Swimming Pool Sunday by Sophie Kinsella, Madeleine Wickham

the House of Commons, and …’ she broke off, feeling foolish. ‘You just don’t understand,’ she finished feebly.
    ‘I do understand,’ said Barnaby bitterly. ‘You wish you’d married someone intelligent and important and glamorous. Not a country bumpkin like me.’
    ‘No!’ exclaimed Louise, a little too late. ‘No, don’t be silly.’
    And then Cassian Brown had moved into the village. Smooth and sophisticated and intelligent and charming. Barnaby had distrusted him on first sight. But Louise had been enchanted when, at a welcoming drinks party at the vicarage, Cassian revealed, first that he was interested in politics, and then that Lord Pagehad always been a particular hero of his.
    Cassian was a young lawyer with the biggest law firm in Linningford, a huge prestigious concern with offices in London and all over the world. He had been seconded to the Linningford office for two years to run the commercial litigation department, and had, he said charmingly to Frances Mold, decided to take the cottage in Melbrook as soon as he saw its exquisite view of the church. He smiled at Frances, revealing perfect white teeth against tanned, not quite English-looking skin. Frances said faintly, ‘How nice,’ and Barnaby nudged Louise. ‘What a creep,’ he whispered in her ear.
    But Louise didn’t think he was a creep. On the way home from the drinks party she’d been full of exhilarated chatter.
    ‘He actually remembered that speech of Daddy’s,’ she said, striding ahead into the darkness. ‘That one about housing.’
    ‘It’s a famous speech,’ said Barnaby brusquely. But Louise wasn’t listening; her thoughts had moved on.
    ‘His grandparents were Italian,’ she said. ‘Did you know that?’
    ‘Whose grandparents?’ said Barnaby, feeling a deliberate angry need to misunderstand.
    ‘Cassian’s, of course,’ said Louise. Her voice sounded, to Barnaby, light and happy. ‘Bruni, they were called, but they changed it to Brown when they came to England. It’s a shame, don’t you think? He went to Oxford,’ she added irrelevantly, ‘like Daddy.’
    Barnaby couldn’t bear it any more.
    ‘Do we have to keep talking about this chap?’ His voice thundered through the dark street. Louise turned back, unsure how to react.
    ‘Well …’ she began, in hesitant mollifying tones. But as she marshalled her thoughts, her initial instinctive desire to pacify was taken over by indignation. ‘Well!’ she repeated. ‘So now I’m not allowed to talk toanybody, is that it? One interesting person comes to live in Melbrook and we’re not allowed to talk about him. Well, fine. What shall we talk about? Oh, I know, the lambing. We haven’t talked about that for at least an hour.’
    Her voice held an unfamiliar sarcasm, and Barnaby stared at her through the darkness for a few moments, unable to read her expression. Then he shrugged and walked on.
    ‘What?’ demanded Louise, grabbing him as he went past. ‘What? Aren’t you going to say anything? Talk to me!’
    Barnaby paused and looked at her. Then he said, ‘I haven’t got anything to say,’ and strode on ahead.
    Maybe, thought Louise now, turning over onto her front and resting her sunbaked cheeks on her hands, maybe if Barnaby had talked to her a bit more, instead of listening to all those silly rumours; maybe if he’d trusted her a bit more, then they wouldn’t have had all those awful rows. With a painful jolt, she remembered the last one they’d had. She’d been pink and outraged; he’d been obstinately determined. He’d actually told her, commanded her, to stop seeing Cassian. She’d shrieked back, in frustrated anger, that she was going to see whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and if he didn’t like it he could bloody well move out.
    She still wasn’t sure where those last words had come from, but once they had burst out into the air, there was no taking them back. Barnaby had gazed at her, a look of disbelief on his face, and