Abi went back rather humbly to Georgia and told her to ask the legend if she’d be kind enough to consider playing at the festival.
She was totally dreading the inquest; she shrank from having her relationship with Jonathan brought out in court, together with the fact that she had lied when she had first given evidence. She couldn’t imagine what the outcome might be; in her darkest hours, she saw herself in jail, or at best with a criminal record.
William had tried rather cursorily to reassure her once, but after that refused to discuss the whole thing. William just wanted it over: for more reasons than one. The thought of being in the same courtroom as Jonathan Gilliatt was not appealing.
Daisy was home now, frail and very thin, moving around with great difficulty but equal determination; fortunately it was her left leg but her right arm that were broken, so she could use a crutch to hobble from room to room. The family room had been turned into a bedroom for her, and her toys installed, so that she didn’t have to cope with the stairs.
With the resilience of children, she seemed fairly unaffected by her trauma emotionally: no nightmares, no display of anxiety. The thing that most worried her was that she had broken the rules, done what was expressly forbidden, and she said over and over again that she was very sorry she had run into the road, and that she would never do such a thing again; Laura had privately resolved that Daisy would never run anywhere unaccompanied again, or not for a very long time.
The person perhaps most adversely affected by the whole thing was Lily, whose pretty little nose had been put distinctly out of joint by all the attention lavished on her sister. Initially delighted when Daisy was pronounced out of danger, and especially when she was allowed home, she now spent a large part of every day quarrelling with her, and demanding that the bounty of new toys pouring into Daisy’s possession, supplied not only by her parents and grandparents, but school friends and neighbours, be replicated in her own, and bursting into hysterical tears when she was told they would not.
Charlie, who appeared in some ways to have become at least five years older than he had been before the accident, was alternately to be found telling her to shut up and to be glad she still had a sister to fight with, and patiently playing games with one or the other of them. He had begged not to have to go back to school until Daisy was completely well; after two weeks of acting the perfect brother he suddenly announced that even school was preferable. Laura and Jonathan, who had been a little worried by his newly saintly persona, were secretly relieved.
Jonathan had moved back home. Charlie had begged him to, and so had the girls; Laura could hardly refuse. She didn’t exactly want to refuse. But even given the surge of positive emotion towards him that she had experienced in the hospital, she wasn’t sure that she was remotely ready to start living with him again. Or indeed if she ever would be. A slow, but savage surge of anger and resentment was filling her once more; in the adrenaline crash after Daisy’s initial recovery, it shocked her. She had thought, felt indeed, that if Daisy was given back to her, she would never mind anything again. She was horrified to discover that she still minded about Jonathan and Abi Scott very much indeed.
Once the desperate, clawing fear had subsided, once they had gone home, properly home, faced with the long, long days of sitting at Daisy’s bedside, the exhaustion of coping with her querulous demands, her boredom, and her pain, then it began. She would look at him over the table as he laughed and joked with Charlie, teased Lily, as he sat by Daisy reading to her, as he helped her with things like shopping and the school run, for he had taken compassionate leave, would watch him being the perfect husband and the perfect father once more and at times she hated him. And was shocked at herself for it.
She struggled to fight it; she reminded herself constantly of his courage and his tenderness in the dreadful days at the hospital, when Daisy had swung so close to death; she told herself that more than ever now he had earned her generosity and her forgiveness… but she was still haunted by the betrayal, the easy lies that he had shown himself to be capable of, and the way he had allowed Abi Scott to cut into the heart of their marriage.
And the thought of sleeping with him was abhorrent; she could not imagine it ever again. There would be a third person in their bed forevermore now, and no longer a shadowy presence, a vague threat, but one she had seen, heard, smelt-she would never forget that rich, cloying perfume-and watched as she sashayed across the room and kissed her husband’s mouth.
Jonathan had not suggested that he join her in their bed; he continued to sleep in the spare room without comment, and indeed as if he assumed it was the proper place for him; but one night, quite late, after they had been reading in the drawing room and she said she was tired and thought she would go to bed, he had looked at her and smiled and said, “Do, darling. You look tired. Shall I make you a nightcap?”
He had always done that in the old days, when she was particularly exhausted, brought her a hot toddy; she hardly ever drank spirits, but she loved that; the effect of the whisky in the hot milk never failed to make her sleep. But for some reason tonight, she found the thought of it unbearable, that he was trying to deny the present, to work back into the past, when he had been a source of comfort, not pain, of reassurance, not fear, and she stood up and said, “No, thank you, I can do that for myself,” and she could hear the coldness, the rejection in her own voice.
His eyes as he looked at her then were surprised, hurt even. “All right, darling,” he said, “but the offer’s there.”
And suddenly, it happened; she could hold it back no longer, the force of her rage. “Jonathan, don’t call me darling, please,” was all she said, but her tone was ugly, almost savage, and he could not but react.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice in its turn was ice-cold, heavy with anger. “I didn’t realise you still felt so strongly against me.”
“Is that so?” she said. “You didn’t realise? What did you think, then? That I had forgotten about… about what you did, your lies, how you betrayed me, betrayed us all?”
“No,” he said, “of course not. But I thought… perhaps… we had moved on. That you could at least start to… to accept it, if not forgive.”
“Jonathan, how could you even begin to think that? Accept it, you say! Accept the fact that you preferred her to me…”
“I did not prefer her,” he said wearily. “No comparison came into it. She was… well, she was what she was. Nothing to do with you. I love you…”
“Oh, please! You love me! So much that you fucked someone else. Not just once-I could endure that-but many times. And not just fucked her-slept with her, really slept with her, lay with her all night, woke up with her beside you. Lied and lied to me so that you could. How could you do that, Jonathan; how could you want to do that?”
“I… don’t know,” he said, “I really don’t know. It was some kind of… madness. I know, all erring husbands say that, but it’s true; it was as if I became someone else. I didn’t stop loving you, Laura; I didn’t love you any less. It was greed, a grab at something else that I knew I shouldn’t have. I can’t expect you to understand, but-”
“No,” she said, “I don’t understand. Of course I don’t. Well, I can see that you would want her, but the fact is, you couldn’t want her without rejecting me. That’s how I see it, a rejection of me, of what I could do for you, what I could offer. It makes me feel so… so lacking.”
“Lacking in what?” he said, and he looked so bewildered she almost smiled.
“In myself, Jonathan. I know…” She faltered, took a breath, started again. “I know I’m not particularly… sexy. I know that very well. I mean, I like sex, of course…”