‘Artem!’ Daria laughs throatily. ‘My brother? Dance? Are you mad?’
‘Yeah, but all you lot dance, don’tcha?’ Ben has a vague recollection of some tedious documentary about Eastern Europe his parents forced him to watch. It was full of moustachioed peasants and buxom girls prancing about in gingham dresses. Or was that the programme on the Amish . . .?
‘And who will look after Milo if I am dancing?’ Daria lifts Milo out of Ben’s grasp and, laying him down on his back on the bath mat, quickly divests him of his clothes.
‘Yeah, well, I mean, I was thinking, like . . . I could.’
‘You?’ The baby’s nappy, last to come off, is sodden but, to Ben’s considerable relief, not soiled. ‘Come on, soneyka, into the ocean!’
Milo screams with ecstasy as Daria swings him high into the air and plonks him into the suds, spattering herself and Ben in the process.
‘Yeah! Why not? Come on, Dar, I’ve looked after him, like, loads of times. We have a right laugh, don’t we, mate?’
But Milo is too entranced with the bubbles clustered all over his chubby body to respond.
Daria grabs a flannel and sets to with some vigorous scrubbing.
‘Fact is, my lot would probably be dead pleased ’cos they’re away for the weekend. Some party thing. ’Course I can’t go, can I, ’cos I gotta revise. But the olds don’t wanna leave me alone in the house—I dunno why, I’m nearly sixteen! If I could stay over at yours, though, that’d shut them up. Then you needn’t hurry back and you and Artem could make a night of it.’ He’s thinking fast—get to The Laurels first off and make sure everything’s organised, nip in here and see Daria and Artem on their way, shove Milo in the buggy and then settle him in one of the bedrooms back at the aunts’ cottage, few drinks and that, get back here in time for Daria and Artem’s return and then creep away to rejoin the party once they’re asleep. Yeah, that works. Sort of.
Daria’s hand slows in its journey over Milo’s body. She’s tempted, Ben can tell.
‘Come on. You deserve a break, Dar. After all you been through. Well, the pair of you. Plus, it’d be a sort of celebration for you getting your visa, yeah?’
‘I suppose . . .’
‘Brilliant! I’ll just clear it at mine and you tell Artem. Where is he, by the way?’
Daria, already mentally flicking through her paltry wardrobe, says absent-mindedly, ‘He’s finishing job for the cross lady—you know: very loud, she play card with Hester and Harriet.’
‘I know,’ says Ben, who doesn’t, and cares even less.
‘Then I ask him to check house on way home.’
‘House?’ Ben’s heart bucks in his chest.
‘Your aunts’ cottage. Collect post. You know.’
This time Ben does know. And he cares. He cares a great deal.
‘He will be home soon. Ben? Where are you going? Ben!’
Milo, startled by the banging of the bathroom door and his mother’s raised voice, and bored now the bubbles have mainly dispersed in the fast-cooling water, begins to wail.
It’s only half a mile to The Laurels, but it’s mainly uphill and the final approach is hazardous, with potholes and an uneven camber. By the time Ben arrives, he is pouring with sweat, legs weak from both the exertion and his blind panic. If Artem has arrived ahead of him and entered the house, then the game is over. There is a tiny corner of Ben’s mind that would not find such an outcome wholly unwelcome. Of course there would be no end of grief and a considerable number of chickens would come home to roost, but perhaps the anxiety that has nagged away in his gut ever since that dickhead Jez got him into this nightmare would be over. He would drag his sorry arse along to this stupid reunion, sit glumly through the weekend, and he would never get to be kissed by Louisa Jellinek ever again, but at least all his worst imaginings would remain just that: imaginings.
But the both longed-for and feared sight of an open front door does not materialise. The cottage is deserted when he screeches up to the gate. He leans the bike against a tree and cautiously approaches the front door, feeling for his keys in his pocket.
‘Ben?’
Artem looms over the hedge beside the gate. He looks filthy, his hair matted and coated with sawdust; a labourer returning from his toils, not the highly educated polyglot he in fact is.
‘Artem . . . hi. How’s it going?’
Artem fails to answer Ben’s question. Their relationship has been edgy from the off. Artem considers Ben to be something of a chancer who exploits his aunts and is insufficiently deferential to his elders; Ben considers Artem a pompous, interfering foreigner, albeit one who in principle deserves his respect as a dissident. He just wishes that Artem were a little less . . . perspicacious. His English teacher had untypically praised his essay on George Orwell for this quality and having googled it (as indeed he had much of his essay content) Ben had decided it fitted Artem to a T. And not in a good way.
Artem is staring at the windows, upstairs and down.
‘What?’ says Ben, heart in his mouth. He never knew hearts could hurt so much.
‘The curtains. Why are they closed?’
Ben gulps. ‘Ah, the sun,’ he says, improvising rapidly.
‘Sun?’ Artem advances up the path. He really is a big bloke: like, huge. Ben instinctively recoils.
‘Yeah . . . Spoke to Aunt Harriet last night and was telling her what amazing weather we’re having and how sunny it was, and she’s like, “Sunny? Oh my God, can you go round ours and pull all the curtains?” And I’m like yeah, ’course I can. So I get on my bike and I just got here and done it and you turn up. But it’s all sorted now, so no worries.’ He finishes in a rush, his heart thumping like it’s attached to jump leads or something. He can smell his sweat and it’s not a pleasant smell.
Artem’s eyes remain narrowed. He couldn’t look more disbelieving.
‘Yesterday? You spoke to your aunt yesterday?’
Ben instantly sees the trap he has set for himself. ‘Yeah, and straight off I’m like, I gotta go to The Laurels to sort something and my dad’s all, no way, you gotta revise, and so I had to leave it until just now.’
‘I see,’ says Artem. ‘Well—’ grudgingly ‘—at least you’ve done it now. I wonder, though, why they did not phone Daria or me, as we are so much closer . . .’
‘’Cos it was me that was talking to her, wasn’t it? And she never knew how sunny it was till I told her. Plus she trusts me.’
Ben might as well have dipped the blade in salt as he twists the metaphorical knife. Teenagers are said to lack empathy as their brains mature; either Ben still has this phase to come or he is already through it, because his treachery bites deep even as the words leave his mouth. His lies are like poison on his tongue, made worse by his immense debt to those he is betraying. He is convinced his guilt must be written across his face, but Artem merely regards him closely for a few more seconds and then, shrugging, retreats down the path.
‘See you, then, Ben.’ And with a wave, he disappears down the lane. Ben slides down the door to the ground with a groan of relief. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take. It’s doing his head in.
CHAPTER 15
Harriet sits on a bench outside the hospital, weighing Mary’s phone in her hand, grateful for the faint warmth of the late-evening sun. She feels she had handled the call to Ron Martindale as well as she could, given the news she had to impart and the resurgence of her headache, which is making her feel increasingly nauseous.
Mary’s husband had, understandably, reacted with alarm but proved a decisive man, not given to histrionics.
‘I’m most grateful to you . . . Harriet, did you say? And Mary is being well cared for? Do you have the name and number of her consultant? And the hospital? Thank you. You have been most kind.’
‘No, really—’
‘I shall phone this number immediately, but is there any chance you could get a message to Mary that I’m on my way? I don’t suppose I can ring her myself? No .
. . I see. Of course. No matter. Just tell her, would you, I’ll be on the first flight out.’
‘Ron, it’s not for me to interfere, but might it be better to wait until they’ve finished their tests? For all we know, she’ll be right as rain tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Harriet. But I want to see my wife.’
‘Of course.’ Harriet wishes she had kept her mouth shut.
Ron Martindale’s reaction had been businesslike, cold even. Now for Rhona.
‘Mary! Darling!’
A throaty, warm voice on the edge of a laugh.
‘Rhona, it’s not Mary. My name is Harriet. Harriet Pearson. I’m a friend of Mary’s.’
‘Friend?’ Not so warm, now; there’s caution, a hint of suspicion.
‘Let me explain. I’m on this painting course with Mary—’
‘Right.’ Definitely suspicious now.
‘I’m using her phone. She asked me to ring because there’s been an accident.’
‘Oh my God!’
Harriet gives her the details as quickly as she can, finishing with, ‘She asked me to give you her love.’
A moment. It sounds such a banal message, not freighted with the meaning it had had at the bedside. She adds, ‘Ron’s on his way out.’
‘Oh, is he? Of course. Is there a flight tonight?’ Now tears threaten; Harriet can hear them in the other woman’s voice.
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure they fly—’
‘I’ll ring the airport now.’
‘You’re coming here?’
‘Of course I’m coming!’ A beat. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry, Helen.’
‘Harriet.’
‘Harriet. I’m all over the place. Sorry. Sorry.’
‘Won’t Ron be a bit . . .’
‘Bugger Ron. Will you tell Mary I’m on my way? And give her . . . no, tell her I love her.’
Hester is playing bridge. She’s still at a loss to explain how this happened. One minute she was engaged in one of the trickiest conversations of her life, the next Regina Pegg was hallooing from the foyer and waving Harriet’s bag at her.
‘Hester! Over here. Have you spoken to Harriet? Good, good. She’s a bit shaken up—well, who wouldn’t be? Few scratches and the odd bruise, I dare say. Her bag fell over the ledge; got caught on a branch, thank heavens. Guy scrambled down to retrieve it, bless his heart. I don’t think anything’s broken. And she would insist on going in the ambulance—poor old Mary looked a bit of a mess, it must be said.’ She had lowered her voice theatrically. ‘Of course, Gervais was worse than useless—went completely to pieces. Probably frightened to death he’d be sued.’ She paused for a moment to take a swig from her water bottle. In the hiatus, Hester’s visitor had touched her lightly on the arm—‘I’ll be back at nine o’clock’—and before she could reply, was gone.
Lionel had returned at that point to insist they eat, Guy and Bella had joined them, and somehow they had got through the meal, Hester barely tasting any of it. Then Regina, indefatigable (surely there was something of Peggy Verndale about her?), had reappeared to suggest a few hands of bridge, and with patent relief everyone had exclaimed with extravagant enthusiasm that that was a splendid idea. Bella, not a player, had pleaded fatigue and retired to her room to read, leaving the four of them to their cards.
Hester finds the discipline of bridge a surprisingly effective antidote to the worry gnawing away at her. She checks her watch. Eight thirty. Beside her is a large Campari and soda that Lionel had pressed upon her, admittedly with little opposition. This, coupled with the two large glasses of wine at dinner that she had somehow found herself drinking without really noticing how assiduously Lionel and Guy topped her up, have induced a sort of equilibrium, her painful foot notwithstanding. Without, she is relieved to discover, impairing her play. Regina, judging by her swift dealing and brisk bidding, is, as suspected, a seasoned player; Guy, who partners her, competent if cautious. But Lionel! Hester cannot recall playing with someone who is so extremely hesitant in trying to make a contract and teeth-clenchingly slow in play. Even Tippy Limbush at the Bridge Club is quicker than Lionel; he’s not so bad when they are defending a bid, but seems paralysed with indecision when Hester is dummy. So far, they have only bid twice, their cards being on the whole pretty disappointing, making only one no-trump (Hester) and going down in two hearts (Lionel). Their opponents already have a game in hand and sixty on to rubber. Play continues in this vein, so that it is a great relief when Regina, mid-deal, glances over to the lounge doorway, and says, ‘Oh, look who’s back!’
And Hester, grabbing her sister’s bag from a startled Regina, scrambles gratefully to her feet to hurry over to the doorway, where weary and dishevelled Harriet waits.
‘You look awful. What took you so long?’ Hester is appalled by herself as the words emerge: Harriet looks like she’s in need of a hug not censure.
Harriet, weak from exhaustion and hunger, in thrall to her pounding head, shrugs, as though barely registering her sister’s heartlessness. She starts to stagger in the direction of her room. Alfonso hurries over, all solicitude, making Hester feel even more of a heel. ‘Signora Pearson! How are you? I have just spoken to the doctor about poor Mrs Martindale. What a tragedy! Would you like something to eat? We have saved you some dinner.’
‘Thank you,’ Harriet manages. ‘Just some tea, if that’s possible, please.’ She finds her legs unable to carry her any further and subsides onto one of the sofas in the foyer, as Alfonso hurries off towards the kitchens.
Hester sinks down beside her sister and takes her hand. ‘God, I’m sorry, Harry. Truly. I didn’t mean to snap. But what on earth happened?’
Harriet laughs mirthlessly. ‘We slipped. Well, Mary slipped. Grabbed me. I slipped. We both fell over a cliff. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?’
‘What? Are you sure you’re all right? Did they check you over? I’ve been so worried.’
‘We all have,’ interjects a male voice beside them.
Oh good grief, think the sisters as one. Just leave us please, Lionel, will you, for five minutes?
Irritated both by the interruption and the recent bridge debacle, Hester says sharply, ‘Give us a few minutes, would you, please, Lionel?’ She turns back to Harriet, but not before she has registered his hurt look. He taps his watch meaningfully and jerks his head towards the entrance, then trudges morosely back towards the lounge, a picture of rejection. Hester is smitten with remorse. A car rolls into the car park. Hester squints at the figure climbing out and hesitantly making for the brightly lit reception. It looks like . . . yes, it must be. Damn.
‘Harry, let’s get you to your room and freshen you up.’ She virtually lifts Harriet to her feet, marching her down the corridor as quickly as she dares, praying the newcomer hasn’t spotted them. Perhaps Lionel will intervene. Assuming, that is, he hasn’t taken umbrage at her sharpness. When will she learn? ‘Regina kindly rescued your bag, so I’ve got your key. We need to get some food inside you. Here we are.’
‘Too tired to eat,’ murmurs Harriet. She longs to curl up under those crisp white sheets, her aching head cradled by the soft pillow, slipping into oblivion to escape this relentless pain . . .
‘Nonsense,’ says Hester briskly, unlocking the door and steering Harriet over to the armchair by the window. ‘Bite of supper and you’ll feel so much better.’ She pours her a glass of water from the carafe and Harriet gulps it greedily. ‘I’ll get Alfonso to bring you a tray in a minute.’
‘Soon as he likes,’ says Harriet, ‘or I’ll be in bed.’
‘No you won’t!’ Hester hadn’t meant to sound so sharp. She adds, a shade more softly, ‘Not just yet. For goodness’ sake, it’s not even nine.’
‘Hetty,’ says Harriet piteously, face drawn, ‘I’ve had a hell of a day. My head’s pounding. I’m shattered. All I want to do is sleep.’ Then, hurt, ‘You haven’t even asked after Mary.’
Hester, wrong-footed and in the wrong, defaults to her usual defensive position:
attack. ‘Well, it’s you I’m worried about. I barely know the woman! Obviously, I hope she’s going to be all right. But she’s in hospital now. There’s nothing more you can do this evening.’
‘Exactly. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep—or try to—and then tomorrow . . . Oh God!’ She notices Hester’s plaster-dotted foot and the bandage. ‘What on earth . . .?’
There is a light knock on the door.
‘Doesn’t matter. A little accident.’ Hester, limping slightly, opens the door to discover Alfonso holding a beautifully arranged tray on which is a single rose beside a generous plate of antipasti, with bread on the side, and the promised pot of tea. Behind him, Lionel. She declines Alfonso’s offer to bring in the tray, carrying it over to Harriet herself. Lionel, waiting in the corridor, beckons her to join him and starts whispering hurriedly, as Hester pulls the door to behind her.
Harriet stares at the plate of meats, sundried tomatoes and fat olives glistening with oil and feels sick. Averting her head, she tears off a small piece of bread and forces it clumsily into her mouth. The effort of chewing almost defeats her. She closes her eyes as Hester returns, shutting the door firmly.
Hunched in the chair, one hand to her forehead, clutching her glasses, Harriet shields her eyes from the overhead pendant. Hester switches it off and goes over to the window to look out over the garden, bathed in the light thrown by the outdoor lanterns. Her back to Harriet, she says, ‘Harry, I’m sorry you’re feeling so lousy, but I’m afraid you can’t go to bed right away.’
‘What?’
Hester looks down on a solitary figure sitting in the shadows on the far corner of the terrace. ‘Someone’s been waiting to see you. For hours.’
‘To see me?’ Harriet looks at Hester, confused, eyes dark with fatigue and pain.
‘Yes.’
Harriet groans. ‘I can’t, Hetty. Whoever it is, they’ll have to wait until morning.’
‘No, Harry—’
Harriet levers herself out of the chair en route to the bathroom. She feels battered, unsteady, hollowed out with pain. Even the pads of her fingers hurt.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 10
