A Perfect Life by Raffaella Barker Page A

and kissing her. Some small talk. That’s what they need right now, it’s a great libido controller.
    â€˜So, tell me where you come from and what you like about New York.’ He reaches a hand out and pinches the hem of her skirt on her thigh.
    Carrie laughs. ‘I thought we were here to talk about the loft,’ she says.
    â€˜I’d rather talk about you.’ Nick gazes intently at her.
    Carrie looks at him, but cannot hold his gaze. She crosses her legs, swivelling nearer to him, and runs her tongue around her lips. Nick has not had this much fun for years. Adrenalin is pumping though him and he experiences the heady joy he knows is so temporary, of feeling immortal. He reaches out and pushes a strand of her hair back behind her ear. The jolt he feels is as good as a needle full of heroin.

Angel
    The sound of Matt’s car, idling at the bottom of the drive, engine speeding up as he changes through the gears, hangs in the still afternoon and Angel leans against the closed front door, her eyes shut, listening to the sound shrinking, becoming engulfed by other sounds, a blackbird chirruping, the summer coo of pigeons and, further away, the drone of a small plane. Once she has nothing to listen for, she opens her eyes and summer leaps on her, dancing green in the freckled beauty of the beech tree. The peaceful stillness is shocking in contrast to the holiday invasion of children’s clamour, their voices echoing in every waking thought, and often every dream, too. Inescapable until they go out somewhere, and the silence of their absence is more penetrating still. Angel steps away from the house and almost sways, dizzy with a sense of being lonely, her mind travelling as if she is able to see all the way around herself with a video camera. If she was standing on a tall plinth in the middle of awasteland a million miles away she could not feel more alone. She needs to do something, or see someone, to fill the space somehow. Dithering, she begins to kick gravel off the lawn using her bare feet, flicking with her toes, enjoying the concentration it requires to pick up one small stone between two toes and flick it back on to the drive. There is a lot to be said for low-grade labouring at times of emotional stress, and in Angel’s mind, peace begins to flower as she remembers Levin in Anna Karenina and his simple pleasure in scything the hay on his estate. She moves slowly down the side of the lawn, becoming more methodical, right foot up, curl big toe, stretch and point over the stone, gather, twist and fling. So satisfying. And probably very toning, too. The telephone rings and Angel runs back to the house, only marginally distracted from her labours, and trying to remember the name of Levin’s brother.
    â€˜It’s Jake. I’m on the road not far from you and I thought I’d drop by and fill you in on how it’s going so far.’
    Angel swallows but her throat is dry. ‘OK,’ she says. There is no reason for her to be filled in. She is not working. She is out of the loop. He does not need to come. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That would be great. I’m here. Do you want to come with me to the beach to pick up—’
    â€˜I’ll be about two minutes.’
    The floor tiles in the hall are cool, calming the pulse in her bare feet. She stands for a moment holding the telephone, excitement spreading through her veins.Suddenly, for no particular reason, she remembers Levin’s brother was called Nikolai. She catches sight of herself in the cloudy mirror by the door into the kitchen and rushes for the stairs, unknotting the ties of her blue dress as she goes. And into the fluttering quiet, a car speeds up to the house crunching gravel like gunshot. The door clunks open, and the music floating from the car stops. In the silence Angel freezes, suddenly alarmed that she is quite alone in the house. A moment passes. Angel yanks open her wardrobe and pulls out a