‘Um … it’s just reminding me about my job.’
‘You don’t think they’re going to renew your contract?’
‘I don’t know, Patrick.’
Patrick took the pen from its clip, looked at the next month, and scribbled under week 28: ‘Time to start job hunting.’
‘That way you’re covered for whatever happens,’ he said. He kissed me and left me to it.
I laid my creams out carefully in the bathroom, tucked my razors, moisturizer and tampons neatly into his mirrored cabinet. I put some books in a neat row along the spare-room floor under the window, including the new titles that Will had ordered from Amazon for me. Patrick promised to put up some shelves when he had a spare moment.
And then, as he left to go running, I sat and looked out over the industrial estate towards the castle, and practised saying the word home, silently under my breath.
I am pretty hopeless at keeping secrets. Treena says I touch my nose as soon as I even think of lying. It’s a pretty straightforward giveaway. My parents still joke about the time I wrote absence notes for myself after bunking off school. ‘Dear Miss Trowbridge,’ they read. ‘Please excuse Louisa Clark from today’s lessons as I am very poorly with women’s problems.’ Dad had struggled to keep a straight face even while he was supposed to be tearing a strip off me.
Keeping Will’s plan from my family had been one thing – I was good at keeping secrets from my parents (it’s one of the things we learn while growing up, after all) – but coping with the anxiety by myself was something else entirely.
I spent the next couple of nights trying to work out what Will was up to, and what I could do to stop him, my thoughts racing even as Patrick and I chatted, cooking together in the little galley kitchen. (I was already discovering new things about him – like, he really did know a hundred different things to do with turkey breast.) At night we made love – it seemed almost obligatory at the moment, as if we should take full advantage of our freedom. It was as if Patrick somehow felt I owed him something, given my constant physical proximity to Will. But as soon as he dropped off to sleep, I was lost in my thoughts again.
There were just over seven weeks left.
And Will was making plans, even if I wasn’t.
The following week, if Will noticed that I was preoccupied, he didn’t say anything. We went through the motions of our daily routine – I took him for short drives into the country, cooked his meals, saw to him when we were in his house. He didn’t make jokes about Running Man any more.
I talked to him about the latest books he had recommended: we had done The English Patient(I loved this), and a Swedish thriller (which I hadn’t). We were solicitous with each other, almost excessively polite. I missed his insults, his crabbiness – their absence just added to the looming sense of threat that hung over me.
Nathan watched us both, as if he were observing some kind of new species.
‘You two had a row?’ he asked me one day in the kitchen, as I unpacked the groceries.
‘You’d better ask him,’ I said.
‘That’s exactly what he said.’
He looked at me sideways, and disappeared into the bathroom to unlock Will’s medical cabinet.
Meanwhile, I’d lasted three days after Michael Lawler’s visit before I rang Mrs Traynor. I asked if we could meet somewhere other than her house, and we agreed on a little cafe that had opened in the grounds of the castle. The same cafe, ironically, that had cost me my job.
It was a much smarter affair than The Buttered Bun – all limed oak and bleached wood tables and chairs. It sold home-made soup full of actual vegetables, and fancy cakes. And you couldn’t buy a normal coffee, only lattes, cappuccinos and macchiatos. There were no builders, or girls from the hairdresser’s. I sat nursing my tea, and wondered about the Dandelion Lady and whether she would feel comfortable enough to sit in here and read a newspaper all morning.
‘Louisa, I’m sorry I’m late.’ Camilla Traynor entered briskly, her handbag tucked under her arm, dressed in a grey silk shirt and navy trousers.
I fought the urge to stand up. There was never a time when I spoke to her that I didn’t still feel like I was engaged in some kind of interview.
‘I was held up in court.’
‘Sorry. To get you out of work, I mean. I just … well, I wasn’t sure it could wait.’
She held up a hand, and mouthed something at the waitress, who within seconds had brought her a cappuccino. Then she sat across from me. I felt her gaze like I was transparent.
‘Will had a lawyer come to the house,’ I said. ‘I found out he is a specialist in wills and probate.’ I couldn’t think of any gentler way to open the conversation.
She looked like I’d just smacked her in the face. I realized, too late, that she might actually have thought I’d have something good to tell her.
‘A lawyer? Are you sure?’
‘I looked him up on the internet. He’s based in Regent Street. In London,’ I added unnecessarily. ‘His name is Michael Lawler.’
She blinked hard, as if trying to take this in. ‘Did Will tell you this?’
‘No. I don’t think he wanted me to know. I … I got his name and looked him up.’
Her coffee arrived. The waitress put it on the table in front of her, but Mrs Traynor didn’t seem to notice.
‘Did you want anything else?’ the girl said.
‘No, thank you.’
‘You don’t think they’re going to renew your contract?’
‘I don’t know, Patrick.’
Patrick took the pen from its clip, looked at the next month, and scribbled under week 28: ‘Time to start job hunting.’
‘That way you’re covered for whatever happens,’ he said. He kissed me and left me to it.
I laid my creams out carefully in the bathroom, tucked my razors, moisturizer and tampons neatly into his mirrored cabinet. I put some books in a neat row along the spare-room floor under the window, including the new titles that Will had ordered from Amazon for me. Patrick promised to put up some shelves when he had a spare moment.
And then, as he left to go running, I sat and looked out over the industrial estate towards the castle, and practised saying the word home, silently under my breath.
I am pretty hopeless at keeping secrets. Treena says I touch my nose as soon as I even think of lying. It’s a pretty straightforward giveaway. My parents still joke about the time I wrote absence notes for myself after bunking off school. ‘Dear Miss Trowbridge,’ they read. ‘Please excuse Louisa Clark from today’s lessons as I am very poorly with women’s problems.’ Dad had struggled to keep a straight face even while he was supposed to be tearing a strip off me.
Keeping Will’s plan from my family had been one thing – I was good at keeping secrets from my parents (it’s one of the things we learn while growing up, after all) – but coping with the anxiety by myself was something else entirely.
I spent the next couple of nights trying to work out what Will was up to, and what I could do to stop him, my thoughts racing even as Patrick and I chatted, cooking together in the little galley kitchen. (I was already discovering new things about him – like, he really did know a hundred different things to do with turkey breast.) At night we made love – it seemed almost obligatory at the moment, as if we should take full advantage of our freedom. It was as if Patrick somehow felt I owed him something, given my constant physical proximity to Will. But as soon as he dropped off to sleep, I was lost in my thoughts again.
There were just over seven weeks left.
And Will was making plans, even if I wasn’t.
The following week, if Will noticed that I was preoccupied, he didn’t say anything. We went through the motions of our daily routine – I took him for short drives into the country, cooked his meals, saw to him when we were in his house. He didn’t make jokes about Running Man any more.
I talked to him about the latest books he had recommended: we had done The English Patient(I loved this), and a Swedish thriller (which I hadn’t). We were solicitous with each other, almost excessively polite. I missed his insults, his crabbiness – their absence just added to the looming sense of threat that hung over me.
Nathan watched us both, as if he were observing some kind of new species.
‘You two had a row?’ he asked me one day in the kitchen, as I unpacked the groceries.
‘You’d better ask him,’ I said.
‘That’s exactly what he said.’
He looked at me sideways, and disappeared into the bathroom to unlock Will’s medical cabinet.
Meanwhile, I’d lasted three days after Michael Lawler’s visit before I rang Mrs Traynor. I asked if we could meet somewhere other than her house, and we agreed on a little cafe that had opened in the grounds of the castle. The same cafe, ironically, that had cost me my job.
It was a much smarter affair than The Buttered Bun – all limed oak and bleached wood tables and chairs. It sold home-made soup full of actual vegetables, and fancy cakes. And you couldn’t buy a normal coffee, only lattes, cappuccinos and macchiatos. There were no builders, or girls from the hairdresser’s. I sat nursing my tea, and wondered about the Dandelion Lady and whether she would feel comfortable enough to sit in here and read a newspaper all morning.
‘Louisa, I’m sorry I’m late.’ Camilla Traynor entered briskly, her handbag tucked under her arm, dressed in a grey silk shirt and navy trousers.
I fought the urge to stand up. There was never a time when I spoke to her that I didn’t still feel like I was engaged in some kind of interview.
‘I was held up in court.’
‘Sorry. To get you out of work, I mean. I just … well, I wasn’t sure it could wait.’
She held up a hand, and mouthed something at the waitress, who within seconds had brought her a cappuccino. Then she sat across from me. I felt her gaze like I was transparent.
‘Will had a lawyer come to the house,’ I said. ‘I found out he is a specialist in wills and probate.’ I couldn’t think of any gentler way to open the conversation.
She looked like I’d just smacked her in the face. I realized, too late, that she might actually have thought I’d have something good to tell her.
‘A lawyer? Are you sure?’
‘I looked him up on the internet. He’s based in Regent Street. In London,’ I added unnecessarily. ‘His name is Michael Lawler.’
She blinked hard, as if trying to take this in. ‘Did Will tell you this?’
‘No. I don’t think he wanted me to know. I … I got his name and looked him up.’
Her coffee arrived. The waitress put it on the table in front of her, but Mrs Traynor didn’t seem to notice.
‘Did you want anything else?’ the girl said.
‘No, thank you.’
