“And he thinks we should sell it? Well, I suppose we should at least think about it. We’ve got to do something about it, sooner or later.”

I pushed at the food on my plate before answering. “I don’t...”

“What is it?”

I put down my fork and reached for my wine.

“I don’t know if I want to sell it.”

Matt looked at me steadily. “Why not, Maudie? It’s not like we spend a lot of time there. You’re not saying you want to live there, are you? Darling, it’s so far away! We’d spend half our time driving back and forth.”

“I don’t know what I want to do. I’m just – I’m just going up to have a look, that’s all. To have a think.”

Matt had paused in cutting his steak. Now he picked up his knife again. “I’m not sure you should drive all the way up,” he said, after a pause. “It’s a very long drive for you to do alone.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

“Well, I’ll worry about you.”

“Oh really,” I said, uncomfortably. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Matt,” I said, without a thought of what I was going to say next.

“What happens if you have another – another episode like the one the other night?” he said, not looking at me.

I was struck dumb for a moment. I thought, with a quake of shame, that I didn’t know which episode he was referring to. “What do you mean?”

“You know – at the restaurant.”

“I’ve explained that,” I said, hating the querulous sound of my voice. “And I’ve said I’m sorry.”

Matt sighed. He put his knife down again. “Alright,” he said. “I don’t want to argue. Just – just be aware that I worry about you, that’s all.” He got up and took his half-eaten steak over to the counter. “We all worry about you,” he said, so quietly I barely heard him.

I didn’t eat much after that. I put the plates in the dishwasher and watched television desultorily for an hour. I opened another bottle of wine. I was thinking hard. Perhaps I should sell Caernaven; it was no doubt worth a huge sum of money and I knew it cost almost as much to run. But it wasn’t as if we were going to be strapped for cash anytime soon. Perhaps it would be the best thing; let some other family fill it up and make their own memories there, happy ones this time.

I left early the next morning, so early I was out the door before Matt was fully dressed. I kissed him goodbye and he told me to drive safely.

I hesitated before I left, wanting to say something else, but I couldn’t think what. As I drove out of London and joined the motorway heading north, I began to feel angry. Why was Matt acting so continuously hard-done-by? I seemed to annoy him constantly at the moment. Alright, so I’d forgotten a few things and drunk a bit much a couple of times, but so what? My fucking father’s just died, I said to him, arguing with the version of Matt that I carried around in my head. That was my excuse and I was sticking to it, but I felt a momentary qualm. I’d tried for so long to seem normal. It hurt to think that he might soon look at me and think I was about to slip. Perhaps he was already thinking that, after my behaviour at the Ivy. But I’m not, I told myself fiercely. I’m perfectly fine.

It was raining when I finally pulled into the driveway of Caernaven and made my way slowly down it, the gravel under the tyres making a sound like rushing waves. There was no Angus to greet me at the door, no exchange of awkward kisses. I paused for a moment after shutting the door, breathing deeply. Mrs. Green had long since gone home to her cottage that lay about half a mile down the estate lane. She’d left a note for me, telling me she’d see me in the morning, and a casserole kept warm by the Aga. I ate it at the kitchen table, unwilling to bear the dining room with its frigid temperature and the empty chair at the head of the table. Then I went down to the cellar.

The kitchen was always warm from the Aga but walking down the cellar steps was like plunging into a cold pool. The air down there smelled dank and the dusty bottles in their serried rows glinted dully in the wan light that fell from the doorway at the top of the stairs.

The only light switch was at the bottom of the stairs, so there was always the terrifying descent into darkness when walking down the steps, and the equally frightening, panicky, run back up, with the dying of the light behind you and the darkness that came snapping at your heels. I took an armful of bottles, not checking the labels, and bolted the cellar door behind me when I got to the kitchen.

I poured myself the first glass and wandered through to the hallway. I had taken off my shoes at the door and my socked feet moved almost soundlessly over the chessboard tiles on the floor. This is all mine, I thought. I felt oppressed by the knowledge. Despite the high ceilings and the wide hallways, the house felt as if it were shrinking, pressing itself closer and closer about me. I walked up the stairs, trailing my free hand up the polished banister. At the first landing, the stairs split in two and I followed the left-hand stairway, walking up to the first floor where the majority of the bedrooms were. I paused outside Angus’s room, my hand on the door handle. Then I pushed the door open and went inside, walking over the spot where he’d fallen and died. I only realised this once I’d done it and a shudder went through me.

I stood in the centre of his bedroom. It was tidy, the bed stripped bare, the fireplace empty save for a few flecks on soot on the grate. For all that, it smelt musty, unaired. I realised I had one hand up to my mouth and I kept swallowing. There was an old photograph of my mother on his dressing table, but no image of me. I felt a jab of anger. Why didn’t he have a photograph of me? Was I that much of an embarrassment that he couldn’t bear to be reminded? The anger cooled as quickly as it had appeared and I felt my eyes burn yet again. Abruptly, I turned and left, banging the door behind me.

I had some thought of going into the rest of the bedrooms on this floor but I had finished my wine. I went back to the kitchen to top up my glass, slopping it over the side.

I decided to go to bed early, to turn my back on the day and make a real start tomorrow. There were papers to go through and documents to find. All of a sudden, I felt weary. It was this twitchy, fraught state that frightened me in London; it was then I had strange thoughts and fancies. I thought for an instant of the blonde woman, but somehow knew I would never see her here. She belonged to London and all its tensions.

I had a missed call from Matt on my mobile, asking if I’d got there safely and to please call him as soon as I could. I rang him and waited, a little nervously, for the phone to be answered, but my call went through to the answer machine and his mobile was switched off. He hadn’t mentioned he was going out. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. I left him a loving and light-hearted message, trying to sound as carefree as I possibly could, hoping that would reassure him. Then I trailed up to bed and sat down, stretching my legs and wincing at the ache in my back. I put the half empty wine bottle and another full one on the bedside table. I’d hang out here for the evening, with some books and my drinks. I felt jumpy and nervous. The house felt too big; I could feel the space of it behind my bedroom door, its creaks and echoes and empty rooms. I returned to my bed and the wine bottle and began drinking determinedly, seeking a measure of bravado, or alternatively, sledgehammering myself into oblivion for the night.

Chapter Eleven

True to her word, Mrs. Green was in the kitchen cooking breakfast for me when I stumbled downstairs at half past eight, my head throbbing. Her greying hair had recently been crisply permed and her broad, capable hands were following their familiar routine; breaking eggs into their poaching pans, measuring coffee grains into the percolator, wiping crumbs from the surface of the breadboard.