by Claire Sandy
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she said. And she looked, suddenly, ten years older.
Wellcome Manor was large enough to enfold all three families, yet still seem serene. Evie was glad of the peace as she cracked on with another chapter:
‘Why, yes,’ I reply hungrily. ‘I adore a cream tea.’ Licking my lips, I undo a button and his gaze drops to my breasts. ‘But a naked cream tea is even better.’
Scone-erotica: Evie had discovered a new genre.
With his pointed tongue, Clay licks the jam from my taut tummy. I groan as he strokes the velvet skin of my inner thigh with a small cucumber sandwich, and when I see the size of his egg mayo I almost
Any reader would surmise that Evie was more interested in the nibbles than the nipples.
‘I want you!’ I breathe, feeling his greedy erection hard against me. In a frenzy of desire, I sweep the tea things away and lie back on the table, pulling Clay’s body against mine. I grasp for his
His what? Evie was all out of smutty simile. To distract herself, she did a little literary housekeeping, tidying up her grammar and rewording clumsy sentences. Somewhere in the first few pages Roxana had said she longed to ‘lay’ with the hero; that bugged Evie. At that point Roxana was still a demure virgin – Evie would have crossed the road to avoid her – and there was no way she’d initiate sex until Clay had royally rogered her a few times. Using the ‘Find and replace’ tool, she found Roxana’s use of ‘lay’ and replaced it with ‘live’: I long to live with you was more like something Roxana would say. Satisfied, she closed the document.
Writing about sex didn’t turn her on, but writing about a cream tea made her ravenous.
Threatened with an early bed, The Eights were road-testing a strategy of being very, very quiet, in the hope that the adults would forget they were there. It was a tactic Evie remembered from her own childhood; she’d lie motionless on the sofa, dizzy with delight that News at Ten was on and she was still up.
There was a flaw in this plan; the children stayed so quiet they fell asleep, lying around the terrace like abandoned mattresses. Elizabetta stepped over them as she made her way from her eyrie above the garage to the kitchen in a pyjama-shorts set so small it was surely a child’s size.
‘Your turn, matey.’ Evie nudged Mike, and he and Shen abandoned their cards and woke the eight-year-olds and cajoled them upstairs.
‘I’ll take Amber,’ said Jon, rising with his trademark blend of politeness with a soupçon of martyrdom.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’ Paula was grateful; too grateful, considering that he was helping with the fruit of his own loins.
‘Just you and me, then!’ Evie was doggedly enthusiastic as she dealt another round of cards, even though she knew Paula found it hard to concentrate and often had to ask if they were playing poker or snap.
This time Evie heard the noise just before Paula did. ‘What on earth—?’ She got no further, because they both realized exactly what on earth they could hear from the bushes: two dogs getting jiggy with it. She and Paula avoided each other’s eyes until the canine ecstasy abated and Pru waddled past looking, it had to be said, very pleased with herself.
‘Onwards!’ said Evie brightly. She noticed something as Paula reached out for her cards. ‘Your ring!’
‘Oh, that – yes.’ Paula was as cagey as ever, as if Evie was an FBI agent. ‘It turned up,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘Silly me, it was on the basin, right where I left it.’ She laid down an eight of clubs.
‘But I saw the basin. It wasn’t there.’ Evie pulled in her chin. ‘Seriously, Paula, your ring definitely wasn’t on the basin when we left the house.’
‘Well, it was definitely there when I got back.’
‘That means somebody put it there.’ Evie felt it best to state the bleedin’ obvious.
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Paula closed the cards in her hand like a fan. ‘It really doesn’t. I – we – just made a mistake.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m too tired to play any longer.’
‘Me too,’ fibbed Evie. ‘Fancy some cocoa?’ The soothing qualities of this magical drink worked wonders in the Herrera house, and Evie’s belief in it was rewarded by a nostalgic glow in Paula’s eyes.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said, as if she didn’t expect such small kindnesses.
‘I’ll be back in a mo.’ Evie realized she was using the tone she adopted when Mabel fell over or Scarlett had period cramps; Paula brought out her maternal side, even though the woman was her senior. Rubbing her eyes, she wandered into the kitchen. Clive and Elizabetta, close together, sprang apart.
‘I warm some milk,’ said Elizabetta, her face passive, ‘for Fang.’
‘I was helping,’ said Clive.
‘But of course,’ said Evie, opening a high cupboard and scanning it for the cocoa tin. ‘Warming milk. Definitely a two-person operation.’ She reached up and winced.
‘You OK?’ Clive had noticed; he seemed glad of the change of subject.
‘Fine,’ said Evie, with a hint of edge. She softened. ‘Sorry, Clive – yes, I’m OK.’ He wasn’t to know it was her third twinge.
I’ll take them seriously at number four, she thought, revising her earlier decision. They were, after all, merely twinges.
It was so dark that Evie could have believed she was alone at Wellcome Manor. Or alone in the world. She shuddered, and was glad when Clive joined her at the bench.
‘We need a plaque.’ Clive sketched an oblong in the air. ‘Our bench.’
‘I don’t think of it like that.’
‘I do,’ said Clive. He hesitated, as if gauging her reaction to what he was about to say. ‘And I think you do too.’
‘Don’t flirt with me, fella,’ said Evie. ‘Go find Elizabetta, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘You have a suspicious mind.’ Clive shook his head, as if disappointed. ‘Is that how you see me? The bounder who gropes the nanny?’
‘No . . .’ At least, that wasn’t how Evie wanted to see him. ‘But, seriously, Clive? Helping her to warm some milk? That’d never stand up in court.’
‘She said she had her hands full and she asked me to hold the pan, and I leaned across to put down my glass and somehow, suddenly, we were practically bloody entwined, and I remember thinking: Christ, I hope nobody walks in on this – and there you were.’
‘So you weren’t flirting?’
‘No!’ He looked pained.
‘You were very close together.’
‘We’re very close together.’ Clive paused. ‘Are we flirting?’
‘No!’
‘Well, there you are then.’ He was good at pauses, and he timed this one expertly. ‘You’re absolutely sure we’re not flirting?’
‘I’m not a silly young nanny, Clive. I know what I’m doing and what I’m not doing.’
‘Good,’ said Clive. ‘Because I don’t like silly young nannies.’
‘Would you ever, though . . .’ Evie fumbled for the right word, ‘stray?’
‘Stray? How?’
‘You’re pretending not to understand.’
‘And I’ll continue to do so. You’re my wife’s best friend, Evie. If – and I said if – I played away, why the hell would I tell you?’
‘True.’ Evie laughed. ‘Forget I spoke.’ It was something that Shen brought up occasionally, in an oblique way. ‘Oh, Clive’s working late again, and we all know what that means,’ she’d laugh, prattling on before Evie could comment. Sometimes Evie felt Shen was laying a trail of breadcrumbs, but it was only here, on this holiday, witnessing the dynamics of her friend’s marriage up close, that Evie began to suspect there was something truly rotten at the heart of it. She could only do friendship one way – honestly; if Shen needed to talk about this, then Evie would listen, but she needed the facts first.
‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I’m not so interested.’ Evie felt the silence thicken. She could laugh off the conversation,
steer it in another direction with a gag. Instead she said, ‘Shen’s my friend, Clive. I wouldn’t like her to be hurt.’
‘Would she be all that hurt?’ Clive balanced on the slender line between serious and jocular.
‘She’d be devastated.’ Evie was astonished by his astonishment. Did Clive really buy all that I snagged my millionaire hogwash?
‘Your marriage is very different from mine,’ said Clive. ‘Different rules apply.’
Evie looked steadily at him, the way she looked at Dan when refusing to let him off the hook over a fish finger trodden into the rug.
It always worked on the kids, and it worked on him. ‘I don’t seem to be able to lie to you, for some reason.’ Clive flung his cigar, harshly, as if it was his last ever. ‘Yes. There – I’ve had affairs. Happy? I’ll probably have more.’
Eventually Evie said, ‘Why?’
‘I’ve never thought about why.’ He folded his arms, threw back his head. ‘Because I can. Christ, that sounds shitty.’
‘It does, a bit.’
‘OK. Let’s put it like this. Because I’m restless. I get bored easily. I like new things, shiny things. I like the chase. And I’m easily flattered.’
Evie wanted to say, ‘You sound like a toddler.’ Instead she said, ‘But you have so much to lose.’
‘I’m accustomed to losing things.’
‘That,’ said Evie, sitting up, ‘is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.’
‘Then you really need to get out more.’
‘Ah. We’re back to being light and witty again, after a brief detour into sincerity.’ Evie was disappointed: this conversation was like a square meal after a diet. The frisson of not wanting to be overheard added a certain something. ‘Do you ever fall in love?’
‘That’s a question only a woman would ask.’
Mike would ask; Evie felt sure of that.
‘I’m very careful not to choose somebody I’d fall for. I like the look of many women, but love . . . that’s something else entirely.’
‘Clive, you’re a closet romantic!’
‘Rubbish.’ He recoiled as if she’d struck him. ‘I’m hard-headed. I keep everything in separate compartments. There’s my life at home, with Shen. My real life, if you like. And then there’s the other stuff.’
‘The affairs.’ Evie didn’t let him off the hook. ‘Let’s call a spade “a spade”.’
‘The affairs,’ he nodded, defeated, awarding her a sly, amused look, ‘are with girls I trust to be discreet. They have a lovely time. We dine out. We go to dazzling places. There’s some travel. I’m good at gifts. And then, when it ends – because it always ends – it’s done gently, with affection and . . .’
‘And?’
‘I’m searching for a nice way of saying something that sounds damned seedy.’
‘You pay them off.’
‘Can you read my mind? Yes, I suppose that’s what I do. It sounds sordid, but it’s not. Well, I hope it’s not. They’re well provided for. It’s not always cash. Sometimes it’s a job, or an opportunity. I’m not a cad.’ He seemed to rethink that. ‘Not a complete cad.’
‘Oh, you are,’ said Evie.
There was another silence, then Clive said, ‘Do you still like me, Evie?’
‘Yes, Clive,’ she said. ‘I still like you.’
And she did. Even though he was a cheat. Even though he cheated on her dearest friend, a woman she was closer to than either of her sisters. She couldn’t begin to contemplate how the Ling-Littles made this arrangement work, but this close to it, she appreciated that it was a complex, human thing. Being judgemental wouldn’t help.
‘You’re the only person I’ve ever been this frank with.’
‘I am?’ To a woman whose honesty amounted to incontinence, this was puzzling.
‘You’re easy to talk to, Evie.’
‘So are you.’ Evie stood up. ‘Time to seek out my other half. Ask him if he’s having an affair.’ She laughed at that – at how absurd it would be. For one thing, Mike didn’t have the time.
‘You know what lawyers say: don’t ask questions you might not like the answers to.’
‘This is different.’
‘No marriage is that different.’ Clive stared into the darkness. ‘And, as you’re so intent on honesty, we have been flirting.’
‘You may have been,’ said Evie, hoping she kept the fluster out of her voice. ‘I haven’t.’
‘Sorry. My mistake.’ Clive was amused again.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she said, taking advantage of this intimate new footing to insult him, the way she routinely insulted her husband. ‘And goodnight.’
She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or not. Evie heard a whirr, like a small metallic creature waking. ‘Wassat?’ she slurred.
‘Shh, nothing – just my phone. Go back to sleep,’ said Mike.
Evie was slumbering by the time he finished the sentence.
when I see you I’m going to lick you all over every beautiful inch of you Soon soon very very soon then we can be together xxxx
DAY 7
Monday, 17th August
Hey,
Sorry but I had to leave.
One day I’ll come back and explain.
love, Tillie x
Being first to the kitchen was a badge of honour. Evie bullied herself out of bed to get the kudos just this once, but Shen was there, humming, squeezing organic oranges.
‘You’re even in full slap.’ Evie’s own face resembled the unmade bed she’d just left.
‘I’ve done a high-impact workout.’
‘Urgh!’ As Evie toasted and buttered, she noticed an enormous bouquet. ‘And you even laid the table?’ She took in the crisp white tablecloth, the cutlery laid out just so, the jug of orange juice, the napkins. ‘My lot are lucky if I don’t miss when I throw the cereal across the room into their bowls.’
‘Nope, this was here already.’ Shen tweaked a bloom. ‘Clive was the last to go to bed, so he must have done it.’ She hesitated. ‘For me. He knows I like things to be . . .’
‘Poncey?’
‘I was going to say nice.’ Shen flicked Evie with a tea towel.
‘How romantic.’ Evie was as chuffed as Shen at this husbandly gesture; was Clive’s conscience finally pricking him?
‘Even if you applied thumbscrews, Clive couldn’t tell you where we keep the napkins at home.’
‘I’d have to buy napkins, before Mike would be unable to find them,’ said Evie. ‘Maybe Clive’s falling for you all over again.’ Clive-in-London played a bit-part in Evie’s life, but she understood Clive-in-the-country better. Not that this earned him a Get Out of Jail Free card; far from it. Clive was a cheat; end of, as Scarlett would say.
Despite this, Evie detected a note of deep yearning in Clive. ‘One thing’s for sure.’ She hoisted herself onto a stool. ‘These flowers ain’t for me. The last time Mike surprised me like this was . . . let’s see – never.’ She saw a tiny card amongst the blooms and read it out loud: ‘For my darling P.’
‘Who’d have thought Jon had it in him?’ said Shen, impressed. She turned at a noise in the doorway. ‘Oh, look, Paula! These are for you.’
Paula bundled up the tablecloth, parcelling knives, forks, plates and flowers. Dropping crockery, sloshing juice, she manhandled her parcel outside and flung it onto the lawn.
‘Are you mad?’ shrieked Shen.
Surveying the mess on the lawn, Evie mourned the loss of her photogenic breakfast; burnt toast tastes better off Royal Doulton.
‘Disgusting!’ Paula looked at the stained, lumpy linen as if it were a body-bag containing body parts. A change overtook her face. As if she saw what Shen and Evie could see. ‘I’m not crazy,’ she said.
‘That’s what all the crazy people say,’ said Shen.
‘If you knew . . .’ Paula’s face creased and wobbled, ‘what I’ve been through.’
‘Tell us,’ said Evie gently, ‘Perhaps we can help.’
‘But that’s it!’ Paula was angry, as if Evie had sworn at her. ‘Nobody can help.’ She slammed into cabinets as she left, a demented pinball.
‘The one time Jon does get romantic, she gets weird,’ said Shen, adding defiantly when Evie frowned, ‘It’s the only word that fits.’
Spilling the beans about Miss Pritchett would help Shen to understand Paula’s moods, but it would also mean letting a large and hairy cat out of the bag. Could she trust Shen not to blurt out something? To make a double-edged remark? Much as she loved her, Evie decided she couldn’t tell Shen about this particular cat.
The extended, tenuously linked Wellcome Manor family trickled to the kitchen, lured by the smell of bacon and the arf-arf of Patch hoping for a tossed sausage.
Merrily frying an egg, Mike said, ‘Shen, you can’t intimidate me into muesli. I love this egg more than I fear you.’
‘I’ll quote that at your funeral,’ said Shen, who, on the subject of nutrition, was an irony-free zone. ‘Which will be ten years earlier than it should be.’
‘Daddy,’ said Mabel, attempting to smuggle a breakfast choc-ice out of the freezer, ‘isn’t allowed to die.’
‘True, Mabes,’ Mike smiled, ‘and put that choc-ice back, you cheeky monkey.’ He leaned over to Evie, who was awaiting her fried egg a little too keenly. ‘Where’s Dan?’
Evie, her eye on the pan, was at a loss. ‘Dunno. Are we neglecting our Danno?’ She frowned; middle children were easy to disregard.
‘Are we?’
‘Maybe we need to spend more quality time with him.’
Locked in a mutual wince, both knew the other yearned to hear: ‘Mais non! The boy is happy! Let’s get on with our lazy holiday and not worry that he’s storing up emotional trauma that will one day erupt as binge-drinking and/or impregnating strippers.’
Miles wandered in. ‘Mummy,’ he began breathlessly.
Weighing quinoa with one hand, Shen handed him a folder with the other. ‘Do ten Fun Maths questions before breakfast. Then we’ll speak French for the rest of the day, yeah?’
