‘Shhh, Will,’ she said, smothering a laugh and glancing over her shoulder. ‘Someone will hear you.’
He laughed.
‘Will?’ she said then, with a certain reticence. She fixed her eyes on her glass, watching the stream of tiny bubbles race to break the surface of her drink to leave a thin, fleeting foam, her tummy flooding with nervous energy.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been thinking about things over the last week or so.’ She glanced towards the front door but the butler in the grey striped trousers was busy bowing and didn’t seem aware of them.
‘What things?’
Her heart skipped a beat. She was surprised how difficult it was to get the words out. She’d been over them again and again, toying with them like worry beads in her mind, but as she spoke she stumbled. ‘I think we should try again.’
‘Try again?’
‘Yes.’ She reached for his hand. ‘For a baby.’
Then his face fell. She felt his body tense and his fingers released from hers.
‘It’s been six months,’ she said quickly. ‘And, like I said in the car, I’m feeling good, back to normal really. And seeing you with the boys in the park the other day … I think we’re ready. I know it’s taken some time, but I really think we are.’ She paused, halted by the look on his face. Her stomach lurched; his expression of confusion, of shock, said it all.
Two women approached them, their full-length dresses brushing the floor, heads together, sharing a joke behind lifted hands like Cinderella’s cackling sisters.
‘This isn’t the right time to discuss this,’ Will said, watching them as they passed, his face tense, his ease of earlier gone.
‘Does it need a discussion?’
‘Yes,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It does. This has come totally out of the blue; I had no idea you’d been thinking about this.’
‘It’s all I think about.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Hello, my darlings!’
Harmony closed her eyes and swore quietly at the sound of Emma’s voice. What a stupid time to pick to talk to Will about a baby. They needed time and space and now she had to smile and chat and pretend everything was okay. She turned to face her friend who was dressed in black from shoulder to toe, the taut satin fabric sparkling with what looked like ten thousand beads and sequins.
‘Thank God you’ve arrived!’ Emma threw her arms around both of them and kissed each of their cheeks in turn. ‘I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming!’
‘As if we’d miss it,’ Will said, turning his smile on like a light.
‘You look amazing, Em.’ Harmony’s mind was full of Will’s reaction, the way he’d looked at her as if she’d spoken in tongues or pulled out a gun.
Emma beamed. ‘You do too!’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you spend all your time in jeans and a sweatshirt. I’d kill for a figure like yours.’ Then Emma leant forward and gave Harmony a hard stare. ‘Are you okay?’
Harmony nodded. ‘Will and I were just having a bit of chat, that’s all.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing. We’re fine.’ She gave Will a tight smile to prove how fine they were.
Will smiled back and put his arm around Emma’s shoulders and squeezed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And I hope you’ll let me have the first dance with you.’
Emma squealed. ‘Oh, yes please! Now, enough of the serious talking, let’s go and have some fun! Oh,’ she said, touching his arm.
‘You’ve got your camera, haven’t you?’
Will patted the bag that hung over his shoulder. ‘Of course.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘It would be great to get some photos of people while they still look gorgeous. Will you take one of Harmony and me now?’
Without waiting for him to answer she stood next to Harmony and put her arm around her waist. ‘God,’ she said. ‘You really don’t have an ounce of fat on you, do you? My bloody stomach looks like a hot cross bun with all the flab and c-section scars.’
Harmony smiled weakly. She leant in towards Emma and posed for the photograph.
‘See you in there,’ Emma said, and they watched her walk down the hallway towards the party, lifting a hand and shrieking a welcome to another of her friends as she went.
Neither Will nor Harmony spoke immediately. Harmony rested her hand on her tummy – flat, muscular and barren. Would they ever go away, these flashes of sadness? The desperate grief that had come with her miscarriage had been hard to endure. The only time she’d felt anything like it was when her mother died, but at least then the loss had been tangible, an actual person had physically gone, a person of whom she had memories and photographs. It was far easier to miss her mother’s hugs or the way she stroked her forehead at bedtime than it was to miss a baby she’d never met. She was painfully aware she was mourning a concept, an unknown foetus barely the size of her thumb – four point one centimetres, the books had told her – no name, no face, even gender unknown.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said with a heavy sigh. ‘You’re right, this isn’t the right time to talk about it.’ She tried to smile. ‘I wasn’t thinking. It just came out.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong. It took me by surprise, that’s all.’ Will reached for her hand and she squeezed it. He leant forward and kissed her forehead and she rested her head against his lips for a moment and closed her eyes.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking a step back from her. ‘Let’s get on with enjoying the evening.’
Harmony hesitated, wondering briefly if Emma would notice if she slipped away, past the ridiculous butler, over the petals on the steps, out to the quiet safety of the car and then home. But instead she nodded and followed Will.
The party was in a marquee that butted up to the side of the house and was accessed through the French windows in the living room, a high-ceilinged room with two huge sash windows, original plasterwork and a number of sofas carefully arranged with gold-tasselled cushions. She gasped as they entered the marquee. It was enormous, covering the entire rose terrace, the neatly clipped box hedging and flower beds incorporated into the design with garlands of flowers and strings of lights and what appeared to be a thousand candles decorating every surface, every corner, beneath a navy-tented roof that was studded with lights to look like stars. There was a table in front of them that held a cake that was more work of art than pudding with hundreds of perfect choux puffs piled three feet high with hardened glistening caramel flowing down them like lava. Waiters circulated with bottles of champagne and silver trays of geometric canapés. The tent heaved with beautiful people with shining white teeth and loud, confident laughs, all vying to be heard over the music.
‘Christ, it’s like Made in Chelsea does A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Look,’ he said then, gesturing with his glass. ‘There’s Ian. We should go and say hello to Oxfordshire’s answer to the great Mr Gatsby.’ He started to walk but she didn’t follow. He turned back to face her. ‘You coming?’
‘You go ahead,’ she said, trying to sound relaxed. ‘I’m just going to nip to the loo.’ She took a step backwards. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Do you want me to wait for you?’
‘No, I’ll find you.’
Harmony walked back out of the living room and down the panelled corridor towards the downstairs cloakroom. As she walked she straightened her shoulders and breathed deeply. Will’s reaction had unsettled her. They hadn’t spoken much about the miscarriage. They both found it hard. Will always seemed to say the wrong thing, upsetting her without intending to, oblivious, as far as she could tell, of the emotions she was trying to cope with. But was it really that surprising she wanted to try again? Maybe, as was often the case with Will, he just needed time to get his head around it.
There was a woman in a short red dress waiting outside the loo. She smiled at Harmony, but rather than get into conversation, Harmony turned to look at the photographs of the Barratt-Joneses on the console table in the corridor. The photographs
were all black and white and displayed in a variety of silver frames. Some of the pictures, the better ones in her opinion, were Will’s. There was one he’d taken in his studio when Emma had insisted the whole family dress in blue jeans and white shirts and pose in front of a white background. Will had tried to convince her to go for something less hackneyed, a little edgier, but she was having none of it. So there she now was, preserved in manufactured perfection, sitting beside Ian, Abi on her lap and Josh on the floor, all of them immaculate and smiling. Another photo showed Ian and Josh out shooting, Josh a mini-me beside his father in matching flat cap and leather boots, holding aloft a brace of dead pheasant like a trophy of war. Then Abi in her ballet leotard, leg outstretched at the bar, almost regal in her grace and poise; Emma and Ian arm in arm in front of the Colosseum; Josh scoring a try in an under-nines rugby match. A tinge of envy crept under her skin. Harmony pushed it away. What was it she was jealous of anyway? Certainly not the money or the children. Maybe, Harmony thought, it was the way Emma’s life had panned out exactly as she’d intended, with no obstacles to negotiate, no trapdoors or landmines to surprise and derail her.
‘I’m not going to be poor when I’m older,’ she’d told Harmony when she was fifteen. ‘Being poor’s shit.’
‘You might be. You can’t predict the future.’
‘You can make choices, though, can’t you? And that’s my choice. I don’t want to be poor. I’m done with it.’
Every decision Emma had made since then was part of a grand plan that led to this very point: the large house, the wealthy husband and beautiful children. Harmony had watched with amused fascination as her friend single-mindedly pursued what she perceived to be happiness. Often she’d been scathing of Emma’s undisguised aspiration, but looking at these photos, knowing how much the family loved each other, she had to admit the planning had worked. She was pleased for her friend. Of course she was. What kind of person would she be if she wasn’t?
Harmony glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the loo door and saw the lady in red disappear inside and another lady come out, smoothing her dress as she passed. She looked back at the photos. Behind the family shots was one of her and Will with Emma and her brothers. They were on the beach at West Wittering, where they’d been camping for the weekend, drinking cans of lager and eating sausages cooked on a cheap disposable barbecue. She picked it up and smiled, stroking her fingers lightly over the faces in the photograph. They were all so young, so full of optimism and possibility. She stared at her own face. She was plumper back then, not overweight, but fuller, her face less angular, but even so she still looked masculine, she thought. Will’s mother had once described her as handsome and it was a good description. Her face was symmetrical with an aquiline nose, high forehead and pronounced cheekbones. That day her hair was brushed back into a ponytail and she remembered Will kissing the nape of her neck as she bent to blow air on the struggling barbecue. When she’d turned to smile at him he’d mouthed: I love you. A few hours earlier, holding each other in two sleeping bags zipped together to make one, he’d asked her to marry him. She remembered the thrill she’d felt, lying in his arms in the sun-warmed tent, looking at him with tears in her eyes and nodding.
‘But you’re so young,’ Emma had said as they watched the boys throwing a rugby ball down by the water’s edge. ‘Why get engaged at twenty-two? I mean, what’s the point? How do you know it’s right? That he’s The One?’
Harmony had laughed. ‘There’s no such thing as The One! It’s a ridiculous notion. Your The One might be in India or Papua New Guinea if that was the case and you’d never, ever meet him. And anyway, I know Will’s right for me and it’s not like we’ve just met. We’ve been together ages and he’s funny and unusual and we have amazing sex.’ She grinned at Emma and then turned back to watch Will catch a high ball and fall backwards onto the sand in a fit of laughter, his strong forearms browned by the sun, his scruffy blond hair falling over his face. ‘And I love him, Em. I really, really love him, so much I feel I might actually explode.’
Then Will’s words echoed in her head like a spectral prophesy.
And you’re sure you’re okay with not having children? Because you know that won’t change, Harmony. Promise me you understand.
‘Yes,’ she’d said, kissing him full on the lips. ‘I understand.’
But she hadn’t understood, not properly. She only really understood the day she lost her baby.
‘Are you waiting?’ The voice startled her. She turned to see a man behind her. He was very good looking, medium height and slim build with chiselled, tanned features and thick dark hair swept back off his face. He wore a crisp white shirt that was open at the neck, no tie, no jacket. His eyes were dark, almost black, and he looked at her with such directness she felt herself blush.
‘Sorry?’ she said, putting the photograph back on the table.
‘Are you waiting to use the loo?’ He pointed at the cloakroom. She looked and saw the door open, an array of scented candles flickering inside.
‘Oh, yes, I am actually, but I’m not desperate so go ahead if you’d like.’
He smiled a broad and generous smile. ‘No, after you. I’m not,’
he paused, ‘desperate, either.’
Harmony blushed again. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quick.’ He appeared amused. ‘Take all the time you need.’
As she walked into the cloakroom she turned and mumbled another thank you before closing the door behind her. Harmony looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head; had she really just told that man she’d be quick? She smiled. It felt good to have the appreciative eye of a handsome stranger. She didn’t need to use the loo so instead she rifled through the basket of products that Emma had left beside the basin: a hair brush, hairspray, a choice of lip glosses, perfume, a powder compact, and even a small case of expensive bronzing powder and a big fluffy brush to apply it. Had it been her own party she’d have forgotten to check there was toilet roll let alone provide the contents of a chemist for her guests to use. She dragged the brush through her hair and gave her neck and wrists a spray of perfume.
‘All yours,’ she said, as she came out. As they passed each other their shoulders lightly brushed.
‘Will you wait for me?’
‘Sorry?’ she said, turning back.
‘Will you wait for me?’ His eyes drilled into hers and her heartbeat quickened. ‘I’d like to talk to you.You’re the first interesting person I’ve met tonight and I’ve been here for over an hour.’
‘Oh,’ Harmony said. ‘Yes … okay.’
He nodded and went into the cloakroom. She stood for a minute or two then laughed under her breath. What was she doing? Waiting for a stranger to finish in the loo because he asked her to? If he wants to talk to me he can find me again, she thought. She began to head back to the party, but a raucous screech of laughter from the living room stopped her in her tracks beside the console table. She hesitated and glanced back at the cloakroom and as she did so, the door opened.
‘You waited.’
Harmony blushed and cast her eyes down at the table, pretending she’d been looking at the photographs. ‘No. I was admiring the pictures in the quiet actually. I’m not in the mood for a party.’
‘Well, I’m glad you stayed. Everybody else here is very dull.’
‘Everybody? That seems a bit of a generalisation and incredibly dismissive.’ Harmony glanced back at him and lifted her eyebrows.
‘Some of those people are my friends, you know.’
‘I’m sure the ones that are your friends are fascinating.’ She smiled, pleased she no longer felt girlish and silly.
They surveyed the pictures, side by side in silence. She was aware of him next to her, it was as if he had a force field around him that crackled the nearer he was to her. After a moment or two he leaned in close to her. ‘So what do you think?’
‘Of the pictures?’ He nodded.
‘I think they’re beautiful.’
> He shook his head. ‘They’re not beautiful. They’re staged and smug with a hint of narcissism that makes them unbearable. They reek of self-promotion.’
A small laugh escaped Harmony’s lips. Immediately, she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late, her disloyalty hung in the air around her and she felt a twinge of guilt. ‘You can’t say that,’ she said. ‘They are a lovely family and very good friends of mine.’
‘Not dull then,’ he said with a glint in his eye. She smiled.
‘The one with you in it is good though. Exactly how a photograph should be. A perfect moment, suspended in time. You look beautiful.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m young in it and youth is beautiful.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said, though there was an edge to his voice, a reticence, as if he didn’t believe her.
She held her hand out. ‘I’m Harmony.’
He shook her hand, his grip firm, holding on for a fraction too long. ‘An unusual name.’
‘My father chose it,’ she said. ‘I was lucky. According to my mum the choice was between Harmony and Sunrise.’ She laughed lightly. ‘He was a Bohemian artist type, a bit of a hippie, apparently.’
‘Apparently?’
‘He left when I was three.’ Like a fart in a storm, as her grandmother always grumbled. ‘You didn’t tell me your name,’ Harmony said.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, I have one thanks.’ She lifted her almost empty glass.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me who you are?’ She was intrigued by the way he looked at her; his eyes didn’t waver but stayed locked on hers.
‘Why do you need to know?’
The mocking in his voice suddenly grated and the hold he had on her was broken long enough for her to consider walking away from him. ‘I don’t need to know,’ she said. ‘But it’s fairly normal behaviour in our society; I tell you my name, you tell me yours, we talk a bit, we run out of things to say, we move on.’
The Judas Scar Page 2
