Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

      With a start Emma sat up, feeling the perspiration cold on her body. She was shaking with fear. It took several seconds before she realised she was still outside on the roof terrace. She staggered to her feet and went to lean on the parapet, staring down towards the patch of darkness which was the garden square, trying to steady herself, aware of the noise of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. It was only a nightmare, for God’s sake, sparked off by her row with Piers. Stupid bad dream!

      She glanced down at her hands gripping the rail they had added on top of the wall when they moved into the flat. They were shaking. She could actually see them trembling as her fingers clung to the cold metal. With a frown she forced herself to let go and turned towards the French doors.

      She stood for a long time under the shower, her face upturned to the sharp drumming of the water, letting it drive out the fear. Then she wrapped herself in a huge towel and went into the kitchen.

      ‘Emma?’ Piers found her there an hour later. He turned on the light. ‘Come to bed, sweetheart. We’ll discuss the cottage in the morning.’

      ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’ She rubbed her face wearily. ‘It’s done. The offer is made.’

      ‘And can be withdrawn. You haven’t signed anything.’

      ‘No, but –’

      ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, Em. Come on.’ He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Maybe we can compromise. A cottage might be fun. One day. We could drive around a bit. Get some ideas.’

      She sensed a softening of his attitude and glanced at him quickly. ‘Do you mean that? You’ll think about it?’

      ‘I’ll think about it.’ Turning off the light, he led her towards the bedroom.

      Peggy and Dan were late for lunch. When they followed Emma out onto the roof, Piers was ensconced on the swing seat with a pile of newspapers, the wine already opened, and a half-empty glass beside him on the table.

      ‘Sorry, darling, we couldn’t find anywhere to park.’ Peggy kissed Emma on the cheek and threw herself down on one of the cushioned chairs. Dan picked up the bottle, checked the ice-cold, clouded glass to see how much was left and began to pour. He was a stout, fresh-faced man with white short-cropped hair and vivid blue eyes. Having retired at fifty from the City, he had spent the last ten years in a new career as a wine importer, specialising in small, select vineyards known only to a very exclusive group of connoisseurs.

      ‘Not bad stuff.’ He topped up Piers’s glass after he had done the others. ‘Good year.’

      ‘I thought so.’ Piers folded his paper and put it aside. ‘So, how are you both?’

      ‘Good.’ Peggy grinned. ‘But our news is very boring. I want to hear yours. Did you go and visit the cottage yesterday?’ She looked from one to the other expectantly.

      Piers scowled. ‘So, Em told you about it, did she?’

      ‘Emma rang to say you might go and see it.’ Peggy frowned. ‘I know she said you wouldn’t consider it, Piers, but –’

      ‘She said that too, did she?’ Piers stood up. He went to lean on the parapet. ‘Perhaps you would like to remind her of the fact, Peggy.’

      ‘Piers!’ Emma had followed them out onto the terrace with a bowl of olives in her hand. She shook her head. ‘Ma doesn’t want to be dragged into this. Nor does Dan.’

      ‘Dragged into what exactly?’ Dan sat down on the chair next to Peggy’s. He leaned forward expectantly, his elbows on his knees. ‘Come on. Tell me. What’s this all about?’

      ‘I went to see a cottage on my own as Piers wouldn’t come,’ Emma said, passing him an olive. ‘And I liked it a lot.’

      There was a short silence.

      ‘So, you are going to see it too?’ Dan asked cautiously. He was looking at Piers.

      ‘No.’ Piers drained his glass. ‘And in spite of that fact, in spite of me saying I don’t want a cottage at the moment because we’re too busy and we can’t, actually, afford it, in spite of all that,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘she put in an offer.’

      There was a profound pause, then Emma turned to him. ‘You may not be able to afford a cottage,’ she said quietly, ‘but as I told you last night, I can.’ There was a further moment’s awkward silence.

      ‘I’ve got the particulars here.’ She stood up and disappeared inside for a moment. When she returned she had a sheaf of estate agent’s details in her hand. ‘It probably doesn’t look that special on paper, but it is.’

      ‘Why don’t we all run down there and see it?’ Dan drained his glass and held it out to Piers for more as Peggy took the A4 sheets from her daughter and began to read them. ‘What about next weekend? It sounds like a fun excursion to me.’

      ‘For you, perhaps.’ Filling the glass, Piers put the bottle down and turned to lean over the railing, staring out across the rooftops. ‘If Emma wants this place, that’s up to her. I don’t and I see no point in wasting a day of my life trailing off to see it. If we bought a cottage I would want it to be in Normandy or Brittany. Not, I repeat not, in Essex.’

      Emma shrugged. ‘So much for mutual discussion.’

      He swung round. ‘Excuse me? What discussion did you engage in before you made an offer for this place, pray? You went knowing my views. And you decided to buy it knowing my views.’ His voice rose slightly.

      Dan and Peggy glanced at each other. Peggy leaned forward and touching Emma’s arm she frowned and shook her head. ‘Let’s change the subject,’ she said softly. ‘I think you two need to talk about this on your own later. Come on, I’ll give you a hand in the kitchen.’ She led the way in through the doors.

      Emma followed slowly. She had picked up the estate agent’s details from the chair upon which her mother had left them. ‘I have to have it,’ she said as they went through into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know why.’

      Peggy