The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

that I was in touch with Paul again.’
    ‘Your husband, Paul?’
    ‘My ex-husband. The politician, who spends his time floating between Brussels and Strasbourg. Who has never, as far as I’m aware, come further north than Birmingham – and that was well outside his comfort zone.’
    ‘I didn’t think the man was actually here.’ Jack made a feeble effort to fight back. ‘I thought Rickard was here on his behalf.’
    ‘And I’m supposed to be the mad one!’ Joanna rolled her eyes, so that the candlelight caught her chin and threw strange shadows over her face. But she was softening, Vera thought. Perhaps she liked Jack’s dramatic gestures. It must be exhilarating to be at the centre of her man’s world, to drive him crazy.
    ‘I knew something was wrong,’ Jack said. ‘I lay there night after night and stories would come into my head. Scenarios, like. Possibilities. What if? Then I started to believe some of them. I couldn’t just sit at the farm waiting for you to come home. Or not come home.’
    Throughout the exchange, Rickard hadn’t moved. Now he got slowly to his feet. ‘This was a mistake,’ he said. ‘I should never have accepted Miranda’s invitation to the Writers’ House. I thought I might make things better, but I’ve only made them worse. I’m sorry.’ He walked away and was lost in the dark.

Chapter Twenty
    Nina woke when it was still dark. No panic this time. Instead the tired, grainy eyes and taut limbs that came from too little sleep. She had no sleeping pills now to help her. It had been late by the time she’d got to bed and she’d lain there, tense, reliving the shock of the stranger’s appearance in the dining room. She wondered now why the arrival of Joanna’s partner had so disturbed them? He’d posed no real threat. He’d stood there, yelling at the group, inarticulate with anger, but it had all been words. He hadn’t carried a weapon or indicated that he might become violent.
    Was it that, in that moment, they saw themselves as Jack saw them? As pathetic wasters. He’d ranted at them all, turning his head from one end of the table to the other. You’re a bunch of self-indulgent posers. Why don’t you get off your backsides and do a proper job? The magic of the evening was lost as soon the door had swung back and he’d opened his mouth. The reality of the outside world had intruded into their ridiculous fantasy of a civilized writers’ salon.
    Holly, the young police officer, had tried to calm him. She’d left her place and scuttled round the table until she was facing him. There’s no need for this. Let’s go into another room and chill out a bit. Her voice shrill, part panic and part excitement.
    But she’d only antagonized him and increased his fury: Don’t talk to me, you stupid little girl. What do you know about anything?
    It had been Joanna who’d gone up to him and put her arms around him as if he were her son, not her lover. At first he’d pushed her away, still yelling, still demanding some explanation. Then he’d broken down and begun to cry.
    It occurred to Nina now that Jack hadn’t sworn at them. There hadn’t even been the casual bad language she used herself to show that she was tired or cross. But still he’d shocked them because his anger was deep and real. They’d spent a week carefully putting words together, but his rage had a greater effect than any of their stories.
    She got out of bed and drew the curtains. The room was warm, but through the glass she felt the chill from outside. There was a faint light from the east over the sea. On impulse she pulled on jeans and a sweater, took her jacket from the cupboard. Her last morning at the Writers’ House and she’d make the most of it. This afternoon she’d be back in the city.
    Downstairs there was still evidence of the evening before. The dining room had been cleared of plates, but in the drawing room there were empty coffee cups and wine glasses. They’d sat here, the memory of Jack’s words still in their heads, and pretended that their work was of value. They’d read and listened and clapped politely. Not Nina, though. She hadn’t been able to face reading her story. She’d sat in a corner, half-listening to her students’ work, applauding only when she saw it was expected of her. Until Miranda had read. Nina’s response to her work had been real.
    The kitchen door was open and she saw the room was empty. Usually at this time Alex was there, preparing for