Sometimes Rose thought the drivers threw the buses around the corners a little too heavily in order to achieve a bit of wheel spinning, just to keep themselves amused, but today the wheels started spinning before the bus had gone fifty yards in a straight line. With infinite care, the driver coaxed the heavy vehicle up the hill, around the various and many corners, an oath escaping from his thin lips every now and again.
In truth, Rose didn’t mind how long the journey took. Lysander was due to arrive back this evening, and the thought of it made her mouth go dry. Madeleine was right, she needed to get things out into the open. But somehow the imminent arrival of Lysander, and everything he embodied, was magnifying her sense of confusion, making everything crash back in on her.
Once the bus reached the summit of its route, still a few hundred yards short of the track to the lodge, the four of them stood and waited for the driver to open the doors.
‘Finis,’ he said, with a not insignificant amount of pathos. He waved flat hands backwards and forwards to emphasise his meaning. They moved in the same quick rhythm as the windscreen wipers. Clearly, he wasn’t prepared to continue to drive in these conditions, and Rose didn’t blame him.
‘Merci, monsieur,’ she said, heading after the others. Walking the short distance back to the lodge was surprisingly hard work. The snow came up above her boots, making each step an effort, and still more was falling, clogging her eyelashes every time she looked up to check she was heading in the right direction. She took her time, lagging behind the others.
‘Tom, is there cake?’ Madeleine asked, when they rounded the final stretch of track and the lights of Snow Pine Lodge came into view.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s a banana loaf today.’
‘Yum. There won’t be any cake at all when I get home. Probably not for the rest of my life,’ Madeleine said, brushing snow from her face. ‘So, I think I should make the most of it while it’s on tap.’
‘Logical,’ Rose said. She couldn’t help her grin.
‘I thought so.’ Madeleine returned the grin.
Clara punched the code into the door lock and the comparative warmth hit them like a wall.
‘I’ll make the tea, if you like,’ Clara said.
‘That would be amazing,’ Madeleine said, her voice more of a shout. ‘I’d love a cup of tea with my cake. I’ll just grab a shower first.’
‘Why are you shouting?’ Rose said.
Madeleine dropped her snow boots onto the bench beneath the stairs with a loud clatter, and before anyone else had a chance to ascend she stamped her way up the first few steps. ‘Just giving them fair warning,’ she said as she continued to clump her way up the stairs, clearing her throat noisily on the first-floor landing. Nobody had ever managed to make more noise opening a bedroom door as Madeleine did, the noise fading away after she’d rammed the door closed.
Tom, his face laced with confusion, followed a few moments later.
Rose sat in the boot room, shaking her head, unable to shift the grin that had formed.
‘She’s an amazing person, isn’t she?’ Clara said, laying her gloves on the radiator to dry. ‘You’re lucky to have found her.’
Chapter 29
There was no sign of Tania and Gull, but Tom was busy unpacking the cheese he’d bought when Clara reached the top of the stairs. He looked up as she approached.
‘Kettle’s on,’ he said.
‘Great. Thanks.’ She bounced fingers on the work surface, aware she should apologise for storming off the previous evening, aware that she should have done so at breakfast. Or on the bus ride back up the hill. Aware, also, that she couldn’t bring herself to broach the subject. Instead, she plucked teabags from their container and shoved them into the teapot.
A pile of clothing lay at the far end of the countertop. Tania’s mobile on top of her gilet, a rich plum colour with soft leather edging the collar, and beneath that an unfamiliar navy-blue fleece. It didn’t take a genius to work out to whom the fleece must belong.
Clara remembered the first time she and Mike had removed items of one another’s clothing. The clarity of the memory surprised her, her brain punishing her with a corresponding memory of later, her wearing nothing but his discarded shirt, the scent of him filling her conscious thought. Another memory superseded that one, a crisp winter’s day, Poppy in her pushchair with Mike at the helm, breath spiralling away from all their mouths, Poppy unwinding her scarf for the umpteenth time and dumping it on the tarmac path.
She closed her eyes, wishing they weren’t just memories, willing them all to stay, feeling tears rimming her eyes when they faded. Wishing she could jump in, be cushioned forever inside the memories, not remain stuck in this room– in this life– with its harsh lights and hard corners and other people’s happiness.
She opened her eyes to see Tom watching her.
‘Will it always be like this?’ she said, doing her best to bite back the pain she could hear in her own words.
‘Honestly?’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’
She stepped away from the kettle, heading instead for the fridge. She pulled out a bottle of white wine and looked around for a glass. He placed a hand on the arm holding the bottle and shook his head.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘It won’t solve anything.’
