Page 47

And now, as they’d always been, he and Delia were two halves at odds with one another. Black and white. Light and shadow. No wonder he loved Caravaggio’s artworks. The artist had created Peter’s disposition all those centuries ago and put it on canvas to be discovered, for Peter to see himself interpreted through paint.

He smiled at the whimsy of this thought; it amused him but was also soothing, because the fact that he had permitted this marriage to occur when every instinct had screamed at him to run the other way was deeply disappointing. And now, fourteen years later, they lived alongside each other in polite disharmony.

It wasn’t that he disliked the idea of committing to one woman, but he’d soon discovered there was a coldness between them, simply no passion to bring them together.

It had been a pragmatic union, but he could blame only himself for their cold marriage.

He knew he was remote, and often lost to his imagination or his work. None of that was her fault. But they didn’t share a single interest. She was not intrigued in the slightest by the world of art, or the sorts of books and papers he liked to read, or his desire to travel. Delia was focused almost solely on her status as a powerful member of the community, sitting on several committees and in charge of the annual city fete. She loved meetings upon meetings, minutes, agendas, and decisions that she could sign off on to feed her sense of status. Peter wasn’t sure she’d ever loved him, not really. She only loved what being his wife could bring her.

‘Oh, you were targeted from well before that first meet, old chum,’ a friend had explained to him once, highly amused, when Peter expressed frustration about Delia and her mother. ‘They were talking about Delia’s prospects or lack thereof – she was such a pretty thing but sort of missed the boat somehow with everyone going off to war. Anyway, they asked me if I knew of any top-shelf fellows and your name came up. I told them you played the field, but that you were honourable in how you treated the ladies you romanced. I think Elva nearly lost her breath when we found out everything I could on you. “Perfect for our Delia,” I remember her saying. Sorry, but this is normal, Foxy,’ he’d said in a voice of amused commiseration. ‘Don’t be shocked. She was their only child. And she’s a good stick.’

All this information had come long after the wedding. Through their engagement it had felt as though he were being carried along on a relentless tide being driven by Elva, who planned everything for the engagement party and then the summer garden wedding beneath a marquee on a warm June day.

Except Peter had realised, as he stood to make his speech, that he felt like an observer rather than a participant in the wedding – perhaps in the relationship itself. He’d played no part in the planning, other than turning up when he was told to, even being told what to wear and Delia’s mother pinning his buttonhole on. Had he even asked Delia to marry him, or had it been the other way around? By then he’d felt haplessly embedded so deep he could hardly pull out. What kind of man did that?

If he’d had his way, they would have eloped, married at Gretna Green and then headed for Scotland for a honeymoon in the Highlands. At least that would have felt carefree, adventuresome and romantic. Instead it was off to the Cotswolds in some stuffy old mansion Elva had chosen.

‘Go visit Oxford University, where your son will go,’ she’d said, pinching Peter’s cheek. She reeked of a perfume he didn’t like, and he’d learned that Delia loved to go heavy on the perfume too. A wedding gift he’d kept for their honeymoon had been a bottle of Etourdissant, created in 1939 by House Jean Desprez. He’d liked it immediately when the lady at the perfumery in London’s fashionable Piccadilly had suggested it, raising her wrist for him to gently inhale the scent she’d sprayed. ‘He’s an haute couture designer, but he comes from a family of perfumers. The blend of bergamot and creamy sandalwood pairs magnificently with floral and citrus. It’s the perfect chypre perfume in my opinion, sir.’

He’d grinned at the saleswoman. ‘It’s beautiful. I’ll take that for my bride, please.’

‘Excellent. Let me wrap it for you, sir.’

He had intended to give the perfume to Delia on the first night of the honeymoon but they’d had their first bust-up instead. It was over a stupid thing.

Delia had forgotten her toiletries bag. And over the course of the journey, him driving them north towards their destination, she’d kept pleading with him to turn back.

‘Oh, Delia no. We’ve just left all that gaggle behind.’

‘Gaggle?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No, I don’t,’ she snapped. ‘That’s my family you’re referring to.’

‘I mean everyone.’ He’d shaken his head. ‘I couldn’t wait to get away, frankly.’

He wondered, even then, that he had somehow found himself married to a woman who felt like a stranger… someone he felt no genuine thirst for. There was desire, of course. What man wouldn’t feel that for such a beauty as Delia in her early twenties? But was he suffused in a sense of warmth and love in her company, or ignited by her spirit? No, not at all.

Marriage was surely the obvious next step for a man of his age, and the path to those children he wanted to give a good life to. Delia was younger than him, but she was in a tearing hurry to get started on their family, with her and her mother joking about making a baby that very night. When he’d met her, he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t already married. But now he felt he knew. It wasn’t just Delia’s attitude towards status and wealth, but fear of her demanding mother that would weigh any prospective man down.

As they sped north, his refusal to turn back for Delia’s bag had led to the argument and then a chilled atmosphere in the car that had become even colder by the time they arrived at their destination. They’d smiled at reception, anticipating the innuendo about them being newlyweds, but once behind the door of their guest room, she’d turned on him.

‘You can sleep on the floor.’

He’d raised his brows. ‘On our honeymoon night?’

‘All the more reason. This is the beginning of our life together. You should have been kinder, Peter.’

‘Kinder? I think it was unreasonable of you to expect me to turn back for a few lipsticks on a journey that was already long enough.’ His tone was calm and quiet.

‘It wasn’t just a few lipsticks,’ she hissed back at him, ‘and a kind husband, a loving husband would have turned the car around without blinking.’

He could remember how he’d seethed at her accusation and then the truth had spilled out. He could see it all so clearly; she was spoiled and used to getting her way, and he’d never pushed back until now. And what a moment he had chosen – their wedding night – to show her he had some spine.

‘I told you I wasn’t cut out to be a husband, Delia. I’ve clearly failed the first test. You were the one who insisted on marrying me. You and your overbearing mother.’

‘How dare you!’ she spat. ‘You can go and check into a hotel for all I care.’