‘Your grandfather fell from that cliff many years ago. Who knows, they may have had a fight and he stormed off with a bottle of brandy and got stinking drunk then missed his footing when he went to come home.’

She opened her eyes wide. ‘You think that’s what happened?’

‘I do.’

‘But she said she had no choice.’

‘Who knows what he’d done? Maybe he’d kissed another woman in front of your mother. Any number of things – but she has held onto to it all this time and blamed herself like you have.’

‘Oh.’

‘Are you going to just let that melt?’ He pointed to her ice cream.

‘No.’ Lottie smiled. ‘Thanks.’ He stood and offered her a hand. She took it and finished the rest of her ice cream as they walked back to the house.

49. Joan

49

Joan

5 August 1962, 5.10 p.m.

Afternoon light falls through the window, hitting the wooden floor and picking out the colours in the carpet. This one is from Turkmenistan. The intricate pattern tells a story in repeat. A bit like my life. The fear that tightens my chest at the moment is not the first time it has happened. It was Cairo. My nostrils flare as I force myself to breathe. This morning’s actions are a cover. He doesn’t want me – or if he does, it is in addition to, not as the main course.

I pace the hallway. I can do this. He loves me. He loves Diana. Breathe. My father loved my mother despite his mistresses. He said he had, and he had been devasted by her death. It will be fine. When I was pregnant with Diana, Allan roamed. We recovered. I forgave him for his weakness. I close my eyes and let my love fill me.

Guests are in their rooms preparing and here I am wasting time. The hall clock chimes the quarter hour. Everything is ready except for me. The ground floor is empty with only Mrs Hoskine in the kitchen. I climb the stairs slowly, listening to the sound of the radio in Diana’s room. From the vibrations of the floorboards I know she is dancing. A smile spreads across my face and I tap on her door before putting my head around it. She jumps, holding her hand out and I join her swaying to the sound of Bobby Darin singing ‘Things’.

I am still humming the song when I walk into my bedroom. Allan stands in a towel and I catch my breath. A slow smile spreads across his face.

‘Hello darling.’ He drops his towel and walks toward me. ‘There’s no reason to wait until later.’

The lines from the song run through my mind . . . the things we used to do.