Free The Ex-Wives by Deborah Moggach Page B

the shop, veils of hair hung from the ceiling like seaweed. She crossed the road, clutching her coat to her chest. In her pocket lay pieces of Buffy’s life. It was amazing that nobody guessed what she had in there. Not amazing really, but
she
felt that. She paused at her doorway, fumbling for her keys. The charity shop was dark. Behind the window the mannequin leant towards her; today it was wearing a pillbox hat, set crooked on its bald head.
    Upstairs she took out the wallet of photos and spread them over the table. The photos of the pavement hadn’t been developed. He was either such a hopeless photographer that they hadn’t come out or the lab had presumed they were a mistake, and too boring to print. She leant on her elbows, staring atthe others. A train passed, way below. The table shook, as if there was a séance going on.
    There were several photos of a country cottage; it had a conservatory, with a blurred figure inside it. In other photos various people lay around on rugs in the garden; Buffy was amongst them, fast asleep. He wore a red shirt and baggy blue trousers. Her throat tightened; looking at old snapshots always made her want to cry. Buffy, on some golden afternoon, raising his wine glass at the camera. Probably his wife was taking the photo. He looked younger, but then people in photos always did. Some teenagers, looking sullen. She couldn’t spot a family resemblance but maybe they weren’t his, she didn’t even know if he had any children.
    And one photo of Buffy, standing in a vegetable garden holding up a bunch of carrots. A bunch of carrots! How unlikely. He wore a panama hat and a floppy cravat; there was a broad smile on his face. His arm around a woman with shiny chestnut hair.
    Celeste sat there for a long time, looking at the photo. The sun on the two faces; the woman’s half in shadow, but distinct enough. His wife; you could tell, by the way they stood together. Chestnut hair, cut in a bob; jeans, white blouse.
    Celeste sat there for a long time, gazing at this lost summer’s afternoon, fixed forever. A whole life sheknew nothing about. Buffy, holding up the carrots like a trophy. His hand on his wife’s shoulder. The woman’s lips were parted. What was she saying? Something even they had long ago forgotten. A moment between them, frozen. From time to time a tube train passed beneath the house; Celeste shook, the table shook, her teeth chattered. She gazed at Penny. Now she knew what she looked like. She could memorize the face, now. And she was going to find her.

Eleven
    THE HOUR BEFORE dawn, damp and dark outside, blackness pressing at the windows. In homes all over Britain nothing stirred except the glowing flip of digital clocks, keeping vigil in slumbering rooms. Couples slept back to back, dreaming their separate dreams whose wacky stories would dissolve in the morning like Alka-Seltzer in water. Children’s noses were cold. A click, in a bedroom, as a light was switched on. A click, in a kitchen, as a boiler hummed into life. Lorna was getting ready for work. The floorboards creaked as she crossed the room; behind the plasterwork, pipes hissed as she turned on the taps in the bathroom.
    She lived alone, deep in the countryside. As the sky lightened her cottage grew solid, detaching itselffrom its surroundings as if it were stepping forward. Behind it rose the shoulder of a hill. This was dotted with grey rocks which, as the light grew, revealed themselves as sheep. Below it lay a wood; tangled trees and the inkier clots of conifers. A fox slipped from it and crossed the lawn. Birds pecked at the swinging gibbets of bacon rind; they flew off when she emerged and reappeared when she left. She had lived here for years but she had always felt like a transient, tolerated by the animals who were the real inhabitants of the place. She didn’t mind this; in fact she found it reassuring.
    She bundled herself into her overcoat and scarf, pulled on