Free Peacock Emporium by Jojo Moyes Page B

wife’s domestic reputation he had explained that flour made her skin break out in hives.
    A cheese pie was sitting on the shelf. Douglas placed it in the range, closed the door and scanned the kitchen table for an explanatory note. Often they told him little: ‘Darling Douglas, back soon – A’. Or ‘Nipped out for breath of fresh air,’ or ‘Gone for a spin.’ Increasingly she didn’t leave a note at all. Tonight he didn’t mind. He didn’t know if he wanted to talk to anyone at the moment, even his wife.
    He pulled a plate from the dresser, glancing at the framed snapshot of Athene he had taken in Florence. That first year had been wonderful. They had spent three months travelling around Italy, driving Douglas’s red MGB Roadster, staying at tiny pensiones and frequently offending the padronas with their uninhibited expressions of love. Athene had made him feel like a king, screaming delightedly at his driving on the winding mountain roads, draping herself over him as they sipped coffee in pavement cafés, wrapping herself round him needily in the dark. On their return, despite the newly decorated house, her horse, his gift of driving lessons and her own car – she was a hopeless driver: he had long since ceased becoming exasperated by the dents in the bumper – she had gradually become a little less adoring, a little less easy to please. She was not interested in his plans for wealth redistribution. He had hoped she’d be inspired. The idea for it had come from her, after all. ‘Let’s give it all away,’ she had said, one summer afternoon as they picnicked alone by the trout river. ‘Let’s decide who’s most deserving in the village, and then give it away in parcels. Like America and the slaves.’ She was joking, of course. Like when she announced she had a terrible need to sing jazz and he had booked lessons for her as a surprise.
    In fact, over the past few weeks, not that he liked to dwell on it, Athene had been rather demanding. He never knew where he stood – one minute she was flirtatious, clinging to him, trying to charm him into some outlandish plan, the next she was cold and distant, as if he had fallen foul of some unspoken rule. If he dared ask what he had done, she would explode with exasperation, and ask why he couldn’t just let her alone. He had not dared approach her in the dark. He was still smarting from the time two weeks ago when she had physically shoved him off her, accusing him of being like ‘some slobbering animal’.
    He glanced up at the picture of the smiling, uncomplicated wife. It was a fortnight to their second wedding anniversary. Perhaps they might return to Italy for a week or two to give them both a change of scene. He needed to spend some time away from the estate, give himself time to bite down on his disappointment. Perhaps a holiday would make her less irritable, less mercurial.
    She arrived shortly before eight, raising her eyebrows in surprise when she saw the scoured dinner plate in front of him. She was wearing an ice-blue dress and a new white high-collared coat. ‘I didn’t realise you would be home so early.’
    ‘Thought you might want company.’
    ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. If you’d said I’d have made sure I was here. I took myself off to Ipswich for the afternoon, to go to the pictures.’ She was plainly in a good mood. She swept down to kiss his forehead, leaving an echo of her scent in the air before him.
    ‘Mother said she stopped by earlier.’
    Athene was removing her coat, her back to him. ‘I suppose she still wants me to present a trophy at the village fête. I have told her it isn’t my scene.’
    Douglas stood up and walked to the drinks cabinet, where he poured himself two fingers of whisky. ‘You could try, Athene. She’s not so bad. You could try for me.’
    ‘Oh, let’s not have words. You know I’m no good with families, Douglas.’
    It was a pointless conversation, which had been repeated too many times