She threw the ring at his chest and stormed out.
After Johnny had called a taxi and retreated to his parents, Stella went back to bed, unable to do anything but cry.
When she finally arose at 11 a.m., red-eyed and exhausted, she went downstairs, opened the French windows and stood outside inhaling the air, oblivious to the cold.
The last thing she felt like was a long train trip to Cornwall; it was going to take nine hours with the sketchy Sunday service. But now she needed to see her father more than ever.
She poured herself a glass of red wine from the bottle that had been left on the coffee table from last night. She was all out of tears. Sinking into an armchair she looked around her; Johnny’s scarf in a corner, the coffee cup he had drunk from the night before, the faint outline of his body on the sofa cushion. Tiny painful reminders of how things were, tiny reminders of how things could change so quickly.
The door bell rang. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes before she opened it, expecting it to be Johnny.
Tom Grand was standing at the door. She’d seen him at the Feathers on Friday night and they’d made a vague plan to all have Sunday lunch.
‘I hope I’ve not disturbed you.’
‘No, come in,’ she said with faux verve.
‘I was just passing. Johnny’s not answering his mobile. I was wondering if we were still on for lunch today.’
His smile made her feel less alone.
‘Are you OK?’ said Tom, finally examining her face.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not.’
‘You’re right,’ she laughed sadly, puffing out her cheeks so they looked like little round apples on her face.
Tom made coffee while she told him what had happened.
She didn’t spare a single detail. She knew Tom was Johnny’s friend but it was cathartic, and anyway, she had always considered Tom to be kind and fair if one of the flakiest men she’d ever met.
‘Johnny’s a twat,’ said Tom angrily, swigging his coffee. ‘As for this Chessie character. Why would she leave her husband, seven months pregnant?’
They both looked at each other. ‘Someone else.’
‘Typically my car is in the garage and the trains are going to take forever.’
‘I can drive you if you want,’ Tom said, shrugging.
‘Are you sure?’ She didn’t know Tom well and it was a big ask, especially as he was Johnny’s friend.
‘You promised me Sunday lunch. We can get it on the way to St Ives.’
45
Cassandra touched back down again in London on Sunday evening and immediately directed her driver to take her straight to Giles’s apartment on a tree-lined street in Chelsea.
‘Cassandra. This is a surprise,’ said Giles, opening the door with a glass of wine in his hand. Over his shoulder, Cassandra could see a grey-haired forty-something man hovering at the kitchen door.
‘This is Stephen, my friend from Norfolk,’ said Giles smiling. ‘We were just about to eat. Squid-ink pasta and scallops: there’s enough for three.’
There was a delicious smell permeating around the flat, but she was in no mood to eulogize about his delicious cuisine.
‘Whatever you’re cooking, I think you’d better turn it off. I’m here to talk not eat.’
‘Is there something wrong?’