Light dawned. He didn’t like what was illuminated one bit. ‘A certain local professor?’
‘Yes. I’m not suggesting driving back to Cambridge—although I could, obviously. Mark’s called a meeting about a field trip next term—for those of us who want to take part. It’s entirely voluntary. He wants to scope out interest so he can start planning.’
‘Ah, scope out interest.’
‘Stop it! It’s not funny.’
But she was laughing as she punched him on the arm, so he just slid further away, theatrically wincing. ‘The guys will drive you if you want to go. To this meeting. For some scoping.’
She turned serious again, her jaw tight. ‘I’m not turning up in a chauffeur-driven Bentley with bodyguards. It’s not…how I present.’
He felt his eyebrows rising involuntarily and pretended to be studying his nails as he attempted translation of this concept. Then he sighed. He knew very well what she meant. Who better? He’d spent his lifepresentingthe exact opposite of what she was apparently attempting to do: clothes, houses, wife, cars, accessories…all the very best money could buy. Perfection masking corruption.
‘Well, you could have them drop you at the pub and walk up the hill. Pretend you hiked from Dartmoor.’
She turned fully to him, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. He saw his error at the exact moment that she asked, far too casually, ‘What pub? What hill?’
He twitched his nose. ‘Oh, look, a cat.’ Jenna had picked that fortunate moment to pounce familiarly onto Emilia’s shoulder and bury under her hair.
‘Don’t change the subject. You’ve been there, haven’t you? Why did you go to Mark’s house?’
‘Because I needed something translated, and he was kind enough to do it for me.’ Lies by omission had always been some of his most successful deceits.
They both heard scrabbling, and Ben and Molly emerged from their meeting. Both looked slightly strained, but Molly immediately ran down the aisle and flung herself on Sarah, and between hiccupped tears confessed undying love and sincerest apologies. Ben flung himself down on the other side of Emilia. Aleksey was tempted to mention his Timothy Watson adoption solution, but suspected Ben wouldn’t take it in the spirit it would be intended. All three of them sat with their arms folded, studying the stained glass and contemplating the hereafter.
Aleksey was picturing a future where Emilia found out that all the things she thought she was becoming and achieving were nothing more than ripples upon his all-consuming wake—that he did indeed own everything and control everything, even her. He had recently learnt the hard and painful way that bending the universe to have what you wanted only worked if that reconfiguration involved personal sacrifice. He had no right to present her life to her as one thing, whilst secretly ensuring that it was another. He flicked her hair and batted the tiny ginger paw that emerged to protest this transgression. ‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’
‘Are you asking me or Jenna?’ She turned to him suddenly with a worried expression. ‘I didn’t mean that. She’s just a kitten—right?’
He extricated the cat from the brilliant red strands it was hiding behind and held it up, staring into its green eyes. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I should buy her a car this afternoon instead and testherdriving skills.’
Ack, owning everything and controlling everything was a very hard habit to break. Maybe it was just that giving pleasure was addictive. Better than all his previous addictions, that was for sure.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Aleksey was well aware that his experience of being eighteen was unique. He also knew he could not be called an expert on teenage girls. He’d married one once, in the snow at her father’s dacha, but for all the things they’d subsequently done together, he could not recall any actual communication between them. Simpatico of any kind had been entirely missing.
So Emilia’s sudden, alarming and total rejection of her previously avowed presentation as an independent woman who didn’t want or need his money was a complete surprise and extremely disconcerting. When he’d suggested buying her a car, he’d been picturing something along the lines of a second-hand VW Golf, remembering her claim to only want ‘an old banger’. She didn’t even look at the previously-owned site but clicked immediately to a showroom that purported to selltotally the best, fastest and coolest cars in the world.
Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen wasn’t helping this situation. There were really only three things that got Ben excited, and he could do two of them whilst Emilia was present: eat and research cars. They sat, heads bent close together with an array of snacks to hand, so intent on the computer screen that whenheopened a bottle of wine for him and Molly to share, Ben didn’t even notice or protest. When he poured Molly a glass, just to test the waters further, there was nothing, just an enthusiastic pointing to something on the screen.
He’d created two monsters. No, three—Molly, he suddenly realised, was swigging the Merlot.
* * *
The afternoon was bitterly cold and still, a sense of anticipation in the air, of the world stilling for something yet to come. There was frost on the grass which crunched underfoot. A walk had seemed a healthier pursuit for them both than drinking neglect away, and so he’d brought Molly and the dogs into the startlingly bright day. Jenna had wanted to stay—she was helping with the car choice, apparently. Or polishing off the wine; either was possible, he supposed.
Molly, riding on his shoulders and playing with his hair, suddenly asked, ‘How will Father Christmas find me if I’m not here?’
‘Stop plaiting my hair.’
She sighed but only quietly, clearly having already learnt at four that choosing your battles was a successful strategy. When she didn’t ask again, the silence became noticeable, so he hedged his bets with a subtle, ‘You have many questions about this issue,moye solnyshko.’
‘Yes, I have. I’ve been thinking a lot about it.’
‘Ah.’
