gold.
She switched on the radio: she liked bluesy jazz, smoky voices reminiscent of late nights in cosy bars. She wished she and Mark went out more often together, on proper ‘dates’, as they were always referred to in women’s magazines: Rekindle your relationship! Schedule regular dates! But then, she had glimpsed his jam-packed diary on the computer in his consultancy room and couldn’t blame him for being reluctant to schedule his down-time too. The road led Della back down the valley towards Heathfield. The Norman spire of St Cuthbert’s came into view, and the fortified castle was just visible behind the town centre. Della was approaching the golf course where Mark played; an unremarkable one, she had always thought, rather scrubby and not particularly well tended. It looked particularly desolate today. She slowed down to 30 m.p.h. in order to get a proper look, and couldn’t see a single golfer. She doubted it was due to the rain earlier; Mark’s new-found golfing buddies never seemed to be deterred by poor weather. No, she realised now, the sign attached to the padlocked gate made it clear why the place was deserted: HEATHFIELD GOLF COURSE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
She frowned and drove on, on autopilot now, as the lane took her down into town, past the market square and along the high street with its rather bland, generic shops, then along the residential roads of almost identical red-brick terraced houses that led her to Pickering Street.
Della parked in front of her house at the end of the road and took a moment to compose herself.
Of course, there were lots of possible explanations. The course had closed at the end of today, or Mark and his friends had been so keen to whack a few balls about that they’d clambered over the rather flimsy fence with those ruddy great golf bags and played anyway. The thought of grown men breaking into a golf course rather tickled her. Of course, what had probably happened was less amusing; on discovering that the course was shut, they had simply driven on and played somewhere else. Della climbed out of her car, unloaded the bits and pieces from Rosemary Cottage and, still with a sense of unease, let herself into her house.
‘Hey, Sophe,’ she called out, dumping the suitcase and wicker basket in the hall. ‘Have a good day?’
Sophie appeared on the landing. ‘Yeah, just started a painting.’
‘Ah, your favourite part.’ Della smiled.
‘Yeah, the beginning bit before it all goes horribly wrong.’
Della chuckled. Sophie didn’t mean this; she was an excellent painter, possessing a creative streak that seemed to come from nowhere, as Della had never been particularly artistic, and Mark – a science type through and through – reckoned he couldn’t even draw stickmen. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t he home yet?’
‘No, he called to say they’re having a few drinks at the club.’
Della’s heart jolted. A few drinks at the club, which was closed.
‘Did he say which club?’ she asked lightly.
Sophie shrugged. ‘No – the usual, I suppose.’ Della nodded. Maybe it was just the course that was out of action, although she hadn’t noticed any lights on in the rather bleak, pebble-dashed clubhouse, which seemed to hold such allure for him these days. ‘Want to see what I’ve done so far?’
Della flinched. ‘Sorry?’
‘My painting, Mum!’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I’d love to.’
She trotted upstairs, honoured to be shown a work in its initial stages. When she stepped towards Sophie’s easel she marvelled at how much progress had been made. Sophie had captured a September landscape with confident brushstrokes, the sky heavy with pewter clouds over vigorous splashes of copper and pink. It was a stunning work. ‘Oh, love, that’s fantastic. It already looks finished to me.’
Sophie’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘It’s a long way from that. But thanks, Mum. It just seems to be coming together, you know?’
‘It really is. You’re going to love college, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, even if Uncle Jeff thinks I’ve made a terrible mistake, and that I should be designing washing-powder packaging …’
Della laughed, turning as she heard the front door opening. ‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ Mark seemed unusually perky as he lapsed into a jokey American sitcom voice.
She headed downstairs, deciding not to comment as he propped his bag of clubs against a wobbly pile of cookbooks. ‘Hi, darling. Good game?’
‘Yes, great, thanks.’
‘Did you win?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Did you win? I mean, it is a competitive sport, isn’t it?’
He peered at her as if she were asking a silly question. ‘Yes, it is, but that’s not really the point, Dell.’
So what is the point? she wanted to ask, knowing she was being prickly as she waited for him to mention Heathfield course being closed. But he said nothing. She watched as he pulled off his shoes, and when he wandered through to the living room she repositioned his clubs so they weren’t propped up against her precious books.
Irritation niggled away at her as she made a pot of tea, then carried it through to the living room and curled up in an armchair. Of course, the simplest course of action would have been to ask, ‘Mark, where did you play today?’ But she had never questioned him about his whereabouts, never endured a moment’s suspicion of where he might be. And it felt all wrong to quiz him now.
There would be a simple explanation, she decided, and she would find a way of asking him without sounding accusatory. She would ask, she fully intended to – but she needed to choose her moment, which clearly, with Mark already snoring softly on the sofa, wasn’t now.
Della couldn’t sleep. This had been happening a lot lately: dozing briefly, then waking up simmering hot, her chest slick with sweat, hence sleeping naked these days. This time, though, it was clear to her that it wasn’t just due to her internal thermostat going haywire, but the thing, still swirling around in her mind at 2.17 a.m.: Mark’s whole day and evening at a golf course that was damn well closed.
She turned in bed and glanced at the back of his head as he slept. In all the years they’d been together, he had barely had a broken night’s sleep. She envied this, resented it, even: the way men’s bodies just carried on doing their thing so efficiently without so much as a single hot flush. It wasn’t that she wished a temperature, or even mild discomfort, on him. It just seemed unfair that, after pregnancy and childbirth along came facial sproutings, a thickening waist and irrational mood swings (‘I am not being irrational!’ she told herself, silently). Not his fault, of course. He’d got lucky when it came to ageing, too. ‘Are you planning to age any time soon?’ Nicola Crowther had asked Roxanne during their mother’s funeral tea. She might as well have asked Mark the same question.
Some men became rather pouchy as the years rolled by: a cosy, unthreatening look which, as an enthusiastic eater herself, Della certainly had no problem with. But that hadn’t happened
