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It was icy the next morning. Alice's breath formed white clouds as she shivered in the Victorian bathroom. She had the quickest wash: there was a queue waiting outside, someone rudely rapping on the door.

From the moment she'd woken Alice had been in a bad mood, particularly irritated when she thought of Barbara. Not at all the sort of person she would have picked for Ralph. She couldn't help seeing Ralph through Barbara's eyes. Once or twice over the past couple of days, noticing him across the room, she'd been struck by just how handsome he was; then she'd checked herself, because she didn't think of Ralph in that way. Yet an impression of his solid strength, that evening at the Randolph when he had danced with her, remained. Thinking about him now she found there was a lump in her throat.

But how could that be?

To say ‘Richard and I' had always seemed like a badge of honour. In Richard's circles of friends, to say ‘Ralph and I' would need an explanation, some sort of qualification. She wasn't proud to think that, but that was the way things were in the world. He lacked that English understanding of what mattered – or else he simply didn't care.

The person rapping on the bathroom door turned out to be Barbara. In the foulest of tempers Alice conceded the bathroom and sat in the kitchen drinking very strong tea. She snapped at Ralph when he said good morning.

All through the rehearsal she didn't look at Ralph, dangerously close to crying at some of the passages. When his hand touched hers as they sang, she felt it like a shock.

The session in the afternoon was the final one, and guests were invited in to hear the performance. The hairs prickling on the back of her neck for the solos, floating with the music for the harmonies, Alice didn't want it to end. When the music was finally over and people began gathering their things together to go down for supper, she sat down heavily on one of the hard chairs.

Ralph came over, stooped low and looked into her face. ‘What is it, old thing?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I don't know what's happening to me.'

He sat down by her. She put her head on his shoulder. Resting there against the warmth of his woollen sweater felt peaceful. The weight of his arm round her shoulders was comforting. The emptied room smelt of old polish, the wood floorboards and panelling creaked in little murmurs. The fire snapped. She had an impulse to tell him that she was sorry; all those months she had wasted, she wanted them back now. She wanted to spend them all over again, but with him. She realised she was blubbing and fumbled for her handkerchief. She must look like a dropped blancmange again.

‘Sorry,' was all she managed to mumble. Pushing his arm away she left the room

She found herself standing by the back door, looking out onto the dark gardens, glints of frost on the grass. She could hear the muffled sounds of the diners gathering in the great hall. But Ralph had followed her. He came outside into the cold, pulled the door to and stood alongside her quietly.

‘I don't suppose you've got a cigarette,' she asked him after a while.

He nodded. He lit one for her and one for himself. They smoked in silence, tapping the ash every so often, the tips of red against the dark.

‘You know, I'm really happy for you and Barbara. I only hope she realises how lucky she is.'

‘Barbara?'

‘She likes you so much and she's so . . .'

‘Good grief. Really? You think Barbara likes me? Oh dear. I was too busy looking at you to notice anyone else. How could you think . . .?' Suddenly decisive he said, ‘Come on, let's walk.'

So she walked with him through the gardens, out through the stone gate into the orchard. The winter sky, with no hint of town
lights, was thick with stars. ‘Looks like frogspawn,' Ralph said. And he was right, the stars were deep and layered and mysteriously suspended, like very beautiful frogspawn. She shivered. He reached out and put his arm round her, rubbed the outside of her arm to warm her up. She could smell the faint musk of his hair, and she thought how deeply right it felt to stand so close to his warmth in the dark. Like home.

He took her chin in his hand, turned her face, and then she kissed Ralph for the second time.

CHAPTER 16

Fourwinds, 1981

Alice rubbed cream into her hands. She could see Ralph's soft bulk in the dressing-table mirror. He was very quiet, his heavy shoulders resting against the bedhead. She tried to picture the young man who had used to sit smiling and mischievous as she got ready for bed.

Time had changed them both. The woman in the glass had a dry look to her skin, fragile like leaves at the end of autumn. Ralph's features had grown thicker and stronger, the bushy eyebrows, the long nose almost hooked. And she loved him more than ever.

A tightness in her throat for Nicky that he should be so alone. How could Sarah do that to him?

But then, when he'd first brought Sarah home, she'd already had a niggling worry that it might not work. Sarah had a way of holding back that had left Alice a little hurt and puzzled; she recalled her own strenuous efforts with Ralph's mother, building a bridge of good intentions and little deeds. Although it was always hard to second-guess quite what it was that Lily had wanted from her. Alice smoothed the Penhaligon's lotion into her forearms and round her neck. She put the stopper back in the old-fashioned glass bottle.

‘That was always the thing that worried me about Sarah. The way she didn't talk. I know we sometimes talk too much, it can all be a bit overwhelming if you're an outsider, but at least in this family we talk about the things that matter.'

Ralph gave a shake of his head, or was it a nod. It was hard to tell sometimes if Ralph had actually heard her. Ever since the wedding had collapsed round them Ralph had seemed perpetually preoccupied and absent.

‘Don't you think so, Ralph? Sarah, she would never let herself be drawn in? That self-contained air, detached, that's never been our way. Ralph?'

Ralph looked up. ‘Sorry? You were saying?'

She tutted. Finished brushing her hair. ‘Never mind. Let's get some sleep. We're all a bit under strain right now.'

She folded back the sheet and got in. Ralph wouldn't have a duvet. They still had the antique silk eiderdown that had come from Cecily and Flora's house – as did the bed itself, a wonderful French oak thing, the gilt on the carved wood worn by time and the history of other lives, and the beautiful armoire with the mirrored front. So much of their best furniture had been inherited from the London house. Ralph had refused to part with any of the aunts' furniture when the sale of their house had gone through, something about wanting to hold on to these remnants of his small family circle.

Ralph was still quiet. He looked white, his head leaning against the wooden headboard. He had to take a cocktail of pills for this and that now.

‘Are you not feeling well? For goodness sake, what is it?' A flash of anger that Sarah should be putting them through this. The last straw if it made Ralph ill again.

‘Alice. Perhaps I should have told you. A long time ago.'

Her heart clenched. There it was, a rustling round the edges of the room, whisperings that she'd spent so many years not listening to, the worries that pressed against the windows at night in the small, sleepless hours.

The silence stretched out, and she waited.

She found herself thinking of the girls at the law firm, a string of lovely secretaries who were always so solicitous – tender even – with her, implying a life they shared with Ralph that she knew nothing about. For years she had wondered about them, those girls who came and went and yet remained remarkably the same – who sooner or later would have a crush on Ralph. Of course, it was all harmless; easy for them to misinterpret Ralph's general enthusiasm and warmth as something intentional, something special for them. She'd seen them each glow and blossom before the penny dropped and they finally understood that the hugs and the praise and the attention – that's just how Ralph was with everyone. She hadn't really worried, although sometimes she'd had to drop a little hint to the dimmer and more star-struck ones.

It was nothing really.

And yet. That girl who'd turned up at one of the New Year's parties Ralph and she held each year. Carole Harker. A horrid name.

Nicky must have been eight years old. She'd let the boys stay up to hand round plates of cocktail sausages and her speciality, mushroom vol-au-vents. She was refilling Nicky's serving platter – he was taking it very seriously and not leaving each group of guests till they'd had one of everything – when the doorbell sounded. A girl was standing on the doorstep. She had a thick, blonde ponytail and powdery blue eyeshadow. She came in, furtive glances at Alice, looking around the hallway speculatively – a prospective house purchaser. Her skirt was very short, the blue polyester material riding even higher as she sat down in the middle of the sofa. Even in tan tights the girl's legs seemed shockingly naked.

Alice had made a special point of talking to her during the evening, casually hinting how affectionate Ralph was by nature, letting her down gently. Carole looked back from under that powdery blue eyeshadow, something set in her eyes – as if no matter what Alice said, she knew better. The silly girl had stayed and stayed, and eventually
told them that she'd no idea how she was going to get home so late. No taxis to be had. Ralph had been very cross, uncharacteristically rattled. Swearing under his breath he had got the car out and driven her back. He wouldn't hear of Alice's sensible suggestion of letting the girl stay the night in the spare room.

After they left Alice had sat in the dining room, waiting for the sound of the car returning. Even with the table strewn with the remains of the finger buffet, the room retained its melancholy feel of an unloved place where you wouldn't choose to linger. She could see the hallway obliquely reflected in the mirror, a place she didn't recognise from that angle, the doors opening into unknown rooms.

He'd been gone a long time. Really, he shouldn't have driven. If something happened . . .'

There it was. She let herself look at it for a moment. Had something already happened? She opened the brandy left out on the sideboard and poured a little, sipped at it. Felt worse.

When she'd first met Ralph the thing she'd loved about him was the way he was so open to life, so brave about laughing down any stuffiness. He'd rescued her from the confines of her own snobbery. She knew that. The way those tentacles wound round your heart and stopped you giving yourself to a book, a poem – a person – not until you were sure it was good enough, the done thing – Ralph had saved her from that.

But later she had understood that there was a countermovement in his personality: he was always deeply reticent about his innermost thoughts. Secretive even. He was there, and then he wasn't there, and the harder she pressed him to open up, the more she shouted and complained, then the more he would clam up and slide away somewhere else.

When they got married it was just Ralph and her against the world, always had been, always would be. That was what they had vowed
in the little damp cottage on the first night after they had moved in.

Feeling heavy with the brandy she went upstairs and lay down on Nicky's quilt, her head next to his, her stomach so tight that it ached. The child's eyes opened briefly. He smiled and went back to sleep. A long time later she heard the car and Ralph coming in. Making her way out onto the landing she saw his shape down in the dark hallway, his skin white and waxy in the shadows. He pulled off his tie with a sharp movement. One side of his collar was left standing up.

‘Bloody stupid girl. She's hopeless in the office too.'

It was his everyday annoyance that reassured her. She felt her worries evaporating, a dream you awake from and instantly forget.

And yet, and yet.