is important.’
‘And he’s no more likely to give us that than to sell his grandchildren.’
‘Then again . . .’ She smiled coquettishly. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘What’s your price?’
‘Venice,’ she replied immediately.
‘This had better be worth my while.’
‘Take me to Venice, Harry, and I guarantee to make it worth your while.’
‘Great, but I can’t wait till Venice.’
‘That’s your trouble, Harry, always in a hurry. Just like last night.’
‘Jemma, dammit, I’ll—’
‘Brussels.’
‘What?’
‘Whoever he’s getting it from, it has to be in Brussels.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He doesn’t go anywhere else.’
‘But . . .’
‘Brussels,’ she whispered. ‘Trust me.’ She took him by the arm and began leading him down the street. ‘You know, if you stopped rushing things, Harry, there’s
no telling how far you might get.’
The hedgerows were hung with berries covered in hoar frost that sparkled exquisitely in the sunlight like precious stones. Underfoot the snow was covered with a thick crust of
ice, and at every step their boots hesitated before breaking through to the firmer ground beneath. Felix Wilton followed behind his wife, along the track through the fields, treading in her
footsteps. It would be their last outing before Patricia returned to Brussels, and she was lost in thought, her head bowed, heedless of the endless views across Wiltshire on such a crystal-crisp
day. There was no sound, except for their footfall. In a few weeks, when the thaw had arrived, the hedgerows would fill with life once more, but for now Felix and his wife were wrapped in a world
of white silence.
They walked for several miles, in tandem, no words, the shadows lengthening, before they came to a farmer’s metal gate in a field above their cottage. Only then did he draw alongside her
to open it. ‘Will you want rice or potatoes with your salmon?’ he asked, thinking ahead, his words emerging in clouds of frost.
She said nothing, walked through the gate he held open.
‘Rice, then,’ he muttered.
‘Sorry?’ She looked up, puzzled.
‘Nothing.’ She was in another world, and he had learned not to be jealous. She’d been distracted these last few days, withdrawn, sombre, but he hadn’t complained, knew
both her job and her ambition were reaching more difficult ground.
‘Sorry,’ she repeated, this time meaning it. ‘It’s simply . . . I have this problem.’
‘Does this problem have a name?’
‘Harry Jones.’
‘Ah, the politician.’
She’d been worrying about it ever since Hamish had told her of the drink, and the digging. ‘He’s asking questions.’
‘And that is a problem?’
‘It’s a bit like someone continuously opening the oven door to find out how the soufflé is doing.’
‘Aggravating.’
‘Intensely. Could ruin things.’
The gate was complaining as it swung to on frozen hinges.
‘What do you think I should do, Felix?’ she asked, grasping the gate, needing to make up her mind before they moved on. His hand came and covered hers. While they never slept with
each other they would still touch, share moments of intimacy, like this.
‘I know what I would do if it were my kitchen, Patricia,’ he said.
‘Tell me. I need to know. It’s important.’
‘I’d slam his bloody fingers in the oven door.’
With a jerk he forced the metal gate back into its place. The lock snapped shut, raising a clatter of complaint that rang in their ears. They said nothing more, walking back in silence to their
door.
At the moment Felix Wilton was scurrying around his kitchen to prepare toasted tea cake and coffee for his wife, Harry was settling back in the warm embrace of his bath. He
stretched his legs, easing the creases of an afternoon spent bent over his desk.
‘You keep your toes to yourself,’ Jemma instructed from the other end of the bath.
Instead of heeding the warning he tickled her, and what had been a gentle
‘And he’s no more likely to give us that than to sell his grandchildren.’
‘Then again . . .’ She smiled coquettishly. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘What’s your price?’
‘Venice,’ she replied immediately.
‘This had better be worth my while.’
‘Take me to Venice, Harry, and I guarantee to make it worth your while.’
‘Great, but I can’t wait till Venice.’
‘That’s your trouble, Harry, always in a hurry. Just like last night.’
‘Jemma, dammit, I’ll—’
‘Brussels.’
‘What?’
‘Whoever he’s getting it from, it has to be in Brussels.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He doesn’t go anywhere else.’
‘But . . .’
‘Brussels,’ she whispered. ‘Trust me.’ She took him by the arm and began leading him down the street. ‘You know, if you stopped rushing things, Harry, there’s
no telling how far you might get.’
The hedgerows were hung with berries covered in hoar frost that sparkled exquisitely in the sunlight like precious stones. Underfoot the snow was covered with a thick crust of
ice, and at every step their boots hesitated before breaking through to the firmer ground beneath. Felix Wilton followed behind his wife, along the track through the fields, treading in her
footsteps. It would be their last outing before Patricia returned to Brussels, and she was lost in thought, her head bowed, heedless of the endless views across Wiltshire on such a crystal-crisp
day. There was no sound, except for their footfall. In a few weeks, when the thaw had arrived, the hedgerows would fill with life once more, but for now Felix and his wife were wrapped in a world
of white silence.
They walked for several miles, in tandem, no words, the shadows lengthening, before they came to a farmer’s metal gate in a field above their cottage. Only then did he draw alongside her
to open it. ‘Will you want rice or potatoes with your salmon?’ he asked, thinking ahead, his words emerging in clouds of frost.
She said nothing, walked through the gate he held open.
‘Rice, then,’ he muttered.
‘Sorry?’ She looked up, puzzled.
‘Nothing.’ She was in another world, and he had learned not to be jealous. She’d been distracted these last few days, withdrawn, sombre, but he hadn’t complained, knew
both her job and her ambition were reaching more difficult ground.
‘Sorry,’ she repeated, this time meaning it. ‘It’s simply . . . I have this problem.’
‘Does this problem have a name?’
‘Harry Jones.’
‘Ah, the politician.’
She’d been worrying about it ever since Hamish had told her of the drink, and the digging. ‘He’s asking questions.’
‘And that is a problem?’
‘It’s a bit like someone continuously opening the oven door to find out how the soufflé is doing.’
‘Aggravating.’
‘Intensely. Could ruin things.’
The gate was complaining as it swung to on frozen hinges.
‘What do you think I should do, Felix?’ she asked, grasping the gate, needing to make up her mind before they moved on. His hand came and covered hers. While they never slept with
each other they would still touch, share moments of intimacy, like this.
‘I know what I would do if it were my kitchen, Patricia,’ he said.
‘Tell me. I need to know. It’s important.’
‘I’d slam his bloody fingers in the oven door.’
With a jerk he forced the metal gate back into its place. The lock snapped shut, raising a clatter of complaint that rang in their ears. They said nothing more, walking back in silence to their
door.
At the moment Felix Wilton was scurrying around his kitchen to prepare toasted tea cake and coffee for his wife, Harry was settling back in the warm embrace of his bath. He
stretched his legs, easing the creases of an afternoon spent bent over his desk.
‘You keep your toes to yourself,’ Jemma instructed from the other end of the bath.
Instead of heeding the warning he tickled her, and what had been a gentle
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