Out of Sight

OUT OF SIGHT

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by

Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2011 by Isabelle Grey

The moral right of Isabelle Grey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 0 85738 651 9

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Isabelle Grey
grew up in Manchester and graduated from Cambridge. She began her writing career as an arts journalist for national newspapers and magazines before going on to write television drama, including screenplays for several popular crime series. Under her maiden name, Isabelle Anscombe, she is the author of five non-fiction books. She lives in London.

Patrick leant forward a little towards the woman in the chair opposite. ‘I've explained that an increase of symptoms is a sign that the remedy is taking effect,' he said. Still worried, she looked back into his eyes, wanting – needing – to trust his words. He regarded her steadily, sure from long experience that this was the crisis, the moment when the internal fever, so to speak, would break and the temperature – an emotional temperature, in this case – would subside. As she held onto his gaze, he felt that she was willing from him an essence of the reassuring wisdom she sought.

‘How can I start to feel better when I still don't really understand what's wrong with me? I know you've explained, but—' She grimaced apologetically.

Patrick smiled. His desire for the satisfaction of healing was every bit as deep as hers: the healer also reaped powerful rewards. And he sensed how this woman would feel more profoundly healed if the cure he offered were given up at some psychic cost to himself. He knew, without
understanding or even questioning the process, that it was because he could and did pay this price that his patients recommended him so highly. Exactly what the cost was he chose never to analyse, though he sensed that it was his reticence to which his patients responded most powerfully.

He spoke kindly. ‘It's about past emotional trauma, do you remember?'

She nodded doubtfully. Although twenty years older than he, she nonetheless craved both his authority and his authenticity.

‘An inherited predisposition,' he continued. ‘It may be in your life, or your family, or even your distant ancestors, something that leaves a residue which has a negative impact on the vital force.' He held her anxious gaze. ‘Eat healthily, attune yourself to nature's cycles and seasons, and the remedy I've given you will stimulate your body's healing powers to restore absolute well-being.' He leant forward to cradle her right hand in both his own, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. ‘Trust life. Allow yourself to be healed.' Her shoulders dropped. She sighed deeply, briefly closing her eyes as if in silent prayer. When she opened them again, he could see that the immediate crisis had come and gone. She had accepted his permission to feel better.

Ten minutes later, he saw her out, his last patient of the day. He always welcomed that moment of silence alone in the office. Now that the practice had achieved some success,
it was inefficient not to employ a receptionist, but he resisted the loss of this solitariness. Patrick never liked to feel observed; he refused to conform to the logic of someone else's work patterns, and felt this private moment as his reward for having faced the needy, coaxing, prying eyes of his patients all day.

He tidied away his repertories and other books, the dilutions, tinctures and additional preparations of his
Materia Medica
, closed down his computer, stowed the day's cheques in a desk drawer. As he locked the door of the former shop to which he'd re-located after Daniel's arrival – there were plenty of such premises available around Brighton, village stores forced out of business by out-of-town supermarkets – he took his usual pleasure in the brass plate screwed onto the wall: Patrick Hinde DipHom, RSHom. It was an idyllic summer's evening. The shadows of the elm trees across the road were beginning to lengthen, and he straightened his spine and breathed in the quiet air as he walked up past the side of his building to the yard at the back where he parked his car. He still felt guilty that he drove here every day from Brighton – he who counselled his patients to live natural, organic and carbon-neutral lives – but needs must. He looked at his watch, feeling the first stab of anxiety.

But Daniel seemed fine when he picked him up. He was a stalwart little boy of eighteen months but, every so often when left with his childminder in the mornings, he would grow distressed and cling to his father. Then Patrick found
his son's hot, tearful face unbearable, and felt himself enacting a terrible betrayal every time he clawed himself free of the child and handed him over to Christine. She was a no-nonsense, comfortable woman, the same age as he – thirty-five – yet already, unbelievably, a grandmother. On these occasions, shutting himself into his car outside Christine's unruly terraced house, Patrick would briefly wonder what negative emotion he had passed on to his son, what shameful residue that he was helpless to relieve. Next, he usually found himself with his key in the door beside the brass plate, the drive on to Ditchling accomplished without conscious awareness. But returning this evening he found Daniel chatty and bouncing, wriggling like a trout as Patrick buckled him into his child seat, and gave in to his son's demands for his favourite CD of nursery songs for the drive back through the velvety Downs.

At home, Daniel's buoyant mood continued and Patrick assured Belinda that he would bath the boy and get him ready for bed while she made supper. In echo of the homeopathic premise that water retains an energetic memory, he relished the amphibious pleasure of a baby in water. Since Daniel was a few months old, he had regularly taken him swimming, though he dreaded to think what compounds the Lido at Saltdean might contain. So bath-time was pure fun, especially with summer sunlight still streaming into the narrow room onto Daniel's sturdy wet limbs as he thrashed at the water, releasing delicious throaty chuckles as his father willingly let himself be soaked.

Patrick read Daniel a bedtime story then, retaining the warm imprint of the boy's sleepy body against his, re-entered the kitchen where Belinda was tossing a salad. Ever since first meeting her, he had enjoyed watching Belinda prepare food. More even than when she played the piano or her violin, her actions seemed to sum up who she was: precise, yet tolerant of mess, exercising instinctive judgement about how much or how little was required, tasting as she went along, unreflectingly optimistic about the results. He sat down at the table, smiling.

‘Good day?' he asked.

‘Very. Emma heard she got an interview with the Royal College of Music.'

‘Well done.'

‘Even the principal was pleased.'

‘That's a first.'

Belinda grinned as she placed the salad bowl on the table. ‘Do you want bread?'

‘I'll get it.' As he reached around her, he nestled his hand into the curve of her waist; she was as willowy now as when they first met, less than a year before she fell pregnant.

She turned, placing her hands on his chest, pressing herself against him. ‘Hello.'

In answer, he kissed her, losing his other hand in the warmth beneath the mass of hair that covered the back of her neck, anticipating the pleasure of later love-making. Then both went about the business of putting food on the
table and sitting down to eat. He valued the ease of their silence, their shared assumption that all would undoubtedly be said in due course in a tangle of naked limbs and urgent mouths. Whatever it stemmed from – maybe her brain was hard-wired for music rather than for speech – he found his wife's constitutional incuriousness about words immeasurably restful.

When she did break their comfortable silence, it was, as usual, to deal with practicalities. ‘I'm afraid I ran up a huge bill shopping for your parents. I'll make fish pie for tomorrow night. Will your father survive without meat for three days?'

‘There's nothing he likes more than having something to be unhappy about.' He threw up his hands theatrically. ‘Why the hell can't they stay in Europe and retire to the Italian Lakes rather than move to bloody Esher.'

‘Or France, near your grandmother.'

‘Ha!'

‘What?'

‘Dad can do business in three and a half languages, but outside of work he refuses to converse in any of them. Except for emergencies.'

‘Remind me which one's the half?'

‘Dutch.'

‘Oh yes. Impressive.'

Soothed by the security of Belinda's disinterest, Patrick went on eating, but the familiar nest of vipers had been disturbed and, after a few more mouthfuls, he found himself
thinking aloud. ‘It'll be Josette's ninetieth in October. I guess Maman will think she has to throw a party.'

‘Well, it'd be nice to meet Josette at last. For Daniel, too.' Spearing another tomato, she missed Patrick's unconscious glance towards the door, the nearest escape route. ‘He's her great-grandson, after all,' she continued. ‘Be fun to get a photo of them together.'

Patrick's mouth tightened. He pushed away his plate.

‘Anyone else you want to invite over while they're here?' she asked. He shook his head. ‘Pudding? There's a bit of lemon pie left.'

‘You have it.'

‘Maybe later. I want to practise that sonata again, if you don't mind?'

‘I'd love it,' he said, letting out a breath of relief.

He cleared the dishes then followed the sounds of the piano into the sitting room. Belinda, intent on the score, didn't register his presence. He lay back in his favourite armchair, admiring her total absorption, her graceful movements. Gradually the tiny surge of flight-or-fight adrenaline that had hit him in the kitchen subsided. Focusing now on the differences of speed and emphasis in each repeated passage of music, he was glad to be able to relax his guard. He settled down, suspending all thought until, forty minutes later when she had played the entire piece through to her own satisfaction, she turned, ready to be rewarded with his slow smile of approbation and desire.

*

Patrick heard his parents' Audi draw up on the gravel outside the house. There was room for only one car in front of the semi-detached Edwardian villa, so he had already moved his to the street. He picked up Daniel, who protested mildly at having his play disturbed, and, shielded by his son, went out to greet them. He saw Agnès in the passenger seat, waiting for Geoffrey to open her door. It would never occur to his mother to sit like this except when it was her husband driving, and Patrick resented how the familiar mixture of love, exasperation and pity arose in him almost the moment he set eyes on her. His father clocked him, nodded curtly, and continued on around to open the passenger door for his wife. When Agnès emerged, she went immediately to plant warm
bisous
on the cheeks of her son and grandson, while Geoffrey retrieved their small suitcase from the boot. Only then did he shake hands with Patrick and pat Daniel approvingly on the head.