enough to take this little risk. When I open them on the other side of the bend I see the straggle of little red houses and street signs that mark the village boundary.
In the small supermarket I fill a basket with groceries and, as an afterthought, a bottle of sparkling wine. While we were apart I barely drank at all, and certainly never alone. Now, just a week after Rex came home, sharing a bottle of wine with him—white, of course—is as much a part of our nightly routine as it was the first summer we spent together. I know that he has missed it desperately. Not just the alcohol but the privilege and the freedom to decide for himself when his day is at an end and to drink in silence or companionship in a home of his own. I drink very differently now. Wine then was usually something I drank to chase pleasure, to incite adventure and then to prolong those moments when they happened. Now it’s something I do to get me through the night. We never get through more than one bottle an evening, or at least we have not done so yet.
I meet Dawn Saunders at the deli counter. Dawn lives in one of the huge houses on Aldeburgh Road and is never knowingly underdressed. Although her husband runs one of the largest employment agencies in the southeast, she has not worked since the day she ceased to be his employee and became his wife. Today she’s in white boot-cut trousers and a taupe wrap top that skims her tidy curves. Her daughter Sophie is in Alice’s class at school, although they will separate next year when Dawn sends her child to the large private school farther up the coast and Alice goes to the local comprehensive. Dawn is an acquaintance but if anyone local asked me I suppose I would call her my friend. We air kiss once, right cheeks not quite touching, and she leans over and peers into my basket.
“Champagne, eh?” she says. It’s Prosecco, but I don’t correct her. Dawn’s voice has the local rounded whine. Certainly her children do not sound like she does, the result of Saturday morning elocution lessons disguised as drama classes. I often wonder why, when she has spent so much of her husband’s money on decorating her house and body, she hasn’t tried to modify her own speech. In her situation, it would be the first thing I would tackle. “What’s the celebration?”
I have remained deliberately enigmatic on the whereabouts of Alice’s father. Some people believe I am a widow, while others believe that his identity is unknown. Telling Dawn about our change in circumstances is tantamount to sticking a notice to that effect on the community bulletin board that dominates the wall behind the cash registers.
“Alice’s dad has come back to live with us.” Her mouth circles and her eyes stand out, making her look like the trout on the slab behind her. “We’ve decided to give it another go,” I say.
“That’s fabulous, Karen,” she says, and touches my forearm with a recently manicured hand. Three diamond rings, engagement, wedding, and eternity, weigh heavily on her ring finger. “It’ll be so good for Alice to have a father around. We must throw a dinner party to welcome him to the community.”
I think of the last dinner party Rex and I attended together, the impromptu supper cooked by Nina and attended by Biba, Tris, and Jo. Dawn’s gathering will be formal and stilted, and the talk will be not of art and travel and love but of house prices and school fees and reality TV shows—until the subject of Rex’s absence is subtly, tactfully broached. It is time, I suppose, that we came up with a story.
By the time I come home, it is apparent that dinner preparations have begun without me. Alice and Rex are elbows deep in a mixing bowl, a recipe book curling on the table before them. Flour clings to every surface in the kitchen and eggshells carpet the floor.
“What are you making?” I say.
“A quiche,” says Rex. There is a smear of dough on his nose and his hair sticks straight up like egg
In the small supermarket I fill a basket with groceries and, as an afterthought, a bottle of sparkling wine. While we were apart I barely drank at all, and certainly never alone. Now, just a week after Rex came home, sharing a bottle of wine with him—white, of course—is as much a part of our nightly routine as it was the first summer we spent together. I know that he has missed it desperately. Not just the alcohol but the privilege and the freedom to decide for himself when his day is at an end and to drink in silence or companionship in a home of his own. I drink very differently now. Wine then was usually something I drank to chase pleasure, to incite adventure and then to prolong those moments when they happened. Now it’s something I do to get me through the night. We never get through more than one bottle an evening, or at least we have not done so yet.
I meet Dawn Saunders at the deli counter. Dawn lives in one of the huge houses on Aldeburgh Road and is never knowingly underdressed. Although her husband runs one of the largest employment agencies in the southeast, she has not worked since the day she ceased to be his employee and became his wife. Today she’s in white boot-cut trousers and a taupe wrap top that skims her tidy curves. Her daughter Sophie is in Alice’s class at school, although they will separate next year when Dawn sends her child to the large private school farther up the coast and Alice goes to the local comprehensive. Dawn is an acquaintance but if anyone local asked me I suppose I would call her my friend. We air kiss once, right cheeks not quite touching, and she leans over and peers into my basket.
“Champagne, eh?” she says. It’s Prosecco, but I don’t correct her. Dawn’s voice has the local rounded whine. Certainly her children do not sound like she does, the result of Saturday morning elocution lessons disguised as drama classes. I often wonder why, when she has spent so much of her husband’s money on decorating her house and body, she hasn’t tried to modify her own speech. In her situation, it would be the first thing I would tackle. “What’s the celebration?”
I have remained deliberately enigmatic on the whereabouts of Alice’s father. Some people believe I am a widow, while others believe that his identity is unknown. Telling Dawn about our change in circumstances is tantamount to sticking a notice to that effect on the community bulletin board that dominates the wall behind the cash registers.
“Alice’s dad has come back to live with us.” Her mouth circles and her eyes stand out, making her look like the trout on the slab behind her. “We’ve decided to give it another go,” I say.
“That’s fabulous, Karen,” she says, and touches my forearm with a recently manicured hand. Three diamond rings, engagement, wedding, and eternity, weigh heavily on her ring finger. “It’ll be so good for Alice to have a father around. We must throw a dinner party to welcome him to the community.”
I think of the last dinner party Rex and I attended together, the impromptu supper cooked by Nina and attended by Biba, Tris, and Jo. Dawn’s gathering will be formal and stilted, and the talk will be not of art and travel and love but of house prices and school fees and reality TV shows—until the subject of Rex’s absence is subtly, tactfully broached. It is time, I suppose, that we came up with a story.
By the time I come home, it is apparent that dinner preparations have begun without me. Alice and Rex are elbows deep in a mixing bowl, a recipe book curling on the table before them. Flour clings to every surface in the kitchen and eggshells carpet the floor.
“What are you making?” I say.
“A quiche,” says Rex. There is a smear of dough on his nose and his hair sticks straight up like egg
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