I walk down the steps into the rose garden and follow the path to the arch at its end. All that lies beyond is damp, tufty grass. I look down at my feet. I’ll never make it to the lake in these shoes. I’ll break an ankle. So, taking a deep breath, I kick my heels off, step out onto the chilly grass and start walking.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
LUKE
A small narrow cloud slides across the crescent moon, plunging him into darkness. He’s far enough away from the hotel and the surrounding streets that he can see no lights. It’s just as well his eyes have had time to accustom themselves to the darkness and he can now make out the reeds at the water’s edge.
His phone is in his hand. Jess has sent him a barrage of texts and voicemails and he’s resisted picking up the calls she made. He’s not ready to talk to her. It feels as if something inside him has snapped and is now forever changed.
There’s a narrow gravel path running around the edge of the lake. He joins it and begins to walk. As he’s about to put his phone away, another message arrives. He almost ignores it, but then he sees the name on his lock screen.
Hey. Everything okay?
No. It definitely isn’t.
A few seconds later, another message arrives:I saw Jess leave the party and I couldn’t see you anywhere either. Has something happened?
How does he even begin to explain what has just gone on between him and Jess? He has no words for it. Really, he doesn’t.
Do you need to talk?
Jess will be mad if he talks to someone else about what’s been going on with them. She’s always been so private about their relationship. Well, about everything, really. He’s the only one she allows to see her feeling less than her polished best, and those glimpses have become more and more rare in recent years. He’s no longer her ally, her confidant. Tonight, it feels as if he’s the enemy.
He rounds a bend in the path and comes upon a small folly standing at the edge of the water on a small promontory, where he pauses, considering his options, and before his brain actually makes a measured decision, his thumbs are moving across the keypad:I could do with a listening ear.If there’s anyone who can help him make sense of what’s going on, it’s her.
Where are you?
He glances over the grass to where he can just about see lights behind a small copse of trees. The path must have taken him closer to the hotel without him realizing it, but he doesn’t want to go back there. Mostly, because he’s not ready to come face to face with his wife, but also because there will be too many people. No privacy.
Jess will definitely not be happy he’s going to spill their secrets to one of their circle of friends, but you know what? Too bad. He’s spent far too long playing their marriage by Jess’s rules. Fartoo long trying to keep up to her standards in an attempt to stop her drifting away from him. But if she won’t budge and inch for him, maybe he won’t do the same for her.
Stuff it. He quickly types in a reply:I’m down by the lake at the folly.
I know where that is. Stay put. I won’t be long.
The folly is a round structure, closed to the back, but open with pillars to the front. A curved bench fills most of the inside, probably giving a beautiful view of the lake on a sunny day. But sitting inside will hide him from anyone coming down the path, so he leans against one of the pillars and waits.
A few minutes later, he sees the glow from a mobile phone torch advancing down the path towards him. When she gets close enough, he smiles wearily, especially when she hands him a thick glass tumbler. He takes a sniff and then sips the dark liquid. Single malt. ‘Lagavulin?’ he asks.
‘I know it’s your favourite. You sounded as if you could do with one.’
He could. And of course she would guess that. She knows him so well. What surprises him is that she is holding an identical glass for herself.
‘I didn’t think you were a whisky drinker,’ he says.
She brings the glass up to her nose and inhales softly. ‘Not usually.’
He takes a sip, enjoying the earthy scorching at the back of his throat as it goes down. She follows his lead then splutters.
‘This is one of the more powerful-tasting single malts,’ he tells her. ‘If you’re not used to whisky, a smoother one would probably go down better.’
She laughs, looking away, clearly a little embarrassed, but she doesn’t try to hide it, and without agreeing to, they both move over to the curving bench inside the folly and sit down. The silence around them is warm and inviting as they drink. He knows he won’t be shut down if he opens his mouth and lets the words spill out.
‘Jess and I had a huge fight,’ he says, then goes on to tell her what happened that evening, away from the eyes of their guests, who probably still think they’re the perfect couple. He doesn’t leave anything out. He can’t. He has to find some way to make sense of it.
She listens patiently. At one point, she lays her hand on his arm and leaves it there. When he finishes, her eyebrows lift in a sympathetic expression. ‘I’m so sorry that happened.’
She doesn’t need to apologize. It was nothing she did.
