and Lillian told Olivia about the possibility of the move. Like Jack, she must have heard it all before, her father thought, as he described some of the charms of Cornwall. But eight was a vastly less cynical age than thirteen. She seemed intrigued and excited by the scheme.
‘Your dad’s going to take a look, before we commit to anything,’ her mother cautioned.
She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide above a broad smile. James thought the dark romance of the west of England was probably appealing to the latent Goth tendencies his daughter’s wardrobe and reading matter had hinted at. She was an imaginative girl. She was also very much at the centre of her own drama. She probably wouldn’t miss her friends as much as he had feared she might. In what he knew of her evolving social life, she led rather than followed. She was not as hostile to her school as Jack was to his. She had not been given reason to be. Nor, though, was she attached to school as emotionally as some children became.
Children were ruthless and elitist in an instinctive way caring adults learned to temper. That was the essence of maturity. But at their ages, among their peers, what mattered about Jack and Olivia was that they were good-looking and skilled communicators and that they each wore fashionable clothes and owned an impressive hoard of cool stuff. They were kids who scored on all counts. And they would be a novelty, wouldn’t they? They would make friends easily. They would have children’s amenability to change. They would probably relocate more painlessly than their parents would.
Olivia turned in as soon as they got back from the restaurant and Jack followed her half an hour later. He had been determined to demonstrate his rank by going to bed later than his younger sister, but by the way he trudged up the stairs, would be asleep the second he closed his eyes.
James took a drink into the study. He looked out of the window. It was never completely dark in central London. There was always some ambient light and with the interior light switched off, he could see the hedges and shrubs at the back of the garden shift and shiver in the night breeze. Lillian followed him in there, reaching her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder, kissing his ear. He looked from the garden to his desk and the book she had illustrated still open on it, at the picture of the looted church.
‘This move could be the making of us, Lily.’
‘I hope so, darling. You haven’t been happy for a long time.’
‘And you’ve thought about leaving me. You have only stayed for the sake of the kids.’
‘Not entirely. I still love you. But you don’t love yourself. You don’t even like yourself much, James. It makes you hard work, sometimes.’
He nodded at the book on the desk. ‘Have you remembered doing that?’
She laughed softly into his ear. ‘The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker,’ she said. ‘No. I haven’t. It’s very curious. I’m going to have to investigate, see if I underwent any treatment for amnesia in my second year at art school. When do you plan to go? I’ll be very happy to take next week off, if you like.’
‘No pressing deadlines?’
‘I’m on top of things.’
‘You’re always on top of things.’
‘It will be good to have a few days at home, give Jack some motherly TLC. I’m becoming excited about this scheme of yours, darling. We might finally do it, this time.’
His eyes were taken by some momentary movement beyond the window, in the shrubs. But it was surely only the bolt into flight of a small bird or more likely a bat. He put his hands over Lillian’s, which were linked by their fingers around his waist. Her skin was smooth and cool and the touch of her never failed to bring the stir of arousal. Repeating himself, aware he was, he said, ‘It really could be the making of us.’
Chapter Three
It was the Monday before he got the chance really to investigate thoroughly the
‘Your dad’s going to take a look, before we commit to anything,’ her mother cautioned.
She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide above a broad smile. James thought the dark romance of the west of England was probably appealing to the latent Goth tendencies his daughter’s wardrobe and reading matter had hinted at. She was an imaginative girl. She was also very much at the centre of her own drama. She probably wouldn’t miss her friends as much as he had feared she might. In what he knew of her evolving social life, she led rather than followed. She was not as hostile to her school as Jack was to his. She had not been given reason to be. Nor, though, was she attached to school as emotionally as some children became.
Children were ruthless and elitist in an instinctive way caring adults learned to temper. That was the essence of maturity. But at their ages, among their peers, what mattered about Jack and Olivia was that they were good-looking and skilled communicators and that they each wore fashionable clothes and owned an impressive hoard of cool stuff. They were kids who scored on all counts. And they would be a novelty, wouldn’t they? They would make friends easily. They would have children’s amenability to change. They would probably relocate more painlessly than their parents would.
Olivia turned in as soon as they got back from the restaurant and Jack followed her half an hour later. He had been determined to demonstrate his rank by going to bed later than his younger sister, but by the way he trudged up the stairs, would be asleep the second he closed his eyes.
James took a drink into the study. He looked out of the window. It was never completely dark in central London. There was always some ambient light and with the interior light switched off, he could see the hedges and shrubs at the back of the garden shift and shiver in the night breeze. Lillian followed him in there, reaching her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder, kissing his ear. He looked from the garden to his desk and the book she had illustrated still open on it, at the picture of the looted church.
‘This move could be the making of us, Lily.’
‘I hope so, darling. You haven’t been happy for a long time.’
‘And you’ve thought about leaving me. You have only stayed for the sake of the kids.’
‘Not entirely. I still love you. But you don’t love yourself. You don’t even like yourself much, James. It makes you hard work, sometimes.’
He nodded at the book on the desk. ‘Have you remembered doing that?’
She laughed softly into his ear. ‘The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker,’ she said. ‘No. I haven’t. It’s very curious. I’m going to have to investigate, see if I underwent any treatment for amnesia in my second year at art school. When do you plan to go? I’ll be very happy to take next week off, if you like.’
‘No pressing deadlines?’
‘I’m on top of things.’
‘You’re always on top of things.’
‘It will be good to have a few days at home, give Jack some motherly TLC. I’m becoming excited about this scheme of yours, darling. We might finally do it, this time.’
His eyes were taken by some momentary movement beyond the window, in the shrubs. But it was surely only the bolt into flight of a small bird or more likely a bat. He put his hands over Lillian’s, which were linked by their fingers around his waist. Her skin was smooth and cool and the touch of her never failed to bring the stir of arousal. Repeating himself, aware he was, he said, ‘It really could be the making of us.’
Chapter Three
It was the Monday before he got the chance really to investigate thoroughly the
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