The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [132]
As I drew back the curtains in the bedroom, my eyes darted across to the other side of the street. Closed curtains at number 52. Still asleep. Alice and her fiancé certainly, and probably for quite some time, but what of her brother? Had he gone back and partied with the best of them, smooched around the dance floor with the redhead in the green halter-neck dress? Or had he gone straight to bed, lain there in the dark, heart pounding, as I had.
I turned quickly from the window. As I bent to pick up my brush on the dressing table I caught my reflection in the mirror. Tipsy-looking almost; cheeks flushed, eyes over-bright, as if I'd been at the bottle.
Giving myself a little inward shake and reminding myself of certain friends of ours involved in unseemly midlife crises, I went downstairs to make a cup of tea. The house was very still, very quiet. Unnaturally quiet: no Brenda, of course. Usually she'd be scrambling up my legs for her breakfast. I went to the calendar on the side of the fridge: flipped over the page. Tuesday the twenty-third. Ant was going on a book tour in the West Country on… the twenty-sixth. Oh. So pretty much the moment he got back, I realized. He'd unpack his suitcase only to re-pack it. I wouldn't see him. Not properly, anyway. I certainly wouldn't be able to talk to him properly. Hear about Bella and Stacey. As much as he'd tell me, anyway. As much as he'd tell me? We'd always told each other everything. But then, I wouldn't tell him about last night, would I? Make a funny story out of it? Make him laugh. I inhaled sharply. I didn't want secrets. Didn't want guilt. I hadn't done anything. And yet, it seemed, I had. We both had. Ant and I. Because what other tender gestures had he been guilty of in Yorkshire? Apart from the one under the cherry tree? My heart pumped. None. Absolutely none, you're imagining things, imagining the worst. The kitchen clock ticked quietly on the wall behind me. Because I had nothing else to do. Wasn't busy. Because I live in this smart town house – clean because Maria had come yesterday, gardened because we had a gardener – so I stood, in my immaculate house, with its hushed old-lady feel, imagining the worst, but also, my mind flew suddenly to Ludo's dark head bending to kiss my neck last night, also, the best.
A few minutes later found me on the other side of the kitchen picking up the phone, punching out a number. Felicity's answer machine was on. I waited for the tone.
‘Oh, hi, Felicity, it's Evie here!’ My voice had taken on an unnatural glittery tone. ‘I was just wondering, if Mum can't make it, I could easily do meals on wheels with you next week. Or, um, any other charity work you do. OK – bye.’
I stared at the phone. On an impulse, I rang Mum. Her machine was on, too and her breathy voice informed me: ‘I'm sorry I'm not here, but if you're ringing about reiki, and would like to make an appointment, please leave a message after the beep.’
I put the receiver down. Where was Mum at eight o'clock in the morning? Jogging round the park, probably. In training for that moonlit breast walk or whatever her latest challenge was. I walked to the windows and gazed out, picking at a spot that was brewing on my chin. A familiar, panicky feeling, one I'd had quite a lot lately, threatened. I turned and went briskly to the laundry room, lifted the wicker basket onto the ironing board, and began sorting the socks at the bottom. But I'd only paired up one or two, before I found myself back in the kitchen, at the French windows, staring out at the leaf-strewn lawn. The phone rang behind me, making me jump. I turned and snatched it up, like a drowning man a life belt.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi,