Part of me was actually looking forward to having Georgina back, to returning to normality. But another part of me ached for someone thousands of miles away in Kentucky.
I again resisted the temptation to call Toni, partly because I was afraid she would tell me to go away and stop being so silly. Didn’t I realise that it had simply been an away-day fling — at least for her — and we had to now get on with our lives as they had been before?
So did that mean I had to return to tiptoeing around on the eggshells? To always do what Georgina wanted, to go back to having a quiet but boring domestic life?
Or should I become more uncompromising in my approach to our marriage, more resolute, and more determined to lead my life in the way I really wanted?
Or would that result in the marriage being over?
Was it, in fact, now time for Georgina and me to go our separate ways physically, as we had done emotionally for quite some time?
With all these thoughts swirling around inside my head, I set off for the station to collect her.
I was standing by the car when she came out of the station.
Once upon a time, at the start of our relationship, we would have run towards each other, embracing and kissing passionately, even if we’d only been away from each other for a few hours, never mind a whole week.
But now there was hardly a flicker of emotion between us.
We simply pecked each other on the cheek.
‘Good journey?’ I asked.
‘Yes, very good,’ she replied. ‘I paid an extra ten pounds to upgrade to a first-class seat between Leeds and Kings Cross. It was a weekend offer.’
‘That was good.’
I put her suitcase in the car boot, and we both climbed in.
In spite of us having been apart for a whole week, I drove home in silence.
‘Have you spoken to either James or Amanda?’ Georgina asked as we turned into the driveway.
‘Both of them,’ I said. ‘They’re fine.’
I’m not sure why I didn’t mention Amanda’s second disappearance to my wife, either previously or now. I suppose it was mainly not to worry her, but it also may have had something to do with me not having to explain to her why I hadn’t immediately gone out searching. And Thursday evening seemed like a very long time ago now, and in more ways than one.
We went in and I took Georgina’s small suitcase upstairs. She followed.
‘It’s so good to be home,’ she said. ‘I only really took enough clothes for three days, so I’m looking forward to putting on something different.’
‘You unpack and change,’ I said. ‘I’ll go down and put the oven on. Do you fancy a glass of wine?’
‘Is there any white?’
‘I bought you some Sauvignon Blanc. It’s in the fridge.’
‘Lovely.’
I went downstairs and opened two bottles, white for her and red for me. Whereas we had once always shared a bottle, even our taste in wine had now gone its separate ways.
I switched on the oven to heat up and then took her wine up to her. She was in the shower, so I left it on her dressing table and went back down again.
Why did I suddenly feel that my life straitjacket, which I had so spectacularly discarded during this past week, was suddenly being refitted tightly around my body?
I took my wine into the sitting room, but that only seemed to intensify my discomfort. It also made me think about Toni and what she would be doing.
There was a five-hour time difference between the U.K. and Lexington, so it would be about two o’clock in the afternoon there. Would she also be thinking of me, or would she be just getting herself ready to go back to work at Keeneland Racetrack the following morning?
I shook my head. Stop it, I told myself silently.
I went back into the kitchen for some more wine.
Georgina came downstairs in pyjamas and a dressing gown.
‘Everything looks fine,’ she said, walking around and running her finger across the worktop as if she was looking for dirt.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ I replied sharply. ‘I’m quite able to look after the place on my own.’
‘I didn’t it mean as a criticism,’ she mumbled. ‘Quite the reverse.’
Why was I being so tetchy with her?
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s good to have you home. More wine?’
We went to bed early, but not for any excitement in the sexual department. More because we were both tired.
Georgina was asleep before I’d even finished in the bathroom.
At least the chicken jalfrezi had been a success, even if Georgina had reprimanded me for finishing the rest of the bottle of red wine with it.
‘That’s far too many units,’ she’d said, tut-tutting as I’d poured the last bit into my glass.
It was a good job she wasn’t here last night, I thought. I’d drunk a whole bottle of red wine at home, plus two more large glasses of it at the Red Lion.
I lay awake for a short while, sorting out some plans in my head, but I must have drifted off fairly quickly, because the next thing I knew the alarm on my phone was sounding at seven o’clock.
I left Georgina in bed and went downstairs in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt to make some coffee. I took a cup up to her.
‘Sleep well?’ I asked, putting the coffee down on her bedside table.
‘Like a log,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.’
Except, maybe, sleeping in Toni’s, I thought.
‘I need to go down to make my calls,’ I said.
‘Are you going racing today?’ Georgina asked.
I nodded. ‘At Bath, this evening. Victrix has a runner in the 7.10.’
The runner was Dream Filler, and it was his first outing since his infamous disqualification at Lingfield sixteen days ago.
‘I should be back home by nine o’clock, nine-thirty at the latest.’
‘Will you have eaten?’
‘Probably. I’ll find out for sure when I know how many of the syndicate will be there and how many dinner tickets we have available. Would you like to come with me?’
‘No,’ she said firmly.
‘But you always liked going racing at Bath, especially since they’ve spruced up the whole place with that new grandstand.’
Bath Racecourse is not in the city itself, but three and a half miles away to the northeast, up on top of Lansdown Hill. At seven hundred and eighty feet above sea level, it is the highest racecourse in the country for flat racing, and there are some spectacular views of the city and the surrounding Somerset countryside.
‘I still don’t want to come,’ Georgina said. ‘I’d rather spend the evening here at home, catching up on some correspondence.’
‘Okay,’ I said, somewhat relieved. It was always easier, and safer, for me to go to the races alone.
I went downstairs to my office and logged on to my computer.
I skimmed through the daily emails from my remote assistants, one of which said that there would only be four of Dream Filler’s syndicate at Bath this evening, two of them accompanied by their wives, which meant that there would be a complimentary dinner for me, that’s if I wanted it.
I emailed back, thanking her, and saying that yes, I did want.
Next I made my regular morning calls to the trainers.
Owen Reynolds was the last one.
‘All set for this evening at Bath?’ I asked.
‘Are you coming?’
‘I certainly am,’ I said. ‘I want to watch Dream Filler put everything to rights after last time.’
‘But this race is two steps up in class from the one at Lingfield. And the bloody handicapper has raised his rating by four points despite him being disqualified.’