Page 59 of The Bordeaux Book Club

Ever since her diagnosis a year ago, he’d been filled with a desire to ‘fix things’ for her. Somehow make things better, and get her better in the process. He’d started working on the house – as best he could – painting the faded walls, tidying up more than he ever had. Doing the washing – another novelty. He knew it was stupid, misguided, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that if he did enough – if he was enough – somehow, everything would be alright.

Even his attending the reading group had been for her really – at least at first. ‘Oh, I wish I could get to that,’ she’d said sadly when he’d shown her the flyer. ‘Maybe one day.’

‘Do you want me to go?’ he’d offered.

He wasn’t insulted when she’d let out an incredulous laugh. He was hardly an avid reader. But he’d meant it – maybe he could go in her place, talk to her about it afterwards. Make her interested in books and reading and… well, life. If she had enough things going on, maybe it would be enough to make her stay.

He’d read all sorts of articles, done deep dives into various forums. Everywhere you went, people seemed to be touting miracle cures – special diets, hypnotherapy, meditation, homeopathy, positive thinking. He knew he’d never convince her to deviate from the regime the hospital had set her on (and had no desire to; after all, he wasn’t a doctor). But the positive thinking angle had caught his attention.

Somehow, he felt, deep inside, her body must know how to heal itself and if she felt enough pleasure, enough of a pull to the land of the living, just maybe something would shift inside her. If not, at least going to the group for her was something he could do. Because he needed to focus this restless, desperate energy somewhere.

So, he’d joined the group, reading the books with her, telling her about the women and George and the thoughts they’d had. Sharing some of her opinions on Heathcliff, on Darcy, with the group and telling her how they’d responded. And she’d smiled and said she was proud of him and that she was so thrilled that he’d rediscovered his love of reading.

The biggest surprise of all was how much he’d begun to look forward to the meetings. Alfie’s interests normally lay in all things digital, in gaming and YouTube shorts and all the things his peers raved about. But he’d enjoyed the reading more thanhe’d thought he would. And the group – the group had become special to him in a way he couldn’t fully explain.

He’d realised what little time he’d spent with people of his mum’s age over the years. He’d never known his dad – Mum still couldn’t be drawn to tell his story and he’d set it aside in recent months. Perhaps there were some things he’d be better off not knowing.

Having the group, though, had made him realise just how few friends his mum had over here. She still knew a couple of the mums she’d bonded with when they first came over – both English. She had a friendly relationship with the neighbours, talking in her careful but adequate French. But she never seemed to get properly close to anyone. Maybe if she got better, he’d help her. Help her back into life.

‘I’ll call you between classes,’ he said to her now. ‘Just ring if you need me. Honestly.’

She nodded, shuffling slightly on her pillow. He fetched a jug of water and a glass for her nightstand, as well as some chocolate she probably wouldn’t touch, and fluffed the pillows again until she was forced to tell him to ‘go or you’ll be late!’

Then, with a deep sigh, he shouldered his backpack, opened the door and disappeared into the late-May morning.

24

Leah took a sip of coffee and felt the hot liquid scorch down her throat. She looked out of the window at the garden, bathed in early-summer light. Nathan was diligently hacking his way through the rest of the bed that she’d started yesterday, dressed in his habitual ‘work clothes’ and definitely – as far as she could tell – not about to slip out into the city centre.

Already today, she’d cleaned almost everything in the kitchen – even getting onto a chair to wipe the dust from the top of the light fitting (which had been filthy), tidying cupboards, mopping the floor. She’d stopped short of collecting the eggs – she wasn’t a masochist after all. But despite all her attempts to distract herself, the feeling that had been building up inside her since she’d woken with a start at six this morning had built to an almost explosive level.

She’d finished the last chapter ofMadame Bovarylate last night and had been surprised to find tears running down her face. Perhaps if she’d read it years ago, she’d have sympathised with Madame Bovary herself – the restless, beautiful Emma – someone who was yearning for excitement and passion. But now her heart went out to Charles, her ordinary, cuckold of ahusband. Yes, he was a bit dull, but he loved Emma and was steadfast and reliable.

That’s when she’d realised. If she was identifying with a dull, nineteenth-century fictional doctor who dies a miserable death, she really had to get a handle on herself.

It was time.

No more being afraid. No more sleepless nights. No more justifying her fears, or writing off his absences as something completely innocent. She had to know the truth, whatever it might be.

‘Nathan!’ she called, trying to keep her voice light. ‘Could you pop in for a minute?’

He looked up. ‘I’m just—’ he said.

‘I know, but have a break, yeah? I’ve made a coffee. And I need to ask you something.’

Last night, he’d cuddled into her in bed in a way he hadn’t done for ages, his arms wrapped around her, body spooning to hers. She’d rubbed his arms and allowed herself to sink into his embrace. It was a relief, this intimacy after a couple of weeks of being too tired, too busy or too stressed. And she’d almost changed her mind about talking to him at all.

But today, she’d woken up with Grace’s words echoing in her ears. Whatever Nathan was doing – however innocent – he was doing it under the radar. Creating unnecessary stress for her. ‘Think about how you’d feel if the situation were reversed – even if it is completely innocent,’ Grace had said. ‘You’d hate to think you were hurting Nathan unintentionally, wouldn’t you? He owes you an explanation.’

‘He owes me an explanation,’ she said, quietly to herself as her husband made his way across the uneven earth, which clumped and gathered on the bottom of his boots, his face unreadable.

Nathan sat on the front step and slipped off his boots with a grunt, then stretched and wandered into the kitchen in his grey socks. ‘Thanks love,’ he said, seeing the large mug of coffee she’d made for him. He stood by the table and took a sip, sighing with pleasure.

‘Actually,’ she said, her heart thundering almost painfully. ‘Nathan, can you sit down?’

‘Why?’ he asked, almost immediately. Almost too immediately. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just…’ she said, gesturing to a chair and pulling one out for herself. As she sank into her seat at the table, her eyes wandered over the garden, the countryside, the blue sky with the promise of a perfect day ahead, weather wise. Their life was perfect, simply perfect, she thought. Could she really throw a grenade into it? Was it so bad to feel that her husband had a secret? Did she have to know everything?

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