,’ he announces, and she nods.
‘Delicious!’ Before he’s properly considered it, Vince has gone and fetched another (inferior) bottle of red wine, plus a bottle of sparkling water and glasses for that too.
‘So, whereabouts were you before you moved here?’ he asks, in a ‘tell me again?’ kind of way. Because he probably should know that. Since Kate left him Vince has gone over and over what he might have done wrong, and ‘not listening enough’ strikes him as a possible contender. He’s gregarious, a chatterbox. He knows this about himself. But perhaps he should pay more attention to other people. He can practise now, he decides, as Agata starts to tell him about her childhood in a sleepy Hertfordshire village, with a Polish father and an English mum, and how she went to college somewhere or other and then met Lenny and he couldn’t turn down the position at the surgery here, all that.
It’s not that Vinceisn’tlistening. He’s just not focusing on the details as her bright and pleasant voice fills his ears, and she drinks the wine, and he refills their glasses again and again and finds himself telling her about his childhood here, in this very house.
He breaks off, encouraging her to talk some more, and he tries to really listen. ‘...At that stage I was happy for a new start,’ Agata is telling him. ‘And it’s so friendly around here. Deborah took me under her wing. She even recommended me for my job. I felt so lucky, with her living a few doors down, and then meeting you, of course. You and Kate...’
Agata’s mention of Kate reminds Vince to keep listening and not let his attention drift, as it is prone to do. He must try harder and ‘do the work’ on himself, as Edie would put it. That’s how he’ll be a better person. A better man. He’s not listening particularly well now, as he and Agata are chattering over each other and laughing, in the way people do when they really click.
We really click!he realises as she fills their water glasses from the bottle of San Pellegrino. ‘Token drop of token water for you, Vince?’ she teases.
‘God, yes. I’d better.’ He grins and they clink their glasses, tipsily.
‘Can’t remember the last time I did something spontaneous like this,’ Agata says, cheeks flushed now, eyes a little squiffy. She looks cute, Vince decides, rashly. She’s so pretty and dainty with a blush to her cheeks. She’s like a little pink macaron, or a French film star, the pixie-cut one who runs around Paris in a Breton top in that movie – what was it again?
À Bout de Souffle.Breathlessin English, the first French film Vince ever saw and only because Kate chose it.
That’s it. She’s like the actress fromBreathlessand can build a shelving unit without instructions and cycles about with her wicker basket. She should have a baguette in that—
Then Vince isn’t thinking about baguettes or flatpack because his neighbour, with whom he’d never had a proper conversation before, is leaning closer towards him. And closer still. And then suddenly it’s not talking therapy anymore because Agata Kemp has wrapped her pale and slender arms around him, and is snogging him on the lips.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Kate
It’s not one of those fancy campsites with a shop and a bar and all that. It’s just a grassy area – a glade, you’d call it – dappled in afternoon sunlight with forest all around. The red-brick building tucked away at the far end houses the loos and showers.
I know this because this is where we stayed: Mum, George and me. I know there’s no office on site, or even a kiosk. The farmer comes around daily to collect money and check that everything’s okay. At least he did all those years ago. It might be run differently now, although I doubt it. The site looks exactly as I remember it.
I turn to Fergus, my heart beating hard. We’re holding hands. I know he hasn’t brought me here by accident. There are lots of other places we could have gone for our evening walk.
‘This is it,’ I say, turning to look at him. ‘This is where we used to stay...’
‘Yes, I know,’ he says gently.
