I paused outside our office, holding my breath to listen for sounds of Ben singing while he flung paint around the room. But all I heard was silence and when I pushed open our office door, neither Ben nor his easel were anywhere to be seen. The room was stuffy so after I’d dropped my pile of newspapers on Ben’s desk, I flung open the windows as far as they could go and looked across the grounds. And there he was. Beyond the tapestry of the box-edged parterres, at the very edge of the formal gardens, Ben stood at his easel painting, facing away from the hall, looking out towards the deer park. Without a second glance at my diary, or my to-do list, or the undoubtedly full inbox of emails, I made us both a cup of tea and fled the dim and overheated hall for the beauty of the gardens. I carried the mugs carefully through the gardens, inhaling the aromas of vanilla, musk, citrus and clove as I brushed past the plants that clung to every gate and archway. This was definitely my priority, I told myself, spotting Ben at the top of the worn stone steps; he would want to know straightaway that I’d found six years’ worth of July newspapers for him.
