As I drove away from Ralph's house that Saturday afternoon, I was deep in thought. Was it possible that with Susan and Peter working as a close team that they managed to brainwash Molly into marrying Peter? It seemed pretty farfetched, and then I thought, what would it have gained Peter? He would have known that the relationship was based on lies and collusion. He's a sensible guy, surely he'd know that a marriage built on sand would inevitably fail?
But then there was an even more basic question: Did it matter? But, Yes it did. Because, maybe, just maybe, it would help to explain why she had done the stupid thing of marrying him. But I had difficulty with that, if she was a brainwashed zombie then I didn't like that image of her either.
When I got back to my new flat, life took over. Moving that morning had involved little more than getting everything to the new flat and dumping it on the floor. And even doing that had taken two trips in the car. So, the evening was spent organising things, with one break when Mum phoned. Len and her had got as far as Glasgow, and were going on a cruise of Loch Lomond tomorrow. She sounded as if they were having a good time. She did ask for an update on the state of play, but there wasn't a lot to say. I was pleased that when I just said I was still thinking about things, she didn't press me. At ten o'clock I quit unpacking and arranging things for the day, poured myself a whisky and watched the television news. It was only then that I really looked at my new place.
I was really pleased with it. It was stylish and had quality. It wasn't terribly big, but it had a second bedroom, so I had thoughts that maybe the boys could stay over once in a while. And that maybe useful if life gets tough between Molly and Peter.
What I also noticed was that the place was impersonal. I'd lived for three months in the company flat and it hadn't worried me. But this one was My Flat. And it had very little of me in it, except for my clothes. I'd have to do something about that. So, I spent most of Sunday walking around shops looking for things to personalise the flat and to make it home By Sunday evening I'd spent quite a lot of money, but as I looked around the flat I was quite pleased with the look of the place. I gazed at the set of crystal decanters that I'd bought, wondering how to fill them. Brandy was obvious. Maybe a sherry in case Ralph calls? I'd have to consult Piers on the whisky. That would give me an excuse to phone him in the morning.
Monday morning in the office, and Carole openly asked, "And the next instalment?"
"Not a lot, except..." and I told her about Susan and the tickets for Longleat. It was the first time I ever saw Carole leaving my office angry. She obviously decided she couldn't say what she thought of my ex-mother-in-law to me, and she left the room, quietly fuming.
I let her fume whilst I called Piers. I opened, straight to the point. "Is he in?"
"Yes. In his office. I don't know how well he's going to work, but he's in. I've told him that he can cancel his regular Wednesday's research at the eye hospital, they can do without him; he's got work to catch up on things here. Anyway, he's got to go your way later, Neil's got to give him a dressing down and his formal warning letter. I'd keep my head down if I were you. In no uncertain terms, he is pretty sure all his troubles are your fault."
"I really couldn't give a damn. Now the real reason why I phoned..."
"That wasn't?"
"Well, it was a pretty big part of it. But now I want to turn to religion. Which whisky should I have in my decanter as a nightcap type of drink?"
"Ah! The search for the Holy Grail! Personally, I'd choose something from the North of the Highlands. But, for a novice convert like you I'd recommend something old, probably from Speyside, and with some years in the vat."
No name? No recommendation? That's not what I wanted, "Is that it?"
He laughed, "Yes. Discovery is what it's all about. The journey, not the arrival."
"Research you mean. Bloody researchers."
"We're all fucking bastards!" He chortled happily as I put the phone down.
On Monday evening I drove back to the wine shop where I'd bought my whisky before. I found the same guy as had been there before, not that he remembered me. But I explained that I was looking for an aged Speyside malt, and he produced a 21 year old Balvenie matured in Port Wood. So I bought it because I like port, and that was the only clue I had. At over £50 per bottle, I thought for a first attempt it that was quite enough.
Later that evening I couldn't resist trying. Who was it that said they don't know much about art, but the know what they like? I don't know much about malt whisky, but I know I like this stuff.
As I sipped it, I started thinking about Molly. In some ways I wished I'd never come back to Bristol, but then I'd never have rebuilt my relationship with Jamie and Ben. I couldn't imagine building anything but some supportive friendship with her, but there were too many memories, too many echoes of what we once had. Then I began to worry, I guess Peter was back living in their gym next door. Would he make trouble? It was a ridiculous situation, him camping out in the gym, and her and the boys next door. I had to talk her into something better, away from him.
In the end I called her, it was gone eleven o'clock. She sounded tired and quiet when she answered the phone.
"Hi, I hope I didn't wake you."
"No, I'm in bed, but not asleep."
"I was sitting here getting worried that Peter's back. Is he causing any problem?" I asked.
"No. Not a problem. He knocked at the kitchen door earlier, and that was a first, he's just come and gone before. Anyway, he very politely and formally asked if we could sit down and talk. He says he has a right to be heard."
"What did you say?"
"That there was no point. But that I'd think about it. I promise you I have no intention of sitting and talking to him. I just wanted him gone. I only agreed to think about it so that he would leave this evening."
There was a pause, then I told her, "He had an official warning letter at work today. He's screwing up his job."
"I kinda guessed that. It doesn't help. He is a good man, and he does love me. And he's screwing up his whole life."
There was a long pause. I was thinking that she sounded tired. Which made me think that now wasn't the time to tell her what I really thought of Peter Fucking Davies.
Instead, I suddenly suggested, "Could you get a babysitter for tomorrow evening, late evening, after you've seen the boys to bed? If you could, then why not come down here for a drink and to see my new place?"
"You know I'd like that. I'm sure Ralph would baby-sit. He feels so guilty about what Susan did. On Saturday, after you'd gone, I found him in tears. I've never seen my father cry before. And I couldn't say that what she did didn't matter, because it did."
"I wish we knew how much."
"How much our splitting matters? Everything. Don't you know that?"
"Yes, it was the worst thing that ever happened in my life, too. But I didn't mean that. What I meant was: I'd like to know just how influential Susan and her collaboration with Peter was in it all going so wrong."
