The Judas Tree, page 18
She shook her head. ‘It’s both our faults. You’ve transformed it.’
‘All of this wasn’t about the garden,’ he said. ‘I don’t give a shit about the garden. I did it for you. To show you I care and that I’m going to do everything I can to make things better.’ Still she wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I love you.’
She picked a single blade of grass and ran it through the tips of her fingers. Why wasn’t she speaking? Why wasn’t she telling him she loved him too? Dread sat in the pit of his stomach like lead. ‘Harmony?’ He paused. ‘Do you want to try and make this work?’ He regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. What would he do if she said no?
Finally, she looked at him. She was chewing on her lip and he noticed a small red graze. ‘I’m confused, but I know I love you too. But I’m worried it’s all too late.’ She looked like a child, her eyes large and wet with tears, vulnerable and exposed.
‘I wish we could turn back the clock and do things differently.’
‘I wish that too.’
‘Hey,’ he said with a smile, ‘don’t worry. We have plenty of time to talk. Are you hungry? Would you like to eat?’
‘Yes,’ she said, softly. ‘I am a bit.’
He was filled with a sense of relief, as if her accepting supper in the garden was a step in the right direction. Though they talked as they ate, they avoided anything of importance, and conversation was stilted, as if they were on an awkward blind date, sticking to neutral subjects, small talk, safe subjects, which had the effect of magnifying the cracks in their relationship rather than helping heal them. She asked him about the garden. How much had he cleared? How hard was the earth to dig? He described the stag beetle larvae he’d found, two fat white grubs resembling a pair of albino slugs, which he’d reburied because he read somewhere they were endangered. And he told her about Frank’s cat, Pinwheel, who was hit by a car and lost a leg.
‘Poor thing,’ she said. ‘Can he walk OK?’
‘Frank says he hops about as if born with three.’
The sky eventually grew dusky and with it came a chill. Harmony rubbed her arms.
‘Are you cold?’ Will asked. ‘I can run and get you a sweater?’
‘I think I’ll go in,’ she said, standing. ‘I might take some work to bed; I’ve some notes to read through.’
He stood too and they faced each other.
‘We’ll be OK,’ he said.
His sentence hovered in the still air as if unfinished. She folded her arms across her stomach and looked at the ground. He had a sudden feeling she was floating away from him, that if a heavy gust of wind blew she’d be carried away with it, and reached out for her instinctively.
‘You meant it when you said you loved me, didn’t you?’
She lifted her trembling hand and placed it flat against his cheek.
‘Because if you do, that’s enough.’
‘Is it?’ She dropped her hand from his face. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Of course it is. Nothing is more important than that. If we love each we can work it out.’
She bent to pick up the tray and carried it back inside.
Will blew out the sickly-sweet citronella candles. He closed the parasol and threw the last olive into the bushes, then picked up the glasses and gathered the rug and followed her in. He suspected their marriage was over. It was there in her eyes. She was distant from him; she had been since the miscarriage, but there was something else there now, something he couldn’t pin down. She hadn’t been able to look at him, the only touch she’d given him was when she’d placed her hand on his cheek, and that gesture held more regret and sadness than he’d thought possible. It was as if she were saying goodbye. Helplessness gave way to anger, which blew in like a sea wind, bringing with it images of Alastair Farrow, leering at him with malignant eyes.
Will didn’t go to bed. Instead, he sat in the living room and stared mindlessly at the television, desperate to keep his mind off Farrow. He watched the news, then a poorly written Australian drama with jerky camera work, then a repeat of a satirical comedy show, replete with canned laughter and a smug presenter in a shiny suit. But as much as he tried to keep Farrow from his head, he was there. He thought about the message on Facebook.
No hard feelings.
He walked through to the study and turned the computer on, logged on to Facebook. He reread the message – Farrow’s pudgy, balding head beside it – and a bilious wave of anger tore through him.
‘You shit,’ he said, his voice loud against the quiet. ‘You absolute piece of shit. This is all your fault.’
Then he pressed reply.
Hi Alastair, Good to hear from you. A drink sounds great. It’s been a long time. I happen to be coming over your way for work next week. Are you able to meet up for a quick one, maybe Tuesday or Wednesday? Thursday would work at a push. Let me know. Will.
He jammed his finger on the return key and his message etched itself into the computer screen.
Chapter Eighteen
Emma Barratt-Jones walked into the kitchen and dumped her shopping bags on the black granite worktop that shone like a mirror. She sighed. It was quiet. Too quiet. She didn’t like it when the house was this empty, just her rattling around between school drop-off and pick-up. Nearly all her friends moaned about the school holidays, about the children under their feet, the mess, the constant I’m-bored-mummy whining. Not Emma. No, Emma loved the holidays. The house came alive when Josh and Abi were around. Listening to them playing and tearing around, cooking for them, chatting with them, laughing together, was bliss. The children gave this vacuous, often lonely, life of hers meaning. While they were at school the house was dormant, a museum; the only noise she could hear over the silence was her own breathing and the incessant ticking of the clock in the hall.
As she unloaded the shopping bags, she caught sight of the worktop around the sink and oven. The sunlight streamed in through the windows, highlighting a fine layer of otherwise invisible dust. She left the shopping and took the J-cloth from where it hung, folded and damp, over the rise of the expensive designer tap. She wiped the surfaces, making sure every speck of dust was lifted. Then she rinsed the cloth and refolded it over the tap. She returned to the shopping bags and thought about Ian. She’d tried to call him that morning but he’d been too busy to talk to her. His secretary was vague, as if she was hiding something, and Emma suspected she was lying when she said Ian was in back-to-back meetings and unavailable all day. Nothing was right with him at the moment. It worried her. She was usually very good at knowing what was wrong with him and how to soothe him. She was a good wife. She knew that. She kept an immaculate house. She listened to him. She didn’t shop as much as Ian would have their friends believe. In fact, she prided herself on being frugal by nature, something that came from her upbringing. Watching her mother make herself sick with the stress of trying to feed their family of six on next to nothing had stayed with her. Emma never wasted food and always shopped in the sales and took advantage of special offers. She was confident she was upholding her side of the marital bargain. But over the last few months Ian had drawn away from her and nothing she did seemed to bring him any closer, or provide him any relief or comfort. She felt redundant and helpless.
After putting the last of the shopping away, she folded the canvas bags neatly and put them into the drawer then turned the kettle on. She waited while it boiled noisily. When it clicked off, and the rumbling boil ceased, the kitchen was plunged back into dreary quiet. She went through the ritual of making a cup of tea, despite not wanting one. What she wanted – no, what she needed – was to talk to someone; the god-awful quiet was eating away at her. She leant back against the worktop and reached for the phone.
‘Hello?’ said Harmony.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘A little, but don’t worry. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday.’
Emma could hear the tightness in her voice and knew Harmony was deep in her work. ‘It’s OK, I know how busy you are. Sorry to disturb you. I hope you weren’t in a meeting or anything.’
‘I’m working from home today.’ Harmony sighed heavily. ‘My boss sent me a pretty blunt email last night asking for some changes to a report I’m writing. I’m finding it hard to focus, though.’
‘Anything wrong?’ Emma leant on the worktop on her elbows, chin resting on her hand. Harmony seemed to hesitate. Emma ran her finger back and forth over the granite and waited for her to speak. She thought she heard Harmony sigh again.
‘No, not really.’
‘Have you got time for a chat?’
‘Yes,’ Harmony replied. ‘I could do with a break.’
They talked about this and that. Emma could tell there was something wrong. Harmony wasn’t herself, she sounded tight and withdrawn, and she wondered if she’d done something to upset her, though for the life of her she couldn’t imagine what.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked.
There was a pause. Another sigh. ‘Oh, Em. It’s not great, to be honest. Will and I are having a bit of a tricky time.’
‘You and Will?’ Emma exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it. What’s happened?’
Harmony didn’t answer.
‘Harmony?’
‘It’s complicated and …’ She paused. ‘And, oh God, it’s got so messy.’
‘Look, you’ve had an incredibly tough time. Having a miscarriage is a difficult thing to cope with. You need time to get over it, that’s all.’
‘I think, I somehow blamed him for it. But that wasn’t fair, was it? It wasn’t his fault. I’m always too hard on him.’
Emma furrowed her brow. ‘Too hard on him? No. I don’t think you are at all. Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know. I just wonder whether I’m understanding enough. Sympathetic enough. I mean, like when he gave up his photography. He was so disappointed, had the wind knocked out of him and … oh … I don’t know … I just can’t remember if I was kind to him.’
‘You weren’t unkind. Not as far as I was aware anyway. I’ve never known you be unkind to anyone or anything in your life. Least of all Will. You’re very practical and logical about things. The photography wasn’t working, he decided to give it up, you supported him in his wine venture.’
‘Maybe that’s what I mean. I was so focused on the idea of him setting up the shop and didn’t sympathise enough about him giving up his dream. I think I always thought he should do something with wine, having worked in the industry for so long. The photography sideline seemed like a distraction. I should have been more encouraging and more understanding when it didn’t take off.’
‘You’re being very hard on yourself,’ Emma said. ‘Someone has to think about the money coming in. He seemed to realise, certainly when Ian and I spoke to him, that businesses go under all the time. He said he always knew it would be hard to make the photography pay. But, look, it’s worked out brilliantly with the wine shop and he seems to enjoy it.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘I just wonder if we’re all too dismissive of other people’s dreams.’
‘Listen, I’ve known you a very long time and you aren’t that type of person. Look at you now, worrying about it. You take everything very seriously. It was a few years ago anyway and he always seems so content and relaxed. I …’ She was stopped in her tracks by a sudden wave of emotion, knowing she wouldn’t be able to say the same thing about Ian. ‘Sorry,’ she managed. ‘Give me a sec.’
‘Are you crying?’
Emma moved the phone away from her face and pressed her sleeve into her eyes to hold her tears at bay. ‘No,’ she said, bringing the phone back. ‘Not really.’
‘What a pair we are,’ Harmony said gently. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Probably nothing.’ She paused. ‘I’ve had one of those weeks, that’s all.’
‘Go on, talk to me. I can hear you’re upset.’
‘I am a bit.’ She paused again. ‘Are you sure you have time? You should be working, shouldn’t you?’
‘Don’t be daft. Of course I’ve got time.’
Emma dried more tears with her sleeve. Then she rubbed at an invisible mark on the worktop. ‘There’s something up with Ian.’
‘What type of something?’
Emma hesitated, shaking her head again, grimacing at the sound of the words out loud. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘He’s not himself. He’s working late and drinking so much more than usual. He looks exhausted and is irritable with all of us. The children have noticed it. I know there’s something wrong, but he won’t tell me. He keeps saying he’s fine. I know he’s not.’ She paused. ‘I’m so worried.’
‘Do you have any idea what it might be?’
‘I’m not sure. It could be all sorts of things. He’s just so tense.’ She gave a frustrated groan. ‘I keep catching him on the phone talking quietly or taking a call then shutting himself away in his office to talk. I asked him about it last night but he got so angry. He shouted at me and he never shouts. He told me there was nothing wrong and he just wanted me to leave him alone. But …’ She hesitated again. ‘Oh, God. I think he’s having an affair.’
She paused, waiting for Harmony’s reaction, but she was silent.
‘Harmony?’ she said. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, I heard you,’ she said. ‘I …’ Emma could tell she was struggling to speak. ‘I’m sure he’s not.’
‘Are you? I’m not sure at all. In fact, I’m convinced. I can’t think of anything else. He worked late twice last week but when I called his direct line there was no answer. He’s secretive and won’t look me in the eye.’ She sighed. ‘He hasn’t wanted sex in over a month and you know what he’s like. I mean, it’s Ian, he’s usually all over me like a rash.’
Harmony was quiet again. Maybe it was the wrong time to bring up her suspicions about Ian. ‘I’m sorry, I know you probably have enough on your plate worrying about you and Will without me adding more marriage problems into the mix.’
‘I’m sure he isn’t having an affair,’ said Harmony, so quiet Emma could hardly hear her.
Emma had hoped Harmony would scoff at the idea. She wanted her to tell her not to be so ridiculous, then reassure her Ian wasn’t capable of such a thing. That he loved her and was probably just dealing with problems at work. But there was a reticence in her voice. She was holding something back. It was almost as if she suspected Ian herself.
‘I always imagined I’d be one of those wives who wouldn’t get her knickers in a twist over this sort of thing. You know, husband gets a mistress, one less job on the to-do list, but, well, truth is I do mind. I mind a lot. I mean, God, I just cried. I don’t cry. I mean, when do I ever cry?’
‘Never.’
‘Exactly. Last night I cried proper buckets. I had to hide in the larder, sobbing my eyes out. The children thought I was eating secret chocolate biscuits.’ She breathed out heavily. ‘I don’t want to lose him, Harmony. We’ve been together too long. He’s my husband and I know he’s no angel – he’s a bloody pain most of the time – but I love him.’
Harmony was quiet again.
‘And, oh God,’ she said, her voice weak. ‘The children? If he leaves us … how will I tell them?’
‘He’s not going to leave you.’
Emma sniffed. ‘At the moment he can hardly look at me.’
‘Have you asked him about it?’
‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t want him to tell me he’s fallen in love with someone else. Honestly. I don’t want to know. I just want him to get it out of his system and come back to me.’ Emma stopped speaking then, overwhelmed by tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed through sobs.
‘Do you need me to drive down?’
Emma knew from her voice that she didn’t really want to. Not that she’d expect her to. ‘That’s sweet of you to offer, but it’s too far and you have work. I’ll be fine. I just needed to share it with you. You’re probably right. It’s bound to be me overreacting as usual. I know he’s got lots going on at the office.’ Emma laughed through the end of her tears. ‘I’ll cook him a steak and kidney pie tonight. Remind him why he loves me.’
Emma nodded, bolstering herself, then took a couple of breaths and exhaled slowly. ‘Right. I am absolutely fine. Everything is absolutely fine. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.’
Chapter Nineteen
Will waited in his car outside the pub. Rain hammered at the windscreen and, despite it still being early, the black clouds that hung low overhead darkened the sky. He’d answered Alastair’s chirpy message which suggested Tuesday in a similarly enthusiastic style. He’d ended with a cheery ‘looking forward to it’ and had a quickly returned reply saying likewise.
Will continually questioned his motives: as he pressed send on the messages, as he grabbed his car keys and walked out of the flat, as he drove to Camberley. Yet despite all the uncertainty, despite almost turning around a hundred times, there he was, in the car park of the Dog and Duck, there to meet up with Alastair Farrow.
He took a breath, patted his hands against the driver’s wheel, then unclipped his seat belt. ‘Come on, you can do this,’ he whispered, though as he walked towards the pub, he wondered what it was he actually wanted to do. He had no idea.
The pub was low-ceilinged, with a brash tartan carpet and horse brasses that hung on black-painted beams, and cheap dark tables with wooden chairs with green PVC seat pads. It smelt of old beer, last Sunday’s roast, and the faint tang of bleach. Will walked up to the bar and smiled at the heavy-set barman who was wiping a cloth over one of the beer taps.
‘Yes, mate,’ he said, balling the cloth and dropping it onto the counter.
‘What do you have in the way of red wine?’
‘Large or small?’
‘Is there a wine list?’
The man shook his head. ‘Choice of two. Merlot or Cab Sauv.’
Will nodded. ‘A large Cabernet Sauvignon and a bag of ready salted, please.’ He kept his eyes on the bar and focused on the voices behind him in the hope of picking out any that might be familiar. He hated how anxious he was. It was ridiculous; years had passed. He forced himself to turn around to check the pub properly. He spotted Alastair immediately. Having studied his photographs on Facebook for a considerable amount of time, he recognised him easily. He was sitting at a table in the corner, scrolling his phone, thumb working rhythmically, expression unchanging. He wore a green sweater with a pink shirt, a gold watch on his right wrist, brown cord trousers and tan leather shoes with a stripe of red sock just visible. As he studied him Will felt his knees give way. He reached for the bar to steady himself, breathed slowly and evenly as he allowed the memories of that afternoon to play out, not fighting to block them as he usually would. He felt the thump of fists into his sides and back. He remembered Farrow’s smell; cigarettes, school soap, alcohol. He felt his full weight on him as Farrow held him down and pushed his face into the dirt, struggling and panicking as that weight squeezed the air from his lungs.
