by Fiona Neill
“Every day is a crisis in your world, Dad.”
“You’re not far from the truth at the moment,” Nick had muttered as he worried about the e-mail he had just received, subject: “something spooking markets, source unknown.” He flicked up and down his messages. “I’m going to have to go back to London for a couple of days.”
• • •
“Izzy is becoming difficult to manage,” said Bryony as they headed up the hill. “And she was always so easy.”
“It’s a difficult age,” said Tita.
“I wasn’t like that, was I?”
“I don’t think so,” said Tita vaguely.
“I can’t understand why Izzy has such low self-esteem. We’ve given her the best of everything. We got her into a great school. Against the odds, frankly. She’s a talented musician. If she doesn’t blow it, she’s on track to get a couple of fistfuls of A’s in her GCSEs. Honestly, we couldn’t do any more for her than we’ve done, and then she turns up like this. I can’t help thinking if she hadn’t gone to stay with Hester then this wouldn’t have happened.”
Bryony stopped for a moment to allow Tita to draw level with her. Tita walked straight-backed, as though she had spent the best part of her adolescence in posture classes with a copy of Mrs. Beeton on her head.
“Do you think it’s because I work?”
“Darling, you and Hester were practically reared by nannies and it never did you any harm.”
Ali would have liked to add that the work thing was a red herring and that some people were born with a propensity for self-destruction. Her mother stayed at home until she and her sister were teenagers, and Jo had still ended up with a drug problem.
“That’s not what Hester would say.”
“Hester always has to blame someone else for her own problems. She’s like her father that way. Doesn’t want to take responsibility for her actions. I think it’s fabulous that you love your job. It means you always have your freedom. If I had been born in a different era I might have done something like you.”
“Do you regret being so reliant on Dad?” Bryony asked suddenly. It was a question that Bryony had spent a lifetime wanting to ask, but now that the opportunity had arisen she was afraid of the answer. Tita stopped for a moment and stared up at Foy, who had reached the top of the steep track and was holding Eleanor in an extravagant embrace on the edge of the terrace that ran along the front of the house.
“I love your father very much. But greater independence might have provided solace in difficult periods,” she said with an economy of language that made Ali wince at the turbulence it concealed. In modern parenting manuals Tita might have been classified as a distant parent, but she understood enough about human emotion to know that her daughter didn’t really want full disclosure.
They could see Izzy waving at them from the terrace. The Land Rover crew had beaten them. The intense heat wasn’t conducive to the kind of outfit appropriate to a teenager who wanted to show off her neo-Goth credentials. Ali was relieved to see that Izzy had abandoned her black leather boots in favor of flip-flops. She was wearing a very short denim skirt, a ripped T-shirt, and the same purple lipstick that gave her face a cartoonish look. Her proximity to Foy made her arms and legs look even spindlier.
“Look how thin she is,” said Bryony. “I thought it was good that she lost a bit of puppy fat, but of course Izzy has to take it that one step further. Do you think she’s properly anorexic? We’ve taken the computer out of her room so she can’t go on those wretched websites. She’s even seeing an eating-disorders counselor. We’ve gone with her a couple of times for a family session.”
“She has an unhealthy attitude toward food,” agreed Tita, who was rarely seen eating. Bryony continued to meander around the subject of Izzy as they finally reached the terrace at the top of the slope. Her solutions were all so extreme that it was difficult for Tita to find any middle ground worth debating.
“Should we push her harder or not push her at all? Should we let her eat what she likes or take her to an eating-disorders clinic? What about boarding school or home schooling?” Tita stopped and turned round to face the sea. She put out a hand to steady herself on a flimsy oleander, and for a moment Ali thought she might fall. Perhaps the conversation was making her dizzy.
“Is that you, Ali?” she asked, narrowing her eyes against the sun. “Would you mind taking my arm?”
• • •
Julian and Eleanor Peterson hadn’t mentioned any other guests when they invited the party staying at the Villa Ichthys for early-evening drinks at the end of the first week of the holiday. So it was doubly enervating for Bryony to find Sophia and Ned Wilbraham sipping champagne cocktails together with Rick and Hester.
Nick was standing in a huddle with Ned. Their heads were bent so close to each other their foreheads were almost touching. They stared at their feet, and Ali wondered if they noticed they were wearing identical brown deck shoes and beige chinos, the uniform of the banker at leisure. Nick glanced at the group emerging from the path onto the terrace but didn’t react.
“I’ve just had an e-mail from a colleague in London saying there’s something strange going on with the markets. The price of U.S. gilts and gold is up, and investors are dumping anything with default risk. But no one knows why.”
“There’s definitely a perception that there’s a liquidity problem, but I’m sure it’s a case of short-term jitters,” agreed Ned. “It’s because BNP Paribas stopped investors’ withdrawing money from those three funds.”
“I think it’s more serious than that. Either trust has gone or people are running out of cash,” Nick argued.
“I saw the ECB has announced it will provide as much funding as banks need to keep up with demand for capital. That should reassure people,” said Ned.
“Defaults on subprime mortgages are the highest they’ve been since 2002,” said Nick. “If the money isn’t coming in to pay the bond holders, then who’s left holding the baby?”
“Surely the risk is dispersed through credit derivatives and CDOs so that any shocks can be absorbed?” questioned Ned.
“It depends on your view on fat tails,” Nick responded.
“You’ve lost me now,” said Ned. “I’m not a Harvard MBA, remember. I’m just a humble M-and-A type.”
“It’s when the medium-term stability of the system is built on a painful readjustment at the end. Those credit derivatives might make the system look more stable, but in fact there could be a big fat whale-sized tail waiting to sweep us all overboard when the boom slows down,” Nick explained.
“But according to Greenspan we’re all enjoying the great moderation,” said Ned. “It’s always a question of perception in these markets. And the models can’t all be wrong.”
“Maths tools are a compass. They’re not infallible, and it worries me that everyone is using the same models. What happens if the basic premise is wrong and extreme negative events occur more often than the formulas are telling us?” asked Nick.
“Then we’re all fucked,” said Ned. “Don’t let what happened to those Bear Stearns funds make you feel gloomy. They were overleveraged. There was a maturity mismatch. They’d got too many long-term mortgage-linked assets that you can’t shift in a hurry, funded by short-term debt that dissolved overnight.”
“Look at those boats out there,” Nick insisted. They both turned toward the sea, where an array of cruise ships, sailing boats, and ferries were purposefully striking their way up and down the channel. “The statistical likelihood of them all capsizing at once is tiny, but it’s not impossible. And it is possible that the system could de-leverage all at the same time.”
“So what would you advise?”
“I’d get rid of all the liability on our books today. I’d dump all of the mezzanine debt and most of the super-senior tranches, or at least try an
d get some insurance.”
“What about your lords and masters? Have you convinced them of your strategy?”
“No.” Nick gave a hollow laugh.
• • •
Ali turned her attention to the other end of the terrace, where Sophia was questioning Rick about education. Was it really easier to get children from state schools into Oxbridge? Should she consider sending Martha to a sixth-form college for the last two years of her education, to secure a place? Did he really think an intelligent child would do equally well in any school? Did he know a good English tutor, because her eldest daughter’s last tutor had recently resigned, citing irreconcilable differences over Thomas Hardy. Sophia sprang up from her seat as she saw Bryony.
“What a fantastic coincidence,” she trilled.
“Yes, lovely to see you, too,” said Bryony, trying to muster enthusiasm.
Sophia was wearing an expensive-looking floaty silk top over a pair of white trousers, and when she stood up she reminded Ali of a sailing boat turning toward the wind.
“I bumped into Sophia in the supermarket. We know her parents. So do Foy and Tita.” Eleanor beamed at Bryony. “Such a small world.”
“I didn’t realize you were planning to come to Corfu,” said Bryony, in a tone that suggested had she known she might have reconsidered her holiday plans.
“I booked it ages ago, then completely forgot to mention it to you. I’m here for the whole month, but of course I don’t have to rush back to work. Martha would love to see Izzy. Did she bring her cello? They could practice their quartet together.”
Izzy made throat-slitting gestures behind Sophia, in full view of Eleanor Peterson, who nervously suggested she might like to go and swim in the pool with the other children. “Sophia’s nanny is down there, looking after the little ones.”
“Do you fancy a swim, Martha?” Izzy asked, peeling off her T-shirt to reveal a black bikini top and a rib cage like a rack of lamb. It was for Martha’s benefit. Ali knew she was the one who had instigated the snide comments about Izzy’s weight the previous year. Martha remained sullenly in a chair beside her mother. There was nothing in her demeanor to suggest she relished the prospect of spending time with Izzy.
“Would you like a towel, Izzy?” Eleanor inquired.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“How about you, Jake? Would you and Lucy like to swim?”
“The cold water would do you good,” said Foy.
“I’m fine, thanks, Eleanor,” said Jake, his voice muffled because Lucy was draped over his knee, obscuring his mouth. He was unerringly polite to Eleanor, but he couldn’t look her in the eye. Lucy shifted in his lap. They settled still and sticky on each other. At one point Ali caught Jake lazily licking Lucy’s shoulder blade.
Sexual attraction is exhausting, thought Ali. Like eczema. The more you scratch, the worse the itch. A memory of her at university, sitting in a lecture on Daniel Defoe, suddenly came to mind. Will MacDonald had been speaking about Defoe’s representation of women. His mouth had opened and shut, but she could hear nothing of what he said, and the sheet of paper on which she was meant to take notes was blank. Yet she could recall the exact sensation of his finger trailing up the inside of her thigh the previous evening as he drove her home from babysitting.
Immediately after the class she went up to his office in the English faculty. She couldn’t speak as he opened the door and then locked it behind him. “Ali,” he whispered throatily as he pressed himself against her. Ali remembered feeling sick with longing. Entwined, they headed in ungraceful side steps toward a coffee-stained sofa beneath the window, pulling at each other’s clothes. He was wearing a belt, and it seemed to take ages for them to get it undone. He pushed a couple of books on the floor, and she lay down on a small pile of unmarked essays. Then he was on top of her, and they kissed so eagerly that their teeth clashed. His hand quickly found its way inside her bra.
An image of Jake as a child stumbling upon Eleanor and his grandfather in the pool house came to Ali.
• • •
“Would you like a drink?” Eleanor asked her.
“No, thanks,” said Ali, holding on tightly to the twins’ hands, more for her own comfort than theirs.
“How about you, Foy?” Eleanor asked. “Shall I get your usual?”
Eleanor’s face was a mass of contradictions that reflected the conundrums life had unexpectedly thrown her way since her husband’s best friend first put a hand on her knee beneath the dinner table in Holland Park Crescent all those years ago. She had been one of the first women in the country to have a face-lift in the 1970s, Foy had told them over a recent Sunday lunch. If you looked closely, you could see the scars from the staples behind her ears. It was one of those dangerous facts that enthralled the twins. She had become a kind of Frankenstein figure to them.
Of course, Foy’s attention had been flattering, but even Eleanor must have realized that it had less to do with her and more to do with the fact that she was married to Julian. Foy and Julian might have been childhood friends, yet his instincts were purely competitive. But Ali knew that if you have sex with someone a couple of times, it can easily develop into a habit, and she imagined that neither Eleanor nor Foy were prone to analysis.
So once the relationship had started it probably seemed easier just to keep going. Perhaps it was pleasurable. Foy was undoubtedly a more generous lover than he might otherwise have been, because he knew Eleanor would be drawing comparisons. According to Katya, who had described all this in great detail but refused to reveal her source, Foy took unbelievable risks—in a bubble lift that got stuck while they were skiing in Val d’Isère, knowing Julian and Tita were waiting in the restaurant beneath them; in the bathroom at Nick and Bryony’s house, with Mrs. Thatcher watching them from that photograph; in the pool house in Corfu. Apparently this was the last time.
Which was why, when Foy had finally ended it, it must have been all the more devastating. Although she knew that she was never the only one, the relationship had nourished her for the best part of thirty years, and when it was over Eleanor must have felt as though she was finally enshrouded in the invisible cloak of old age. Undoubtedly the one person in whom she would have liked to confide was married to the man who had caused her so much pain.
“You’ve brought out the wrong olives,” said Julian. Eleanor flushed.
“These are delicious,” said Foy, cramming two or three into his mouth at once. “Much better than mine.” He bent down to give one to Leicester, who spat it out in disgust. Another couple arrived as they were leaving the terrace. He looked vaguely familiar. Julian introduced him to everyone as though he had just produced a rabbit from a hat.
“Chatham House rules, please,” said Julian pompously as he did a round of introductions, which included all the adults present. The new arrival was a friend of their eldest son’s. They had been at Oxford together. He was staying with friends in the village.
Ali didn’t catch his name, but she could tell from the way Foy headed toward him that it was someone who merited attention. They began talking about the yacht anchored on the other side of the bay opposite the Rothschild residence. It belonged to a Russian oligarch, Foy explained.
“It’s one of the biggest yachts in the world. There’s a helicopter pad on the roof and a swimming pool on the prow. Makes my Silvestris look like a rowing boat.”
“I’ve been on it,” said the new guest, knowing everyone would find this tantalizing.
“How was the décor?” Eleanor asked.
“All gold taps and leather,” Ali heard the guest say as she headed off down the path toward the pool with Leicester and the twins.
It wasn’t until the journey home that Ali realized it was the shadow chancellor and his wife.
• • •
“Do you think they’re still in love?” Katya asked
Ali as they sat companionably at the edge of the enormous new pool, their feet dangling in the water, watching the children swim. It was the sort of question that Katya liked to slip into conversation, and one of the reasons that made her both exhilarating and exhausting company. She stumbled from distance to intimacy like a child fiddling with a camera lens.
Ali was still struggling to adjust to Katya’s surprise appearance at the Petersons’ party. It said a lot for her friend’s adaptability that she didn’t seemed remotely phased.
“I think they’re too young to know. When you’re eighteen, love and lust mean pretty much the same thing.”
“I didn’t mean Jake and Lucy.” Katya laughed as they both stared at them. “I meant the golden couple, Nick and Bryony.”
Ali did a quick head count in the pool because Katya had eyes only for Thomas, even though he was wearing armbands. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” Ali murmured under her breath as she accounted for all the children in her charge.
Hector and Alfie were with Thomas in the shallow end, playing a game that involved rescuing insects from the pool with a fishing net and nursing them back to health in a makeshift Lego hospital they had built under the long, thin shade of a cypress tree. Leo was at the other end receiving a diving lesson from Hester’s oldest daughter, Maud.
Izzy and her younger cousin, Ella, were working out a synchronized swimming routine. Izzy’s black bikini showed off her newly pierced tummy button to best effect. All that remained of her post-punk credentials were the jet-black hair and black nail varnish, the pale foundation and dark lipstick that she had put on for breakfast washed away by the water, but the dyed eyebrows survived.
“Although Jake is definitely feet.”
“You mean fit,” Ali corrected her. Katya’s English was impeccable, apart from when she attempted colloquialisms. Then it collapsed in a mishmash of mispronunciation and malapropism.
“I guess I don’t look at him that way.”
“Don’t be so coy,” Katya teased, using one of her favorite new words. “When you see him rubbing Lucy with suntan cream, don’t you ever wish it was you?”
