Chapters (49)
- Cover
- Table of Contents
- Also by Graham Hurley
- LIMELIGHT
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- AFTERWARDS
‘She died in a pile-up on the M5. I think it broke his heart, though he’d never admit it. That room I showed you used to be their bedroom. Bill hasn’t slept in it since.’
‘How do you know?’
‘His son told me. Sylvester.’ Christianne’s gaze has returned to the address I’ve scribbled. It’s still lying on the table between us. ‘So what’s it like?’ The question sounds almost wistful. ‘Holland Park?’
‘It’s London lite. I’m lucky. We had money once, my ex-husband and I, and it bought us all the things we thought mattered.’
‘Like?’
‘Peace and quiet. Decent neighbours. Good places to eat. It’s odd, isn’t it? Sort all that, find the right address, a nice place to live, and you think you’ve got it cracked. We were wrong, of course, but we were young, and far too pleased with ourselves, and that can make you stupid. The real problem comes from here.’ My hand closes briefly over my heart. ‘I thought I knew the man. How wrong can a girl be?’
‘Bad times?’
‘The worst. Way beyond bad. Then I got sick, and that didn’t help, but the marriage was the real killer. What we did to each other was near terminal. No child on earth needs that.’
Christianne nods. She’s nearly finished her wine. ‘Evelyn told me,’ she says.
‘About Malo?’
‘About the tumour.’ She touches her own head. ‘It’s gone now?’
‘Most of it. I have regular check-ups, every six months. They do a brain scan and my consultant hauls me in and we look at the results together. If you want the truth, it’s very odd. The bad bits come out as a kind of shadow. It’s in here …’ My finger briefly settles on my forehead. ‘The X-rays and the chemo zapped most of it but there are still little traces and I’m guessing there always will be. I used to press him for some kind of clue, how many years I might expect, but he says it’s all guesswork. Maybe something else will carry me away – who knows? He tells me there’s no point worrying myself to death and he’s probably right. He’s a great Churchill fan, my consultant. KBO, he says. Keep buggering on.’
Christianne’s smile is wan, an act of politesse. Her lips are moving. She’s trying out the phrase for herself. Keep buggering on, she whispers. Keep … buggering … on. Then she shakes her head, reaches for the address and scans it one last time before slipping it into her bag.
‘That place of yours sounds nice,’ she says.
‘You’ll come? You promise?’