Read Online Second Time Around by Marcia Willett - Free Book Online Page B

cheerfully. ‘Was there some? Never mind. This is extremely filling.’
    Isobel shook her head at her and sat down at the table. She knew quite well that everything was now finished between herself and Simon and the overwhelming misery that had engulfed her when he had first told her about Sally was flooding back. She had been a fool to allow herself to hope; to persuade herself that the affair with Sally was a passing one …
    â€˜Is something wrong?’
    Mathilda’s voice broke in upon her thoughts and Isobel pressed her lips firmly together lest she should burst into tears. She shook her head, trying to smile, and Mathilda stood up and went across to the Rayburn.
    â€˜Tea, I think,’ she said reflectively.
    She pottered to and fro, giving Isobel time to regain her control, and presently the younger woman laughed. It was a rather desperate sound, which almost immediately turned into a sigh, but Mathilda turned to look at her enquiringly.
    â€˜I was just thinking,’ said Isobel. ‘The song is quite wrong. All that business about love being lovelier the second time around. Remember it? Something about it being much more comfortable with both feet on the ground? Quite the reverse, in my case.’
    Mathilda was silent. ‘I don’t think I know it,’ she said at last.
    This time Isobel’s laugh held a note of genuine amusement. ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Now if it had been by Hugo Wolf or Benjamin Britten …’
    â€˜Possibly,’ agreed Mathilda, placing a mug of tea at Isobel’s elbow. ‘I suspect, however, that each composer tends to write about his own experience. Love is a subject which is far too general to pin down to one person’s view of it. It’s as foolish as saying that the Italians are wonderful lovers or that the French are marvellous cooks. It is hardly realistic
to generalise about the entire population of any country. I imagine that it is the same with love. We each have a different experience.’
    Isobel sipped her tea gratefully and wondered what Mathilda’s experience had been. Was it some betrayal that had led to her solitary existence in the cove? She knew she could not ask.
    â€˜At least you didn’t say, “It all depends what you mean by love”,’ she said rather bitterly.
    Mathilda chuckled a little. ‘I didn’t feel that you were quite in the mood,’ she admitted as she sat down again at the table.
    â€˜I’m not,’ said Isobel miserably. ‘Mathilda, what shall we do for Christmas?’
    Hearing the desperation behind the question, Mathilda brought her mind to bear on it. She guessed that it was very important that Isobel should be distracted from whatever was making her so unhappy and given some sort of work or responsibility. She needed, thought Mathilda, to be made use of, to be kept busy. With a tiny inward sigh she prepared to make her own sacrifice.
    â€˜If you are going to be free,’ she said, ‘I should like to ask a favour of you. It would be foolish, at my age, to think that I shall live for much longer,’ she held up a thin hand at Isobel’s protest, ‘and I should very much like to see an old friend before I die. Delia is really too elderly to travel to Devon and if you would be prepared to take on the responsibility—and if you think the car can cope—I should very much like to go to Oxford to see her.’
    â€˜Really?’ Isobel was staring at her in amazement. ‘You mean you’d leave the cove? Good heavens, Mathilda, I never thought to hear such a thing!’
    â€˜Oh, I’ve been known to go visiting occasionally.’ Mathilda watched Isobel thoughtfully, noticing the new interest in her eyes and the colour returning to the pale cheeks. ‘So. Could you manage it, d’you think? It will take some organisation. I’m afraid that my friend is just as hopeless as I am so there will be