The Engagement by Chloe Hooper Page A

balancing. Alexander stepped out of the driver’s side and I felt my heart in my chest like it was a distinct creature. Its shivering made me nauseous. I studied this new stranger, his frame bulked out by farmwear as he walked toward the house. His gait was less diffident. One of the dogs—a young one, I suppose—started barking. Alexander turned and growled at it. He walked on, and when it barked again he pivoted round fast, raising his long arm. The dog yelped in anticipation of a belting, then slunk down, cowed.
    Soon the back door to the house opened and then he was in the kitchen, and as I greeted him I could smell his sweat and dogs and aggression. Unshaven, with skin flushed from the wind, he wore dirty jeans and a wool-lined suede vest over an old blue rugby top. He had taken off his boots and now stood, straight-backed, in thick gray socks, his lips parched, his eyes remote—the king returned to his castle. I’d thought he might hold last night against me, but he came and stood very close.
    “Have you been waiting for a certain someone?”
    I realized I always looked up at him, and he down at me. “Yes.”
    “I like that,” Alexander said. “I like the idea of you here in the house, waiting. Did you miss me?”
    I nodded.
    “But only a little?” He measured some reluctance, shaking his head. “I missed you a great deal.” His smile was gallant, bemused. “And what, may I ask, have you been doing?”
    My heart was still uneasy in my chest. “Not a lot.”
    “Relaxing, perhaps?” He waited.
    I waited too, not wanting him to know I was shaken by his little play with the locked doors.
    “Forgive me for leaving you here alone. I’ve had a busy morning.” At the sink he got himself water, and the glass appeared fragile in his hands. His right knuckle was cut up, scratched. “A ewe got trapped,” he explained, when he saw me notice. “An elderly ewe in an elderly fence.” Putting the glass down, he walked to the fridge and took out three plastic containers. A picnic basket rested on the benchtop, and he put the containers into it. “Liese, I thought I might take you on a drive.”
    “Where to?”
    “Well, if you wouldn’t mind, the national park, although first I’d like to show you the farm. Would that suit?” He looked like a hard man, but the way he spoke could be almost effete. “You’ll need some different clothes. Please, come with me.”
    From the cloakroom’s bluestone walls hung rows of oilskin coats, stiff with grime. Underneath the coats were compartments full of riding helmets and work clothes and old boots covered in ancient dust. Alexander reached into one compartment and handed me a heavy khaki woman’s shirt and trousers. Taking them, I paused.
    The gun I should have known would be in the house rested against the wall. A double-barreled thing.
    Alexander watched me hesitate. “Would you prefer I turn around?”
    I shrugged.
    After last night there were no coy flourishes, no suggestive moves, and as he watched me strip, his expression was wry but appraising, as if he were evaluating my condition: the muscle and flesh and skin tone. I stood in my underwear, expensive lace contrivances I’d selected for the role, goose-pimpled from the cold stone under my feet, trying not to tremble while holding his gaze.
    “You seem nervous. Is something wrong?”
    “I’m freezing.” The moment broke, and I hurried to cover myself.
    His eyebrow went up in a little parody of concern. “You’re sure there’s no problem?”
    Mentally I weighed the thick envelope of cash upstairs. “What could possibly be wrong?”
    Alexander’s expression gave nothing away. He chose a jacket, a sheen of wear around the collar and wrists, and placed it over my shoulders. A perfume then of lavender and dog. My arms through the sleeves, he half lifted me around and carefully fastened each button. In such a small space he took up most of it; his face was in my face. I hadn’t seen him unshaven