“Yes, well, I didn’t think of it. I said I was sorry. I didn’t get to tell her a story either, you know. She was out before she hit the pillow.”
“Yes, but you get to put her to bed and kiss her good night and be with her all day. Don’t you?” he said, not caring how childish he sounded.
“Look, I’m tired too. I don’t want to argue.” Her shoulders were braced against the chair back behind her. She flicked her eyes away from the screen, a look of appeal, of exasperation. To Lowell, of course, the hidden listener. Zach was at least grateful that he wasn’t watching the screen, so he couldn’t see how shabby Zach looked. He sighed.
“Fine. Tomorrow night then. For the story, not the argument.”
“Tomorrow night she has a sleepover… Sunday night?”
“Okay. Same time. Please-” He wasn’t sure what he’d been about to ask. Or beg. That weariness again. He shut his eyes and rubbed the lids with his thumb and fingers until red blooms spangled across his vision.
“Sunday night. I promise,” Ali said, nodding emphatically, as if to reassure a child.
“Good night, Ali.” He cut the call before she could respond, but it was a pathetic gesture and gave him no satisfaction. He switched off the computer and stumbled up to his room in darkness.
Ali had always been in control, right from the very beginning. Zach could see it now, in a way he hadn’t at the time, blinded by love, and by wishful thinking. When he proposed, she took forty-eight hours to decide. He’d waited in a state of almost unbearable anticipation, knowing that she must say yes, because he loved her so much-because they loved each other-but at the same time plagued by the underlying notion that she might say no. When she finally accepted, he was too happy to reflect on this long hiatus, but now he saw that she really had been of two minds, that she really had needed all that time to weigh up the pros and cons and decide he was worth the risk. He had vowed to reward this trust of hers, this gamble. He had vowed to make her happy, to be the perfect husband and father, but once Elise was born, there were a thousand tiny comments, a thousand fleeting frowns to let him know he was falling short. Give her to me, he heard again and again, when he couldn’t get Elise to sleep, or get her arms into her cardigan sleeves, or stop her crying. Give her to me, in a tone of stifled exasperation.
It was around that time that they began to talk about moving out of London, about moving to the West Country to see if Zach could make a better go of a gallery there. For a year, they both resolutely pitched this plan as a step forwards, as an expansion of their lives, not as a step away, a contraction, a last chance. Only once or twice, as they were shown around disappointingly small apartments, did he catch her looking at him with something like contempt in her eyes-gone when she blinked but shocking enough to chill him. Bath didn’t suit Ali. She missed her law firm in London, and their social life there, and when Zach’s falling income meant she had to return to work to support the three of them, she found the work stultifying and dull. Zach suspected that Ali made up her mind a long time before she finally decided to leave him. He suspected that she made the decision calmly, rationally, and chose her moment with as much care as she had chosen to marry him in the first place.
First thing in the morning he took the car into Swanage, one of two small towns nearby that he guessed would have a butcher. It was a bright morning; the sun was warm but the light seemed paler than even a week ago as the turning season stretched it thinner, sapping its strength away. The dusty gorse bushes lining the road were more gray than green; all spines and shriveled yellow flowers. Swanage nestled around its sandy beach and harbor, the streets still busy with late holidaymakers; but without any children, now that the schools had gone back, all the bright little shops seemed somehow bereft. Zach found a popular butcher’s shop, the stock of meat in the chiller disappearing rapidly and leaving only its bloody tang to hang in the air.
“How old are your hearts?” he asked when he got to the front of the queue.
“Oh, everything’s perfectly fresh, sir,” said the young man behind the counter.
“No, I mean-I’m sure it is. But I need a…” He paused, feeling foolish. “I need a bullock’s heart no more than a day old.”
“Right,” the butcher said with a smile, and if he thought to ask why, he thought better of it. “Well, all the hearts we have are from bullocks, generally, so no need to worry about that. As for less than a day old… well, these came in to us yesterday morning, so they’ll have been slaughtered the day before, probably. So more like thirty-six hours rather than less than twenty-four. But really-they’re perfectly fresh. I don’t see how you’d tell the difference. Have a sniff if you like.” He picked one up in his gloved hand and hefted it a couple of times before holding it out to Zach.
“No, thanks, I’ll take your word for it,” Zach said, recoiling. The heart nestled perfectly in the palm of the butcher’s hand. He was suddenly sure that Dimity Hatcher didn’t want it for culinary purposes, and if it wasn’t food then it was… what? Entrails. He swallowed.
“Do you ever get any in less than a day old?” he asked, aware that he was beginning to sound weird. But the young man smiled affably. Perhaps he was used to even odder requests.
“Well… let me think. Tuesday’s probably your best bet. I can keep one back for you, if you like? If you come in first thing it’ll still be less than a day old.”
“Tuesday? That’s longer than I wanted to wait.” Zach eyed the heart still sitting in the butcher’s hand. “I’ll take that one. Like you say, I’m sure it’ll be fine even if it’s a bit over the time limit.” The butcher wrapped it up with the hint of a smile on his lips. Zach decided that the damage was done, and to go all out with the weirdness. “Is there a haberdashery near here? Somewhere I can buy pins?”
He found the shop, thanks to the butcher’s directions, and after being briefly bewildered by the range of pins a person could buy, he picked plain old-fashioned ones. All steel, no plastic heads, no fancy sizes. As he came out of the sewing shop, he saw a small stationer on the opposite side of the street, and he paused. He was reluctant to attempt to paint or draw anything, in case it turned out every bit as flat and disappointing as his last efforts. He felt a kind of dread, in case that hadn’t been a blip, or a lack of inspiration at the time. In case he really had spent whatever talent he’d once possessed. It was over a year now, since he’d tried. He went in just to see what they had, and came out with two large sketchpads, some chalks, some inks, pencils, a tin of watercolors with a mixing tray in the lid, and a couple of brushes, one fine and one as thick as the tip of his little finger. He hadn’t meant to spend so much, but being in possession of such fundamental tools felt like seeing old friends. Like remaking a childhood acquaintance. He drove back to Blacknowle with the underlying excitement of having a present to unwrap, waiting for when he arrived.
But the first present wasn’t for him, it was for Dimity Hatcher. He parked at the pub and walked down to her cottage, not trusting his car to make it along the rutted, stony track. As he reached The Watch, he looked down the hill to Southern Farm, eyes searching for a dark-haired figure, moving quickly, precisely. Strange that the way she walked had already embedded itself so firmly into his memory. But there was no sign of life, other than a scattering of beige sheep in the big field behind the house, so he knocked loudly on the door of The Watch.
When Dimity Hatcher opened the door, she peeped out through the crack just as she had previously, and every bit as suspiciously, as though they’d never met before. Zach’s heart sank. Her hair was loose again, hanging down around her face. A loose blue dress, almost like a caftan, and those same fingerless red mittens.