mental energy was
elsewhere, willing him on to succeed. Then when the phone did finally ring, and she was officially permitted to join him for their holiday – oh my goodness, the great rush of pride and joy
she felt every time. ‘Well done,’ she would cry, more ecstatic than him, even. ‘Well done, darling. I’m on my way.’
She’d glimpse him as she drove up the lane, waving both arms above his head on the terrace, almost knocking off that ridiculous straw hat he liked to wear. He’d be unshaven and
dishevelled by then, of course – feral, she’d tease him – but brimming with elation, work done, time to have some fun.
She tried not to think about that now as she carefully packed the last few things: her toothbrush and toiletries, a handful of Teddy’s plastic dinosaurs she’d found solemnly standing
sentry around the shrubbery the other day, where he must have forgotten them, and, somewhat reluctantly, Alec’s final manuscript, neatly printed and slotted into a cardboard folder. ‘Do
you think you could get back to me by the beginning of August?’ Eleanor, his editor, had said on the phone the other day, her voice rather high and tight as if someone was slowly strangling
her. ‘It’s just . . . we’d love to publish it for Christmas as originally scheduled but it’ll have to be a very tight turnaround, so . . .’
Olivia hadn’t promised anything. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to read Alec’s final work, knowing that there would be no further words to come from him. She was worried it
might unhinge her even more.
Anyway, she could think about all of that once she’d arrived in Silver Sands. Everything always seemed easier when one was in Shell Cottage. The London house had felt like a cage ever
since Alec’s death, a prison of sorrow, too airless, too silent, too empty without him. It would do her good to escape.
She zipped up the case, loaded it into the boot and locked the front door, her fingers trembling on the key as she was struck by sudden apprehension about the long journey ahead and whether she
could manage it after all.
Come on, Liv,
she imagined him saying to her.
Think of it as an adventure, not a problem, eh?
But as she started the car and drove carefully down the road, she couldn’t help wondering if all her adventures were behind her now. When she missed her husband so desperately, how could
this summer without him contain anything other than sorrow?
To her surprise, Olivia’s spirits did lift a fraction once she had left London and all its impatient, lane-cutting drivers behind. She’d taken Alec’s Audi,
which was much nicer to drive than her ancient Renault, and she filled the car with the swelling crescendos of a favourite violin concerto. As she headed further west, the motorway ran through
rolling green hills and fields of swaying golden wheat, with distant church spires and pretty villages visible beyond. Maybe Robert had been right, she thought: despite the ever-present grief lying
like a lead weight in her gut, getting away might actually do her some good. At the very least, it would mean a break from wandering about the Hampstead house alone, with the terrible sapping
listlessness she’d felt in recent weeks. There would be no ringing phone or doorbell to bother her, and she could spoil herself rotten with lovely long coastal walks, a glass of wine in the
garden as the sun set, and all the books and DVD box sets she’d brought with her in case of rainy days. She might even head out on a boat trip, something seasick-prone Alec had never
enjoyed.
Silver Sands village seemed chilly and grey when she reached it some hours later, and she drove the final few hundred metres up the lane towards Shell Cottage feeling a quiet triumph for having
actually made it there under her own steam. But then the empty terrace came into view – no Alec to greet her this year – and tears immediately pricked her eyes.
No crying,
she ordered herself, blinking
elsewhere, willing him on to succeed. Then when the phone did finally ring, and she was officially permitted to join him for their holiday – oh my goodness, the great rush of pride and joy
she felt every time. ‘Well done,’ she would cry, more ecstatic than him, even. ‘Well done, darling. I’m on my way.’
She’d glimpse him as she drove up the lane, waving both arms above his head on the terrace, almost knocking off that ridiculous straw hat he liked to wear. He’d be unshaven and
dishevelled by then, of course – feral, she’d tease him – but brimming with elation, work done, time to have some fun.
She tried not to think about that now as she carefully packed the last few things: her toothbrush and toiletries, a handful of Teddy’s plastic dinosaurs she’d found solemnly standing
sentry around the shrubbery the other day, where he must have forgotten them, and, somewhat reluctantly, Alec’s final manuscript, neatly printed and slotted into a cardboard folder. ‘Do
you think you could get back to me by the beginning of August?’ Eleanor, his editor, had said on the phone the other day, her voice rather high and tight as if someone was slowly strangling
her. ‘It’s just . . . we’d love to publish it for Christmas as originally scheduled but it’ll have to be a very tight turnaround, so . . .’
Olivia hadn’t promised anything. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to read Alec’s final work, knowing that there would be no further words to come from him. She was worried it
might unhinge her even more.
Anyway, she could think about all of that once she’d arrived in Silver Sands. Everything always seemed easier when one was in Shell Cottage. The London house had felt like a cage ever
since Alec’s death, a prison of sorrow, too airless, too silent, too empty without him. It would do her good to escape.
She zipped up the case, loaded it into the boot and locked the front door, her fingers trembling on the key as she was struck by sudden apprehension about the long journey ahead and whether she
could manage it after all.
Come on, Liv,
she imagined him saying to her.
Think of it as an adventure, not a problem, eh?
But as she started the car and drove carefully down the road, she couldn’t help wondering if all her adventures were behind her now. When she missed her husband so desperately, how could
this summer without him contain anything other than sorrow?
To her surprise, Olivia’s spirits did lift a fraction once she had left London and all its impatient, lane-cutting drivers behind. She’d taken Alec’s Audi,
which was much nicer to drive than her ancient Renault, and she filled the car with the swelling crescendos of a favourite violin concerto. As she headed further west, the motorway ran through
rolling green hills and fields of swaying golden wheat, with distant church spires and pretty villages visible beyond. Maybe Robert had been right, she thought: despite the ever-present grief lying
like a lead weight in her gut, getting away might actually do her some good. At the very least, it would mean a break from wandering about the Hampstead house alone, with the terrible sapping
listlessness she’d felt in recent weeks. There would be no ringing phone or doorbell to bother her, and she could spoil herself rotten with lovely long coastal walks, a glass of wine in the
garden as the sun set, and all the books and DVD box sets she’d brought with her in case of rainy days. She might even head out on a boat trip, something seasick-prone Alec had never
enjoyed.
Silver Sands village seemed chilly and grey when she reached it some hours later, and she drove the final few hundred metres up the lane towards Shell Cottage feeling a quiet triumph for having
actually made it there under her own steam. But then the empty terrace came into view – no Alec to greet her this year – and tears immediately pricked her eyes.
No crying,
she ordered herself, blinking
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