But though he was physically exhausted, as soon as the light was out his brain went into overdrive, and try as he might he couldn’t deactivate it. All the problems he’d been hoping to escape flooded into his head, compounded by this new set of complications. How the hell had he become involved with Helena Crawford? Why hadn’t he at least stuck to his plan to leave the train at Stevenage? Had he done so, he would now be comfortably settled in some centrally heated B&B with the pleasant prospect of long walks ahead of him, during which he could work out how to repair the train wreck his life had become.
For train wreck it undoubtedly was – a succession of disasters, starting with the state of his marriage. He and Sophie had known each other all their lives and their families, being friends, had tacitly assumed they’d come together. So, when no serious contenders appeared on either side, they had dutifully done so, drifting into marriage to the satisfaction of both families, if not entirely to their own – hardly a basis for stability. And after five years of increasing incompatibility the point of no return had now been reached. It was, he accepted, only their daughter who’d kept them together this long.
Then, in addition to this ongoing worry, a crisis had developed at work – arising, ironically enough, out of an agreement to help a colleague, which had swiftly boomeranged and was in danger of damaging his career.
Finally, and by far the most traumatically, there was his father and … But here his mind clamped down, refusing even to contemplate it.
It was another forty-five minutes before he finally fell asleep to the sound of Nick’s gently rhythmic snores.
TWO
Kent; six months earlier
Having narrowly missed his usual train, Mark was not in the best of moods as he fought his way on to the next one. There’d been a series of problems at work which, his PA having gone home with a migraine, he’d had to deal with himself, but the main cause of his discomfort – and, he imagined, that of his fellow travellers – was London itself, unbearable in this prolonged heatwave with its baking pavements and clogged, fume-filled air. And to crown it all, he reflected sourly, unlike the rest of the country’s workforce, he was not looking forward to the weekend.
Naturally there were no seats and he was forced to strap-hang, swaying precariously as the train lurched forward and unable either to check his emails or read the evening paper. Par for the course, he told himself, fixing his thoughts on a cold drink and a shower as soon as he reached home.
Sophie and Florence, he remembered, were going to tea with Sophie’s friend Stella and her precocious child, neither of whom he cared for, which meant Florence would be overexcited and Sophie would have either seen or been told about Stella’s latest acquisition, and try to persuade him to buy one. And if he protested that they’d no need of it, she’d simply shrug and say lightly, ‘Never mind, if it’s too expensive Daddy will get it for us.’
Couldn’t she see how that infuriated him? He’d known her father for as long as she had – he’d been ‘Uncle Peter’ throughout Mark’s childhood – but fond though he was of his father-in-law, he was profoundly irritated by his inability to refuse his daughter anything, and was determined that Florence wouldn’t grow up expecting all she desired to be handed to her on a plate.
Which, he thought with a sigh, would have been easier if she’d had a brother or sister to share with. But her own birth had been traumatic and after a long and difficult labour Sophie, pale and exhausted, had made him promise not to put her through it again. He recalled gazing down at the small miracle that was his daughter nestling in the crook of her mother’s arm and, overwhelmed by love coupled with guilt at his wife’s suffering, he’d unhesitatingly done so. Later he’d assumed that, since both the request and his compliance had taken place during the emotional aftermath, neither would be considered binding; but when, after a couple of years, he’d suggested they try for another baby, Sophie’s reaction had been swift and emphatic.
‘No way! I’m not going through that again!’ she’d declared forcefully. ‘You promised!’
‘But the second baby’s always easier,’ he’d protested, recalling overheard wisdom. ‘It wouldn’t be like last time.’
‘Then you have it!’ she’d retorted, effectively putting an end to the discussion.
He was jerked from his reflections as the train reached his stop and, joining the mass exodus, he made his way to the car park, where his car had spent ten hours in unremitting sunshine. Having burned his hand on the door, he had to wait several minutes before he could bear to get into it and drive the couple of miles home.
It was Florence’s task to open the gates for him each evening, and at the sound of his approach her little face appeared at a window. Minutes later she came running out to greet him in her Pingu pyjamas and his tiredness fell away as he bent to hug her.
‘You’re late, Daddy!’ she scolded. ‘You promised to give me my bath!’
‘I know, poppet, I’m sorry. I missed my train.’
She dragged the gates shut, then, taking his hand, led him into the house. ‘We went to Rosie’s for tea and she has a paddling pool in the garden and we splashed each other but Rosie’s mummy was cross when she splashed Tobias because he didn’t like it!’ she said all in one breath.
Tobias, Mark recalled, was Stella’s dog. ‘I don’t suppose he did,’ he said.
Sophie came to kiss his cheek, wrinkling her nose. ‘Ugh, you’re all hot and sticky!’
‘So would you be, after the day I’ve had! Sorry I’m late. Have I time for a shower before dinner?’
‘Yes, it’s only salad. Oh, and Stephanie’s all right for tomorrow.’
Their neighbour’s teenage daughter was their regular babysitter.
He frowned. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Oh, Mark, you can’t have forgotten! Daddy’s sixtieth!’
‘Of course!’ His heart sank; he didn’t enjoy parties at the best of times, and there’d be no one of their generation apart from Jon and his new wife, about whom he still had reservations. And it meant having to dress at least semi-formally and trailing down to Foxbridge, when all he wanted was to slob out at home.
‘I put out the card for you, but you still haven’t signed it,’ she reminded him as he started up the stairs.
‘I’ll do it when I come down. Is there a bottle of wine in the fridge?’
‘Yes, the Saumur.’
‘Excellent. I shan’t be long.’
‘Then you’ll read to me, won’t you, Daddy?’ Florence called after him.
‘Of course. Go and choose which story you’d like.’
Under the cool, revitalizing shower, Mark tried to analyse the vague dissatisfaction that was now his norm. There was no obvious reason for it; although today had been a nightmare, he enjoyed his work in the Fine Arts department of a well-known auction house. No money or health worries, and he had the added bonus of a beautiful wife and daughter. So why the lack of enthusiasm for a weekend at home?
He sighed, finally admitting the answer: because, underlying all that surface wellbeing, their marriage was in a parlous state, and if he wished to save it – and he assured himself that he did – immediate steps would have to be taken.
Thoughtfully he began to soap himself, making a mental list of their individual pros and cons. For his part, he was satisfied that he’d been a good husband and father, never for an instant looking elsewhere and adoring his daughter from the moment of birth. As for his interests, they were fairly broad, encompassing the arts, obviously, in all their forms, but also taking in politics, sport and current affairs, enjoying nothing more than a vigorous debate on a wide range of subjects. On the negative side, he was impatient and frequently dismissive of other people’s viewpoints.
As for Sophie, they’d first made love when he was eighteen and she sixteen, and it was the one area in their lives that was still totally satisfying. Also on the plus side, she was not only beautiful but an excellent hostess, a superb cook and a devoted mother. However, as he’d learne
d the hard way, she expected always to have her own way and seldom had a serious thought in her head. He doubted if she even knew or cared who was the Prime Minister, and if he tried to discuss some burning issue of the day she’d dismiss it with a wave of the hand and turn the conversation to something more trivial.
There was a knock on the bathroom door and a little voice called, ‘I’ve chosen a story, Daddy!’
‘Shan’t be a minute!’ he called back, and resolved both to make a more positive attempt to revive his marriage and to curb his own impatience.
This resolution was put to the test over dinner a couple of hours later, when Sophie remarked casually, ‘Stella’s taking Rosie to their flat in Bournemouth for a week at the end of the month, and suggested Florence and I join them.’
He put down his spoon. ‘Surely that’s the week before she starts “big school”?’
‘Mm.’ Sophie licked her own spoon.
‘But I told you I’d arranged to take that week off work, so we could have some family time.’
‘Did you? I don’t remember. But she’d love a week at the seaside with Rosie.’
Mark tried to hold on to his temper. ‘Sophie, she’s been with you every day of the summer holidays, but this is my last chance to spend time with her before she becomes a fully fledged schoolgirl. I’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘Well I’m sorry, but I’ve told Stella we’ll go.’
‘Then you can tell her you’ve changed your mind – that I’d made other arrangements – anything you damn well like, as long as you make it clear you’re not going!’
She raised a lazy eyebrow. ‘No need to shout, darling.’
‘I’m not shouting!’ he retorted, knowing that he was.
‘We can let Florence choose,’ she said peaceably.
And she’d make sure it was a loaded question, he thought angrily, gilded with mention of iced lollies and shrimping nets.
He forced himself to calm down. ‘We’ll have a day at the zoo and we can go to that theme park she keeps talking about. And the local cinema’s running a series of Disney films. If we go to a matinée we can have an early supper at that pizza place afterwards, make it a special treat.’
Sophie sighed and began to clear the table, and the subject was dropped without any satisfactory solution being reached.
The rest of the evening passed with a minimum of conversation, Sophie seemingly enthralled by what he considered an exceptionally bland serial on TV. It wasn’t until they were in bed that she played her hand, turning to face him and tracing a finger round his mouth.
‘You’re not really cross with me, are you, sweetie?’ she wheedled.
‘Yes, I am,’ he replied, but without conviction.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she said contritely. ‘I’d forgotten you’d arranged time off work. Can you swap the week for half-term or something?’
He meant to stick to his guns; in truth, he’d been dreading this milestone in his daughter’s life. Would she be happy, after the informality of nursery school? Would the other children bully her? Would she still be the sweet and innocent child she was now?
He began to formulate these arguments, but Sophie’s fingers were moving inexorably downwards and with a groan he abandoned them and pulled her into his arms.
The Kingsleys lived in the village of Foxbridge on the outskirts of Sevenoaks, and as Mark turned into the lane they could see a long line of parked cars. Swearing under his breath, he drew in behind them.
‘I told you we should have left earlier,’ Sophie complained. ‘We’re probably the last to arrive.’
‘In which case, my love, you can make an entrance!’ he said facetiously. Then added, at her suspicious glance, ‘And believe me, you’ll be worth the wait!’
With a fleeting smile, she set off along the uneven pavement in her high-heeled sandals and, after collecting their gift from the boot, Mark followed her. The day was even hotter than the previous one and, bereft of the car’s air-con, he was already uncomfortable. A long, cool Pimm’s, a staple of the Kingsleys’ summer entertaining, would go down a treat, he thought; thank God Sophie, who did not need alcohol to make her sparkle, would be driving home.
For as long as he could remember, Mark had considered Dormers his ideal house, despite his father’s sardonic allusions to ‘Kingsley Castle’. It was built in the style of a traditional oast house with the roundel, a cone-topped tower in rust-coloured brick, at one end, while the rest of the house was fronted in white weatherboard under a red-tiled roof. In the flush of first love he’d imagined Sophie, who at the time had had long hair, leaning out of a window in the tower like a modern-day Rapunzel.
Now, skirting another four cars, he followed her up the wide gravelled drive and round the side of the house to the extensive back garden, where some two dozen people with glasses in their hands stood talking and laughing. Uniformed staff moved among them with trays of drinks and a marquee had been set up with tables laid for lunch. Outside caterers, Mark noted; another target for his father’s barbed comments.
It was Lydia Kingsley, Sophie’s mother, who saw them first and came hurrying to welcome them. ‘There you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you run into heavy traffic?’
‘No,’ Sophie answered, ‘we were late leaving.’
‘Well, you’re here now.’ She kissed her daughter’s cheek, then Mark’s, nodding at the package in his hand. ‘If you’ll give me that, Mark, I’ll put it with the other gifts in the conservatory to open later. Now, let’s find you both a drink. Most people are opting for Pimm’s.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Sophie said.
Seeing the two women together, Mark was again struck by their similarity, both small and blonde with identical smiles. Lydia, though in her late fifties, could almost be taken for her daughter’s contemporary, with her smooth skin and trim figure. He’d never seen her other than perfectly groomed and beautifully (for which read expensively) dressed, today in sea-green silk. But, like Sophie, she had never in his hearing discussed anything more profound than a new recipe or their latest holiday. Which made his own mother’s friendship with her all the more perplexing, since Margot Richmond was a strong-minded, opinionated woman who didn’t suffer fools gladly.
‘Mark!’
He turned as his brother Jonathan bore down on him, followed by his wife. ‘Thank God you’re here! I was beginning to think you’d flunked it and there’d be no one under fifty to talk to!’
‘Well, you can relax; salvation is at hand.’
‘Where’s Soph?’ Having known her since babyhood, Jonathan persisted with the nickname, to Sophie’s continuing annoyance.
‘Getting a Pimm’s,’ Mark replied. He nodded at his sister-in-law. ‘Delia.’
She nodded back. She was, Mark thought, very dramatic looking – at just under six foot the same height as Jonathan, with a heavy black fringe and very blue eyes. They’d made a striking pair at their wedding a couple of months previously, but there was something about her that made him uneasy, though he couldn’t have said what it was.
Jonathan leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Between you and me, old Peter’s been knocking it back a bit.’
Mark raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it is his birthday. He’s entitled to let his hair down.’
Sophie’s return with two glasses of Pimm’s put an end to the exchange.
‘Soph, my love!’ Jonathan greeted her. ‘As gorgeous as ever!’
She submitted to his peck and smiled at Delia before turning to Mark and handing him one of the glasses. ‘Let’s go and find Daddy and wish him happy birthday.’
Peter Kingsley wasn’t hard to locate. As they moved into the throng of people his laugh rang out loudly and, catching sight of them, he held his arms wide, spilling some of his drink on to the grass.
‘Here they are at last!’ he cried. ‘My beautiful daughter and my favourite son-in-law!’
Jon had been right, Mark thought uneasily as he submitted to the bear hug. The party had h
ardly begun but their host seemed several drinks ahead of the rest of them. Well, as he’d pointed out, it was his birthday. Nevertheless, in all the years he’d known him Mark had never seen Peter Kingsley the worse for drink, and Sophie’s fleeting frown showed she shared his disquiet.
‘Isn’t it a glorious day?’ Peter was exclaiming – too loudly. ‘Lyddie was afraid the weather would break, but I knew it would hold for us, and all my wonderful friends have come to join in the celebration!’
An expansive gesture encompassed those nearest to him who, Mark thought, looked slightly uncomfortable. He recognized several of them, long-standing friends of his parents as well as the Kingsleys, and was wondering how to respond when he saw with relief that his father was approaching. If anyone could handle Peter in his cups, it would be Charles Richmond. The two men had met at university, been each other’s best man and joined the same firm of chartered accountants. Charles’s often caustic comments about his friend were, Mark was sure, a sign of his underlying affection.
Having greeted his son and daughter-in-law, Charles put a hand on Peter’s arm. ‘Lydia has sent me to usher you all into the marquee. Lunch is about to be served.’
Which, Mark thought thankfully, joining in the general move, might well solve the problem.
Unfortunately, it didn’t. Mark and Sophie were seated at a table for six with Jonathan and Delia and a partner from the accountancy firm and his wife, who introduced themselves as Michael and Sarah. They were some way from the top table, but throughout the meal of watercress soup, chicken in aspic and raspberry ice-cream cake Peter’s laugh continually rang out, and at one point, a minor disturbance involving waiters with napkins indicated that he’d overturned his neighbour’s wine glass.
Sophie had lost her sparkle, and Mark noticed with a tug of the heart that her eyes kept straying anxiously in her father’s direction. He reached under the table to squeeze her hand, and was rewarded by a brief smile.
Sins of the Fathers Page 3
