The Prodigal Wife Read Free Page A

your mother is dead.’
    No, no. Things relating to the emotions were best kept hidden; not talked of; stiff upper lip.
    Are we the first generation to need to be friends with our children?
    Well, she did need to be friends with Henrietta. She wanted to encourage and support and be there for her. But, oh, the grief and anxiety not to be shown, never to be shown, just gnawing away inside.
    Henrietta’s little pinched white face: ‘Is Daddy leaving us because I got bored of cleaning out Boris properly?’
    Boris was the hamster, a handsome, benign, if intellectually limited, creature.
    â€˜Bored with , darling, or by . No, of course he isn’t. It’s just that sometimes friendships stop working properly.’
    â€˜But Daddy’s still friends with me?’
    â€˜Of course he is. And always will be.’ Until he’d written to his daughter when she was fifteen; a creamy white envelope containing a message as destructive as a bomb whose fallout was still causing damage nearly twelve years later.
    Cordelia sat down and stared at the computer screen, unhelpfully blank just like her mind. How inept she’d been at the time. How ineffectual and helpless. She’d felt exactly the same when she’d arrived in Tregunter Road a month ago to find the place in turmoil.
    Suddenly the screen seems to dissolve before her eyes and instead she sees Henrietta’s face, her eyes wary, the old familiar shadow slicing down between them like a sword, cutting off any exchange of warmth and love.
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    She’s up in London for a lunch at the Arts Club with her agent. She stays with friends in Fulham but drops in, as arranged, to see Henrietta on the way to Dover Street. As soon as the door opens she knows that something is wrong. The usual atmosphere of busy conviviality is missing. No sound comes from the two big basement rooms from which Susan directs her small but successful mail-order business, and the kitchen is deserted: no Iain snatching a moment from his computer with the morning paper and a cup of coffee; no children running in from the garden to greet her.
    Cordelia puts her bag on the table, looks around puzzled.
    â€˜Is it a bad moment?’ she asks.
    Henrietta’s eyes are enormous with shock. ‘Iain’s gone,’ she says. ‘He’s just packed up and gone.’
    They stare at each other. ‘Gone?’ Her own voice is husky, fearful. ‘D’you mean he’s left Susan?’
    Henrietta nods. Suddenly her expression changes, grows distant. ‘Yes, gone. This morning. Apparently he’s been having an affair for ages. Susan’s gutted.’
    They continue to stare at each other; other memories surfacing, resentment stirring. Susan’s voice is heard, calling from upstairs, and a child is crying.
    â€˜You’d better go,’ says Henrietta quickly. ‘Sorry, but she won’t want to see anyone just yet and I’m trying to keep the children out of her hair,’ and Cordelia acquiesces at once, letting herself out of the house, hurrying away to Dover Street.
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    â€˜Charteris Soke in Frampton Parva is the only house…’ It was beginning to sound like an estate agent’s enthusiastic pitch rather than a feature on a tiny piece of history. When the telephone rang again Cordelia snatched it up almost fearfully, until she saw his initials.
    â€˜Dilly?’
    The sound of his voice, the silly, familiar nickname, filled her with joy and relief. As her shoulders relaxed and she took a deep, deep breath she realized how very tense she’d been.
    â€˜Darling. Wasn’t it fun? When shall I see you?’
    â€˜I could be with you about tea-time. Would that be good?’
    She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘You have no idea how good,’ she answered. ‘’Bye, darling.’
    Cordelia stood up and went back to the kitchen, then out on to the wide stone balcony carved from the cliff, which