Still, he told himself, an off-the-cuff dinner invitation, even though it would have to be returned, needn’t make them bosom buddies. If the wives wished to continue meeting, fine, but he’d no intention of committing to a regular exchange of visits.
It was therefore with resignation rather than anticipation that he set off that evening, following sat nav directions to a substantial detached house in a leafy road. The gates stood open and he drove in, parking alongside a BMW on the gravelled drive.
Their ring on the doorbell was answered almost at once. Simon opened the door with a flourish, kissing a somewhat startled Sophie on the lips before slapping Mark’s shoulder.
‘Don’t take your coat off, mate. I thought we’d nip down to the local for a swift half before dinner.’
‘I haven’t greeted our hostess yet,’ Mark pointed out a little stiffly, handing over a bottle of wine in its brightly coloured holder.
‘Good of you, Mark – thanks. Jen!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Chop, chop! Our guests are here!’
Jenny came hurrying out of the kitchen and Mark, who’d no recollection of her from the office party, was aware of surprise. He’d expected Simon’s wife to be the height of glamour, but the woman whose hand he was shaking wasn’t even pretty. She wore little makeup and her dark hair was tucked behind her ears like an overgrown schoolgirl. Her smile, though, lit up her rather plain face, making him ashamed of his shallow assessment.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ she was saying. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Sophie.’
It would be interesting, Mark thought drily, to know exactly what she’d heard.
‘Eating at eight thirty, right?’ Simon cut in. ‘We’ll be back by then.’ And allowing no time for further exchanges, he shepherded Mark back outside.
‘Do we need to do this?’ he protested as Simon unlocked the BMW. ‘I’d be just as happy to—’
‘Gives the girls a chance to have a chat while they settle the kids,’ Simon responded, and before Mark had even buckled his seatbelt, he reversed quickly out on to the road.
The visit to the pub did nothing to improve Mark’s opinion of his host. No sooner had they sat down with their glasses than he embarked on a string of criticism of the Bellingham’s directors, some of which bordered on slander, before moving on to crude comments about the female staff.
‘God knows how she got the job,’ he remarked of one of them. ‘Probably slept with old Taylor.’
Mark, acutely uncomfortable, made several attempts to deflect the conversation and eventually, having met with no success, ended the flow by saying firmly, ‘Well, it’s the weekend so let’s forget about work, shall we? Where did you get to on holiday this year?’
Simon flung him an assessing glance, then smiled reluctantly. ‘In other words, shut it! Fair enough.’ He drained his glass. ‘Ready for another?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
‘Hang on, then, while I get a top-up.’
Mark watched him as he elbowed his way confidently to the bar, slapping the odd man on the back as he went. It was, he thought wryly, going to be a long evening.
‘Well, you were in a mood, weren’t you?’ Sophie began as soon as the car door was closed. ‘God knows what they thought of you.’
‘I’d no chance to be in any mood,’ he returned steadily. ‘You and Simon kept the conversation going non-stop.’
‘Don’t tell me you were jealous!’
Jealous, no, but annoyed, most certainly. Simon, virtually ignoring his wife, had bombarded Sophie with extravagant compliments throughout the meal and she’d played up to him quite shamelessly. In an attempt to redress the balance, he’d begun a quiet conversation with Jenny – though, to give her her due, she seemed unfazed by her husband’s behaviour. No doubt she was used to it.
‘Anyway,’ Sophie went on, without waiting for a reply, ‘Simon’s good fun, and a little harmless flirtation doesn’t hurt anyone.’
She was probably right, he conceded silently; had it been anyone else it would no doubt have washed over him, but he’d allowed his dislike of Lester to colour the evening. Oh well, one down, one to go, but there was a point on which he was adamant: when the return visit took place there would be no nipping down to the pub; pre-dinner drinks would be served at home.
In the weeks that followed, it was borne in on Mark that their brief social contact had convinced Simon they were close friends. At work he constantly sought his opinion or advice, came to sit at his table at lunch and even, when Mark was unable to avoid him, joined him on the train home, all of which added to a deepening resentment, compounded by the fact that he was unable to do anything about it.
It was about a month after the return dinner that he began to notice a change in Simon. He’d developed an air of suppressed excitement that was vaguely disturbing, and on one occasion arrived late for a meeting, with the unconvincing excuse that it hadn’t been in his diary.
Had Mark been more kindly disposed towards him he might have enquired if anything was wrong, but he’d no intention of encouraging further intimacies. His resolve was reinforced when, as they were passing each other in a corridor one day, Simon said quickly, ‘Should either Jen or Sophie ask, I’m working late tonight, OK?’
He’d disappeared round a corner before Mark could reply. So that was it! Bloody fool! he thought, and promptly dismissed the matter. But it soon became clear he was not, after all, to be allowed to remain uninvolved.
It was around this time that Sophie met James Meredith. Stella, meanwhile, had continued her association with Lance, which had developed into a full-blown affair about which she regaled Sophie over weekly cups of coffee. As a result Sophie had become increasingly bored with what she considered her own humdrum existence, and increasingly envious of her friend’s illicit romance.
Ten days before their proposed half-term holiday, Stella phoned to invite Sophie to join her and Lance for a meal. ‘He’s bringing a friend, so you needn’t feel awkward,’ she added. ‘Tell Mark it’s a girls’ night out – and it is, in a way.’
Sophie hesitated. Eager though she was to meet the glamorous Lance, the implication that his friend was almost certainly male added the dimension of risk, and unease mingled with her rising excitement.
‘There’s no way he’ll find out,’ Stella urged. ‘The restaurant’s in Beckenham, and no one we know ever goes there. Come on, Sophie, you’re always saying life is dull – here’s a chance to spice it up a bit!’
‘Who is this friend?’ Sophie asked, still cautious. ‘Have you met him?’
‘No; his name’s James Meredith. Fortyish, divorced. That’s all I know, but Lance says he’s great. Heavens above, it’s only a meal! If you don’t like him, you need never see him again.’
But suppose she did like him? Sophie thought tremulously. Was she embarking on something she would find it difficult to withdraw from? Though as Stella pointed out, it was just a meal. No lines need be crossed. She drew a deep breath. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Thanks – I’ll come.’
Following the practice of previous, more innocent, girls’ nights out, Stella called for her in her bright red Mazda, but on this occasion drove only the short distance to the railway station, where she parked. Immediately a Jaguar farther down the line flashed its lights and she gave a breathless little laugh.
‘Right. Change of transport. Out we get.’
Heart in mouth, Sophie followed her across the car park, and as they approached two men emerged from the Jag. It wasn’t possible in the sporadic lighting to form much impression, but Stella, having reached up to kiss the taller of the two, stepped back and said brightly, ‘Lance, this is Sophie. Sophie, meet Lance, and …’
‘James,’ said the other figure, holding out a hand to each in turn. ‘Hello, Stella, I’ve heard a lot about you. Hi, Sophie.’ Having released her hand, he opened the back door of the car and motioned her to get inside. Heart beating high in her throat, she did so.
It was a twenty-minute drive to Be
ckenham, and during the journey Sophie was intensely aware of the man at her side. So far, all she knew of him was that he had a pleasant speaking voice although, disconcertingly, he made no attempt to talk to her and the two of them sat in almost total silence while Stella and Lance chatted in the front, occasionally tossing the odd comment over their shoulders to their back seat passengers.
God, what was she doing? she thought in sudden panic. She shouldn’t have come – of course she shouldn’t! Unconsciously she stiffened, her fingers tightening on her clutch bag, and gave a little gasp as a hand was laid over hers.
‘Relax!’ James said softly, and squeezed it before removing his own. She was more than thankful when, minutes later, they drew into a small car park behind the restaurant and she was able to escape his proximity.
Only when they took their seats was Sophie afforded her first clear look at their escorts, and it was immediately obvious that Lance was the better looking; his dark hair was slightly overlong and his eyes an unfathomable brown, leading her to wonder if he’d Spanish or Italian blood in his ancestry.
James, less striking, had grey eyes and his hair was a nondescript brown but, paradoxically, of the two men it was he who held the attention. There was something compelling about his lean, deeply grooved face and the grey eyes were at the same time watchful and assessing. Sophie guessed that while Lance was adept at the social graces, you had to take James as you found him. She felt a little quiver, which she instantly stifled, and quickly picked up the menu.
The cuisine was Italian, and some of the initial awkwardness melted as they discussed the various dishes on offer. Stella and Lance, who’d obviously been here before, were able to advise on some of the lesser-known choices, and Sophie, following their recommendation, enjoyed a delicious pasta dish she’d not come across before.
As the wine continued to flow, she belatedly pulled herself together. God, what was wrong with her? Heaven knew, she was used to socializing, meeting people, making small talk; what was it about this man that rang such loud alarm bells?
Shaking off the last of her reserve, she took full part in the conversation, relating stories about Florence and her first days at school that made everyone laugh. It wasn’t until they were back in the car that apprehension returned. James hadn’t addressed her directly over the meal, and she wondered if they’d again sit in silence on the homeward journey. To try to forestall the possibility she made some comment as they set off, but when he only nodded in reply she gave up the attempt and instead tried without success to establish why this enigmatic man should attract her so strongly, when she so obviously didn’t interest him.
Well, she thought philosophically, she’d soon be home and need never see him again. One thing was certain: in future she’d deflect all Stella’s attempts to fix her up with a blind date.
She was therefore totally unprepared when, as they were nearing Chislehurst, he suddenly pulled her against him and began to kiss her, deeply and passionately, ignoring her frantic attempts to free herself until, with a little moan, she gave up.
She was scarcely aware of the car slowing down until the lights of the station appeared ahead and Lance turned into the car park. James released her abruptly and she sat up, gasping for breath and pulling up the neckline of her dress. In the front seat, Lance and Stella were locked in a goodnight kiss.
Sophie scrabbled for the door handle and as she half-fell out of the car the October night struck cold, snatching what little breath she had. James had also climbed out, but only to take his place in the front passenger seat.
‘We’ll wait till you’re safely in your car,’ Lance said, and their headlights were a welcome guide as they stumbled towards the dark shape of the waiting Mazda. Then they were inside, and with a farewell toot, the Jaguar sped off.
‘Well!’ Stella said. ‘What did you think of him?’
Sophie had barely recovered her breath. ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve had time to decide,’ she said, and Stella gave a low laugh.
The hall clock was striking half past eleven as Sophie locked the front door behind her. The sitting room light was off and she guessed Mark had gone upstairs. Glancing in the hall mirror, she rubbed the smeared lipstick from around her mouth and gave a little shudder. James’s kisses had aroused her and she was still trembling.
Like an old woman she pulled herself upstairs by means of the banister and, from habit, glanced into Florence’s room. As usual the little girl had thrown off the duvet, and Sophie crept in and replaced it gently round her shoulders. Then she went on to their room, where Mark was sitting up in bed reading.
He glanced up. ‘Had a good time? You’re later than I expected.’
‘It was quite a drive to the restaurant,’ she said, starting immediately to undress.
‘It was just you and Stella?’
‘No, a couple of her friends came along, It was a good evening.’
She went into the en suite and stood for a minute staring into the mirror at her flushed face and wide eyes before beginning mechanically to wash and brush her teeth, her mind replaying those few intense minutes in the car. Then she returned to the bedroom, crept into bed and, gently taking Mark’s book out of his hand, whispered, ‘Make love to me.’
Margot said over dinner, ‘Lydia’s still worried about Peter.’
Charles took a drink of wine. ‘So am I.’
‘She’s convinced he’s seriously ill but afraid to go to the doctor. She keeps pleading with him, but he refuses point-blank.’ She paused. ‘Did you ever speak to him about that business at the party?’
‘Yes, but he was pretty evasive, stuck to the story that it was a combination of sunstroke and champagne.’
Margot shook her head. ‘I could have accepted that – just – if the after-effects hadn’t gone on so long, but it’s been nearly two months. Lyddie says he’s lost weight and is not eating or sleeping well.’ She looked across at her husband. ‘Come to that, you’re not eating or sleeping as well as usual. Don’t tell me it’s catching!’
Charles shrugged dismissively. ‘Unlike Peter, I could do with losing a bit of weight.’
‘I thought we might invite them to dinner. Try to shake him out of whatever’s bothering him.’
‘Good idea.’
That settled, she went on to recount a telephone call she’d received that morning from Delia, but Charles was barely listening. He’d more reason than Margot to worry about his friend: the other day in the office, Peter had said suddenly, ‘If anything happens to me, you’ll take care of Lyddie, won’t you, Chas?’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to you!’ he’d retorted sharply.
‘But if it did?’ Peter persisted.
‘Then of course we would. You don’t have to ask.’
And that had seemed to satisfy him. Yes, Margot was right: it would be good to have the pair of them here, as they’d been so many times in the past and would, he told himself firmly, be again.
Towards the end of the month the school broke up for half-term, and despite Mark’s continuing annoyance Sophie and Florence left to spend the week with Stella in Bournemouth. Not, he admitted, that he’d have had much time to spend with his daughter if they’d stayed at home; a big auction was coming up and there was a lot of preparation to see to. His parents had invited him for Sunday lunch, but for the rest he was snatching ready meals out of the freezer when he got home and eating them in front of the television, frequently falling asleep over them.
So he’d no convincing excuse when, as he was about to leave the office, Simon, who knew Sophie was away, suggested a meal in town.
‘I’m not much company at the moment,’ he prevaricated. ‘I’d probably fall asleep mid-sentence!’
‘The same goes for me, but there’s something I want to discuss with you.’
Mark’s heart sank still further. ‘Can’t we do it here?’ he asked without much hope.
‘No way. No booze, for a start. There’s that new steak house round the corner; we could give i
t a try.’
The thought of a plate of steak and chips rather than the frozen lasagne awaiting him swung the balance. ‘OK, then,’ he said.
It wasn’t long, though, before Mark regretted being so easily swayed. No sooner had they given their order than Simon leaned confidentially across the table.
‘Strictly entre nous,’ he began in a low voice, ‘have you ever – you know – strayed from the fold?’
Mark frowned. ‘What?’
‘You know, had the odd dalliance. Since you’ve been married, I mean?’
‘No, I have not,’ Mark said emphatically.
‘Well, if I were married to Sophie, I probably wouldn’t have, either!’
As he was still leaning forward, Mark added reluctantly, ‘Why, have you?’ As if he didn’t know the answer!
‘Well, since we’re being honest, then, yes I have, on the odd occasion. Nothing serious, just to pep things up a bit. With the best will in the world, Jen, bless her, is a bit strait-laced.’
‘Simon, I really don’t think I want to hear—’
‘Please!’ Simon laid an impulsive hand on his arm, removing it almost at once as their food arrived. They sat silently while it was laid before them, confirmed that they would prefer English mustard, and waited while it was brought. Then Simon continued as though there’d been no interruption.
‘The hell of it is, though,’ he went on in a low voice, ‘this time it’s a case of the biter bit.’
‘I don’t follow,’ Mark said stonily, picking up his knife and fork.
‘I’ve fallen in love, mate. Good and proper.’
‘Then you’d better fall out again.’
Simon smiled, shaking his head. ‘Trouble is, this is the real thing, and she feels the same. God, why didn’t we meet years ago?’
‘I don’t quite see why you’re telling me this.’
‘Because I want your advice, mate. You’ve met Jen; what do you think would be the best way to approach her?’
Sins of the Fathers Page 8
