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‘Is she?’
‘I don’t know. She’s much more stand-offish than me when I’ve seen her talking to people. She likes them to use her proper title and know their place. A few of them did start calling me ‘your ladyship’ after James succeeded to the baronetcy but I don’t really have time for all that nonsense; plus, as a newcomer, I needed them to like me so I stuck with “Sophie”. I don’t think she cares whether people like her or not, particularly.’
‘She’ll have noticed how much happier people are to see you, though. Another nail in your coffin, if you ask me. It’s sad when people are like that, but there’s nothing you could have done about it without suppressing your personality, which would have made you miserable and probably done no end of harm to your mental health. What happens to your title if you divorce him?’
‘I have no idea, and I don’t care. I’ll be happy to be shot of it if it reminds me of him.’
Our conversation moves on to safer ground as Donald and Margot clear away the starters and bring in the main course of monkfish with steamed vegetables. I’d forgotten that Mum likes to eat fairly lightly when Dad isn’t around. The fish is delicious, but I’m still hungry when I’ve finished.
‘I’m just going to have some fruit,’ Mum tells Donald as he clears away. ‘Sophie might need something more substantial after her adventures. What have we got?’
Donald reels off a list of sumptuous-sounding puddings and I opt for a chocolate mousse with a glass of Sauternes to wash it down. By the time I’ve finished, the alcohol and food are doing their work and I’m starting to feel drowsy. Mum and I retreat to the television room to watch the news, which is full of the latest refugee crisis. I try to stay awake, but obviously fail because the next thing I’m aware of is Mum shaking me gently and suggesting that I might like to go to bed.
The events of the day have definitely caught up with me as I haul myself up the stairs and along the corridors to my room. The house has two wings at either side. Mum and Dad’s bedroom, bathroom and dressing rooms are in one, and my room and the guest bedrooms are in the other, with extra guest rooms in the centre section. Even when I lived here, I pretty much never went into their wing except for once a year at Christmas, when I’d take my laden stocking down to their bedroom and sit between them on the bed to open the presents. I’m not sure why they have so many guest bedrooms; I can’t think of a time when more than a couple of them were in use. I think some of it is just to keep my mother occupied, as she likes to change the décor in them regularly.
Margot has obviously been in at some point, as my suitcases have disappeared and everything has been carefully unpacked. I have to suppress a giggle when I open my underwear drawer and see my knickers and bras all neatly folded and arranged by colour. The bed has been turned down and the room is gently illuminated by a single bedside lamp. A glass of water stands on the bedside table next to my Kindle. In the bathroom, all my toiletries and make-up have been laid out or put away in the cupboards. I brush my teeth and wash my face before getting undressed, folding my clothes neatly as I go, and slipping into the satin pyjamas that have appeared from nowhere.
Already, my life on the farm seems to belong to a different era. Promising myself that I’ll start to make some proper plans tomorrow, I turn off the light and fall asleep within minutes.
14
It’s been a productive day. I opened a new bank account, a process which was nearly derailed when I realised that I didn’t have any money to put in it. Thankfully, Mum came to the rescue and transferred a couple of thousand pounds from their account as a loan while I get myself back on my feet. She also made it clear that, charming as the Land Rover is (her words), it’s not really suitable for life off the farm. Apparently, Gerald has already had to deal with an oil stain that it left on the gravel. I’m idly looking at cars on the internet and trying to work out what the various finance options mean when a commotion in the hallway lets me know that my father is home and, a moment or two later, he marches into the drawing room.
‘Sophie! Your mum told me you were home. How are you?’
‘Hi, Dad.’ I step forward and give him a brief hug and kiss on the cheek. My father is not one for lavish displays of affection. When I was in my teens, I went through a phase of rushing up to him shouting ‘Daddy!’ and wrapping my arms and legs around him, just to embarrass him. He particularly hated it when I did it in public, and he refused to come to my school unless I promised not to do it. I know he loves me though, because he’ll let something slip every so often, like the time I asked him, aged around ten, why I didn’t have any brothers or sisters.
‘Sophie,’ he’d told me, looking deadly serious, ‘when I held you for the first time, I couldn’t believe how perfect you were. I knew straight away that I’d hit the jackpot with you and, as any wise gambler will tell you, when you hit the jackpot it’s time to leave the table.’
It wasn’t until several years later that I got the real story out of my mum, which was that he was so traumatised by the process of her giving birth, seeing her in pain and being unable to do anything about it, as well as all the blood and gore that goes with a birth, that he vowed never to put her through it again and promptly got a vasectomy. Needless to say, I prefer his version of events.
I settle myself back in the drawing room while he goes upstairs to get changed. Mum goes up with him, asking about his day and being every inch the loving wife. It’s nice that they’re still so close after all these years. It was something I’d hoped for in my own marriage, and I can’t help feeling a little envious tonight. Dad always wears a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie when he goes to the office. Once he’s home, however, he’s more of an open-necked shirt and jeans kind of person. He’s a slightly odd shape, so clothes don’t hang very well on him unless they’re bespoke. To look at, he most resembles a boxer. His nose is squashed and bent to one side, apparently a result of a car accident years ago, and he’s squat and barrel-chested. Both my parents worked hard to lose their London accents when he made his first million, but his is still very evident, especially when he gets worked up about something. Physically, I’m nothing like either of them; I’m blonde with blue eyes, where they’re both dark-haired with brown eyes. I did wonder if I was adopted for a while, but they put me straight pretty sharply on that one when I asked.
‘So,’ he says, when he’s poured himself a drink and settled on the sofa next to Mum, ‘give me the summary.’
I give him the broad outlines of the collapse of my marriage, including the multiple infidelities and James selling my necklace. Telling the story like this, in a matter-of-fact way, keeps my emotions at bay. He listens intently and waits for me to finish.
‘What’s the plan now?’ he asks. ‘Divorce or reconciliation?’
‘I think reconciliation’s out,’ I tell him. ‘I made it clear that I would leave him if he did it again, and he went right ahead and did it anyway. I don’t respect him any more, and I can’t be with someone I don’t respect, so I think divorce is the only option, don’t you? I also had a very revealing conversation with Rosalind, where she made it quite clear that the only reason they accepted me as their daughter-in-law in the first place was because I stood to inherit a fortune one day, otherwise they’d never have let me marry James. Pity, in a way. She could have saved me a lot of heartache. Anyway, the point is that she did a lot of damage too.’
‘What a bloody cheek! What does she think is wrong with you, exactly? He was lucky that we let him marry you, from where I see it. Don’t get me wrong sweetheart, I know you were smitten with him, but he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the box, is he?’
‘She thinks we lack class.’
‘Does she, indeed? Well, let me tell you something. Being a baron, or whatever he is, ain’t no bloody use when you don’t have the money to stop your house falling down, is it? Who the hell does she think she is?’
Apart from telling him about the necklace just now, I’ve always been very careful not to share James’ financial situation with Dad, so I’m a little surprised by his latest remark. Mum’s obviously concerned that he’s working himself up and lays a hand on his arm.
‘What do you mean “don’t have the money”?’ I ask.
‘Didn’t he tell you? He was quite candid with me about his financial problems. He even asked me for a loan.’
‘What? When?’
‘When you came over in the summer. You and your mum went off after supper and he stayed behind. We had quite the chat, him and me.’
I’m burning up with embarrassment. How dare James go behind my back and brazenly ask my father for money?
