‘No, I don’t believe he does,’ Louis replied. ‘He has a roof over his head, good food and good sex. He doesn’t pay for any of it. He’s an artist; all he cares about is his art. No, I believe he’s using Cicely.’
‘I found him a bit creepy,’ Audrey confessed, looking at her husband because she couldn’t stare into her soup for ever. ‘He crept about in the shadows, watching, listening. He was like a spy.’
‘Spying for whom, my dear?’ Cecil asked.
‘For himself. I don’t know,’ she replied and then her eyes engaged with Louis’ as if they had a will of their own and his were familiar, more familiar than anyone else’s in the world and she knew that she didn’t need to speak in order to communicate what she thought. He understood her. Slowly she felt the void inside her fill up with warm honey and she wanted to laugh because she had been so sad before and now she felt so happy. She noticed the corners of Louis’ mouth quiver as if about to break into a smile and she tore herself away. Cecil sat there drinking far too much wine so that his head grew as heavy as his heart. He watched his wife and wondered whether he was just imagining an intimacy between her and his brother or perhaps the alcohol was making him paranoid, giving him hallucinations.
‘My dear, I’m going into the city this afternoon,’ he said, draining his glass and watching their reactions carefully with bloodshot eyes.
‘You’re going back to work?’
‘Yes.’ His tone was flat. Audrey tried to look disappointed but the shadow of a smile played upon her face.
‘You’ll be back for dinner?’ she asked.
‘Back for dinner.’ He then sighed heavily and stood up. ‘I leave you in Louis’ capable hands.’ She didn’t notice the caustic tone in his voice because Louis’ stare distracted her.
‘Oh, I’m sure Louis has got lots to do. Besides I have to unpack and I must go and see Mercedes. Mummy’s coming over for tea with Aunt Edna and Hilda.’
‘Good,’ Cecil replied. ‘I’ll be off then.’ He gave Audrey a kiss on the cheek. She didn’t stiffen this time but frowned. He was behaving strangely. Perhaps she was being paranoid because she felt guilty. Perhaps it was the alcohol. She hadn’t failed to notice how much he had drunk.
Audrey fled into the kitchen where Mercedes was washing up while Loro perched on the tap, practising the latest lines he had picked up. ‘Merchi my lovely, Merchi my lovely. You smell gooooood.’ Mercedes flicked him with a wet cloth but this didn’t deter him. ‘Merchi, my lovely . . .’
‘Mercedes,’ said Audrey as she entered.
‘Señora, how are my girls?’ she said, drying her hands on her apron. Mercedes rarely smiled and her intonation always dropped at the end of each phrase as if she recognized the depravity of the world and was resigned to it.
‘I have a letter for you from Alicia.’
‘What a good girl she is. I knew she wouldn’t forget her old friend.’
‘Of course not. Leonora sends her love as well.’
‘Are they happy?’ she asked, then shrugged her shoulders and frowned. ‘How can they be happy so far from home?’
‘I know,’ Audrey replied, handing her the letter and nodding gravely. ‘But they are happy there. Alicia, I’m sure will tell you herself.’
‘Nothing can hurt Alicia, only herself. Whereas Leonora is as fragile as a feather. I know she misses her mother, I can feel it,’ she said, thumping her fist on her breast.
‘I miss them too. But they will be back soon. We’ll all have a lovely Christmas together.’
‘And then?’ She walked off to the kitchen table with the letter. Loro dived into the soapy water where he splashed about with glee.
‘You smell so goooood!’ he crowed. ‘Ja ja ja!!!’ Audrey raised her eyebrows thinking he was speaking to her and wandered out.
Louis was playing the piano. A light melody in tune with the changing season that flowered outside the window. She breathed deeply and walked in. He didn’t stop playing. She stood by the piano and leant on the polished surface watching his pale fingers dancing over the keys. She could smell the familiar scent of his body and was overcome with nostalgia and desire. It was as if he had never left, as if that awkward conversation in the church after Isla’s funeral had never happened, as if she had never married Cecil, but married Louis and here they were together in their home. It felt so natural, as if it was meant to be.
‘You’re wondering why I’m not angry,’ he said softly. Then he looked at her and raised his eyebrows inquisitively.