Night Music by Jojo Moyes Read Free Book Online Page A

was his only surviving relative, and she had been bequeathed a house through the invisible thread of intestacy.
    ‘It’s taken you for ever to make lead violin. And you’re bloody good,’ said Fionnuala. ‘Plus you’ll never meet anyone stuck out in the middle of nowhere.’
    ‘What makes you think I want to?’
    ‘Not yet, of course. But eventually— Look, I didn’t mean—’
    ‘No,’ said Isabel, firmly. ‘There was only Laurent for me. There could never be anyone who would . . .’ Her voice faded. Then, ‘It’s a new start,’ she told Fionnuala firmly. ‘This house is a new beginning.’
    ‘Well, I suppose that’s important,’ Fionnuala said. She put a hand on Isabel’s and squeezed. ‘Oh, bugger, I’m due back. Sorry, Isabel, but Burton’s conducting, and you know what a miserable git he is when you’re late.’
    As Isabel reached for her purse, Fionnuala said, ‘No, no, my treat. I’m feeling flush because we’re doing a film score tomorrow. Four hours’ sitting around for forty minutes’ playing. I worked out the rate per note the other day – bloody marvellous.’ She thrust some money on top of the bill. You can do me a roast when I visit. Go shoot yourself a partridge. Astonish me with your new-found country skills.’ She reached across the table to hug her friend. Then pulled back and studied Isabel’s face. ‘When do you think you might play again?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Isabel. ‘When the children are . . . happy again. But it’s only a couple of hours by train. Not exactly the Outer Hebrides.’
    ‘Well, make sure you hurry. We miss you. I miss you. The man who has taken your place is hopeless. Leads with his head down and expects us to follow. We all gawp at him as if he’s showing us what he’s about to do by sign language.’
    She threw her arms round Isabel again. ‘Oh, Isabel, I’m sure it’ll be all right, your new house and everything. Sorry if I was unsupportive earlier. I’m sure you’re doing the right thing.’
    I am, Isabel thought, as her friend disappeared through the double doors, her violin case tucked under her arm.
    Best for everyone.
    Sometimes she even believed it.

Four
     
    Henry nudged Asad from behind the counter, pointing to his watch. Mrs Linnet had taken almost twenty-three minutes to buy a box of teabags. It was a new personal best. ‘Do you need any help, Mrs Linnet?’ he asked.
    She broke off from her soliloquy. It had involved, in no particular order, CCTV, granite kitchen surfaces, her neighbour’s gammy leg and a woman she had once worked with whose infertility she ascribed to the wearing of tights in bed. ‘I don’t know about these hard-water teabags. Do you have to have hard water to use them? I know we’ve got limestone. It’s all round my kettle.’
    ‘Limestone? That must be a trial,’ said Asad.
    ‘Good for the upper arms, though,’ said Henry, trying not to laugh.
    The dull thrum of rain on the roof increased in volume, and all three started as thunder rumbled overhead.
    ‘I was just about to make a cup – one for you too, Mrs Linnet, so you can judge our anti-limestone teabags for yourself.’ Henry winked at Asad and headed to the back of the shop. ‘If you’re not in too much of a hurry, that is.’
    It had been a slow afternoon. The torrential rain and school half-term had conspired to keep all but the most desperate customers away. Other local shopkeepers grumbled about the trickling custom, at former regulars now lured away by supermarket offers and the promise of home delivery. But the proprietors of Suleyman and Ross, unencumbered by debt and cushioned by pensions built up during their years working in the City, viewed such afternoons as an opportunity for a more leisurely exchange with their customers. They had not taken over the shop with the aim of making money, but the low prices, unconventional stock choices and personal attention they offered had kept them assured of people’s loyalty.