Page 116 of All I Want for Christmas

‘I know it,’ he nodded. ‘I’ve played golf at Sunningdale.’

Of course he had. She sighed, looking out at the garden, knowing her father – a resident there for thirty-eight years – would give his eye-teeth for an opportunity like that.

‘That wasn’t intended as a name-drop. It’s just my only reference,’ Max muttered, seeing her irritation.

She looked back at him but he was crossing to the far sideof the room again, running his hands through his hair with a sigh. They were talking at cross purposes again, it seemed.

‘Look, it’s your Saturday and I’m intruding,’ she said, putting down her coffee. ‘I’ll just do what I came to do and get out of your hair. Do you mind if I wander around the garden?’

‘No...But you’ll need to put on a better coat.’

‘I’m fine in mine.’

He ignored her, walking back to the boot room and bringing back a padded Canada Goose parka. Men’s.

‘That looks enormous.’

‘Yes, well I don’t have any women’s things up here. But at least it’s warm,’ he argued, holding it open for her to slide her arms into. ‘I’m not sure if you realize it’s trying to snow out there? This is Scandinavia, not Surrey.’

‘Fine.’ She slipped it on, the shoulder seams coming to halfway down her biceps, the cuffs dangling several inches past her hands. ‘Who does this belong to? The Hulk?’

He grinned, that rare half-smile. ‘It’swarm.’

‘Mm-hm,’ she sighed wryly. He opened the back doors and a frigid block of air fell in. He shivered, but she was protected in the coat. ‘...Is there anywhere you don’t want me to go?’

He looked at her, shaking his head. ‘Access all areas.’

Their eyes met briefly. She noticed that he had golden flecks in his, and faint – really faint – freckles on his cheeks. Was it through him that she sensed Lilja?

‘Okay, thanks.’ She stepped out, pulling the coat around her as she walked around the flower bed off to the right. She looked into it, remembering the profusion of texture and colour in the photographs – such as she could make out in a black-and-white image; but there was nothing to see today except mud and sticks, a few bamboo canes and some chicken wirearound what looked like the skeleton of a hydrangea. She lifted her gaze to the sweep of the land, admiring the way it undulated gently, as if the sea rippled beneath the grass.

The woodland that bordered the lawns grew thicker around the back, standing darkly with a carpet of mulched leaves, mushrooms popping up everywhere like little white thumbs. She walked around the perimeter of the lawns, stopping as she saw several small wooden crosses in a scattered area by some trees. One looked to be reasonably recent – certainly from within the past ten years, the wordBellastill distinct – but the others were weathered, the names almost eroded from sight, the wood rotting and flaking. Pet graves?

She walked through the trees, her hands trailing on the trunks as she wove her way around the perimeter, looking back up at the house from all different angles. There was an outbuilding with a ride-on lawnmower beside it. She wandered up, peering in and finding an impressive arrangement of garden tools inside, hanging on the walls and arranged on shelves – shears, a leaf-blower, rakes, spades, some plastic trugs. It smelled of grass cuttings and she wondered how many gardeners it took to maintain the grounds. Just from what she could see, there had to be five acres here, maybe more.

She came out again. Beyond was the greenhouse. It was huge and appeared to be original, with a sharply steepled roof and a metal fretwork. She walked up to it and looked in. The smell of moss, mud and tomatoes was immediate. There was an old waxed apron hanging from a hook, elbow-length gloves and a tatty, nibbled straw sunhat. On the shelves lay countless flower pots and seed trays, but they were empty; there was a terracotta rhubarb forcer in the far corner.

She closed the door carefully again, feeling frustrated. She had wanted to somehow feel what Lilja had felt here, and she couldsense flickers of energy, like glimmers of light, but she couldn’t quite catch hold of anything. She was visiting at the wrong time of year, she knew. Life was dormant. On hold. There was nothing to see here after all.

Everything was still hiding below the surface.

‘Well timed, I was about to call you,’ Max said, looking up as she came back in through the back doors. He was carrying two bowls over to the small table. There were already plates set out, with buttered rolls and water glasses. Napkins, too. It was all distinctly more homely than the Geranium lunch they’d shared in his townhouse. ‘Any luck?’

‘No. The garden is sleeping,’ she said, pulling off her muddy boots.

‘One way of putting it.’

She stepped into the kitchen, slipping off the jacket. ‘Are those pet graves down in the trees?’

‘Yes. Various dogs and one guinea pig.’

She turned back to hang the jacket in the boot room, but he took it from her and did it himself. ‘...Thanks.’

‘Sit.’

They sat together at the small table and she felt aware of his legs near hers as he began tearing at his roll and dunking it in the soup.

She smiled, amused.

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