Florence felt an ocean of distance between them. It was far from the warm reunion she had hoped for.
‘So,’ Belinda interrupted, her voice slurring slightly, and Florence wondered how much sherry the woman had already drunk. The evening before she had watched Belinda polish off nearly a third of a bottle of Jack’s favourite Laphroaig whisky.
Jack didn’t speak and Florence edged towards the door to the hall. She didn’t want to reveal how upset she was. ‘I just need to change. I’ll leave—’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ Belinda interrupted again.
Jack sighed. ‘I already told you.’
‘You laid down the law, yes, but my lawyer says I have a right.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Belinda. You have the London flat. You always hated it here.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Florence managed to say and then she fled the room. But as she climbed the stairs, she heard what must have been the crash of a plate as it hit the wall, followed by Jack’s shout of anger.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered. ‘If that was my cake going for a burton, I think I might just murder her.’
CHAPTER 11
Florence was sitting on the uncomfortable put-you-up bed in the box room, glowering through the rain-streaked window at the hill behind the house. The horrible little bed was so close to the sill that her knees jammed uncomfortably against it. Seething with frustration, she itched to hit out, but all she did was clench her fists, pick up her pillow and pummel it. It just wasn’t fair; Jack really should have told her about his wife, and she felt hurt that he’d kept such a bloody great secret from her – and from her sister too. Hélène hadn’t known anything about this.
She heard a gentle tap at her door but didn’t respond. A few moments later the door swung open and Jack came in. There was no space on Florence’s side of the bed, so he was forced to stand behind her. She kept her eyes steady but no longer seeing the view; she was only aware of the rapid beating of her heart.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said gruffly.
‘What for?’
‘This godawful mess.’
‘The cake, you mean?’ she said, her voice as haughty as she could make it.
She could hear him almost chuckle at that and then having to restrain himself. ‘Well yes the cake, but—’
‘Just tell me,’ she said.
‘About Belinda?’
She twisted around and couldn’t disguise the anger in her voice, and nor did she want to. ‘Of course, bloody Belinda. What did you think I was asking about? The price of sausages?’
‘Well, we aren’t actually buying sausages. Gladys brings them.’
Florence rose to her feet in an instant, her anger boiling over. ‘This isn’t funny, Jack.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You should be.’
They both fell quiet. She took fierce breaths as the voices clamoured in her head. Jack’s, Belinda’s, Hélène’s, and even her own.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘we can’t talk in this tiny room. Let’s go for a walk and I promise I’ll tell you everything.’
Florence narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s still raining.’
‘Only drizzling now. Do you mind?’
‘All right. Give me a chance to change out of these wet things and dry my hair a little.’
Before this, when she’d been sleeping in the guest room, the silence had wrapped around her like a soft blanket through which nothing could intrude. Knowing he wasjust along the landing and that with a few brave steps she’d be by his side had been comforting. Now everything felt very different.
