A cloud passed over the sun. Danny felt it without opening his eyes. His optimism ebbed away and he gave a heavy sigh. He wondered what was making him feel so sad suddenly, his mind groping for whatever it was that was causing the happiness of only moments ago to disappear like vapour.
‘I suppose I should tell Brooke that Rory’s here,’ he murmured to himself.
Yet he knew he wouldn’t. Not yet at least. And he really wasn’t at all sure why.
13
I don’t know what Rory was thinking about when he went out to explore Rowan Vale, but when he got back to the inn he wasn’t in a better frame of mind. In fact, he seemed even more withdrawn and sullen.
We ate dinner in the dining room downstairs. Soup for Rory, glazed goat’s cheese for me, followed by venison with creamed potatoes, red cabbage and baked celeriac for both of us.
I tried to make conversation, even if was only to offer an opinion on the food, but he seemed unwilling to engage.
‘How was the village?’ I asked as we sipped coffee after the waiter had cleared our plates from the table. ‘See anything interesting?’
Rory gulped and stared into his coffee cup. ‘Not really,’ he said.
‘Oh. Well, that’s a shame. How are we going to fill the next three days if there’s nothing interesting to see?’ I asked lightly.
He shrugged but didn’t reply.
I gritted my teeth and silently counted to ten. This was our anniversary break, and I didn’t want to go home a woman on the verge of divorce, but he was pushing my patience. He was the one who’d brought us here. He was the one who’d insisted we needed to talk. Well, he wasn’t doing much talking now, was he? He was acting like a spoilt brat.
‘I think I’ll go up to the room,’ I said after another five-minute silence.
Rory didn’t even seem to hear me. He was clearly miles away.
I scraped back my chair and got to my feet. He looked up, finally seeming to notice me.
‘What are you doing?’
‘As I said, I’m going up to the room. Are you coming with me?’
Rory hesitated. ‘I think I’ll have another coffee.’
‘Fine. You do that. I’ll see you later.’
I didn’t wait for a reply but headed out of the dining room and through the reception to the stairs.
Finally reaching our room I closed the door behind me and flopped onto the bed, feeling sick to my stomach – and not from the food, which I grudgingly had to admit had been delicious. There was nothing wrong with the cuisine at The Quicken Tree Inn. The problem was with Rory.
Well, to be fair, it wasn’t just with him, was it? The problem was our entire relationship. We were in trouble.
For the first time it hit me properly that we might not make it. That our marriage really was in danger of ending.
But that being the case, why was he giving me the silent treatment? I couldn’t understand why Rory had brought me here if he wasn’t going to talk to me. It felt like some sort of punishment and it briefly crossed my mind that I should call a taxi to the nearest train station and go home. All this was achieving was to make me feel even more guilty and I couldn’t cope with that. Since Danny’s death I’d been drowning in guilt and there seemed no end in sight.
Everyone had worried about me when it happened. Grief, they’d told me, was an incredibly painful and difficult process, but they’d be there with me every step of the way.
But I hadn’t wanted them to be with me. I’d cut off from everyone, including Danny’s parents, because it wasn’t so much the grief I had to process. It was the knowledge that I’d been the worst wife ever to Danny, and that because of me and my selfish and reckless actions, he had died.
How was I supposed to live with that? How was I supposed to look his family in the eye and accept their love and support when I knew I should be begging them for forgiveness?
I’d sold our house, unable to bear living in it. Mum and Dad had warned me not to rush into anything, but I’d been adamant. Completely lost, I’d ended up staying with them for a year, watching them tiptoeing around me, terrified of doing or saying anything that would upset me even more.
Eventually, unable to stand their kindness and understanding a moment longer, I’d bought a rundown house in Borehamwood that needed a lot of work doing to it.
Mum had begged me to think again, but Dad had acknowledged that it was a good idea to buy the worst house in a good street, because it was always easier to add value. They’d helped me decorate the place from top to bottom, even though I’d told them not to. They’d done more than enough for me I said. It was time to stand on my own two feet. But they wouldn’t hear of it.
