by Karen Swan
‘Fine, thanks. Headache, though.’ She put a hand to her forehead to make the point. She looked back at Florence. ‘I just came to say I’m off.’
‘What? No!’ Florence cried. ‘We haven’t gotten to Terry Sanger yet, and he’s always the most thrilling.’
‘Headache,’ Ro reiterated, placing her fingers to her temples for good measure.
‘But dinner?’
‘Still headache,’ Ro cringed.
Florence sighed, disappointed. ‘Oh dear. I really wanted to have a pleasant evening out with you, something to restore both our spirits.’
‘And we will, I promise.’
Florence scowled. ‘This is all Brook’s fault, of course, cornering me on this dratted proposal when I’m off duty.’
‘You’re never off duty, Florence,’ Brook replied, clearly bemused by the thought. ‘You’re the least off-duty person I’ve ever met.’
‘Well, now, how can I be when you insist on proposing such outlandish ideas? Someone has to stand up to you.’
‘And it always has to be you, doesn’t it, Florence?’
‘Well, you agree with me, Ro, don’t you?’
‘To be honest, I don’t really know what you’re disagreeing about,’ Ro said apologetically.
‘Well,’ Florence said, shifting into a more comfortable stance and settling into her rhetoric, ‘if what the papers are saying is true, I’m firmly of the view that Senator McClusky should stand down from his post.’
‘Oh, come on, Florence! How can it be proven? It’s his word against a dead man’s! He has said he will attest on oath that he never said anything about blocking Montauk’s petition for federal aid. Hell, the man’s been its biggest supporter. He ran his campaign on it. It doesn’t make sense that he would then advise to the contrary in private. He’s being set up – it’s obvious! That murdered fellow, Kevin—’ He tried to remember his surname.
‘Kevin Bradley,’ Ro said helpfully.
‘Thank you. Kevin Bradley. Well, I’m sorry the man’s dead, of course I am, but let’s not rewrite history on account of the fact. He was a charlatan and a crook, and he had every reason to lie to those people about his so-called relationship with the senator. It was one man’s words against his, and those people were desperate – desperate, I tell you. They thought they’d lost everything. Kevin Bradley saw an opportunity to exploit them and he took it. It’s that simple. The senator’s got nothing to do with any of this.’
‘I agree we can’t know for certain, Brook, but the waters have been sullied. The fear is out there: is he blocking the region’s access to federal aid? Whether he is or not, their trust in him has gone.’
‘But, Florence,’ Brook interrupted, ‘do you not see that the very same could have been said of you after the deficit scandal? What if everyone had lost faith in you because of rumour and hearsay? The man deserves a second chance at least. There’s no evidence to support he ever even met the dead man, much less shared confidential Congress information. You know what these journalists are like – they’ll say anything for a story.’
‘There was a photograph taken of them together at some party!’ Florence refuted passionately. ‘They had certainly met.’
Ro caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Ted Connor was standing just inside the doorway. He had begun talking to someone, but Ro had no doubt the second she extricated herself from this conversation . . .
‘Well, if you want my honest opinion,’ Ro said, wading in with a passion she didn’t feel, ‘I think I probably have to agree with Brook. From everything I’ve read, Kevin Bradley sounded like the kind of person to say anything that suited his ends. He was a bit of a player by all accounts. I don’t think it’s outside the realms of possibility that he name-dropped Senator McClusky to strengthen his point and get those people to sell to him at rock-bottom prices.’
‘Precisely.’ Brook grinned at her, pleased to have her support. ‘I think you’re just going after McClusky to divert attention away from the real issue here. It’s going to be September and the end of the season here before we know it and then – boom, the storms are coming and we’re no better off than we were last year. We need to act, Florence. We need to start engineering the beaches in Montauk and that means some pretty big decisions have to be taken pretty damn quickly.’
‘Engineered beaches aren’t the only solution to this area’s problems, Brook, and you know it.’ Florence’s eyes were glimmering darkly, but with relish. Her fire was back. Politics was in her blood.
‘I do, but it’s the Coastal Erosion Committee’s recommendation. You know as well as I do that an engineered beach in Montauk is the interim measure required to make this area eligible for federal aid. Without the beach, there’s no federal money, and without that, there’s no hope. Homes and businesses will be lost – the economy and infrastructure there will collapse. And you know we can’t keep raising levies and taxes against the locals here.’
‘I still believe there are other measures we can adopt.’
‘Building dunes, you mean?’ Brook said, with a measure of disdain.
‘Among other things. We need to look at the dredging problems too. They’re exacerbating local erosion to a huge extent.’
‘What dredging problems?’ Brook frowned.
‘The survey came in from the Army Corps of Engineers while I was resting up. I had nothing else to do but read the damn thing from cover to cover.’
‘Which survey is this?’ Ro asked, trying to remain in the debate, painfully aware of Ted Connor’s stare sweeping over to her every few minutes. What did he want?
‘It’s examined the severe erosion on the Sound-side view of Montauk Harbor jetties. They say there’s evidence the area has been over-dredged by at least eighty-six thousand cubic tons of sand.’ Florence looked back at Brook. ‘And that’s just the surplus! No wonder the area’s so vulnerable. I’m going to be calling for a review of the dredging companies operating in the East End area at the next meeting. The ten-year permits come up for renewal in October and I think it’s the right time to really sit down and examine who we’re giving the business to—’
Brook shook his head dismissively. ‘This is precisely the kind of time-wasting delay I’m talking about. People need action, not surveys. Winter is on its way round to us and we’re like sitting ducks.’
Ro put her hand up, feeling like she had to request permission to speak. ‘Uh . . . so anyway, my headache.’
Florence laughed, drawn out of her debate at last. ‘Oh, Rowena. You are too polite, standing there listening to us old warhorses battling it out while you’re feeling so bad.’ She gathered Ro in an embrace. ‘Let’s have breakfast and an early morning swim together soon.’
‘How are you getting home?’ Brook asked.
‘I’ll get a cab.’ She eyed the street for a lit taxi sign. Oh, what she’d do to see the Humper right now, but she knew Hump was settled in for a quiet night with Bobbi. She was still subdued from the funeral yesterday, and only Ro’s manners had propelled her out here tonight.
‘Nonsense. Take my car. My driver can come back for me. No doubt Florence and I will still be here disagreeing violently.’ He raised his arm before Ro could protest further and a driver stepped out of the silver Mercedes parked by the kerb.
‘Well, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble . . .’ Ro said hesitantly.
‘Just make sure he doesn’t take the long way home. I do enough walking on the fairways without adding more miles to these poor feet of mine.’
‘Thanks. I really appreciate it.’
She kissed them both goodbye and walked quickly across the pavement, as the driver opened the door for her and she slid into the toffee-coloured leather seats and air-conditioned comfort. The windows were black-tinted and impossible to see into.
The driver was just getting into his seat when the passenger-side door opened.
‘Oh, you did not just do that!’ Ro exclaimed in alarm, as Ted turned to face her, like it was the m
ost natural thing in the world that he should be sitting there.
‘You are trying to escape me,’ he said.
‘N-no!’ she protested, wild thoughts running through her head.
‘So then why did you go running when you saw me coming over to talk to you?’
‘Why did you come running over when you saw me talking to your girlfriend?’ she shot back.
‘Good question . . .’ He looked quizzical. ‘And I’m not sure.’
‘Ma’am, is everything OK back there?’ It was the driver, talking to her through the intercom system. The privacy panel was shut, but she could make out his silhouette.
Ted held up his hands. ‘I’ll get out if you want me to. I just thought we could talk.’
‘About what?’
‘. . . The children’s photography session?’ he said.
Yeah, right. The thought had clearly only just occurred to him. ‘Now? What about Julianne?’
‘She’s haggling over Bambi. She won’t notice if I’m gone for ten minutes.’
‘Ma’am?’ It was the driver again.
‘Uh . . . God, fine. Yes. It’s fine,’ she grumbled, doing a thumbs-up sign for good measure, not sure she had pressed the correct button. ‘Sea Spray Cottage, Egypt Lane, please.’
The car began to roll forward and she settled herself on the seat, legs away from him, while she fiddled with her seat belt.
‘It’s OK – you’re pretty protected in a car like this,’ Ted said, watching her fidget.
‘I don’t want to be an elephant.’
‘An elephant?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. In a car accident, if you’re not wearing a seat belt, the forward momentum of impact makes the person in the rear seat hit the seat of the person in front with the same weight as an elephant. It’s one of the commonest causes of death in traffic accidents.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Ted grinned. ‘Although I guess the driver’s safe today at least. There’s a wall between you and him.’ Ro arched an eyebrow and he quickly turned and grabbed his seat belt. ‘Principle, though, I agree,’ he murmured, buckling up.
They sat in silence for a minute, Ted intermittently looking across as Ro clasped her hands between her knees, trying not to jiggle.
‘So . . . you wanted to talk about shooting the kids,’ she said finally.
‘What?’
Ro laughed hard at his mistake. Too hard. Either her nerves were getting the better of her or the wine had gone to her head after all. ‘I don’t mean with bullets, you numpty. Shooting film. The photography session.’
‘Did you just call me a “numpty”?’
‘That’s right,’ she replied, trying to stop an unstoppable smile. Definitely the wine.
‘That some British word for a jerk?’
‘Something like that.’ She recovered herself, clearing her throat. ‘Sorry.’
‘No,’ he murmured, looking out of the window. ‘I rather liked it.’
She caught his profile as though she was seeing it through the lens – the straight sweep of his nose, the deep swoop of his lashes, the soft curl of his hair that needed a cut soon . . .
‘So . . . the children.’ He looked over at her, but she found it almost impossible to hold his gaze. She couldn’t lie like he could; she couldn’t hide behind a smile. She couldn’t pretend he was just a client when all the time she was trying to work out his hold over Florence, his motivation. He hid behind his manners all the while the facts stacked up against him in hers and Florence’s recent misadventures. But which was right: fact or instinct? Which man was he: the man on the films or the man on the beach? How could he be both? She felt she couldn’t trust her own judgement anymore. Everything was blurred, confused. ‘I thought we could do it on Shelter Island.’
‘Shelter Island?’ She’d heard of it . . .
‘It’s just off Sag Harbor. Not far as the crow flies, but we have to sail over. Obviously – being an island.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got a place we can use. It’s pretty. There’s woods, beaches . . .’
‘OK,’ she nodded. ‘That sounds good.’
The car rolled to a gentle halt and she realized they were back at the house already. It was only a few blocks, after all. ‘Oh. This is me.’
‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ Ted said, quickly climbing out of the car before she could protest.
‘Thanks,’ she said reluctantly, as he opened the car door for her. They walked up the short path over the green, then through the gate and onto the porch steps. ‘Um, so when were you thinking for that? How’s Finn’s hair?’
‘Behaving itself finally.’ He stared down at her, his gaze so steady, so unflinching, so undrunk. ‘I don’t suppose you can do next weekend?’
‘I can’t think of a reason why not.’ She couldn’t think of much, actually. The wine really had hit her.
‘We’ll come pick you up at ten o’clock Saturday?’
She nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Great.’ And without warning, he leaned down and kissed her once on each cheek, his lips soft against her skin, his hands on her arms, their eyes locked in a momentary pause before he straightened up. ‘Saturday, then.’
Ro watched him go, utterly unable not to, so completely paralyzed it was like her feet had taken root. She watched him get back into the car and the car pull away again. She couldn’t see if he was looking back at her looking at him through the tinted windows. She carried on looking for at least a minute after the car had gone, trying to regulate her breathing, temper her erratic pulse, recover from the shock of his touch. It had been nothing, just a social kiss – no different to the ones she had so unthinkingly just given Brook and Florence.
No different. It was the wine, making everything feel . . . different.
Slowly, she turned – and stopped again. Hump was standing behind the screen door, frozen mid-step with a plate of pizza in his hand, watching her.
‘What?’
‘Still frightened of him, are you?’ he asked, as he turned and continued into the kitchen.
No, not frightened, she thought, as she put one trembling hand to her cheek. It felt singed by his touch. Terrified was more like it.
Chapter Thirty
05/7/2011
13h54
At the park. Ella being pushed on a trike by Ted’s mother. Finn sleeping in the buggy. Ted pushing Finn.
Overcast day. No shadows on the ground. Everyone in coats.
‘Does he sleep this much all the time?’ Man’s voice behind camera. Ted’s father?
‘All the time. He’s the easiest baby.’ Ted.
‘No wonder Marina’s back on her feet so quickly.’ Ted’s mother.
‘Quite literally.’ Ted.
Finn jerks suddenly, his hands flying up beside his head. Begins to cry. Ted stops the buggy and quickly rearranges the blankets, tucking Finn’s arms back down and securing the blankets firmly. ‘His startle reflex. Boys get it worse than girls, apparently.’
Begins pushing the buggy again. Finn’s cries drop to a whimper.
‘You were always doing that. You had such bad colic as a baby, it’d take forever to get you settled, and just as I’d creep back to bed – wham! You’d jolt yourself awake and I’d have to do the whole routine again. Do you remember, Edward?’
‘Do I ever,’ Ted’s father grumbled. ‘I thought we’d never sleep through the night again.’
Finn silent now, sleeping. Ella sucking her thumb as she is pushed along. Drops her (no longer) pink pig.
‘Oops. We don’t want to lose Binky.’ Ted’s mother picks it up and hands it back. ‘Oh look! Here comes Mommy!’
Ella waves excitedly, almost topples off tricycle.
Marina power-walks towards them. Navy running tights, fluoro-yellow trainers, water bottle in her hand, cheeks flushed.
‘Hi!’ Ted hooks arm around her waist, kisses her. ‘So how was that?’
Camera angle drops down to path. Brown suede loafers. Forgotten it’s on?
‘Great!’ M
arina. Panting. ‘Really great.’
‘Not too much? You mustn’t overdo it.’ Ted.
‘Not at all. In fact I’m feeling strong today. I thought I might do one more lap.’ Marina.
‘Marina, it’s been three weeks. That’s too much.’ Ted.
‘Ted, I know my own body. I’ve been craving this for nine months.’ Pause. Unidentifiable movements. ‘You all enjoying the walk?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ Ted’s father. Jocular. ‘We’ve just been feeding the ducks.’
‘I’m the park-keeper, Mommy.’ Ella.
‘Are you?’ Marina. Smile in her voice.
‘We thought we’d go to Inn on the Park for coffee. Why don’t you join us?’ Ted’s mother.
‘I may as well meet you back at the apartment. By the time I do my extra lap, you’ll be ready to go.’ Panting sound. ‘And I’ll take it easy. I promise.’ Sound of fast-moving feet, retreating.
‘She’s like Superwoman.’ Ted’s father.
‘She’s saying she wants to go back to work when Finn’s twelve weeks.’
‘Really?’ Ted’s mother.
‘Mmm.’ Ted.
Camera swings up to buggy, focuses on Finn, sleeping, for split second.
Blackness.
05/23/2011
15h37
Ella seated in a high chair, a cake of a red hot-air balloon on the table in front of her, one candle flickering. Lots of helium-filled balloons tied to the backs of the chairs. The bottom of a birthday banner just in shot.
‘Happy Birthday, Ella!’ An older female voice behind the camera. ‘How old are you today?’
Ella, in a Liberty-print needlecord dress, grins at the camera. Shouts excitedly. ‘Grandma! I’m two!’
‘Who’s two?’ incredulous voice.
‘Me!’ Ella jabs her chest with her thumb.
‘Well, did you get any presents?’
‘I got a scooter for the park.’
‘A scooter? I’ll bet you’re really good, huh?’
Ella nods. Moves to pinch some of the red icing.
‘Uh-uh, not yet. Wait for Mommy.’
Ted in the background. He comes to stand beside Ella, swaying slightly as he rubs Finn’s back. A half-filled bottle of milk in his jeans pocket. Begins pacing. ‘Where is Marina?’
