by Alice Castle
Yes, they’d go swimming. It was a perfect wet weather activity. Beth was by no means a mermaid: the school trips she’d endured, to a crumbling Victorian baths, with a coachload of classmates who’d all been sportier, taller, stronger, and more enthusiastic swimmers than her, had been enough to put her off forever. And that was without the horror of the changing rooms. But Ben wasn’t bothered by any of that stuff. He was unspectacular but competent in the water, didn’t care what he or anyone else looked like, and was just out to have fun, thank goodness. And once they’d been outside and slogged over to the public baths, Beth was willing to bet they’d be so wet and cold that being wet and hot in the pool would be a nice change, even for her.
There was an ace up Beth’s sleeve. She’d heard tell, via a friend who sometimes saw chums in Greenwich, that there was a newish pool there that was rather fabulous. It was quite a drive away, but for Beth it had the inestimable advantage that it was not likely to be full of half of Dulwich. She might be a fully-fledged grown-up now – something she still felt quite surprised about a lot of the time – but she still hadn’t lost her horror of being gawped at in an unflattering swimming costume by people she then had to chat to the next day on the school run. It was just a little too much like an ‘I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on’ moment from a 1970s farce.
When Beth finally unearthed the swimming kit in the under-stairs cupboard, she had a bad feeling that Ben’s hadn’t been washed after his last visit to the pool with the school at least six weeks ago. The towel felt suspiciously crispy and she only hoped his trunks, folded into the middle of the sausage-shape poking out of the nylon bag, had not gone mildewed. Well, even if they had, she supposed the industrial strength doses of chlorine used in public pools would kill it off, and much else besides.
Once they’d shoe-horned the tiny green Fiat into a parking space, they jumped out into fine rain that was now coming down at an elegant oblique angle. The building was rather space-age, looked newly finished and incorporated a library. If Beth had been in charge, she knew she would have worried about the books getting wrinkled.
There were two pools – one shallow, and one for more serious swimmers – and there was a row of seats behind a glass wall for spectators. For a moment, Beth was sorely tempted to sit it out, pretend to be watching Ben, and spend a quiet session on her phone away from the squawks and splashes. But a look at him, eager now to get in the water and without any friends to play with, was enough to convince Beth that she had to do the decent thing.
If there was anything she hated more than actual swimming, it was getting into her cozzie, thought Beth in the cramped changing room, with Ben sighing with boredom in his blessedly mould-free trunks, forbidden to plunge on alone thanks to Beth’s nameless fears. She yanked crossly on the shoulder strap of a sturdy black suit, identical to the school one she’d had all those years before. How did it manage to be simultaneously too tight and too loose in so many places at once? And how on earth did other women ever manage to look good in these things?
Finally, having tugged and squished as much as she could, Beth was ready. She carried their goggles and swimming caps, and Ben dashed out of the cubicle like a Grand National winner hearing the starting pistol.
‘Ben, don’t run!’ she yelled after him a little hopelessly. Sure enough, he hadn’t even gone a furlong before he’d crashed headlong into another boy, and both were sprawling on the slick blue-tiled floor.
Beth darted forward just as another mother emerged from her cubicle. At first, all Beth could see was yards of tanned leg and a blindingly white one-piece that looked as though it should be on the cover of this month’s Vogue. Then the woman bent over her child and Beth’s field of vision was blotted out by a close-up view of a bottom, like a harvest moon rising. Though not inconsiderable size-wise, it would certainly have been considered to be in fine shape, even by yoga guru Katie. Beth, who now felt she knew much too much about this person, was also forced to consider that her own depilatory regime was distinctly lacking in finesse by comparison.
‘Oh my goodness, Billy, are you all right?’ cooed the mother to her child. ‘Some people should look where they’re going,’ she continued, dropping effortlessly into a terrifyingly frosty tone, and delivering her rebuke directly to Ben.
Beth, gripped by a sudden horrible misgiving about the owner of the perfect bottom, sidled past it to Ben, who was sitting on the floor in a heap, none the worse for wear and oblivious to the telling-off he was receiving, giggling wildly with the other boy. From this angle, she was able to appraise the front view of the beautiful swimsuit, which had a plunging neckline, gold clasps on the straps, and even a mini-belt around its owner’s enviably small waist. It was gorgeous and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a James Bond film.
Unfortunately, it was being worn by Belinda MacKenzie, who was working herself up to a gale force ten rage.
Beth decided to get in first. ‘I’m so sorry, Belinda,’ she said, hating to be on the back foot with the most powerful mummy in Dulwich, but recognising the situation could only be salvaged by a speedy grovel. ‘Anyway, looks like there’s no harm done,’ she added as the boys darted off together, neither slowing down a jot after their collision.
Belinda straightened up in a fluid movement, and stood, one hand on hip, raking Beth with one of her disapproving X-ray glances, taking in the ageing swimsuit, the thick hair tied back haphazardly, the fringe now sticking to Beth’s hot face in the tropical warmth of the changing rooms.
Beth knew Belinda had never really been able to work her out. Treating her harshly didn’t make her come to heel the way some of the more submissive mummies did, because Beth had no interest in being in Belinda’s gang. On the other hand, Beth was quite often party to the chunks of gossip that were Belinda’s stock in trade, thanks to her Dulwich roots, and nowadays she knew the inside track on most of the surprising number of dastardly crimes that kept unfolding in the area. Belinda needed Beth much more than Beth seemed to want Belinda. Beth could see an inner struggle going on, then Belinda broke out into as much of a sunny smile as she could manage.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Billy’s fine. Great to see you here! And you’ve come with…?’ Belinda looked around.
‘Oh, we just came on our own,’ said Beth. ‘And you?’
Belinda seemed puzzled, unable to compute why anyone would venture out on a solo mission when they could go in a pack and dominate the space. She paused, then remembered. ‘Oh yes, I brought Letty. Letty Potter, you know?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ How interesting, Beth thought. This could be a chance to see Letty, with the silvery hair and elusive personality, in close-up. But wait a minute. This could put a serious crimp in the plan for Beth to work at the solicitors and get the lie of the land. Belinda was bound to introduce her as the Wyatt’s School archivist, and Letty would then think it was odd if she suddenly turned up as a receptionist at her husband’s office.
Luckily, Belinda was still talking.
‘…But she had to go home. One of her kids was sick. And to tell the truth, Letty herself didn’t look too clever. She’s started a bit early on all that Veganurary stuff and I don’t think it’s agreeing with her. So now we’re on our own. Tell you what, why don’t we team up?’
Beth had a moment of relief, followed by cold horror. She would still be fine to take over at Nina’s work – if she survived being Belinda’s handmaiden for the afternoon, that was.
Swimming was already one of Beth’s least favourite activities. Swimming with Belinda MacKenzie, she would have thought, could have gone down in history as one of the worst few hours she’d ever spent. But once she’d got over the shock, to her surprise she found herself enjoying the woman’s company. There had to be a reason why Belinda was so popular. Yes, she was daunting, but she could also be great fun. She knew so much about so many people that her every utterance was smattered with nuggets of fascinating gossip, usually accidentally.
‘Of course, you know about
Beatrice’s dog. So sad. Poor little Lola. Though I did tell her she ought to have trained it better. That dog was such a greedy little thing, always snuffling around in people’s handbags, looking for treats. Though even Lola wasn’t as bad as Sue Rand’s chocolate Lab, Truffles. You know, he’s just died, too,’ Belinda added in a lower tone.
‘Not another one? Poisoned, too?’ Beth was agog. The third dog to die in Dulwich in quick succession.
‘No. Honestly, Beth, you see crime everywhere these days, it’s as bad as having a policeman in the playground,’ Belinda laughed scornfully. ‘And talking of policemen…’
To Beth’s horror, it looked as though she was about to undergo a thorough inquisition on her least favourite topic – herself, coupled with Harry. Could anything be more cringeworthy? Just then, thank goodness, Billy did an enormous belly-flop into the water and Belinda jumped up and ticked him off. By the time she got back to Beth’s side, she’d lost track of her line of questioning and Beth started in immediately. ‘You were saying about Sue’s dog, Truffles?’
‘Oh, poor old Truffy. Well, he was terribly ancient, you know. Such an old sweetie. He was actually the uncle of my chocolate Lab, Twix. The children named him,’ she said. And, before Beth knew it, she was deep in the genealogy of every gently-bred dog in Dulwich, most of which Belinda had of course owned herself.
Sitting next to her on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the warm turquoise water with the welter of words lapping over her, Beth found she was accidentally basking in a sort of reflected glory, with passers-by darting her envious glances and a couple of mothers at the other end of the pool staring hard in her direction.
She’d never been in the cool gang at school, or at uni, or at any time in her life. While she’d always told herself she didn’t want to be, that didn’t mean she hadn’t sometimes wondered what it would be like to be among those groups of exotic, tall creatures (they were always tall) who strode around, cynosures of all eyes and slavishly copied by so many.
Today, she was getting a tiny taste of it. All the sidelong looks they were getting were full of admiration, and Beth could see why. The beauticians, personal trainers, and wardrobe consultants who worked so tirelessly on Belinda did do an excellent job. Her light all-over tan was flawless, and even this close, Beth couldn’t really tell whether it was from their last holiday to Bali or fresh out of a can. Her hair was swishy beach-blonde, her make-up-free skin was glowing, her fingers and toes were as shiny and red as the Grade Two-listed letter box in Dulwich Village.
Beth knew that most of the parents at the pool, male or female, would have killed to be sitting where she was. And she could see how it could become addictive. As someone who loved beautiful things, Beth was enjoying taking in the marvellous symmetry of Belinda’s face, the planes and angles reflecting the light so well that even the harsh neon made her look like Botticelli’s Venus rising from harshly chemical waves. But then Belinda pushed things just a little too far.
‘So, what’s up with Katie? I hear she got into dreadful trouble yanking Charlie out of school like that, for this skiing holiday she’s just rushed off on,’ she said casually.
Beth, who’d been smiling over at Ben and Billy, immediately flashed a glance at the other woman and felt her shoulders start to hunch defensively round her ears. ‘Oh?’
‘The Head was not impressed,’ Belinda added smugly, showing off her connections at the school and a holier-than-thou attitude towards term time which, as Beth knew full well, had never precluded her taking her own children out of school whenever it suited her.
‘Do you think Letty’s all right?’ Beth said desperately. Part of her was undeniably intrigued to see how far Belinda might go in her bad-mouthing of Katie, but she felt disloyal listening without sticking up for her friend. She had to change the subject. Luckily, Belinda was easily distracted.
‘Oh, she’s always peaky. I put it down to her super-picky diet, I mean, how ridiculous to put your kids through that,’ said Belinda.
‘I thought you were vegetarian, now, though?’ Beth was surprised. The gossip was that Belinda ate nothing but chickpeas these days.
‘Oh, yes, a couple of days a week. But vegan? No. Don’t tell anyone,’ – despite herself, Beth thrilled at hearing this well-worn Belinda mantra – ‘but I really think making kids go vegan is tantamount to child abuse. I mean, that’s all so over, anyway. “Clean eating”, tsk. Half those waifs who’ve written the vegan cookbooks have actually just got eating disorders,’ Belinda whispered.
Beth, who’d read a long article on this very subject in last weekend’s papers, nodded along, unsurprised. It was a well-known Belinda tactic to adopt The Sunday Times’s view as her own diligently researched position. She seemed to have a touching faith that no-one else read any of these treatises, perhaps because she never got challenged on her sources.
‘But Letty, bless her, well, she will just persist with things. I’ve told her, but oh no, will she listen?’ Belinda went on, and Beth instantly felt a little sorry for the wan woman. You crossed Belinda at your peril. And Letty didn’t appear capable of blowing the skin off a chia pudding. But if she was holding out against Belinda’s ‘advice’, maybe she was stronger than she looked?
‘Do you know her husband? What’s his name, Paul?’ said Beth disingenuously.
‘Oh, lovely man, just so great with his kids,’ said Belinda. She was always hugely enthusiastic about husbands. Those who deigned to notice their progeny, in addition to paying for them, were right at the top of her list.
‘They must come from a wealthy family, do they?’ Beth attempted to keep an airy, not-really-interested, just-making-conversation tone going, but Belinda gave her a sharp look. Talking about money was not really done. Yes, the whole of Dulwich revolved around who had the most of it, what they did with it, and particularly how they showcased it, but discussing where it might have emanated from was distinctly bad form.
‘Well, I’d have thought you’d have known, if anyone does. They’re an old Dulwich family, after all.’
‘Are they?’ Beth felt doubtful. She’d never heard her mother mention either Letty or Paul Potter, which definitely suggested they were incomers.
‘Anyway, their business is doing so well. Paul’s a whizz with all his contracts and things, really busy at the moment,’ said Belinda.
Hm. Beth wondered. This sounded like the sort of half-information that wives extracted from tired, bored, and unwilling husbands after ‘a hard day at the office, dear’, and then spread amongst themselves when asked. Did anyone really know what their husbands, or wives for that matter, were really up to? Did they care? And what about Beth herself? Half the time, Harry wouldn’t tell her what he was working on, for obvious reasons, and so she’d started to forget to ask him. Already. That wasn’t good, surely? She made a mental note to ask questions, and even listen, when they next saw each other. And that reminded her that she needed to make a date. Unless that was always supposed to be the man’s job? She was so new to this dating lark.
‘So, how’s Ben getting on now, after all the tutoring?’ It was Belinda’s turn to use a deceptively casual tone. Beth knew that Belinda was determined to get Billy into Wyatt’s for Year 7, which unfortunately made Ben the competition. She’d been happy enough to suggest her own tutor to Beth, once another friend had dropped out, but she’d be even more thrilled to hear that Ben hadn’t learned a thing in months. Beth didn’t want to join battle, but she wasn’t going to roll over either.
‘It’s so hard to tell, isn’t it? I must say I have no idea how he’ll do in the exams,’ Beth replied quite truthfully.
‘Oh, you’re surely not thinking about those exams, are you? Really? It’s the holidays, after all. We’re not doing a thing until the next term starts,’ said Belinda. ‘Oh, must be time to take a dip now. I’m getting all sweaty sitting here.’
Beth looked over at her. Belinda looked daisy-fresh, no sign of perspiration at all, and her hair was as shiny and well-behaved as a
timid child on its first day at school. Beth, meanwhile, was puce, her fringe spreading like seaweed over a rock pool, and her ponytail was busily slipping its moorings. Worse of all, her swimsuit seemed to be getting baggier by the second in the humidity. Maybe it would be good to have a quick swim; at least it might somehow cool her down and bring her costume back under control. Her ancient Speedo really wasn’t holding up too well against whichever eye-wateringly chic designer Belinda was currently championing.
‘All right then,’ Beth conceded, and attempted to slide gracefully off the side into the pool. But she hadn’t realised they were dangling their toes in the deep end. Her feet scrabbled for the bottom of the pool, but it wasn’t there, and the world was suddenly falling away, choppy turquoise waters closing over her head, the shouts of the children abruptly muted as she sank like a small stone. After the first shock, and the horrible sight of bubbles streaming upwards as she opened her mouth to shriek, she pulled herself together, closed her eyes against the sting of the chlorine, and concentrated on scrabbling upwards. It seemed as though agonising hours had passed, before she finally clawed her way back up to the surface, coughing and spluttering.
‘Did you slip? Are you all right?’ said Belinda, a concerned tone failing to mask her amusement.
‘Absolutely fine, it’s lovely in here,’ said Beth, lying through her teeth, holding onto the side with one white-knuckled hand while trying to wipe away the hair that was now laminating her face with the other. God, she hated swimming pools.
Belinda was taking advantage of her moment, solo in the spotlight. She rose up to her full height, did one of those clever flicks with the fingers of both hands that gently disengaged her suit from her bottom and simultaneously drew lots of attention to the area, then played the same trick with the golden links on the shoulder straps, holding aloft the impressive bosom which was the subject of many unconfirmed rumours in the playground. This chest was unusually self-supporting for a mother of three who’d been a vocal advocate of breastfeeding, especially to those finding it hard-going.
