Perfect People

129

Mixing his drink had become John’s ritual every evening when he arrived home from work. Alcohol helped him numb the pain. The heartache of the loss of his children was constantly with him, but so was another loss of something else, almost equally important to him: the passion he had once held for his work. The truth was that since leaving Dettore’s island he felt, in ways he could not define, a changed man.

He kissed Naomi, poured himself a large whisky on the rocks, then went into his den and logged on to check his emails. Outside he could hear the bleating of sheep in the fields around them. Spring. New life starting over. The air was warm this evening, and the forecast was fine for the weekend. He would get the barbecue and the garden chairs and table out of the garage. Maybe this year, for a change, they would have a good summer.

Then he froze. He read the first of the new emails that had just downloaded in disbelief. Then he read it over again, before running to the door and yelling for Naomi to come in and see this.

She stood with her hands on his shoulders as he sat down in front of his computer, and they both stared silently at the words on the screen:

Arriving 15.30 tomorrow, Saturday, Gatwick Airport, North Terminal, British Airways Flt 225 from Rome. Please meet us. Your children, Luke and Phoebe.