The Perfect Happiness(70)
Joe and Isabel ran off to get dressed. Angelica lay in her husband’s arms, savoring the warmth of his body and the comfort of that familiar place on his shoulder. There was no place for Jack there in the marital bed. At that moment she seriously considered canceling her trip to South Africa and deleting his number from her telephone. It had been fun, but not fun enough to risk destroying her marriage.
After a while she got up and opened the curtains. The countryside was covered in a crisp coating of frost. The sky was a pale, watery blue, the rising sun shining weakly down on the frozen earth. Seagulls wheeled over the estuary beyond the gardens, their cries haunting the wide stretch of dirty sand where smaller birds pecked on debris left by the retreating tide. It was a lonely scene, but beautiful in its desolation, and Angelica stood a while watching it, longing to be able to describe it in her writing. She imagined small creatures emerging from the rocks, long slimy legs striding over the little rivers that ran down to the sea, round bellies as green as the weeds that lay carelessly over the sand, bulbous eyes scanning the expanse for trespassers. Troilers, she thought: greedy, nasty Troilers, and suddenly she had the beginnings of a story. The story she had been trying to write.
With a rush of excitement she rummaged in her handbag to find a pen. While Olivier showered, she sat on the bed, scribbling furiously as the ideas came in quick succession. It was as if a dam had broken, allowing inspiration to flow freely once again.
At breakfast, in a pair of J Brand jeans and a Phillip Lim blouse, she sipped coffee while the children played with their new toys, too excited to eat. Daisy watched her enviously. The lost weight gave her cheekbones definition and her eyes seemed bigger and brighter. Her clothes looked expensive, especially the Yves Saint Laurent coin necklace Olivier had bought her for her last birthday. Daisy scowled into her bowl of cereal. Denny and Angie were still in bed, having practically slept through five grandchildren opening stockings on top of them. “I bought most of their presents in the sales,” said Daisy. “There were great bargains because of the credit crunch.”
“Clever you. Olivier would love me to be a little more economical,” Angelica replied.
“I was rather extravagant before the divorce, but now that Ted is refusing to give me any money, I have to be really careful.”
“He’ll have to settle in the end.”
“If he has any money left.”
“He can’t squirrel it all away.”
“You’d be surprised. I always thought I’d make millions as a concert pianist. I thought you’d be the penniless writer. Funny how wrong one can be.”
Angelica didn’t attempt to contain her impatience, even though it was Christmas. “You know, Daisy, if you stopped looking at your glass as half empty all the time, you’d find that you are incredibly blessed. You have three beautiful children and a roof over your head. A smile might attract a nice man, and who knows, if you’re fun to be with, he might even marry you.” She got up. “I’m going for a walk. I’m not going to apologize for being who I am. If you have a problem with me, it’s your problem. Don’t try to make it mine. I’ve only ever been kind to you. Olivier can look after the children for a change.”
“I’ll look after them,” Daisy volunteered, not knowing how to react to her sister’s melodramatic outburst. Joe and Isabel were too busy playing with their cousins and their new toys to notice.
Angelica marched down to the estuary in a state of outrage, to that little bit of beach where her telephone would work. She wanted to call Candace and let off steam. She buttoned up her navy peacoat, buried her face in her cashmere scarf, and thrust her hands into a pair of gloves. A woolly hat kept her head warm, leaving her curly hair to bounce over her shoulders and down her back as she walked. The wind whipped against her cheeks, but it felt good. She inhaled the icy air and felt it burn the bottom of her lungs. The sun was a little stronger now, and she could feel it when the wind relented.
Her booted feet crunched the frost as she strode down to the beach. Besides a few birds, the landscape was dead. It was hard to believe that bulbs slept beneath the frost and buds would later emerge from those lifeless branches. She loved winter. It was bleak and forlorn and somehow extremely beautiful.
Daisy infuriated her. The way she made sneering little comments designed to cut her down to her size. The way she only ever saw the negative—what she didn’t have, couldn’t do, wouldn’t enjoy, instead of celebrating her good fortune.
It was cold and damp in the enclave. She sat on a rock and pulled out her phone. At least she was out of the wind. An intrepid seagull approached in the hope of stealing something to eat, but Angelica had nothing to offer. She watched the gull with its long yellow beak and black eyes and thought of Jack. He’d know the name of every bird on the estuary. She found herself smiling as she scanned the sand and sky for others, envisaging Jack with his pair of binoculars and pockets full of crumbs.