got out and opened the door for her.
‘Thank you, John. See you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow, ma’am.’
She walked up the stone steps to the front door and rang on the doorbell, so tired she couldn’t even be bothered to find her keys. The lights were on in the basement flat. Robina had obviously retired for the evening, so the children were definitely asleep. Well, she could hardly be angry about that. It was getting on for nine o’clock – if Edward and Imogen had been up, she would have been furious with the nanny for not putting them to bed.
The door was opened by her housekeeper, who greeted her politely and stood aside to let her pass.
‘Dinner is almost ready, madam. John told us that you were on your way home.’
‘Thank you, Viv. Is my husband home?’
‘In the study.’
‘Thank you. Oh, could you bring me a glass of wine, please? Some of that Menetou-Salon if there’s some open. Or the Chablis if not.’
‘Of course.’ The housekeeper glided quietly off down the corridor.
Tara dropped her briefcase, shuffled off her coat and kicked off her shoes, leaving them where they fell. Someone else would pick them up. What did she pay all these people for after all, if not so that she could do what she felt like from time to time?
She darted up the stairs as quickly as she could, up to the second floor and along the soft, carpeted corridors until she came to the children’s bedroom. She listened at the door for a moment, then opened it and slipped in.
At once she could smell the delicious warmth of their sleeping bodies. Was there anything nicer in the world than the scent of her freshly bathed babies in their clean pyjamas? She went over to Edward’s low white-painted bed and knelt down next to it. She put her face close to his head, inhaling his sweet warmth, and tenderly stroking his fair head. His face, softly illuminated by the glow of his nightlight, was as perfect as a sleeping cherub’s, lashes swooping down on his cheeks and little bow mouth slightly open. She stayed there a long while before kissing him and whispering, ‘Night, night, darling’.
Then she padded across the room to Imogen, who sighed and turned in her sleep. She hadn’t been long in her big-girl bed and she had chosen one with a fairy canopy above it and two small curtains of candyfloss pink gauze. While Tara didn’t like to give in to the absurd amount of pink little girls were encouraged to adore, she couldn’t help letting Imogen have her way. Now she was tucked up under her patchwork quilt, a tiny princess in her miniature bed.
Tara knelt beside Imogen, smoothing her daughter’s hair and gazing on her peaceful little face.
Her sleep is so untroubled
, Tara thought. She had no idea of the big, complicated world that awaited her. Imogen gave another little snuffly sigh and turned over, snuggling back down again.
‘Sleep well, darling. See you tomorrow,’ Tara breathed. Then she tiptoed quietly out, closing the door gently behind her. She returned downstairs to the hall, wondering where Gerald was. Walking across the hall, she went to the study door and listened at it for a moment. She could hear the sound of the television and Gerald’s voice booming over the top of it. Opening the door, she walked in.
The room was very much in Gerald’s taste: fake-old with a touch of brash. Brand new dark wood panelling covered the walls and along them ran library bookshelves, where hundreds of leather and gilt volumes were shut away behind wire doors. Gerald had bought them by the metre and not one had been taken off the shelf since the day they’d been put there. The room was oppressively masculine: hunting trophies adorned the walls, though Gerald had not so much as shot a rabbit, model yachts sat in full miniature sail on lacquered side tables and antique golf clubs were displayed in museum-like glass cases. Among all this, the huge Bang & Olufsen plasma screen television looked jarring, a piece of
‘Thank you, John. See you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow, ma’am.’
She walked up the stone steps to the front door and rang on the doorbell, so tired she couldn’t even be bothered to find her keys. The lights were on in the basement flat. Robina had obviously retired for the evening, so the children were definitely asleep. Well, she could hardly be angry about that. It was getting on for nine o’clock – if Edward and Imogen had been up, she would have been furious with the nanny for not putting them to bed.
The door was opened by her housekeeper, who greeted her politely and stood aside to let her pass.
‘Dinner is almost ready, madam. John told us that you were on your way home.’
‘Thank you, Viv. Is my husband home?’
‘In the study.’
‘Thank you. Oh, could you bring me a glass of wine, please? Some of that Menetou-Salon if there’s some open. Or the Chablis if not.’
‘Of course.’ The housekeeper glided quietly off down the corridor.
Tara dropped her briefcase, shuffled off her coat and kicked off her shoes, leaving them where they fell. Someone else would pick them up. What did she pay all these people for after all, if not so that she could do what she felt like from time to time?
She darted up the stairs as quickly as she could, up to the second floor and along the soft, carpeted corridors until she came to the children’s bedroom. She listened at the door for a moment, then opened it and slipped in.
At once she could smell the delicious warmth of their sleeping bodies. Was there anything nicer in the world than the scent of her freshly bathed babies in their clean pyjamas? She went over to Edward’s low white-painted bed and knelt down next to it. She put her face close to his head, inhaling his sweet warmth, and tenderly stroking his fair head. His face, softly illuminated by the glow of his nightlight, was as perfect as a sleeping cherub’s, lashes swooping down on his cheeks and little bow mouth slightly open. She stayed there a long while before kissing him and whispering, ‘Night, night, darling’.
Then she padded across the room to Imogen, who sighed and turned in her sleep. She hadn’t been long in her big-girl bed and she had chosen one with a fairy canopy above it and two small curtains of candyfloss pink gauze. While Tara didn’t like to give in to the absurd amount of pink little girls were encouraged to adore, she couldn’t help letting Imogen have her way. Now she was tucked up under her patchwork quilt, a tiny princess in her miniature bed.
Tara knelt beside Imogen, smoothing her daughter’s hair and gazing on her peaceful little face.
Her sleep is so untroubled
, Tara thought. She had no idea of the big, complicated world that awaited her. Imogen gave another little snuffly sigh and turned over, snuggling back down again.
‘Sleep well, darling. See you tomorrow,’ Tara breathed. Then she tiptoed quietly out, closing the door gently behind her. She returned downstairs to the hall, wondering where Gerald was. Walking across the hall, she went to the study door and listened at it for a moment. She could hear the sound of the television and Gerald’s voice booming over the top of it. Opening the door, she walked in.
The room was very much in Gerald’s taste: fake-old with a touch of brash. Brand new dark wood panelling covered the walls and along them ran library bookshelves, where hundreds of leather and gilt volumes were shut away behind wire doors. Gerald had bought them by the metre and not one had been taken off the shelf since the day they’d been put there. The room was oppressively masculine: hunting trophies adorned the walls, though Gerald had not so much as shot a rabbit, model yachts sat in full miniature sail on lacquered side tables and antique golf clubs were displayed in museum-like glass cases. Among all this, the huge Bang & Olufsen plasma screen television looked jarring, a piece of
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