E-Book, Englisch, 481 Seiten
Buchan Perfect Love
Main
ISBN: 978-1-83895-542-7
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
'A terrific, compassionate, compelling novel' Daily Mail
E-Book, Englisch, 481 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-83895-542-7
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Elizabeth Buchan was a fiction editor at Random House before leaving to write full time. Her novels include the prize-winning Consider the Lily, international bestseller Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, The New Mrs Clifton and The Museum of BrokenPromises. Buchan's short stories are broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and published in magazines. She has reviewed for the Sunday Times, The Times and the Daily Mail, and has chaired the Betty Trask and Desmond Elliot literary prizes. She was a judge for the Whitbread First Novel Award and for the 2014 Costa Novel Award. She is a patron of the Guildford Book Festival and co-founder of the Clapham Book Festival. elizabethbuchan.com
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CHAPTER ONE
‘IT’S IN THE STORIES,’ JANE HAD ONCE INSISTED ON A Friday car journey home from school. ‘Everyone hates the wicked stepmother, and the wicked stepmother schemes to get rid of the beautiful stepdaughter. Think of Snow White.’
‘ don’t go “Mirror, mirror on the wall”,’ Prue protested, only half amused.
‘You don’t have to, Mum.’
‘Thank you,’ said Prue with dignity. Beauty had never been her problem – and now that she was older and understood that more elements lay below the surface than on it, she realized that beauty a problem for those who had it. Not that she considered the problem to apply to herself for, in Prue’s view but not necessarily in the opinion of those who came to love her, she did not possess it. Whereas Violet did, in bucketfuls.
Happily, Violet was safely in New York with her new husband and baby and well out of Prue’s way. Or she had been until that morning in January.
‘ did you say they’re coming?’ asked Prue, pouring milk into her saucer for the cat. Bella placed an elegant, bangled paw on Prue’s knee, leapt into her lap and was surprised when Prue clutched her hard against her midriff.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s so unhygienic,’ replied Max, her husband, watching the milk spray the tablecloth. It was not the first time he had protested. Nor would it be the last. ‘February. Because of the recession the bank is cutting staffing levels on its overseas operations. Anyway, apparently they want Jamie back home to head up the London bit of the European arm.’ He pushed the airmail letter over to Prue.
Prue picked it up with reluctance and Max, aware of what was going through her mind, said, ‘It’s only till they can buy a house in London. Jamie can commute and Violet will be looking for a job.’
‘Lucky Jamie.’ Prue gave the letter a brief glance and then ignored it. Meanwhile, Max creased into a raging sea.
‘You don’t object too much, do you, Prue?’
She leant over the table, nipped the paper out of his grasp and folded it into order. ‘I object to you doing .’
‘Do you mind?’
She considered his question, the familiar sleepy look in place that meant she was thinking hard. Was sharing a kitchen with her stepdaughter a good thing because it would shake Prue’s moral fibre into a bracing workout, or a bad thing because the inevitable clash would cancel any Brownie points thus gained?
. . .
‘It’s Violet’s home and you’re her father.’ Fairness, she reflected bitterly, was the curse of so-called civilized, the fatal weakness. ‘They can look after themselves.’
Bella’s purr broke the uneasy silence which fell between them. Oh, Max, thought Prue, you look so pleased at the prospect of your daughter coming home. How can I possibly deny you?
Max looked at his watch and got to his feet, wincing at the twinge that occasionally attacked his right hip. ‘Time to go.’ He retrieved , which he had no intention of yielding up. Prue swallowed half a cup of coffee so strong it made her tongue go dry, but that was how she liked it. One day she intended to renounce caffeine, being reminded daily by the inside of her cafetière what her stomach lining must resemble – but not yet. She squinted at Max. He looked irritable and impatient, two things which until recently had been alien to his nature, brought on, she suspected, by panic. For Max was sixty and he did not like the idea of retirement.
Tick, tock.
These days he maintained, a little too frequently, that he was still in his prime. Still capable of good things. Oh, yes, his listeners agreed, but then they were not likely to disagree. To be fair, Max’s large, fit-looking body gave the impression of strength and a well-oiled mind, both of which were true.
Prue did not relish the idea of his retirement either, but there was nothing to be done. Sometimes, she caught Max looking at her as if to say: It’s unfair that you’re twenty years younger. Other times, she sensed that he almost disliked her for it. I can’t help it, she wanted to cry out. I would take on your years if I could. It did not occur to her that it was not her business to shoulder Max’s advance into old age, it was his. But, then, it is almost impossible for the lives of people who are bound together by deep feeling and habit, not to seep into each other’s.
Meanwhile, it Prue’s business to help negotiate this tricky period. She pushed a reluctant cat on to the floor.
‘You’ve got the big meeting today, haven’t you? I won’t expect you home until late.’ She paused to insert the first plank in the bolstering-Max programme. ‘I don’t know what the firm would do without you.’
Max tapped his right hand on the table and the little white scar on his index finger – Helen’s wound – attracted Prue’s gaze as it had done a hundred thousand times during their marriage. ‘I’ve made noises that I would like to take over the working party into setting up the European structure.’ Max’s large and profitable law firm in the City was in the process of setting up a working relationship with like-minded firms in France, Germany and Spain, the idea being that clients would get the best advice on all fronts. ‘I would like to get it,’ said Max, whose fluency in French, German and Spanish certainly put him in the running, ‘so spare a thought.’
‘I will, darling. I will.’ She fingered her coffee-cup. ‘They would be foolish to ignore you, I think.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, a touch drily. He adjusted the silk handkerchief in his lapel pocket, his only sartorial indulgence, and flashed her one of his disconcerting smiles, which told her that he was not going to let his feelings get the better of him. ‘Good try, darling. Butter the old boy up. I might just bring a decent bottle back for supper on the strength of it.’
Palm up, he stretched out a hand across the table and curled his fingers in invitation. Prue tapped the edge of the table with hers and her mouth twitched.
‘Darling Prue . . .’ said Max. ‘Don’t be mean. Give me a kiss.’
She laughed, leant forward and traced a circle on the exposed palm. He caught her hand and kissed it.
‘My lovely Prue,’ he said.
‘I love you really,’ she said.
‘That’s fortunate,’ said her husband. ‘You’ve got me for life.’
Prue removed her hand, looked down at her lap and endeavoured to brush the cat hairs from her skirt.
*
The car nosed into Winchester station only just in time. Max wrenched open the passenger door to show his annoyance at Prue for insisting on changing her skirt at the last minute. It had made them late and the road from Stockbridge had been full of feeble drivers unwilling to go above 40 m.p.h.
‘Nobody looks at your bottom half if you’re behind the counter,’ Max had pointed out, not unreasonably, which exasperated Prue – unfairly she knew. All the same, the goodwill of breakfast had vanished.
She swerved to avoid a squashed hedgehog, which had made the mistake of imagining the station was a safe place. There was no need to add insult to grievous injury and, besides, the idea of going over the bloody little body was too much at this time of the morning.
‘I’m sorry I made you late,’ she said.
‘So I should think.’ Max dropped his large, squarish hand on to her thigh for a second and she covered it with hers.
Although Prue’s life was oriented around her husband’s, the minute he was out of her sight she forgot him. She often puzzled over the conundrum. Was it a normal stage in a twenty-year-old marriage? She supposed it was. After all, she did not notice her wedding ring from one week to the next, despite its tendency to make her finger swell. It was there, much as her nose was (which she disliked), or her legs (marginally better) or the rather startling mole, positioned above her right eyebrow.
Once upon a time, as all good stories go, there would not have been a day dedicated to the idea of Max. Every breath she took, every meal she ate, every stamp she licked (Prue had been a secretary when they met) had revolved around a Maxshaped space. And why not? He was older, wiser and infinitely sadder, and, thus, irresistible to a nineteen-year-old, a nineteen-year-old whose favourite childhood game had been to re-enact Florence Nightingale’s lamp-lit passage through suffering men at Scutari. Perhaps a too-young nineteen-yearold?
What she got with Max was love that showed no sign of running out, fishing rods, a pair of guns to which he was devoted, gentleness in all their dealings, a village life and a degree of comfort.
Prue drove through the city and concluded that too much reflection on what constituted normal was not a good idea.
With a lot of extra exhaust and gear changes, she manoeuvred the car into her secret parking place behind the market square. The morning was still sharp and exuded depression, and wherever Prue looked as she made her way to the bookshop she was accosted by ‘For Sale’ signs.
Whatever else she had expected,...
