On each of the two or three occasions during our marraige that we'd decided to redecorate the living room, Heather had always urged a strong, bold colour. Too dark, I'd tell her. Too difficult to live with. Judging from the predominantly deep burgandy tone of her new home, it seemed Gordon had let her have her way. I could only conclude that this subservience in matters of interior decoration had been part of the attraction.
"Of course, you can't see much of the sea from here in the living room." Foster's eyes tossed upwards at the open plan staircase behind him."Guarantee you though, up there in the master bedroom you can see practically all the way to Norway!" There was an accompanying chuckle at his own exaggeration, north European geography obviously not a strongpoint: sailing due east from Saltburn the first country you'd reach would in fact be Denmark. "That's the beauty of the place see. The whole village is on a slope."
Heather was in the kitchen fixing a round of teas. At the sight of her ex husband being accompanied down the street by her second husband, she'd tossed aside her pruning scissors and spread her lips into a wide, unashamed beam. 'Jim! I'd thought the chap passing in that van had looked a bit like you.' There'd been a brief, one-sided sort of hug at the front gate, my own arms limp. 'Well come inside, come inside. Great to see you again. ' Like I was some kind of relative, a cousin she'd once been close to but hadn't seen for a while.
"I owe it all to you really," Foster droned on. "Took your lead. Thought to myself, 'why bother slogging through those final few working years just for an extra couple of quid in my pocket?'" It explained what he'd been doing strolling back from the newsagent's at half past ten on a week day. "A bit of inheritance helped. My mother's sister, died a spinster. Who'd have thought the old girl would have had so much stashed away under the mattress?"
There was another self-satisfied chuckle. Quite beyond the fact that he'd stolen away my wife, I wondered how on earth I could have ever considered the man a friend.
"So... Who do you fancy in the big game tomorrow night?"
By way of reply, I tossed my shoulders into a shrug. One that said I don't forgive you and will never forgive you so please, let's just quit the matey smalltalk eh.
The stupid sod ploughed on regardless: "Got a tenner on England to win two-nil. Well, you've got to believe, haven't you?"
I wasn't even looking at him, had twisted my neck the other way to study the wedding portrait on the wall nearby. The lens was angled slightly downwards, his face framed diagonally beneath Heather's. His remaining hair was neatly gelled back, the suit sharp looking, the smile the same smug variety he'd been wearing for the last five minutes. Heather's own smile was a little less effusive perhaps, her expression more reflective than overjoyed. The look of someone questioning their decisions? It was fanciful probably; she'd just been a little tipsy from the champagne no doubt.
That it was a professional shot was clear from the pose and composition, the out-of-focus blurring around the edge intended to lend a dreamy, romantic feel. We hadn't had a photographer at our own wedding, I recalled. Hadn't been able to afford one. A colleague of mine at the time had been press-ganged in to doing the duties. Peter something. Davies? Davidson? The guy had done his best but the results had inevitably been disappointing. For the next twenty-eight years the newlyweds gazing back from the top of the TV had been a rather serious, stiff-looking pair. An anniversary-day flick through the group shots in the album revealed friends and family members with closed or glazed eyes, blurred heads, missing shoulders. The whole thing was so amateurish it seemed ever more amusing with each passing year.
I wondered what she'd done with them, all those old wedding shots. This in turn reminded me of Diane, what she'd said the previous night. Not just the wedding photos but half a lifetime of memories, all packed away in a box somewhere.
The same thing that Sarah Bracewell had done, temporarily at least. Diane had no doubt been right: the pain was still too sharp to bear. But the girl, Alice - this was harder to explain. There hadn't been any photos in her room either. Surely she would want to have a visual reminder of her father somewhere on her wall? It was painful for her too, yes, but not as much as forgetting the details. His mannerisms, the exact way he looked. Not as much as allowing him to gradually fade from her memory.
"Still go to see Middlesbrough now and then. Same old rubbish as always."
I looked back at him there on the settee. His arms were draped along its top, his legs crossed. Relaxed, comfortable. He'd put on a few pounds since I'd last seen him. Married life was treating him well it seemed.
"They've got this young lad now out on the wing though. Lightening quick. Looks a decent prospect."
He seemed to give up then, my continuing silence having worn him down. Just lapsed into a wordlessness of his own. When Heather finally re-emerged from the kitchen, it was with eager relief that he shot upright in order to help her with the crockery-laden tray.
The tea service I recognised instantly. A floral, Royal Albert affair, a wedding present from Heather's paternal grandma. Cups, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, a matching plate on which she'd arranged a circle of biscuits. It had spent the twenty-eight years of our marraige tucked away at the back of a cupboard to be gently clacked out only on these rare occasions she'd deemed worthy: post funeral gatherings, the afternoon tea she organised with the Chief Super and his wife to celebrate my promotion to DCI, the first time Ellie had brought Adam home. Unexpected visits by ex husbands, it seemed, were of equally high rank.
There was a quick smile across at me as she poured the first cup. "One sugar, no milk." Like the date of your birthday, how you take your tea is something an ex spouse is unlikely ever to forget.
Her lips twitched once more as she handed me the cup, a smile I tried to return. My facial muscles seemed heavy though, strangely sluggish. It must have looked more like a grimace.
"You must be more of a coffee man these days I suppose," Gordon piped up. As if further clarification of the concept were needed, he then added: "You know, living in Italy and everything."
"No, no, tea's just fine."
My eyes were directed at Heather rather than him, as though it were her I was responding to. It was my first chance to study her a little.
She'd removed her sunhat, the revealed hair a shade darker than I remembered, the style a little less coiled, a touch bouncier. Those final years of our marraige, visits to the hairdresser had become less frequent, her reaction to the appearance of a grey hair or two less hysterical. The realisation stung me like a punch to the guts: she had more reason now to preen and pamper herself. A man to maximise her attractiveness for, one who would notice. Appreciate it.
She seemed to have lost a few pounds too, the hollow of her cheeks pooling a little more shade. Not only that, her general muscle tone was noticably firmer. All those walks on the beach. Had joined a gym too perhaps.
She was looking good, yes. Growing old with grace. It was amazing that a woman so beautiful had once been mine. Even more amazing that I'd been complacent and distracted and plain damn foolish enough to let her slip through my grasp.
She'd meanwhile finished serving hers and Gordon's teas, had lowered herself to the settee beside him, the lean and angle of her posture inclusive of both of us. Gordon was still slumped back, his legs crossed, arms spread. Oozing a tranqullity that I couldn't work out was genuine or else just skilfully feigned. It was while glancing at him that I noticed the hand slump down from the back of settee, rest itself gently and possessively on her knee. Heather was completely unflinching, both of them smiling at me in some warped, affectionate way.
And there I was sat across from then thinking to myself: I'm not okay with this. I'm a long, long way from ever being okay with this.
"I know it's still early," came Gordon's voice once more. "But I was just wondering if you had any samples out there in that big van of yours. You know, the wine. Heather and I have both been dying to taste a drop."
My eyes slid across to his, fixed them just long enough to get the words out.
"Don't you honestly think you've had enough from me already?"
I turned my gaze then back at Heather. Back to that gentle, tear-glistening bride who'd smiled up at me so coyly as she'd lifted her veil.
"How did we get here eh Heather?"
And looking back now, those following few hours seem little more than a blur. One of those strange compressions of time where hours dissolve into minutes. Most of a whole day, it just somehow disappeared.
All I remember is getting in the van and driving. Driving hard, diving fast. Driving because there seemed nothing more constructive to do.
By late afternoon I was rolling onto a cross-channel ferry. Once back on the European mainland I headed not south-eastwards towards Italy but instead found myself turning onto the motorway that led towards Belgium. To the north-west of Germany.
The motorway that led towards Cologne.
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