Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: Other People’s Marriages, Every Woman Knows a Secret, If My Father Loved Me, A Simple Life. Rosie Thomas

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СКАЧАТЬ in the narrow beds along the wall, and a bird singing somewhere in the trees on the other side of the path. Michael skirted the conservatory, where the pane of glass smashed by the boy on Christmas Eve had long ago been replaced, and crossed a paved yard at the back of the house. The garages in the stables were empty too. Michael tapped on the glass of the back door, and then when there was no response he opened the door.

      ‘Hannah?’ he called out.

      There was no answer, but he thought he could hear a radio playing somewhere in the depths of the house. He called her name again. A black-and-white marble tiled corridor in front of him led through the conservatory to the kitchen.

      A second later Hannah appeared at the opposite end with a bread knife in her fist, blade upwards and outwards. She confronted him in the humming silence of the house.

      ‘Hannah, it’s only me,’ he said.

      ‘Michael? Oh God, you frightened me.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I did knock and call.’

      ‘I thought you were an intruder.’

      He went to her and took the knife away. Her hand was trembling slightly.

      ‘And you were going to go for him with this?’

      ‘Yes, I suppose so. Protecting the nest. I don’t know. What should I have done?’

      He put his arm round her, sorry for having frightened her and admiring of her absurd courage again.

      ‘Called the police or pressed the burglar alarm.’

      She shrugged. ‘Well I didn’t, did I? Lucky, seeing it was only you. What are you doing here, anyway?’

      He released her, so he could look at her properly.

      ‘I was just passing.’

      ‘No, you weren’t. Nobody just passes this place.’

      ‘I wanted to see you, then. Not at a party or at dinner in someone’s house or in town, but simply to see you.’

      ‘I wish you’d called first. I’ve got a filthy cold and I look a mess.’

      The thought that she might want to look her best for him delighted Michael. He saw that her eyes were puffy and reddened, and her nose and lips were flaky and swollen. Her face was bare of make-up and her hair was loose, in need of washing. Two or three darkened strands clung to her neck, inside the collar of her housecoat. There were marks down the front of the silky fabric, and she held it closed with fingers that revealed chipped nail varnish. She was barefoot, and her toenails were similarly neglected. Michael found this spectacle of her sluttishness entirely beguiling.

      Hannah suddenly smiled at him, forgetting her fright.

      ‘You’d better come in properly, now that you’re here and I haven’t stabbed you.’

      He followed her into the kitchen. The room was messy but Hannah appeared not to notice it. Marcelle would have launched into embarrassed apologies. Hannah simply went to the coffee pot that was keeping warm on the Aga, poured out and handed him a cup. Michael put the bread knife down amidst the clutter on the table.

      ‘It’s funny to see you dressed like that,’ she said.

      He was wearing a business suit. It surprised him to realize that Hannah only saw him on holiday, or in the evening and at weekends.

      ‘I’m on my way to a conference.’

      She made a small face, pulling down the corners of her lips, mocking his importance.

      ‘Where’s Darcy?’

      She had removed her hand from the front of her housecoat and it gaped a little where there was a button missing. Michael imagined the texture and taste of the warm, unwashed skin underneath. This private, unkempt revelation was far more enticing than any of the public versions of Hannah in her shiny golden party frocks or her silvery furred ski suit. Hannah shook her head, pushing her hair back from her face in irritation. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

      ‘London again, or so he said. Working, anyway. Dealing or fixing or whatever it is.’

      ‘Don’t you know?’

      ‘Who knows anything, with Darcy? He isn’t exactly easy to predict, because he always does what he wants and he never wants the same thing for two days at a time. He makes me angry.’

      ‘All husbands make their wives angry. It’s axiomatic.’

      He had said it flippantly but then he saw bleakness behind the chapped planes of her face. Without any preconsideration he reached across the corner of the table, resting his forehead against hers for an instant, and then kissed her. After a moment she tilted her chin and kissed him back. Automatically, awkwardly because of the table separating them, he lifted his hand and slipped it inside her housecoat, where the missing button left a place to admit him.

      ‘Well, Doctor Wickham.’ Hannah’s voice was amused now. She caught his fingers and held them away from her.

      ‘Mister, actually.’

      ‘Oh. Sorry.’

      The legs of his chair scraped on the tiled floor as he stood up. He went to her and lifted her to her feet so he could reach her better. She smelt of Vick, and tasted of coffee and very faintly of toothpaste. After a moment Hannah raised her arms and locked them around his neck but she was neither actively encouraging nor positively discouraging.

      ‘I’ve wanted to do this ever since Méribel,’ Michael whispered. He thought of her dancing on the first night of the holiday, and back beyond that, seeing a long line of colourful, sinuous Hannahs weaving through the plain fabric of Grafton. ‘No, that’s not true. Since long before.’ At the corner of his mouth he felt the sly curve of Hannah’s smile. ‘What are you wearing underneath this thing?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘I want to take it off you.’

      Her hand held it closed against him. She laughed properly this time, a deep sound in her throat.

      ‘You can’t just walk in here like a burglar and expect me to let you do that.’

      ‘Why not? Wouldn’t it be nice?’

      ‘What about Marcelle?’

      Michael tilted his head. He could see her bare neck, and her hair pushed back behind her ear, and the criss-cross stitching of the quilted fabric covering her shoulder.

      ‘What can I tell you about Marcelle?’

      As he spoke he saw his wife, first of all her face with its neat brown bird-like features, and then Marcelle in her kitchen at home with cooking utensils professionally laid out in front of her, her quick hands moving and her head turned aside in concentration on what she was doing. He tried to shuffle the images to find a more pleasing one, but he could only conjure up Marcelle hurrying children into the car, or jabbing the iron over the empty limbs of a shirt, or holding Daisy on her lap and looking accusingly at him over the child’s head. He СКАЧАТЬ