A Rural Affair

31

The following morning found me a radically altered woman. No longer on top form. No longer singing in close harmony with an aristocratic Austrian family fleeing the Nazis. No longer in heaven. This woman was in hell, not with the sound of music, but the sound of throbbing temples. Unable to move from her bed, or unleash her tongue from the roof of her mouth, or crowbar open her eyes – I managed, briefly, then shut them again – never had a person felt so unwell. Staggered by the weight of my limbs, which I could just about coax into a foetal position, I lay doggo. Deado. Dead. And went back to sleep.

Sometime later I was awoken by the sounds of momentum gathering next door. A grumbling volcano. My children were bubbling under like so much molten lava, surely about to erupt. Ah. There it was. Archie gave a shriek of outrage and Clemmie came running in.

‘Mummy, I think Grandpa put Archie’s nappy on back to front, but when I tried to do it he screamed. He won’t let me.’

‘I’ll come,’ I managed gnomically, as, with a heroic effort, I heaved myself out of bed. I tested my feet for support, rocked momentarily, then lurched next door.

Archie was indeed wearing a back-to-front nappy as he stood gripping the bars of his cot, together with what seemed to be a T-shirt of Clemmie’s. But at least they were alive; at least my father had had a go, I thought gratefully, as I heard him downstairs making tea. I lifted my baby son from his cot and nearly fell over. Had to hold the wall. Somehow I organized a clean nappy, and together we went downstairs, one hand in my son’s, as he insisted on doing every stair himself, one on my throbbing forehead.

‘Morning, Dad,’ I muttered, as my father caught Archie, who ran to him. He set him in his high chair. ‘Turn that down, would you?’ I waved at the blaring radio.

Dad grinned, looking horribly chipper, clearly freshly showered. He made a long arm to the radio as I sank down at the table, head in hands.

‘Morning, love!’ he chortled. ‘All right?’

It’s not often my father has the upper hand in the morning-after department; he was bound to milk it. I kept my head low and grunted non-committally.

‘How’re you feeling, then?’

‘Marvellous.’

Terrible. It was all coming back to me in glorious technicolor. Some little blue glasses. Bob leering at me throughout dinner. Chad’s desperate eyes. Hope careering round the dance floor as the horn blew to ‘John Peel’. Sam. Who I’d danced with, but – oh God, what had I said? I sat up slowly. Covered my mouth as my father put a cup of tea and two Nurofen in front of me.

‘Oh God, Dad, I think I flirted outrageously with Sam Hetherington last night.’

‘No, no, love. Not so anyone would notice.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. Anyway, nothing wrong with a bit of flirting. Makes the world go round.’ He sat down opposite and sipped his tea.

‘No, but the thing is, I think I might have overdone it …’ My mind was a blur. I tried to clear it. ‘Declared undying love, or something. God, d’you think I did?’

‘No one takes that type of thing seriously at a party. Here, put some sugar in, get it into your bloodstream. Good night out, though, wasn’t it?’ He ruffled Clemmie’s hair as she ran past to watch television in the other room.

‘So, you don’t think he noticed?’ I asked anxiously, remembering … oh Lord, had I nibbled his ear? While we danced? I seemed to remember him brushing me off with a ‘No, Poppy.’ Surely not.

‘Not for one moment,’ Dad said firmly. ‘Anyway, people like that get attention the whole time. It’s like Brad Pitt, or whoever; they think nothing of it.’

Brad Pitt. An A-list celebrity. That’s how far out of my league my father thought Sam was. Interesting. Interesting too how, weeks ago, not so very long ago really, I’d felt he was not only in my league, but really quite proximate. At his great house, however, in his bottle-green tailcoat, very much mine host, very much handsome bachelor of the parish, he was light years away. Bachelor. No, not quite. Divorced. From Hope. And thinking of Hope, some strange hallucinogenic memory struck me, to do with buttocks. I wrinkled my forehead in an effort to remember. Across the breakfast table, my father was optimistically setting a rack of toast before me.

‘Dad, in the field, as we drove off, d’you remember a couple in a Land Rover beside us?’

‘Too busy trying to stop you falling out of the window to remember a Land Rover. Now, are you going to be all right if I get off?’ He shot his watch anxiously out of his cuff. ‘I’ve got to get back for the horses.’

‘Yes, yes, fine.’ I waved my hand dismissively, drained by the strenuous effort of recall. ‘Go. Be gone.’

‘The kids had breakfast a couple of hours ago and then I put Archie back down so he’s had his kip.’

I blinked. ‘Really? God, what time is it?’

‘Eleven o’clock.’

‘Blimey. Right.’

This surely was kind of my father. The horses would be crossing their legs in their stables by now. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ I looked up as he went to gather his keys from the side, his wallet. Then looked a little closer. There was quite a spring in his step. Quite a jaunty angle to the flat cap he was setting on his head. ‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’ I asked suddenly.

‘I did, as a matter of fact.’ He turned as he went to the door, reaching for his coat on the back of it. ‘That Peggy’s a nice lady, isn’t she?’

‘She is,’ I said cautiously. ‘But she’s not on the open market, Dad.’

‘Oh, I know. We talked about that. Had a good old chinwag. And were getting on famously until I was told my daughter was – anyway. As I say, she’s a lovely lady.’

‘What did you talk about?’ I asked, curious.

‘Hm? Oh, your mum. How I never got over her. Never found – or rather looked – for anyone else. And her and Roger. Funny. I always had her down as a scatty, frivolous bird, but there’s a very thoughtful side to her. And the funny thing is,’ he looked pensive a moment, gazed contemplatively at the back door, ‘I got the feeling she thought the same about me. That I always play it for laughs.’ I kept very still at the table. ‘It’s our armour, I suppose. Our protective layer. To prevent anyone getting at the soft underbelly. Anyway,’ he shook his head, like a horse ridding itself of flies: a regrouping gesture. Shrugged his coat on. ‘We thought we might go to the evening meet at Warwick on Friday. Just for a laugh, you know,’ he said quickly.

I nodded. ‘Good plan. She’d enjoy that.’

‘Only, sometimes,’ he paused as he got to the door, ‘it’s dull doing everything on your own, you know?’ He turned to look at me. ‘When the world is geared for couples. Restaurants, parties, cinemas – life. It gets tiring. Sometimes it’s just easier to be two. To fit in.’

He said goodbye. When he’d gone, I realized how I’d found that out last night. How, if you didn’t want to look conspicuous, it was easier to be two. My dad had been alone for years, Peggy too, and I’d never appreciated the work behind that. They both did a brilliant job, presenting a breezy exterior to the world, but it was a job: an effort. A very conscious public face. For years they’d both climbed the stairs at night alone, got into bed, alone, and I’m sure that got easier, more of a habit. But I couldn’t see the public bit getting easier. And if you didn’t want to disappear, didn’t want to get a bit blurry round the edges, as some single people did, you had to put your back into it, didn’t you? Into being fun. And interesting. And good to be around. Like Dad, and Peggy. Me too, now, of course. Lessons to be learned. Respect.

I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud, but my son, watching me from his high chair, echoed it gravely: ‘Rethpect.’

I smiled and leaned across to take the squashed piece of toast he was offering me. Just then my back door opened and Angie stuck her head around.

‘Coo-ee,’ she whispered, head on one side, anxious.

My smile became slightly wan. I dropped Archie’s soggy bread. ‘Coo-ee, Angie. Come in.’

‘Are you all right?’ She shut the door softly and tiptoed theatrically across the room. Sat down terribly carefully at the table making sure the chain of her handbag didn’t make a noise. Annoying. Very dressed up too, I noticed, in a little pink suit.

‘Fine, thanks, just a bit tired.’

‘Blimey, I’m not surprised. You shifted enough to float a small flotilla last night. I’ve never seen anyone so plastered. Mind if I help myself?’ She reached for a piece of toast.

‘Do,’ I said drily, determined not to tell her the smell of the marmalade was guaranteed to make me heave.

‘And there’s nothing worse,’ she said firmly, buttering away, ‘than everyone avoiding you the next day and giving you sly looks in the village, so I wanted to pop round and say it didn’t matter a bit. In fact we all enjoyed seeing you let your hair down for a change. Especially when you went on stage and grabbed the microphone.’

I gazed at her horrified. ‘No.’

‘Mm,’ she nodded through a mouthful of toast. ‘Thanked everyone for coming. And then asked if we’d like to hear “Climb Every Mountain”, but Sam wrestled you from the stage.’

‘Oh, God,’ I whispered, appalled, sinking my forehead into my hands. I had no recollection of that. Odd. Huge memory losses in some areas and wild hallucinations about buttocks in others. What was in those glasses? What was schnapps? It shouldn’t be allowed.

‘And whatever you do, you mustn’t think the whole village is laughing at you over that man.’

‘Are they?’ I yelped, jerking my head up.

‘No, of course not. That’s what I came to tell you. I knew you’d be feeling wretched – and of course I’ve been there myself, made a bit of a fool of myself in that department – so I came to say you absolutely mustn’t worry.’

‘Yes, but you cornered him in his kitchen and stuck a rose between your teeth,’ I said testily. ‘I didn’t do that.’

‘Well, you cornered him in the downstairs loo.’

‘No!’

‘We thought you’d passed out in there and Sam went to find you. You bundled him in and locked the door. He had to stop you swallowing the key.’

I got up, horrified. Stared out of the window at the back garden. Then I swung back to her. ‘Oh God, I was thinking of moving to Clapham, but that’s not far enough,’ I whispered. ‘It’ll have to be Sydney.’

‘That’s where Simon’s going, apparently,’ she said conversationally, as if we were discussing popping to Ikea. ‘Jennie had a long chat last night. He’s been offered a job, wants to make a fresh start. Getting a divorce too.’

Angie had clearly done the rounds this morning.

‘I’ll look into flights,’ I muttered, tottering across to the computer. Ryanair. Quite testing at any time. Particularly now. On second thoughts … I felt my way back to the table, holding on to the furniture.

‘Oh, don’t be silly, everyone drops a bollock now and again. It’s very refreshing. Can’t bear those who don’t, actually. Pious twats. And he is very attractive, Poppy, it’s not your fault.’

‘Whose fault is it, then?’

‘God’s,’ she said firmly, after a pause. ‘He’s no business making men like that. Tom’s back,’ she said, apropos, clearly, of attractive men. She reddened. ‘Or at least, he was last night. Whether or not he’s still there now is another matter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given in so easily.’ She looked at me anxiously. Ah. So that’s what this was all about. Ashamed of her own behaviour, she’d come round wanting to remind me of mine. But why should she be ashamed of sleeping with her husband?

I voiced this and she gripped my wrist across the table. ‘D’you really think so? I felt so cheap this morning, such a pushover, so I slipped out to see you and Jennie. Didn’t want to seem un-busy. Told him I was going out for lunch, in fact.’

Hence the pink suit. ‘Leaving him doing what?’

‘Well, kicking his heels at home for a bit, then going back to his cottage, I suppose. Thinking how horrid and poky it is, hopefully.’

I sighed. ‘Angie, he wouldn’t be back if he didn’t mean it.’

‘You don’t think?’

‘Of course not. It’s too public. For God’s sake, go home. He’s the one that’s made a fool of himself, not you. If you’re quick he’ll still be there, and if I were you I’d sit down at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee and some Hobnobs and iron a few things out. Then book a holiday.’

She gave this some thought. After a bit she got slowly to her feet, replacing the chain of her Chanel bag on her shoulder. ‘Maybe you’re right. D’you know, you’re quite wise, sometimes, Poppy.’ She peered at me, surprised.

‘It’s always easy to be wise about someone else’s life,’ I told her gloomily.

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ she agreed. Then she hesitated. ‘And I’m sorry I came round to, you know … ’

‘Gloat.’

‘You didn’t really lock him in the loo.’

‘Didn’t I?’ I breathed, relieved.

‘Nah. Just chased him down the corridor. You know how these things get exaggerated.’ She grinned.

I tried to grin back but my muscles wouldn’t quite make it. Angie gave me a quick kiss before exiting, rather speedily, through my back door.

Later that day I ventured to the shop for bread. One or two people smiled knowingly at me in the village. I smiled thinly back. Someone even hummed ‘Edelweiss’ behind me in the queue for the post office. I wondered if this was a family thing? That just as my father thought he was Elvis whilst under the influence, I became Julie Andrews. Interesting. A psychologist would have a field day. Perhaps even suggest a nunnery. And wouldn’t a habit be handy? To hide behind? I tiptoed home.

Three days later I got a message via email from Janice.

Dear Poppy,

I hope you and the children are well. I so enjoyed looking after them. And I hope you’re feeling better.

I cringed, toes curling in my trainers.

Sam has asked if you’d come in and sign some papers. He’s away this week, but doesn’t need to be here, apparently. I wondered if you could pop in tomorrow?

Away. I got up quickly from the computer. Well, obviously he was, miles away, if he had any sense. What papers, I wondered. I gazed above the screen to where the patch of damp had spread across the wall, flaking the paint. I picked at a bit and a whole sheet came off in my fingers. I could fix that now, of course. Easily. Build a new wall. Not that the thought afforded much pleasure.

On the appointed morning, Jennie had the children for me and I duly drove into town. The first snowflakes of the year were falling, swirling down onto my windscreen, melting softly on impact. November. Soon it would be Christmas, my first one alone, I realized. I swept the snow away efficiently with the wipers, wishing I could swipe away so much else. Start again. With a heavy heart I parked, put my head down against the gathering blizzard and with a bitter wind sneaking around my neck, trudged up the high street in my old brown coat. Pushing open the familiar door I realized I hadn’t accounted for this: hadn’t factored in the memory of this place causing melancholy to sneak over my soul, a lump to form in my throat as I mounted the stairs. I wondered if I’d need oxygen when I finally achieved reception. Or a hanky? Instead I plastered on a smile and handed my plant to Janice, hoping this wouldn’t take long.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’ She took it, smiling.

‘Nonsense, it’s the least I can do. It was so kind of you and I didn’t even thank you at the time.’ Dad had obviously done that, when he’d belted up the stairs to spring the children from their beds, but still.

‘I got terribly drunk, as you probably heard.’ Bare-faced honesty, I’d decided, was the order of the day.

‘I heard you had quite a party.’ She grinned.

‘To be honest I don’t usually drink that much. My husband didn’t, you see, so the odd tipple I had was on a night out with the girls, which wasn’t that often.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s no excuse, I know, but whatever the hunt was serving that night surely went to my head.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t begin to drink one of those, let alone four or five as I gather you did. Go in, love, he’s waiting for you.’

I gaped, not at the four or five, but … ‘Waiting for me? I thought he was away?’

‘He was, but he’s back.’

Janice’s grin was widening. She was also ushering me across to his door; not exactly propelling me, but exhibiting the same sort of enthusiasm she had when she’d shooed me down to the party the other night, so that before I had time to think about it I was in his room, the door shutting behind me. I do remember wishing I hadn’t got my old coat and boots on, and that my hair wasn’t slicked quite so damply to my head.

Sam wasn’t in a suit at his desk, he was over by the window with his back to me. He was wearing a dark red jersey and jeans, looking impossibly young and handsome even from behind. My heart was beating fast.

‘Hello.’ He turned. Smiled.

‘Hello. You’re not supposed to be here.’

‘I know. But I didn’t know how else to see you. And since I’m your solicitor, I thought a few papers to be signed in my absence might be just the ticket. Wasn’t sure you’d come in so readily if you knew I was here. Thought you might be embarrassed.’

‘There are no papers?’

‘No papers. Or at least – not yet. There may be later, to do with getting rid of me.’ He shrugged. ‘Depending on how you feel.’

‘Getting rid of you? Why would I want to do that?’

‘Oh … a number of reasons.’ He looked hesitant a moment. Surprisingly unsure of himself. He crossed to his desk, walking around it, trailing his fingers on the green leather, eyes down. When he finally raised them, they were heavy with something I couldn’t quite place. He gazed at me a long moment, appraisingly. Then massaged the blotter with a frenzied fingertip.

‘I’d forgotten. You are … very lovely, Poppy.’

I felt the breath rush out of me. Not what I was expecting at all. I waited, every nerve strained, every sinew tightening. But then he did an extraordinary thing. He continued around his desk to his chair and sat, which left me standing on the other side. I was dumbfounded. Surely after such a sentence, baffling or otherwise, a tumble towards each other, arms outstretched, was pretty much mandatory? Had I misheard? Had he perhaps said, ‘You are very lonely, Poppy’? Ipso facto a loser? No, I was sure he hadn’t. Nonetheless I couldn’t stand in front of his desk like a fourth former, so I sat, in my usual chair, heart pounding. He sat too, in silent contemplation, it seemed, of his blotter, which he drummed lightly with his fingers. It was as if we were miles away from each other, and not just geographically; not just the vast leather-topped desk between us. The air seemed heavy with portent.

‘Sorry about the other night,’ I blurted, the first to blink. ‘Getting so pissed and everything, chasing you down corridors. Singing. I don’t remember much about it, to be honest. I don’t drink a great deal and I clearly overdid it.’

He looked up and smiled; it reached his eyes. He sat back in his chair and looked at me properly, still retaining the crinkly eyes. ‘I liked it.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes, I hoped it was in vino veritas. Some indication of how you felt. It’s certainly how I’ve been feeling, although obviously I couldn’t express it.’

‘Obviously,’ I whispered, thinking: why not? Why? In some senses this was hugely encouraging, but … was there another wife, I wondered wildly? Not just the one? Would number two spring from that cupboard by the door any minute now, head to toe in Chanel?

‘Poppy, I’ve made a terrible mess of my life so far,’ he said softly, and all at once I knew. There didn’t have to be another wife. One was enough. Hope was at the bottom of this. ‘I got married very young, fell madly in love, and it all went badly wrong. I got very hurt.’

I nodded. ‘You’re still in love with her.’

‘Oh, no.’ He looked astonished. ‘I’m in love with you.’

More breath left my body. I’d be completely deflated soon, in the less than usual sense. And I itched to go to him. ‘Sam,’ I ventured, ‘must we sit here like this? Discuss … things like this, as if we’re in a board meeting?’ My eyes darted to his armchair in the corner. Not exactly a couch, which as we knew was the perk of the senior partner; and cluttered with papers, sure, but I could clear it very quickly. With one sweep of the hand, in fact.

‘Yes, of course we must,’ he said, quite briskly. Sternly, even. ‘Hear me out, Poppy.’

I nodded. Weird. Thrilling. Lovely, in fact. But weird.

He glanced at his blotter, then up at me, this time with an abrupt, defensive air. ‘Hope had an affair about ten months or so into our marriage. I found out and was devastated, naturally, but I reasoned that she was very young. And she was so sorry, assuring me it would never happen again, so I forgave her. Then less than a year later, she had another affair. With someone else. He lived next door.’

‘Good grief.’ I was fascinated in spite of my own inner turmoil.

‘So I left her. Knew it was hopeless. That’s when she hooked up with Chad.’

‘While you were married?’

‘No, no, we were divorced by then. Chad wouldn’t do that to me.’

‘Did he know about the other men?’

‘Yes, I’d obviously confided in him at the time. He was my best friend. Is my best friend. He knew everything. God, I’ve sobbed on his shoulder often enough. But men are wired differently, Poppy. We have astounding arrogance when it comes to women. Think we can be the one to make a difference, make them change.’

‘Not just men.’ I thought of Phil. How I too had hoped for change.

‘And Hope is … mesmerizing. Very beautiful, very charming, very captivating. If she sets her cap at you, if you’re under her spell … well, I was lucky. I was captivated for quite some time, but I got away. Chad has not been so fortunate.’

‘She’s having an affair with Pete the farrier,’ I told him, as it suddenly dawned on me. ‘I saw them together, in his jeep in the field.’

‘Yes, she is. I saw them too. It’s been going on a while.’

Which was why Angie’s advances had been rejected, it occurred to me: Pete already had somewhere to go after shoeing the horses of the village. And of course he and Hope had met at the book club. I remembered Hope appreciating his looks.

‘Does Chad know?’

‘I’m sure he suspects. But I haven’t told him. I did tell Hope I might, though, if she doesn’t watch out. If she doesn’t mend her ways.’

My mind flew back to Sam standing in his great hall by the window at the dance; Hope blushing at the floor, looking up at him through her lashes. No doubt agreeing she’d try.

‘She’s amoral, Poppy, so fat chance. Some people just are. A lot of men, but a surprising number of women too. And I mind very much for Chad. I got out, but I don’t think Chad ever will. And Hope hates that I’ve escaped. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that’s why they’re here, but a bit of me thinks Hope brought him to England, to this area, knowing I was bound to come back. She’d like us to be in an eternal triangle for ever, killing everyone softly. But I’m not playing that game. I have to see her because I love my friend dearly, but I despise her now. And that took a long time. For a while I couldn’t stop loving her. Was very hurt.’

I swallowed. Felt very brown-coated suddenly. Very unmesmerizing.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because this is the first time I’ve felt anything again. When you first burst into this room, Poppy, with your baby son in your arms, struggling up the stairs with your pushchair, I felt something stir. Something inside me relax and unwind, and each time I see you, it’s with the same gathering excitement, the same surge of pleasure, and each time you go, I wonder when I’m going to see you again. You, with your sweet smile and your slightly chaotic way of tumbling through life.’

This was more like me to be sure, and although astonished, frankly I was ready to vault the desk. I sized it up. Only four feet, surely, and I’d done long jump at school. I held myself together, though.

‘You had no idea?’ he asked.

‘None!’

‘Too busy letting that organ-grinder chappie sniff around,’ he said bitterly.

‘Luke! How d’you know about him?’

‘Oh … I know pretty much everything about you, Poppy, that’s my tragedy. My affliction.’ He massaged his brow, in despair almost.

I gaped, astounded. ‘But – you’ve given me no indication, no suggestion!’ I finally found my voice.

‘I sent you tickets.’

‘What tickets?’

‘To the ball.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes, I put them through your door.’

‘But … I thought that was Mark! Why didn’t you say?’

‘How could I say? Don’t you see how impossible that would be?’

‘And – and when I tried to suggest things, mentioned the book club –’

‘The book club!’ He spread his hands desperately. ‘How could I come to the frigging book club?’

I stared. My head whirred. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘You’re my client, Poppy,’ he said patiently. ‘There’s a professional code of conduct. I could be struck off. I know everything about you.’

‘Well, within reason.’

‘I know how rich you are.’

It came as a bit of a shock. ‘Yes,’ I said after a bit. ‘Yes, you do, I suppose. But –’

‘And everyone knows my house is falling down, is badly in need of a huge cash injection. Not that I’m sure I necessarily want it now,’ he said brusquely. Defensively, even. ‘I might sell it, so as not to be tied. I might go away.’ He got up from his chair and went to the window, hands thrust in his pockets, his back to me. My heart began to race.

‘Go away?’ I echoed.

‘For a while. Paint, perhaps. Do something different. Not be squire of this parish. Master of Foxhounds. Following in my father’s inimitable footsteps. Italy, maybe. I’m told the light is wonderful.’

‘I didn’t know you could paint.’

He turned. Smiled. ‘I didn’t know you could sing.’ I blushed. ‘Rather well, actually. Don’t know why I bothered with a band.’

‘It’s a family failing,’ I told him, getting up from my chair. No, I would not sit like this. Would not be still. ‘We sing in our cups.’

‘I shall look forward to that.’

‘So … there is something to look forward to?’ I crept across the room tentatively. His eyes held me and he moved too, but slowly; we seemed drawn imperceptibly together as if by an invisible thread. He stalled a moment.

‘You’d have to fire me, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I agreed, halting too.

‘And there’s still the money.’

‘I don’t want the money.’

‘You’re stuck with it.’

‘I could give it away?’

‘You could. I thought of that.’

He did? ‘To charity,’ I said wildly. ‘Save the Children?’

‘Well, no, your own children. In trust, until they’re older.’

‘Oh, yes! How tremendous. And – and Italy. Well, of course I’m hopeless at languages but I do love the sun. And pasta and –’

‘No,’ he smiled, ‘it doesn’t have to be Italy. Could be Wigan for all I care. Could be here, if you really love it.’

We were close now, within feet of each other and I felt myself aching for him. He reached out and took my hands.

‘I don’t want to be here.’ As I said it, I knew I didn’t. Knew I wanted to get away. From the house I’d had with Phil, from the village, from the gossip, from everyone knowing my business. Not from my friends. I’d miss them sorely. And Dad too. But they’d still be here, wouldn’t they? When I came back? With Sam, and the children. To visit. And maybe with more children. If my mind jolted with surprise as this rogue thought crossed it, my heart didn’t; it wasn’t altogether astonished at my audacity. Because somehow I knew, having got it so terribly wrong – both of us having got it wrong – we’d now got it so right. I knew Sam knew that too. As he let go of my hands and opened his arms, and I walked into them, I saw the light in his eyes; felt the surprise and delight in both our hearts as his lips came down to meet mine. At length, after he’d kissed me really rather thoroughly, we parted, hearts racing, breathing erratically, holding on tight and gazing at one another, shiny-eyed.

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ he whispered at length.

‘No I haven’t.’ I smiled, wondering if my face might crack, so long had it been since I’d smiled like that, so rusty with disuse seemed my cheek muscles. ‘And I shall sign something to more dramatic effect just as soon as I can. But in the meantime,’ I linked my hands around his neck and brought his lips down to meet mine again, ‘consider yourself sacked, Mr Hetherington.’

THE END