by A. M. Castle
When we were clear of the jetty, the engine started and it was all rather fun. The wind whipped through my hair – farewell to my non-existent chance of giving glamour puss Rachel a run for all that money – and the little village receded. The waves were heavy, a deep grey-green that reminded me of Kipling’s Limpopo River. I had a beautiful edition of the Just So Stories as a child – it was one of my inspirations when I started out. I turned and Geoff was yelling something. I’m pretty sure it was, ‘Isn’t this marvellous?’
I nodded and wrinkled my nose at him, remembering in a rush why I love him. And why I worry about him. I hope he’s going to take advantage of this weekend to come clean. Finally. Otherwise, I’m going to have to say some things to him that we might both regret. If Vicky was distracted, then Geoff has been positively haywire these last few months. It’s got to stop. He needs to open up. Otherwise, how can I help him?
Once we were safely across, with me just about hanging on to my lunch, we then had to get ourselves up to the top of the hill. I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, contemplating the path between the overhanging boulders. Close to, the rock was black, volcanic possibly, porous-looking like a bath sponge, rather amazing. I was itching to sketch it. But by the time we’d slogged our way up to the top, I was regretting my sedentary life in front of a drawing board, and the way I threw that Fitbit tracker Geoff got me for Christmas into a drawer. I’m sure he meant well.
The first sight of the castle made up for it. Looming straight above us, it was even more imposing from this angle than from the shore. Sheer drama, very Rachel. The walls are surprisingly well pointed for a structure built in medieval times. Maybe the Tregowans have Rachel’s trust fund to thank for that.
So, basically, there’s no time to change before the drinks – and no opportunity either. The front door (it should be a grander word for a castle, shouldn’t it?) opens straight into a magnificent hall, where everyone has gathered. We more or less fall in on the assembled guests, in my case looking like the wreck of the Hesperus.
My hands go automatically to my hair, but once I’ve touched its tangles, I really wish I hadn’t. They’re almost crispy after their battle with the winds and water. My jeans are wet around the ankles, thanks to being hauled in and out of the boat, and my fleecy jacket is many years old, on the naff side of serviceable, and had no claims to fashion even when brand-new. Geoff isn’t quite as windswept – having significantly less hair has played in his favour for once – but I sense his minor country squire get-up of cords and sleeveless Puffa won’t cut it with Rachel either.
There’s a startled silence, then Rachel, like a mermaid in sea-green bias-cut satin, shimmers towards us. ‘Jane! Both of you! How wonderful.’ She couldn’t be more welcoming, but now I really wish I’d shooed Geoff out of the bookshop earlier. I look as though I’ve come to unblock her drains, not rub elbows with her friends.
But, after the year I’ve had with Geoff, the mysterious silences, the broken nights when I’ve awoken to find his side of the bed empty and heard him pacing downstairs, I thought a weekend away would be the break he needed. So I didn’t follow my first instinct and turn it down flat.
I take a breath. It doesn’t matter if we’re bedraggled, surely. This, according to the schedule one of Rachel’s underlings emailed over, is the ‘welcome drinks and buffet supper’ before the formal ‘Halloween Feast’ tomorrow night. Shambling in like this, I’m just making Rachel look even better. If that’s possible.
Rachel doesn’t seem to have any of my doubts. She throws her arms wide and I melt into a wonderfully scented embrace. Her flesh is warm and yet smooth as marble against my cold (and probably now smelly) polyester fleece. I can’t tell where her skin stops and the satin of her dress begins. Even Geoff’s eyes seem to light up at the sight of her. Only to be expected. She’s always been made for the three-syllable a-ma-zing.
I now have two questions I urgently want to ask, but can’t frame out loud: how come she looks younger than when we were at uni – and why isn’t she dying of hypothermia? The cold is still biting through my horrid jacket. Before I can protest, a uniformed (yes, really) maid steps forward and strips it off me, revealing an old T-shirt, which is worse if anything. But she gives me the consolation prize of a glass of champagne. It’s so perfectly chilled that I can see a bead of condensation dripping down it, and without thinking I lick it off, raising my eyes in time to see Tom smirking. I turn. Time to take stock of the rest of the gang.
They all got here in time to change, I can see that much. Gita is in one of those ‘desk-to-date’ Ponte numbers, jazzed up with jewellery. It suits her neat figure, and the fig shade is perfect with that cloud of black hair. I usually think of her as our bombshell – but not when Rachel is in the room. She can’t mind, they’ve been friends forever.
Vicks is in something pricey but uncomfortable, as per usual, her hair cut in a rather mannish crop. I wish she’d let me go shopping with her, like I used to. You’d never guess it from my fleece, but I can tell what looks best – on other people, anyway. I’m an artist after all. There’s no chance at the moment, though. Vicky doesn’t want to let me, or anyone else, in. Oh well, a jacket with angles suits her personality, if not her looks.
Those willowy girls leaning over the minstrels’ gallery above our heads must be Gita’s trio. Each looks dressed for the event she’d rather be at. Tasha, the eldest, in shorts, tights and boots, is festival-ready; Nessie, the middle child, is awkward in voluminous clubbing black; and Ruby, the little afterthought at just nine, is like the fairy on top of the tree in a sticky-out skirt and purple top. As I watch, she sneaks her thumb into her mouth. Tasha is leaning over the balustrade, very intent. I hope some of Rachel’s millions have gone into making sure that gallery is secure, it’s a ten-foot drop to the floor.
There’s Raf, over in the corner. He’s doing his duty, good boy that he is, talking to an elderly patrician gentleman – who must be Rachel’s new husband, I realise. God, he’s that old? Not for the first time, I wonder what Rachel is up to. Flanking him are an odd pair, a middle-aged man and woman. She is as tall and thin as her companion is wide. The stepchildren, I reckon. The son is at least our age, the woman looks older still, with those big raw wrists you see on skinny women. And there’s Tom again, now saluting me with his glass.
I turn on my heel, take a massive glug of my own drink, and gravitate towards Gita and Vicky, expecting Geoff to follow. ‘Oh, I’ll just say hello to Tom,’ he says. ‘You know, work stuff.’ Oh God, I hope Geoff isn’t going to pretend to be some legal eagle. Tom, now a high-up in the Met, must know Geoff spends most days fussing over which cats’ home benefits from Great-Aunt Maud’s will.
Couples with children have more camouflage for their faults, don’t they? If it’s just the two of you, with no small person running interference, then you soon know your partner inside out, shortcomings and all. But I wouldn’t swap life with Geoff for anything. Except a child, of course. But that ship, like the little boat back to the mainland, has already sailed.
I insert myself into Gita and Vicky’s chat. Both of them have at least five inches on me; I feel like a Babybel rolling between two elegant slivers of Brie. ‘When did you get here? God, I feel such an idiot turning up in this,’ I say. Immediately Gita does all that kind female twittering to make one of the flock feel better. ‘Sorry, I interrupted. What were you talking about when I came over?’ I ask, looking from one to the other. From the way they blink, I know for certain it was child-related, and therefore I am excluded. I sigh inwardly. Vicky is the least maternal woman I know, yet even she is within the magic circle I’m forever shut out of.
‘Um, we were just saying, how fabulous is all this?’ Gita says, her gesture covering the castle, the island, and Rachel too, her roll of the eyes drawing me into their little gang and away from my lamentable shortcomings.
I giggle along, but I’m thinking maybe, just maybe, now that we’re all of a certain age, my childlessness should matter less. Thi
ngs are getting easier. The time of disappointment is over – the years calculating my cycle, tempting Geoff to perform, then scrutinising my body like a forensic pathologist. IVF, acupuncture, mindfulness and Chinese herbs have all been binned. We’re even nearing the end of other people’s obsession with nappies, schools and unis. Soon we’ll be able to talk to adults about grown-up things again. But not yet. I know what’s expected of me.
‘Your girls are looking so gorgeous,’ I say to Gita. ‘Chips off the old block.’ Gita tries not to, but she preens. ‘Did I tell you, Geoff’s nephew – our nephew – has just done his Cambridge interview. Is Tasha at that stage yet? I’ve lost track.’
‘She’s applying for art schools, isn’t she, Gita love? Gap year to get her portfolio up to scratch,’ says Vicky.
‘Really? Let me know if I can help at all,’ I say to Gita, though I hope I haven’t lumbered myself with tons of thankless work. I did look at the drawings by Tasha and Nessie she used to send with her Christmas cards, and they weren’t too promising – but they were younger then. Girls seem to stop drawing when hormones kick in. All except me. Maybe that meant I never had the right hormones? I dodge the thought.
There are so many advantages to childlessness. No worries about what to do when they misbehave, for example. Ruby is demonstrating this nicely, getting fractious, bored as only an aspiring tween can be. She’s made pellets out of tissues and is letting them drop accidentally-on-purpose from her balcony. Gita looks up anxiously, then glances over at Tom. Naturally he’s turned his back on the problem. And I can do the same, chat away with Vicky, pretend I haven’t seen. Another pellet plops at our feet. Gita breaks away with a tut to sort things out.
Vicky is just taking a deep breath – I can tell she’s got something big to impart – when Rachel glides past Tom and Raf, towards us. She singles me out. ‘Vicky, you won’t mind if I borrow Jane for a second?’
I don’t know which of us is more surprised. I’d thought that initial greeting was probably my lot. I was quite stunned to be asked to the island at all. I assume I made up a job lot with Gita and Vicky, with Geoff even lower down the pecking order. Rachel did look at him in slight confusion earlier, as though wondering who the hell he was. He’d be happy enough to tell her, given the chance. I mean, she’s Rachel, she’s irresistible. But it’s me she’s beckoning to, her lovely satin shifting and glinting in the firelight. Vicky is looking boot-faced at being abandoned by me and Rachel, and follows aimlessly.
‘Funny how both Raf and Tom have blue eyes, isn’t it?’ Rachel says dreamily as she draws me closer to the fireplace, her glance flicking over the boy as we pass. ‘And Vicky and Bob have brown.’ Behind me there’s a clattering sound; I turn to see Vicky quickly righting a vase that has toppled over on a shiny oak sideboard. Gita rushes over to help her. Ruby, looking thrilled, escapes from the dressing-down she’s been getting from her mum. Rachel seems to be waiting for a reply, but I just shrug. I’ve been avoiding looking Tom in the face for years. I’m much more interested in this fireplace. It’s big enough to roast a whole suckling pig at a village fete, though I’m sure the Tregowans have always been too posh to chow down with the locals. Judging by her husband’s patrician looks, it’s been swans and venison all the way.
I’m really impressed by how beautifully the place has been restored; the high ceilings, the tapestries, the ancestral portraits, even the rather horrible spears crossed high up on the walls. It’s all exactly what you’d think of, imagining an ancient castle. I tell Rachel so, hoping I’m not gushing too much.
‘Oh, I’m so glad you love it too,’ she says, truly looking as though I’ve given her the best present ever. Her face is creamy and flawless in the flickering glow from those huge logs. ‘Thank you! And I adore your books, I always buy them for Rupert’s kids.’
I wonder for a second who on earth Rupert is. From her expectant air, I realise she is not only certain I’ll know, but also thinks I should be hugely flattered. Then I remember – her ne’er-do-well cousin. There was endless tabloid coverage of his wedding to a supermodel, followed swiftly by an equally well-documented acrimonious divorce. I didn’t realise there were children involved. I wait for the usual stab of envy, that this feckless pair – in the short, turbulent time they were together – managed to produce what Geoff and I have not, in all our loving, steady years. But maybe the champagne has deadened things. It’s certainly slipping down nicely.
‘Funny how you got into children’s books, isn’t it?’ Rachel says conversationally.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask lightly as I can. But suddenly I am on red alert.
‘Oh, you don’t have to pretend with me, Jane. I know you got that termination in our final year. And what happened after.’
Rachel says it as though it’s of no consequence, as though I’d nipped out for groceries one day on a whim. She doesn’t even lower her voice. Now there’s a ringing in my ears. God, am I going to faint?
I certainly haven’t forgotten, the day I came back to my hall of residence room to find her sitting there, cool as you like, idly glancing through my bank statements – my private papers! ‘I was looking for Gita,’ she said, as though that explained her presence. And then she cocked an eyebrow and said, ‘Snap! I see we’ve just been to the same clinic,’ as though we were both members of some secret club. She left uni soon after, thank heavens. Why is she mentioning it now?
I look around wildly. Where is Geoff? Has he overheard? No, he’s right at the other end of the room. But Gita and Vicky are much too close for my liking. Vicky is looking over at us. What’s that expression on her face? No, no. Surely I’m being paranoid. But I’m gripping my champagne flute so tightly I’m worried it’s going to shatter into a million pieces.
‘Oh, don’t fret, silly, I’ve never breathed a word,’ Rachel says, seeing my face. And then she laughs. Her throat is so white, her neck so fragile. ‘It’s no biggie, is it?’
My mouth is open. I’m trying to assemble my scattered thoughts. No biggie? My life has been lived in the shadow of that day, that trip. The worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
‘Sorry,’ she says, putting a hand on my arm for a second. ‘You’re upset. But all that was years ago, darling. Blood under the bridge. Let’s change the subject. Gita’s girls are so lovely, aren’t they?’
I stare at her. Now, of all times, she mentions blood. When so much has been sluiced from me. And I can never bear talking about other people’s children. Why would I want to now?
I’ve got to think of a way of getting Rachel off this topic, right now. I have to shut her up.
Forever, if necessary.
Chapter 8
Vicky
Mount Tregowan, 30th October
Did Rachel really just say that? About Raf? Shit. After I fumble her stupid pot upright – what a place to put it, right on the edge of this table – I stare into my glass, hoping I’ve just had a drop too much fizz, imagined the whole thing. But I know I heard her right. Yet when I dare to look back over at her and Jane, they’re just carrying on chatting. Not rushing up to Raf, or staring at Tom. Doesn’t either one of them understand?
I sidle over as subtly as I can. I don’t generally go in for eavesdropping – I’m upfront, me. But on the other hand, I need to keep tabs on this situation. That’s how I hear what comes next. Rachel has what they call a carrying voice. I put it down to generations of her lot having to shout at each other across their grouse moors or in great barns of places like this one. Whatever, she virtually yelled it out across the room. Jane had a termination.
I have two reactions; wow, I can’t believe it. And, thank God Rachel has come up with this now. Jane definitely won’t be worrying about anyone’s eyes for a bit. I can breathe again.
Jane’s so shy, I really thought bloody Geoff was her first and only boyfriend. What on earth was she up to at uni? And as for who with … My mind’s a blank. There were boys around, sure, but they were mostly Rachel’s. Or Gita’s. I had my own long-term
obsession, the less said about that the better. But Jane. I thought she was our vestal virgin. There wasn’t a sniff of a lad, all that time. She’d go bright red whenever anyone (usually me) mentioned S-E-X. Just goes to show. Spot on, all that about the quiet ones.
I take a slug of my champagne. As Rachel is hosting us, this is the good stuff. I can’t get my head around this Jane business. Not least when I think about all I’ve had to listen to, for so many years, from Jane and Gita. How much Jane hates children, from Gita (‘she’s never shown a blind bit of interest in my girls,’ she’s told me incredulously) and how much Jane would actually like to get pregnant (‘another miscarriage. And I was so sure this time,’) from Jane. Both have sworn me to secrecy. And I’ve actually managed to keep my mouth shut this time – unlike some people. I look over to Rachel, but she doesn’t show a shred of awareness that she’s dropped two bombshells. She just looks bloody fantastic, as usual.
Must be Geoff with the problem, then. Makes sense. Looks like he couldn’t mount a rice pudding, that one. He’s talking to poor old Tasha and she’s clearly on the brink of dropping dead with boredom. For a second, I consider going over to save her, then I decide to save myself instead. I glance back at little Jane.
Yep, looks like she’s trying to get Rachel off the subject of dead babies as best she can. I can see from her face the lass has had the shock of her life. I know how she feels. Poor thing is gesturing frantically at the fireplace, asking something. Her finger is actually trembling. Surely that’s not going to work? Since when did Rachel care about fixtures and fittings?
But no, as I watch, I see Rachel’s face light up. She’s loving talking about the fireplace. I’d be a lot more interested in hearing about the abortion – who the father was, for instance – but I’m still trying to pretend I’m not listening. I’m nodding away as Gita starts filling me in on every single thing that’s happened at the paper since we last met. Thank God she can talk for Britain.
