The house was quiet. She made her way downstairs, feeling foolish. His door was closed. For some reason she knocked. When she didn’t get a response she waited, then knocked again, expecting Lisa to come and open it. But there was no response. Chiding herself for her nervousness, Megan opened the door.
The change threw her.
She stopped in the doorway, feeling confused until the delight caught up with her. The room was a flicker of candlelight. There were three big church candles she’d never seen before glowing in the fireplace, some twenty or thirty tea-lights scattered around the room and, on the mantelpiece, the wrought-iron candlesticks she and Jonathan had bought as a memento of their weekend in Devon were finally being put to use. And there was music playing; not the usual discordant jazz that Jonathan listened to, but something she recognised, something she liked – Aretha.
Jonathan was sitting by the French doors, smiling. ‘Well, that was worth it, to see the look on your face. You approve, m’lady?’ He bowed.
She walked over and kissed his cheek. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Is it not? A serious fire hazard, I grant you, but I’m sure we’ll be okay for a few hours. We do have one able-bodied adult present’ – he meant her – ‘and Lisa has taken the precaution of putting the fire extinguisher from the kitchen in the corner, just in case. Take a seat.’ He gestured to the chair that had been set up opposite him. It was the armchair from the lounge. It occurred to Megan that it must have taken someone – Lisa – a lot of effort to drag it into position. Beside the chair was a table covered with a white cloth. On the table there was a bottle of champagne, two glasses and a plate of antipasti. Megan flushed to think she’d been snotty about Lisa, when in reality her suggestion of a long shower had been a ruse to give her time to put all this together. She would buy Lisa some flowers the next time she was in town.
‘What’s the occasion?’ It wasn’t an anniversary – she would know.
‘Do we need an excuse? You look lovely, by the way. Smell good, too.’
That he had noticed made Megan want to cry. Instead she smiled and smoothed down her freshly conditioned hair self-consciously. ‘Shall I?’ She picked up the bottle. Jonathan hadn’t been able to open a bottle, even a screw-top, for more than a year. But she always asked; the illusion of normality was important. She poured two glasses, knowing that only one would be drunk. ‘Cheers.’ She clinked her glass against the rim of his, as it sat on the table. He didn’t pick it up. He watched her take a mouthful.
‘Is it good?’
She nodded.
‘Tell me.’ They used to do this a lot: she would drink or eat something and describe it to him. As his swallowing and digestion problems had increased, it had begun to seem a cruel taunt and they’d stopped. But if that’s what he wanted tonight, she wasn’t going to argue. Sharing a pleasure, however one-sided the experience, was so much better than not sharing at all.
She sat back, crossed her legs, let her dress fall open. ‘It’s good. Well chilled. The perfect amount of bubbles. Dry, but not too dry.’
‘With a hint of…?’
She took another sip, swished it around in her mouth like a wine connoisseur, swallowed. ‘I’d say… subtle tones of sarcasm, with a hint of self-congratulation. Vintage Coulter.’
Jonathan laughed. He caught her eyeing up the olives and Parma ham. ‘Go on, eat. I had mine earlier.’ A protein drink. ‘Please.’
She didn’t make him ask twice. She speared some artichoke and cheese, aware with each salty mouthful of his loss. His appetite was still strong, just not his ability to feed it.
His gaze was unsettling. It was a long time since she’d felt Jonathan’s attention on her. She made herself relax into it – aware there was a subtext, but also aware that she needed not to rush him. He wanted to have control of the situation; she understood how important that was for him. And if the past couple of years had taught her anything, it was patience. She ate a little more, wondering where Jonathan had sent Lisa to do the shopping. She finished her drink and, with a nod of encouragement from Jonathan, poured herself another. She sipped. Savoured. Sat back and met his gaze. Still he didn’t say anything. Aretha gave way to Curtis. Perhaps he had just wanted them to spend some time together – pretending to be normal. She was okay with that.
Megan found herself relaxing. She let her shoulders rest back against the chair and watched the candles flicker. It was seductive. She pulled her legs up underneath her and made herself more comfortable. Another sip.
He cleared his throat. It was a painful sound, one she hadn’t got used to, but she tried to let it wash over her. Finally he spoke. ‘You do know how much I love you, don’t you?’
What was she supposed to say? ‘Yes.’
‘And that I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Hell, Meg. Where do you want me to begin? For this.’ He looked down at himself.
‘The disease isn’t you, Jonathan.’
‘But it is, isn’t it? There’s no getting away from that.’
‘We are tonight.’
‘Yes. Sorry. We are. That’s the whole point of the mood music and lighting, after all.’ He smiled.
She took another sip of champagne to cover up her mixed emotions. Where was he going with this?
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘God help us!’ She tried to get him to smile, but he resisted – wanted to get back onto the serious track.
‘I mean, thinking about us. Our relationship.’ Megan stopped herself from making any comment. ‘I have so many regrets.’ She automatically assumed he was talking about Eloise and the impact of their affair. He must have seen something in her expression because he hurried on, ‘Not about you. You are, without doubt, the best person ever to walk into
