‘That wasn’t like you,’ I said to Ed, ‘slagging off other parents in front of Molly. Clients, as well.’
‘It wasn’t like you not to agree,’ he said.
‘What do you mean? Of course I don’t agree, I think they’re a great group.’ I did not confess my reservations about Stephen, but he was already on Ed’s mind for other reasons, it transpired.
‘Stephen’s obviously some sort of cokehead. They were all at it, in case you didn’t notice.’
At least he hadn’t said that in front of Molly. ‘What makes you think that?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Those constant trips to the bathroom, for one thing. It wasn’t a problem with weak bladders.’
I shrugged. ‘They’re private citizens. It’s none of our business.’
‘It’s not a question of privacy, Nat, is it? Cocaine is a class-A drug and it’s just as illegal in the home as it is anywhere else. Their children were there. Our daughter was a couple of rooms away.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘even if you’re right, which I’m not convinced you are, we don’t take drugs and we have to trust we’ve brought Molly up not to be interested.’ I was pleased with this response: for a mother prone to over-protectiveness, for a woman who liked a certain degree of control over her environment, it sounded sanguine, commonsensical, the sort of thing Gayle might say.
‘Well, mixing with households like the Channings’ would not appear to be the way forward,’ Ed said, tutting with fresh disapproval. ‘I worry for those kids’ welfare. The constant partying. Lara said it herself, didn’t she? That remark about Social Services.’
‘That was a joke, Ed.’
‘Apart from anything else,’ he said, continuing over me, ‘we’re educators. We can’t be seen to be involved in this kind of, I don’t know, libertine behaviour.’
‘Educators? Libertine?’ I heard the scorn in my own laughter. ‘Do you realize how sanctimonious you sound? And why do we have to be defined so completely by our profession, anyway? Why do we have to be these sensible, dutiful people who always, always have to do the right thing?’
An approaching car threw sudden light through the window, illuminating Ed’s indignant face. There were sounds of parking, then the sudden absence of engine noise, a silence for his verdict. Of course, I knew him well enough not to expect an answer, only a question of his own.
‘Why are you so keen to get in with that group?’ he asked. ‘It’s as if they’ve appeared out of nowhere and now they’re the only people you want to see.’
‘They didn’t appear out of nowhere, Lara and Miles have lived in Elm Hill for two years. And they’ve invited us to their house twice, that’s all.’
‘Twice in the space of a week.’ His mouth remained open for some seconds before he remembered to close it. I wondered what he’d left unsaid and if it might be the very question I’d asked myself, the one that Gayle had posed so baldly: why? Why was Lara actively drawing us into her social circle, when her husband was at best disinterested?
Then it came to me, with a clarity that made me marvel both at my own stupidity and the delicious irony of it: it was Ed. He was the reason. Not because he was Georgia’s tutor but because Lara liked the way he looked. Its origins were in her fixation with Alain Delon, on full view that evening.
We obviously have the same excellent taste …
Did Ed realize this? Was that why he was backing off so categorically, citing drug abuse when he had no genuine evidence? Had there been an overture of some sort on the front-row sofa?
‘Did something else happen tonight?’ I asked. ‘Something you’re not telling me?’
He stared at me, the question catching him off guard. What was curious was how unafraid of his answer I was, how flattered by my own suspicions. It was certainly not the response I would have expected of myself, and I was rocked by a surge of exhilaration at my own permissiveness, fleeting though it doubtless was.
‘Nothing happened.’ His gaze lowered to my top and I knew he must be remembering that moment of exposure before we left. Is that really her cast-off you’re wearing? I knew it wasn’t your style. But Ed didn’t say things like that, he didn’t think things like that. And if he could have read my thoughts he would have had every right to be disgusted.
He stood to leave the room, snapped off the kitchen lights even though I was still sitting there.
‘You’re out of your depth, Nat,’ he said.
16
Monday, 31 August, 7 a.m.
Text alerts startle me, an abrupt succession of them, like something coming to life inside my handbag. I scramble to silence my phone, though in her bed Molly sleeps undisturbed, her arms thrown above her head on the pillow, quite still. Ed, too, is slumbering, chin sinking, eyes closed.
Georgia, I think: there must be news. And my pulse drums in my wrists, giving me a queasy feeling as I scroll through the messages of concern and support from Angie, Douglas, Sarah and others.
There’s nothing about Georgia, nothing from Lara. But that is to be expected.
I select Angie’s message and reply: Fine here. Is Josh OK?
She must have had her phone in her hand because she answers within seconds: Exhausted but also fine.
Have you had any word from the hospital? Robbed of breath, I wait for her response.
Not yet. We’re praying.
The godless are praying: that is how bad it is.
Phone in hand, I fetch the laptop from the kitchen. Chances are the ceaseless, sleepless internet might know something Angie does not. Sure enough, there’s a new message up on the lido website:
Monday, 31 August
The pool, café and other facilities will be closed today owing to unforeseen circumstances. Pre-paid bookings for classes and events will be refunded in full. Please check back later today for information about our reopening times. We apologize for any inconvenience this closure may cause.
Liam Rudd, Manager
Unforeseen circumstances: I want to vomit.
‘Ed?’
He’s like a guard dog, instantly awake, reflexes sharp. ‘Is she –’
‘She’s fine. Look at this.’ I point out that Liam posted the message only ten minutes ago. ‘So he must be back up there already.’
‘He probably didn’t go home.’ Ed springs to his feet. ‘I’ll ring him – he might have heard something.’
Presently I hear murmurs from the kitchen. When they peter out, I join him, feeling again that sense of not recognizing the space I have occupied for more than ten years. He is sitting at the table in the dark, the blinds still drawn, and I wait in the doorway for his attention.
‘He’s been up all night, sounds knackered. The poolside manager’s just arrived.’
‘Did you find out about the CCTV?’ My voice rings with fear; we both hear it.
‘They have a digital system, cameras in several places. He’s just checking the files now. He’s going to call me back.’
‘If he finds anything.’
‘Yes.’ He is watching me oddly. ‘One thing he said that was weird: in one of the changing huts, they found towels and a change of clothes.’
‘Left by someone during the day?’
‘No, the cabins were checked and cleared before the party.’ A pause. ‘I told him I thought they might be yours, from your little jaunt.’
‘Maybe.’ It feels like the safest thing to say.
But not right, plainly, because now he looks displeased. ‘Except he said there were two sets. One male, one female. So not you and Lara then?’
‘No.’ I’ve walked straight into his trap. All I can do is pretend I haven’t noticed.
‘He’s expecting the police back any minute,’ Ed says.
‘I still don’t see why they need to be involved.’
‘Because it’s a serious accident, that’s why.’ He frowns. ‘It might even be fatal.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I plead, and I reach for the light switch, as if brightness will improve the tone o
f this exchange.
‘One of us needs to. Georgia might die, Nat.’
And though his voice is untainted, I see it in his eyes, in the fraction of a second after the light snaps on, before he recognizes and obscures it: a spark of ferocity that tells me our daughter’s ordeal is not his only source of terror.
17
Monday, 3 August – four weeks earlier
I’ll never forget the day, even if I never know why it should have been that particular one. Who knows how to deconstruct the alchemy of a breakthrough?
In this case, it included puberty hormones and hypnotherapy (there’d been by then three sessions, each declared ‘excellent’ by Bryony and confirmed as ‘fine’ by her patient). Perhaps it also owed something to the new order of a mother whose swimming kit was a fixture on the laundry rack, the routine talk of the new pool and the vibrant scene it had attracted. Or it might have been to do with the heatwave. It was August by then, the sticky core of the school holidays, and we’d grown complacent about the temperature, the smell of sunbaked concrete and grilled greenery, the rogue ice cube pooling on the kitchen counter. Every morning, we plucked the lightest-weight clothes from our wardrobes without first checking the sky.
It could have been all of those factors or none. All I knew was that after nearly a dozen years there was progress and that it came, just as Bryony had predicted, from Molly herself – and in stark rejection of me.
‘What shall we do today?’ I asked her that Monday morning. ‘I’m meeting Gayle for a swim at eleven but this afternoon I’m all yours. We could borrow Inky and go on an adventure?’
Molly grimaced. Go on an adventure: it was a call to action for a younger child, yet more shameful evidence – as if there were not enough already – that I was woefully out of touch, that she’d outgrown my area of expertise.
‘I want to go to the lido,’ she said and, just like some old cartoon character, I felt my heart bounce against my chest like a rubber ball. It was the first time in at least a decade that Molly had expressed a desire to travel towards water and not away from it, but the years of practice in hiding my reactions – let alone overreactions – meant I didn’t gasp or cheer or weep at this declaration but said, in the very steady tones of the clinically sedated, ‘You want to come with me when I meet Gayle?’
‘No, not with you.’ Molly shook her head, as if to free herself of the very notion. ‘On my own.’
‘On your own?’
‘I mean with friends.’
‘Which friends?’ She had, of course, long had the freedom to meet local friends and hang out unattended, but this was different for obvious reasons. This was not the high street or a shopping mall.
‘Georgia and Eve and some of their friends from Westbridge.’
‘Okay.’ Impressed though I was by Georgia, I was not ready to ignore altogether the picture I had of her at the lido with Josh and his mates, the swim-team swagger and – if Matt were right – taste for the incautious. Would they be there too? ‘They’re a lot older than you, Molls. What about asking Izzy?’ Long-term friend and local, Izzy was au fait with Molly’s history and could be trusted not to get carried away.
‘She’s on holiday, I told you.’ Molly was growing cross. ‘God, I can’t believe you’re stopping me doing the exact thing you’ve been trying to force me to do all my life. That’s so messed up.’
I hesitated. I was the villain here and this was a quandary of the most critical order. I needed to think reasonably and act gently. ‘I’m not stopping you, of course I’m not. What time were you thinking of meeting?’
‘About twelve.’
‘Right.’ I remembered Bryony’s advice: ‘They don’t like to feel they’re being observed.’ If I brief the lifeguard on her limitations, I thought, I’ll be able to back off next time. Next time … How fast hope finds its feet. ‘How about I sit in the café and read?’ I suggested. ‘I won’t be watching, but I’ll be there in case you change your mind.’
‘I won’t change my mind.’
I must have looked doubtful because she demanded, with sudden belligerence, ‘Are you me?’
I was taken aback. ‘What do you mean? Of course I’m not you.’
‘Then you don’t know how I feel, do you?’
‘Tell me then,’ I said. ‘I want to know.’
‘I’ve already told you. I want to go on my own. I don’t need you.’
‘The words every mother longs to hear. I’m pleased you plan to go, Molly, but this isn’t negotiable. I need to be there, just to keep an eye from a distance.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you can’t swim.’
And she glared at me as if that were my fault too.
In thirty-two-degree heat, the largest crowd to date had assembled poolside, as near as prone people could get to starting a riot, and I wondered how rigidly the staff were upholding regulations on capacity. Though it was the kind of restless crush in which you could hide in plain sight, Georgia’s preferred spot was on the raised section of the sundeck, which meant I could see the group from the scrap of stone Gayle had colonized for us about 20 metres away. Josh and a younger boy appeared to be the only males in attendance, flat on their backs with earphones in: I could hardly object to that. As Molly picked her way over, I used the opportunity to corner Ethan and have a discreet word. He promised to pay special attention and to make sure the rest of the team was briefed.
When I next looked, there she was, stripped to the pristine navy swimsuit bought for her last abortive set of lessons, the girl who two years ago had become so hysterical in the queue for a water ride at Thorpe Park that she’d had to be led away and made to breathe into a paper bag; the girl who the year before had cried so hard at the suggestion of a boat trip on the Serpentine that her swollen face had taken twenty-four hours to shrink back to normal.
‘Breakthrough’ wasn’t a big enough word for something so almighty, as Gayle’s exclamations confirmed.
‘Oh, my God, she really is here, isn’t she? In a swimsuit! I couldn’t believe it when I got your message.’
‘I know. I can’t believe it either.’ Aware that I was shaking, I sat on my hands. ‘She hasn’t set foot in the place since June and that was under sufferance.’
‘How did it happen?’ As Gayle prepared her hair for submersion, I saw crinkly silver threads spring from the rest to form a light metallic fuzz in the sun. The skin on her throat was puckered. ‘Is it the hypnotherapy?’
‘I think it must be, at least partly.’
Not that Molly was in the water, don’t get me wrong, but she was closer to it than she’d willingly been since before she could speak in proper sentences. She was watching the others slip in and out without getting distressed. She was subjecting herself to splashes and drips. She was, if I was not mistaken, laughing, laughing at something one of the others had yelled to Ethan, who was receiving quite a heckling from the group and doing a good job of ignoring the jokers to concentrate on the packed pool.
‘You know what I think?’ Gayle said.
‘What?’
‘She must like one of the boys. Does she?’
‘Not that I know of,’ I said.
Gayle chuckled. ‘If I ever write a parenting manual, that will be the title: Not That I Know Of.’
‘Funny.’ But this was different, I thought. I knew everything there was to know about Molly’s long history of aquaphobia. I’d been with her every step of the way and I didn’t think for a moment that this sudden leap was a case of a lovelorn teenager tailing some crush. But Gayle was certainly closer to the truth than I’d been, because the driving force was this new circle of friends. Peer pressure had never worked in the past – Molly had turned down invitations to pool parties many times over the years – but Georgia’s was an older, cooler group than any who’d brought influence to bear in the past.
‘It must be the arrogant muscly one,’ Gayle suggested. ‘Josh, is it?’
But I was too agitated to gossip. ‘Do you mind
if we drop the subject? I’m worried if I over-analyse it I’ll break the spell.’ Because that was how it felt, unreal, like an enchantment.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Shall we swim?’
‘You go in. I might give it a miss, just this once.’
In an instant Gayle’s motivation vanished. ‘I’m not sure it’s actually possible to swim in that moshpit.’
It was true that the pool was more human flesh than water. I couldn’t imagine how the lifeguards could possibly see the bottom of it with this crowd density. Even where there was an unoccupied patch the surface was opaque with bright light. And there were no underwater cameras, I’d learned from my chat with Ethan, which meant all safety relied on direct human observation, on a team of youngsters, some teenagers themselves. What a day to choose, Molly!
‘Shall I get us a coffee? How long’s the queue at the kiosk?’ Gayle scanned the rest of the crowd. ‘Oh, look, there’s your illustrious new friend. I suppose you’ll want to go and say hello.’
So intent was my surveillance of the teenagers that I hadn’t thought to check for Lara, but there she was at her VIP table on the edge of the café terrace. Choo was on her lap, which meant Angie couldn’t be far away. It struck me that going over to thank her for Saturday night would be an excellent exercise in taking my eyes – my mind – off Molly, if only for a minute or two. No disrespect to Gayle, but if anyone could distract me, it was Lara. ‘Maybe we’ll stop by quickly on our way to get the coffees,’ I said. ‘Come and meet her properly.’
At our approach, Lara pushed aside the magazine she’d been reading, but not before I – and presumably Gayle too – had seen the article, a profile of herself complete with a still from the mermaid film, silver tail and all.
‘I think I prefer your outfit today,’ I teased. Indeed, her black bikini and headscarf of a vintage pink and orange print recalled Jackie Kennedy kicking back in Capri. Her sunglasses today were tortoiseshell Chanel. I’d never in my life been interested in fashion, but somehow Lara made you want to know the details of how it was done.
The Swimming Pool Page 14
