Peacock Emporium by Jojo Moyes

already.
    ‘I saw the most fabulous film. French. You must see it too. I was so carried away by it I nearly didn’t come home at all.’ Her laughter, perhaps deliberate, took any threat from her words.
    Douglas watched her as she moved lightly around the room: the focus of it, yet not belonging to it. Perhaps she would always look like this to him: something otherwordly, floating, refusing to be tied down by the ropes of domesticity. He wished, briefly, that he could tell her about his exchange with his father. That he could express his humiliation, his disappointment at the reaction of the man whose good opinion he valued more than anything in the world. Perhaps lay his head against her and be comforted. But he had learnt through bitter experience that Athene would alight on any potential faultline in his relationship with his parents and do her best to widen it. She didn’t want him so closely linked to his family: she wanted to cast them adrift.
    He took a long draught of his whisky. ‘I thought we might go away.’
    She turned, something unreadable on her face.
    ‘What?’
    ‘To Italy.’
    It was as if he had proposed satiating some hidden hunger. She moved towards him, her eyes not leaving his. ‘Back to Florence?’
    ‘If you like.’
    She gave a little gasp, then threw her arms round him with a kind of childish abandon. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, let’s go back to Italy. Oh, Douglas, what a wonderful idea.’
    He put down his glass and stroked her hair, stunned that it had been so easy to make things right between them. He could feel her limbs, sinuous against his, and felt the battened-down stirrings of desire. She lifted her face to his, and he kissed her.
    ‘When shall we go? Soon? It will take us hardly any time to pack up.’ Her voice was greedy, urgent.
    ‘I thought we could go for our anniversary.’
    Her eyes were on some distant horizon now, her thoughts already overseas. It was like her face had changed shape, softened and blurred at the edges, as if she were seen through a Vaselined lens.
    ‘We could even stay at the Via Condolisa.’
    ‘But where shall we live?’
    ‘Live?’
    ‘In Italy.’
    He drew in his chin and frowned. ‘We shan’t go there to live, Athene. I thought we could have a trip for our anniversary.’
    ‘But I thought—’ Her face closed off as she grasped the ramifications of what he was saying. ‘You don’t want to move there?’
    ‘You know I can’t move there.’
    There was a sudden desperation in her. ‘But let’s move away from here, darling. Away from your family. And mine. I hate families. They’re always dragging us down with their obligations and expectations. Let’s go. Not even to Italy. We’ve been there. To Morocco. It’s meant to be fabulous in Morocco.’ Her arms were tight round his waist, her eyes burning intently into his.
    Douglas felt suddenly very tired. ‘You know I can’t go to Morocco.’
    ‘I don’t see why not.’ Her smile was bruised, wavering.
    ‘Athene, I have responsibilities.’
    She moved away from him then. Stepped back and shot him a hard look. ‘God, you sound exactly like your father. Worse. You sound like my father.’
    ‘Athene, I—’
    ‘I need a drink.’ She turned her back on him, and poured herself a large measure of whisky. He noticed, as she poured, that for a new bottle the level had dropped rapidly. She stayed turned away from him for some minutes. Normally Douglas might have approached her, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, offered some murmured words of affection. Tonight, however, he was just too tired. Too exhausted to play games with his impossible, flighty wife.
    She turned to him. ‘Douglas. Darling. I never ask you for anything. Do I? Really?’
    There was little point in contradicting her. Douglas stared at her pale, unreadable face, at the sadness suddenly visible in it. He hated the thought that it might be his failure as a husband that was responsible for it.
    ‘Let’s go. Let’s leave