“Maybe he is Baffles and this is a double bluff,” Clementine suggested.
“He’s not that clever.”
“I wonder whether we’ll see Jennifer today?”
“Or ever!”
“I’d leave the country if that happened to me.”
Sylvia giggled. “I think it’s quite an inspired idea. I could get rather turned on with the right man.”
“Not Mr. Atwood, then?”
They both laughed. “Not Mr. Atwood! Say we close up shop for the day and go and have a nice lunch?”
“Now that’s inspired,” Clementine agreed, picking up her handbag. “The goldfish bowl is not a life for me!”
“So, how’s it all going with Rafa?” Sylvia asked, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir on the terrace of the brasserie.
“Oh, nothing to report.”
“But it’s only been a week!”
“I know. I shouldn’t expect things to move so swiftly. I just feel I’ve known him forever.” She shrugged, not wanting Sylvia to know how much she cared.
“You need to go away so that he misses you.”
“I’m not going anywhere until September.”
“That’s too late. You need to go away now.”
“And where do you think I should disappear to?”
“Anywhere, down the road—so long as he thinks you’ve gone away.”
“I don’t have enough money—or time off.”
“Shame. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Or it makes the heart forget altogether.”
“Not likely, lovely. Trust me, I know. I’m a master at playing hard to get.” Clementine laughed, assuming she was being ironic, but Sylvia was looking at her very seriously.
She coughed. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said hastily. “If anyone can play it cool, you can.”
Rafa watched Marina disappear up the drive in her car before wandering furtively into the stable block. Grey was out in his boat, the painters were busy in the vegetable garden, and Harvey was on the roof mending one of the chimney pots with glue, baler twine, and Agritape. Mr. Potter was having his tea and digestives in the greenhouse with Biscuit, and Bertha was making up Rafa’s room, taking as long as possible to fold and hang his clothes from the night before.
He climbed the stairs and walked across the landing to Marina and Grey’s bedroom. The smell of her perfume wafted into the corridor, and it clung to his nostrils as if she were right there with him. He glanced around anxiously before entering. But he needn’t have worried; he was quite alone. Inside, the bed was unmade, awaiting the arrival of Bertha, and the window wide open, boasting a magnificent view of the sea. With his heart pounding loudly, he began carefully to lift things up. She didn’t keep many trinkets, and as far as he could tell there was nothing out of the ordinary.
He began to open her drawers and run his hands along the bottom and across the back to check for hidden items. But there was nothing squeezed behind the clothes, and he felt ashamed for having invaded her privacy. When he reached her cupboard, his heart lurched at the sight of a pretty floral box file that lay partially hidden beneath her shoes. He delved within, removed the shoes, and pulled it out. With trembling hands he opened it. Inside, it was stuffed full of letters. The paper was yellowed, indicating that they were old. He caught his breath. He lifted the one at the top. But his heart deflated for it was a love letter from Grey, dated 1988. He burrowed deeper, but they were all either letters from Grey or childish pictures from Jake and Clementine.
He found her marriage certificate and a couple of photographs of their wedding day. He dug his hand into the very bottom and pulled out the final letter, hoping for something revelatory. What he found was a poem torn out of a book, entitled “My Marine Marina,” dated 1968, by John Edgerton. He read it, and his eyes watered; it could have been written about her.
Oh mournful soul that craves the sea,
Restless will forever be,
What relics of your dreams lie there,
Beneath the waves of your despair …
It was a poem about love, but also about loss. He wondered if she had known the poet and whether he had written it for her.
Suddenly, he heard the front door open and slam shut. Hastily, he thrust the box back into the cupboard and replaced the shoes on top. He hurried out of the bedroom. As he stepped onto the landing the floorboards creaked loudly into the silence. Jake heard him and peered up from the hall below. “Rafa! What are you doing here?” he demanded, staring at him suspiciously.
“I’m looking for Biscuit,” Rafa replied, trying to sound casual. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “He sometimes likes to come in here and lie on your father’s bed.”