Night Music by Jojo Moyes Read Free Book Online

wine. ‘God, that’s good.’
    Isabel shook her head. ‘It’ll be better for the children. Lovely country house, good state schools, a small village. You know how awful London parks are – Mary always said she had to spend half an hour picking up bits of broken glass before they could play.’
    ‘I just wonder whether you shouldn’t go and see this place first, take your time.’
    ‘We don’t have time, Fi. We don’t have any money. And, anyway, I’ve seen it, years ago when I was a child. I remember my parents taking me there for a garden party. It was a glorious place, as I remember.’ She had almost convinced herself.
    ‘But Norfolk? It’s not even the nice bit by the beach. And it’s such a huge step to take. You won’t know anyone there. You’ve never liked the country very much. You’re hardly green-welly material, are you?’ She lit a cigarette. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you can be a bit . . . impulsive, Isabel. You should come back to work and see if you can scrape by. I’m sure people would find you extra engagements. You’re lead violinist, for God’s sake. Or you could do some teaching.’
    Isabel raised an eyebrow.
    ‘Okay, so maybe teaching was never your strong point. But it does seem an awfully extreme thing to do . . . What do the kids think?’
    ‘They’re fine,’ she said automatically.
    ‘But this is our house. This is Daddy ’s house,’ Kitty had said. ‘You told me you’d sort it out.’
    Isabel wondered at her own composure. Laurent would forgive me, she told herself. He wouldn’t have asked me to part with my violin, which he gave me, not on top of everything else. ‘How come you get to make all the decisions? There’s three of us left in this family, you know.’ Kitty’s face was pink with perceived injustice. ‘Why can’t we sell the new house? It must be worth loads.’
    ‘Because . . . even after I’ve paid the inheritance tax on it there would be too many debts, okay? It’s worth a lot less than our home and, besides, anything we make from this house is ours, not the taxman’s.’ She softened her voice. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, Kitty, but your father . . . left us with no money. Less than no money. And we need to sell this house to survive. It won’t be that bad. You can still come back and see your friends. And the new house is big – they can come and stay with us. All school holidays, if you want.’
    Thierry’s face had revealed nothing of what he was thinking.
    ‘There just isn’t the money, my loves,’ she had said, trying to bring them back to her. ‘We have to move.’
    ‘I still think you’re making a mistake,’ Fionnuala said now, dipping a piece of bread into olive oil, then wiping it round her empty plate. You’re still shaken and now is not the time to make life-altering decisions.’
    Mary’s face had suggested she thought the same thing. But Isabel had to do this now. If she didn’t, she might crumple. The house offered her a pragmatic solution. It was the only possible way she had of salvaging something of her life, of ceasing to be haunted by the lack of his. In her more fanciful moments she had told herself that Laurent had sent the new house to her, that he had done it to atone for his debts. And children were adaptable, she told herself daily. Think of those whose parents were refugees, diplomats or in the armed forces. They moved all the time. Anyway, it might be easier for her two to be away from reminders of their old life. It might even be easier for her.
    ‘I understand the house is in need of modernisation,’ the solicitor had said.
    She had gone to see him in person, unable to believe it might not be some trick. ‘My great-uncle was living in it so it can’t be that bad,’ she had replied.
    ‘I’m afraid I know nothing more than the details on the deeds,’ he had said, ‘but congratulations. I understand it’s one of the more important houses in the area.’ She